Christ, it’s Gerta! Jeffrey thought, with a jolt of alarm that turned the hunger in his stomach to sour churning. Why didn’t you tell me?
Would have, lad, if it’d been an emergency. Don’t want you to lose your alertness, though. We can’t always notice things for you.
He tried to keep a poker face, but Gerta must have seen some change. She raised the wineglass slightly, and an eyebrow with it. The mannerism reminded him of John a little—but then, they’d been raised together. It startled him sometimes to remember that John had been born among the Chosen. If it wasn’t for that clubfoot . . .
observe:
A man’s looks were more than muscle and bone; the personality within shaped them, everything from the set of his mouth to the way he walked. It took a moment for Jeffrey to realize that the tall man in the uniform of a Land general was John. The face was the same, but full of a quiet, grim deadliness. The city behind him was familiar, too: Borreaux, but in ruins. A dirigible floated overhead, and columns of Land troops were marching up from the docks.
John hosten is in the upper 0.3% of the human ability curve, Center said. in the absence of his disability, and assuming no intervention on our part, the probability of his achieving general rank by this date in his timeline is 87%, ±4. probability of becoming chief of general staff, 73%, ±6. probability of becoming head of chosen council of state, 61%, ±8. probability of chosen conquest of visager increases by 17% ±5 in that eventuality.
Jeffrey gave a slight internal shudder. With no clubfoot—and no Center—he and John would probably have spent their lives fighting each other.
correct. probability—
Shut up, Raj and Jeffrey thought simultaneously.
The waiter arrived at last, and laid a bowl of the famous Borreaux fish stew before him; trivalves in their shells, chunks of lizard tail, pieces of fish, all in a broth rich with garlic, tomatoes, and spices. It smelled wonderful; it would have been even more wonderful if the waiter hadn’t had a rim of grime under his thumbnail, and the thumb hadn’t been dipping into the stew. Jeffrey forced himself to ignore that, and what the kitchen was probably like; he poured himself a glass of white wine and tore a chunk of bread off the end of a long narrow loaf. Say what you liked about the Unionaise, they did know how to cook.
And it was a damned unlucky chance that Chosen officers, and Gerta of all people, happened to be right here when he was expecting—
A small, slight man came up to Jeffrey’s table and sat, taking off his beret and stubbing out a villainous-smelling cigarette in an ashtray. His eyes flicked sideways toward the Chosen three tables away.
“They can’t hear us,” Jeffrey said. “And we’re facing away.”
So that they couldn’t lip-read. Offhand, he thought that the two male Chosen were straight-legs; Gerta certainly wasn’t, though, and might well have been trained in that particular skill. As to what they were doing here . . .
“And we have business,” Jeffrey went on, spooning up some of the fish stew. “Damn, but that’s good,” he said mildly.
“Vincen Deshambre,” the thin man said. Jeffrey took his hand for a moment. “Delegate of the Parti Uniste Travailleur.” He slid a small flat envelope out of his jacket and across the table.
“Colonel Jeffrey Farr,” Jeffrey replied, reading it.
He spoke fair Fransay, and read it well; the Union del Est had been the Republic’s main foreign enemy until a generation or so ago, with skirmishes even more recently. Santander military men were expected to learn the language, for interrogations and captured documents, if nothing else.
Vincen looked over again at the table with the Chosen. “Bitches,” he said, his voice suddenly like something that spent most of its time curled up on warm rocks.
Jeffrey looked up, raising his eyebrow. Only one of the Chosen could possibly qualify.
“Not the foreigners,” Vincen said. A light sheen broke out across his high forehead, up to the edge of the thinning hair. “They’re just pirates. If we were united, we could laugh at them.”