Heris continued into the working areas of the ship. The new inspection stickers—real ones, not fakes—made bright patches on the gleaming bulkheads. She checked every readout, every telltale, the routine soothing her mind. Even the memories of violence on the ship—here Iklind had died, from hydrogen sulfide poisoning, and down this passage his distant relative Skoterin had nearly killed Brig Sirkin and Lady Cecelia. Redecoration had removed any trace of corrosive gases, of blood. The memory of faces and bodies that floated along with her were no different from those that haunted any captain’s days.
In the ’ponics sections, she found Brun replanting trays, a dirty job that always fell to the lowest-level mole.
“What are you growing this round?” she asked.
Brun grinned. “Halobeets,” she said. “I hadn’t realized how much sulfur uptake ship ’ponics need.”
“There’s a ship rhyme about it,” Heris said. “Eat it, excrete it, then halobeet it. And it’s always confused me that we call the sulfur-sucking beets halobeets . . . you’d think they sopped up the halocarbons, but they don’t. How are you getting along with Lady Cecelia’s gardener?” Lady Cecelia’s gardener produced the ship’s fresh vegetables. Ship’s crew produced only the vegetation needed to normalize the atmosphere. Brun wrinkled her muddy nose.
“I think he worries that I’ll steal his methods for Dad’s staff. You know I’m supposed to check the oxygen/carbon dioxide levels on his compartments, but he hovers over me as if I were after industrial secrets.”
“Are you telling me you’re never tempted to sneak a tomato?” Heris asked.
“Well . . . perhaps.” Brun’s wide grin was hardly contrite.
Heris left Brun to the tedious work, and continued her inspection. She was not surprised to find Arkady Ginese on his own tour of inspection, checking the weapons controls interlocks. The yacht had once had spacious storage bays, far larger than it needed for the transportation of a single passenger. Now those bays were stuffed with weaponry and its supporting control and guidance systems, with the jamming and other countermeasures that Heris hoped would serve as well as shields if someone were shooting back. They had not had the volume to mount both effective weapons and strong shields; Heris hoped she’d made the right choice.
“All’s well, Captain,” Ginese said. “I did want to ask you—Koutsoudas says there’s a new wrinkle in ECM that we could probably rig onto what we have, if you wanted.” If you really trust Koutsoudas hung in his words.
Heris thought a moment. “Do you understand it? Does it make sense to you?”
“Yes—it’s a reasonable extension of the technology. I don’t see why it wouldn’t work.”
“And how do you feel about Koutsoudas?”
Ginese looked around. “Well—”
“Of course he may have ears everywhere—the better to hear the truth, Arkady. He’s smart—he has to know we don’t completely trust someone from Livadhi. How do you feel?”
“I—like him more than I thought I would. He’s like all scan techs, clever and sneaky. But he doesn’t give me that bad feeling . . . then again, I missed Skoterin.”
“So did we all,” Heris said. “But I think all our sensitivities are flapping in the breeze now. Let’s go on and make that change—send my desk a complete description, and I’ll file it. If anything comes up—”
“Of course, Captain.” Ginese looked happier, and Heris went on to complete her inspection.
By the time she reached the bridge again, Lady Cecelia had sent a message—she had chosen their destination, a planet called Xavier. Sirkin already had the charts up on display for Heris, with a recommended course.
“Looks good so far,” Heris said. “I’ll want to check—some of those intermediate jump points may have restriction codes on them—”
“Yes, ma’am, they do,” Sirkin said. “Four of them are heavy traffic; we’d have to file here before we jump for clearance through them. Xavier itself is in the frontier zone; we have to file with the R.S.S., a letter of intent. I’ve done a preliminary file, in case—and there’s an alternate course that doesn’t use any restricted jump points, though it will add sixteen days.”
Sixteen additional days times the daily requirements for food, water, oxygen . . . Heris ran the numbers in her mind before checking them on the computer. “We can do it, but it’s already a long trip, especially counting the long insystem drop at Xavier. You’re right, Sirkin, that short course is the best. What’s the maximum flux transit you’ve plotted?” That, too, was within acceptable limits; Heris reminded herself again that Sirkin had not made the mistakes she’d been blamed for. On her own she had always done superb work.
“Fine—complete that application for the restricted jump points, file the letter of intent as agricultural products purchase, wholesale, and tell me when you anticipate we’ll start the sequence. Good work.” It was, too. Most navigators would still be setting up a single course.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Sirkin might have been her old self, the bright, vibrant girl Heris had first met, but there was still the wariness of old injuries in her eyes. That was maturity, Heris told herself, and nothing to regret. Nobody stayed as young as Sirkin had been and lived to grow old.
Xavier, when they arrived at its orbital station, looked like the uncrowded agricultural world it was. Its main export was genetic variability for large domestic animals too inbred in other populations. A variety of habitats and temperature ranges allowed relatively easy culture of equids, bovids, and less common domestics for many purposes. Cecelia had been there before; she knew most of the horse breeders, and planned to spend several weeks with those most likely to have what she wanted.
“Captain Serrano . . . could I speak to you on a secure line, please?” That request got through; Heris had been wondering how long exactly Cecelia meant to stay, and what the daily docking charges would run to. Some of these outworld stations tried to squeeze every visitor, because they had so few.
“Of course,” she said. She wondered what was wrong; they hadn’t popped a hatch yet.
“I’m the Stationmaster,” the face on the screen said. Heris hadn’t doubted it, but she nodded politely.
“I’ve been authorized to ask this . . . and if it’s an offense, please excuse me . . . but are you related to the . . . er . . . Fleet Serranos?”
That again. Heris hoped her reaction didn’t show. “Yes, I am,” she said. “In fact, I was Fleet myself.”
“That’s what we hoped,” the Stationmaster said. “Lady Cecelia said—but I had to make sure.”
“Why?” Heris asked. The Stationmaster seemed the sort to pussyfoot around the point for hours, and she didn’t want to wait for it.
“We really need your help, Captain Serrano. Your expertise, if you will. I’ve been authorized to invite you to a briefing, with our Senior Captain Vassilos, who commands the planetary defense.”
Heris felt a prickle run down her backbone. “Planetary defense? Is there a . . . problem?” She would have Koutsoudas for lunch if they had dropped into a shooting war without his noticing.
“Not now, Captain. At the moment. But if you would come, if you would consider helping . . . just advice, I mean; you don’t have a warship, we know that.” He sounded more desperate than he should if they were in no imminent danger. Heris paused, considering her answer. Behind her, she heard a stir, and glanced around. Cecelia.
“I told them you’d be glad to help,” Cecelia said, as if she had the right to dispose of Heris’s time and effort. Heris glared at her, then turned back to the screen.
“I’ll attend a briefing,” she said. “At this point, without knowing what you want—my responsibilities to my ship must, you understand, take precedence.”