“He did, ser. He liked to sail by himself. He said it was a way to clear his thoughts.”
“We can all use that at times.”
“Yes, ser.”
The Scandyan SDF headquarters was housed in a six-sided, two-level building constructed of the same bluish marble as the shuttle terminal. Stefan guided the groundcar up to the receiving gatehouse set forward of the eastern wing, where Van stepped out of the car and up to the booth before the single gate. The Scandyan tech in summer whites seated behind the nanite screen looked at him. “Yes, ser?”
“Commander Van Albert, Taran embassy. I have an appointment at nine-thirty with Commodore Petrov.” Van slid across his military datacard, and waited.
The sentry ran the datacard under the scanner, then handed it back, along with a thin white wand. “You’re cleared to Commodore Petrov’s office. It’s on the first level in section three. The wand will guide you. If you go past the office, it turns red. If you go too far, it whistles. Then you’ll find security all around you. Just keep the end of the wand green, and you’ll get there.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s what we’re here for, ser.” The young man smiled.
The gate opened as Van walked toward it. The building wings were larger inside than they had seemed from outside. His boots echoed in the stone corridors, and he passed but a handful of rankers and officers—no civilians—as he let the wand guide him. All in all, it was a good ten minutes before he reached the outer office of the commodore, with a small sign proclaiming, EXTERNAL AFFAIRS: COMMODORE RAFEL PETROV. The wand had remained green, and Van had not seen any sign of security, but his implant had registered more than four scans from various units.
As he entered, Van could sense another scan, triggered by the senior ranker stationed behind a console and screen just inside the doorway.
“Commander Albert, Commodore Petrov is expecting you. The center archway, if you please, ser.”
Van nodded and headed for the center archway, another scanning station. As he passed through, the door at the other end opened, and he stepped into a spacious office. The wide southern windows looked out upon a paved courtyard. Standing beside a conference table was Commodore Petrov—who could have passed for either Scandyan or Revenant—blue-eyed, blond, tall, and impressive in immaculate summer white uniform.
“Greetings, Commander Albert.” The older officer gestured toward the empty seats at the table, even as he reseated himself.
“I’m glad that we could get together,” Van replied.
“So am I. When did you arrive in Valborg?”
“A little more than an eightday ago.” Van offered what he hoped was a rueful smile. “My transfer was unexpected, and it’s taken a little while to get caught up on what was waiting.”
“I imagine. I’d heard that Ambassador Rogh had finally gotten a replacement for Commander Cruachan. Fine officer. One of the most honest officers I’ve met.”
“I didn’t know him, but everyone reported that he was most accomplished. And honest.” Van laughed. “It’s always a challenge replacing someone like that.”
“What is life without challenges?” countered Petrov. “Would you care for something to drink?”
“Café…strong, if you have it.”
“Your predecessor liked it that way as well.” Petrov’s face blanked for just a fraction of a second as he accessed his net.
Through his own implant, Van could feel the quick pulse, but could not decipher either the protocol or the message. “Could be a deepspace habit.”
“It might well be.” An amused smile followed Petrov’s words. “I had hoped that you would follow the example of your predecessor. He was most diligent in informing me of the concerns of your RSF, and in turn, I was equally diligent in conveying our interests and concerns.”
Van had to concentrate to follow Petrov’s accented Old Anglo, although he hadn’t had quite so much difficulty with the embassy service staff recruited from Scandya. “That could be mutually beneficial in these times.”
“Information is useful in all times,” Petrov replied. “You are correct that it is even more so in these times. We do share certain common interests…”
“I would think so.”
Petrov did not speak for a moment, and Van wondered if he had said something wrong. Then a side door slid open, and a ranker stepped though with a tray on which were two cups filled with steaming liquid. The ranker set the tray on the conference table midway between the two officers, then departed as silently as he had come.
“The café is closest to you,” said Petrov. “The pitcher is heavy cream, a specialty here if you care to try it.”
“And you?”
“Tea. I inherited the taste from my grandfather. It’s an old Russe custom, and I found I liked tea far better than café or other beverages.”
Van sipped the café. It was strong, but good, not oily or with the faintly burned taste that came from overroasted beans. “Good café.”
“Commander Cruachan thought so.” Petrov took a sip of his tea before continuing. “The interest most common to us both is the desire not to be perceived as a threat to the three major powers that surround Scandya. The next common interest is to maintain a stable government.”
“I know that is a problem,” Van said, “but not why.”
“Simply put, Commander, for hundreds of years, Scandya has had an internal cultural conflict. The first settlers fled well ahead of the Old Earth diaspora, and they wanted nothing to do with anyone else. We were the first system settled in this region of the Arm. Then, about four hundred years ago, the Argentis arrived, with their fleets. We had none. As conquerors, their rein was comparatively light, and they upgraded and modernized our industry and technology. They were sensitive to our feelings about…our culture…and most of those they resettled here came from similar cultural and racial heritages.”
“Such as your family?” Van guessed.
“Exactly. Except those of us from that heritage knew that we could not remain free, even after the rebellion, unless we developed and maintained an armed force. The recidivists, who persist in calling themselves Liberals, have opposed
