In the Stormy Red Sky-ARC

by David Drake

"You are mistaken, Beckford," Adele said. There was a rasp she didn't expect beneath her drawl. Her left hand hung down at her side. "My father, who was Mundy of Chatsworth before me, didn't shun you because your people are in trade. He was quite willing to entertain tradesmen and even manual laborers when the needs of the party required it, but as a gentleman he had to maintain some standards."

  She paused and smiled a little wider. "He shunned you," she said, "because you personally are a maggot."

  "Willie . . ." said Senator Forbes. She took Beckford by the right hand and half-guided, half-forced, him to turn toward the car again. "I was going to introduce you to Lady Mundy, but I don't think this is the time. Come, be a dear and get me to a hot bath and dinner at once, won't you?"

  She shoved Beckford into the shadowed interior of the vehicle and followed him. "But your ladyship, what are we to do?" bleated Platt, stepping forward.

  "Stay here until the car comes back for you!" Forbes shouted. "For Hell's bloody sake, stay here till you rot, you fool! Driver, get us out of here!"

  The footmen closed the doors with mechanical precision, then leaped like acrobats for the rear compartment. Before they were fully in, the aircar lifted as smoothly as it'd settled to the pavement.

  Tovera chuckled. "I didn't have anything heavy enough to get the driver," she said. "The windows were armored. But I don't suppose he was much of a threat anyway, do you?"

  "None of them were threats," Adele said. She was trembling in response to the adrenalin she hadn't burned off in an orgy of killing. "There wasn't going to be any trouble."

  "Officer Mundy?" Daniel called.

  Adele turned, clenching and unclenching her left hand to work the tension out of it. Daniel, with Hogg and the three Paton officials, stood beside the official ground car. "S-sir?" she said.

  "Would you care to join us at the Governor's Palace for a discussion of recent events in the Veil?" Daniel said. "Since you appear to be free, that is."

  He'll learn more without me, Adele realized. Her presence would disturb the locals, either because they didn't know why a signals officer was at the meeting, or because they did know. Daniel was inviting her as a way of getting her out of what must have looked like a dangerous situation.

  "No thank you, sir," she said aloud. "I'll return to by duties on board, if I may."

  "Carry on, then, Mundy," Daniel said, but she was already walking back down the pier. Of course she'd carry on; that's what she did.

  And she'd keep on doing it until the day she died.

  "I hope you won't mind if I loosen a few buttons, your Excellency," Daniel said. He grinned across the compartment at Das and his aides, perched on the edge of their rear-facing seat. "Even these Grays are bad enough. I really should've gotten out my Dress Whites to accompany Senator Forbes, but I find them the most uncomfortable things I've worn since I was put in the stocks on Manzanita in the course of a midshipmen's cruise."

  Das's official vehicle used the chassis of an armored personnel carrier. It was quite roomy, given that the present occupants weren't a squad of troops in battle dress—and the furnishings were reasonably comfortable. The suspension was tuned for an additional five tons of armor, however. Jolts over potholes didn't harm the vehicle in the least, but the passengers bounced like peas in a maraca.

  Das gave a sigh and unhooked his collar—as Daniel had intended he should. In fact his Whites wouldn't have been bad at all; he'd lost a few pounds on space duty, as he usually did. The governor was as miserable in his dress uniform as any middle-aged man would be squeezing into a closely tailored garment that he wore only rarely. Putting the poor fellow at ease was a kindness and was likely to lead to a better conversational atmosphere.

  "It's part of the job," Das murmured with a self-conscious smile, "but not a part that I take naturally to."

  His face dropped into bleak misery. "I needn't have bothered today, should I?"

  Daniel looked out the vehicle's big side windows. The larger flying species on Paton had scaly bodies and used their hind limbs to flap wings stretched by rigid tails. A pair were curveting through a cloud of chitinous glitters drawn by a spill on the sidewalk.

  "I'm afraid Senator Forbes suffered a very embarrassing political defeat recently," Daniel said, keeping his head turned to imply that his whole attention was on the wildlife. "You wouldn't go far wrong to suggest that she's in mourning for her senatorial hopes."

  "I told you!" said Das's female aide. "It had to be something like that, Governor."

  Well, no, it didn't, Daniel thought. And indeed, it probably wasn't anything to do with Forbes' behavior. But a polite fiction, like a loose collar, made for a more comfortable ride.

  "Well, of course the ambassador was merely stretching her legs on Paton, I realized that," Das said. "There's nothing here of real importance to the Republic, or—"

  His smile wasn't bitter, though perhaps it was a little sad.

  "—I wouldn't be here myself, Captain Leary. Still, I like to think that although this is a small corner of Cinnabar's influence, we keep it well swept."

  "You do indeed, sir!" said the young male aide. He had acne scars, and his uniform—beige with scarlet piping, apparently the diplomatic equivalent of Dress Grays—had been taken in and lengthened considerably after being cut for a shorter, fatter man. "It's an honor to be assigned to your tutelage."

  Either that was blatant flattery, or the boy must have trouble in the morning deciding which foot to put each shoe on. Given that he'd been sent to Paton, Daniel suspected his Ministry instructors were of the latter opinion.

  The vehicle—was it technically a limousine since that was the function it fulfilled?—pulled up in front of a long, low building similar to many of those it had passed on the way from the harbor. The walls were structural plastic, originally white but muted to a pleasant cream color by decades of sun and dust. The surface could be burnished to its original brightness, but that would just make it blindingly unpleasant in full sunshine.

  The guard seated in front of the building had jumped up as the vehicle approached. He stood at attention with his weapon—an impeller carbine and not, Daniel thought, of Cinnabar manufacture—butted alongside his right foot.

  "You run a tight ship here, Governor," Daniel said, surprised and amused.

  Das coughed. "Well," he said, "not always. Charcot, you can relax. Senator Forbes is off on her own business, and Captain Leary here takes a reasonable attitude toward appearances."

  The guard grinned and lost his stiff brace, but he didn't sit down again while Das was present. "Glad to hear it, sir," he said.

  "Come in and have a drink while we talk, Leary," the governor said. "And Amos can find something for your man—"

  He nodded toward Hogg.

  "—if you don't object?"

  "The young master doesn't object," Hogg said firmly. "Let's go, boy. And if you know where a pack of cards can be found, maybe we can try a few friendly hands of poker."

  As Hogg and the youth disappeared through the front door, Daniel took a better look at the building. To the right, a number of women—several with children in their arms or clinging to their skirts—were talking with people inside. One was even holding hands. It was a moment before Daniel realized that the windows were barred.

  "The jail's in that wing," said the female aide. "Mostly drunken knifings. Some theft, but that's mostly drunken too. There isn't much scope for master criminals on Paton, I'm afraid."

  Daniel followed the governor through the swinging door and into a rectangular hall. It was dim after the street, because the only illumination came from clerestory windows shaded by the eaves. The air was noticeably cooler than that outside.

  Half a dozen men lounged on wooden benches, apparently taking advantage of the temperature. Two were playing checkers on a board set between them. No one spoke, though several looked up when the door opened.

  "We fine prisoners or sentence them to a term of labor if they can't pay the fine," Das said, leading the way
down the hallway to the left. "Which they generally can't. Cone Transport buys the labor contracts, which is handy for everyone concerned."

  He opened the door at the end of the hallway and waved Daniel through. A massive desk faced out from the back wall, and a modern console purred across from it. The aide moved to the console, while Das stepped behind the desk and opened a drawer.

  "Have a chair, Leary," Das said. "Or—" he patted the conformal seat of off-planet manufacture beside him "—would you like this one?"

  "This suits me well," said Daniel, easing himself onto one of the pair of massive wooden chairs in front of the desk. The seat itself was of braided leather and unexpectedly comfortable, but that didn't really matter for the brief period he expected to occupy it. "Ah—you mentioned Cone Transport. How much interaction do you have with Master Beckford, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "I don't mind a bit," said Das, pouring an inch into each of the three glasses he'd taken from the drawer along with the bottle. Daniel's eyes were adapting to the light; he thought the liquor seemed to be cherry-colored rather than simply a dark brown. "No interaction at all, is the answer."

  "We're aware that Beckford owns Cone Transport," the aide said, taking a glass and sliding a second across the table to Daniel. "But he has nothing to do with running the company or any of his companies, as best we can see. He lives on Paton by choice, not because Cone Transport is a major industry here."

  "Take water to taste, Leary," Das said, rotating the water pitcher so that the handle was toward Daniel. "It's porphyrion, something of a specialty of the Veil, you know. I like to cut it by half myself, but I know you spacers have heads that an old landsman like me can't imagine."

  Daniel sipped, wondering what porphyrion might be when it was at home. Adele would have her data unit out if she were here. In fact, she'd probably have started checking the instant the bottle of ruddy fluid came out of the drawer instead of waiting for Das to use the word.

  "It's beet liqueur," said the aide helpfully. "Some claim that the best is distilled on Karst, but we've grown to like the flavor of the Paton product better."

  If there was a flavor—and the color indicated porphyrion wasn't simply industrial alcohol—Daniel missed it, but he'd drunk his share of Power Room slash during his years in the RCN and this wasn't any worse. "Thank you, sir," he said. "Straight up is fine with me. Ah—what sort of labor does Cone Transport need?"

  "Lift and carry, mostly," Das said, leaning back in his chair. "They've got huge farms, maize and turnips for greens mostly. It's heavily mechanized, but you still need human beings. Cone brings in contract labor in its own ships when they take out the crops. They're always glad of a little extra that doesn't require transport costs, though—and that's where the prisoners come in handy."

  Daniel finished his drink, pursing his lips for a moment of silent thought. Das tapped the bottle and said, "Another?"

  "In a moment, sir," Daniel said. He tilted a few fingers of water into his glass and drank it down to clear his mouth. Shoving the empty toward the governor, he said, "Basic subsistence crops like that usually aren't economic to transport long distances. Do you have any idea where they're going?"

  "No sir," said the aide. Her tone was subdued.

  "Leary . . ." said the governor as he finished pouring. He set the bottle on the desk with more of a thump than he probably intended to. "We carry out our duties here. We make sure that prisoners are released when their sentences are up, and we check the conditions for contract laborers generally on Cone Transport's farms."

  "They're not leisure spas," said the aide. "But there's food and medical facilities. And the housing's better than what non-contract laborers who live in Hereward have, most of them."

  "Master William Beckford doesn't make trouble on Paton," Das said forcefully. "People enter and leave his estate at Mount Marfa only in his own vehicles, that's true, but there's nothing wrong with that. Anybody's got the right to shut his door to other people, and if Beckford's got a bigger house than most, then he's still got the same rights."

  "Captain," said the aide, "we don't borrow trouble. If Beckford came here because there's more space between him and his neighbors than there was on Cinnabar—well, there is more space. And he's doing nothing wrong!"

  "I won't swear to that," said the governor with a half smile. He swirled the watered liqueur in his glass, then took another sip. "I won't swear that about my seventy-nine-year-old mother on Xanthippe. But I will say there's not even rumors, not beyond the sort who claims the pawnbroker down the street is an Alliance spy."

  Daniel laughed, drank, and pushed his glass over for another refill. "I understand," he said. "My family's estate is on the West Coast. We don't take to officials from Xenos telling us how to do things, so long as there's no complaints . . . which seems the case here with Beckford. And anyway, it's no business of an RCN captain, is it?"

  "I know there's a belief that all protectorate officials are corrupt, Leary," the aide said. "That isn't true, here in the Veil at least."

  "There's remarkably little reason for turnip farmers to need to bribe anyone," Das said, lowering his re-emptied glass. His cheeks and forehead had a rosy glow. He sounded more rueful than bitter, though there might've been some of both. "Cone Transport may have other interests, but not here on Paton."

  "Those troops?" said the aide. She kept raising the glass to her lips, but the level didn't seem to change when she set it down again. "Not that I think there's anything wrong, but . . . ?"

  "There's something wrong, all right, but it's not the Cone factor's fault," Das said. He turned to Daniel. "There's a regiment of troops billeted here in a Cone warehouse and Factor Amberly's tearing his hair out. There's something wrong with the navigation system of the ship they're to leave on and nobody seems to be able to fix it. Amberly was here just the other day, asking if we could help."

  The aide smiled at her glass. "The staff of the Veil Protectorate doesn't run to astrogators, I'm afraid," she said. "But, ah . . . Captain?"

  She raised her eyes. Das was looking at Daniel hopefully also.

  "Well, I suppose I could take a look at the problem," he said, keeping his face neutral while he thought. He didn't want to call attention to the Spezza and her secret mission, but under the circumstances it was going to cause more speculation if an RCN captain refused to help a unit of the Republic's troops which was having difficulties. "The senator said she planned to spend forty-eight hours on the ground before she'd be ready to leave for Karst."

  He cleared his throat. He could imagine getting a taste for porphyrion, which he never would've said about alcohol bled from the Power Room hydraulics.

  "Speaking of Karst," he said, "how do you—closer to the problem, that is—feel about Headman Hieronymos?"

  The aide made a choking sound. She turned her head and gulped down half her drink. She wasn't faking it this time.

  Das grimaced but met Daniel's eyes. "I think it's well beyond anything the Protectorate Service can fix," he said flatly. "Sending a senatorial envoy in a cruiser was a good idea. Sending a fleet of battleships would be an even better one."

  He took a deep breath and went on, "And yes, I know Jeff—my deputy, Jeff Merrick—screwed up. I know it and Anya here knows it and believe me, Jeff knows it."

  "He's a good man," said the aide, who now had a first name. She'd finished the porphyrion; the empty glass was trembling between her hands. "He's a wonderful man, smart and completely trustworthy, wonderful. But what does he know about spies? What do any of us know about spies?"

  "Here, Anya," Das said. "Give me your glass."

  As he poured, he continued, "It's really that simple, Captain. Jeff handles the customs duties for the whole region. There are never any problems—I couldn't ask for a better man. Foreign intelligence is part of the deputy's duties, but there wasn't any foreign intelligence, this is the Veil. By the Gods, I'm the regional medical officer! Am I at fault if a plague breaks out on Paton?"

  He s
hrugged. Daniel suspected he'd have turned his palms up if that wouldn't have required him to put down his glass. "I sent Jeff off to Thorndyke to review the customs receipts there until I recalled him," he said. "The ministry could sack him but they won't, because bloody foreign intelligence isn't their priority either. The Gods only know what Senator Forbes might do if Jeff stayed where she could find him, though. So I got him out of the way."

  Daniel weighed the options, then grinned. After all, hanging a competent financial officer wasn't going to make the situation on Karst any more to the Republic's benefit.

  "Well, what do you think, Captain Leary?" said the aide in a trembling voice.

  "My dear lady," said Daniel, "I think that your beet liqueur has quite grown on me. Governor, I'll have another glassful, if you please, while Anya copies all your files on the Hegemony to the Milton, Attention Signals Officer."

  Turning again to the aide, he said, "Your console can do that, can't it?"

  "Why . . ." she said, looking toward Das; he nodded firmly. "Yes, of course I can. I, I'll get to it at once."

  As the governor refilled the glasses, Daniel said, "As you say, foreign intelligence isn't the business of the Client Affairs or the RCN either one, I'll add. I'm sure that the persons whose job it really is are hard at work right now."

  He grinned. He knew that one of them certainly was.

  CHAPTER 8

  Hereward Harbor, Paton

  Daniel had decided that they would walk rather than take a taxi or a bumboat to the Spezza, because he'd thought it would give him and the midshipmen a better feel for the harbor. That was doubtless true, but the morning sun seemed very bright, and every time his left heel struck the esplanade, a hot ice pick jabbed up his right nostril. Porphyrion wasn't nearly as enticing a beverage on the morning after as it'd seemed yesterday afternoon.

  "Good day, sir!" he called to the watchman's shack. The gate was swung back against the chain-link fence on both sides, but he didn't think it was politic to simply walk in.