“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.”
Ky stared at him, shocked. “What—”
He shook his head. “I don’t know, Captain. I demanded answers, and got nothing except that the situation had changed and I was to follow orders. I pointed out that you were sick, incapacitated, in danger, and was told to get you a room in a hotel. Whatever happened, it’s got the government scared. Some threat, I’d guess, to them as well as to Vatta.” He sighed, then went on. “I tried calling some other people I knew; one of them told me there were rumors of attacks on Vatta holdings, but had no details. It was on the third call that we were cut off. I asked the police to check the combooth records from the Captains’ Guild; that was about six hours after you lost the signal to your headquarters.”
Six hours. Much could happen in six hours . . . or in six minutes, or six seconds.
“I’m guessing that ISC’s enemies are behind the ansible failure, but whether that has anything to do with this change in policy about Vatta, I don’t know.”
“It must,” Ky said. “The ansible attacks on Sabine were certainly aimed at ISC, or so ISC thought. And I can understand the people who did it blaming me. I did kill two of them. Maybe it’s a two-pronged attack.”
Consul Inosyeh shook his head. “Wrong scale. A criminal organization wanting to punish you might send an assassination team, yes—though it’s more likely they’d have some local thug beat you up in a bar somewhere—but not take out ansible service to your home planet.” He paused, and Ky nodded. He went on. “The thing is, I’m under orders to dump you on the street, effectively. I’m not going to.” The look he gave her was brimming with mischief.
Ky stared at him.
“Instead, I’m going to commit time travel and have a conversation with you that actually occurred prior to that ansible call. In fact, we’re already having that conversation. If anyone asks later, this conversation occurred in the morning. Is that clear?”
Nothing was clear at the moment, but the intensity of his gaze suggested that she needed to answer. “Yes . . . I guess.”
“Good.” Consul Inosyeh leaned back in his chair, hooked a heel around the leg of a hassock, and pulled it nearer before stretching his legs onto it. “I’m going to share with you what I might have shared if not instructed otherwise—because from my point of view, I haven’t yet been instructed otherwise. And if you think that merely proves the moral elasticity of diplomats, please keep it to yourself.” He ran his hands through his hair, leaving it in rumples.
“Er . . . yes, of course.” How had she ever thought this North Coaster stuffy and arrogant?
“How much do you know of Slotter Key’s foreign policy, especially as regards maintaining the safety of the spaceways?” That last might have been set in inverted quotes, so marked was his emphasis.
“That’s what we have a space navy for,” Ky said promptly. “Our strong Spaceforce deters . . .” Her voice trailed away at his expression. “Doesn’t it?”
“I always wondered what they taught cadets,” Consul Inosyeh said. He sighed. “You know, the universe would work much better if people just told the simple truth, and you may think that’s the stupidest thing ever to come out of a diplomat’s mouth, but really!”
“My father always said honesty in trade was better than trickery,” Ky said. “If you wanted repeat customers.”
“And let’s hope that honesty didn’t get him killed,” Consul Inosyeh said. “All right. Here’s the truth of it. Slotter Key, our mutual home, is widely disliked for its way of handling interstellar security. Our Spaceforce, for all the resources dedicated to it, defends only the home system. One star system, three inhabited planets, some colonized satellites, and so on. We have pickets at several nearby jump points, as an early warning system. We don’t take our ships into other people’s systems without elaborate preparation—if we just waltz in, they call it invasion. They have called it invasion.”
“But I thought—” Ky stopped again. Nothing she’d been taught actually contradicted what Consul Inosyeh was saying, though this was a strange interpretation. “But then what keeps pirates from raiding our tradeships?”
“That, Captain Vatta, is the reason Slotter Key has a shady reputation. Slotter Key runs privateers, private armed vessels authorized by the Slotter Key government to pursue and take action against the enemies of Slotter Key. Which, broadly defined, means anyone who messes with our trade in ways we don’t like. We’re not the only ones to do what we do, but we do it fairly aggressively.”
Shock like an ice-water bath stopped Ky’s breath for a moment. “Privateers! They’re—they’re nothing but pirates with a piece of paper!”
“That’s exactly what some other systems call them, yes. It’s what we call foreign privateers, too, if they interfere with our ships. But, Captain Vatta, every government finds itself in need of force—clandestine, unofficial, deniable force—in some situations. Vigilantes, privateers, bounty hunters, mercenaries, someone who would do the dirty work but whose dirty work could be disavowed if things went sour.”
“But—but it’s wrong.” Even as she said that, she knew how naïve, how immature, that sounded. Consul Inosyeh did not laugh at her, or even smile.
“It’s certainly not ideal,” he said. “At best, the use of such methods should be reserved for a few rare difficult situations. But for economic reasons, Slotter Key and several other planetary systems have come up with this way to fund police in space. I’m sure you can imagine the diplomatic problems that arise. Innocent ships seized, disputes over the proof of guilt, that sort of thing. The Merchant Council agreed, in the Commercial Code, to recognize privateers as separate from pirates, and privateers—including ours—are bound to adhere to the code for the treatment of prisoners, for instance, just as mercenaries do. Privateers have provided the only space police for many decades now, and on the whole the merchants are happier with them than with the real pirates.”
“There should be a real space police,” Ky said. “Surely the various systems could get together—”
“So far they’ve refused,” Consul Inosyeh said. “The closest thing is ISC’s enforcement branch, but they don’t do anything about piracy that doesn’t affect them directly, and they aren’t enthusiastic when systems do try to combine forces. But here’s the thing: merchant firms, including some you know, have participated in the privateer program, committing a small percentage of their fleet. What’s lost in cargo capacity to the armament they carry is made up for in prize money. Spaceforce usually assigns an officer—always on the larger ships, or if they’re working in a group—to keep an eye on things. We in the diplomatic service are provided a list of privateers operating in our area, in case we need to contact them or vice versa.”
Despite her initial disgust at the thought of privateers, Ky imagined herself on such a ship—almost as good as a real warship—protecting Slotter Key’s merchant fleet from pirates. Maybe it wasn’t that bad.
“So you see, I can think of reasons why Slotter Key might be attacked, even without an attack on ISC. We’ve annoyed a lot of people, not just our intended targets.”
“Are . . . uh . . . Vatta ships among the privateers?”
“Not on any list I’ve ever had,” Consul Inosyeh said. “I believe it was the policy, when privateering was first authorized, that at least one carrier should not be invited to participate, so that its sterling reputation could cover the others.” Sarcasm soured his voice. “I don’t know the whole history, but Vatta appears to have been chosen as the unspotted lamb of an otherwise motley flock.” He looked at her closely. “You didn’t know any of this, I gather.”
“No,” Ky said. Some of the reactions she’d gotten here and on Sabine now made sense, thou
gh. So did that model kit with stray electronic bits Master Sergeant MacRobert had sent her back before she left Slotter Key. If you need help, his letter had said, and he was Spaceforce. He must have known about the privateers; he must have been trying to give her a way to contact them. But why hadn’t her father told her? Surely he’d known.
“Well . . . you need to know it now. You’re going to be facing hostility and suspicion in many quarters, and whatever is presently going on, with Vatta and Slotter Key’s government at odds, can only make things worse. I don’t suppose you have any seasoned veterans among your crew?”
“No,” Ky said. “My father thought he was sending me off on a quiet run; he chose crew for their experience with the ship.”
“You need force you can trust, Captain. The best thing you could do is hire some good toughs. The kind of person you can depend on, so you don’t have to hire guards at every stop.”
And where would she find someone like that? How could she be sure they weren’t part of a plot to kill her? He must have seen that in her expression.
“There’s one of our legation guards very close to retiring,” he said. “He’s a bit rough at the edges, but very experienced and strong as an ox. I could speak to him, if you’d like.”
The memory of what had happened the last time she took on a diplomat’s problem was clear in her mind. Caleb Skeldon had nearly gotten her killed. Would this be another rash idiot?
“The thing about ex-military is they have discipline as well as training,” Consul Inosyeh said, as if he could read her mind.
“What I really need is a cargomaster,” Ky said. “Someone who’s good at inventory as well as handling cargo loading.”
“He is,” Consul Inosyeh said. “That’s if—given what I’ve told you about the government’s position—you trust me.”
She had already made a fool of herself with the consul’s wife. She had to trust someone, and Inosyeh had missed better chances to do her harm.
“Ask him, then,” she said. “But I’ll want to talk to him first, if he agrees.”
“Of course. Now, remember—this conversation took place in the morning, when you arrived here and before I contacted my government.”
“Yes,” Ky said. She felt numb, even more battered than before. What could she do with one small, slow, unarmed tradeship? How could she find out what was going on? “Um . . . do you want me to leave now?”
“Now? No, of course not. It’s night and you’re still not fully recovered. Get a good night’s sleep and by morning I expect the Belinta authorities will have found a way to return you to your ship.” He pushed the hassock away, stood, and stretched. “I have to attend a terminally boring dinner during which I shall pretend that nothing whatever is going on, and you are the hero everyone here thinks you are. I’ll talk to our man when I get back and he’s on duty, and you can meet him in the morning.”
Ky was sure she would not sleep, and for some time her thoughts ran in giddy circles, but exhaustion took her finally. On her breakfast tray the next morning was a note from Consul Inosyeh advising her that Staff Sergeant Martin would like to speak with her before she left, and she had reservations on a shuttle leaving at 1015 local time.
Staff Sergeant Gordon Martin was a tall, blocky individual with graying blond hair and gray eyes like frozen pebbles. Though he was out of uniform, no one could have mistaken him for anything but a military man, not with his stance, expression, and attitude. Ky glanced at the information he handed her—he was younger than she’d expected, he had experience in both supply and security, and the summary of his fitness reports suggested why he was retiring that young. No hint of dishonesty or substance abuse, but a pattern of “borderline insubordination.” One commanding officer’s comment, “This individual does not know where initiative ends and rocket-propelled idiocy begins,” stuck in her mind. She looked back up at him.
“Not going to be promoted, Captain,” he said. “Too independent.”
“I don’t need a loose cannon,” she said. “I’ve already had one of those, and he almost got me killed.”
“Ma’am, I’m not a loose cannon. I know what statement you’re referring to, and that officer was willing to let the depot be robbed blind rather than admit he’d trusted the wrong civ. What I did was go over his head, when he wouldn’t do anything about it.” A tight grin split the man’s face. “I couldn’t go over your head, ma’am—you’re the top of your command chain.”
Despite herself, Ky grinned back. “Did the consul explain that I’ve been attacked and so has my ship? It’s not a safe berth I’m offering.”
“Yes, ma’am, Captain. It’ll be my pleasure to keep you alive and the ship safe. And I understand you need someone with expertise in inventory control?”
“Yes. My cargomaster was killed last voyage; his second is excellent but not experienced with inventory, since Gary did all that.”
“I’ve handled inventory control for this post and others.”
“The shuttle leaves in an hour and a half,” Ky said. “I don’t know about transport out—”
“I can take care of that, ma’am. If you’re willing.”
It was crazy. But something about him, about that solid, obviously experienced man, gave her the first real confidence she’d felt since losing contact with Vatta headquarters. He was certainly not the type to need saving, either—for once she couldn’t be accused of playing rescue. “Let’s not miss the shuttle,” she said. “Glad to have you along.”
The trip back to Belinta Station aboard a governmental supply shuttle was as boring and uneventful as she hoped. Flanked by a police escort, with Martin beside her, she made it unscathed through the station corridors to her own dockside and aboard.
There she found not the calm she expected, but chaos and dissension, a knot of obviously scared and angry people yelling in the rec area.
“I’m not staying,” Riel Amat, her senior pilot, was saying. “You can’t make me. It’s too dangerous.”
“You can’t leave!” Quincy’s voice was hoarse, as if she’d been talking a long time.
“What’s going on?” Ky asked. Her crew whirled to face her. Martin, she noticed, had placed himself along the bulkhead in a position to shield her from Riel.
“Captain—” Riel reddened, then plunged on. “I just can’t do it. It was bad enough before, and now that someone almost blew up the ship—I just can’t. The station board says there’s a Pavrati ship headed insystem; I want to transfer.”
Quincy was glaring at Martin now. “Who’s this?”
“Our new cargomaster and security chief,” Ky said. “We need someone in charge of ship security—meet Gordon Martin. Ex-Spaceforce, just retired. Also experienced in supply.” She turned to Riel. “I don’t know if you realize it, but there’s a break in communications between here and Slotter Key—something’s going on, and there’s no guarantee there’ll be another ship home anytime soon.”
“I don’t care. I do not want to stay on this ship and you can’t make me.”
“I can take care of the piloting, Captain,” said Lee. She hadn’t noticed him before; unlike the others in the compartment, he was sitting relaxed on the bench. “I’m staying.”
“Who else wants to leave?” Ky said.
“If there was a ship,” Sheryl Donster, her navigator, began, “I’d want to take it. But there’s not. And I don’t want to stay on this station; we’ve already been attacked here. So I guess I’ll stay . . .”
“Crew briefing in an hour,” Ky said. “I’ll tell you what I know then. Meanwhile, start preparing for departure. Riel, I’ll see you in my cabin now.”
“Ma’am?” That was Martin, still by the bulkhead.
“We have police security outside for now. Alene, if you’ll show him how to access the cargo records—and by the way, Quincy, did the police give us back our missing cargo?”
“No. They say they need it.”
“Not as bad as we do. I’ll speak to them, after I’ve talked to Ri
el. I’ll want a time to departure as soon as you know, Quincy.”
Riel followed her to her cabin, silent but radiating stubborn resistance.
“Sit down,” Ky said, when she had seated herself in her desk chair. He perched on the edge of the other chair. “Look, Riel—I know you’re scared and I understand. You have every reason to think I’m a dangerous person to be around, and you may well be right. But before you decide to jump ship, you need to know what I know about the situation out there.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“It may not matter, but I will feel better if you know, so hear me out, please.” He relaxed a little, and Ky went on. “I was talking to Vatta headquarters about that sabotage attempt when the connection went. The assassins came into the Captains’ Guild before I could try calling my father directly. Later—about six hours, we think—the consul was on the horn to Slotter Key when the entire Slotter Key ansible connection went down. It’s still down. He doesn’t know if it’s an attack like that at Sabine, or something else entirely. From the little he was able to get before he lost the connection, it appears that either someone has a multiple grievance with ISC, Slotter Key, and Vatta, or by some chance different someones with different grievances have hit at the same time. I think the first is more likely. You were in Spaceforce, right?”
“Yes, but—but nothing like this ever happened. I never saw combat.”
“But do you still have any ties to Spaceforce? Some kind of duty to get back to them?”
“No,” Riel said, with emphasis. “I just—I just want to do my job, without any of this excitement.”
“I hope you have that chance,” Ky said. “I’ll authorize payment to date, and you can go.”
“Now?” He stared at her.
“Now. If you’re not coming, then you don’t need to attend the crew briefing, and we’re going to be busy getting ready to leave. I’ll contact the bank right away; they’ll have your severance ready. Under the circumstances, I believe you aren’t really entitled to anything but salary to date . . . but on the other hand there is a crisis, so I’m going to authorize a month’s extra. My father can scold me later.”
Marque and Reprisal Page 5
