Элизабет Мун - Cold Welcome

“How long were you thinking?” Ky asked. “I do have some issues back at headquarters—I shouldn’t be gone too long.”

“Whatever time you can spare.” He started to say something more and then shook his head. “It’s entirely your decision, of course. One thing I’d like to ask about is your organization—you mixed ships and commanders from several different worlds. Did you use Slotter Key’s tables, or come up with something new?”

“Even though I had another Slotter Key privateer, I thought it would be better to come up with something that fit what we actually had—the ship types, the command and combat experience. I gathered all the seniors around a table and held them there until we had something everyone thought they could work with.”

“That makes good sense.” He nodded. “I wondered how you melded different militaries into one force. We have enough trouble with all of us in one place working under the same organization. Were any mercenaries in on that?”

“Not then. Moscoe Confederation, Moray, Bissonet, a few others including the ships Spaceforce sent, and”—she grinned suddenly—“a group of gentlemen adventurers from somewhere—you would not believe—”

“Gentlemen adventurers?”

“Brave, rash, romance-of-adventure types, rich enough to own their own ships. Storybook characters.” Cannon fodder, though it would be rude to say so, especially since all but one had died with their ships.

“But now you have an organized fleet, and—any action?”

“Since Nexus, only a few minor actions against pirates. Probably some we didn’t get at Nexus, hoping to set up in between systems. That’s one of the reasons we have some issues.”

He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again and sipped his tea.

Ky wondered if he’d been about to ask what the issues were. Probably someone with his experience could guess, but he’d never had to deal with more than one government. “It’s political,” she said. “And since it involves the politics of other governments, I probably shouldn’t gossip about it.”

He nodded. “Money and power. We have that, too, though I’m sure it’s much harder to juggle with multiple governments. I wish you good luck with it. As for the lectures, if not this visit, another time perhaps. I’m sure you’ll be back to visit family.”

Not if she could help it. But she shouldn’t say that. She nibbled one of the lemon-flavored cookies instead.

He changed topics. “Will you stay with the Rector on this visit?”

“No, with my aunt Helen and cousin Stella. That’s why I’m here—the legalities of transferring corporate roles from Helen to Stella, since I’m a major stockholder.”

“Were you close to your cousins?”

“Fairly. We all spent time together every long vacation,” Ky said. It was easier to talk about than she’d expected. “They’d come over to Corleigh for a tenday or so to fish and sail, then we’d go over to the mainland with them—sometimes in the city and sometimes at the country place. Stella was the closest to me in age, just three years older; we were both the youngest of our families.”

“I’ve heard rumors that your cousin Stella was actually adopted…”

“It’s true. Neither of us knew until it all came out in a court in Cascadia. A shock to all of us—except Aunt Helen, of course.” She did not want to talk about Stella’s parentage. She especially did not want to talk about Stella’s birth-father, Osman Vatta, whom she had killed. Whom she suspected had been Gammis Turek’s associate, if not his father, and a reason Vatta had been attacked early in Turek’s campaign. The Commandant did not need to know—or have cause to notice—that she had discovered herself to be a natural killer, and killing Osman in close hand-to-hand had given her a solid jolt of glee. She looked out the viewport again.

They were on the other side of the planet from Port Major, somewhere over the Oklandan, the largest open ocean, with the southernmost continent, Miksland, just coming into view, dawn lightening its eastern end. A shelf of cloud overlaid much of the western end of it, but she could see a bit of the poleward coast, sharp red-brown against the dark-blue ocean, stark white of snow on what must be mountains. No one lived there; its description in Slotter Key geography books was “Terraforming Failure.”

“I’ve never seen Miksland before,” Ky said.

“There’s a weather station and Air-Sea Rescue base on a chain of islands west of it,” the Commandant said. “Too bad it’s under the clouds. Nothing on the continent itself, of course.”

“Why a base near it?” Ky asked. “I thought shipping stayed to the north.”

“It does, but there’s a very long gap between the next base to the east and the next one to the west, pushing the limit for Search and Rescue aircraft when they’re needed. This gives much better coverage for shipping. It’s harsh, though. And something about the continent interferes with communication.”

Vispersen reappeared, offering more tea and removing the plates. “We should start descent into atmosphere on the next orbit, about fifty minutes,” he said. “If you need the toilet, Admiral, that’s forward, across from the galley.”

“Already?” the Commandant said, then nodded. “Pleasant intervals pass quickly,” he said to Ky. “I had no idea we’d been chatting so long.”

“Nor I,” Ky said.

“If you wouldn’t mind—the flight crew were hoping to meet you—actually all the passengers were—”

“Of course, if we have time.”

“Estimating arrival in Port Major at 1530,” Vispersen said. He disappeared once more into the forward galley area, sealing the curtain behind him.

“Please,” the Commandant said, nodding toward the front.

Ky went forward and found herself in a more spacious area than she’d expected—a seat for the steward to starboard, along with luggage storage and a cubby with three orange bundles she recognized as personal survival suits. Her survival suit, in its blue case, lay on top of the luggage. Forward of that was the toilet, and across from it a galley; Vispersen was washing out the teapot. The hatch to the piloting compartment was open; she glanced in, seeing only the backs of the pilots’ heads and banks of half-familiar instruments. They wore full survival gear but for the helmets secured just above and behind them.

When she came out of the toilet, Vispersen wasn’t in the galley, or in his seat. She tapped on the rim of the cockpit hatch. Commander Hansen turned and smiled at her.

“Admiral, thanks for looking in.”

“Glad to meet you—Commander Hansen, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Ky turned to the copilot, who grinned cheerfully. “I’m Yoshi Sunyavarta, Admiral. Delighted to meet you. My daughter saw you on the newsvids and told me she wants to grow up to be you.” His grin widened. “Though I must admit, last year she wanted to be a mountaineer, and the year before it was a racing jockey.”

“How old is she?”

“Nine.”

“Sounds like me at that age,” Ky said. “Tell her I said good luck.”

“Thank you, Admiral.”

“The Commandant asked me to say something to the troops in back—do we have time?”

The two pilots looked at each other. “Just barely,” Hansen said finally. “We really like passengers to be seated once we start descent.”

“I’ll tell him we’re short on time,” Ky said. “Thank you both for a lovely flight.”

“Thank us again if we don’t have a rough patch coming in behind that front,” Sunyavarta said, grinning.

Ky laughed and turned away. When she went back through the curtain, Vispersen was speaking with the Commandant, who was stretching his back.