Going For Broke

[Omi]

The wine bottle had nothing else to offer her, which was - in a word - terrible. To describe Maréchale LeBlanc as a 'heavy drinker' would have been like describing Planet Honshu as 'sort of damp'. Her mood frayed and knitted together again depending on how much alcohol coursed through her bloodstream, and after weeks of a growing problem facing her once again there wasn't enough wine aboard the entire ship to calm her nerves. Not even the cigarettes were helping - the room had practically been fumigated by her latest bout of chain-smoking, but the gnawing fury in her stomach hadn't gone anywhere. It had taken a concentrated effort to avoid smashing her fist into the console after her latest communiqué to LeRoux had bounced back with no reply, and the realisation that Roche and the rest of them had not the faintest clue what had happened or where he had retired to was staggering. Oh, but they hadn't meant to tip her off about it - no, she knew what they were planning.

Lucie's fingers clutched her glass so hard her knuckles turned white, her gaze boring into the wall as if she were trying to laser holes in the sculpted wood. They were trying to undermine her at every turn - oh, they'd been at it for years. From that snake Charbonneau to that incompetent Lebeau - even Evreux might have been at it, if the man had ever bothered to say anything. They were all gone now, gone gone, but there was always someone else trying to trip her up. The only thing reining them in was the Directorate - that was her safety net, yes. Pelletier was still on her side, and she'd ensured every agent under his umbrella knew their words by heart. Honneur et patrie, valeur et discipline - not today. Leave those for the rank and file, for the Directorate had its own little catechism. She'd even had it engraved on her desk as a little comfort of sorts. The sign faced anyone who would have ever had cause to sit in the chair opposite her, the unfamiliar yet familiar little phrase a mimicry of the Royal Navy's real motto.

Vigilance et loyauté, fideleté et obéissance. As far as she was concerned, Pelletier could get her results through whichever methods and channels he desired - he didn't have to be particularly honourable, valorous, or disciplined about it, and nor did he need to do it for anyone but her. The rest of them could hang. When she had restructured the Directorate during the end of her first tenure as Grande Maréchale, one of her primary concerns - and that of her immediate subordinates, naturally - had been ensuring that their newly unleashed and christened bureau was kept well to heel. Naval intelligence could not afford to be the first point of failure for any of them, after all. It had been easy enough to convince them both to agree that keeping the Directorate on a short leash was a great idea; the only hard part was not letting them realise who was holding the other end. Fortunately, they had both dropped off the radar again - Charbonneau pulling another characteristic disappearing act, and Lebeau retiring to whatever cursed world spawned him on health concerns. Hopefully this time the fat oaf would finally kick the bucket, wheezing his way into an ignominious grave. They were both ghosts of the past now - and once she had Pelletier and his newfound powers all firmly under her thumb, it hadn't even been that hard to dupe both Dupont and LeRoux into believing she was administering it on their respective behalves.

The problem, though, was that nobody seemed content to let her work in peace. They would lose this war without her - how could they not see that? They were as blind as they were stupid, all of them - scrabbling at her station from below, each one of them wielding a different dagger to plunge into her back. None of them cared for Gallia like she did - none of them could see beyond their own desires for power!

She was standing now, although it took her a moment to realise it. Her anger had almost gotten the better of her again, and it was with some amount of surprise that Lucie realised she was breathing heavily. Again, she took a look at the console emblazoned on her tabletop, her gaze flicking between the flight plans she'd been in the midst of plotting out and the ever-increasing list of urgent messages flooding in. Something twitched at the corner of her lips - the beginnings of a wry smile - but it died away as soon as it appeared. The Maréchale was never one to believe in such things, but if she had she might have called it fate. Even the successors she nominated herself soon shuffled out of sight, whether it be by death or yet more unexplained 'disappearances'. It seemed she wouldn't find another Ansel Xavier to scheme under for quite a while.

More to the point, it seemed there was more action to be taken. Again.

Pressing a button with one slim finger, Lucie opened the intercom to her aide. "Bertrand."

"Oui, madame Maréchale?" The young Capitaine sounded almost bored, which irritated her. He had probably been expecting another order for cigarettes or wine - or both - and she just knew she could hear it in his voice. Maybe he'd even bitten back a sarcastic remark about it - that wouldn't have surprised her either. Little shit. How dare he. Perhaps she should replace him.

"Get the bridge prepared for my arrival. I'm coming up immediately."

"Right away, madame Maréchale? When shall I tell them exactly to expect your arrival?" That only made things worse. Yes, she definitely should. How many sarcastic little quips would he be able to think up when he was back with the rank and file? She'd never trusted him anyway - greasy hair, suspicious eyes. Someone else would do.

"I said immediately, Bertrand! What do you think that means?" she spat, flecking the tabletop with spittle. Maybe she was too drunk for this already. "Tell them I am coming right this instant, and that they have as long as it takes me to walk up there to prepare for new orders. Is that clear, or should I repeat myself?" Her tone suggested that there might be no repetition at all, merely an execution by firing squad. "And get me Pelletier - private channel, he knows the one. Now!"

"At once, Maréchale LeBlanc." Lucie never even heard the confirmation - she had already spun on her heel, swiping her dress coat from where it hung over her chair as she strode through the haze of cigarette smoke towards the door.

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