The other, and even larger worry was what Murikami had suggested about the RSF. The Coalition was worried about the RSF. The RSF was worried about the Revs, and so were the Argentis. The Scandyans were worried about everyone, and who knew what the Revs were worried about?
And Van didn’t really have the faintest idea what was about to happen, only that something was, and that he’d probably be blamed in some way or another.
He squared his shoulders as he neared the groundcar.
Chapter 18
Another long week came and went, and before Van knew it, it was sixday night once more, and the opening diplomatic reception for the Scandyan independence celebration was at hand. The lower south level of the Taran embassy was decorated and open to hundreds from the diplomatic community and from the ministries of the Scandyan government. Van had checked the security systems three times, after the staff had set and adjusted them, and hoped that he hadn’t overlooked anything, especially considering what Major Murikami had suggested.
Van wore formal greens and the handful of medals he’d been awarded—the ones all officers got for surviving. Holding a nearly untouched pale ale, he stood in the second drawing room, his chosen unofficial station, since he didn’t like the crowded larger main reception room.
Emily Clifton appeared at his elbow, wearing a matching pink jacket and trousers. “You look very distinguished, Commander.”
“You look far better than that, Emily. In fact, you look very beautiful.” After he said them, Van worried that his words were too personal, but he still wouldn’t have taken them back.
“I should make certain that you wear that formal uniform more often.” She glanced toward the archway to the main reception room. “I need to keep close to the ambassador.”
“Good luck.”
With a smile and a nod, she slipped back into the crowd. Van watched until she disappeared into the main room.
From among the swirl of unfamiliar and half-familiar faces emerged another that Van recognized—Rafel Petrov.
“Commander Albert.”
“Commodore.” Van inclined his head. “How are matters? I saw that the Liberal Greens are insisting the Scandyan Space Defense Forces are too large. They were almost rioting.”
Petrov smiled tightly. “The premier called it an overexuberant display of feelings.”
“The SDF isn’t exactly a massive force, and all the analyses indicate it’s efficient. Why are they so against it?”
“They believe that the funds would be better spent here on Gotland. On what, they cannot agree, but they all feel strongly that they should be.”
Van laughed sympathetically. “I’m sorry. We don’t live in that kind of a Galaxy.”
“No, my friend, we do not.” Petrov paused. “You have not met the Revenant military attaché, have you? Sub-marshal Brigham Taylor?”
“The sub-marshal has been otherwise occupied,” Van said dryly. “For weeks now.”
“A pity.” Petrov grinned, an almost maniacal expression. “Then you must meet his ambassador. Come with me.”
His ale still in hand, Van followed the commodore into the main reception room and to the southeast corner, beside the shelves that held Ambassador Rogh’s collection of ancient manuscripts, some dating back to prehistory on Old Earth.
The commodore eased up in front of a slender man in a brilliant white dinner jacket, with matching trousers having a gold stripe on the outer seam. He had striking white hair, watery blue eyes, and a slightly rounded face.
“Commander,” offered Commodore Petrov, “I’d like you to meet Ambassador Jared Dane of the Revenants of the Prophet, the Community of the Revealed.”
The ambassador nodded slightly.
“Ambassador Dane, this is Commander Van Albert, the new military attaché for the Taran Republic. He is the former commander of the cruiser Fergus and former commander of the corvette Eochaid. Since he has had some difficulty in reaching Sub-marshal Taylor, I thought you should meet him.”
“Most kind of you, Commodore Petrov,” replied Dane. “Good to meet you, Commander.”
“And you, ser.” Van took in the smiling visage of the bearded diplomat, offering his own smile in return, one he scarcely meant.
Petrov slipped away into the crowd, but Van could see Hannigan moving closer to them.
“Great tan you’ve got, Commander.” The ambassador guffawed.
“It comes with the genes, Ambassador. All of us black Tarans have good tans.”
“You good with your fists? That come with the genes, too?” asked the ambassador, his tone open and genial, as if asking about a pleasant day.
Van smiled, if coolly. “All RSF officers can take care of themselves. That’s true of officers in all forces, I’m sure.” Van had been forced to learn that a long time ago, as had his ancestors, ages back when the Deseretists—one of the precursor faiths of the Revenants—had stamped the mark of Cain on them. “I’m sure your officers can.” He paused briefly. “I met one of them coming down on the shuttle. Impressive-looking young officer. Very conscious of his heritage and duties, too.”
He could sense the wince from Hannigan, standing to his left.
“He must have been. You Tarans aren’t easily impressed.” Ambassador Dane smiled.
Van returned the smile once more, adding calmly, “No, we’re not. Some call it Taran humor. We tell things as they are, and everyone laughs because they can’t believe anyone can be so direct.” Then Van laughed gently, even as he noticed the woman with white-blonde hair slipping up to the ambassador’s shoulder. Her green eyes and pale white skin confirmed her Revenant background. She did not look at Van.
“Pleased to meet you, Commander.” Dane gave a last smile. “I see that I’m being summoned.” With a nod, he turned and eased away.
As the Revenant departed, Hannigan stepped up beside Van. “You were…rather direct with Ambassador Dane,” he murmured.
“Only truthful, Ian. I suppose that’s too direct for senior diplomats.”
“I suppose so.”
Van could sense the unease behind Hannigan’s humorous tone. “That’s why there’s only one military attaché. Two would be too many.”
Hannigan shook his head, then abruptly turned. “The ambassador wants something.” With his words, he was gone.
Van looked out over the faces, none familiar
