“Good. Then Bates will show you to your quarters.” Bates materialized from some angle of corridor and nodded at Heris. Heris wondered if she would be introduced to the nephew now or later; she was sure she could take that pout from his lips if given the chance. But she wouldn’t get the chance. She followed Bates—tall, elegant, so much the butler of the screen and stage it was hard to believe him real—down the carpeted passage to her suite. She would rather have gone to the bridge. Not this bridge, but the bridge of the Rapier or even a lowly maintenance tug.
Bates stood aside at her door. “If the captain wishes to rekey the locks now . . . ?”
She looked at that impassive face. Did he mean to imply that they had thieves on board? That someone might violate the privacy of her quarters? The captain’s quarters? She had thought she knew how far down the scale she’d fallen, to become a rich lady’s yacht captain, but she had not conceived of needing to lock her quarters. “Thank you,” she said, as if it had been her idea. Bates touched a magnetic wand to the lockfaces; she put her hand on each one. After a moment, the doorcall’s pleasant anonymous voice said, “Name, please?” and she gave her name; the doorcall chimed once and said, “Welcome home, Captain Serrano.” Bates handed her a fat ring of wands.
“These are the rekeying wands for ship’s crew and all the operating compartments. They’re all coded; you’ll find the full architectural schematics loaded on your desk display. The crew will await your arrival on the bridge, at your convenience.”
She didn’t even know if she could ask Bates to tell the crew when to expect her, or if that was something household staff never did. She had already discovered that the house staff and the ship crew had very little to do with each other.
“I could just pass the word to Mr. Gavin, the engineer,” Bates said, almost apologetically. “Since Captain Olin left”—Captain Olin, Heris knew, had been fired—“Lady Cecelia has often asked me to speak to Mr. Gavin.”
“Thank you,” Heris said. “One hour.” She glanced at the room’s chronometer, a civilian model which she would replace with the one in her luggage.
“Philip will escort you,” Bates said.
She opened her mouth to say it was not necessary—even in this perfumed and padded travesty of a ship she could find the bridge by herself—but instead said, “Thank you” once more. She would not challenge their assumptions yet.
Her master’s certificate went into the mounting plaque on the wall; her other papers went into the desk. Her luggage—she had asked that it not be unpacked—cluttered one corner of her office. Beyond that was a smaller room, then the bathroom—her mouth quirked as she forced herself to call it that. And beyond that, her bedroom. A cubage larger than an admiral would have on most ships, and far larger than anyone of her rank ever had, even on a Station. A suite, part of the price being paid to lure a real spacer, a real captain, into this kind of work.
In the hour she had unpacked her few necessary clothes, her books, her reference data cubes, and made sure that the desk display would handle them. The chronometer on the wall now showed Service Standard time as well as ship’s time and Station time, and had the familiar overlapping segments of color to delineate four-, six-, and eight-hour watches. She had reviewed the crew bios in the desk display. And she had shrugged away her regrets. It was all over now, all those years of service, all her family’s traditions; from now on, she was Heris Serrano, captain of a yacht, and she would make the best of it.
And they wouldn’t know what hit them.
Some of them suspected within moments of her arrival on the bridge. Whatever decorator had chosen all the lavender and teal furnishings of the rest of the ship, the bridge remained functional, if almost toylike in its bright, shiny, compactness. The crew had to squeeze in uncomfortably; Heris noticed who squeezed in next to whom, and who wished this were over. They had heard, no doubt. They could see what they could see; she might be wearing purple and scarlet, but she had the look, and knew she had it; all those generations of command came out her eyes.
She met theirs. Blue, gray, brown, black, green, hazeclass="underline" clear, hazy, worried, frightened, challenging. Mr. Gavin, the engineer—thin, almost wispy, and graying—had announced, “Captain on the bridge” in a voice that squeaked. Navigation First, all too perky, was female, and young, and standing close to Communications First, who had spots and the slightly adenoidal look that Heris had found in the best comm techs on any ship. The moles—environmental techs, so-called everywhere from their need to crawl through pipes—glowered at the back. They must have suspected she’d seen the ship’s records already. Moles never believed that strange smells in the air were their fault; they were convinced that other people, careless people, put the wrong things down the wrong pipe and caused the trouble. Gavin’s junior engineering techs, distancing themselves from the moles, tried to look squeaky-clean and bright. Heris had read their records; one of them had failed the third-class certificate four times. The other juniors—Navigation’s sour-faced paunchy male and Communications’ wispy female—were clearly picked up at bargain rates for off-primeshift work.
Heris began, as always on a new ship, with generalities. Let them relax; let them realize she wasn’t stupid, crazy, or vicious. Then . . . “Now about emergency drills,” she said, when she’d seen the relaxation. “I see you’ve had no drills since docking here. Why is that, Mr. Gavin?”
“Well, Captain . . . after Captain Olin left, I didn’t like to seem—you know—like I was taking liberties above my station.”
“I see. And before that, I notice that there had been no drills since the last planetfall. That was Captain Olin’s decision, I suppose.” From Gavin’s expression, that was not the reason, but he went along gratefully.
“Yes, Captain, that would be it. He was the captain, after all.” Someone stirred, in the back, but they were so crammed together she couldn’t be sure who it was. She would find out. She smiled at them, suddenly happy. It might be only a yacht, but it was a ship, and it was her ship.
“We will have drills,” she said, and waited a moment for that to sink in. “Emergency drills save lives. I expect all you Firsts to ready your divisions.”
“We surely can’t have time for a drill before launch!” That was the sour-faced Navigation Second. She stared at him until he blushed and said, “Captain . . . sorry, ma’am.”
“It depends,” she said, without commenting on his breach of manners. “I know you’re all readying for launch, but I would like a word here with the pilot and Nav First.”
They edged out of the cramped space; she knew the muttering would start as soon as they cleared the hatch. Ignoring that, she fixed the Navigation First with a firm glance. “Sirkin, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Captain.” Brisk, bright-eyed . . . Heris hoped she was as good as she looked. “Brigdis Sirkin, Lalos Colony.”
“Yes, I saw your file. Impressive qualification exam.” Sirkin had topped the list with a perfect score, rare even in R.S.S. trained personnel. The younger woman blushed and grinned. “But what I want to know is whether you plotted the final approach from Dunlin to here.” The way she said it could lead either way; she wanted to see Sirkin’s reaction.
A deeper blush. “No, Captain. I didn’t . . . not entirely, that is.”
“Umm. I wondered why someone who’d swept the exam would choose such an inefficient solution. Tell me about it.”
“Well . . . ma’am . . . Captain Olin was a good captain, and I’m not saying anything against him, but he liked to . . . to do things a certain way.”
Heris glanced at the pilot. Plisson, his tag said; he had been another rich lady’s pilot before he came here. “Did you have anything to do with it?” she asked.