Complicating that hemorrhage had been Knell Number Two: the abrupt and equally unexpected resignation of Defense Minister Calvingdell shortly after Damocles’s return from Casca.
The rumor mill had worked overtime on that one, without ever reaching any solid conclusions. But there had been hints. In the weeks after Damocles’s return from the Cascan fly-by Osterman’s private sources had marked several high-level, closed-door meetings between Calvingdell, Prime Minister Burgundy, and First Lord of the Admiralty Cazenestro. Sometimes those meetings had included one or more of Damocles’s officers and petty officers, and King Edward himself had joined the group for at least two of them.
The rumors surrounding the Cascan trip itself were just as murky and equally unsatisfying. The official news reports spoke of a multiple murder that had occurred in Quechua City while Damocles had been there, but no one seemed to know how or why the RMN and the Star Kingdom were involved.
All Osterman knew for sure was that when the round of meetings was finally over, Calvingdell was no longer Defense Minister. Unfortunately, Breakwater had been Johnny-on-the-spot there, too, somehow managing to pressure Prime Minister Burgundy into reinstating Earl Dapplelake to that position.
Osterman had liked Calvingdell. The woman had been elegant, articulate, and a good foil for Breakwater’s schemes. She’d persuaded Parliament to authorize out-system pirate hunts and good-will visits, all of which had not only been the absolutely right proactive response to Secour, but had also raised the Star Kingdom’s visibility and prestige among its neighbors.
Dapplelake, in contrast, had been the Defense Minister who had authorized the Mars debacle.
And now, here was the third knell: the rebirth of nepotism.
Calvingdell had stopped that, too, or at least had slowed it down. The brief resurgence in funding and enlistment had allowed the Navy to go for quality, not just cater to the vicarious military dreams of the Lords and Ladies lying thick upon the ground.
Her uni-link signaled. Bracing herself, Osterman clicked it on. “Osterman.”
“Todd,” the voice of Commander Maximillian Todd, Salamander’s XO, came tersely. “Captain wants to see you in his office.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Osterman said, suppressing a sigh. Three guesses as to what this was about.
Sure enough, Ensign Locatelli was waiting with Captain John Ross, Baron Fairburn, when Osterman arrived in his office.
“Senior Chief,” Captain Fairburn said, nodding to her. “I want to introduce you to Salamander’s newest officer. Ensign Fenton Locatelli; Senior Chief Lorelei Osterman.”
“Pleased to meet you, Senior Chief,” Locatelli said, giving her a brisk nod of his own. The nod was so obviously an attempt to imitate the mannerisms of his famous uncle that Osterman had to consciously suppress a wince. What looked good and proper on a face lined with long naval experience looked ridiculous and pretentious on a kid barely a third his age. “I’ve heard good things about you from my father and uncle. I’ll look forward to having you serving under me.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Osterman said. Serving under me. Not teaching me how to do my job or even serving with me.
Even senior officers who’d earned the right to speak that way almost never did. Only ensigns came wrapped in such confident arrogance and oblivious ignorance.
Fairburn was watching her closely, clearly hoping she would verbally fawn a little. Unfortunately for him, Osterman had no intention of doing so. After a couple of seconds of silence, the captain’s lip twitched with resignation and he nodded again. “Very well. Ensign Locatelli, you’re dismissed. Senior Chief, a word, if I may.”
He didn’t speak again until the door had sealed behind the ensign. “I have the sense, Senior Chief, that you don’t care for the new addition to our little family.”
“I’m sorry you were left with that impression, Sir,” Osterman said. “I have nothing against Ensign Locatelli.”
“Except that he’s an ensign? And a Locatelli?”
“Neither has anything to do with the situation, Sir.”
“So pleased to hear that, Senior Chief,” Fairburn said acidly. “You are aware, I trust, that Admiral Locatelli is the main reason you’re wearing a Navy uniform right now and not an MPARS one.”
Osterman made a face. But he was right. After Mars, they certainly couldn’t count on the Defense Minister’s judgment and backbone. The only person standing between the Navy and Chancellor Breakwater these days was indeed the System Commander. “Yes, Sir,” she conceded. “I just…permission to speak freely, Sir?”
“Of course.”
“What you just said is true,” she said. “Furthermore, everyone aboard knows it. I’m concerned that he might therefore be treated differently than if he were Ensign No-Name.”
Fairburn’s eyes narrowed. “Rest assured, Senior Chief, that neither I nor anyone under my command is going to treat him as anything more than a brain-dead wet-ear who needs petty officer help to find his boots in the morning.”
“I hope that will be the case, Sir,” Osterman said. “Will that be all, Sir?”
“For now.” Fairburn raised his eyebrows. “Just make sure you don’t backflip the other direction and lean on him harder than you would your Ensign No-Name.”
“No, Sir, I won’t.” Osterman dared a small smile. “Even if that was possible.”
Fairburn gave a little snort. “Of course, Senior Chief. What in the world was I thinking?” He waved a hand. “Dismissed.”
* * *
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Llyn,” Cutler Gensonne said, the prominent and self-awarded admiral’s bars glinting on his shoulders as he seated himself behind his desk. “My apologies if the journey was a bit more than you were expecting.”
“Not a problem,” Llyn assured him.
Which wasn’t to say he was pleased by the delay, of course. The Volsung Mercenaries’ headquarters was right where Ulobo’s data had put it: in the city of Rochelle on the planet Telmach in the Silesian Confederacy. Once Llyn had collected a proper crew from the covert section of Axelrod’s mining operation in Minorca, which had allowed him to use the full capabilities of General Khetha’s modified courier ship, he’d arrived at Rochelle less than six months after his rather hurried escape from Casca.
Only to find that Gensonne and several of his ships had headed off elsewhere in the Confederacy.
The liaison who’d been left to man the office had said they would probably be away for a year, possibly two. Llyn, with no intention of waiting that long, had reboarded his ship and headed off to track them down.
That trip had eaten up much of the time he’d saved by the serendipity of Khetha being on Casca. But that was all right. There was still one more test Axelrod’s people needed to make anyway before Llyn could greenlight the invasion. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” he added.
“Not at all,” Gensonne assured him. “Actually, our business here went faster than I’d expected. Another month or two, and we’ll be ready to look at your job.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Assuming it proves to be worth our while.”
“Let’s find out,” Llyn suggested, handing a tablet across the desk.
Gensonne accepted it with a grunt and settled back to read.
As he did so, Llyn took the opportunity to study the man.
Gensonne was pretty average-looking, as mercenary chiefs went. Light-skinned and blond, with blue eyes, he had the near-focus look of a man who had spent most of his life aboard ships.
His history was far more colorful than his bland looks would suggest. He’d served for several years with Gustav Anderman, and had been on hand when Anderman defeated Ronald Devane and added the Nimbalkar system to his growing empire. For a while, as Anderman settled into his new role of emperor, it had looked like Gensonne might be in line to take up a significant and senior role in Anderman’s navy. There were indications, as well, that Gensonne might be hoping to emulate his boss’s successes, with his sights set on a couple of other small
colony worlds in the region that could be added to Anderman’s empire.
But then, without explanation—or at least none that Llyn had found in the files he’d read on the trip to Rochelle—Anderman had abruptly pulled the plug on Gensonne’s ambitions. Gensonne had apparently responded by taking his core crew, and a couple of small ships Anderman gifted him, and going home. He’d ended up on the fringes of the Solarian League, where he’d started to build an organization of his own, one without Anderman’s inconvenient list of scruples. Eventually, he’d relocated into Silesia, with his growing collection of ships and men, and ever since had been taking on the kind of jobs Anderman would never have touched.
Llyn didn’t know why Anderman and Gensonne had parted company, though he had his suspicions. Still, Gensonne’s record was one of competence, certainly enough to handle the subjugation of the Star Kingdom of Manticore. At the end of the day, that was all that mattered.
And in fact, the Anderman connection made things perfect. An investigation in one direction would dead-end at the late General Khetha and his homecoming ambitions, while an enquiry in the other direction would conclude that Gensonne had been inspired by his former chief’s example to try his own hand at the whole planet-conquering game. Either way, Axelrod’s name would be completely out of it.
Across the desk, Gensonne stirred in his seat. “Interesting,” he said, with his eyes still on the tablet.
Llyn waited a moment, wondering if there would be more. But Gensonne just flicked to the next page, his eyebrows pressed together in concentration. “Is that a good interesting, or a bad interesting?” Llyn asked at last.
“Well, it sure as hell isn’t good,” Gensonne growled. “You realize this is a star nation that can conceivably field somewhere in the vicinity of thirty warships? Including six to eight battlecruisers?” He cocked his head. “That’s one hell of a fighting force, Mr. Llyn.”
Llyn smiled. It was a standard gambit among mercenaries, one that had been tried on him at least twice before. By inflating the potential risks, the bargainer hoped to similarly inflate the potential payment. “You apparently missed sections fifteen and sixteen,” he said. “The bulk of that fleet is in mothballs awaiting the scrapyard. What’s left is either half armed or half crewed or both. Our estimate is that you’ll be facing no more than eight to ten ships, with maybe one of those ships a battlecruiser.”
“I did read sections fifteen and sixteen, thank you,” Gensonne countered. “I also noted that the most recent data here is over fifteen months old.”
“I see.” Standing up, Llyn reached across the table and plucked the tablet from Gensonne’s hands. “Obviously, you’re not the group we’re looking for, Admiral. Best of luck in your future endeavors.”
“Just a moment,” Gensonne protested, grabbing for the tablet. Llyn was ready for the move and twitched it out of his reach. “I never said we wouldn’t take the job.”
“Really?” Llyn said. Time for a little gamesmanship of his own. “It certainly sounded to me like you thought the job was too big for you.”
“There is no such job,” Gensonne said stiffly, standing up as if prepared to chase Llyn all the way through his office door if necessary to get the tablet back. The fact that Llyn was making no move to leave seemed to throw him off stride. “I was simply making the point that your intel was stone cold, and that any merc commander would want an update before taking action.”
“Was that what you were saying?” Llyn said, feigning a puzzled frown. “But then why did you imply that the odds—?” He broke off, letting his frown warm to a knowing smile. “Oh, I see. You were trying to amp up your price.”
Typically, Llyn knew, people hated to see their stratagems trotted out into the sunlight. But Gensonne didn’t even flinch. A bull-by-the-horns type, with no apologies, no excuses, and no regrets, nicely consistent with Llyn’s analysis of the man. “Of course I was,” he said. “I was also looking for more information.” He gestured to the tablet. “We can handle the job. Trust me. The question is why we should bother.”
“A good question,” Llyn said. As if he was really going to let a mercenary leader into Axelrod’s deepest thoughts and plans. “You’ll forgive me if I respectfully decline to answer.”
Gensonne’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment Llyn thought the other was preparing to delve back into his bag of ploys and tricks. But then the admiral’s face cleared and he shrugged. “Fair enough,” he said. “You’re hiring mercenaries, after all. Not fishing for investors.”
“Exactly,” Llyn said, his estimation of the man rising another notch. Gensonne knew how to play the game, but he also knew when to stop. “So. Are the Volsung Mercenaries the ones for this job? Or would you rather keep on hitting small mining colonies and helpless freighters?”
Again, Gensonne’s eyes narrowed. But this time it was the narrowing of a predator’s eyes as the animal prepared to spring. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, very softly.
“Oh, don’t worry—I’m not planning to tell anyone,” Llyn assured him, rather surprised that his piracy shot in the dark had drawn some blood. The thought had only occurred to him a few days ago as he contemplated all the attention Manticore and Haven were putting into their pirate hunt.
Though of course there was also the whole general drying-up of jobs all across the galaxy that were available for under-the-radar groups like Gensonne’s. The predator was still there, but it was an increasingly hungry and desperate one.
And desperation was an emotion Llyn was quite adept at playing.
“I understand that it’s hard for an honest mercenary to make ends meet these days,” he continued. “I’m merely suggesting you might find this job more lucrative as well as more satisfying than simple piracy.”
For another moment Gensonne continued his predator’s stare. Then, he gave a little shrug. “Probably,” he said. “But you’re missing the point. The freighters aren’t supplementary income. They’re practice.”
“Practice?”
“Running down ships is an art, Mr. Llyn,” Gensonne said. “One that needs constant practice to maintain. All the training and drills I can give my men can only take them so far. In the end, you need to face someone who genuinely and desperately wants to get away.”
“Ah,” Llyn said, suppressing a shiver. Suddenly, he was starting to see exactly why Anderman had kicked this man off his team.
“You disapprove?”
“I have no opinion one way or the other,” Llyn said. “All I care about, as I said, is whether you’re the ones for my job.”
Gensonne smiled grimly. “The Volsung Mercenaries are very much the ones for your job, Mr. Llyn,” he said. “Have a seat, and let’s talk money.”
* * *
Missile Tech Chief Charles Townsend had been aboard HMS Phoenix for a full week before Travis was finally able to carve out time during midwatch to head back to Aft Weapons and see his old boot camp friend.
The meeting did not go exactly the way he’d expected.
“Lieutenant,” Chomps said formally, floating at attention in the autocannon monitor station. “I’m pleased to see you again, Sir. It’s been a long time since our days at Casey-Rosewood. Congratulations on your success at OCS and your promotion.”
Travis was still trying to think how to react to the other’s unexpectedly cool correctness when Chomps’s face split in a huge grin. Grabbing Travis’s arm, he yanked him close and enfolded him in a big bear hug. “You son of a yard dog,” he said in Travis’s ear. “Man, it’s good to see you, Rule-Stickler.”
Travis was still trying to think how to react to that when Chomps pulled back as quickly as he’d moved in and was once again floating in the kind of formal posture a petty officer was supposed to present to a superior. “I mean, man, it’s good to see you, Rule-Stickler, Sir,” he corrected.
“Nice to see the years haven’t degraded your sense of humor,” Travis managed, still trying to get his brain leveled after the double blindsiding. “If t
hat’s how you typically greet officers, I’m surprised you haven’t been busted to Spacer Third by now.”
“Or lower,” Chomps agreed. “They could bust me to MPARS, you know. Don’t worry—I have a bit more discretion than that.”
“Good,” Travis said, his thoughts flashing back to the awkwardness of his first meeting with Lisa Donnelly when she’d bounced back into his life a couple of years ago. For obvious reasons, of course, this acquaintance renewal felt completely different from that one. “So how’ve you been?”
“Slogging my way up the chain,” Chomps said, dropping into the kind of semiformality that Travis had seen between other officers and petty officers who were also friends. “Due to some apparently chronic glitch in the BuPers computer system, they keep promoting me. And now—” he waved a hand expansively “—here we are, together again.”
“My son, who done good,” Travis said.
Chomps smiled, but there was a seriousness about his eyes. “Thanks to you. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t taken the heat for me when you did.”
“Probably the same thing that happened to me,” Travis said, trying for a light tone. “A slap on the wrist, then business as usual.”
“Maybe,” Chomps said. “Maybe not.” He pursed his lips. “I know I thanked you at the time…but as the years pass and I get older and wiser, I’m able to see even more clearly the risk you took. So again, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Chief,” Travis said. “Provided we make this the last time you mention it. Officers are used to being cursed out by petty officers. Getting thanked by one plays havoc with our timing.”
Chomps grinned. “Aye, aye, Sir,” he said. “So; hyper limit patrol. Exciting stuff.”
“Certainly less exciting than Casca, anyway,” Travis agreed.
“So you know about that?” Chomps said, his forehead furrowing slightly.
“As least as much as anyone else does,” Travis said suppressing a wince. In the rush of old camaraderie he’d completely forgotten that, while the subject wasn’t exactly classified, Lisa had asked that he not bandy it about. Still, if there was anyone aboard Phoenix with whom he could talk about it, Chomps was certainly it. “Seems to me you’re lucky to be alive.”