Sporting Chance

Chapter Six

Shifting the Sweet Delight from the Royal Docks to the decorators took only a few hours, but Heris felt she’d put in a full shift’s work by the time they had linked with their new docking site. First there’d been the formalities of leaving the Royal Sector, with a double inventory of all badges issued, and multiple inspections of the access area. That had made them half an hour late in departure. Then the captain of the tug designated to move the yacht, angry because of the delay, took out his frustrations with several abrupt attitude changes that strained Sweet Delight’s gravity compensators. Heris had to be almost rude to get him to stop. Finally, even the docking at Spacenhance presented problems. Although Heris had given them the yacht’s specifications as soon as the contract was signed, the slot had been left “wide” for the much larger vessel just completed. Heris had to hold the yacht poised, just nuzzling the dock, while the expansion panels eased out to complete the docking seal.

“They probably thought you’d tear up their space if they resized it ahead of time,” Petris pointed out. Heris wanted to grumble at him but there was no time. Somewhere on the dock, the moving and storage crews would be racking up time charges. Her crew would supervise the packing and removal of all the yacht’s furnishings, and the sealing of essential systems from whatever chemicals the decorators used.

At least the lavender plush was about to disappear. Heris wondered if they’d roll it up and sell it to someone else. Perhaps that’s why they’d tried to argue Cecelia into yet another color scheme she didn’t like. It would save energy and resources to reuse all that material. She led the crew to the access tube and looked around for the decorator’s representative.

The decorator’s dockside looked nothing like the luxurious offices in which Cecelia had made her choices of color and texture. A vast noisy space, in which rows of shipping containers looked like children’s blocks on the floor of a large room, gaped around them. Machinery clanked and grumbled; something smelled oily and slightly stale. A crew in blue-striped uniforms, presumably from the moving and storage company, lounged near the shipping containers.

“Ah . . . Captain Serrano.” That was a tall, gangling man in a formal gray suit. “Are we ready to get started?”

“Quite,” said Heris. He had an ID tag dangling from his lapel, with the firm’s logo in purple on peach. Typical, she thought. He turned and waved to the moving and storage crew.

“You do understand that everything must be removed or sealed? Not that there’s any question of contamination . . .” He laughed, three very artificial ha-ha-has, and Heris wondered what ailed him. “But we want no questions. I am Ser Schwerd, by the way, the director on this project. I suppose the owner is still determined on that . . . unfortunate color scheme?”

“If you mean green and white, yes.”

“Pity. We can do so much more when given a free hand. Really, if clients would only realize that we know much more about decorating than they do. However, the client’s satisfaction is more important than any other consideration, though if we could strike a blow for artistic integrity—”

“Lady Cecelia,” Heris said, “is quite sure what she wants.”

He sighed. “They always are, Captain Serrano. All these old ladies are sure they know what they want, and really they have no idea. But let’s not waste our time lamenting what can’t be changed. Always think positively, that’s my motto. If the lady is unsatisfied with this redecoration, perhaps next time she’ll trust the judgment of someone with real expertise.”

Heris managed not to laugh at him. Anyone who knew Lady Cecelia knew that she had no doubts about her own desires; she would not likely change her mind because someone else claimed to have better taste. Ser Schwerd introduced the movers’ supervisor, a thickset bald man with twinkling brown eyes.

“Gunson,” he said. “Quite reliable.” Gunson’s expression said he could prove that without Schwerd’s commentary. Heris liked him at once, and they exchanged handshakes.

A steady stream of packers and movers moved through the ship. Cecelia’s belongings disappeared into padded containers, which then fit into the larger storage/shipping containers. With all the crew to help, the inventory checkoffs went more quickly than usual—according to Gunson. Cecelia’s own quarters, the guest quarters, the public areas of the ship, crew quarters. Furniture, the contents of built-in storage, clothing, decorations—everything.

“What about this?” Gunson asked, opening the galley door.

“Nothing—seal it off,” Heris said. Schwerd grimaced.

“It needs something—”

“No . . . Lady Cecelia has a very exacting cook. He’s got it just the way he wants it, and if you’ll look at the contract, it specifies absolutely no change in the galley or pantries.”

“But foodstuff should be removed—”

“Why?” Heris asked, surprised. “These are staples; they won’t deteriorate in the few weeks you’ll be working. If the galley’s sealed, there’s no danger of contamination from any paint fumes or whatever. Besides, we were told initially that there was no need to remove anything from compartments that could be sealed and were not to be worked on.”

He looked unhappy, but nodded. The decorators had provided coded seals for compartments not part of the contract. Heris had her crew seal the hatches under his supervision; she wasn’t sure she trusted the decorators not to try something fancy where it wasn’t wanted. The bridge, for example, and the ships’ systems compartments. The garden sections of hydroponics were all empty now, but the gas-exchange tanks remained operational, the bacterial cultures on maintenance nutrients. She didn’t want to take the time to recharge them all later.

At last everything was off the ship, and all the crew had their personal gear loaded on carryalls. Heris sent them ahead to the lodgings she’d arranged. She and Ser Schwerd had to do the final inspection, checking both the seals to areas not being worked on and the areas that were supposed to be clear.

“Someone always leaves something,” Schwerd said. “Always. Sometimes it’s valuable—once, I recall, a distinguished lady’s diamond—and-ruby brooch, lying there in the middle of the owner’s stateroom. Why someone hadn’t stepped on it and broken it, I never knew. More often it’s some little thing the movers can’t believe is important, but it has sentimental value. A child’s soft toy, an unimportant trophy.” He strode through the passages with an expression of distaste, glancing quickly into each compartment.

“Ah . . .” This was in Cecelia’s quarters, the study which looked so different with its antique books and artwork removed. Sure enough, a squashed and dusty arrangement of faded ribbons, which Heris realized, after Schwerd smoothed it with his hands, had once been a rosette of some sort. “One of Lady Cecelia’s earlier triumphs, I would say.” He held it out; Heris could just make out “ . . . hunter pony . . .” in flaking black letters on the purplish ribbon. “It would have been a first place blue,” Schwerd said. “Those letters were originally gold or silver ink. And I’m sure she’d notice if it were gone.” He handed it to Heris, ceremoniously, and she brushed off the rest of the dust, folded it, and tucked it into her jacket. Perhaps Cecelia would notice, perhaps not, but she would keep it safe.

Back at the hostel, Heris checked on her crew. Transient crew housing had few amenities; the ship had been far more comfortable. But they had settled in, having arranged adjoining cubicles. She had decided to stay here, with them, rather than at the Captains’ Guild. She worried about the next few weeks—how to keep them busy and out of trouble until they could go back aboard. With the Compassionate Hand looking for revenge—and despite the militia’s assurances, she knew they would be looking for revenge—all were in danger until something else distracted that organization. Perhaps she could schedule some training in civilian procedures.

Petris signalled her with raised eyebrows. Did she want to—? Of course, though she’d like to have a long uninterrupted sleep first. With the ship now the responsibility of the decorating firm, she could reasonably sleep late into the next shift. Surely her crew could cope by themselves for a day. She posted a crew meeting far enough in the future that she knew she couldn’t sleep that long, no matter what, and nodded to Petris.

“Dinner first?” he asked. Heris yawned and shook her head.

“If you’re hungry, go ahead—I’m more tired than anything.”

“Umm. Perhaps my suggestion was premature?”

“No. I’ve missed you. It’s amazing how few times we’ve managed to be together. Something always happens. I’m beginning to feel like the heroine in a farce.”

“Don’t say that.” He made a mock-angry face at her. “You’ll bring the bad luck down on us.”

“Not this time,” she said. “The ship’s safe, and Sirkin’s safe with Meharry in the same section. If the rest of them go wandering, they’ll be a match for anything. Besides, they’re too tired right now, just like I am. Maybe I’ll nap a bit, and then—we’ll finally have time to enjoy ourselves.”

In the quiet dark of her quarters, she lay against his warm length and felt her muscles unkinking, strand by strand. This was, indeed, better than dinner . . . she dozed off, aware of his hand tracing patterns on her back but unable to stay awake to appreciate them fully. They had time . . . she needed just a little sleep . . .

She was deep in a dream about sunlit fields and people dancing in circles when the insistent voice in the intercom woke her. “Captain Serrano. Captain Serrano. Captain Serrano . . .”

“Here,” she said, blinking into the darkness. A sour taste came into her mouth.

“There’s an urgent message from downside. It’s on a tightlink; you’ll have to come to a secure line.”

“At once.” Petris roused then; she found him looking at her when she turned on a single dim light to dress by. His expression was both rueful and grumpy.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.” She didn’t, but her heart was racing. It had to be something about Cecelia; the bad feeling she’d had loomed as close as a storm. “It’s a tightlink call from downside. Not Cecelia calling, I don’t think—they’d have told me—but they said it was urgent.”

“I told you not to bring bad luck down on us,” he said, but his grin took the sting out of it. “I’ll get up; you go on.”

“I’ll be back soon,” she said, and kissed him. Now she was awake, she wanted to leap back into bed with him. Why couldn’t she have waked from that dream to the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands, with nothing to do but enjoy herself? With a sigh, she pushed herself away, and went out.

It wasn’t really that late, she realized once she was out in the public meeting areas. She found a tightlink booth, and entered it. The ID procedure was almost as complete as for Fleet links, and she had several seconds to wait before the screen cleared from the warning message. She put the headset on.

“Captain Serrano?” It was Ronnie, and he sounded as if he’d been crying.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is your aunt—?”

“She’s—she may die, they said.” His voice broke, then steadied. “She—she just fell down. And she was breathing oddly, and the doctors think she’s had a massive stroke.”

Heris found it hard to think. She had anticipated some trouble, but not this. “Where is she? Where are you?”

“She’s at St. Cyril’s, and I’m at home—at my parents’ house. That’s where it happened. Mother’s at the hospital; she said to stay here and out of the way.” He paused, cleared his throat, and continued. “She didn’t tell me to tell you, but I thought you should know.”

“Thank you. You’re right that I needed to know.” Heris tried to think who else would need to know. The redecorators? Probably, although they already had the guarantee on the job. The crew, certainly. She wondered whether Cecelia had told Ronnie about the attack on Yrilan and Sirkin . . . was there any possibility that this was a covert action by the Compassionate Hand? “Did you see it?” she asked.

“No. I was there, but in the next room, talking to my father. We didn’t hear her fall, but we heard Mother scream. We called emergency medical help, of course . . .”

“Was anyone else there? Any visitors?”

“Well, yes. It was a reception for the Young Artists’ League—Mother’s a sponsor—and she had a time convincing Aunt Cecelia to come. Why?”

How much to tell him, even on a tightline. She had to risk it. “Ronnie—did your aunt mention the attack on Sirkin?”

“Something happened to Sirkin? What?”

“She was attacked, with her lover, by the Compassionate Hand—a criminal organization—”

“I know about them,” Ronnie said, affronted.

“Fine. Her lover was killed, and Sirkin’s alive because Oblo and Meharry came into the fight. But think—is there any chance, any chance at all that your aunt’s collapse could have been an attack? I don’t know how—you were there—but could it have been?”

“You mean—they’d get after her? Like . . . er . . . poison?”

“They might. Ronnie, listen: you must not, absolutely must not, talk about this to anyone. Anyone. We don’t know if it happened, but if it did happen the worst thing you could do is talk about it. Something should give you a clue later on . . . something will happen, or be said . . . but you’re the only one available to interpret it. You have to stay alive, well, and free. Is that clear?”

“It’s really serious.” It was not a question. “You really think—yes. All right. I will keep it quiet, but how do I talk to—wait a minute, someone’s here—” The open line hummed gently, rhythmically, with the scrambling effect. She could hear nothing from the far end—she wasn’t supposed to. Finally Ronnie came back on, slightly breathless. “Sorry—my father’s back. Aunt Cecelia’s in a coma; they don’t know if she’ll come out of it. He thinks not. I—I’ll get back to you when I can.”

Heris waited for the triple click of the line closing, then the ending sequence on her console. Alongside the shock and fear she felt was a trickle of amusement—once again, something had interrupted her night with Petris. Once again it had been something she couldn’t anticipate. She shook her head, and emerged from the booth to find Petris watching her.

“Lady Cecelia?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s go back—you need to hear about it.”

In the little room, both of them glanced at the rumpled bed and away from it again. Heris settled in the chair; Petris pulled the covers back across the bed and sat on its edge.

“She’s alive,” Heris said. “But I don’t know for how long. According to Ronnie, she collapsed suddenly and the doctors are saying it’s a stroke.”

“She’s old,” Petris said, answering her doubt, not her words. “And she hasn’t had rejuv, has she?”

“No. She told me once she disapproved of it; she had healthy genes, she said, and when her time was up it was only fair to give someone else a chance.”

“Silly attitude.” Petris scowled. “In a universe this big, there’s room for everyone. Besides, she was rich.”

“She might have reconsidered—I think she made that decision when she was unhappy, and stuck to it out of stubbornness. I had been seeing signs of change in her.”

“But still—in her eighties, even now, without rejuv. It could be a natural stroke.” He cocked his head at her. “But you don’t think so, do you?”

“It would be a damned convenient stroke, Petris. Coming so soon after the attack on Sirkin and Yrilan, combined with her . . . er . . . revelations to the Royals about Mr. Smith—” Heris didn’t want to be any more specific in quarters that might easily be under surveillance.

“And you said she was in a foul temper about something just a few days ago—some family business. Perhaps there’s someone else with a reason to put her out of action. Although temper—isn’t that a cause of strokes?”

Heris laughed, and surprised herself. “If it were, no Serrano would have survived to take rejuv. I’m one of the mild ones.”

“But it could have been a stroke, no enemy action.”

“Could have been. There’s no way we can tell from here. I just worry—”

“Wouldn’t the doctors figure out if it’s not a real stroke?”

“I don’t know. And if they do think someone did something, that doesn’t mean they can fix it. At least they can’t blame us—we’re up here, and she’s been down there for days.”

“Well. Nothing we can do right now, is there?”

“No, but I—”

“You’re not in the mood, I understand that, but do you think you could sleep?”

By this time, Heris wasn’t sleepy anymore; she and Petris finally went out for an early breakfast, and came back to tell the rest of the crew. Heris wasn’t sure what to do about them. She really wanted to take a shuttle downside and see for herself how Cecelia was. But that would leave the crew with nothing to do but fret. As for the future, if Cecelia died, or stayed in a coma, she wouldn’t need a yacht and crew . . . at some point Heris would have to look for another job, and hope a few of her crew could find work on the same ship. Not likely, but . . . she scolded herself for thinking of her own convenience, her own desires, when a friend lay comatose. Conflicting loyalties tugged at her.

The crew took the news quietly at first. Sirkin still looked shocky from her own loss and her injuries; she sat pale and silent, not meeting anyone’s eyes. The others glanced back and forth and deferred their questions. Heris, knowing them so well, knew they had questions, and would come to her individually.

By the time she thought of sleep again, she and Petris both had little interest in pleasure. He pleaded a headache—“Nontraditional as it is, my love, it’s boring a hole in my skull and frying my brain”—and went to his own quarters; she slept badly, waking often to think she’d heard the intercom calling.

The next call finally came from the family legal firm two days later. They had no interest in answering her questions, and had plenty of their own. What was the status of Lady Cecelia’s yacht? Heris explained about the redecorating. Couldn’t it be halted? She had anticipated this question, and had already contacted the redecorators. No—the ship’s existing finishes were already being stripped. They could delay applying the new carpeting and wallcoverings, but they couldn’t replace those already removed—not without a surcharge. Heris pointed out that Cecelia had loathed the color scheme, and it would make no sense to replace the same one.

“But her sister selected it,” said the lawyer, in an outraged tone.

Heris wondered whether to mention who was paying for the new one, and decided better not.

“Lady Cecelia preferred something else,” she said. “She was quite firm about it.”

“I don’t doubt,” he said sourly. “The point is, if she is, as seems likely, permanently incapacitated, she will have no need for the yacht and a new color scheme hardly seems worth the price. If it’s for sale—”

“Perhaps simply having the decorators delay installing the new—that way, any potential buyer could choose his or her own scheme—”

“Perhaps. Now, about the crew payroll—”

“Lady Cecelia had given me permission to authorize payment from the yacht expenses account. I can transmit all the recent transactions, if you’d like.”

“Yes, thank you.” He seemed a bit surprised. Heris wondered if he’d expected her to try something dishonest.

“And I would like some idea of when a determination will be made about the yacht, since the crew will need the usual warning before being asked to find new positions.” That should convince him she wasn’t trying to get them on the family payroll forever.

“Oh. Quite. Well, er . . . no hurry, I should think. In case she recovers, though that seems unlikely . . . there’s always the chance . . . and anyway, some legal action would have to be taken to transfer control of the yacht to her heirs. Certainly that won’t happen for . . . oh . . . sixty days or more.”

Heris chose her words carefully. “You mean, I am authorized to maintain and pay an idle crew for sixty days?”

“Well . . . er . . . yes . . . I suppose so . . .” Unspoken conflicts between parsimony and habit cluttered his words.

“I would prefer to have that in writing,” Heris said briskly, with no sympathy for his problems. “It’s possible that either Lady Cecelia’s bankers or Station personnel could have questions.”

“Oh, certainly. I’ll see that you get that, and I’ll speak to her bankers.” Faced with an assignment, his voice picked up energy. This was simply business, a routine he was used to. “Of course, that’s limited to . . . er . . . the usual schedule of payments.”

“Of course. I’m sure Lady Cecelia’s records already contain a pay scale and the account activity, but I’ll send those along.”

Spacenhance were not pleased to have the redecorating halted midway, but maintained a polite, if frosty, demeanor about it. They could, they admitted, simply leave the ship “bare” for a week or so. Even longer, if no other business came in, though if they needed the dock space the yacht would have to be moved to another site. Heris pointed out that she would have to have legal authorization to move it, since Lady Cecelia’s affairs were now in the hands of her legal staff, and might soon be a matter of court decision. They subsided so quickly that Heris was sure another player had made the same point more forcibly. The king? Certainly the Crown could command a berth there as long as it wanted.

After another three days of waiting, she tried to contact Cecelia’s sister or brother-in-law. A frosty servant informed her that neither was home, that no family member was home, and that inquiries from employees should be made to the family legal representative. She couldn’t tell, from the tone, if that was aimed at her, specifically, or at any low-level employee. She realized she didn’t even know what other employees Cecelia might have onplanet, besides her maid Myrtis.

The news media had had nothing to say about it, of course, though it showed up on the hospital admissions list. Heris thought of having Oblo insinuate himself into the hospital datanet, but that could have serious repercussions. The hospital census let her know that Cecelia was alive still.

Ronnie called her a day after she’d tried to reach the family.

“She’s alive, still in a coma,” he said. “They’re talking about moving her to a different facility, which prepares people for long-term care.”

“Have you seen her yourself?” Heris asked.

“Only through glass. She’s hooked up to so many tubes . . . they say that’s temporary, until they’ve got implanted monitors in her. So far she’s breathing on her own—”

“No response?”

“None I can see. Of course, she could be sedated. There’s no way for me to tell, but I know the family’s very concerned. They’ve had outside consultants already.” He sounded as if he wanted to burst into tears.

“What happens now?” Heris asked. “Who decides what to do?”

“My mother’s her nearest relative on this planet. Aunt Cecelia had filed all the . . . er . . . directives old people are supposed to file, and my mother agrees with them, so she’s the one to sign the papers.”

“When will they move her? Do you know?”

“Not exactly. She’s out of the first unit, and into something they call the Stabilization Unit. As I understand it, they’ll implant the first sensors and something so they can plug feeding tubes and things in. Then they’ll send her to this other place. If she comes out of the coma, fine—they can just take the implants out. If she doesn’t, there’s some other surgery—I don’t know it all yet—and they’ll send her somewhere for long-term care.”

“For the rest of her life,” Heris said, trying to take it in.

“That’s what they said.” Ronnie sounded uncertain. “They said she might live out her normal life span, even.” Heris tried to think what that would be for a woman Cecelia’s age. “Oh—” Ronnie broke into her thoughts. “Do you know if she was taking any kind of medicine?”

“Your aunt? Not that I know of. She told me she didn’t take anything unless she had an injury.”

“That’s what I told them when they asked, but I thought—if you knew—maybe it would help.”

“I can’t even look in her quarters,” Heris reminded him. “Everything’s in storage for refitting. Have you asked Myrtis?”

“Yes, but she didn’t know of any. There’s another thing—”

“Yes?”

“I’m not sure why, but my parents are really upset with you. They seem to think you’ve been a bad influence on Aunt Cecelia. I told them about how you shot that admiral, and all, but they have something against you.”

Heris frowned. “I wonder what. Did your aunt talk about me?”

“Yes—she thought you were great, but I would’ve thought it just bored them—excuse me, but you know what I mean.”

“Perhaps she said too much about me; if it bored them, they could decide not to like the boring topic.” She said it lightly, but it worried her. Were Cecelia’s relatives really that silly?

Several days later, Ronnie called again. “I found out what was upsetting them,” he said. “And you need to know.”

“What?”

“Aunt Cecelia left you the yacht in her will.”

“She what? She couldn’t have.”

“I thought you didn’t know,” he said, sounding smug. “They think you did. It was one of the first things she did when she got here, apparently. Went to her attorney and had her will changed.”

“But she shouldn’t have—there’s no reason—”

“Well, her attorney argued about it, but she insisted; you know her. And when the doctors said the stroke might have been caused by a drug of some kind, the attorney thought of you, because you would benefit.”

“But she’s not dead.” That popped out; the rest of her mind snagged on “might have been caused by a drug” and hung there, unable to think further.

“She could have died. Besides, you know the law—if she’s not competent in law for long enough—I forget how long it is—they open her will and distribute her assets under court guardianship.”

“You mean someone can inherit before she’s dead?” Heris found she could deal with the lesser curiosity while the greater dread sank deeper into her mind. She had never heard of such a possibility.

“Yes, but with some controls, so if she’s suddenly competent again she can regain control.” From Ronnie’s tone, this was something most people knew about. Most people as rich as his family, at least.

“But—I’m not the sole beneficiary, am I?”

“No, but you’re the only one outside family or long-term business associates. She left her forty-seven percent interest in her breeding and training stables to the woman who’s owned the other fifty-three percent for the past twenty years, for instance. But that’s been expected. The yacht wasn’t. And for some reason Mother’s really annoyed about it. I think she’s still upset with Aunt Cecelia for not liking the decorator she chose. Besides, we don’t have a yacht, and Mother’s always wanted one.”

“You don’t?” Keep him talking. Maybe then she could process that dire possibility, figure out what to do.

“No . . . my father always said it made more sense to travel on commercial liners, and if you really needed off-schedule travel you could always charter. We’ve done that. Of course we have shuttles.” To Heris, private deep-space ships made more sense than shuttles, and she said so. Ronnie explained. “If you have your own shuttle, you’re never stuck onplanet. And no one knows for sure if you’re traveling yourself, which they would in a public shuttle. Aunt Cecelia didn’t agree; she’d take the public shuttles as often as not, even if my father offered her the use of ours. Now Bunny’s family keeps shuttles on several worlds and a yacht. That’s the most convenient, but my father says it’s far too expensive.” Heris gathered her scattered wits and came up with one idea.

“Ronnie, is his daughter—Brun—back here now? Or could you find out?”

“Brun? Oh, Bubbles’s new name. Yes, she’s here . . . why?”

“Does her father know about Lady Cecelia?”

“Yes, and Bubbles—Brun—says he’s upset. Of course he would be; they’ve been friends all their lives.”

“Ask her to call me, will you? I’d like to see her, if possible.”

“Of course, but why?”

Heris herself wasn’t sure, but something glimmered at the back of her mind, something that might help Cecelia. “We had a long talk before we left Sirialis. I’d just like to chat with her.”

“Oh.” She could tell from his expression that he thought this was a silly side issue, that she should stick to the problem of Cecelia’s coma and the irate family. “Well . . . I’ll tell her. Do you want her to come up there?”

“If possible.”

Heris wanted to suggest that Brun take some precautions, but she was afraid Ronnie would waste time asking why. And after all, the girl wanted to be an adventurer—give her a chance to show any native talent.

Brun called on an open line, direct to the desk at Heris’s hostel. She sounded just like the petulant girl Heris had first met. “Captain Serrano!” Her upper-class accent speared through the conversation in the lounge. Heris sensed others listening to the overspill from the speaker. So much for talent. Brun went on. “Have you seen my blue jewel case?”

“I beg your pardon.” It was all Heris could think of, a reflex that meant nothing but bought a few seconds.

“This is Bubbles, Bunny’s daughter,” the voice went on. “When we were on Lady Cecelia’s yacht, I had my blue jewel case and now I can’t find it. It’s not at Sirialis, and it’s not here—it must be on the yacht. Would you please look in the stateroom I was using, and send it to me?”

For a moment Heris wondered if Brun had gone mad. Or if she’d given up the change of name and gone back to being a fluffhead. How could she be worrying about a jewel case with Cecelia in the hospital, in a coma? She could hear the annoyance in her own voice when she answered. “I’m sorry—Lady Cecelia’s yacht is empty—everything was removed to storage because the yacht was to be redecorated, but now—”

“But I need it!” Brun’s voice whined. “I always wear that necklace at the family reunion, and it’s next week, and if I don’t wear it, Mother will want to know why, and—”

“I’m sorry,” Heris said. A glimmer of understanding broke through her irritation . . . if Brun was really that devious, she might indeed have talent. “You’d have to get into the storage facility, and I don’t know . . .” She let her voice trail away.

“I’ll come up there,” Brun said, suddenly decisive. “They’ll have to let me in—you can introduce me; it’s not like I’m a criminal or anything. I just want my own blue jewel case, and I know just where I must have left it, in the second drawer from the bottom in that bedside chest . . .”

“But I’m not sure,” Heris said, shaking her head for the benefit of the listeners in the hostel lounge. “I don’t think they’ll let anyone but Lady Cecelia’s agent—”

“But you are her agent,” Brun said. “You can do it—I know you can. I’ll be up there in—let’s see—late tonight. I’ll call.” She broke the connection. Heris looked around and sighed dramatically.

“The rich are different from you and me,” said the clerk, with sympathy. Heris shrugged.

“They think they are. Can you believe? She thinks she left something aboard Lady Cecelia’s yacht months ago, and expected me to retrieve it. Of course everything’s in sealed storage. Of course they aren’t going to let her into it.”

“Who is she?” the man asked.

“Lord Thornbuckle’s youngest daughter. They call her Bubbles.”

“Ah—I’ve heard of her. They will let her in, bet you they do. Likely her father owns the company that owns the company that owns them. Might as well cooperate with that kind.”

In person, Brun had indeed reverted to the fluffhead Bubbles. Her blonde hair, brushed into a wild aureole, had been tinted pink at the ends. She wore an outfit of pink and lime green which Heris assumed was an extreme of fashion; bright clattering bracelets covered both arms to the elbow.

“Captain Serrano!” Her greeting almost went too far; Heris recognized the tension around the eyes that didn’t fit the wide smile. “I’m simply devastated . . . I have to have that necklace.”

“Nice to see you again, miss.” Heris couldn’t bring herself to call the girl Bubbles, but “Brun” would break the fluffhead cover. “I’ve checked with the storage company; they will meet with you Mainshift tomorrow. Perhaps you could give me a few more details? They thought the chests in that stateroom had all been empty.”

“Oh, of course. Let’s go eat somewhere—I’m starved. I’m sure the food’s better at my hotel.” And Brun turned away, clearly someone who expected flunkies to do as they were told. Heris saw the amused glances of the others in the lounge, and gave them a wry grin as she followed Brun out into the concourse.