After setting up the new ship account, Ky asked about access to the other Vatta accounts.
“Of course,” the account rep said. “You have been identified as an authorized person, captain of a Vatta ship. What did you want?”
“I want to transfer a small sum to the ship account, to be transferred back when the West Cascadia Rehab Centre funds come in and clear. We need to pay docking fees, air fees, that kind of thing.”
“You’ll need about a thousand, then,” she said. “Here are the balances of the various Vatta accounts. There’s the general corporate account, and each ship has its own—”
“I’ll transfer from the general,” Ky said. “What’s your clearing time on transfers from the planet?”
“For an entity like the rehab center, four hours. We have to run a verifying query to their branch, that’s all.”
Ky mentally added up the charges so far. “You’re right, a thousand should do it.” That transfer took only seconds. Ky then authorized payment of the outstanding charges, which came to 978 credits, and headed back to the ship with a freshly programmed leader-tag. She was able to anticipate most of its chirpy directions, and dumped it happily in the bin outside the dock entrance.
The status display outside the ship now showed green: all charges paid. No local police were visible, as they had been when she left. A very practical way, she thought, to ensure that no one pulled out leaving unpaid bills behind. The little blue bar at the bottom of the display puzzled her at first, but when she touched it, the text explanation came up. 48 HOUR CREDIT LIMIT APPROVED. So she wouldn’t have to transfer again even if the rehab center’s funds were delayed…good.
Back inside the ship, Toby met her before she got to the bridge. For once, the dog was not at his heels. “You’re not going to make me sell Rascal, are you?”
“What? Of course not, what gave you that idea?”
“There’ve been inquiries coming in. It’s all the cargo they’re interested in, and they’re offering a lot of money…and he’s caused so much trouble…” Toby looked near tears.
Ky put a hand on his shoulder. “Toby, listen. Rascal is not cargo. He’s crew. Granted, he’s a noisy, dirty, smelly, mischievous little terror, but he’s our dog, officially, and your dog in reality.”
“It’s a whole lot of money,” Toby said, doubt still clear in his voice. “Martin said you might need it.”
“So just how much is a whole lot of money?” Ky asked.
“Er…um…thirty-seven thousand.”
“For a dog?” That seemed impossible. What were dogs good for, other than to make messes and cheer up orphans?
“Yes. And Martin thinks they’ll go higher…we haven’t even advertised.”
“Well, I wouldn’t sell you for thirty-seven thousand, or thirty-seven million,” Ky said. “And I’m not selling your dog.” The numbers danced in her head anyway. “But if you weren’t offended at the idea, maybe we could market his sperm.”
“You trust them?”
“No. But if we hired a vet, I’m sure there’s some way to do it on this ship, something that wouldn’t harm him permanently but could get your trading nest egg started.” And pay for his education, if it turned out his parents were among the dead.
“He’s only a puppy—”
“He’s grown a lot since Lastway, Toby, and so have you. Let’s see…if dogs are so scarce and valuable here, they may not have a canine vet on the station, but there’s bound to be one onplanet who has expertise in artificial insemination. Let’s see.”
The station directory listed only two vets, both certified for “livestock import/export health certification and quarantine procedures.” One listed the species for which he was certified, including some Ky had never heard of, but not dogs. The other’s ad said, “Practice limited to health certification of large animal (hoofed) livestock.”
Cascadia’s directory included only five “canine specialists,” and one of those listed “reproductive services.” Ky checked the time zones against the listed office hours. Seven hours until they opened. She glanced at Toby. “So where did you hide him?”
He flushed. “In…a crate behind some stuff in the gym.”
“Don’t you think you ought to let him out?”
“Yes. I just worried—”
“Well, don’t. You’re not going to lose your dog. Go on now, let him out before he destroys the crate.” She just managed not to add her usual and keep him out of trouble. Toby didn’t need to hear that at the moment.
“Yes’m.” Toby took off at a jog, neatly avoiding Rafe, who was just coming onto the bridge.
“A boy and his dog,” Rafe said, coming in as Toby left. “I suppose you told him you weren’t going to sell Rascal?”
“Yes,” Ky said. “Though we’re looking at vet services. If they’re that eager for a dog, I’m thinking frozen sperm might be worth something.”
“Mercenary lot, you Vattas,” Rafe said, but without much sting to it. “I noticed that our dock-watcher disappeared. I suppose that means the transfer came through?”
“It hadn’t when I was at the bank, but I moved some funds from another Vatta account to clear our accounts onstation.”
Her skullphone bleeped. Ky motioned Rafe back and answered it.
“That transfer you were expecting just came through from the rehab center.” A visual display gave her the number and name of the caller, though she had already recognized the voice as the person she’d spoken to at Crown & Spears. “We should get confirmation by the close of business, this shift; do you want us to transfer the thousand back to the Vatta corporate fund when we do?”
Ky queried her implant about the Moscoe Confederation’s history with Vatta Transport. Under its heading, her father had noted “…requires steady, mature captains with uncommon interpersonal skills; these people are ferociously courteous but occasionally capricious. Under no circumstances should ship crews reveal the presence of small pets, especially dogs. There is a pervasive belief in this society that their dogs were stolen from them by merchant ships, and they will insist that any dog is one of those stolen, or the descendant of same. They have few dogs, owing to the same problems as many terraformed worlds where the native wildlife is highly toxic to dogs.”
Ky could almost hear her father’s voice in those familiar cadences. Just so he had explained things to her or thought aloud, filling in each corner, finishing off each idea precisely. Grief swept over her. She could not believe she would never see him again; that if she returned to Slotter Key, he would not be there to greet her. She knew—she believed what Stella had said—but it seemed a fantasy, unreal.
She wanted to go home. She had never been really homesick at school or the Academy or even on the first voyage. The memories had all been comforting, not distressing. Now she felt the pull of Slotter Key, the familiar sights and smells, the familiar stars in the familiar night sky, the particular green of the tik plantations, the feel of the rain on her face, the cool tiles of the hall under her bare feet, the colors of the flowers. It did not seem possible that she would never walk that hall again, never throw herself down on that bed, never see again any of the childhood keepsakes in that closet, never see or hear…she let herself think of that for a moment…her father, her mother, her brothers. The visuals stored in her father’s implant showed the moment of destruction, what her father saw, but not what came after…was anything left at all?
She blinked back the tears and made herself concentrate on the current situation. So she shouldn’t have let the locals know they had a dog…how bad was this going to get? Should she warn Toby? Finding a good place to hide the dog seemed prudent, as did making sure they were full up with supplies in case they needed to button the ship and leave in a hurry. And she could check local statutes relating to dogs on their legal database.
Stella Vatta Constantin listened to the litany of complaints about her cousin Ky’s behavior and wondered what Ky thought she was doing. Her aims had seemed straightforward enough back on Lastway: survive attacks, find and join up with other Vatta survivors, try to reorganize Vatta as a commercial entity. Hiring the mercenaries to protect them had made sense in those terms; forming a convoy to offset the cost of hiring the mercenaries made sense as well. But ever since the Osman affair, as Stella thought of it, Ky’s behavior had changed, and Stella wasn’t sure Ky still put Vatta—the family and the business—first.
Stella had fought with her own memories of the stubborn, bossy child Ky had been, trying to understand the person Ky had become in those years they hadn’t met. The trim, compact, decisive young captain on the dock at Lastway had clearly changed, matured. Whether that was the influence of Spaceforce Academy or something else, Stella didn’t know, but she’d begun to like and trust that Ky and believe that Grace was right in saying that Ky should lead the family through this crisis. She’d appreciated that Ky was quite clearly going through the same struggle to see Stella as she was now, not as that-idiot-Stella.
Now she wasn’t so sure. Why had Ky refused to accept her father’s implant until a moment of crisis, the most dangerous time to attempt an implant change? Why hadn’t she accepted the mercenaries’ offer of assistance if she hadn’t trusted Rafe? Why hadn’t she listened to the mercenaries’ advice to get out of the system rather than make contact with the suspiciously convenient “Vatta” ship that turned out to be Osman? Ky had risked so much—risked all of them, as well as herself. The boy Toby, who should have been protected first and last. She’d actually talked to Toby about suicide, something Stella considered horrible, given Toby’s past experience.
And as for the battle itself…she had struggled not to let Ky see how shocked and alarmed she’d been by the way Ky conducted it—and herself. That feral grin of triumph, so different from the sick guilt Stella felt the times she’d killed…Stella had the feeling, dread mixed with nausea, that Ky had enjoyed killing Osman, that she felt no remorse at all.
She’d been relieved that Ky left her behind on Gary Tobai, and at the same time appalled. How could Ky leave a complete novice in command of a ship, even with the experienced senior crew she’d inherited? For that matter, how could Ky think of trying to run a damaged ship—about which she knew nothing—with just a skeleton crew?
Ky’s decision to leave her in charge at Garth-Lindheimer rather than submit to adjudication of Ky’s claim to Osman’s ship had come as a shock as well. Refusing adjudication bordered on lawlessness. That wasn’t like Ky; she’d always been the most stubbornly legalistic child.
And now she was faced with more evidence that Ky wasn’t what she’d seemed at Lastway, that she might be a young Osman: brilliant but erratic, a charismatic leader with overweening ambition, without a conscience. A killer.
She smiled pleasantly at the dour-faced officials who interviewed her. “I’m really only interested in resupply and trade,” she said, for the fourth or fifth time. “I’m sorry my cousin upset you, but as you can see this is an unarmed cargo ship, and a very small, slow one at that. My focus is on restoring Vatta’s reputation as a common carrier, not on some plan to rid the universe of pirates.” She let a hint of humor creep into her voice, the older relative about a wilder youngling.
“Do you think she’s dangerous?” one of them asked.
A hard question; Stella wished she knew the answer. “Not to anyone not allied with the pirates,” she said finally. “I don’t know if she told you about the attacks on our family?”
“Yes,” the man said. “But we weren’t sure we believed her.”
“It’s true,” Stella said. “Her parents were killed; my father was killed. Both of us lost siblings and many other relatives. Vatta ships were attacked in other ports; in Allray, for instance, we lost an entire ship and crew but for one boy who was offship on an errand. I have been attacked myself, and our ship and personnel were attacked at Lastway. I’m sure if she had a chance, she would harm those who did this.”
“So she said. But she claimed she had a letter of marque from her government—”
“She did. I saw it myself. I don’t know anything about letters of marque—you will understand that my duty in the business, until now, was onplanet, not shipboard.”
“And yet she left you in command of your ship—”
“As an emergency measure, and with very experienced crew, yes.” Stella was not going to help blacken Ky’s name, even if she had her own concerns about that. “I hired a licensed master at the next port, of course, along with additional crew.”
They stared at her and she smiled back. Finally one of them shook his head. “Well. I find it hard to believe that you are involved in her conspiracy building, but should you find yourself in her company anytime soon, inform her that neither she nor her ship is welcome in this system until further notice. You may trade, but we prefer that your crew not go onstation, and all trades must be approved by our security staff. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” Stella said. It would be a bother, but not impossible.
“You may attend the Captains’ Guild, but you will be accompanied, when offship, by one of our personnel.”
“I’m delighted,” Stella said. “In case someone is still out to get Vatta family members, I would want an escort in any case, and an official one should be much more effective.”
From their expressions they had not expected her response. What had Ky actually done or said? Stella felt a twinge of resentment again. It wasn’t fair that she had to clean up Ky’s messes.
When Stella checked in at the Captains’ Guild, she felt the intense interest of everyone from the clerk at the desk to the other captains chatting in a corner of the lobby, one of whom immediately broke off and headed for the bar. She was used to being stared at, and she had dressed to accentuate her looks, but she was sure it was more than her beauty drawing attention this time. Her police escort nudged her. “Remember, no talk about alliances or conspiracies.”
“I know,” Stella said, forcing her voice to serenity. “And if someone else brings it up, I’ll cut them off.”
“See that you do,” the escort said sourly. She was a stocky short woman with a broad, blunt face; Stella knew from the moment they met that the woman recognized and resented Stella’s tall, elegant, blond beauty and was not about to admit it, even to herself. She’d been the target of that kind of resentment all her life.
Now a tall gray-haired man came out of the bar and approached her. “Captain Vatta?”
“Yes,” Stella said.
“Pleased to meet you; I’m Rogier Sanlin, Porodin Shipping. My ship’s the Curry Town.”
Stella checked her implant. Porodin Shipping was a four-system firm, running one circuit route with eight ships. A minor competitor when Vatta had been strong.
“Nice to meet you, Captain Sanlin,” Stella said. He had eyed her the way most men eyed her, but was being polite about it. “What can I do for you?”
He glanced briefly at her escort. “Don’t worry, they’ve told us all what not to talk to you about, and I wouldn’t anyway. Porodin is pure shipping, no interest in anything else. I was wondering if you had cargo to transship to one of our destinations, or if you had cargo we might be interested in.”
“I might,” Stella said. “Let’s talk.” It took only minutes to establish that he might buy her custom textiles, but only if she would accept cargo space in trade.
“With the financial ansibles still down so many places, money’s tight,” Sanlin said.
It was only the first of several such conversations; Stella quickly caught on to the intricacies of trading cargo-space futures, and by lunchtime she was already eight hundred credits up in hard money.
“Aunt Grace always did say I was born to print money,” Stella said to her police escort, “but I think she meant marry it.” The woman glowered.
Stella ran her sales cube through a reader so her escort could check it for clandestine merchandise; the woman seemed annoyed that she found nothing to complain about.
It was almost time for lunch, and she considered annoying her escort by having lunch in the Captains’ Guild dining hall, but that felt too much like something Ky would do. Still, she was tired of the ship galley. Her crew seemed unperturbed by having to stay aboard, but they were all professional spacers. She wasn’t. She looked at her escort.
“Can you suggest a good place for lunch?”
“You can eat here,” the woman said. “But I come with you.”
“Of course,” Stella said. “But here it’s likely that other captains will approach me; I didn’t want to concern you.”
“It doesn’t bother me. I would just stop you.”
Stella just managed not to roll her eyes. She went to the registration desk instead and spoke to the clerk. “I’ve been stuck on a very small ship for a very long time,” she said. “I’d like to find a place for lunch that has good food, where I won’t be bothered with business for at least an hour. Can you suggest something?”
“Melandra,” he said. “You’ll need a reservation. One?” Then a glance at her escort. “Two?”
“Two,” Stella said. She smiled; he made the call and then gave her directions.
“It’s very expensive,” her escort said as they came back out into the concourse.
“I’m sure,” Stella said. “Places that protect you from interruption usually are. Do you mind?”
“No,” the woman said. “I’ve never been there. I hear they have all natural foods, no vat-grown.”
Melandra, when they reached it, had a simple gray door with the name in gold script. Stella paused. “Stella Vatta,” she said. The door opened on a carpeted hall, the walls gray pin-striped with burgundy, then closed behind them when both were through, shutting off the bustle of the concourse. Somewhere, a mellow stringed instrument was playing.
“This way please,” a pleasant voice said from near the floor. Stella looked down. A knee-high artibod, its body metallic burgundy, blinked emerald eyes at them. It moved ahead of them down the corridor, turned left, and led the way into what looked like a rustic bower in a fruit orchard on a day somewhere between spring and summer. A single table, draped in white, stood between padded benches under a trellis supporting a grapevine. A white-flowered tree grew against one wall; one thick with shiny red fruit grew beside it. A light breeze moved its leaves; the air smelled of roses and grass and earth. “Be seated please,” the artibod said. Stella slid onto one bench, her escort onto the other. She felt beneath her the bench reshape itself to her body; a back extension extruded to support her back in perfect comfort. Her escort looked startled, but said nothing.
“The season is programmable,” the artibod said. “Controls are on the table; the menu will appear there shortly. Would the ladies prefer artibod or human service?”
“Artibod,” Stella said, just as her escort said “Human.” They looked at each other; the escort shrugged. “Artibod,” Stella said again.
“Command the table when you are ready to order,” the artibod said, and rolled away.
“I had no idea,” her escort said. “There’s really just one table?”
“In this alcove, anyway,” Stella said. “I’m sure they have others.” She looked at the table controls. They were, indeed, on a setting between spring and summer; the temperature was cool in the shade, warm in the artificial sunlight. “Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.” The woman looked around again. Stella relaxed into her seat, which adjusted to the shift in weight. “You can’t bribe me, you know.”
“Excuse me?”
“Taking me to a fancy place like this. It won’t work, if you’re trying to bribe me to let you talk conspiracy to the other captains.”
“I don’t want to talk conspiracy to other captains,” Stella said. “I just want a nice lunch, uninterrupted, so other captains can’t say things to me that you will object to.” Her escort looked puzzled. “What would you think,” Stella went on, “if one of them had come up and started asking questions about what Ky’s doing?”
“I—would tell you to stop.”
“Even though I hadn’t started the conversation. Yes. So I wanted to have a peaceful lunch, where I wouldn’t be bothered with that kind of thing. This is a nice place. What are you going to eat?”
The menu, now visible on the tablecloth, included both standard fare and exotics, with explanations available at a touch. Stella chose roast chicken with vegetables, a green salad. Her escort scowled at the menu. “They don’t have just plain sandwiches.”
“They may, if we ask,” Stella said. “Any particular kind?”
“I usually eat at a kiosk on B; fried soy cubes and onions in a flatbread wrap.”
“Ah. I’d guess the Pocket Grill is the closest to that. I’m having chicken.”
“It’s more expensive.”
“It’s on my account; don’t worry about it.”
“I—I would like the chicken, too.”
Stella nodded and entered the order. Another artibod rolled up with the drinks she had ordered, and in a few minutes came back with their meals, rising to table level to roll them off onto the table. They ate in silence at first. Stella waited to see if the food would have any softening effect. When she suggested dessert, her escort said, “You aren’t like your cousin.”
“Excuse me? I’m having the torte—what are you having?”
“What’s a torte?”
Stella explained, then entered the order and went back to the previous topic. “What do you mean, I’m not like my cousin? I mean, I know I don’t look like her.”
“It’s more than that.” The woman leaned forward. “She’s trouble, that one.”
“Really? What did she do?”
“She’s part of a conspiracy to overthrow the government,” the woman said. “She was trying to get all these traders to join her.”
“Overthrow the government? Surely not…is that what she said?”
“That’s what my supervisor told me. She argued with the stationmaster, very loudly. They told her to go away and not come back.”
“Do you know exactly what she said?” Stella asked. “Because I know she wanted to rebuild Vatta—”
“She didn’t talk about Vatta,” the woman said. “She talked about war.”
Quincy met her at the main hatch. “What happened?” she asked. “You look furious.”
“I’m not sure I want to talk about it yet,” Stella said. “The good news is that we have a buyer for the textiles we bought. The bad news is that Ky has gone out of her mind.”
“Mmm.” Quincy glanced around. “Perhaps in your cabin?”
“Right.” Stella led the way, trying not to glower at the crewmembers she met. When they were in her cabin, hatch closed, Quincy sat on the bunk while Stella paced the four steps back and forth. “Ky,” she said finally, “is an idiot. All right, I know she’s brave and I know she’s not actually stupid, but…she’s now alienated two different systems, at least, and for all I know she’s busy making us more enemies where she is now. I don’t know how she thinks making people angry is going to help our family recover—”
“What are they angry about here?” Quincy asked.
“She has this harebrained idea that all the Slotter Key privateers, and anyone else they can get to join them, should form a united fleet to fight the…I don’t even know who.” Stella sat down in her desk chair and ran her hands through her hair. “Whoever it was that attacked the Bissonet System, I suppose,” she said. “Apparently she is convinced that they’re all connected, the attacks on Vatta, the nonfunctioning ansibles, the increased pirate activity, and now this system attack…and yes, I know, she was talking like that before, but she had her head straight on priorities: Vatta first. Now—I don’t think she has the slightest concern for Vatta’s reputation. We are not a military organization. We transport and we trade. I don’t know what she thinks she can accomplish; it’s not like she has any actual experience. That Mackensee officer, Johannson, was right: she’s a very loose cannon, and we’re the ones who will suffer for it.”
She felt better for saying it. Across the small cabin, Quincy nodded. “She does get wound up about what she wants to do. I worried about her myself. But her record’s good. It’s not everyone who could’ve gotten us out of that mess with Osman.”
“It’s not everyone who would’ve gotten us into that mess with Osman,” Stella said. “All we had to do was follow the advice of the professionals we hired and go on our way.” Maybe this time Quincy would understand the point she’d tried to make more than once.
“And Osman would still be out there plotting against us,” Quincy said. “That wouldn’t be good.”
“No…but what we have isn’t good, either. Whatever happened to putting Vatta back together again?”
“Do you really think that’s possible, Stella?” Quincy leaned forward. “So much has been lost…all those ships, all those people.”
“I don’t know if it’s possible or not, but it’s what we set out to do. It’s not time to quit on that yet. And she’s got Toby—”
“She’ll take care of Toby,” Quincy said.
“I’m not sure of that,” Stella said. “She’s likely to get him killed, or turn him into another like herself.”
“Are you sure this isn’t more about you than about her?” Quincy asked. “Maybe because Grace sent her your father’s implant and used you like a messenger girl?”
Stella snorted. “Aunt Grace has used me as a messenger—and other things—for years. I’m not jealous of Ky. I didn’t want her father’s implant—or my father’s, for that matter. But Ky isn’t any more suited to run Vatta than I am, if she can’t keep her mind on trade and profit and the family. All this flashy pseudo-military behavior proves it. She’s just like Osman—”
Quincy’s mouth dropped open. “No, she’s not!” she said firmly. “Not at all. Stella, I served with Ky from the time she left Slotter Key. I spent over a year on the same ship with Osman when I was young. She is nothing like that man. She’s honest, she’s kind, she cares about her people—”
Stella blinked at the vehemence of Quincy’s reply. “But Quincy, she’s also reckless and impulsive—”
“That’s not the same thing as dishonest and cruel. For pity’s sake, Stella, the best traders are risk takers to a degree. Risk avoidance is a low-profit strategy. I’ll admit Ky can be bolder, quicker to act, than just about any captain I’ve served under, but in times like these that’s the margin of survival. I was scared witless, I don’t mind admitting, when we tangled with Osman, but I don’t think anyone else could have gotten us through that with so little damage.”
“So you think I’m not qualified?” Stella regretted that the moment it came out of her mouth; even to her it sounded juvenile and whiny.
“No. I think you’re differently qualified.” Quincy sighed, and ran a hand through her thick white hair. “Stella, I’ve served the Vatta family for nigh on seventy years now. The one thing I know about Vattas—and that would include you, whatever you think of yourself—is that you’re full of surprises. Not one of you is predictable, not really. You’re not all the same: some of you obviously qualified for ship duty, some for desk work, and your great-aunt Frances was a research genius who never got her nose out of her lab, according to your father, while her brother Ismail tinkered about for years without amounting to anything practical. But he’s famous among musicians for inventing three new instruments. Strong character, all of you. Your talents are not the same as Ky’s, but you have them.”
“There are good surprises and bad surprises,” Stella said; she knew she was losing but she could not let it go. “Ky’s being irresponsible, at least where the family’s concerned.”
“I don’t think so. Though starting a feud within the family would be, in my opinion.” Quincy’s direct look conveyed a warning. “The family needs you, Stella—you and Ky, both of you. Don’t give up on her.”
Stella tried to tell herself Quincy was too old to understand, perhaps too blinded by having worked with Ky. She couldn’t quite make it convincing; Quincy was known for her earthy wisdom, and Ky had, after all, succeeded so far.
“I’m not giving up on her,” Stella said. One way or another, that was true, and she knew better now than to express her doubts about Ky openly.