Vicky Peterwald: Target (7 page)

A
ND
thus it happened that Vicky found herself in the upscale shopping district on Savannah, with Kit and Kat following her, and Mr. Smith at her elbow.

Shopping was one thing that the younger Vicky loved to do and did very well. While she might be invisible at the palace, once she presented Daddy’s credit chit, she was not only visible, but graciously welcome in any store on Greenfeld.

Today, Vicky’s first stop was to refill her wardrobe. She had only three civilian outfits with her from the
Fury
. She added several more at one store and had them messenger serviced back to the
Stalker
. Then she settled on a sedate brown pantsuit for today. Similar green and red pantsuits went back to the flagship along with the dowdy dress she had worn to cross the
Stalker
’s brow.

The essentials cared for, Vicky turned to the whole reason Admiral Gort’s division of battlecruisers had made an unannounced stop at Savannah.

The first two electronic specialty stores she stopped in sold her matrix computers without batting an eye. One was in the shape of a pendant on a gold chain, the other was part of a very expensive necklace.

Vicky’s third stop did not go nearly as well.

The store manager was an older man, who rather than just running Vicky’s IDent for a quick charge, ran it instead as a background check. He frowned at the results and handed Vicky’s card back to her. “Miss Peterwald, you no doubt know that the U.S. has restrictions on what it will sell to foreign aliens.”

“I had heard that,” Vicky said, as innocent as she could manage. “I’ve never experienced any restrictions on what I bought personally.”

“Be that as it may be, ma’am, I will not sell this item to you. Sorry, but my grandfather remembers what it was like under the Unity thugs. He always said that some sales come too dear. Our family store has always followed the policy he set in place.”

Vicky thanked him for his time and left the store, unable to decide if she should be huffy or contrite. Then she considered how she’d react to his selling this high tech to her stepmom to grab for more power, or worse, ferret out conspirators, be they real or imagined.

She was kind of glad to be rejected.

She took the elevator back up to the space station. At the docks, she ran into the admiral, returning to the
Stalker
.

“How did your shopping go?” he asked.

“Quite well, sir. I got two sets of matrix. One was a bit spendy. It was part of a lovely necklace. Will you have any problem getting my reimbursement through procurement?”

“We’ll average the two sets together,” he said.

“How did your mission go?” Vicky asked. The admiral had had the much harder job of stopping by the U.S. port official and explaining why a pair of Greenfeld battlecruisers dropped in so unexpectedly.

“I told him we had a freezer failure and had to space a lot of spoiled meats. He didn’t believe a word I said, but he agreed to let me restock my freezers. I will, no doubt, catch hell from the bean counters for filling up my freezers just before I return to Greenfeld space, but the people who count will know the full story. This will not be a career-ending stop, I assure you.”

They reached the escalator down to the pier where the
Stalker
and
Slinger
lay. As they stepped aboard it, the admiral asked, “Can I see that necklace? Maybe if we remove the computer, I could make a gift of the rest of it to my loving wife. God knows she deserves something for all she’s put up with while I go about my Navy business. Then I could make up for that cost from the money that I recently came into,” he said with a grin.

Vicky bent over to rummage in her shopping bag.

She heard the ring of the shot and felt the wind of a bullet’s passage on the back of her neck.

Vicky collapsed to her knees even as she bent over double.

She didn’t feel the air as the second shot flew high above her.

Beside her, the admiral was tumbling forward, a gaping hole in his neck gushing blood.

V
ICKY
felt hot blood on her neck. She stared at the fallen body of the admiral, feeling the desire to weep, the urge to freeze where she was, and the overpowering temptation to fall apart, screaming.

The air above her cracked with the passage of a third round. It brought her out of her daze.

Vicky handed off the shopping bag to Kit. “You stay with the admiral.”

Vicky twisted around and pulled out her service automatic. “Kat, you’re with me,” she ordered, and started running up the escalator at a low crouch.

Three more shots rang out, two of them different from the third. Vicky reached the top of the escalator to see Mr. Smith trotting toward a man down. Vicky took the fallen man in with one glance.

He wore a conservative three-piece suit, but there was something wrong about him.

Vicky left the down man to Mr. Smith and joined Kat in checking the station promenade for anyone else with a gun.

The people within eyesight on the A deck of the station fell into two categories. The smart ones were running away or had dropped to the deck. The dumb ones were the gawkers, standing around, rubbernecking to get a better view of whatever the excitement was all about.

With Kat and Vicky eyeballing each of these idiots over the sights of their service automatics, even these became educable.

They joined the wiser ones, either running or dropping to the deck.

Then there were the third types.

Racing toward Vicky was a swarm of uniformed or plainclothes police, all with their own automatics out . . . and way too many aimed in Vicky’s general direction.

“Put down your weapons,” came from a young plainclothes type in the middle of the swarm. “Put them down, or we’ll take you down,” sounded very firm.

And maybe a bit scared.

Vicky pointed her weapon toward the overhead. “We are Her Imperial Grace, the Grand Duchess Victoria of the Peterwalds. These people under arms are doing so in our defense. Since someone just tried to kill us, you will understand our reluctance to disarm.”

Vicky had practiced the Imperial “We” before the mirror. This was her first chance to actually use it in public. She got a kick out of the reaction it drew from the cops.

The one who had appeared in charge seemed quite unable to figure out how to react. Fortunately for him and Vicky, a more senior, somewhat overweight officer, caught up with the herd at that moment.

“Bob, I think we can accommodate the Grand Duchess. Royalty that’s just dodged an assassination can be quite touchy in the immediate aftermath, and who’s to blame them?”

That decision seemed to settle the matter. Which was good.

Because Vicky’s own swarm of heavily armed defenders were galloping up the stairs from the pier. First to arrive were half a dozen Marines in dress green-and-black uniforms, but with thoroughly deadly M-6’s at the ready. They were quickly followed by another dozen in full battle gear, armed and armored. A lieutenant was in the last contingent and quickly ordered those in battle rattle to replace the first responders in surrounding their Grand Duchess.

Vicky found herself buried in a mound of armor as the two armed groups glowered at each other.

Since no shots were being exchanged, Vicky went along with her own agenda. “Spread out a bit. I want to see who was shooting at me.”

They did and Vicky found herself able to join Mr. Smith. He was kneeling beside the fallen shooter. An automatic was not far from . . . her . . . dead hand as it proved. It was the shoes that had first given Vicky some hint that all was not quite in order with the three-piece suit of her attempted assassin. Those shoes were comfortable pumps, the kind a woman might find easy to run in.

Mr. Smith, with the two senior plainclothes cops watching, began to examine the body.

A police technician came to kneel on the other side of the fallen killer and used his black box to take her fingerprints.

“If you get any result to your search,” Mr. Smith growled, “this bunch is dumber than I’d expect.” He said that as he went through the pockets of the dead woman. “No ID,” he pointed out. He then felt around at the right shoulder of the costume. The left shoulder was too bloody from a shot that had taken out most of her neck. The three-piece suit came apart easily.

“It’s all one piece,” the senior police officer noted.

“Yep. She intended to be a guy for the hit, then disappear into the station and quickly become a gal,” Mr. Smith observed. “Likely somewhere on the station you may find a woman’s handbag with a wig and a facial disguise in it. If there’s an ID card in it, no doubt it will be a first-class fake.”

Vicky was shaking her head, denying what her eyes told her.

This was impossible.

She wanted to blurt out that they’d only been in system for fourteen hours. She’d been shopping for two. How could anyone have set up a hit on her that quickly? And on Savannah no less. Who could have guessed she’d be stopping here?

She eyed Mr. Smith, her questions on the tip of her tongue.

He shook his head ever so faintly. N
OT HERE.
N
OT NOW,
formed in her mind.

Had she thought her questions at him? She didn’t think so. But a good spy needed to read minds. Certainly what she was thinking was not hard to deduce.

Now the up escalator produced Captain Hoffman. He made his way through the guards around Vicky to stand by her side. “Are you all right?”

“A clean miss,” Vicky said, and then realized that she had blood all over the right shoulder of her pantsuit. “How is the admiral?”

“I didn’t take time to check, but I do not think he is still with us,” the captain reported.

“I am sorry for your loss,” the senior cop said professionally. “Normally, I’d be asking all of you to accompany me to the station for signed depositions. However, ah, with the diplomatic aspects of this situation, I may settle for you just telling me what you saw and did.”

Mr. Smith stood up. “I was accompanying Her Grace on a shopping excursion. We were returning to her ship. She and Admiral Gort had just started down the escalator when I heard a shot fired. I turned toward the sound and saw this, ah, person pointing a gun at me, or more likely the Grand Duchess. I returned fire.” He reached down to his chest and plucked a spent bullet from the armor he was wearing.

“She hit me once, I hit her twice. One shot to the lower body went below her armor. My second shot to the head went low and hit her in the neck. She did not fire after that.”

“My personal observations validate the accuracy of this report,” the cop said to his own recording computer. “About the admiral?”

Vicky took over, trying to be as dispassionate as Mr. Smith. “He was standing beside me on the same step of the escalator. We had just stepped aboard and begun the descent. We were still in plain view from the station’s A deck. I bent to show him something I had bought, a necklace. He took the bullet intended for me. I left one of my servants to care for him and ran up the escalator with my other servant. I saw Mr. Smith approaching the fallen person. I initially mistook her for a man. Since Mr. Smith had the present threat well in hand, I and my servant concentrated on identifying any other threats. We found none and then your good men and women arrived,” she said, with a wave of her hand at all the armed people surrounding her. “The rest you know.”

Only after she had finished her statement did it dawn on Vicky that she had totally forgotten to use her Imperial “We.”

Oh shit.

“Thank you, Your Grace. Bob, do we have someone down on the pier who can report on the admiral?”

“Yes, sir. I sent four down to take pictures and secure the scene.”

“We would like to take Admiral Gort’s body with us,” Vicky said. “We are due to depart immediately. We have been ordered to return to court by the fastest means possible.”

Fortunately, the senior police officer did not ask why someone ordered home in such a hurry was stopping at Savannah for a shopping spree. He did not miss the return of the Imperial voice.

“I think we can release the body to you,” the senior agent said.

“Sir,” said the one identified as Bob.

“Son, do you think anyone on Savannah wants to keep the Grand Duchess waiting?” He turned to Vicky. “How long were you here? Two hours, and we’ve already got two dead. She’s as bad as a visit from Kris Longknife. No offense meant,” the cop added.

“None taken,” Vicky said, not at all sure if she’d been praised or condemned.

What she needed to do was get out of here. Her knees were beginning to shake. If she didn’t get moving, she might even start to weep. That was not what Kris Longknife would do.

“Then, if you are finished with us, Captain Hoffman, we need to discuss the impact of this event on our future plans with the surviving officers of our escort.”

“Yes, Your Grace, you may go, and as soon as we have our pictures, I will release your admiral’s body.”

One of the Marines offered Vicky his helmet and his armored jacket. She declined, but did allow herself to be guided by the captain toward the stairs. Surrounded by guards with rifles pointed out at any threat, she descended to the pier.

A medical team was just beginning to remove the admiral’s body. Vicky quick-marched for the
Stalker
, crossed the quarterdeck as a civilian, and headed for the admiral’s cabin. There, Vicky collapsed on the settee before fixing Captain Hoffman with a stern look.

“How much do you know about the real intention of this trip?”

“What do you mean, real intentions?” was not what she wanted to hear.

V
ICKY
swung her legs around to rest them on the settee. Across the table from her, Captain Hoffman stood at something close to attention. Her team of Kit, Kat, and Mr. Smith arrayed themselves close, but not so close as to force themselves into Vicky and Captain Hoffman’s conversation.

“How much do you know about the various missions Admiral Gort was on?” Vicky asked again.

The chief of staff looked puzzled. “We were to show the flag and return any survivors from the Fleet of Discovery that we encountered to Greenfeld,” he said.

“And . . . ?” Vicky said and emphasized the question with a raised eyebrow.

“And . . . nothing?” the captain said, shaking his head in puzzlement.

“So you know nothing about the bribes the admiral took.”

The captain was shaking his head, now in earnest, before Vicky finished the question. “Admiral Gort would never take a bribe, ma’am. The man is as incorruptible as . . . well, as they come.”

“If he had not accepted the bribe, Captain, he would not have gotten this command, and the dead body in the morgue would likely be mine. You might want to take a seat for the rest of what I have to tell you.”

The captain sat.

“Before he sailed, your admiral was offered two contradictory bribes. Each of the eight admirals dispatched to show the flag and collect any survivors from Kris Longknife’s latest misadventure were offered a bribe by my loving stepmother to assure that I did not return alive.”

Vicky eyed him. His face remained Navy bland.

“You do not seem surprised,” Vicky said.

He did not rush to answer her. When he did, he spoke slowly, carefully, as one might when crossing a minefield.

“The Empress has made no secret that she is pregnant and carrying a boy. She does not strike me as someone who would play second fiddle to anyone, nor accept that her child would do the same. I had assumed the matter would be settled by a decree from the throne saying only males could inherit.”

“I don’t think my loving stepmom trusts my dad that much. The Bowlingames are quite intent on assuring their primacy.”

“Only a blind man would miss how grasping they are,” the captain agreed.

“I am getting used to my stepmom’s grasping at me,” Vicky said. “What with this shooter and the bomb before, that makes five attempts on my life in the last few months, doesn’t it?”

She eyed Mr. Smith. He shrugged as if he was not into counting.

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Kit. “Five attempts and five failures.”

“It’s a game where we have to bat a thousand,” Vicky noted dryly.

“I see your point. Oh, about the bomb, I’m afraid the report to, ah, the admiral had nothing worth noting in it. No fingerprints. The explosives had no tags in them.”

“I wouldn’t expect there to be any,” Mr. Smith said, and changed the topic. A bit.

“What about the flowers? I can’t imagine two dozen red roses are easily found lying around any compartment on a battlecruiser. Did anyone notice them before they became the subject of an attempted murder investigation?”

Realization dawned in the captain’s eyes. He quickly tapped his commlink. “Captain Kittle, the roses. When did they enter your ship? Or have you taken to growing roses in your garden?”

“I most certainly have not,” the captain of the
Stalker
shot back. “I’ll have my people get right on it. Yes! The damn flowers themselves.”

The chief of staff turned around in his chair to eye Mr. Smith. “Do you have any further suggestions?”

“Not at this time.”

“But I have more questions,” Vicky said, and drew him back to facing her. “The admiral had an e-mail address to use, should he choose to accept the second, smaller bribe. It involved his delivering my delicate body to person or persons unknown, for use not identified in the contract. Do you have any idea where he might have left that address?”

“His computer? Just before we sortied on this mission, he added several layers of security to his personal computer,” the chief of staff said, and so saying appeared to hear what he was saying and connect it to what Vicky had said about the unusual new aspect of the admiral’s corruptibility.

“His computer now responds only to his voice and a rather long access code. If tampered with, the mass storage will destroy itself. He said it now had an acid ‘suicide’ vial included in the equipment. I thought he was exaggerating. Now, I think not.”

“Not likely,” Vicky said. “Mr. Smith, is there any chance that you might delude the computer into mistaking you or me for our dead admiral?”

“Unlikely, ma’am. I will try if you ask, but the outcome would probably be a very smelly mess.”

“We’ll wait for that. So, I can’t deliver myself to my unknown admirer. I don’t want to deliver myself dead to dear loving Stepmom, and I’m not sure yet about making a grand and living entrance to the palace. What other option do I have?” Vicky mused.

No one spoke. No one spoke for an uncomfortably long minute.

Vicky decided to bite the bullet. “Captain, where is the Navy General Staff located?”

“On Greenfeld, not a mile from the Imperial Palace,” he said.

Vicky scratched the back of her head. She was over the shakes and starting to enjoy this game of fox and hounds. “A mile from the Imperial Palace is no place to organize and run a conspiracy. As we saw of late, my loving stepmom and her cabal have access to much better computers than the Navy does, and the likelihood of your computers not spilling their guts to the casual passerby is slim to nil. No, the real decisions for the Navy are being made elsewhere. But where, Captain?”

His face remained deadpan.

Well, at least he’s not lying to me.

“Admiral Krätz would often say that this or that question ‘must be left as an exercise for the class.’ So, shall we work through this together?”

Again, no reaction from the captain.

“Admiral Krätz said that Port Royal would become a Navy colony. A nice place where NCOs and officers could retire, finish raising their families, and be surrounded by people they knew they could trust. There, they need not fear for petty thievery or the run-of-the-mill nutcases who make civilian life full of sudden and undesirable surprises on so many planets. So, tell me, Captain, Port Royal, was it the second Navy colony? No. Third at least. More likely the fourth, don’t you think?”

Whatever the captain thought, he said nothing.

Vicky gave him a few moments to join in her game. When he didn’t, she went on.

“But where would I find the real Navy General Staff? Let’s see. They would be retired. Yes, they couldn’t be on active duty. If they were, they’d have to be on Greenfeld. They also are likely to be recently retired. Young senior officers with much promise, but their careers suddenly cut short by, what, ill health? Yes, medically retired. Computer, can you make me up a list of the recently medically retired? Oh and throw in admirals or captains otherwise retired after only twenty-five years. Maybe twenty if they were very good.”

“I will research that,” her computer told Vicky.

“You needn’t bother,” the captain said. “Why do you want to talk to the real power behind the Navy?”

“I can think of several reasons. Let me count the ways. First, I don’t really much care for going home to Stepmommy truly and so sincerely dead. Second, we seem to have lost the address for the folks who want me to wave the standard of rebellion for them, and I’m not all that sure that the present moment is the right one for such flag waving. Lastly, I really don’t want to go inside the palace without the full support of the Navy. I strongly suspect that if I am to get out of there alive, I may need help, and lots of it. Can you think of anyplace better for me to find that help than the Navy?”

“Hmm,” the captain said. “Last night, Admiral Gort shared with me that he found you quite good. I think he would find your present performance very sharp. Possibly dangerously sharp, but quite intelligent, nevertheless. Let me talk with Captain Kittle. It will only require a slight deviation from our direct course to Greenfeld. If we up the acceleration to 1.5 gees, you should arrive at the palace not one second later than you would have otherwise.”

“Very good, Captain,” Vicky said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I should like a bath and a change of clothes. Blood does not become me.”

“Of course, Your Grace. We will likely get under way while you are indisposed.”

“I would be more indisposed if you did not.”