Heris came out of the shower toweling her hair, to find Cecelia sitting upright in the desk chair, already dressed for the day's hunt.
"I didn't know I was late," Heris said. Her own clothes lay spread on the bed; she had come from the shower bare, as usual, and shrugged when she realized it was too late for modesty. She hoped anger would not make her blush; Cecelia had no right to invade her room.
"You're not," Cecelia said. "I can't find Ronnie. Or George. Or their girlfriends." Then her voice sharpened. "That's a—a scar—"
Heris looked down at the old pale line of it, and shrugged again. "It's old," she said. And then, realizing why Cecelia was so shocked, explained. "No regen tanks aboard light cruisers. If you get cut or burned, you scar." She pulled on her socks, then her riding pants, and grinned at Cecelia. "We consider them decorative."
"Barbaric," said Cecelia.
"True," Heris said. "But necessary. Would you have quit competitive riding if you'd had to live with the scars of your falls?"
"Well . . . of course not. Lots of people did, in the old days. But it's not necessary now, and—"
"Neither is fox hunting," Heris said, buttoning her shirt and tucking in the long tails. "Very few things are really necessary, when you come down to it. You—me—the horses—all the rituals. If you just wanted to exterminate these pseudofoxes, you'd spread a gene-tailored virus and that'd be it. If you just wanted to ride horses across fences, you could design a much safer way to do it—and not involve canids."
"Hounds."
"Whatever." Heris leaned over and pulled on her boots; they had broken in enough to make this easier and she no longer felt her legs were being reshaped as the boots came up. She peered into the mirror and tied the cravat correctly, slicked down her hair, and reached for her jacket. "Ready? I'm starved."
"You didn't hear me," Cecelia said, not moving. "I can't find Ronnie and the others."
"I heard you, but I don't understand your concern. Perhaps they started early—no, I admit that's not likely. Perhaps they're already at breakfast, or not yet up from an orgy in someone else's room—"
"No. I checked."
Heris opened her mouth to say that in a large, complicated building with dozens of bedrooms, near other buildings with dozens of bedrooms, four young people who wanted to sleep in could surely find a place beyond an aunt's sight. Then she saw the tension along Cecelia's jaw. "You're worried, aren't you?"
"Yes. They didn't hunt yesterday; they were supposed to be out with the third pack, and Susannah mentioned she hadn't seen them. The day before, you remember, Ronnie missed a lesson."
"But—"
"I found Buttons, and asked him. He turned red and said Ronnie, George, and the girls had gone picnicking day before yesterday. He didn't know about yesterday, or said he didn't. And there's more." When Cecelia didn't go on, Heris sat on the bench at the foot of her bed. She knew that kind of tension; it would do no good to pressure her. "There's a flitter missing," Cecelia said finally. "I had to . . . to bribe Bunny's staff, to find that out. Apparently Bubbles is something of a tease; it's not the first time she's taken out her father's personal flitter, and the staff doesn't like her to get into trouble. They cover for her, with the spare. So Bunny doesn't know a thing. . . ."
"And they've been gone a day . . . two days? Maybe three?"
"Yes. According to the log—they do keep one, just to be sure Bubbles doesn't get hurt—they left well before dawn day before yesterday. Filed a flight plan for some island lodge called Whitewings. I've never been there, but I've got the map." She handed Heris the data cube; Heris fitted it into the room's display. "The problem is, they aren't at Whitewings, either. It's a casual lodge—no resident staff, although it's fully equipped. There's a satellite beacon on the flitter, of course, and there's been a steady signal here—" Cecelia pointed to an island much nearer than Whitewings. "No distress call, and it's at another lodge. Michaels, who's the flitter-chief, thinks Bubbles just changed her mind and decided to hide out on another island in case I followed the trail this far."
"She'd know about the beacon, though—"
"She'd think I wouldn't."
"Ah." Heris stared at the display. "What's on this other island?"
"Bandon? It's another lodge, more a family place, although it's got a large landing field. Michaels says the family goes there every spring, at least once. When the children were younger, they used to camp on one of the smaller islands, while the adults stayed on Bandon. He says it's lovely: forested islands, clear water, reefs. Imported cetaceans, some of the small ones that Michaels said play with humans. Bubbles has always liked it better than anyplace on the planet, he says. Whitewings is colder, usually stormier."
"That makes sense. So you think they're all sunning themselves, swimming lazily—?"
"No. I can't say why. But I think they're in trouble. And I can't imagine what. This is a safe world; there's nothing on the islands to hurt them—I asked Michaels. Their com links are unbreakable; if they needed help, they'd ask for it. They can't be in any real trouble—not all four of them. But—"
"Tell Bunny," Heris said. When Cecelia's expression changed, she realized she'd used his nickname for the first time. He had always been Lord Thornbuckle to her. She started to apologize, but Cecelia was already talking.
"I don't want to do that. Not yet. He's upset right now with that anti-blood-sports person who got herself invited under an alias. He's not at his best."
"But if his daughter—no, never mind. What do you want me to do?"
"I'm not sure. I don't suppose there's any way the Sweet Delight could tell—?"
Heris smacked her forehead with the flat of her hand. Stupid! She'd nearly turned into a dirtsider, all the time she'd spent traveling at the speed of horseflesh. "Of course," she said. Then—"But can I get a closed channel, a secure channel, from the house?"
"Yes, with my authorization. We'd best do it from my room."
Cecelia's room, Heris noted, had even more windows on the morning side of the house—no wonder she woke so early—and was half again as large as her own. The deskcomp looked the same, however, and Cecelia soon had what she considered a secure line to the station. She handed the headset to Heris.
"Captain Serrano; a secure line to the officer on deck, Sweet Delight."
"At once, Captain." She thought that was probably the Stationmaster himself, but no visual came up. When the screen lit, it was to show the familiar bridge, warped a bit by the wide-angle lens, and Nav First Sirkin.
"Captain Serrano," the younger woman said. She looked only slightly surprised.
"I'd like a scan report from . . . oh . . . say . . . fifty-five hours back. Did you log a flitter flight from the Main Lodge, this location, to an island group to the west?"
A broad grin answered her. "Yes, ma'am. That was my shift, and I remember it. Let me bring up the log and scan." The log display came online, a narrow stripe along the side of the screen, with time and date displayed in both Standard and Planetary Local. The log entry terse and correct, noted the size of craft, the course, and the recognition code of the flitter beacon. The scan proper, a maze of graphics and numbers, matched the log except in one particular.
"They signalled," Heris said, her finger on the scan. "They called a fixed station—probably the landing field at Bandon. And something responded—"
"Michaels says it's an automatic loop. There's no one at the field unless family's expected."
"Hmmm. And what's this?" Heris pointed to a squiggle she knew Cecelia could not interpret, and spoke to her Nav First. "Did you log the other traffic?"
"Yes—although since it didn't have a satellite locater signal, I assumed they were just maintenance flights or something."
"Or something," said Heris. She felt an unreasoning surge of glee and grinned at Cecelia. "Good instincts: something is definitely going on out there."
"Smugglers, I suppose," Cecelia said with refined distaste. "I never saw a world without some of it. Probably off-duty crews."
"No," the Nav First interrupted. "At least some of them are Space Service. Regular, Captain, like yourself." Heris winced at the pronoun; centuries after overzealous English teachers had tried to stomp out misuse of me, the reflexive overcorrection lingered as a class distinction. But that was unimportant now.
"How do you know?" she asked. The younger woman flushed.
"Well, I was sort of . . . listening in to see how good that new scan technology was—"
"And you picked up Fleet traffic?" If she had, Heris would report it, small thanks though she'd get for it.
"No, ma'am. It was a private shuttle from a charter yacht docked at Station Three. Someone groundside asked if Admiral Lepescu was aboard, and the shuttle said yes."
Heris felt as if someone had transplanted icewater into her arteries. She started to ask more, but Cecelia interrupted, with a hand on her arm.
"I want to go after them."
"Why?" Heris's mind had clamped onto the admiral's name; she could not think why Cecelia would want to follow him.
"To bring them back. Before Bunny finds out."
The youngsters. Ronnie and all. Not Lepescu. Heris struggled to keep her mind on the original problem. They had gone off illicitly, and had not signalled, and their craft's locator beacon still functioned. And Cecelia wanted to bring them back. That ought to be simple enough. She forced herself to look closely at all the details Sirkin had displayed. One caught her eye at once.
"Sirkin—that flitter locator beacon—it's not on Bandon."
"No, Captain; there's a whole group of islands, and it's on the one just north of Bandon."
Heris turned to Cecelia. "But the family lodge is on Bandon proper, surely—with the landing field?"
"I think so." Cecelia's face contracted in a thoughtful frown. "I don't really know; I've never been there. Michaels implied it was on the same island."
"Of course they may have decided to camp on the beach. . . ." Heris looked over the rest of the data. "You said Bubbles had camped on one of the other islands. Odd—the flight path of that flitter doesn't look right. You'd think they'd have gone by Bandon to pick up supplies, at least. Did they take off with full camping equipment? Or would Michaels know?"
"I could ask," Cecelia said. "You think they meant to land at Bandon and didn't? They crashed?"
"Could be." Heris felt frustration boiling through her mind. Once she would have had the information she needed; once she would have had trusted subordinates to find out anything she lacked. People she could trust . . . she would not let herself remember more than the trust. At least they were safe, she told herself fiercely. At least they still had each other. She had bought them that much.
And she might have the chance to see Lepescu again. Without Fleet interference. Without witnesses.
"Lepescu," she murmured, hardly aware of saying anything. "You bastard—what are you doing here?"
"I remember," Cecelia said. "He was the admiral who got you in trouble." Heris looked up, startled out of her train of memories.
"He was the admiral who nearly got us all killed," Heris said. "The trouble was negligible, really. . . ." Now she could say that. "The question is, why is he here? To cause me more grief? It would have been easy for him to find out who hired me, and where we were going, but I can't see why—or what he can do worse than he's done. Aside from that—"
"Bunny didn't invite him," Cecelia said smugly. She had the authorization codes for Bunny's personal guestlist database, and had run them on the deskcomp. "Never has, according to this. Let's see . . . no, nor any of Bunny's relatives. He's another crasher."
"Here? No, because Sirkin said that transmission went to a shuttle landing at Bandon."
"Where nobody's supposed to be," Cecelia reminded her. "Where I didn't know there was a landing zone equipped for shuttles."
"Whose ship did he come on?" Heris asked. Cecelia couldn't know, she realized, and asked Sirkin, who had stayed online.
"All I know is it's a charter yacht out of Dismis, the Prairie Rose. I'd have to have authorization to find out more. . . ."
"We'll do that," Heris said. "But post the orders to monitor that flitter beacon, and any and all traffic on that island or the ones next to it. I'll want flitter IDs, com transcripts, everything."
"Yes, Captain. Right away."
"And be prepared to patch my signal from a flitter or other light craft. Lady Cecelia and I will be checking on that beacon ourselves." As she said it, she raised her brows at Cecelia, who nodded. It was crazy, really. At the least they ought to tell their host and let him assign his own security forces to it. But the thought that she might come face to face with Lepescu, unwitnessed, slid sweet and poisonous into her mind. With Cecelia's authorization, she could confront him—an uninvited gate-crasher—and demand the answers that had eluded her before. She closed her eyes a moment, imagining his surprise, feeling her hands close around his throat. . . . Her mouth flooded with the imagined taste of victory, and she had to swallow.
"Heris?" Cecelia was looking at her strangely. It was that expression, on the faces of her classmates at the Academy, that had first given her an inkling that she had inherited her parents' gift of command, the essential ruthlessness of decision.
"Just thinking," Heris said, pulling her mind back onto the designated track. It was crazy, she thought again, almost as crazy as the orders she had refused to obey. She and Cecelia had no idea what was going on over there, she knew Lepescu was dangerous in any context, and yet they were preparing to fly off as if it were an afternoon picnic. As if they were safe, protected by the social conventions of Bunny's crowd. But Lepescu wasn't part of Bunny's crowd. Why was he here? What was he doing, and what would he do when he saw her? How many unauthorized visitors were on this island, and why hadn't Ronnie and Bubbles called in?
"At worst," Cecelia said, interrupting her thoughts again, "I suppose we'll find the crashed flitter and they'll all be dead. Otherwise they'd have called in, if they needed help." She didn't sound certain of that.
"Um." Heris dug through her daypouch for the notepad and stylus she carried out of habit. "We need to do a little planning here. Worst case—all dead. Next worst—injured, needing evacuation. We really should bring some help. The local security force, a medic or two—"
Cecelia looked stubborn. "I don't want to. It's my nephew, after all. If I can get him out of this without Bunny's knowledge, keep it in the family—"
"Have you considered violence?" asked Heris. At Cecelia's bewildered expression, she explained. "I told you about Lepescu. If he's here, uninvited, I would expect some kind of nastiness going on. There are stories about him and his cronies—" She could feel her lip curling.
"But what could he be doing?" asked Cecelia. "He doesn't have any troops to command here—wait—you don't think he's trying to invade or something? Take over Bunny's holdings?" She looked frightened.
"No . . . I don't think so." It did not make sense that a mid-list admiral would alienate so powerful a family; besides, he could not invade without troops, and one shuttle load would hardly be enough. Heris thought for a moment. "Wait—remember that Kettlegrave woman?"
"The one blathering on about blood-sports?"
"Yes. She said something—about fox hunting leading to other things, those who would hunt innocent animals being just as willing to hunt people—"
"Ridiculous!" Cecelia sniffed. "Bunny's as gentle as his nickname—"
"Bunny is. But Lepescu is most definitely not. What if there's some kind of illicit hunting—no, not people of course, but something else, that Bunny wouldn't like, with the fox hunting season as cover—" Even as she said it, she remembered that Lepescu belonged to a semi-secret officers' club. She had not been invited to join, but Perin Sothanous had. He'd refused, and kept his oath not to talk of what he'd learned . . . but she had heard him say it was "—really sick—they think the only true blood-sport is war."
"You have a wicked mind," Cecelia said.
"I know. But it makes sense. You told me that Bunny has some rare and valuable animals that are practically pets. What if they're being hunted? We'll go armed, and expect trouble: it's the only sensible way."
"Armed?"
"Of course. Lepescu is dangerous, and he's not alone. We don't know what those youngsters have gotten into, and we have to be able to get them and ourselves out." Even as she said it, she knew they couldn't possibly do this alone. It was stupid. Militarily, it was suicide. A flitter held eight easily, ten if cramped—could they squeeze in some muscle on the way out? No—she could not command any of Bunny's staff, and she wouldn't trust them anyway. She ached for her lost crew, for Oblo and Petris who would have stood behind her in anything. Except the trial, her mind reminded her. She argued back to her memory: They would have, but I wouldn't put them through it.
She shook herself physically, as well as mentally, and signed off with Sirkin, giving the few final orders. She would have to do this alone, because there was no other way. At least she could prepare Cecelia for what they might face.
"Rifles," she said. "At a minimum, and if you can use a bow—"
"Of course," Cecelia said, still looking shocked. "But why—"
"It's quieter." Heris had pulled out her notepad again, and was figuring on it. Supplies: they'd have to assume they couldn't use Bandon, so they'd need food, medical supplies, ammunition for the weapons she intended to take, protective gear, whatever communications and electronic gear she could lay her hands on—she looked at the wall chronometer—in half a standard hour. They'd need to leave before the day's hunt gathered. It was crazy. They should tell Bunny; they should use his staff for this.
"Should we take something larger than a standard flitter?" Cecelia asked.
"Hmm? What else?" Heris computed cubage and mass on her notepad and entered the total. They would have to change from hunting clothes, too, or take along something more suitable and change en route.
"A supply flitter, I was thinking. We could take more supplies, and if one of them is injured . . ."
"Good idea. Will they sign one out to you?"
Cecelia looked affronted. "I've been a family friend for years—of course they will. Michaels will be glad someone's checking on the young people."
"Fine. Then get this list"—Heris handed it to her—"loaded as soon as you can. I'll pack my kit, and what else we need."
"The weapons." Cecelia scowled.
"Yes. The weapons." The weapons were going to be a problem, any way she went at it. Personal weapons were common enough, but Cecelia, as a dedicated fox hunter, had brought none with her, and Heris's own small handgun would not be enough.
That morning the green hunt gathered at Stone Lodge, so the house staff at the Main House seemed less rushed. The housekeeper's eyebrows went up slightly when Heris mentioned weapons, but the brief explanation that Lady Cecelia wanted to find her nephew brought them back down, as if Lady Cecelia could be expected to take after her relatives with firepower.
"Senedor and Clio have a shop here during the season," the housekeeper said, mentioning a firm of weapons dealers as famous in their way as the great fashion houses. "I imagine they would have anything Lady Cecelia might want."
"Thank you," Heris said; once she'd heard the name, she remembered seeing the S&C logo outside one of the little stone buildings that made up the commercial row: saddlers, bootmakers, tailors and bloodstock agents.
Senedor & Clio's local representative welcomed her with a wink and a smile. "Lady Cecelia, eh? What's she doing now, deciding to turn elphoose hunter? You're her captain. . . . You look like regular military."
"I was." Heris did not elaborate. She had thought of a good story on the way over. "Look—I'm buying two lots—they'll need separate accounting. Lady Cecelia's yacht is woefully undergunned; the crew's arms are pitiful." In fact, the crew had no weapons at all. "I finally convinced her that in some of the places she wants to travel, she needs to arm the crew with something more advanced than muzzle-loaders from the family museum."
The man chuckled. "A lot of these aristocrats are like that—they don't expect to need real protection."
"And most of them probably don't," Heris conceded. "The ones who make a safe round from hunting here to deep-sea fishing on Fandro and back to court for the season . . . but you know Lady Cecelia isn't like that." The man nodded. "So . . . I'm going to do my job and see that she isn't hijacked somewhere."
"Umm. We don't carry many of that sort of thing down here," he said. "But let's see . . . here." The holo catalog showed something that looked like the landing troops' rifles and submachine guns. Exactly what Heris had been hoping for. "These are made by Zechard, who as you know supply the fleet marines. Ours, of course, go through additional testing from the factory. We have a gross of each model up at Home Station, and we could deliver anything up to that quantity direct to Lady Cecelia's yacht. The Sweet Delight, isn't it?"
Heris wondered if Lepescu knew that somewhere on Home Station were a gross each of military-quality rifles and the stubby-barrelled weapons which had been called OOZ for time out of mind. Heris remembered that one instructor at the Academy had said they were supposed to be 007's, but through a computer glitch they'd been renamed. The landing force's gory jest was that they were called OOZ because that's what they made of anyone foolish enough to get in the way. And how many were on the other Stations? She did not ask, but smiled ruefully at the salesman instead. "That would cause problems," she said. "At least now. You've probably heard that we've a standing watch aboard—?"
"Yes—that's why I thought—"
She shook her head at him. "The Stationmaster was none too pleased about that; Lady Cecelia is sure he will not like having that crew armed with modern weapons. Of course they're harmless—it's only a handful, and most of them don't yet know how to use these—" She tapped the holo catalog and the image shivered. "But she said to gather the weapons here and transport them under her personal seal and responsibility when we leave. She is concerned as well that such weapons look too . . ." Heris's lips pursed and she gave the salesman a look of complicity. "Too real. You know—it would ruin her decorating scheme or something. I wondered if you had a small number of those which could be customized to look more like hunting weapons."
The man's eyes brightened. "Ah . . . yes. Here." The catalog image flicked to something with a stock of burnished wood instead of extruded carbon-fiber/alloy and a civilian-style sighting system and computer socket. "It's the same, exactly, but with add-on about two hundred grams heavier. It does cost more. . . ."
"Perfect," said Heris firmly. "Twenty of the rifles, and five subs. . . ." The OOZ had been prettified with wood and inlay, but less successfully. They would pass, however, for the weapon many explorers carried on pioneer worlds.
"I don't have that many set up," the man said. At her frown, he added quickly, "But it doesn't take long. The hunt's away today, and my techs are both free. A few hours only. . . ."
They didn't have a few hours. "How many do you have ready?" Heris asked. "I wanted to show milady what they would look like."
"If brasilwood and corriwood are acceptable, I've got a couple of beauties already made up." He vanished behind a mesh grill and returned with two of the rifles and a single submachine gun. The rifle stocks had the curly green and blue grain of brasilwood, probably from a plantation on this very planet; the OOZ's wood decoration was in the pale yellow and gray grain of Devian corriwood. Heris ran her fingers over both; the rifles felt silky and the sub a bit tacky, giving a grip that would always hold no matter what. She picked up each weapon to check its balance.
"You'll want to fire them," the man said with certainty. "Our range is back here—"
"Just a moment," Heris said. "This is not all, remember? On Lady Cecelia's personal account, not the yacht account, I will need to select personal weapons for her." She paged through the catalog, and allowed the salesman to lead her toward the items she already knew she wanted. Light hunting rifles with day-and-night optics, IR range finding, and computer links for special purposes, a narrow-beam optical weapon that could also be used to operate ship controls, personal protective gear. . . . The salesman seemed to consider it natural that she ordered for herself as well, but she dared not put vests and helmets for the young people on the list.
Then it was done, and he led her through another mesh grill to the indoor firing range without waiting for her opinion. She forced herself to follow with no sign of hurry. Surely Cecelia wouldn't get the flitter loaded in the time limit she'd given her. And despite her need to hurry her training held—you could not trust a weapon you had not personally tested.
When all the weapons had checked out, as she had been sure they would, she came back to the main showroom and glanced around. "I'll contact you when Lady Cecelia approves the choice of wood for the stocks, and I'm hoping to convince her to buy appropriate armor for the crew as well. We'll be using these in the next few days; I'll need ammunition. . . ."
"Here," he said, stacking boxes of clips. "And I presume a weaponscart?"
Heris nodded, glad that she would not have to pay for this. Cecelia's credit cube went into the reader, and the assembled weaponry stacked neatly into a covered cache on a cart that looked like a miniature flitter and hummed at her.
"Palm-print it," the man said. Heris laid her palm on the membrane set in one side of the thing's bow, and it bleeped. "It won't open the cache to anyone else," he said. "It'll follow you; if you want it to stay somewhere, palm-print and say, 'Stay.' But I'd keep it with you; if it's stolen someone could break in. Local law says those weapons are your responsibility now."
"Thank you," said Heris, and retrieved Cecelia's cube. She hadn't even looked at the total; it was like going into Fleet refitting.
On the way back to the flitter bays, Heris's mind caught up with her again. What she was about to do, with Lady Cecelia and a supply flitter, was exactly what Admiral Lepescu had demanded that she do with her crew and ship . . . what she had refused to do, in fact. Why was she so willing now to charge into an obvious trap? If she wouldn't risk a crew of professionals, why would she risk one rich old lady? And what did that say about her loyalty to her employer?
If she tried this, and failed, Lepescu would have beaten her twice—he would have made her play his game, something she couldn't avoid as a military officer. . . . But now she had options.
If she could think of them. If she had time. If she could convince her employer who was even more stubborn, if less vicious, than Admiral Lepescu.
Of course, she could try another end play and tell Bunny herself. Let Lady Cecelia fire her, if that's what it came to. That's what she'd done last time, and it hadn't worked. . . . She did not have to make the same mistake twice.
This time, if what she suspected was true, Lepescu was in the trap—not her. She could win, using her own strategy, and prove she'd been right.
But she had to convince Cecelia.