Trading in Danger

by Elizabeth Moon

  A faintly hissing silence, then: “Captain Furman here.”

  “This is Gerry Vatta,” he said informally. “What’s the situation?” He heard Furman draw in a breath.

  “The situation, sir, is that your idiot daughter has stolen a Vatta Transport ship and gone haring off into jumpspace—she says she’s on the way to Belinta to deliver a cargo, but for all I know she’s on her way to any place you can think of. She hasn’t learned one damn thing since she was—”

  “Excuse me.” Gerard knew that he was being calm; he knew it by the whitening of his knuckles and the fact that he managed that courtesy rather than the bellow of rage he felt. “Did you just call my daughter an idiot and a thief, or perhaps I misunderstood your use of the words idiot and stolen . . . ?”

  An audible gulp. “Sir, I—I misspoke myself. The fact is, despite my attempts to make her see reason, she refused to come aboard this ship with her crew, let me sell off that old hulk for scrap, and bring her home.”

  “I didn’t tell you to do that.” He was calm, he was very calm. That, no doubt, was why Stavros now had a firm hand on his shoulder, and why the techs in the communications center were staring at him wide-eyed. “I told you to give her every assistance, to make it clear that she was under Vatta protection.”

  “You can’t protect someone who’s acting like an idiot!” Furman blurted. “I tried to talk sense into her—”

  “That’s the second time you’ve called my daughter an idiot,” Gerard said. Again Furman gulped.

  “I didn’t mean it like that—I just meant, impetuous, young, headstrong—”

  “You should have known,” Gerard said. “You had her on her apprentice voyage—” From which she had come back even more determined to enter the Academy, he recalled. Furman had done nothing but drive her farther away back then. Gerard tried to stay calm. It wasn’t entirely Furman’s fault, but Furman was there, handy, and he wanted so much to tack someone’s hide to the wall. He took a deep breath, reminding himself of Furman’s years of exemplary service.

  “You’re not blaming me, surely.” Furman’s voice sounded thick; was it sleepiness or anger? “I’m a senior captain in the Fleet; I disrupted my own important schedule to come get that—her—out of the mess she’d gotten herself into—”

  Stavros’ hand tightened on Gerard’s arm; he realized that the wash of brightness across his vision was another wave of white-hot anger. “She did not get herself into a mess, Captain Furman,” he made himself say, rather than You arrogant asshole, say one more word about my daughter and I’ll have you for breakfast . . . “She happened to be in the system when a war started, and she survived until help arrived. I find that commendable. I would find that commendable even if you had done it.”

  Something that might have been a splutter came into his headphone.

  “I sent you to help her. Not scold her. Not order her around as if she were still a thirteen-year-old apprentice. Help her. And what you’ve done, apparently, is help her go off again, without my having a chance to talk to her, and you may have convinced her that she’s in trouble with me. Now you may be one of our senior captains, and you may have an important and lucrative route, but the fact is, Captain Furman, that you are still a Vatta Transport employee, and your job description does not include insulting my daughter . . .” He knew his voice had risen; he knew that Stavros had a hard grip on his arm, and the faces in the communications center were all shocked, and he should get hold of himself, calm down. “Damn it, man!” That was a shout, the shout that brought him back to himself, his voice all but gone. “If she . . .” If she didn’t come back, if she was lost because the drive failed, because she’d hurried the repair because of Furman, if she disappeared into the endless dark reaches of space. . . .

  “I’m sorry,” Furman said, a distant scratchy voice, irritating even in its submission. “I didn’t mean any harm, I just thought . . .”

  “Just . . . don’t say anything,” Gerard said. He felt sick, all the energy of anger drained away, the emptiness of not knowing hollowing his heart. He had hoped . . . he had counted on talking to her himself, hearing her voice, proving—if only for the time the call lasted—that she was alive, that he had been told the truth.

  “Do you want me to follow her to Belinta? Make sure she’s safe?”

  Stavros took the headset from him before he could answer; Gerard leaned on the console with both hands, bracing himself upright, while Stavros’ calm voice told Furman what to do: clear up all Vatta accounts in Sabine, report in when he had done so, and then in all likelihood return to his usual route for the present.

  Gerard blinked back the tears, tried not to sniff audibly at the congestion in his nose. He should be happy. She was alive. She had not let Furman bully her. She had gone off to do her duty, fulfill the contract, trade and profit, like a true Vatta. He could send a message by ansible to Belinta, telling her he was proud of her. He could reach her while she was there. It was all right now.

  He could not believe it. He felt in his own heart the avalanche of disasters that had come to her, one after another, each one tearing her away from the family, rushing her away, out of control, to some disastrous ending. She would not come back. If he saw her again, she would be someone else, a stranger, not his daughter Kylara. A quick cascade of images raced through his mind: infant-toddler-child-preadolescent-teen-young woman. In the future? Nothing.

  “Well.” That was Stavros, a warm hand once more on his shoulder. “She’s alive for sure, our Ky.”

  Gerard couldn’t answer. He forced a deep breath, straightened. Communications techs busied themselves at their consoles, carefully ignoring the senior officers.

  “You’ll want to leave a message at Belinta,” Stavros said. “Letter of credit as well?”

  Would she think it was a bribe? Would she think that not leaving one was a ploy to make her come begging? Did she even need the money?

  “Everyone needs money,” Stavros said. “Even when they have enough.”

  “A message,” Gerard managed to say. “From me.” He took another breath, picked up a recording cube from the stack on the console. “I can do it, Stav. I’m fine now.” He took the cube into one of the booths they used when they weren’t rushing as he had been, and recorded a short, cordial message to be sent to Belinta and left it in the queue for her arrival.

  The days wore on, marked only by ship’s time. Ky updated the captain’s log, scribbling in the margins the things she had not had time to put in before. It might be messy, but it would be complete as she saw it. Her log.

  Some things, though, she did not want to put in. Her account of the mutiny was precise, detailed, and accurate so far as it went. It did not include her feelings. It particularly did not include that wholly unmentionable feeling of utter, absolute, complete glee that had taken over when she killed Paison, his mate, and Kristoffson. Oh, she’d thrown up after it was over—and she’d expected that; they’d been told in the Academy that most people did, after a first killing. But even so, even with the horror and revulsion, she’d been aware of something much worse going on underneath.

  She had enjoyed it. She had enjoyed the crisis; she had enjoyed the need to make those snap decisions, take that immediate action.

  And she had enjoyed killing.

  That did not fit with any of her ideas about herself. Kylara the rescuer, yes. Kylara the brave defender, yes. But Kylara the happy killer? What kind of monster was she? And why didn’t she feel more like a monster? Was it true, as Master Sergeant Pitt and the Colonel had told her, that she was wasted in civilian life? Was she a born killer, and did that mean she should join up with other born killers? Should she join the mercenaries, where her violent tendencies would be under proper control?

  She felt—except when she tried to feel guilty and bad—quite happy. Almost—though she knew this was dangerous—smugly happy. She had had a horrible few months, starting with that morning at the Academy, and yet here she was. People had tried to kill her. She
had nearly died. And she was alive and they—at least some of them—were dead. Hal hated her—well, that solved any worry about whether she should ever try to contact him. Mandy Rocher . . . was a nasty little piece of work, and would get his comeuppance someday. She didn’t even care that she might not know about it when that happened.

  They arrived in Belinta’s system four days ahead of schedule—that new FTL drive really was superior—and Ky checked in with the Belinta station. She expected a problem because of the beacon change.

  “Vatta Transport Gary Tobai, Kylara Vatta commanding, request inbound vector to Belinta station.”

  “Gary Tobai, approved vector relaying to your navigator . . . Captain Vatta, you have ansible messages in queue. Will you accept them now, or wait until your arrival?”

  “I’ll wait,” she said. One would be her father, no doubt. She told herself she didn’t care what he said, but she knew she lied.

  The ship eased in, day after day. Ky reassured the Economic Development Bureau that she had their ag equipment, every single tractor and implement that could be crammed into their cargo holds. She spoke to the Slotter Key consul in carefully guarded terms about the situation on Sabine, though with the ansibles back up—as the “stations available” list made clear—he could well find out for himself. She made contact with the ISC ship which was patrolling Belinta’s outer reaches and carefully did not ask if they thought Belinta’s ansible platform was at particular risk.

  And finally they arrived, docking neatly at the station. Ky arranged for her escort to meet her at the station downside, and for a room at the Captains’ Guild. She planned to accept her ansible mail before talking to Customs, but Customs was already on the horn, demanding her presence. She put on her dress uniform and went out into the dockside area.

  “Captain Vatta—it really is you.” Not just the Customs Inspector she’d met before, but two men in the uniform of the Economic Development Bureau.

  “That’s right,” Ky said.

  “You bought a new ship?”

  “No—we ran into a bit of trouble at Sabine, and changed the ship ID chip.”

  “You weren’t . . . doing anything illegal, were you?”

  “Not at all,” Ky said. She realized suddenly that changing ship chips was the sort of thing pirates did in storycubes. “Someone broke into our beacon, stole the original ship chip, and we had to reregister under a new name. I have the paperwork.”

  “Oh. Very well. And the inventory of the imports?”

  “All here. As you’ll see, I bought you new equipment from FarmPower—”

  “Why not used?”

  “They aren’t selling used there anymore. They’ve got a war on; the used equipment is all gone. Anyway, all these machines were purchased new on Sabine; I have the inventories ready for you.”

  “Then we can start unloading today—”

  “Not until your payment clears,” Ky said.

  The EDB representatives scowled at her. “You think we would cheat you?”

  “Our contract calls for payment prior to offloading,” Ky said. “I’m sorry, but I’m required to adhere to the terms of the contract.”

  “But we have to inspect it—”

  “Of course,” Ky said. “I’ll escort you to the cargo bays . . .”

  There was scarcely room to move in the cargo bays, with diassembled pieces of equipment stowed carefully to make the most use of the available cubage. Ky had to use a hardcopy of the inventory, but the EDB personnel had implants to compare the visible serial numbers.

  “How long will it take to unload this?” one of them asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ky said frankly. “My cargomaster was killed in the trouble over near Sabine—”

  “Brawling in a bar,” said the other EDB man with a sneer.

  “No,” Ky said. “Taken as hostage by a pirate who had been interned on my ship, and killed when I suppressed the mutiny. That’s why I renamed the ship for him. I consider him a hero.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” A moment of embarrassed silence, then: “But how long did it take to load?”

  “Without Gary—three days. It was already disassembled, though . . .” She felt tired even before she started, but gave a quick and incomplete recital of what had happened, at least as far as the cargo was concerned.

  “You mean it was out there in space, unprotected, for days and days?”

  “It was in the same kind of vacuum it would have experienced in any cargo ship’s hold,” Ky said. “FarmPower assured me that there was no need to keep the holds aired up, or at livable temperature, during transport, and I also have their assurance that ambient radiation while outside the ship would not shorten the working life.” She was glad Quincy had thought to ask for that. “Now, as soon as the credits are in my account, you can start unloading . . .”

  They dithered another hour or so, but finally authorized the transfer of the agreed amount into her local account, payable without tax in credits. Ky handed over the inventory, told Quincy to supervise the unloading crews, and at last had time to look at her accumulated messages.

  As expected, there was one from her father. A full broadband audiovisual that must have cost . . . she didn’t want to think. She settled down in her cabin, braced for the worst.

  “Kylara, I’m so sorry,” was the first thing she heard. Her eyes filled with tears, despite herself. Her father looked exhausted and distraught. “Furman is an idiot, and I wouldn’t have sent him if anyone else had been close enough. He was supposed to help you, not cause you more trouble. I’m sorry Gary died—I haven’t heard all about it yet, but I’m sure he died trying to help you in some way. I know you were injured . . . Ky, I hope you know that I—that Vatta—were trying to do everything we could to find you, help you, whatever happened. And all I know now is that you must be at Belinta, to have accessed this message—” His voice wavered, then steadied. “Ky, please call me. I’ve set up a prepaid call; you may not need that option, but just in case . . . please. Please call me. Anytime.”

  Not the worst, then. Not angry, not like Furman. But—did she want to call home, like a teenager who’s gotten herself in a fix and has to call Daddy for help? She had coped with the fix—she had coped with death, with injury. She didn’t need him that way.

  But he needed her. That tremor in his voice, those circles under his eyes, were not faked.

  She went to the bridge and placed the call, using her own now-fatter account. This time the telltales switched promptly from standby to ready to searching to active connection. A brief delay, with a screen message of “reconnecting: mobile unit.” That meant he had the skullphone on.

  He answered immediately; the visual was a bouncing green blur, what the skullphone’s visual pickup faced. “Yes?” His voice sounded annoyed; Ky flinched inwardly.

  “Dad—it’s Ky.”

  A final blur, then motion stopped; the pickup stared at what she could now see was one of the back roads in a tik grove. “Ky! Are you all right?” Not annoyance now, but some combination of eagerness and pleading that saddened her.

  “I’m fine, Dad. I’m at Belinta’s orbital station . . . you knew that, you left the message . . .” She was babbling, trying to give him time.

  “Yes.” His breath huffed out; she could almost see his shoulders relax. “You made it . . . not that I didn’t think you would, but . . .”

  Only a few weeks ago, it seemed, she had been glad to lean into him, feel his comforting arm around her. Now it felt awkward, and not only because he was light-years away. Other kinds of years away, maybe.

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard about what happened,” Ky said.

  “Not enough,” her father said. “Not nearly enough. I knew you’d gone rogue—Quincy’s probably told you by now we expected something like that on one of your early voyages . . .” It was not quite a question.

  “Yes,” Ky said. “She and Gary—” Her throat closed; she swallowed and went on. “I knew on the way to Sabine. But they thought it wa
s all right.”

  “Of course,” her father said. “Trade and profit. I was glad for you; it meant—I thought—that you weren’t completely shattered by what the Academy did.”

  “Well . . . the FTL sealed unit failed on downshift into Sabine—”

  “It was supposed to be safe—Quincy swore that ship was safe enough for you—” His voice sounded angry again.

  “Not her fault,” Ky said quickly. “Something she couldn’t anticipate. We think it’s because there was no cargo on the way to Sabine—we wanted maximum cubage for the pickup. Cargo mass had been damping what was going wrong. Captain’s decision.”

  “All right,” he said.

  “So then, I was having trouble getting financing for both the equipment and the repairs, and the political situation was getting worse. I was actually trying to call you when the ansibles went out.”

  “You were . . . good girl!”

  He hadn’t realized she’d do the sensible thing? He should have known that . . . She pushed from her mind the reluctance she’d had to call for help. “I’d have reached you, too, but the Captains’ Guild wouldn’t let me put the call through, because they wouldn’t charge the Vatta account.”

  “What!”

  “I’d done the Belinta deal as a private contract, not to risk Vatta Transport’s image if something went wrong. Besides, my instructions were to take the ship from Belinta to Leonora to Lastway. I didn’t know if—what would happen if—”

  “We have the highest-rated category of account at the Captains’ Guild,” her father growled. “Damn them! They have no reason—didn’t you tell them who you were? Not that it should make a difference . . . Any Vatta captain should be able to—”

  “Dad, I told them who I was, and it made no difference. But a war was starting. Maybe that was it . . .”

  “They’ll hear from me—from us—,” her father said. She could hear his harsh breathing. Then it steadied. “Sorry, Ky. But when I think how scared I—we—were. If we’d gotten that message, at least I’d have known . . .”

  “Well, the excitement all came later,” Ky said. Before he could reply, she told him what had come next—that she had broken the ship free of the station, moved away from the planet to await events, been hailed and then boarded by mercenaries. How much to tell about her injuries? As little as possible; she was fine. She talked quickly, keeping the recital “clean and lean” as she’d been taught at the Academy. The new contract, the arrival of hostages, the mercenaries’ departure, her decision to cut rations, the mutiny.