“Oh, of course. If you’ll—when you’re ready, there will be a shuttle at your disposal. I’ll just tell Captain Vassilos.” And he cut the link. Heris turned back to Cecelia.
“Just what did you think you were doing?”
She didn’t understand or she wouldn’t. “I didn’t see any harm in it. They asked about your name; I told them you were ex-Fleet; they started babbling about some kind of problem and needing expert guidance. You don’t mind, do you?”
Mind was not the right word. Heris took a deep steadying breath, and told herself that she did, after all, care about the security of the outer worlds . . . and that clouting one’s charter across the room was no way to run a chartered yacht.
On the shuttle down, she read through the scanty briefing material she’d been handed, and tried to explain to Cecelia why she should stick to horses and leave defense to the military.
“I know that,” Cecelia said, unrepentant. “That’s why I said you should take care of it, whatever it is. I know it’s your specialty—”
“Used to be my specialty,” said Heris between clenched teeth. “You were the one who pointed out so firmly that I am a civilian now.”
“I know.” For an instant, Cecelia’s expression might even have been contrite, or as close as that arrogant bony face ever came. They rode the rest of the way in unrestful silence.
The little military band in its bright uniforms, buttons and ornaments glittering, played some jaunty march which Heris could have sworn she knew. Across the sunburnt grass, the music practically strutted, as if the notes themselves were proud.
“It’s—charming,” said Cecelia beside her. Under the clear blue sky of Xavier, her cheeks were flushed, more with excitement than sunburn.
“It’s ridiculous,” muttered Heris. “If this is their protection—”
“But it’s so . . . it makes me feel good.”
“That’s what it’s for, but feeling good because you’ve got a decent bandmaster won’t save your life if you don’t have some armament, and I don’t see anything here that could take care of a good-sized riot.”
“Maybe they don’t have riots,” Cecelia said. She sounded cross.
“Then they’ve had no practice, as well as having no armament,” Heris said. She knew she was cross. Damn Livadhi and his specialist. Damn her family name, which at the moment was pure embarrassment. Without that, she’d have been comfortably ensconced in the yacht, while Cecelia visited horse farms. Instead, her fame had preceded her, and produced a fervent appeal for help—help which Cecelia had generously offered, on her behalf.
The band switched from one tune to another, this one even more bouncy than the last. Her toes wanted to tap; her whole body wanted to march along a road with a band of brave and loyal friends. A double crash of cymbals and drums, and the music stopped, leaving its ghost in her ears. Trumpets blew a little fanfare, and someone left the group to approach them.
“Lady Cecelia . . . Captain Serrano . . .” He wore a uniform that had been tailored for a slimmer man; it bunched and pulled around the spare tire fifteen years had given him. “I’m Senior Captain Vassilos. Thank you for your willingness to help.”
“You’re very welcome,” Cecelia said. Heris nodded, silently, and waited to see what would come next.
“I presume you’d like to know more about the problem?”
“Quite,” said Heris, before Cecelia could say anything.
“If you’ll come this way, then.” He led them to a brightly polished groundcar with a big boxy rear end and a little open cab for the driver. Heris had never seen anything like it. She and Cecelia and Senior Captain Vassilos sat in back on tufted velvet; the compartment would have held four or five more in comfort.
“We’ve had trouble from the Compassionate Hand from time to time—as you know, milady—” He turned to Cecelia, who nodded. “But we don’t believe these are the same people. For one thing, the survivors report nothing like the discipline we associate with Compassionate Hand raids. For another, the entry vectors are all wrong. I know: the Black Scratch could be using a roundabout jump sequence. But they’d almost have to trail past an R.S.S. picket line that way, and Fleet keeps telling us there’s nothing in the records. Any of them. Of course, they think we’re overreacting—at least, that’s the message I’ve had from them. They’re stretched thin on this frontier—”
“On all,” Heris said. And would be thinner yet, if the government fell. She hoped fervently that Lord Thornbuckle would cobble something together before that happened.
“We used to get a patrol ship in here at least yearly; that kept the vermin away. But in the past eight years or so, it’s been less than that, and in the past two years we haven’t had a patrol closer than Margate.” Margate, two stars away. That wouldn’t help. “Frankly, I don’t know why the Compassionate Hand hasn’t been at us again.”
Heris thought they had, but were being circumspect just in case the lack of patrol activity was a trap. Instead of mentioning that, she asked, “Has anyone ever gotten an ID on the raiders?”
“Here.” He loaded the cube reader and began pointing to items in the display. “Last time, they knocked out the scanners and the records at the orbital station, but a farmer down here in the south happened to catch a bit—his oldest daughter’s crazy for space and handbuilt a scanner of her own. But it was at the extreme of her range, and we don’t know how valid the data are.”
“We’ll have—our expert—look at it, if you don’t mind.” Heris just caught herself from saying Koutsoudas’s name.
“No, that’s fine. If you can make anything of it, so much the better.”
They had better make something of it. After a look at the files, Heris realized that a farmer’s brat’s homemade scanner had the only possible data of any importance.
“What sort of defense do you have?” She thought she knew, but better to ask and be sure.
“Well, it’s always been Fleet policy that planets didn’t need their own heavy ships, as you know.” Heris nodded. It was always easier to keep the peace if the peaceful weren’t too well armed. “We had two Desmoiselle class escorts forty years ago, but one of them was badly damaged in a Compassionate Hand raid and we cannibalized her to get parts for the other.” Heris winced. The Desmoiselle class had been obsolete for decades; it mounted no more weaponry than the yacht, and handled worse. Designed initially to protect commercial haulers from incompetent piracy in the crowded conditions of the Cleonic moons, it had been someone’s poor choice for a situation like this.
“And your remaining ship?”
“Well . . . it’s not really operational, and we haven’t the expertise locally to fix it. Nor the money to send it somewhere.” He flushed. “I know that must sound like we want to be sitting ducks, but it’s not really that. We keep Grogon hanging around with her weapons lit up, hoping to scare off trouble, but the pirates have figured out she has neither legs nor teeth.”
“What’s the problem?”
“She was underpowered to start with, and she needs her tubes relined, at a minimum. She makes only seventy percent of the acceleration she had when she came, but there’s no shipyard nearer than Grand Junction or Tay-Fal. And the cost—”
“Let’s see if my engineers can suggest something,” Heris said, making a note on her compad. She had to have something as backup, if it were only a shuttle with a single missile tube and a lot of electronic fakery. If this Grogon could move in space at all, it was better than nothing. “Anything else?”
“We did have a fixed orbital battery, but they got that on the last raid. Then one of the shuttles—” There were only three, as Heris already knew. “We took two of the phase cannons off the other escort—”