Heris Serrano (66 page)

"What about this?" Gunson asked, opening the galley door.

"Nothing—seal it off," Heris said. Schwerd grimaced.

"It needs something—"

"No . . . Lady Cecelia has a very exacting cook. He's got it just the way he wants it, and if you'll look at the contract, it specifies absolutely no change in the galley or pantries."

"But foodstuff should be removed—"

"Why?" Heris asked, surprised. "These are staples; they won't deteriorate in the few weeks you'll be working. If the galley's sealed, there's no danger of contamination from any paint fumes or whatever. Besides, we were told initially that there was no need to remove anything from compartments that could be sealed and were not to be worked on."

He looked unhappy, but nodded. The decorators had provided coded seals for compartments not part of the contract. Heris had her crew seal the hatches under his supervision; she wasn't sure she trusted the decorators not to try something fancy where it wasn't wanted. The bridge, for example, and the ships' systems compartments. The garden sections of hydroponics were all empty now, but the gas-exchange tanks remained operational, the bacterial cultures on maintenance nutrients. She didn't want to take the time to recharge them all later.

At last everything was off the ship, and all the crew had their personal gear loaded on carryalls. Heris sent them ahead to the lodgings she'd arranged. She and Ser Schwerd had to do the final inspection, checking both the seals to areas not being worked on and the areas that were supposed to be clear.

"Someone always leaves something," Schwerd said. "Always. Sometimes it's valuable—once, I recall, a distinguished lady's diamond-and-ruby brooch, lying there in the middle of the owner's stateroom. Why someone hadn't stepped on it and broken it, I never knew. More often it's some little thing the movers can't believe is important, but it has sentimental value. A child's soft toy, an unimportant trophy." He strode through the passages with an expression of distaste, glancing quickly into each compartment.

"Ah . . ." This was in Cecelia's quarters, the study which looked so different with its antique books and artwork removed. Sure enough, a squashed and dusty arrangement of faded ribbons, which Heris realized, after Schwerd smoothed it with his hands, had once been a rosette of some sort. "One of Lady Cecelia's earlier triumphs, I would say." He held it out; Heris could just make out " . . . hunter pony . . ." in flaking black letters on the purplish ribbon. "It would have been a first place blue," Schwerd said. "Those letters were originally gold or silver ink. And I'm sure she'd notice if it were gone." He handed it to Heris, ceremoniously, and she brushed off the rest of the dust, folded it, and tucked it into her jacket. Perhaps Cecelia would notice, perhaps not, but she would keep it safe.

Back at the hostel, Heris checked on her crew. Transient crew housing had few amenities; the ship had been far more comfortable. But they had settled in, having arranged adjoining cubicles. She had decided to stay here, with them, rather than at the Captains' Guild. She worried about the next few weeks—how to keep them busy and out of trouble until they could go back aboard. With the Compassionate Hand looking for revenge—and despite the militia's assurances, she knew they would be looking for revenge—all were in danger until something else distracted that organization. Perhaps she could schedule some training in civilian procedures.

Petris signalled her with raised eyebrows. Did she want to—? Of course, though she'd like to have a long uninterrupted sleep first. With the ship now the responsibility of the decorating firm, she could reasonably sleep late into the next shift. Surely her crew could cope by themselves for a day. She posted a crew meeting far enough in the future that she knew she couldn't sleep that long, no matter what, and nodded to Petris.

"Dinner first?" he asked. Heris yawned and shook her head.

"If you're hungry, go ahead—I'm more tired than anything."

"Umm. Perhaps my suggestion was premature?"

"No. I've missed you. It's amazing how few times we've managed to be together. Something always happens. I'm beginning to feel like the heroine in a farce."

"Don't say that." He made a mock-angry face at her. "You'll bring the bad luck down on us."

"Not this time," she said. "The ship's safe, and Sirkin's safe with Meharry in the same section. If the rest of them go wandering, they'll be a match for anything. Besides, they're too tired right now, just like I am. Maybe I'll nap a bit, and then—we'll finally have time to enjoy ourselves."

In the quiet dark of her quarters, she lay against his warm length and felt her muscles unkinking, strand by strand. This was, indeed, better than dinner . . . she dozed off, aware of his hand tracing patterns on her back but unable to stay awake to appreciate them fully. They had time . . . she needed just a little sleep . . .

She was deep in a dream about sunlit fields and people dancing in circles when the insistent voice in the intercom woke her. "Captain Serrano. Captain Serrano. Captain Serrano . . ."

"Here," she said, blinking into the darkness. A sour taste came into her mouth.

"There's an urgent message from downside. It's on a tightlink; you'll have to come to a secure line."

"At once." Petris roused then; she found him looking at her when she turned on a single dim light to dress by. His expression was both rueful and grumpy.

"What happened?"

"I don't know." She didn't, but her heart was racing. It had to be something about Cecelia; the bad feeling she'd had loomed as close as a storm. "It's a tightlink call from downside. Not Cecelia calling, I don't think—they'd have told me—but they said it was urgent."

"I told you not to bring bad luck down on us," he said, but his grin took the sting out of it. "I'll get up; you go on."

"I'll be back soon," she said, and kissed him. Now she was awake, she wanted to leap back into bed with him. Why couldn't she have waked from that dream to the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands, with nothing to do but enjoy herself? With a sigh, she pushed herself away, and went out.

It wasn't really that late, she realized once she was out in the public meeting areas. She found a tightlink booth, and entered it. The ID procedure was almost as complete as for Fleet links, and she had several seconds to wait before the screen cleared from the warning message. She put the headset on.

"Captain Serrano?" It was Ronnie, and he sounded as if he'd been crying.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "Is your aunt—?"

"She's—she may die, they said." His voice broke, then steadied. "She—she just fell down. And she was breathing oddly, and the doctors think she's had a massive stroke."

Heris found it hard to think. She had anticipated some trouble, but not this. "Where is she? Where are you?"

"She's at St. Cyril's, and I'm at home—at my parents' house. That's where it happened. Mother's at the hospital; she said to stay here and out of the way." He paused, cleared his throat, and continued. "She didn't tell me to tell you, but I thought you should know."

"Thank you. You're right that I needed to know." Heris tried to think who else would need to know. The redecorators? Probably, although they already had the guarantee on the job. The crew, certainly. She wondered whether Cecelia had told Ronnie about the attack on Yrilan and Sirkin . . . was there any possibility that this was a covert action by the Compassionate Hand? "Did you see it?" she asked.

"No. I was there, but in the next room, talking to my father. We didn't hear her fall, but we heard Mother scream. We called emergency medical help, of course . . ."

"Was anyone else there? Any visitors?"

"Well, yes. It was a reception for the Young Artists' League—Mother's a sponsor—and she had a time convincing Aunt Cecelia to come. Why?"

How much to tell him, even on a tightline. She had to risk it. "Ronnie—did your aunt mention the attack on Sirkin?"

"Something happened to Sirkin? What?"

"She was attacked, with her lover, by the Compassionate Hand—a criminal organization—"

"I know about them," Ronnie said, affronted.

"Fine. Her lover was killed, and Sirkin's alive because Oblo and Meharry came into the fight. But think—is there any chance, any chance at all that your aunt's collapse could have been an attack? I don't know how—you were there—but could it have been?"

"You mean—they'd get after her? Like . . . er . . . poison?"

"They might. Ronnie, listen: you must not, absolutely must not, talk about this to anyone. Anyone. We don't know if it happened, but if it did happen the worst thing you could do is talk about it. Something should give you a clue later on . . . something will happen, or be said . . . but you're the only one available to interpret it. You have to stay alive, well, and free. Is that clear?"

"It's really serious." It was not a question. "You really think—yes. All right. I will keep it quiet, but how do I talk to—wait a minute, someone's here—" The open line hummed gently, rhythmically, with the scrambling effect. She could hear nothing from the far end—she wasn't supposed to. Finally Ronnie came back on, slightly breathless. "Sorry—my father's back. Aunt Cecelia's in a coma; they don't know if she'll come out of it. He thinks not. I—I'll get back to you when I can."

Heris waited for the triple click of the line closing, then the ending sequence on her console. Alongside the shock and fear she felt was a trickle of amusement—once again, something had interrupted her night with Petris. Once again it had been something she couldn't anticipate. She shook her head, and emerged from the booth to find Petris watching her.

"Lady Cecelia?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Let's go back—you need to hear about it."

In the little room, both of them glanced at the rumpled bed and away from it again. Heris settled in the chair; Petris pulled the covers back across the bed and sat on its edge.

"She's alive," Heris said. "But I don't know for how long. According to Ronnie, she collapsed suddenly and the doctors are saying it's a stroke."

"She's old," Petris said, answering her doubt, not her words. "And she hasn't had rejuv, has she?"

"No. She told me once she disapproved of it; she had healthy genes, she said, and when her time was up it was only fair to give someone else a chance."

"Silly attitude." Petris scowled. "In a universe this big, there's room for everyone. Besides, she was rich."

"She might have reconsidered—I think she made that decision when she was unhappy, and stuck to it out of stubbornness. I had been seeing signs of change in her."

"But still—in her eighties, even now, without rejuv. It could be a natural stroke." He cocked his head at her. "But you don't think so, do you?"

"It would be a damned convenient stroke, Petris. Coming so soon after the attack on Sirkin and Yrilan, combined with her . . . er . . . revelations to the Royals about Mr. Smith—" Heris didn't want to be any more specific in quarters that might easily be under surveillance.

"And you said she was in a foul temper about something just a few days ago—some family business. Perhaps there's someone else with a reason to put her out of action. Although temper—isn't that a cause of strokes?"

Heris laughed, and surprised herself. "If it were, no Serrano would have survived to take rejuv. I'm one of the mild ones."

"But it
could
have been a stroke, no enemy action."

"Could have been. There's no way we can tell from here. I just worry—"

"Wouldn't the doctors figure out if it's not a real stroke?"

"I don't know. And if they do think someone did something, that doesn't mean they can fix it. At least they can't blame
us
—we're up here, and she's been down there for days."

"Well. Nothing we can do right now, is there?"

"No, but I—"

"You're not in the mood, I understand that, but do you think you could sleep?"

By this time, Heris wasn't sleepy anymore; she and Petris finally went out for an early breakfast, and came back to tell the rest of the crew. Heris wasn't sure what to do about them. She really wanted to take a shuttle downside and see for herself how Cecelia was. But that would leave the crew with nothing to do but fret. As for the future, if Cecelia died, or stayed in a coma, she wouldn't need a yacht and crew . . . at some point Heris would have to look for another job, and hope a few of her crew could find work on the same ship. Not likely, but . . . she scolded herself for thinking of her own convenience, her own desires, when a friend lay comatose. Conflicting loyalties tugged at her.

The crew took the news quietly at first. Sirkin still looked shocky from her own loss and her injuries; she sat pale and silent, not meeting anyone's eyes. The others glanced back and forth and deferred their questions. Heris, knowing them so well, knew they had questions, and would come to her individually.

By the time she thought of sleep again, she and Petris both had little interest in pleasure. He pleaded a headache—"Nontraditional as it is, my love, it's boring a hole in my skull and frying my brain"—and went to his own quarters; she slept badly, waking often to think she'd heard the intercom calling.