Engaging the Enemy Read online

  They filed in, wearing obvious uniforms with darker rectangles where unit or rank patches had been, and lined up stiffly across from her, five men and three women. She could tell nothing from their faces except that they looked biologically related.

  “At ease,” she said, hoping it was the right command. They shifted smartly to parade rest.

  “This is Jon Gannett,” Martin said, nodding to the man in the center. “He’s their leader.”

  “M’rating was master gunner,” the man said. He could have been carved from a block of tik wood; his skin had not paled with years in space.

  “Master Gunner Gannett,” Ky said. “Chief Martin has explained what we’re looking for, I gather?” She noticed, from the corner of her eye, that Martin had startled slightly at the title she’d given him.

  “Yes, Captain. You need weapons teams for missile batteries, and you plan to fight pirates.”

  “That’s right. You have the right qualifications, on paper, but you’re used to a strictly military setting. Privateers are technically civilian ships. I need to be sure that you understand the distinction.”

  “Would we be expected to do civilian chores?” There was an undertone of contempt.

  Ky raised her brows. “You’d be expected to do whatever I order,” she said. “It’s unlikely that any work on this ship could be considered strictly civilian, aside from the actual selling and buying of cargo…for which you’re not qualified. Ship maintenance, though, of course.”

  His mouth quirked. “Understood, Captain. Your—Chief Martin says you are qualified to command a warship—”

  Ky glanced at Martin, trying not to show her surprise.

  “We mean no insult, Captain Vatta, but we need to know that we’re not going to be commanded by—” She could see his struggle to find a euphemism for idiot, and waited it out. “—someone who has no experience,” he finally said.

  “I’m sure the chief’s given you the book version,” Ky said. “I am young, but not unacquainted with danger and violence.” She grinned, letting some of that dark force into her smile.

  Gannett nodded abruptly. “If I may introduce my team, Captain?”

  “Please,” Ky said.

  As he spoke their names, the other team members took a step forward: “Arnold, Podtal, Rory, Hera, Gus, Ted. Arnie and Pod are my crewleaders. You’ll make your own decisions, I understand, but they’re good. We all grew up in the business; Gus and Ted are the youngest, but they enlisted when they were just fifteen; they’re twenty standard now.”

  Ky thought of Toby, now nearing fifteen. Had the hard-faced men before her ever been as young as Toby?

  “You left Calvert’s because you didn’t like the new commander, is that right?”

  “Yes.” That in a flat voice that invited no questions.

  “You broke a ten-year contract to do that,” Ky said. “Does this mean you’d prefer a short-term contract with me?”

  That question surprised Jon; she saw the shift of expression. “We’re not lookin’ to leave anyone, ma’am,” he said slowly. “We’d like a permanent place, if you have one, but we need a job, worse’n anythin’ right now.”

  Ky thought of a dozen things to say, and ask, but her instinct was that this family group was straight. She glanced at Martin and gave a slight nod.

  “All right, then. Your files look good, and I’m offering you a place as my number one weapons team. In our tradition, that’s the forward portside batteries.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” their leader said. He didn’t mention if their tradition was the same, a sign that he understood things were as they were here.

  “Chief Martin will show you where to bunk and stow your gear,” Ky said. “And we’ll get you some patches for those uniforms.” As soon as she could have them made up; it was yet another detail she hadn’t thought of.

  _______

  Ten days after first docking at Rosvirein, Fair Kaleen looked and felt much more like a fighting ship. A new starboard air lock, all compartments fully aired up, environmental supplies complete, new crewmembers busy about their tasks. The Gannetts had settled into the berthing area for the portside first and second batteries; they’d inspected all the batteries and related supply compartments, and reported to Martin that all were in satisfactory operating condition, but the missile racks were not full.

  Ky wondered where Osman had expended those missiles, but ignored that stab of curiosity and authorized the purchase of replacements. Meanwhile, a second weapons team, this one made up of two different crews, moved into starboard batteries one and two, and Martin continued to comb the applicants for more he could approve. Environmental filled all positions, then Lee found a good pilot prospect while onstation shopping.

  When she made her way through the ship on her daily rounds, her implant cued her to the names that went with the faces she saw: Barton, environmental tech class 3, a humod from Cantab with chem-sensing tentacles for direct assays of pollutants; Leman, engineering tech class 2, from Allray. Her original crew, at first a bit wary of the strangers, soon warmed up, and she came across little gatherings in the crew spaces. Even Rascal, at first inclined to growl and nip, relaxed enough to roll over and let some of the newbies scratch his belly.

  Best of all, she had found two competent officers with good records, cast loose when their captain couldn’t make the daily docking charges and pay the crew. The captain himself approached Ky on their behalf.

  “Hugh’s the best first officer you could want,” the man said. “He’s honest, hardworking, and gets along with crew. You’re a privateer, the board says—well, he spent five years with a merc company until he lost his arm, and then he chose to civ rather than stay, which makes sense to me. As for Laurie, she’s a genius with anything technical. Engines, environmental, communications…she eats that up…”

  Ky interviewed them that afternoon.

  “You do understand I’m a privateer,” Ky said to Hugh Pritang. “It’s not like a tradeship, and we will probably be in combat.” She was trying not to look at Pritang’s left arm, in case he thought that was rude, but the cluster of appendages at the end did not look like fingers.

  “That’s fine, Captain,” he said. “I thought I wanted safety when I left the Rangers, but I’ve been eight years with Janocek’s ship and frankly I was bored. If the ansibles come back up, you can access my combat record—”

  “As long as you understand,” Ky said. “That’s what I wanted to know.”

  “This is a functional arm,” Pritang said, holding it up. “It looks odd, I know, but actually I can do things with it that I couldn’t with the original. I’m not disabled in any way. My wife couldn’t stand it, though.”

  That was clearly a challenge. Ky made herself look: those heavy ridges in the forearm area had to be reinforcing for extra muscles; the appendages included three fleshy near-fingers and two tentacles, one with what looked like a sucker tip and one with an obvious dataport probe. “I’ve never seen one like it,” Ky said.

  “But it doesn’t bother you.” That was more statement than question.

  “No,” Ky said. “It doesn’t bother me. Do you want this job?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Then welcome aboard; there’s plenty of work.” She introduced him around; she could tell that he and Martin took to each other right away.

  Laurie Sutton had the look and attitude of good engineers everywhere, practical and focused. She asked the right questions about the ship systems, and took a quick tour. Though she was much younger than Quincy, Ky felt the same confidence about her. By the end of the shift both had signed on and moved their gear aboard. Now if she could just find a qualified weapons officer; she really needed someone at that station on the bridge.

  And when would Stella get there? She made an ansible call back to Garth-Lindheimer, but Gary Tobai had left the system days before. Ky tried to smother her own impatience and plan for the future. She still didn’t see how she was going to combine rebuilding Vatta with
taking down their attackers—at least not in the same time period—but she began to lay out a sequence for each.

  Her own trips offship were infrequent. Hugh quickly took over many routine duties, but other things shipboard demanded her attention. She did try to get to the Captains’ Guild every few days, just to check on the eyes-only information there. But finally, when she felt confident that the ship would get along without her for a few hours, she decided she could afford to take a break.

  Though no one on her crew had been attacked, she wasn’t about to go out carelessly; she had full clips of ammunition, and the Rossi-Smith in its holster was loaded. She chose Rafe and Jim to accompany her, leaving Hugh to continue the provisioning of the ship. Her ostensible errand was to the chandler’s, to see what was available in crockery, as Osman’s stores were not sufficient for the full crew. A proper Vatta ship used proper crockery and eating utensils, not the recyclable ephemerals Osman had apparently given most of his crew. She was determined to feed her crew off decent ware befitting a respectable ship.

  Bendick’s Ship Supplies, the first chandler’s they came to down the concourse, carried only ephemerals. “Fully recyclable,” the clerk said. “No washing necessary.”

  Ky turned away. Recyclables required energy, and most produced by-products that no one wanted.

  The next three chandlers on this section of the station also carried only ephemerals. By then it was nearly midshift, and Ky decided that was reason enough to look for a place to eat lunch.

  “Any problems?” she asked Rafe.

  “None I see,” he said. “It passes belief that the bad guys don’t have an agent on Rosvirein, but so far I’ve seen nothing suspicious. That by itself raises my suspicions, but we should be all right for lunch, as long as you don’t choose the most dangerous dive in the place.”

  “You’ve been onstation more than I have,” Ky said. “What do you recommend?”

  “There are three reasonable cafés within easy walking distance,” he said. “Mama Jo’s serves mostly Alganese food—diced meat and vegetables in pocket bread, fairly spicy. They’re really crowded at lunch; people like to eat in, and they have only ten tables. Section Three Bakeshop specializes in pies—two crusts and a filling. Mostly bland, to my taste, but if you like creamed chicken in pastry, it’s good. Good apple tarts, too. They do a lot of take-out, so they’re not as crowded. Tony’s does grilled stuff on skewers and a good mixed fry; their bread is superb. Plenty of table room if we get there in the next few minutes.”

  “Preference?” Ky asked.

  “Bakeshop,” said Jim promptly, while Rafe said “Tony’s” firmly.

  “Tony’s,” Ky said. Bland creamed chicken in pastry didn’t interest her. Her mouth had watered at the mention of “grilled stuff on skewers.”

  “Too bad,” Rafe said to Jim. Jim managed not to scowl.

  On the way to Tony’s they passed Empire Embroidery, where the ship patches had been made. Ky was startled to see one of hers displayed in the window, along with a dozen others, as “examples of our work.” Rafe, noticing her glance, shook his head.

  “We need to get out of here soon,” he said. “Not that everyone hasn’t known about your ship, but that patch tells anyone interested that something’s up. I don’t suppose you have any idea how long Stella will be?”

  “None. Wish I did.”

  “I don’t see why the new patches make a problem,” Jim said. He was slouching along, hands in pockets, until Ky turned to look at him; then he pulled out his hands and tried to stand straighter.

  “The sword,” Rafe said. “That’s new for Vatta. It’s a challenge.”

  “I didn’t think of that,” Ky said. “But we needed something—”

  “I’m not saying it was a bad thing. But it’s eye-catching. Not just that Empire Embroidery put one in their window, but every time one of your crew goes onstation wearing it.”

  Tony’s, when they got to it, looked as if someone with not quite enough money had tried to convert a standard station business cubage into a half-ruined castle on a planet. The fake stone facing of the entrance was obviously fake, and the fake amber-glass light globes all had blackened areas where the plastic had oxidized. But the smells coming out were delicious—Ky watched a platter of skewers go by and wanted to grab them away. The proprietor, a cheerful balding man in a white apron, ushered them to one of the decorative alcoves.

  “Menu’s on the table,” he said. “Just punch it in; you’re ahead of the rush, so it’ll be quick.”

  It was quick and delicious. Ky hadn’t had fresh, unprocessed food in a long time; she was more than halfway through a skewer of lamb, mushrooms, and vegetables before she looked up again. Jim was shoveling down the stew he had chosen, but Rafe was looking toward the entrance and crumbling a cheese roll as if it annoyed him.

  “What?” Ky asked quietly. She hoped nothing was going to interrupt her meal. Two well-dressed men were near the entrance; when Tony bustled up to them, they spoke briefly, and he led them to a table on the other side.

  “Nothing,” Rafe said, with a small shake of his head. He bit off a piece of roll. Ky went back to her skewer, and stripped the rest of the items off it, all but one mushroom that would give her an excuse to pick it up again. She glanced again at the entrance. The men were sitting quietly at their table. She didn’t see either one look at her table.

  The second skewer was more than she could eat. She hoped Tony’s had take-out bags, and nibbled on one of the raw carrot sticks. “Nothing with you is ever nothing,” she said to Rafe.

  “Nothing yet,” Rafe said. “One of those men who came in is Borrie Difano. Usually eats lunch halfway around the station, at Luca Seafood Bar. I suppose he could have a sudden yearning for lamb instead.”

  “Change in pattern?”

  “You could say so, yes. I don’t know his companion. Borrie’s not muscle, but he runs muscle.” Rafe glanced up to be sure she understood. Ky nodded. “His territory’s over there; he’s on Damien’s pasture over here.”

  “Damien.”

  “About equivalent in rank, in the local infrastructure of irregular transactions.”

  “Criminals.”

  “I suppose you could call them that. But Rosvirein’s definitions are somewhat looser than whatever you grew up with.”

  “Spare me,” Ky said. “If we have a situation approaching, I’d prefer not to be distracted by your need to show how sophisticated you are.” Her left hand slid down to check the flap of the holster.

  “Ouch.” Rafe took a sip of his drink. “You are sensitive today, aren’t you? All right. No need to fumble around for it; your weapon’s right where you left it. And Borrie’s not the muscle; he doesn’t like to get involved, he claims.”

  Jim’s head came up; he stared at Rafe, then at Ky. “Is he—?”

  “No,” Rafe and Ky said together. Rafe shrugged and Ky went on. “Just finish your meal, Jim. We have work to do.”

  Jim nodded, spooned up the last few bites of his stew, then grabbed a roll out of the basket and stuffed it in his mouth. Ky reminded herself to tell Martin to work on Jim’s table manners.

  A group came in, and another behind it; the place was filling up. The table flashed READY FOR BILL?

  “We should leave,” Rafe said. “They’ll need our table.”

  Ky punched in her station credit code; the display changed to reflect payment, and NEED CARRYOUT? Ky punched YES, and in a moment a girl darted up with an insulated container. Ky tipped the remains of her skewer into it, and the girl began to clear the dishes onto a tray.

  As they stood, she noticed that one of the men across the room had left—at least he wasn’t at the table anymore. They worked their way through the crowd now waiting to be seated; Ky’s back felt itchy again, but nothing happened. Outside, as they headed farther down the passage, Ky glanced around but noticed no one following them.

  “It’s not their way,” Rafe said, after the third time she’d checked behind them. “Besides, I’m
watching, too. We’re beginning to look like we think we’re being followed, and that’s going to interest a freelancer if you don’t stop it. Jim and I are your escorts; you’re supposed to trust us.”

  “Sorry,” Ky said. “I think I’ll stop and make some calls. Surely someone carries real crockery and not that recyclable stuff.”

  “Good idea,” Rafe said.

  Ky found a public booth, and the two men placed themselves to watch her back. When she found a chandler with the merchandise she wanted, it was almost to the far side of the station. She gave Rafe the address. He nodded. “I know where that is, or close to. We should take a tram; we’ll walk our legs off otherwise and be well into nightshift as well. Don’t want to be there after the dayshift change.”

  “Should we do it another day?”

  “No…I don’t think so. But let’s catch a ride.”

  The intrastation tram took them around to the far side in less than an hour, and their station was only a few minutes’ walk from Carson Brothers.

  “Of course, Captain, we carry all classes of crockery and flatware both.” The lean, stooped older man who identified himself as Lemuel Carson had dual cranial bulges and one artificial eye whose focusing mechanism buzzed as it changed. Ky wondered how he tolerated it. “Everything from Delian fine porcelain and full formal services of gold on platinum to your basic plain white glazed pottery and stainless-steel flatware. All imports, though some of it’s secondhand and we have a few antique sets, if you fancy a delicate floral pattern with silver-gilt edging—”

  “No, I’m looking for good-quality shipware,” Ky said. “I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Vatta Transport logo—”

  His face brightened. “As a matter of fact, we have several sets; let me just check the inventory—” After a moment, during which Ky assumed he was querying his implant, he nodded. “A ship called Nocturne carried service for one hundred with the Vatta logo only, no shipname. The paperwork said it was taken on trade for new with a shipname.”