Rebel (10 page)

The admiral paused for a moment. “We have ten heavy cruisers: one damaged and in the yard. Five are old, one of which is already in dockyard hands, and the others may follow. Of the four new cruisers, I propose to send two with you and two to Metzburg. The one light cruiser,
Rostock
, will likely go with you to test the jumps, so I imagine that puts her on trade.

“Now, about those merchant cruisers. We have five. The two we recently converted and are now squawking like heavies. I propose to use them for local trade, escorting freighters out to our nearby planets. May I point out that the Navy colony on Port Royal has not seen a freighter or any supplies in three months. I have quite a long list of goods they want. I hope we can get a shipment out to them before too much longer.

“The three ships, the
Germanica
,
Europa
, and
Constantinia
, if I may return them to their proud old names, are way underarmed. There are some 6-inch lasers due up here soon from the shop in Sevastopol that we think should be added to them. It will be a small matter to upgun them. They could use an extra reactor, but we can put that off until we have more
time. I’d keep them in system although if more trade blossoms, we might see them escorting convoys.

“Does that answer your questions?”

“Ah, how much will it cost to keep those ships in service?” the mayor of St. Pete asked.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” the admiral exploded. “Why didn’t you start with that?”

“We didn’t know we should have,” Mannie said. “Remember, this is new to all of us.”

“Can you tell us what it takes to feed your crews?” Vicky said. “Then you might give us an idea of what spare parts a ship runs through in a month. I think most taxes will be paid in kind.”

“Let me have my bean counter get back to your bean counter,” the admiral said. From their end, it sounded like his commlink got thrown against a bulkhead.

“We really have no idea what we’re doing, moment to moment?” the mayor of Kiev asked.

“I seem to have missed the course in rebellion when I was at college,” Mannie said.

“I suspect we all did,” Vicky admitted.

“We want to know the things that are important,” Mannie went on, “but just what is important to us is hard to figure out. What an admiral needs to know and what a mayor or banker or industrialist needs are different, aren’t they?”

“And don’t forget the rancher or farmer,” Vicky put in. “If the Navy doesn’t eat, you won’t have many Sailors for your ships. Of course, if you don’t have lightbulbs or spare parts for lasers or reactors, you won’t have a warship for very long either.”

“And we have to do it without any real tax system in place,” Mannie said. “We can’t just tell those people to give us this part of their paycheck, then tell these others to give us a widget or a steak for this much tax money. I knew I should have been a house painter. I was a very good house painter working my way through college. Maybe I could get my old job back.”

“Sorry, Mannie,” the mayor of Moskva said, “I think we’re all locked into our jobs until we either win or they hang us.”

Mannie looked sad.

Vicky tried on her most vacant grin. “Look on the bright side, guys. If we all hang together, it will be one hell of a date.”

“Only if you go up the scaffold stairs first. And in a short dress,” Mannie suggested.

“No doubt, my stepmother would be only too happy to oblige you,” Vicky said, then put her most impish look on her face. “But I live by the old saying, no noose is good noose.”

That got a groan from the mayors, who went back to their own groups. With hardly a silent moment, the group reconvened in the conference hall. Gradually, as the afternoon shadows grew longer, the venting became less and the practical suggestions bubbled their way to the surface.

“Yes, we need a committee to see that the fleet gets fed.”

“And one to see they get spare parts.”

“Do we lump spare parts in with the major overhauling of the older cruisers and arming of the merchant ships? Shouldn’t that be a separate account?”

“Do we really need to put a lot of money into those old ships? Who decides if a wreck of a ship gets rebuilt or just junked for parts?”

A lot of people ended up looking blankly at each other.

Mannie stood up. “Ladies and gentlemen, I think we’re asking the wrong questions. Rather than asking what gets done, we need to be talking about how it gets done and who does it. As I see it, we need a Navy Committee to see that all of these questions get answered. Within that committee, I see a couple of subcommittees to tackle most of those questions specifically. Do you see where I’m going?”

“Kind of,” the mayor of St. Pete said.

“But we need a Finance Committee,” a banker said, “unless you’re going to let the Navy Committee raise taxes, and let’s make no mistake about it, we are talking taxes here.”

“Svin, we’ve been paying taxes all our lives,” a farm representative said. “Now at least I can see where my taxes are going and decide for myself if it’s worth it, and from what I just saw up there in space, Navy ships parked on our space station are worth a whole lot more than some extra marble on a palace on Greenfeld.”

Vicky could see the shape of how these matters would end, but she had to sit through another two hours as the haggling turned to this specific or that general question, which committee or subcommittee could decide what and what would be referred to this, the committee of the whole.

Her bottom could not take much more. When someone moved to adjourn and meet again in a week, Vicky could only hope that she’d be in some faraway place even if she was outnumbered and fighting for her life.

“I have reserved a suite for you at the Imperial Hotel across the street,” Mannie whispered. “What do you say we adjourn to there and order room service?”

“I hope it has a hot tub because my tushy needs a nice soak,” Vicky said, and gave Mannie a smile that she hoped promised more.

CHAPTER 12

B
Y
the time Vicky left the conference that evening, there was a Marine security detachment waiting for her. The captain in charge listened to Mannie’s security detail’s advice, formed an outer perimeter, and shared the inner circle with the local detail.

They stopped traffic but no bullets on their way to the Imperial. Vicky discovered that Mannie had not only reserved the Imperial Suite, but he’d also ordered ahead for a light dinner. Room service was waiting for them.

Vicky, Mannie, the commander, and the spy settled down to dinner around an elegant table that could have easily served double their number.

“I hope I never have to go through a day like this one again,” the commander grumbled as he served himself an Oriental salad.

“Democracy is certainly messy,” Mr. Smith said as he buttered a roll. “However, it is surprisingly strong and resilient at times.”

“You like the way they do things in Longknife space,” the commander spat.

“I like the way people tend to their own knitting,” he said,
taking a nibble. “For example, the Army looks to its duty. Navy officers fight their ships. Farmers raise the food to feed them. Ranchers raise their beef. And conducting them all in their own expertise are elected officials who can do nothing that they do,” he said, bowing sardonically at Mannie, “but, if they do their jobs well, they all can do their jobs smoothly.”

The commander “harrumphed” at that.

“You doubt me. Consider, for a moment that Admiral von Mittleburg found himself with all those extra mouths to feed and a few dented ships to repair. How successful do you think he’d be if he dispatched a battalion of Marines to Sevastopol with orders to collect enough food to feed his hungry crews for a month? How would it work if he sent down a Navy detachment to rummage through the shops of St. Pete and find the odd part the fleet required?”

“Not successful at all,” Mannie muttered to his own shrimp-bespeckled salad.

“What did you say, Mr. Mayor?” the spy said.

Mannie looked up. “The Marines might succeed in stripping our supply chain of a few days’ worth of food, but they’d never do that again,” he said in a voice firm with resolution. “We aren’t dumb. We’ve been getting around State Security since before most of your Marines were born. We will get around whomever we have to.”

“I rest my case,” Mr. Smith said, putting down his roll. “The mayors here will orchestrate a system that allows the Navy to be Navy, the industrialists to make things, and the farmers and ranchers to do what they do best. Who knows, they might even get the bankers to do what they’re supposed to do, manage the planet’s financial system for the betterment of all. Such miracles have been known to happen.”

That drew a chuckle from everyone around the table.

The commander put down his fork. “I need to make a report to Admiral von Mittleburg.”

“I hope you will tell him about the more productive parts of our day,” Mannie said.

“What do you think I should tell him?” the commander asked, with amazing gentleness, Vicky thought, for a fighting man who’d lost a day of his life to interminable meetings.

“I would suggest that he arrange to have some officers
assigned to our committees to coordinate the Navy’s needs with our resources. We may have gotten off on the wrong foot, butting into his area of expertise, but I think we ended on a good note. You give us people who can tell us your needs, and we’ll do what we can to meet them.”

“That may work or be the best way we can work this mess out.” The commander stood. “Your Grace.”

“Go with my blessing and good luck.”

The commander left. The spy seemed to be taking his own measurements of the situation. “I think I will call it a night. Not that I suspect I will get a lot of sleep. I will be checking in with your security detail,” he said, nodding toward Mannie, “and your Marines regularly through the evening.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith. I always feel safer when you are somewhere in the shadows.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the spy said, and likewise withdrew.

Vicky found herself alone in a room with just Mannie, and, of course, Kit and Kat. It seemed the night held all sorts of possibilities. She played with her salad for a few moments while watching through veiled eyelashes as Mannie attacked his.

“So, what do you do for excitement around here?” she finally said.

“I’m hardly the one to ask. My ex-wife said I was about the most unexciting man on the planet.”

“Ex?” Vicky said.

“High-school sweetheart. I guess she didn’t know me as well as she thought. Anyway, enough about me. What does the Navy do for excitement?”

“Oh, blow up this or shoot up that,” Vicky said, moving her salad from one side of the plate to the other. “After I got caught in the paint locker with a junior officer, excitement has been limited to official excitement the Navy approves of.”

“And the paint locker is not approved of?”

“Oh, very much not approved of,” Vicky said with an arched eyebrow.

Mannie sniffed. “This room certainly does not smell of paint.”

“I have noticed that. I think the hot tub could be most exciting.”

“Those two young women look only too eager to be
lifeguards,” Mannie said, half laughing as he nodded at Kit and Kat.

They grinned back most willingly.

“I haven’t seen them as enthusiastic for a job since the last time they almost got to kill someone,” Vicky said.

“Are you offering me what I think you are?” Mannie said with a significant gulp.

“A dip in the hot tub with three lovely young women and not a swimsuit in sight,” Vicky said, casually. “I do think so.”

Kit and Kat nodded, obviously well into the thought.

“An adolescent boy’s dream of heaven,” Mannie said.

“And only seconds away for you,” Vicky said.

Kit and Kat kicked off their shoes and began removing their pants.

Mannie watched them with a happy smile, then sadly shook his head.

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” Vicky said, startled at the very first no she’d encountered since puberty hit her like a ton of feathers.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but can’t most of the trouble we are in be traced to a certain Peterwald falling into bed?”

“I’m not my stepmother,” Vicky said with edge.

“I don’t see you that way, but I need to make a lot of things happen here on St. Petersburg. To do that, I need the goodwill of a lot of people who aren’t sure they can trust anyone outside their own small circle of friends. How will they look at me when they see me in bed with a Peterwald?”

Mannie put down his fork and stood up. “As much as I would love to stay, ladies, I fear that I must trudge my way to the door. I assure you, I will have fond dreams of all of you tonight.”

Kit and Kat had finished stripping. They stood, hands on hips, giving Mannie a spectacular view of what he would be only dreaming about.

Vicky said nothing as Mannie made his way to the door, not looking back. He said he had to go, and she would let him.

“Well, that was not what I expected,” Kit said. “But the tub, it is so nice and warm.”

“It would be a shame to waste it,” Kat pointed out.

Vicky gave the firmly closed door one last look. Should she have done more to undermine Mannie’s self-control? Did she
respect his judgment of their situation enough to let him decide for the both of them that they had to be off-limits to each other?

She sighed. Mannie was off-limits. The commander was off-limits. That did leave the two delightful assassins.

“Last one in has to massage the rest,” Vicky said with an eager grin full of evil intent.

“But we are ready now,” Kit said, backing toward the balcony, where the pool bubbled.

“Then I’ll get my hands all over you two,” Vicky said, reaching with clawing hands for the two of them.

They charged her, bowling her over, and began stripping her right there on the carpet. There were a lot of fingers going here and there as well. Just who splashed into the hot tub last was never determined.