C aptain Furman’s answer, relayed from the impoundment, was, in the words of the impoundment officer, too profane to repeat precisely. “Basically, he said he’d rather be dead than under your guardianship,” the officer said. “He claims your family has done nothing but cheat and rob him since he first started working for it, but given his behavior since we took him into custody, I am not believing anything he says.”

“He wanted to marry into the family,” Ky said. “The girl married someone else while he was off on a voyage.”

“Ah. That sort. Well, it’s none of my business, Captain Vatta, but if I were you, I’d rather have a rotting fruit salad in my locker than have this one around, personality restructuring or no.”

“Thank you,” Ky said. “I will communicate with my barrister.”

The barrister nodded approval when Ky gave her decision. “Very wise, Captain. You have the prisoner’s own preference, and you have our tradition that death is a kinder punishment. You need not worry that he will suffer, except in a few days’ anticipation, which we can alleviate pharmacologically. Our method of execution is completely humane.”

Ky wondered if any death could be considered completely humane, but this was not the time to bring that up. “Thank you for your help,” she said. “My cousin Stella will be taking over as corporate manager, and I’m hoping you can suggest someone for corporate assistance if she chooses to stay on Cascadia.”

“Quite so,” the barrister said. “I will be delighted to be of service.”

Two down, more to go. Ky looked at her message stack. The canine reproductive services report informed her that Rascal was not only healthy but very fertile indeed, and the first straws of his sperm were already being traded for an astonishing price, higher than that originally mentioned. Toby’s education should be assured, at any school Stella found for him. She called Toby up from the engine room; Rascal, as usual, trotted along behind, tail wagging briskly.

“Things are going to change,” Ky said, after he sat down across from her. “Stella’s taking over as head of Vatta; she knows more about the business end than I do. You will stay with her—”

“I like ships!” Toby said. “And I’m not useless; I’ve been working hard—”


_______

“What about Rascal?” Toby reached down to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“You’ll keep him, of course. He’s your dog now. Here on Cascadia, if Stella sets up here, he’s very valuable, and he’s already brought in enough to pay for most schools. With his potential in this system, you’ll have a nice nest egg when you come back to the fleet.”

“Will there be a fleet?” Toby asked. He looked very grown-up, except that his feet and his body still weren’t quite in proportion.

“Yes,” Ky said firmly. “Stella’s going to rebuild Vatta Transport, and I’m going to do what I can to make space safe for all traders again.”

Toby scowled a moment; Rascal jumped into his lap and licked his face. Toby laughed, then, and grinned at Ky. “I guess it won’t be too bad. School, I mean. Other kids again. More space…”

“Stella’s deciding where to set up,” Ky said. “When she finds a place, you need to be ready to go.”

“I might even get home again someday,” Toby said. “If my parents—” His voice trailed off.

“If your parents are alive—and they could be—they’ll be very proud of you,” Ky said. She would miss Toby’s bright-eyed presence, and even the clickety-click of Rascal’s nails on the deck. But not the responsibility of having a youngster aboard in dangerous times. “How long will it take you to pack?”

“Not long,” Toby said. “I’ll be ready.”

Next in the queue were memos on the cargo that she had carried, that the Kat had carried—queries from buyers, requests from shippers for space on the next departure. She shunted those to Stella’s account. A relief not to have to deal with that anymore. Then the application for a new registration for her own ship. With her identity officially confirmed, so also was her right to possess the ship. Re-registration would be approved on payment of the fee, and what name would she like to use?

She had thought of many names, names as old as fighting ships from the wet navies of Earth’s ancient past: Vengeance, Victory, Vanguard, Invincible, Defiant, Dreadnought, Enterprise. If she wanted the vessel to pass as a tradeship with a privateer’s authorization, she should use a more peaceful name, but if she committed to a purely military mission…a fighting ship should have a fighting name.

Could she use one of the old names without disrespect? She shrugged. Probably every space militia and every wet navy had reused the best of them; originality mattered less than the effect of a name on the crew and the enemy. Osman’s ship deserved a good name, a strong name. Victory was too pretentious; it would be foolish to claim victory before winning it. Vanguard, though: that would work. A pioneer, a leader, that’s what she meant to be. Where she meant to be.

No ship in the current Cascadia registry used that name. She entered it; the ship chip would be programmed and delivered within twenty-four hours after payment of the very large fee. She entered the fee transfer.


_______

Next morning, the systemwide ship status board listed Sharra’s Gift insystem, headed for Cascadia on a fast transit, with docking expected in three days. Ky suspected Argelos had come looking for her, and went on with preparations for departure. By the start of second shift, Stella called to report that she’d found living and office space.

“You want me to send Toby over?”

“If he’s ready. You’d better send an escort, in case someone throws a fit over that dog.”

“We can put Rascal in a carrier.”

“Good idea. I found a garden apartment up on West-five, would you believe? These people are crazy about trees.”

“I’d noticed,” Ky said.

“Thanks for setting things up with Crown & Spears. They’ve informed their branches within ansible range, so we can transfer funds among them as needed. I wish we could get at Furman’s accounts.”

“It’ll cost us in legal fees,” Ky said. “Even if other jurisdictions honor Cascadia’s judgments. But it’s up to you.”

“I’ve already got the core crew for the Kat,” Stella went on. “She’ll be ready to go only a day or so late. And we have cargo.”

“Excellent,” Ky said. “I’d like to put a shipboard ansible in Gary Tobai and also leave one for you here. That way we can stay in contact. Maybe you can find someone to manufacture them here, get them aboard all Vatta ships.” Though that would be perilous, if ISC found out.

“That’s a good idea,” Stella said. “It gives Vatta a definite trade advantage, too. Send them right over; I’ll tell the captains to expect them. Are you sending an installation crew?”

“Yes,” Ky said. “And something else—there’s a Slotter Key ship insystem—”

“I saw that,” Stella said. “Friend of yours?”

“I think so. I’ve got to talk to my crew—do you think I should talk to the Cascadia government about my plans?”

Stella considered a moment. “I’d ask Rafe, actually. My sense is that they’re either easygoing or very rigid, from issue to issue; he’s been here before so he might know which.”

“I need to talk to him anyway,” Ky said.


_______

Rafe listened to her plans.

“I think it’s time for me to leave you,” he said when she had finished.

Though she had half expected this response, Ky felt a pang. She had grown used to his quick wit, his astonishing technical expertise, even his ability to throw her off balance. She waited to see if he would say more.

“Starting an interstellar space force is your thing, not mine,” he went on. “And I need to get back in touch with ISC. I haven’t gone to the local office; my instincts tell me something’s wrong at headquarters, and I don’t want to advertise myself right now.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to go home,” Ky said.

“This is an emergency situation,” Rafe said. “Something’s wrong—beyond the pirates, I think—or a lot more of the ansibles would be back up. My father may not want me to stay, but he’s not likely to have me intercepted on arrival, and I’ve got important information that I don’t want to transmit by any other means. Those shipboard ansibles you won’t promise not to use, for instance.”

Ky nodded.

“And some of your crew will be glad to see me go,” Rafe said. “Martin still doesn’t trust me, even though he likes my skills. I’m going to go tell Stella where I’m going; I’ll be back to say a more formal good-bye.”

On that, he turned away, and Ky went back to her planning. How was she going to finance a fleet? Outfitting one ship had been expensive enough, but outfitting more…she had to get the cooperation of allies, governments or…or someone. Stella called to say that she was ready for Toby and gave the address of her apartment. Ky saw him off; the ship seemed too quiet when he’d left, even though he hadn’t been a noisy boy. It was the dog, she told herself. She was glad to be rid of it. It smelled; ships had enough off odors without dog.

The next morning, she was finishing the order to the chandler for rations when Rafe appeared at her office door, dressed in a stylish business suit instead of the casual shipsuit he’d worn for weeks.

“You scare Stella,” he said, lounging against the bulkhead.

“I doubt it,” Ky said, marking the order COMPLETE and sending it on. She turned to the wish list the Gannetts had given her for additional munitions.

“Seriously,” Rafe said. “And she’s not easily scared. She’s quite brave, Stella, in her own way.”

Ky could not think of anything to say to that—she hadn’t ever said Stella wasn’t brave—so she went on scrolling down the list of munitions. Cascadia didn’t have anything as big as MilMart Express, back on Lastway, but they had two dealers who carried most of what the Gannetts wanted. Question was, could she afford it?

“I wonder if you even know what you are,” Rafe went on, in the half-teasing tone that heated the back of Ky’s neck.

“I think so,” Ky said, without looking up. “Human, youngish, female…which to you means natural prey, I suppose.” She glanced at him.

For an instant before his mask slid back in place, Rafe looked both startled and horrified. “You wrong me, Captain. My natural prey is smug fools. Young women…well, those who aren’t smug fools anyway…find in me the older brother they wish they’d had.”

Ky let out a snort of laughter. “You? A protective big brother?”

Rafe scowled at her. “I see you don’t believe me, and that’s within your rights. Think anything you like of me. But, Captain—I was serious about you scaring Stella, and about you yourself. You know what you have inside, and I’m not talking about the cranial ansible.”

Ky felt a cold chill.

“You’re a killer, Captain. I’ll wager anything you like that you didn’t know it until it happened. That you thought you were the way Stella described you to me years ago—a nice girl, a conscientious, earnest, dull, hardworking, respectable member of your family.” He cocked his head. “I’m right, and you know it. Good Ky, the straight-arrow counter to foolish Stella.” He paused; Ky said nothing. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. “And then you killed for the first time. And deep down, somewhere inside, you felt something you had never felt before. You liked it.”

“I—” Ky clamped her jaw shut again. He was right; he had seen it. Did everyone see it?

“I saw you, you know, when you came from killing Osman. Up to then, all that glee, all that determination to mix it up yourself with the invaders—that could’ve been the military training you had, or the bravado of ignorance. I wasn’t sure. But after that—I knew. You didn’t just kill him; you enjoyed killing him.”

The images flooded her mind: the whirling chaos of that fight…the final moments, when she had, indeed, taken great pleasure. Shame flooded her; she felt her face going hot with it even as Rafe’s voice went on.

“The thing is, Captain, when a good person like you discovers a bad pleasure—a guilty pleasure—there’s things you must do to survive. You’re not an Osman; you don’t want to be like him—”

“Maybe—” Ky choked, but forced the words out. “Maybe I am like him; maybe this is how he started.”

“No.” Rafe’s voice held no doubt. “No, you’re not. You’re a good person—a decent person—who happens to take pleasure in killing bad people.”

“No good person—”

“Listen to me. I know what you’re dealing with.” Rafe reached out—rather gingerly, Ky noticed even in that moment—and touched her shoulders. “You are not the first person to have this experience. Most people, you’re right, don’t enjoy killing. They throw up, they cry—”

“I threw up. The first time.”

“Yes. Normal physiological response. I’m sure they told you that in the Academy.”

“Yes, they did.” Ky tried to steady her breathing.

“Most people take no pleasure in killing; that’s probably biologically important, or we’d have wiped out the human race before now. But a small percentage do, and it’s like being able to taste certain flavors or smell certain smells—it’s innate, not something you choose. Do you understand that?”

“I…don’t see how it can be. Not on worlds like Slotter Key anyway. We have genetic screening; parents can choose gene-mod packets…”

“But the gene components of pleasure in killing aren’t defined,” Rafe said. “At least not on my world, which is at least as advanced as yours.”

“How do you know that?”

“How do you think?” He grimaced. “Captain, what I recognize in you is what I carry in myself.” He stopped, and stared into nothing; Ky did not move or speak. Finally he went on. “When I was quite young, ten or eleven, someone subverted the security at our summer cottage. They got in sometime during the afternoon, we think. Hid until after we children were in bed. My parents were out for the evening; the nanny was downstairs chatting with the cook.” He paused, shook his head. “I woke up—I still don’t know why. A noise, a movement of air. Whatever, I woke up all at once, and turned on the light.” Another pause, this one longer. Ky recognized his inward expression.

“He was in a programmable skinsuit,” Rafe said. “Black when I turned the light on, but shifting in a few seconds to a mobile camouflage—you had those in the military, I’m sure.” Ky nodded, but said nothing. “Hard to follow the movements, with the colors flaring and fading across the suit. I was off the bed in a flash, you can believe, and tried to get to the door past him; he grabbed me and I started fighting. I’d been taking martial arts classes since I was seven, but I was only a child, and he was an adult. I used everything I had, but he would’ve taken me…except that I’d bought a display sword, one of those Old Earth replicas, and my instructor had had me practice a few strokes. I managed to grab it off its display hanger and hit his wrist hard enough to make him let go. The thing was blunt, of course, and probably wouldn’t have gone through the skinsuit even if it’d been sharp, but edge-on the blade had enough force to crush his windpipe with the backswing from that first blow. I didn’t even realize what I’d done—he let go, and I went for the house alarm.”

“Mmm…,” Ky said, just to keep him talking.

“It wasn’t working, of course. I had only a child-level implant, but everyone in our family had a skullphone link; I activated the emergency alarm. I remember, at that point, seeing him lying on the floor of my room, and feeling…triumphant. I didn’t know yet he was dead or dying. I just knew I’d taken down an adult. I wasn’t scared. Didn’t have enough sense to be scared. I thought I was being very clear and logical, thinking through what had happened. I needed to protect my sister, and there might be more bad men. I would need a better weapon. My father’s hunting weapons were locked up, and I didn’t have the combination, but about then the man’s skinsuit shut down its camo program, and I could see his weapons. I took his sidearm—I remember being very careful with it, finding the safety and flipping that off—and then went out into the hall.” He sighed. “I shot the first moving thing I saw, which was good, and the second, which wasn’t…it was our terrified pet gammish, perfectly harmless. The third bad guy fled. When my parents and the emergency crews arrived—within seconds of each other—I was positioned correctly to cover the front door, had given my sister the second dead intruder’s sidearm and told her how to cover the back door. She was hysterical, because she’d had to go through the kitchen, where the cook and the nanny were both dead.”

Ky could think of nothing to say; she looked at Rafe’s somber face, imagining the eleven-year-old. How he must have felt, and looked.

“I was taken to therapy, to deal with the post-traumatic stress I was expected to have,” Rafe went on. “And, being eleven and an honest child up till then, I told the therapist exactly how I felt. Which was not, I learned quickly, how I was supposed to feel.”

“It must have been very difficult,” Ky said, and his mouth quirked.

“Yes, it was, a bit. The therapist warned my parents that I was at risk of becoming a criminal, said that I needed intensive therapy for a long period, and would probably do best in a closed environment.” He swallowed. “My sister was afraid of me, they all said. She had seen me kill the second intruder; he had her bound, gagged, and slung over his shoulder when I shot him. She saw me shoot our pet. And I admit, I slapped her to make her quit screaming when I wanted her to guard the back door. Everybody decided I had never been the good boy they’d thought I was up till then; that I’d been hiding a monster inside.”

“But you saved her, and yourself.”

“Yes, but eleven-year-olds aren’t supposed to be able to do that,” Rafe said. “And they certainly aren’t supposed to argue with the therapist and insist that they’re proud of killing two grown men, professionals. That they liked the feeling.” He shook his head with a rueful grin. “That came from being a spoiled son of privilege. I’d heard my father tell people off—and my mother, too, for that matter. It never occurred to me to lie, or that I could get in trouble for telling the truth.”

“That’s awful!” Ky felt a surge of indignation. “They should’ve seen that you were a hero.”

He shrugged. “You know better. What would your family have thought about the way you killed Osman? Don’t you have some nonviolence in that religion Stella was telling me about? How are you getting along with that, by the way?”

“Not,” Ky admitted. “I can’t seem to make it make sense anymore.”

“Yeah. Same here. I can remember picking flowers to put on the altar at home, but after all that…I can’t remember why. Anyway, after six months or so, the family sent me off to a boarding school for troubled boys; the therapist told them it was the only chance for me to become a responsible citizen. It was educational in a way they didn’t anticipate. I came in naïve, the obvious victim and fall guy, so of course I was in trouble for things I never did. Decided it was more fun to be in trouble for things I’d actually done, and then that it was even more fun not being caught. All this merely confirmed the therapist’s warning, of course. I actually believed it myself for a long time. Anyone who enjoyed violence or killing was doomed to be bad to the bone. Might as well be bad and enjoy it.”

“Is that why your family sent you away?”

“Part of it. I came out of that school still interested in learning—I had managed to make good grades in academic subjects even while in trouble all that time—but university was just too…tempting. After the third pregnancy, when the girl was a Council member’s daughter, my father had had enough.”

“So…do you still think that way? Once bad, always bad?”

“No. But it’s taken me years, and I don’t want you to make my mistakes. Ky—Captain—you’re the same person you were, with a big lump of self-knowledge you didn’t have before. I’ve watched you since I came aboard; I’ve seen you doing a lot of things, including dumping me on my back. You’re smart, you’re honest—more honest than Stella or me, when it comes to that. You’re fundamentally decent. The little thrill you get when you kill someone doesn’t change any of that.”

“It’s not—it’s not right!”

“Killing the wrong people isn’t right. Feeling what you feel is just…feeling it. What you have to do—what I had to do—was figure out how to control it, not let it ride me either way. It’s easier if you don’t spend the next ten to fifteen years identified as a potential sadistic serial killer…that’s what I’d like to save you.”

“You didn’t want to kill that man—that agent back on Lastway,” Ky said, putting together some history.

“No. I could see that his death might be necessary, and that ISC might have terminated him, but I didn’t want to be the agent of his killing. It’s…too easy to go that way, become an assassin, paid or inspired by my own ideals. I won’t let that happen again.”

Which meant it had happened. Ky suppressed a shiver. “I worried—”

“Of course you did. That’s why you don’t need to worry.”

“I even thought, when I knew my father had died, at least he wouldn’t have to know about me—”

“Mmm. Not much on afterlife, are you?”

“Saphiric Cyclans believe in return without awareness,” Ky said a little stiffly. “But I’m not sure I’m a Saphiric Cyclan anymore. And I’m clearly not a Modulan.”

Rafe waved his hand. “Theology aside, do you understand what I’m saying? You’re not sadistic; I’ve never seen you do one cruel thing. You’re not eager to kill; I watched you with that spy who died unexpectedly. So far you have killed only at need, to save your ship and crew. You will not slide into the other kind of killing unless you let yourself, and it’s my opinion that you are not likely to slide that way—unless you think it’s inevitable.”

“So—you’re telling me not to worry about that jolt of pleasure?”

“Not exactly. Humans are humans; we seek pleasure. You might be tempted more than most, in circumstances where it’s a close call whether it’s necessary or not. You need to admit it, at least to yourself, that you might be tempted, and watch for it, and control it. But you are planning to fight a war. You will kill again—that’s what a war is. And you will enjoy it again, because that’s how you’re constituted. If you let fear of that pleasure keep you from fighting as you should, you’ll get other people killed. And knowing you, that’ll drive you into a whirlpool of guilt.” For a moment his face expressed sadness and exhaustion; then he forced a crooked grin. “If you’re trying to think how to say that you don’t want to be like me, don’t bother. I know that, and I know you won’t be. Does that help?”

“Yes.” Ky felt as wrung out as he had looked, and dredged up the outrage at his parents and therapist. “I still can’t imagine telling you—a child—that you were doomed to be evil when you’d just saved yourself and your sister. They should have been proud of you.” Even as she said it, she wondered if her father would have been proud of her.

“I killed two grown men,” Rafe said, shrugging. “I didn’t express remorse. Looking at it from their point of view, I can understand, though I still don’t agree. And part of it was the very expensive and exclusive therapist they brought in, recommended by my family’s religious adviser. Later on, I learned that he followed a form of psychological theory not much respected in the rest of the universe. But my father asked for the best, and got the most expensive.”

“Does your father still think you’re that bad?”

“I’m not sure. We haven’t met face-to-face for years, but the work I’ve done for the company has seemed to soften his attitude. The last time we spoke by ansible, he said he was willing to see me again. It wasn’t quite an invitation to a banquet of fatted calf, but it was at least not hostile.”

“So…is that where you’re going?”

“Yes.” Rafe looked away, as if embarrassed. “I’m concerned that in this crisis, they haven’t pinged my cranial ansible. Yes, it takes an external power source to use for two-way communications, but I’d know if they sent an alarm. Cascadia’s close enough to home—and the ansibles are up here and there—so I should have heard something.”

“Wait—you said the shipboard ansibles can’t link into the regular net—”

“Cranials can,” Rafe said. His eyebrows rose. “In fact, Captain, if you want to cheat ISC of ansible charges, it’s quite possible. I can teach you—”

“Never mind,” Ky said. “I don’t expect to be using this thing.”

“A good commander ignores no advantages,” Rafe said, more seriously. “But back to my proposed itinerary. I could call home via a commercial service, but if there’s trouble on the ground, that would alert the bad guys. Considering my father was a good guy, in spite of everything, if I just go there, I’ll be among the hyenas before they know what’s hit them.” His grin was feral.

“When—” the rest of will I see you again stuck in her throat. From his expression, he heard it anyway.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Someday, maybe, when you least expect it, you’ll smell limes and think of me, and there I’ll be, peeling one. With, I assure you, no intent other than flavoring a drink.”

Ky laughed in spite of herself. “Rafe, you always have an intent. When are you leaving?”

“Today. There’s a tradeship—not Vatta, alas—and I have a ticket. Under one of my traveling names, of course. Just time to teach you the tricks of our shared ability, if you’re willing.”

Ky nodded. It would be stupid to ignore an advantage. She could imagine what her crew would think of the two of them spending time in her locked cabin, but this was not something she could explain. She was no more eager than Rafe to reveal the existence of technology that would make her more of a target. Two hours later, Rafe concluded the session by pointing out that she lacked the boosted external power jack he’d been given.

“You can use the one you’ve got,” Rafe said, “but it’s not designed for the load the ansible needs. You’re going to be limited to reception and very short transmissions. I don’t recommend you use it except in emergencies.”

“I don’t intend to,” Ky said, wrinkling her nose. Her first experience of the weird sensations and unpleasant odors generated by its use had been a strong deterrent to experimentation.

“And don’t do direct implant-to-implant downloads, as we did, or you’ll pass this on to someone else.”

“I don’t intend to do that, either.”

“Did it load the connection codes into your implant? That would be in a subfolder under ISC…”

“Yes,” Ky said.

“You’re the honest sort who wouldn’t use them to make free calls, but again, if you’re ever stuck…those codes will work via any ansible interface.” He stretched. “Well, I’ll be on my way. I don’t suppose you’d let me demonstrate my respect and affection—”

“No,” Ky said. “But thank you for asking.”

“You are a cruel and heartless woman,” Rafe said. “But someday…” And with that he was gone.