Winning Colors

Chapter Fourteen

The corridors of Garrivay’s ship—no, her ship—were as familiar as the shapes of her own fingers. Command Deck, dockside corridor, aft of the captain’s office. A passing ensign saluted her insignia without appearing to notice anything; his eyes widened at her escort. She wished they’d been able to wait for uniforms, but the scanty tradition behind her acts emphasized the need for immediate action.

Ahead, the hatch leading to the bridge, just where she’d left it, as if she had walked back onto her own ship. This was her ship, she reminded herself. A marine pivot stood at ease by the hatch, snapping to attention at the sight of her insignia.

“Sir!” Then his expression wavered, as if he weren’t sure.

“Pivot.” She snapped a salute. “These personnel are with me.” Before he reacted, they were past; she came through into her own kingdom, home at last.

She took the three steps forward, paused while the bridge officer caught sight of her.

“Sir—uh . . . Commander . . . ?”

“Commander Heris Serrano, special assignment.” She pitched her voice to carry through the whole compartment. “As I’ve explained to Major Svatek, I have taken command of this vessel. You are Lieutenant Milcini, is that correct—?” She was aware of heads turning, the pressure of many startled looks. One of the officers on the bridge was Cydin. Heris didn’t worry about that; Ginese and Oblo would be watching for her. More important now was the reaction of the loyal crew. So far astonishment held them.

The lieutenant found his voice again. “Captain Garrivay—?”

“Commander Garrivay has been relieved.” Heris held up the command wand. “The computer has accepted my authorization code.”

“Liar!” There. Lieutenant Cydin, a rangy redhead who reminded her inexorably of Cecelia. “She’s a traitor—don’t listen to her! She was cashiered—she’s not Fleet!”

Heads turned back and forth, uneasy. Lieutenant Milcini started to reach out but froze in a parody of indecision when Heris looked at him.

“Lieutenant Cydin, you are hereby charged with treason,” Heris said steadily. “Evidence in possession of Fleet—” Koutsoudas, after all, was legitimately Fleet, even if presently on a yacht “—shows that you conspired with Commander Garrivay and others to yield Xavier to the Benignity of the Compassionate Hand.”

“What!” Cydin’s face went paper white.

“Recordings of conversations with Commander Garrivay . . .” Heris said. “You are hereby relieved of your duties and will be held in confinement until such time as a Board can be convened—” The familiar phrases rolled out of her mouth as if she herself had never felt their impact on her own life. Necessary, she knew; such formality, such familiarity with tradition, was another proof of her own legitimacy. “Mr. Ginese, Mr. Vissisuan—” She nodded, and they moved around her. Lieutenant Cydin looked around for support she did not get.

“No! I’m not a traitor—she is! Ask her what happened to our captain! It’s all lies!” But around her was a subtle withdrawing. “Look at her—that’s not a Fleet uniform! Those men—they’re in civvie shipsuits!”

“I know her,” someone said. Heris looked for the voice, and found a face she vaguely remembered from several ships back. Her mental name file revolved.

“Petty-light Salverson,” she said. “But you’ve had a promotion—congratulations, Chief.”

“I never believed you’d been thrown out,” Salverson said. She was a pleasant-faced brunette that Heris remembered best for a difficult emergency repair during combat. “So it was all special ops?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Heris said; Salverson grinned, and those nearest her—people she would have known well—grinned too.

“You fools!” Cydin yelled. “She’ll get you killed, all of you.” Then, with a glance at Ginese and Oblo, who were almost to her side, she gave Heris a final, furious glare. “You won’t win,” she said. “You can’t—even if you get the ship—” And she slumped where she stood. Those nearest tried to catch her, but failed; her head hit the decking with a resonant thump.

Heris felt a chill pang she had not felt when she killed Garrivay. Cydin seemed so young; she could have outlived her mistakes if she’d wanted to. She had no time for more regrets. “We’ll need an autopsy,” she said to Lieutenant Milcini. “Until all my people are back in uniform, we’d better have someone else convey the body to sickbay.”

“Yes . . . Captain.” She left him to arrange it; she had more pressing duties. He had forgotten, in his confusion, to transfer bridge command, but she could never forget that.

She moved to the command desk. “I have the bridge,” she said. “Let me explain the situation briefly. I expect communications from the admiralty, and possible hostile action from the Benignity. This action may be imminent; unless we find details in Commander Garrivay’s private notes, we must assume that it could come any time.”

Silence, attentive now rather than confused. Confront a fighting vessel with an enemy and confusion yielded to training. She had counted on that reaction. Heris went on.

“Officers not involved in the treasonous plot to yield Xavier will be briefed as soon as the ships are secure. In the meantime, all scans will be fully manned all shifts; record in battle code from this hour—” The scan positions, after a last glance at her, erupted in a brief flurry of activity. Garrivay had had them shut down, probably to prevent the operators from noticing when the CH ships arrived.

“Captain—” A light on the command desk, a voice in her ear.

“Yes?”

“Lieutenant Ginese, watch commander. I have just been advised by Major Svatek to take certain persons into custody, and among them a Lieutenant Cydin who is on the bridge—”

“Was on the bridge. She killed herself rather than accept arrest.”

“I see. May I ask the captain’s authorization for actions taken in relieving Commander Garrivay of his duties?” Deftly put, Heris thought.

“Admiral Serrano,” Heris said. “It was a special assignment.”

“So I gathered.” Like her own Arkady, this Ginese had a healthy lack of awe for officers. After a long moment, the honorific appeared. “Sir. Does the captain have other orders?”

“Secure the ship,” Heris said. “No station liberty, no leaves, no offship communications without my express orders. That list is almost certainly incomplete, and as we’ll be in combat shortly—” Not too shortly, she hoped, but it couldn’t be long enough.

“Yes, sir. Those personnel on the list have been secured under guard, although—we can’t maintain a suicide watch with all of them separately confined and do the rest of it. Would the captain clarify the priorities?”

“Ship first, of course. If they kill themselves, it’s regrettable—the other could be fatal.” He shouldn’t need to be told that, but she realized he was still feeling his way, not quite sure she was trustworthy.

“Major Svatek said a relative of mine was with you—would that be Vladi?” Despite the casual tone, Heris knew this was a trick question. She had never heard of a Vladi Ginese.

“Arkady,” Heris said. “Would you like to speak with him?”

“No—just checking. Sorry, sir. It’s my—”

“Job, I know. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other duties myself.” As have you, went unsaid but clearly understood. Heris unlocked the inship communications, and keyed for an all-stations announcement. If there were other traitors—or even highstrung overreactors—this would flush them out.

“Attention all personnel. This is Commander Heris Sunier Serrano, now acting captain of this vessel. We are in a state of emergency, expecting the arrival of a hostile force from the Benignity. Your executive officer, Major Svatek, has been informed of the nature of the emergency, and of the reasons for a change of command. Those of you who have served with me before know that I will give full explanations when there’s time.” A calculated risk, but surely there were others who had been with her before, who would explain to their anxious fellows what kind of commander Heris was. “Some of you will have heard that I resigned my commission and am no longer a Fleet officer; in fact I was on special assignment, and my authorization code is still active, as the ship’s computer recognized. This is an unusual situation; I understand that many of you will be confused, but at the moment we have more pressing problems. The Benignity wants this system as a base for invasion; we’re going to defend it.”

From the expressions of the bridge crew, relief outweighed anxiety. Garrivay could not have been the sort of commander who inspired confidence.

“I want all division heads in my office in one hour,” Heris went on. “I notice some discrepancies in the status lists that we’ll have to address in order to complete our mission. In the meantime, I’ll expect you all to bring all systems to readiness.” Which made it sound as if she had an official mission. “Captain out.”

She grinned at Lieutenant Milcini. “I’ll post the hardcopy of my orders when I get them from Sweet Delight. Considering the secrecy, I couldn’t bring them aboard with me at first.” Certain phrases from the cube her aunt had sent her could, with the proper surrounding verbiage, be taken as orders. Oblo had produced a surprisingly realistic document.

“Yes, sir. Uh—you’ll be taking over the captain’s quarters?”

“Of course.” Implicit in that was her transfer to the Vigilance as her primary vessel; the Sweet Delight was no longer hers in the same way. And who would captain the yacht? She might need it in the fight. No, first the very dangerous patrol ships.

She had the cruiser . . . maybe. If they captured the other traitors aboard before they could arrange a mutiny. If the other two craft didn’t try to blow the cruiser.

“Who’s our communications first, Lieutenant Milcini?” Heris asked.

“Lieutenant Granath, sir.”

“Have Lieutenant Granath hail the Sweet Delight, civilian band four, and route the response to my set.”

“Sir.”

Moments later, Sirkin’s voice answered for the yacht. “Sweet Delight, Nav First Sirkin.”

“Sirkin, it’s Captain Serrano. I’ve taken over here. How’s the longscan look?”

“Captain, there’s something far out, Kou—our scan tech says. Very faint, just a ripple.”

“I’m having communications here hold an open line. If there’s a change, let me know.” What she said and did not say fit the prearranged code; Koutsoudas would remove the block he’d put on communications out of the cruiser. Now for the patrol ships. Paradox’s captain had died with Garrivay in the captain’s cabin; Paradox’s executive officer might or might not be loyal. He had not shown up on any of Koutsoudas’s scans, but he had been with the traitor captain for two years. The more distant Despite had as its captain an officer definitely disloyal. Koutsoudas had recorded her during a conference aboard the cruiser. Heris expected that the crews of both ships were predominantly loyal; she had not forgotten Skoterin, but still believed traitors were rare. If the exec of Paradox accepted her . . . that left only Despite. Would that captain betray herself? The patrol craft could be lethal, especially if any distractions arose on the cruiser.

“Major Tinsi, I am Commander Heris Serrano, acting captain of the Vigilance. You are hereby confirmed as acting captain of the patrol craft Paradox.”

“What?” The face onscreen matched the database holo of Major Tinsi. “What’s—where’s Captain Ardos? Who are you?”

“Commander Serrano,” Heris repeated. “Heris Serrano. I’ve been on special assignment for the admiralty, investigating irregularities.” Such a handy word, irregularities. She was a little shocked at how easily the lie now rolled off her tongue.

“But you’re not—and where’s Commodore Garrivay? What’s going on over there?”

“Commander Garrivay has been relieved of his command,” Heris said. “I’m sorry to say that he and your Captain Ardos were involved in these . . . er . . . irregularities.” She held up a packet within pickup range. “We have recordings implicating both of them, and some other officers. We assume that officers not implicated are innocent—and that includes yourself, although the investigation will continue. May I take it that you are not in the pay of the Benignity?”

“Of course I’m not—what? The Benignity? Captain Ardos?” Captain Ardos, Heris reflected, must have been relieved to have so dense an executive officer. No wonder he had kept the man around for two years even though he couldn’t confide in him. No better camouflage than honest stupidity, ready to swear he had seen, heard, and suspected nothing.

Heris waved the packet, and Tinsi shut up. “Apparently several officers on each ship were involved. I suggest you take immediate steps to secure your position, in case there are more traitors aboard. We expect hostile forces in this system shortly; you will prepare your ship for combat, Captain Tinsi.”

“But I—but—”

“Or, if you feel yourself unequal to command, I can relieve you and assign another officer,” Heris said. Tinsi stiffened as if she’d filled his spinal column with a steel rod.

“No, sir . . . Commander . . . Commodore . . .”

“Commander will do. Now. I have a list of possible traitors aboard Paradox. These are not confirmed, but you might want to take precautions.” She transmitted the names in a burst of code. “You will maintain a shielded link to Vigilance, while I make contact with Despite.”

“Captain—Despite’s moving.” That was Koutsoudas, not waiting for Sirkin to transmit the call. “Pretty good delta vee, outbound toward the border.”

At least it wasn’t an attack on the station or her ships. Yet. “Weapons, bring us to readiness.”

“Sir.”

“Paradox, you are authorized to bring your weapons to full readiness.” What was Despite doing out there? Not simply running away; that would be too easy. Going to feint a retreat and then come back? Going to meet someone? And had she any chance to stop them? “We need to transfer gear and personnel from the yacht Sweet Delight to this ship—see to it—” she said to Major Svatek, who had reappeared on the bridge just before she called Paradox.

“Yes, sir. How many personnel, sir?” A good question. She still wanted to crew the yacht, in case they needed it. But right now she wanted Koutsoudas back at the boards of a Fleet ship, with direct access to the onboard databases, and to her. If it cost her a chance at Despite, so be it.

“Two,” she said. “The gear will be for myself and the personnel who came aboard with me—not much, a little less than standard officer duffel.” Already packed, it lay in the access hatch.

“Any problem with them going through the station? Do you mind if the civs know about it?”

“No—that’s fine.” It would be much easier, both now and when she assigned a crew to the yacht.

“Despite, hold your station. Hold your station. This is Commander Serrano, acting captain of the Vigilance . . . hold your station or—”

“Or what?” The display flickered as the signal stretched with the other craft’s acceleration and the comunit’s logic struggled to reassemble it, but Heris could see the face clearly enough. Lt. Commander Kiansa Hearne, not that much different from the days when she and Heris had shared a compartment in the junior officers’ warren aboard Acclaim. “I don’t know what you’ve done, but you have no authority. You’re a civilian now, Heris.”

“No,” said Heris. “Special assignment, Lt. Commander.” She would not use the old name. Kia had been a difficult young woman, but not yet a traitor. Heris had left the Acclaim thinking she had made a friend, proud of herself for the effort she’d put into it. “Surely you don’t think I was out here by accident.”

“I . . . think you’re bluffing.”

“I think you are. We have recordings from Garrivay’s office.”

“Blast.” Hearne’s face sagged. “That bastard. I finally get a ship of my own, and the next thing I know—” That had been Kia’s problem all along; she always had someone to blame for her failures.

“You’ve got a shipful of innocent crew,” Heris said. “Turn command over to your exec, or another loyal officer, and I’ll see what I can do—”

“I’m not stupid, Heris.” Hearne scowled. “If you’ve got real evidence, I’m dead meat anyway. Under the circumstances, I think a strategic withdrawal is in my best interest. You’d have a tough time catching me—especially if you’re crazy enough to stick around and try to stop the Benignity.”

“Your crew—” Heris began.

“My crew will have to take care of themselves,” Hearne said. “You understand that—yours did.”

The old rage and grief broke over Heris like a wave; she fought her way out of it in seconds, but made no more effort to convince Hearne.

“Captain, we have a statement from one of the officers on the list.” That was Oblo.

“Go ahead,” Heris said.

“Seems he was recruited by a Benignity agent about four years ago, and hasn’t done a thing for them since. Claims he didn’t know about the plan to surrender this system, but after he heard the recording he changed his tune and said he was coerced.”

“Well, it’s evidence,” Heris said. “I assume Lieutenant Ginese knows about this?”

“Yes, sir. And they’ve got uniforms for us now—”

“Good. You know what to do. Koutsoudas and your duffel will be aboard shortly. I’ll be contacting the Xavierans now.”

The General Secretary and the Stationmaster were side by side in the screen, looking grumpy until they saw who it was, then relieved. That relief wouldn’t last long, not with what she must tell them.

“I’ve taken command of the Fleet units operating here,” Heris said. “The former commander was removed for treason.”

“I wondered!” The General Secretary looked angry, ready to pound someone. “Well, you’ll have our backing, such as it is. What can we do?”

“Sir, you need to prepare for assault. We have no idea now how many ships are coming—we’ll tell you when we can—but delay is the best we can do. Remember what we talked about before. Get your people downside into the best shelters you can find—scattered far away from recognizable population centers, ready to live rough for some months. If you have deep caves, out in the mountains or something, that would be best.” She hoped the horse farm Cecelia was on was far enough out; she reminded herself to find out.

“But our militia—” Heris remembered the proud troops in their colorful uniforms, marching to the music of that jaunty band. How could she save their pride without costing them their existence? “I can’t recommend resistance; they’ll have trained troops and plenty of them—but if you can hide out for a few months, Fleet should be back in here. Your militia will be best used keeping order on the way, and while you’re in exile.”

“We can’t evacuate?”

“Where?” Heris paused, then went on. “You don’t have enough hulls in the system to take everyone, or time to load them. You have only the one station, and they’ll blow it. They’ll install their own, rather than risk yours being boobytrapped. Get everyone out of the station, downside, and get away from your cities and towns. It’ll still be nasty, but that will save the most lives.”

This wasn’t what they had wanted to hear, even though she had said much the same thing before Garrivay arrived. They tried to talk her into some other solutions. Heris held firm. She would do her best but she could not promise to save the planet from direct attack. And she would need control of every space-capable hull they had, once they’d evacuated the station.

“But you can’t hope to fight with shuttles!” the stationmaster said. “They don’t have shields worth speaking of.”

“No—but we can sow some traps with them. Then we can extract the crews, onto one of the warships.”

“And the shuttles?”

“They’ll be lost, one way or another. But with any luck, they’ll have made things tougher for the invaders.”

The General Secretary agreed to have the empty upbound shuttles loaded with readily available explosives. Those waiting for evacuation were kept busy shifting incoming cargo from the shuttles. A few, who had experience with explosives, helped manufacture them into crude mines.

Then she thought of Sirkin and Brun. She had realized that Sirkin, intelligent and hardworking as she was, lacked precisely what Brun had—the flair or whatever it was that picked the right choice when things got hairy. She needed to get Sirkin to such safety as was available, which meant downside, and underground. She had no safe place to stash Brun. What would her father want, given the options? His assumption that Brun would be safer with her now seemed utter folly. She was taking ships into battle against great odds, and very likely the planet would be scorched. Brun, as usual, had her own opinions, and interrupted the transmission from Sweet Delight.

“Captain Serrano, please—give me a chance. ’Steban, just a minute—please let me come with you.”

Lord Thornbuckle’s daughter on a warship? Not likely. “Why?” she asked.

“I know I’m not Fleet, and I know I’d be in the way, but it’s better than going downside. Surely there’s something simple I could do, so that someone else could help fight.”

“There may be, but you can do it onplanet. I want someone I trust with Lady Cecelia. You and Sirkin can keep an eye on her. It’s going to be rough down there when the shooting starts.” Particularly since Cecelia would be thinking more about horses than the war, she was sure.

“But—”

“I don’t have time to argue, Brun. This is one time you’ll just do what I say. Besides, you can represent the Grand Council to the General Secretary—assure him that Xavier won’t be forgotten.” She cut that connection, and found herself faced with a choice of five others. The stationmaster wanted to know what she would do about the small mining settlements on the second satellite of Blueyes, the smaller gas giant. She could do nothing but send them word of what was happening; she had no time to think of anything else. The General Secretary wanted to know if she could use elements of the local militia. (Yes, if they volunteered.) Experienced shuttle pilots? (Yes.) A local news program wanted to interview her. (No. The General Secretary’s staff would handle news.) The station’s own medical team—doctors, medics, nannies and all—volunteered to come along on one of the ships, because they were certified in space medicine. (Yes!) And what about the breakdown in the financial ansible? And . . .

Koutsoudas had come aboard with his kitbag of gadgets, and installed them while the other techs gave him startled looks.

“Some of you,” Heris said, “may have met Commander Livadhi’s senior scan tech, Esteban Koutsoudas. He’s been assisting the admiralty in this investigation.” By their reaction, they might have waited years for a chance to watch the legendary Koutsoudas in action. “By the way, someone find him a uniform—you would prefer a real uniform, wouldn’t you, ’Steban?”

“Mmm? Oh—yes, Captain. Although right now I just want to get these things installed and running.” Everyone chuckled; Heris grinned. Better and better. She noticed that Koutsoudas managed to keep a hand or his head between the watchers and what he was actually doing, most of the time. Then his scan lit, obviously sharper than the ones on either side.

“How’d you do that?” one of the youngest techs asked.

“Don’t ask,” Koutsoudas said. His fingers danced across the plain surfaces of his add-ons. Heris never had figured out how he operated them. His display changed color slightly, showing the departing Despite in a vivid arc of color that zoomed suddenly closer. Heris flinched, even though she knew it was Koutsoudas, and not the patrol craft. Along one side of the display, three sets of numbers scrolled past. “There—eighty-seven percent of her maximum acceleration, but she’s got a bobble in the insystem drive. Sloppy . . . it’s cutting their output. Weapons still cold. That’s odd. Shields . . . there goes the pre-jump shield check.”

“I never believed it,” said someone at the margin of Weapons. “I heard about him but I didn’t believe—”

“It’s impossible,” said someone else.

“Cut the chatter.” That was the grizzled senior chief poised behind Koutsoudas’s shoulder, absorbing what he could.

“Send a tightbeam,” Koutsoudas said, and gave the vector. Showoff, Heris thought. Worth it, in what he could do for you, but a showoff all the same.

“There they are.” Now his display zoomed to another vector, where three . . . five . . . seven . . . scarlet dots burned. “Tag ’em—” Beside each one, a code appeared.

“Range?” Heris asked. She leaned forward, as if she could pry more information out of the display. Numbers flickered along both edges of the screen.

“They’re in the cone,” Koutsoudas said, answering her next question first. “They’ll get whatever Despite sent—and the range is still affected by downjump turbulence. I won’t have it to any precision for an hour, Captain.”

“Three to four hours for me, Captain,” said the scan-second promptly.

“But they’re at the system edge,” Koutsoudas said. “It’s a cautious approach—very cautious. They won’t spot us for another several hours at least, even with boosted long scan; they’re blinded by their own downjump turbulence.”

“What’s Despite doing?”

“Running fast,” Koutsoudas said, flicking back over that ship’s departing signature. “Considering scan lag, I’ll bet she’s already gone into jump.”

Cecelia arrived at the shuttle port in a foul temper. It had taken forever to get a groundcar out to Marcia’s place, and she hadn’t been about to take any favors from Marcia. Not after that insult—as if she had ever failed to pay her bills! So she had endured a long, bumpy, dusty trip in to the shuttle port. Traffic crowded the road going the other way. It must be some local holiday, with early closing. But once in town, clogged streets delayed them, and she was afraid the shuttle port would be just as bad. She had tried to call Heris, but Sirkin was uncharacteristically vague about where she was, only saying she wasn’t on the yacht. Cecelia didn’t care where she was, she just wanted to be sure they could leave when she reached the station. Marcia’s last words rankled . . . “It is not our habit to haggle, Cecelia,” said with injured innocence. Stupid people. Stupid breeders of inferior horses; she would get some Singularity genes from a gene catalog if she wanted, and be damned to them. She forced a smile at the ticketing clerk, glad to find that she wasn’t at the tail of a long line.

“Any room on the up shuttle?”

The clerk looked surprised and worried both, but clerks often did. His problems were his problems; she had room in her mind for only one thing—leaving Xavier far, far behind. “Yes, ma’am, but—”

“Fine. First class if you have it, but anything will do.” What she really wanted was a long shower, a cooling drink, and a good supper. Depending on how long she had to wait for the shuttle, she might eat here, although she didn’t remember the shuttle port having anything but machine dispensers.

“But ma’am—you don’t want to go up right now,” the clerk said earnestly, as if speaking to a willful child.

Cecelia glared at him. “Yes, I do want to go up right now. I have a ship; we’re leaving.”

“Oh.” He looked confused now. “You’re leaving the system from the station?”

“Yes.” She was in no mood for this nonsense. What business was it of his? “I’m Cecelia de Marktos, and my ship, the Sweet Delight, is at the station; we’ll be leaving for Rotterdam as soon as I arrive.”

“Oh. Well, in that case—let me see your ID, please.” Cecelia stared around the terminal as she waited for the clerk to process her ID and credit cube. Beyond the windows, a shuttle streaked by, landing. She had timed it perfectly. She glanced at the clerk; he was talking busily into a handset. Checking her out? Fine. Let him. She was sick of this place.

The shuttle came into view again, taxiing to the terminal. A ground crew swarmed out to it. Cecelia peered down the corridor to the arrival lounge. Finally a door opened, and people started coming out, a hurrying stream of them. More and more . . . more than she had thought the usual shuttle held.

When they got closer, she realized they looked scared. Had the raider shown up again? Was that why Heris didn’t answer? But the clerk tapped her on the arm.

“Lady Cecelia—here—first-class ticket up to the station, but I’ve been advised to tell you that you really should reconsider. I can’t sell you a round trip; if you change your mind, you may not be able to come back down. There’s an alert. This is the last shuttle flight; they’re evacuating—”

“I’m not planning to stay there,” she said, accepting the ticket. “When’s departure?”

“As soon as they refuel and turn her around,” the clerk said. “You may board right away. And I’m afraid you’ll have to hand-carry your luggage.”

“Not a problem.” She hadn’t brought much; she could carry it easily. She heaved her duffel onto her shoulder and started down the corridor. She noticed that no one else joined her.

In the first-class cabin, the crew were scurrying around picking up trash. The seats had been laid flat; she wondered if people had been crammed in side-by-side on them. One of the crew looked up, startled.

“What are you—you have a ticket? A ticket up? Are you crazy?”

“I’m going to meet my ship, which is departing,” Cecelia said. “Don’t worry about me.” She unlatched a seat back and pulled it upright herself, then stowed her gear on the seat next to her. If she was to be the only passenger, she saw no reason to worry about regulations. Then she heard other footsteps coming, and started to move her duffel. But it wasn’t passengers. Instead, a line of men in some kind of uniform formed down the aisle, and began passing canisters and boxes covered with warning labels hand to hand. Cecelia leaned out to look down the aisle and see where they were being put, and nearly got clonked in the head.

“Excuse us, ma’am . . . if you’ll just keep out of the way,” said the nearest. Cecelia sat back, wondering what the labels meant—she vaguely remembered seeing markings like that on the things Heris had installed in her yacht.

“If you could just move that,” said someone else, and handed her duffel over. She sat with it on her lap, and began to wonder just what was going on. On the seat where her duffel had been, one of the men placed a heavily padded container labelled fuses danger do not drop and strapped it in as carefully as if it were human. “Don’t bump that,” he said to Cecelia, with a smile. She smiled back automatically, before she could wonder why or ask anything. Someone yelled, outside, and the men turned and began filing out. She heard the hatch thud closed, and felt the familiar shift in air pressure as the shuttle’s circulation system came on. A crewman came back from the front of the shuttle and smiled at her.

“All set? You might want to set your stuff on the floor. It might be a bit rough. Last chance to leave, if you’re having second thoughts.”

She was having third, fourth, and fifth thoughts, but she still didn’t want to get off the shuttle and go back to Marcia and Poots. Or anywhere else on this benighted planet. Surely, when she got to the station, Heris could get her out of whatever problem was developing locally. Besides, it would look damn silly to back out now.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Thank you. I suppose it is permissible to use the facilities?”

“Yes—but we aren’t carrying any meals on this trip. If you need water—”

“I know where the galley is,” Cecelia said. “I can serve myself—or you, if you want.”

“Great. Stay down until we’re well clear.” She felt the rumble-bump of the wheels on the runway even as he turned away from her . . . whatever it was, they were in an almighty hurry. The shuttle hesitated only briefly when it turned at the end of the runway, then screamed into the sky . . . she supposed, since the usual visual display in the first-class cabin wasn’t on, and the heat shields covering the portholes wouldn’t slide back until they were out of the atmosphere.

Nothing happened on the trip; she used the facilities, found the ice water, and a bag of melting ice, offered the pilots water (which they refused) and foil-wrapped packets of cookies, which they accepted. She rummaged in the lockers, finding a whole box of the cookie packets jammed into a corner, and a card with “Meet you at Willie’s tomorrow night, 2310” on it in swirly flourishes of green ink. In the top left-hand locker, a pile of coffee filters tumbled out, and she gave up the search for anything more interesting. She shoved the coffee filters back behind their door, and opened a cookie packet. They could call it “Special Deluxe Appetizing Biscuit” if they wanted, but it tasted like the residue of stale crumbs in the bottom of a tin. Cecelia decided she wasn’t that hungry.