Marque and Reprisal

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Vatta,” the voice said, this time calmly, “has done nothing to deserve this. If you had attacked privateers—”

  “Hitting the innocent is a more effective warning,” Gammis said. Not that Vatta was entirely innocent. They had stupidly supported InterStellar Communications all these years; they had reported suspicious ships and persons . . . and besides, it was one of their own who betrayed them, who urged that they be made an example. In the longer plan, in the greater scheme of things, that one would surely fall since he could not be trusted, but in the meantime he was useful, worth doing a favor for. “You will do nothing,” Gammis said again. “If you want your government to stand.”

  “I don’t know how we’re going to explain . . . ,” the voice said.

  “You’ll figure something out.” Gammis cut off the connection.

  “Will they behave?” his second in command asked. “Or will they leak?”

  “They’ll leak in time,” Gammis said. “Vatta’s got supporters on their own world. But they have no way to spread the word. They don’t realize it yet . . .” He chuckled, and his second in command grinned back at him. This was the way they should have done it from the first. The Sabine mess had been a big mistake; Gammis conveniently ignored the fact that he had voted to blow the ansible platforms. This time . . . this time they had a better plan. He knew the coalition wouldn’t last forever, but for now, for the length of time it would take to bring down InterStellar Communications and consolidate the power they needed, it would hold.

  They didn’t have to kill all the Vattas, whatever that idiot said. They only had to kill enough, at once or within a short interval, enough to shock and terrify the rest: Vatta and non-Vatta shippers, Slotter Key and other planetary governments. No more little bangs, no more sporadic raids. One big paralyzing, terrifying, enigmatic explosion . . . He grinned wider. He could just imagine the frantic scrambling, the panic spreading through Captains’ Guildhalls, government offices, corporate headquarters, all across this sector. Everyone trying to figure out who, and why, and what would happen next. He and his allies were the only ones who knew the answer.

  By the time they figured it out, if they ever did, it would be too late. He knew all about Slotter Key’s President; the President didn’t even know his name. Someday everyone would know it.

  Ky checked in at the Captains’ Guild and took her duffel up to her room while her escort waited. It took only a few minutes to unpack and freshen up. She would take the paperwork to the Economic Development Bureau first, and then pay her courtesy visit to the Slotter Key legation. With any luck, she could have the afternoon free to start looking for cargo. She’d downloaded a list of recent shipments, but Belinta’s exports didn’t match well with her understanding of what would sell at Leonora. Lastway was a mystery; from the records, its markets went up and down dramatically, depending on what preceding ships had delivered.

  At the Economic Development Bureau, she handed the paperwork to a bored clerk and received the confirmation of the final funds deposit in the Vatta account. She was almost back to the legation when her escort turned to her.

  “Captain, there’s an urgent message from the Captains’ Guild. Your ship wants to contact you, and you have no implant.”

  “Call the legation and tell them I may be delayed,” Ky said. “We’ll go to the Captains’ Guild.”

  Only a few minutes later, she was in a secure communications booth in the Captains’ Guild lobby, talking to Quincy aboard Gary Tobai. “Slow down,” she said finally. “I thought it was cargo thieves and now you’re telling me it’s sabotage?”

  “The station police say it is. Was going to be. They found our cargo—the original, part of the consignment to Leonora—in a utility closet. They’re sure it’s the same; it’s got the consignment IDs on the tape. But what was in the container that fellow loaded was a time-delayed explosive. They said it could have blown up the ship. And part of the station if we’d still been docked. If I hadn’t noticed—and I almost didn’t, he was just a dockworker, I thought—Captain, we could have been killed—!”

  “But you did spot him, and we weren’t,” Ky said. Her mind whirled. Sabotage was not unknown, and Paison’s allies might consider that they had a motive. They knew—anyone who followed the news stories would know—where she was going when she left Sabine system. But Belinta was an unlikely place for an ambush, she’d have thought. Well out of the way, small, little traffic, an insular, suspicious culture. It would have been more cheaply and easily done somewhere else.

  “They want us to leave,” Quincy went on. “For our own safety, they’re saying, but I can tell they’re scared.”

  So was Quincy, by her face and voice, and no wonder. “A good idea,” Ky said. “How close were we to finishing loading?”

  “Another six to eight hours.”

  “It will take me that long to get back up to the station,” Ky said. “Unless I charter a flight.” Would that be reimbursable as a legitimate expense, under the circumstances? “I’ll let the consul know something’s come up, and forget looking for cargo.”

  “Don’t forget to report this to headquarters,” Quincy said.

  “Headquarters?”

  “All material threats against Vatta ships—you’ll need to give them an ansible call right away. So if it’s more than local, they can warn other ships.”

  “That seems a bit extreme,” Ky said. “I think it’s probably something to do with Sabine; it shouldn’t affect anyone else.”

  “If you had the Vatta implant, it would be in emergency procedures, Captain. Piracy, sabotage, anything like that. Call headquarters immediately—I would have, if I hadn’t been able to raise you within the hour.”

  “You still could—” Ky began.

  “No, it’s captain’s responsibility; they’ll want to hear from you.”

  “I should wait until I’m up there and have the report from the police,” Ky said. “They’ll ask questions I can’t answer—”

  “Immediate notification is the priority,” Quincy said. “It’s in the implants.”

  If she did what she planned, she’d never have the Vatta implant. Wrong time to think about that, though. “All right. I’ll call right away, then see how soon I can get back up there. Once you’ve got the ship loaded, button us up. Will the police put a guard on our dock space?”

  “Yes. There’s one out there now.”

  That was a help. She hoped that was a help.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she said, and signed off. Now for the ansible call home. Belinta’s ansible-access procedures worked normally, the status lights blinking appropriately through their sequences. She had no idea what time it would be at Vatta corporate headquarters, but it didn’t matter. They had someone on duty in the communications suite at all hours. The green lights blinked three times, and the screen lit, but showed no image.

  “Vatta Headquarters,” a voice said. “This call originated on Belinta. You are Captain Kylara Vatta, is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Ky said. This didn’t sound like standard procedure. “Are you transmitting visual? This screen is blank.”

  “Link your implant for urgent download,” the voice said without answering her question.

  “I don’t have an implant,” Ky said. “What is it? I was going to report a threat—”

  “Uh . . . go ahead. Report the threat.” She heard voices behind the voice she was listening to, as if the sound shielding weren’t on. She couldn’t quite hear what they were saying.

  “Unknown persons posing as dockworkers attempted to load an explosive device onto my ship,” Ky said. “The ship is safe and undamaged, but they got away.”

  “Understood,” the voice said. “We have a situation here, too, Captain. We are sending a warning to all ships; there appears to be the possibility of multiple threats to Vatta personnel.”

  “What kind of threats?” Ky asked.

  “I . . . am not at liberty to say,” the voice said.

  �
�Could you connect me to my father, please?” Ky said. She would find out more from him than from some communications tech. “Gerard Vatta? Or my uncle?”

  “Uh . . . I’m afraid that’s not possible at this time,” the voice said.

  “Why?” Ky asked. “He’s got his skullphone.”

  “He is . . .” A pause. “He is temporarily unavailable. Your message will be forwarded immediately and I’m sure he will want to speak with you.”

  Cold swept over her. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You said a threat—what’s happened?”

  “Captain—” Another pause. “It is not for me to say. There is a Situation.”

  “Are the senior officers all right?” Ky asked.

  “I believe so, yes.” Something in the voice conveyed doubt, not assurance.

  “But you aren’t sure—”

  “It’s the—” The screen blanked, and the status light went to yellow, blinking. SIGNAL LOST. DO YOU WANT TO RECONNECT? Y/N appeared instead. Ky sat back; she could feel her pulse racing. Whatever had happened had happened—instantaneous communication or no, whatever it had been was over. She could do nothing about it. She would try a direct call to her father—much more expensive, but at the moment money didn’t matter.

  She cracked open the booth door to let her security escort know that she would be making more calls, but before the door was fully open she saw a trio of masked figures push through the inner door of the lobby, weapons out. Her escort, standing at the desk chatting with the assistant manager, whirled, but too late: he was dead and so was the assistant manager before either of them could push a panic button. Ky ducked back into the booth, but did not latch the door; that would turn on the ENGAGED light. Instead, she held very still.

  “What room?” she heard one of the intruders ask. A mumble, then the same voice said, “Upstairs.” An instant of relief. She eased around to peek out the door. One of the figures was crouched over the bodyguard, going through his pockets. No chance then to run out the door and get help. She could almost feel the blow in her back if she tried it. But once they found she wasn’t in her room they’d search the place, including this booth.

  The booth held nothing she could use as a weapon. The booth could not be used for local calls—and would not function anyway without the door being latched, at which the telltale light would come on. All this ran through her mind, a cascade of logic that came down to one conclusion—and she was already in motion when she became aware of it.

  The masked figure frisking the dead guard had his back to her at the moment—five strides took her across the lobby. Three before he noticed anything and whirled, but she was already moving so fast that his hasty shot missed, and she was on him. Primary disarm—the weapon flew out of his hand and skidded across the floor. Her chop at his throat met a hard surface; he wore armor under his clothes. He uncoiled a vicious kick; Ky evaded it, whirling and noticing the movement of his left hand toward his side. The next weapon—instead of trying to intercept that movement, she dove toward the dead guard, snatching his weapon as part of a sideways roll, and shot her attacker square through his mask before he had his weapon all the way out. She recognized the stab of emotion that passed through her, sharp and sweet; a wave of guilt followed: Not again. She shook it away.

  Seconds had passed. They would be at her floor now. They would be opening the door. And how many were left outside, in case she managed to escape and try to flee? If she’d had an implant, she could have called for help by now. Ky reached over to the reception desk’s outside line. It hummed, and she punched in the local emergency code. A faint rhythmic buzz . . . three, four, five. Behind the reception desk was the office—she hadn’t been in it, but brief glimpses when the clerk came in and out suggested the usual work space, which might or might not have another exit. The corridor to the left led to the dining room, and from there to the kitchens and presumably another exit, which might also be covered by the assassins. But offices, dining rooms, and kitchens had lots of hiding places. Which . . . ?

  The lift hummed suddenly, then clanked into motion. The assassins? Or some innocent bystander? For the first time she thought about the other possible captains in residence. Two—but they might or might not be in their rooms. Around the desk, a glance at the assistant manager, a crumpled heap on the floor, at the monitor. The lift stopped, but now she heard footsteps on the stairs. No time to make it to the corridor. She ducked into the office with its desks, cabinets, shelves stocked with office supplies. Another door led into a smaller room that seemed to function as a storeroom for linens and cleaning supplies. She moved into it, checked that nothing had a reflective surface to reveal her to someone outside, and flattened against a stack of toilet paper cartons.

  Voices outside. “Piet’s dead . . . somebody’s given the alarm.”

  “Stupid bitch wasn’t in her room—could be her?”

  “Doesn’t matter. No time—we go now.”

  “Piet?”

  “Leave him. Come on.”

  Footsteps across the lobby floor, the squeak of the inner door opening, then hissing shut, a clear invitation to someone in hiding to emerge. Ky stayed where she was, counting to herself. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty. Something scraped, thumped faintly. The hair on her arms stood up; she held her breath. She hadn’t felt nausea this time when she killed, but now her stomach clenched. The outer door of the office swung suddenly, banged against the wall.

  “Hey! Anybody home? What’s going on here?”

  It was not the officials. A different voice, but not the officials because she would have heard the front door.

  “I seeeee youuu . . . ,” the voice mocked. “Better come out, sweetheart . . .”

  Ky held still. She could not be seen; she knew she could not be seen. She heard a breath drawn in, let out.

  “If you’re here, bitch, we’ll get you later,” the voice said, now quietly serious. “But I don’t think she is,” it went on, this time clearly a comment-to-self. “And here come the puds.” The footsteps retreated. She dared not peek out to see where the man went, but a moment later she heard a cry from the direction of the kitchen.

  Now the wheeze of the front doors, banging, stomping, clattering, several loud voices. Ky slid out of the storage room, her knees shaking with reaction, and looked out of the office to see a startled man in uniform staring at her.

  “Freeze!” he yelled, bringing his weapon to bear. Ky stopped. “Drop the weapon!”

  “But I’m the one—”

  “Drop the weapon!”

  Now there were five of them, their own weapons leveled at her. She dropped the guard’s weapon.

  “Get on the ground!”

  “But I’m the one who called—”

  “Now! Face down! On the ground!”

  “I’m the one who called you!” Ky said. “They were trying to kill me—!”

  “Get. On. The. Ground.”

  It was infuriating. How could they think she’d done it? Though she had killed the one. With a sigh, Ky got down on the ground. Feet came closer. It occurred to her, just as the feet came into her range of vision, that maybe these weren’t the police.

  “Who are you?” Ky asked. “I hope you’re official.”

  “We’re official all right,” a voice said overhead. “Just don’t give me any trouble now.”

  “There were three of them that I saw,” Ky said. “All with masks—”

  “Hands behind your back,” the voice said.

  Ky complied, in the hope they would finally listen to her when they had her trussed up. Instead, she was rolled over, propped against the wall, and told to stay put. The hand she’d whacked against the assassin’s armor throbbed unpleasantly. At least now she could see . . . men in dark green uniforms with markings she didn’t recognize on cuffs and collars. They were hunched over the dead clerk, with more beyond the desk.

  One of them came to her again. “Is this your weapon?” he asked, holding out the one she’d taken from her bodyguard.

&
nbsp; “No—it belonged to my security escort.”

  “Yours—he was working for you? Then why did you take his gun?”

  “He was dead at the time,” Ky said. “And the other one was trying to kill me.”

  The man looked at her sourly. “So you say—” A voice from down the corridor interrupted him.

  “Shem! Here’s another one!”

  The man left. Ky fretted. No one ever seemed to consider that the person being restrained might be innocent. Her instructors had commented on that fact when telling cadets how to behave if they were ever stopped by law enforcement. She’d already violated rules one and two: don’t be where trouble happens, and never be caught with a weapon in your hand.

  And here she sat, immobilized. What if the assassins came back? Her muscles twitched; she took a long breath, trying to calm herself.

  The man reappeared. “You say you’re the one who called us?”

  “Yes,” Ky said.

  “When? Why?”

  “Because of the attack,” Ky said. “I had seen them kill my bodyguard and the clerk, and then—”

  “Them? How many?”

  “Three on the inside,” Ky said. “I was over there in the combooth—” She gestured with her chin. “—when they came in. My bodyguard and the clerk were at the reception desk, chatting. The assassins shot them both, then two went upstairs. Looking for me, probably. The other was searching the guard’s body.” She stopped for a moment to get her thoughts in order.

  “Go on.”

  “I couldn’t use the combooth because the light would come on and they’d know where I was.”

  “Why do you think they were after you? You, particularly?”

  “I don’t know,” Ky said. “My engineer had just called to let me know that the fake cargo container put on my ship was explosive. Your colleagues up on the station can tell you more about that.” Should she even mention the call to Vatta headquarters, the lost connection? Yes. “I had called my company headquarters,” Ky said. “Apparently some group is targeting Vatta Transport. They were about to put out a warning. Then the connection failed, so I don’t know any more than that. Anyway, I couldn’t use the combooth, and I couldn’t see how to get out without him seeing me.”