marble. No intruders menaced her. No Chens lurked behind the curtains. Her broad bed lay with its viridian spread tangled. One of her pillows had been flung partway across the room by Chen, or Martinez, or possibly someone else.
The door burst open and Spence rushed in, her straw-colored hair wild, her nightdress rucked up above her sturdy hips. She wore white underpants, had a wild look in her eye, and carried a pistol ready in her hand.
“My lady?” she said.
Sula tried to speak, failed, made a gesture of conciliation. Spence hesitantly lowered the pistol. Sula turned to where a beaker of water waited, poured, and rinsed out her sandpaper mouth.
“Sorry,” she said. “Bad dream.”
A look of compassion crossed Spence’s face. “I get them too,” she said. She looked at the pistol in her hand. “I wonder how smart it is to keep firearms within arm’s reach. I’m always afraid I’m going to ventilate the ceiling.”
Sula looked back at her bed, at the sidearm she’d placed carefully by the comm unit.
“I forgot I had a gun,” she said.
Spence put her gun on one of the gilt and marble tables and twisted the hem of her nightdress to let it fall to her knees. She stepped close and put a warm hand on Sula’s shoulder. “Are you all right now? Would you like me to get you something?”
“I’m fine now,” Sula said. “Thanks.” Her heart was still crashing in her chest.
“Would you like me to sit up with you for a bit?”
Sula wanted to laugh. She put an arm around Spence and hugged her close. Spence’s hair smelled of tobacco, with just the faintest whiff of gun oil.
“Thank you,” Sula said, “but I’m fine.”
Spence took her pistol and left. Sula put her glass of water on the bedside table and straightened the covers. She got into the bed and told the room to dim the lights, leaving just enough illumination to be certain no nightmares lurked in the corners.
She lay back on her pillow and wondered what sort of nightmares made Spence keep a pistol within arm’s reach.
She was glad she had someone on her staff who made human warmth her specialty.
Tork took three days to answer Sula’s suggestion concerning a posting. Perhaps he’d spent the intervening time in conference with the Fleet Control Board and Lord Eldey, or had taken that long to work himself into the right state.
As with all good news from Tork, Sula’s appointment came through a staff officer. After Lord Eldey took his post as governor, the order stated, Captain Sula was to proceed to take command of the frigateConfidence, where she would replace Lieutenant Captain Ohta, who had no doubt to his own vast surprise been appointed military aide to the new governor.
Sula took a long moment to savor her triumph, then began preparing her departure.
She still had prodigious stores of cocoa, tobacco, and coffee stored in crates labeled “Used Machine Parts, for Recycling.” She saved a few boxes as gifts, kept some for her own use, then sold the rest in a brief auction staged between local wholesalers. Sergius Bakshi bought all the cocoa, and paid generously. Perhaps he was getting into legitimate food distribution. Perhaps he thought of it as a way of bribing her.
One of her gifts was a truck to One-Step, which she filled with commodities. With luck, he’d never have to do his business on the street again.
Even though she’d spent money to fund her army, the profit on the commodities still came to over six hundred percent. War was definitely good for her pocketbook.
She asked Macnamara and Spence if they wanted to remain with her as her personal staff or accept assignment elsewhere.
“Staying with me means a demotion,” she said. “You’ve gotten used to running parts of an army and serving on staff; but if you stay with me, you’ll be rated as captain’s servants.” She shrugged. “Of course, you’ll have money either way,” she added.
Macnamara stood straight and tall in his uniform, the light that came in the curved window of Sula’s office turning his curly hair into a halo.
“Naturally I’ll come with you, my lady,” he said.
“Nothing for me here,” Spence said. There was a mild smile on her face that made it difficult to remember that she was the woman who had blown up the Great Destiny Hotel.
Warmth kindled in Sula’s heart. She wanted to embrace them but, unfortunately, this was not an option for Lady Sula and her servants. Not in her office anyway.
She promoted each to Petty Officer First Class and gave each five thousand zeniths as their share of Sula’s liquidated business.
Spence’s mouth dropped open. “That’s…rather a lot,” she said.
“No false modesty,” Sula said. “No pretending that you don’t deserve it.”
Spence closed her mouth. “No, my lady,” she said.
Sula grinned. “No reason,” she said, “the cliquemen should be the only ones to turn a profit from this.” She looked at them. “Now go hire me a cook,” she said. “I gather that I’m going to need one.”
Lord Eldey’s shuttle landed at the Wi-hun airfield on a day of brilliant sun, flashes of gold running along the polished surface of the vehicle as it extended its great wings and sighed to a landing on the long runway. Its chemical rockets hissed as it turned and moved past the row of shuttles that had brought the Naxid administration and their support elements to Zanshaa. These were configured for Naxids and were now mere souvenirs of war until someone got around to refitting them.
The rockets flared, then died. A massed Daimong chorus sang the “Glorious Arrival” song from An- tar’sAntimony Sky as the main door cycled open. A grand reviewing stage, draped with bunting in red and gold, moved toward the shuttle under its own power and jockeyed up to the door. Sula stood on the stage, the silver braid glittering on her dress uniform. Spence and Macnamara stood with her.
Wearing the dark red tunic of the lords convocate, Eldey stepped out in the shuttlecraft and gazed at his domain with his huge night-adapted eyes. The recent snow had melted, except for patches of white in the darkest shadows, but the country all round the airfield was brown and dead, especially where the Naxids had torn away groves of trees to clear fields of fire for their defensive installations. The air smelled of decaying, moist vegetation and spent rocket fuel.
Sula braced. “Welcome to Zanshaa, Lord Governor.”
“Thank you, Lady Sula. It’s good to see a—a real world again.” He inhaled deliberately, and apparently he didn’t mind the smell of rocket fuel because his nose fluttered with pleasure. He turned to her. “Please stand at ease, and allow me to introduce you to my staff?”
Introductions were made. Sula presented Spence and Macnamara to the lord governor, who surprised them by shaking their hands.
“Shall we continue then?” Eldey asked. “I’m no longer young, and I believe a rather long day is planned.”
“Yes, my lord,” Sula said.
Everyone faced the front of the stage. Sula gave an order on her sleeve comm.
What followed was the first, last, and only grand review of Sula’s army.
The action groups came marching along the landing strip in ranks under their commanders, bearing banners that identified them by the names they had proudly chosen for themselves: the Bogo Boys, the Defenders of the Praxis, the Tornados, the Academy of Design’s Lord Commander Eshruq Wing, with a particularly effective banner, the Savage Seventeen, Lord Pahn-ko’s Avengers…
Sidney and Fer Tuga, the Axtattle sniper, walked in each other’s company, rifles on their shoulders. The old Daimong still limped from his wound.
They wore no uniform, but some wore Fleet or police body armor, and they all wore red and gold armbands. They all shared a common esprit, hats and caps cocked at jaunty angles, weapons carried proudly. They loped along to a Cree band, feet tramping the pavement in unison. Even Lord Tork would have had to admit that the army had learned to march very well indeed.
