Trading in Danger (19 page)

They really, truly needed to let ISC know they hadn’t done it. They really, truly needed to know who had long-range missiles like that and the will to use them and how many were left. Meanwhile, she was stuck in the narrow emergency evacuation passage of a ship older than her own grandmother, real time, following a captain who looked like a schoolgirl in Mama’s uniform, and if there was anything on this ship worth confiscating, she’d be very much surprised. With a schoolgirl captain, a girl whose every expression, every movement, communicated habitual honesty, if they said they had a holdful of tractors and cultivators and combines, they probably had exactly that.

She did not believe, however, that their FTL drive’s sealed unit was really totally blown. Not unless this fresh-faced schoolgirl was the family disgrace, and they’d sent her off in a derelict hoping it would come apart somewhere in jumpspace and rid them of a problem. She shook her head mentally—shaking her head inside the suit would create problems she didn’t want—at the memory of that face. First off, Vatta Transport didn’t have that kind of reputation. She’d shared drinks with some Vatta crew when they were on the same station, nothing going on. Vatta would fire incompetents, sure. Any company would. Vatta kids who weren’t good on ships were put to work onplanet. That was typical, too. They weren’t going to risk their profit margin by letting the bad eggs handle ships. But Vatta took care of its own. They wouldn’t send a whole crew off to die, just to rid themselves of a disgrace.

Besides—how could a nice girl like that be the family black sheep? Cally had long experience of family disgraces male and female; at least two thirds of the applicants for Mackensee were family disgraces. Sex, intoxicant addiction, dishonesty, theft, legal problems… This Vatta girl didn’t fit the profile. What it looked like, given the crew profile, was exactly what the girl had said. Supposed to be a milk run—new captain, experienced crew, see how she does, get all the new-captain jitters out of her, meanwhile not wasting an experienced captain’s time taking this wreck to the junkyard. Next time out she’d have a real ship, probably do a good job with it, for a civ.

Her bad luck at war caught up with her. But—given no problems—she’d be out of this in a month or so, heart whole and unscarred. Mackensee had no quarrel with Vatta Transport. Mackensee wanted no quarrel with Vatta Transport. Mackensee wanted no quarrel with anyone, just a straight contract and good credit.

And if there were problems, she would die, that nice girl, that daughter of the family with the experienced crew and the old tub of a ship. Cally thought of her own daughters, all but one safely far away on a world at peace, with steady jobs, and that one safely dead, victim of random violence while Cally’d been off on a mission.

There was always that possibility, for parents and for children, and Cally was mindful of it, as someone who had survived the years from recruit to master sergeant must be.

Ahead of her, the captain’s trim back moved through the escape access hatch into the ship’s regular passage—blessedly wider—and then toward the rec area where the crew had been told to assemble.

“Tell ’em to sit down on the deck, hands on knees,” Cally said.

The Vatta captain’s voice didn’t shake as she gave the order, even though her biostats were still showing elevated P & R—pulse and respiration. As Cally came into the rec room, the suit’s chemsniffer picked up aromatics it labeled fear—a lot of them, from a lot of people. She was doing a quick count, coming up one short, when the captain said, “Where’s Skeldon?”

Cally’s suit picked up the name, displayed a visual and a note from the crew manifest. Caleb Skeldon, age twenty-four Standard, sex male, height 197 cm, handsome as a storycube hero… definitely possible trouble. The suit labeled him threat.

“He was here a second ago,” an older man said. Gary Tobai, the suit matched face to crew manifest. Age seventy-four, sex male, loadmaster, expression worried, no chemscent of aggression. Not a threat. “I turned around, when you said sit down—he was right behind me…”

The captain’s chemscent shifted from fear to anger; the suit’s analysis shifted her icon from no threat to possible threat. “Blast it all—what’s he think he’s doing.” She raised her voice. “Skeldon—get back in here and sit down.”

No answer. Cally boosted the suit’s sensors. Down the passage, to port—in some compartment—breath sounds and something rasping on cloth. It would be below the captain’s hearing, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know. She could have set this up. Or it could be a young idiot.

The rest of her team was aboard, eight of them in all. Gil back at the lock, just in case. “Jeff, cover these. Mitch, Grady, Sheila, come with me.” Then, to the captain, “You’re going to lead us to the bridge, Captain, and I suggest you convince your crewman to surrender himself.”

The captain called again. No answer. From the way the others had obeyed her, it wasn’t that she was slack.

“Go on,” Cally said. The captain edged past the close-packed sitters to the passage beyond; Cally followed, weapon ready. “How long has Skeldon been on your crew?” she asked.

“A few days,” the captain said. Annoyance edged her voice. “Four Slotter Key spacers were stranded; the embassy asked us to get them out. He’s the youngest.” And the dumbest, was in the tone of voice.

That made sense. New crew, not yet used to this captain, and the right age to think he should be a hero. Though if the captain had tried to plan an ambush, he was the sort she’d use.

“He have a weapon?” Cally asked the captain.

“Not that he declared,” the captain said. “But then he didn’t tell me he wasn’t going to follow orders, either.” The tone was bitter. The back of her neck had reddened; she was a hot-reactor then. Flushed up when she got angry suddenly.

Cally’s suit picked up the sound of footsteps intended to be soundless. Whoever that was—Skeldon, for a bet—was in a compartment to port; when she boosted the IR sensitivity, she could see the hot footprints going in the hatch ahead of them, none coming back out.

“What’s the next compartment portside—on the left?” she asked. The suit didn’t show any hesitation, any telltales of recognition or readiness, in the captain’s posture or movement.

“My cabin,” the captain said. “Bridge is just ahead, on the right.”

“Stop,” Cally said. The captain stopped, and did not turn around. Another surprise. Most civs did automatically turn to face the person they were talking with. “Where could Skeldon go from where he was? Without our seeing him?”

“The galley, my cabin, the bridge. There’s a maintenance passage, that next hatch on the left, it’s the fast way aft past crew quarters to the hold control nexus.”

“And where do you think he went?”

“Maintenance passage would be my guess,” the captain said. “If he’s scared, trying to hide. The holds are aired up; he might try to get in there and hide. If he went to the bridge, Quincy’d send him back, but I can check—Quincy—did Skeldon come onto the bridge?”

“No, Captain. Is everything all right?” That voice came from a speaker mounted high on the bulkhead, but Cally’s suit also picked up the voice itself, coming from the open hatch to the bridge up forward.

“No. He skedaddled from the rec area, and the boarding party wants him back.”

“Can we turn the bridge monitors back on?” asked the voice from the bridge. “We could find—”

“No live scan,” Cally said. Live scan could give information as well as receive it. “What about your cabin?” she asked the captain.

This time the captain did turn around. “My cabin—why would he? It’s off-limits to crew anyway, and there’s no place to hide in there—it’s a dead end.”

All Cally’s experience told her the captain wasn’t lying. But the hot footprints went into the captain’s cabin. Protocol was, the ship’s captain led the way everywhere they went at first, and took the first shot if things went wrong. Protocol kept them alive—had kept
her
alive for twenty-eight years and she didn’t plan to die until enjoying a long and luxurious retirement. This captain didn’t deserve what was going to happen, but life wasn’t about what people deserved.

“Well, then,” she said. “Let’s go check out your cabin. Need to see your logbook. We’ll deal with your crewman next.” In the team communication channel, she said, “He’s in the captain’s cabin; she may not know it. We’ll take ’em down as protocol; she’s mine. Grady, he’s yours.” Protocol didn’t require killing her; Cally would make that decision as the action unfolded.

The captain still had that slightly furrowed brow—not the dramatic furrows that meant acting, fake confusion, but the slight wrinkle of real thought. The flush of annoyance had faded—typical of the type, quick anger and quick recovery. She turned and went on up the passage, Cally right behind her, stepping on those hot footprints like she couldn’t see them—which she couldn’t, if she didn’t have IR boost implanted somewhere. Grady moved up beside Cally. As the captain slowed to turn into her cabin, Grady took a long step past her. The captain hesitated, glancing that way.

“Go on,” Cally said.

The captain shrugged, and stepped into her cabin; her head swung to the left as something caught her eye. If she’d known, she would have looked straight or to the other side—Cally had just time for that thought before the wild-eyed young hero leaped forward, shoving the captain aside and aiming a ridiculous little punk pistol at Cally. The round clicked on the field of her helmet even as Grady blew him down with a riot needler. The captain, unprepared for the shove, had stumbled and fallen sideways into the path of the damped round, which still had enough force to do damage; her arm was bleeding. Cally’s swing at the captain connected too late; the suit’s augmented strength gave it the force to fling the captain across the cabin into a locker. The captain made one short cry and then lay still.

From down the passage, loud voices. Of course. “Jeff, keep ’em quiet, keep ’em there. Skeldon attacked with a firearm—I don’t think they knew he had it. He’s dead. Captain’s injured, we’ll render first aid. Sheila, secure the bridge crew.” First thing, keep order. Next thing, did they have one deader or two?

Her suit said the captain had P & R, BP dropping. Cally called up the med subroutines, and moved across the bloody deck—that carpet was going to be harder to clean than proper tiles—to the captain’s unmoving crumpled form. Experience helped. The small-caliber, low-velocity penetration of the damped pistol round in the arm—first-aid stuff, painful but not dangerous, need some rehab, nothing too difficult. IR scan showed heat already in an ankle, probably a sprain, trivial. Head or spinal cord injury was the worst possibility; she’d meant to knock the captain out of the way as gently as possible, but her crewman’s shove had created movement sums that flung her too fast, the wrong way. And she needed her helmet off to find out more. The way she was lying, it could be a broken neck, but the young sometimes had very flexible necks. Best not to move her. Best to call a real medic.

“Pitt to
Victor
.”

“What’s up, Pitt?”

“Need a medic, possible C-spine injury, not ours. Captain of this tub.”

“Just finish her, why don’t you? We’re in a bind; we don’t have time to play nursemaid to civs.”

Because she was young and maybe dumb but not bad, Cally thought. Because she’d been straight-up about the whole thing, and if all the nineteen hells were coming down on Mackensee, a good deed might make the difference to whatever gods watched over mercenaries. Vatta Transport was, after all, Vatta Transport and this had to be family.

“My call,” she said, which was true. “Send me a medic.” And to her team, “The captain’s injured; I’ve called for a medical team. I’ll talk to the rest of the crew. We’ll want to clean up this mess.” The mess that had been a handsome blond youngster who thought for some reason a punk pistol, a spacer’s bar special, would stand up to military-grade armor and weaponry. He’d probably had a crush on the captain or something; he’d wanted to show off; he’d wanted to protect her. And because of him she was lying there with a hole in her arm and maybe gorked as well.

Cally had her own opinion of young men, having trained a goodly number. Young women could be just as stupid, but unless children were involved they rarely indulged in gratuitous heroics. Gratuitous backbiting was another thing.

She clambered up from that first examination, and thought at the motionless form, “Live, damn it.”

The faces that turned to hers in the crew rec space were all pale; the most senior looked at least ten years older than he had before. Cally undogged her faceplate and ran it back. Let them see a human face—they needed that right now, even though those nearest seemed fixated on her boots and legs. Probably the blood. With the faceplate open, she could smell it.

“I’m Sergeant Pitt,” she said. “Your crewman Skeldon tried to ambush us; he’s dead. Your captain is alive, but injured; I’ve called in a medical team.”

“How bad is she hurt?” asked the old man. Tobai, she reminded herself. “Can’t I go see her?”

“We don’t know yet,” Cally said. “She’s unconscious, and my training is not to move unconscious victi—patients. Tell me about the medical facilities on this ship.”

“Well, we have a medbox for minor emergencies…” One medbox.
Victor
had thirty, a double-row down one side of surgery.

“No regen tanks? No trauma suite?”

“Er… no. We don’t—we didn’t—ever need them.” He swallowed, licked his lips. “Please—let me go see her…”

“Known her long?” Cally asked.

“Since she was little,” Tobai said. “First time she came aboard ship, with her dad, I was a second-shift cargo handler. Not on this ship, o’ course. She was maybe hip high on him then, trailing her older brother.”

“Good kid?” Cally asked. “Quiet type? Did everything right?” She figured yes, from the contained, controlled emotions the captain had shown.

“Ky?” That got a momentary grin out of him. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly, not the quiet part. Good, yes, but no sugar baby. Honest—sometimes too honest. That’s why—” His mouth snapped shut abruptly, as if he’d almost said something he meant not to.

“I want the medics to see her first,” Cally said, returning to his question. “Best not move her. Best wait a bit. Someone’s with her, monitoring vital signs. Just you sit tight.”

He nodded, mouth clamped on something he didn’t want her to know. And what could that be?

She sent Jeff to check the galley, where—as per orders—the weapons the crew had listed were laid out on the table. He popped the video to her helmet display. Two pistol bows… she hadn’t seen pistol bows in a long time… some knives, including the obvious kitchen cutlery. All that was by the book. The crew lockers were by the book—no hidden weapons, and only the personal effects you’d expect from experienced crew on a ship they didn’t expect to be on that long. Spare ship suits, a properly primed good quality pressure suit for each, shore clothes, entertainment cubes and disks and viewers and players. Someone was studying for a higher rating in spacedrives and had the study cubes; someone else had yarn and needles and a half-completed sweater. Little keepsakes, not worth much—they’d have the good stuff back home, somewhere in Vatta Transport storage if they had no permanent residence.

None of the crew were trouble but the one who’d died. That made sense.

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” she said, as Gil reported the medics were coming through the lock. “You know your captain’s hurt—you know our medics are coming to work on her. As long as you do what you’re told, she’ll be fine. Cross us up, and she’ll die. Clear?”

They all nodded, looking solemn and worried, just as they should.

“Go back to your compartments and lie down on your bunks. If we need you to do something, you’ll be told. In fact—who’s on galley duty?” She knew that civ cargo ships rotated that, if they were too small to have a permanent crew.

“I am,” came a small voice to one side. Small dark-haired woman. Mehar Mehaar, engineering fifth. Someone raised a hand. Mitt Gossin, environmental section first. So they mixed sections on galley duty… interesting. Many ships rotated it by sections. And she wanted the section firsts available.

“Mehar,” she said; the woman startled to find that Cally knew her name. “Mr. Gossin, you’re a section first—you need to stay loose. Mehar, they’ll be sending over ration packs for the boarding party and medics, if the medics stay that long. All you have to do is heat them up. Jeff’s secured your weapons for the time being; you won’t need the kitchen knives. The rest of you, go to your bunks and lie down. We’ll keep you informed.”

They clambered up awkwardly and moved to the side just as the medics came through with their equipment. Cally had already pointed them to the captain’s cabin; they’d had time to replay the vid of the engagement. They didn’t need her crowding that small space. When they’d passed, she went on forward to the bridge.

There she found two more worried faces. “Is she all right?” asked the old woman sitting the comdesk. Quincy Robin, chief of engineering, almost as old as the ship.