by David Drake
Adele wouldn’t have been sure what had happened if Woetjans and the others hadn’t begun to cheer.
* * *
Daniel’s first thought was that a fault in the system caused the change in the Plot Position Indicator. It was too good to be true.
He still switched to a direct imagery of the cruiser/minelayer and scrolled back five seconds before the event. There wasn’t a great deal he could do that was more useful, after all.
The Bremse was a blunt-nosed cylinder of eighteen thousand tons or so loaded. Her present attitude toward the Princess Cecile was three-quarters on, so foreshortening made her look tubby. Had he wished Daniel could have rotated the image on his display to show the Alliance vessel’s full 780-foot length, but he didn’t need a schematic.
At the five-second mark the cruiser/minelayer expanded on a line intersecting the vessel’s long axis. A sleet of atomic nuclei had just ripped through her at light speed.
Plasma weapons weren’t effective against starships because the bolts lost definition in the vastness of astronomical distance. A charge that could be safely generated on one vessel was unlikely to harm a similar ship across tens of thousands of miles.
A mine was under no such restriction as to the size of the charge. Its external structure only had to survive the first microsecond of the thermonuclear explosion in its heart so that its magnetic lens could direct the force of the blast toward the target.
In practice, lens efficiency was on the order of sixty percent. Sixty percent of a thee-kiloton explosion, even attenuated somewhat by distance, was enough to gut a dreadnought.
It opened the Bremse like a bullet through a melon. The forty or so mines still undeployed in the cruiser/minelayer’s hold went off in a series of low-order explosions that turned the wreck into a gas cloud, but that was an unnecessary refinement.
Daniel cut thrust to one gravity, then hit the alert button. “All hands!” he said. “All hands! The Bremse has blown up! I repeat, the cruiser chasing us is gone!”
He thought for a moment about the five hundred human lives lost with the starship. There was no triumph in the thought, but there was no pity either. They’d died in the service of their state as Daniel Leary expected someday to die in the service of Cinnabar. So be it.
Dorfman had stood to hug the rating who held the sealant cannister. Baylor’s console was live again, but the missileer gaped instead at Daniel’s display. By now the image was only a haze that would soon be indistinguishable from any other volume of cislunar space. Voices elsewhere cheered, but some shouted doubtful questions. Not everybody aboard the Princess Cecile could believe they were alive and likely to remain that way for the immediate future.
Come to think, if there was a heaven it would be a lot like this. At least for Daniel Leary …
Daniel switched back to the PPI. For what seemed forever he’d been focused on the relative location of three points: Kostroma, the Princess Cecile, and the Bremse pursuing her. The intricate dance had ended and Daniel’s mind was suddenly as clean as that of a baby starting a new life. Now he had to bring the corvette into orbit, ideally in close alignment with the command node so that the personnel who’d saved his life could return to the Princess Cecile.
Domenico entered the bridge. He looked wary and exceptionally calm. He threw Daniel a salute that proved not all combat sailors were slack about ceremony and said, “Chief of Rig reporting for orders, sir!”
It was his way of asking, very professionally, if the emergency was over.
“Yes, it’s real, Domenico,” Daniel said. “Mind, let’s not have a bulkhead blow out now that we think we’re safe. We’ll pick up Ms. Mundy’s detachment, then see what shape the ship’s in and—”
Domenico’s face went stiff. “Sir, check your display!” he said.
Daniel turned. There were three new dots just within the present fifteen-light-second boundary of the PPI. As he watched, two more dots appeared. They were starships dropping out of sponge space and proceeding the remainder of the way toward Kostroma at maximum braking effort.
Daniel touched the attention signal and called, “General quarters!”
Four more dots joined the five recently added to the display. The nine ships couldn’t be said to be in tight formation, but for vessels which had just left sponge space they were in remarkably good order. The admiral in charge must be pleased with her subordinates.
Because there was no question at all that this was a naval squadron, not some sort of merchant argosy returning to Kostroma.
The repair crews were back at work; apart from them, there was a hush over the Princess Cecile. Domenico leaned over Daniel’s shoulder to peer more closely at the display. “Does that read Tee-Ay-En One-Four-One-Eight?” he asked.
The Princess Cecile’s PPI would assign an all-numerical designator to an icon if the object didn’t provide one. Starships normally broadcast an alpha-numerical identification signal, however, the pennant number for naval vessels and a similar designator for merchantmen.
Daniel nodded. “Yes,” he said. TAN1418 didn’t mean anything to him.
“That’s the Rene Descartes!” the bosun cried. “By Vishnu’s dong, sir, I served on the old bitch for three years, I did! She was guardship over Harbor Three when we left Cinnabar, I swear to God!”
Daniel started to say, “Are you sure?” but caught the words just before they made him sound like a fool. He didn’t know what else to say. Except—
He chimed for attention and announced, “All hands. I believe the vessels inbound are an RCN squadron, which will be very welcome. Continue repair work until further notice, but don’t forget where your action stations are.”
Daniel almost rang off, but a further thought struck him. “And fellow citizens?” he said. “Thank you. Your performance has been to the highest standards of the Republic of Cinnabar Navy.”
There were cheers all over the ship. Daniel was choking. He knew he’d be replaced on the Princess Cecile as soon as the regular navy arrived, and he might never command another ship. But no captain, ever, would have a better crew than he did!
The icons on the PPI continued to reform as the newcomers approached Kostroma. The last four were probably transports: they remained two light-seconds behind the leaders. The five warships were arrayed flower-fashion with the battleship in the center.
They’d noticed the Princess Cecile as well. Because Dorfman still had a gunnery display on his console, the interrogatory was routed to Daniel: “RCS Vessel Rene Descartes, Captain Lairden commanding, carrying the flag of Rear Admiral Ingreit. Vessel signaling Are-Em Six-Nine-Three, please identify yourself. Over.”
It took Daniel an instant to realize that he was RM693. He’d never had occasion to check the Princess Cecile’s pennant number.
He took a deep breath, then hit the general communicator switch as well as the intership hailing channel. What he was about to do was worthless braggadocio that was bound to irritate the senior officers on the other end of the line.
But he was going to do it anyway. He was a Leary of Bantry; and the crew, still for the moment his crew, would appreciate it.
“This is RCS Princess Cecile,” he said, “Lieutenant Daniel Leary commanding. You are authorized to orbit within our automatic defense array.”
He cleared his throat and went on, “Allow me to say that your squadron is a welcome addition to the RCN forces on station here. You’ll be very useful in helping mop up the remaining unpleasantness on the ground. Princess Cecile out.”
There was as much laughter as cheering in the corvette’s compartments this time. “By Vishnu!” the bosun said in delight. “By Vishnu, sir!”
Daniel smiled faintly. He could imagine what Admiral Ingreit would say when he heard the message. On the other hand, he could imagine what Speaker Corder Leary might have said in similar circumstances. In that, at least, father and son were more alike than different.
Daniel switched to the channel dedicated to communication between the Princess
Cecile and Adele’s detachment. He’d better inform the command node promptly, or Admiral Ingreit was going to find his squadron in range of a hostile and demonstrably lethal defensive constellation.
BOOK FOUR
Twenty people sat at consoles around the walls of the outer room. Adele would have called them clerks if this had been a civilian setting. She didn’t know what they were on a battleship.
“Come in, please,” said the man seated at the desk of the small inner office. “And close the hatch behind you if you would.”
Adele obeyed. She didn’t like the feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she didn’t think the problem was her return to gravity after six days weightless in the command node. Strictly speaking the Rene Descartes was under one-gee acceleration, not real gravity, but the only difference Adele could tell was that the battleship had changed course twice in the hours since she’d come aboard.
“We’ve completed integrating the defense array your ships brought with the Alliance mines already in place,” she said. “I’d like to return to the ground, now. I was told to see you about transportation.”
The man seated on the other side of the desk was tall, very fit, and about thirty years old. He wore an officer’s uniform, but there were no rank insignia on his collar or sleeves.
The man chuckled. “Yes,” he said, “we’ll talk about transportation in a moment.” He stood and reached across the desk to offer his hand. “My name’s Elphinstone. Please sit down, Ms. Mundy.”
The walls of the office had large flat-plate displays that gave the impression of windows, though the scenes were different. A starscape spread behind the desk as if the room were open to vacuum. Adele found the effect disconcerting, which was very likely Elphinstone’s intention.
His handshake was firm; a little too firm. Elphinstone was playing a variation of the childish game of trying to crush the other party’s hand with his own. He was demonstrating how much stronger he was than the small woman, and by implication how completely the situation was under his control.
Adele imagined Elphinstone’s eyes bulging to either side of the bullethole. She shook her head in violent self-disgust. The sailors had tried, but it was impossible to clean the control node well enough to get rid of the smell of rotting blood.
Elphinstone wasn’t smiling now. He coughed, then gestured to the single chair in front of the desk and repeated, “Please sit down, mistress.”
His composure returned as he settled into his own more comfortable chair. “It’s quite an honor to meet you,” he said. “You’re the reason for our easy victory here on Kostroma, you know.”
Adele looked at the wall showing Kostroma City from an apparent thousand feet in the air. Most of the fires were out by now. The Alliance forces on the ground had been willing to surrender when they realized they were trapped beneath a hostile fleet and automatic defensive array.
The Kostromans themselves had felt otherwise when they saw that Alliance personnel were suddenly at their mercy. Assassination was a staple of local culture; mercy toward one’s enemies was not. From the reports Adele listened to in the control node, it seemed that folk wearing Zojira colors had been the quickest to turn on their former allies. They may have hoped their neighbors would forget what they’d been doing a few weeks before.
“I was part of a group,” Adele said. “A group I’m very proud to have been a member of. And I’ve helped put the defensive array in shape, so now I’d like to be returned to the ground.”
The technicians from the Cinnabar squadron were skilled, but they didn’t know the Alliance system in detail and they didn’t have Adele’s ability to chart paths through the unfamiliar. She and the four programmers from Willoughby—volunteers, now that they’d been freed—remained in charge of the Alliance command node until the systems were fully merged: integrated to the standards of Adele Mundy.
“You’re far too modest,” Elphinstone said with a chuckle that made Adele think of a stream of oil. “Fortunately, you have friends to advertise your merits, so to speak. Otherwise—”
There was no change in his voice, but his hard, brown eyes glittered.
“—there’d be some problems with your background.”
“My understanding,” Adele said in a voice that was perfectly distinct and as flat as if synthesized, “was that an Edict of Reconciliation was passed nine years ago to reintegrate survivors of the Three Circles Conspiracy into Cinnabar society.”
There was no point in pretending she didn’t know what this toad was talking about. She’d known it was going to be this as soon as she’d entered his office.
The deck shifted as the Rene Descartes changed tack so that the constant thrust didn’t send them out of the system. Adele felt the fluid in her inner ears spin queasily, though “down” remained the same direction.
A month ago she would have wanted to be sick. Now her mind was too busy thinking about where to place the pellet in the body of the man across the desk, and that was worse.
“As I say,” Elphinstone said, “you have friends. Admiral Ingreit will use all his influence to clear up any remaining disabilities. And I—”
He laughed unctuously, a polite sound that Adele couldn’t help contrasting with Daniel Leary’s honest bellows.
“—know some people myself, you see.” Elphinstone tented his hands and went on, “As a formality, though, we’d like you to sign a report showing that you were operating here under Admiral Ingreit’s direction. This won’t detract any from the credit you’re due, I assure you.”
Adele leaned back in her seat. Daniel might actually think this was funny. “What about Lieutenant Leary?” she asked.
“Ah, yes, Lieutenant Leary,” Elphinstone said. “Yes, that’s an interesting situation. There’ve already been questions asked in high places about how he managed to survive when all his superiors were killed in the fighting.”
“They were executed in the Grand Salon of the Elector’s Palace,” Adele said in the voice she’d used ever since she entered this room, this den. “They were each shot once in the head except for the man who claimed to be from the Navy Office. I believe he was actually a spy. He was shot twice because he was twisting on the floor.”
Elphinstone blinked. Adele wasn’t sure whether it was her words or their implications that had taken him aback. After a moment he said, “Yes, I see. Ah.”
He cleared his throat and continued in a colder tone that was probably the one he found natural, “You see, mistress, Lieutenant Leary is a headstrong young man who would cause a great deal of trouble for himself and others if he were allowed to. That’s why it’s important that your account of events be put on record as soon as possible. Admiral Ingreit is very insistent on that point.”
Adele stood. “I don’t think the admiral would like my account,” she said. “It would be accurate. Now that we’ve had our conversation, can you direct me to the person who can get me to the ground? I don’t like the atmosphere on this ship.”
“Sit down, Ms. Mundy,” Elphinstone snapped. “I don’t think you quite understand. There were exceptions to the Edict of Reconciliation and I’m very much afraid your name will turn out to be one of them unless you see reason. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Adele had started to reach for the door. She turned, thinking of what Hogg had said about intelligence agents. She smiled faintly.
Elphinstone got up and walked around the desk to face her. There was a wary look in his eyes, but his expression was as bland as a data console.
“Either you help people who want to be your friends,” he said, “or you’re executed as a traitor to the state. You really have no choice.”
Adele opened the door—the hatch, she supposed she should call it on shipboard. Subordinates looked up from consoles, then quickly looked down again.
“Are you telling me that a citizen of Cinnabar has no choice, Mr. Elphinstone?” Adele said loudly enough to be heard far down the corridor. “Are you saying that a Mundy of Chatsworth has
no choice?”
She slapped the startled man with her right hand. “This is my choice!” she said. Her fingers stung as though she’d laid them on a hot stove. Four discrete marks blazed red on Elphinstone’s cheek. “I can be contacted at the library in the Elector’s Palace—if you can find a person of breeding to act for you in a matter of honor!”
Adele strode through the outer office. No one spoke or tried to stop her. She turned right for no reason except that there were only two possibilities and she was too angry to attempt a rational choice.
She kept walking. She had no destination, but the adrenaline surging through her bloodstream had to be burned off somehow. Fight or flight …
“Mistress?” said a familiar voice. “Mistress Mundy?”
For the many minutes since she left Elphinstone’s office, Adele’s eyes had operated solely to keep her from walking into objects. She saw people and bulkheads with the same lack of distinction.
Her eyes and mind locked back into focus. She entered a large room with hatches along one wall—a docking bay like the one by which she’d arrived on the Rene Descartes. A number of sailors stood in groups, waiting for officers to return.
Woetjans had called to her. Barnes, Dasi, and a third Aglaia sailor whose name Adele didn’t know were with the petty officer.
“Have you been keeping well, mistress?” Woetjans asked. “We heard you were working on the minefield still.”
“I’m not all right now,” Adele said. Her face hardened. “Can you take me to Kostroma City? I need …”
She paused. If the interview with Elphinstone had cost her the ability to speak precisely, then she’d lost more than her life.
She smiled. “I very much want to get off this ship,” she said.
The petty officer had no readable expression for a moment. Then she said, “Yeah, sure.”
She gestured her three subordinates toward the nearest hatch. “Saddle up,” she said. “With luck we’ll be back before the quartermaster wants to leave.”
“He’s going to be really pissed if we’re not,” said the sailor Adele didn’t know by name.
