Vicky Peterwald: Survivor (Vicky Peterwald Series Book 2) (23 page)

Mannie shrugged enigmatically as he offered her a hand up from the table.

He delivered Vicky safely to the shuttleport and was still watching as the shuttle motored down the ramp and into the bay.

That was nice. Vicky tried to remember when the last time was that someone had stayed to see her off rather than turned away, glad she was gone.

She couldn’t.

V
ICKY
often used shuttle rides for planning. This afternoon, she found herself forced into reflection.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. She reviewed what she needed to talk over with Admiral von Mittleburg and found it short and easily organized.

That done, she sank into self-examination with unaccustomed speed.

What is going on between me and Mannie?

It wasn’t that the guy was a hunk. She’d had a lot better-looking men in her bed. He wasn’t even all that cute. No more than a few inches taller than she and with that bit of a paunch, he was the epitome of a desk-bound bureaucrat but hardly the guy a looker like a Grand Duchess would give a second glance.

So what is it about his smile that makes me feel all warm inside?

The business of the moment was throwing them together, but she’d managed to dodge a lot of men the times had thrown at her.

Dodged them or used them and tossed them aside.

Vicky whispered the word “used,” aloud. It rolled off her tongue oh so easily. She’d used a lot of men. Hardly had her
boobs and hips come in than she discovered the marvelous power they gave her over men and put them to good use.

Dad kept calling her his “nice little girl,” even after she’d been caught in bed with several of the available studs. Come to think of it, he hadn’t given up that “nice little girl” shtick until he shipped her off to the Navy.

Bedding the available beefcakes had gotten her what she wanted from the guys but not so much from her dad.

Interesting.

If I keep this up, I’m going to need a shrink to unsort my brain.

Maggie had been the only one she could talk to about things like this.
Where are you when I really need you, Doc?

One thing was clear. Mannie was like no other man she’d had in her life. Mannie was passionate . . . not about her but about the world they could make happen together. Good things for his city. For his planet. For his people.

Was that what made him attractive? He was passionate about doing things
for
people, not using people
for
things.

And what are you doing?
Vicky asked herself.

For most of her life, she’d been Daddy’s little girl. Hank’s little sister.
That
girl.
The
girl. She’d
been
things, not
doing
things. She hadn’t felt passionate about anything. Not even passionate in bed.

Now, she was committing herself passionately to doing something for people. That felt like nothing she’d ever felt before. And somehow, Mannie was fitting her into his passions. That was leaving her feeling something for Mannie that she’d never felt for any man.

Vicky pursed her lips and mulled that over for a long while. The shuttle was matching with the station, leaving her still very much in need of exploring the full depth of this . . . something.

But when the hatch opened, she pulled herself up out of the seat before the commander could offer her a hand up and marched quickly for admiral’s country.

A
S
Vicky expected, the admiral was meeting with his ship-repair specialists, trying to see what they could do to make the
Attacker
fit for space again.

“We need more yard for that,” was the conclusion voiced by a commander as Vicky was ushered into the conference room by the admiral’s aide.

“Then I think I have just what you need,” Vicky said. “Computer, put the yard-upgrade project plan onto the admiral’s main screen.”

The large bulkhead to the admiral’s right lit up with boxes and lists. In an instant, Navy officers were scrambling from their seats to study the displayed action plan.

“Good Lord,” seemed to be the most repeatable response.

“Can you actually get this?” the admiral asked Vicky.

“This was what they decided to offer you last night,” Vicky said.

“And they’ll be taking it all back by tonight,” one commander grumbled.

“I doubt it. I’ve got them all busy on another project,” Vicky said breezily.

“What kind of project?” the grumbler asked.

“The one I proposed to the admiral last night,” Vicky said, not willing to let that cat out of the bag until it was racing across space to the finish line. Not even among these Navy officers.

What had Kris Longknife said about paranoia keeping her alive?

Are all royalty paranoid?
Vicky wondered. It took only a moment’s reflection to decide that it was likely they all weren’t.
Only the live ones.

Some of the commanders eyed the admiral, but he stayed focused on the screen in front of him and said nothing.

Yep, it’s need to know, and they don’t need.

“Sir,” a lieutenant commander who’d never taken his eyes from the screen said, “this might make my plan not only doable, but the best of the options we’ve been looking at.”

“Refresh my memory, Eugene,” the admiral said.

“If we upgrade D and E docks, we gain two slips that can handle anything. However, that’s all we’ll have. Yes, the other six slips can handle minor hull damage, but if you want to do anything with a ship’s reactor, you’ve got to get it into one of these two, no matter how small the ship. If we upgrade B and C, we get them able to handle large cruisers while D and E can still handle your large merchant ships or Navy destroyers.”

“Furthermore, we may be needing to refit some of the laid-up merchants, if I know what’s coming our way,” the admiral said, studiously not looking at Vicky.

“I agree with Commander Eugene,” said a full commander who wore the gears of the engineering branch in place of the command star above his three stripes. “If we upgraded D and E, we’d either be storing the lighter cranes that we replaced or moving them to B and C. Better to do all the refurbishment on those two and keep the working docks working.”

“Gentlemen,” the admiral said, “I think you have your work cut out for you. We’ll meet tomorrow at 0900 to review your implementation plans.”

Dismissed, the commanders quickly departed to their duties.

“A good morning’s work,” the admiral said, offering Vicky a cup of coffee and directing her away from the table to his couch. He settled into the armchair across from her.

“Oh, that? It was just handed to me on a platter. It was what I dropped into their laps that got them all hot and bothered.”

“And you dropped in their lap . . . ?” he left unfinished.

“What we talked about last night,” and Vicky quickly outlined what could hardly not be called treason, if not against her father, the Emperor, most certainly against her stepmum, the Empress.

“And they took it well?”

“About as well as anyone offered a chance to be the first in line to be hanged,” Vicky said with a dry chuckle.

“So they said no.”

“Hardly. As we speak, they’re making up lists of what they want to ship to Metzburg and New Brunswick and what they want in return. And if they get what you want, you can expect a very major upgrade to several of your slips.”

“You are most persuasive,” the admiral offered.

“The times are most persuasive. You can stand still and be run over, or you can start running and grab what’s up for grabs. These folks are the naturally grabby type.”

“God help us simple peasants when the grabby type are grabbing,” the admiral said, and made it sound like a prayer.

“I’d never think of you as a peasant, and certainly not simple,” Vicky said, hoping her eyes and smile were sparkling with good humor. A commander doesn’t call an admiral a peasant, simple or complex, even a Grand Duchess commander.

“At heart, I find myself a simple farmer,” the admiral said.

“Well, I need you to be an admiral for a bit more,” Vicky said. “At least, I need you to loan me a few ships. The folks below are making up their wish list and
quid pro quo
, and they need to get it to Metzburg and New Brunswick without it being intercepted.”

“They can’t just send it over the net, huh?”

“Not and it have any chance of getting there,” Vicky said.

“So they want to courier it out on one of my ships.”

“You got it in one, sir.”

“I expect they want to use their own couriers, too.”

“They want to send along some folks who can start the negotiation balls rolling.”

The admiral winced. “So I’m to have civilian passengers on my warships.”

“Is that a problem, sir?” Vicky asked. She’d carried contractor personnel like Kit and Kat with her without questions asked.

“If I’m caught shipping folks around on my ships, even if they aren’t talking treason, I’m guilty of all sorts of violations of rules and regs. That tends to draw attention we don’t want.”

“And we really don’t want to be caught on something minor while we’re doing anything that smacks too blatantly of rebellion,” Vicky said.

“Exactly.”

The two exchanged pained looks for a long moment as they contemplated how not to get caught.

Finally, Vicky shrugged. “About that flag someone might want me to wave,” she said.

“The nonexistent one?”

“I’m about to do some flag-waving. Not that one, but one of the gracious, generous Grand Duchess type.”

That drew her a blank look from the admiral. Vicky quickly explained how her lunch with Mannie had ended and what the two of them were looking at.

“That’s dangerous. Likely deadly,” the admiral said.

“No doubt it is,” Vicky said, “but I can’t wave any flag or gracious banner while hiding under my bed, now can I?”

The admiral scowled. “Point and match to you. I begin to think some of us may not have thought through all our moves.”

“Rebellion not being taught at the academies, no doubt you can be forgiven missing a few of the finer points.”

“Like trying to wave a banner without making a target of oneself,” the admiral muttered.

“So, how do we do this?” Vicky said. “Mannie has made a good case that I am something that people might enjoy gathering around. Then again, those interested in plugging me and collecting my loving stepmum’s reward will likely show up as well. We think that if we make me a moving target and one of opportunity, no plastering the town with posters of my itinerary, I might manage to dodge all the small-arms fire.”

“I seem to remember something about surprise and stealth in some course I took in my younger and less attentive days,” the admiral admitted.

“So we do that and let it be covered on the five o’clock news feed.”

“That might work,” the admiral allowed.

“You game?”

“You’ll have to take your chances if you ever were to take out that only mumbled-about family heirloom and begin waving it. I think my associates had kind of assumed you’d be doing it comfortably and safely from the bridge of a well-protected battleship, but I think we have not made allowances for the need for a popular action to gather popular support.”

He mulled the idea over for a long moment, then seemed to resolve his conflict. “I’ll have some Marines made available to serve as your obvious protection. I’ll see what I can do about finding you some less obvious protection.”

“I think Mannie will be doing the same.”

“He seems to be coming up a lot in your conversations,” was not quite the inquiry of a worried father.

When have I ever had a worried father? Me, not Hank?

“He’s the lead politician down there. He’s my interface with the planet’s business and finances. If I want something, it goes through him.”

“And if I want something,” the admiral said, “it seems to go through you
and
him.”

“Something like that.”

“I will see what I can do about getting ships that aren’t likely to be snapped up by pirates,” the admiral said, “and I’ll see if any of my procurement officers might meet the expectations of the business interests. They have the advantage, at this stage of the game, of not shouting rebellion.”

“And we don’t want to even whisper that word, do we?” Vicky whispered.

“I don’t think you can whisper the contents of this trading effort softly enough to not make it treason. Have you given any thought as to how you’ll get the goods out and back safely?”

“I was thinking of using the
Retribution
for one of the escorts?”

“Your battleship! It’s supposed to be here for your use, and maybe to protect St. Petersburg as well.”

“I suspect that might be the idea,” Vicky said, “but I do intend to be on my battleship when we make this trading swap.”

“Nothing like a Grand Duchess to arrange a grand trade, huh?” the admiral said.

“Kind of like that. Also, if they’ve got all that future riding on those ships, we want to make sure it gets through. Someone else, no doubt, will want even more to make sure that it does not.”

“Putting all your eggs in one basket comes to mind, but I don’t know just how.”

“We’ve only got one basket, sir. I say we protect it for all we’re worth.”

He blew out a worried breath. “A good point. Well, Your Grace, you have made a hash of my evening. I must go about retrieving some of the things I started that will not be finished and begin things I never thought I’d start.”

He stood. Vicky did the same. He went to his desk as she headed for the door.

Supper that night was a salad built around locally grown greens, a mix of other things that had never seen old Earth, and topped with sprinkles that the wardroom signboard called shrimp. From the taste of it, it clearly hadn’t swum in any earthly deep. Still, she found it tangy. No doubt, human taste buds had done their own evolution since leaving Mother Earth in the rearview mirror.

She adjourned to her quarters to find Kit already naked and ready to help her with her shower.

“I’ll take care of myself, tonight,” Vicky said

“Can I at least help you out of that dirty old uniform?” Kit pouted.

Vicky relented and enjoyed the feel of Kit peeling her out of her whites. Still, she made it into the shower on her own.

“What’s happening to you?” she muttered to herself as she sudsed up quickly and attacked her own skin with a simple washcloth. “Have you been bit by the monogamy bug or something?”

She had been bit by something. Something named Mannie. Or something like the fellow she called Mannie. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know what he was like or liked, for that matter.

Still, he had a kind of respectable air; there was something so normal about him. The thought of his replacing the detached Mr. Smith in her bed with Kit and Kat flashed across her mind’s eye . . . and flashed up
TILT
.

Somehow, the picture of Mannie sandwiched between her and Kit and Kat just didn’t fit the way he went about his day.

She could be wrong. She’d have to find out.

She found herself giggling softly at the thought of them doing sex his somewhat stodgy way Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and taking her multiplayer approach Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Sunday, they’d likely need for recuperation.

Vicky was smiling at that thought when she exited the shower. Kat was waiting with a towel. Vicky took it and dried herself off, then donned the offered sleeping silk pajamas. Again, without the offered help.

She returned to her bedroom to find Kit with several pairs of handcuffs dangling from her spread hands.

“Not tonight,” Vicky said.

“Mademoiselle, have we offended you?” Kat asked.

“No, I just need time to think.”

“Ze Grand Duchess needs more time with ze handcuffs, I think,” Kit said.

“I don’t think so,” Vicky said, stepping aside.

“Maybe not all of them, cuffing you to ze bed,” Kit said, “but you were not so sharp with ze handcuffs the last time you were in them that you do need ze practice getting out of them.”

Vicky considered her pet assassin’s argument and found she had a point. If she was headed out into the public shooting gallery, not all of what she faced would be bullets.

She held out her hands, and Kit slapped the cuffs on her.

And Vicky found herself frowning. She’d just washed her hair and all her hairpins were still in the bathroom. She suspected that she’d be tackled to the ground by the tiny duo if she turned her back on them. Where that would end would definitely be easy to guess.

She spotted a hairpin behind Kat’s ear and grabbed for it.

Kat pulled away, but not quite fast enough.

“Good, my Grand Duchess, but not everyone will be as slow as my grandmere.”

In a moment, Vicky was handing the cuffs back to Kit.

That was a mistake. She grabbed Vicky’s right hand and swung her around, pinning her arms and cuffing her hands behind her back.

Vicky had half expected that move, at least once Kit started
it. She had secreted her hairpin between two fingers and waited, doing a good imitation of bored while her security guardian got her where she wanted her.

“Now,” Kit said, “are you still ze Grand Duchess, or are you ze helpless pinned butterfly?”

Vicky had always found working behind her back, by feel and touch alone, a whole lot harder. It took her a couple of minutes to get her hands free.

While she struggled, Kit and Kat hummed and did their best to look bored.