When the Tide Rises: Chapter Three

Bergen and Associates Yard, Cinnabar

    The office of Bergen and Associates was built over the shops so Daniel was forty feet in the air, looking down onto the Princess Cecile, which floated in the pool as the crew completed her outfitting. Behind him, his sister and the representatives of the Navy Office negotiated the terms of the corvette's lease.

    "Now turn to Schedule 3, Depreciation," said Deirdre Leary, sitting at what'd once been Uncle Stacey's desk and now was Lieutenant's Mon's. "You'll note that we've raised the figure by a half of a percent. That's based on actual wastage of spars and rigging during the previous RCN commission, as listed in the appendix. Now you'll note that we've–"

    She was six years older than Daniel and their father's daughter in all respects except for physique. Where Corder was tall and craggy, Deirdre was shortish, soft if not exactly fat, and attractive if you liked full-figured brunettes. Attractiveness didn't matter: what Deirdre needed from a man had nothing to do with romance, so she preferred to use professionals.

    "One moment, mistress," said Ward Spears, the civilian clerk from the Navy Office, who was seated across from her. "I notice that you've increased depreciation on the hull as well, and that you're using the high figure for hull valuation…."

    Daniel cleared his throat. "Ah, Deirdre?" he said. "The missiles have arrived and I believe I'd best oversee their stowage. You'll call me when you're ready for my signature?"

    She flicked a hand toward him in dismissal. "Yes, of course we're applying the additional half percent to the hull, Master Spears," she said sharply. "While it's easier to measure the additional strain on the running gear, you surely don't claim that it doesn't involve the hull as well?"

    The lieutenant commander who'd accompanied the clerk to represent the uniformed establishment watched longingly as Daniel started down the outside stairs. He must be as bored as Daniel was and, unlike the vessel's owner, didn't have the option of leaving the business to people who liked this sort of pettifoggery.

    Which Deirdre really must. Her bank was leasing agent on the Princess Cecile, but that didn't mean she personally needed to handle these negotiations. She was haggling over a few hundred florins when she frequently dealt in tens of millions.

    Better her than me, thought Daniel as he reached the concrete quay where Miranda stood beside Mon. A crew under Woetjans was swinging the fourth of twenty missiles cautiously from a lowboy and through the C Level port serving the stern magazine. Even empty the missile weighed several tons. Filled with reaction mass–normally water–and accelerated to terminal velocity by its antimatter motors, it could deal a crippling blow to even a battleship.

    If it hit, of course, and a corvette's small missile magazines made a hit over normal combat distances unlikely. Still, the Sissie had done some good in the past and might easily do so again. The present mission ought to provide a sufficiency of targets, at any rate.

    "Oh, there's Daniel!" called Miranda happily. She was wearing green pastel slacks and a tunic with a floral pattern, cheerful without being garish. She was pretty rather than a classic beauty, but her personality made her the center of men's attention in almost any group. "Daniel, did you realize that these missiles are dual-converter RCN units? The manifest says they're a mix of single-converter foreign missiles."

    Mon coughed and turned away in mild embarrassment. He'd been a good but unlucky officer during fourteen years of service with the RCN. When Daniel learned he owned the shipyard upon his Uncle Stacey's death two years before, he'd hired Mon to run it.

    Mon now had a contented expression and an additional twenty pounds of comfortable fat. Daniel had a completely trustworthy manager who saw to it that Uncle Stacey's long-time employees were well treated. And the shipyard was making money hand over fist.

    Of course renewed hostilities with the Alliance had something to do with profitability. Navy House was getting first-rate workmanship on jobs that it hired done in the Bergen yard, though, so Daniel felt no embarrassment about being paid better as a civilian contractor than he was as a commander in the RCN.

    "Well, Miranda," Daniel said, turning so that she could give him a friendly kiss on the cheek. "There may be some problems with paperwork, and it's even possible that I encouraged some problems with paperwork. But as I see it, missiles I ship aboard the Princess Cecile are very likely to be launched against enemies of the Republic. It's to everybody's advantage that they be modern units that accelerate quickly, don't you think?"

    "Oh," said Miranda, looking stricken. "Oh, you must think I'm a fool!"

    "Mistress, nobody thinks you're a fool!" said Mon fervently. He looked from her to the corvette, cleared his throat, and went on, "Well, what do you think of her, Commander? I don't mind saying that I think we did a good job."

    The corvette's access ports were open while she was on the ground. Vesey–Lieutenant Vesey, Daniel's first officer–looked out from the bridge and waved.

    "She's checking the astrogational updates," Mon said quietly. "Will Lady Mundy be able to help with the crewing situation, sir? Seeings as this really will be a combat mission."

    Daniel grimaced. "We decided against pressing our luck," he said. Adele's ability to enter RCN databases at will and change assignments had been very useful in the past and might be again. Repeating the trick that'd gotten the Princess Cecile a crew when last she lifted from Cinnabar raised the risk of being caught to an unacceptable level. "And we've got eighty, that's enough to work and fight a corvette. They're all veterans, and they've sailed with me before."

    "That's including the Pellegrinians, isn't it?" Mon said.

    Daniel shrugged. "They're good men," he said. "And perfectly trustworthy."

    A number of enemy spacers captured on Dunbar's World had preferred to join the RCN rather than return home and explain to Chancellor Arruns how they'd survived a disaster which'd claimed the life of his son and heir. In practice all members of the crew of a starship did their best in combat, regardless of their nationality or politics. That was their only chance of survival.

    "Oh, they'll do, I know," said Mon. He laughed and added, "They'll have Captain Leary commanding them, after all. But a hundred and twenty would be better than eighty, even if it makes the berths a little tight."

    Daniel tried to look at the Princess Cecile critically; to his surprise, he couldn't. Oh, he could rattle off the statistics: a three-hundred foot cylinder with rounded ends; six rings of four antennas each, telescoped and folded along the hull while she was on the planetary surface. The plasma thrusters which drove her in an atmosphere were on the lower hull, clear of the water. High Drive motors annihilated antimatter to provide thrust more efficiently in a vacuum; they were recessed into the outriggers which steadied the ship after she'd landed.

    The Sissie mounted paired 4-inch plasma cannon in turrets on the dorsal bow and ventral stern; the latter was inboard at the moment because it'd be under water if it were extended. For choice a starship always landed in water, which damped the flaring plasma exhaust and cushioned the process of settling many tons (1300 in the corvette's case, and she was small) onto a surface. Thrust reflected from rocky soil could flip a vessel if her captain were careless or unlucky.

 

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    "I think she's beautiful," Miranda said softly. "Generally I think Kostroma-built ships look stumpy, but the Sissie's lines are perfect."

    "I'm glad you think so, dear," Daniel said, choosing his words carefully.

    To him the corvette was simply right: not pretty, not functional, just the way the universe had made her. He felt about the Sissie the same way he did about his nose. He knew there were many women and not a few men who obsessed about the details of their physical appearance, but not Daniel Leary; and the corvette was part of him.

    He chuckled. Miranda looked at him and cocked an eyebrow in question. "I was thinking about the Sissie the way I do about my nose," Daniel said, wondering if that made any sense to the others. "Actually, she's more like my right hand, isn't she?"

    The first lowboy was crawling down the quay to find room to reverse; a second, loaded with a further quartet of missiles, pulled up in its place. A stake-bed produce truck drove with a crashing of gears past the three more waiting lowboys and stopped beside Daniel and his companions.

    Hogg got out of the cab. "All right, Bantries," he bellowed. "Hop down and wait till the Master tells you where he wants you!"

    He turned to Daniel, looking pleased, and said, "Good morning, young master. Woetjans thought you could use a heftier crew, so I went back to the estate and brought you twenty tenants that I was willing to vouch for. They'll need training before you can all'em spacers, but it seems to me some of what you need in this business is folks who'll jump when the master says jump. Aye, and knock heads when they're told, that too. This lot qualifies."

    The men–and a few women–climbing from the back of the truck dipped their faces and touched forelocks to Daniel before shuffling into line. Most were young and one freckle-faced boy didn't look to be more than fourteen years old. If Hogg'd picked him, though, there was a reason.

    Hogg was Daniel's servant. Hogg's ancestors had served Learies of Bantry for as far back as records ran. He looked dirty, unsophisticated, and almost bright enough to count to ten on his fingers.

    In fact Hogg was dirty. He was also a skilled poacher, as clever–and ruthless–as a ferret, and utterly loyal to the young master.

    Hogg had been the man in Daniel's life while he was growing up. Loyalty and devotion didn't mean that Hogg wouldn't whale the living daylights out of a boy he thought needed it. They'd both known that if Daniel had complained to his gentle mother, Hogg would be turned off the estate in disgrace.

    Hogg had continued to raise the boy according to his standards of conduct, because it was his duty to do so. That willingness to put duty first had been the guiding light of Daniel's life ever since. It'd served him well in the RCN.

    Daniel looked critically at the new recruits. It'd been nearly a decade since he'd been back to Bantry, so he didn't recognize many of the faces. Michael Polucha, though, had the streak of white in his hair where he'd fallen into the fish processor back when he and Daniel were both eleven.

    "You, Stripey!" Daniel called. "Why did you decide to join the RCN?"

    "Well, it's what Hogg told us, Master Daniel…," Polucha said, his eyes turned down toward his bare toes. "More money than anybody on Bantry ever seed–in the cottages I mean, saving your presence. And everybody bowing and scraping to us, 'cause we b'long t' Captain Leary."

    Daniel scowled, wondering how to handle this. These folk were his responsibility, and the Learies didn't lie to their retainers. On the other hand, he had responsibilities to the Princess Cecile and the RCN also, and another twenty recruits could be very helpful….

    "Just hold on before you say the wrong thing, young master," Hogg said. He turned to the Sissie's main hatch where Richard Campeny, the armorer, was chatting with the two power room ratings on guard with sub-machine guns.

    "Campeny!" he called. "You heard what Polucha says I told him. Is it the truth?"

    "Hell, yes, Hogg," said Campeny, straightening when he realized everybody–including Miranda–was watching him. "Though I won't pretend much of the money stuck to my fingers; I guess there's more could say that too. It's a bloody good time whenever we're on the ground, though, and they learn we're Sissies. A bloody good time!"

    Hogg bobbed his head, then faced Daniel again. "Now, young master," he said forcefully. "Now what do you say?"

    "All right, Campeny," Daniel said. "Since you seem to have time on your hands, take charge of this draft until Woetjans gets through stowing the missiles. Tell Lieutenant Vesey to set up the watches and make bunk assignments."

    "You heard the master!" Hogg said. "Hop it, Bantries! You're going to make us proud or you'll rue the day you were born!"

    The new draft clumped and clattered aboard the Sissie. Sun led and Hogg brought up the rear. They each carried a blanket roll; first order of business would be to get them proper footlockers. That'd mean Master Daniel–as opposed to Commander Leary–would need to advance modest amounts of money….

    "When will Lady Mundy be joining you, Daniel?" Miranda said. "Or is she already aboard?"

    "Is she on board, Mon?" Daniel asked; Mon shook his head.

    "To be honest," Daniel said to Miranda, "I don't know when she'll arrive. She said she had some business to take care of."

    He pursed his lips. "And she said she'd be bringing an assistant, if I approved," he added. "Which of course I did."

    "That'd be Tovera, you mean, sir?" Mon asked. He kept his tone very neutral, the way people did when they had to talk about Tovera.

    "No, from the way she spoke, she's talking about a real assistant," Daniel said. "In addition to her servant Tovera. I, ah, I'm confident that Officer Mundy knows what she's doing."

    Mon nodded. Pasternak, the Chief Engineer, leaned out of a stern hatch. "Mon!" he bellowed. "There's a bloody valve frozen on the feed to Number Eight thruster!"

    "There bloody well isn't unless your own people have been monkeying with it!" Mon bellowed back. He glanced at Daniel. "With your leave?'

    "Of course, Mon," Daniel said, but his manager was already striding up the Sissie's entrance ramp. His boots hammered the non-skid surface.

    "Is the assistant someone that Lady Mundy's other friends assigned to her, Daniel?" Miranda said in a very quiet voice.

    "To be honest, my dear," Daniel said, "I don't know and I don't want to know. I'm happiest–"

    He smiled warmly at the girl beside him, taking some of the sting out of what was nonetheless a rebuke.

    "–when I don't know anything at all about Adele's other friends!"

 

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Xenos on Cinnabar

    The private car in which Adele shuttled along the tram lines of Xenos was marked with the crest of the Petrie family, three red mullets on a puce ground. It was common for wealthy families to keep personal cars at their townhouses; servants lifted them on and off the monorail as required.

    Adele slipped her personal data unit back into its pocket so that she could grip a handhold as she faced the woman who'd summoned her into the vehicle. "Well," said Mistress Sand. "What did you learn?"

    Adele shrugged. "That the Petries are a west-coast family," she said. "Though they appear to be wealthy enough, they're not interested in the expense and ferment of Xenos. They don't have a townhouse here."

    "I would have told you that," said Bernis Sand. "I suppose you wouldn't have trusted me, would you?"

    "I ordinarily get information electronically," Adele said calmly. "When the question occurred to me, I answered it in my normal fashion."

    She'd never seen the spymaster angry before. Sand's voice remained calm, but her stubby fingers fidgeted with a carved ivory snuff box, slipping it into and out of her waistcoat repeatedly.

    "We looked at the information on the chip you sent us," Sand said, turning to face the opera window on the right side of the vehicle. The clear acrylic panel had been treated with a film that unrecognizably distorted objects seen through it. "To the extent we can cross-check, everything is confirmed."

    She met Adele's eyes again and managed a slight smile. "It's in very good order," she added. "I was reminded of your own reports, Mundy."

    Adele smiled faintly. "Thank you," she said. "Mistress Boileau trained me well."

    "Bartram Cazelet was executed in Wellbank Prison on Pleasaunce," Sand continued. "It's possible but unlikely that Glenda Boileau Cazelet is still alive. You know about the Guarantor's prisons, so you realize that this possibility isn't good news."

    Adele dipped her head in acknowledgement. "Yes, I realize that," she said.

    "What we don't know, Mundy," Sand said in a harsher tone, "is who informed on the elder Cazelets. At this point there's a significant chance, a significant chance, that it was their own son. Your Rene Cazelet may well be not just an informer but an agent of the Fifth Bureau!"

    A second tram with the Petrie crest, rather more battered than the first, followed theirs. That too was normal when members of the nobility wanted to retain their privacy but keep servants readily accessible. Today the second vehicle carried Tovera and Rene Cazelet, accompanied by four very solid men wearing Petrie livery.

    "I don't believe that's the case, mistress," Adele said. "You may think the Fifth Bureau could delude Mistress Boileau in that fashion, but I do not. Regardless, I have a personal–a family–obligation to young Cazelet. He came to me for shelter, as I went to his grandmother."

    "Mundy, you can't take him off planet with you," Sand said, "not given the nature of Commander Leary's mission. The risk to the Republic is unacceptable, completely unacceptable."

    "I certainly can't leave him alone on Xenos while I'm gone for an indefinite period," Adele said quietly. "I'll keep an eye on him, mistress; and Tovera will, if you don't trust me. But he's going along."

    "Are you saying that you won't accompany Commander Leary if this Cazelet doesn't go with you?" Sand said, raising her voice. She was a stocky woman given to tweed suits in earth tones. There was nothing distinctive about her appearance, but her personality dominated whatever room she was in.

    Adele smiled faintly. Mistress Sand dominated the interior of this tramcar as surely as the sea covers a rock on the bottom; but in this case, as with the sea, the rock wasn't changed by the circumstances.

    "The question doesn't arise, mistress," Adele said. "I can take Cazelet with me."

    The emphasis was very mild, a barely noticeable stress on the syllable.

    "Commander Leary would find room for him if the two of them had to share a bunk," she continued. "And he'll certainly find room for me, even if he had to smuggle me aboard in a section of spar."

    Adele felt mild distress at the fact of this interview; Mistress Sand should know her better by now. Though the circumstances were unusual, of course.

    The tram jolted across a set of points, rocking both of them. Mistress Sand grabbed a railing, then barked a laugh. "What I find interesting in talking to you, Mundy," she said, abruptly more relaxed, "is that you're not afraid of me. Most people would be under these circumstances."

    Adele sniffed. "We're professional colleagues," she said. "We have a difference of opinion, but you've accepted my judgment in other difficult circumstances when I'm sure you had doubts. I'm quite sure that you don't wish me to come to harm."

    Sand looked at her squarely. "No, I don't want you to come to harm, Mundy," she said softly. "I'd rather lose my right hand than lose you, for the Republic's sake."

    With a flash of renewed anger she went on, "I read the after-action report on the assault on Mandelfarne Island. What in the name of the gods were you thinking? Do you know how important you are to Cinnabar?"

    "I know I'm a Mundy of Chatsworth, mistress," Adele said. She smiled; her lips felt as it they'd been carved from ice. "And I know that if I ever put personal safety ahead of my duty, it won't be long before I lose the debate with the person in my head. The person who doesn't think there's any reason for my continued existence."

    Sand sighed and inserted a key card into the tram's control panel. "It'll take you to the Bergen yard," she said. She hadn't bothered to punch a new destination. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

    "That's correct," Adele said primly.

    She hadn't been wholly truthful in implying that she wasn't afraid. There was a possibility that someone would decide to remove Rene Cazelet without–or even against–Sand's orders. Tovera was the best assurance of Cazelet's survival. The fact that Tovera herself wanted the boy dead wouldn't prevent her from killing anyone who tried to accomplish that result.

    Sand looked at her again and shook her head. "Mundy," she said, "if you don't start showing a little common sense, you're going to be killed sooner rather than later. And I will regret that very much."

    I won't regret it, Adele thought; but her lips merely gave a thin smile.