Marque and Reprisal (13 page)

Raider? She paused, not really seeing the page of display in front of her. She had come here looking for ways to protect the ship from Vatta’s enemies. When had her intentions slipped sideways into something like…
raider
? Dangerously close to
pirate,
that was.
Privateer,
came a whisper in her mind, if she had authorization from the government.

But what else was there, for one captain and one small vessel? Nothing she could put on the ship—even if she could afford the stealth package, the point defense missile system and its software, and a faster insystem drive—would really protect them against the kind of enemies she seemed to face. She couldn’t trade effectively while evading pursuit—good cargo ships were predictable, reliable; that’s what customers paid for. On-time delivery. Guarantees of complete cargo.

“Captain?” Beeah spoke suddenly.

“Yes, Beeah,” she said, not looking at him, seeing instead the narrowing funnel of choices facing her, none of them good. If she could not use her ship as Vatta had always used their ships, what could she do with it? With her crew? With that idiot puppy? Could she really become a raider—her mind shied away from
pirate
—and attack other ships? And if she could, mentally, take that on, what would it take in resources?

“If you can give me a budget, I can prioritize upgrades on the basic functions,” Beeah said.

“That’s what I’m thinking about,” Ky said. “Maybe we should have waited until we’d sold our cargo, so we’d know what our resources are. I can estimate, but—this is not a place where I want to come up short.”

“I see that. The cargo’s selling, though, isn’t it?”

“I certainly hope so. Let me just check with the ship and see how it’s going…” She signed on to the secure com again, and called her crew.

“More offers are coming in,” Alene said. “The only other tradeship in the past two weeks had a totally different cargo mix, so the market’s on our side.”

“Good,” Ky said. “You’ve got the account number for deposits.”

“Excuse me, Captain Vatta?” That was a MilMart employee. “There’s a person wishing to speak to you. He says he’s from Baritom Security Services, and he gave the correct countersign.”

“Thanks,” Ky said. “I’ll come out. Beeah, you wait here; I won’t be long.” Then to Alene, “Go on and make the best deals you can. We want to move the Leonora consignments first. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Back through the door, into the anteroom, with Martin at her heels. Baritom Security Services outfitted its agents in brown with green facings. Willem Turnish was a little taller than Ky, appeared to be middle-aged but fit, with warm brown eyes. “Captain Vatta?” He held out a datapak.

“Yes,” Ky said. “Your code, please?”

He rattled it off, word and number both; Ky replied with hers, and then inspected the datapak. Name, height, weight, thumbscan—she held it out and he pressed his thumb to the plate, which flashed green. So he was what he claimed to be.

She handed the datapak back and glanced at Martin. His face conveyed no message at all.

“I’ll probably be another hour here,” she said. “You can wait out here, or—if there’s a café nearby—”

“I’ll wait here,” Turnish said, gesturing to a bench along one wall.

“Fine,” Ky said.

When she came back to the terminals, she turned to Martin. “Well?”

He shook his head. “He’s a professional; he’s armed; he has the right codes. I can’t tell how competent he is, from that brief an encounter, but he has the look of someone with experience. I can tell more after we’ve been on the street with him.”

Ky turned to Beeah. “Beeah, if you went back to the ship, now you’ve seen the catalog, you could discuss with Quincy what they’ve got, and how it might fit our hull. And you could get Alene’s best guess on what our cargo might bring.”

“If you’re sure, Captain,” Beeah said.

“Martin’s with me,” Ky said. “With the escort, that’s two—two should be enough. Besides, I’m wearing armor now, and I’ve got my new toy.” She patted the holster.

“More dangerous than you look,” Beeah said, grinning. “I’ll be off, then.”

Ky turned back to the catalog. If she bought the defensive suite, item number 34-5000-89357, then she could just—maybe—afford the single launcher installation, item number 68-4322-7639. But the only reason to have a launcher was… to attack other ships. Other defenseless ships: a single launcher was too puny to go against real warships or better-armed pirates.

She could not do it. To become a pirate, a thief… that would end Vatta, even if she herself lived, became wealthy, tried to reconstitute the organization. If Slotter Key had turned on her family—a mystery that she could not solve here and now—they would certainly not authorize her to be a privateer. Nor did she have the resources to make a living on the run without raiding. She would have to… to what? Admit they were all doomed? Not that, either. Run? Run where? To another sector, far across the spaces where Vatta had traded, back to the old worlds her family had once fled? Out to the unknown worlds beyond the Rift?

She leaned her head on her hand, refusing all those choices, and unable to think of any others. No, she had to think and she could not think. The self she had been in the crisis at Sabine—the self who had taken quick, decisive action—seemed to have vanished, leaving a sour confusion behind.

Sighing, she stretched and exited the catalog to look at the information on purchase agreements. She could put items on hold with no deposit for twenty-four hours, or with a deposit for up to five days. In hard, cold, rational analysis, they needed that defensive suite in any case. In fact, they needed a better one. Item 35-4571-983324 would be ideal, but the catalog listed only one in stock. She put a hold on it, no deposit. That at least would give her time to think. Could Quincy install it? Would they have to find someone else who could?

Back to the list. If offensive ordnance was too expensive and only good for preying on others, what about defensive? ORDNANCE, DEFENSIVE, SHIP. Ky looked down the list. If they had Slotter Key ordnance, maybe they’d have… yes. Mines, self-powered, autostabilizing, Model 87-TR-5003. Top of the line, as far as senior students at the Academy knew. Compared to the other ordnance, mines were economical, even cheap. Nor did they take up much space. If you understood how to use them—and she had written a paper on the use of passive and active defensive systems, including mines—they could be very effective. Of course, there were a lot of complications, including the inherent instability of anything in space: mines drifted with gravitational forces, and eventually their “self-powered” ability to correct their drift wore out, leaving lethal hazards scattered in unknowable locations.

But Ky was willing to make the universe more hazardous for others, if it would save her own ship. She put a hold on the mines, too. If she took that defensive suite, she could just barely afford fifteen mines. You can’t ever have too much ammunition, one of her instructors had said. Maybe some of their cargo would bring premium prices.

She collected Martin, checked out of the catalog viewing area, and picked up her escort. He preceded her to the exit, and certainly seemed to be competent in his check of the passage outside. Unlike the hapless Jim, he would not be plucking puppies from waste cans. That thought reminded her of another errand.

“Do you know a shop near here, or on our way back to the interhub tram, that carries pet supplies?” she asked.

“Pet supplies?”

It was an unusual question, but he didn’t have to sound
that
amused.

“Pet supplies,” she said again. “We have acquired a… mmm… puppy. It’ll be released from quarantine tomorrow.”

“Let me check…” He looked momentarily blank, accessing his implant, then he nodded. “BioExotics, down this way,” he said, gesturing to a cross-passage ahead of them. Above the official numbered designation, someone had added a pink-and-green sign with WILLOW LANE in curly letters.

“It’s lunchtime,” Martin said quietly. “How about a stop for something to eat?” Ky glanced at him; he’d mentioned before the security risks of public eating places. Was this part of his assessment of their escort? Ky started to refuse, but her own stomach growled.

“There’s a café on the corner,” her escort said.

“Fine. A quick lunch, then.” Martin didn’t say anything, and when she looked at him, his face was impassive.

The café was not crowded, in the postlunch period, but the smells from the kitchen were all good. Mindful of Martin’s earlier lecture, she went to a table against a wall and placed herself with the wall at her back. Martin sat on her right, facing the door squarely; Turnish flanked her, sitting across from Martin—which put his back to the door, but facing the kitchen hatch. She offered Turnish a meal; he said he’d eaten before he came on duty. Even though she was paying for his time, Ky felt subtly pressured by his stolid demeanor, as if she were eating in front of an instructor. An escort shouldn’t involve himself in chitchat, true, but Turnish radiated patience at a level that felt impatient. Ky worked her way through a delicious soup and fresh-baked bread that made it clear how this café stayed in business. Martin, she noticed, had inhaled a thick sandwich while hardly taking his gaze off the door.

Out in Willow Lane, late first-shift meant almost no traffic. Turnish led the way past open shop doors in which no one appeared… a succession of small businesses: laundry and cleaners, bakery, used-clothing stores, hand-tool repair, sign studio. It could have been afternoon in a small town. Ky relaxed. Yes, it would be easy for an assassin to set up on a quiet street, but who knew she’d be coming down this way? Any rational assassin would assume she’d head straight back to her ship.

“Look out!” Turnish said suddenly and started to turn toward her.

Ky dove for the deck, shoving Turnish aside; he fell beside her. The first two shots missed all of them by a meter. Ky glanced back at Martin; he had his weapon out and squeezed off a shot as she watched. She braced herself on her elbows and looked for her target. There… peeking out of the doorway of Andy’s Tailor Shop ahead of them. She squeezed off one round of CPF; she saw the assailant’s body jerk, withdraw, then topple slowly out into the passage. The weapon fell with a clatter. A familiar surge of satisfaction pulsed through her. No time for that… Ky looked for cover, and the backup. There would be another; whoever was doing this would not have hired a single shooter. Nothing. No one came to the door of the shop—of any shop—to look. She could feel the hairs standing up on the back of her neck. A doorway to the right gaped empty only a meter or so away. She tapped Turnish’s leg with one hand, looking past him for more trouble.

“Move to cover,” she said. “Four o’clock. I’ll cover you.”

“I don’t think so,” Turnish said, rolling over. Her breath stopped as she stared down the bore of his weapon…
That’s really big
ran through her head in a soprano squeak. The man grinned. “Checkmate, Vatta. Game over.”

She could not move fast enough; her weapon was offline, aimed at where trouble had been, not where it was. She knew she could not move fast enough, and that knowledge made it impossible to move at all. He kept smiling, clearly aware of her thoughts, of her fear, of her weapon’s position. Her throat was dry; icy sweat trickled down her spine. Martin couldn’t possibly—but then noise blasted her ears, and the man’s head exploded in a spray of blood and brains before she even saw what it was Martin was doing.

Breath rushed back into her lungs in a gasp. Ky swiped at the mess on her face. “You—”

“I wasn’t sure until he turned on you,” Martin said. “Sorry. He could’ve been just careless, about the café. Get on into that doorway.” Still no alarm—the passage might have been empty. Perhaps it was. Perhaps everyone had been paid to go have a midshift snack or something.

The dead man’s weapon lay farther away than Ky expected… with his hand still on it. Martin must have fired two shots, then—that fast?

Not that it mattered now. What mattered now was getting some official help. Cautiously, she eased into the doorway she’d spotted and looked for a com port. The one in the red booth three shops down was far too exposed, but most stations had them in more discreet locations as well.

Before she located one, she heard the shrill whistle of approaching law enforcement.

Too bad,” Martin murmured. “I suppose we’re in for the traditional bad quarter hour.”

“I hope it’s only that,” Ky said. “We’ve already been a problem twice today.”

“Yes, you’ll have quite a reputation when we’re done here,” he said. It wasn’t quite a chuckle. “You’re… remarkably calm for someone who just killed someone and was nearly killed herself. Is it calm, or are you in shock?”

“I’m supposed to know?” Ky said. “I don’t feel panicky, if that’s what you mean. A little worried about the men with the uniforms.”

“I presume you’ve been told how to behave when arrested?”

“Oh, yes. But I’d just as soon not spend another hour facedown on the floor, like I did on Belinta.”

“On Belinta—but you were nearly killed on Belinta.”

“And one of the men who tried to kill me was thoroughly killed.”

“By—?”

“Me,” Ky said. “I thought you knew.”

“No; I heard about the mutineers on your ship. I knew this wasn’t your first.”

“The first for this weapon,” Ky said, tucking it back into its holster as the first guard came into view. Martin had already holstered his.

The Garda—another two had entered from the far end—were fully armored, weapons out. Someone out of sight had a loudhailer. “Anyone in this area, come out with your hands up!”

“That’s us,” Ky said. “Here we go.” She put her hands up, and stepped out of the doorway, Martin beside her, hoping that no other sniper remained. Her skin tightened, but no one shot her.

“Any more of you?” asked the loudhailer. Whoever had it must also have a view of the passage.

“No,” Ky said. “Not on our side.”

The armed guards moved in. “Armed?” one of them asked.

“Yes,” Ky said. “Automatic in waist holster; three rounds fired. Safety’s on.”

One of the guards plucked it out gingerly and put it in a safe hanging from his shoulder.

“Yes,” Martin said, with a glance at her. “Shoulder holster, Standard Arms 11 mm, and the safety is on.” The guard removed this weapon and dropped it into the safe as well.

He turned back to Ky. “ID?”

“Kylara Vatta, of
Gary Tobai,
“Ky said. “This is my crewman Gordon Martin.”

After a moment, the guard said, “You’ve had contact with the law twice already today: an altercation at your dockside, and possession of an unlicensed animal.”

“We
found
that unlicensed animal,” Ky said.

“And I suppose you just
found
some dead bodies?”

“No. We were coming along this passage when someone started shooting at us. We hit the deck; I got that one—” Ky nodded to the body in the street some thirty meters away. “—and this one, who was assigned to me by Baritom Security, supposedly a fully licensed escort guard. He turned on me, close range.”

“Excuse me?”

The back of Ky’s neck prickled, a signal she was in no mood to ignore. “Could we go to the station, please? Two people tried to kill me today. I’d like to get off the street and into cover.”

“You’re scared with all of us here?” The sneer was palpable.

“Yes,” Ky said. “And with some reason, I believe. I am willing—no, eager—to give a full report, but I’d rather not be shot in the head while standing out here in easy range of anyone in any of these shops.”

The man made no response at first. Ky assumed he was getting instructions through an implant or his helmet com. In a few moments, he said, “All right. We’re taking you in. Hands on your head.”

The Garda station was around the curve from where they’d been, in the direction they’d been walking. No one else appeared until they were out of sight of the carnage behind. There, a curious crowd had gathered behind a taped perimeter. The guards answered no questions, but hurried Ky and Martin on until they were inside the station. There, since nothing had shown on the autoscanner as they came in, they were allowed to lower their hands.

“You’re getting quite a reputation, Captain Vatta,” said the person behind the desk. “Illegal biologicals, assaults, murder—”

“Self-defense,” Ky said. “Attempted murder, on their part. And what I hope is impersonation, for which Baritom is legally responsible.”

“So you say,” the man said. “An investigating officer will be here shortly to take your statements. You can wait in there—” He jerked his head toward a doorway.

“I need to inform my ship,” Ky said. “They’re expecting us to return.”

He scowled at her. “You’re under suspicion—”

“Of course,” Ky said. “But there’s no reason to panic my crew, is there? After all, I’m still responsible for them; I’m sure you’d rather not have them involved in any other incidents.”

“You can use the public com outlet, there,” he said.

“Go on, Martin; I’ll be with you shortly,” Ky said. Martin nodded and preceded one of the Garda down a hall. Ky gave the ship’s code.

“
Gary Tobai,
Cargo Specialist Barikal speaking.” Cele looked calm, so Ky hoped that meant nothing had happened while she was gone. “Oh—Captain! Sorry—the screen didn’t show your ID at first.”

“That’s all right. Is Quincy there? Has Beeah come back?”

“No, Captain. Quincy’s gone out to one of the chandlers to select rations. She took Jim with her; she’s not alone. Beeah called in to say he was having lunch on Hub Three. Do you want Mehar? She’s in Engineering—”

“No. That’s all right. But I’ve run into some problems. We were attacked on the way back from out here; I want all ship personnel to return to the ship at once and stay there. Who else is out?”

“Besides you and Martin, just Jim, Beeah, and Quincy, Captain. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. But I’d like you to contact Quincy and Beeah—get Mehar to do it by implant—and have them return immediately. I’ll be tied up here in the Hub Four Garda station awhile—probably some hours—but she can try to contact me here. I don’t know if they’ll put calls through. Just sit tight.”

“Yes, Captain. I do have some good news on the cargo side. Alene got quite a profit on one part of the Leonora cargo.”

“That’s fine,” Ky said. “But I’d rather not discuss that on this line. I’m using the public com at the guard station. I’ll call again when I can.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Ky signed off, smiled at the still-scowling man behind the desk, and went into the waiting room, furnished with a bench, narrow table, and two chairs. Martin sat on the bench with his usual composure, radiating calm patience despite the smears of blood and dirt on his clothes. He gave her a pleasant smile. Ky was sure she looked worse than he did; the stench of blood and brains on her face was nauseating. One of the armed guards followed them and stood by the door.

“Is there a toilet?” Ky asked.

“You’ll have to wait until forensics has tested your clothes,” the guard said.

They didn’t have long to wait. The man who came through the door introduced himself as Inspector Grant. “We’ll need to do some forensic tests on your clothes,” he said. “If you’ll follow my assistant here into the changing area, this won’t take long, and then I can take your statements.”

He had two assistants, one male and one female, both humods with low-pressure adaptations. Ky disrobed under the eye of the female and handed her suit over, changing into the simple gray coverall provided. “Now we’ll need to test your hands,” the woman said. She took the sack with Ky’s clothes and led her to another room, where a technician sat behind a machine with a slot in the front. Ky put her hands in the slot as directed, and, after a minute or two, the technician nodded. The technician wiped her face with a cloth and took a blood sample. Then the woman led her back to the waiting room, having handed over the sack to the technician.

“If you need the toilet, you can use it now,” the woman said.

“I’d like to wash my face,” Ky said. “Is that all right?”

“Yes,” the woman said.

In the washroom, Ky scrubbed all the visible bits off her face and wished she could wash her hair. Even as she brushed it with the packet of drywash, it didn’t feel clean. What she really needed was a long, hot shower. She used the facilities, then scrubbed her hands again. When she emerged, she went back to the waiting room and sat down across from Inspector Grant.

“You’ve had a bad day, I gather,” he said, pleasantly enough. “So, Captain Vatta—suppose you tell me what happened. Starting with… let’s start with when you left the Garda station on Hub Three after arranging for that animal to go into quarantine.”

Ky related her travels as best she could. Grant asked for descriptions of the people on the various trams.

“Why did you elect to walk back that way?” he asked, when she told about turning down the passage where they were attacked. “Didn’t it occur to you that staying in the main thoroughfare might be safer?”

“My escort, Willem Turnish. I had asked if he knew of a place that carried pet supplies. If we were going to be stuck with that puppy, we’d need some. He said there was a shop called BioExotics on Willow Lane. In fact,” Ky continued, “he recommended the café—Murphy’s—where we ate lunch.”

“Murphy’s has a good reputation,” Grant said. “Do you think they’ll remember you?”

“I’d think so. It wasn’t very busy when we were there. I remember which table. Anyway, we started down Willow Lane, and the passage cleared out after a while; we were walking along fairly quickly and I was looking at storefronts, reading the names and numbers. Then Turnish said look out, and I was diving for cover when the first two shots came. We were all on the ground when the next shot came, then I had my weapon out. I got the one up ahead, and told Turnish to take cover in the nearest doorway while I covered him.”

“And?”

“He rolled over and had a weapon aimed at my head. I was so stunned I couldn’t move—he was too close, and I was stretched out, my weapon pointing away from him…”

“You’re sure it was Turnish?”

“Absolutely,” Ky said. “He’d been with me the whole time, never more than an arm’s length away.”

“So what happened then?”

“Next thing I knew, Martin bobbed up and shot him. I don’t suppose Turnish knew he was armed, or could move that fast. Then we got into that doorway and waited until the guards showed up.”

“You have a license for your weapon,” Grant said. “They checked that at the other guard station. But your crewman—do you know if he has a concealed carry permit?”

“Yes,” Ky said. “I arranged for that when I purchased mine, along with my weapon, at Blades on Hub Three.”

“Um. And you were both both wearing torso armor?”

“Yes,” Ky said. “Also purchased today at Blades. We had some reason to expect trouble, as I’m sure you know. But my real concern,” Ky said, “is that someone I hired from a bonded protection company tried to kill me. He had all the right recognition codes, the ones the company provided to me. Does this mean the company is bent, or are they missing a legitimate agent?”

“I assure you we will investigate that aspect,” Grant said. “They say they did dispatch an escort named Willem Turnish, but we do not yet know if the dead man really was Turnish.” He shook his head. “Do you know why he warned you? If he was part of the plan to kill you, that doesn’t make sense.”

Ky had not thought of that. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Unless,” Grant said, “he set it up so it could look like someone else shot you. Though that seems complicated. Tell me how he came to you. Had you arranged for an escort with Baritom?”

“They contacted my ship; a message was relayed to me and I called the number provided. They said their dockside personnel had noticed I went out and asked if I wanted an escort. It was something I’d mentioned to them before. Why?”

He sighed. “I don’t know yet. I’m just trying to understand what exactly happened. Preliminary forensics confirms that the individual in the doorway of Andy’s fired the three rounds we found onsite, and that those rounds were fired before the ones that killed him.”

How else,
Ky wondered, but didn’t say.

“Forensics cannot confirm that the individual known to you as Willem Turnish was in fact menacing you with his weapon before your crewman shot him. We are experiencing difficulty in obtaining uncorrupted vid surveillance data from that area. It looks as if someone intended to insert a very different scenario, but we tapped into the system too quickly.” His smile now was predatory. “We are not happy to find that someone is attempting to corrupt our surveillance.”

“That would be… very bad,” Ky said.

“Yes. At any rate, the evidence at this point does not support holding you in custody, even though you might be safer here than out on the streets. Though it’s clear from both your stories that your crewman Martin shot and killed this Turnish fellow, the previous threats against your family suggest that it’s not that unlikely he was trying to kill you. Therefore I am willing to release him, as well, into your custody. Excuse me a moment.” He left the room.

Ky leaned back. The gray jumpsuit smelled of harsh institutional soap, but she could still smell
something
in her hair. She would have to get in touch with Baritom… would they blame her for the death of their operative, or would they accept that he had turned on her? She ached all over. She did not want to hike over to the station to take the tram back to Hub Two.

Grant came back. “Since it’s clear you’re the target of malicious intent, I’m authorizing the use of a patrol scooter to get you back to your docking area. We can’t provide around-the-clock protection—we don’t have the personnel—but that much we can do.”

“Thank you,” Ky said, feeling absurdly grateful.

“Your clothes and weapons will be returned to you at dockside,” he went on.

Everyone was back at Vatta dockside when Ky and Martin returned. Ky brushed off the concerned questions. “We both need to clean up,” she said. “And I need some sleep. I’m hoping the ship unit will restore this suit.” She didn’t think it would, but it was worth trying.

After she put her filthy, stained clothes in the ’fresher, she took a long, hot shower and fell into bed. She lay still, breathed deeply, and didn’t go to sleep. She tried meditation, attempted to visualize the rainbow… but all she could see was the blank black circle of the gun muzzle pointing at her face, and the red blood, all she could feel was the shock of fear and despair, the elation of killing, side by side and overlapping. Again and again, she tried to work her way through the color sequence, the calming words, and each time the black circle and red splatters dominated her thoughts. Finally she emerged from her cabin, still tired, aching, sore where her elbows and knees had hit the pavement… but too alert, too tense. It would almost be better if her father was dead, because then he would never know that his daughter, his precious little girl, got a charge out of killing people.