Engaging the Enemy (32 page)

Captains were allowed to pick their own crews, certainly, but Vatta crew usually had priority for openings. Furman had no openings. According to the records, the only people who ever asked for transfers out, who ever got sick, who ever retired, were Vattas.

“I need to get back to the bridge,” the pilot said. “If you'll excuse me—”

“Yes, go ahead,” Stella said. “Thank you for your help.” That was automatic; she barely noticed the door closing. When had Furman started this—whatever
this
really was? Was it related to his unsuccessful attempt to marry into the family? Had he been crooked before he ever joined Vatta? Or was it something else, simple greed perhaps?

It made a horrible kind of sense. Furman, angry and hurt at what he may have felt was an insult, but unable or unwilling to confront his employer, had not seen the cream-puff Beulah Road route as sufficient compensation. Had he even known what Osman Vatta was, when he met him—Stella wondered where, and how—and began clandestine meetings where they exchanged…what? Nothing too large, nothing bulky. Something quick and easy to move from ship to ship, in the emptiness of a system with only a jump point and perhaps an automated ansible. Something Furman could sell, in those extra days on New Jamaica.

Had Ky been aboard, an unwanted apprentice too quick-witted for her own good, on one of those voyages?

For one mind-boggling moment, Stella wondered if a substitution could have taken place then, Osman's daughter for Gerard's—the real Ky killed and her body spaced—but it was too absurd. The Ky who came back from that voyage was the same difficult, sulky teenager who had left on it. No substitute could have gone undetected.

The critical thing was Furman, Furman's treachery, Furman's equally treacherous crew, the danger they posed to Vatta now, and her own inability to do anything until she got to Cascadia Station. She was stuck out here, days away, while Ky was right there cheek-by-jowl with Furman.

Furman couldn't do anything more without the help of the Cascadian government, she told herself. Surely he would not attack Ky's ship, or Ky herself, directly. He would have to wait until she herself docked, until the stationmaster had obtained the genetic samples he wanted and had them compared. She could call Ky and warn her, but Ky was already suspicious of Furman; surely she would be careful. Besides, if Furman was as bad as that, why risk a call that might be intercepted?

A
s soon as Ky knew where the stationmaster was assigning Furman dockspace, she sent Rafe and Martin out into the station.

“You know what we need,” she told them. “Furman doesn't know either of you—he can't—so he and his crew shouldn't be that wary of you.”

“Unless the stationmaster rats us out,” Rafe said.

“Why would he?” Ky asked. “He wants to know the truth as much as anyone.”

Rafe rolled his eyes. Martin said, “Thing is, Captain, if Furman's been paying off this stationmaster…”

“I know,” Ky said, “but Furman hasn't been on this route that long. Only two previous visits. If the stationmaster were already in his pocket, he'd have me in custody somewhere else.”

“Maybe,” Rafe said.

Ky settled back to wait. Martin returned about the time Furman docked, to report that he had placed unobtrusive sensor devices to keep track of activity near Furman's ship.

“Where's Rafe?”

“I don't know, Captain. He came and went several times, carrying boxes, and he had gone again when I was through. He said he'd be in touch.”

“I hope he finds something useful,” Ky said. “I don't have the kind of evidence they're asking to prove my identity. If they don't take Stella's word for it—and mine for hers—we could be in serious trouble. I just don't understand why Furman is insisting that I'm not who I obviously am. He knows me. And how did he come by the information that Osman had children my age?”

“He wants this ship, or he wants you immobilized, or both,” Martin said.

Ky thought a moment. “If he wants this ship, I'll bet it's not to return it to Vatta…maybe he wants to form his own fleet?”

“Assuming he's bent,” Martin said, “
Katrine Lamont
and
Fair Kaleen
would give him two tradeships, one of them armed, in which he could set up even in today's dangerous climate. If he knew what he was doing, he could even offer convoy escort service. He wouldn't even have to be very bent to think that with Vatta headquarters gone, and a lot of the family dead, his duty to Vatta no longer mattered.”

“If that's what he thought, I must've come as a nasty surprise,” Ky said. “A Vatta related to a corporate executive, right out here. And me in particular.”

“You probably did,” Martin said. “His first instinct would be to deny it—it is improbable on the face of it. From what he knew about you, as an apprentice on his ship, it could be hard to imagine you, at your age, defeating Osman. He would have known Osman was a renegade; that would have been shared with senior captains, surely.”

“Yes,” Ky said. “It's in the sociopolitical hazards section of the standard senior captain's briefing. It wasn't in my original implant because I was just a provisional, and they had no record of Osman operating on the Belinta-to-Lastway route.”

“So,” Martin went on, “he might be guessing about Osman having children; he may've assumed anyone that age would. It would make things easier for him if you were Osman's daughter and not your father's.”

Again that tickle of fear. Could she be Osman's daughter, adopted into the family, raised as Gerard's?

“I can't believe that a child of Osman's would look exactly like me,” Ky said. “And he saw me—onscreen, at least—back at Sabine.”

“That's the other possibility, certainly,” Martin said. “He knows perfectly well who you are, but he's trying to pull a bluff, hoping that you have no way to prove absolutely that he's lying. Stella showing up must be another complication for him.”

“She's turned out to be a complication for me,” Ky said. She would like to have vented her frustrations to Martin, but Stella was, after all, a family member, quite possibly the closest relative she had left.

Her next call came not from Stella but from planetside, from the canid reproductive specialists.

“This is Mellowyn Davin of the Eglin Veterinary Clinic…We hadn't heard back from you about your dog. Are you still interested in a semen harvest?” It was not the same voice she'd heard before, and the woman's appearance—she had paid for a full video link—was that of a middle-aged professional.

“Are you interested in purchasing semen?” Ky asked, struggling to pull her mind back from Furman's accusations to this trade and profit possibility. “I understood from the person I spoke with before that you have concerns about whether our dog is a descendant of dogs stolen from your planet.”

“I'm so sorry,” Davin said. “That was our front-office assistant, and she should not have hinted at any such thing. Some people do believe spacers stole our dogs long ago, but I assure you the government is now well aware that it's not true. I apologize for her rudeness; she should have transferred your call to one of the partners right away.”

“I see,” Ky said. “Suppose you tell me what would be involved in the process.”

“I imagine you would not want to transport the animal to the surface,” Davin said. “We would send a team up to Cascadia Station—by the way, do you know if this animal has ever bred successfully?”

“No,” Ky said. “He was still quite young—estimated by the vet on Lastway to be no more than a hundred twenty days old, a third of a standard year. He would be close to three-quarters of a standard year by now.”

“We would need to test the dog for known communicable diseases, run a genetic scan for genetic problems, do a semen test for sperm quality, and then, if the dog checked out, collect semen. The tests would take some hours—aside from the blood test, nothing painful to the dog. I'm presuming he's had standard immunizations?”

“Yes, on Lastway. I do have that paperwork.”

“And the breed?”

“That I don't know. The dog had been dumped in a waste container, from which my crewmen rescued it.”

“Dumped! For disposal?”

“Yes. In fact, we were encouraged to allow the vet to euthanize the dog—”

“Barbaric!”

“—and instead chose to adopt it, at some considerable cost to ourselves.”

“That was a good deed, Captain,” Davin said. “So you do not know what kind of dog?”

“The vet at Lastway told us it was a small terrier breed, possibly something called a Jack Russell, but whether it was pure in breed or not, he was unable to determine.”

“Ah. Small breeds do mature faster than large breeds…tell me, has the dog exhibited any sexual behaviors? You don't have a female dog as well, do you?”

“No, we don't have a female…does grabbing people's legs with his forepaws count as sexual behavior?”

“Indeed it does. Your dog may well be mature enough for sperm collection, and since all our terrier lines are very inbred and require constant genetic tinkering, we can hope this one's different enough for a good outcross line.” Davin cleared her throat. “About cost…as we do not know yet if the dog is healthy, with good genetic material and viable sperm, we would expect to be reimbursed for our costs in bringing a team to the station. Counting all costs—transportation for the team of three, materials for the tests and lab time, all that—it's in the range of twelve to fourteen thousand. I can assure you that if the dog is suitable, that this cost would be quickly recovered from sales of his sperm, but that's a chance you would have to take. Alternatively, with a young dog that has never been exposed to breeding, we would be prepared to assume those costs ourselves for an equal share in the profits. You would risk nothing, but your profit would be lower.”

“I understand,” Ky said. “Are you prepared to suggest what the sperm might be worth?”

“I prefer not to,” Davin said, almost primly. “However, there are entries in the database that you can look up. May we expect to hear from you soon?”

“Yes,” Ky said. “If you'd transmit the site locations you mentioned.”

“Certainly.” Across the bottom of the screen flowed a list of search terms and sites both.

“Thank you,” Ky said.

“Thank you for saving the dog,” Davin said.

Ky set Toby the task of looking up the going rate for canine sperm, per insemination. “Rascal's your dog,” she said. “You should do the research.”

“I don't want him hurt,” Toby said. “Will they have to hurt him?”

“They want a blood sample,” Ky said. “Check for parasites, disease, that kind of thing. But it's just a needle-stick, and he's had those.”

Toby nodded. He worked his way down the list; Ky left him to it and called up the remote visuals Martin had planted. Furman had docked; Furman's crew had begun offloading cargo. The cargo she could see all looked ordinary: standard bins with standard markings on the side, consignors' labels neatly placed. She hadn't seen Furman yet; she wondered if he would call or attempt to contact her directly.

“I don't believe it!” Toby said, breaking her concentration.

“What?”

“Five thousand credits for a single insemination? Rascal's a little gold mine.” He grinned at her; Rascal, in his lap, seemed to be grinning as well.

“It would take three to cover the cost of bringing the team up here,” Ky said. “After that, it's gravy. But how many can a dog that age do?”

“I don't know yet,” Toby said. “I'll keep looking.”

Ky turned back to her screen. She wasn't worried that Furman's crew would notice the visual pickups; all docks were monitored and ship crews expected that. Cascadia had lax regulations for such things; if people wanted to add their own surveillance gadgets in public places, they were free to do so, as long as they obtained a permit and certified that the gadgets didn't interfere with the official ones, and the owners granted Cascadia the right to the recordings if a criminal act occurred. She had sent Martin to the permits office the day before, hardly believing that he would actually get a permit to bug dockside space, but the permits had been granted without question.

Unloading looked more complicated than she'd expected, but
Katrine Lamont
was a larger ship and carried more cargo than she'd ever dealt with.

On the stationside of the dock area, consignors' representatives were already lined up, ready to check bills of lading and certify delivery. Furman's cargomaster, a tall bald man with the Vatta logo on the back of his shipsuit, directed the placement of bins as they came off the ship. Finally he halted the offloading and walked over to the gate where the consignors' reps waited.

“Messinam Imports?” The audio pickup, perfectly placed, relayed his voice to Ky's ear.

“Here.”

“Come on, then.” The cargomaster led the rep over to the bins; the rep checked bin ID, labels, routing numbers, then nodded, thumb-marked the cargomaster's hardcopy, and went back to the gate. The cargomaster peeled off a layer of hardcopy for the Cascadia Customs officer, and a Cascadia Station work crew loaded the bins onto a moving belt that took them through an opening in the bulkhead. From there, Ky knew, they would move to the Customs inspection bay, where both the consignors' representatives and Cascadia Customs would open and inspect the containers.

When the first lot of bins was off the dockside, the cargomaster told his crew to bring out the next.

“Isn't that the captain?” Martin asked. Ky zoomed back out—she'd been trying to read the consignor's name off one bin—and caught a glimpse of someone in a captain's uniform and cape angling across the dockside to a different exit. Martin already had him centered on that screen; Ky moved to look over his shoulder.

“Yes, that's Furman,” she said.

“Looks in a temper,” Martin said.

“He usually does,” Ky said. “But where's he going?”

“I put a pickup in the next compartment,” Martin said. “We'll see him choose a direction, at least.”

Furman had gone through the opening labeled
CREW EXIT ONLY
. On the far side, a Customs and Immigration desk blocked his progress; they watched as he handed over an ID kit and submitted to a thumbprint and retinal scan. Martin used that brief time to imprint Furman's image and ID data into his own security AI; the system would now recognize Furman wherever Martin had pickups.

Furman left the Customs desk with a final nod to the clerk, then paused to pick up a leader-tag. They could not tell what destination he'd asked for.

“Bank or here, on a bet,” Ky said.

“Bank,” Rafe said from behind her. She jumped; she hadn't heard him come in, and no one had said anything.

“And you were where?” Ky said, trying for icy composure.

“Here and there. It's interesting: the man has lockouts very similar to those Osman had on this ship.”

“Learn anything yet?”

Rafe grinned. “I have a nice full data cube ready to untangle…haven't done that yet.” He opened his hand in front of her; the glossy cube lay there, full of mystery and promise.