“I know that my sister died. You don’t know that letting the Vetachi go would have led to more deaths.”
“No. I don’t.” Van refrained from noting that the doctor didn’t know the opposite, either. “Not with absolute certainty. But ships from three separate Arm governments had been looking for the Vetachi for two years. During that time, they plundered a colony ship and three orbital outposts and killed over four hundred people.”
“Commander…I don’t think that you will ever convince me, and it’s probably even less likely that I’ll convince you. You have convinced me of one thing, and that I can live with.”
Van waited.
“You’re not entirely the monster I envisioned. I think you were wrong. I always will, but it’s clear you made a reasoned decision under stress and tried to do the best you could. It’s also clear from every word you’ve said, and in the way that you’ve said it, that it will always remain with you. I’m glad for that. It’s not something that should be forgotten.”
“No. And I won’t.” Not with nightmares for ten years.
“I sincerely hope that is so, and I hope that you still have occasional nightmares. I do.”
Van wasn’t quite certain what to say to that.
“I will work with you, Commander. I cannot say I will ever be more than cordial. I loved my sister.”
“That…would be helpful.”
“Did you have something in mind?” she asked.
“Not yet. No…there is something. Could you do a rough analysis of the cost and resource commitment of maintaining a cruiser on station in the Scandya system for a month without access to any local orbit facilities?”
“Such as the unknown cruiser that attacked the Fergus? I can do that.” Gregory nodded, a curt movement.
Van hadn’t told anyone, but Gregory knew. “The ambassador told you?”
“Just me and the first secretary.”
“The ship didn’t match any profile in the RSF databanks. I just wondered if there might be any sort of social or economic analysis that might help with identification.”
She pursed her lips. “Just in a general sense. Building and operating that large a deep-space vessel would show in the stats of any of the smaller systems, even in the Republic’s stats, and in the Keltyr stats. But the economies of the major Arm governments—the Argenti, the Revenants, the Coalition—are large enough that even a multilateral could build or convert such a ship without its showing up.”
“And piracy from farther away is also a possibility,” mused Van.
“You don’t think so.”
“No. Someone had to have a reason to attack the Fergus. You don’t attack an armed vessel except for a very good reason. The Fergus would show up on any EDI detector as a warship. I’m inclined to doubt the attack was because they mistook the Fergus for another ship.”
“I’m not military, but I would agree.”
“You have any problems where my expertise might help?” asked Van.
“Actually…yes.” Gregory lifted a databloc. “I’ve laid them out here.”
As he took the databloc, Van wondered if everywhere he went people would recall his past and act as suspiciously. Still…by confronting the issue with the doctor, he’d turned open and cold anger into something less, and anything less was better than where they had started.
“I’ll look into them. I might have to check back with you.”
“That’s fine, Commander. I’m not going anywhere this week.”
Van bowed slightly as he left.
Chapter 9
At ten minutes past noon on twoday, Van sat in the embassy’s senior staff dining room at a table for four. Across from him was Ian Hannigan. To his right was Cordelia Gregory, and to his left Emily Clifton, the embassy’s third secretary. The other three tables were vacant.
Before seating himself, Hannigan had moved the purple-and-white orchid centerpiece to an adjoining table. “Better to have a senior staff meeting over lunch.” Hannigan looked at Van.
“Double duty,” Van agreed.
“And it’s easier to swallow your words with food,” added Emily Clifton, with a twinkle in the gray eyes that seemed at variance with the severe face and pulled-back blond hair.
The hint of a frown crossed Hannigan’s face, then vanished.
Van made a note to spend more time with Clifton, swamped as he felt in trying to learn a position for which he’d had neither training nor experience.
A squarish middle-aged servingwoman appeared with a tray from which she took four salads. Van used only the red vinegar on his greenery, skipping the oil. With the rich food provided by the embassy, he felt he should be skipping even more, much as his internal nanites balanced his metabolism. He took a sip of the café—hot enough, but weak and brownish.
“The first order of business,” began Hannigan, “is housekeeping. The ministry auditors have requested that we keep better track of personal use of embassy vehicles.” Once more, he looked to Van. “You probably won’t have much personal usage, but, because your personal reimbursements come from the RSF diplomatic account, and they’re always late, it’s very important that you log your personal usage immediately.”
“I can see that,” Van replied.
“The second item is the upcoming Scandyan independence celebration…the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary. I’ve posted the details on the master schedule, with notes to each of you.”
“How will that affect us directly?” asked Van, not wanting to access the net in the middle of a conversation and also wanting to see what Hannigan had to say.
“The ambassador will have to be present at the ceremony. You’ll need to coordinate with the SDF to ensure security precautions are adequate. We’ll also be hosting several functions…”
“Over several weeks?”
“It’s a two-week celebration. We’ll have an opening night reception—that’s always been rotated, and this year it’s our turn. Then there will be the luncheon that the ambassador’s wife will host the following week, and the Boating Day Festival…and the final reception…”
The servingwoman appeared with four plates. Van’s held the Circassian Beef with noodles. He took
