“But you don’t have anyone with you.”
“Only lawyers, accountants, clerks, the odd section head, salespeople when I shop, and the entire staff of the house. And the family.” From the sound of Cecelia’s voice, these were annoyances.
“Milady.” Heris waited until she was sure Cecelia had caught the tone. “Considering what Ronnie said about Mr. Smith—and if anyone should care if it’s known, you’re the one most likely to have noticed—don’t you think some precaution is warranted?”
Cecelia huffed out a lungful of air, and looked thoughtful. Heris waited. In this place where anyone might have heard what they said, she dared not press her argument. Finally Cecelia shook her head. “I think not. And if I should fall dead of a heart attack or even a street assault, I would prefer you consider that the natural end of a long, eventful life. I am, after all, over eighty—all original parts, no rejuv. There is no advantage to be gained by killing me. I’m not political. For all that I grumbled about my proxy, and made some changes, I have little to do with the family business, and they know it. I have no children whose plans would change were I a hostage. Besides, if—and I think it’s unlikely, remember—if someone has designs on me, there is no way to tell without awaiting a move.”
“You could wear a tagger.”
“Detectable, is it not, by anyone with the right equipment? Which means that the very persons you most fear would be first to know, and—should they wish—disable it.”
That was true. Yet Heris was sure that Cecelia didn’t realize her peril; she had lived her entire life in privilege, safely sheltered from any violence she didn’t herself choose. That she had chosen a dangerous hobby still did not prepare her for attack. She could say she wasn’t political, but what else could her report to the king be called?
“You are coming back to the ship this afternoon, aren’t you? Perhaps we can talk—”
“No.” That was firm enough; the red patches on her cheeks gave additional warning. “No . . . I think it best that I not come aboard right now.”
“But—”
“Captain Serrano—” That formality stung; Heris stared and got back a warning look. “Please. Do this my way. I am not stupid, and I have my reasons.”
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.”