“I’ve got the inventory for all the aired-up compartments done,” Gordon said. “I know what the ship’s AI says are in the unaired compartments, but I don’t know if it’s right.”
“Do we have anything clearly identifiable as legally owned?” Ky asked.
“Most of it’s unmarked or in ordinary shipping containers, but without bills of lading. Osman didn’t keep a record of the ships he stole from—at least not one I’ve found yet.”
Her father’s implant had a section on laws relating to privateering. The privateer took possession of an enemy ship and its contents, and profited by selling off cargo. Open containers were presumed to belong to the ship that carried them, and went to the privateer without question, but sealed containers with bills of lading were supposed to be sequestered and put in the control of a court-appointed assessor at the next port. If they proved to be genuine shipments, then they were shipped on to the original consignee, but with a reward judgment payable to the privateer for “stolen goods recovery.” Sealed containers without proper bills of lading could be tricky. Technically they should go through adjudication, but privateers opened sealed but unlabeled containers to convert them to private use.
She accessed the ship’s AI and downloaded the current inventory. Even richer than she’d thought at first. But what could she do with it? Wealth could not bring the dead to life. Even if she rebuilt the house on Corleigh, her father and mother would not live in it…her uncle would never sit at the head of the table in the Vatta Enterprises boardroom.
She wanted to go back, back before all this, back home, back to the room she knew so well—had known so well—back to a place where every step she took, every voice she heard, was familiar.
And that would never happen.
She forced herself back to the present. “Was Osman’s version of the inventory accurate, when you checked it as far as you could?”
“Yes. I was surprised, but I suppose he never expected anyone would have access to this ship’s data.”
“Then I’m going to assume whatever’s in the unaired compartments is the same as the list. It’s not as if we needed all that.” Which was silly, she knew as she said it. They needed much more if she was going to restore just the physical side of Vatta, let alone strike back at their attackers.
After the meal, she settled into her cabin to consider what next. A year ago—was it really that long?—she had been a happy, ambitious fourth-year cadet in the Slotter Key Spaceforce Academy, looking forward to a career as a Spaceforce officer and a relationship with her fellow cadet Hal. Since then she had been kicked out of the Academy and dumped by the man she loved. Her subsequent career as a trader in the family business—which she had expected to be boring—had been marked by war, mutiny, attempted assassinations, and finally the capture—from a rogue Vatta—of this very ship. Her family and its thriving interstellar business had been almost destroyed. Her own government had sent her a clandestine letter of marque, authorizing her to act as a privateer on its behalf, shortly before refusing to defend or support her family when some enemy attacked. Now she was supposed to save what was left of the family and business, with no allies and too few assets.
Too many changes too fast. She focused her attention on the ship again, checking system by system via her cranial implant. All systems nominal, and her senses told her everything felt, smelled, sounded normal as well. She had no excuse to avoid the larger issues. What was she going to do next? Where would the next attack come from?
Not while they were in FTL flight, at least. She activated the sleep cycle enabler for the second time, and woke eight hours later, this time clearheaded enough to realize that the first sleep hadn’t been enough. Now she felt solid out to the edges again. Ready to work. She considered another workout in the gym, but decided instead to work on what she least wanted to do, methodically go through Osman’s cargo list and assign her best guess at the value, item by item. Some of it was easier than she expected, thanks to her father’s implant. Some was nearly impossible—who could say what someone would pay for prohibited technology most people didn’t know existed?
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she had been up for two hours without eating. In the galley, she ignored the enticing Premium Gold Breakfast Pak—she felt bloated with all the good food they’d been enjoying—and settled for a protein bar and mug of juice. Someone had left a sticky mug and bowl in the sink; she rinsed it automatically as she considered an array of options. She had two ships now: Gary Tobai, old and slow, and this one, larger, faster, and—most usefully—very well armed. The nucleus of a fleet, albeit a very small fleet. If she was going to command a fleet, she needed a staff. Before that, she needed a full crew of capable personnel on each ship…and before that, she needed to know how much money she had to hire the capable personnel and supply the ships…
“’Morning, Captain.” Gordon Martin reached past her for a bowl and poured a modest serving of dry flakes into it. He looked, as always, like the veteran soldier he had been before he joined her crew. “I’ve finished the security survey; Osman’s bad boys didn’t have time to put in many traps. All disarmed.”
“That’s good,” Ky said.
“Do you object to my doing some practice on the firing range today?” he asked. “I’ve checked the reinforcement of the target frames; it’s plenty safe for what I’m using.”
“That’s fine,” she said. She should get in some practice time, too. “Martin, I wanted to talk to you about command structure, now that I have two ships—”
“Think you can keep this one?” he asked, pouring milk onto his flakes.
“I’m going to keep this one,” Ky said. “It’s a Vatta ship. I’m restoring it to its proper ownership.”
“Well, then. You’re talking tables of organization?”
One did not say I guess so to older veterans, which was Martin’s identity no matter what the papers said. “Yes,” Ky said instead. “Simple, but something that can scale up.”
“Based on Vatta tradition, or…” His voice trailed off; he eyed her as he munched on the flakes.
Ky shook her head. “Until we take care of whoever’s been attacking Vattas, the old protocols aren’t any good. Sure, we need our tradeships back at work hauling cargo and making money, but we can’t count on that until we aren’t being blown up, shot at, and all the rest. I’m thinking small fleet. I have two ships now. I’m reasonably sure that not all Vatta ships have been destroyed; as we find them, we can bring them into the plan.”
“We. Meaning you?”
“We meaning me, my cousin Stella, and you, Martin. And the rest of the crews.”
“But with you in command.” No doubt in his voice at all.
“Yes,” Ky said. “I am the only Vatta I know of with the right training.”
“Yeah. I see that…” He ate two more spoonfuls, then put the spoon down. “See here, Captain, you have to understand: my background is supply and security. The security duties grew out of supply and inventory control. I’ve been in a ship in combat, in the Slotter Key System, but I don’t know as much as you need about weapons and tactical things.”
“What about that organization stuff?” Ky asked.
Another spoonful of flakes as he looked thoughtful. Then he nodded again. “I do understand a lot of that. If you’re asking me.”
“Martin, the thing that’s bothered me since I first took command of Gary Tobai, back when she was the Glennys Jones, is the lack of a clear chain of command on civilian traders. Sure, the captain’s the boss, but who’s next? On the smaller ships, it’s a muddle. Muddles in war get people killed.”
“So what is it you want me to do?”
“Take over training new crew into capable combat-ready crews. Find me some weapons specialists—if you don’t know the weaponry, I’ll bet you know personnel and can spot the good ones. Help me get this ship organized and ready.”
He was nodding along with her words. “Yes, ma’am, I can certainly do that. And I c
an spend this transit with my head in a cube reader learning the manuals on this ship’s weapons, too. I just never had the chance before.”
“I know I need a second in command, an exec. I wondered if you—”
He was shaking his head now. “No, ma’am. I’m not the right person for that. I might’ve made a good senior NCO if I’d kept my nose clean, might even have made a good sergeant major, but I’m a hands-on, feet-in-the-dirt person. The air gets too thin for me in officer country.”
“For now, anyway,” Ky said. “You might surprise yourself later. So—what do you think of the other personnel aboard?”
“Your pilot’s good,” he said. “He should shape up with a bit more training—I don’t suppose you’d tell them all to get in the gym every day for some physical training?”
“Of course,” Ky said. “Good idea.”
“That kid Toby’s awfully young, but he’s smart and hardworking. Can’t always tell at that age.”
“I hope to get Toby back in school as soon as we can find a safe place,” Ky said. Right now she couldn’t think of a safe place, but surely she could find something better than the very obvious target they were in.
“Jim’s coming along—”
“Thanks to you,” Ky said.
Martin shrugged. “Typical young lout,” he said. “All he needs is discipline and training; he’s got the right instincts most times, though that stupid dog made me wonder. Not officer material, though. Alene’s better suited to civilian work than military, but she might fool me in another six months. Sheryl…nice woman, but definitely not military.” He stopped there.
“And Rafe?” Ky prompted. Rafe had to be part of her plans. She still wasn’t sure what she felt about him, but for his connections alone he was a valuable resource.
Martin’s expression hardened. “Rafe. Begging the captain’s pardon but I was not aware he was actually on crew.” He fairly bristled with disapproval. Ky didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed.
“I’m doing the work,” Rafe said, appearing with his usual instinct for the critical moment. As if to prove this, he picked up Martin’s empty cereal bowl and spoon and Ky’s empty juice mug, and went to the galley sink. “But I believe, Martin, you have other reasons for leaving me out of your fascinating analysis.”
“You were eavesdropping again,” Ky said.
“I was not interrupting an obviously important conversation,” Rafe said. “In order to not interrupt but be aware when it might be polite to come in, I had to be within hearing. If you call that—”
“Eavesdropping,” Ky said. “And I do.”
“I understand your loyalty is to ISC,” Martin said. “Not to Vatta, or the captain.”
Rafe grimaced. “My core loyalties, at the moment, are highly tangled. I should be most loyal to ISC, yes. But it was our captain here who saved me from a situation in which honor would have required suicide.” He swirled a little cleanser into the bowl and mug, and rinsed them. “Thus I have a certain point to my loyalty to the captain, which frankly is giving me a bit of a headache.”
“I can imagine,” Martin said.
“I doubt it,” Rafe said. Ky grinned to herself. Part of that headache had been literal: Rafe found out the hard way that she wasn’t much like her cousin Stella when it came to advances. If the rest of the crew knew that she had dumped Rafe on his back for making a move on her, they were all pretending the incident hadn’t happened. “There are…other considerations.” The look he gave Ky had the force of a blow.
“For the present,” Ky said to Martin, “Rafe is part of the equation. We have determined that our interests run together, since both Vatta and the ISC have been attacked, presumably by the same organization.” Then to Rafe, “Have you had any success digging into Osman’s files?”
Rafe grimaced. “The man has the best security I’ve ever seen outside of ISC research labs, and maybe better than that. I’m working on it. So far I’ve managed not to let the database destroy itself as I sneak in, but that’s about it. I have found some interesting references—already forwarded to your desk, Captain. I’m not sure what they mean, but I thought you’d want to look at them.”
“Definitely,” Ky said. “But I’ve been shuffling numbers for two hours. I need some exercise before I work my brain any more. I was planning to spend an hour or so in the gym.”
“Want to spar with me?” Rafe asked, with just the slightest edge to it. Martin stirred but said nothing.
“Fine,” Ky said. “You probably have tricks I don’t know…” She kept her voice light, but his eyelids flickered. He knew and she knew. She had surprised him that time; she wouldn’t surprise him again.
Ky ran through some simple warm-ups and stretches, noticing that Rafe had his own set, not quite the same as hers. Then they spread one of the mat sets and took opposite sides.
“Half speed,” Rafe suggested.
Ky nodded. Her heart thudded; she had always liked hand-to-hand practice and found it hard to go less than full-out, but she had not done this in…too long. Rafe’s loose-limbed crouch seemed too casual, but she knew it was not. She settled a little more. He had height and reach on her—
He was moving, a smooth glide, deceptively slow. Ky shifted in time with his movement, meeting his strike with a hand placed to deflect then strike on rebound. His foot slid out to hook her ankle…she had moved, forcing herself to the same slow rate…and for several minutes they ran through a series of attacks and counters, all in slow motion. Ky realized quickly that he was a cunning fighter; his attacks were always multiple, coordinated. She could not react instinctively with the obvious, simple counter without putting herself in the path of the next attack. Her own attacks were complex, too, but she had not gone past combinations of three, and Rafe handled these easily.
“You’re quite good,” Rafe said, slipping one of her kicks past his hip. “I think I have the edge technically, but you may be faster and that would negate it—” The next kick caught him as he was moving back. “I suppose I don’t need to be too ashamed that you got me last time.”
“Only ashamed that you tried it,” Ky suggested, ducking and weaving to avoid his next series.
“I still think you were lying to the mercs,” Rafe said. “You don’t really think I’m that repulsive.”
“Repulsive, no,” Ky said. “You’re good looking, in a—” She tried a flurry of strikes, unsuccessfully. “—a certain style of looks.”
“Faint praise,” Rafe said. His next kick was slow, obvious; Ky shifted sideways and did not take the invitation. “And, damn it, you’re too smart. That usually works. Break, please.” He backed away to one side of the mat; Ky moved to the other. “I need to talk to you, seriously,” he said. “This takes too much concentration. Can we do something else?”
“Sparring was your idea,” Ky said. “I’d just as soon try out one of these machines.”
“Good. It’s about the internal—”
“Ansible,” Ky interrupted. “Of course. Let me make it clear. I didn’t want it, and now I’ve got it I don’t intend to use it, or tell anyone about it. Is there any way to remove it?”
“Not that I know of. For your own safety, it’s important that no one know you have it.”
“They won’t, unless you tell them,” Ky said.
He shook his head. “But if someone finds out, they may try to get at it, or make it work. I was told it would be fatal.”
They were back in her office, and she was about to open the cargo inventory list again when Rafe asked, “Are you going to try a salvage claim? Or just go for a share of value?” For once, his voice had no edge.
“It’s a Vatta ship,” Ky said. “I’m claiming it as stolen property; shouldn’t need to go through the court at all…”
Rafe pursed his lips. “You’re not law enforcement; you don’t have a right to just grab your own back.”
Space law, Ky recalled, had been more arcane and confusing than n-space theory. “I suppose it depends on which juri
sdiction we land in…wonder if Osman has a law library in his database anywhere.” Her implant queried the ship database, then dug deeper into the relevant sections. Salvage wasn’t an option: not with witnesses to the fact that Fair Kaleen hadn’t been derelict or abandoned. Reclaiming stolen property…no, Rafe was right. Very few jurisdictions allowed that. In fact, the only legal standing she had was as privateer.
And she still hadn’t told Rafe she had that letter of marque. If she stayed on that course, she’d have to tell him eventually, but in the meantime she had another person aboard she trusted more. “Excuse me,” she said to Rafe. “I really must get this done.” He raised his brows at her, but left quietly.
_______
If she had been legitimate military, and Gordon Martin had been her senior NCO, she’d have known how lucky she was. Now she wondered if he’d be willing to stay with her once he found out.
Martin looked at her with a faint but definite smile. “Privateer, eh? Well, they picked a good one this time.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He shifted in his seat. “Ma’am, I did serve on a front-line vessel; we…knew unofficially, I guess you’d say, about the privateer program. Damned foolishness, I thought most of the time, though I’d like to have been assigned to one.”
“So you’ll stay?”
“Until you throw me off, ma’am. It doesn’t bother me. Privateers are official, just about; they do something that needs doing.”
“You do know that the government seems not to be happy with the Vatta family at the moment.”
He shrugged. “That’s politics, Captain. It’ll shift back; it always does. Your family’s got a good reputation. And I know you.”
That took care of one problem, but she had a raft of others, legal and practical. Staying busy might keep her mind off those scenes the implant had made all too memorable. She wanted to go home; she wanted to go home now. Find the surviving members of her family, find out why Slotter Key had turned its back on them. She could not believe the government had caved in for Osman, of all people.
Engaging the Enemy Page 2
