Эрик Флинт - The Service of the Sword

Yuri had wondered at the last two sentences. He thought of asking Cachat why he hadn't wanted to send Rolla's name to Nouveau Paris as a candidate for StateSec's Officer Training School.

Then, realizing how much he would miss Rolla's steadying presence, he thought he understood. Although . . . why would Cachat care, really? He hadn't faced the problem of carrying through a revolution.

But he left the question unasked. He was irritated enough with Cachat as it was, the way each reading of the lists made him feel like a damn fool.

Just so, he was darkly certain, had Napoleon's jailor felt whenever the emperor beat him at checkers on St. Helena. Again.

Alouette was never arrested. Fleeing ahead of the arresting squad, finding himself cornered, the man tried to make his escape by climbing into his skinsuit, strapping on a sustained use thruster pack, and venturing onto the exterior of the Hector. Presumably—impossible to know—he'd hoped to make it across to the nearest commercial space station sharing orbit with the SD around La Martine.

It would have been an epic escape. Even a highly skilled and experienced EVA rating would have been hardpressed to cross that distance in a skinsuit without a hardsuit's navigation systems to go with the SUT pack.

Alouette was neither superb nor experienced. He never even made it off the warship. Apparently in a panic, he jammed the jets into full throttle and rammed himself into a nearby gravitic array. There he remained for minutes, crushed against the array by the flaring SUT thrusters; which he was unable to turn off, either because he couldn't remember how or—if the fates had mercy on him—because the initial impact had rendered him unconscious.

It was a moot point. By the time his body could be recovered after the SUT ran out of fuel, the impact and the thrusters themselves had shredded the skinsuit with magnificent irony upon the very array the grav tech had not serviced in all his time aboard the Hector . Decompression had done the rest. The body that was hauled back into the Hector had been nothing but a broken, soggy mess.

It bought him no mercy. Again, Yuri decided to follow Cachat's advice.

"When you drive in a sword, Commissioner, drive it to the hilt. Execute the corpse. Do it in front of a full assembly."

So it was. Ned Pierce got his wish, after all, emptying a full clip into the corpse of Alouette, propped up against a bulkhead.

The Marine sergeant did insist afterward—and loudly, too—that he got no satisfaction from the matter. But Yuri thought the cold grin on his face when he made the disclaimer belied the statement. And so, apparently, did the hundred or so of the Hector's ratings who had been assembled in the chamber to witness the event.

True, the dozen of them who had been in Alouette's own section had raised a cheer. But even they looked a bit pale-faced at the time. And Yuri had no doubt at all that none of them would be in the least bit tempted thereafter to emulate Alouette. Or do anything which might draw the wrath of the new regime down on their heads.

He took no pleasure in the fact, although he did appreciate the irony. He'd read the ancient quip, that if Satan ever seized Heaven he'd have no choice but to take on God's characteristics. Now, he was realizing that the converse was true: If God ever took over the management of Hell, He'd make a damn good Devil himself.

And so the weeks passed, in the distant provincial sector of La Martine. No word from Haven. Nothing but wild rumors brought occasionally by merchant ships. The only certain things were that the capital system was still under the Navy's control and that a number of provincial sectors had burst into rebellion against the new regime, led by StateSec units.

But La Martine Sector remained tranquil. Within a month, the civilian authorities were even so confident that they began demanding that Radamacher—now called, by everyone, the Commissioner for La Martine —resume the anti-piracy patrols. There had been no incidents, true. But the commercial sector saw no reason to risk slackness.

When Yuri hesitated, the civilian delegation insisted on speaking to Cachat.

"Why?" Yuri demanded. "He's under arrest. He has no authority here. He doesn't even have a title any longer, except captain."

No use. The faces of the civilian delegation were set, stubborn. Yuri sighed and had Cachat brought to his office.

Cachat listened to the delegation. Then—needless to say—spoke without hesitation.

"Of course you should resume the patrols. Why not, Commissioner Radamacher? You've got everything well in hand."

Yuri almost ground his teeth, seeing the look of satisfaction on the faces of the civilians. Just so—just so!—would the fishermen on St. Helena have appealed from his guard to the Emperor, over a dispute regarding the proper repair of fishing nets.

But, he ordered the resumption of the patrols.

He had no choice, really. Yuri was coming to realize, slowly, that Cachat had been right about his own arrest also. In some indefinable manner, Yuri's own legitimacy somehow depended on the fact that he was seen as the custodian of the man who had been the final representative of Saint-Just's regime in La Martine.

Had the man he held captive ever protested, or complained, things might have been different. Yuri often found himself wishing that the news reporters who appeared frequently on the Hector to take yet another shot of Cachat In Captivity would produce a suitable image. That of a scowling, hunched, sullen tyrant finally brought to bay.

But . . . no. The images published in the newsviewers were always the same. A young man, stiff and dignified, looking more like a prince in exile than an incarcerated fanatic.

When he said as much to Sharon, she just laughed and told him to stop pouting.

Then, finally, official word came. A courier ship from Haven, bearing an official message from the new government.

As soon as the dispatch boat made its alpha translation, Yuri recognized the distinctive hyper footprint of a courier vessel. Nothing else that small was hyper-capable, after all, so it couldn't possibly be another merchantman . . . or a warship. Immediately, Yuri summoned all of the top commanders of the fleet to the bridge of the Hector. By the time the dispatch boat was within range to start transmitting messages, they were all present. Admiral Chin, Commodore Ogilve, Commissioner Wilkins, Captain Vesey, Majors Citizen and Lafitte. Captain Wright, recently promoted to replace Gallanti as the CO of the Hector. And Sharon, of course.

As Yuri began reading the first of the messages, he sighed with relief. The message began by stating that a new provisional government had been set in place by Admiral Theismann. A civilian government. There would be no military dictatorship, after all. Short of a return of the old regime, that had been Yuri's worst nightmare.

The message continued with a list of names—the officials of the new provisional government. The first of those names almost caused his heart to stop.

Eloise Pritchard, Provisional President.

The King is dead, long live the Queen. Saint-Just's fair-haired girl. Ring-around-the-rosy and we're right back where we started.

We're dead meat.

But his eyes were already continuing down the list, and he realized the truth even before he heard Sharon's shocked half-whisper.

"Jesus Christ Almighty. She must have been in the opposition all along. Look at the rest of those names."

Others were crowding around now, trying to read over Yuri's shoulders.

"Yeah, you're right," agreed Yuri. "I know a lot of them, myself, from the old days. At least half this list is made up of Aprilists. The best of them, too, at least those who've survived the last ten years. Hey—look! They've even got Kevin Usher. I didn't think he was still alive. The last I heard he'd been shipped off to the Marines in disgrace. I thought by now they'd have vanished him away somewhere."