Sporting Chance

Chapter Four

Under the supervision of Nasiru Haidar, Yrilan earned her pay. Heris had to respect her for coming back, shift after shift, to face the grudging acceptance of the rest of the crew. Sirkin, she noticed, stayed clear of Yrilan during work hours, but she was looking increasingly tense. Heris assumed that meant they hadn’t found a joint berth on some other ship. Sirkin would be facing a hard decision soon enough; Heris didn’t try to offer advice she was sure the younger woman would resent.

On the day they completed the new installations, which would be sealed again when the yacht entered the refitting docks, Heris gave the crew a half-shift bonus off. She gave Ginese the standing watch, and finished the interminable forms necessary to clear the Royal Docks and transfer the ship around the station on the next mainshift but one. She hated the thought of letting a tug do the shift but those were the rules. She expected all the off-duty crew to be gone by the time she finished, but as it happened she left the ship just behind Sirkin and Yrilan. They were not quite holding hands as they hurried through the Royal sector to the public concourse beyond. She wondered if they’d job hunt or spend the extra time another way.

They seemed to be headed the same direction she was. Once in the transit car, they shared a seat at the far end. Heris hung back at the exit, hoping they wouldn’t think she was following them, but traffic was light, just before shiftchange. In another half hour, all transit tubes would be crowded. She dawdled, glancing at a shop window down the concourse from the Captain’s Guild, until they were nearly out of sight around the curve.

Heris turned into the Captains’ Guild, mentally shaking her head. When she’d been that young, she hadn’t been unlucky enough to fall that far in love. Sirkin and Yrilan were together, but it could hardly be called alert awareness of possible danger. Yet it would do no good to suggest anything to them; they might try, but in twenty paces they’d be back to concentrating on each other. At least Sirkin had basic good sense, and they had promised to bunk aboard until the decorators took the ship over. Surely they wouldn’t get in much trouble. After all, Oblo had the history of dockside and planetside brawls.

The Captains’ Guild rooms had begun to look familiar, and the Warden knew her now. She posted her daily report, and looked over the news. Here again, the different format had begun to make sense. Which ships were in, with which captains, reporting changes they’d noted in their routes. She was looking specifically for anything to suggest what Captain Olin had been doing in the regions where he’d hung about as if looking for a rendezvous. So far, she’d found no comment helpful. After all, if another captain was up to the same game, she could hardly expect an honest report to the Captains’ Guild.

“Captain Serrano’s following us,” Yrilan said. “We’re off duty—she doesn’t have to—”

“Captains’ Guild’s down this way,” Sirkin said. “Don’t get paranoid, Amalie. She isn’t bothering us.”

“Just wish she’d mind her own—” Yrilan glanced over her shoulder and turned back. “Or catch up. Something.”

Sirkin laughed. “What’ve you done or not done that you think she’ll scold you for? You’re trying, aren’t you?”

Yrilan nodded. “ ‘Course I am, but it’s a lot harder than school. That Haidar is so picky. I swear he watches me every second, and he wants everything to be just so.”

“But you’re learning,” Sirkin said. “And we’re together.” For how long? she asked herself. She had overheard some of Haidar’s comments, and even more from Kulkul. They didn’t think the captain should hire Yrilan permanently. She forced herself not to think about it. They had a full three-shift off, and for once the money to enjoy it. “Where shall we eat?” she asked. “Why not a dinner-dance place like Califa’s?”

Yrilan grinned at her, the grin she had first fallen for, and gave a little skip-step. “Great—but why not Uptop first, to get in the mood?”

“I’m already in the mood,” Sirkin said, and ran a finger down Yrilan’s arm.

“Patience is a virtue,” Yrilan said, tossing her head, and Sirkin had to laugh. They both knew who had the patience. She wished Yrilan didn’t like noisy taverns like Uptop, but she’d have put up with worse for the evening to come.

By the time they reached Uptop, it was crammed with mainshift rush hour business, vibrating to the beat of its music. Sirkin saw a sonic cop check her meter from across the corridor, shrug, and go on. Well-bribed, perhaps. She inserted her own filters, and followed Yrilan inside. They stood with a clump of others waiting for space at the bar or booths; Sirkin saw merchant ship patches on some arms, nothing on others. Uptop had never been a favorite of either Fleet or Royals, which made it more popular with other groups. Remembering the captain’s warning, she tried to notice anything out of the ordinary, but she didn’t like this kind of place anyway. How could she tell if the big, scar-faced man in front of her was really from Pier’s Company #35 or not? Against her hip, she felt Yrilan’s hip twitch to the music. She wouldn’t be wearing sonic filters; she liked it this loud. Sirkin had to admit that the bass resonances dancing up her bones from heel to spine were exciting, but she wished the higher tones didn’t tangle her eardrums in the middle of her skull.

Two seats finally opened at a large table. Yrilan nodded before Sirkin had a chance to see everyone clearly, but she shrugged and followed the flashing arrow on the floor. Two women in matching gray with a yellow stripe: Lyons, Inc., but probably not ship crew, since they were hunched over a digipad poking at it with styluses. Probably accountants. A man in rusty black; Sirkin was glad he sat on the far side of the table. A woman and two men in nondescript blue, playing some sort of game on the table’s projector. An elegant woman, hair streaked with silver, whose silui-silk suit probably cost more than all the other clothes at the table. The empty seats were between her and the Lyons, Inc. women.

Yrilan edged in beside the older woman. She would, Sirkin thought, amused. She had a passion for jewels, the classic case of champagne tastes on a beer budget, and the woman wore jewelry as costly and elegant as her clothes. Sirkin wondered what she was doing there . . . she wasn’t much like the rest of Uptop’s clientele. She herself squeezed in beside Yrilan and looked at the table’s display. She wanted wine with dinner; she really didn’t want anything now.

“Let’s have a mixed fry as well,” Yrilan said in her ear. “Or will it spoil your appetite?”

The tickle distracted her from the question for a moment. “If we’re going to eat a good dinner, why . . . ?”

“Oh . . . there’s no hurry, is there? I think I just want to cram it all in, love, all the things we like. I can see the signs as well as you can. Your Captain Serrano isn’t going to hire me, and this may be our last chance to celebrate together.”

Implicit in that was the understanding that she, Sirkin, wasn’t going to quit the Sweet Delight to work wherever Yrilan found a berth. Nor would Yrilan wait. Her eyes stung; she hadn’t admitted it to herself yet, but it was true. She drew a breath, trying to think how to say what she really felt.

“Don’t spoil it, now,” Yrilan said, punching her arm lightly. “Let’s just party and enjoy it.” She reached out and entered an order for both of them. Sirkin didn’t cancel it; right then she didn’t care.

The mixed fries, hot and spicy, gave her an excuse for watering eyes; the first gulp of her drink took the edge off both spice and emotion. Was Yrilan trying to anesthetize her, or what? She glanced sideways, and saw that Yrilan was smiling at the elegant older woman. Fine. Drag her into a place like this and then ignore her.

“Amalie—” That got a quick sidelong look, a nudge. “Look—maybe we should go somewhere and talk—”

“No . . . talk’s the last thing we need.” Yrilan shook her head decisively, and reached for more fries. Sirkin shrugged and sat back. Even with filters, her ears hurt. On her right, the conversation between the two women she thought of as accountants consisted of sequences of numbers with exclamations like “But of course the rate’s pegged to the Green List!” She knew the Green List had something to do with investments, but had no idea what. Glancing that way, she saw their display covered with intersecting lines that flicked from one pattern to another. “All profit,” one of them was saying. “See, the first shipment makes up the difference between—”

Yrilan poked her. “Wake up, Brig. Kirsya here has asked us to dine with her.”

Sirkin peered around Yrilan at the elegant woman, startled out of her mood and into wariness. Had Yrilan known her before? But she was explaining.

“I met Kirsya while waiting for Sweet Delight to arrive—I wanted you to meet her before, but we’ve been so busy—”

Was this her replacement? But she had to say something; Kirsya was reaching around to shake her hand. Sirkin forced herself to smile. “Glad to meet you,” she said. At least she didn’t have to say how much she’d heard, since she’d heard nothing. Surely Yrilan could have mentioned her.

“And I.” Kirsya had a lovely voice, surprisingly clear through the music and the filters. “I asked Amalie to let me be a surprise . . . I hope it doesn’t bother you.”

Bother was the wrong word. Sirkin felt that she was somehow in the wrong when she hadn’t done anything. Yet.

“I’m Amalie’s therapist,” Kirsya said. Sirkin glanced at Yrilan, whose cheeks were slightly flushed.

“Therapist? What’s wrong?” Immediately she knew that was the wrong thing to say, even before both sets of eyebrows went up. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, but too late. “I know—it doesn’t mean anything’s wrong—it’s just—” Just that unless Amalie was going to confront her laziness, there was nothing she really needed to change. Not to please Sirkin, anyway.

“I was really miserable, waiting for you,” Yrilan said, not quite apologetically. “I got into a little . . . mess, sort of. And they recommended therapy.”

“Who?” asked Sirkin, her heart sinking right to the floor. Mess? She hadn’t mentioned any mess, and they’d always shared everything before. What kind of “mess” got a recommendation of therapy, and how had she concealed that from Captain Serrano? Sirkin felt a sudden desire to bolt from the tavern, straight back to Sweet Delight.

“The . . . uh . . . Station police. They said no charges might be filed if I agreed to short-term therapy . . .” Yrilan’s voice had the pleading tone which had always worked before. Now it sawed on Sirkin’s nerves almost like the music. “And . . . Kirsya really helped me. We got to be friends—”

In the short time that Yrilan had had to wait, of course. Friends. Sirkin bit back all she was thinking, and simply nodded. Memories flooded her: the day she’d first seen Amalie Yrilan in the registration line, fumbling with a stack of forms and data cubes. What had it been, the look in her green eyes or the quick toss of her hair? The study dates, the walks by the lake, the long intense discussions of their future.

“It’s not what you think,” Yrilan was saying now, with a worried look. Kirsya’s face was composed. So it well might be, Sirkin thought, finally recognizing her own anger. She with her good clothes and jewels—“Of course I still love you,” Yrilan went on. “I always will—” The necessary but hung in the air, battered by the music.

“I see,” said Sirkin, just to stop the process, whatever it was. She had to have time, space, silence. She couldn’t deal with all this now. She made herself meet the older woman’s eyes. “Is this meeting your idea?”

Kirsya smiled. It was a very mature smile. “A meeting, certainly. But Uptop was Amalie’s idea. In my experience, meetings should take place where the client is comfortable—not that Amalie is my client anymore, of course.”

“Of course,” Sirkin echoed.

“I certainly wasn’t planning to intrude on your . . . evening together.” Again, a missing word hung in the air; she had not quite said last evening together. “I did want to meet the person who has been so important in Amalie’s life. Perhaps we could chat a bit another time, where it’s quieter?”

“Of course,” Sirkin said, though she couldn’t think what about. Perhaps this woman thought she would come for therapy, too. Never, she thought, and hoped it didn’t show on her face. She struggled for lightness in her tone, and turned to Yrilan. “Well, Amalie, just what kind of mess did you get into? Or is that confidential now?”

“Oh—I was playing Goorlah and I sort of . . . well . . . overdid it.”

Gambling again. She’d promised to quit, and since she hadn’t shown up broke or in debt, Sirkin thought maybe she’d really reformed. “How bad?” she asked now.

“No worry. I got a temp job with Kirsya’s help, and paid it off. And I know, I shouldn’t have gambled at all. I promised you. But it was only that once.”

It wouldn’t have been only that once, Sirkin knew, but it would be useless to argue. She found herself cataloguing the things she had loved about Amalie Yrilan from the beginning, from the color of her hair to the sound of her laugh, as she would have catalogued the attractions of a navigating system she would never use again. Already Amalie belonged to the past, although she sat there, eyes wide and excited. Sirkin felt a cold lump in her belly, and wished she could evaporate like the spilled drinks.

Kirsya, with an understanding look that Sirkin wanted to remove from her face with a blaster, turned to Yrilan. “Well—what have you two planned for the evening?” Yrilan answered eagerly, her voice already showing the effects of the drinks she’d had.

“Califa’s for dinner, maybe some dancing, then a party wherever we find one. We’re in the mood for fun, aren’t we, Brig?”

Sirkin forced a smile to meet Kirsya’s. She would not, absolutely not, show that cradle-robbing sleaze what she felt. “Celebration,” she said, surprising herself with the sound of her own voice. It held none of the pain she felt, but considerable force. Kirsya looked confused a moment, then smiled widely and pushed back her chair.

“Then I’d better get along and let you enjoy it. By the way—if you didn’t happen to see the announcement, they’ve closed the F-way slides for repair, so if you’re going to Califa’s, it’s shorter from here to use the Number 11 bounce-tube and that shortcut through Avery Park than go all the way back to the G-way slides.”

“Thank you,” said Sirkin. Shortcut through Avery Park, indeed. She had more sense than that, and she’d bet that Kirsya never went there—not dressed in silk and jewels, anyway. “We’re in no hurry,” she said. “There’s a shop on G-way that I’d like to visit anyway.” She had meant to buy Yrilan a certain piece of jewelry there. Now . . . she didn’t know, but she certainly didn’t want to follow Kirsya’s suggestion. The older woman shrugged, gave Yrilan a smile that seemed entirely too warm, and squeezed past other chairs on her way out. She had an elegant back, long and supple, and Sirkin saw how many others noticed it.

“She really helped me,” Yrilan said. “I hoped you’d like her.”

“I’m glad,” Sirkin said to the first part of that. She couldn’t deal with the second part. Her throat had closed; she didn’t want any more of the spicy fries. “Are you ready?” It sounded churlish even to her.

“Look—” Yrilan glanced around and leaned closer. “I know you’re upset, but let’s not spoil the evening. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe Serrano will hire me. If she does, I’ll do anything I can to stay on her good side. At least we can enjoy this.”

“Right.” Sirkin tried to push the depression and grumpiness away. “But I’m really not in the mood for more fries—and you’re not eating them now—so could we please go somewhere that the music doesn’t split my brain?”

“All right.” Yrilan twitched her shoulders and pushed away from the table. Sirkin followed her out, sighing internally.

But out in the open, Yrilan seemed to relax, and they walked together as they always had. They stopped to look in shop windows—Yrilan thought a blue—and-violet wrap would look good on Sirkin, and Sirkin shrugged and agreed to try it on. The shop wasn’t much out of their spending range, though they both agreed the wrap didn’t look that good on. Sirkin felt her own nerves settling as they came out of the shop. Maybe it would be all right this time—maybe. She was still thinking that when Yrilan turned toward the Number 11 bounce-tube entrance.

“Hey—let’s go back to G-way slides. There’s a place I wanted to show you—”

“Maybe after dinner.” Yrilan scowled. “I saw the look on your face—you’re just afraid of Avery Park. And that’s silly at this time of day. It’s not that far past shiftchange rush, and it’s only second shift anyway.” Sirkin glanced around. Traffic had eased, but it was busy enough; the bounce-tube entrance had a short line. If they waited until after dinner, and then Amalie insisted on testing her courage, the park would be even more dangerous.

“Eh, Amalie!” The man wore ordinary spacers’ coveralls, but no ship patch. He had appeared suddenly in the park, just when Sirkin had been thinking how empty it was, how silly it had been to object to the shortcut. Sirkin felt the twitch in Yrilan’s hand. Someone she knew, then, and someone she didn’t really want to see. An ordinary face, perhaps a bit paler than average, with lank gray-brown hair. “That your friend you told us about? Handsome, she is.”

“Back off, Curris.” Yrilan sounded cross and scared both. “We’re not interested in your games.”

“Games of your own, eh?” He laughed, and so did his companions. Sirkin did not like the looks of the three men and two women. All, like him, wore spacers’ coveralls with not a ship patch among them. Bad sign, that. Station dwellers didn’t wear spacers’ clothes; they had their own styles that didn’t offer as many hiding places for weapons. “She looks a bit nervous, Amalie—didn’t you tell her about the party?”

“We’re not coming,” Yrilan said. “That’s why I came up here—to tell you. We’ve got other plans.”

“Now that’s not friendly, hon,” the man said. “Y’know what we agreed. Just a party, that’s all, just a chance to chat with your friend there.”

“No.” Sirkin realized suddenly that Yrilan was really scared, not just nervous. That the tension of the past hour or so had had little to do with her, and a lot to do with this man and the “party” he mentioned.

“Kirsya knows about it,” Yrilan said. She was bluffing, whatever that was supposed to mean. Sirkin had known her too long to be fooled by that tone. And the man must recognize it, too. “She approved the change of plans.”

“I don’t think so,” the man said. “You’re as bad at lying as you are at gambling, Amalie.”

“You—” Yrilan began. Sirkin touched her arm.

“Let’s go, Amalie. No sense talking.”

“Now there you’re wrong,” the man said, switching his gaze to her face. Sirkin tried not to shiver visibly. She had known they shouldn’t come this way; now she wondered how far away a Security alarm was. “There’s a lot of sense talking, when the alternatives are . . . less pleasant.”

A gleam, in his hand. In another hand or two, in that group. All Captain Serrano’s warnings came back to her, and everything her former crew had added. But she didn’t have that training; she had no idea what to do when faced with people like this in a shadowy corner where she should never have come. Yet she couldn’t have let Amalie come this way alone, could she?

“We have nothing to talk about,” Sirkin said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as scared as she felt. “We’re meeting friends—”

“I don’t think so,” the man said again, in the same tone he’d used to Yrilan. “That’s not what we heard from Kirsya. She says you two were planning a quiet little farewell dinner . . . but Amalie really prefers a party, don’t you? Quite a party girl, our Amalie.” He bared his teeth in an expression nothing at all like a normal smile. “Now we’ll have us a nice chat, and you’ll find us a friendly bunch.”

“No,” Sirkin said, before she had time to think how scared she was.

“Brig—” Yrilan’s hand closed over hers. “Don’t—”

She didn’t have to say more. There were the weapons, the bulbous snout of a very illicit sonic pulser, familiar from entertainment cubes, and several plasteel knives. Sirkin felt her mouth go dry. The advice she’d had—never go with the attacker, the place you’re accosted is the most dangerous for the attacker, and the place he takes you is safer for him—now seemed impossible to follow. Her imagination leaped ahead to the effects of sonic pulser and knife . . . she saw blood, felt the pain. What could they do? She tried to look around without moving her head, but saw nothing helpful, no one she could call for help.

“Come on,” the man said, gesturing with the sonic pulser. “It’s party time, girls.” Behind him, the others grinned and moved forward.

“You’re going to spoil their fun,” Methlin Meharry said. Oblo shook his head.

“Not me. If they find a nice room and spend the night together, fine—but that’s not the mood Yrilan’s in. She’s out for trouble of some kind. I know that look.”

Methlin gave him a poke. “You should. You’re always out for trouble . . .”

“Captain’ll be upset if we let Sirkin get trashed because of Yrilan’s foolishness. You know what she thinks—and besides, the girl’s worth working on; she could have been Fleet.” High praise, for Oblo. “And they’ll never know we’re watching, ’less something goes sour.”

“I can think of things I’d rather do on my off shift—”

“Fine. Let me do it.”

“Not you alone . . . I know better.”

They lounged in the doorway of Uptop, drinking pirate chasers from the outside bar. “Classy one sitting with ’em,” Oblo said. “Doesn’t fit here.”

“Don’t like her looks. Actin’ like a shill. Let’s check ’er out.” Methlin pulled out her very illicit Fleet data-capture wand. Oblo grinned.

“Good idea.” Methlin pointed it at the overdressed woman for a moment, capturing her image, then looked around for a public dataport. “Go on,” said Oblo. “I’ll wait here.”

Methlin found a ’port two shops down, and it even had a privacy shield. Her wand stabbed into the port and overrode the usual restriction codes, sucking the data she wanted out of the station computers. When she slid the wand into the ’port of her handcomp, the display showed everything the station personnel files knew about Kirsya, Melotis Davrin.

“A therapist,” she murmured to Oblo.

“Wipe your hand,” Oblo said. “Never.”

“Says. Licensed and all that. Does work for the Station militia, mostly addicts up for minor stuff. Has interesting friends.”

“Oh?”

“That agency.” They both knew which agency; Heris had told them her suspicions about the employment agency before sending them over to get their civilian licenses and ratings. It had smelled as rotten to them as it had to Heris. “Finds jobs for clients, sometimes.”

“Ah.” Oblo sucked his teeth noisily, drained the rest of his drink, and grinned. “Sounds whole to me. Got?”

“Got. Who?”

“The kids. We’ll stay with the kids, but put a ferret on the tinker.” They retreated across the corridor. Methlin slid the wand into another public connection, and transmitted both the data on Kirsya and Oblo’s request to the Sweet Delight.

“Ah—there she goes.” Oblo grunted. “Huh. Just passed a signal, too. Wonder who that was?”

“I didn’t see . . . oh, yes. Classy rear view the lady has.”

“Keep your mind on business.”

When Sirkin and Yrilan came out, Oblo could tell that they were at odds. He and Meharry dropped back a little. No need to embarrass Sirkin if she suddenly stormed back this way.

“Just a little chat,” the man said. “Just a suggestion your friend wasn’t confident enough to take.”

“I don’t need to chat with you,” Sirkin said. “If Amalie didn’t want to do it, I don’t either.”

“Unwise,” the man said. “You’re smart enough to know she’s not. And we’re offering an unusual opportunity here. We’d pay well for a contact aboard the Sweet Delight. No risk worth mentioning, and a profit—and no harm done your employer, if that bothers you.”

“No risk?” Sirkin was glad to find her voice didn’t shake. “Like Captain Olin?”

“He didn’t follow instructions,” the man said. “He upset the old lady, got himself fired—and then we hear that Iklind died and the goods were discovered because he was trying to double his profit with a payoff to the refitters. He double-crossed us . . . we couldn’t let that pass.”

“I suppose not.” Sirkin had been hoping someone would come into the park, but no one did. Had these people somehow cut it off from the corridors? Had they bribed the Station militia?

“Don’t hurt her!” Yrilan’s voice was shrill.

“Convince her, then,” said the man.

“No—let her alone. It’s not her fault. She had nothing to do with it, any of it.”

“Get out of the way.” His voice had flattened, utter menace.

“No.” Yrilan, stubborn, was immovable. He lifted the weapon, his finger tightening, and Yrilan launched herself in useless rage and love. Sirkin grabbed for her lover and missed, but it was already too late. Yrilan screamed as the sonic pulser focused its lethal vibrations on her; she curled into the agony, still screaming. Sirkin, on the edge of that cone, felt as if someone had stabbed her brain with a needle; tears burst from her right eye and she lurched sideways. The man strode forward, but somehow Yrilan grabbed at his leg and tripped him. Sirkin, fighting off the dizziness of the sonic attack, managed to knock the weapon out of his hand before he could turn it on Yrilan again.

The others joined the melee then, knives and fists and boots. Sirkin tried to get to Yrilan, but one of them slammed an elbow into her face, and another kicked her legs out from under her. She hit someone hard enough to make him grunt, then a blow in the belly took all her breath. And Yrilan—she couldn’t see. She couldn’t hear anything but curses, grunts, the slam of boots and fists. A hand came over her mouth, and she twisted her head and bit, hard. A curse, a blow to the head that made her eyes water—someone yanking her arms up behind her—then more yells and the feeling that someone else had arrived.

Gasping, Sirkin tried to break the armhold and find a way to strike back. Another kick, this one in the ribs—she felt something crunch—and then someone fell on top of her, hard knees and elbows and too much weight. She couldn’t breathe . . . she couldn’t complain about not breathing . . . her vision grayed out, and the next blow sent her into darkness.

“Captain Serrano!” That was the Warden, with quiet urgency. She wondered why he hadn’t simply buzzed her carrel until she saw his face. He was gray around the lips, his eyes showing too much white. She came at once, ignoring a few surprised glances from other captains who had noticed the Warden’s unusual invasion of the inner rooms.

Heris didn’t bother to ask; she simply followed him back to the reception area. He almost scurried. Waiting for them were two uniformed Station Security Police, faces grim. Heris felt her heart begin to pound, a great hammer. If they had come, instead of asking her to visit one of the waitstations, whatever had happened was serious—even fatal.

“Captain Serrano?” asked the shorter one. “I’m Detective Morin Cannibar. We have a problem concerning your crew.”

“Who is it?” asked Heris. Oblo came automatically to mind, but he ought to be busy installing that semipirated bit of navigational electronics he had come back with the day before. He had wanted to do it himself, when Sirkin and Yrilan were not aboard. That thought struck a chill in her—those two?

“We aren’t sure, Captain Serrano. The—uh—body carried identification as a member of your crew, but—uh—”

Heris felt herself going cold, the protective freeze of emotion that would carry her through any necessary action. “Do you need me to identify the body?”

“It’s—it’s not going to be easy, ma’am. She’s a young woman, that’s all we can tell. Hit with a sonic pulser, then . . . pretty well beaten to a pulp.”

Let it not be Sirkin, Heris thought, then hated herself for thinking that. Yrilan might be a bit lazy and not overbright, but she had not deserved anything that would put that expression on the faces of police officers.

She nodded shortly. “I’ll come now. I have two young female crew members, and they are both off duty at present. Can you tell me something about it?”

The taller one shrugged. “Someone wanted her dead. Messily. Either of them have enemies you know about?”

Heris looked at him sharply. “You know I filed a report when we arrived that my crew might be the target of retaliation from some criminal organization. And that I had been contacted, subsequently, by someone whose credentials worried me.”

“Yes, but you didn’t know many details. Made it hard for us to help you.”

“True—nonetheless, my guess is this young woman ran afoul of that group, not an enemy of her own. Neither of them had been on this station very long. One arrived with my ship, and the other met her here after finishing her technical training. I don’t suppose you know where the other is—”

“No, ma’am. If it’s some group like you’re thinking of, and they were together, then I’d expect both . . .”

“So would I.” She walked along between them, trying not to feel trapped. “Where are we going? The morgue?”

“No, ma’am. We’d like you to see the . . . body . . . in place. In case you can help figure out what happened.”

In place meant in a corner of Rockhouse she’d never known about. “It’s a park, actually,” one of the men said. “Reasonably safe during shiftchanges, because it’s a shortcut from a concentration of civilian housing units to two big employers. There’s a primary school that uses it during mainshift for recreation and exercise. But it’s a bit out of the way—especially midshift on Second. And the usual patrol had a domestic disturbance call and missed two rounds through here.”

“Planned?” Heris asked. She could see the cluster of people working ahead, under brilliant lighting.

“Maybe. Can’t tell—it’s a family with a history. This time they’ll be split up for a while, see if that settles them.”

Then they were close enough for Heris to see the bodies under the lights.