Hunting Party

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Let’s start from the bottom up,” he said over the suit radio. She could hear his voice, but not the clear words, through the helmets; it formed an irritating echo. “Worst first, and then we can give you an estimate.”

  Heris had always hated suit drill, and even after the suit had saved her life she still disliked it; she hated being closed in with her own breath sounds and the hissing of the air supply. She had two hours of air in her own rebreathing tanks, and the exterior connector allowed her to plug into Station air in any compartment with a vent, but she felt smothered.

  In the lowest environmental level, her own moles were already suited; they managed to look sheepish even in suits, as well they ought.

  “Mr. Brynear,” she said to her moles. “He’s in charge of this overhaul.”

  “And here are my shift supervisors,” Brynear said “Herak Santana, first shift; Allie Santana, second shift, and Miko Aldovar on third. Any time I’m not here, one of them will be; I expect to be here most of the time, but I may have to goose inventory control if you people are in as bad shape as you said.”

  The shift supervisors, in bicolored orange and silver suits, stood out from the orange-suited crew, but nonetheless had name and position stenciled on front and back of both suit and helmet. By local time, it was now second shift; the first shift supervisor waved to Brynear, who nodded, and then left. The second shift supervisor’s voice came over the radio.

  “Captain, would you have your crew secure compartments.”

  “Certainly.” This command she could give herself, direct to the computer; the compartment hatches slid shut. Status lights changed, and they all moved to connect their suits to the compartment’s exterior air supply vent. From now on they would have to take care not to tangle each other’s umbilicals. “Confirm external air . . .” she said, and waited for each response before nodding to Brynear.

  Brynear pointed to one of the ship’s moles. “Let’s take a look at the scrubber that’s looking worst on the computer.”

  Inside the first protective shell, streaks of black slime marked the joints of the inner cover, and corrosion had frozen the bolts. Heris noticed that the gas sensors had gone red, instantly. One of the refitting techs grunted. “Who’d you say was supposed to have done the refit? And how far back?”

  “Never mind, Tare,” Brynear said. He moved over to look; when he tapped the scrubber with a wrench, more black goo oozed out. The readouts on the scrubber shell were all offscale. “That’s the owner’s problem; ours is fixing this mess. And I can tell right off we’re going to need more equipment. You were right, Captain, this is an emergency refit if ever I saw one.” His orders to his crew were, Heris heard with relief, as decisive as she’d have heard in a Fleet dock, and his explanation to her assumed that she would understand the technicalities.

  “We’re going to have to vacuum your entire system—and this Yard charges for hazardous storage. On the other hand, if it’s this thick it may generate enough methane to pay part of your storage fee. And we’ve got a repair job in, a big Overhull tanker, that’s going to need a whopping inoculation of its hydroponics. . . . I might be able to do a deal with them.”

  “Safety first, then speed,” Heris said. “Money counts, but only third.”

  “Fine. We suck everything out, sort it, clean and repair, and put back your basic inoculum. . . . How about the living quarters—did you have much contamination up there?”

  “No, probably because of the oversized filters; I kept thinking I smelled it the last day or so, but the sensors didn’t react.”

  “Then we’ll try a wet flush there—saves time—but the bottom end is going to be a bitch.”

  “Estimate?”

  “Full crews—and it’ll depend on whether we replace units or rebuild them—”

  “Replace ’em,” Heris said. “Anything you can.”

  “Forty-six hours,” he said. “And that’s spending your owner’s money flat out. Can’t be done in less than forty-two, if everything goes right, and it won’t. Might be a little longer. . . .”

  “Do your best,” Heris said.

  * * *

  She had not expected real speed from a civilian refitting firm, but when Brynear’s crews moved into high gear, she realized that they made their profit from speed. By mid-shift, four great hoses were draining the muck from Sweet Delight into the Yard storage tanks. Half the damaged scrubbers were out; Brynear, she noticed, was meticulous about giving credit for those which could be rebuilt. She and Brynear had documented the condition of scrubbers, chambers, and pipes; Lady Cecelia should have no trouble making a claim on Diklos & Sons. Or for that matter a case against Captain Olin.

  In the second half of the shift, new components stacked up in the access bay: scrubbers, environmental chambers, parts, controls. Brynear and Heris inspected them together helmets off.

  “We don’t have enough to give you a matched set,” he said. “You’ll get thirteen Shnairsin and Lee 4872’s, same as original equipment, and seven Plekhsov 8821’s. Personally I prefer the Plekhsovs—we use ’em a lot as replacements and I think they’re tougher—but I’d give you a matched set if I could. The performance specs are identical . . . here.” Heris looked at the printout and passed it to her moles.

  “That’s good enough,” she said. “What about environmental chambers? And the runs?”

  “You’ll have to have new chambers—every single culture either overgrew or was contaminated by one that did. Again, we have Shnairsin and Lee, but I recommend Tikman. They’ve come out with a lining that really is better—we’ve had about five years’ experience with it.”

  “Go with the Tikman,” Heris said. The Regs had seven years experience with the new polymer lining; she hadn’t realized it was available on the civilian market. “The runs?”

  He frowned. “That depends on whether you want to put up with a little pitting. We can cut out the worst, and patch—we have good pipefitters, and I guarantee you won’t have turbulence problems at the joints. Or we can pull them all and restring the runs. Pitting . . . it’s not dangerous, once we cut out the really bad patches, but you’d want to replace it within a year or two. It’d get you where you’re going, safe enough. Restringing all the runs will really squeeze the time I gave you.”

  “So would finding all the bad places, and being sure of them,” Heris said. He nodded. “I want a safe ship, Mr. Brynear; I’ll take my owner’s heat if you run a little over. But . . .”

  “It better be worth it—I understand that. I tell you, Captain, I’m really shocked at Diklos. They used to be good. I’d have trusted ’em with my own ship, if I couldn’t get here.”

  “Mistakes happen,” Heris said, somewhat grimly. “But not on my ship, not again. Now, if you have the hard copy estimates, I’ll go see Lady Cecelia.”

  Chapter Five

  Even in the garish purple uniform, Heris felt more comfortable on the dockside, with honest ribbed deck-plates and not plush carpet beneath her feet. Everyone here worked on ships, and in that way everyone here was one of her kind, someone she understood. After a walk long enough to make her legs ache, she came out of Velarsin & Co., Ltd.’s docks and into the commercial sectors. She was glad she’d thought to have her luggage taken ahead, with her employer’s. Here, sleek transport tubes marked one side of the walkway; fronting the other were shops, hotels, and eating places. None of the great logos bannered here, but often locals were as good. Heris stopped to consult a map display, and decided to take a tram the rest of the way to Lady Cecelia’s hotel. As usual, the good hotels were as far as possible from the rumble and clatter of hard work.

  * * *

  She walked through a narrow door, with only the engraved plate with Selenor in slightly archaic script to indicate the identity, into a lobby that reached the stars. After one flinching look, she realized it only seemed to. The geometry of this Station allowed those with inside exposure to use the entire interior well as a private display. Those tiny lights were on the far side . .
. except for the interior transports, sliding along maglines.

  Meanwhile, the concierge was already smiling at her. “You must be Captain Serrano. . . . Lady Cecelia gave us your description.”

  “Yes—”

  “And your room is ready, Captain. In the mauve tower, 2314, adjoining hers. Lady Cecelia said she didn’t know when you might be in, but she supposed you’d like something to eat at once.”

  “How very thoughtful.” She was hungry, now that she thought of it, but she needed to see her employer first.

  “She said to tell you she would be resting, but—oh, wait. The light’s changed. She’s up again. I’ll let her know you’re on your way, shall I?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The mauve tower droptubes were scented with a warm flowery fragrance that made Heris think of summer on one of the planets with native grasslands. She emerged into a small lobby splashed with soft color, and felt like a large purple blot. Lady Cecelia’s suite unfolded its entrance for her, and a gust of pine fragrance overlay the summer grasslands. Heris felt its carefully engineered stimulants flicking her cortex, and resented it.

  “Ah . . . Captain Serrano. And how is the Sweet Delight?” Lady Cecelia was not giving a millimeter. She wore a formal dinner gown, cream-colored and drapey, with her graying hair swept up to a peak by a jade clip. Behind her Heris could see a table set for two. Heris wondered who her guest would be. The entire sitting room of the suite seemed to be lined with mauve plush, on which cream-colored furniture floated like clouds in an evening sky.

  “Missing a lot of essential equipment,” Heris said. “I’ve authorized replacement rather than repair, since that is quicker and Diklos should reimburse you. They’re keeping a complete record of the damage for legal use.”

  “Ah. And will we be out of here in forty-eight hours?”

  “Very likely, but I cannot guarantee that. Sixty is the outside limit.” Heris looked around. “If you’ll excuse me, milady, I’d like to clean up and eat something before I go back to the ship.”

  Lady Cecelia’s brows raised. “Go back? Surely you’re going to rest. . . . I intended you to eat dinner with me. Don’t you remember?” Heris had forgotten, but she couldn’t say that. Besides, the ship mattered more.

  “Considering what happened last time she was in for work—”

  “Nonsense. You need sleep the same as anyone else. At least, have dinner here. . . . Go freshen up, get out of that uniform, and relax awhile.” Heris wondered if she had correctly interpreted the tone of that uniform.

  “Umm . . . milady . . . you would prefer that I not wear your uniform here?”

  Lady Cecelia’s lips pinched; she sighed. “I would prefer that my sister Berenice had not tried to compensate me for Ronnie by insisting that I use her decorator. I would prefer I had had the wit to refuse, but I was already rattled by the change in schedule, by Ronnie, by his friends—”

  Mental gears whirled. “You don’t . . . ah . . . like all that lavender plush?”

  “Of course not!” Lady Cecelia glared at her. “Do I look like the kind of silly old woman who would?” That was unanswerable; Heris kept her face blank. Lady Cecelia shook her head and emitted a snort that might have been anger or laughter, either one. “All right. You don’t know me; you couldn’t tell. But I don’t like it, and I’m having it out as soon as I decently can. Your uniform—that’s another thing Berenice insisted on. Captain Olin had always worn black, and Berenice thought it was dull and old-fashioned.”

  “Surely,” Heris said carefully, “there’s something between black and loud purple with scarlet and teal trim?”

  Lady Cecelia snorted again, this time with obvious humor. “You don’t know the worst: Berenice wanted me to approve cream with purple and teal trim. She told me the gaudier it was, the more a new captain would be impressed. The purple was the darkest thing offered.”

  “Ah. Then you wouldn’t mind if I . . . modified this a bit?”

  “Be my guest.” Lady Cecelia scowled again. “Although I don’t suppose you can arrange a complete redecoration while we’re here?”

  Heris grinned, surprising herself as much as her employer. “To be honest, milady, I’ve wanted to get that lavender plush off the access tube bulkheads—for safety reasons, I assure you—since I first came aboard.”

  “Safety reasons?” Now Lady Cecelia grinned, more relaxed than Heris had yet seen her. “What a marvelous idea! Is it true?”

  “Oh, yes. There’s a lot hidden on your ship that shouldn’t be—it’s pretty, but it’s hard to see trouble in the early stages. We certainly don’t have time here for a complete redecoration, but a little undecorating won’t slow things down.”

  “Well. Good. Now, about dinner . . .”

  “Let me change into something comfortable. Ten minutes?”

  * * *

  Heris returned to her employer’s suite in her own off-duty clothes—the first time she’d worn them since leaving the Service. Since Lady Cecelia was wearing a formal dinner gown, she put on her own, and had the satisfaction of seeing her employer truly surprised.

  “My dear! I had no idea you looked like that!” Then Lady Cecelia blushed. “I’m sorry. That was unforgivable.”

  “Not really, although it was your uniform that made me look the other way.” Heris knew very well what the close-fitting jet-beaded bodice did for her; the flared black skirt swirled around her ankles as she came to the table. She would never have the advantage of Cecelia’s height, but she had learned to use color and line to compensate. “Oh—one last bit of business before dinner . . . what about the inquest on Iklind?”

  “Not a problem.” Lady Cecelia slipped into her seat and picked up her napkin. “With the documentation you supplied, and the medical evidence from Timmons, this will be treated as an obvious accident.”

  Heris sat down; she knew she shouldn’t continue the subject at table, but questions cluttered her mind. “I wish—”

  “Not now,” Lady Cecelia interrupted her. “We can discuss this later, if you wish, though I would prefer to wait until tomorrow, local time. By then forensics should have confirmed the cause of death, and I’ll know more.”

  Heris blinked. She had not realized that Lady Cecelia would be dealing with the legal problems of Iklind’s death while she worked on the ship; she had thought she would have to do it all herself.

  Dinner arrived, with a cluster of attendants. Heris found herself staring at a tiny wedge of something decorated with a sprig of green.

  “Lassaferan snailfish fin,” Lady Cecelia commented. “The garnish is frilled zillik. We grew that aboard, before—at one time.”

  Heris tasted the snailfish fin, which had been dipped in a mustardy sauce; it had an odd but winsome flavor, perfectly complemented by the zillik. She had eaten at places that served this sort of food, usually while on a political assignment, but the Service favored less quixotic cuisine. One rarely had time to spend hours at the table. She hoped she would not have to spend hours at dinner now—with the relaxation induced by comfortable clothes, she had begun to realize how tired she was.

  Next came a hot soup, its brilliant reds and golds contrasting with the pallid snailfish fin. Fish and vegetables, flavors well-blended, with enough spice to make her eyes water . . . “Sikander chowder,” Lady Cecelia said, smiling. “Good when you’re tired. I used to have this a lot when I was competing.” Heris wondered what she’d competed at, but didn’t ask; she could have eaten two bowls of the chowder, and twice as many of the crisp rolls served alongside it.

  “This is delicious,” she said, as she finished the chowder.

  “I thought you’d like that,” Lady Cecelia said. “I’m going to try their roast chicken and rice, but if you want more chowder just say so.”

  Courtesy and appetite argued, and courtesy won; Heris let the waiter remove her soup plate and accepted the roast chicken—slices of breast meat, marinated and grilled after roasting, formed the wings of a swan; its body was a mound of spiced
rice. The graceful head and neck had been artfully formed of curled spicegrass. She took a cautious bite of the rice—ginger? mustard? coriander?—and devoured it with almost indecent haste. She had been hungrier than she knew. . . . The slices of chicken disappeared, then the spicegrass.

  The next course seemed out of sequence to Heris, but she realized that Lady Cecelia could set her own standards. Still, the platter of fruit, ’ponics-grown melons and berries, didn’t suit her at the moment. She nibbled a jade-green slice of melon, to be polite. Lady Cecelia, too, seemed as ready to talk as eat. She began with a question about the literature studied at the Academy—one of her great-nephews had said no one there read Siilvaas—was that true? Heris recognized this opening and added to her reply (yes, they read Siilvaas, but only the famous trilogy) a comment about a more contemporary writer. For a few minutes they discussed Kerlskvan’s recent work, feeling out each other’s knowledge. Lady Cecelia had not read the first novel; Heris had not read the third most recent.

  The cheeses came in; the fruit remained. Heris sliced a wafer of orange Jebbilah cheese, and floated a comment about visual arts. Lady Cecelia waved that away. “As for me,” she said, “I like pictures of horses. The more accurate it is, the better. Aside from that I know nothing about the visual arts, and don’t want to. I was made to study it when I was a girl, but since then—no.” She smiled to take the sting out of that. “Now, let me ask you: what do you know about horses?”

  “Nothing,” Heris said, “except that we had to have riding lessons in the Academy. Officers must be able to sit a horse properly for ceremonial occasions: that’s what they said.” In her voice was much the same contempt her employer had expressed for visual arts. Anyone who could prefer a horse picture, good or bad, to one of GorginI’s explosive paintings . . .