Seabolt spluttered an instant, then paled. “Admiral—excuse me, sir, I didn’t think—”
“Obviously.” Cecelia turned to Heris. “Captain, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get cleaned up—”
“Of course, sir.” Heris touched a button on her desk, and one of the marines stationed outside her door saluted. “Take this officer to her quarters, and be sure someone has arranged clean uniforms.”
“Yes, sir. What insignia, sir?”
Heris tilted her head at Cecelia, who considered quickly the pros and cons of demanding insignia to fit her newly acquired rank. “For the time being,” she said, “let’s leave off all rank insignia. There are advantages . . .”
Seabolt’s face was a study; Cecelia repressed a giggle at the combination of indignation and avid curiosity.
“Yes, sir,” the guard said.
Chief Jones, in a crisp clean uniform, looked entirely recovered from what must have been a considerable ordeal. She came to attention in front of Heris’s desk; Heris waved her to a seat. “Chief, I’m amazed that you managed to hold together an effective group and get out of that brig. I’m recommending you for a commendation.”
“Thank you, sir. But they’re all good people, including the ones who didn’t make it off. We weren’t going to let a lot of mutineers get us down.”
“Were all of you from the same ship, or did they combine loyalists from several ships?”
“From Saracen and Endeavor that were docked at Copper Mountain’s orbital station at the same time. And two personnel were from the Station itself, but they didn’t make it out.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t just kill you,” Heris said.
“So was I. Cecelia said they were probably saving us for prey—for a hunt like that Admiral Lepescu had.” Her brow wrinkled slightly. “She did say to call her Cecelia—but I suppose now I should call her Lady Cecelia?”
“It might be better,” Heris said. “You may hear other things about her, Chief; she and I have been involved in a few bits of excitement before.”
“Yes, sir. She said you shot Lepescu—”
“Yes. But she got one of his lieutenants on that trip.”
The chief’s expression was knowing. “She’s not just a rich-bitch playgirl, is she, Captain?”
“Explain,” Heris said.
“Well . . . she and Miranda, who was supposed to be Lord Thornbuckle’s widow . . . they both looked like rich aristocrats. The clothes they were wearing when they were brought in must’ve cost a year’s pay. And the way they talked, that accent. But there was something—I caught on to it that first day, and then later, when they’d come back from cleaning latrines and pass on things they’d seen . . . that’s not what ordinary society ladies are like, as far as I know.”
“They’re not exactly ordinary,” Heris said. “Go on, Chief.”
“Well, the way they got us out—I already told it on tape, but I don’t think I can make it as clear as I see it. You know, most of us, back when we first join, it’s hard to get most of us to actually hurt someone, let alone land a killing blow. An’ I didn’t really expect they could do it, just hoped . . . and then both of ’em did it, no problems. We couldn’t really see, from the cell, anything but Miranda with the end of the mop, but she lunged. I guess she was a fencer . . .”
“Yes. She’d won competitions as a young woman.”
“She must have kept in practice. I didn’t see the blow hit, but I could hear it. One of the men saw it, said it was as neat a strike as he’d ever seen. And the guards were dead, just like that, and Cecelia—Lady Cecelia, I mean—came dragging one of ’em, so we could use his finger in the cell door ID slot. No fuss, no tears . . . and Miranda, too, and besides, she had that command presence.”
“Chief, you have to realize that this is not something I can talk about. You may think what you think, but you’re not going to know the whole story. Just know that you’ve made a very good friend, someone who doesn’t forget her friends.”
Jones’ face relaxed. “That’s all right, Captain. She did more for us than we did for her, and I’m glad to be part of whatever it is, so long as it’s for the service.”
“It is.” Heris paused for any more questions, but Jones said nothing, just sat there looking alert and professional as she was. “Now,” Heris said, “we need to get all you people back to duty. This ship’s got a scratch crew, some of whom have little or no shipboard experience, let alone cruiser experience, and combat. Most of the petty officers were yanked out of regional headquarters. I’d like your assessment of which of your people would be best where. If you could get that to me by this afternoon—”
“Yes, Captain. I’ll get right on it.”
“We have particular need of expertise in drives; I’m not satisfied with the tuning of the FTL drive, but our FTL tech is just out of school.”
“Petty Major Forrester and Petty Light Kouras, Captain—both have FTL drives certification. And there’s a sergeant—Forrester would know.”
“That’s a relief. Look, write this up—I need something in the record ASAP.”
Cecelia scrubbed until even her fastidious nose couldn’t detect the faintest trace of the slop bucket contents, then opened the shower door to find a complete uniform hanging in the dressing cubicle. The automatic underwear dispenser saved her from having to wear someone else’s used garments, and the uniform fit well enough. She glanced at herself in the mirror, where the midnight blue made her face paler and her hair flame out against it. She looked—striking, was perhaps the best word for it.
An escort was waiting for her when she came out into the corridor.
“And you are?” she asked, unwilling to admit she didn’t have a clue which of the various bits of braid and metal meant which.
“Corporal Baluchi, sir.” The young woman saluted smartly. “I’m to be your escort for now.”
“They have explained that we don’t talk about my . . . exact position?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Baluchi’s eyes sparkled. “We’re not to say a word, or repeat anything you say to anyone.”
“Very good,” Cecelia said, and tried to remember if she was supposed to say anything else.
“If the . . .” there was a pause, as Baluchi tried to think of a way to address a person whose rank must not be mentioned. Cecelia came to her aid.
“For the time being,” she said, “you may address me as if I were a civilian, Lady Cecelia de Marktos. That, and the fact that I’m wearing a uniform without insignia, should prevent many problems.”
“Yes, sir!” Baluchi almost quivered with enthusiasm at being on the inside. “If the lady would care for a meal first—or rest?”
“Food,” Cecelia said. “And I hope the others have already eaten,” she added, remembering a commander’s responsibility for the troops.
“Yes, sir, they have. I’m to take the . . . the lady to the junior officers’ wardroom, because the senior officers’ wardroom is occupied right now, though if—”
“That’s fine, Corporal,” Cecelia said. She felt as if she were stepping blindfolded over a pattern of trip wires.
“The junior officers’ midday mess starts at 1100 hours, and it’s only 1000, so you won’t have any interruptions—but I’m sure they’ll wait until you’re through.”
“Corporal, if I eat for more than an hour, I’ll explode.” Even as she said it, Cecelia remembered the long, leisurely, gourmet dinners of her past, including that one with Heris, early in their acquaintance. She gulped down the food put in front of her and was more than ready for the promised rest.
“Down here, sir.” The corporal led her to a row of compartment doors. “Right now, we’re moving things around, but you’ll have this to yourself for the first twenty-four hours anyway, and one of us will be outside the door if you need anything. Right across here is the head; the showers are two down.”