Trading in Danger Page 17

  “Glennys Jones, this is the Mackensee Military Assistance Corporation ship Victor. Does your ship have active gravity controls?”

  “Yes,” Ky said, through a throat gone suddenly tight and dry. “Confirm active gravity controls.”

  A long wait . . . minutes crawled past, each seeming years long, before a reply came through. Unboosted communication, then:

  “Glennys Jones cease boost, repeat, cease boost. Transmit cargo manifest, personnel manifest, vessel’s operational status on this channel within one standard hour. Crew personal effects need not be enumerated but all weapons must be listed. Personnel manifest to include full name, state of origin, current citizenship, age, sex, occupation. Operational status to include systems status. Prepare for inspection. Acknowledge.”

  “They’re going to board us?” Lee said; he sounded scared. Ky was glad someone else had voiced that fear.

  “Maybe . . . maybe not.” Easier to be calm when she had someone else to be calm for. “They might just do an external inspection.” Unlikely but it was a chance.

  “What can we do?” Lee asked. His voice was still tense, pitched higher than usual.

  “Right now, what we’re told,” Ky said. “Cut the boost—we wanted to do that anyway. We can’t fight, we can’t run, and it won’t do us any good to argue.” She thumbed the transmitter. “Glennys Jones acknowledges: cut boost to zero accel, cargo and crew manifest, and ship operational status to be transmitted this channel within one hour.”

  No immediate answer, of course. She looked at longscan again. There—one of the warships’ icons appeared next to one of the larger merchanters.

  “Gary, I need the cargo manifest and an annotated crew list, including our four newbies—and check if anyone has anything a military boarding team might consider a weapon.”

  “A good team could consider a pillow a weapon,” Gary said. He sounded more grumpy than scared, but his expression was worried.

  “Be serious. The kind of thing they’ll be upset about if we don’t declare it. Firearms, knives, that kind of thing.” Vatta Transport, like Slotter Key generally, had a relaxed attitude toward personal weapons. Crew were not supposed to take weapons off the ship onto foreign soil—which included orbital stations—but they could have anything on board which fit into their personal space.

  “Ten minutes,” Gary said. Ky turned to Quincy.

  “You heard them. I need whatever they will consider relevant operational status.”

  “Right. Fifteen minutes. I need to be sure I list all the warts.”

  The lists, when completed, came to Ky. She looked them over . . . a sad little list it seemed now. A crew of seeming nonentities, all from Slotter Key, with a boring utilitarian cargo, on a ship that could serve as a textbook example of antiquated, inefficient, and scrapworthy. “Weapons” included Mehar’s two pistol bows, twenty-three personal knives—mostly small folding pocketknives like Gary’s—and nine kitchen knives, from paring to chopping. Ky wondered about that—the mercenaries hadn’t said to include kitchen cutlery in the list but the big butcher knife would certainly kill someone.

  She sent the lists off in good time, and turned on the intercom.

  “We’ve received communication from Mackensee,” she told the crew. “As some of you already know, we’ve cut acceleration on their orders, and sent off cargo and crew manifest. They said prepare for inspection, so I expect that when they get around to it, they’ll come out here and look us over. They may board the ship to check our actual cargo against the manifest. Keep in mind that they have the guns and we don’t—we will comply with their orders until further notice.”

  She wondered if she should have included the last three words.

  “If any of you have any personal weapons which you failed to tell your section head about, do it immediately. I can think of few things that would anger a military commander more than finding concealed weapons.”

  An hour later, she got her answer from the mercenaries: “Folding knives under six centimeters in length are of no concern, nor is kitchen cutlery. You will receive specific instructions for inspection.”

  Riel had relieved Lee, and they had all eaten a sketchy meal, when the icon of a Mackensee warship appeared only a few hundred kilometers away. Near-scan bleeped a mass-proximity warning as the comdesk lit again. Ky nodded to Riel, who damped the warning siren.

  “Glennys Jones, acknowledge.”

  “Glennys Jones,” Ky said, dry-mouthed again; her heart raced in her chest. “This is Captain Vatta.”

  “This is Mackensee ship Victor. We will be doing an exterior inspection prior to boarding. Lock down your controls; we don’t want accidents.”

  Ky nodded to Riel, who pulled the safety cover over the controls and latched it.

  “Controls locked,” she said.

  “Describe your personnel vacuum lock.”

  “It’s an emergency escape lock that provides access to an escape passage leading from the stern to crew quarters. Capacity is four.” Ky added the schematics to her voice message and heard a grunt from the other end.

  “How old is this tub, anyway? That design’s ancient.”

  “Keel laid eighty-seven years ago, refits in ’04 and ’38, last drive replacement in ’43.”

  “What’s your normal personnel access?”

  “The dockside forward, but it only opens to equal pressure within a few millibars.”

  “All right. Here’s what you’re going to do. We do our exterior inspection. Meantime, get your crew assembled—do you even have a space big enough?”

  “Crew rec, just barely.”

  “Fine. Get them in there except for bridge watch; you can have one com tech—do you have a com tech?”

  “Not separately, no, sir.”

  “Well, someone to handle communications, and your pilot on watch. They’re to sit quiet, hands off the controls, and wait. The rest of the crew, unlock personnel lockers for inspection, unlock all hatches, drawers, everything. Put all personal weapons except small pocket knives in the galley—you do have a galley, right? You listed kitchen cutlery—”

  “We have a galley, yes.”

  “Lay out all the weapons in the galley. Unlock, but leave closed, the food storage units. Now—your cargo holds are aired up or vacuum?”

  “Aired up,” Ky said.

  “Are your cargo loading hatches vacuum capable?”

  “Only one of them,” Ky said. “And they’re small, compared to modern ships.”

  “Umm . . . our exterior scans are showing that. And you claim your FTL drive is nonfunctional. About time to scrap that old crock.”

  Not now, she hoped. Not right this moment with them inside of it.

  “Now for you—I am speaking to Captain K. Vatta, right?”

  “Yes,” Ky said. Cold sweat ran down her backbone.

  “You will proceed alone down the escape passage to the lock. You will not wear protective gear. You will tab in on the hardwire ship com, and wait for the signal from the boarding party; the code IDing our boarding party will be blackfish. You will operate the lock for our boarding personnel. Following their entrance, you will obey the orders of their commanding officer. If you disobey, your ship is toast. Got that?”

  “Yes,” Ky said. “Operate the exterior lock for your boarding party, alone, not in pressure suit.”

  “Good. You have approximately twenty minutes to prepare for inspection.” The connection went dead. Ky sat back, and took a long breath. Always breathe, her Academy instructors had said. What they hadn’t said was what to do after that breath, when you were stuck in a ship with no options.

  She took another breath, and addressed the crew again, repeating the instructions she’d been given. She could feel the same fear seeping along the corridor, out of the bulkheads, that she herself felt. Who could she get to sit the comdesk in her absence? Who was the most levelheaded? Quincy? Gary? Mitt? They were the most experienced, but she needed them to keep their sections steady. Certainly not one of
the newcomers, whose steadiness she didn’t know.

  She called Quincy separately. “I need a calm person to sit the comdesk,” she said. “I’m supposed to wait near the emergency lock to cycle the boarding party in.”

  “Not alone!”

  “Yes, alone. That was specified. Just find me a com-watch person, Quincy. We’re going to try to get through this without casualties.” If it was possible. If they didn’t plan to blow the ship after taking off everything of value. She turned to Riel. “You’re officially second in command, Riel. I’m leaving you on the bridge; use your best judgment if something happens to me—”

  “I don’t know—” All the faint condescension he’d shown her until now—experienced crew to the unqualified neo—had disappeared. “I never expected—”

  “None of us did,” Ky said. “Suck it up, Riel; this isn’t a game. You’re on deck.” She couldn’t believe she was the one talking to him like this. She was younger, less experienced . . .

  His face changed. “You’re not scared . . .” It was not quite a question.

  Ky shook her head. “Scared or not scared isn’t the issue. You know that. It’s doing the job. You’re trained; you’ve got the experience; you’ll do it. And after all, the most likely thing to happen is that they look us over and decide we’re insignificant.”

  “What if they’re grabbing people—hostages or recruits or whatever?”

  Ky spread her hands. “I can’t stop them, Riel. But I don’t expect they will, not on a campaign.” She should think of something for him to do, something to occupy his mind, but nothing occurred to her and she couldn’t take the time. “You’ll do fine,” she said as she left the bridge.

  She stopped by her cabin to use the toilet and straighten her hair. If she was going to meet these mercenaries, she was not going to look like a rat pulled out of a drain. She made sure that her stowage compartments were unlocked, and then moved quickly through the ship, past crew who were coming to the rec area, and made her own check of locks as quickly as she could. No time to inspect contents, but at least she could see for herself that lockers had been unlocked.

  The hatch to the emergency escape passage, never locked, opened away from her. The passage lights came on as she entered, and began pulsing in sequence—intended to guide escapees in the right direction, but annoying now. She didn’t have time to worry about overriding the automatics. Ahead, the small bay just inside the vacuum lock glowed with warm colors from the amber and red outlining the lock’s inner hatch. Ky plugged the cord of the wall-hung exterior com unit to her earbug and waited. She had ample time to review the instructions for manual operation of the lock which were shown in print and illustration both on the bulkhead next to the comunit, and to look at the empty cubicle of the lock itself, shown on the monitor from the vidcam inside.

  The voice, when it came, was far too loud. “GLENNYS JONES. BLACKFISH. BLACKFISH. OPEN UP.”

  “Captain Vatta here. Initating outer hatch opening.” She pushed the buttons; servos whined and a vibration shivered under her. Aside from inspections, the vacuum lock was never opened and it resisted, finally coming loose with a smuck of pressure seal. A vidcam went blurry as the pressure loss caused momentary condensation, then cleared again. Armored figures moved into the lock interior; behind them something thin and glistening stretched into the dark. Ky stared at the monitor. Dark armor, streaked with thin lines of metallic paint in a spare, abstract pattern, hung with bulges that must be equipment. Very obvious weapons—

  “Close outer lock,” came the command in her headset.

  “Closing outer lock,” Ky said. The outer lock closed slowly, hesitated. One of the figures reached back, grabbed the inside push bar, and yanked; the hatch thunked shut. “Pressuring up,” Ky said. Air hissed into the lock; when pressure equalized, inner hatch controls were enabled. “Opening inner lock,” Ky said.

  The hatch opened into the lock; Ky stepped back against the bulkhead to let the invaders out.

  The first in line faced her, and kept a weapon pointed at her. Ky stood still, hoping they couldn’t detect her pounding heart—but they probably could, if those suits had the capability of Slotter Key’s combat suits. The second pulled the inner lock shut, then moved a short way down the passage.

  “You’re Captain Vatta?” The voice came through her earbug; she didn’t know if the speaker was in the suit or still outside.

  “Yes,” Ky said.

  “Kind of . . . young, aren’t you? Are they robbing cradles these days?”

  “First voyage,” Ky said. She was not going to rise to that bait. “It was supposed to be a milk run.”

  “Lucky you,” the voice said. “I suppose we should be glad you had the sense not to play hero. Tell me, is your entire crew straight out of infant school, or is there someone aboard with a gray hair or two?”

  Ky refrained from saying that they had the crew list. “Most of them are older than I am,” she said.

  “Caretakers?”

  “Something like that.” She thought of making the comparison with senior NCOs and young officers, but thought better of it.

  “You don’t get upset easily, do you?” the voice asked. She wasn’t sure what the right answer to that one was.

  “I try not to,” Ky said, with a slight emphasis on the “try.”

  A faint grunt answered her, then, “Well, suppose you cycle another round in, then.”

  Ky worked the controls; the outer lock opened more easily this time, with less noise, and the next two entered. When she had completed the sequence and two more armored figures crowded the little space, the voice spoke again.

  “Unplug from the phone—I’m switching to external speakers. We’ll handle the lock from here. Start back up the passage. We’re right behind you; don’t try anything.”

  She could think of nothing to try. She led the mercenaries up through the escape passage, trying to move calmly, trying not to think about those dangerous figures behind her, their weapons pointed at her. After all, if they’d wanted to shoot her, they could have done that right away. And if they’d wanted to blow the ship, they could have done that, too. Whatever it was they wanted, so far it included keeping her alive and the ship in one piece.

  Gerard Vatta, pacing his office, waited through the clicks and buzzes, the bleeps and clicks, that involved an intersystem call. He could imagine all too clearly the distances a signal must travel to InterStellar Communications headquarters: the light-years from Slotter Key’s system to the relay at Beckwith’s Star, more light-years from Beckwith’s Star to Nexus II, and from Nexus II to Nexus I. More light-years than his age.

  Finally the open line . . . but now he had to convince layers of underlings, whose jobs depended on keeping the officers of ISC insulated from people like him, that this time they should instead let his call go through. He had one in: Vatta Transport had been a steady supporter of ISC over the years, when other long-haul shippers had argued for laws restricting ISC’s monopoly. Lewis Parmina, now only three slots away from the CEO-ship, and rumored to be the chosen successor to the current CEO—had been a Vatta guest more than once at Corleigh.

  He kept his voice pleasant and firm, pushing down the impulse to scream at Parmina’s personal assistant, who—when he finally got through to her—wanted him to call back the next day at three P.M. local time. He repeated again that the matter was urgent, and the setup time for an intersystem call made it impossible to be that precise.

  “Oh—you are calling from outsystem, then?”

  He had explained that more than once at every level. “Yes, I am,” he said. “This call originates in Slotter Key, approximately one hundred eighty-seven light-years away, through two intermediate relays.”

  “Oh. Well, I’ll see if Mr. Parmina can speak with you. He is a very busy man.”

  It seemed a year but was, by the chronometer on the wall, less than ninety seconds before Parmina spoke. He had the strong nasal accent of his homeworld, but he was not that hard to understand.r />
  “Gerard Vatta—it’s been too long, Gerard, since I was out your way. What can InterStellar do for you?”

  “You’ve lost ansibles at Sabine Prime,” Gerard said. He knew he should respond with some pleasantry, but it was the middle of the night here in Slotter Key’s capital city, and he was grumpy with exhaustion. “My daughter’s there—”

  “With the Slotter Key space force? What are they doing in Sabine?”

  Clearly Parmina had kept up with the Vatta family, at least enough to know that Ky should, by now, have been a commissioned space force officer.

  “No, as a Vatta Transport captain. The military thing didn’t work out—”

  “I’m sorry,” Parmina said. “But your delightful daughter—so spontaneous as a child—not really the military sort, was she?”

  “No.” Somehow it was worse that someone outside the family would have predicted Ky’s failure. He pushed that aside. “But the thing is—something bad must be happening in Sabine system. We don’t have any ships in the area. Ky’s in there with an old tub that was on its last legs—she was taking it on its last voyage, to salvage—” Never mind that she wasn’t supposed to be in Sabine anyway. That was family business. “And I was wondering—”

  “I understand your concern,” Parmina said. “As a father, if that were my daughter, I’d be frantic.” His voice cooled. “I hope you’ll understand that I cannot comment at all on what ISC thinks about this, what course of action, if any, the company might choose to take. Encryption is all very well, but—”

  “I know that,” Gerard said. “I don’t expect that.” He’d had hopes he knew were irrational. He had more sense than to mention them. “What I wanted to ask was—in the event that ISC finds out something about—well, about Ky—is it possible you could let me know? I know it’s probably against policy but . . . well . . .”

  Parmina’s voice was warm again. “Gerry—right now I can assure you that we have no information on anything in Sabine system; all we know is what you know: the ansibles went down in a catastrophic way. In the event that we reestablish communication, our first priority has to be restoring service—but yes, if we happen to find out anything about your daughter, I will do my best to see that it’s routed to you. It’s irregular, but you’ve been a longtime supporter, and I know how I’d feel if it were my daughter . . .”