Lt. Leary, Commanding by David Drake

“How do you tell?” Adele asked over the echoes still hammering around the cliffs. “About the masts, I mean, since they’re all withdrawn for landing.”

Mon liked and respected Adele, but he had an abrasive manner at the best of times . . . which didn’t include times he was as drunk as he was tonight. Before he could snap, “Use your bloody eyes, woman!” or the like, Daniel said, “Antennas five, six, ten, and twelve in each row haven’t been unbound at least since the Winckelmann lifted off from Cinnabar, Adele. You can see the pitting from micrometeorites is uniform over the hinges and locking pins.”

Kira dived into the warm salty fog which the Winckelmann’s thrusters lifted from the harbor. The big cruiser was indeed a sad sight to anyone who knew ships: a clumsy design, now overage and poorly maintained in the long interval of peace. Commodore Pettin could see that as well as any other officer of his seniority, and it would gall him like a boil on the butt.

“I’m going to miss you tonight, Danny,” Kira said plaintively as she fluffed them to a featherlight landing on the dock where the Princess Cecile’s gangplank terminated. The harbor’s surface was twitching from the nearby arrival of 13,000 tons of heavy cruiser, but the concrete slips kept other vessels from bouncing around unduly.

Adjacent to the corvette was the depot ship Admiral Torgis had moved there this morning. It was a freighter, now nameless save for its pennant number: SDN 3391. All but four antennas had been removed, and its High Drive had probably been cannibalized in the distant past to equip some warship that had limped down to Flood Harbor.

Under normal circumstances the depot ship provided stores, power for vessels whose fusion bottles were deadlined, and a repair shop. Tonight her cavernous bays were decked out with bunting, food, and liquor for the Princess Cecile’s crew.

“Not half so much as I’ll miss you, sweet thing,” Daniel said, knowing as he framed the words that the truth was a little more complex. True, he’d been looking forward to the night and morning—and who wouldn’t, after the run the Princess Cecile had just made? But it was even more true that Daniel would willingly forego the redhead’s charms if there was just some way he could avoid the interview with Commodore Pettin he knew was coming. Why in the name of all that’s holy did the pulpit-pounding commodore have to land in the middle of the Resident Commissioner’s party for the crew?

Daniel hopped over the side of the aircar without bothering to open the door. “Mon,” he said, “roust the crew as best you can—they’ll understand it’s an emergency. Adele, get onto the bridge soonest and take over. With luck we’ll have the anchor watch sorted before—”

“Christ on a crutch!” Mon snarled. “The sanctimonious old bastard’s making a hot exit!”

The Winckelmann was opening up in the usual fashion of airing ship on arrival. Hatches were lifting, the turrets for the secondary battery of plasma weapons were being cranked out to provide more room within the hull, and crewmen double-timed onto the outriggers to unlock access plates that couldn’t easily be reached from inside.

Normally no one would disembark until the process was complete. This time, as soon as the hatches serving the water-level stern hold had clamshelled wide enough open, the twelve-place aircar assigned to heavy cruisers as a utility vehicle—the Princess Cecile had a jeep that could carry four if they were good friends—roared out.

Mon, not sober but used to functioning with a heavy load aboard, swung his legs over the side of Lully’s car and ran for the depot ship with a rolling gait. The Winckelmann’s arrival had called a good half the crew out already. Those who were vaguely sober were mustering less-steady comrades and helping them to the quay.

Adele tried to jump out of the aircar. She tripped, which was so likely a result that Daniel had already turned to grab her when he realized what she intended. He swung her to her feet, then tucked her into the crook of his arm and trotted for the corvette. It was much the way he’d carried the redhead, Kira, in what now seemed the dim past.

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