"Sounds like a bad stormy night here," Meharry said.
"What I worried most about was a hydraulic leak," Barin said. "I'd been warned about those, and sure enough, there was one. And then, whether the bulkhead would hold—it was strained, and that's where the air was going." He told the next part quickly—how they'd put up the big patch, how they'd been told to go on and check the environmental tanks.
"Did you have moles in your unit?" Meharry asked.
"No; they were sending us some moles, they said, but in the meantime we could look at gauges and read them off. We had one guy with a chemscan . . ." He stopped, swallowed. "So we rigged emergency lighting. The deck was wet, of course, and part of it was icy as well. Pressure was way down, and the temperature."
"Was the fight still going on?"
"Yeah. But we were too busy to pay much attention. What I should have known was that we had the wrong kind of chemscan; the one we had was fine for the rest of the ship, but didn't identify organics. There was a spike . . ." He went on with the rest, gesturing to show where everyone had been, and what he'd tried to do. "I couldn't move, you see. Not without moving the oxygen around—it's dispersing all the time, of course, but moving would make it happen faster. And Ghormley, he was the youngest, the newest. I didn't realize—I thought I'd convinced him to stand still, but he thought I was moving—"
"He triggered it?" Meharry said.
"He was scared," Barin said. "I guess when I turned my head away from him, he thought we were leaving him alone, but I wouldn't have—"
"Of course not," Meharry said. "If you were that kind you'd have bolted for the airlock first thing, and blown them all up." He pursed his lips. "Kid should have listened to you."
"I said the wrong things," Barin said.
"I doubt it. You kept him there longer than he'd have stayed on his own, right? An' then he panicked. In the dark and cold, knowing he was standing in something that could blow him to bits . . . I can understand that, though he was wrong."
"I couldn't stop him," Barin said. "And if I'd known what I should have about the chemscan, it wouldn't have happened anyway—we'd have known it was a methane leak right off. Two people dead, several injured, because I thought Environmental was boring. . . ."
"I guess you do know about guilt," Meharry said. "So how did you survive, standing in the oxygen?"
"Blind luck," Barin said. "I don't know, really—I was knocked cold—but they said the explosion jammed me in between a couple of tanks. I came out fine." The bitterness in his own voice surprised him.
Meharry's eyebrows went up. "Fine? A medical evacuation here, and how many hours in the regen tanks?" He blew out a long breath. "With all due respect, sir, I think if I need the psychnannies, maybe you do too."
"Maybe I do," Barin said. Now he'd let it out, he could see the resemblance to his earlier experience, when he'd felt so inadequate because he couldn't save them all. "Sauce for the goose, eh? So neither of us gets to jump into the ocean. It's a deal, is it?"
"Deal, sir." They shook hands on it; Barin had the sense that he was shaking hands on another deal, one he didn't quite understand yet.
* * *
Rockhouse Major
* * *
Captain Terakian offered to let Esmay stay aboard, but she felt she had abused their hospitality enough.
"You will stay in touch?" he said. "I feel responsible—"
"I'll be fine," Esmay said. "Whether they let me back in or not, I'll be fine. And yes, I'll let you know."
Rockhouse Major had hostelries in every style and price range; Esmay checked into a modest hotel where she could afford to stay for weeks, if need be. She put her few clothes away, grimaced at the thought of having to shop for more, and went out to find a communications nexus. There she looked up "Brun Meager" in the Rockhouse Major database, and found long strings of news stories about her, but no address. She found the address subdirectory and tried again. Restricted. Well, that made sense. She entered "Brun Meager, agent of record" and got a name she'd never heard of: "Katherine Anne Briarly." A search on that returned only a comunit number. Esmay copied it to her handcomp, moved to a secure combooth, and entered the number. A screen came up with a message: "Sorry, it's the middle of the night here. If this is an emergency, please press 0; otherwise press 1 and put a message in my morning bin."
Option 1 gave her more choices: voice, text, video. Esmay chose voice and waited until the return signal came. "This is Esmay Suiza, formerly of the Regular Space Service," she said. "I need to contact Brun Meager; I'm presently at Rockhouse Major, at the Stellar Inn, room 1503."
She wasn't even sure which time zone Brun was in—assuming she was in this system at all. She walked back to the Stellar Inn, wondering if she should have stayed aboard the Fortune—was she really wasting money, as Goonar had said? But the very anonymity and blandness of the hotel's rooms—the dull colors and plain surfaces, so different from the Terakians' decor—helped her think through what it was she wanted to tell Brun, and what she thought Brun might be able to do. It seemed less practical here and now.
She stretched out on the beige-and-cream bedspread, and turned down the light. She might as well try to sleep. . . .
* * *
The comunit's beep woke her from a dream about Altiplano—not Barin for once—where she had been, for some dream-logical reason, sitting in an apple tree plaiting multicolored ribbons while children sang jingles down below. She reached for the comunit and eyed the time display. Six hours after she'd come back to the room—she'd had more than enough sleep.
"Esmay Suiza?" a woman's voice said. It didn't sound like Brun, but her voice had still been hoarse and scratchy when Esmay heard it last.
"Yes," she said.
"This is Kate Briarley. Does your room have a secure comunit?"
"No—there's one in the lobby."
"Here's my day number—"
* * *
In the secure booth, Esmay entered the number she'd been given. The screen lit almost at once, and the video pickup showed both Brun—still unmistakeably Brun—and another blonde woman who looked to be a few years older.
"Esmay—what's this I hear about you leaving Fleet? Did you quit, or did they boot you out?"
"Booted me out," Esmay said, unaccountably cheered by Brun's matter-of-fact tone. "You wouldn't have heard—Barin and I got married—"
"Good for you! Is that why?"
"Yes . . . it's all rather complicated. I wanted to talk to you, if I could."
"Ah—you haven't met Kate—" Brun nodded at the other woman. "Kate Briarly's from the Lone Star Confederation, and she's been helping me out, including with security. What with the assassinations and all, we're being careful."
"That's good," Esmay said.
"But you need to come on down, so we can talk. There's a twice-daily shuttle to Rockhouse Minor, which is all civilian; lots of people take it just to sightsee, and there are excursions to the planet from there, too. When you get to Rockhouse Minor, go to section B, give the guard at the private entrance your name, and say you're expected. You'll be passed through to a departure lounge for private shuttles. No one will bother you." She turned to Kate. "Should we go up and meet her?"
"I'd let your staff handle it," Kate said.
"Fine, then. A steward will tell you when the shuttle's ready . . . let me see . . . you can catch the Rockhouse Minor shuttle in about three hours—"
"If it's not full," Esmay said. "Is it usually booked in advance?"
"Yes, but it's usually half-empty anyway. Tell the concierge—they have some pull with the transit companies. Anyway, if you catch that one, then it'll be about two hours after you arrive before someone will be there to pick you up."
* * *
Rockhouse Minor was quieter than Rockhouse Major . . . less bustling. Esmay strolled down carpeted corridors bordered by exclusive shops with window displays arranged like works of art: small, jeweled, entrancing. Here a single shoe, draped with ropes of pearls. There a
scarf, behind a diamond necklace. An antique chronometer, a crystal decanter.
Section B turned out to be even more luxurious—the carpet, deeper piled, curved halfway up the bulkheads, and padded seats faced a series of aquaria, each housing a collection of rare marine life. The Lassaferan snailfish, with its elongated purple fin, looked as improbable as its name.
Ahead was a barrier in the form of a huge work of fabric art, with a guard kiosk in front of a gap in the fabric. The guard appeared to be alone and unarmed, but Esmay doubted this was the case.
"May I help you, sera?" the guard asked as she walked up.
"Yes, thank you. I'm Esmay Suiza. I'm expected." She felt silly saying this, even though it was true.
"Ah . . . yes. Excuse me, Sera Suiza, but may I see your identification?"
Esmay handed over the folder, and he checked it over. "If you would just put the fingers of both hands here . . ." She did so. "Thank you, sera; sorry to have delayed you. Go right on through."
As she passed through the opening, Esmay saw that immediately behind the tapestry was a large, efficiently-laid-out guardroom where a half-dozen uniformed personnel manned scan equipment, including a full-spec scan of the corridor she had just come down.
Ahead, in the lounge area, were more clusters of padded chairs as well as an area with tables and desks. She saw a couple of people chatting at a table . . . an older man lounging in one of the chairs . . . and no one else. She chose a chair, and sank into it. Almost at once, a green-vested steward came to her. "Would the sera care for any refreshments?"
"No, thank you," Esmay said. Whatever they served here would no doubt cost four times as much as the same food and drink somewhere else."
"Sera Meager wanted to be sure you were comfortable," the steward said. "This is the Barraclough private lounge, sera, and all refreshment is complimentary. There has been a slight delay in the shuttle; it will be several hours . . ."
She'd eaten at Rockhouse Major before she left, but that was now hours ago. "I don't suppose you have soup . . ." she said.
"Indeed we do, sera," said the steward, now looking more cheerful. By the time the shuttle arrived, Esmay decided that if she couldn't get back into Fleet, she wanted to work for someone who had this kind of life. She could easily get used to such luxuries.
* * *
The shuttle came in low over rolling hills, green fields and orchards . . . .much greener than her part of Altiplano, with no soaring mountains nearby. As the shuttle eased down, she saw a small stone building and a few groundcars, then—as it rolled to a stop—she saw two blonde women waving. Esmay braced herself for the impact of Brun's personality as the steward opened the shuttle door. Brun would have her own agenda for Esmay's visit; she needed Brun's help, but staying on track might be a problem. I'm not here to talk about fashion, she rehearsed mentally. I'm here to get into Fleet.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Terakian Fortune's Rockhouse Major docking space wasn't quite roomy enough for the entire pavilion, so Basil had put up only the sign and half the office segment. With the extra "crew" now helping Fleet with their inquiries, and all the Rockhouse cargo unloaded, he tried to estimate what their cubage and mass allowances were. Would any of the troupe come back? He hoped so; Goonar was grumpier than he'd been for years, muttering about lost time and wasted space—
"Hey there!" Basil looked up to see a tall, lean, square-shouldered man at the door of the office. Basil didn't like his tone. That man had been in authority somewhere, though he didn't look like the businessman his suit made him out to be. Military. Ex-Fleet? Not very ex by that settled air of command.
"Yes?" he said.
"How many passenger spaces have you?"
Basil's neck hairs stood up; he could feel the roughness on the back of his shirt collar. "Five, usually," he said. "But I'll have to check with the captain; we have a tentative reservation." He wanted Bethya back on this ship, if he had to drag her by the leg and shove her into Goonar's cabin.
"I'll take them," the man said. "Cash on the deck—isn't that what you free traders say?"
"Have a seat and I'll get the captain," Basil said.
"I'll just wait here," the man said. Basil noticed how he stood, half-concealed from the busy concourse beyond, but in position to jump either way. Basil had taken that same position himself more than once when dockside trouble threatened. He retreated to the inner door, stepped through, thumbed the call button for Goonar and came back out at once. The man had not moved, but gave him a sardonic look.
"The captain's on his way," Basil said.
Goonar, when he arrived, looked tired and depressed, but greeted the man politely, as he always did.
"Passenger space? Five cabins, but they're simple. This isn't a passenger liner."
The man gave Basil a sour look and turned back to Goonar. "Your . . . man . . . said you had a tentative reservation tying up one of those cabins. I'd like to pay cash for all of them, now."
"There was a deposit," Goonar said. Basil relaxed slightly; Goonar was going to stand behind him. "We don't renege on deposits."
"You said five," the man said.
"Total, yes. There may be five, if the person who reserved that place doesn't show up, but otherwise, there are four available. Where are you bound?"
"That's no concern of yours," the man said. "I want passage with you as far as Millicent."
"Umm. I presume your papers are in order, yours and the other passengers?"
"Of course; what do you take me for?" the man said, and Basil was suddenly sure he was lying.
"Because we don't transport fugitives," Goonar said stolidly, "or involve ourselves in politics of any kind. We list passengers on the manifest, which we provide to the Stationmaster prior to departure, just like the regular passenger lines. This is the policy of Terakian & Sons, and it is my duty as captain of a Terakian & Sons vessel to so inform anyone seeking passage with us."
The man sneered. "I'll wager you don't bother with that if it's a pretty girl."
"On the contrary, ser. The company is most particular, no matter the passenger's age or sex, to avoid any entanglements." Basil, knowing Goonar's every mood and tone, caught the tinge of study now forcing that flat, bland, almost boring voice. So Goonar had caught on to something as well.
"Well, it's no problem to me," the man said. He stretched, as if quite at his ease, but Basil knew that stretch was as studied and intentional as Goonar's bland tone. And as the man's arms went over his head to stretch, Basil caught a shadow that bespoke something under his jacket which ought not to be in the armpit of an ordinary businessman.
"Good," Goonar said. "Now our run from here to Millicent is sixteen days . . ."
"Sixteen days—! Isn't that rather leisurely?"
"We're not a fast passenger packet, ser; we're a cargo ship primarily."
"Hmmph. I've spent some time in ships myself, Captain; I . . . er . . . .lost my ship when the company lost a court action—that's why I'm on Rockhouse. Sold her, they did, to pay the fines."
Basil grunted. That was a stupid lie, if it was a lie, which he was sure of: court actions were public information, and he could check it. And would.
"I know that route, Captain," the man said. "There's a way to knock several days off it . . . it'd increase your profit."
"There's a flux-bight in there," Goonar said, "if you're talking about that yellow route."
"Oh, that—that's what they tell you," the man said. "You'd never even notice it; Fleet just yellow-tagged it because they want the fast routes for themselves." Then, as if he felt it needed explanation, he spread his hands. "My wife's cousin's in Fleet," he said. "He told me."
"Well, I'm not taking old Fortune on a yellow route, just to save a couple of days," Goonar said. "My company'd have my ears."
Basil saw the man's hand twitch, an involuntary movement quickly controlled.
"Not even if I offered a bonus? We really need to get to Millicent faster than sixteen days."
"W
hat can a couple of days matter?" Goonar asked. "Millicent's a bore anyway."
The man's face hardened. "It matters to me," he said. "Why isn't your concern. I'll pay extra for you to take the fast route, and I assure you the flux-bight is of no concern—I've gone that way many times myself. Not the slightest bobble."
A reddish tinge crept up Goonar's neck. "I'm not taking my ship through on the say-so of some stranger."
"Not for half again the fares? Man, that'd make your profit on the voyage by itself—"
"It wouldn't pay me for the ship if something did go wrong. You're maybe hazarding your own life; I'm hazarding my ship and my kin. No."
"Your ship." The man's lip curled, and Basil noticed that his knuckles had whitened as his fists clenched. Basil shifted his own weight, ready just in case. "Your ship is nothing but a fat-bellied old tramp—"
White patches stood out around Goonar's mouth. "Then I gather you won't want passage with us," he said. "Kindly clear the space."
"You—you fool!" The man turned on his heel and strode away; Basil leaned out the door to watch, as he headed on down Traders' Row.
"I reckon we should've gotten his name before we cut him loose," Goonar said. His normal color was returning. "Did he really think I'd let him send us into a trap?"
"What kind of trap?"
"You saw as well as I did that he was military. Could have been a mutineer, or just a bad `un turned out years ago and turned pirate."
"I wonder what he wanted at Millicent."
"I wonder what he wanted on that yellow route." Goonar scowled. "If I remember correctly, there's an extra jump point in there, with about a two-hour transit. You have to make a low-vee downjump, reorient the ship . . . in other words, it's the perfect place for an attack. But that would require another ship."
"Huh. If we knew about it, maybe we could trap the other ship and get a reward."
"What we could get is dead, Basil." Goonar shook his head. "I don't like this a bit. He'll find someone to take him on that route, him and whoever he's got with him. Did you notice anything else?"
Basil poured it all out, every detail he'd noticed, from the way the man stood in the door and wouldn't sit down to the twitch at Goonar's mention of the Fathers taking his ears—
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