The Chosen

to the rest of the corridor. He stepped through a doorway, and suddenly he was in the passenger section of the yacht. Soft colorful Sierran carpets underfoot, walnut panelling. . by the time he reached his cabin, his valet was already towelling down his torso. He changed with rapid, precise movements, stuck a cigarette into a sea-ivory holder, and strolled out on deck.

'About bloody time,' Jeffrey observed, making a show of looking at the approaching Chosen gunboat with his binoculars. 'How'd it go?'

'You saw it-a damned ratfu-er, walking disaster.'

Pia came up and took John's arm. 'Tedeschi pigs,' she muttered under her breath. Her eyes were fixed on the Chosen vessel, as well.

Good thing she's not on the guns, John thought.

There were four guns on the yacht, port and starboard forward and aft of the mid-hull superstructure. Nothing too remarkable about that; any vessel on Visager's seas had to have some armament, given the size and disposition of the marine life. The two-and-a-half-inch naval quick-firers on pedestal mounts were not entirely typical, however-nor was the fact that they could elevate to ninety degrees. Two were, their muzzles tracking the leisurely approach of the Chosen dirigible; the other two followed the gunboat. That had a three-inch gun behind a shield on the forecastle, another at the stern, and pom-poms-scaled-up machine guns firing a one-pound shell-bristling from either flank. The Chosen captain wouldn't be worried about the purely physical aspects of any confrontation, even without the airship. Although that confidence was possibly overstated, since the yacht had an underwater torpedo tube on either side.

'Try to look like a man on his honeymoon,' John told his stepbrother.

'I'm trying,' Jeffrey replied through clenched teeth. 'He's signaling. .' A bright light flickered from the Chosen gunboat. 'Heave to and prepare to be boarded,' he read. 'Arrogant bastards, aren't they?'

'Jeffrey?' Lola Farr, nee Chiavri, came up the companionway to the bridge, holding on to her hat. 'Is there-' She caught sight of the Chosen vessels. 'Oh!'

'Don't worry,' Jeffrey said. He nodded his head upward towards the pole mast in front of the yacht's funnel. The flag of the Republic of the Santander snapped in the breeze. 'They're not going to start a war.'

Although they might be quite willing to endure an embarrassing diplomatic accident, John thought morbidly. He wished Pia and Lola weren't along, but then, it would look odd if they weren't, given the cover story. And Pia wouldn't stay if I nailed her feet to the kitchen floor.

'Captain,' John said quietly to the grizzle-bearded man who stood beside the wheel with his hands clasped behind his back. 'Signal Santander ship, International Waters, and sheer off.'

'Sir.' He passed along the orders. 'Shall I make speed?'

'No, just maintain your course,' John said. The Windstrider could probably outrun the Chosen gunboat, but not the airship-or a cannon shell, for that matter. 'Act naturally, everyone.'

Jeffrey grinned. 'Natural, under the circumstances, would be scared s- spitless.'

'Act arrogant, then; the Chosen understand that.'

John looked around at the bridge of the yacht. It was horseshoe-shaped, with another horseshoe within it; the inner one was enclosed, a curved waist-high wall of white-painted steel with windows above that, meeting the roof above. That held the wheel, binnacle, engine-room telegraph, and chart table. The outer semicircle was open save for a railing of teak and brass and empty save for the two couples and a few stewards. They were in cream- colored livery; Jeffrey wore a summer-weight brown colonel's uniform, and John white ducks, the sort of outfit a wealthy man might wear for playing tennis. . or yachting. Pia and Lola were in gauzy warm-weather dresses of peach and lavender, looking expensive and haughty.

Perfect, John thought.

The gunboat was running on a converging course, white water foaming back from its bow. As he watched, it swung parallel to the yacht, almost alongside, and slowed to match speed. John smiled tightly and touched Pia's hand where it rested in the crook of his arm. She gave his arm a squeeze and released it. He took a drag on the cigarette, suppressing a cough, and strolled in a jaunty fashion to the starboard wing of the open space. His hand rested on the railing, casually touching a certain bronze fitting.

The vessels were less than a dozen yards apart-showing good handling on the part of both crews. That meant that the gunboat was less than a dozen yards from the sixteen-inch midships torpedo tube, armed and flooded. The fitting under his hand was connected to a simple bell-telegraph and light; if he pressed it twice, the men crouched behind the little circular door would pull levers. . and a slug of high-pressure compressed air would shove the tin fish out of the tube. A few seconds and the Chosen gunboat would be a broken-backed hulk sliding under the waters.

Of course, that would ruin his cover; the airship would report back, or someone in the yacht's crew would talk even if they got lucky. .

'Ahoy there!' a voice bellowed through a speaking trumpet from the low bridge of the gunboat. Its Santander English was accented but fluent. ''Tis iz Leutnant der See Annika Tirnwitz. Prepare to be boarded.'

Cannon and pom-poms and machine guns were trained with unnerving steadiness on him, ready to rake the Windstrider into burning wreckage in seconds-about as many seconds as the torpedo would take to do its work. The gray-uniformed crew waited in motionless tension, all except for a dozen who were shouldering rifles and making ready to swing a launch from its davits. John pitched his voice to carry.

'This is sovereign territory of the Republic of the Santander. You have no authority here and any act of aggression will be resisted.'

'That iz un private vessel! You do not diplomatic immunity haff!'

John pointed up to the flag. 'Leutnant, you may come aboard with no more than one other member of your crew. Otherwise, I must ask you to get out of my way.'

Half-heard orders carried from the gunboat to the yacht. Most of the boarding party who'd been preparing the launch grounded arms and stood easy; the little boat slid down into the water, and several figures in Land uniform slid down ropes from the gunboat's deck to man it. Smuts of black smoke broke from the slender funnel at its stern, a small steam engine chugged, and the launch angled in towards the Santander ship.

'Captain,' John called over his shoulder. 'Party to greet the Leutnant. And a rope ladder, if you please.'

Whistles fluted as the Chosen officer came over the side. The escort for her and the Protege seaman who followed behind were distantly polite; the rest of the crew glared. Everyone was wearing a cutlass and revolver, and carbines stood ready to hand.

Aren't you laying it on a bit thick? Jeffrey thought, the familiar mental voice relayed by Center. You're supposed to be secretly on their side, after all.

That's exactly it, John replied. A good double agent plays his part well-and my part is a wealthy playboy who dabbles in diplomacy, but who is secretly a Foreign Office spook and violently anti-Chosen.

The irony of it was that the best way to convince his Chosen handlers that he was a competent double agent was to act the way he would if he wasn't a double agent, except for his reports to them- he was an information conduit, not an agent of influence. Which meant, of course, that they could never be sure he wasn't a triple agent, but that was par for the course.

Espionage could make your head hurt.

Annika Tirnwitz was a tall lanky woman of about thirty, with a brush of close-cropped brown hair and a face tanned and weatherbeaten to the color of oiled wood. Her blue eyes were like gunsights, tracking methodically across the yacht, missing nothing. John thought he saw a little surprise at the quality of the crew and the arms, but. .

correct, Center thought. subject tirnwitz is surprised. A holograph appeared over her face, showing temperature patterns and pupil dilation. A sidebar showed pulse rate and blood pressure. subject is also experiencing well-controlled apprehension.

'Leutnant der See Annika Tirnwitz,' the Chosen said, with a slight stiff nod. 'Who is