Hunting Party

by Elizabeth Moon

  “You don’t like them?” Lady Cecelia asked.

  “What—horses? Frankly, milady, to a spacer they’re simply large, dirty, smelly animals with an appalling effect on the environmental system. I remember one time having to inspect a commercial hauler which was taking horses somewhere—why, I can’t imagine—and it was a mess. I don’t blame the animals, of course. They evolved on a planet, and on something the size of a planet there’s enough space for them. But in the hold of a starship? No.”

  “Did you like riding them?” asked Lady Cecelia. She had a mild, vague expression which didn’t suit her.

  Heris shrugged. “It wasn’t as bad as some of the other things we had to learn. I did fairly well, in fact. But it’s so useless—when would anyone need to ride a horse anywhere?”

  “Only on uncivilized planets where it rains without permission,” Lady Cecelia said. Heris was sure she detected an edge to her voice, but the expression stayed mild. Belatedly, she remembered that the reason her employer so wanted to be on time was for the start of the “fox-hunting season” which had something to do with horses.

  “Of course,” she said, “many people do enjoy them. Recreationally.”

  “Yes.” This time the edge was unmistakeable. “Many people do. I, for one. Did your lessons at the Academy ever include riding them in the open—across country?”

  “No—we had all our lessons in an enclosed ring.”

  “So you have no experience of real riding?”

  Heris wondered why riding in a ring was not real. The horse had been large and had smelled like a horse. The sore muscles she got from riding had been real enough. But from her employer’s face, this was not going to be a popular question. “I haven’t ridden anywhere but in those lessons, no,” she said cautiously.

  “Ah. Then I suggest a wager.” This with a bright-eyed glance that made Heris suddenly nervous.

  “A wager?”

  “Yes. If the refitters are finished, and we clear this station forty-eight hours after we arrived—no, fifty hours, for you will need a little time, I’m sure, to ready for departure—then you win, and I will submit to be lectured by you on visual arts for ten hours. If, however, we are delayed, you lose, and will owe me ten hours, which I shall use in teaching you to ride—really ride—on my simulator.”

  “An interesting wager,” Heris said, nibbling her cheese. “But that assumes that I want to bore you with ten hours of visual arts, which I don’t—I’m an admirer of some artists’ work, but no expert. What I wish you knew more about was your own ship. Suppose, if I win, you spend ten hours with me learning how to tell if your refitters did a good job?”

  “You are that confident that we will be out in fifty hours?”

  “I am confident that, either way, we will both learn something worthwhile,” said Heris. Lady Cecelia flushed.

  “You’re mocking me—you don’t think riding is worthwhile!”

  “No, milady. I am not mocking you, which would be both rude and foolish. You think it is important; I have not, up until now, but perhaps I’m wrong. If I lose, you have the chance to convince me. And I’m very sure that you would have been spared expense and inconvenience both had you known more about the workings of your yacht. Did you always take the horse a . . .” She struggled for the word, then remembered it. “A groom brought you, and get on and ride away? We were taught to inspect the . . . the tack . . . for ourselves, to look at the animal’s feet—”

  “Hooves,” put in Lady Cecelia, cooler now.

  “Hooves, and see if it had any problems.”

  “I see your point,” Lady Cecelia said. “No, certainly I did not take my grooms’ word for everything.” The quick color had gone from her cheeks, and she seemed to have recovered her earlier good humor. “Very well, then: if you win, I will study my yacht’s particulars, and if I win, you will study horsemanship. Is it agreed?”

  “Certainly.” Heris reached across and shook her employer’s hand. How hard could it be, after all? The simulator wasn’t a real horse; it couldn’t step on her, or bite her, or run away with her.

  Whatever else she might have said was interrupted by a chime; Lady Cecelia touched the table’s control pad and the concierge’s voice announced that her nephew and his friends were on their way up.

  “No—I don’t want to see them!” Lady Cecelia said. Heris noticed the quick flow and ebb of color to her face.

  “I’m sorry, milady; they’re already in the tube.”

  “Blast it!” Lady Cecelia half rose from her chair, and the attendants scurried to help her. She waved them away, reseated herself, and glanced at Heris. “I apologize, Captain, for the past moment and the coming hour. I’ll get rid of them as soon as I can.”

  “Aunt Cecelia, it’s unforgivable!” That was Ronnie, first in the door when it opened. “That disgusting captain of yours put us in a cheap place as far from here as you can imagine; they don’t even have a—” He stopped abruptly as Heris turned to face him. She was delighted to see how far his jaw dropped before he got it back under control.

  “It’s the captain,” said George unnecessarily. The two young women looked ashamed of themselves and their companions; the blonde one opened her mouth and shut it; the dark one spoke up in a soft voice.

  “That’s a lovely dress, Captain Serrano.” Heris noted that Ronnie gave her a disgusted look, so she smiled at the young woman . . . Raffaele, she thought her name was.

  “Thank you,” she said sweetly. “I’m glad you appreciate it.”

  “You might want to know,” Lady Cecelia said, in a stiff voice, “that I approved your assignment to that hotel. If you want to blame someone, blame me. Captain Serrano has been far too busy saving our lives to spare any energy to make your lives miserable.”

  Ronnie was a strange color two shades darker than bright pink.

  “What is unforgivable,” Lady Cecelia went on, “is your rude intrusion into my dinner and private conversation, and your insulting my captain. You will apologize to Captain Serrano, now—or you can find your own way home and take whatever punishment you get, which I am sure you richly deserve.”

  “Here, now—” began George, but Lady Cecelia quelled him with a glance. Ronnie looked from one to the other, and gave a minute shrug.

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Cecelia . . . and Captain Serrano. It was not—I didn’t mean to be rude—I just—”

  “Wanted your own way. I know. And that is an entirely inadequate apology. You called Captain Serrano ‘disgusting’; you will retract that.” Heris had not realized that any civilian could sound so much like a flag officer. Suddenly it was easy to imagine Lady Cecelia in full dress uniform with braid up to her shoulders.

  Ronnie’s flush darkened and his lip curled; the glance he shot Heris was unchastened and furious. “I’m sorry, Captain Serrano,” he said between his teeth, “that I referred to you as ‘disgusting.’ It was ungentlemanly.” Heris nodded, dismissing it. She would say nothing that might make things worse between aunt and nephew.

  “You may go now,” Lady Cecelia said. She picked up her glass and sipped. Heris doubted if she knew whether she had water or wine in it. The girls turned to go at once; George backed up a step, but Ronnie looked as if he were inclined to argue. “Now,” Lady Cecelia said. “And don’t roam too far from your hotel unless you carry a comunit. I will give you only one hour’s notice to reboard, and it would not hurt my feelings to leave you here.”

  Ronnie gave a stiff bow, turned on his heel and almost pushed the others out of the suite. When the entrance refolded itself, Lady Cecelia shook her head. “I’m truly sorry,” she said. “Ronnie suffers from . . . from being the oldest boy in his family, the first grandchild in our branch, and his parents’ pride. He was spoiled before he was born, I daresay, if there’s a way to indulge an embryo in the tank. The mess he’s in now—” She spread her hands. “Sorry. It’s not fair to bore you with this.”

  Heris smiled, and sipped. Water, for her, while the refitting was going on; she
could afford not the slightest haze between her and reality. “Lady Cecelia, nothing that concerns you bores me. Surprises me, perhaps, but don’t fear that I’m bored. If you wish to discuss it—”

  “I suppose you think you could straighten him out.” Lady Cecelia looked grumpy now, in the aftermath of the argument.

  Heris shrugged. “It’s not my job, straightening out your nephew—unless you request it. And then—I don’t know. When I’ve had someone of his social class to deal with, it’s because he or she volunteered; I had leverage based on their own motivation.”

  “You must despise us,” Lady Cecelia said.

  “Why? Because you have a bratty nephew? I’ve seen admirals’ children with the same problem.”

  “Really. I thought military children were born saluting the obstetrician and clicked their heels as soon as they stood up.” Although the tone was wry, there was an undertone of real curiosity. Heris laughed.

  “Their parents wish! No, milady, we’re born squally brats the same as everyone else, and have to be civilized the same way. Your nephew seems to me the logical result of privilege—but no worse than others.”

  “Thank God for that.” Lady Cecelia looked down. “I’d been imagining you all this time turning up your nose at me for having such a nephew.” Heris hoped her face didn’t reveal that she had thought that, and shook her head.

  “Milady, as you said, I’ve been too busy to give much thought to your nephew. Your crew, now . . .” Was this the time to bring up those problems? No. She smiled and went on. “If you want to talk about your nephew, feel free. I’m listening.”

  “He got in trouble,” Lady Cecelia said, with no more preamble. Heris listened to the story of the prince’s singer and the rest with outward calm and inward satisfaction. About what she expected from that sort of young man. She hadn’t realized he was in the Royal Aero-Space Service—and wondered why he’d been foisted off on his aunt, when his colonel should have been able to handle the situation. She asked.

  “Because my sweet sister wouldn’t allow it,” Lady Cecelia said grimly. “He certainly could have been posted to . . . say . . . Xingsan, where his regiment has a work depot, for a year. Or someplace where he’d actually do useful work. But Berenice interceded, and got him a year’s sabbatical—a sabbatical, in the military—on the promise that he would not show his face in the capital.”

  “Mmm,” said Heris, considering just how Cecelia’s sister could have that much influence with the Crown. Her train of thought came out before she censored it. “Does . . . uh . . . Ronnie look much like his father?”

  Lady Cecelia snorted. “Yes, but that doesn’t answer your real question. Ronnie’s an R.E.—” At Heris’s blank look she explained. “A Registered Embryo, surely you have them?”

  “I’ve heard of them.” It cost more than a year’s salary to have an R.E., and what you were paying for was not technology but insurance. In this instance it also meant that Ronnie had not resulted from a casual liaison.

  “Anyway,” Lady Cecelia went on, “my sister Berenice decided that I should take Ronnie on. She never has approved of the way I live, and I was there, handy.”

  “Because Captain Olin ran late,” Heris said.

  “Yes. Normally I’m at the capital only for the family business meeting—in and out as fast as possible. This year I missed the meeting—which meant my proxy voted my shares, and not as I would have wished—and arrived just in time for Ronnie’s disgrace. These are not unconnected; it was apparently in celebrating his first opportunity to vote his own shares at the meeting that he overindulged, and came to brag about the singer.”

  “So—your sister had your yacht redecorated—”

  “And she is paying for Ronnie’s expenses. Up to a point. I’m supposed to be grateful.” Lady Cecelia made a face; Heris wondered what had caused the bad feeling in her family in the first place. She waited in attentive silence, in case Lady Cecelia wanted to say more, but the older woman turned to ask the attendants to bring the sweet. Heris was glad to see the last of the fruit and cheese, but not really interested in the sweet. She wanted a few hours’ sleep.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she began. “I really need to check with the refitting crew aboard, and my watch officer.”

  “Oh—certainly. Go ahead.” Lady Cecelia’s expression was carefully neutral. Did she think Heris was disgusted with her? Heris felt a surge of sympathy for the older woman. She grinned.

  “I have a wager to win, remember?”

  That got the open smile she hoped for, and Lady Cecelia raised her glass in salute. “We shall see,” she said. “I have the feeling you’ll make an excellent horsewoman.”

  Heris laughed. “As the luck falls, and my ability to push the refitters succeeds. See you later.”

  * * *

  Lady Cecelia watched her captain leave the room, and wondered what the woman really thought. Clearly she had more qualifications than shipboard skills alone: she was well read, she wore good clothes, she knew what to do with the array of eating utensils common to fine dining, and she had surprising tact. On the face of it, she would have made a far more compatible sister than Berenice. She let herself imagine the two of them riding side by side across the training fields . . . relaxing together over dinner. No. This woman never relaxed, not really, while she . . . Lady Cecelia allowed herself a relaxed sigh. Her captain might snatch a few hours’ sleep, but would doubtless dream of wiring diagrams and structural steel. She herself would follow this excellent dinner with a relaxing stroll in the hotel’s excellent garden, and then sleep as long as she liked in her luxurious bed with all its inventive amenities.

  The stroll and the engineered scents in the garden eased the last of the tension her nephew’s rudeness had put in her shoulders, and she slipped into the warmed, perfumed bed contentedly. She could hear Myrtis checking all the room’s controls, murmured that she’d like it a bit cooler, and was asleep before the cooler draft had time to reach her cheek.

  Morning brought complications, as she’d expected. This was not the first time one of her employees had died, just the first on her yacht, and by far the most violent. She had already contacted the legal firm recommended by her family’s own solicitors; the bright-eyed young man in formal black had been waiting downstairs by the concierge’s desk when she emerged from her bedroom and called for breakfast. She looked at the local time, and whistled. Mid-morning of mainshift, and he had time to wait on her? She checked her captain’s whereabouts while he was on the way up, and found, as she expected, that Serrano was back at work on the yacht.

  He was talking almost before he got into the room. “Now, Lady Cecelia, I’m sure you’re simply devastated by this, but let me assure you that our firm is experienced—”

  She stopped him with a gesture. “Wait. I’m going to eat breakfast, and you’re welcome to join me. But no business until afterwards, though in fact I’m not devastated, and if you weren’t experienced, you wouldn’t have been recommended.” That stopped him, though he fidgeted all through breakfast, refusing to eat. Finally his nervous twitches got to her, and she gave up on the diced crustaceans in a puree of mixed tubers. . . . It was mediocre anyway, too heavily flavored with dill and some local spice that burnt her tongue without offering a taste worth the pain. She finished with a large pastry, and a silver bowl of some red jam—quite flavorful—and nodded to him. “Go on, now; what’s the damage?”

  “Your crewman . . . that was killed . . .” He seemed stunned that she wasn’t falling apart. What did he think, that older women never saw death?

  “Environmental technician Nils Iklind,” Lady Cecelia recited. “He disobeyed the captain’s orders to wear his protective suit, opened a badly overfull sludge tank, and died of hydrogen sulfide poisoning. You have seen the data cubes?”

  “Yes, ma’am . . . Lady Cecelia. Our senior partners reviewed them, and feel that you have a very strong case for accidental death.”

  “So what is the problem?”

  “We
ll . . .” The young man fidgeted some more, and Lady Cecelia began to compose the memo she would send to the family solicitors explaining why this firm was not suitable. “It’s the union, ma’am. They think it’s the captain’s fault for sending him into a dangerous area—for inadequate supervision in allowing him to enter the area without his suit on. Particularly since your other crewman also did not have his suit properly on, and says that all the captain did was tell them to meet there, suited up.”

  Cecelia sniffed. “And how was the captain to know that he would open the hatch before she got there? Why didn’t he wait?”

  “That’s not the point. They’re inclined to argue that the captain should have been there to enforce the order to suit up. Or at least another officer. On larger vessels, of course, there would be a supervisor. Technically, Iklind held a supervisory rating, but he hadn’t been acting in that capacity. And the maintenance logs and emergency drills—”

  “That was Captain Olin’s misconduct; Captain Serrano told me she had begun training crew and reestablishing the correct procedures.”

  “But she hadn’t completed that process yet, and that’s what the union is arguing. I’ll need to interview the captain—”

  “She’s aboard the ship, overseeing the refitting. You’d have to suit up.” A chime sounded; when she looked, the comunit flashed discreetly. “Excuse me a moment.”

  “It might be the office for me,” he said, but Cecelia waved him to silence as she pressed the button to her ear.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Captain Serrano said, “but we have a new problem that may help solve an old one.”

  “What’s that?” Cecelia asked. The young man across from her looked as if he were trying to grow his ears longer; it gave him a very odd expression.

  “Mr. Brynear has found . . . items . . . in one of the scrubbers. It might explain why Iklind risked going in unsuited, and it might explain why Captain Olin connived at a fake maintenance procedure.” Her captain said no more; Cecelia hoped it was because she assumed her employer’s innocence and intelligence both.