"I will be there as soon as possible," Heris interrupted. "And I expect to find my crew members receiving adequate medical treatment." Watching her, the militia communications tech raised his eyebrows; Heris winked, and they went up another notch. "Let me speak to my second in command."
Petris came back on the line. "Yes, Captain?"
"I believe the major understands the need for Sirkin to receive immediate medical evaluation and treatment. I'd like you to stay with her. If Mr. Vissisuan is not injured, I'd like him to meet me at the access area on my return. Ms. Meharry can return to the ship if she needs no medical care, and I'll speak to her there. Clear?"
"Clear, Captain."
Heris came out of the little booth shaking her head. "Well, my other crew member has shown up, wounded apparently, at the Royal Docks access station. I don't know if she was trying to get help or what. I know you'll need to talk to her, but I think her medical care should come first."
"I'll come with you," Cannibar said. "Want to leave now? What about the disposition of your crew member's remains after autopsy?"
"I'm not sure—I'll have to check my files aboard." She would have to ask Sirkin, most likely. Anything but token cremation would be impossibly expensive; most who died aboard went into the carbon-cycle tanks. But it was always possible that Yrilan had taken out a burial insurance policy that would pay for shipping her body to a planet for "real" burial. Heris felt guilty that she had not known even this about the girl.
At the Royal Docks Access, Oblo and the Royal Security major waited in unamiable silence. Oblo had a ripening bruise on his forehead and his hands bore the marks of a good fight. But his expression was that of a large predatory mammal fully fed and satisfied. Heris spared him only a glance, then met the major's angry gaze. Before he could say anything she introduced the Station militia captain.
"—investigating the death of Amalie Yrilan, a temporary-contract crew member."
"I suppose you'll want in to interview the others," the major said sourly, transferring his glare to the militia captain.
"As a matter of fact, yes." Heris had warmed to the captain already, and she liked his tone now. Not a trace of arrogance or obsequiousness either: he simply stated the obvious in a voice that meant to be obeyed. The major shrugged, and handed over a clip-on pass.
"Very well. This is a forty-eight-hour pass; if you need an extension, just give us a call."
"How's Sirkin?" Heris asked Oblo. He looked less smug.
"She caught part of a sonic blast, and a couple of knife slashes. I think she's got some broken ribs, but this officer thinks it's just bruising. Some heavy people landed on her, and she got some hard kicks I know of, one in the head."
"Unconsciousness?"
"Yes, for a bit, but the one that landed on her weighed enough it could have been that."
Heris thought of all she'd like to ask him, but not in front of Royal Security and Station militia officers. Why had he waited so long to come into the fight? Why had he brought Sirkin back here rather than the nearest militia station? Why had he been on the scene in the first place?
"Could I talk to you now?" said the militia captain. It wasn't really a question.
"Sure, sir," said Oblo, rubbing his hands over his head and trying to look innocent. It didn't work. He had the face and hands of the experienced brawler, and the bruise was like a rose on a rosebush—a fitting decoration.
"I'm going to see Sirkin," Heris said. "Oblo—when you've finished here, I'll see you aboard."
Sirkin had been through the diagnostics when Heris got to the clinic. She lay in a bed, in a bright-patterned gown Heris thought had been chosen to disguise bloodstains and other marks. Her face looked lopsided—she had swollen bruises down one side, and the other was discolored with the sunburn flush of the sonic pulser that had burst small blood vessels. That eye, too, was bloodshot. If Heris hadn't seen the medical report, she'd have worried, but the eye had escaped real damage. She looked drowsy and said nothing when Heris came into the room. That would be the concussion the scans had shown.
Petris rose from a chair at the bedside. "Captain. Meharry's gone back to the ship, as you asked. Oblo?"
"He's talking to the militia captain in charge of the investigation. I still haven't heard what happened. Have you?"
"Sirkin and Yrilan were out for a night, and took a shortcut through that park; they were jumped by a gang. Oblo and Meharry were following them, but trying to be discreet. They tried to deal quietly with someone who tried to keep them from entering the park—maybe part of the gang—and that took enough time that the row had started when they caught up. Yrilan was down, probably dead or dying, and Sirkin was fighting. They both think the gang was trying to capture Sirkin at that point—someone had cuffs out."
"And they brought her out of the park because they weren't sure if more trouble would arrive, or who it was—I can understand that," Heris said. "But they should have called the ship, at least."
"No time, Oblo said. But you know him—he hates to call for help."
"True." Heris looked down at Sirkin. So far she hadn't spoken; her expression hadn't changed. How badly was she really hurt—not physically, but emotionally? How would she react when she woke fully and realized that her lover was dead? "Brigdis," she said, touching the young woman's bandaged hand. "How are you feeling?"
"Captain?" Her voice was blurred; that could be the injuries or the drugs used to treat them. "You . . . came."
"Yes." No use to explain who had come when, not until her mind cleared. But tears rose in the younger woman's eyes.
"Amalie . . . she screamed . . ."
"I'm sorry, Brigdis," Heris said.
"Is she dead?" That sounded rational enough.
"Yes. I'm sorry. The sonic pulser got her at close range—you barely escaped."
"She—jumped in front of me," Sirkin said. "She—died for me." Her body trembled, as if she were trying to cry but was too exhausted. Probably those ribs, Heris thought. They wouldn't want to put her in the regeneration tank for the ribs until her concussion had stabilized.
"She was very brave," Heris said. It never hurt to praise the dead, and Amalie Yrilan could be brave and foolish both. Many people were.
"But . . . she had gambled." Heris wondered what that was about. Sirkin took a cautious breath. "She got in some trouble. I don't know what. There was this woman." All short sentences, carried on one difficult breath after another.
"You don't have to talk now," Heris said. "You're safe here. We'll stay with you, Petris or I."
"But I want to." Sirkin's face had a stubborn expression now, someone forcing herself past a margin of discomfort for her own reasons. "She died. She saved me. But that woman said go there." What woman? What was Sirkin talking about? Heris glanced at Petris, who shrugged.
"Brigdis, you've had a sonic charge to half your face, and some blows to the other half . . . I really think you shouldn't try to talk now. You're not clearheaded."
"But—I thought she loved me. And then I thought she didn't. And then she died. For me. So she must have—" Sirkin's expression was pleading now. Heris wished she was still small and young enough to pick up and hug—that's what she needed, medicine be damned.
"She did love you," she said firmly. "I could see that. She loved you enough to try to qualify for deep-space work, to follow you here. Whatever happened, she did love you. And she proved it at the end." She had long suspected that Yrilan would never have chosen a career aboard ships if Sirkin hadn't been so intent on one. That face and attitude belonged somewhere else, though Heris didn't know where.
"You're sure?" Sirkin asked.
"I'm sure." Heris stroked her head. "Now you get some sleep. I know you feel sick and hurt all over, but you're alive, and you have friends to help you." Sirkin closed her eyes, and in a few minutes was snoring delicately. Heris looked at Petris. "I should go back to the ship and check on Meharry and Oblo. Can you stay with her for now, and I'll be back later?"
"
Of course. If you'd just speak to the staff here, and let them know—they wanted to throw me out, earlier."
"Right. She shouldn't be alone, and I want to be notified at once if the militia or Royal Security tries to talk to her."
Shiftchange chimed as Heris headed for the Sweet Delight. She would be up three shifts running, probably, and she hated to admit that it got harder every year. At her former rank in the R.S.S., she'd have been up for automatic rejuvenation treatment within the next few years, but as a civilian she'd have to pay for it herself. She wondered if she could afford it. Lady Cecelia claimed not to want rejuvenation; would she disapprove of her captain taking it?
In the access tube, Issigai Guar waited for her. "Captain, Oblo's not back yet, but Meharry's here . . . how's Brigdis?"
Heris shook her head. "She's got reparable physical injuries, but Yrilan's death is going to shake her badly. I'm going back there after I debrief Meharry—any messages?"
"No, Captain, not since you've been back to this side of the dock. Station militia called here earlier, and I told 'em you'd headed for the Captains' Guild. But that was hours ago. Ginese is on the bridge, of course."
"Let me know, then. I'm going to talk to Meharry and I may put in a call to Lady Cecelia." Heris went on into the ship. The lavender plush didn't look quite as bad to her now, especially since it was all going to disappear in the next few weeks. Lady Cecelia had chosen crisp blues and greens with white for her new scheme, over the protests of the decorator, who insisted that the very latest colors were peach, cream, and something called sandfox. With accents of hot coral and hunter green. Feminine, the decorator had said, and flattering to mature complexions. Cecelia's complexion had turned red at that, and she'd muttered that she could take her business to a place that would do what she wanted.
Meharry was outside her office, obviously fresh from a shower and change of clothes. She had a few visible bruises, but no worse damage.
"Sirkin's in the clinic—the ribs are broken, and she does have a concussion," Heris said before the other could ask. "They're trying some new drug on the concussion—supposed to counter diffuse damage and reduce swelling—and they'll put her in regen for the ribs when that's done. I'm going back later; Petris is with her now."
"Tough kid," Meharry said. "We'd been showing her some things, but I wouldn't have expected her to use them that well her first time out."
"Tell me about it," Heris said. The story from Meharry's viewpoint took longer than it had when Petris gave her the short form, and began with her pointing out to Oblo that even if Sirkin had been learning how to fight, when she was with Yrilan she wasn't really alert.
"I thought Oblo was installing that . . . navigational equipment."
"Well, ma'am, he was. But those two didn't leave right away—they spent awhile in Sirkin's cabin—and Oblo was just about nearly finished when they did. We just didn't want anything to happen . . . like it did."
"I didn't see you," Heris said. "And they were ahead of me."
Meharry's green eyes twinkled. "You weren't exactly looking, ma'am. You's looking at them, and we's looking at you . . . and them. They saw you, didn't see us. . . . Classic, y'know?"
"So?"
"So," Meharry said, with an eloquent shrug, "they went to this bar." Here she fished out the datawand. Heris felt her own brows rise. "You might want to read this off, Captain. We sent the main stuff back here already, but there's a bit more hasn't gone in the computer yet."
"You have a Fleet wand?"
"It's not Fleet now." The green eyes had gone muddy, like stagnant water. "It gives us that edge in networking you were talking about." If no one caught her with it. If it wasn't traced back to Heris.
"Still accesses Fleet nets?"
Meharry cocked her head. "Don't know, really. Haven't tried that yet. Be really risky to try it, if it doesn't." A mild way of putting it. "But it sucks strings out of civilian nets, no problem. Take a look."
Heris brought the data up on her desk screen. The picture of the woman in the silk suit and jewels was clear enough for recognition.
"Enhanced by her database identification," Meharry said, leaning over Heris's shoulder. "That's what she was wearing in the bar, but the face has been cleaned up by the ID subroutines. We didn't have a picmic to overhear what they said—the noise level in there was really bad and there were sonic cops out in the concourse, who'd have detected anything good enough to filter voices."
"Therapist," said Heris thoughtfully. "And Sirkin said something about Yrilan gambling—could the girl have had a gambling problem and seen a therapist?"
"Yrilan got crosswise and got mandatory counseling instead of a hotspot in records," Meharry said. "Pulled that out of this lady's office files, once I knew where. But Oblo and I think she's working for someone else. She definitely—definitely—signalled to these guys—" She pointed to the display again. "—when she came out. Then she fell off our scanners like a rock off a cliff. Had to be counterscan, had to be illegal." Meharry sounded righteous about that.
"Meharry, your scans are illegal," Heris said, trying not to laugh.
"Well, sure, but that's how I know her counterscans were. Legal citizen-type scans aren't worth the space in your pockets. Anybody can privacy-shield from them. We had to have something that'd work." Meharry shrugged that off and pointed to the display.
"Her accounts, now . . . look at what she spends just on clothes. Public service therapists don't make that much."
"Investment income, it says," Heris commented, not mentioning that sucking data from the banking nets was even more illegal than the rest of it.
"Yeah, but what investment? I grant you dividend income, but I wonder about the companies. You have investments, don't you? Why don't you check this stuff out, Captain?"
Heris laughed aloud. "In what spare time? I suppose I could ask about—uh—Siritec, since it seems to be paying her the most, but without knowing her initial investment there's no way to tell . . . and no, I'm not about to stick a wire into investment accounts myself. What you've got is interesting—I wish I could figure out a way to let the militia in on it without compromising you."
"You said Sirkin mentioned Yrilan's gambling. Maybe just that?"
"I'll think about it; I don't want her catching any more trouble if we can help it. Now—about the fight itself—"
Meharry grinned. "Like I said, the kid was tough. Yrilan was down when we got around the corner, one of 'em leaning over her—probably making her that C.H. pattern—and Sirkin was fighting hard, but not hard enough. 'Course, she was outnumbered, and they were armed." From the tone, she was making excuses she didn't think would have to be made for her. "They weren't trying to kill her, though. Somebody was on top of her, trying to cuff her, when Oblo 'bout took his head off. After that—" She gave a surprisingly detailed account of the brawl, interspersed with her assessment of the enemy's ability and training. "And it was after they were all down, that we saw Yrilan's face and hands. That's when we figured it was Compassionate Hand business, and we'd better get Sirkin back to safety—"
"Eh, Captain." That was Oblo, free surprisingly early from the militia captain. Heris had thought he'd be much later.
"Well—let's hear it from you." Oblo gave Meharry an oblique glance and settled into a seat. His clothes still had the marks of the fight, though he had daubed at the bloodstains somewhere along the line. His version was even racier than Meharry's. She hadn't bothered to mention the delay at the park entrance; they hadn't wanted to kill any of their opponents at that point, but his description of the action made her wonder why the militia hadn't found more inert bodies. Heris heard him out, then sent them off to rest. She was a little surprised that no more calls had come in for her, but she told Guar to patch them to the clinic if they did come. After a look at the time cycle where Cecelia was, she decided not to wake her.
When she called later, she found that Cecelia was in a mood Heris privately considered ridiculous. She was in a raging fury about some po
int of family politics, and threatening to throw things. Her reaction to Heris's news was just as strong and no more helpful.
"Just what I needed," she snapped. "You can't even keep things straightened out up there. Why I ever thought you were more efficient than the prissy officious managers down here, I cannot now recall." Heris tried not to get angry in return. "Another dead body . . . and that nice girl Sirkin injured . . . and that overpaid lot in the clinic will probably charge me double."
"As a matter of fact, no." Heris broke in with quiet satisfaction. "Since Sirkin is the victim of a crime, and it's quite clear that she bears no responsibility for what happened, no charges apply to your employee accounts, and it will not affect your medical-tax rates in the future."
"Oh. Well." Heris could practically see the boiling temper settling down again. "Well, of course I care most about Sirkin and . . . whoever."
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