Ky hadn’t thought of that complication. The moment in which she had elected emergency undock over the possibility of being blown up with the station seemed years in the past. Had it only been a few hands of days?
“It was an emergency situation,” Ky said. “Other ships also broke loose—”
“But not Vatta ships,” he said. “You’ve damaged our reputation, you’ve cost us millions, and now you make excuses—enough of this. Your father sent me out here to take care of things, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll sell the ship for scrap, transport your cargo to Belinta and your crew back to a nexus where you can catch a passenger ship home. Get your things and be ready to leave in—”
Ky stabbed at the board and cut the connection before what she thought emerged from her mouth. Her vision hazed.
“That was interesting,” Lee said softly. “He seems to think you’re still a schoolgirl . . .”
“Apparently,” Ky said. She tried to control her breathing, her face, her voice. It would have been so satisfying to throw something breakable at something immovable.
“Who is that?” asked the Mackensee com tech.
Ky took a deep breath. “He was captain on the ship where I served my junior apprenticeship,” she said. “We did not get along. To be fair, at thirteen I was the typical adolescent brat, and the youngest of my family. I’d been sent off because my parents thought I was spoiled, and they were right. But he . . . did not help.”
“And they sent him to help you now?” The tech’s face expressed unexpected sympathy.
“Probably he was closest,” Ky said. She hoped that was it. She hoped it wasn’t an unsubtle message from her father that she had screwed up yet again, and worse. “Look,” she said to the tech. “I really need to talk to home—to headquarters—about this. Is there any chance of getting an ansible linkup?”
“Not for another couple of days, they tell me,” the tech said. “What do you think, this guy’s going beyond his orders?”
“I hope so,” Ky said. “And I hope he’s wrong about the station refusing dockage. We have to get in there for resupply and repair.”
“I reckon ISC will have something to say about that,” the tech said.
“ISC—why?”
“When someone messes up their ansibles, they usually hang around and pretty much run things until they find out who did it and punish them. And didn’t you find that out?”
“I found out some,” Ky said cautiously. “Not everything.”
“So ISC ought to be grateful to you,” the tech said. “If they want you to get docking access, you will, whatever poison puss says.”
“I hope so,” Ky said. She sighed. “I wish—” But she couldn’t say that aloud, not in front of her crew or these military types. She wished she was military, where everything was cut-and-dried, open and obvious, simple. Well, except for people like Mandy Rocher. Her mind insisted on dragging up every person she’d found to have hidden motives. “I need to check on something,” she said instead. “If he calls back, don’t accept it.”
“What should I tell him?”
“Tell him I’m not discussing company business over an open line,” Ky said, wishing she’d thought to say that earlier. She left the bridge and went to talk to the passengers. They were feeling well enough to complain about the delay in returning them to their ships.
“I can’t do anything about that,” Ky said. “You know I have no shuttles, and we have no independent power. At least we have adequate food now.”
“That’s all very well, but what about my ship?” one of the captains said. “Is it still in the system? Are my crew all right?”
“I’ll find out,” Ky said, and dashed back to the bridge. With the exception of Empress Rose, all the ships were still in the Sabine system, and crews reported nothing but minor injuries or illnesses. She reported that to her passengers and explained that no, she could not provide them all a secure comlink to their ships, since ISC now controlled all communications and hadn’t put a high priority on their needs.
She went through the protocols to request a link to Sabine Station, and to her surprise was put through to the acting stationmaster. This individual wore the gray ISC uniform with the silver lightning flash and introduced himself.
“Ah, Captain Vatta. I understand that you undocked against orders.”
“Yes,” Ky said. “Emergency situation.”
“Quite. Sabine system imposes a fine of five thousand credits for improper undock, and you have an outstanding ship balance due of 2345 credits for docking services.” He looked down at something on his desk, then back up. “A counterclaim for failure to recognize a legitimate emergency and facilitate ship’s withdrawal from danger will be entertained by the interim authority.”
“The interim authority?” Ky was still wondering where she could scrape up another 7345 credits.
He grinned at her. “That’s us, Captain Vatta. Should you make such a counterclaim, including, for instance, Sabine Station’s failure to complete your refueling and to allow you timely access to repair and replacement parts, it is likely that your debt would be reduced to zero and docking permission could be given in accordance with Sabine law.” His grin widened. “We prefer to make use of local law whenever possible.”
Ky blinked. “I suppose . . . I should make a counterclaim, then.”
“I would recommend it, yes. Your ship suffered damage, did it not, as a result of this station’s negligence and lack of cooperation?”
“Er . . . yes.”
“ISC has never favored frivolous suits, so unreasonable requests for damages might prejudice your case, but since your ship was preemptively interned for use as a hostage carrier, in large part because you had no functioning deepspace drive and an incomplete fuel load on insystem, I suggest a computation of what it would take to restore your functionality.”
Ky just managed not to gape. Surely they were aware that the ship was old and had more wrong with it than one missing drive component.
“I can’t of course name a figure—that would be unfair of me, in my capacity as interim stationmaster. I must be impartial—”
If this was impartial, she didn’t want to see partial—at least not unless it was on her side.
“But any material damages could be named. Should they not be upheld by a later court, at least you would have some recompense, I’m certain.”
Getting docking privileges alone would be worth it, Ky thought. She collected her scattered thoughts. “With permission, Stationmaster, I’ll be back with you shortly. I want to prepare an accurate statement.”
“Very good, Captain Vatta,” he said. The flicker of his eyelid was not quite a wink. “With respect, I suggest you not wait overlong. Soon our tugs and shuttles will be busy here. Oh, and the fee for towing you into a docking slot will be eight hundred fifty, as usual.”
“Back in one,” Ky said. She looked around at her bridge crew. “Did the rest of you hear what I heard? Was he really telling us to make out an expense account and blame Sabine Station for the past couple of weeks?”
“Sounds like it to me,” Quincy said. “And he’s right. The station should have facilitated our repairs, or at least sold us the sealed unit. There was no rational reason to think we’d take it to the Secundus rebels or the mercs. And they should have given ships permission for emergency undock, all of ’em. Much more dangerous for the station if ships were there if the station was attacked.”
“I’m tempted to just ask for what our back charges are,” Ky said. “That way we can’t be excessive.”
“No!” Quincy said. “Ky—Captain—that’s not the way to think. Let me work on it. We had a lot of damage. There’s two of our crew dead—one of them was an idiot, true, but the other wasn’t. We had all that work to do in the cargo holds, modifying them for emergency quarters—that used up a lot of our reserve parts stock. And some of that will have to be torn out to make room for cargo. Then there’s our cargo, floating around out there—”
“Unless Furman grabbed it already,” Ky said bitterly.
“Wherever it is, it’s not in our holds,” Quincy said. “And we’ve got to retrieve it, unload the other stuff, and reload the holds. That’s several days—docking fees for those days shouldn’t be due from us, because it’s not our fault. Nor should replacement parts, nor the labor cost to reconfigure the holds. The sealed unit was already damaged when we came in; I wouldn’t gig ’em for that. But the beacon damage, and the control systems—that’s going to take a complete purge to get it fixed.”
The amount Quincy came up with after a few minutes seemed huge to Ky, but she transmitted it to the Sabine stationmaster’s office anyway.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The answer came back from Sabine Station after a decent interval. Acting Stationmaster Dettin looked serious, but his voice was pleasant.
“On behalf of Sabine Station, I am prepared to accept this counterclaim of damages caused by this station’s civilian management. Since the claims made here are substantially larger than the balance due on the fines and docking use fees on the books, it is my decision that Glennys Jones be allowed to dock here, and that all tug and docking fees will be waived for a period of twenty days. However, the final decision, and any monetary damages to be paid other than this offsetting, will be determined by a court at some later date. Acceptance of this proposal is not binding in law as later adjudication may choose to impose additional fines, penalties, or costs on either party.” That came out in a near monotone, as if he were reciting text from some legal tome. Probably he was.
“Are you willing to accept these terms and defer funds transfer until adjudication is complete?”
“Yes,” Ky said.
“Thank you, Captain Vatta,” the man said. “Now, do you wish tug services immediately?”
“Yes,” Ky said.
“I can assign you . . .” He looked blank for a moment. “You can expect a tug to contact you in about six hours. Estimated time until docking will be . . . nine hours four minutes. Is this acceptable?”
“Yes,” Ky said again, beginning to feel like an automaton. “I will inform the passengers,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Our pleasure,” Dettin said. “When you arrive, there are ISC and Mackensee personnel who wish to confer with you at your earliest convenience. And I understand you have remains . . . ?”
Remains. It took her a moment to realize that the stationmaster meant someone’s body. Gary’s body. “Yes,” she said. “Gary Tobai, one of my crewmen . . .”
“We will have a funeral representative ready to receive the remains.”
“Thank you,” Ky said.
“By the time you’ve arrived, we will have limited commercial communications service back up; your passengers will be able to contact their vessels from the station. They have been assigned priority-one access.”
“They will appreciate that,” Ky said. “I’ll tell them. If you’ll excuse me, I need to ready my ship for docking procedures—”
“Of course, Captain Vatta. There is another Vatta Transport vessel in the system—have they contacted you?”
As if he didn’t know. “Yes,” she said. “I presume we will communicate more fully later.”
“Captain Furman has requested permission to retrieve your cargo; is this permissible?”
“Er . . .” If she said yes, he would have her cargo in his possession and be able to preempt her contract. If she said no, he would be furious and for all she knew her father would be furious, too. She didn’t need more enemies. She didn’t need to start her career breaking contracts, either. “No,” she said, feeling a great hollow opening inside her. “Not at this time. I haven’t determined whether I will be able to meet contracted terms without his help. I would prefer to confer with Vatta headquarters before making that decision, after we have a repair estimate on my ship.”
“I see.” Was that a twitch of amusement? She hoped not, but she could imagine the kinds of things Furman had said about her.
“We’ll expect the tug contact in six hours, then,” Ky said. She would try to catch a nap before then, and another snack.
By the time the tug’s call came, Ky had slept a few hours, eaten again, showered, and started a list of necessary repairs and their projected costs. Refueling the insystem drive. Purging and reinitializing the ship’s control systems. Obtaining a new, certified ID chip for the beacon. Replacing the sealed unit of the FTL drive and the damaged liner section. Removing the plumbing fixtures from the cargo holds—she presumed that Mackensee would want their toilet and sink units back, but that could wait. Repairing or replacing the communications modules. The credits mounted up, a few hundred here, a few thousand there. She compared the total to the amount that Mackensee owed her for transporting their prisoners . . . a squeak, but she might make it.
Once they docked at the orbital station, Ky spoke to the station security about unloading her passengers. In only a short time, they were all out of the ship, onto a dock area secured from the media. Ky had begun to relax when a series of dockside calls came in. A Mackensee officer—she had no idea what rank, but he seemed very young—asked permission to come aboard and arranged for the removal of their property. An ISC official also asked permission to come aboard; she named herself “Assistant to the Incident Investigator-General.” A representative of the Sabine Prime government’s Department of Foreign Affairs wanted to talk with her about her knowledge of the involvement of Captain Paison in the Secundus affair. A representative of Interstellar Transient Transformations wanted information on Gary Tobai’s faith and the type of ceremony desired. And an officer from the Katrine Lamont claimed to have urgent communications from Captain Furman and Vatta Transport, Ltd.
She groaned inwardly. What she wanted most was an uninterrupted sleep shift, but clearly she wasn’t going to get it. She tried to think what should come first.
“Quincy—what kind of service would Gary have wanted?”
The old woman shook her head. “We never talked about it. He was a Modulan, I know that much, but that’s all.”
“Well . . . what would be best for the crew, then?”
“Modulan’s always safe. But you Vatta are something else, aren’t you?”
“Saphiric Cyclans, yes, but it doesn’t matter about me.” Even as she said it she wondered why. Why shouldn’t she matter? “What about his family? Did he ever talk about them?”
“Had a granddaughter out in the Necklace Islands; I don’t know about the rest.”
“We’ll do Modulan and have the box made up for her, then. Do you know her name?”
“Angelica,” Quincy said.
Ky called Interstellar Transient Transformations and gave them this information.
“Our condolences, Captain, to you and your crew,” the ITT representative said. “I’m Selon Bahandar, and I will be assisting you through this sad time. We’ll need to discuss chapel availability, once we’ve collected the . . . er . . . remains.”
“Chapel availability?”
“Yes. We have many other services scheduled, you understand . . .”
She didn’t. But then, she’d never attended any religious service on a space station.
“It’s a matter of finding the open time slot most suitable to you and to his memory.”
“I see.”
“You are familiar with the process, I presume?”
She wasn’t. They hadn’t had a funeral in the family since Aunt Pellit’s, and that was over on North Coast when she had an ear infection and couldn’t fly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I haven’t dealt with this before.”
His smile managed to combine extreme sympathy with extreme satisfaction; Ky found it extremely annoying. “My dear Captain Vatta, again let me express our condolences. Interstellar will be happy to assist you in every detail, as I’m sure you all wish to show the utmost respect for your comrade.”
“Uh . . .”
“You may not have known that orbital stations us
ually allot only one space for religious purposes, a holographic chapel which is preprogrammed to offer a variety of religious spaces suitable for practically every faith and ceremony. Now as you’ve indicated your loved . . . er . . . lost one was himself a Modulan, let me show you the Modulan setting . . .” Up on the screen, a window opened to show the interior of a typical Modulan chapel, very like that at the Academy except for the lack of a Spaceforce seal. The restful curves, even to the seat backs, the soft golden glow of the lighting, the Focus of Faith in gleaming pewter. “If you want to personalize this in some way—” The display flickered, and morphed to an exaggerated style, with banks of pink flowers along the side walls and a beam of light striking down at an angle to rest on the Focus.
“No,” Ky said, slightly repelled as always by the Modulan color scheme of soft greens, but even more repelled by the deliberate drama of the variant form.
“Very well. Now about the Box . . .”
The box, Ky knew, was nothing but a symbol, small enough to fit in the hand; Bahandar’s tone added the capital and implied extraordinary worth.
“Traditional Modulans still prefer the plain wood with the Focus on the cover,” Bahandar said, implying that traditional Modulans were far behind the times. “But we have a very nice selection of boxes—enameled, inlaid—”
“The plain wooden box,” Ky said firmly. “Gary was very traditional.” She didn’t know how traditional he was in the practice of his religion, but she did know how traditional he was about spending money on things that were not necessary to the ship or its cargo. He would come back to haunt her if she indulged in any fancy additions to his service.
“Very well. And the chaplain,” Bahandar said. “There’s the recorded service, the Interactive service with counseling subroutines . . .”
Ky had never imagined anything like this. “I thought there was just a chaplain—”
“Oh, if you want a live chaplain, that’s certainly possible—” His voice warmed. “We have to arrange to bring someone up from Prime—that is a little expensive . . .”
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