The Service of the Sword

most often?'

Gallanti swallowed.

'The word was rigor, Jillian. Or rigorous. So tell me again, just how sympathetic our boss is going to be when he hears us whining that the fanatic Victor Cachat was too rigorous in his punishment of deviants using StateSec rank to cover their misdeeds.'

Now, Gallanti looked like she was choking on something. Yuri segued smoothly into the opening of what he thought of as 'the deal.' Prefacing it by sitting up straight and sliding forward in his chair. Nothing histrionic, just . . . the subtle body language of a man suggesting a harmless—nay, salutary and beneficial—conspiracy. Say better: private understanding.

'We'll have a lot more luck with what I'm sure you raised in the way of your other complaints. It is outrageous, the way Cachat's been swapping personnel around. You can be damn sure Nouveau Paris is going to look cross-eyed at the way he's been using the Marines.'

'They certainly will! 'Cross-eyed' is putting it mildly! They'll have a fit!'

Yuri waggled a hand. 'Um . . . yes and no. Cachat's a sharp bastard, Jillian, don't make the mistake of underestimating him. Fanatics aren't necessarily stupid. Don't forget that he was always careful to assign an equal number of hand-picked StateSec guards to serve alongside the Marines.'

Yuri saw no reason to mention that the Marines themselves, in effect, had done the handpicking. He pressed on:

'Yes, Cachat bent regulations into a pretzel. But he didn't outright break them—no, he didn't, I checked —and he'll still have the excuse that he faced extraordinarily difficult circumstances because Jamka had corrupted the normal disciplinary staff. Unfortunately, five out of the seven executed officers—and all four of the ratings— belonged to the SDs' police details. He'll claim he had no choice—and the claim isn't really all that flimsy. Not from the distance of Nouveau Paris, anyway.'

Gallanti fell into gloomy silence, slumping in her chair. Then, in a half-snarl: 'The whole thing's absurd. The one thing the stinkbug was supposed to do is the one thing he didn't! We still have no idea who murdered Jamka. Somehow that 'little detail' has gotten lost in the shuffle.'

Yuri chuckled drily. 'Ironic, isn't it? And after Cachat's rampage, we'll never know. But so what? I assume you saw the medical examiner's report, yes?'

Gallanti nodded. Yuri grimaced. 'Pretty grisly business, wasn't it? No quick killing, there. Whoever did Jamka was as sadistic about it as Jamka himself. From looking at the holopics of his corpse, I'd almost be tempted to say Jamka committed suicide. Except there's no possible way he could have shoved—'

Yuri shuddered a little. 'Ah, never mind, it's sickening. But the point is—you know, I know, anyone with half a brain knows—that Jamka was certainly murdered by one of his own coterie. A falling out between thieves, as it were. So when you get right down to it, who really cares any more who killed Jamka? Cachat shot the whole lot of them, and there's an end to it. Good riddance. You really think Oscar Saint-Just is going to toss in his bed worrying about it?'

Glumly, the SD captain shook her head. Even more glumly, and in a very low voice, she said: 'This is going to wreck my career. I know it is, damn it. And—' Her innate self-righteousness and resentfulness began to surface again. 'It's not my fault. I had nothing to do with it! If that fucking Cachat hadn't—'

'Jillian! Please.' That cut her short. Yuri hurried onward. 'Please. There's no point to this. My own career's on the rocks too, you know. Even when you're found 'innocent,' having an official 'rigorous interrogation' on your record is a big black mark. Worse than any on your record, when you get right down to it.'

Gallanti almost—not quite—managed a smile of sympathy. Yuri decided the moment was right to strike 'the deal.'

This time, he slid all the way to the edge of his seat. 'Look, the worst thing you can do is wallow in misery. There's still a chance to clean this up. Minimize the damage, at the very least. Cachat taking himself off on a romantic haring around after pirates and commerce raiders is the best thing we could have hoped for.'

She cocked a questioning, vaguely hopeful eyebrow. Yuri gave her his very best sincere smile.

And an excellent one it was, too. Friendly, intimate without being vulgar, sympathetic; over the years, hundreds of people had told Yuri how much they appreciated his sincerity. Perhaps the strangest thing about it all —certainly in that moment—was that Yuri knew it for the simple truth. He was a sincere, sympathetic and friendly man. Using his own nature, since he was otherwise disarmed, as the only weapon at his disposal.

'I'm not a cop, Jillian. Cachat can plaster whatever labels he wants on me. I don't have the temperament for it. To cover my ass—everybody's ass—I'll find and bust up a few more pissant 'spots of corruption.' On a ship this big, there's got to be at least half a dozen illegal stills being operated by ratings.'

'Ha. Try 'two dozen.' Not to mention the gambling operations.'

'Exactly. So we'll fry a few ratings—slap 'em with the harshest penalties possible—while I go ahead with my real business.'

'Which is?'

'I'm a commissioner, Jillian. And a damn good one. Whatever other beefs any of my superiors have ever had about me, nobody's ever given me anything but top marks for my actual work. Check my records, if you don't believe me.'

That, too, was the simple truth. Radamacher didn't try to explain any of it to Gallanti, for the task would have been hopeless. By the nature of her assignment, even leaving aside her own temperament, Gallanti was a StateSec enforcer. That was how her mind naturally worked, and she'd inevitably project that onto anyone else in StateSec.

The reality was more complex. Yuri, unlike Gallanti, had spent his entire career in 'fleet StateSec'—one of those handful of StateSec officers on each ship assigned to work and fight alongside the officers and ratings of the People's Navy they were officially overseeing. Many if not all of such StateSec officers, as the years passed, came to identify closely with their comrades in battle. For someone with Yuri's temperament, the process had been inevitable—and quick.

Gallanti was too dull-witted to grasp that. Oscar Saint-Just, of course, was not. He'd always understood that he held a dangerous double-edged sword in his hand. The problem was that he needed it. Because bitter experience had proven, time and again, that the StateSec commissioners who got the best results in the crucible of war were not the whiphandlers but precisely the ones like Yuri Radamacher. The ones who did not 'oversee' their naval comrades so much as they served them as priests had once served the armies of Catholic Spain. Inquisitors in name, but more often confessors in practice. The people just far enough outside the naval chain of command that ratings—officers, too—would come to them for advice, help, counsel. Intercession with the authorities, often enough, if they'd fallen afoul of regs which were intolerant on paper but could somehow magically be softened at a commissioner's private word. Despite the grim 'StateSec' term in his title, the simple fact was that Yuri had spent far more time over the past ten years helping heartsick young ratings deal with 'Dear John' or 'Dear Jane' letters than he had trying to ferret out disloyalty.

Yuri had pondered the matter, over the years. And, with his natural bent for irony, taken a certain solace in it. Whatever else the Committee of Public Safety's ruthlessness had crushed underfoot, it had not been able to transform basic human emotional reactions. Yuri doubted now if any tyranny ever could.

'So what do you want, Yuri?' Gallanti's words were gruff, but the tone was not that of a woman issuing a rebuff. It sounded more like an appeal, in fact.

'Give me free rein aboard the ship,' he replied at once. 'In name I'll be the 'assistant investigator' scurrying all over rooting out rot and corruption. In the real world, I'll serve you as your commissioner. I'm good at morale-building, Jillian, try me and see if I'm not. By the time Cachat gets back, I'll have a handful of 'suppressed crimes' to wave under his nose. But, way more important, we'll have a functioning capital ship again—and a crew, including all the transfers, who'll swear up and down that the good ship Hector is a jolly good ship and Cap'n Gallanti a jolly good soul.'