Marque and Reprisal

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Excuse me?”

  The back of Ky’s neck prickled, a signal she was in no mood to ignore. “Could we go to the station, please? Two people tried to kill me today. I’d like to get off the street and into cover.”

  “You’re scared with all of us here?” The sneer was palpable.

  “Yes,” Ky said. “And with some reason, I believe. I am willing—no, eager—to give a full report, but I’d rather not be shot in the head while standing out here in easy range of anyone in any of these shops.”

  The man made no response at first. Ky assumed he was getting instructions through an implant or his helmet com. In a few moments, he said, “All right. We’re taking you in. Hands on your head.”

  The Garda station was around the curve from where they’d been, in the direction they’d been walking. No one else appeared until they were out of sight of the carnage behind. There, a curious crowd had gathered behind a taped perimeter. The guards answered no questions, but hurried Ky and Martin on until they were inside the station. There, since nothing had shown on the autoscanner as they came in, they were allowed to lower their hands.

  “You’re getting quite a reputation, Captain Vatta,” said the person behind the desk. “Illegal biologicals, assaults, murder—”

  “Self-defense,” Ky said. “Attempted murder, on their part. And what I hope is impersonation, for which Baritom is legally responsible.”

  “So you say,” the man said. “An investigating officer will be here shortly to take your statements. You can wait in there—” He jerked his head toward a doorway.

  “I need to inform my ship,” Ky said. “They’re expecting us to return.”

  He scowled at her. “You’re under suspicion—”

  “Of course,” Ky said. “But there’s no reason to panic my crew, is there? After all, I’m still responsible for them; I’m sure you’d rather not have them involved in any other incidents.”

  “You can use the public com outlet, there,” he said.

  “Go on, Martin; I’ll be with you shortly,” Ky said. Martin nodded and preceded one of the Garda down a hall. Ky gave the ship’s code.

  “Gary Tobai, Cargo Specialist Barikal speaking.” Cele looked calm, so Ky hoped that meant nothing had happened while she was gone. “Oh—Captain! Sorry—the screen didn’t show your ID at first.”

  “That’s all right. Is Quincy there? Has Beeah come back?”

  “No, Captain. Quincy’s gone out to one of the chandlers to select rations. She took Jim with her; she’s not alone. Beeah called in to say he was having lunch on Hub Three. Do you want Mehar? She’s in Engineering—”

  “No. That’s all right. But I’ve run into some problems. We were attacked on the way back from out here; I want all ship personnel to return to the ship at once and stay there. Who else is out?”

  “Besides you and Martin, just Jim, Beeah, and Quincy, Captain. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. But I’d like you to contact Quincy and Beeah—get Mehar to do it by implant—and have them return immediately. I’ll be tied up here in the Hub Four Garda station awhile—probably some hours—but she can try to contact me here. I don’t know if they’ll put calls through. Just sit tight.”

  “Yes, Captain. I do have some good news on the cargo side. Alene got quite a profit on one part of the Leonora cargo.”

  “That’s fine,” Ky said. “But I’d rather not discuss that on this line. I’m using the public com at the guard station. I’ll call again when I can.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Ky signed off, smiled at the still-scowling man behind the desk, and went into the waiting room, furnished with a bench, narrow table, and two chairs. Martin sat on the bench with his usual composure, radiating calm patience despite the smears of blood and dirt on his clothes. He gave her a pleasant smile. Ky was sure she looked worse than he did; the stench of blood and brains on her face was nauseating. One of the armed guards followed them and stood by the door.

  “Is there a toilet?” Ky asked.

  “You’ll have to wait until forensics has tested your clothes,” the guard said.

  They didn’t have long to wait. The man who came through the door introduced himself as Inspector Grant. “We’ll need to do some forensic tests on your clothes,” he said. “If you’ll follow my assistant here into the changing area, this won’t take long, and then I can take your statements.”

  He had two assistants, one male and one female, both humods with low-pressure adaptations. Ky disrobed under the eye of the female and handed her suit over, changing into the simple gray coverall provided. “Now we’ll need to test your hands,” the woman said. She took the sack with Ky’s clothes and led her to another room, where a technician sat behind a machine with a slot in the front. Ky put her hands in the slot as directed, and, after a minute or two, the technician nodded. The technician wiped her face with a cloth and took a blood sample. Then the woman led her back to the waiting room, having handed over the sack to the technician.

  “If you need the toilet, you can use it now,” the woman said.

  “I’d like to wash my face,” Ky said. “Is that all right?”

  “Yes,” the woman said.

  In the washroom, Ky scrubbed all the visible bits off her face and wished she could wash her hair. Even as she brushed it with the packet of drywash, it didn’t feel clean. What she really needed was a long, hot shower. She used the facilities, then scrubbed her hands again. When she emerged, she went back to the waiting room and sat down across from Inspector Grant.

  “You’ve had a bad day, I gather,” he said, pleasantly enough. “So, Captain Vatta—suppose you tell me what happened. Starting with . . . let’s start with when you left the Garda station on Hub Three after arranging for that animal to go into quarantine.”

  Ky related her travels as best she could. Grant asked for descriptions of the people on the various trams.

  “Why did you elect to walk back that way?” he asked, when she told about turning down the passage where they were attacked. “Didn’t it occur to you that staying in the main thoroughfare might be safer?”

  “My escort, Willem Turnish. I had asked if he knew of a place that carried pet supplies. If we were going to be stuck with that puppy, we’d need some. He said there was a shop called BioExotics on Willow Lane. In fact,” Ky continued, “he recommended the café—Murphy’s—where we ate lunch.”

  “Murphy’s has a good reputation,” Grant said. “Do you think they’ll remember you?”

  “I’d think so. It wasn’t very busy when we were there. I remember which table. Anyway, we started down Willow Lane, and the passage cleared out after a while; we were walking along fairly quickly and I was looking at storefronts, reading the names and numbers. Then Turnish said look out, and I was diving for cover when the first two shots came. We were all on the ground when the next shot came, then I had my weapon out. I got the one up ahead, and told Turnish to take cover in the nearest doorway while I covered him.”

  “And?”

  “He rolled over and had a weapon aimed at my head. I was so stunned I couldn’t move—he was too close, and I was stretched out, my weapon pointing away from him . . .”

  “You’re sure it was Turnish?”

  “Absolutely,” Ky said. “He’d been with me the whole time, never more than an arm’s length away.”

  “So what happened then?”

  “Next thing I knew, Martin bobbed up and shot him. I don’t suppose Turnish knew he was armed, or could move that fast. Then we got into that doorway and waited until the guards showed up.”

  “You have a license for your weapon,” Grant said. “They checked that at the other guard station. But your crewman—do you know if he has a concealed carry permit?”

  “Yes,” Ky said. “I arranged for that when I purchased mine, along with my weapon, at Blades on Hub Three.”

  “Um. And you were both both wearing torso armor?”

  “Yes,” Ky said. “Also purchased today
at Blades. We had some reason to expect trouble, as I’m sure you know. But my real concern,” Ky said, “is that someone I hired from a bonded protection company tried to kill me. He had all the right recognition codes, the ones the company provided to me. Does this mean the company is bent, or are they missing a legitimate agent?”

  “I assure you we will investigate that aspect,” Grant said. “They say they did dispatch an escort named Willem Turnish, but we do not yet know if the dead man really was Turnish.” He shook his head. “Do you know why he warned you? If he was part of the plan to kill you, that doesn’t make sense.”

  Ky had not thought of that. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Unless,” Grant said, “he set it up so it could look like someone else shot you. Though that seems complicated. Tell me how he came to you. Had you arranged for an escort with Baritom?”

  “They contacted my ship; a message was relayed to me and I called the number provided. They said their dockside personnel had noticed I went out and asked if I wanted an escort. It was something I’d mentioned to them before. Why?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know yet. I’m just trying to understand what exactly happened. Preliminary forensics confirms that the individual in the doorway of Andy’s fired the three rounds we found onsite, and that those rounds were fired before the ones that killed him.”

  How else, Ky wondered, but didn’t say.

  “Forensics cannot confirm that the individual known to you as Willem Turnish was in fact menacing you with his weapon before your crewman shot him. We are experiencing difficulty in obtaining uncorrupted vid surveillance data from that area. It looks as if someone intended to insert a very different scenario, but we tapped into the system too quickly.” His smile now was predatory. “We are not happy to find that someone is attempting to corrupt our surveillance.”

  “That would be . . . very bad,” Ky said.

  “Yes. At any rate, the evidence at this point does not support holding you in custody, even though you might be safer here than out on the streets. Though it’s clear from both your stories that your crewman Martin shot and killed this Turnish fellow, the previous threats against your family suggest that it’s not that unlikely he was trying to kill you. Therefore I am willing to release him, as well, into your custody. Excuse me a moment.” He left the room.

  Ky leaned back. The gray jumpsuit smelled of harsh institutional soap, but she could still smell something in her hair. She would have to get in touch with Baritom . . . would they blame her for the death of their operative, or would they accept that he had turned on her? She ached all over. She did not want to hike over to the station to take the tram back to Hub Two.

  Grant came back. “Since it’s clear you’re the target of malicious intent, I’m authorizing the use of a patrol scooter to get you back to your docking area. We can’t provide around-the-clock protection—we don’t have the personnel—but that much we can do.”

  “Thank you,” Ky said, feeling absurdly grateful.

  “Your clothes and weapons will be returned to you at dockside,” he went on.

  Everyone was back at Vatta dockside when Ky and Martin returned. Ky brushed off the concerned questions. “We both need to clean up,” she said. “And I need some sleep. I’m hoping the ship unit will restore this suit.” She didn’t think it would, but it was worth trying.

  After she put her filthy, stained clothes in the ’fresher, she took a long, hot shower and fell into bed. She lay still, breathed deeply, and didn’t go to sleep. She tried meditation, attempted to visualize the rainbow . . . but all she could see was the blank black circle of the gun muzzle pointing at her face, and the red blood, all she could feel was the shock of fear and despair, the elation of killing, side by side and overlapping. Again and again, she tried to work her way through the color sequence, the calming words, and each time the black circle and red splatters dominated her thoughts. Finally she emerged from her cabin, still tired, aching, sore where her elbows and knees had hit the pavement . . . but too alert, too tense. It would almost be better if her father was dead, because then he would never know that his daughter, his precious little girl, got a charge out of killing people.

  True, they had been trying to kill her—all the ones she had killed—but they were still people, and Sapphic Cyclans considered killing people as primal dissonance. Her failure to visualize the Cycle proved they were right, at least as far as the use of that guided meditation went.

  “Jim’s sleeping,” Quincy said, when she asked about him. “And we’ve got these for him.” Standard spacer shore rig for those not fashion-conscious, blue trousers and a belted tunic in shades of tan with brown trim on sleeves and neck that would pass unnoticed on every station in the quadrant. “Kind of dull, but we thought just not wearing dull green would be a shock.” She grinned.

  “Good idea,” Ky said.

  “Are you all right, Captain?”

  “I’m fine. Well, I have bruised elbows, but it’s not serious.” With a wave, Ky headed upship.

  On the bridge, Sheryl sat watch. “I won’t have to go out for anything, will I?” she asked. She looked as tense as Ky felt.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Good. Lee half wants to, I think. He thinks all this is exciting.” Her tone said she thought Lee was crazy.

  “You don’t,” Ky said.

  “No. I—I know I’m the only navigator you’ve got, Captain, and I like you, but if I weren’t scared to set foot off the ship, I’d ask to separate. I just want a nice safe berth on a nice safe ship.”

  Some people just were not cut out for adventure, Ky thought, and then wondered why she herself was. “Sheryl, if there’s another ship in that needs a navigator—or whose navigator wants some excitement—I’d say take the chance. But I’m not sure there are going to be many nice safe ships for a while now. Sure, Vatta’s being attacked at the moment. But there are other wealthy cargo lines out there, and unless we find out who’s doing this and stop them, everyone’s at risk.”

  “I suppose,” Sheryl said. She sighed. “I just . . . my stomach gets all knotted up and I can’t sleep.”

  “I know the feeling,” Ky said.

  “Yes, but you are actually doing things; people have tried to kill you. I haven’t been hurt at all yet, and I’m this scared. I’m just sitting here . . .” Her voice trailed away.

  That could be fixed. “Sheryl, sitting here alone will just make it worse. So I’m relieving you of bridge duty, starting now. Just a second—” She called the other sections, and found that Alene could indeed use more help with cargo shifting. “You’re now a cargo handler. Not dockside—just shifting things inside the ship. No more risk than up here, and you’ll be busy and with others.”

  For an instant Sheryl looked annoyed—a navigator doing physical work?—then she smiled. “Maybe that’ll keep my mind off it,” she said.

  “Hope so,” Ky said. “Now scat. I need to make some calls.” What she’d told Sheryl was perfectly true. Once the attackers finished mopping up Vatta resources, they would turn on others. If she could get some support from other traders—or even information—she would no longer be fighting this war alone.

  Sixteen interstellar ships besides her own were docked at Lastway at the moment. Three were corporate: Pavrati’s Emerald Sky—she wasn’t going to try to talk with them. Mellin & Company’s Sunburst. She didn’t know much about Mellin & Company, except that they traded into the next quadrant. Outbound’s Ringwalker. Outbound typically hauled supplies for start-ups, the basics for terraforming and initial colony construction. The rest were listed as independents, from a huge bulk carrier Orlando’s Song to little Lacewing, with even less cubage (but better engines) than Gary Tobai. Ky started at the head of the list, excluding Pavrati, and worked her way down in the order given.

  “This is Captain Vatta,” she began, when Sunburst answered and her call had been transferred to Captain Sunder. “I’m wondering if you have any information about these attacks on trading
vessels—”

  “On Vatta vessels,” he corrected. Onscreen he was clearly a humod, though she didn’t recognize the function of some of his physical characteristics. Why the sagittal ridge, for instance? The large bulge on his left forearm? And were those functional gills on his neck? “I have heard nothing about attacks on other registrations.”

  “That’s reassuring for now,” Ky said. “But I presume that when whoever it is finishes with Vatta they will start on someone else. Do you have any concerns about that?”

  “If I did, I would not share them with you,” he said. “Your luck is down; I do not want to be contaminated.” And he shut off communication.

  “Well, thank you very much,” Ky snarled to the blank screen.

  With minor variations, this was the response she got from all of them. They all worried; they all recognized that whoever was attacking Vatta might shift to another target. None of them thought allying with Vatta would improve their chances. Nor were they making any effort to cooperate with each other—at least none they would admit to a pariah like her.

  “Shortsighted idiots,” Ky muttered to herself. “They’ll end up in my fix soon enough if they don’t start thinking ahead.”

  “Talking to yourself?” Lee, yawning, came onto the bridge. “Where’s Sheryl?”

  “I sent her down to work cargo; she was getting twitchy up here by herself.”

  “If you want privacy, I can go fix us something to eat,” Lee said. “It’s my turn for galley duty anyway.”

  “Good idea,” Ky said. “Though I don’t know what I need privacy for, since none of the other captains will talk to me about the situation. Some offer sympathy, at least, but they’re afraid we’ll infect them with our bad luck.”

  “You could try telling them that you are the very embodiment of good luck,” Lee said. “Look how many attempts on your life you’ve survived.”

  Ky laughed. “I don’t think that’s the sort of good luck they’d appreciate,” she said. “But yes, I’m hungry.”