David Weber - The Service of the Sword

Yuri stared at her. "He—the bastard beat you up!"

"Oh, for pity's sake!" she snapped. "You're behaving like a schoolboy. Instead of using your brains. And aren't you the man whose favorite little saying—one of them, anyway—is 'give credit where credit is due'?"

The image of her head swiveled, as she turned to the screen showing Cachat. "Are you really willing to do it, Captain? Nobody's asking it from you."

"Of course, I am. It's my simple duty, under the circumstances." Cachat made that little half-irritated twitch of the shoulders which seemed to be his version of a shrug. "I realize most of you—all of you, I imagine—consider me a fanatic. I neither accept the term, nor do I reject it. I am indifferent to your opinions, frankly. I swore an oath when I joined State Security to devote my life to the service of the Republic. I meant that oath when I gave it, and I have never once wavered in that conviction. Whatever I've done, to the best of my ability at the time and my gauge of the situation, was done in the interests of the people to whom I swore that oath. The people to whom I swore that oath, may I remind you. There is no mention of Oscar Saint-Just or any other individual in the StateSec oath of loyalty."

The square shoulders twitched again. "Oscar Saint-Just is dead, but the Republic remains. Certainly its people remain. So my oath still binds me, and under the current circumstances my duty seems clear to me."

He now looked straight at Yuri and a thin smile came to his face. "You're very good at this, Commissioner Radamacher. I knew you would be, which is why I left you behind here. But, if you'll forgive me saying so, you are not ruthless enough. It's an attractive personal quality, but it's a handicap for a commissioner. You're still flinching from the keystone you need to cap your little edifice."

Yuri was frowning. "What are you talking about?"

"I should think it was obvious. Commissioner Justice certainly understands. If you're going to bury an old regime, Commissioner, you have to bury a body . It's not enough to simply declare the body absent. Who knows when an absent body might return?"

"What—" Yuri shook his head. The fanatic was babbling gibberish.

Cachat's normal impatience returned. "Oh, for the sake of whatever is or isn't holy! If the mice won't bell the cat, I guess the cat will have to do it himself."

Cachat turned to face Sharon. "My preference would be to turn myself over to your custody, Commissioner Justice, but given that the situation in the Tilden is probably the most delicate at the moment, I think it would be best if I were kept incarcerated aboard the Hector under Commissioner Radamacher's custody. I think we should rule out Admiral Chin as the arresting officer. That might run the risk of stirring up Navy-StateSec animosity, which is the last thing La Martine sector needs at the moment."

Sharon chuckled. "Yuri might have you shot, you know."

"I doubt it. Commissioner Radamacher's not really the type. Besides, my reference to a 'body' was just poetic license. It should do well enough, I think, to have the most visible representative of the Saint-Just regime here in La Martine under lock and key." Again, that little shrug. "And if Commissioner Radamacher feels compelled to have me rigorously interrogated at some point, I won't hold it against him."

For a moment, the dark eyes seem to glint. "I've been beaten before. Rather badly, once. As it happens, because a comrade and I were overseen by the enemy conspiring against them, and so in order to protect both our covers he feigned an angry argument and hammered me into a pulp. I spent a few days in the hospital, true enough—the man had fists like hams, even bigger than the Sergeant's over there—but it worked like a charm."

Yuri shook his head, trying to clear it.

"Let me get this straight..."

"Why," grumbled Yuri, staring at the ceiling of his stateroom, "do I feel like the poor sorry slob who got stuck with guarding Napoleon on St. Helena?"

Sharon lowered her book and lifted her head from the pillow next to him. "Who's Napoleon? And I never heard of a planet named St. Helena."

Yuri sighed. Whatever her other marvelous qualities—which he'd been enjoying immensely during the past month—Sharon did not share his passion for ancient history and literature.

Cachat did, oddly enough—some aspects of ancient culture, anyway—and that was something else Yuri had jotted down in his mental Black Book. The one with the title: Reasons I Hate Victor Cachat.

It was childish, he knew. But during the weeks since he'd arrested Cachat, Victor had found that his anger toward the man had simply deepened. The fact that the anger—Yuri was this honest with himself—stemmed more from Cachat's virtues than his vices only seemed to add fuel to the flames.

The fundamental problem was that Cachat had no vices—except being Victor Cachat. In captivity as in command, the young fanatic had faced everything resolutely, unflinchingly, with not a trace of any of the self-doubts or terrors which had plagued Yuri himself his entire life. Cachat never raised his voice in anger; never flinched in fear; never whined, nor groused, nor pleaded.

Yuri had fantasies, now and then, of Victor Cachat on his knees begging for mercy. But even for Yuri the fantasies were washed-out and colorless—and faded within seconds. It was simply impossible to imagine Cachat begging for anything. As well imagine a tyrannosaur blubbering on its knees.

It just wasn't fair, damn it all. And the fact that Cachat, during the weeks of his captivity, had turned out to be an aficionado of the obscure ancient art form known as films had somehow been a worse offense than any. Savage Mesozoic carnivores are not supposed to have any higher sentiments.

And they're certainly not supposed to argue art with human beings! Which, needless to say, Cachat had done. And, needless to say, had taken the opportunity to chide Yuri for slackness.

That had happened in the first week.

"Nonsense," snapped Cachat. "Jean Renoir is the most overrated director I can think of. The Rules of the Game —supposedly a brilliant dissection of the mentality of the elite? What a laugh. When Renoir tries to depict the callousness of the upper crust, the best he can manage is a silly rabbit hunt."

Yuri glared at him. So did Major Citizen, who was the third of the little group on the Hector who had turned out to be film buffs and had started holding informal chats on the subject in Cachat's cell.

Well, it was technically a "cell," even if it was really a lieutenant's former cabin on the SD. Just as it was technically "locked" and there was technically always a "guard" standing outside the hatch.

"Technically" was the word for it, too. Yuri had no doubt at all that Cachat could have picked that simple ship's lock within ten seconds. Just as he had no doubt at all that nine out of ten of the guards stationed at the door would be far more likely to ask the former Special Investigator how he or she could be of service than to demand he return to his cell.

Sourly, Yuri remembered the arrest itself.

"Arrest." Ha! It had been more like a ceremonial procession. Cachat emerging from the lock with a task force escort respectfully trotting behind him—and with both Major Lafitte and Major Citizen's Marines and StateSec security units lined up to receive him.

Theoretically, they'd been there to take him into custody. But as soon as Cachat had stepped across the line on the deck which marked the official legal boundaries of the superdreadnought, the Marines had snapped to attention and presented arms. Major Citizen's StateSec troops lined up on the opposite side had followed suit within a second.