“Will we make anything from it?”
“If they pay—and their credit rating is excellent—it will more than cover the cost of the sealed unit and installation. Assuming there’s anyplace to get a sealed unit and someone to install it. I asked about that, and they said, ‘Not now’ in the tone that means ‘Don’t bother us.’ But surely, when ISC replaces the ansibles, we’ll be able to communicate with home, and with Belinta . . .”
Gary Tobai came onto the bridge. “Belinta’s going to be furious,” he said without preamble. He looked older in some way.
“I know,” Ky said. “But there’s nothing we can do about it. We can’t fight warships. We can’t jump out. We can’t call and explain. They undoubtedly know the Sabine ansibles are out, and should grasp that whatever’s happened is a genuine emergency. What we can do is survive the next few days—and hopefully it will only be a few days—get rid of our little friends, pick up our cargo, go back to Sabine, and fix the FTL drive. That shouldn’t take long if the repair yards are still there. At least we know they have the size unit we need, and there can’t be that many ships needing that size.”
“Probably not. I just hope they’re honest.”
“As honest as they can be, was my assessment,” Ky said. “And I was on their ship and met one of their officers. We do have the contract, in writing.”
“Ten days . . . what can they hope to accomplish in ten days? You can’t win wars in ten days. You can only lose them that fast.” Gary still looked worried.
“Which means the other side won them,” Ky said. She shrugged away speculation about the war. “My concern is the passengers’ security. With Kristoffson being such a pain, and the way they outnumber us . . .”
“We keep them locked in,” Gary said.
“We can’t keep them locked in all the time,” Ky pointed out. “We have to feed them, and we have only one galley. It’s my fault; I didn’t think to ask the mercs for a field kitchen.”
“I suppose you’re right. Are they all like Kristoffson?”
“No, not at all. He’s the worst, and I think he’s got a small group that he’s inciting to difficulty. But the others aren’t nearly as bad. There’s one, Paison, who’s quite sensible. I’m thinking of talking to him, seeing if he’ll monitor the situation for me.”
“One of us should do that,” Gary said.
“Why? I think it’s captain-to-captain stuff myself.”
“Well . . . you’re the captain. Still. Just don’t get yourself nearly killed again.”
“Not planning to,” Ky said. Unfortunately, her background gave her no insight into the management of fifty unwilling passengers in a cargo ship only roughly converted to hauling them.
She wondered if anything in the Commandant’s private library would have helped . . . If she’d picked out the right logbook, would she now know exactly what to do?
Probably not.
The rest of mainshift passed with little difficulty—work teams came up to the galley with clean dishes, warmed meals, took them back, washed the dishes. Captain Paison, she noticed on the monitors, was leading his crewmen and some others in calisthenics. Better than sitting around being bored. Mitt watched the environmental system closely, monitoring every slight change in values, since it was functioning near its design limits. The first surge changes had all settled down at the new equilibrium points, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Quincy, with nothing much to do since the insystem drive was shut down, came into the bridge several times to discuss the needed repairs.
After a second check around her own crew, Ky decided to interview the other captains one at a time, leaving the difficult Kristoffson for last. Paison, who had been so helpful already, she put first and asked him to come to the galley.
“Captain Paison,” Ky said. He smiled at her.
“Captain Vatta—how are things?”
“Fine so far,” Ky said. “All systems nominal at this time. And you and your crew?”
“We’re fine. I appreciate how difficult this is for you, Captain—all these passengers in your ship, and your cargo out there in vacuum. Tell me, is this your first voyage?”
“As Captain, yes, it is.” Never mind that it was only her second voyage overall. “Not exactly going the way it’s supposed to.”
“You seem to be handling the stress well, though. I confess I’m impressed with your calm.”
“Panic never helps,” Ky said, grinning. “And I have a very good, very experienced crew.”
“Ah. But not experienced at this, I suspect.”
“No. Just good.” Ky paused, then went on. “Captain Paison, I realize you may not want to answer this, but—what is your impression of Captain Kristoffson?”
“Jake? Known him for years. A hothead . . . not a bad guy but definitely a hothead. He is so proud of being the Rose’s captain—and he’s acting like a total idiot right now, which you know already.”
“My concern is that he might convince others that they should . . .” Ky tried to think of the right word.
“Do something stupid? Mutiny of the passengers or something?” Captain Paison laughed, a friendly laugh and not a scornful one. His eyes twinkled. “I doubt it. Jake might want them to, but I don’t think they’re that panicky, and he’s not really that brave. As long as the gravity stays put, and the air, and so on.”
“No reason it shouldn’t,” Ky said. She hadn’t really thought of mutiny, just constant complaints and harrassment, but now that Paison said the word, her stomach tightened.
He cocked his head at her. “Do you want me to keep an eye on him for you? I can understand your concern—you and your crew are outnumbered by a large margin—and if it would ease your mind I could keep a weather eye out.”
“Would you?” Ky asked, relieved that he’d suggested it himself. If he knew Captain Kristoffson that well, she hated to ask him to spy on the man.
“Sure. I truly don’t think Jake’s going to do more than whine and moan and demand special treatment—he was livid about those golden-eye raspberries, but I think you did exactly the right thing—still, you don’t need anything else to worry about.”
Paison clearly understood her various dilemmas. She was tempted to ask his advice about some of her other problems, but she knew she should keep a decent separation between herself and her passengers. She only hoped she hadn’t overstepped it already.
“Thanks,” she said. “This is not one of the situations they teach you about in—” She cut that off. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t want the passengers to know about her Academy training; she was only sure she didn’t.
Back on the bridge, she found Quincy, who had taken over as third-shift watch officer, hunched over a complicated-looking readout. “How’s the cargo doing?” she asked.
“Fine,” Quincy said. “Just hanging out there the way it should. I still think we should have tethered it, just in case, but as long as nobody turns the drive on we shouldn’t have a problem.”
“Nobody’s going to turn the drive on. Anything else?”
“Engineering’s fine, except for that FTL drive. I’m a little concerned about the fact that we have five senior and three junior engineers aboard—if they wanted to mess us up, they could. I’ve made sure we have someone on watch each shift, looking for intrusions.”
“I think Kristoffson is our one bad apple,” Ky said. Ship sabotage was something else she hadn’t thought of. “And Paison’s going to keep an eye on him.”
“You asked him to?” Quincy raised an eyebrow.
“No, he volunteered. Says he’s known Kristoffson for years, thinks he’s just a blowhard, but he’ll let me know if it gets serious.”
“And you’re sure Paison is trustworthy?” Quincy sounded doubtful.
“I certainly hope so,” Ky said. Her stomach twinged again. If he wasn’t, her record for trusting the untrustworthy would have another notch. “How are you getting along with the new crew? How upset are they about Skeldon?”
“They’re
fine, Captain. They’re upset, of course, but he never did really fit in with them . . . The ship that left them behind had a crew of twelve hundred or some such. None of them had met Skeldon before that shore leave anyway—it was a random drawing, who went when. And the military cleaned up his body and your quarters, so they didn’t have to see—” Quincy’s face tightened and her voice trailed off.
“You did, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.” Quincy shook her head, looking away. “It wasn’t pretty . . .”
“No.” Ky had been shown vids of postbattle cleanup at the Academy, and she could imagine the mess. The stains left by the cleaning methods showed how extensive the mess had been. She forced that thought aside. Already Skeldon’s face was blurring in her memory. “Well, I’d better do another interview.”
Captain Lucas, with no Kristoffson to spark his hostility, seemed a pleasant enough officer. Pepper-and-salt hair pulled back into a short thick braid, dark eyes difficult to read. His Insinyon accent had mellowed to a pleasant brogue, and he professed himself satisfied that Vatta Transport was doing the best it could for its passengers.
“Of course that fool of a passenger captain, that Kris—whatever”—Lucas waved his hand—”that sort always think they deserve special treatment. All he does is complain. But I am happy to cooperate. Though forgive me for mentioning it, but you seem rather young for a captain—unless of course you’re a humod variant I’m unfamiliar with . . .”
That was fishing. Ky smiled at him. “I first went to space as crew at thirteen,” she said. “Age and experience are independent variables.”
He laughed, a quick bark and slow chuckle. “Well said, Captain Vatta. I hope you will be able to keep us informed, as the mercenaries inform you, of the progress of their plans. Despite all else, the sooner I’m back on my own ship, heading out on my own route, the happier I will be.”
“True for all of us, Captain Lucas,” Ky said. “I appreciate your cooperation at this difficult time.”
Captain Opunts of Bradon’s Hope seemed quiet and contained after Paison and Lucas; he had no questions, he said. He made no complaints. No suggestions. Nothing . . . Ky tried repeatedly to get him to open up, but he deflected all her questions and comments with a perfect shield of calm unconcern. It was like talking to a block of polished stone. He was sure everything would be all right in the end; he said that several times. She watched him head back down the corridor and hoped very much he was right.
Aspergia’s Captain Jemin, by contrast, had a wild bush of bright red hair and conveyed suppressed energy. He was talking fast before he even got to the seat Ky pointed out to him. “This is such an unusual situation—unprecedented in my experience and I daresay in yours. I can hardly wait for the ansibles to get back up so I can check that out. Whatever the mercs said, they must have blown them—who else could? Although, there was that case, was it eight standards ago? The one at Hall’s Landing? Just agricultural chemicals, didn’t they say? And your cargo was something agricultural, wasn’t it?” He had a high, slightly breathy voice and spoke in a rapid monotone that conveyed urgency in every phrase. Bright gray eyes, an almost fixed stare.
“Tractors,” Ky said. She spoke slowly, deliberately, trying to calm the man. “Implements, not chemicals.” Were the man’s pupils a normal size, or was he on something? She didn’t know; she didn’t like having to consider that.
“Well, but we have to do something, don’t we? I mean, we’re all civilians, traders . . . There’s no reason for them to intern our ships, is there? Can’t you just run us up to jump and get us out of this system, someplace we can file a complaint?”
“The mercenaries have two warships,” Ky said. “This ship has no weapons . . . trying to outrun them would be a very bad idea.” He didn’t need to know their FTL drive was inoperable.
“Oh. Well, I can see that. Yes. All right, then, I suppose we’re just stuck here for ten days. Of course, I don’t mean to cause you any trouble, Captain Vatta, but really—that Kristoffson person—he’s constantly talking, whining, complaining. It gets on my nerves . . .”
Jemin was getting on her nerves. “I’m sure it’s a difficult time for all of you—for all of us, actually,” Ky said, striving for an even tone, as if soothing a nervous animal. “Captain Kristoffson is probably concerned about his passengers.”
Jemin laughed harshly. “That’s not what he’s talking about. He’s talking about sleeping on the floor, and having no private room, and how the rest of us are so uncultured . . . and anyway there’s nothing to do . . .”
“I’m sorry,” Ky said. “Though there’s always Captain Paison’s calisthenics group.”
“Oh, him,” Jemin said. “He’s so . . . so hearty. I was just wondering if you had any entertainment cubes . . . something relaxing, maybe? I have my portable reader, but they rushed us so to leave the ship that I left behind my collection of cubes . . .”
Jemin needed relaxing, that was obvious, but she didn’t think her collection of technical data cubes relating to this ship and Slotter Key commercial law were what Jemin had in mind.
“Sorry,” Ky said. “I will ask my crew what they have, when we have time.” She pushed back from the table and stood; Jemin clambered up slowly.
“I just wanted to say . . . this is really very inconvenient,” Jemin said, and then shambled away down the passage.
Ky agreed completely. Inconvenient barely covered it. And now she had Kristoffson, an interview she could predict would be unpleasant.
Sure enough, he came in haughty and annoyed, and left in the same mood. In between, he managed to complain about everything. The food, the water, the limitation of showers, the lack of privacy, the lack of entertainment, the attitudes and behavior of the other passengers, on and on. Ky listened until he ran down.
“It’s a difficult situation for all of us . . . ,” she began.
“You can’t pretend it’s as bad for you,” Kristoffson said. “You at least have your own cabin—I suppose even on this tub the captain has some privacy . . .” He thumped the table with his fist. “It’s outrageous, that’s what it is. Ten days! What if the mercs just run off and leave us to the untender mercies of the ISC?”
“Why would they do that?” Ky asked.
“Because they don’t want to be held responsible for blowing the ansibles,” Kristoffson said promptly. “Look—if they go—you have to get us out of here—”
“It’s much safer to do as we’re told,” Ky said. “They have weapons; we don’t.”
“Oh, this is ridiculous!” Kristoffson said, throwing up his hands. He stamped back to the passenger hold without saying more, but Ky could almost see the unspoken words hovering over his angry head.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Several days passed without incident: Kristoffson made no more complaints, though he glowered at Ky when she made her daily visit to the cargo holds to meet with the assembled captains. She wondered if Paison had spoken to him, or if he had decided for himself that complaining didn’t work. Paison always smiled pleasantly, as did Lucas; Opunts remained a polite but remote enigma; Jemin now drooped in dramatic boredom. Their various crewpersons stayed politely back while she was there, not interfering. The environmental system continued to hold within its design limits.
Still she felt uneasy. If excessive trust had been her problem, now was the hour for suspicion. On the third day, she spoke to her senior crew.
“One thing—you all have implants, right?”
“Yes, why?”
“You know I don’t, anymore—the head injury was bad enough they had to extract mine and use it for a reconstruction matrix.” That sounded marginally better than “memory download.” “So I’m limited in interface with ship systems to the earbug, and I can’t sleep with it in.”
“So you want us to be especially vigilant while you’re asleep?” Beeah said.
“Not just that. If Captain Paison is wrong, and Kristoffson isn’t just a blowhard, he has not only his engineering section h
ead and number two, but his communications officer and a junior com tech. If he’s sneaky, he might think of suborning the internal communications so our sensors don’t actually tell us what’s really going on. My implant had special circuits for that—do yours?”
“Not mine . . .” Quincy looked thoughtful.
“Mine either,” Gary said. “It must have been an override thing for captains only.”
“I was afraid of that,” Ky said. “And we don’t have a dedicated com tech aboard. What about our newest crew? Are any of them specialists in internal systems?”
“I’m afraid not,” Quincy said.
Ky rubbed her head with both hands. “As I see it, we have two real weak spots. First, someone might steal the command wand: I am sleeping with that, and our passengers are locked in. So I don’t expect that. Second, someone could reprogram the system to answer a different code. This ship doesn’t have some of the internal security features of larger ones; configuring it for a last voyage with a small crew left us vulnerable to a situation no one anticipated.”
“Nor could have,” Quincy said. “You can’t be faulted for that, Captain.”
“I’m not feeling guilty, Quince, just concerned. How do we ensure that no one can tinker with the system and take it over? We’ve got them physically separated . . . but almost all of them have implants and I don’t know how theirs operate, what their limits are.”
“Mmmph. I didn’t think of their implants being able to function with this ship.”
“Neither did I until I watched Paison direct his work party without saying a word aloud. I knew they had the implants—the bulge is visible—but the possibility of their being active here slipped by me.”
“Manual check of all systems, then. As continuous as we can make it . . . which isn’t very, Captain. I have only my five, plus me. Hospedin can help monitor drives, but I wouldn’t think he could do general engineering . . .”
“Right.”
“Couldn’t you put the internal system on voice recognition control, at least as a requirement for changing parameters?”
Trading in Danger Page 23
