Sporting Chance

Chapter Five

She recognized Yrilan by the hair and clothes. The young woman’s face was disfigured by parallel knife slashes, the skin reddened by the sonic pulser wound. “That’s mine,” she said, pointing. The man beside her nodded.

“Right—do you know which?”

“Amalie Yrilan, on temporary contract. She left the ship today about when I did, and that’s what she was wearing. Also the hair—” That ginger-colored hair, once fluffy and now matted with blood.

“You don’t seem—that upset by . . . the other . . .” the man said. She could hear the suspicion in his voice.

“My background’s Fleet,” she said. “Regular Space Service.” Let them think she was a coldhearted military bitch . . . easier than explaining that her feelings would come later, when she felt safe. That she would have the right number of nightmares about the ruin of Amalie Yrilan’s face, enough to prove her own humanity. She braced herself for criticism, but the man merely nodded.

“Right. You’ve seen combat trauma, then.” It wasn’t a question. “This was sonic pulser plus, I suspect, being on the ground in the midst of a major brawl. We think the knife wounds were after death, maybe accidental; the autopsy will check for that.”

Heris stared at the parallel wounds across Yrilan’s face, and the deep gash between thumb and first finger on both hands. Did the militia not recognize those wounds? Or did they wonder if she did? Better to be honest.

“Those marks—the last time I saw something like that, it was a Compassionate Hand action.”

“Ah. I wondered if you’d know.”

“We were called to Chisholm once.” They could look that up in her service record, the public part. “They had trouble with their ore haulers being hijacked between the insystem Stations and the jump-point insertion.” They had had more trouble than that, but the rest was classified.

“Two of the dead bodies had C.H. marks on the thumb web,” the man said. “Did Yrilan?”

“Certainly not. Not overt, anyway. But you’re right, that hand cut’s usually given to traitor members, not stray associates.” And where was Sirkin, her mind insisted? Was she, too, a Compassionate Hand victim?

“You recognize any of the others?”

None of the others had mutilated faces, beyond a bruise or two. She knew none of them. But something about the pattern of injuries on two—she frowned. “No. But—” Suddenly it came clear. The time she had had to get Oblo out of trouble . . . the miners he’d felled had exactly the same marks. “But none of them are my crew,” she said, finishing smoothly. “We’ve been staying close to the ship, most of the time, getting it ready to leave the Royal Docks—”

“I know.” He had checked, then. “I didn’t really think you would recognize them, but it was a chance.” He paused, then asked, “And you say this—Yrilan, was it?—usually had a companion?”

“Yes—she did tonight. Brigdis Sirkin, my Navigator First. They’d known each other at school, and Yrilan had hoped I’d hire her. Unfortunately, she wasn’t nearly as qualified.”

“Was Sirkin going to leave your crew?”

“I’m not sure. I had hoped not, but they were close. She had a tough decision coming up. I hope—” It was stronger than that, a plea to whatever powers ran the universe. “I hope Sirkin’s not a prisoner or anything.”

“We can’t tell.” The man frowned. “Five dead, including your crew member. This Sirkin must be some kind of fighter if she didn’t have help. Someone badly wounded got away that direction—” He pointed to smears of blood heading to the far end of the little park. “There’s all too many ways out down there, though we’re looking. But two bounce tubes, and a slideway.”

Heris looked again at the dead she already thought of as “enemy.” She couldn’t see the thumb-web marks from here—probably they were flesh-colored tattoos, designed to fluoresce under UV light. But the pattern—again she thought of Oblo. One of the dead had been hit by someone shorter, she thought, but this wasn’t her field of expertise. Shorter than Oblo would be most of her crew, but her mind drifted to her weapons specialists. Arkady Ginese? No; Arkady, even onstation, would have carried something that left distinctive marks. No one had ever broken him of the habit. Besides, he had the standing watch; he wouldn’t have been here. Methlin Meharry, perhaps? Those sleepy green eyes had fooled more than one, but her unarmed combat skills topped even Arkady’s. And the two of them could have got Sirkin away—somewhere. Where?

“Ah—Captain Serrano?” That was another of the investigating militia. She turned to him. “Urgent message from your ship. Shall I put it on the local tapline?”

She hoped that meant they’d gotten Sirkin back to the ship safely. She nodded, and stepped over to the little communications booth set up for the investigators. The headset they gave her hissed a bit—no doubt from the offtake tape spool—but Petris’s voice was clear enough.

“Captain? Hate to bother you, but we’ve got a problem here.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Petris.” That should warn him. “I’m dealing with one here, too. It seems Yrilan has been killed by thugs, and the investigating officers have found no sign of Sirkin.”

“Right. I’m at the Royal Security office, at the access. The officer in charge prefers your personal authorization before passing some of our crew members who . . . have had an accident. The scanners picked up bloodstains.”

“How many?” Heris asked, mentally crossing her fingers.

“Mr. Vissisuan, Ms. Meharry, and Ms. Sirkin,” Petris said. “With injuries.” Such formality could only mean trouble. No one had called Oblo “Mr. Vissisuan” since his second tour. At least Sirkin was alive.

“Would it help if I spoke to Royal Security?”

“Maybe,” Petris said cautiously. “Here’s Major Defrit.”

Major Defrit sounded as frosty and formal as Heris would have in his place. She explained that she was on the site of a murder, with the station militia.

“Your crew seems to have a talent for trouble,” Major Defrit said.

“I hardly think that justified,” Heris said, in the same tone. Actually Oblo had more than a talent for it—genius, more like—but it wasn’t something to brag about. “Are any of my crew injured?”

“Ms. Sirkin seems to have some injuries, but I would judge them not serious. She is conscious and her vital signs appear within normal limits.” He sounded entirely too certain; Heris trusted the worry in Petris’s voice.

“I’d prefer to have Sirkin evaluated by medical personnel. You are not, I gather, a physician?”

“Well no, but—”

“Since one of my crew died from a murderous assault, and Sirkin is injured, it would be prudent to have her examined, don’t you think?”

“But that would mean admitting her to this Sector—unless you want her sent to the central clinic—” His resolution wavered; she could hear it in his voice, a faint whine.

“Major, Sirkin has a valid Royal Docks pass, as have my other crew members. You have no real reason to exclude them. I can understand that you might want to escort them to medical care—”

“But—”

“I will be there as soon as possible,” Heris interrupted. “And I expect to find my crew members receiving adequate medical treatment.” Watching her, the militia communications tech raised his eyebrows; Heris winked, and they went up another notch. “Let me speak to my second in command.”

Petris came back on the line. “Yes, Captain?”

“I believe the major understands the need for Sirkin to receive immediate medical evaluation and treatment. I’d like you to stay with her. If Mr. Vissisuan is not injured, I’d like him to meet me at the access area on my return. Ms. Meharry can return to the ship if she needs no medical care, and I’ll speak to her there. Clear?”

“Clear, Captain.”

Heris came out of the little booth shaking her head. “Well, my other crew member has shown up, wounded apparently, at the Royal Docks access station. I don’t know if she was trying to get help or what. I know you’ll need to talk to her, but I think her medical care should come first.”

“I’ll come with you,” Cannibar said. “Want to leave now? What about the disposition of your crew member’s remains after autopsy?”

“I’m not sure—I’ll have to check my files aboard.” She would have to ask Sirkin, most likely. Anything but token cremation would be impossibly expensive; most who died aboard went into the carbon-cycle tanks. But it was always possible that Yrilan had taken out a burial insurance policy that would pay for shipping her body to a planet for “real” burial. Heris felt guilty that she had not known even this about the girl.

At the Royal Docks Access, Oblo and the Royal Security major waited in unamiable silence. Oblo had a ripening bruise on his forehead and his hands bore the marks of a good fight. But his expression was that of a large predatory mammal fully fed and satisfied. Heris spared him only a glance, then met the major’s angry gaze. Before he could say anything she introduced the Station militia captain.

“—investigating the death of Amalie Yrilan, a temporary-contract crew member.”

“I suppose you’ll want in to interview the others,” the major said sourly, transferring his glare to the militia captain.

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Heris had warmed to the captain already, and she liked his tone now. Not a trace of arrogance or obsequiousness either: he simply stated the obvious in a voice that meant to be obeyed. The major shrugged, and handed over a clip-on pass.

“Very well. This is a forty-eight-hour pass; if you need an extension, just give us a call.”

“How’s Sirkin?” Heris asked Oblo. He looked less smug.

“She caught part of a sonic blast, and a couple of knife slashes. I think she’s got some broken ribs, but this officer thinks it’s just bruising. Some heavy people landed on her, and she got some hard kicks I know of, one in the head.”

“Unconsciousness?”

“Yes, for a bit, but the one that landed on her weighed enough it could have been that.”

Heris thought of all she’d like to ask him, but not in front of Royal Security and Station militia officers. Why had he waited so long to come into the fight? Why had he brought Sirkin back here rather than the nearest militia station? Why had he been on the scene in the first place?

“Could I talk to you now?” said the militia captain. It wasn’t really a question.

“Sure, sir,” said Oblo, rubbing his hands over his head and trying to look innocent. It didn’t work. He had the face and hands of the experienced brawler, and the bruise was like a rose on a rosebush—a fitting decoration.

“I’m going to see Sirkin,” Heris said. “Oblo—when you’ve finished here, I’ll see you aboard.”

Sirkin had been through the diagnostics when Heris got to the clinic. She lay in a bed, in a bright-patterned gown Heris thought had been chosen to disguise bloodstains and other marks. Her face looked lopsided—she had swollen bruises down one side, and the other was discolored with the sunburn flush of the sonic pulser that had burst small blood vessels. That eye, too, was bloodshot. If Heris hadn’t seen the medical report, she’d have worried, but the eye had escaped real damage. She looked drowsy and said nothing when Heris came into the room. That would be the concussion the scans had shown.

Petris rose from a chair at the bedside. “Captain. Meharry’s gone back to the ship, as you asked. Oblo?”

“He’s talking to the militia captain in charge of the investigation. I still haven’t heard what happened. Have you?”

“Sirkin and Yrilan were out for a night, and took a shortcut through that park; they were jumped by a gang. Oblo and Meharry were following them, but trying to be discreet. They tried to deal quietly with someone who tried to keep them from entering the park—maybe part of the gang—and that took enough time that the row had started when they caught up. Yrilan was down, probably dead or dying, and Sirkin was fighting. They both think the gang was trying to capture Sirkin at that point—someone had cuffs out.”

“And they brought her out of the park because they weren’t sure if more trouble would arrive, or who it was—I can understand that,” Heris said. “But they should have called the ship, at least.”

“No time, Oblo said. But you know him—he hates to call for help.”

“True.” Heris looked down at Sirkin. So far she hadn’t spoken; her expression hadn’t changed. How badly was she really hurt—not physically, but emotionally? How would she react when she woke fully and realized that her lover was dead? “Brigdis,” she said, touching the young woman’s bandaged hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Captain?” Her voice was blurred; that could be the injuries or the drugs used to treat them. “You . . . came.”

“Yes.” No use to explain who had come when, not until her mind cleared. But tears rose in the younger woman’s eyes.

“Amalie . . . she screamed . . .”

“I’m sorry, Brigdis,” Heris said.

“Is she dead?” That sounded rational enough.

“Yes. I’m sorry. The sonic pulser got her at close range—you barely escaped.”

“She—jumped in front of me,” Sirkin said. “She—died for me.” Her body trembled, as if she were trying to cry but was too exhausted. Probably those ribs, Heris thought. They wouldn’t want to put her in the regeneration tank for the ribs until her concussion had stabilized.

“She was very brave,” Heris said. It never hurt to praise the dead, and Amalie Yrilan could be brave and foolish both. Many people were.

“But . . . she had gambled.” Heris wondered what that was about. Sirkin took a cautious breath. “She got in some trouble. I don’t know what. There was this woman.” All short sentences, carried on one difficult breath after another.

“You don’t have to talk now,” Heris said. “You’re safe here. We’ll stay with you, Petris or I.”

“But I want to.” Sirkin’s face had a stubborn expression now, someone forcing herself past a margin of discomfort for her own reasons. “She died. She saved me. But that woman said go there.” What woman? What was Sirkin talking about? Heris glanced at Petris, who shrugged.

“Brigdis, you’ve had a sonic charge to half your face, and some blows to the other half . . . I really think you shouldn’t try to talk now. You’re not clearheaded.”

“But—I thought she loved me. And then I thought she didn’t. And then she died. For me. So she must have—” Sirkin’s expression was pleading now. Heris wished she was still small and young enough to pick up and hug—that’s what she needed, medicine be damned.

“She did love you,” she said firmly. “I could see that. She loved you enough to try to qualify for deep-space work, to follow you here. Whatever happened, she did love you. And she proved it at the end.” She had long suspected that Yrilan would never have chosen a career aboard ships if Sirkin hadn’t been so intent on one. That face and attitude belonged somewhere else, though Heris didn’t know where.

“You’re sure?” Sirkin asked.

“I’m sure.” Heris stroked her head. “Now you get some sleep. I know you feel sick and hurt all over, but you’re alive, and you have friends to help you.” Sirkin closed her eyes, and in a few minutes was snoring delicately. Heris looked at Petris. “I should go back to the ship and check on Meharry and Oblo. Can you stay with her for now, and I’ll be back later?”

“Of course. If you’d just speak to the staff here, and let them know—they wanted to throw me out, earlier.”

“Right. She shouldn’t be alone, and I want to be notified at once if the militia or Royal Security tries to talk to her.”

Shiftchange chimed as Heris headed for the Sweet Delight. She would be up three shifts running, probably, and she hated to admit that it got harder every year. At her former rank in the R.S.S., she’d have been up for automatic rejuvenation treatment within the next few years, but as a civilian she’d have to pay for it herself. She wondered if she could afford it. Lady Cecelia claimed not to want rejuvenation; would she disapprove of her captain taking it?

In the access tube, Issigai Guar waited for her. “Captain, Oblo’s not back yet, but Meharry’s here . . . how’s Brigdis?”

Heris shook her head. “She’s got reparable physical injuries, but Yrilan’s death is going to shake her badly. I’m going back there after I debrief Meharry—any messages?”

“No, Captain, not since you’ve been back to this side of the dock. Station militia called here earlier, and I told ’em you’d headed for the Captains’ Guild. But that was hours ago. Ginese is on the bridge, of course.”

“Let me know, then. I’m going to talk to Meharry and I may put in a call to Lady Cecelia.” Heris went on into the ship. The lavender plush didn’t look quite as bad to her now, especially since it was all going to disappear in the next few weeks. Lady Cecelia had chosen crisp blues and greens with white for her new scheme, over the protests of the decorator, who insisted that the very latest colors were peach, cream, and something called sandfox. With accents of hot coral and hunter green. Feminine, the decorator had said, and flattering to mature complexions. Cecelia’s complexion had turned red at that, and she’d muttered that she could take her business to a place that would do what she wanted.

Meharry was outside her office, obviously fresh from a shower and change of clothes. She had a few visible bruises, but no worse damage.

“Sirkin’s in the clinic—the ribs are broken, and she does have a concussion,” Heris said before the other could ask. “They’re trying some new drug on the concussion—supposed to counter diffuse damage and reduce swelling—and they’ll put her in regen for the ribs when that’s done. I’m going back later; Petris is with her now.”

“Tough kid,” Meharry said. “We’d been showing her some things, but I wouldn’t have expected her to use them that well her first time out.”

“Tell me about it,” Heris said. The story from Meharry’s viewpoint took longer than it had when Petris gave her the short form, and began with her pointing out to Oblo that even if Sirkin had been learning how to fight, when she was with Yrilan she wasn’t really alert.

“I thought Oblo was installing that . . . navigational equipment.”

“Well, ma’am, he was. But those two didn’t leave right away—they spent awhile in Sirkin’s cabin—and Oblo was just about nearly finished when they did. We just didn’t want anything to happen . . . like it did.”

“I didn’t see you,” Heris said. “And they were ahead of me.”

Meharry’s green eyes twinkled. “You weren’t exactly looking, ma’am. You’s looking at them, and we’s looking at you . . . and them. They saw you, didn’t see us. . . . Classic, y’know?”

“So?”

“So,” Meharry said, with an eloquent shrug, “they went to this bar.” Here she fished out the datawand. Heris felt her own brows rise. “You might want to read this off, Captain. We sent the main stuff back here already, but there’s a bit more hasn’t gone in the computer yet.”

“You have a Fleet wand?”

“It’s not Fleet now.” The green eyes had gone muddy, like stagnant water. “It gives us that edge in networking you were talking about.” If no one caught her with it. If it wasn’t traced back to Heris.

“Still accesses Fleet nets?”

Meharry cocked her head. “Don’t know, really. Haven’t tried that yet. Be really risky to try it, if it doesn’t.” A mild way of putting it. “But it sucks strings out of civilian nets, no problem. Take a look.”

Heris brought the data up on her desk screen. The picture of the woman in the silk suit and jewels was clear enough for recognition.

“Enhanced by her database identification,” Meharry said, leaning over Heris’s shoulder. “That’s what she was wearing in the bar, but the face has been cleaned up by the ID subroutines. We didn’t have a picmic to overhear what they said—the noise level in there was really bad and there were sonic cops out in the concourse, who’d have detected anything good enough to filter voices.”

“Therapist,” said Heris thoughtfully. “And Sirkin said something about Yrilan gambling—could the girl have had a gambling problem and seen a therapist?”

“Yrilan got crosswise and got mandatory counseling instead of a hotspot in records,” Meharry said. “Pulled that out of this lady’s office files, once I knew where. But Oblo and I think she’s working for someone else. She definitely—definitely—signalled to these guys—” She pointed to the display again. “—when she came out. Then she fell off our scanners like a rock off a cliff. Had to be counterscan, had to be illegal.” Meharry sounded righteous about that.

“Meharry, your scans are illegal,” Heris said, trying not to laugh.

“Well, sure, but that’s how I know her counterscans were. Legal citizen-type scans aren’t worth the space in your pockets. Anybody can privacy-shield from them. We had to have something that’d work.” Meharry shrugged that off and pointed to the display.

“Her accounts, now . . . look at what she spends just on clothes. Public service therapists don’t make that much.”

“Investment income, it says,” Heris commented, not mentioning that sucking data from the banking nets was even more illegal than the rest of it.

“Yeah, but what investment? I grant you dividend income, but I wonder about the companies. You have investments, don’t you? Why don’t you check this stuff out, Captain?”

Heris laughed aloud. “In what spare time? I suppose I could ask about—uh—Siritec, since it seems to be paying her the most, but without knowing her initial investment there’s no way to tell . . . and no, I’m not about to stick a wire into investment accounts myself. What you’ve got is interesting—I wish I could figure out a way to let the militia in on it without compromising you.”

“You said Sirkin mentioned Yrilan’s gambling. Maybe just that?”

“I’ll think about it; I don’t want her catching any more trouble if we can help it. Now—about the fight itself—”

Meharry grinned. “Like I said, the kid was tough. Yrilan was down when we got around the corner, one of ’em leaning over her—probably making her that C.H. pattern—and Sirkin was fighting hard, but not hard enough. ’Course, she was outnumbered, and they were armed.” From the tone, she was making excuses she didn’t think would have to be made for her. “They weren’t trying to kill her, though. Somebody was on top of her, trying to cuff her, when Oblo ’bout took his head off. After that—” She gave a surprisingly detailed account of the brawl, interspersed with her assessment of the enemy’s ability and training. “And it was after they were all down, that we saw Yrilan’s face and hands. That’s when we figured it was Compassionate Hand business, and we’d better get Sirkin back to safety—”

“Eh, Captain.” That was Oblo, free surprisingly early from the militia captain. Heris had thought he’d be much later.

“Well—let’s hear it from you.” Oblo gave Meharry an oblique glance and settled into a seat. His clothes still had the marks of the fight, though he had daubed at the bloodstains somewhere along the line. His version was even racier than Meharry’s. She hadn’t bothered to mention the delay at the park entrance; they hadn’t wanted to kill any of their opponents at that point, but his description of the action made her wonder why the militia hadn’t found more inert bodies. Heris heard him out, then sent them off to rest. She was a little surprised that no more calls had come in for her, but she told Guar to patch them to the clinic if they did come. After a look at the time cycle where Cecelia was, she decided not to wake her.

When she called later, she found that Cecelia was in a mood Heris privately considered ridiculous. She was in a raging fury about some point of family politics, and threatening to throw things. Her reaction to Heris’s news was just as strong and no more helpful.

“Just what I needed,” she snapped. “You can’t even keep things straightened out up there. Why I ever thought you were more efficient than the prissy officious managers down here, I cannot now recall.” Heris tried not to get angry in return. “Another dead body . . . and that nice girl Sirkin injured . . . and that overpaid lot in the clinic will probably charge me double.”

“As a matter of fact, no.” Heris broke in with quiet satisfaction. “Since Sirkin is the victim of a crime, and it’s quite clear that she bears no responsibility for what happened, no charges apply to your employee accounts, and it will not affect your medical-tax rates in the future.”

“Oh. Well.” Heris could practically see the boiling temper settling down again. “Well, of course I care most about Sirkin and . . . whoever.”

“Sirkin will be fine, they tell me. In fact, while it’s a selfish thought at such a time, we’re more likely to keep her now. Her lover, Yrilan, wasn’t really qualified and I could not have justified offering her a long-term contract. Sirkin might or might not have stayed with us, if it meant separation from Yrilan.”

“That’s sad.” Now Cecelia sounded like herself again. Heris was glad she had the experience to know that the harsh, biting voice was only an expression of mood, not basic personality. “What a price to solve a dilemma.”

“True. Now, both Royal Security and the Station militia prefer that we remain docked here until Sirkin is out of the clinic and back aboard. That means we’ll be late to the Spacenhance slot, but I’ve already contacted them and they’re holding it for you. I’ll be very careful arranging accommodations for the crew during the time the ship won’t be habitable.”

“Of course,” Cecelia said. “And I’m sorry if I sounded off at first. It’s just that you haven’t been having to deal with the flat-footed idiots—” Her voice rose again. “—who messed up my perfectly clear instructions and landed me with a lot of low-grade bonds. These people who rejuvenate too often end up with brains like babies—no sense at all.”

Heris shook her head, and tried not to grin. For a woman who claimed to know and care about nothing but horses and good food, Lady Cecelia had strong opinions about the minutiae of investing.

Three days later, Sirkin was finally cleared for the regen tanks, and her broken ribs responded with the alacrity of youth. “She’s still not completely recovered from the concussion,” the doctors warned Heris. “Don’t expect rapid calculations, or long concentration—you’re not going to make jump points any time soon, are you?”

“No. We’re going in for redecorating—she’ll have plenty of time to recover.”

“Good. We’ll want to see her every ten days until the scans are completely normal. Immediately, of course, if you notice any changes in behavior that might be the result of head injury. I know she’s lost a close friend, and grief can produce some of the same symptoms—so be alert.”

Heris walked back to the ship access with Sirkin. The sparkle she had enjoyed was gone; the younger woman looked pale and sad. Natural, of course. Heris knew from experience that nothing she said would really help. In time, she’d work through her grief, but right now she needed time and privacy to react. As they came aboard the yacht, Sirkin turned to her.

“Can you tell me what—where Amalie’s—where they put . . . her?”

“In the morgue, awaiting instructions. The necropsy’s finished; the sonic pulser killed her. Do you know what her wishes would have been?”

Sirkin frowned. “She didn’t have burial insurance . . . I suppose it’ll have to be the usual. But I wanted to see her.”

Heris started to say Better not, then thought again. Would she have shielded a military youngster that way? Sirkin had earned a right to choose the difficult.

“Would you like me to come with you?”

“You’d do that?” Naked relief on her face. Heris nodded.

“Of course I will—and so will Petris. Oblo and Meharry, too, if you don’t mind.”

“I thought—I’d have to go alone,” Sirkin said. Heris could see her determination to do just that if necessary, and her relief that she would have friends beside her.

“It’s what shipmates are for,” she said. “But you’re just out of the clinic. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll get cleaned up, eat a good meal, and then go. By then I’ll have called them to schedule a visit.”

“Is it all right to wait? They won’t . . . do anything?”

“Not without legal clearance.”

“Then . . . I think I’d like to lie down a bit . . .” Sirkin looked even paler; Heris got an arm around her before her knees gave way, and helped her to her quarters.

“You’ll be better in a few hours,” she said. She hoped it would be true.

On the way to the morgue, next mainshift, Sirkin said, “I suppose I should find out about Amalie’s things. Or would the militia have done that?”

“They’ll have looked in her lodgings. I haven’t asked about that, but we can find out. Anything in particular?”

“Not really.” It was the tone that meant yes, of course.

“Did she have a will?”

“Not . . . yet. We hadn’t thought . . . you know . . . that she could die. Yet.” That complicated things, but not too badly. If Sirkin wanted a keepsake, something not too valuable, Heris was sure she could get it.

At the morgue, Heris called in to the militia headquarters to ask about Yrilan’s belongings. Cannibar wasn’t in; she spoke to his assistant.

“Her stuff’s in storage already, Captain Serrano, but if your crew has a legal claim—”

“No—she said Yrilan had made no will. I suspect they’d exchanged gifts, keepsakes—”

A long bored sigh in her ear. “Younglings. I wish she’d thought of this before we sealed the storage cube.”

“She had a concussion,” Heris said. “She was under medical treatment, remember?”

“Oh. Right. Well . . . she has to come by here for an interview anyway, doesn’t she? I suppose, if you’re willing to sit in, so I don’t have to waste someone else’s time—and it can’t be anything of substantive value. Does your—uh—Sirkin have the next-of-kin names and addresses?”

“I’ll find out,” Heris said. “Right now we’re at the morgue.”

“Young idiot,” said the voice, but with a tinge of humanity this time. “When can we expect you?”

“An hour or so, I expect, from here to there. She’s not supposed to ride drop-tubes for a few more days. I’ll call back if it’s longer.”

“If she comes apart,” said the voice, this time full of resignation.

“Have you caught the ones who got away?” asked Heris. Time to put the voice on the defensive.

“Not yet. I’d figured from the blood that at least one would show up in some medical facility, but no such luck. Maybe he died and they put the body in the tanks.” Heris opened her mouth, but the voice went on. “And before you ask, no, we can’t do the kind of analysis you could on a Fleet ship—this Station’s too big for that. We’ve always got some unauthorized recycs garbaging our figures.”

“Too bad,” Heris said. She glanced over and saw that Sirkin was about to go through a door into the viewing area. “Talk to you later,” she said, and punched off.

Oblo and Meharry stood on either side of Sirkin as she waited in the viewing area. It was cold and a sharp odor made Heris’s nose itch. A waist-high bar separated them from the polished floor on which the wheeled trays slid out from a wall of doors. Sirkin punched in the numbers she’d been given at the front desk. A door snicked open, and a draped form emerged so smoothly it seemed magical. The tray unfolded wheeled legs as it cleared the door, and rolled along tracks sunk in the floor until it stopped in front of their group. Heris glanced past to see an arrangement of visual baffles and soundproofing that would allow several—she could not tell how many—viewings at once. With a thin buzz, the bar lifted to let them through.

Rituals for the dead varied; Heris had no idea what Sirkin felt necessary for Yrilan. Slowly, the young woman folded back the drape, and stared at the face. Morgues were nothing like the funeral hostels of those religions that thought it important to make the dead look “lifelike.” No one had worked on Yrilan’s face with paint or powder, with clay or gum or needle to reshape and recolor it. Her dead body looked just that: dead. Heris guessed that under the rest of the sheet the marks of the fight and the autopsy both would be even more shocking. Sirkin had given one sharp gasp, as the reality of it hit her. Heris touched her shoulder, lightly.

“It’s so . . . ugly,” Sirkin said. Heris saw Oblo’s eyelids flicker. This was far from ugly, as they had both seen ugly death . . . but it was Sirkin’s first, maybe. “Her hair’s all dirty and bloody—” She touched it, her hands shaking.

“She had beautiful hair,” Meharry said. Heris glanced at her. She hadn’t expected Meharry to notice, or to comment now. But Meharry was watching Sirkin. “Lovely hair it was, and if you cut yourself a lock—over on this side, it’s just as clean and lovely as ever . . .”

Sirkin’s hand went out again, then she turned and grabbed for a hand, anyone’s hand. Heris took it, and put an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. “You’ve seen enough now, haven’t you? Do you have a picture, the way she was?”

“I—yes—but that’s not the point.” Sirkin, trembling, was still trying to stay in control. “She died for me; the least I can do is look.”

Heris was surprised in spite of herself. She’d been impressed with Sirkin before, but death spooked a lot of people. Sirkin pushed herself away from Heris, but Oblo intercepted her.

“There’s a right way,” he said. “You loved her; we all respect her body. You take that corner; let the captain take this.”

What lay beneath the drape met Heris’s expectations. None of Yrilan’s beauty remained, nor any clue to her personality. In slow procession across the inside of Heris’s eyelids passed the dead she had seen in all her years, one blank face after another. She, too, always looked—and she had never yet become inured to it. Sirkin, only a fine tremor betraying her, stared blankly at the evidence of a violent death, and then, with Heris’s help, stretched the drape across the body once more. A last stroke of the hand on that fire-gold hair, and she turned away, mouth set. Meharry, Heris noted, had clipped a single curl and folded it into a tissue: Sirkin might want it later. Or might not—she trusted Meharry to know whether to offer it or not.