Helen

On the second night of their journey home, her father didn’t return to their suite on the yacht. Once she was sure he wasn’t going to, Helen made up her bed on the couch in the small salon. It took her a while to settle Lars and Berry for the night, in the stateroom which she was sharing with them. Partly, because something of her own good cheer seemed to infuse them. But mostly it was because they were afraid of sleeping without her.

“Come on!” she snapped. “We aren’t going to be sharing a bed forever, you know.” She eyed the huge and luxurious piece of furniture. “Not one like this, anyway. Not with Daddy on half-pay, at best.”

She did not seem noticeably upset at the prospect of future poverty. Lars and Berry, of course, were not upset at all. Their new father’s “half” pay was a fortune to them.

“Get to sleep!” Helen commanded. She turned off the lights. “Tonight belongs to Daddy. And tomorrow morning too.”

* * *

In the time which followed, Helen set her clever alarms. She did the work with the same enthusiasm with which she had spent the evening designing them.

But, in the event, the alarms proved unnecessary. She never managed to sleep herself. So, when she heard her father coming through the outer doors, early in the morning, she had time to disengage them before he entered. She even had time to perch herself back on the couch. Grinning from ear to ear.

The door to the salon opened and her father tiptoed in. He spotted her and froze. Helen fought to restrain her giggles. Talk about role reversal.

“So!” she piped. “How was she?”

Her father flushed. Helen laughed and clapped her hands with glee. She had never managed to do that!

Her father straightened, glared at her, and then managed a laugh himself.

“Rascal,” he growled. But the growl came with a rueful smile, and he padded over to the couch. The moment he sat down next to her, Helen scrambled into his lap.

Surprise crossed her father’s face. Helen had not sat in his lap for years. Too undignified; too childish.

The look of surprise vanished, replaced by something very warm. A film of tears came into his eyes. A moment later, Helen felt herself crushed against him, by those powerful wrestler’s arms. Her own vision was a bit blurry.

She wiped away the tears. Whimsy, dammit!

“I bet she snores.” She’d planned that sentence for hours. She thought it came out just right.

Again, her father growled. “Rascal.” Silence, for a moment, while he pressed her close, kissing her hair. Then:

“Yeah, she does.”

“Oh, good,” whispered Helen. The whimsical humor she’d planned for that remark was absent, however. There was nothing in it but satisfaction. “I like that.”

Her father chuckled. “So do I, oddly enough. So do I.” He stroked and stroked her hair. “Any problem with it, sugar?”

Helen shook her head firmly. “Nope. Not any.” She pressed her head against her father’s chest, as if listening to his heartbeat. “I want you full again.”

“So do I, sugar.” Stroked and stroked her hair. “So do I.”

Nightfall

by David Weber

“Citizen General Fontein is here, Sir.”

Oscar Saint-Just looked up as Sean Caminetti, his private secretary, ushered a colorless, wizened little man into his office. No one could have looked less like the popular conception of a brilliant and ruthless security agent than Erasmus Fontein. Except, perhaps for Saint-Just himself.

“Thank you, Sean.” He nodded permission for the secretary to withdraw, and then turned his attention fully to his guest. Unlike most people summoned to Saint-Just’s inner sanctum, Fontein calmly walked across to his favorite chair, lowered himself into it with neither hesitation or any sign of trepidation, waited while its surface adjusted to the contours of his body, then cocked his head at his chief.

“You wanted to see me?” he inquired, and Saint-Just snorted.

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way. Not,” he added, “that I’m not always happy to visit with you, of course. We have so few opportunities to spend quality time together.” Fontein smiled faintly at the humor Saint-Just allowed so few people to see, but the smile faded as the Citizen Secretary for State Security went on in a much more serious tone.

“Actually, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, I called you in to discuss McQueen.”

“I had guessed,” Fontein admitted. “It wasn’t hard, especially given how unhappy she was to move ahead on Operation Bagration.”

“That’s because you’re a clever and insightful fellow who knows how much your boss is worried and what he worries about.”

“Yes, I do,” Fontein said, and leaned slightly forward. “And because I know, I’ve been trying very hard not to let the suspicions I know you have push me into reading something that isn’t there into her actions.”

“And?” Saint-Just prompted when he paused.

“And I just don’t know.” Fontein pursed his lips, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. It was Saint-Just’s turn to incline his head, silently commanding him to explain, and the citizen general sighed.

“I’ve sat in on almost all of her strategy discussions at the Octagon, and the few I wasn’t physically present for, I listened to on chip. I know the woman is a fiendishly good actress who can scheme and dissemble with the best. God knows I won’t forget anytime soon how she out-foxed me before the Leveler business! But for all that, I think her concerns over the possibility of new Manty weapons are genuine, Oscar. She’s been too consistent in the arguments she’s made for those concerns to be feigned.” He shook his head. “She’s worried about moving so aggressively onto the offensive. A lot more worried, I think, than she lets herself appear at Committee meetings, where she knows she has to project a confident front. And,” he added unhappily, “I think that because she’s really worried, she’s also very, very pissed off with you for pushing her so hard against her own better judgment.”

“Um.” Saint-Just rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Erasmus Fontein was, with the possible exception of Eloise Pritchart, the most insightful of StateSec’s commissioners. He didn’t look it, which was one of the more potent weapons in his arsenal, but he had a cold, keenly logical mind and, in his own way, he was just as merciless as Oscar Saint-Just. More than that, he’d been Esther McQueen’s watchdog for the better part of eight years. She’d fooled him once, but he knew her moves better than anyone else… and he was a hard man for the same person to fool twice. Which meant Saint-Just had to listen to anything he had to say. But even so…

“Just because she’s genuinely concerned doesn’t mean she’s right,” he said testily, and Fontein very carefully didn’t allow his surprise at his superior’s acid tone to show.

It was very unlike Saint-Just to reveal that sort of irritation, and the citizen general felt a sudden chill. One thing which made Saint-Just so effective was his ability to think coldly and dispassionately about a problem. If personal anger was beginning to corrode that dispassion in Esther McQueen’s case, her time could be far shorter than she guessed. Worse, Fontein wasn’t at all sure he was prepared to dismiss her concerns, whatever Saint-Just thought. He’d had too many opportunities to see her in action, knew how tough minded she was. And, he admitted, had seen her physical and moral courage much too close-up for comfort during the Leveler revolt. He might not trust her, and he certainly didn’t like her, but he did respect her. And if there was any basis to her fears, then however rosy things looked at this moment, the People’s Republic might find in the next few months that it needed her worse than ever.

“I didn’t say she was right, Oscar.” Fontein was careful to keep his voice even. “I only said I think most of her concern is genuine. You asked me if I’m suspicious of her and a part of my answer is that I think a lot of her reluctance to charge ahead with Bagration was unfeigned.”