“Ah. Then I wish you well, Captain.”
Ky called her barrister next, to report that the family crisis appeared to be over, but Stella was henceforth the acting head of Vatta Transport.
The barrister stared out of the screen with professional lack of expression. “If you’re quite sure—”
“I am.”
“Have you made a decision about Captain Furman?”
She hadn’t thought about Captain Furman for hours.
“I can assure you that the products of personality restructuring are harmless and obedient,” the barrister went on. “You need have no fear that he would be obstreperous, though he’s likely to be less intelligent than he was, and he will have little initiative.”
For a moment, the image of Furman as her servant—submissive, permanently under her control—roused a flash of satisfaction. She could pay him back well and truly for the misery he had caused her. Then that same image revolted her; he would be a permanent temptation to a part of herself she despised. And yet the alternative was death.
“Could Stella be his guardian?” Stella would not have the same temptation.
“No,” the barrister said, shaking her head. “This offer was made only to you, personally. And I remind you that it is considered the crueler punishment here.”
“I don’t want to be cruel,” Ky said. “I just—condemning someone to death—”
“It’s not your judgment,” the barrister said. “That judgment is our responsibility.”
It was their legal system, not hers, that would impose the punishments. Death, or destruction of him as a person, and reconstruction into what—to her imagination—seemed little more than a disabled slave. Did they suffer, the ones who underwent that procedure? What was the least evil here? Once again, when she tried to access the color bands of Saphiric Cyclan meditation, nothing happened.
“When do we have to say?” she asked.
“By tomorrow, second shift.” The barrister frowned. “I can see this bothers you, Captain Vatta; clearly you are an ethical person, and you see this as a choice of evils. We see it differently, and this is our jurisdiction. Perhaps I could recommend a religious counselor who could explain our point of view better?”
“No, thank you,” Ky said. Hard as the decision was, it would not come clearer by waiting; she knew that. She knew which she would prefer, if she were in Furman’s place. Was that what he would prefer? He had forfeited his right to her consideration of his preference, but she would take that last step. “I want to ask Captain Furman his preference. Is that possible?”
The barrister frowned again. “He is under close guard. I suppose I can ask the impoundment officials. This is highly irregular.”
“If I can’t speak to him, I will let your judgment stand,” Ky said. “Since life as someone else would be more abhorrent to me than death. But if I can ascertain his preference, then I feel bound to abide by it.”
“I will ask.”
Captain Furman’s answer, relayed from the impoundment, was, in the words of the impoundment officer, too profane to repeat precisely. “Basically, he said he’d rather be dead than under your guardianship,” the officer said. “He claims your family has done nothing but cheat and rob him since he first started working for it, but given his behavior since we took him into custody, I am not believing anything he says.”
“He wanted to marry into the family,” Ky said. “The girl married someone else while he was off on a voyage.”
“Ah. That sort. Well, it’s none of my business, Captain Vatta, but if I were you, I’d rather have a rotting fruit salad in my locker than have this one around, personality restructuring or no.”
“Thank you,” Ky said. “I will communicate with my barrister.”
The barrister nodded approval when Ky gave her decision. “Very wise, Captain. You have the prisoner’s own preference, and you have our tradition that death is a kinder punishment. You need not worry that he will suffer, except in a few days’ anticipation, which we can alleviate pharmacologically. Our method of execution is completely humane.”
Ky wondered if any death could be considered completely humane, but this was not the time to bring that up. “Thank you for your help,” she said. “My cousin Stella will be taking over as corporate manager, and I’m hoping you can suggest someone for corporate assistance if she chooses to stay on Cascadia.”
“Quite so,” the barrister said. “I will be delighted to be of service.”
Two down, more to go. Ky looked at her message stack. The canine reproductive services report informed her that Rascal was not only healthy but very fertile indeed, and the first straws of his sperm were already being traded for an astonishing price, higher than that originally mentioned. Toby’s education should be assured, at any school Stella found for him. She called Toby up from the engine room; Rascal, as usual, trotted along behind, tail wagging briskly.
“Things are going to change,” Ky said, after he sat down across from her. “Stella’s taking over as head of Vatta; she knows more about the business end than I do. You will stay with her—”
“I like ships!” Toby said. “And I’m not useless; I’ve been working hard—”
_______
“What about Rascal?” Toby reached down to scratch behind the dog’s ears.
“You’ll keep him, of course. He’s your dog now. Here on Cascadia, if Stella sets up here, he’s very valuable, and he’s already brought in enough to pay for most schools. With his potential in this system, you’ll have a nice nest egg when you come back to the fleet.”
“Will there be a fleet?” Toby asked. He looked very grown-up, except that his feet and his body still weren’t quite in proportion.
“Yes,” Ky said firmly. “Stella’s going to rebuild Vatta Transport, and I’m going to do what I can to make space safe for all traders again.”
Toby scowled a moment; Rascal jumped into his lap and licked his face. Toby laughed, then, and grinned at Ky. “I guess it won’t be too bad. School, I mean. Other kids again. More space…”
“Stella’s deciding where to set up,” Ky said. “When she finds a place, you need to be ready to go.”
“I might even get home again someday,” Toby said. “If my parents—” His voice trailed off.
“If your parents are alive—and they could be—they’ll be very proud of you,” Ky said. She would miss Toby’s bright-eyed presence, and even the clickety-click of Rascal’s nails on the deck. But not the responsibility of having a youngster aboard in dangerous times. “How long will it take you to pack?”
“Not long,” Toby said. “I’ll be ready.”
Next in the queue were memos on the cargo that she had carried, that the Kat had carried—queries from buyers, requests from shippers for space on the next departure. She shunted those to Stella’s account. A relief not to have to deal with that anymore. Then the application for a new registration for her own ship. With her identity officially confirmed, so also was her right to possess the ship. Re-registration would be approved on payment of the fee, and what name would she like to use?
She had thought of many names, names as old as fighting ships from the wet navies of Earth’s ancient past: Vengeance, Victory, Vanguard, Invincible, Defiant, Dreadnought, Enterprise. If she wanted the vessel to pass as a tradeship with a privateer’s authorization, she should use a more peaceful name, but if she committed to a purely military mission…a fighting ship should have a fighting name.
Could she use one of the old names without disrespect? She shrugged. Probably every space militia and every wet navy had reused the best of them; originality mattered less than the effect of a name on the crew and the enemy. Osman’s ship deserved a good name, a strong name. Victory was too pretentious; it would be foolish to claim victory before winning it. Vanguard, though: that would work. A pioneer, a leader, that’s what she meant to be. Where she meant to be.
No ship in the current Cascadia registry used that name. She entered it; the ship chip woul
d be programmed and delivered within twenty-four hours after payment of the very large fee. She entered the fee transfer.
_______
Next morning, the systemwide ship status board listed Sharra’s Gift insystem, headed for Cascadia on a fast transit, with docking expected in three days. Ky suspected Argelos had come looking for her, and went on with preparations for departure. By the start of second shift, Stella called to report that she’d found living and office space.
“You want me to send Toby over?”
“If he’s ready. You’d better send an escort, in case someone throws a fit over that dog.”
“We can put Rascal in a carrier.”
“Good idea. I found a garden apartment up on West-five, would you believe? These people are crazy about trees.”
“I’d noticed,” Ky said.
“Thanks for setting things up with Crown & Spears. They’ve informed their branches within ansible range, so we can transfer funds among them as needed. I wish we could get at Furman’s accounts.”
“It’ll cost us in legal fees,” Ky said. “Even if other jurisdictions honor Cascadia’s judgments. But it’s up to you.”
“I’ve already got the core crew for the Kat,” Stella went on. “She’ll be ready to go only a day or so late. And we have cargo.”
“Excellent,” Ky said. “I’d like to put a shipboard ansible in Gary Tobai and also leave one for you here. That way we can stay in contact. Maybe you can find someone to manufacture them here, get them aboard all Vatta ships.” Though that would be perilous, if ISC found out.
“That’s a good idea,” Stella said. “It gives Vatta a definite trade advantage, too. Send them right over; I’ll tell the captains to expect them. Are you sending an installation crew?”
“Yes,” Ky said. “And something else—there’s a Slotter Key ship insystem—”
“I saw that,” Stella said. “Friend of yours?”
“I think so. I’ve got to talk to my crew—do you think I should talk to the Cascadia government about my plans?”
Stella considered a moment. “I’d ask Rafe, actually. My sense is that they’re either easygoing or very rigid, from issue to issue; he’s been here before so he might know which.”
“I need to talk to him anyway,” Ky said.
_______
Rafe listened to her plans.
“I think it’s time for me to leave you,” he said when she had finished.
Though she had half expected this response, Ky felt a pang. She had grown used to his quick wit, his astonishing technical expertise, even his ability to throw her off balance. She waited to see if he would say more.
“Starting an interstellar space force is your thing, not mine,” he went on. “And I need to get back in touch with ISC. I haven’t gone to the local office; my instincts tell me something’s wrong at headquarters, and I don’t want to advertise myself right now.”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to go home,” Ky said.
“This is an emergency situation,” Rafe said. “Something’s wrong—beyond the pirates, I think—or a lot more of the ansibles would be back up. My father may not want me to stay, but he’s not likely to have me intercepted on arrival, and I’ve got important information that I don’t want to transmit by any other means. Those shipboard ansibles you won’t promise not to use, for instance.”
Ky nodded.
“And some of your crew will be glad to see me go,” Rafe said. “Martin still doesn’t trust me, even though he likes my skills. I’m going to go tell Stella where I’m going; I’ll be back to say a more formal good-bye.”
On that, he turned away, and Ky went back to her planning. How was she going to finance a fleet? Outfitting one ship had been expensive enough, but outfitting more…she had to get the cooperation of allies, governments or…or someone. Stella called to say that she was ready for Toby and gave the address of her apartment. Ky saw him off; the ship seemed too quiet when he’d left, even though he hadn’t been a noisy boy. It was the dog, she told herself. She was glad to be rid of it. It smelled; ships had enough off odors without dog.
The next morning, she was finishing the order to the chandler for rations when Rafe appeared at her office door, dressed in a stylish business suit instead of the casual shipsuit he’d worn for weeks.
“You scare Stella,” he said, lounging against the bulkhead.
“I doubt it,” Ky said, marking the order COMPLETE and sending it on. She turned to the wish list the Gannetts had given her for additional munitions.
“Seriously,” Rafe said. “And she’s not easily scared. She’s quite brave, Stella, in her own way.”
Ky could not think of anything to say to that—she hadn’t ever said Stella wasn’t brave—so she went on scrolling down the list of munitions. Cascadia didn’t have anything as big as MilMart Express, back on Lastway, but they had two dealers who carried most of what the Gannetts wanted. Question was, could she afford it?
“I wonder if you even know what you are,” Rafe went on, in the half-teasing tone that heated the back of Ky’s neck.
“I think so,” Ky said, without looking up. “Human, youngish, female…which to you means natural prey, I suppose.” She glanced at him.
For an instant before his mask slid back in place, Rafe looked both startled and horrified. “You wrong me, Captain. My natural prey is smug fools. Young women…well, those who aren’t smug fools anyway…find in me the older brother they wish they’d had.”
Ky let out a snort of laughter. “You? A protective big brother?”
Rafe scowled at her. “I see you don’t believe me, and that’s within your rights. Think anything you like of me. But, Captain—I was serious about you scaring Stella, and about you yourself. You know what you have inside, and I’m not talking about the cranial ansible.”
Ky felt a cold chill.
“You’re a killer, Captain. I’ll wager anything you like that you didn’t know it until it happened. That you thought you were the way Stella described you to me years ago—a nice girl, a conscientious, earnest, dull, hardworking, respectable member of your family.” He cocked his head. “I’m right, and you know it. Good Ky, the straight-arrow counter to foolish Stella.” He paused; Ky said nothing. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. “And then you killed for the first time. And deep down, somewhere inside, you felt something you had never felt before. You liked it.”
“I—” Ky clamped her jaw shut again. He was right; he had seen it. Did everyone see it?
“I saw you, you know, when you came from killing Osman. Up to then, all that glee, all that determination to mix it up yourself with the invaders—that could’ve been the military training you had, or the bravado of ignorance. I wasn’t sure. But after that—I knew. You didn’t just kill him; you enjoyed killing him.”
The images flooded her mind: the whirling chaos of that fight…the final moments, when she had, indeed, taken great pleasure. Shame flooded her; she felt her face going hot with it even as Rafe’s voice went on.
“The thing is, Captain, when a good person like you discovers a bad pleasure—a guilty pleasure—there’s things you must do to survive. You’re not an Osman; you don’t want to be like him—”
“Maybe—” Ky choked, but forced the words out. “Maybe I am like him; maybe this is how he started.”
“No.” Rafe’s voice held no doubt. “No, you’re not. You’re a good person—a decent person—who happens to take pleasure in killing bad people.”
“No good person—”
“Listen to me. I know what you’re dealing with.” Rafe reached out—rather gingerly, Ky noticed even in that moment—and touched her shoulders. “You are not the first person to have this experience. Most people, you’re right, don’t enjoy killing. They throw up, they cry—”
“I threw up. The first time.”
“Yes. Normal physiological response. I’m sure they told you that in the Academy.”
“Yes, they did.” Ky tried to steady h
er breathing.
“Most people take no pleasure in killing; that’s probably biologically important, or we’d have wiped out the human race before now. But a small percentage do, and it’s like being able to taste certain flavors or smell certain smells—it’s innate, not something you choose. Do you understand that?”
“I…don’t see how it can be. Not on worlds like Slotter Key anyway. We have genetic screening; parents can choose gene-mod packets…”
“But the gene components of pleasure in killing aren’t defined,” Rafe said. “At least not on my world, which is at least as advanced as yours.”
“How do you know that?”
“How do you think?” He grimaced. “Captain, what I recognize in you is what I carry in myself.” He stopped, and stared into nothing; Ky did not move or speak. Finally he went on. “When I was quite young, ten or eleven, someone subverted the security at our summer cottage. They got in sometime during the afternoon, we think. Hid until after we children were in bed. My parents were out for the evening; the nanny was downstairs chatting with the cook.” He paused, shook his head. “I woke up—I still don’t know why. A noise, a movement of air. Whatever, I woke up all at once, and turned on the light.” Another pause, this one longer. Ky recognized his inward expression.
“He was in a programmable skinsuit,” Rafe said. “Black when I turned the light on, but shifting in a few seconds to a mobile camouflage—you had those in the military, I’m sure.” Ky nodded, but said nothing. “Hard to follow the movements, with the colors flaring and fading across the suit. I was off the bed in a flash, you can believe, and tried to get to the door past him; he grabbed me and I started fighting. I’d been taking martial arts classes since I was seven, but I was only a child, and he was an adult. I used everything I had, but he would’ve taken me…except that I’d bought a display sword, one of those Old Earth replicas, and my instructor had had me practice a few strokes. I managed to grab it off its display hanger and hit his wrist hard enough to make him let go. The thing was blunt, of course, and probably wouldn’t have gone through the skinsuit even if it’d been sharp, but edge-on the blade had enough force to crush his windpipe with the backswing from that first blow. I didn’t even realize what I’d done—he let go, and I went for the house alarm.”
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