Trading in Danger Page 13

  “I do indeed. Thanks anyway, and for handling the press so far.” Gerard clapped his brother on the shoulder, and let him enter the boardroom first. Almost everyone there was family but, even in the family, etiquette demanded that the CEO enter before the CFO.

  “How much is all this going to cost us?” one of the nonfamily asked. Stavros paused, on his way to his chair, and glanced at the man, and then at Gerard.

  “No reason it should cost us anything,” Gerard said. “People aren’t going to give their cargo shipments to someone else because my daughter blundered with another military cadet.”

  “But our military support contracts?”

  “I have been assured that they are not in jeopardy. Ky wasn’t pilfering from cargo locks, after all; she just fell for a pitiful story from a handsome lad, as girls have done for thousands of years. The military understand that. Now if we tried to send classified cargo by a ship she commanded right now, they might raise their brows. But we aren’t, so there’s no problem.”

  “All that publicity—”

  “Is focused on a possible love affair . . . It will die down.”

  “But if your daughter talks to the press—”

  Gerard cocked his head at the man. “Jas, do you really think we haven’t thought of all that in the past five days? I assure you, Kylara is not about to talk to any press, and they are unlikely to locate her.” It was bad luck to claim an absolute, but by now she should be well out of reach of any Slotter Key news agency. Even within the company, only a few knew which Vatta was aboard the Glennys Jones.

  Eventually, the news agencies figured that out, too, and the press of eager reporters at the Vatta offices dwindled, finally disappearing after juicier game. Gerard no longer saw even mid-news “updates” on the mess. He congratulated himself—by the time Ky got back, the whole thing would have died down completely.

  When the arrival report came from Belinta, he breathed a sigh of relief. Just as planned, nothing had happened. That wouldn’t last, if he knew his daughter, but she had weathered the first voyage. Gary Tobai’s report suggested she had done all the predictable things, and made the right adjustments. After all, what did Vatta really need with a military connection in the family? They were all basically traders, not warriors. Ky was cut out to be a trader captain, and now she was on the right path.

  A few days later, the next message from Gary brought a grin to his face, and he called Stavros’ office.

  “Well, she took the bait,” Stavros said.

  “Vatta to the core,” Gerard said. “I take it you got the tightbeam from Quincy or Gary.”

  “Both. You can practically hear their gleeful cackling.”

  “What kind of scheme has she cooked up? They didn’t send me the details.”

  “I’ll send it to you, but it’s classic trader. A bit risky financially—she’s agreed to go on spec, buy the cargo, and trust the buyer to pay up on delivery. On the other hand, the customer’s a government bureau, the parameters of acceptable cargo are clearly defined, and the Slotter Key consul told her they were good for it. The profit from this will cover some of the repairs . . . If she scraps that ship, I’ll be very surprised.”

  “I hope we gave her a big enough letter of credit,” Gerard said.

  “It never hurts to have to scrimp a bit,” Stavros said. “Remember our first venture?”

  “Of course . . .” It had been wilder than this, and they’d nearly lost the ship, playing tag with a planetary militia they hadn’t known about, but it had, in the end, paid for the repairs on Matilda C.

  “She’ll do fine. The ship’s sound enough for that much, anyway. If something major doesn’t go wrong—and if it does, I’m sure she’ll have the sense to get in contact.”

  “I hope so.”

  “And if she doesn’t, the others will.”

  “I wonder when she’ll break out the fruitcake,” Gerard said. Theirs hadn’t been fruitcake by Auntie Grace, but sausage by Uncle Evers. Hard as a rock—they’d actually bashed one would-be sneak thief with it—and deemed inedible by all but the starving.

  “I’d like a picture when she does,” Stavros said. “She really hates that stuff.”

  “It is vile,” Gerard said. He shook his head. “The things we do to our younglings.”

  Time passed. Gerard tried not to fret. Ky would be making a sensible, reasonable passage to Sabine, which was the closest source of ag equipment. Or she had chosen another place, for a good reason. She would not report in when she arrived, because she would not want to tell headquarters she was playing a lone game. He remembered what that felt like—going out of bounds for the first time, being alone—with a ship full of crew—where no one in the family knew the location. Heady excitement, stomach-churning responsibility. And he’d had Stavros along.

  She had good crew along. He knew that. They would take care of her, and she was not an idiot anyway. She might make a profit or not, but she would be fine. He would not, absolutely not, spy on her via the Sabine ansible. He could of course ask someone to get the list of ships in system, but that was . . . not fair. You gave the young ones rope to see how far they could swing . . . You did not hover, or it wasn’t a real test. They needed to know later that they really had been out there on their own.

  “Gerry, have you seen this?” That was Stavros, leaning on the doorframe, waving a printout of something.

  “Probably not,” Gerard said. “Though I’m not sure what it is . . .”

  “News bulletin from Sabine system,” Stavros said.

  Gerard’s heart stopped; his vision blurred. “Ky—”

  “Gerry! No! I’m sorry—there’s nothing—but there’s political trouble. I’m wondering if we should break cover and order her out.”

  Vision came back, red-hazed, and Gerard drew a shuddering breath. “She’s . . . not . . . ?”

  “No. But Prime and Secundus are moving toward war this time, apparently. It’s a slice off the WarWatch page, and they’re pretty solid . . .”

  He knew that. But now he had to know more.

  “Who’s on watch?” he asked.

  “I already checked. The ship’s there, at the station. Captain Vatta is planetside, has been several days. She’ll be at the Captains’ Guild, no doubt. I haven’t made a call yet, but I was wondering . . .”

  “Let’s see.” Gerard could focus his eyes now, and he scanned the news item quickly. Probability high, with an analysis of forces on both sides sufficient to worry about. “Secundus is crazy,” he said. “If this is all they’ve got.”

  “They’ve got those shipkillers,” Stavros pointed out. “And speculation that at least four of them could take out an orbital station.”

  “Um. What’s the projected timeline . . . Yes, I think we should get her out of there. How can we . . . oh, I know. Ky knows we have an ansible watch, and a news item like this would be reason to check and see if any Vatta ships are in the area. If we send it to the Captains’ Guild for ‘Any Vatta Transport, Ltd., captain’ she won’t know we know where she is.”

  “Good. I’ll do it, general alert. We need to put out the word to our regular route captains as well.” Stavros got the blank look common to those accessing multiple implant links at once, and then smiled. “Done. We should have acknowledgment in a few hours. It’ll be interesting to see what she does.”

  Less than an hour later, Gerard’s implant shrilled at him the news that the Sabine system ansibles were out, presumed destroyed. He stared out his office window at the evening, the city lights beginning to twinkle through the dusk. Without thinking about it, he found himself staring far across the city to the Academy, visible only as a gap in the regular lines of light. If that miserable lying little fox of a Miznarii had caused his daughter to end up dead in a war . . . He shook himself. That was no way to think, not now.

  “Gerry.” Stavros had come to his door. “Are you all right?”

  Gerard tried to laugh; it came out a croak. “I’m . . . not,” he said. “If Ky—”<
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  “She’s not Stella,” Stavros said, coming into the office. “Stella wouldn’t make it. Ky—I’d bet on Ky. She’s smart, she’s got some military training, enough to recognize the signs—”

  “What if they blew the station at the same time as the ansibles?” Gerard said.

  “She was on the planet, she’ll be fine,” Stavros said.

  “No . . .” Gerard worked through it as he spoke. “If she sees trouble coming, she’ll go back to her ship. She’ll try to get it away. But there wasn’t time—we had that report the ship was docked only a few hours ago.” He could not help but picture the station exploding, the ships docked there flung wide, losing atmosphere through the docking tubes, other explosions, Ky’s body flung into space, her last agonized breath a cry for help that never came.

  “And maybe she’s fine,” Stavros said. “We can’t know until ISC gets ansibles up and running, so the best we can do is stay sane until she shows up wondering why we worried. Say she did go back to the ship. She knows trouble’s coming; she buttons the ship up; she asks permission to undock; she breaks away if she has to. She’s smart, Gerry. She’ll survive.”

  She’s not your daughter, Gerard wanted to say, but this was his brother, who had already been remarkably forbearing. And it was all the comfort he had, or was going to get, until the ansibles were back up.

  “We’d better not tell the others,” Gerard said.

  “You’re right about that,” Stavros said. He sighed. “It was easier in the olden times, when our ancestors believed there were magical beings in the sky who could intervene. Our modern religions are fine for destressing from the everyday, but it would be nice to have a real lightning-throwing god to pray to about now.”

  Gerard laughed, and his laugh was almost normal.

  After Beeah left, Ky tried to think what to do next. What if someone attacked the station while they were docked—would the station have any warning? Would they share such warnings with the ships? Her mind worked through possibilities with excruciating slowness, though she noticed that the chronometer was clicking over slowly, too. Station attacked, station blown, decompression—

  Of course. Right now the ship shared atmosphere with the station, part of their allotment of station resources as covered by the daily dock charges. Station air, station water. But that meant if the station lost atmosphere, so would they.

  So the first thing was to button up. It would take longer for Beeah to get back aboard, and cargo to load, but she could worry about that later.

  She called down to drives, where Quincy was presumably still working with her subordinates to plan the quick replacement of the sealed unit.

  “Yes, Captain?” Quincy didn’t sound scared. Ky hoped she herself didn’t.

  “Just in case, I want to button the ship up. Beeah’s off ship, but the dockside intercom works; we checked it.”

  “Good thinking, Captain,” Quincy said. “I should have thought of that. I’ll be right up to give you a hand.”

  In the next few minutes, system by system, they shut off all the connections to the stations but the communication lines and the docking grapples. Air, water, cargo bay hatches . . . all sealed. Ky watched the shipboard systems come online, one by one, looking for signs of anything wrong. All the telltales stayed green as they should. Their reserve water tanks were full, their growth chambers properly stocked and balanced.

  Suddenly the comdesk lit: incoming call from the stationmaster, with visual. A stocky man in uniform glared from the screen. “Glennys Jones: report status to Stationmaster.”

  “Captain Vatta, Glennys Jones, status docked.”

  “Our sensors indicate you’ve closed hatches and withdrawn from station circulation: explain.”

  “Concern for safety,” Ky said. “If there’s an attack on this station—”

  “You have data suggesting an attack on this station?”

  “The ansibles were attacked,” Ky said. “Someone has the capacity and willingness to attack space targets. This is a big one. If the station loses air, I don’t want to lose mine.”

  “Oh. Well, we understand you have a crewman on the station, is that correct?”

  “Yes, it is. Beeah Chok, engineering second; he’s on an errand for me.”

  “What kind of errand?”

  “We need some equipment,” Ky said. “I sent him to purchase it.”

  “He should return to your ship. Station Security will inform him.” The signal clicked off. Ky stared at the blank, silent screen.

  “This isn’t good,” Amat said, coming onto the bridge and settling in the pilot’s seat.

  “I know that,” Ky said. She glanced at him; his face was set. “You were in the space force, Riel—any advice?”

  “Not a lot of options here, Captain. Glad you came back up when you did.”

  “Maybe Beeah will have good news for us,” Ky said. She didn’t believe it, but she could hope.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “An embargo on all ship components,” Ky said. “Why?”

  “To prevent our giving aid and comfort to the enemy,” Beeah said. Station Security had delivered him to dockside hours after that last contact from the Stationmaster’s office. He leaned against the bulkhead and took another bite of sandwich; he’d arrived rumpled and hungry. “They don’t want us taking a sealed unit to Secundus.”

  “I don’t want to take a sealed unit to Secundus,” Ky said. “I want to put it into my own ship so I can take tractors to Belinta.”

  “That’s another problem,” Beeah said.

  “What, tractors?”

  “Yes, Captain. You see, they aren’t convinced that what we have are tractors for Belinta. They think ‘agricultural equipment’ is just a cover for weapons and things for the rebels.”

  “Why would they think that?” Ky said. “We have a contract with Belinta . . . I told everyone that and it’s the truth. FarmPower has the manifests of what they sent, as well. I can prove—”

  “Captain, don’t glare at me. I know that. But they’re in a panic. Nobody thought Secundus had the weapons to hit the ansible platforms. What they say is that you were using your own money, and borrowed money; if you really were hired by Belinta, why wasn’t Belinta’s name on the funds transfer? And they know our holds weren’t large enough to take the equipment without dismantling it. FarmPower told them so, and apparently someone at FarmPower suspects we sold the farm machinery and bought weapons with it.”

  “From whom?” Ky said. She felt like someone caught in a bad play. “I haven’t dealt with anyone but FarmPower, the bank, and the embassy—except for buying that stupid sprayer.”

  “I didn’t say they were rational. They’re scared, Captain, and they’re determined not to let us have any ship components.”

  “Great.”

  “And they would appreciate it, they said, if you would pay all docking fees up to date immediately and on a daily basis hereafter.”

  Ky tried to think of a suitable epithet but nothing seemed strong enough for the situation. “Why don’t they just insist on coming aboard and inspecting the machinery for themselves?” she asked.

  “They probably would, but they’re afraid we might have it booby-trapped. They figure if they hang onto us, we can’t deliver it, and if we blow up with them, it serves us right.”

  “So why didn’t they come to me directly?”

  “Well . . .” Beeah looked at the deck, and Ky wished she had a scanner to read the inside of his head. She’d never seen him blush before. “It’s . . . they think if they open a link, you’ll do something. It would let you set off something, they said.”

  “Oh, for—” She still could not think of the right comment for that kind of boneheaded stupidity. A worse thought occurred. “So if the station does blow up, they’ll probably blame me—and maybe Vatta Transport—even if we had nothing to do with it!”

  “I guess they might,” Beeah said. It was clear he hadn’t thought of that. She watched his expression change as he to
ok it in. “Captain . . . what are you going to do?”

  She hadn’t a clue. But captains weren’t supposed to say that. Instead, she said, “Go down and send Quincy up, please.” When he’d left the bridge, she called Gary to the bridge as well. Surely a combined hundred and fifty years of experience ought to be worth something.

  “What’s up?” Quincy asked. “Beeah said he couldn’t get the equipment—”

  “No, and there’s worse. Wait until Gary gets here.”

  Gary came in a moment later, out of breath. “Damned multigang disk cultivators anyway. Stupid things will not stack well, even half-covered in sticky tape. What is it, Captain?”

  Ky outlined their situation. “I won’t say it couldn’t be worse,” she said. “Because it always can. But I wanted your comments on this . . .”

  “Not advice?” Gary said, rubbing his head.

  “I’ll hear it if you have it,” Ky said.

  “It’s a right mess,” Quincy said. “Like you said, if some saboteur blows the station, we’ll likely be blamed for it and we won’t be there to defend ourselves. Vatta, too, you’re right. Slotter Key, even. And we’ll be blamed for not making the delivery to Belinta, as well. And we can’t go anywhere,” Quincy said, looking worried. “Insystem drive, fine, it’s working, but it’s slow and there’s nowhere in this system we can go. We need that sealed unit.”

  “Even if we had it, we’d have a big problem,” Gary said. “If we undock without authorization, they may consider that proof of bad intent and attack us. I don’t see what we can do but stay here . . .”

  “Are we completely spaceworthy for insystem travel?” Ky asked.

  “Yes, but it’s no good to us . . .”

  Ky held up her hand, and Quincy stopped. “It’s like this,” Ky said. “So far I’ve been reacting to things—I suppose you could consider the Belinta deal initiative, but it practically fell on me out of a tree. Here on Sabine, I’ve been pushed by circumstances. If I just follow along doing the obvious thing, it’s going to get us killed. I realized that while Beeah was talking. If we’re going to get out of this, we have to act. Reaction may kill us, but inaction certainly will.”