“True.” Heris looked down at Sirkin. So far she hadn’t spoken; her expression hadn’t changed. How badly was she really hurt—not physically, but emotionally? How would she react when she woke fully and realized that her lover was dead? “Brigdis,” she said, touching the young woman’s bandaged hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Captain?” Her voice was blurred; that could be the injuries or the drugs used to treat them. “You . . . came.”
“Yes.” No use to explain who had come when, not until her mind cleared. But tears rose in the younger woman’s eyes.
“Amalie . . . she screamed . . .”
“I’m sorry, Brigdis,” Heris said.
“Is she dead?” That sounded rational enough.
“Yes. I’m sorry. The sonic pulser got her at close range—you barely escaped.”
“She—jumped in front of me,” Sirkin said. “She—died for me.” Her body trembled, as if she were trying to cry but was too exhausted. Probably those ribs, Heris thought. They wouldn’t want to put her in the regeneration tank for the ribs until her concussion had stabilized.
“She was very brave,” Heris said. It never hurt to praise the dead, and Amalie Yrilan could be brave and foolish both. Many people were.
“But . . . she had gambled.” Heris wondered what that was about. Sirkin took a cautious breath. “She got in some trouble. I don’t know what. There was this woman.” All short sentences, carried on one difficult breath after another.
“You don’t have to talk now,” Heris said. “You’re safe here. We’ll stay with you, Petris or I.”
“But I want to.” Sirkin’s face had a stubborn expression now, someone forcing herself past a margin of discomfort for her own reasons. “She died. She saved me. But that woman said go there.” What woman? What was Sirkin talking about? Heris glanced at Petris, who shrugged.
“Brigdis, you’ve had a sonic charge to half your face, and some blows to the other half . . . I really think you shouldn’t try to talk now. You’re not clearheaded.”
“But—I thought she loved me. And then I thought she didn’t. And then she died. For me. So she must have—” Sirkin’s expression was pleading now. Heris wished she was still small and young enough to pick up and hug—that’s what she needed, medicine be damned.
“She did love you,” she said firmly. “I could see that. She loved you enough to try to qualify for deep-space work, to follow you here. Whatever happened, she did love you. And she proved it at the end.” She had long suspected that Yrilan would never have chosen a career aboard ships if Sirkin hadn’t been so intent on one. That face and attitude belonged somewhere else, though Heris didn’t know where.
“You’re sure?” Sirkin asked.
“I’m sure.” Heris stroked her head. “Now you get some sleep. I know you feel sick and hurt all over, but you’re alive, and you have friends to help you.” Sirkin closed her eyes, and in a few minutes was snoring delicately. Heris looked at Petris. “I should go back to the ship and check on Meharry and Oblo. Can you stay with her for now, and I’ll be back later?”
“Of course. If you’d just speak to the staff here, and let them know—they wanted to throw me out, earlier.”
“Right. She shouldn’t be alone, and I want to be notified at once if the militia or Royal Security tries to talk to her.”
Shiftchange chimed as Heris headed for the Sweet Delight. She would be up three shifts running, probably, and she hated to admit that it got harder every year. At her former rank in the R.S.S., she’d have been up for automatic rejuvenation treatment within the next few years, but as a civilian she’d have to pay for it herself. She wondered if she could afford it. Lady Cecelia claimed not to want rejuvenation; would she disapprove of her captain taking it?
In the access tube, Issigai Guar waited for her. “Captain, Oblo’s not back yet, but Meharry’s here . . . how’s Brigdis?”
Heris shook her head. “She’s got reparable physical injuries, but Yrilan’s death is going to shake her badly. I’m going back there after I debrief Meharry—any messages?”
“No, Captain, not since you’ve been back to this side of the dock. Station militia called here earlier, and I told ’em you’d headed for the Captains’ Guild. But that was hours ago. Ginese is on the bridge, of course.”
“Let me know, then. I’m going to talk to Meharry and I may put in a call to Lady Cecelia.” Heris went on into the ship. The lavender plush didn’t look quite as bad to her now, especially since it was all going to disappear in the next few weeks. Lady Cecelia had chosen crisp blues and greens with white for her new scheme, over the protests of the decorator, who insisted that the very latest colors were peach, cream, and something called sandfox. With accents of hot coral and hunter green. Feminine, the decorator had said, and flattering to mature complexions. Cecelia’s complexion had turned red at that, and she’d muttered that she could take her business to a place that would do what she wanted.
Meharry was outside her office, obviously fresh from a shower and change of clothes. She had a few visible bruises, but no worse damage.
“Sirkin’s in the clinic—the ribs are broken, and she does have a concussion,” Heris said before the other could ask. “They’re trying some new drug on the concussion—supposed to counter diffuse damage and reduce swelling—and they’ll put her in regen for the ribs when that’s done. I’m going back later; Petris is with her now.”
“Tough kid,” Meharry said. “We’d been showing her some things, but I wouldn’t have expected her to use them that well her first time out.”
“Tell me about it,” Heris said. The story from Meharry’s viewpoint took longer than it had when Petris gave her the short form, and began with her pointing out to Oblo that even if Sirkin had been learning how to fight, when she was with Yrilan she wasn’t really alert.
“I thought Oblo was installing that . . . navigational equipment.”
“Well, ma’am, he was. But those two didn’t leave right away—they spent awhile in Sirkin’s cabin—and Oblo was just about nearly finished when they did. We just didn’t want anything to happen . . . like it did.”
“I didn’t see you,” Heris said. “And they were ahead of me.”
Meharry’s green eyes twinkled. “You weren’t exactly looking, ma’am. You’s looking at them, and we’s looking at you . . . and them. They saw you, didn’t see us. . . . Classic, y’know?”
“So?”
“So,” Meharry said, with an eloquent shrug, “they went to this bar.” Here she fished out the datawand. Heris felt her own brows rise. “You might want to read this off, Captain. We sent the main stuff back here already, but there’s a bit more hasn’t gone in the computer yet.”
“You have a Fleet wand?”
“It’s not Fleet now.” The green eyes had gone muddy, like stagnant water. “It gives us that edge in networking you were talking about.” If no one caught her with it. If it wasn’t traced back to Heris.
“Still accesses Fleet nets?”
Meharry cocked her head. “Don’t know, really. Haven’t tried that yet. Be really risky to try it, if it doesn’t.” A mild way of putting it. “But it sucks strings out of civilian nets, no problem. Take a look.”
Heris brought the data up on her desk screen. The picture of the woman in the silk suit and jewels was clear enough for recognition.
“Enhanced by her database identification,” Meharry said, leaning over Heris’s shoulder. “That’s what she was wearing in the bar, but the face has been cleaned up by the ID subroutines. We didn’t have a picmic to overhear what they said—the noise level in there was really bad and there were sonic cops out in the concourse, who’d have detected anything good enough to filter voices.”
“Therapist,” said Heris thoughtfully. “And Sirkin said something about Yrilan gambling—could the girl have had a gambling problem and seen a therapist?”