CHAPTER

THREE

The room smelled of familiar tropical flowers, lush and spicy. A floral print on the bed, on the dressing table with its low bench, on the lamp shade. Walls of soft peach, with a faint cream stripe. Ky lay back against the piled pillows, wondering where she was. The last she remembered was the Captains’ Guild . . . men with masks and guns . . . police . . . then it came back, all a rush of memory. She blinked. This wasn’t a jail, she was sure of that. She’d never seen this room before, but the fragrance, familiar since childhood, suggested the legation and its garden of Slotter Key natives.

Before she thought to reach for the comunit on the bedside table, someone shouldered the door open and entered with a tray, a stout woman in a flowered tunic. She brought the tray to the bedside and began offloading dishes onto the bedside table.

“Ah, good, you’re awake. You’ll be wondering where you are and what happened,” the woman said. “Slotter Key legation. The doctor wants to talk to you and so does the consul and the Belinta police. I’m Carla, by the way, and you’re supposed to take your time eating as much as you want before anyone tries to talk to you. Doctor’s orders.” She poured out a cup of tea; Ky hitched herself more upright in the bed, took it, and sipped.

“Tell me what happened at the Captains’ Guild,” Ky said. “Upstairs, I mean.”

“My feet hurt,” Carla said, ignoring the question. She plumped down in the upholstered chair and kicked her shoes off. “I’m not supposed to talk to you about what happened; I’m supposed to be sure you’re really awake and have had something to eat.” She laid her head back and sighed. Ky stared a moment then picked up one of the pastries and started to bite into it. Then she stopped. Whatever had happened after the part she remembered, someone had tried to kill her—not once, but twice, counting the attempt to smuggle explosives onto her ship. And she was supposed to eat and drink whatever she was brought?

She put the cup down; it chinked on the saucer, and the woman—Carla—opened her eyes. “Sorry—can I get you anything?”

“How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

“Excuse me?”

Ky realized, as she sat up and threw the covers back, that she was wearing someone else’s nightshirt. She’d never owned one in lavender and green, and besides it was hugely too big. Her head spun for a moment, then cleared.

“You say this is the Slotter Key legation—”

“Yes, of course. Where else would it be?”

“And you’re—a legation employee?”

The woman drew herself up, red patches coming up on her cheeks, and gave Ky a hostile glance. “I am the consul’s wife,” she said. “Carla Maria Inosyeh.”

Ky felt her face heating up. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You weren’t—I didn’t meet you before, at the dinner.”

“I was indisposed.” An impatient movement in the chair, then the woman fished for her shoes and put them back on. “And before you ask, yes, this is my bedroom you’re in, and my nightdress you’re wearing. I was told your things had been stolen.”

“I’m sorry,” Ky said again. “I didn’t know—I am confused—they tried to kill me, and I was afraid—”

The woman’s expression softened. “I suppose it’s understandable. It’s been a very strange day, I hear. But perhaps you should see Parin—my husband the consul—now. I will have to tell him later that I managed to frighten the redoubtable Captain Vatta.” She actually smiled as she went to the door.

The tea must be doing its work; Ky felt more solidly there than she had a few minutes before. “Wait,” she said. “I believe you. Please—stay, sit down, and I’ll eat—” She picked up the pastry again and bit into it. It was delicious.

“If you insist,” Carla said, this time with a genuine smile. “My husband has been telling me about your trip to Sabine. The news reports of the attacks there were terrifying. I can’t imagine someone blowing up ansible platforms.” She glanced up as if she could see through the roof to Belinta’s ansible station.

“It was scary,” Ky said, through another pastry, this one meat-filled. She felt better with every bite.

“I can’t understand why anyone would attack ansible platforms,” Carla said. “It only makes ISC angry, and Parin always says they’re the glue that holds the galaxy together.”

Ky, her mouth full, nodded but said nothing.

“And you were captured by mercenaries, the news report said.”

“Yes,” Ky said, wiping her mouth. “But they were polite mercenaries.” When they weren’t almost killing her, but that had been an accident.

“Did you really kill the ringleaders?” Carla asked.

“Yes,” Ky said. “And I suspect that’s why someone’s trying to kill me, in retaliation.” She decided that one more pastry wouldn’t hurt and picked one up.

“I can tell you’re feeling better,” Carla said. “More color in your cheeks. The clothes you had on have been freshened, if you feel able to get up now.”

“Yes,” Ky said. “I do . . . but I’d still like to know what happened. Did I just . . . faint?”

“A contact poison,” Carla said, with the satisfied tone of someone who knows something unusual. “That policeman with you fell over like a cut tree while the consul was in the room; you were pale and turning gray, Parin said.”

“A contact poison! On top of the shooting?”

“Yes. They didn’t leave much to chance, is the way the consul put it. It penetrated ordinary gloves as if they weren’t there.” Ky remembered, now, the policeman pulling open drawers, lifting the sheets of the bed, touching this surface and that. “Then they found the bedspread bundled into a trash container, and the poison was all over that. Three of them are down with it. You only sat on the bed—the poison didn’t penetrate your clothes that well. The antidote worked quickly; you were only unconscious a couple of hours. The doctor’s off working on the others.”

“So . . . did they catch the assassins?”

“No. They’re searching, of course, but except for the one you shot, the gang’s all disappeared.”

“Is my ship all right? My crew? Has anything else happened up there?”

“They’re fine,” Carla said. “No attacks up there at all, and shuttle travel’s been suspended, so no assassination teams can get there from here. There’s a com console in my sitting room, just outside here. Then there’s a policeman who would like to speak to you; he has assured the consul that they have no more interest in arresting you. When their people went down from the contact poison, they decided that your having shot one of the assassins wasn’t so bad after all.”

“I need to check with the ship. Can you hold the policeman off that long?”

“Of course,” Carla said. “This is Slotter Key territory, after all.” She winked. “Take your time getting dressed—through that door there.”

Quincy, predictably, was appalled at what had happened, and worried, and wanted Ky to come back immediately.

“I’m safe here,” Ky said. “I’m not going out, I promise. They’ve suspended shuttle flights, you know.”

“Yes, but for you—can’t you get a charter?”

“Probably not, not until tomorrow anyway. Are you satisfied with the police guard on our dockside?”

“They’ve doubled it,” Quincy said. “I think we’re secure. But you—”

“I’m fine,” Ky said again. “I got hold of Vatta headquarters before this happened . . .” Should she tell Quincy everything, or would it just make it worse? “There does appear to be a general threat; I’ll give you the details when I’m back on the ship. And if I’m stuck down here for days, I might as well see what I can do about cargo.”

“Cargo! There’s your life to consider! Don’t you dare go out!”

“I won’t go out. I can do business from here; the consul’s helping me arrange things. I won’t say don’t worry, but don’t lose sleep.”

Quincy sniffed and signed off.

 

The policeman who interviewed Ky had the same dour expression as the others she’d met. “We are convinced that you were the innocent victim of an attack, and that your killing the assassin was self-defense,” he said. “Under our laws, this is legal, and anyway the dead man was someone we wanted to arrest on other charges. Saved us the cost of a trial. Even so, we cannot recommend that you resume unrestricted travel in the city, or your residence at the Captains’ Guild.”

“I can’t stay cooped up here forever,” Ky said. “My ship is already under threat—”

“We think you could be escorted safely to the orbital station,” the policeman said. “But an extended stay . . . we understand you were seeking outbound cargo . . .”

“Not after the attempt to sabotage my ship and kill me. I want to leave as soon as possible. If for some reason I had been detained here, then I’d ask the consul to help me make some contacts to seek cargo. But if I can leave now—”

“Are you well enough to travel?”

“Yes,” Ky said. “The doctor advises twenty-four hours of observation, but surely overnight is enough.”

“Perhaps a chartered shuttle flight—we would of course validate the crew—”

“Sounds good to me,” Ky said. The only goods she’d seen explained why Belinta had a deplorable trade balance.

When the policeman excused himself, she considered going out to find the consul, but decided to rest just a few minutes; her head felt strange again. She lay down on top of the covers. When she woke, some unknown time later, someone had covered her with a knitted shawl and set another tray on the bedside table; steam rose in curls from the teapot.

Ky wasn’t very hungry; she was struggling with her reaction to the day’s events. Her annoyance with the postal clerk seemed far away now, almost as if it had been someone else. Someone had tried to blow up her ship. Someone had tried to kill her. Something had happened during her call to Vatta headquarters. She had to think those were related, and the only thing she could think of was whatever criminal group Paison and Kristoffson had been part of, taking vengeance for killing them.

She started when she heard the sound of the door handle turning, but relaxed when she saw the consul. He came in, shutting the door behind him. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Much better,” Ky said.

“That’s good,” he said, and sighed. His expression did not lighten; her stomach clenched.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“We’ve lost contact with Slotter Key,” Consul Inosyeh said. He sat heavily in the other chair.

She remembered suddenly that she had intended to call her father directly, only to be interrupted by the assassins. “Completely?” she asked. Her mouth went dry.

“Yes. It appears that something’s wrong with the ansibles there. I don’t know if it’s anything like what happened at Sabine . . .” His voice trailed away.

Ky watched his face; he stared at his hands. “What else?” she asked finally when he didn’t look up.

“There’s . . . another problem. Before we lost contact. I had reported the attack on you—purely routine, something I’d do if a Slotter Key citizen had been involved in a barroom brawl—and I was told something that shocked me.” He paused; Ky waited it out. “Vatta’s always been in good odor with the government. I am sure you know that. There’s the contributions, of course, but beyond that, it’s an enterprise that has a long and honorable history in interstellar trading. Due all assistance, favored status, whatever you want to call it. And I liked you personally, when I met you on your first visit. I was looking forward to having lunch with you.”

“And?” Ky prompted, when he stopped again. He looked up, his expression grim.

“And for reasons I do not understand, that has been reversed. At the highest level. Vatta is, in the words of my superior, not to be accorded any status whatever. Get her out of there, he said. Have nothing to do with Vatta.

Ky stared at him, shocked. “What—”

He shook his head. “I don’t know, Captain. I demanded answers, and got nothing except that the situation had changed and I was to follow orders. I pointed out that you were sick, incapacitated, in danger, and was told to get you a room in a hotel. Whatever happened, it’s got the government scared. Some threat, I’d guess, to them as well as to Vatta.” He sighed, then went on. “I tried calling some other people I knew; one of them told me there were rumors of attacks on Vatta holdings, but had no details. It was on the third call that we were cut off. I asked the police to check the combooth records from the Captains’ Guild; that was about six hours after you lost the signal to your headquarters.”

Six hours. Much could happen in six hours . . . or in six minutes, or six seconds.

“I’m guessing that ISC’s enemies are behind the ansible failure, but whether that has anything to do with this change in policy about Vatta, I don’t know.”

“It must,” Ky said. “The ansible attacks on Sabine were certainly aimed at ISC, or so ISC thought. And I can understand the people who did it blaming me. I did kill two of them. Maybe it’s a two-pronged attack.”

Consul Inosyeh shook his head. “Wrong scale. A criminal organization wanting to punish you might send an assassination team, yes—though it’s more likely they’d have some local thug beat you up in a bar somewhere—but not take out ansible service to your home planet.” He paused, and Ky nodded. He went on. “The thing is, I’m under orders to dump you on the street, effectively. I’m not going to.” The look he gave her was brimming with mischief.

Ky stared at him.

“Instead, I’m going to commit time travel and have a conversation with you that actually occurred prior to that ansible call. In fact, we’re already having that conversation. If anyone asks later, this conversation occurred in the morning. Is that clear?”

Nothing was clear at the moment, but the intensity of his gaze suggested that she needed to answer. “Yes . . . I guess.”

“Good.” Consul Inosyeh leaned back in his chair, hooked a heel around the leg of a hassock, and pulled it nearer before stretching his legs onto it. “I’m going to share with you what I might have shared if not instructed otherwise—because from my point of view, I haven’t yet been instructed otherwise. And if you think that merely proves the moral elasticity of diplomats, please keep it to yourself.” He ran his hands through his hair, leaving it in rumples.

“Er . . . yes, of course.” How had she ever thought this North Coaster stuffy and arrogant?

“How much do you know of Slotter Key’s foreign policy, especially as regards maintaining the safety of the spaceways?” That last might have been set in inverted quotes, so marked was his emphasis.

“That’s what we have a space navy for,” Ky said promptly. “Our strong Spaceforce deters . . .” Her voice trailed away at his expression. “Doesn’t it?”

“I always wondered what they taught cadets,” Consul Inosyeh said. He sighed. “You know, the universe would work much better if people just told the simple truth, and you may think that’s the stupidest thing ever to come out of a diplomat’s mouth, but really!”

“My father always said honesty in trade was better than trickery,” Ky said. “If you wanted repeat customers.”

“And let’s hope that honesty didn’t get him killed,” Consul Inosyeh said. “All right. Here’s the truth of it. Slotter Key, our mutual home, is widely disliked for its way of handling interstellar security. Our Spaceforce, for all the resources dedicated to it, defends only the home system. One star system, three inhabited planets, some colonized satellites, and so on. We have pickets at several nearby jump points, as an early warning system. We don’t take our ships into other people’s systems without elaborate preparation—if we just waltz in, they call it invasion. They have called it invasion.”

“But I thought—” Ky stopped again. Nothing she’d been taught actually contradicted what Consul Inosyeh was saying, though this was a strange interpretation. “But then what keeps pirates from raiding our tradeships?”

“That, Captain Vatta, is the reason Slotter Key has a shady reputation. Slotter Key runs privateers, private armed vessels authorized by the Slotter Key government to pursue and take action against the enemies of Slotter Key. Which, broadly defined, means anyone who messes with our trade in ways we don’t like. We’re not the only ones to do what we do, but we do it fairly aggressively.”

Shock like an ice-water bath stopped Ky’s breath for a moment. “Privateers! They’re—they’re nothing but pirates with a piece of paper!”

“That’s exactly what some other systems call them, yes. It’s what we call foreign privateers, too, if they interfere with our ships. But, Captain Vatta, every government finds itself in need of force—clandestine, unofficial, deniable force—in some situations. Vigilantes, privateers, bounty hunters, mercenaries, someone who would do the dirty work but whose dirty work could be disavowed if things went sour.”

“But—but it’s wrong.” Even as she said that, she knew how naïve, how immature, that sounded. Consul Inosyeh did not laugh at her, or even smile.

“It’s certainly not ideal,” he said. “At best, the use of such methods should be reserved for a few rare difficult situations. But for economic reasons, Slotter Key and several other planetary systems have come up with this way to fund police in space. I’m sure you can imagine the diplomatic problems that arise. Innocent ships seized, disputes over the proof of guilt, that sort of thing. The Merchant Council agreed, in the Commercial Code, to recognize privateers as separate from pirates, and privateers—including ours—are bound to adhere to the code for the treatment of prisoners, for instance, just as mercenaries do. Privateers have provided the only space police for many decades now, and on the whole the merchants are happier with them than with the real pirates.”

“There should be a real space police,” Ky said. “Surely the various systems could get together—”

“So far they’ve refused,” Consul Inosyeh said. “The closest thing is ISC’s enforcement branch, but they don’t do anything about piracy that doesn’t affect them directly, and they aren’t enthusiastic when systems do try to combine forces. But here’s the thing: merchant firms, including some you know, have participated in the privateer program, committing a small percentage of their fleet. What’s lost in cargo capacity to the armament they carry is made up for in prize money. Spaceforce usually assigns an officer—always on the larger ships, or if they’re working in a group—to keep an eye on things. We in the diplomatic service are provided a list of privateers operating in our area, in case we need to contact them or vice versa.”

Despite her initial disgust at the thought of privateers, Ky imagined herself on such a ship—almost as good as a real warship—protecting Slotter Key’s merchant fleet from pirates. Maybe it wasn’t that bad.

“So you see, I can think of reasons why Slotter Key might be attacked, even without an attack on ISC. We’ve annoyed a lot of people, not just our intended targets.”

“Are . . . uh . . . Vatta ships among the privateers?”

“Not on any list I’ve ever had,” Consul Inosyeh said. “I believe it was the policy, when privateering was first authorized, that at least one carrier should not be invited to participate, so that its sterling reputation could cover the others.” Sarcasm soured his voice. “I don’t know the whole history, but Vatta appears to have been chosen as the unspotted lamb of an otherwise motley flock.” He looked at her closely. “You didn’t know any of this, I gather.”

“No,” Ky said. Some of the reactions she’d gotten here and on Sabine now made sense, though. So did that model kit with stray electronic bits Master Sergeant MacRobert had sent her back before she left Slotter Key. If you need help, his letter had said, and he was Spaceforce. He must have known about the privateers; he must have been trying to give her a way to contact them. But why hadn’t her father told her? Surely he’d known.

“Well . . . you need to know it now. You’re going to be facing hostility and suspicion in many quarters, and whatever is presently going on, with Vatta and Slotter Key’s government at odds, can only make things worse. I don’t suppose you have any seasoned veterans among your crew?”

“No,” Ky said. “My father thought he was sending me off on a quiet run; he chose crew for their experience with the ship.”

“You need force you can trust, Captain. The best thing you could do is hire some good toughs. The kind of person you can depend on, so you don’t have to hire guards at every stop.”

And where would she find someone like that? How could she be sure they weren’t part of a plot to kill her? He must have seen that in her expression.

“There’s one of our legation guards very close to retiring,” he said. “He’s a bit rough at the edges, but very experienced and strong as an ox. I could speak to him, if you’d like.”

The memory of what had happened the last time she took on a diplomat’s problem was clear in her mind. Caleb Skeldon had nearly gotten her killed. Would this be another rash idiot?

“The thing about ex-military is they have discipline as well as training,” Consul Inosyeh said, as if he could read her mind.

“What I really need is a cargomaster,” Ky said. “Someone who’s good at inventory as well as handling cargo loading.”

“He is,” Consul Inosyeh said. “That’s if—given what I’ve told you about the government’s position—you trust me.”

She had already made a fool of herself with the consul’s wife. She had to trust someone, and Inosyeh had missed better chances to do her harm.

“Ask him, then,” she said. “But I’ll want to talk to him first, if he agrees.”

“Of course. Now, remember—this conversation took place in the morning, when you arrived here and before I contacted my government.”

“Yes,” Ky said. She felt numb, even more battered than before. What could she do with one small, slow, unarmed tradeship? How could she find out what was going on? “Um . . . do you want me to leave now?”

“Now? No, of course not. It’s night and you’re still not fully recovered. Get a good night’s sleep and by morning I expect the Belinta authorities will have found a way to return you to your ship.” He pushed the hassock away, stood, and stretched. “I have to attend a terminally boring dinner during which I shall pretend that nothing whatever is going on, and you are the hero everyone here thinks you are. I’ll talk to our man when I get back and he’s on duty, and you can meet him in the morning.”

Ky was sure she would not sleep, and for some time her thoughts ran in giddy circles, but exhaustion took her finally. On her breakfast tray the next morning was a note from Consul Inosyeh advising her that Staff Sergeant Martin would like to speak with her before she left, and she had reservations on a shuttle leaving at 1015 local time.

Staff Sergeant Gordon Martin was a tall, blocky individual with graying blond hair and gray eyes like frozen pebbles. Though he was out of uniform, no one could have mistaken him for anything but a military man, not with his stance, expression, and attitude. Ky glanced at the information he handed her—he was younger than she’d expected, he had experience in both supply and security, and the summary of his fitness reports suggested why he was retiring that young. No hint of dishonesty or substance abuse, but a pattern of “borderline insubordination.” One commanding officer’s comment, “This individual does not know where initiative ends and rocket-propelled idiocy begins,” stuck in her mind. She looked back up at him.

“Not going to be promoted, Captain,” he said. “Too independent.”

“I don’t need a loose cannon,” she said. “I’ve already had one of those, and he almost got me killed.”

“Ma’am, I’m not a loose cannon. I know what statement you’re referring to, and that officer was willing to let the depot be robbed blind rather than admit he’d trusted the wrong civ. What I did was go over his head, when he wouldn’t do anything about it.” A tight grin split the man’s face. “I couldn’t go over your head, ma’am—you’re the top of your command chain.”

Despite herself, Ky grinned back. “Did the consul explain that I’ve been attacked and so has my ship? It’s not a safe berth I’m offering.”

“Yes, ma’am, Captain. It’ll be my pleasure to keep you alive and the ship safe. And I understand you need someone with expertise in inventory control?”

“Yes. My cargomaster was killed last voyage; his second is excellent but not experienced with inventory, since Gary did all that.”

“I’ve handled inventory control for this post and others.”

“The shuttle leaves in an hour and a half,” Ky said. “I don’t know about transport out—”

“I can take care of that, ma’am. If you’re willing.”

It was crazy. But something about him, about that solid, obviously experienced man, gave her the first real confidence she’d felt since losing contact with Vatta headquarters. He was certainly not the type to need saving, either—for once she couldn’t be accused of playing rescue. “Let’s not miss the shuttle,” she said. “Glad to have you along.”

The trip back to Belinta Station aboard a governmental supply shuttle was as boring and uneventful as she hoped. Flanked by a police escort, with Martin beside her, she made it unscathed through the station corridors to her own dockside and aboard.

There she found not the calm she expected, but chaos and dissension, a knot of obviously scared and angry people yelling in the rec area.

“I’m not staying,” Riel Amat, her senior pilot, was saying. “You can’t make me. It’s too dangerous.”

“You can’t leave!” Quincy’s voice was hoarse, as if she’d been talking a long time.

“What’s going on?” Ky asked. Her crew whirled to face her. Martin, she noticed, had placed himself along the bulkhead in a position to shield her from Riel.

“Captain—” Riel reddened, then plunged on. “I just can’t do it. It was bad enough before, and now that someone almost blew up the ship—I just can’t. The station board says there’s a Pavrati ship headed insystem; I want to transfer.”

Quincy was glaring at Martin now. “Who’s this?”

“Our new cargomaster and security chief,” Ky said. “We need someone in charge of ship security—meet Gordon Martin. Ex-Spaceforce, just retired. Also experienced in supply.” She turned to Riel. “I don’t know if you realize it, but there’s a break in communications between here and Slotter Key—something’s going on, and there’s no guarantee there’ll be another ship home anytime soon.”

“I don’t care. I do not want to stay on this ship and you can’t make me.”

“I can take care of the piloting, Captain,” said Lee. She hadn’t noticed him before; unlike the others in the compartment, he was sitting relaxed on the bench. “I’m staying.”

“Who else wants to leave?” Ky said.

“If there was a ship,” Sheryl Donster, her navigator, began, “I’d want to take it. But there’s not. And I don’t want to stay on this station; we’ve already been attacked here. So I guess I’ll stay . . .”

“Crew briefing in an hour,” Ky said. “I’ll tell you what I know then. Meanwhile, start preparing for departure. Riel, I’ll see you in my cabin now.”

“Ma’am?” That was Martin, still by the bulkhead.

“We have police security outside for now. Alene, if you’ll show him how to access the cargo records—and by the way, Quincy, did the police give us back our missing cargo?”

“No. They say they need it.”

“Not as bad as we do. I’ll speak to them, after I’ve talked to Riel. I’ll want a time to departure as soon as you know, Quincy.”

Riel followed her to her cabin, silent but radiating stubborn resistance.

“Sit down,” Ky said, when she had seated herself in her desk chair. He perched on the edge of the other chair. “Look, Riel—I know you’re scared and I understand. You have every reason to think I’m a dangerous person to be around, and you may well be right. But before you decide to jump ship, you need to know what I know about the situation out there.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“It may not matter, but I will feel better if you know, so hear me out, please.” He relaxed a little, and Ky went on. “I was talking to Vatta headquarters about that sabotage attempt when the connection went. The assassins came into the Captains’ Guild before I could try calling my father directly. Later—about six hours, we think—the consul was on the horn to Slotter Key when the entire Slotter Key ansible connection went down. It’s still down. He doesn’t know if it’s an attack like that at Sabine, or something else entirely. From the little he was able to get before he lost the connection, it appears that either someone has a multiple grievance with ISC, Slotter Key, and Vatta, or by some chance different someones with different grievances have hit at the same time. I think the first is more likely. You were in Spaceforce, right?”

“Yes, but—but nothing like this ever happened. I never saw combat.”

“But do you still have any ties to Spaceforce? Some kind of duty to get back to them?”

“No,” Riel said, with emphasis. “I just—I just want to do my job, without any of this excitement.”

“I hope you have that chance,” Ky said. “I’ll authorize payment to date, and you can go.”

“Now?” He stared at her.

“Now. If you’re not coming, then you don’t need to attend the crew briefing, and we’re going to be busy getting ready to leave. I’ll contact the bank right away; they’ll have your severance ready. Under the circumstances, I believe you aren’t really entitled to anything but salary to date . . . but on the other hand there is a crisis, so I’m going to authorize a month’s extra. My father can scold me later.”

“That’s—that’s very generous. I don’t know if I should—”

“Riel, don’t argue. It’s my decision. Now get your gear while I call the bank.”

It took only moments to authorize a draft for him. Ky went to the bridge, where Lee and Sheryl were working on the departure sequence. “Destination still Leonora, Captain?”

“I’m not sure. Set us up for that, Sheryl; it’s days to the jump point anyway, if I change my mind. Lee, what have you got on departure clearance?”

“Anytime, basically. They like a half hour’s notice, is all. It’s not exactly a busy station.”

“Riel should be offship by then.” The sooner they were out in space, the better. She called down to Quincy. “What’s our status?”

“We’ve been on standby since yesterday, Captain. We’re ready to go, and, yes, before you ask, fully provisioned.”

“Good. I’ll contact the station authorities. Have Beeah check to be sure when Riel has cleared the ship, would you?”

“He shouldn’t be leaving,” Quincy said. “Your father trusted him—”

“At this point, I don’t,” Ky said. “I don’t need an unwilling pilot.” Quincy sniffed audibly. “Just have Beeah make sure he’s gone.”

“All right.”

Getting departure clearance from the stationmaster was as quick as Ky had hoped; clearly the local authorities would be glad to see the last of Gary Tobai. Ky instructed Crown & Spears to forward her balance to her account at Lastway. Leonora was only a stopover; she shouldn’t need much money there. She tried again to reach her father from the ship’s secured com desk. CONTACT UNAVAILABLE was all she could get, using any of his numbers.

Then Gary Tobai uncoupled from dockside; the station seals closed and vented the little airspace remaining around the ship. Lee backed them out smoothly; the insystem drive spun up normally, and she was once more in command of her own ship in space.