A little before midnight, Captain Markham issued her apologies. She and her husband made one more round to say their good-nights, and left the party. The orchestra began their last set; Sikander and Lara decided they were ready for a nightcap or two, and retreated to one of the mansion’s quieter verandas. This one faced south, commanding a striking view of Brigadoon’s skyline. Amarleen was determined to finish out the very last bit of the dancing and had not yet released Ondrew Tigh, but several of Hector’s officers gathered on the veranda with Sikander and Lara, enjoying the end of the entertainment.
Sikander leaned against a balustrade, one arm around Lara’s waist, the other gently swirling a flute of Andalusian champagne. The evening seemed suffused in a pleasant glow fueled by dancing, dining, drink, and the company of a beautiful woman all in their proper proportions. He raised his glass in the direction of the mansion’s residential quarters. “My compliments to the governor,” he announced. “She throws an excellent party.”
“I don’t think I actually saw her this evening,” Lara said. “Was she even here?”
“I saw the governor at dinner,” Ensign Girard answered. “I think there’s a rule that says she has to come to her own party.”
Hiram Randall and his date wandered out onto the veranda. It seemed that Randall’s date had perhaps had a little more champagne than was good for her. Her face was flushed and she wasn’t entirely steady on her feet; she clung to Randall’s arm as she laughed loudly at something he’d said. Randall grinned at his own wit and steered her out into the cooler air. He caught sight of the group standing by the balustrade and headed over.
“I should have known that Mr. North would see the party through to its close,” Randall said as he joined them. “His talents in that regard are legendary.”
“I see my misspent youth follows me still,” Sikander replied. He’d intended to linger just a little bit longer, but he found that he was not terribly interested in trading jabs with his fellow department head. “However, in this case, you are mistaken. I fear that things are winding down here. We were just saying our good-nights; I must see Ms. Dunstan home soon.”
“Indeed?” Randall turned to Lara, and gave her an appraising look. “I must say, Ms. Dunstan, it’s very kind of you to take an interest in Mr. North’s introduction to Aquilan society. I can only hope the Foreign Ministry is compensating you handsomely for your work among the less advantaged cultures of the galaxy.” He enjoyed a merry laugh at his own humor, but his eyes remained cold and hard.
Lara gave Randall a sharp look, but a moment later she smiled coolly and intertwined her arm with Sikander’s. “I am sorry if it was not clear before, Mr. Randall, but Sikander is my date for the evening. And I certainly wouldn’t refer to a culture as rich and artistically mature as Kashmir’s as disadvantaged in any way.”
“If you say so,” Randall replied. “I suppose primitive belief systems are quite fascinating. The fact that they have survived up to the modern day says quite a lot about human nature—although not much that is complimentary, I am afraid.”
“Oh, here it comes again,” Magdalena Juarez said. “Hiram, no one cares what you think about their beliefs. Leave it alone.”
“I don’t mean to offend,” Randall said. “I am sincerely trying to satisfy my own curiosity. What exactly is the nature of Ms. Dunstan’s interest in this arrangement? Political? Charitable? Anthropological, perhaps?”
“Ms. Dunstan’s interests are none of your business, Mr. Randall,” said Sikander in an icy tone.
“I don’t see that they ought to be yours, either.” Randall gave a small shrug, and took a level sip from the highball glass in his hand. Sikander realized then that Randall was drunk—in fact, he’d had a drink in his hand every time he’d seen him throughout the evening—but he was one of those people who carried his liquor in his words. Instead of getting loud or red in the face or boisterous, Hiram Randall grew colder and viciously deliberate as he drank. The idea of baiting Sikander and teasing Lara Dunstan about him was something that a sober Randall might have entertained, but would never have acted upon. The drunk Randall couldn’t resist the temptation to stir up trouble, and the alcohol he’d imbibed fueled a cruel streak in him that was never very far beneath the surface.
Even understanding that, Sikander was furious. Hiram Randall had said all that he was prepared to put up with. “You’re drunk, Randall,” he said. “Go home before you say something you’ll regret.”
“Perhaps, but tomorrow when I sober up, I’ll still be an Aquilan and you won’t, no matter how much you pretend otherwise,” said Randall. He glanced at Lara, and his gaze lingered until she flushed and looked away. “Or who you … date.”
Sikander flexed his fists and took a step toward Randall. At that moment, he frankly did not care that he was about to end his career in the Commonwealth Navy in the most spectacular fashion imaginable. Striking another officer was a court-martial offense, regardless of the provocation that had been offered, and the witnesses standing nearby would be bound by duty and honor to testify about what happened next. He’d be sent back home in disgrace, but wiping the arrogant sneer off Hiram Randall’s face might just be worth all that trouble.
Magda Juarez took two quick steps and set a hand on Sikander’s shoulder. “For God’s sake, Sikay—don’t do it,” she said in a low whisper. “If you throw the first punch, you’re giving him exactly what he wants.”
“At a loss for words?” Randall met Sikander’s eyes. The Aquilan officer deliberately dropped his glass; it shattered on the flagstones of the veranda. The other guests nearby stood shocked into silence. “Don’t let Ms. Juarez keep you from speaking your mind!”
Sikander angrily shrugged off Magda’s hand, but just as he was about to step forward and knock Hiram Randall’s teeth down his throat, his personal comm beeped urgently. Randall’s went off at the same moment, along with Magda’s, Reno’s, and Girard’s. Despite his anger, he hesitated a moment and glanced at the device clipped to his belt. The other officers likewise looked down, surprised.
“What in hell?” Randall growled. He backed away from Sikander and brought his communicator to his hand. Sikander glared at the Aquilan, but held his place while his own unit continued to warble.
“Ship’s recall,” Michael Girard reported, listening carefully to his communicator. “All the officers and crew of CSS Hector are to report aboard immediately. It sounds like they’ll need us to get under way as soon as possible, sir.”
Recall? Sikander wondered. He turned his attention to his own communicator and accepted the call. In a moment he heard the cool, automated tone of the ship’s info assistant announcing the general recall. In six years of duty aboard three different ships, he had never seen a ship’s company called back from liberty. It simply wasn’t done … except in case of emergency.
“Damn,” Magda muttered. “They called us back from the Governor’s Ball? Did somebody start a war somewhere?”
“It’s only Hector, ma’am,” Girard pointed out. He nodded at the rest of the ball guests. Scores of uniformed personnel from other ships and stations were in sight, but none were looking at their own communicators or making their way toward the landing pad.
Something urgent, then, but urgent only for CSS Hector. The cruiser was needed somewhere else in a hurry. Some sort of disaster relief? An urgent delivery too big for a fleet courier? Sikander couldn’t even begin to guess. He returned his comm unit to his belt and faced Randall. “We will continue this another time, Randall,” he said. “I am available at your convenience.”