Present reality returned with a crystalline suddenness that turned all the previous time in the Matrix into half-remembered nightmare. It wasn’t really bad while you were in it, but when you came out you had a sticky itchiness on your soul like the way your skin felt after swimming in salt water.
The Princess Cecile was 80,000 miles above Todos Santos. The PPI was full of ships. To Daniel’s momentary horror, a voice over a laser communicator—which proved that the Sissie had not only been noticed but but that she’d been located with as much precision as fire control would require—said, “RCS Melampus to unidentified vessel. Identify yourself immediately, over.”
In the lower right-hand corner of Daniel’s display appeared a box of text in red outline from Adele:
Thirteen country craft
RCS Melampus Diana Seahorse Clyde Kapila
There were details of size, armament, and Table of Organization crew strength, but Daniel knew all that or knew it well enough for his purposes. The first four Cinnabar vessels were destroyers; the Kapila was a battleship which’d been in Harbor Three when the Princess Cecile lifted as the Klimovs’ private yacht.
“Melampus, this is starship Princess Cecile, out of Xenos with a former RCN crew aboard,” Daniel said. He was careful not to claim to be a naval vessel, as he’d done without hesitation when signaling anybody else. “We arrived to take on supplies for the run home, but finding you here I’d like to report to somebody on your commander’s staff if that’s possible. Sissie over.”
There was a pause. Daniel turned to his gunner. Calling across the bridge because he didn’t want to risk accidentally transmitting to ships whose missileers were ready to launch, Daniel said, “Sun, lock your guns now. We can’t afford a mistake. These people might be sorry to have killed us when they figure things out, but they’re not going to miss!”
“Princess Cecile, is Lieutenant Leary your captain, over?” the destroyer said at last.
Daniel heard the 4-inch turrets clack into the fore-and-aft position that kept them from shifting when the vessel was under power. He pursed his lips, then said, “Roger, Melampus, this is former Lieutenant Leary. Ah, Melampus? We’re on a ballistic course, waiting for direction as to how we should proceed. Over.”
After a longer pause, a different voice—Adele’s text crawl read from RCS Kapila—said, “Princess Cecile, this is Movement Control. You’re to land in Berth A-12, San Juan Harbor, immediately. A vehicle will be waiting to transport Lieutenant Leary and Signals Officer Mundy to the RCN Ground Detachment Headquarters. Do you understand, over?”
“Movement Control,” Daniel said, frowning but trying hard to keep his voice neutral, “do we need clearance by the Cluster authorities also, over?”
“Princess Cecile, there are no Cluster authorities any more as regards space travel,” the voice from the Kapila said. “This is RCN territory, mister. Carry out your orders! Over.”
Daniel met Adele’s eyes across the bridge. She was nodding and wore what was for her a broad grin.
“Roger that, Movement Control,” Daniel said. “Sissie out.”
He looked at his display. The Battle Direction Center—which probably meant Vesey, as Chewning simply wasn’t quick enough to have done it—offered a landing solution that would bring them down at San Juan in an orbit and a half.
Daniel grinned. “Mr. Chewning?” he said. “Do you feel comfortable about landing us this time, over?”
“Yes sir,” said Chewning. “I mean, it’s pretty straight, isn’t it, sir? I mean, it looks pretty straight to me. Over.”
“And to me as well, Chewning,” Daniel said, releasing his shock harness. “You have the conn. Break. Officer Mundy, I know we ought to be strapped in for a landing, but you and I need to get into our Dress Whites soonest, and that means getting started now. Six out.”
* * *
The main hatch lowered with a wheezy sigh, swirling in the air of the Todos Santos. Hot steam had boiled from harbor water mixed with garbage and lubricants, and it was shot through with ozone.
Adele smiled. She’d come to associate that complex of odors with safe landings. Smelling it again gave her a feeling of nostalgic warmth.
Riggers were mooring the Princess Cecile bow and stern. Here in the entry compartment, a team of ship-side spacers under a petty officer tilted the gangplank out by hand and let it clang to the quay instead of bothering with the hydraulic extender. Two of them ran across and tied the shore end off to bitts. The horizon rose and fell gently as the corvette rocked on waves she’d created when she landed.