Sporting Chance

Chapter Two

Nothing had been settled—not about the prince, not about Petris—when the Sweet Delight made its last jump. They came out of the anomalous status of jump space precisely where Sirkin had intended, for which Heris gave her a nod of approval. She wished Sirkin hadn’t had a lover waiting at Rockhouse Major—she’d have liked to keep her as crew.

“Somebody flicked our ID beacon,” Oblo said. “Stripped it clean and fast: R.S.S., I’d say, remembering the other side . . .”

“We’re not fugitive,” Heris said. “And they’d be looking for the Sweet Delight, considering . . .”

“Mmm. Wish we had better longscans and a decoder that could do the same. Feels all wrong to have someone stripping our beacon when we can’t strip theirs.”

“Mass sensors show a lot of ships,” Sirkin put in. “And the delays are too long to tell me where they are now—”

“That’s what I meant,” Oblo said. “Now in the Fleet, we’ve got—” He broke off suddenly as Heris cleared her throat, and looked up at her. “Sorry, Captain. I’m used to being on the inside of security, not outside.”

“We’d all best be careful, if we want to stay outside a prison, and not inside,” Heris said. The only bad thing about Sirkin—and Bunny’s crew—was this tension between what the ex-military crew knew and what they weren’t supposed to know and couldn’t share with shipmates. It would have been easier if they’d all been her former crew members.

She had sent off a message when they first dropped out of FTL, with the codes given them by the Crown Minister. Now the system’s outer beacons blipped the first response.

“Captain, Sweet Delight, proceed on R.S.S. escort course—” and the coordinates followed.

Oblo whistled. “They’re putting us down the dragon’s throat, all right.”

“What?” Sirkin asked.

“Escort course is the fastest way insystem; eats power and makes a roil everyone in the whole system can pick up. Hardly what I’d call discreet. All other traffic gives way, and we’re snagged by a tug that could stop a heavy cruiser, in a counterburn maneuver. Plus, we go past the heavy guns and damn near every piece of surveillance between us and Rockhouse.”

Heris glared at him, and Oblo actually flushed. He knew better, and she had already warned him. Sirkin wasn’t military, had never been military, wasn’t ever going to be military, and he had no business explaining Fleet procedure to her. But he had a thing for neat-framed dark-haired girls, whether they liked men or not, and he had taken a liking to Sirkin.

They were only halfway home, as Cecelia put it, when the escorts pulled up on either side. R.S.S., both of them; Heris got an exterior visual and grinned. She had once captained one of these stubby, peculiar-looking ships; ridiculously overpowered, designed for fast maneuvers within a single system, their small crews prided themselves on “flair.” On distant campaigns, they traveled inside podships, even though they mounted FTL drives.

The voicecom board lit. Heris flicked the lit buttons, and then a sequence which informed the caller that she had no secured channel.

“Ahoy, Sweet Delight. R.S.S. Escort Adrian Channel calling—”

“Captain Serrano, Sweet Delight,” Heris said.

“You don’t have any kind of secure com?” At least that showed some discretion; she’d been afraid they’d ask in clear if she had the prince aboard.

“Negative.”

“Well . . .” A pause, during which Heris amused herself by imagining the comments passing between the two escorts and their base. Then the voice returned. “We understand you have urgent need for priority docking at Rockhouse Major. Is that correct?”

“Yes, it is,” Heris said. “The relevant enabling codes were in my initial transmission—”

“Yes, ma’am. Well, ma’am, we’re here just to see you make a safe transit, and chase any boneheaded civvie that doesn’t listen to his Traffic Control updates out of your way. Our instruments show you on course—” Oblo scowled at that; with him on the board there was no question of being off course.

The counterburn maneuver, when it came, strained the resources of the Sweet Delight’s artificial gravity; dust shimmered in the air and made everyone on the bridge cough. For one moment Heris felt nausea, then her stomach ignored the odd sensations. Others were not so lucky. She saw a medic light go on in the prince’s stateroom, and in the galley.

Then the internal gravity stabilized again; the tug’s grapple snagged the yacht’s bustle, and Petris shut down their drive. Far faster than a commercial tug, the R.S.S. ship shoved them toward Rockhouse Major, and put them in a zero-relative motion less than 100 meters away from the docking bay. Visuals, boosted several magnifications, showed the Royal Seal above their assigned bay, and the gleaming sides of a Royal shuttle and a larger, deepspace yacht twice the size of Sweet Delight. Grapples shot out, homing on magnetic patches on the yacht’s hull. These would stabilize, but not change, their inward drift under docking thrusters. Heris had always enjoyed docking maneuvers, and the chance to show off at a Royal berth delighted her. She eased the yacht in, with neither haste nor delay, until the grapples were fully retracted and the hull snugged against the access ports.

Until this moment, she had spoken with the Rockhouse Major Sector Landing Control—a professional exactly like any other landing control officer—and their exchanges were limited to the necessary details of bringing the yacht in. Now another channel lit on the board. Heris took a steadying breath. This would be a very different official, she was sure—and even after hours reading everything Cecelia’s library had on Royal protocol, she wasn’t sure she would get it right. Once, she could have relied on the military equivalent, but as a civilian captain—

“Royal Security to the captain of Sweet Delight—”

“Captain Serrano here,” she said.

“We need to establish a secure communications link before your passengers debark; we’ll need hardwire access. Open the CJ-145 exterior panel next to the cargo access, please.”

At least he’d said “please.” For a moment she was surprised that they knew which panel to use, but of course they would: the yacht was a standard design, built at a well-known yard. They’d had weeks to get all the specs.

“Just a moment, please,” she said. She nodded at Oblo, who put the relevant circuits up on a screen, and cut out all but the communications input. No reason to give them easy access to Cecelia’s entire system, just in case they were of a mind to strip that, too. When he grinned at her, she popped the latch and waited while Security set the link up.

And after all that, the formalities were no different than docking at any fairly large Fleet base. Mr. Smith—the prince—had spoken to Security from his suite, she presumed in some code. She herself admitted the Royal Security team (one technician in gray, the others in dress blues, a major commanding) who would escort the prince down to the planet. No one seemed to expect any protocol from her that she didn’t already understand.

But when the prince came into the lounge, Lady Cecelia was with him. Her maid followed, with a small travel case in her hand. The prince’s servants, behind the maid, filled the passage with luggage.

“I’m going with him,” Cecelia said. Heris, who hadn’t expected this, stared at her. Cecelia pulled herself to her full height, and looked every millimeter the rich, titled lady she was. “The Crown Minister gave me the responsibility—”

“But madam . . . we’re Royal Security.” The major looked unhappy, as well he might.

“Very well. Then you can make sure that I also reach groundside safely.”

“But our orders were to take . . . er . . . Mr. Smith . . .”

The red patches of incipient temper darkened on Cecelia’s cheekbones. “Your sacred charge, young man, is the personal safety, the life itself, of your prince. If you think I endanger it, you are sadly mistaken about the source of danger. I suggest you need to have a long talk with the Crown Council. I went out of my way, at my own expense, to bring this young man safely home from a life-threatening situation. It might be asked where you, the Royal Security, were when he was being shot at!”

“Shot at!” Clearly this man had not heard the whole story. Heris wished Cecelia had not said so much; she’d assumed they would know already. “But he was on a training mission, with military guard—”

Cecelia glared. “Perhaps your superior will, if you prove discreet, tell you the full truth later. Suffice it to say that my honor, and my family’s honor, are involved in this, and I will witness Mr. Smith’s return to his father myself. You will find that his father agrees, should you care to take it that far.”

“Yes, madam.” The Security man still looked unhappy, but resigned. Exactly what she wanted.

“I will not require my maid’s attendance, since I expect to travel directly to my brother’s residence once I’ve spoken to the king. I am ready.” She glanced back, to find Gerel and his luggage in the passage behind her, took her small case from her maid, and stepped forward.

The Royal shuttle eased into atmosphere with hardly a shiver in its silken ride. Four Royal Aerospace Service single-seaters flanked it, and another pair led it in. The prince sprawled in a wide seat, looking glum. Cecelia divided her glances between the viewports—she had always liked watching planetfall—and the Security men, who avoided meeting her gaze. She enjoyed the excellent snack a liveried waiter served her. The prince, she noticed, waved it away, and the Security men drank only water.

Two flitters waited on the landing field. Both dark blue, both with the Crown Seal in gold and scarlet. Honor guards stood by both. Cecelia snorted to herself. It wasn’t going to work; she would see to that.

Sure enough, Security steered the prince toward one flitter, and attempted to lead her to the other. She strode on after the prince.

“Gerel—wait a moment.” He paused, and looked back almost blankly.

“Yes, Lady Cecelia?”

“You’re too fast for an old woman,” she said, grinning at him. “Ronnie knows to slow down for me.”

He smiled. She saw no malice in his smile, but no great intelligence either. What had gone wrong? How could the king not know? “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just thinking of being home.”

“But sir,” one of the Security men said. “We’re supposed to take you home, and Lady Cecelia to her—”

“I told you,” Cecelia said, still smiling, “I’m going with Gerel. It is a matter of honor.” To her surprise, Gerel nodded.

“Yes, it is. A matter of honor.” And he held out his arm for her. Whatever had blunted his intelligence had not ruined his manners. Here, she saw no sign of the hectic energy, the tension that had led him to such stupid outbreaks at Sirialis. Through the flitter ride, he sat quietly, not fidgeting, and when they arrived at the palace landing field, he gave her his arm again on the way in. Although she had believed Ronnie before, Cecelia found herself even more worried about the prince now.

“So, you see, I felt it necessary to come to you myself,” Cecelia said, watching the king’s face for any reaction. He had offered her one of the scarlet and gold striped chairs in his informal study, where she was both amused and delighted to see a picture of herself among the many others on one wall. It was one of her favorites, too, one the king had taken himself just as her horse sailed over a big stone wall.

The king looked tired. Rejuv had smoothed his skin, but he still had deep discolored pouches beneath his eyes. “I’m glad you did,” he said. “Do you have any idea how many other people have noticed?”

“I’m not sure.” Heris had warned her not to answer this question; she felt a warning flutter in her diaphragm. But this was the king; she had known him from boyhood. Surely she could trust him, though not his ministers. “I would guess that plenty of people know he can act like a silly young ass—but then so do many of them, my nephew Ronnie included.”

“It’s a difficult situation,” the king said, toying with a stylus.

“You did . . . know something.” Cecelia made that not quite a question. The king looked at her.

“We knew something. But—you will forgive me—it’s not something I want to discuss.”

Cecelia felt herself reddening. His tone, almost dismissive, irritated her. She was not some old busybody. Just because she hadn’t accepted rejuvenation, he shouldn’t assume her brain had turned to sand. It was this kind of attitude that made Ageists out of people who simply didn’t want rejuv. He smiled, a gentle smile for a man of such power, and interrupted what she might have said.

“I do appreciate your coming to tell me yourself. It was thoughtful of you; I know you won’t spread this around. And you’re right, we must do something, soon. But at the moment, I’m not ready to discuss it outside the family. In the meantime, let’s talk about you. You have a new captain and crew for that yacht of yours, I understand . . . and you’ve infected the captain with your enthusiasm for horses . . .” Cecelia smiled back, well aware that she had no way to force him to confidences he didn’t want to give. They chatted a few more minutes, then she took her leave.

The king stared at the picture of Lady Cecelia he had taken. She was a good fifteen years older than he; he had taken that picture in his youthful enthusiasm for photography, before he realized that kings have no time for hobbies—especially not hobbies that reveal so much about their interests and priorities. He had grown up a lot since then; the adolescent who had admired her so openly, who had taken that picture and sent her a print with a letter whose gushing phrases he still recalled, had learned to mask his feelings—had almost learned to feel only what suited the political reality.

She had not matured the same way, he thought. She still rode her enthusiasms as boldly as she had ridden horses; she said what she thought, and damn the consequences. She felt what she felt, and didn’t care who knew it. Immature, really. A slow comfort spread through him, as he finally grasped the label that diminished her concern to a childish fretfulness, an undisciplined outburst of the sort he had long learned to forego. Deep inside, his mind nagged: she’s not stupid. She’s not crazy. She’s right. But he smothered that nagging voice with ease; he had quit listening to his conscience a long time ago.

Heris had plenty to do while waiting to hear from her employer, but she could not banish the chill she felt. She had to get all the crew properly identified for Royal Security; not even Bunny’s crewmen, who had been there before, and were only passing through on the way downplanet, could leave the Royal Docks without a pass. Heris put them first in the identification queue, and within a few hours they were on their way downplanet to Bunny’s estate on Rockhouse. Then there was the usual post-docking business: arranging for tank exchange, for recharging depleted ’ponics vats, for lines to the Station carbon-exchange tanks (waste) and water (supply). It would be hours yet before Cecelia’s shuttle would land, before she could reach the king, before whatever would happen could happen.

But the knot in her belly remained; she barely picked at the delicious lunch the two cooks produced. Something would go wrong. She knew it. She just couldn’t figure out what it would be.

By the time Cecelia called, Heris had dug herself into a nest of clerical work. She had almost forgotten why she was so tense. Cecelia called up from the surface, with such a cheerful, calm expression that Heris had to believe everything had gone well. She did not, on a commercial communications channel, mention the prince. Instead, she chattered about refitting.

“I’ve discussed matters with the family, and my sister has agreed not to be offended if I have Sweet Delight redecorated to fit my tastes instead of hers. It really was generous of her to do it before, but as you know, lavender and teal are not colors I’m fond of. We’ve had a dividend payout, from some business, and I can easily afford to redo it. I’ll be up in a few days; you’ll have to move the ship to a refitting dock over on the far side of Major—at least that’s the one I’m leaning toward. Even though I didn’t like the colors, they did a good job last time. I’ll bring the preliminary plans with me, and if you’d supervise—”

“Of course,” Heris said. For a moment her original estimate of rich old ladies resurfaced. How could she think only of redecoration at such a time? But something about Cecelia’s eyes reassured her. Something else was going on than changing the color of carpet and upholstery. “Have any idea how long it will take?”

“A few weeks, last time. Presumably about the same this time, although restocking the solarium may take longer. I’ve missed my miniatures—”

“Ummm . . . but milady, you said you wanted to be at Zenebra for the horse trials . . .”

“I know, but if I have a choice between missing the Trials one time and living with that lavender for the weeks between here and there, and then however long it takes to get to refitting, I’m willing to miss the Trials. And we’ll have plenty of time to make the big race meetings after the Trials. A friend has asked me to look for replacement bloodstock.”

“Ah. I see. Very well, milady, as you ask. If you could tell me when to expect you back . . . ?”

“Not tomorrow or the next day. Perhaps the day after. I’ll put a message on the board for you; I should be able to find my way from the shuttledock to the ship by myself.”

Unwise, Heris thought. Very unwise. But she could have an escort there if Cecelia told her which shuttle she was taking. “If you’re going to delay for redecoration, milady, there are a few other equipment changes I’d like to suggest.”

Cecelia didn’t even ask questions. “Quite all right. Whatever you want. This time let’s do it all, so there’s nothing to worry about for years.”

Heris wondered if she’d gotten a refund from Diklos & Sons—or would it be the insurance? She wasn’t sure just how the refitters would be made to pay for that fraudulent, almost-fatal job they didn’t do, but Cecelia could get solid credits out of them if anyone could. She somehow didn’t believe in the dividend payout—not at this odd time of year. Cecelia probably didn’t realize that midlevel officers could have investment experience too. When Cecelia cut the link, Heris turned to Petris and Oblo.

“You heard that. You know what we need. Go find me the best deals on it, will you? I spent too much of her money buying those small arms on Sirialis.”

“Good weapons, though,” Petris said. He had, of course, tried them out. “Fancied up, but quality.”

“Well, now I want quality without any fancying up. Whatever’s legal—”

“Legal!” That was Oblo, of course. Then he sobered. “You mean, not stolen?”

“I mean legal, as in ‘will pass inspection.’” Heris found she could not maintain the severity she wanted. A grin puckered the corner of her mouth. “All right . . . you know what I mean. Don’t cause us trouble, but get us what we need.”

“Yes, sir.” Oblo saluted in the old way, and retreated from her office. Petris stayed.

“Is Lady Cecelia all right?” he asked.

“I hope so. I don’t think she half understands the danger she could be in.” Heris’s uneasiness had not faded, despite Cecelia’s assurances.

“Of course,” the Crown Minister said, “if someone had to notice, Lady Cecelia de Marktos is the safest . . . she’s not a gossip like most of them.”

His sister, demure in her long brocaded gown, said nothing. True, Lady Cecelia was not a gossip. Her danger lay in other directions. Perhaps Piercy would figure it out for himself.

“It’s a nuisance, though. If she did take it into her head to mention it to someone, they might pay attention, precisely because she’s known to be no gossip.” Ah. He had realized the danger. “I wonder if that scamp Ronnie knows. The king didn’t say—”

“If Ronnie knew, Cecelia would have told the king,” his sister said. Always argue the point you oppose; people believe what they think up for themselves.

“I suppose. He might not have told me, though. And the idiot—” Only here, in this carefully shielded study, did the Crown Minister allow himself to speak of the king this way. Here it had begun to seem increasingly natural; his sister radiated neither approval nor disapproval, merely acceptance. “That idiot didn’t even record the conversation. Said it would have been a breach of manners and trust. Said of course Lady Cecelia was loyal. And she is, I’ve no doubt.” But people said “I’ve no doubt” when their doubts were just surfacing. He knew that now. His sister had taught him, gently, over the years.

“It must have been upsetting for her, and yet exciting in a way,” she said. At his quizzical expression, she explained, her delicate voice never rising. “Of course she worried—she has a warm heart under her gruff manner, as we all know. Look at the way she took on young Ronnie after his . . . troubles. But at the same time . . . she’s always thrived on excitement. To be the one who brings important news—even bad news—must have made her feel important. And it’s been so long since she won any of those horse trials.”

“Well, but Lorenza, she’s over eighty. And she won’t take rejuvenation.”

“Quite so.” Lorenza studied her fingernails, exquisitely patterned in the latest marbleized silver and pale pink. Piercy would, in time, realize the problem and its necessary solution. He wasn’t stupid; he just had the soft heart of a man whose every comfort had been arranged for years by a loving and very efficient sister.

Ordinarily, she never intervened; she felt it was important for him to feel, as well as appear, independent of any influence from his family.

She had her own life, her own social activities, which kept her out and about. But in this instance, she might do him a favor, indulge his softheartedness by taking on the task—not in this instance unpleasant at all—of removing the threat of Lady Cecelia de Marktos and her unbridled tongue.

You stupid old bitch, she thought, making sure to smile as she thought it. I always knew the time would come . . . and now you’re mine. Still smiling, still silent, she poured Piercy a cup of tea and admired the translucency of the cup, the aroma, the grace of her own hand.

“Here you are,” she said, handing it to him. He smiled at her, approving. He had never seen her contempt for him; he never would. If necessary he would die, but he would die still believing in her absolute devotion. That small kindness she had promised him. She promised none to Cecelia. Already her mind lingered on possibilities . . . which would be best for her? Which would be worst for that arrogant loud-mouthed old bitch who had humiliated her all those years ago?

“I can’t believe you’re not taking this more seriously,” Piercy said, reaching for a sandwich from the tray.

“Oh, I do, Piercy. But I know you and the king are quite competent to deal with any problems that might arise. Although, perhaps—I could keep my ear to the ground, among the ladies?”

“Bless you, Lorenza.” He smiled at her. “If there’s any gossip, you’ll hear it.”

There won’t be, she thought. Until they’re all talking about what happened to poor dear Cecelia.

“I want you to meet my captain, Heris Serrano,” Lady Cecelia said. She wore tawny silk, a flowing gown with a flared collar, low boots, and jewels Heris hadn’t seen before. She had arrived at the shuttleport in high good humor, and insisted that they go straight to the most prestigious of the yacht refitters. The woman behind the desk of Spacenhance flicked Heris a glance.

“Pleased, Captain Serrano.”

“She’s my agent for this project,” Lady Cecelia said. “I have too much business groundside to be on call for the questions that always come up.” Her puckish grin took the sting out of that. “I’ve told her what I want, and she knows the ship’s capacity. You two settle everything, and let me know when it’s done.”

“Very well, milady,” the woman said. “But we must have your authorization for credit—”

“Of course.” Cecelia handed over her cube. “Heris has my power of attorney if you need more.”

Heris tried not to stare . . . power of attorney? What was Cecelia up to? Or did rich people typically give power of attorney to ship captains when they didn’t want to be bothered?

“Well, then,” the woman said. “You’re fortunate that you called when you did . . . we happen to have a slot open at the moment. Bay 458-E, North Concourse. Do you have a storage company in mind, Captain Serrano, or shall I schedule removal and storage with one of our regulars?”

Heris had no idea which storage company was reputable; she wished Cecelia had given her more warning of what to expect. “Schedule it, please; if you would just tell me what you require—”

“It’s in our brochure. We do ask specifically that the owner remove all valuables, organic and inorganic, under private seal. We ourselves seal all electronics components. Depending on the owner’s decisions, some service areas may be sealed off and left intact. Quite often owners choose to leave the galley and food-storage bays the same.”

Heris took the datacards, the hardcopies (the cover of one, she noted, showed the Sweet Delight’s earlier redecoration, unless teal and lavender and spiky metal sculptures were everyone’s taste).

“Let’s have lunch at Shimo’s,” Cecelia said cheerily, as they swept out of the Spacenhance office. The last thing Heris wanted was a fancy meal at that most expensive and exclusive of Rockhouse Major restaurants. If she was supposed to move the ship, and prepare for storage of all the furniture and personal items, she needed to get back aboard. And where would the crew stay? But from the look on Cecelia’s face, she would get no more information until her employer had some food.

Shimo’s was just what she feared: fashionably dressed ladies of all ages, and a few obviously wealthy men, all tucked into the intricate alcoves that surrounded a lighted stage on which live musicians played something that made Heris’s nerves itch. Cecelia fussed over the menu far more than usual, and finally settled on what Heris thought of as typical ladies’ luncheon fare. It was very unlike her. She waited, less patient than she seemed, for Cecelia to explain what was going on.

“The Crown is paying for it; it’s my reward for bringing the prince home. That’s why there’s a berth open at Spacenhance.” Cecelia spoke softly, between mouthfuls of the clear soup she had ordered. Heris sipped her own warily, wondering why Cecelia had chosen this public place to talk about it. The alcoves had privacy shields, but she doubted they were effective against anything but the unaided ears of those in the next alcove. “I told them I didn’t want a reward, but Council doesn’t want an unpaid debt to my family right now. I’m not sure what’s going on . . . but Ronnie’s father isn’t happy. Meanwhile, I’m undoing the damage done during the annual business meeting—changing my registered proxy, moving assets around.” She grinned at Heris. “Nothing for you to worry about. I don’t walk down dark alleys at night; I’m spending hours in business offices, and then going home to my sister’s town house.”

“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.”

“I was going to ask you that,” he said. “What do you think we need, for what Lady Cecelia’s going up against? These smugglers—how likely are they to attack and with what force? What kind of protection do we need to be able to give her where she visits? Can’t plan the necessary force until we know the mission.”

“I wish I knew,” Heris said. “One of the things bothering me is lack of good information. I know there are information networks in the civilian world, but I haven’t made my connections yet. And I’m used to having Fleet intelligence to work with—bad as it sometimes was.”

“Ummm. You might want to switch Oblo over from Navigation to Communications—reorganize the roster that way—and let him poke around. You know his talents.”

She did indeed. They did not appear on any official list of occupational skills.

“He wants to put in some . . . er . . . equipment he sort of found the other day.”

Heris felt the hair rising on the back of her neck.

“Found?”

“In a manner of speaking. In return for . . . mmm . . . certain services.” That could mean anything, up to and including a discreet killing. “Good stuff,” Petris went on, with a wicked grin that made her want to clout him. “Navigational aids. Communication enhancements. He’d like to put it in when no civilians—I mean, those who’ve always been—are aboard. Just in case.”

She couldn’t ask if it was stolen Fleet equipment, not directly. Petris would have to answer, and she’d have to do something about it—or he’d have to lie, which would be another problem.

“How much is it costing Lady Cecelia?” she asked instead. Might as well find out.

“Nothing. It’s between Oblo and . . . er . . . someone who wanted him to do something. A private donation, you might call it. Are you hiring Meharry?”

“If she wants to come. We need another weapons specialist.”

“Good. And how are you going to get hooked into the civilian network?”

“By checking in with the Captains’ Guild,” Heris said. “If that’s a hint.” She’d spend some time browsing the general databases, too. Her understanding of politics had been limited to what impinged on the military—on funding, on procurement, on what the admirals optimistically called grand strategy. She’d never heard of some of the groups Cecelia and Ronnie had mentioned. Ageists? Rejuvenants? The meanings seemed obvious, but what did these groups actually do?