Moon, Elizabeth - Vatta 2 - Marque and Reprisal_v5.txt

by Marque

  “I don’t have one,” Ky said. “Head injury—they had to take it out and it can’t be replaced for six standard months.”

  “Ah. So . . . you tried to escape and—you’re asking me to believe a trained assassin couldn’t hit you?”

  “No. I thought if I rushed him I could knock him out, maybe.” The policeman looked at her with obvious disbelief. “It could work,” Ky said. “And I didn’t have a weapon.”

  “Did it work?”

  “No. I surprised him, but he was wearing body armor under his mask. He threw me off, I landed near the guard’s weapon, and snatched it—and got off a shot before he did.”

  “Hmmm.” He looked thoughtful.

  “Shem, these wounds were made by different weapons,” said one of the others. “The guard and the clerk were both hit with Staysil rounds, and so were the cook and the helper in back; the masked one with a Conroy.”

  “Staysil rounds. Sounds like the Edmunds crew,” the policeman said. He looked at Ky and shook his head. “Someone wants you dead very badly, if they’re after you. Edmunds and company are not just trouble, but expensive trouble.” He sighed heavily, and reached over to release Ky’s arms. “Don’t try to run. We did not need this. Diplomatic mess, too. You’ll want to see the Slotter Key consul, no doubt. And I don’t suppose you know why anyone would be after Vatta captains?”

  “No,” Ky said, rubbing her wrists. She glanced at the painful hand. Swollen and darkening. She hoped she hadn’t broken a bone. “I don’t. I need to get back to my ship—”

  “Not yet,” he said. “You did, after all, kill that man.” He cocked his head toward the outer door. “He may be a criminal, and he may have tried to kill you, but we have to determine whether, under our laws, this excuses your killing him. You can count on at least overnight, Captain Vatta. You may inform your crew, but we will monitor the conversation. You may have access to the Slotter Key legation, of course, but with an escort we provide. Since—if it is the Edmunds crew—your life is in danger, we will provide protective custody.”

  Ky tried not to glare. “You’re going to put me in jail because I was attacked?”

  “Not exactly. Because you killed someone and you were attacked. And not exactly jail, but someplace safer than the Captains’ Guild.”

  “Let’s go see what they did to my room,” Ky suggested. “My luggage—”

  “Fine. But I’ll go with you. Do not try to touch anything. It would be against your best interest.” Nodding to the others, he let her lead the way upstairs.

  “They used the stairs,” Ky said. “And I think also the lift.” She was carefully not touching the stair rail.

  “They will have worn gloves,” the man said. He sounded glum.

  In her room, the bedcover was missing, and her empty duffel lay open in a corner. The closet was open; her clothes were gone; all the drawers were empty. In the bathroom, all the toiletries were gone as well.

  The policeman grunted. “Typical,” he said after a moment’s look around. “They want everything to check for DNA and anything else that might be useful. I hope you didn’t leave them something juicy.”

  Ky’s stomach churned again. Being physically attacked was one thing, but having her things taken—all of them—was in some ways more upsetting. “The—valuables—are in the safe downstairs. If they didn’t break into that.”

  “No,” he said. He had pulled on gloves; he opened the drawers all the way, looking into them for anything left behind, opening the cabinets in the bathroom. “So you’re a prudent traveler . . . I suppose one expects that from spaceship captains.”

  “I wasn’t prudent enough to put a set of underwear in the safe,” Ky said ruefully. “I hope you have a good ’fresher in the jail.”

  “I’m sure someone can obtain the necessary items for you,” he said.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Ky said. “Surely someone would notice men in masks carrying a bundle that looks like a bedspread . . .”

  “I doubt they carried it far,” the man said. “Or they had something else to put things in and just used the spread to make it easy to collect them.”

  “I almost came up here to make the call,” Ky said. Her knees felt shaky again. “I thought, walking back, My feet hurt and I’ll just go upstairs and kick my shoes off. But the combooth in the lobby was closer. If I had come up here I’d have had no warning . . .”

  “Sit down, Captain Vatta,” the man said. “You’re looking pale.” Ky sat on the bed, which was nearer than the chair. She told herself to get a grip, but tremors shook her. “A natural reaction . . . though it took you rather longer to get to it than most.”

  “I . . . thought I was all right,” Ky said. Her hand still hurt where she’d hit the man’s armor.

  “I think I will call your legation, if you permit, on your behalf,” he said. He sounded almost friendly now. Ky tried to focus, tried to grasp why, but she couldn’t.

  “Thank you,” she said. The tremors eased, but she still felt cold and sick.

  The consul appeared only minutes later. “Captain Vatta, the captain has explained what he understands happened. How can we be of service?”

  She could not imagine asking the consul to go buy her some underwear, and at the moment the lack of underwear loomed larger in her mind than anything else.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said, aware that the statement made incomplete sense at best. “The ship needs to know.”

  “I think she’s in shock,” she heard the policeman say. “I thought at first . . . but then she went pale and started shaking.”

  “Reaction,” said the consul. “You’re a bit pale yourself, you know.” Ky could not think of the consul’s name. His face seemed to leap nearer. “Captain—do you know my name?”

  “I’m sorry,” Ky said. “But no.” She should remember it, she knew that much. She had called him from Belinta Station when she arrived; they’d discussed the Sabine situation. She had arranged to meet him at the legation this very morning. But everything had gone fuzzy at the edges and all she had the energy to do was sit there.

  Then the policeman canted slowly to one side and collapsed. People shouted, ran to and fro, and Ky watched it all with a detachment that she knew was unnatural, until someone picked her up and put her on a litter and she slid into sleep.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  The room smelled of familiar tropical flowers, lush and spicy. A floral print on the bed, on the dressing table with its low bench, on the lamp shade. Walls of soft peach, with a faint cream stripe. Ky lay back against the piled pillows, wondering where she was. The last she remembered was the Captains’ Guild . . . men with masks and guns . . . police . . . then it came back, all a rush of memory. She blinked. This wasn’t a jail, she was sure of that. She’d never seen this room before, but the fragrance, familiar since childhood, suggested the legation and its garden of Slotter Key natives.

  Before she thought to reach for the comunit on the bedside table, someone shouldered the door open and entered with a tray, a stout woman in a flowered tunic. She brought the tray to the bedside and began offloading dishes onto the bedside table.

  “Ah, good, you’re awake. You’ll be wondering where you are and what happened,” the woman said. “Slotter Key legation. The doctor wants to talk to you and so does the consul and the Belinta police. I’m Carla, by the way, and you’re supposed to take your time eating as much as you want before anyone tries to talk to you. Doctor’s orders.” She poured out a cup of tea; Ky hitched herself more upright in the bed, took it, and sipped.

  “Tell me what happened at the Captains’ Guild,” Ky said. “Upstairs, I mean.”

  “My feet hurt,” Carla said, ignoring the question. She plumped down in the upholstered chair and kicked her shoes off. “I’m not supposed to talk to you about what happened; I’m supposed to be sure you’re really awake and have had something to eat.” She laid her head back and sighed. Ky stared a moment then picked up one of the pastries and started to
bite into it. Then she stopped. Whatever had happened after the part she remembered, someone had tried to kill her—not once, but twice, counting the attempt to smuggle explosives onto her ship. And she was supposed to eat and drink whatever she was brought?

  She put the cup down; it chinked on the saucer, and the woman—Carla—opened her eyes. “Sorry—can I get you anything?”

  “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Ky realized, as she sat up and threw the covers back, that she was wearing someone else’s nightshirt. She’d never owned one in lavender and green, and besides it was hugely too big. Her head spun for a moment, then cleared.

  “You say this is the Slotter Key legation—”

  “Yes, of course. Where else would it be?”

  “And you’re—a legation employee?”

  The woman drew herself up, red patches coming up on her cheeks, and gave Ky a hostile glance. “I am the consul’s wife,” she said. “Carla Maria Inosyeh.”

  Ky felt her face heating up. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You weren’t—I didn’t meet you before, at the dinner.”

  “I was indisposed.” An impatient movement in the chair, then the woman fished for her shoes and put them back on. “And before you ask, yes, this is my bedroom you’re in, and my nightdress you’re wearing. I was told your things had been stolen.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ky said again. “I didn’t know—I am confused—they tried to kill me, and I was afraid—”

  The woman’s expression softened. “I suppose it’s understandable. It’s been a very strange day, I hear. But perhaps you should see Parin—my husband the consul—now. I will have to tell him later that I managed to frighten the redoubtable Captain Vatta.” She actually smiled as she went to the door.

  The tea must be doing its work; Ky felt more solidly there than she had a few minutes before. “Wait,” she said. “I believe you. Please—stay, sit down, and I’ll eat—” She picked up the pastry again and bit into it. It was delicious.

  “If you insist,” Carla said, this time with a genuine smile. “My husband has been telling me about your trip to Sabine. The news reports of the attacks there were terrifying. I can’t imagine someone blowing up ansible platforms.” She glanced up as if she could see through the roof to Belinta’s ansible station.

  “It was scary,” Ky said, through another pastry, this one meat-filled. She felt better with every bite.

  “I can’t understand why anyone would attack ansible platforms,” Carla said. “It only makes ISC angry, and Parin always says they’re the glue that holds the galaxy together.”

  Ky, her mouth full, nodded but said nothing.

  “And you were captured by mercenaries, the news report said.”

  “Yes,” Ky said, wiping her mouth. “But they were polite mercenaries.” When they weren’t almost killing her, but that had been an accident.

  “Did you really kill the ringleaders?” Carla asked.

  “Yes,” Ky said. “And I suspect that’s why someone’s trying to kill me, in retaliation.” She decided that one more pastry wouldn’t hurt and picked one up.

  “I can tell you’re feeling better,” Carla said. “More color in your cheeks. The clothes you had on have been freshened, if you feel able to get up now.”

  “Yes,” Ky said. “I do . . . but I’d still like to know what happened. Did I just . . . faint?”

  “A contact poison,” Carla said, with the satisfied tone of someone who knows something unusual. “That policeman with you fell over like a cut tree while the consul was in the room; you were pale and turning gray, Parin said.”

  “A contact poison! On top of the shooting?”

  “Yes. They didn’t leave much to chance, is the way the consul put it. It penetrated ordinary gloves as if they weren’t there.” Ky remembered, now, the policeman pulling open drawers, lifting the sheets of the bed, touching this surface and that. “Then they found the bedspread bundled into a trash container, and the poison was all over that. Three of them are down with it. You only sat on the bed—the poison didn’t penetrate your clothes that well. The antidote worked quickly; you were only unconscious a couple of hours. The doctor’s off working on the others.”

  “So . . . did they catch the assassins?”

  “No. They’re searching, of course, but except for the one you shot, the gang’s all disappeared.”

  “Is my ship all right? My crew? Has anything else happened up there?”

  “They’re fine,” Carla said. “No attacks up there at all, and shuttle travel’s been suspended, so no assassination teams can get there from here. There’s a com console in my sitting room, just outside here. Then there’s a policeman who would like to speak to you; he has assured the consul that they have no more interest in arresting you. When their people went down from the contact poison, they decided that your having shot one of the assassins wasn’t so bad after all.”

  “I need to check with the ship. Can you hold the policeman off that long?”

  “Of course,” Carla said. “This is Slotter Key territory, after all.” She winked. “Take your time getting dressed—through that door there.”

  Quincy, predictably, was appalled at what had happened, and worried, and wanted Ky to come back immediately.

  “I’m safe here,” Ky said. “I’m not going out, I promise. They’ve suspended shuttle flights, you know.”

  “Yes, but for you—can’t you get a charter?”

  “Probably not, not until tomorrow anyway. Are you satisfied with the police guard on our dockside?”

  “They’ve doubled it,” Quincy said. “I think we’re secure. But you—”

  “I’m fine,” Ky said again. “I got hold of Vatta headquarters before this happened . . .” Should she tell Quincy everything, or would it just make it worse? “There does appear to be a general threat; I’ll give you the details when I’m back on the ship. And if I’m stuck down here for days, I might as well see what I can do about cargo.”

  “Cargo! There’s your life to consider! Don’t you dare go out!”

  “I won’t go out. I can do business from here; the consul’s helping me arrange things. I won’t say don’t worry, but don’t lose sleep.”

  Quincy sniffed and signed off.

  The policeman who interviewed Ky had the same dour expression as the others she’d met. “We are convinced that you were the innocent victim of an attack, and that your killing the assassin was self-defense,” he said. “Under our laws, this is legal, and anyway the dead man was someone we wanted to arrest on other charges. Saved us the cost of a trial. Even so, we cannot recommend that you resume unrestricted travel in the city, or your residence at the Captains’ Guild.”

  “I can’t stay cooped up here forever,” Ky said. “My ship is already under threat—”

  “We think you could be escorted safely to the orbital station,” the policeman said. “But an extended stay . . . we understand you were seeking outbound cargo . . .”

  “Not after the attempt to sabotage my ship and kill me. I want to leave as soon as possible. If for some reason I had been detained here, then I’d ask the consul to help me make some contacts to seek cargo. But if I can leave now—”

  “Are you well enough to travel?”

  “Yes,” Ky said. “The doctor advises twenty-four hours of observation, but surely overnight is enough.”

  “Perhaps a chartered shuttle flight—we would of course validate the crew—”

  “Sounds good to me,” Ky said. The only goods she’d seen explained why Belinta had a deplorable trade balance.

  When the policeman excused himself, she considered going out to find the consul, but decided to rest just a few minutes; her head felt strange again. She lay down on top of the covers. When she woke, some unknown time later, someone had covered her with a knitted shawl and set another tray on the bedside table; steam rose in curls from the teapot.

  Ky wasn’t very hungry; she was struggling w
ith her reaction to the day’s events. Her annoyance with the postal clerk seemed far away now, almost as if it had been someone else. Someone had tried to blow up her ship. Someone had tried to kill her. Something had happened during her call to Vatta headquarters. She had to think those were related, and the only thing she could think of was whatever criminal group Paison and Kristoffson had been part of, taking vengeance for killing them.

  She started when she heard the sound of the door handle turning, but relaxed when she saw the consul. He came in, shutting the door behind him. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Much better,” Ky said.

  “That’s good,” he said, and sighed. His expression did not lighten; her stomach clenched.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “We’ve lost contact with Slotter Key,” Consul Inosyeh said. He sat heavily in the other chair.

  She remembered suddenly that she had intended to call her father directly, only to be interrupted by the assassins. “Completely?” she asked. Her mouth went dry.

  “Yes. It appears that something’s wrong with the ansibles there. I don’t know if it’s anything like what happened at Sabine . . .” His voice trailed away.

  Ky watched his face; he stared at his hands. “What else?” she asked finally when he didn’t look up.

  “There’s . . . another problem. Before we lost contact. I had reported the attack on you—purely routine, something I’d do if a Slotter Key citizen had been involved in a barroom brawl—and I was told something that shocked me.” He paused; Ky waited it out. “Vatta’s always been in good odor with the government. I am sure you know that. There’s the contributions, of course, but beyond that, it’s an enterprise that has a long and honorable history in interstellar trading. Due all assistance, favored status, whatever you want to call it. And I liked you personally, when I met you on your first visit. I was looking forward to having lunch with you.”

  “And?” Ky prompted, when he stopped again. He looked up, his expression grim.

  “And for reasons I do not understand, that has been reversed. At the highest level. Vatta is, in the words of my superior, not to be accorded any status whatever. Get her out of there, he said. Have nothing to do with Vatta. “