CHAPTER

TWO

The voice in Gammis Turek’s earbug said what he expected to hear: “—unexpected attack on our citizens. Outrageous. Can’t be tolerated—”

But they would tolerate it. They would do nothing effective, while pouring out torrents of words, because they knew what he knew, that they could do nothing. Their fancy Spaceforce, so shiny and proud, could do nothing because they had no way to operate outside their own system. Their privateers, so hated and feared, could do nothing because they had no command structure. Slotter Key had dealt with the rest of the sector in its own way: arrogantly. A combination of cheeseparing caution—using privateers for outsystem operations cost less than funding a real space navy—and exuberant flouting of the rules, such as they were, that governed such uses. No other planetary system would come to their aid just because one of their richest corporations had suffered a terrorist attack.

Time for turnabout. Time for reversals. Time for Slotter Key to realize that, just like Vatta Transport, it didn’t have any recourse. It might be only a side issue in a greater war, but it was a side issue that gave considerable satisfaction to some of its allies. He didn’t doubt that in five or six years, the Slotter Key Spaceforce could be a force to reckon with, but it wasn’t now, and now was all that mattered.

“You listen to me,” he growled at the voice; it stopped in midword. “You will do nothing. The time has changed, and Vatta serves us well as a warning to others. Stay away from them. Give them nothing. Anyone near Vatta will fall in the same catastrophe.”

“But they’re our—”

“They’ve supported you and your party, of course we know that. They think you owe them something. Well, it won’t be the first promise you’ve ever broken.” Gammis had a list, in case it should become useful.

“But—”

“If you move against us,” Gammis said, “we will destroy not just Vatta, but Slotter Key, as well. We have the ships. We have the weapons. Ask your Spaceforce—go ahead. They’ll tell you. We have many allies who would enjoy seeing your presidential palace a smoking hole just like Vatta headquarters, who would be delighted if your people died of plagues or starvation.” He paused; the jittering voice in his ear said nothing. He let his voice soften. “And there is, of course, something positive to be gained by freeing yourself of Vatta’s trade domination. If Vatta takes the fall, trade will not be interdicted . . . it’s just that someone else will profit from their tik plantations . . .”

Silence continued. Gammis counted seconds. They would take the bait, but how long would they think about it?

“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.

“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.”

“Why didn’t you use your implant?” the man asked.

“I don’t have one,” Ky said. “Head injury—they had to take it out and it can’t be replaced for six standard months.”

“Ah. So . . . you tried to escape and—you’re asking me to believe a trained assassin couldn’t hit you?”

“No. I thought if I rushed him I could knock him out, maybe.” The policeman looked at her with obvious disbelief. “It could work,” Ky said. “And I didn’t have a weapon.”

“Did it work?”

“No. I surprised him, but he was wearing body armor under his mask. He threw me off, I landed near the guard’s weapon, and snatched it—and got off a shot before he did.”

“Hmmm.” He looked thoughtful.

“Shem, these wounds were made by different weapons,” said one of the others. “The guard and the clerk were both hit with Staysil rounds, and so were the cook and the helper in back; the masked one with a Conroy.”

“Staysil rounds. Sounds like the Edmunds crew,” the policeman said. He looked at Ky and shook his head. “Someone wants you dead very badly, if they’re after you. Edmunds and company are not just trouble, but expensive trouble.” He sighed heavily, and reached over to release Ky’s arms. “Don’t try to run. We did not need this. Diplomatic mess, too. You’ll want to see the Slotter Key consul, no doubt. And I don’t suppose you know why anyone would be after Vatta captains?”

“No,” Ky said, rubbing her wrists. She glanced at the painful hand. Swollen and darkening. She hoped she hadn’t broken a bone. “I don’t. I need to get back to my ship—”

“Not yet,” he said. “You did, after all, kill that man.” He cocked his head toward the outer door. “He may be a criminal, and he may have tried to kill you, but we have to determine whether, under our laws, this excuses your killing him. You can count on at least overnight, Captain Vatta. You may inform your crew, but we will monitor the conversation. You may have access to the Slotter Key legation, of course, but with an escort we provide. Since—if it is the Edmunds crew—your life is in danger, we will provide protective custody.”

Ky tried not to glare. “You’re going to put me in jail because I was attacked?”

“Not exactly. Because you killed someone and you were attacked. And not exactly jail, but someplace safer than the Captains’ Guild.”

“Let’s go see what they did to my room,” Ky suggested. “My luggage—”

“Fine. But I’ll go with you. Do not try to touch anything. It would be against your best interest.” Nodding to the others, he let her lead the way upstairs.

“They used the stairs,” Ky said. “And I think also the lift.” She was carefully not touching the stair rail.

“They will have worn gloves,” the man said. He sounded glum.

In her room, the bedcover was missing, and her empty duffel lay open in a corner. The closet was open; her clothes were gone; all the drawers were empty. In the bathroom, all the toiletries were gone as well.

The policeman grunted. “Typical,” he said after a moment’s look around. “They want everything to check for DNA and anything else that might be useful. I hope you didn’t leave them something juicy.”

Ky’s stomach churned again. Being physically attacked was one thing, but having her things taken—all of them—was in some ways more upsetting. “The—valuables—are in the safe downstairs. If they didn’t break into that.”

“No,” he said. He had pulled on gloves; he opened the drawers all the way, looking into them for anything left behind, opening the cabinets in the bathroom. “So you’re a prudent traveler . . . I suppose one expects that from spaceship captains.”

“I wasn’t prudent enough to put a set of underwear in the safe,” Ky said ruefully. “I hope you have a good ’fresher in the jail.”

“I’m sure someone can obtain the necessary items for you,” he said.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Ky said. “Surely someone would notice men in masks carrying a bundle that looks like a bedspread . . .”

“I doubt they carried it far,” the man said. “Or they had something else to put things in and just used the spread to make it easy to collect them.”

“I almost came up here to make the call,” Ky said. Her knees felt shaky again. “I thought, walking back, My feet hurt and I’ll just go upstairs and kick my shoes off. But the combooth in the lobby was closer. If I had come up here I’d have had no warning . . .”

“Sit down, Captain Vatta,” the man said. “You’re looking pale.” Ky sat on the bed, which was nearer than the chair. She told herself to get a grip, but tremors shook her. “A natural reaction . . . though it took you rather longer to get to it than most.”

“I . . . thought I was all right,” Ky said. Her hand still hurt where she’d hit the man’s armor.

“I think I will call your legation, if you permit, on your behalf,” he said. He sounded almost friendly now. Ky tried to focus, tried to grasp why, but she couldn’t.

“Thank you,” she said. The tremors eased, but she still felt cold and sick.

The consul appeared only minutes later. “Captain Vatta, the captain has explained what he understands happened. How can we be of service?”

She could not imagine asking the consul to go buy her some underwear, and at the moment the lack of underwear loomed larger in her mind than anything else.

“I’ll be all right,” she said, aware that the statement made incomplete sense at best. “The ship needs to know.”

“I think she’s in shock,” she heard the policeman say. “I thought at first . . . but then she went pale and started shaking.”

“Reaction,” said the consul. “You’re a bit pale yourself, you know.” Ky could not think of the consul’s name. His face seemed to leap nearer. “Captain—do you know my name?”

“I’m sorry,” Ky said. “But no.” She should remember it, she knew that much. She had called him from Belinta Station when she arrived; they’d discussed the Sabine situation. She had arranged to meet him at the legation this very morning. But everything had gone fuzzy at the edges and all she had the energy to do was sit there.

Then the policeman canted slowly to one side and collapsed. People shouted, ran to and fro, and Ky watched it all with a detachment that she knew was unnatural, until someone picked her up and put her on a litter and she slid into sleep.