Vicky Peterwald: Target (20 page)

L
IKE
any Navy officer, Vicky had been up and down the space elevator many times.

She’d never before seen this side of the place, though.

It was probably just as well that they were using the worker’s gate. As they walked by the front entrance to the station . . . at a comfortable distance well across the parking lot . . . Vicky spotted a dozen of the big, heavy SUVs that the Imperial Guards used. There were heavily armed red-and-blacks moving in fire teams of four all over the outside of the station.

No doubt, there were more inside.

Someone had finally decided to put out the dragnet for her. Likely the rest of Anhalt was crawling with red-and-blacks.

Maybe the palace would be the safest place for her?

Vicky suppressed a smile.

They walked around back, the guys joking among themselves, and left her carrying the heavy toolbox and limping. Vicky guessed this was part of the disguise, but if this didn’t work, she was going to make sure someone paid dearly for putting her through this.

They came in a back entrance that Vicky had never seen before. It was dark and dirty and smelled. Greenfeld Elevator, Inc., didn’t waste any of its profits on the help.

There was a guy at the gate, checking IDs. One of the others went first, handed him his ID and got it back. The rat face, next in line asked, “How’s the wife?”

“I work all the overtime I can get, and she still spends it faster than I can bring it home,” he said, then smiled as rat handed him his ID with a couple of bills folded around it.

The bills disappeared.

Stoop-shouldered went next, and handed over his ID wrapped in cash, too.

The guy’s smile grew.

Vicky was next; she passed the ID she’d been given, but with no cash attached, not having been given any. The guy’s smile vanished but he took it, glanced at a list of names on a clipboard, and passed it back.

The last of the five had money with his ID. He got a cheery “Have a great day on the job, guys,” and the five of them shambled along toward the
EMPLOYEES ONLY
gate.

“Why didn’t I get any money?” Vicky demanded in a whisper.

“Yous wants to draw attention to yous self, dumb skirt?” the slump-shouldered one whispered back.

Yep, he definitely died first.

They entered the ferry by a back entrance, and Vicky found herself surrounded by machinery that made a racket, gave off noxious vapors, and in general looked a whole lot less serviceable than the VIP lounge she had ridden down in just three days ago.

“You two hide out in there,” Rat Face said, and pointed Vicky and stooped shoulders to a compartment whose door said
ELECTRICAL FUSE BOXES. KEEP OUT.

They slipped in, and Vicky found herself in close quarters with a whole lot of stuff labeled
DANGER, DO NOT TOUCH. QUALIFIED TECHNICIAN ACCESS ONLY
.

“I wouldn’t touch those if I were you,” the stoop-shouldered fellow said, his use of Standard suddenly much improved. He was also standing up much straighter.

“I wasn’t planning on touching anything,” Vicky said. “I don’t know what my ID says, but I am no way a qualified technician.”

“For a lieutenant commander, you’re mighty smart.”

“I’m alive. If I was dumb, I’d be dead already,” Vicky said, not failing to notice that he’d somehow been informed of the promotion she’d hardly heard about.

“Yes, you are very much alive,” he said, glancing down at what had to be the worst fashion statement Vicky had ever made.

She decided to direct the conversation where she wanted it. “What do we do if there is an emergency and some ‘qualified-tech’ type wants in here?”

“There will be a lot of hooting and alarms going off long before anyone comes knocking at our door. Trust me, we’ll be hiding somewhere else, assuming there’s anyplace to hide. If this stuff fails, we are all in deep shit.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know that because you’re Navy, would you?”

“Might have been once,” he admitted.

“And no doubt will be again, you hope.”

“I can’t take much more of this undercover shit, I will admit.”

“Where do we go next?” Vicky asked.

“You’ll know as it happens, Your Grace. I can’t be captured. What I know dies with me.”

“I won’t be captured again. I know what they have planned for me when they get their sick hands on my fair flesh. I go down fighting next time.”

“Thanks for the warning. Are you armed?”

“Heavily.”

“So you can’t go through a metal detector.”

“Not successfully.”

“Thanks for the second warning,” he scowled. “We were just lucky that the employee-entrance metal detector was on the fritz again.”

“Nobody asked,” Vicky said defensively.

“And nobody told me,” he said through a scowl. “This lash-up is demanding too damn much luck.”

“It’s not like we could have planned this in advance,” Vicky pointed out.

“You’re starting to sound like some admiral,” he snapped.

“I’m a lieutenant, maybe a lieutenant commander, and a Grand Duchess. When I’m a lieutenant whatever, I bow and scrape, and say, ‘Yes, sir, admiral sir.’ When I’m a Grand Duchess, I bow to no one and admirals do as I say. I try hard not to get confused about which I am on any particular morning.”

“From what I hear, you’re a lieutenant commander, but junior to me by one very critical stripe’s width.”

“So, Commander, Admiral Waller went ahead with the paperwork, huh?”

“That was what I was told: ‘See that Lieutenant Commander, Her Grand Duchess gets her ass out of here in one piece.’”

“Your orders came in that format?”

“You may have noticed that I’m on very detached duty.”

“I think we both are now.”

“Any more surprises I should know about?”

“There’s one hell of a sharp knife in my right boot.”

“Please don’t use it on anyone I need,” he said.

“I was tempted to use it on you.”

He chuckled. “Then I was doing my job right. The only reason I’m in here with you and not Rat Face is because he figured I pissed you off the worst, and he liked the idea of you maybe slitting my belly open while those three went out for a beer.”

“Aren’t they supposed to be working on this ferry?”

“Not everyone who draws a paycheck from this ferry company does any work, Your Grace. I’ve seen the report. Our ferries require twice the manning of any in Longknife space. There’s a lot of featherbedding going on in the Empire. You know someone, you get a job. You pay them their kickback; you keep your job, no matter what.”

Vicky just shook her head. More data points of what was wrong with her beloved Greenfeld. No, what was wrong with the way her dad was running his Empire.

How long had it been going on like this? How much longer could the Empire survive this kind of mishandling? And that didn’t even raise the new question. How long would Greenfeld survive if one of those humongous mother ships showed up in tomorrow’s sky?

Vicky found a handhold as the PA system announced imminent departure. Maybe it was more noticeable since she had to be more careful about bumping into dangerous things, but the launch-out acceleration was bumpier than Vicky remembered.

The Navy officer noticed it, too, and scowled. “It just keeps getting worse. They’re going to knock one of these ferries off the damn elevator one of these days. What a mess that will be.”

“Not today, I hope.”

“Most likely not,” he agreed.

By the time the ferry had settled down at one-gee acceleration, the thrust was smoother. And Vicky had a few seconds to think.

“How much do you trust those three scumbags?” she asked the commander.

“They have a reputation for asking for too much money but for staying bought,” he said, but didn’t sound all that confident.

“There’s a lot of money on my head, and other, more delicate parts of me, too,” Vicky said.

“Are you thinking it might be a good idea to find another place to hide for a bit?”

“You know of one?”

His answer was to open the door, check the passageway, and motion her to follow him.

“Don’t forget your toolkit,” he said as he led her out.

Vicky went back to get said toolkit. Quickly, they went down the cramped corridor, up a steep companionway, then down another passageway. They were approaching another ladder when the sound of jackboots caught their attention from above.

The commander opened a door, and Vicky found herself sharing a tiny broom closet with him and several noxious cleaning agents. The toolbox came in handy to keep the space between her and the commander from getting too narrow.

Through the cracked door they heard Rat Face say, “It’s not much farther, just down this next set of stairs and around the hall.” Six pairs of boots followed him.

“That was too close,” the commander whispered, then cracked the door and checked both ways. “Quick, we’ve got to get well away from here.”

Vicky followed him as he jogged down the passageway, past the ladder and into a hatch marked,
NO ADMITTANCE
.

The room Vicky found herself in was small and crowded with emergency gear, rescue breathers, bottles of fire suppressants, and other helpful stuff for when all hell broke loose.

The commander ignored them and undogged a seriously airtight hatch. “Through here, quick.”

Vicky went.

It was cold in the next compartment. Vicky strongly suspected she was looking at the outer hull shell. Above her, ladder rungs were welded to the hull.

“Up we go, Your Grace.”

“With this,” she said, waving the toolbox.

The commander produced a pair of leather shoulder straps from the side of the kit. “Yup, junior commander, you do the fetch and carrying.”

Vicky scowled. “Can I at least get this damn rock out of my boot?”

He paused while she did, then led off immediately. She slung the toolkit as a pack and followed right behind him.

They must have climbed up five decks before they came to a solid bulkhead with another airtight hatch. As they stood on a landing below it, the commander studied it for a moment, then turned Vicky around without so much as a single pleasantry, and removed a couple of things from her toolkit.

He attached a gizmo and several wires to the hatch before he began undogging it. Apparently it worked, because the notice on the door,
DO NOT OPEN, ALARMS WILL SOUND
, did not happen when he opened the hatch.

Vicky climbed through it and caught her breath while the commander dogged down the hatch. “Up you go. We got two more of these bulkheads to climb through.”

Vicky swallowed any protest and started climbing. Suddenly, she was very glad for all the walking in the garden and dancing at the banquets. She might not have been doing morning PT, but she had surely kept in shape.

Two bulkheads later, the commander opened a hatch back into the ferry, and they found themselves once more among emergency gear and supplies.

“You can leave the toolkit here,” he said as he moved to crack the door.

The passageway outside was empty. They quickly moved around it until they came to a door with an anchor, globe, and eagle painted on it. The commander shoved Vicky inside as the sound of footfalls came from around the bend in the passageway.

Vicky found herself facing thirteen Marines in full dress uniform and white gloves.

Six of them had their rifles aimed at her heart.

“Gentlemen, and Marines, too,” the commander said, “may I introduce you to Her Grace, the Grand Duchess Victoria.”

The Marine captain snapped to attention and saluted. The rifles went back to parade rest, and Vicky gave a sigh of relief.

N
O
longer staring down rifle barrels, Vicky could take a better measurement of the room.

It was gently lit and smelled of flowers. Understandably, because in the center of the room was a flag-draped casket. She’d stumbled into a funeral honor guard.

The blood drained from her face. Was this Captain Morgan?

“Sorry, Captain, but we had to go to Plan B,” the commander said, not sounding at all apologetic. “It seems that our lowlifes are not as loyal as we thought our money bought us.”

“Don’t you just hate scum that can’t be counted on to stay bought?” the captain answered through a tight smile.

“Can you take over her protection? I’ve got to run. No doubt I’ve been burned and am as hot as she is.”

“Can you get off safely, sir?” the Marine asked.

“I’ve got several options, but none that I can do if I have her on my heels.” The commander turned back to Vicky. “Your Grace, I will meet up with you on the station. I know where we go next. The captain, here, does not. Hang with this bunch until I get back with you.”

“Good luck,” Vicky said.

“See you in a bit,” the commander said, and edged out the door.

Four of the honor guard were already doing something around the bottom of the coffin.

“Your Grace, if you will shed that gear, it’s going to be a tight fit where you’re going.”

Vicky fished her machine pistol out and settled it in front of her coveralls. “I will not be taken alive again,” she said. Listening to her words, she realized they came out hard. She didn’t intend them for the captain, but she did mean them.

“We understand, Your Grace,” the captain said, without batting an eyelash. “They get you, they come at you over our dead bodies.”

The sergeants around him nodded darkly.

Vicky turned to the flag draped coffin. “Is this Captain Morgan?”

“Oh, God! No, ma’am! We wouldn’t do that to you. No, Your Grace, this is General Colenberg. He died during interrogation by the security consultants. None of us know just why he had been hauled in a week ago, but he died of a heart attack, or so we we’re told.”

The sergeants of the honor guard looked positively murderous as the story came out. Had all of them served under the general?

Vicky shook her head. Did someone
want
a rebellion? If not, they were sure going about it all wrong.

Half of the coffin’s bottom had swung down, Vicky crawled into the space beneath the satin top and the wooden bottom. She check the safety on her weapon once again, then nuzzled it close.

One of the honor-guard sergeants gave her a wink, she lifted up her legs, and they began tightening the bottom back in place.

The fit was more than snug. She found if she edged over to one side, she could wedge herself into the plush side foam. She spotted a light in the dark near one of the handles and wiggled over to get more air.

She needed the outside air. What she shared with the corpse was heavy with death. If she had to guess, she’d say the body had not been embalmed.

She hadn’t long to wait for something to happen. There was a demanding rap at the door.

Vicky forced herself to breathe slowly, smoothly. She dare not starve herself now for air only to have to make a noisy gasp later.

“Who is it?” the captain said indifferently.

“Open up for the Imperial Guard,” was a demand, not a request.

“Since you asked so nicely. Sergeant, let them in.”

That was followed by the noise of a lot of heavy boots entering.

“You have a problem?” the captain asked lightly.

“We’re looking for a girl. A common prostitute. The tart murdered half a dozen men in cold blood.”

“Imperial Guardsmen, no doubt, unable to handle a mere slip of a girl,” the Marine captain said with surprise that almost didn’t sound feigned. “Well, you can see there are only men here. Marines and the dead,” the captain added darkly.

“So you say. Sergeant, search the place.”

So much for professional courtesy and respecting the word of a fellow officer. Then again, on second thought, no Marine would consider the Imperial Guard their equal. And for different reasons, no doubt the Guard felt the same way.

There was more commotion that apparently led nowhere. Then came the inevitable.

“Open the casket.”

“That is Brigadier General Colenberg, our honored dead,” the captain bit out.

“So you say. I’ll see for myself.”

“The brigadier died during interrogation by a security consultant. It is not a pretty sight. His family did not embalm the body for religious reasons, and they want a closed-casket service.”

“Guard officers do not have squeamish stomachs, like
some
people. No doubt he got what he deserved for the crimes he committed. Open the casket, or I will have it opened.”

Was that Guard officer under orders to start a rebellion right here in this room?

Vicky considered the situation. That might be the plan. If the Navy shot at the Guard, the Empress could move in fast with her power and suppress the Navy quickly while it was unprepared for what hit it. And if they found Vicky’s dead body in the cross fire, well, so much the better.

There was a long, pregnant, or maybe more accurately deadly, pause. When the captain spoke, his words were cold but crisp. “Honor Guard, Atten’hut.”

Vicky heard the snap of men coming smartly to attention.

“Honor Guard, Recover the flag.”

More light came in through Vicky’s breathing holes as the flag was lifted, then smartly folded down to the sergeant at the foot of the coffin.

“Open it,” the Guard officer demanded.

Again there was a pause. Then the captain said. “Command Sergeant Major, please open the top of the casket.”

That took a bit of doing. The sergeant major seemed to fumble the latch repeatedly in his gloved hands.

“Take the damn gloves off,” demanded the Guard officer.

The top half of the coffin opened. Vicky got a whiff of fresher air.

Someone stomped over to the coffin. “Open the rest of it.”

That took less time.

Now the coffin swayed as the Guard officer lifted first the feet, then the head. Finally, he rocked the body to the left and right. Vicky could feel the tension growing more and more explosive in the room.

If these sergeants were drawn from the brigadier’s command, the idiot Guard officer was messing with their beloved commander right in front of his loyal NCOs.

Had the Guardsman been ordered to do his best to spark the rebellion today?

Vicky had to remind herself to breathe slowly and softly.

“Clearly, that is Brigadier General Colenberg and not a woman,” the captain snapped. “Will you now leave us to our grief?”

“Why would you Marines shed a tear for a common crook?”

“Are men in Greenfeld no longer innocent until proven guilty?” the captain bit out.

“He should have told the Empress’s security consultants what they wanted to know.”

There was no answer to that. None that didn’t involve full civil war. The captain let the Guard officer have the last word. Vicky listened as heavy boots left.

She’d bet money that the last several of them were backing out, machine pistols at the ready.

A long minute went by as a lot of angry men got their breath back and closed the casket.

“Honor Guard. Render flag honors to the dead.”

The flag was returned to lie over the casket, and Vicky found herself with less light.

“You okay in there?” the captain asked.

“Yes,” Vicky whispered. Then added, “Thanks, Captain, for not doing what they wanted you to do.”

“Those sons ah bitches have a lot coming to them.”

“But not today, Captain. Not when they’re asking for it. Wanting it. Ready for it, and we aren’t.”

“Too true, Your Grace. Too true.”

Vicky found herself wanting to doze off. Tired as she was, she fought the urge. It wouldn’t do to have snores coming from a coffin. Flag-draped or otherwise.

When the ferry arrived at the station, the Marines waited until the rush was over, then slow-marched the casket as they rolled it through the main deck and off to a waiting hearse.

The drive to the Navy-base chapel on the station was slow but uninterrupted.

The casket was again unloaded by the honor guard and transferred to its wheeled dolly under the soft tears of mourners. Vicky heard the captain pass a few words with them.

“There’s a wheel threatening to come loose. We need to take the remains to the back of the chapel for a few minutes to assure there are no problems during the service.”

The widow tearfully agreed.

So Vicky found herself out of sight, in the sacristy beside the sanctuary, being pulled out of her close confines.

There was a woman Marine captain waiting for her. “Come with me. I have a few things for you.” And the two of them disappeared into the vacant chaplain’s office.

The first thing the Marine did was extract a shipsuit from a bag, a gray one, not Navy blue or Greenfeld green, and toss it to Vicky.

Vicky read the name on the right breast. “‘Paulus Ship Fitters. The best for the best.’ Anyone we know?” she asked.

The Marine officer shrugged. “I’m doing what I was told. And I was told to ask no questions and forget everything I did five seconds after I did it, Your Grace.”

“Smart policy,” Vicky agreed. In a moment, the borrowed coveralls were a heap on the floor, quickly followed by the clothes the colonel and his wife had given her. It took only a second to pull on the new, nonregulation shipsuit.

“The rest of the stuff in the bag is what I think you’ll need for a week on the run. Toothbrush, soap, clean undies, a box of sanitary napkins just in case. You know.”

“Thanks. You’re the first person I’ve met since this whole thing began to think of me as a woman with needs.”

“And what you mean by ‘this whole thing’ is not part of my brief, ma’am, though if I can say so, we girls of the Corps are damn proud of the way you got those scumbags that murdered the captain. A lot of us liked that bounder.”

“I’m sorry I could only avenge him,” Vicky said, and really felt it.

“Here are some sunglasses and a baseball cap. You can put your weapon in the bag with the other stuff. That’s 4.5 mm, right? I got you a couple of extra boxes of ammunition and two magazines that should fit that thing.”

“For someone who doesn’t know a thing about me and forgot it five seconds ago, you sure know what I want.”

“We aim to please, Your Grace. Now, good luck and a fast voyage. Oh, and I was given this just before you got here.” She handed Vicky a slip of paper.

“Put it in water, and it will tell you where to go next. There’s a water fountain in the passageway around behind the sanctuary. Now. I got to go,” she said, gathering up Vicky’s shed clothes and putting them in a bag that she produced from somewhere. “It’s been nice never meeting you.”

And without a backward glance, Vicky’s angel was gone.

Vicky checked her bag. It was full of nice things as well as another shipsuit and several changes of underwear that were in her size. There were three boxes of a hundred rounds each of 4.5 mm ammo and two sixty-round magazines. Vicky slipped her own automatic as well as her captured weapon in the bag and covered them with clothes, but made sure they were in easy reach.

Ready to give the padre back his office, she slipped out and headed away from the mourning congregation through the back hallway. There indeed was a water fountain. She soaked the slip of paper and saw “Pier 12, D-103” appear.

In the sanctuary, Vicky could hear a male voice, heavy with emotions, praise the character of the deceased brigadier. All Vicky could do was shake her head and promise his tortured soul vengeance as she swallowed the paper and let herself out the back door of the chapel.

Vicky left the Navy base by a minor gate. The Marine guard there studied her fake ID for a long moment, then waved her through. She avoided the station trolley and anyplace that might have good camera coverage. That left her walking the back alleys and side roads of the station. It took her a half hour more, but in an hour she stood at the escalator that would take her down to Pier 12. The map before her showed that side branches A, B, and C were large affairs where liners might dock. D was opposite C and looked tiny compared to the other three. Then again, it had some hundred and ten tie-downs.

Here was the place small runabouts and yachts could tie up.

Vicky passed up the elevator that would have whisked her down to the D level and took the stairs instead, figuring they were likely to be under less surveillance.

Besides, a working stiff like she appeared to be wouldn’t crowd the elbows of the paying customers and owners.

Got to stay in my place,
she lectured herself, wondering if she’d ever find out what her place really was.

Damn it, girl, you’re the Grand Duchess Victoria. Your place is on top.

Or dead.

Vicky tried to concentrate on her surroundings and not foolish thoughts as she trotted down the steps.

Cross Pier D was easy to find. Now berth 103, that was a problem.

Vicky walked and walked out the D cross pier, passing scores of slips for boats large but getting smaller as the numbers slowly added up toward a hundred. Now she was passing decent-sized system runabouts, craft that might take a party out to circle the moon or even to one of the outer planets, if you didn’t mind the air getting a bit stale.

None of them seemed suitable for a jump to the next system, much less two.

“Have I got the number right?” she was just asking herself when she finally came to slip 103.

The name on the slip sign said the
Spaceadler
was tied up below. The name was smudged and the paper it was written on worn and dog-eared. Apparently, the
Spaceadler
had been tied up at slip 103 for quite a while.

The board below the name showed red. The
Spaceadler
was locked down tight and not ready for space.

Vicky walked the rest of the distance to the end of Cross Pier D. That took her to slip 110. The other signs were just as tired and dog-eared. Apparently, this was where ships came to die.