Change of Command

Chapter Seventeen

Margiu Pardalt boarded the odd-looking aircraft before dawn. If not for the briefings, she’d have had no idea that such craft existed. On Xavier, she had seen only surface-to-station shuttles and low-flying aircars or flitters. Her years at the Academy had introduced her to high-altitude passenger aircraft like the one she’d been in from Drylands to the coast. But this uneasy compromise between aircraft and boat looked like something a mad scientist would come up with: four fat engines on the high-set wings, with whirligig propellers set into adjustable ducts; a peculiar blob hanging from the end of each wing, suspended on a thin pole. The bottom of the fuselage had the conchoidal shape, scooped and ridged, that she associated with shattered glass. She found it hard to believe it would actually fly.

This time the craft carried only three passengers besides its crew. One was a gray-haired major, with a pinched mouth and a narrow line of decorations which she recognized as efficiency awards. Admin, most likely. He went to the head of the little line waiting on the dock as by rights, boarded first, and installed himself in a seat midway down the port side, where he immediately flicked on his seat lamp and opened a handcomp.

The other passenger had waved Margiu ahead, with a flamboyant gesture that matched his flamboyant appearance. In the harsh lights of the harborage, his leather jacket blazed a garish yellow, and the metallic decorations glittered. Margiu climbed over the entrance coaming, and followed the major, almost stumbling once when the gentle motion of the seaplane on the water surprised her.

She picked out a window seat, on the starboard side. As she buckled in, she looked up to see the third passenger watching. One of those? He had pulled off his cap, revealing fine gray hair fluffed around a bald pate, and in this light she could see that his yellow jacket might be some theatrical troupe’s idea of a uniform. Its shoulders were decorated with loops of green braid, and a line of stars on the upstanding collar, now open to reveal a green shirt; his dark pants were actually green.

“May I?” the man said, in a surprisingly sweet voice. “I’m really quite harmless.”

She had hoped for a quiet ride, perhaps even a nap. But courtesy demanded that she say yes, so she nodded.

A crew chief checked to be sure they were all wearing the PPU, and a life vest, and that all the survival gear aboard was actually in place. Predictably, the man in yellow wasn’t wearing his PPU. Unpredictably, he was quite cheerful about having to change, and quicker than she would have expected. Margiu had flown between the stars, but never over large bodies of water; she began to realize that this was serious.

Then the pilot swung the stumpy plane around, revved the engines, and Margiu felt acceleration shoving her back. The plane slammed its way across the low ripples of the harbor, spray blurring the lights outside. A few moments later they were airborne.

The headlands of Dark Harbor, edged with lights, fell away behind and below them, and then it was nothing but darkness below. Down there somewhere was water, invisible to the eye but cold and wet. Margiu shivered. To her relief, her seat companion turned a little away and started snoring almost immediately. By dawn, they were flying under high clouds, and the water below looked like a vast sheet of wrinkled silk patched with shades of blue and green and silver that she could not identify.

The man beside her woke up, and gave her a sweet smile. “I hope my snoring didn’t keep you awake,” he said.

“No, sir.”

“I’m no sir, milady. I’m Professor Gustaf Aidersson, if you want my dull, boring, everyday name, which goes with my dull, boring, everyday profession, about which I cannot talk, or we will both be in serious trouble. Or you could call me Don Alfonso Dundee, most noble knight of the Order of Old Terra, and we could have a pleasant conversation about anything you wish.”

“I’m sorry?” She had no idea what he was talking about.

“No, I’m sorry.” He hit himself dramatically on the forehead. “Never accost young ladies before breakfast with strange tales out of distant mythology. You’ve heard of SPAL?”

“No, sir.”

“Ah. Well, it’s the biggest collection of galoots and misfits in the universe, and the letters stand for the Society for the Preservation of Antique Lore. Antique lunacy is more like it—I have no faith whatever in the actuality of our tomfoolery, but it is fun. We got the idea back when the rich folks in the Families first took up antique studies and arts—long before your time, milady—and we put our own interpretation on it. Let them flit about with fencing masters from the Company of Sabers, create titles for themselves, and imagine that they’re re-creating scenes from Old Earth history. They’re so serious about it, it takes all the fun out.”

Margiu listened to the rolling flow of words and wondered if the man were entirely sane. His bright sidelong look seemed to catch her thought in midair, as if it were a ball being tossed.

“You wonder if I’m crazy. Of course you do. I’m not sure myself, and my wife tells me regularly that my pot is a little cracked. But the fact of the matter is, craziness is not necessarily a bar to genius, and my kind of craziness consists only in boring total strangers to distraction in airplanes. Or spacecraft. Or anywhere else I can trap them.” He grinned at her with such obvious good humor that Margiu felt herelf relaxing.

“What is that yellow jacket?” she found herself asking.

“Good question,” he said promptly, in a tone that she could well believe went with a professor of something. “There was a colony world—second-order colony out of Old Earth by way of Congreve—which had successive waves of settlers. They didn’t get along, so of course they started fighting. Back then fabricators were pretty basic machines—couldn’t turn out any useful sort of protective garments. So the colonists started using leather from their herds of cattle. The color told what side they were on. Mine is a semiaccurate reproduction of a Missen-Asaya officer’s uniform of the Third Missen-Asaya/Tangrat War. Except the insignia. I should have a little wooden bird, but I couldn’t find it before I left. My wife swears I must have left it at the last awards banquet . . . so I just took the stars off a model spaceship. Not a very good model, either; Rose-class ships never had double batteries of beam weapons. I told Zachery that when he showed me the model, but he got huffy about it and threw it in the corner, the one where Kata drops her dirty boots. That’s why I knew where to find stars when I wanted them. And I thought stars might be more impressive when I had to travel with Fleet officers, but of course they see that yellow canary-jacket and try not to laugh.”

It was like drowning in treacle.

“But I’m talking too much about myself. Just whap me on the head when I do that; that’s what my wife does. Or ignore me and look out the window if you want. I can see you’re an ensign, with red hair exactly the color of my niece’s, but—who are you?”

“Margiu Pardalt,” Margiu said. “From Xavier.”

“Xavier!” His face lit up, and her heart sank. “You know, the tactical analysis of the most recent engagement is fascinating. I was most impressed with the fire control of the Benignity ships—”

“The Benignity ships—” She couldn’t help that, or the tone it popped out in.

“Yes. No disrespect to Commander . . . er . . . whoever it was—”

“Serrano,” murmured Margiu.

“But the Benignity performance was markedly better than expected. And there’s new data—from this very facility—well, not where we’re going but where I assume you’ve been, the Copper Mountain base—to indicate that they upgraded one of our ships they captured. For instance, the time to recharge—no. I mustn’t get onto this.” Margiu could see the effort it cost him to rein that enthusiasm back. “Tell you what, let’s talk about wet navies. Here we are, flying over a superb large ocean, and I’ll bet you’ve never studied wet-navy history, have you?”

“Only a little,” Margiu said. Her mind scrabbled frantically in search of some crumb of data to prove that she had studied it at all, but only the word Trafalgar rose up. She couldn’t remember if it had been an admiral, a ship, or a battle. “Trafalgar,” she said.

“Of course!” He beamed at her. “A mighty battle indeed, that was, but perhaps a little remote for our purposes. Are you familiar with the application of Nelson’s sail tactics to colonial naval battles?”

“Uh . . . no, sir.”

“Consider, if you will, the archipelagos of Skinner III.” He spread his hands, as if touching a particular geographic area, and Margiu wondered if she ought to admit she didn’t know what an archipelago was. She didn’t have time. “Forty thousand islands, at least. Colonized with intent to exploit its obvious advantages for aquaculture, but, as always, underfunded and subject to piracy. Abundant timber, so—”

Margiu’s com beeped; she pressed the button. Her companion watched, bright-eyed. The pilot spoke: “Ensign, Major—” She glanced back and saw the other officer sit up; he met her eyes across the plane. “There’s some kind of trouble at Stack Islands. Apparently personnel are missing, believed lost at sea—”

“What personnel?” the major asked.

“Base Three commander and a guard corporal. There’s also a life raft missing from the Three Base aircar hangar, and evidence of a struggle . . . they’re saying the corporal may have gone crazy and kidnapped the commander. But anyway—we’re to join the search; they don’t have any long-range craft, and they suspect the life raft was blown west by the storm into the North Current.”

Margiu started to say that her orders were to get those directives to the base commanders without delay, but decided not to. The pilot knew she was a courier, and if someone were down there in a raft, surely that had to come first. She hoped.

They were still at least an hour east of the Stacks, but Margiu could not help scanning below for the life raft. She had no idea how big it would look from whatever altitude they were flying.

Dark dots appeared on the sea. “Those are the Stacks,” the pilot said. Margiu stared at them . . . a scatter of tall black rocks, whose height above the water was hard to judge in this flat light. The plane lost altitude again in a sudden lurch. “We’ll be over Stack Island Three in an hour.”

The Stacks looked impossibly forbidding—too tall, too narrow on top, too bleak. Why had Fleet put bases out here at all? She’d read the cubes, but it still seemed ridiculous. The plane droned on, and the Stacks rose up and sank, appearing and disappearing . . . a total of 98 visible at high tide, 117 at low, according to the cube. Some so small that not even an aircar could land vertically on top.

They left the Stacks behind, and Margiu stared at the sea from her side of the craft with more intensity.

“Signal!” the pilot said suddenly. “I’ve got a beacon! And confirmation from upstairs.” The plane heeled on one wing, and Margiu gulped her stomach back into place. When she laid her forehead on the window, the glass felt colder than before.

The major spotted it first; Margiu heard him call out, and the pilot swung the plane around again. Now she saw the little yellow chip on the gray-green sea. Was anyone in it? Alive? She could not imagine what it must be like.

“We’re going down,” the pilot said. Margiu clamped her jaws shut. Going down? Was something wrong with the plane?

“It’s all right, Ensign,” the major said, catching her eye. “This is a seaplane, remember. It can land on the water.”

Margiu drew a shaky breath. Water, yes: in a protected lagoon, shallow and calm. She hadn’t known any aircraft could land on open ocean without sinking. She wasn’t sure she believed it.

“Hoods on,” the pilot ordered. Margiu plucked the hood of her PPU from its curl around her neck and put it on. If it was so safe, why this precaution? She put her hands into the gloves, too, and made sure the wrist and boot grapples were locked back. She peered out. They were much lower now, and she could see that the surface of the ocean heaved slowly in broad swells, reflecting the bright yellow canopy of the life raft. Through that clear, quiet water, she saw something swimming—some long, narrow shapes.

“Isn’t this exciting?” asked her seatmate. “A most excellent adventure, my first water landing in an aircraft.” He didn’t look frightened at all. Margiu was scared, though she wasn’t going to admit it. “Of course, if we come in too fast, or too steeply, we’ll be killed, which would be a shame. Let me see . . . this planet’s gravitational attraction is 1.012 that of Earth, and that means . . .”

Margiu closed her ears; she wanted to close her eyes, but she could not look away from the water’s surface . . . the smooth water looked less smooth the closer they came. Then spray fountained past the window; the safety harness dug in as the plane lurched and swayed. The plane slowed, settling in the water; she could feel the movement of the ocean take over from the movement of the air, lifting and dropping the plane in a leisurely oscillation. The inboard engine on her side stopped, and her window cleared. She remembered the briefing, that in event of an emergency landing, the craft would keep two engines going, with the ducts adjusted to minimize blast on the escape rafts. Presumably the same technique would keep the prop blast from blowing this life raft away.

As they rose on the swell, she could see the yellow canopy of the life raft in the distance. The pilot’s voice came over the roar of the engine. “We don’t have current weather data—MetSatIV’s down again—and although it looks dead calm now, I don’t trust it. We’re not going to be down one second longer than we have to be. You will all do exactly what my crew chief tells you.”

The crew chief beckoned to them. The professor climbed out and let Margiu into the aisle after the major had gone past.

“Major, you and the ensign will need to hang onto this line . . . steady . . .”

Margiu wrapped her gloved hands around the rope. Line. Whatever they wanted to call it, it was rope to her, familiar from the family farm. The major, ahead of her, blocked half her view of the outside, but she could see water not that far below, and nothing but water to the horizon. She shivered in spite of her PPU.

“Why not just tie the rope to the plane?” the major asked.

“Sir, we never secure the aircraft to something like the raft. Should it capsize—”

“It’s a life raft,” the major said. “It’s made to not capsize. I shouldn’t have to stand here holding a stupid rope.”

“Right, sir—just let me take that a moment.” The crew chief took the rope from the major, passed the slack to Margiu, and then back to the professor, who had come along without being asked.

The canopy flap opened; a head poked out, shrouded in a PPU hood.

“Who are you?” croaked a voice.

“Chief Stivers,” the chief said. “And you are . . . the missing Corporal Meharry?”

“They’ve reported me missing?” The voice sounded odd; Margiu could see the strain on that face. “I was supposed to be dead.”

“Where’s Commander Bacarion?”

“She’s—her—she’s here.” Meharry pushed the canopy flap farther to the side. Margiu couldn’t see what that revealed, but the major stiffened.

“That’s—she’s hurt, she’s—”

“She’s dead, sir,” Meharry said.

“There’ll have to be an investigation,” the major said.

“Yes, sir. But first, sir—”

“No buts, Corporal. Chief . . . er . . . Stivers . . . you will place this man under arrest—”

“Sir, he’s been on a lifeboat for days . . . he needs care . . .”

“He’s a material witness, if not a murderer. Under arrest, Chief, at once—”

“We have to get him aboard first.”

“And the deceased. And the raft.”

“Sir, I’ll have to ask Pilot Officer Galvan. It’s not going to be easy to get the raft aboard safely.”

“We can’t leave valuable evidence at the scene—”

The pilot had other priorities. “First, we get that man aboard. He’s been adrift for days, in freezing weather; it’s a wonder he’s alive. Major, you take that line; Professor, get back to your seat for now.”

As the pilot ordered, Margiu and the major each took a line, and wrapped it around a projecting knob inside the aircraft. The pilot had a name for the knob, but Margiu ignored that and concentrated instead on the need to keep the line taut and the raft snugged up to the aircraft. The copilot and the crew chief helped Corporal Meharry clamber over the raft’s inflated rim and into the plane.

He was haggard and pale; when he tried to stand, he staggered against the bulkhead. The copilot and crew chief half-carried him back to the seats, and draped him over two of them. Professor Aidersson bustled over; Margiu heard his sweet voice over the others. The major spoke to her.

“Ensign—get in that raft, and prepare the commander’s body for removal.”

Margiu stared at him, but swallowed the “Me, sir?” that almost came out. She glanced at the copilot, hoping he would say something, but he was doing something to the corporal’s PPU.

She had never envisioned herself clambering into a blood-smeared life raft in the middle of a vast ocean to retrieve the dead body of a murder victim. Gingerly, she eased over the inflated rim and into the raft. The fabric dipped and shifted under her; she felt very insecure. She had seen dead bodies before; she had seen dead bodies days old, for that matter. But that had been on dry land, in the warm, dry climate of her homeland. She had never seen so much water in her life, and to be bobbing up and down in a raft in the middle of the ocean, with a cold stiff body, terrified her. When she looked back at the plane, it looked much smaller, entirely too small to be reassuring when everything else was water.

The next thing she noticed was the smell; cold had retarded decay, but there was a sickening odor of human filth and death both, held in by the canopy. When the raft rocked to the swell, Margiu struggled not to gag. As quickly as she could, she unfastened the canopy tabs and rolled it back. Even the aircraft fumes were better than this.

Bacarion’s body . . . she tried not to look at it, especially not the ruin of the face. But it was heavy—the woman had been both taller and heavier than Margiu—and she could not get the right leverage to move it.

“Hurry up, Ensign,” the major said.

“Sorry, sir,” Margiu said, breathless, as she struggled to unlash the webbing that held Bacarion’s body still. She got the last one loose, and the next swell rolled the body toward her. When she tried to lift, the additional weight pressed her knees into the raft floor, which sank, and the body rolled into the depression. It would have been hard enough on a solid support, but she had none.

“Tie a line around her and we’ll haul from here,” suggested the professor, who had reappeared in the aircraft’s hatch.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” snapped the major. “All she has to do is lift and slide the body across—”

“No—she’ll need the basket. Hang on, Ensign. Be right back.” The crew chief, who had come forward, now disappeared back into the plane.

“I don’t think much of your initiative,” the major said to Margiu; behind him, the professor winked at her. The crew chief reappeared, with a bright-orange object that looked like a long skinny basket. “Here you go, Ensign—” He slid it over the rim of the life raft to her. “Ever used one of these? No? Well, just roll the body into it, then hook those lashings over.” He turned his head to look back into the plane and yelled, “Just a second, sir—”

Margiu positioned one edge of the basket thing next to the corpse.

“Now go to the other side and give it a push,” said the major.

“Stay where you are,” the professor said. “Your weight will make it roll toward you.”

“Keep out of this,” the major said, turning to glare at the professor.

“It’s simple physics,” the professor said. “A child could see—” He gestured. “Her weight depresses the life raft floor, and the corpse rolls—”

A gentle swell lifted her up, then dropped her, and the corpse rolled into the basket. Margiu hooked the lashings quickly, then glanced back at the plane. A line of cold green water widened between her and the plane; the two men argued in the doorway, hands waving, and the rope ran smoothly out beside them. She felt an instant of panic so strong that she couldn’t even yell.

“Idiots!” The crew chief lunged past them and grabbed the trailing line. “Don’t pull!” he yelled to Margiu. “We won’t lose you.” Even as he said it, an end of rope slipped out and splashed into the water. Panic gripped her again, until she remembered the line attached to the Berry.

Another voice yelled from forward in the plane. “What’s going on, Ker? We need to get back in the air sometime this century. Swell’s picking up, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Loose line, sir.” The crew chief did not turn his head this time, Margiu noticed. “Now, major, if you’ll take hold behind me, and then you, professor. Let’s bring her in . . .”

Margiu made herself look away from the plane, and recheck the lashings on the basket. Then she began hauling in the rope attached to the basket. Something yanked on it, hard, and she fetched up against the life raft’s inflated rim.

“Hurry up, Ensign,” the major said. “The pilot wants us to leave.”

“Yes, sir . . .” Whatever it was yanked again, putting a sharp crease in the inflated rim. Then it let go, and she fell back into the smelly slime of the lifeboat floor. She reeled the line in, hand over hand, and was able to toss the dripping end into the hatch when the raft bumped the plane again.

“All right, Major—if you’ll let go this line, sir, and take hold of that one—”

Margiu did her best to lift the ends of the Berry unit over the inflated rim as the major pulled, and after some minutes of breathless struggle, the corpse was aboard the plane. Margiu crawled out after it, her knees shaking. The plane might be tiny compared to the sea, but it was more solid than that life raft. She pulled herself upright, and hoped no one had noticed her fear, as the copilot came forward and slid into his seat.

The pilot peered back over his shoulder.

“Hurry it up, back there. I don’t like the look of the horizon, and I’m still not getting current feed from MetSat.”

“We simply must take the raft aboard,” the major said.

“We’re going to take off before that squall line gets here,” the pilot said. “And the chief says it would take at least an hour to deflate and pack the raft, which will put us marginal on weight, since it’ll be wet. Forget the raft.”

“Dammit, it’s evidence.” The major visibly fumed for a few moments, then said, “Fine, then. We’ll leave Ensign Pardalt in the raft to secure the evidence; another flight can pick her up later. Ensign, get back in the raft.”

Margiu’s heart sank. Leave her alone on the ocean with a storm coming?

“I don’t think—” the professor began; the major rounded on him.

“You have no place in this discussion; you are only a civilian. You have caused enough trouble already. Go sit down and be quiet!”

The professor’s eyebrows went up, and his head tipped back. “I see, sir, that you are a bigot.”

“Ensign, get into that raft and prepare to cast off,” the major said without looking at the professor. “We will inform Search and Rescue where you are, and they will come find you.”

The pilot burst out of the cockpit. “Ensign, take your seat. You too, prof.” Margiu followed the professor quickly into the cabin. “Major, if you do not shut up, I will put you in the raft. I’m in command of this craft—”

“What’s your date of rank?” the major asked. Cold anger rolled off him in waves.

“You’re a paper-pushing remf,” the pilot said. “Not a line officer, and not my CO. You have a choice—you can either go sit down and be quiet, or you go out the hatch, right this instant, and I don’t much care if you land in the raft or the water.”

Margiu watched the little group by the hatch—did the major know that behind his back the crew chief’s broad hand was poised to push him out? She doubted it; he was too angry with the pilot.

“I’ll complain to your commander,” the major said, turning away; Margiu could see how red he’d turned, and looked down. This was not something she wanted to witness.

“So will I,” the pilot said. Already the crew chief was coiling the wet line that had held the raft to the plane. He pulled the hatch shut, dogged the latch, and secured the dripping coil of rope to the cleat on the forward bulkhead. Margiu could not see the raft from her side, but she saw the propeller of the inboard engine begin to turn, and the duct flanges move. Gouts of blue smoke, then spray, as the propeller blast whipped the surface of the sea. The plane swung in a tight circle; now she could see, through the wavering streams of water on the window, the bright yellow of the life raft rocking on the swell. The engines roared, and the plane moved jerkily at first through the water; then, with a series of shuddering slams, reached takeoff velocity and lifted away from the water. As the window cleared, Margiu looked back. A tiny yellow dot, already hard to see, and behind it, a darkening line of the oncoming storm.

She could have been down there. She could have been huddling in that miserable foul-smelling life raft, struggling to learn how to survive in a storm.

“I don’t think I quite like that major,” the professor said. Margiu glanced at him. His amiable face had set into an expression of cold distaste. “Not someone with the right grasp of priorities.”

Safer to say nothing, especially since her stomach was leaping around with the turbulence.

“Are you all right?” he asked, then answered his own question. “No, I see that you are not. Here—” He put something chilly and wet on her cheek, the only exposed skin. “Antinausea patch. I put one on while they were still arguing. Close your eyes, and lean back—takes about thirty seconds.”

Margiu counted to herself, and by twenty-seven felt that her stomach had settled. She opened her eyes. Behind, over the noise of the engines, she heard the major retching, but even the sour smell of vomit didn’t make her stomach lurch. The professor leaned away from her. “Here, Major—an antinausea patch—”

The man said nothing, but the professor’s hand came back empty, and he turned to wink at her. Margiu smiled uncertainly.

“Always come prepared,” the professor said. “Nausea adds to no one’s ability to think and act effectively. You’re better now?”

“Yes,” Margiu said.

Once the plane was in level flight, the pilot spoke over the intercom.

“I realize all of you have urgent orders to the various Stack Islands bases, but we have some problems to deal with. MetSatIV is offline, and has been for several hours. We do not know what our weather will be, and there’s an additional concern about security at Stack Three. They can say what they like, but with the commander dead—we’re heading back to Dark Harbor.”

“I’m going to see what I can do for that poor lad,” the professor said, unstrapping himself.

“But the major—”

“Has no authority over me—as he so rudely pointed out, I’m a civilian. And he’s not any of the military officers to whom I report—he can bluster, but that’s all. Besides—” He pointed, and Margiu craned her head to look. The major was sleeping, ungracefully slumped in the seat with one hand dangling to the deck. The professor winked at her again.

“There are antinausea patches and antinausea patches,” he said. “He’ll be out for several hours.”

The rescued corporal, though swathed in blankets at the rear of the cabin, looked miserable enough. He had not thrown up, but his face had a greenish cast. Across from him, the corpse had been wrapped in another and lashed to the deck.

“How about giving him a patch?” the professor asked the crew chief.

“Fine with me—I notice our major is sleeping peacefully—”

“Nausea is so exhausting,” the professor said. “Here, now—” He put a patch on the corporal’s cheek. “That should help.”

“He really needs fluids and calories,” the crew chief said. “If he can hold ’em down.”

“In a minute or two,” the professor said. “What do you make of this?”

“A mess, sir. This lad’s a Meharry—may not mean much to you, but it’s a family with a proud history in Fleet. Meharrys are known to be a tough bunch to tangle with, but they’ve always been loyal.”

“So—what do you think happened?”

“I don’t know, sir. The major, he said no one was to talk to him—”

“And the major’s authority—”

The crew chief sucked his cheeks in. “Well, sir—he outranks me. The pilot’s in command here, but he’s busy with the craft and I don’t like to bother him. It’s always a pain when one of the MetSats is out.”

“How often does that happen?”

“MetSatIV’s been buggy for the past two years or more. There’s a new youngster at Blue Islands who’s been keeping it up more often, but even he slips sometimes.”

“Mmm . . . and how long has he been there?”

“Oh—eighteen months, perhaps.”

“Is MetSatIV our communications link?”

“No, it’s a general surveillance satellite. Outplanet, it’s part of the passive sensor array for the whole planet; inplanet, it’s a broad-band visual and EM scanner. If it had been up, for instance, we’d have found that life raft with less trouble.”

“But the life raft’s beacon—”

“Oh, it has a direct signal to GPS satellites. But they’re not set up for visual scans. And the beacon has to be turned on by the occupant, after which it puts up a signal every two hours minimum. You can drift a long way in two hours.”

“Tell me, Chief: if there hadn’t been a life raft or a flight out here, and MetSatIV was down, would anyone have spotted a landing out here?”

“Landing, sir?”

“Landing . . . like . . . oh . . . drop shuttles from a warship?”

“On Copper Mountain? Well, Big Ocean is a training area for wet drops, but a ship couldn’t get that close without the other units spotting it, even if MetSat IV were offline.”

“What about the drop shuttles?”

“Once they were down below the horizon—I suppose—there aren’t any ground scanners out here, of course. But—what made you think of that? And what difference would it make?”

“With all due respect for the honor of the Fleet, Chief, I’ve never known a society of saints. If there is a way to smuggle contraband and make a profit off it, people will do it. I can’t think of a better way to smuggle than to be able to turn off the lights when you wish.”

The chief flushed, but finally grinned. “Well, sir, you’re right about that. I’ve never been on a ship that didn’t have at least one unauthorized animal, person, or substance, be it what you will.”

“So my question is, what might be smuggled that would involve the commander of the prison?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Nor I. But since I was headed for Stack Islands myself, I am naturally interested. Smuggling goes both ways—persons or materials can be introduced, or removed. The Weapons Research Facility naturally comes to mind—”

“Sir—” That was the corporal, his face now pale but no longer waxy greenish. His voice was weak, but clear enough.

“You need water and food,” said the crew chief. “And I’ll need to tell the pilot you’re able to talk.”

“I can give him something,” Margiu said. The crew chief handed her one of the self-heating soup packets, already squeezed and warming, and went forward. When its heat stripe matched the dot at the end, Margiu put the tube to the corporal’s mouth.

The professor waited until he’d finished, then said, “You had something to tell us?”

“Yes, sir. Commander Bacarion was one of Lepescu’s followers,” the corporal said. Margiu felt a sudden chill.

“Means nothing to me,” the professor said. “You?” The crew chief shook his head. Margiu nodded.

“Admiral Lepescu was using prisoners as prey . . . he was part of a secret society that held manhunts. They used human ears as recognition symbols.”

“How’d you know that?”

“I was reading up on Commander Heris Serrano—because of Xavier, it’s my home planet, and she saved us—and found that after she resigned her commission, her crew had been condemned and used as prey. So I read what I could find on Lepescu. But—you’re sure Bacarion’s one of his followers? They were all arrested, I thought.”

“Yes. She admitted it to me, when she tried to kill me the second time.”

“The second time?”

“Yes. The first time she had someone push me off the cliff.” Corporal Meharry coughed, then went on. “You mentioned Commander Serrano, sir—my sister Methlin Meharry was one of Serrano’s crew. She was imprisoned here, and then hunted later. She survived; she’s back in Fleet now. So when I found out Bacarion had been on Lepescu’s staff, I knew she’d do something. That’s why I made preparations, and even so she almost got me. But that’s not all—not just private vengeance, I mean. I’m sure she was up to something, but I couldn’t figure out what.”

“But now that we’ve thought of something—vague enough, still.”

“The prisoners!” Meharry said. “Lepescu used prisoners before, as prey. What if she were using them a different way—as troops?”

“To do what?” the chief asked.

“Nothing good,” the professor said. “Maybe she was going to sell them off to someone who wanted to hunt them, or maybe she was going to use them to hunt something . . . but whatever it was, it’s bound to be bad.”

“We must tell someone—” The same thought must have occurred to them all at once, from the startled glances.

“Yes, but who?” The chief shook his head. “Now our pilot, I’d trust—but you don’t know him. For that matter, you don’t know me.”

“A bit late to worry about that now,” the professor said. “And the pilot must know, you’re right. And must inform as many others as possible. You do not run a major conspiracy from such a small base as Stack Three. You run a small one which you hope will become big. There must be plenty of people not involved within radio range.”

“Big enough if they’re behind turning off MetSatIV,” the chief said. “And if it involves bringing a ship in. Using LACs means conspirators on that ship, a lot of them. The LAC flight crews, for instance, as well as a majority of bridge officers.”

“What if they did embark convicts? Just the ones they’d picked? Then attacked the orbital station? They’d control access to the whole planet . . .”

“And the system defenses,” the professor said. “And the weapons research labs. A fine start to a mutiny, if anyone wanted to start a mutiny.”