Ser Bryn gulped. Her meaning was clear to both of them. He could get his firm the minimal profit involved in transferring registered military skills to civilian ones—the paper pushers' fees—in return for a chance to regain some chance of providing Lady Cecelia with employees later. Or, he could be difficult, and see that influence vanish—and possibly, considering who she was, more business vanish at the same time. Heris watched the glisten of perspiration on his forehead.
"We . . . we are always glad to help Lady Cecelia in any way we can," he said finally. "I hope, Captain Serrano, that you do not think we had any suspicion whatsoever that any persons we supplied would become involved in . . . er . . . illegal acts of any nature. We do our best to supply only the most qualified and responsible personnel."
Heris gave him her best grin, and watched him flinch from it. "I'm sure you didn't," she said. "But from this time, Lady Cecelia will be understandably more . . . selective . . . in her dealings with you. She may be only one old lady, on one small yacht, but she pays well and deserves to have the best crew. So I've explained to her." She gave a short nod and turned to her second topic. "Now. Do you have a young woman named Yrilan—Amalie Yrilan—registered with the firm?"
"Just a moment." He slid out a drawer that Heris assumed contained a deskcomp link and poked at it. His next glance at her showed honest confusion. "Yrilan—yes, but—but she's not what you're looking for—not if what you just said—"
Heris turned her hands over. "Ser Bryn, even for me there are occasional personal matters that impinge on business. I assume from your statements that she is not as supremely qualified as, say, Sirkin?"
"By no means," he said.
"Would you have sent her to Lady Cecelia a year ago?"
"Well . . ." He had the grace to flush. "We might have. As an entry-level tech. It's not a demanding job, after all—" Not with the ship heavily overcrewed and underutilized.
"Then send me her application file, and send her for an interview. To the ship. I meant what I said, and I doubt I'll hire her if she's not up to my standards, but I might hear of another slot . . . and of course I would inform you, first." That got a nod of understanding and approval. "Thank you, then, Ser Bryn. I'll have the military personnel report to your office next mainshift—is that convenient?"
"Er . . . yes. And thank you, Captain Serrano."
From there, Heris decided to begin opening contacts with other ships' officers. Some of her former acquaintances in the R.S.S. would still speak to her, she thought, and the sooner she began networking again, the better.
Bryssum had always been a mixed bar, a place respectable officers of both Fleet and civilian ships could eat and drink in proximity if not friendship. Sometimes it was friendship, of sorts. She remembered, as a young officer, being treated to dinner by the captain of a great liner who had owed favors to Fleet. Now she was the civilian, finding a table on the civilian side, but not too near the windows. She didn't recognize any of the Fleet officers. It didn't matter. Her heart pounded, and she argued it back to a normal rhythm. It really did not matter. She had her ship; she had her place.
"Service, Captain?" Bryssum also had human service, unless you requested otherwise. She liked it.
"Yes," she said. "Mainshift menu." She glanced at the display, flinched inwardly at the prices, and chose a simple meal from among the day's specials.
"Heris!" She looked across to the tables kept by tradition for Fleet officers. A woman a few years her junior waved at her; she had clearly just walked in. Constanza D'Altini, she remembered. The man with her gave Heris an uncertain look. Who would that be, she wondered. Constanza always had someone . . . Heris grinned and nodded, but didn't rise. She couldn't appear too eager. Besides, Constanza had curiosity enough for the whole Intelligence department. After a quick conversation with her table partner, she came over to Heris. The man sat down alone, looking grumpy.
"I hate it that you're out," Constanza said. Along with curiosity, she had the tact and directness of a toppling tree. "It had to be a frame-up; rumor says Admiral Lepescu. Was it?"
"I can't talk about it," Heris said. Constanza's black eyes glinted.
"Not even to me?"
"Not even to you. But thanks for coming over."
"Word is you got amnesty, you and all the rest—"
"That are alive," Heris said. Until she said it, she had not expected to say it, or with that bitterness. But that was Constanza's effect on most people.
"Ah." A careful look. "So that's why you're not coming back?"
Heris made herself grin. "Connie, I've got a cushy job working for a very rich old lady in a beautiful yacht—why should I come back and get myself in more trouble?"
Constanza snorted. "You'll get yourself in trouble, Heris, wherever you are. It's your nature, perhaps the one thing you inherited from your family." She leaned closer. "What do you think of him?" Him had to be the man at the table, now pointedly ignoring them.
"He's handsome," Heris said. "Not my type, though."
"He's exec on a heavy cruiser," Constanza said. That was explanation enough; Heris could read her insignia and knew from experience what limited facilities escorts had . . . besides, cruiser duty helped more at promotion time than it was supposed to. Constanza still hadn't made Sub-commander and had only one more Board to do it.
"Good luck, Connie," Heris said. She meant it. Constanza was a good officer whose slow promotion had more to do with her tactlessness than anything that mattered. "Don't queer your chances by hanging around with me."
"I'm not. I'll just tell him you're involved in something you can't talk about." And she was gone, with a last grin and wave. Heris wanted to wring her neck, and felt a moment of compassion for those officers who had given her less than stellar fitness reports.
The rest of her meal passed without incident. She reviewed her personal finances with a link to her banker, and discovered that Cecelia had indeed transferred her salary to her account—a quarter's worth. She called up her investment files, and allowed herself to order an expensive dessert in celebration. Her guesses had once more outperformed the market as a whole.
"This is Amalie," Sirkin said with the unmistakable tone that meant my lover. Amalie looked nervous, and well she might. Heris had reviewed her records, and she was nowhere near as qualified as Brigdis Sirkin. Moreover, her credentials, such as they were, overlapped an area Heris had filled with her former crewmates. She didn't really need a third-rate engineering technician.
But she did need a superb navigator, if she could keep her. "Amalie Yrilan," she said. "And you're considering small-ship work, too?"
"Since Brigdis found this . . . and she likes it." Amalie, smaller and rounder than Sirkin, had a deeper voice. Heris knew that meant nothing. "But we quite understand if you don't have an opening in engineering."
"You have a minor in environmental systems—"
"Yes, ma'am, but I'm not really—" Her voice trailed away. She didn't have to say that; her test scores showed it. She had barely made the lower limit of certification.
"You've applied to other places, of course," Heris said, wishing that the scores would go up by themselves.
"I . . . talked to the same agency Brig used," Amalie said. "They . . . said to talk to you." They had said, no doubt, that someone with her scores could whistle for a job and she had better start doing it. Linked with Sirkin, she might get a job, but more likely they'd both fail. Heris sighed.
"You do understand that your scores aren't very good."
"Oh . . . yes, but I'm just not very good at tests. I know more than that, really. Brig can tell you."
Sirkin flushed. In the months under Heris's command, she had continued to develop in her field, and contact with other ships' officers at Sirialis had shown her how much more was possible. Whatever she had thought of Amalie's ability earlier, now she knew better. Heris noted the flush, and spoke first. No need to humiliate her in front of a friend.
"Sirkin has been aboard more than a stand
ard year now; your scores are your best witness. Test anxiety, you say? Didn't you ever take the Portland treatments?"
"Well, yes, ma'am, but they . . . but I was just so busy sometimes, you know. Working part-time . . ."
She had not worked part-time for the first two years, and her scores had been no better then. Sirkin, whose record also showed employment during school, had finished in fewer terms with top scores. Either ability or effort was missing here; Heris wasn't sure which.
"Sirkin's an outstanding junior officer, as I'm sure you know; if it weren't for that, I wouldn't be considering your application. I've got a full crew in engineering, and while I could use someone in environmental, I don't want slackers. I won't tolerate anything but excellence."
The tension around the young woman's eyes said it all, as far as Heris was concerned. This one didn't want to work that hard, and would always find excuses for herself. Too bad for Sirkin; irresponsibility made for bad lovers as well as bad shipmates. But she would give it a try, for the time they'd be onstation, just in case.
"I can understand that, ma'am, but—"
Heris held up her hand. "Tell you what. According to the owner, we're going to be here awhile, doing some work on the yacht. I'll hire you as general labor—mostly environmental work, some powerplant engineering—on a thirty-day temp contract. You and Sirkin can job hunt together in your off-shift time. If you satisfy me, and don't find something you like better, I may offer you a longer contract then. But I won't promise anything. How's that?"
That didn't satisfy Amalie, though she forced a smile, but Sirkin was relieved. She had clearly expected refusal.
"We'll be installing quite a bit of replacement electronics," Heris went on. "And a new backup set of powerplant control systems. The environmental system was overhauled thoroughly only a few months ago, but given the state of the former system, I want a complete baseline calibration."
"Yes, ma'am," Amalie said. At least she had that part right. Heris nodded.
"Sirkin, take her over to engineering, and introduce her to Haidar and Kulkul—they're the Environmental first, and Engineering second, Yrilan. I'll post the relevant orders on the comp for them."
Amalie started to open her mouth; Sirkin got there first with "Thank you, ma'am," and pulled her friend along by the arm. Heris shook her head once they were out of sight. What a shame that a brilliant young person like Sirkin had fallen for a loser. She was sure Amalie was a loser; she had seen too many of that type.
Over the next few days, Nasiru Haidar reported that Amalie Yrilan was reasonably willing when supervised, but lacked the expertise she should have had and wouldn't stick to a job without constant supervision. Padoc Kulkul agreed, and added that he would rather have a dumbot—the lowest level of robotic assistant—than a fluffheaded girl who kept humming popular music off-key.
"About what I thought," Heris said. "Can you perk her up? Maybe that school—"
"I can try," Nasiru said. "But how much do you want to risk on her? She'll never go beyond third class on the exams, I'd bet my last credit chip. Half the work would do twice as much with a good candidate." Padoc simply shook his head.
"Well, we're not in the service anymore," Heris said. "We don't have an endless supply of recruits. I was hoping—"
"I'll work on it." Nasiru sounded not quite grumpy. "But I won't promise anything. I know Sirkin's good, but young love doesn't last forever."
Heris snorted. "Don't try to tell them that. We have to remember, we're all a lot older, and with real experience." By real, of course, she meant military.
"That one'll get herself killed, and maybe her friends," Padoc said. "You know we all like young Sirkin, but—Amalie's like that cute little kid back on Fisk." Heris raised her brows, but he didn't back down. The cute little kid on Fisk had been someone important's nephew, and he had hit the wrong control in combat and—luckily—died along with those his idiocy killed. Turned out his uncle had known about the addiction problem, but concealed it in the hopes that life on a ship would straighten him out.
"Well, if she's that bad, we don't want her," Heris said. "I know that. But as long as we're in dock, she can't hurt us that much, and we just might pull off a miracle."
"There's a slight chance that you may have some trouble dockside," Heris said. She had called the crew together before giving them Station liberty. "Those of you who were aboard at the time know about the smugglers' stash. If they choose to retaliate for its loss—"
"But they've already killed Olin," Petris said.
"Wouldn't they go after Lady Cecelia?" asked Nasiru. "Or the ship itself?"
"They might. But they also might make an example of a crew member." She knew her ex-military crew would know how to handle any invitations to criminality, but Sirkin and Yrilan were young and vulnerable, bait for everything from gambling sharks to smugglers. "I suggest you travel in pairs, at least, and keep your eyes open. You're not children, to be coddled and watched over, but as long as we don't know what the danger is, you're vulnerable. I'm not sure just how far they'll go to express their displeasure. If you want to indulge in anything mind-altering, be sure you're in a safe place."
"If there's trouble, how about weapons?" Oblo, as usual with a fight even remotely in view, looked both sleepy and happy. The sleepiness was entirely deceptive.
"No. Not on Station. We don't need legal trouble as well as illegal. And given Lady Cecelia's . . . mmm . . . connections, we could even have political trouble. Fight if you have to, but call for the gendarmes right away."
"Yes, ma'am." That with a heavy-lidded look that meant he would interpret it in his own way. Petris gave him a sharp glance, and Heris told herself to talk to Petris about Oblo before he had a shift off. His formidable brawling skills should be reserved for times they needed them, not wasted on casual displays.
Chapter Four
Under the supervision of Nasiru Haidar, Yrilan earned her pay. Heris had to respect her for coming back, shift after shift, to face the grudging acceptance of the rest of the crew. Sirkin, she noticed, stayed clear of Yrilan during work hours, but she was looking increasingly tense. Heris assumed that meant they hadn't found a joint berth on some other ship. Sirkin would be facing a hard decision soon enough; Heris didn't try to offer advice she was sure the younger woman would resent.
On the day they completed the new installations, which would be sealed again when the yacht entered the refitting docks, Heris gave the crew a half-shift bonus off. She gave Ginese the standing watch, and finished the interminable forms necessary to clear the Royal Docks and transfer the ship around the station on the next mainshift but one. She hated the thought of letting a tug do the shift but those were the rules. She expected all the off-duty crew to be gone by the time she finished, but as it happened she left the ship just behind Sirkin and Yrilan. They were not quite holding hands as they hurried through the Royal sector to the public concourse beyond. She wondered if they'd job hunt or spend the extra time another way.
They seemed to be headed the same direction she was. Once in the transit car, they shared a seat at the far end. Heris hung back at the exit, hoping they wouldn't think she was following them, but traffic was light, just before shiftchange. In another half hour, all transit tubes would be crowded. She dawdled, glancing at a shop window down the concourse from the Captain's Guild, until they were nearly out of sight around the curve.
Heris turned into the Captains' Guild, mentally shaking her head. When she'd been that young, she hadn't been unlucky enough to fall that far in love. Sirkin and Yrilan were together, but it could hardly be called alert awareness of possible danger. Yet it would do no good to suggest anything to them; they might try, but in twenty paces they'd be back to concentrating on each other. At least Sirkin had basic good sense, and they had promised to bunk aboard until the decorators took the ship over. Surely they wouldn't get in much trouble. After all, Oblo had the history of dockside and planetside brawls.
The Captains' Guild rooms had begun to l
ook familiar, and the Warden knew her now. She posted her daily report, and looked over the news. Here again, the different format had begun to make sense. Which ships were in, with which captains, reporting changes they'd noted in their routes. She was looking specifically for anything to suggest what Captain Olin had been doing in the regions where he'd hung about as if looking for a rendezvous. So far, she'd found no comment helpful. After all, if another captain was up to the same game, she could hardly expect an honest report to the Captains' Guild.
Heris Serrano Page 46