Downtime Read Free

maelstrom of snow. D’Omaha and Stairnon
watched until the shiplights went out and the hatches opened. “You’d better
call Macduhi. I’ll send for the hot broth.”
    D’Omaha
watched her go to the communication panel by the fireplace. He thought her step
was a trifle slow, her reassuring smile a bit too quick, but none of that made
his passion for her wane.
    ***
    D’Omaha stood with his back to Macduhi watching the others
descend the wooden staircase. Their crier implants were broadcasting
introductions; all were well known to him, even the men and women of the Honor
Escorte, so he silenced the nomenclator after each name.
    The
four decemviri came first: “Saint Asteria Hermit . . . click , Penthesilea Koh Ambato . . . click , Jeremy Bentham Peekskill . . . click , Carrey Carmine Cassells . . . click .” Behind them was the
Praetorian guard raider commander and her lieutenants: “Eudoxia Calla Dovia . . . click , Marmion Andres Clavia . . . click , Tam Singh Amritsar . . . click .” He listened not at all to the
names of the Honor Escorte; they would stay only long enough to taste some of
Stairnon’s broth, then probably avail themselves of one of the hot baths. His
eyes were on Calla, this short old woman who never ceased to amaze him with her
incredible stature. Even the decemviri waited for her to accept the first mug
from Stairnon. Not that they hung back, but that they simply did not reach
until her hand was full. He’d done it himself on more than one occasion. It had
to do with her demeanor, the way one never consciously remembered that she was
short, only recalled the jut of her jaw, the way she always threw back her
shoulders, and hair so bright only a whore or someone so important that she
could never be thought of as a whore would dare to display.
    “Stairnon,
what is this wonderful beverage?” Predictably, Bentham was bubbling as
vigorously as the broth in the tureen.
    “Just
a chowder from the last of the fall vegetables,” Stairnon told him, filling the
rest of the escort’s mugs. They filed out of the solarium as Stairnon explained
to Bentham how she’d rescued his soup from a sudden frost with her own hands.
Even Koh smiled at the picture she painted, Koh who felt the weight of all the
known worlds as if it were her shoulders alone on which it was borne.
    “I
didn’t think a little snow could ground your windshots,” D’Omaha said to Calla.
A blaze of black navigator silk was fastened at the shoulder of her khakis by
gold worlds of rank. Only the required decorations were pinned onto the silk;
she didn’t need any to know who she was.
    “It
was Singh’s decision,” she said. “I think he was being cautious with half the
Decemvirate in the bellies of his ships.”
    “Who’s
bringing the other half, Commander Calla?” Macduhi asked. And when Calla looked
at her blankly, she added, “The rest of the Decemvirate.”
    The
room silenced. Calla had the good grace not to give D’Omaha a questioning
glance. She answered directly. “They’re not coming.”
    “Didn’t
you brief her?” Koh asked D’Omaha.
    “Why
would an in active decemvir be
expected to brief an active one?” Macduhi asked pointedly.
    The
moment was quite predictable in light of his conversation with Macduhi earlier
in the day; it was to have been his moment of triumph. But it didn’t feel at
all like D’Omaha thought it would at the time. Oh, Macduhi was painfully aware
that everyone in the room knew something she didn’t know, but instead of
feeling satisfaction, D’Omaha was only aware that Stairnon was looking at him
with a puzzled frown and that, in a moment, when she pieced it all together,
she would be disappointed in him. Koh had already figured it out and just stood
drumming her fingers on the mantel.
    “Just
where is the rest of your raider Praetorian guard, Commander Calla?” Macduhi
said to the one person she knew would not dare to refuse her an answer.
    “Aboard Compania ,