He was less pleased to note that Chloe had recently been using one of the couches as her bed, obviously obsessing over her work rather than relaxing and socializing as he was constantly urging her to do. He shook his head in long-standing despair at his niece’s reticence to relax. Though she had fitted herself in with Patrick and his group of brigands well enough, fairly well saving the organization from ruin by turned it into a humming, well-oiled machine, after thirteen years she remained an enigma to his crews — a ghost who came and went from their midst without really being one of them.
Yet despite his constant despair for her emotional wellbeing — not to mention misgivings that he may have corrupted his only living kin — he felt his chest swell with a warm feeling of pride. If a man was to be allowed only one good thing in his life, he was content that his had turned out to be Chloe.
But pride took second place to concern as he remembered why he’d come to look in on the light of his life. He cleared his throat once to announce his presence, then softly spoke in a fond tone he reserved exclusively for his niece.
“’Tis almost midnight, you know, luv,” he gently chided her. “You don’t need to be spendin’ the whole night doin’ paperwork to keep us afloat.”
Chloe looked up from the terminal and glanced over her shoulder, her face brightening as she caught sight of her uncle. “I’m not doin’ paperwork, uncle,” she said, her words as warm and teasing as his had been. “I’m makin’ sure you’re not goin’ to be killin’ yourself on the big raid tomorrow. Sure, and I swear you’d be leavin’ every little thing to chance and the angels if I didn’t watch out for you.”
Patrick grinned at her gentle tirade. “I can hardly consider leavin’ my fate to the angels as bein’ a bad thing, Chloe,” he said, and reveled in the sight of his niece rolling her eyes at his words. “And you’ll be knowin’ that I say that with the full knowledge that you are one of those angels.”
“Humph.” Chloe heaved a sigh rife with long-suffering tolerance. “Well, this angel is more than a wee bit worried you’ll be meetin’ up with the more ethereal sort of angels before your time is fully here,” she told him, her tone tart. “Leavin’ me, don’t you know, without a livin’ relative to comfort me in my grief.”
Her words raised a sudden qualm deep inside of him. “Chloe, I —”
“Ta,” she cut him off. “I know all about it. I just worry about you, Uncle Patrick, out there holdin’ up freighters with your big pirate guns. I can’t help it, any more than you can help worryin’ over me bein’ here with this dangerous computer.” She grinned to take the sting out of her words. “Besides, I’m almost finished. You’re worryin’ for naught.”
His grin faded and a gentler smile began to settle onto his features as he moved to sit in the chair nearest to Chloe. “So what all have you discovered in your digital excavations, dear niece?” His tone was gently teasing; while he appreciated what she did to keep him and his pirates from starving or breathing vacuum, he couldn’t help but feel that she obsessed about things a bit more than she should. “Are we nasty pirates standin’ a chance against the big, bad freighter?”
Chloe stared at him for a moment, then effected a very un-lady-like snort that was half amusement, half frustration. “So be makin’ a joke of it,” she said, emphasizing the words with a shake of her head that caused her thick red hair to poof slightly in the wordlet’s low gravity. “Of course you’ll be vanquishin’ your mighty corporate foe. ’Tis all a part of your grand, overall strategy, is it not? ‘He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day?’”
“Aye. Well,” he said, a hint of embarrassment tingeing his cheeks, “it would hardly do for pirates to be hangin’ around, waitin’ for Johnny Law, now, would it?” His embarrassment eased a bit when the comment achieved its intended purpose, causing Chloe to chuckle lightly and shake her head in agreement. “Besides,” he went on, as much to remind them both of their long-term goals, “all we want is those things the people back home are bein’ deprived of. You know I don’t give a rip for all the corporations’ wealth and power. Food and medicines are the reason that we do this, Chloe — the only reason we’ve ever done this.”
“Aye, I know.” Chloe sagged slightly and sighed, sounding suddenly tired. “That’s why I keep on helpin’ you with all this foolishness, Patrick Fagan O’Shaughnassey.” She leaned over to give him a peck of a kiss on his cheek. “Because life back home would be intolerable without you and what you do.”
Patrick gave his niece a wistful smile, then turned suddenly serious. “Chloe, I’ve been thinkin’ —”
“Heaven and the saints be praised,” she cut him off, her voice filled with tart sarcasm once more, “the man’s learned to think after all these years!”
“Niece, I’ll be havin’ my say,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. Chloe frowned a moment, but settled back to hear him out.
“I’ve been thinkin’ that it’s time you went home to B-2. For at least a while,” he added in a rush when it looked as though he might interrupt him again. “Visit your old friends. Maybe teach the children, like you always wanted to.”
Chloe was silent for a long moment, visibly restraining her tongue from a sharp retort. He could see the conflicts playing out in her thoughts, mirrored in her eyes as she stared at him. When she finally spoke, it was with an intensity that nearly took his breath away.
“I cannot do that, Uncle Patrick,” she said, the quiet words belying the strength of will behind them. “I don’t think that teachin’s my dream any more — no, I know that it’s not my dream any more. None of that is my life anymore.”
It took Patrick a moment to work his way through his niece’s words. “You’re not tellin’ me you’ve become a pirate, are you?”
“No.” Chloe shook her head for emphasis. “Not such as you mean, anyway. But I’m not a naive little home-girl any more, either.” She reached out almost impulsively to place her right hand on his. “Uncle Patrick, I’ve been back to B-2 ... oh, I hate calling it that! ’Tis Aerieland. I’ve been back to Aerieland several times over the last few years, for one reason and another. ’Tis —” She cut herself off for a moment, breathing hard; Patrick could tell she was fighting back tears, so kept his own mouth shut as she regained her composure.
“Aerieland is not my home anymore,” she finally went on despite a catch in her voice. “It doesn’t feel ... comfortable there. Not anymore. Aye, it’s lovely to see friends, few as I ever made in that horrible place. But it’s wrong to be imposin’ on friends for hospitality, what with the little that any of them have. And I’ve no family of my own there to make me welcome.” She caught his eyes with hers and he quickly found himself swimming in the emerald of their depths. “The only family I have is right here. And —”
She cut herself off again, this time with a small gasp, and turned a guilty look away from him, as though she’d almost blurted out something she didn’t want him to know. Patrick felt his stomach twist slightly, but smiled after a moment and shifted until his hand was now holding hers.
“‘And,’ what?” He squeezed her hand gently. “Have you found yourself a dalliance among the laddies here?” He held his breath in nervous anxiety as he waited for her answer.
“No,” she finally said, the word a mere whisper. She confirmed the word with a shake of her head, but kept her eyes averted.
Patrick let out a small sigh of relief. “Well, good for all of that,” he told her as his stomach began to unclench. “Mind you, they’re good lads, but not good enough for my only flesh and blood. Still and all, ’tis one more reason to consider goin’ home for a spell —”
“No.” She cut him off again, this time leaving no margin for misunderstanding, and he felt her hand tense where it rested in his. After a moment, though, she visibly relaxed and gusted out a great sigh.
“Uncle Patrick,” she said, and it was clear to him that her heart was in every word. “I love you like you were my own da, but right now you’re stepping into someth
ing that’ll only be muckin’ up your boots.” She pulled her hand out of his grip and turned to look at him, her face a mask of determination. “I will not be discussin’ my love life with you, and I will not go home to Aerieland until your pirate gang isn’t needed any more. Then we can all go home and be normal, happy, Irish folk once again.”
She stood and placed both hands flat on his chest, leaning into him as though to pin him to his chair. “So stick that into your pipe of Irish clay and puff on it a spell!”
Patrick was speechless for a long moment, until Chloe released him by straightening and turning back to her own chair. Even then he had to stare at her for a moment before he could finally laugh and find the words to reply.
“Sure and I’m glad God broke the mold once He made you, Chloe,” he said, his voice still filled with shock and laughter. “There’s not a doubt in my mind that I would have nary a chance at handlin’ more than one of you!”
Chloe threw him a look that could have scuttled a fleet of ships and added a raspberry to it as punctuation. It only served to warm his heart.
“Very well,” he promised, once his laughter had finally subsided. “I’ll talk no more about sendin’ you home, or be wonderin’ who it is that you have your heart set on. I’m a big enough man to know when I’m licked. But!”
He stood, laying a hand gently on her shoulder until she turned her head to look at him.
“But, I’m insistin’ that you get some sleep, young lady,” he told her, and was delighted to see the usual light of warmth return to her eyes. She sighed, and shut off the terminal with a touch.
“Since I am now done with my work,” she said, her tone all filled with loving tolerance, “I shall heed your advice.” She stood up and leaned over to peck his cheek once more. “Good night, Uncle.”
“Good night, Chloe.” Patrick watched his niece head for the couch where she obviously intended to spend the night, his heart filled with feelings he couldn’t name. When she had settled down, pulling an old comforter over her, he turned and made his way to the doorway. He paused there only long enough to flick off the overhead lights before heading in the direction of his own quarters.
CHAPTER FOUR
1
“SYDNEY CHAMBERS!!!!”
The bull-like roar of Hans Vattermann’s voice seemed to physically rattle the opulent doors which stood between receptionist Velma Ratzinger and her boss. The volume and intensity of the bellow didn’t faze her, as neither was particularly unusual; a meaty thump, though, followed a moment later by a loud crash! did cause her to briefly glance at the gilded portal behind her. When she found both the polished wood of the doors and the raised lettering that spelled our KOMMANDANT in tasteful gold relief to appear undamaged, she studiously — and pointedly — refocused her attention back on the desk in front of her. Should Vattermann emerge from his sanctum she had no intention of appearing to be anything but oblivious. Her job security, not to mention her safety, required nothing less than studied ignorance of everything that happened when Vattermann’s doors were closed.
The two men inside the office with Vattermann were less fortunate.
Stefan Holzig, Vattermann’s senior adjutant, offered a hand of assistance to Captain Gunnar Schultz as the pirate flagship commander climbed awkwardly from the floor. The spacer rubbed his bloodied jaw as he regained his feet, and both men silently blessed their luck that their boss had limited himself to a single right hook. Schultz in particular was thankful that no glass from the cabinet he had smashed into had managed to embed itself in his body.
Meanwhile, Vattermann’s vocal rage continued unabated. “That bitch ruined my career. She ruined my life! The pathetic little slut. The sadistic, manipulating cunt! She is not going to ruin 16 Cygni for me. She is not! That bitch! Sydney Chambers. That bitch, that bitch, that BITCH!”
As if having exhausted his stock of adjectives, Vattermann turned and stormed out of the office. He barely paused to twist the door handle before slamming both massive office doors outward, where they swung a full 180 degrees to smash against their supporting walls. His voice could be heard continuing the rant, the spew equally loud though less coherent as he began mixing his native German in with the English he used for normal business. All three of the underlings left in his wake watched as their boss disappeared down the long corridor which funneled traffic in and out of Vattermann’s presence. Ratzinger blinked once then returned to her work, keeping her features studiously blank; Holzig shook his head in bafflement. Schultz continued to rub his jaw, clearly in pain.
“So what’s so special about this Sydney Chambers?” Holzig glanced at the captain, hoping the other man might have some insight into their Kommandant’s outburst. “I mean, she’s obviously a TSM officer and all that that means, but....”
“Huh.” Schultz released his jaw and waggled it, testing to reassure himself it was still attached as it should be. “I did take the opportunity to look her up while we transited in. Apparently she was a star witness is the court martial that threw the boss out of the TSM.”
“Really.” Holzig glanced between Schultz and the now-empty corridor a couple of times as he digested the information. “She testified against him and she’s still alive?”
Schultz chuckled through his pain. “Well, she does have the TSM on her side,” he said, adding a shrug as though that fact explained everything.
Holzig’s face acquired a thoughtful look. “Yes, she does have the TSM on her side,” he said, slowly considering options in his head. “She does have that. But it seems to me that doesn’t count for all that much here and now.”
Schultz frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Holzig said through a thin smile, “she may have the TSM behind her, but she’s only got the one ship with her, right?”
It took a moment, but a smile began to spread across Schultz’s face, as well.
2
Hans Vattermann stormed into his apartment, smashing open the door with at least as much violence as he had used on his office doors a few moments before. The apartment echoed the style of the office to a great degree: Opulent dark-wood paneling offset by shiny gold and silver insets; imported furnishings hand-crafted from the finest and most expensive woods and fabrics. First-class tech dotted the room, including a theater-sized video screen on one wall and full surround speakers everywhere. A well-stocked bar hulked to one side of the room.
It was to the bar that Vattermann headed, still muttering to himself in a nearly unintelligible mixture of languages. Without pausing to think he grabbed a bottle of amber liquor, messily slopped two fingers of it into a glass, then downed the drink as though his life depended on it. He allowed the potion a moment to work before spinning around and pitching the now-empty tumbler across the room. It smashed into the far wall with daunting force, barely missing the video screen and sending shards of glass flying in an ironically cheerful-looking cloud. The Kommandant watched the cloud as it dispersed, then raised his head toward the ceiling and growled.
“Damn her, damn her, damn her, damn her, damn her!”
Krista Sperry cowered at the dining table where she had been sitting, lost in memories while Vattermann had been off at work. She flinched when the glass flew past her to impact against the wall, but otherwise held still and held her breath, hoping that the Kommandant — her supposed ‘lover’ but in reality a man she both loathed and feared more than any other living person — would continue to ignore her presence. She could feel herself tremble, as she regularly did in Vattermann’s presence, listening to the man’s continuing tirade and silently cheering whoever it was that could cause Vattermann so much anger.
“Sydney Chambers,” Vattermann ranted on, his voice filled with venom. “A bitch from birth. A whore by breeding! The lowliest slime is more wholesome than she! A creature of filth, with sheist for brains and eitergeschwüre in her belly. And now she dares to bring her verdammt TSM ship here, to my spielplats. To my home! May she rot in hell! May she die like the coward
that she is!”
The Kommandant’s face seemed barely human, red and bloated from his continuing rage. The sight caused Krista to gasp, ever so slightly … which small sound came at just the wrong moment, as Vattermann paused for breath. He turned his fevered eyes toward her, noticing her presence for the first time since entering the apartment.
“What!” Krista could almost feel his fetid breath as his voice lashed at her, though he was a dozen feet separated them. “Do you have an opinion as well? Are you going to bray good things at me about this weibchen, just because she is a woman like you are? Well? Speak! Sprechen sie!”
Krista almost whimpered, but finally managed to gather enough of her wits together to obey. “If she’s only got the one ship, like you say, Hans,” she little more than whispered, “how can she be any threat to you?”
Vattermann crossed the room in rapid strides. Krista didn’t have time to even think, let alone duck, before the back of the Kommandant’s hand smashed across her face, the blow so hard it caused the chair she was in to fly over onto its back with Krista still in it. Vattermann quickly rounded the chair, grabbed the woman by the arm, jerked her to her feet, then slammed her back against the closest wall and pinned her there with his forearm.
“The köter has already routed three of my ships with that one ship of hers,” he yelled, leaning so close to her that she could feel his spittle spread across her face like a rain shower. “If she can beat three ships, what the hell is she going to do to the rest of my fleet?”
Sydney Chambers Page 6
