Oh, God, that had torn it. No wonder Pettin looked mad enough to gnaw a junior lieutenant down to his boots.
The officers with Pettin were a plump, worried-looking commander—probably the Winckelmann’s executive officer—and a lugubrious young woman with the single collar flash of a midshipman detailed as an aide with the rank of acting lieutenant. The sergeant of marines was just that—and it was instructive that Pettin hadn’t brought a marine officer instead. This was a burly fellow whose nightstick had gotten real use in the past.
“Sir, the Navy Office directed me to spare no effort to join the squadron at Sexburga despite our late start,” Daniel said, his eyes unblinkingly focused on the center of the hatch instead of meeting the commodore’s glaring fury. It wasn’t much of a lie, and it seemed for a moment that it might just calm Pettin’s anger. Then—
Oh God. Kira whatever-her-name-is was trotting primly down the gangplank. The skintight skirt didn’t hobble her in the least.
“Danny, sweetheart?” she called in a voice so clear that nobody within fifty feet could mistake the words. “You didn’t kiss me good-bye, darling.”
The quartet from the Winckelmann turned. The marine’s face showed momentary appreciation, then went professionally blank. Commodore Pettin looked at Daniel again.
“Lieutenant Leary,” he said. “I was concerned when I detected signs of obvious inebriation in the tones of the duty officer when I queried your vessel from orbit.”
His voice started gently enough but it quickly rose to be heard over the howl of another aircar landing. The vehicle was ornate, with enamel escutcheons on the doors and a fringed canopy.
“But I never, never in my worst nightmares, could have imagined the sort of debauchery that I saw taking place as we landed! I will not ask for your explanation, because there cannot possibly be an explanation!”
“Danny . . . ?” Kira peeped. Even she seemed to have come to the realization that something was wrong.
The Princess Cecile’s crew—the bulk of the spacers who hadn’t had time to scramble aboard before the commodore’s aircar arrived—had formed in ranks on the quay as though for an inspection. Through them, moving with the stumping precision of a man who’d spent his time in a starship’s rigging, came Admiral Torgis with civilian aides in his train.
“Do you have anything to say before I remove you from command and order your confinement for court-martial?” the commodore shouted.
“Sir!” said Daniel. It was reflex, drilled into him at the Academy and absolutely the only thing to say under these circumstances. “No excuse, sir.”
“Who’s that?” boomed Admiral Torgis. “Pettin, isn’t it? I’m glad you finally got here, Captain. You can have a drink with me in honor of Lieutenant Leary, who’s been posted to your command.”
“Admiral?” Commodore Pettin said, half turning and forcing his face in the direction of a smile; not very far in that direction. “The condition of the crew . . . Have you noticed . . . ?”
He gestured toward the depot ship, a little flick of his hand as though trying to brush away a fly. His subordinates had stepped aside and stood at parade rest, studiously not looking at either the commodore or the admiral.
Kira vacillated on the gangplank. Torgis took the girl by the waist in both hands and swung her behind him, showing skill and balance that a rigger could appreciate.
“Quite a little party, isn’t it?” he said with a chuckle. Daniel noted a hard glint in the admiral’s eyes, though: he knew exactly what had been going on when he arrived here and what would have happened if he’d been a few minutes later. “Thought it was the least I could do. Paid for it myself, that is. Though I think I could’ve justified Commission funds for the crew that saved Kostroma from the Alliance.”
“But Admiral,” Pettin said, swaying slightly with the tension he held himself under. “The condition of the officers as well as the crew—”
“Well, for God’s sake, Pettin,” Torgis said. He stepped into the Princess Cecile’s entryway, pressing the Winckelmann’s personnel back by sheer force of personality. “What do you expect their condition to be after a run like they made? Seventeen days from Cinnabar to here. I never knew of a crew who pushed so hard. They’ll be fit to fight as soon as yours are, though, I warrant.”