It was the comment about luck that had tripped a switch in Daniel’s mind. Luck there’d been in plenty, and Daniel Leary would be the first to say that; but when the words came from a stranger who hadn’t seen men die to make that luck a reality . . .
“Those Mundys?” Ireland said. The name would be familiar, though unless he were more politically attuned than the RCN encouraged its junior officers to be, he wouldn’t remember the names and details of the Three Circles Conspiracy. “Ah, I see!”
Which of course he didn’t; he just saw that he’d misjudged the status of Lt. Leary’s companion.
Ireland started to extend his hand to Adele. Before the gesture was more than a hint, she crossed her arms behind her back and gave him an icily polite nod of greeting. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ireland,” she said. “You’re a tour guide for the Harbor Administrator, I gather?”
“I, ah . . . ” Ireland said. He looked over his shoulder. The mixture of dress uniforms and still-more-splendid civilian garb had almost reached him. “Yes, I’m in charge of the escort for some officials from the Foreign Ministry and their liaison with the Navy Office. I, ah . . . they, that is, are showing the son of the President of Strymon around.”
The dignitaries were on them. Ireland opened his mouth again, perhaps to introduce Daniel to the rank of dress uniforms, but the squat, jowly captain in front said, “Well, by my hope of a flag! Commander Bergen, isn’t it? Mr. Vaughn, let me introduce you to the man who mapped a route to Strymon that cut three weeks sailing off the previous time!”
Uncle Stacey squeezed the arms of his chair. Daniel—and Adele to the other side, as smoothly as if they’d rehearsed the maneuver—each slid a forearm under the old man’s hands and lifted him to his feet as soon as he’d transferred his grip.
“Young Wenslow, isn’t it?” Stacey said with close to the old fullness in his voice. “You served under me on the Queensland.”
“Senior midshipman and fourth lieutenant after Broker got his own command on Tuttel’s World,” agreed Wenslow—no longer young, and as Daniel knew, secretary of the RCN’s planning council. He drew forward the slim young man at his side. “Delos Vaughn, allow me to introduce you to Commander Stacey Bergen. Commander Bergen has forgotten more about astrogation than anyone else in the RCN ever knew!”
Vaughn extended his right hand and shook Uncle Stacey’s, showing a care for the old man’s frailty that Daniel approved with a minuscule nod. Vaughn wore a severely tailored suit, but the cloth from which it was cut formed a series of chevrons which changed from red to gold alternately depending on the angle of the light. He was as hard to focus on as the flare of a plasma exhaust.
Apart from that he had a handsome, thirty-year-old face and an engaging smile. Three of the other civilians wore clothes of similar style and flamboyant materials; the rest, like the naval officers, were Cinnabar nationals.
“I’m honored to meet you, Commander,” Vaughn said, speaking Universal with a better Xenos accent than Daniel—who’d been raised on the Learys’ country estate of Bantry—could’ve managed. “You must have known my father. Your skilled explorations truly made the Sack a part of the greater universe for the first time since the Hiatus.”
“President Leland Vaughn,” Uncle Stacey said. He was standing without support, now, gaining strength from his memories; though Daniel and Adele kept close to either side in case of sudden weakness. “I sat at his right hand at the banquet on our arrival. Quite clear on the value of exploration for the trade that makes Strymon great. He’s keeping well, I hope?”
“My late father, I’m afraid I should have said,” Vaughn said with a deprecating rotation of his left hand. “My uncle, Callert Vaughn, succeeded him within a year of my arrival on Xenos, and now that Callert too has passed on, the presidency is in the hands of his daughter, Pleyna.”
Momentarily Vaughn’s tone became more sardonic than whimsical as he added, “Formally, that is. One assumes that a twelve-year-old is largely guided by her tutor, Friderik Nunes. I recall Nunes from when I last was on Strymon, fifteen years ago. He wasn’t of much account . . . then, at any rate.”