The Serrano Connection Page 3

  "Well . . . yes. There are specialties which pay a much higher rate . . . for which we are already qualified."

  Losa's lip curled. "Industrial sabotage? We don't want to try that with Fleet . . . not with the current mood."

  "Public opinion's on their side right now because of the Xavier affair—that Serrano woman is a hero—but in the long run what they'll remember is one hero and three traitors."

  "And we're to be traitors too?"

  Arhos glared at her. "No, not traitors. But—none of us got into this work because of any particular love for the Familias bureaucracy. Remember why we left General Control Systems. And then, as subcontractors, we've had the same piles of paperwork—"

  "You're talking about working outside Familias space? Won't that just mean a whole new set of paper-pushers to contend with?"

  "Not necessarily. Not everyone outside is as tangled in red tape as the Familias. And it isn't necessarily against Familias interests . . . at least I don't see it that way."

  "You want rejuvenation," Losa said sharply, leaning forward.

  "Yes. And so do you, Losa. So does Gori. None of us have been able to increase our profits within the confines of Fleet contracts and subcontracts: too many fish in this pond, many of them with more teeth. So either we give up our ambitions, which I for one am not willing to do, or we find another pond. Ideally a pond that connects with this one, so we don't lose all the goodwill we've built."

  Losa heaved a dramatic sigh. "All right, Arhos . . . just tell us."

  He let himself smile. "We have a potential client who would like to have us disable a self-destruct device on a service ship."

  "Whose service ship? Fleet's?"

  Arhos nodded.

  "Not blow it up—disable its self-destruct?"

  "Right."

  "Why?"

  Arhos shrugged. "In this kind of situation it's not my business why . . . though I could speculate, I'd rather not."

  "And who is this potential client?"

  "He didn't say whom he worked for, but a little discreet data probe allowed me to estimate a very high probability that he's an agent for Aethar's World."

  Losa and Gori stared at him as if he'd sprouted horns. "You were talking to the Bloodhorde?" Losa asked, having beat out Gori by a breath.

  "Can we trust him?" asked Gori.

  "Not really," Arhos admitted, spreading his hands. "But the offer was . . . generous. And I suspect we can work up from it—he didn't sound as firm as he thought."

  "What kind of service ship?" asked Gori.

  "A deep space repair ship, one of those floating ship-factories crewed like an orbital station. Why anyone would put a self-destruct on it in the first place, I can't understand—it sounds dangerous to me, what if the captain goes crazy? And they want it disabled, is all."

  "I hate the thought of dealing with the Bloodhorde," Losa said. "And here we're talking about twenty or thirty thousand people—"

  "Military personnel," Arhos said. "Not ordinary people. They signed up for the risk. That's what they're paid for. And we need the cash. If we don't get the new rejuv procedure soon—"

  "But the Bloodhorde, Arhos! All those hairy, beefy types with their Destiny garbage! They belong back on their home planet, whacking each other with clubs and sitting around drunk singing . . ."

  "Of course they do." Arhos grinned at her. "They're barbarians, and we all know it. That's why I'm not worried . . . Fleet will be able to contain them just as they always have. And this job doesn't require us to damage Fleet—"

  "Disabling a ship system—"

  "A system that's never been used and never will be. DSRs never get into combat anyway, so I don't know why they even have self-destruct devices. I'd think they'd go the other way, make it impossible to blow them up. But apparently they do have such things, and the person who contacted me wanted it turned off."

  Losa sat up straight. "It's obvious, Arhos you can see—"

  He held up his hand. "I don't want to see—speculate, rather. It will have no effect on the DSR's function as a repair and maintenance facility; it won't kill anyone; it won't do anything but keep some ham-handed ensign from blowing the ship up by accident. In a way, you could think of our action as damage control . . ." Losa snorted, but he ignored her and went on. "And the good news is . . . they offered, before I started dickering, a fee that will cover rejuvenation for two of us." Into the silence around the table, he dropped the last piece of bait. "I got them up another half mil, and that means we have enough for all three of us. Net, not gross. After the job, of course."

  "The complete—"

  "New, with the newest, certified drugs. A margin for inflation while the job's on."

  Losa's thin face glowed. "Rejuv . . . just like that Lady Cecelia . . ."

  "Yes. I thought you'd see it that way." Arhos cocked his head at Gori. "And you?"

  "Mmm. I don't like the Bloodhorde, what I've heard about them, but . . . probably most of it's propaganda anyway. If they were so quarrelsome and technologically backward, they wouldn't have been able to hold their empire together the past century. I suppose it's in a solid currency?"

  "Yes."

  Gori shrugged. "Then I don't see a problem, as long as it's within our technical expertise. As you said, it's not like we're actually doing any damage to a ship, or to peoples' lives. A self-destruct isn't a weapon; we're not really depriving Fleet of anything." He thought a moment, then added. "But how're we going to get aboard the ship? And where is it?"

  Arhos grinned, this time more broadly. "We're going to get a contract. A legitimate contract. There's one up for bid, just posted this morning in fact. All the Fleet weapons inventory needs recalibration—the word is, they're afraid more traitors like Hearne could have diddled the guidance systems codes. It's such a big job, they've decided to put it out to all qualified consultants with the right clearances, regardless of size. I put in our bid on the way back."

  "But what if we'd said no to the other—?"

  "Then we'd have had a legitimate job. I bid for the contract in Sector 14 only, giving as a reason our small staff. It was listed as a bonus project, because of the distance from major nexi. I think we fit that profile very well—and besides, we can dicker with whoever gets it if we don't."

  "As long as we DO get paid," Losa said, with an edge of fierceness.

  "Oh, we will. The Bloodhorde representative is coming tomorrow—standard first-visit negotiations, but I want full security backup. He's likely to turn mean, for all that he's wearing a suit. He won't know about the other contract, and I'm going to try to get an additional travel and expense budget out of him."

  "Who else are we taking in on this job?" Gori asked.

  "The Fleet part of it, the usual team. This part—only the three of us. We don't want to share the fee, after all."

  "There's only one tricky point," Arhos said. "That's the civilian/Fleet interface on Sierra. It's the Sector HQ of a red-zoned sector . . . they do more than just glance at ID there." He glanced across the broad desk at the blond man in the expensive business suit.

  "Your IDs will be in order," the blond man said. He lounged back in his chair as if it were a throne, a posture which made the suit look as if it had been made for someone else, someone who knew how to sit without sprawling.

  "We could avoid the problem entirely by traveling with Fleet from somewhere else—Comus, for instance."

  "No." Flat, rude, arrogant.

  "Explain."

  "It is not my place to explain. It is yours to comply with the contract." The blond man glared at the others.

  "It is not my place to be stupid," Arhos said. With a flick of his gaze, he ensured the blond man's continued existence for a space of time. How long depended on his mood, which the blond man was not helping. He reminded himself that the consulting fee transferred to the firm's account would pay for three and a half rejuvenations at the rate Gori had calculated would apply when they were through with the job. Fleet's fee for recalibratin
g all those weapons would give them something to live on. If they killed this messenger, they would have to deal with someone who might be worse. "If you want this done neatly, as you said, then you should listen to the experts."

  "Expert sneaks." That with the trademark Bloodhorde sneer. Clearly the blond man had no respect, a condition dangerous in itself, beyond unpleasant. Arhos allowed an eyelid to droop. Before it rose again, the blond man was gasping for breath, the noose around his thick neck grooving the skin. The chair in which he sat had flipped restraints onto his arms, and tightened them. Arhos did not move.

  "Insults annoy us," he said mildly. "We are experts—that's why you hired us. It is part of our expertise to travel unnoticed, accepted. It is my opinion that waiting until Sierra Station to enter Fleet jurisdiction will bring unwelcome notice. Civilian contractors, special consultants, normally join up with Fleet transport closer to their point of origin." He smiled. The blond man's face had turned an ugly puce; he made disgusting noises. But the blue eyes showed no fear, not even as they dulled with oxygen deprivation. He nodded, and the noose sprang away from the blond man's neck as if someone had pushed it. Someone had, remotely . . . .

  "Mother-devouring scum—!" the blond man croaked. He yanked hard, but the chair restraints held his arms down.

  "Experts," Arhos said. "You pay us, we do your job—cleanly, thoroughly. But don't insult us."

  "You will regret this," the blond man said.

  "I don't think so." Arhos smiled. "It is not my neck which has a mark from a noose. Nor will it."

  "If I were loose—"

  Arhos cocked his head to one side. "I would have to kill you, if you attacked me. It would be most unfortunate."

  "You! You are too little—"

  "Bloodhorde barbarian!" That from the other person in the room, the woman who had said nothing before, whose quiet demeanor fit the subordinate role she had seemed to have. "Do you still think size is everything, after all your defeats?"

  "Peace, Losa. It is no part of our contract to instruct this . . . individual . . . in the realities of hand-to-hand fighting. We have no reason to give him gratuitous data."

  "As you wish." She sounded more sulky than submissive.

  "Now," Arhos said. "We will expect half the fee on deposit with our bankers by midday tomorrow, the next fourth when we arrive at Sierra Station, and the final fourth when we have completed the task. No—" as the blond man started to speak. "No, don't argue. You lost your bargaining advantage when you insulted us. You can always hire someone else if you don't like my terms. You won't find anyone as good—you know that already—but it's your choice. Take or leave—which?"

  "Take," the blond man said, still hoarse from the noose. "Greedy swine . . ."

  "Very good." No need to mention that every insult now—after that warning—would raise the price of the job. One did not have to like one's customers if they produced enough profit, and Arhos—the best in his field—knew to a single credit how much it took to satisfy his feelings.

  Though the job itself was intriguing, a challenge he would not have thought of by himself, but one well worth the attempt. Not attempt, he thought . . . the achievement. He had no doubts; they had not failed in an assignment in years. Getting this buffoon out of the office quietly was the only problem that concerned him, once the buffoon had thumb-printed a credit authorization.

  * * *

  "Nasty," Losa said, after the man had left. "And dangerous."

  "Yes, but solvent. We don't have to like them . . ."

  "You said that before."

  "It's true."

  "He scared me . . . he wasn't afraid, he was just angry. What if they want revenge for the insult?"

  Arhos looked at her, and wished she'd make up her mind what kind of person she was. "Losa . . . this is a dangerous business, and it's never bothered you before. We have good security; we'll be taking precautions. Do you want that rejuvenation, or don't you?"

  "Of course I want it."

  "I think you're just annoyed that I found the contract, and not you."

  "Maybe." She sighed, then grinned, as she rarely did now. "I must need one, turning into a cautious old lady before my time."

  "You're not an old lady, Losa, and now you never will be."

  R.S.S. Harrier

  By the time the flagship reached sector headquarters, Esmay had begun thinking of the court as a door to freedom—freedom from the tensions and rivalries of a cluster of scared junior officers with not enough to do. While it made legal sense, she supposed, to keep them all isolated and relatively idle, it felt like punishment.

  Even the largest ship has limited resources for recreation; duties normally fill most of its crew's time. Esmay tried to make herself use the teaching cubes—she encouraged the others to use them—but with a knot of uncertainty lodged in the middle of her brain, the rest of it couldn't concentrate on anything as dry as "Methods for back-flushing filters in a closed system" or "Communications protocols for Fleet vessels operating in zones classified F and R." As for the tactical cubes, she already knew where she'd gone wrong coming back to Xavier, and there was nothing she could do about it now. Besides, none of the tactical cubes considered the technical problems she'd faced in starting a battle with a ship which had suffered internal damage in a mutiny.

  She could not work hard enough by day to ensure restful sleep at night. Physical exhaustion might have done that, but her share of the gym time wasn't enough to achieve that. So the nightmares came, night after night, and she woke sweat-soaked and gritty-eyed. The ones she understood were bad enough, replays of the mutiny or the battle at Xavier, complete with sound and smell. But others seemed to have drawn from memories of every training film, every military gory story she'd ever heard . . . all jumbled together like the vivid shards of a shattered bowl.

  She looked up at a killer's face . . . she looked down to see her own hands slimy with blood and guts . . . she stared into the muzzle of a Pearce-Xochin 382, which seemed to widen until her whole body could slide down inside it . . . she heard herself begging, in a high thin voice, for someone to stop. . . . NO. That time when she woke, tangled in damp bedding, someone was pounding on her door and calling for her. She coughed a few times, then found voice enough to answer.

  It was not a door, but a hatch: she was not home, but aboard a ship, which was better than home. She took the deep breaths she told herself to take, and explained to the voice outside that it had been just a bad dream. Grumbles from without: some of us need our sleep too, you know. She apologized, struggling with a rush of sudden, inexplicable anger which urged her to yank open the . . . hatch, not door . . . and strangle the speaker. It was the situation; tempers would naturally flare, and she must set an example. Finally the grumbler left, and she lay back against the bulkhead—the safe gray bulkhead—thinking.

  She had not had such dreams in years, not since leaving home for the Fleet prep school. Even at home, they'd been rarer as she got older, although they had been frequent enough to worry her family. Her stepmother and her father had both explained, at tedious length, their origin. She had run away once, after her mother died, a stupid and irresponsible act mitigated by youth and the fact that she was probably already sick with the same fever that killed her mother. She had found trouble, a minor battle in the insurrection now known as the Califer Uprising. Her father's troops had found and rescued her, but she'd nearly died of the fever. Somehow, what she'd seen and heard and smelled had tangled with the fever during the days in coma, and left her with the bad dreams of something which had never really happened. Not as she dreamed it, anyway.

  It made sense that being in a real battle would bring back those old memories and the confusion the fever engendered. She really had smelled spilled guts before; smells were particularly evocative . . . that was in the psychology books she had read secretly in Papa Stefan's library, when she had believed she was crazy as well as lazy and cowardly and stupid. And now that she understood where the nightmares had been leadi
ng, trying to link her past experiences with her present, she could deal with this consciously. She had had nightmares because she needed to make the connection, and now that she had it, she would not need the nightmares.

  She fell asleep abruptly, dreaming no more until the bell signaled the time to wake. That day she congratulated herself on figuring it out, and instructed herself to have no more nightmares. She was tense at bedtime, but talked herself out of it. If she dreamed, she did not remember it, and no one complained of the noise she made. Only once more before they reached Sector HQ did she have a nightmare, and that one was even easier to understand. She dreamt she came into the court-martial and only when the presiding officer spoke discovered that she was stark naked. When she tried to run out, she could not move. They all looked at her, and laughed, and then walked out, leaving her alone.

  It was almost a relief to find she could have normal nightmares.

  At Sector HQ, her replacement uniforms were ready, delivered directly to the quarantine section aboard the ship by guards who clearly felt this beneath their dignity. The new clothes felt stiff and awkward, as if her body had changed in ways that measurements could not reflect. She had used the minimal fitness equipment in the quarantined section daily, so the difference wasn't flab. It was . . . something more mental than physical. Peli and Liam groaned dramatically when they saw their tailors' bills; Esmay said nothing about hers, and only later realized they assumed she had no resources beyond her salary.

  For the first time, the young officers were called before the admiral as a group. Esmay wore a new uniform; so did everyone else. An armed escort led them; another closed in behind. Esmay tried to breathe normally, but could not help worrying—had something else gone wrong? What could it be?

  Admiral Serrano waited, expressionless, as they all filed into the office, packed in so close that Esmay could smell the new fabric of their uniforms. The admiral had responded to each formal greeting with a little nod, and a flick of her eyes to the next in line.

  "It is my duty to inform you that you have all been called before a court to explain, if you can, the events leading up to the mutiny aboard Despite and the subsequent involvement of that ship and crew in action at Xavier."