“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 being 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?