Warring States

by Susan R. Matthews

  Hurrying through into the next room Andrej waited, impatiently, for Samons to close the communicating door. If the woman woke up, Samons might take it into her head to borrow them both for an interview with Captain Irshah Parmin; she’d said she didn’t want an alarm — she clearly didn’t want anybody realizing that she was taking him. He was being kidnapped. If the woman came too they would all find out that he’d been in bed with one of Two’s people, and the woman would be humiliated, and much more harm than good was sure to come of it.

  “Well,” he said, quietly, so that she would know he didn’t mean to kick up a fuss. “What have you done with Stildyne? He is not going to be happy, Chief, and I won’t stand between the two of you. You will be on your own. I’m not happy either. I hope Captain Irshah Parmin has some very good reasons to share with ap Rhiannon, or there will be some serious irritation at Emandis Station.”

  He would normally have washed before he dressed, and had his fast-meal as well. He was hungry. He had had an unaccustomed amount of exercise, last night. Chief Samons might well remember his personal habits from the years that they had spent together on Scylla; if she did he could hope for fast-meal at some point, when she could manage it, but that point was clearly not to be now.

  He turned his back on her to start to dress. She’d seen him stitchless often enough before, but a man had his pride, and it had also been several years — she might imagine him to be more impressive in his person than he actually was, and if so he had no intention of disabusing her of any flattering notions that she might be entertaining.

  “All quiet in the service house,” she said. “Special escort, we told the house security. They know Scylla’s ship-mark when they see it. I need us to be out of here before anybody comes knocking on your door with your morning rhyti, your Excellency, best all around.”

  Andrej accepted the trousers that she held out for him, stepping into the one leg and then the other, fastening his waistband over his under-blouse. “I’ve never heard of officers kidnapping each others’ chief medical officers,” he said, partially to keep the conversation going and partially because he couldn’t quite believe what seemed to be happening. “Isn’t this an act of piracy? I’m sure Irshah Parmin outranks ap Rhiannon within Fleet, but she is the captain of the Ragnarok, and I am medical resources assigned. He has no right.”

  “Can’t be helped, sir.” Andrej thought he remembered that tone in Samons’ voice, thought he recognized it. “Command direction received. You know the captain’s always been a little irrational on the subject of Koscuiskos. I’m sorry.”

  She handed him his boots, and he sat down. Yes. Captain Irshah Parmin had always been a little irrational on the subject of young Andrej Koscuisko, no longer quite as young as he used to be. Andrej had had good reason to be grateful for it, too. He’d known at the time that Irshah Parmin was being very patient with him; he hadn’t understood until later, until he’d had to deal with Captain Lowden, how horrible his life and that of his bond-involuntaries assigned could have been had Irshah Parmin not made generous allowances for foolish young officers with no real understanding of their position in Fleet. Very generous allowances. Far more patient than Andrej himself would probably have been, had the roles been reversed.

  That didn’t make it all right for Irshah Parmin to send Security into Andrej’s bedroom to take him off in the middle of the night and leave his own Security behind.

  But in light of the fact that Andrej could not afford any disturbances that might interfere with the stealthy departure of his gentlemen or expose that departure prematurely, it couldn’t hurt to concentrate on reserving judgment until he’d heard what Irshah Parmin had to say.

  She shook out his duty blouse for him, very formally indeed. Andrej settled the shoulders and shot his cuffs and made up his mind to make the best of things, at least for now.

  “Somebody’s going to have to write a note to Stildyne for me,” he said, and nodded, to signify that he was ready to go. “Because I’m not trying to explain this to him on my own. I give you fair warning.”

  “First Officer will apologize in person,” she promised, with a bow. “If the captain won’t, that is. Thank you, your Excellency, this way, and it is good to see you again.”

  Well, yes, it was.

  There were people waiting in the corridor outside, nobody Andrej recognized, and all wearing Scylla’s ship-mark. No bond-involuntaries. He wondered if there were people that he knew, still on board Scylla.

  “So tell me, who is running the Infirmary, these days?” he asked; and went off down the hall under Security escort, a detained man, to go and have a word with Irshah Parmin.

  ###

  Chapter Fourteen

  Reunions

  Koscuisko was what seemed to Caleigh to be uncharacteristically quiet on the trip to the launch-field, and on the courier. He sat in the passenger-compartment, and then in the courier, with his face turned to the window. Not speaking. He’d asked a few general questions at the start, that was true; information gathering, and well done at that, but then he had lapsed into silence. She couldn’t say exactly what she had expected from him but it wasn’t stillness. She remembered him as having been a man moderately restless in spirit, always curious. Always inquiring.

  It had been years since she had seen him last, though. He’d lost weight, or gained weight, or maybe his weight had shifted. He looked a deal older than she remembered him, but she remembered him as having looked very young, and he still didn’t look quite his age in Standard years. Dolgorukij were a long-lived subspecies of hominid. They took that much longer to start to look mature in years, not as though Koscuisko was, not yet. How old was he? Somewhere in his thirties, she thought, but she couldn’t remember.

  When the courier came to rest in the maintenance atmosphere of Scylla, Koscuisko rose to his feet and left the passenger cabin as though he were returning to his duty post, and not come against his will under Security escort. Why not? Caleigh thought. There was only the one of him. It wasn’t as if he could make an escape of whatever sort. Nodding to her mildly confused Security, Caleigh formed them up, and followed Koscuisko out onto the docks of the maintenance atmosphere.

  Koscuisko paused for a moment on the loading apron, looking out past the cargo handling drones to Emandis Station and Emandis itself beyond; was he looking for the Ragnarok, Caleigh wondered? Ragnarok was there, but Ragnarok had taken the central loading slips, by right of first arrival. Scylla made do with one of Emandis Station’s auxiliary docks, and Irshah Parmin was just as happy about that as he was about everything else that had to do with the Ragnarok. If Koscuisko was wondering about setting off a distance flare, an appeal to his people, he gave no sign of it.

  Turning, Koscuisko started into the maintenance corridor, heading toward the captain’s office. There were people in the halls who knew who Koscuisko was; Koscuisko gave no sign of noticing that either, but Caleigh knew that the news would be all over the ship within moments.

  That was all right. They knew Koscuisko was here, but they didn’t know why, nor did they realize that he was here under armed escort — though some of the crew might put things together. Koscuisko was not accompanied by his own Security escort but by one of Scylla’s, properly speaking Doctor Weasel-Boy’s. There were words there for those with the learning to read the language.

  Koscuisko knew where he was going, yes, and he made no attempt to divert in his progress toward his goal. When they reached the captain’s office, though, he didn’t signal; he went straight through, and if Caleigh hadn’t given a quick warning from her point behind the detachment Koscuisko might have succeeded in surprising Irshah Parmin.

  As it was, the captain looked startled when Caleigh saw him, following close on Koscuisko’s heels. Koscuisko stopped a precise distance from the captain’s desk and saluted, bowing, before he assumed a modified position of attention-wait and looked at the captain in silence. That was rude. Koscuisko should say something. But kidnapping him had been even more
rude, and Irshah Parmin didn’t seem much taken aback. The captain had been accustomed to Koscuisko being rude — just not on purpose. By accident, which was almost excusable, most of the time.

  “Good-greeting,” the captain said, standing up. “Thank you for coming. Apologies for the less than customary method of extending the invitation, Doctor, you know the First Officer I think? You won’t know Doctor Lazarbee, our chief medical officer.”

  Koscuisko nodded to First Officer, but only just glanced at Doctor Weasel-Boy — didn’t even nod. Caleigh suppressed a wince. Doctor Weasel-Boy was a man to sniff out a slight and cherish it; they were off to a good start, they were.

  “First Officer,” Koscuisko said. “Captain. If there is any precedent for making off with another command’s resources by force of arms I have never heard of it, your Excellency. You must have very good reason for spitting in my captain’s face.”

  His captain? Ap Rhiannon? Irshah Parmin frowned; Caleigh could feel herself flushing with annoyance. “His” captain, indeed. But it wasn’t her argument. She’d been sent to bring Koscuisko; she had brought him. She was not here to argue with him on the relative merits of the two ship’s captains.

  “Turnabout’s fair play.” The captain sat down, slowly. “Care to be seated, Doctor? I’m worried about you. Ap Rhiannon’s just the cosmetic code. But it’s bad enough even so, I’d have thought you’d be anxious to get away.”

  Koscuisko sat, but he didn’t relax. “I was anxious enough to get back to my ship. Why would I want to get away? I mean no disrespect, your Excellency, but you have your own chief medical officer — Doctor Lazarbee? — and I am posted to the Ragnarok.”

  The captain walked his fingers along the edge of his desk, contemplatively, before he answered. “Yes, well, in point of fact the Ragnarok’s annoyed me. Why can’t I get my stores loads, I ask, and they tell me it’s because the Ragnarok has a prior claim in. When I ask why Emandis Station is willing to release not only primes, but seconds and terces, to the Ragnarok they give me some inarticulate nonsense with the word ‘Koscuisko’ in it.”

  A muscle jumped, suddenly, in the side of Koscuisko’s face, near the hinge of his jaw. A grin. “And you thought if you had the right stores-chop you could get some supplies transferred? Redirected? I don’t see it happening, your Excellency.”

  Captain Irshah Parmin spread out the fingers of his hand in an expansive gesture. “We won’t know until we try it, will we? I’m not asking for much. We’ll send you back to the Ragnarok as soon as they notice you’ve gone missing. In return for a satisfactory conclusion to a dialog, of course.”

  He should just come out and say that he was worried about Koscuisko and wanted to make sure that Koscuisko had a chance to brief with Scylla’s Intelligence officer. He should just say that. But Koscuisko had set him off balance, Caleigh supposed, and Koscuisko had always been exceptionally good at annoying the captain. Or maybe he just didn’t want to talk in front of Weasel-Boy.

  “You probably shouldn’t expect any immediate reaction.” Koscuisko gave no sign of softening toward the captain’s proposal, either explicit or implicit. Koscuisko had to know that Irshah Parmin hadn’t borrowed him as a marker in a stores dispute. Irshah Parmin had just so much as said so, after all. “I was granted several days’ down-leave, and expected to sequester myself with Joslire’s family. You remember Joslire. He has a brother that I am anxious to meet.”

  “They’ll have noticed you’re missing by the time they want to leave, surely.” Yes, Irshah Parmin remembered Joslire. He didn’t react to Koscuisko’s remarks, however, possibly because there was no answer for Koscuisko’s not-very-indirect rebuke. “Tell you what, go and visit around for a bit, catch up on old acquaintances. Chief Samons will escort you.”

  As opposed to Doctor Weasel-Boy, that was to say. As Scylla’s posted chief medical officer, Weasel-Boy might have reasonably expected to have that responsibility, and Koscuisko was a bit of a celebrity of sorts in Fleet. Maybe that was why Irshah Parmin wanted Weasel-Boy kept out of Koscuisko’s way. Or maybe it was just that without a Security escort there was nothing standing in Koscuisko’s way should he decide to go down to the maintenance atmosphere, commandeer a crew, and leave; or at least attempt to send a distress call.

  “You understand that I object to having been brought here, and to being kept here,” Koscuisko said. “I put you on notice that the captain may not be as anxious for an exchange of hostages as you flatteringly suggest. And that you are keeping me from making the acquaintance of an Emandisan family to which I apparently belong, or who possibly belong to me, by virtue of Joslire’s knives. There is apart from all that no arguing with you, your Excellency, and I should like my fast-meal, if I may.”

  “Oh, feed the man his breakfast,” Doctor Weasel-Boy said, suddenly. “Priorities, after all. I’ll hunt up Conner to take you through my infirmary, Koscuisko, Conner remembers you, can hardly stop talking about you in fact. Captain, if I may be excused.”

  Captain Irshah Parmin had turned his head to stare at Doctor Weasel-Boy with an expression of mild incredulity that was almost exactly the same with which Koscuisko was regarding his counterpart. Caleigh wanted to laugh, it was so perfect; but she was technically responsible to First Officer for Weasel-Boy, and managed to contain herself. Weasel-Boy was easy to alienate, and she already did so on a regular basis. It was best to avoid exacerbating the problem, if possible.

  Irshah Parmin turned back to Koscuisko. “By all means, Doctor,” the captain said. “I’ll send First Officer to you in officer’s mess.” Where First Officer could have a heart-to-heart talk with Koscuisko, without Doctor Weasel-Boy in attendance. First Officer didn’t care for Weasel-Boy. Nobody did. First Officer wouldn’t want to share sensitive intelligence with Koscuisko in Weasel-Boy’s company, in order to avoid raising any questions that she had no intention of answering about sources of information.

  “Thank you, your Excellency,” Koscuisko said, apparently reconciled to a few hours spent on Scylla now that he had registered his protest. It would be only a few hours, too, Caleigh was sure of it. Koscuisko’s Security would wake up, Koscuisko’s Chief of Security would form them up to go and fetch their officer, and then they’d find out that Koscuisko wasn’t there. They wouldn’t be keeping Koscuisko from Joslire’s family for more than the forepart of the day.

  Maybe she could go with Koscuisko when they returned him to Emandis, and meet those people herself. There were Security still on board who had known Joslire Curran, and one who had been there the night that Koscuisko had killed him.

  “What’s that about your new family, sir?” she asked, as she left the captain’s office with Koscuisko and his escort. “And there’s a brother?”

  Koscuisko was annoyed, but his temper would improve once he’d been fed. It almost always had. “With wife and child,” Koscuisko confirmed, heading down the hall toward the officer’s mess. “Grandmother, elderly aunt, two cousins, older sister. Not much of a family resemblance, they all look Emandisan to me, but I’ve seen Joslire’s grin and I never thought to see it again. There’s an orchard.”

  If Koscuisko said so. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a bond-involuntary grin; certainly never, outside Koscuisko’s immediate company. She’d worried about whether Koscuisko’s influence on bond-involuntaries would trip them up in the service of less sympathetic officers, but Koscuisko’s successor Doctor Aldrai had been genially willing to ignore Security entirely and First Officer was having none of Weasel-Boy’s periodic complaints of insolence or insubordination, perhaps because Weasel-Boy complained as or more frequently about other officers as about bond-involuntary Security assigned.

  “I should wait to ask you for the details, sir.” She needed to go round up some Security. Code was on sleep-shift, but Code wouldn’t mind; Code might even be on his way to the officer’s mess right now. Someone would have told him. “If you’ll give me your parole of honor I’ll go speak to the First Officer. While you’re eating.”


  “Go and speak away, Chief,” Koscuisko said. “I’m not going anywhere until I’ve had my rhyti. I hope there’s decent rhyti. I remember what we used to have to put up with.”

  She was not in a position to judge. She didn’t drink the stuff. She left Koscuisko to his fast-meal and went down to Security to collect the people who had worked with Koscuisko when he’d been here, and who might want to hear about Joslire Curran’s family.

  ###

  It was unquestionably the case that one officer’s mess was very like another, and yet Andrej found himself almost uncomfortably aware that he was not on the Ragnarok as he ate his fast-meal. The rhyti was all wrong. He didn’t know the Security. First Officer Linelly he remembered, of course; at the bottom of it all — he decided — what he liked least was the fact that they remembered him.

  They seemed to have been fond of him, in some sense, and that was better than to be held in contempt, as the current chief medical officer apparently was. He hadn’t heard anything one way or another about Doctor Lazarbee, not even to know what his clinical concentration was. There was no use pretending that Doctor Lazarbee hadn’t heard of him, and that was the reason that being remembered was a problem.

  When he had been among the crew of the Jurisdiction Fleet Ship Scylla there had been hope for him. He had not yet fallen into the depths at which Captain Lowden treated with Ship’s Inquisitors. He had been a sinner, but not damned, and it was doubly painful to think back on his innocent self-assurance in those days knowing what he knew now about the fact that he was a man addicted.

  If he’d had nothing but captains like Irshah Parmin, he might have found redemption, given time. He might have ended his service and gone home without a thirst so savage in his heart that he did not dare to name it. If only, if only, and yet he had only himself to blame. Hadn’t Irshah Parmin tried to teach him, before it was too late?