“I don’t want to bring trouble to her,” Esmay said. “She doesn’t deserve it.”
“And you do?” Goonar’s brows rose, both of them. “What we’ve heard of you is good, from the newsvids and Hazel both. The hero of Xavier. The hero who saved the Kos. And then the Speaker’s daughter.”
“Not by myself,” Esmay said. “Any of it. And where did you hear about the Kos?”
“Not much we don’t hear, independent merchanters,” Basil said.
“Quit it, Bas. You sound like a third-rate actor in a spy thriller. Seriously, Lieutenant—sera—we do pick up a lot of dockside talk, mostly wrong. Now, I figure the family owes you, for your part in getting Hazel out. But we aren’t a passenger line; we’re mixed cargo.”
“But you said you had passengers . . .” At the sudden change of expression, Esmay stopped.
“Well, that’s done it,” Basil said, this time with no expression on his face at all. “And you the cautious one.”
“What?”
“Sometimes we carry passengers. Not usually. We’ve . . . er . . . had some recently.”
“Then could I—I mean, for a fare, of course. I don’t know much about it—”
“We owe you, as I said, but we really do not have passenger quarters fit for you.”
“I’m not used to luxury,” Esmay said.
“I suppose not.” He chewed his lip. “Well . . . if you can share a small space, and sleep in rotation, we can take you. But where do you want to go?”
“Castle Rock,” Esmay said. She was fairly, reasonably, almost sure that Brun would be there. She could see Brun privately, without involving Fleet. And perhaps Brun would be able to find out what, if anything, she could do to get back into Fleet even in spite of the powerful Admiral Serrano.
“Not Altiplano?”
“Not yet,” Esmay said. Not ever, she hoped. Goonar nodded.
“Well, then—you’re probably not aware of civilian regulations, but we need to list you as a passenger on the manifest. Do you have civilian ID?”
“Of sorts,” Esmay said. “If discharge chips are sufficient.”
“Let me see.” Goonar reached out and Esmay handed over the flat cardlike discharge certification she’d been handed. Goonar reached under the low table and pulled up an ID scanner. He ran it over the card. “Yes . . . it has everything required—name, retinal and finger scan patterns, planet of origin, employment record. You left home young, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Esmay said. “I was space-struck early.”
“Our kids start early too—actually earlier than that, but of course their families are in space.” He handed the chip back. “There. You want to travel under your own name, don’t you?”
“Yes—my unmarried name; there hasn’t been time to get it changed.”
“Fine. I’ve entered you in our log. Now—about luggage—”
“I don’t have much,” Esmay said. “They said the rest of my things would be sent to me . . . they’re somewhere between the ship I left before going on leave and the one I was supposed to be assigned to.”
“Do you have what you need? We can send someone for anything missing . . .”
“I’ll be all right,” Esmay said. She had only a few civilian outfits, but she didn’t want to go shopping here—or have someone doing it for her.
“Good. Then you can go aboard now, since you don’t want to be seen on station. We’re not ready to strike our tents yet; we’re in the queue for two days from now and I prefer—” he paused, and looked not at Esmay but at Basil, “—not to make sudden departures from ports unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“It was,” muttered Basil. Esmay sensed an old quarrel.
“Will that be satisfactory, sera?”
“I’m very grateful,” Esmay said. “Now about the fare—”
Goonar waved his hand. “Forget the fare. I’m telling the Stationmaster that we’re not a passenger ship, but we’re not about to leave the hero of Xavier in the lurch—or charge for it, either. That clears our honor, both ways.”
Esmay couldn’t follow all of that, but the master and second in command of Terakian Fortune seemed almost smug about something. Basil, as cargomaster, took her through to another room, this one filled with electronics gear, and then through the docking tube of the ship.
A civilian merchant ship, she found, had its own ceremonies, however unlike these were to the austere formalities of the Regular Space Service. A trim youngster in a green tunic led her to the tiny compartment that she would occupy during her sleep shift, and pointed out the small cubby where she could stow a few toiletries. Her clothes would have to go across the passage, in a locker already stuffed with carryons. The boy seemed far too young to be working aboard ship, and Esmay wondered briefly about child piracy, until she remembered that Hazel, too, had been very young. Apparently civilian merchants took their children with them.
“Are you the captain’s son?” she asked.
He gave her a startled look. “Me, sera? Captain Goonar’s—? No, sera. Goonar, he’s not got any children; they all died. I’m Kosta Terakian-Cibo, Ser Basil’s aunt’s son on his mother’s side. It’s my first trip as full crew, sera. So even though I still have classes, I’m getting paid full wage.” He grinned proudly. Esmay congratulated him, and he nodded. “Only problem is, the Fathers insist that we juniors can’t have all our money to spend. It’s going to take me the whole voyage to save up for the new cube player I want. . . .”
“And a good thing, too.” Basil emerged from a cross-corridor, and glared at the boy. “We’d just have to confiscate it to keep you from deafening everyone on the ship. Go on, now, Kosta, and let the lady alone. Have you done the rotational analysis yet?”
“Yes, Ser Basil.” The boy whipped out a pocket display and flicked it on. “The sera’s luggage here, and the moment here, and—”
“Good. And did you give her the ship’s books?”
“No . . . I wasn’t sure—”
“Yes, of course she needs them.” Basil looked at Esmay. “Why don’t you come along to the bursar’s, and we’ll get you started. Unfortunately, we don’t mount cube readers in all the compartments, so you’ll have to read the hardcopy—”
“Fine,” said Esmay. She followed him down one corridor, then another, mapping automatically. The bursar’s was a medium-sized compartment, full of desks and files, with office machines around the edges.
Basil turned to a stack of shelving and pulled out two well-thumbed manuals, one of which described the ship’s layout, and the other the emergency procedures.
Terakian Fortune, she recognized, was roughly equivalent to a smallish cruiser in tonnage, but organized very differently. Unlike the big spherical container ships, Fortune’s cargo holds were crew-accessible—everything loaded and unloaded through the shuttle bay, though this was big enough to take the standard orbit-to-surface containers as well as the cargo shuttles themselves. The space taken up on a cruiser by weapons and ammunition storage could be stuffed with cargo here—as could the crew space required for the much larger military crews. Only twenty personnel per watch—Esmay could hardly believe anyone could run a ship with so few, and yet—as she read through the manuals—the essentials were covered, with adequate redundancy.
She hoped. The knowledge that the Fortune had no serious offensive armament, and shields only moderately better than a private yacht left her feeling vulnerable. The single weapon was clearly intended for scaring minimally armed raiders . . . someone had rigged duplicator lines intended to show up on inferior scans as multiple armaments.
A tap on the door; she opened it to find the same boy who had led her there. Kosta, was it? “The sera’s temporarily assigned to the second rotation, which means the third seating today,” the boy said. “Uncle—Captain Terakian dines ashore while we’re in port. Second seating is finishing lunch now, and I’m to take you to the mess.”