Sporting Chance

Chapter Nine

Heris explained the Crown mission with as little expression in her voice as possible. She had assembled the crew in a private lounge of a respectable hotel, as she’d done at weekly intervals all along, and Oblo had turned on one of his gadgets before she started to speak. Sirkin opened her mouth twice, but subsided. The rest of the crew stared at her without expression.

“You realize the whole thing is a trap.” Petris sounded almost angry. She wished he wouldn’t. Anger with him was next door to passion, and she had no time for that now.

“Of course,” she said. She could feel the additional tension. “But we don’t have to walk into the trap.”

“I thought we just did.” Oblo was giving her his look, the one which made ensigns pale and civilians switch to the other side of streets and slideways.

“So does the Crown,” Heris said, grinning. “Safer that way—what do you think they’d do if I refused the bait? Kill us off one by one, like Sirkin’s friend, and certainly finish Lady Cecelia. I don’t like that solution, but we’re vulnerable as long as we’re tied to a ship in dock, and weak if we separate. No, we’re going to take their bait—then we’re going to pick up the whole trap and walk off with it.”

“How?” Trust Oblo to get to the sticky bit and say it aloud. Petris, shaking his head, grinned at her.

“I don’t know yet. But that’s the plan.”

“All strategy, no tactics,” Petris said. Not an angry voice, but behind the neutrality was doubt. “Unless just staying out of whatever trap they’ve set is tactics.”

“I’ll work on it,” Heris said tartly. “And here’s what I need. You each have your list.” She handed out the handwritten notes. She sat back and watched their expressions. Oblo’s brows rose, and he looked up to give her a short nod. Yes. He’d figured it out.

“But the Crown gave us permission . . . why this?”

“It was indicated to me that they’d rather we looked like outlaws. I have . . . assurance . . . that it will be cleared up later.”

“Anything worthwhile?” asked Petris.

“Yes. And not going with us, though they don’t know that. I was given letters patent, empowering us to act as one of His Majesty’s Fleet in certain matters. To be presented to certain . . . ah . . . personages we are unlikely to find where I was told to meet them.”

“Because—?” began Sirkin. Petris gave her his best “civilians are idiots” look. Heris glared at him. Sirkin was their weak point—young, inexperienced, and emotionally vulnerable after Amalie’s death. She didn’t need any more pressure from any of them. Petris answered Sirkin in a very different tone than his first expression had promised.

“Because either they aren’t there, or the captain expects we won’t be, or both. And she’s not telling us now, because we shouldn’t know too much.”

“Those letters are staying behind, in what I devoutly hope are secure locations, which I will not divulge even to my crew,” Heris said. Kevil Starbridge Mahoney owed her favors; he could jolly well put some unopened documents in his own security files for her.

“Suppose . . . we actually find out who’s putting the pressure on the king, and take it off?” That was Sirkin again. Heris was glad Petris hadn’t yet squashed her initiative; the girl was young, but she had promise, and her unmilitary background gave her something the others didn’t share.

“Fine, if we can do it without having the same pressure land on us,” Heris said. “But it’s like maneuvers—getting the fire off someone else doesn’t make us safe. Our first priority is staying alive, uncaught by the trap we know about and any others.”

“And Lady Cecelia?” Sirkin asked. “I thought maybe we could . . .” Her voice trailed away as the others looked at her.

“We can’t help her,” Heris said firmly. “We’re the ones anyone would expect to do something, and for that very reason we can’t.”

“But someone has to—”

“Sirkin, we have enough to worry about as it is. Keeping the ship free, and whole, and ourselves alive, in the first place.” Heris signalled the others with her eyes. Time to leave, before Sirkin asked more questions Heris didn’t want to answer, especially since she could. They stood, and Sirkin followed, still looking stubborn. “That’s all . . . see you here next week as usual.” The weekly dinner meeting, which she hoped the watchers had given up worrying about. Oblo turned off his gadget, with a wink, and Heris went on without a pause. “The court’s agreed to hear the case, at least, which I—” She stopped suddenly, as if realizing the gadget was off. “Well, see you next week, if that stinking lawyer doesn’t come up with something to drag me downside.”

On her way out, she reserved the same room for the same time the following week, as she had from the beginning.

Sirkin agreed to pass along to Brun a message which made no sense to her, but would, Heris hoped, make sense to that inventive young lady. Brun’s answer, relayed through Sirkin, showed she had done her homework. She had also had her visit with Cecelia, and she believed Cecelia’s coma was not as deep as the medical records indicated.

“How did she get hold of the medical records?” Heris asked, then shook her head. “Never mind. If she says Lady Cecelia is still alive inside, I’ll believe it. And if she thinks she can arrange a rescue, we’ll get out of her way and let her at it.”

“But it’s dangerous.” Sirkin was looking better these days, and her sparkle had begun to come back. Heris wondered momentarily if it was just time, or if Brun had anything to do with it. She had to admit the two of them seemed to hit it off well. “If they catch her—” That meant Brun, of course.

“If they catch her, she’s young, rich, titled, and will have Kevil Mahoney on her side. I’d bet on her not to get caught, though. You didn’t see her on the island. I was impressed.”

“I wish I had,” Sirkin said. Admiration. And Brun wished she knew as much about ships. Heris wondered what would come of this—she hoped it wouldn’t cause them any trouble more serious than young people usually had.

Next, Heris went to find Oblo. “I’ve got our slot,” Heris said, with no preamble. “The family’s requested that the yacht be put in deep storage. The court agreed. Spacenhance doesn’t want the responsibility of moving it, and I’ve refused to allow a ferry crew, under provisions of my employment contract with Lady Cecelia and my rights as possible heir. The court agreed to that, too. Suspicious, but they did agree. So we’re to move her.”

“But what about stores? If you’re planning to go outsystem at once—”

“Are you telling me that the best thief I ever knew can’t manage to get a few cargo cubes aboard a yacht guarded by an interior decorator?”

“Well . . . no. But it won’t be easy. Those people are strange.”

“Oh? You’ve been checking?”

“Of course.” Oblo looked up at the ceiling. “You said get ready for a quick departure, so I thought I’d . . . ease things. Turns out they have an almighty sticky AI on their dockgate.”

“But you can do it.”

“Unless you’re planning to run a year without stopping anywhere, she’s fit.” He didn’t look at her directly, but she knew his face too well to be fooled. He had begun shifting provisions into the yacht long before. It had probably started simply to prove he could bugger the AI.

“Now?”

“I’d like another three shifts, to sort of finish things off. But we could go now, and not be much shorter.”

“Good. You can have three shifts, but not a second more, and you’d better not get caught.” Oblo looked insulted at that, as well he might.

“And that includes weaponry.”

“No problem.” By the tone, he’d installed that first. He would.

“Right, then. We file a flight plan for eight shifts from now—” Oblo scowled, and Heris pointed at him. “Think about it. You’re going to be sure they are as stupid as you think. If you’ve been doing something every shift or so, five blanks will make them show themselves, especially with a plan filed. I’ll have reserved our space in Rockhouse Minor’s deep storage, and tickets back here on the ferry. Show up in uniform; we’re Lady Cecelia’s employees, and not a gang of toughs who might go larking off somewhere in her ship. Very formal, very sad. Look as grim as you like—you’re miserable about this, and you don’t mind saying so. But not in the bars yet, not until the last night.”

Heris had no trouble looking grim as she filed the flight plan. Everyone knew about the legal dispute; this would make it clear who was winning.

“Tough luck, Captain,” said the Traffic head clerk. He had been on Rockhouse for years; she had filed Fleet plans with him. “It’s disgusting the way they’ve messed up what the old lady intended.”

“Lady Cecelia is—was—a fine woman,” Heris said. “And I only hope they don’t scour the tubes when they shut the main drive down over there.”

“Oh—you’re not going to Duibly’s?”

“No. Lady Cecelia’s family insists that it’s not cost effective, since they don’t foresee the ship being used for several local years—and possibly sold away. As you see, they specified Harrigan’s.” The clerk would know what that meant, in credits and in skill. Harrigan’s was a fine deep-storage yard, if you were planning to send a ship or sell it to someone who would be doing a major overhaul anyway. Duibly’s, far more expensive, boasted it could power and air up a ship from deep storage in less than 50 hours.

“A shame. A lovely ship, I’ve heard.”

“It is.” He wanted to know more; she could tell. “You know, she had just had it redone when I first took command, and she was having it redone again.” His eyes widened; he wanted even more details. “Real wood paneling,” Heris said. “Furnishings brought up from the family estate. And it was impressive before.”

“I know,” he said. “Spacenhance has been using the interiors in their advertising. That was their top designer; I wonder why she wanted to change it.”

Heris shrugged. “She could, I suppose. Perhaps it didn’t have the effect she expected. But you see what I mean.”

The clerk nodded as if that had meant something, and sealed the flight plan with a coded magnetic strip.

On the way back from the Traffic Control office, a short brown-haired young woman stopped her at a slideway entrance.

“Captain Serrano?” Her face and voice were slightly familiar. Heris paused, wary.

“Yes?”

“I don’t expect you remember me—I was just a very junior ESR-12.” Military: environmental systems technician, enlisted. With the specialty and rank, the name came back to her.

“Yes . . . Vivi Skoterin.” Another reminder of her earlier failure, though Skoterin might have been junior enough to escape the courts-martial that devastated the officers and NCOs of her former crew. “How have you been? Did you—?”

“They didn’t send me to prison, no ma’am. But—but I didn’t re-up.” No wonder, Heris thought. The young woman looked thin and depressed; what had she been doing?

“Find a job all right?”

“Well, ma’am . . . I just got in . . . been working on a bulk transport, independent carrier, Oslin Brothers. Maybe you know of them?”

Oslin Brothers meant nothing to Heris, but independent carriers of bulk cargo were marginal profit concerns. She shook her head, and Skoterin went on.

“I . . . was hoping for something better. Scuttlebutt around Station is you have your own ship and are hiring some of your former crew . . . and I was wondering . . .” Damn. Heris didn’t need this, not now. But responsibilities didn’t come when you needed them. At least she could get this woman a square meal and perhaps a little money to help her find a better berth.

“Scuttlebutt’s got it slightly wrong, as usual, but come on—at least have lunch with us. You remember Sergeant Meharry and Oblo?” Something flickered in Skoterin’s eyes, but Heris dismissed it as recognition. “They’ll be glad to see you. Come on, now.” Skoterin climbed onto the slideway with her, and Heris spent the trip back to the hostel thinking furiously. What would she do now? She owed Skoterin, as she owed all her former crew . . . and they were short an environmental tech, as Haidar had reminded her only that week. The others were willing to do the work, but in an emergency, they’d have their own stations to keep.

Haidar remembered Skoterin at once, which relieved Heris: what if the woman had been planted on them somehow? While she went off to freshen up for lunch, he said, “You will bring her along, won’t you, Captain? We really need another tech—I could use two more, in fact.”

“You’re sure of her?”

“Oh, yes. That’s Vivi. Kind of dull, except for her work: she’s absolutely reliable. She got top reports from Lieutenant Ganaba—” Lieutenant Ganaba, who had been killed on the island even before the hunt started; Heris had heard the story from Petris. The admiral had not liked to leave officers alive as effective leaders. And Ganaba had been tough; if he approved of Skoterin, then she was good.

“Seems a good solution to me,” Heris said. “But if we ask her, she has to say yes . . . we can’t leave her behind to tell the tale.”

“Just tell her we’re ferrying the yacht, and not the rest of it.”

“But that’s like hijacking her—”

“Hell, Captain, we’re going to kidnap a prince—why not an environmental tech? Besides, she wants a berth.”

And Skoterin, offered a short-time job ferrying the yacht, with “maybe a longer job later” agreed at once. Haidar took her off to lunch himself, waving away Heris’s offer of funds.

With the flight plan filed, and the Sweet Delight entered into the undock sequencer, time seemed to compress. Heris had her own list to complete. Check out of the hostel, with reservations for herself at another, lower-priced hostel for the end of the week. Consigning the letters patent to Kevil Mahoney’s office downside; she sweated out the hours until he called to confirm receipt. The messenger service was supposed to be secure, but one never knew.

She had avoided telling Spacenhance about the new orders, lest they send someone aboard to do something and find what Oblo had stashed. So at the last reasonable time, when she was due aboard to begin the undocking procedures, she stopped by the Spacenhance office and showed her official authorization.

“But you can’t—” said the decorative person in the front office.

“Court orders it,” Heris said. “Long-term storage has been arranged at Harrigan’s, Bay 85; I’m due aboard to begin undock in ten minutes.”

“But—”

“I don’t see the problem,” Heris said. “You had the cease-work order more than 40 days ago; surely the ship’s just sitting there empty—isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, but—I’ll have to check with a manager.” Not the manager, Heris noted, but a manager. Soon the woman Heris had seen before came out of the back rooms.

“Captain Serrano! How nice. Mil tells me you’re moving Lady Cecelia’s yacht into deep storage . . . does this mean the court has ruled against you?”

“Not yet, just until the case is heard and finally settled. Her family petitioned the court, and the court agreed.”

“Well, that’s too bad. Such a lovely ship. We can have her ready for you in . . . oh . . . another twenty-four hours. How’s that?”

“Sorry. I’ve got undock starting in eight minutes; we’re on the sequencer, and we have a flight plan. The Harrigan’s berth is time-logged, and we have passage back to Major on Triamnos. If you’ll just give me the access codes—”

“But Captain! The ship isn’t—it’s not ready. You know we had to stop in the middle—”

Heris shrugged. She had expected Spacenhance to try some kind of delay but this seemed silly. “As I told your assistant, you had the cease-work order weeks ago; surely your people aren’t using the ship . . .”

“Well, no, it’s not that . . . it’s just such a mess. We don’t like to let even an unfinished job go out of here in that state—”

“Sorry, but this time you must.” Heris stared her down; the woman seemed uncommonly flustered, and Heris wondered if Spacenhance was involved in some kind of smuggling, and had been using the yacht as a storage bay. If so, they were about to be in real trouble. All of them.

“Well. I suppose if you’re on the sequencer—” Traffic Control had a reputation for shredding anyone who fouled up the system, including Stationside companies whose failure to comply with ships’ orders caused the delay. Heris had never liked Traffic Control’s tyranny, but this time she blessed it.

“I’ll just come with you,” the woman said. Heris didn’t argue. Six minutes was cutting it close, even for her.

The crew waited, looking as solemn and grim as Heris could have hoped, in formal dark blue. But the Spacenhance woman hardly glanced at them, opening the gates and hatches one after another. Heris hardly had time to glance at the status board, and see that it was safely green, before the woman opened the access hatch itself and started into it.

“Excuse me,” Heris said firmly. “We really don’t have much time before undock starts—if you could just get back to the dock—”

“Oh . . . right.” The woman still looked nervous; Heris’s suspicions went up another notch. She smiled anyway, and led the way past the Spacenhance manager, trusting Oblo to make sure she didn’t stay aboard.

The ship smelled funny. She had expected a new smell, cleaning solutions or solvents or something like that, but this was a strange, yeasty odor. Perhaps that’s what bothered Spacenhance—maybe whatever they used to strip the carpets and wallcoverings smelled bad, and they didn’t want clients to know. The bridge still looked too tiny, especially with the new screens crammed into every spare corner. Before, it had looked like a toy . . . now, it looked like some electronic hobbyist’s workbench.

Heris took her seat and called Traffic Control. She could hear the crew moving into position; in her mind’s eye she followed them all to their stations.

“Sweet Delight, Heris Serrano commanding, initiating undocking procedures.”

“Confirm your flight plan to Rockhouse Minor, Harrigan’s Long-Term Storage; please accept course burst.”

“Accepting.” Heris shunted the course to Sirkin’s board, and went on with the interminable formalities of undocking from Rockhouse Major. Registration, ownership, insurance, ship’s beacon profiles, accounting details. Even though they weren’t going outsystem (as far as Traffic Control knew) the rules required long minutes of voice confirmation of details already on file. The cost of pursuing legal remedies against ships that left Stations owing money meant that it was much easier to insist on clear accounts before they left. If so much as a single glass of ale were outstanding, the ship could lose her place in the sequence and be assessed a hefty fine, to boot.

After the formalities came the systems checks, which she watched carefully. The ship had been aired up the entire time, but something might still be wrong. At least she now had crew she trusted. All boards were green except the newest: those would stay dark, untouched, until they had cleared the Station. Those, if detected, could get them in trouble.

“Tug approaching,” said Traffic Control. “Channel 186.”

“Thanks.” Heris switched to the tug’s channel. She would have preferred a hot start, but no civilian ship left Rockhouse Major under its own power. She checked to see that the yacht’s bustle had been deployed; Petris gave her a thumb’s up. With no pilot (a rating not used on the Fleet vessels) he had taken over some of those functions.

“Captain Serrano, Sweet Delight,” she said on the tug’s channel. The memory of the first time she’d said that, undocking here long months before, came to her. She felt very differently now.

“Station Tug 16,” came the reply. “Permission to grapple.” She was glad it wasn’t the same tug; that would have been a bit too much coincidence.

“Permission to grapple.” She felt the jar; Tug 16 was a lot clumsier than the earlier one. The status lights switched through the color sequence, and ended green.

“All fast,” the tug captain said. “Your port bustle coupling is a bit stretchy, though.” Excuses. He had come in too fast. “On your signal.”

She called Traffic Control on their channel. “Captain Serrano of Sweet Delight: permission to undock, on your signal.”

“All clear on Station. Confirm all clear aboard?”

Nothing but green on any of the boards; her crew nodded. “All clear aboard.” Twenty seconds. She, the Stationmaster on watch in Traffic Control, and the tug captain all counted together, but the computer actually broke the connection to the Station. She watched the display as the tug dragged them slowly away from the crowded traffic near Rockhouse Major. This would be a shorter tug, because they were headed for Minor, on an insystem route. In fact, the tug could give them the correct vector and let them ride that trajectory most of the way to Minor, but Heris had chosen the more common option of powering up and “hopping” it.

When the tug released them, she called for the insystem drive.

“Insystem drive, sir.” Petris, that was. “Normal powerup.” The lights flicked once, as the internal power switched from the storage units to the generators working off the drive.

“Engage.” Now the artificial gravity shivered momentarily, then steadied, as the insystem drive pushed them along the course handed out by Traffic Control. Not that they would stay on it long. “Turn on the new scanners.” Oblo reached up and did so. Now she had almost as much data on traffic in near space as Traffic Control.

Insystem space had no blind corners, no places where the sudden change in acceleration of a yacht would go unnoticed. As soon as they started their move away from assigned course, Traffic Control would be all over them. So might any fast-moving patrol craft, though none showed on the scans. It felt very strange. She had never, in her entire life, done anything intentionally wrong. Even as a child, she had always asked permission, always followed the rules . . . well, most of the rules. She had cut herself off from the Fleet for a good cause, she thought; now she was cut off from all lawful society. She hoped the cause was good enough. She really hoped her mathematics was good enough.

What they had was the advantage of small mass and initiative. The longer she waited, the less initiative . . .

Petris reached back and caught her hand. “You don’t have to do this, just to impress me,” he said. “If you think it’s wrong—”

“I think it’s all wrong,” Heris said. “But this is the least wrong part of it. No. We’ll go and scandalize the Fleet, and then get blown away by a smuggler or something—”

“You don’t really think that . . .”

“No, not without a fight.” Do it, she told herself fiercely. And as always, cementing the responsibility, she made the move herself. Flat down on the board: the main drives answered smoothly, and the Sweet Delight, bouncing like a leaf in a rapid, skipped out of her plotted course. They needed another 10,000 kilometers . . . She sweated, watching the plots. It should take a few seconds to register; someone should be tapping the screens, wondering what had happened to the plots. Then it would take time to transmit the message. No one had the right firing angle for missiles; no one could intercept with tractors before they got their critical distance. Optical weapons would fry them—no civilian vessel carried shields—but the overrun could be tricky. She knew there was traffic beyond them, bound on other routes. She had counted on that.

Seconds ticked by. They still had the civilian beacon on; no use to play games with it in a system where their ID was known.

“There,” Oblo said, with grim satisfaction, as one of his lights blinked red, then returned to green. “Stripped it, even though they should’ve known who we were.”

“Wondering,” Petris said. “They’re wondering what happened.”

“Not for long,” Heris said. Even as she spoke, the Traffic Control blared at them.

Course error! Course error! Contact Traffic Control Officer at once.

Automatically, Heris’s finger found the button, but she stopped it before the channel opened. When she glanced around, they were watching her. She pulled her hand back, and shrugged. “Nothing to say. We’ll wait it out.” At the edge of her vision, in front of Oblo, the counter ran down the long chain of numbers.

General warning! Vessel off course in sector Red Alpha Two! All traffic alert! Do not change course without direct orders! Stand by for Traffic Control override! The words crawled across the navigation near-scan screen, and bellowed from the speakers. The new scanners showed the reaction in color changes, as other traffic dumped velocity or changed course. Heris had counted on that, too. Everyone believed in Traffic Control until something went wrong, at which point at least twenty percent of the captains would use their own judgment. Time after time that had proven deadly, but it happened anyway. Now Traffic Control had more to worry about than one yacht off course, as each panicky ship caused problems for others.

A tight beam obliterated Traffic Control’s blare, and the near-scan screen showed a face in Fleet gray, with the insignia of an admiral on his shoulders. Maartens, it must be; he had just taken command of Fleet at Rockhouse Major. He had served with Lepescu, though she didn’t know if they’d been friends. “Damn you, Serrano,” the man said. Heris stared back, impassive. Of course they knew, but she wasn’t going to give him her visual. “I never thought even you would cripple an old woman just to get a free ride. We’ll find you.” A threat she trusted, as she trusted a knife to be sharp. But it bit deep anyway; she made herself stare into those angry eyes until the beam cut off. Then she cut the link to Traffic Control herself. She didn’t need that nonsense blaring at her. They weren’t going to impede anyone’s course more than another few seconds.

“We’re clear in theory,” Oblo said. She gave him a tight smile.

“Then let’s surprise them.” With the new control systems, she had only one button to push; she wished she could have heard the comments from Traffic Control when their abrupt skip into FTL left an unstable bubble in the local space for others to avoid.

They were still alive. She didn’t think she’d ever heard of anyone using FTL drive that close to a planet, and she hadn’t entirely trusted the theory that said it was possible for something of their mass. But they were alive, the Sweet Delight as solid as ever, and presumably they hadn’t destroyed anything vital back there. She had gotten as far from the main stations as she could, although there were too many satellites up to avoid them all.

“And now,” Oblo said, with his crooked leer, “for a life of piracy and plunder, eh? Gold, girls, adventure—”

“Shut up,” Petris said, so that she didn’t have to comment. “First we have to find a quiet place to do a little cosmetic work on our friend here.”

Heris tried to relax. Nothing could have followed them; not even the escorts could have gone into FTL so close. Pursuit would have hours of boost to get out far enough, by which time they would have nothing to follow. They had slipped their leash. She looked around at her crew. They looked busy and outwardly calm, but she suspected more than one felt the same internal tremors she did. They had not set out in life to become criminals. Those who had been through the disastrous court-martial would be more hardened, but Sirkin—she glanced again at the young navigator. Sirkin had had a promising career before her, and no military background. Now she had lost her lover and her career . . . but the latter had been her own choice. Still she must feel strange, the youngest and the only one without military experience, without years of working with Heris.

But her face, when she turned to face Heris, seemed calm enough. “Captain, the new equipment’s working well. It’s—I really can pick up navigation points even here.” Here being that indefinable location into which FTL drives projected. Heris grinned at her.

“Just remember that the apparent motion you’ll see isn’t right. When we drop out, we won’t be where you would expect, but where the charts say.” Sirkin looked confused, and Heris didn’t blame her. The military navigational gear which Oblo had liberated had counterintuitive properties which Sirkin would learn best by experience. The point of it was not to steer by the detected navigation nodes, but to detect other vessels in FTL state.

They passed two more jump points safely, with no pursuit detected. Heris didn’t fool herself that this meant no pursuit—it meant only successful, and very temporary, evasion. Finally they returned to normal space in a region with no known maintenance stations. As Petris had said, they needed to do a bit of work on the yacht.

Better Luck had been built at the same yards, within a year of Sweet Delight, the utility version of the same hull. She’d been modified for carrying very low temperature cargo, then rebuilt to handle rough landings, then rebuilt again to return her to a deep-space freighter, reclaiming the cargo space lost to the landing gear. She had been lost to the finance company, which chose to scrap her rather than pay for refitting (the last cargo had rotted when the low-temp compartments failed, and the stench had gone into the deck tiling). Oblo had her registration number, and her papers—or a reasonable facsimile—and the overall hull design matched. Now he was making sure the beacon matched, too . . . and the little tramp freighter had never operated in this region of space.

“I wonder how Lady Cecelia is,” Sirkin said one day. “If Brun’s been able to do anything . . .”

“We all wonder,” Heris said. She knew someone would have let Cecelia know she’d run off with the ship; she hated that, knowing Cecelia would feel betrayed.

Lorenza had listened without interruption to the Crown Minister’s version of the theft of the yacht. Now she said, “So—it was that Serrano person after all, eh?”

“I suppose.” The Crown Minister seemed more interested in his ham with raisin sauce. “Suppose she got tired of waiting for the court to rule. Silly—it might have ruled in her favor. There are all sorts of precedents for enforcing quite stupid wills.”

“Berenice is sure they’d have ruled against her. Even if she didn’t poison Cecelia herself, it was clearly a matter of undue influence.”

He stopped to put maple-apple-walnut butter on a roll. “You women! I think you were convinced the captain did it just because she’s another woman, and one who wears a uniform.”

Lorenza raised her eyebrows at him, slowly. “Now, Piercy, you know that’s not fair. I have nothing against military women; I have the highest admiration for their courage and their dedication. But this woman was no longer military; she left under a cloud—”

“She was cleared,” the Crown Minister said. Lorenza wondered why he was being stubborn. Did he know something she should know?

“I understand that her own family—her own well-known family—didn’t stand behind her. That tells me something. Even if she was cleared, they may know something that never came out in court. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“True.” He was retreating; he had turned his attack to the ham, and then to the rice pilaf.

“Berenice says Bunny’s daughter Bubbles started acting odd after spending time with her on Sirialis. Wanted to change her name, or something.”

“Bubbles has been acting like a fool since she hit puberty,” the Crown Minister said, and took a long swallow of his wine. “It wouldn’t take a yacht captain to send her off on another tack.” That struck him as funny, and he laughed aloud. Lorenza didn’t smile, and he ran down finally. “Sorry—a nautical joke.”

“My point is that it’s now perfectly clear she did something underhanded to influence poor Cecelia. And now she’s stolen the yacht. Just what you’d expect.”

“Do you ever visit Cecelia?” the Crown Minister asked. She almost smiled at his transparent attempt to change the subject and make her feel guilty.

“Yes, occasionally. I’m going tomorrow, in fact.” She had not been able to resist, after all. Twice now she had sat beside the bed, her soft hand on Cecelia’s unresisting cheek, and murmured into her ear. I did it. I did it. That was all: no name, only the whisper. It excited her so she could hardly conceal it all the way home. And now she could be the one to tell Cecelia that her precious yacht captain had stolen her yacht . . . that she had been abandoned once more. If she had had any hope left, that should finish it. Lorenza let herself imagine the depths of that despair . . . what it must be like to have one’s last hope snuffed out by a voice in the darkness. She was very glad she had specified that Cecelia’s auditory mechanisms should be left intact.