Hunting Party

by Elizabeth Moon

  “The medbox . . . I don’t know, Captain,” Gavin said. “It’s not—you know—meant for major problems.”

  Heris managed not to snap at him. “At least you can tell it the problem. All I know is it’s a cellular poison, and there’s some kind of antidote. Now: send someone down with a recorder, so that I can document Iklind’s position and the monitor readings. Then we can bring his body out.” Even as she said this, she realized she was straining the crew’s resources.

  * * *

  “Milady,” said Heris, “we have several problems.”

  Just what I need, thought Cecelia. Problems with the ship. Now she’ll start whining about how different this is from the military. She nodded, trying for a cool distancing expression. That and a straight back usually dissuaded complainers.

  “We’ve had a death among the crew, environmental technician Iklind.”

  “What! A heart attack? A stroke?” Despite her determination not to react, she felt her heart lurch in her chest, and her voice came out shrill and harsh.

  “No, Lady Cecelia.” Heris had tried to think of a nonthreatening way to tell her employer—considering how old the woman was—but had not come up with anything better than the bald truth. “He died of hydrogen sulfide poisoning, the result of opening a sludge tank without protective gear. In addition, another crewman is suffering severe inhalation injury from the same source.”

  “But all we have is a medbox!” Cecelia felt as if she had just fallen off at a gallop. A crewman dead, and another sick . . . was this what came of hiring an ex-military captain? She tried to remember the specifics of the medical unit.

  “It’s a standard industrial pollutant,” Heris said. “The unit has the right medications and the right software to treat him—I checked that, of course, before coming to you.”

  “Oh—I—” Cecelia realized she’d slumped, and straightened again.

  “I’m very sorry to have given you this shock. Perhaps I should call someone?”

  Cecelia recognized someone giving her time to pull herself together, and was caught between resentment and gratitude. “I’ve never lost a crew member before,” she said. “Not since I’ve owned the Sweet Delight.” She struggled with the mix of emotions, and tried to think clearly. “Poison gas from the sludge tank, you said? Has someone put something in it?”

  Heris recognized the attempt for what it was, and masked her amusement that anyone—even a rich old lady—could travel in space and not know the most common and deadly of the environmental by-products. “No, milady. Sludge generates several toxic gases, which are normally converted into harmless chemicals used in your ’ponics sections, when the environmental system is functioning smoothly. This isn’t sabotage, just a mishap. . . . Iklind apparently decided to open the tank without proper protective gear, and Timmons tried to rescue him, but hadn’t sealed his own helmet.”

  “Then who saved Timmons?” asked Cecelia.

  “I did,” Heris said. Cecelia’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. “I had told them I would inspect the system, and they were to meet me—properly suited—at the access bay. Instead—” She shrugged. “I don’t know why Iklind didn’t wear his suit, or why Timmons didn’t wear his helmet . . . but I will find out.”

  “Very well, Captain.” That was clearly dismissive. “I . . . will expect to hear more from you tomorrow.”

  “That’s not quite all,” said Heris carefully.

  This time the gaze was direct and challenging. “What? Is something else wrong?”

  “I realize,” Heris said, “that you just had this vessel redecorated, and it must have been expensive . . .”

  “My sister did that,” Cecelia said. “What of it?”

  “Well . . . your main environmental system is overloaded; that’s why I was going to inspect the system: it was not functioning to specifications. Your former captain did not have the system purged and recharged at the correct intervals—”

  “He must have! I remember the bills for it.” Cecelia called up her accounting software and nodded when the figures came up. “There it is: Diklos and Sons, Refitting General, Baklin Station.”

  “Sorry, milady,” said Heris. “You got the bill, but the work wasn’t done. I could see that from the sludge tank Iklind had opened, and since then I’ve had the other moles—environmental techs—check the filter and culture chambers. It’s a mess. The sulfur cycle’s in trouble, and that impacts your nitrogen uptake in hydroponics. It isn’t presently dangerous, but it will require some caution until we reach a refitting station. My recommendation would be to do that as soon as possible. By choosing a different set of jump points, we can be at your chosen destination only one day after your request.”

  Cecelia glared. “You didn’t find this out before we left.”

  “No, milady, I didn’t.” Cecelia waited for the excuse that she herself had rushed their departure, but it didn’t come. Her captain had no expression at all, and after a moment went on. “Initially I accepted the log showing that the purge and recharge had been done, and the fresh inspection stickers; you are quite right that I should not have done that. Logs have been faked before, even in the Regular Space Service.” A tight smile, which did not reach the captain’s eyes. Cecelia wondered if she ever really smiled. “But I noticed an anomaly in the datastream two days ago, and began tracking it down. Your moles—sorry, ma’am, your environmental technicians—claimed it was your gardeners’ fault. But the plain fact is, the work wasn’t done. I believe it will be possible to document that, and get a refund from Diklos and Sons; your reputation should help.”

  “Ah . . . yes.” Cecelia felt off balance; she had been ready for evasions and excuses, and her captain’s forthright acceptance of blame surprised her.

  “I realize, milady, that one reason you changed captains is that your former one could not keep to your schedule. But in this instance, I feel that your safety requires an emergency repair of the system.”

  “I thought,” Cecelia said pettishly, “that I had specified an environmental system far larger than I’d ever need, just in case something went wrong.”

  “Yes, milady, you did. But with your present guests and their personal servants, that limit has been exceeded—and with the degradation of performance of the system, and the lack of refitting capabilities at Lord Thornbuckle’s, it would be most unwise to proceed without repair.”

  “And that will take—?”

  “Six days to the nearest refitting facility, I’d trust; two days docked; and with a reasonable course and drive performance, we should be, as I said, just one day late at your destination.”

  “I suppose that’s better than the eight days late I had before—which landed me with young Ronnie, because I wasn’t there to argue hard enough and loud enough.” Cecelia shrugged and said, “Oh, very well. Do what you think best; you’re the captain.” But her captain didn’t leave, merely stood there. “What else?” she asked.

  “I strongly recommend some restrictions in the next six days. At present we have no shipwide emergency, but I would prefer to prevent one.”

  “But it’s only six days—” Cecelia began, then stopped. “You’re really worried.” To her surprise, her captain smiled slightly.

  “Yes, and I cannot justify it by the data alone. But although I’ve been on this ship only a short time, there’s a feel of something wrong—”

  “Intuition in a Fleet officer?”

  “Just so. Intuition I have learned not to ignore. I am instituting quite severe restrictions in crew activities, and strongly recommend them for your staff and guests as well.”

  “Such as?”

  Her captain ticked them off on her fingers. “A change in diet to minimize sulfur and nitrogen loading of the system—for six days, the loss of muscle mass or conditioning from a low-protein diet should not cause any distress, and if you have someone with special needs, that can of course be accommodated. Restrictions in water use, to include the exercise pool since that water is cycled th
rough the same systems, and organic compounds inevitably end up in it. The . . . er . . . gardens will need to be handled as part of the regular environmental system as well . . .”

  “The gardeners will love that—!” She thought of her pet equids with a pang. They would have to go—perhaps she could flash-freeze them, but it was always chancy. And the beautiful flowers, the fresh fruits and vegetables—they would have to restock or eat preserved food all the way to Bunny’s.

  “Sorry, milady, but the environmental tech’s excuse for letting the system go outside nominal is that your gardeners had requested a particularly high sulfur effluent for some special crop.”

  “I see. So we’re to arrive at some shipyard hungry, thirsty, dirty, and bored—”

  “But healthy and alive. Yes.”

  Cecelia’s heart sank. She could imagine what Ronnie and his friends were going to say about this. It had been bad enough already. For a moment, she was tempted to let go in one of the towering rages of her youth—but she was beyond that now. She had no energy for that kind of explosion. “Very well,” she said again. “If you will enter the specifications, I will inform staff and the others.”

  “Thank you, milady.” Her captain’s face looked as if it might be intending an apology, but she did not then apologize. She gave a curious stiff nod, and went out quickly. Cecelia blew a long, disgusted breath and called Cook. She might as well get on with it.

  * * *

  Takomin Roads occupied a location that made it ideal for refitting deep-space vessels and little else; not even the most ship-fevered spacer would choose for recreation the bleak cold planet the Station circled. Farther insystem Merice offered sweet shallow oceans, and Golmerrung spectacular peaks and glaciers . . . but Takomin Roads offered reasonable proximity to four mapped jump nodes, one of them apparently bound to the planet. Heris had stopped there with a battle group once, and been impressed by the size of the fixtures and the quality of the crews.

  The Sweet Delight had communications equipment only just inferior to that of the cruiser Heris had left. She could pop a message just as they left FTL flight, and it would arrive well before them, given the necessary deceleration of the yacht. Mr. Gavin, still gray around the gills from her lecture and Iklind’s death, and the very close shave with Timmons, presented her with his estimate of the work to be done, down to the specifications for every component fastener. She took that estimate to the moles themselves, and when they would have initialled it without discussion she insisted on going over every item with them.

  “I’m sure Mr. Gavin is right,” the junior kept saying, with nervous glances at the other. She had hardly met Ries before the emergency.

  “I’m not.” Heris was past worrying about Gavin’s reputation with the moles; she was far more concerned with getting the yacht safely to refitting, and back out as quickly as possible.

  “I guess you want us to look up this stuff in the manual. . . .” said the senior mole, Kliegan.

  “I want you to do your jobs,” Heris said. “If you are not sure, of course you must look up the specs.”

  “Well, I do, but . . .”

  “Then is this correct, or not? Don’t hedge about, mister.” She wondered, not for the first time, how Lady Cecelia had survived so many years with incompetents manning her yacht. Did rich people not even know the difference? She supposed not. A shiny surface would satisfy them, even if it covered decay.

  “Yes,” he said, after a moment. She nodded; she would hold him to it. At the end of this voyage, she would suggest to Lady Cecelia—no, she would insist—that she replace the least competent of the crew. In fact, with Iklind dead, perhaps they could find someone competent at Takomin Roads.

  The refitting specifications all went into the message capsule, along with Lady Cecelia’s credit authorization. By the time the Sweet Delight had come within a light-hour of the Takomin Roads, the refitters had had time to ready their equipment, unpack the necessary parts, and shift their workload to accommodate a rush job.

  Or so they should have, Heris thought. The first message she received began by explaining how impossible it would be to do the work at all, and the next (a day later) argued that it could be done, but not within the time limit she had specified. Heris took none of these to Lady Cecelia; refitting was her responsibility and she knew already that a yacht owner, like an admiral, doesn’t want to hear about problems that can be solved at a lower level. Besides, arguing with refitting had been a normal part of her duties as a cruiser captain. Those who didn’t argue went to the bottom of the stack and got leftover parts.

  She fired back her own messages as fast as the uncooperative ones came in, pointing out Lady Cecelia’s holdings in the companies whose ships formed a large part of Velarsin & Co., Ltd.’s work. Alienating a major shareholder could have a negative impact on future contracts . . . she ignored, as beneath her notice, the long list of other work that would run overtime if Lady Cecelia’s were done. The refitters capitulated, finally, in the last message received a half-hour before docking, when a Station tug already had a firm grip on the Sweet Delight’s bustle. Heris watched the docking critically; she had no real confidence in their pilot, and luckily no need for it—the Station’s AI had no glitches as it eased them to Berth 78.

  “I hope you’re satisfied!” growled the bulky man in a dark gray shipsuit uniform when she called Velarsin & Co. “Shifted a dozen jobs for you, we have. Gonna lose a bonus on one of ’em.”

  “I shall be satisfied when our work is complete, correct, and prompt,” said Heris.

  He snorted, half anger and half respect, just like every Fleet Yard superintendent she’d ever known. “I have your specs,” he said. “They’re as foul as you claim your bilges are.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Heris smiled at him. “We had nonconformance at the last maintenance, before I took this ship; it’s my guess it hasn’t met the original specs in years. When will your crew board?”

  “They’re waiting at your access,” he said. “And me with ’em. I want to meet the captain of a private yacht that can bend the rules upstairs.”

  “Fine,” said Heris. “I’ll be there in five minutes. I have to inform the owner.”

  The owner, when Heris called her, sounded stiff and resentful. “I still do not understand, Captain Serrano, why we could not have stayed aboard. Surely, with the umbilicals to Station Environmental, we don’t need to worry about contamination aboard. . . .”

  She had explained before; she explained again, patiently but firmly. “Milady, even the best refitting crews cannot access the system without an occasional leak. It will stink—and worse than that, you might be exposed to hydrogen sulfide or other toxic contaminants. It is safest to seal the crew, staff, and owner’s space—the vents themselves—which means no circulation at all. All the working crew will be in protective gear, as I will be while I supervise. It takes only one good lungful of sewer gas, milady, to kill you.” She did not need to say more; Lady Cecelia gave a delicate shudder. And she had already arranged for the appropriate law enforcement division to take over Iklind’s body, along with the meager evidence. “The crew is waiting, milady, and the sooner they start—”

  “Very well.” It was crisp and unfriendly, but not an argument. “And where are we staying?” The real problem, Heris thought, was that Lady Cecelia had never been here before and wasn’t sure of accommodations. As well, those brats were probably whining and dragging their feet.

  “You, milady, have a suite at the Selenor, where the shipping line executives stay. There’s limited space, and I had to book the young people into a different hostelry on another level. I realize that’s inconvenient—”

  This time a trace of warmth in her employer’s voice. “I can survive that. Meet me for dinner, then; I’ll want a report. Twenty hundred, local time.” Six hours; they’d just have started, really. Heris had counted on supervising them closely all through the first shift. But she could come report, and return quickly. She would not have to stay for
a meal, she was sure.

  “Of course, milady. I’ll be at the maintenance access as you leave; please have Bates call when the staff has cleared the ship.”

  “Very well.”

  Heris gave her crew a stern look. “Mr. Gavin, you and Environmental will suit and observe the first shift. The rest of you are booked into transient crew quarters less than fifteen minutes from here; I expect you all to stay available. We’ll have at least two crew aboard the ship at all times, and you’ll rotate.” A stir, no more; they knew better than to protest by now. “Have you confirmed Station air supply to every compartment?” she asked Gavin.

  “To all but the owner’s quarters, ma’am,” he said. “I was going to do that as soon as milady left the ship; computer says it’s fine, but . . .”

  “Do that, then, while I go meet the refitters. Lady Cecelia is debarking now.”

  She followed the crew off the ship, and met the crew chief of the refitters in the maintenance access. He and his workers already wore pressure suits to protect themselves from contamination and carried helmets tucked under their arms. By the sudden flicker of his eyelids, she saw that he recognized her origins.

  “I’m Captain Serrano,” she said. “And you’re . . .”

  “Key Brynear,” he said, a slow smile lighting his heavy face. “’scuse my asking, but you’re ex-Regs, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right,” said Heris. She wondered if he’d ask more, but he merely nodded.

  “Guess that’s why you managed to put fear into management. They don’t hear command voice real often. Well, Captain, let’s see what you’ve got.” He wasted no time asking for details she’d already sent, but ordered his crew into helmets, and nodded sharply to Heris. She suited up, locked her own helmet on, and led him into the ship.