Did this mean she was worried about the Crown's response, or was something else going on? Heris couldn't tell, and she realized Cecelia was not about to discuss it. They finished the meal in near silence.
"Captain Serrano?" Heris looked up; she had headed back to the yacht's berth still concentrating on Lady Cecelia's odd behavior. The woman who'd spoken had a soft voice and sleepy green eyes. Her hair, chopped short by some unpracticed hand, had once been honey gold, and her face might have been attractive before something cut a broad slash down one side. But it was the voice that stopped Heris in her tracks.
"Methlin Meharry—Sergeant Meharry!" Petris had not known what had happened to the women who'd been court-martialed, although he'd heard rumors. And none of them had contacted Heris after the amnesty Cecelia had arranged. Until now.
"Didn't know if you'd remember," the woman said. She held herself with the same pride as always, but she wasn't in uniform, and Heris couldn't read her expression. Did she know that Heris hadn't known about the courts-martial, or was she still as angry as Petris had been? "Arkady Ginese said you would—"
"Of course I do. But—I was told you'd all been reinstated, with back pay and all—"
Meharry spat. "If they can screw us once, they can do it again. I've got sixty days to think about it, and what I think is I never want to see the inside of another Fleet brig, thank you very much. Arkady said you were hiring."
Heris's mind scrambled. She couldn't hire everyone who had suffered on her behalf; not even Cecelia had that much money, or that large a ship. But Meharry—an unusual set of specialties, she'd started with ground troops and gone on to shipboard weapons systems. "I need a weapons specialist, yes. Ideally someone who can do bodyguard work on Stations or onplanet. And ideally a woman, since Lady Cecelia's the one who'll need guarding. Was that what you wanted?"
Meharry shrugged. "Sounds good to me. Anything would, after that. You know, Captain, we were upset with you." Upset was a ludicrously mild expression. Heris nodded.
"So you should have been. I thought I was keeping you out of worse trouble, and all I did was take my protection away from you. Biggest mistake I ever made."
Meharry cocked her head. "Not really, Captain. Biggest was being born a Serrano, begging your pardon. I should know, given my family." The Meharry family was almost as prominent in Fleet enlisted ranks as the Serranos in the officer corps. "Families get your judgment all scrambled sometimes. But that's over with. Point is, I don't want to go back in, and if you trust me, I'll trust you. You're not a bad commander." Heris almost laughed at the impudence. This was the perfect bodyguard for Lady Cecelia, if only she could persuade her employer.
"Right. Why don't you come aboard and look at what we've got. You may not like a yacht once you've seen it."
Meharry grinned; the scar rippled on her cheek and gave her a raffish look. "Why not? It's built on a good hull, Arkady says, and you're giving it some teeth."
"True, but not for publication. Come on, then, and let's see what you think."
On one side of her mind, Heris thought how glad she was to be out of that ridiculous purple uniform—she could just imagine Meharry's reaction to that garish outfit. On the other side, she thought of the balance of her crew. With Methlin Meharry to back Arkady Ginese, she would need only one more person to serve the ship's weapons in a short combat—the only kind she intended to be involved in. Ships the size of Sweet Delight didn't get into slugfests with other ships—not if their captains had sense. But she wouldn't have to depend on Bunny's loans, even though they seemed happy enough to be with her. Yet—the ship was becoming more Fleet with every change she made. And she wasn't sure Cecelia would like it.
Back at the ship, Meharry grinned at Petris and Oblo, who just happened to be lurking around the access tube.
"Found her, did you?" Petris said to Heris.
"Was I looking?" Heris asked mildly. She had the feeling she'd been outmaneuvered by all of them, a feeling intensified when Arkady happened to be in the passage between the bridge and the number four storage bay. He grinned at her, too.
"I hope you don't mind, Captain," he began. Courteous always, even when cutting your throat, one of his former commanders had said. "I happened to see Meharry's name on a list of those returning from . . . er . . . confinement—"
"Glad you did," Heris said. "And I remember you two worked well together. Why don't you show her around, and let her find out if she wants to stay."
An hour later, on the bridge, Meharry and Ginese were deep in consultation on the control systems of the weapons already installed. Heris called Petris into her office.
"Suppose you tell me just how many more little surprises you people have cooked up. I'm delighted about Meharry, but there's a limit, you know."
"If we crewed entirely with former R.S.S. personnel, we wouldn't have to worry about the official secrets people jumping on us," he said. Heris frowned; she was always wary when Petris went indirect. It meant he was trying to outflank her somewhere.
"Numbers," she said, flicking her fingers at him. "I'm not objecting to former Fleet personnel, but I do need numbers."
"I was going to ask you that," he said. "What do you think we need, for what Lady Cecelia's going up against? These smugglers—how likely are they to attack and with what force? What kind of protection do we need to be able to give her where she visits? Can't plan the necessary force until we know the mission."
"I wish I knew," Heris said. "One of the things bothering me is lack of good information. I know there are information networks in the civilian world, but I haven't made my connections yet. And I'm used to having Fleet intelligence to work with—bad as it sometimes was."
"Ummm. You might want to switch Oblo over from Navigation to Communications—reorganize the roster that way—and let him poke around. You know his talents."
She did indeed. They did not appear on any official list of occupational skills.
"He wants to put in some . . . er . . . equipment he sort of found the other day."
Heris felt the hair rising on the back of her neck.
"Found?"
"In a manner of speaking. In return for . . . mmm . . . certain services." That could mean anything, up to and including a discreet killing. "Good stuff," Petris went on, with a wicked grin that made her want to clout him. "Navigational aids. Communication enhancements. He'd like to put it in when no civilians—I mean, those who've always been—are aboard. Just in case."
She couldn't ask if it was stolen Fleet equipment, not directly. Petris would have to answer, and she'd have to do something about it—or he'd have to lie, which would be another problem.
"How much is it costing Lady Cecelia?" she asked instead. Might as well find out.
"Nothing. It's between Oblo and . . . er . . . someone who wanted him to do something. A private donation, you might call it. Are you hiring Meharry?"
"If she wants to come. We need another weapons specialist."
"Good. And how are you going to get hooked into the civilian network?"
"By checking in with the Captains' Guild," Heris said. "If that's a hint." She'd spend some time browsing the general databases, too. Her understanding of politics had been limited to what impinged on the military—on funding, on procurement, on what the admirals optimistically called grand strategy. She'd never heard of some of the groups Cecelia and Ronnie had mentioned. Ageists? Rejuvenants? The meanings seemed obvious, but what did these groups actually do?
Chapter Three
Her new uniform clashed with the lavender and teal, but no longer made Heris feel like an exotic bird. Severely plain midnight blue suited her, and the captain's rings on her sleeves were enough proof of her rank. Her pass to the royal docking sector hung from one lapel. She'd been advised to wear it even on the public concourse.
"Isn't that conspicuous?" she'd asked.
"Yes . . . but they'll expect you to be monitored, so they won't ask," the Royal Security officer said. "And by the way, you are bein
g monitored. It's in the tag, so don't leave it somewhere or we'll have to do a full investigation, and we hate that." His tone said they'd take it out of her hide somehow.
"Fine with me," Heris said. It wasn't, but it wouldn't do any good to argue. What she intended to do was aboveboard anyway. She wanted to report her dismissal of some former crew to the employment agency, with her reasons, and find out if Sirkin's friend had registered for employment yet. She would like to keep Sirkin, but that meant hiring her partner. She needed to check in with the Captains' Guild. And she needed to consult her banker; she didn't know if Cecelia had paid her salary yet. It had not seemed a good time to ask Cecelia directly.
Once out of the royal sector, she took the slideway past the exclusive shops and transferred to the tubetram for the ride to the outer rims. It was midshift of the second watch . . . the tram was half-empty, its other occupants a pair of obvious tourists, rich kids, and four quiet middle-aged men who looked like off-duty crew from a royal shuttle. Possibly they were. They got off at Three, the tourists at Four, and she rode out to Six in splendid solitude.
Six, Sector Orange: back where she'd started, when she left Fleet. Now it didn't bother her the same way at all . . . not in the new uniform, not with the new understanding of what being Cecelia's captain meant. She stopped by the Captains' Guild, paid her onstation fee, smiled at the Warden.
"Do you want to list for posting?" he asked, his hand hovering over the board.
"No, I'm still with Lady Cecelia," she said. "Is there much demand?"
"There's always a demand for those with a clean record," he said. "Lots of people want to retire here. Anything to report?"
"No." Guild members were supposed to inform the Guild of unusual occurrences, including those that they might not want to report to the Fleet or other law enforcement. If you paid the pirates off, Fleet would want to be sure it wasn't a plot; the Captains' Guild simply wanted to know where the pirates had been and how they'd trapped you. Heris had considered whether to tell the Guild about the smugglers' operation on Sweet Delight—but Olin was a Guild member, too.
The Warden's brow rose, and he stared pointedly at her royal pass. That certainly wasn't the Guild's business. Heris smiled until he shrugged. "Want a room here?" he asked then.
"No, thank you. I'm staying aboard. But—can you tell me if Sagamir Olin is listed here?" She didn't expect the Sweet Delight's former captain would cooperate with her, but she would try.
"Olin?" His eyes shifted aside. "You hadn't heard—? No, that's right; you left so fast. Olin . . . died. A . . . er . . . random assault."
"Random assault" didn't get that expression or that mumble. Heris felt her hairs prickling. Olin had been killed . . . why? Because he hadn't delivered the goods, or because he'd lost that handy ship, or both?
"When?" she asked.
"Oh . . . let me see." He muttered at his console, and then turned to her. "Five weeks after you left. He had been drinking, the militia said. A bar fight spilled over; someone got him on the way home. They said."
And you don't believe it, Heris thought, but you aren't going to explain it to me.
"Thanks anyway," she said. "I'd have bought him a drink . . . here, put this in the memorial fund."
His eyes widened, then he relaxed. "Ah . . . ex-Fleet. You people do that, don't you, whether you know someone or not?"
"That's right," Heris said cheerfully. "Hear of a death, put something in . . . there's always someone needs it."
"Well . . . thank you. It's very kind. I suppose we'd do well to follow that habit ourselves, but . . ."
"Never mind. I couldn't do any less." With a wave, she went back out before he could say more. Her mind was working too hard; he would see it on her face if she stayed. Where could she find out what had really happened without making herself conspicuous? She went on toward the banker and the employment agency. Chores first, fun later.
The employment agency turned out to be fun in its own way. Now that she wasn't a suppliant, the gray and white decor merely looked functional, not cold and threatening. The receptionist might have been sniffy, but not once he saw that Royal Sector pass. Ser Bryn could see her in an hour; perhaps she would prefer to come back? No? Then the private lounge . . . Heris accepted this offer, and settled into a comfortable chair to wait. The viewscreen and cube reader were supplemented by glossy hardcopies of periodicals.
"Captain Serrano." She looked up from an article advising prudent investors to be wary of unregistered companies offering investment in heavy-metal mining operations on worlds like Chisholm and Sakati. The article argued pure finance; Heris, who had been to Chisholm once, thought the influence of the Compassionate Hand there was more reason to keep clear of it. The only profits out of Chisholm would go straight to the Black Scratch. But the man standing at the door, she reminded herself, could as easily be a Compassionate Hand agent. Who were the smugglers?
"Ser Bryn?" She stood and extended her hand. He shook hers; she did not let herself glance down to see if he had the telltale tattoo on the thumb web. He wouldn't, not in this position. If he'd ever had it, it would have been redone in flesh tones when he was chosen for a position on Rockhouse.
"What can we do for you, Captain?" he asked, his voice cordial and his eyes guarded.
Heris smiled at him. "I needed to speak to you about Lady Cecelia's former employees." His eyes flickered; he didn't like the sound of that. And, of course, with the security measures on the Royal Docks, he wouldn't have heard about the new crew. "It's rather a long story," she said. "Perhaps we could discuss it privately?" The lounge where she'd been waiting had no one else in it, but she knew it would have full monitoring.
"Ah . . . yes, Captain. Do come along to my . . . er . . . private office." He led the way into a spacious, luxurious office, where Heris suspected wealthy clients gave their requirements for employees. It didn't look anything like the office where she'd been interviewed.
"I brought along a data cube with their records and my reports on them," she said. "But for the obvious reasons there are some details which I'd prefer not to have on cube, and which you need to know."
"Ah." That seemed to be his favorite response to possibly upsetting news. Safe enough.
"As you may or may not know, Ser Bryn, before I departed, I asked this office for any additional details on the qualifications of Lady Cecelia's existing crew. I was told there were none, and furthermore I was told that private employers such as Lady Cecelia were furnished with—I won't say dregs, because that would be insulting—but let's say with less qualified personnel than, for example, a major commercial employer. The reasons I understood, if I didn't approve them." She paused to see if he had any response. Beyond a tightening around his eyes, he gave none. She continued.
"With that, I had to be content. Unfortunately, events on the voyage revealed how . . . imprudent . . . that policy was. You may have heard from Takomin Roads about the death of one environmental tech, Iklind?" At this he nodded, but still said nothing. "Presumably you also heard that Iklind was considered to be responsible for the contraband found on the ship. I myself am not sure that he alone was responsible. Surely Captain Olin knew that the maintenance had not been performed; I had intended to pursue his responsibility, but the Guild tells me he's dead."
"Er . . . yes. Random assault, the militia said."
"Perhaps." Heris steepled her fingers and waited for the twitch of muscles beside his mouth before she went on. "At Takomin Roads, I found it necessary to relieve the pilot of his duties—no great hardship, since a ship that size doesn't require one, if the captain is qualified." She let that sink in, too—she knew that the agency's recommendation on crewing had cost Lady Cecelia at least two extra salaries. "You, of course, are not responsible for the crew's astonishing lack of training or fitness—that would be the captain's responsibility, and the captain involved is dead. But at Sirialis, most of the remaining employees tried to stage a mutiny."
"What!" That got a reaction. "What did y
ou do to them?"
"I did nothing. They chose not to return to the ship after spending time at Hospitality Bay—need I explain Hospitality Bay?" He shook his head; as she expected, such an elite agency would know all about the amenities of Bunny's planet. "They didn't want to work with an ex-military captain; they felt my precautions were excessive—and this after the death of one crew member and the near death of another. You are probably not aware that a simultaneous crisis on Sirialis made Lord Thornbuckle suspect that they might be politically motivated. Lady Cecelia accepted their applications to terminate employment and they are currently in custody on Sirialis, where they will be tried for conspiracy."
"But—but who's crewing the ship now?" She could see the flicker of greed in his eyes. Surely she'd need more crew, and if she didn't get it here, she would enrich some other employment agency.
"I should mention," she went on, "that I'm extremely pleased with one former employee, Brigdis Sirkin. That young woman has what I consider adequate qualifications, and to the extent that Lady Cecelia wishes to make crew changes, that is the level of qualification I shall insist on." She waited until she saw that take effect, and then answered his question. "Presently, the crew consists of former R.S.S. personnel . . . I am not at liberty to discuss the exact way they . . . er . . . became employed. Only that it has both Fleet and Crown approval. However—none of them presently have civilian licenses. I shall be sending them here, where you can arrange for the transfer of skills registration and the appropriate civilian licensure into specialties . . . for your standard fee, of course. Unless you have some objection?"