Trading in Danger

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Section firsts, to the bridge, please,” Ky said.

  Gary Tobin arrived first, then Quincy, then Mitt. They all looked worried; Ky did her best to project calm confidence.

  “Here’s what I think happened,” she said. “Secundus hired some mercenaries. They call themselves the Mackensee Military Assistance Corporation, and the communication I got listed an Engineer Battalion and Expeditionary Force. The onboard database doesn’t have much, but I remember from the Academy that many mercenary units provide technical assistance and training as well as weaponry and troops. They often call their training cadres engineers, whether or not they do any engineering.”

  “So this would be both instructors and soldiers, you think?”

  “I think so, yes. Secundus managed to come up with the down payment—these people don’t come fight on spec—but didn’t have enough to finance more than a short stay. That’s why they needed to have the ansibles out.”

  “But is this company . . . reliable?” Quincy asked.

  “I don’t have enough data. At the Academy, they taught us about the history of mercenary forces in space, and those that had once operated in our own system, and the theoretical limits of mercenary activity, but they didn’t tell us which currently active units abided by which conventions, if any, with regard to civilian spacecraft.” Ky paused for a sip of water. “We weren’t expected to be on civilian spacecraft.”

  “So what do we do now?” Gary asked.

  “What they tell us,” Ky said. “We have no weapons and only moderate shielding—nothing that can stand a hit from their kind of weapons. If we’re lucky, they’ll decide we’re no threat, not worth impounding, and after some delay the ansibles will be back up and we can get through to Vatta, let them know we’re all right—and by the way, send money because we need some repairs.”

  “And if we’re unlucky?”

  “They impound the cargo. Or they impound the cargo and the crew. Or, worst case, they use us for target practice. But since we can’t do anything about it right now, our job is to keep the ship operating as smoothly as possible.” She paused; no one said anything. Always give your people something to do, she’d been taught. “Mitt, I want an analysis of environmental right down to the eighth place: we have four additional crew on board, what does that do to our cruising range? Every factor you can think of—atmosphere, water, nutrition—everything. What will attempted repairs do to that analysis? Heat output, higher respiratory rate of exchange, whatever. Quincy, I need to know everything—everything—about the repairs we need. Nothing’s too trivial. Gary, since the load’s secured at this point, I’d like you to do a personnel survey. The crew records tell me what people’s listed expertise is, but I never heard of a spacer yet who didn’t have at least one unlisted specialty known to a friend. Find it all out, and route it to my desk. If we have someone who used to cobble together ansibles out of paper clips and moly wire, or counterfeit some currency, I want to know it.”

  “You have an idea, Captain?” Quincy asked. Ky could hear the tension in her voice. She felt queasy. Quincy was her senior by decades; Quincy had the experience she needed; she did not want Quincy to be worried.

  “Of course she has an idea,” Gary said with just a bit too much emphasis. “She’s the captain.”

  Ky winced inwardly. She was the captain who had landed them in this mess. They were still looking at her expectantly, as if the idea they assumed she had would emerge in glowing letters on her forehead. So . . . she had best be the captain who got them out of this mess. If she could. “I have several ideas,” she said. Never mind that they ranged from useless to gruesome at the moment. “I need more data about our capabilities, before I can be sure how to use them.”

  “Makes sense,” Mitt said. “I’ll get to it then. And an estimate of range under different management, as well. Whether it would do any good to conserve food supplies, things like that.”

  “Exactly what I need, Mitt,” Ky said. “Good thinking.” She smiled at him; and he smiled back. The other two blinked, then managed their own smiles.

  “I’ve got some data now, from the repair planning before we left the station,” Quincy said. “Do you want it now, or when I have the whole thing—?”

  “When you have it all,” Ky said. “In case something you found before changes in the light of the new situation.”

  “Oh—yeah—it probably will,” Quincy said. Her next smile was more natural. “I should’ve thought of that. I must be getting old, Captain.”

  “Old age and treachery,” Ky said. “Not a bad combination.”

  “I’m on it, Captain,” Gary said when she glanced at him. “If anyone has a hidden talent, I’ll find it.”

  “Good,” she said to them all. “Now—we also need to be sure we’re fresh and ready to deal with whatever happens. How long have you been up, ship’s time?”

  They looked blank for a moment. “But you need the data now,” Quincy said, without answering the question.

  “Probably not for hours,” Ky said. “They’re talking to the other ships—look at the plots. I need you all rested, fed, alert, and the same for the rest of the crew. We pulled out in a hurry, but now we need to get on a schedule that keeps us fit.” Dock schedule put the whole crew on the same shift except for the standing watch. On insystem drive, they needed rotating shifts. “Quincy, Gary—make up your section schedules, then go off; Mitt and Lee will have to stay up another six, then work into the rotation. Clear?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “And eat something hot,” Ky said. Hunger and fear went hand in hand.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “I’ll be around the ship for a while, then I’m turning in, too. It was an interesting day on Sabine before I got to the station . . .” And what was it in local Sabine time, she wondered. She didn’t feel tired yet, but she knew she was. And tired captains made mistakes.

  They could not afford any of her mistakes.

  CHAPTER NINE

  When the others left the bridge, Riel was still hunched stiffly over the pilot’s command board. Ky levered herself out of the captain’s seat, surprised at how stiff she was herself, and went across to him.

  “Yes, Captain,” he said without looking up.

  “Any navigation hazards in the next six hours?”

  “Not at present, Captain. But if those warships jump in on us—”

  “They know our course, and we’re doing what they told us to do. If they want to blow us away, they can, but they should be pursuing more reasonable tactical goals. Meanwhile, I need you rested for whatever happens later. Let Lee take over and you go get some sleep.”

  “Captain, I was just coming on when we left—I was swing-shift watch—”

  Ky felt annoyed with herself—she should have known that. Too much had happened too fast but that wasn’t any excuse.

  “All right then . . . but consider that you’re first pilot, and we may need you worse later. At least consider going off at half watch.”

  “All right.” He sat back for the first time, stretched his arms, and turned to look at her. “I never was in anything like this before, you know. I was in space force, yeah, but—that was in a military ship, and anyway we didn’t see any action.”

  “Most people don’t,” Ky said, quickly replacing the thought Neither was I which would not be reassuring. “I’m just following doctrine . . .” Academy doctrine, taught in class—classes where instructors sometimes reminded cadets that theory wasn’t everything, that real wars had blown old theories into fragments before. And doctrine from the point of view of combatants, people who would have the big guns.”

  “I’m glad we have you,” Lee said. “At least you have some military experience.” He glanced at Riel, an apologetic look meant to soften that near accusation. Riel didn’t react.

  Ky felt as if someone had dropped a spaceship on her shoulders in normal G . . . which indeed someone had. She just managed not to say It wasn’t real military experience; education
isn’t experience, another truth best left unsaid at the moment. Lee trusted her; that trust was good for him, and for his performance, which led to good for the ship and the rest of the crew.

  It still felt like too much.

  Except that below the pressure of that trust, below the worry, the concern that would become gut-churning anxiety if she let it, was something else. Something that led directly back to the Academy, to her first days there, to the string of cadet honors she’d earned, to the ambition she’d had to be not just an officer but a good officer, not just a ship commander, but a good—even an outstanding—ship commander.

  Becoming captain of Glennys Jones had reawakened it to some degree, but the complexity of the business end—getting a contract, dealing with manufacturers and finance officers and so on—had blurred it, almost hidden it. Now it sprang up again, that little bright flame that had driven her to apply to the Academy in the first place. Danger ignited it—ignited her—the way nothing else could do.

  Deep in her heart, she too was glad the Glennys Jones had her as captain. Despite her inexperience, she was convinced that no one else could commit any more deeply to her ship’s welfare. She would get them through this. She would save her ship. She would save her crew.

  And somehow, despite all obstacles, she would deliver those blasted tractors and harrows and combines to Belinta.

  She came back from that moment of euphoric dazzle to find Lee still looking at her as if he expected her to say something.

  “We’ll do,” she said to him. “We’ll do.” She walked back to the command chair, trying to think what next, and realized that she was still in a pressure suit. So were they all. Pressure suits would not help them if the warships fired on them, and were uncomfortable and less efficient . . . She smiled back at Lee, who was still looking her way. “Time to get out of these things,” she said. She turned to the intercom. “Captain to crew—return pressure suits to storage, with routine maintenance checks.” Then to Lee, “If Riel’s sitting the desk, you’re the one to go rest. I’m going to be moving around the ship, Riel; I’m in contact if you need me.”

  “Fine, Captain.” His voice now sounded relaxed; he was unsealing his suit.

  She hoped she was right. At some level she knew she was. She went to her cabin, pulled off the pressure suit, and hung it in its locker, properly connected to its recharge connectors. All the readouts were normal, as they should be.

  Now for a walk-through. Down the passage to the galley, where she found the new crew fixing meals for the rest of the ship. They wore their suits, but they had the sleeve cuffs undone, the gloves tabbed back; she could tell they’d already been at work here when she ordered suits stowed.

  “What’s for dinner?” Ky asked, as if it were any ordinary day.

  “Captain!” That was Li, but they had all stiffened when she spoke. “Sorry, Captain, we just—”

  “You’re busy, I know that. What are you giving us?”

  “Er . . . quick and hot, Quincy said, so we’re using the fresh stuff and making a crunchy sorga”—a Slotter Key favorite, fresh vegetables chopped into a spicy sauce—”with chicken slivers and rice. Nothing fancy.”

  “Sounds good,” Ky said.

  “Ten minutes, Captain,” Li said.

  “Want to thank you again for taking us out of Sabine,” Skeldon said. His expression, a mix of gratitude and admiration, made Ky uneasy.

  “Skeldon,” Li said; he reddened and said no more. Li went on, “We are grateful, Captain Vatta. We didn’t know how bad it was going to get, of course, but to get not only a ride out, but with Vatta . . .”

  What did she think Vatta could do for her, when they had no communications and no FTL drive? Why was Vatta that special to her?

  “We’ll do,” Ky said again, as she had to Lee, and again it seemed to be the right thing to say.

  She left the good smells and warmth of the galley and headed for the environmental workspace. There she found Mitt and Ted, out of their pressure suits, both busy with handcomps running simulations.

  “Dinner in ten minutes,” Ky said as she came in.

  “The sim’s coming along,” Mitt said. “Luckily we’d recharged everything when we came in. We were running light-crewed, so four extra isn’t putting any strain on the main cycles at all. But I don’t know how many days we can squeeze out of it yet.”

  “Well, don’t forget to eat,” Ky said. “Whatever we’d save by not eating today isn’t worth it. Tomorrow we can starve if we have to, but those perishables won’t do us any good anywhere but inside us.”

  Ted laughed, and even Mitt grinned at her. “All right. But I should eat here.”

  “No,” Ky said. “You shouldn’t. The new ones have put some effort into this, and we’re all going to eat together like civilized folk, even if it is cramped. Your sim will run without you.”

  “It might finish—”

  “And so you’ll see it after supper, when you can’t interfere with dessert.”

  “Dessert!” He looked shocked. “They aren’t wasting essential supplies on dessert, are they?”

  “I have no idea,” Ky said. “But surely one dessert won’t unbalance everything? And if you think it does, we can always pull out my Aunt Grace’s fruitcake.”

  “No, we should save that for emergencies,” Mitt said.

  If this wasn’t an emergency, what was? Ky didn’t want to think of the emergency that would require them to survive on three of Aunt Gracie Lane’s fruitcakes.

  “Less than ten minutes, now,” she said.

  From environmental to engineering was a short walk and a single climb. Quincy and her juniors, also out of pressure suits, were poring over diagrams, schematics, holograms; a display board was covered with their lists.

  “Dinner in seven minutes, troops,” Ky said, and then wondered where she’d gotten the “troops” from. But they looked up at her with such confidence that her heart turned over. “In the crew rec area,” she said, to forestall the same protest about leaving the area that she saw in Quincy’s eyes.

  “It leaves sections uncovered,” Quincy said.

  “You’re all linked in,” Ky said. “As I am. And seconds from active control boards. We eat together.” She glanced at the chronometer. “Less than seven minutes, and it smelled good. At least one of our newbies can cook.”

  “All right,” Quincy said, with a quick shake of her head. “We’ll be there.”

  Gary Tobai and his cargo crew didn’t argue at all, but headed for the crew rec area—by then it was five minutes to dinner, if the newbies had their timing right. And if they didn’t, a minute or two wouldn’t matter.

  Ky followed the cargo crew up the passage, then went on as they peeled off into the loos. She went back through the galley, where the smell was even better than before.

  “They’re starting to gather,” she said. “We’ll eat in the rec area. There’s just room. I’ll be back in a minute or two.”

  Forward to her cabin—a quick touch to her hair again—and then to the bridge.

  “Riel, you’re linked, right?”

  “Of course, Captain.”

  “Well, then—come to dinner. We can race each other to the bridge if we need to, but we all need to see one another’s faces right now.”

  “But leaving the bridge—”

  “The log’s running, Riel. If something goes wrong, it’s my neck and not yours. It’s not a suggestion.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “And get the rest of the way out of that suit,” Ky said. “You might as well be comfortable for dinner.”

  A line from an ancient text, many thousands of years old, came to her; they had studied Old World military history one term. The Spartans, the night before the Persians attacked the pass, had eaten well.

  “Yes, Captain.” He stood up,stripped off the pressure suit, and put it away, meticulously checking every readout and connection. Ky didn’t hurry him; she used the time to check her implant’s linkage to every compartment for
the fiftieth time, and look again at the longscan display. The warships had moved, of course—they would not sit there to be targets in case Sabine Prime had weapons they didn’t know about. A sprinkling of Prime’s little cutters lit up the screen in no particular formation that Ky could recognize; most were coasting. The afterglow of the ansible explosions had changed shape and color as the debris spread and cooled.

  “Ready, Captain,” Riel said finally. Ky queried their mutual linkage—live and clear.

  “Fine, then,” Ky said, and led the way off the bridge. That was unorthodox; that was, if anyone complained, illegal. Someone was supposed to be on the bridge at all times. Linkages could fail. But the most important linkage was human, heart-to-heart, and for that they needed one another. Ky stopped by her cabin just long enough to pick up the little candlepair her mother had insisted on including. Supposedly it had been patterned after one from Old World, a pair of candleholders in a single-footed stand.

  The rec area tables had been shoved together, and someone had found or improvised an actual tablecloth and set the rather uneven-looking table with Glennys Jones’ best china—the familiar red-and-blue-lined Vatta pattern, with a little red sailing vessel in the center and the ship’s name underneath. Ky set the candlepair in the center. Of course no one lit open flames on a ship, but the safelights set on medium flicker were lovely enough.

  Her crew crowded around the tables. Those who had found seats stood up; Ky looked at each face, and tried to think of something to say. Before the silence became too awkward, she said, “We can’t let it get cold; it smells too good,” and sat down. There was a surprised chuckle, and the others also sat.

  “What are we going to do about—,” began Beeah Chok, through a mouthful of sorga.

  Ky held up her hand. “No business at dinner. Not this dinner anyway. Our new crewmembers have cooked us a good one, and I want to enjoy it. So when they’ve had a chance to eat a little, we can get to know them better.”

  “Seth has a wicked sense of humor,” Mitt said. “I can tell you that much.”