Elizabeth Moon - Hunting Party

“Thank you, Sweet Delight ,” said the Stationmaster’s clerk, when she’d finished. “Final mail or deliveries?” Bates had told her that Lady Cecelia had a bag outgoing; the crew’s mail had been stacked with it. She sent Sirkin to take it out to the registered Station mail clerk. The furniture and decorations of the outer lobby had already been returned and stowed in one of the holds. When Sirkin returned, the yacht would be sealed from the Station and the final undock sequence would begin.

It seemed to take no time at all, compared to the bigger, more populous ships she was used to. Her own crew closed and locked the outer and inner hatches; the Station’s crew did the same on their side of the access tube. The Sweet Delight, on her own air now, smelled no different. An hour of final systems checks remained. The crew seemed to be careful, if slow, in working down the last checklists. They didn’t skip anything she noticed, although she didn’t know all the sequences for this vessel.

“Tug’s in position, Captain Serrano,” said the pilot. He had been positioning the yacht’s “bustle” to protect it from the tug’s grapples. Yachts were too small to fit the standard grapple arrangements; they carried special outriggers that gave the tugs a good grip and kept the main hull undamaged. Heris looked at the onboard chronometer: two minutes to their slot. She switched one channel of her com to the tug’s frequency.

“Captain Serrano, Sweet Delight .” There. She’d said it, officially, to another vessel . . . and the stars did not fall.

“Station Tug 34,” came the matter-of-fact reply. “Permission to grapple.”

“Permission to grapple.” Despite the bustle, she was sure she felt the yacht flinch as the tug caught hold. A perfect match of relative motion was rare, even now. Her status lights switched through red, orange, and yellow to green.

“All fast,” the tug captain said. “On your signal.”

On the other channel of her com, the on-watch Stationmaster waited for her signal. “Captain Serrano of Sweet Delight, permission to undock, on your signal. . . .”

“All clear on Station,” the voice came back. “Confirm all clear aboard?”

The boards spread emerald before her. “All clear aboard.” Fifteen seconds. She, the Stationmaster, and the tug captain all counted together, but the coordinated computers actually broke the yacht’s connection with the Station. The tug dragged the yacht—still inert, her drives passive—safely away from the Station and its crowded traffic lanes. Heris used this time to check the accuracy of the yacht’s external sensors against Station and tug reports of other traffic. Everything seemed to work as it should. She felt very odd, being towed without even the insystem drive powered up, but civilian vessels routinely launched “cold” and the tug companies preferred it that way. According to them, some idiot was likely to put his finger on the wrong button if he had power.

When they reached their assigned burn sector several hours later, the tug captain called again. “Confirm safe sector Blue Tango 34; permission to release.”

“Permission to release grapples,” Heris said, with a nod to the pilot and Gavin. The tug retracted its grapples and boosted slowly away. “Mr. Gavin: insystem drive.” The pilot, she noticed, was retracting the bustle, and checking with visuals that the lockdown mechanisms secured properly.

“Insystem drive.” The yacht’s sublight drive lit its own set of boards. “Normal powerup . . .” Heris could see that; she let out the breath she’d been holding. They’d done a powerup as part of the systems check, but that didn’t mean it would powerup again as smoothly.

“Engage,” she said. The artificial gravity seemed to shiver as the yacht’s drive began a determined shove, much stronger than the tug’s. Then it adjusted, and the yacht might have been sitting locked onplanet somewhere. “Mr. Plisson, she’s yours.” The pilot would have the helm until they made the first jump, and during jump sequences thereafter. Heris called back to the tug: “ Sweet Delight, confirmed powerup, confirmed engagement, confirmed oncourse.”

“Yo, Sweetie—” The tug captain’s formality broke down. “Come and see us again sometime. Tug 34 out.” Heris seethed, then, at the pilot’s amiable response, realized that “Sweetie” was probably this yacht’s nickname, not an insult. After all, even Service tug captains called the Yorktowne “Yorkie.”

So, she thought, here I go. Off to someplace I’ve never been so my employer can chase foxes over the ground on horseback, and I can spend a month at Hospitality Bay making friends with other captains in the Guild. Somehow the thought did not appeal.

Heris had heard about cruise captains: unlike the captains of scheduled passenger ships, they were expected to hobnob with guests, flattering and charming them. She would not cooperate if that’s what Lady Cecelia had in mind. She would make it clear that she was a captain, not an entertainer. She would eat decent spacefaring meals in her own quarters, since the ship offered no separate wardroom for ship’s officers.

Cecelia had heard about spacefleet captains from her sisters: cold, mechanical, brutal, insensitive (which meant they had not worshipped at the shrine of her sister Berenice’s beauty, she thought). She enjoyed her meals too much to invite a boor to share them.

That first evening of the voyage proper, Heris ate in her cabin, working her way through a stack of maintenance and fitness logs. The crew cook provided a surprisingly tasty meal; she had been prepared for bland reconstituted food, but the crisp greens of her salad had never seen a freeze-dry unit, she was sure. She missed having a proper wardroom for the officers’ mess, but the officers on Sweet Delight, such as they were, were not likely to become rewarding dinner companions.

At least Lady Cecelia had not stinted on fresh food or on the quality of maintenance. Heris nodded at the screenful of data. Not one back-alley refitter in the lot; if the lady was bent on hiring incompetents, as Heris had begun to suspect, she did so from some other motive than mere economy. The bills would have paid for refitting a larger and more dangerous ship than the yacht, but Heris supposed part of it went into cosmetics, like the decor. Which reminded her, she must explain to Lady Cecelia the need for tearing out that plush covering the umbilicals.

She ignored the gooey dessert for another stalk of mint-flavored celery, slid her tray into the return bin, and called up data from the next refitting. So far—she refused to let herself contemplate all the future days—nothing had gone very wrong. This life might be bearable after all.

“I suppose you want us to dress,” Ronnie said. He lay sprawled in the massage lounger, his admittedly handsome body still dripping sweat from his workout on the gym equipment. Cecelia eyed him sourly; she wanted a massage herself, but not on the clammy cushions he would leave behind. When she’d chosen the luxurious zaur-leather upholstery she’d assumed she’d never have to share it. The saleswoman had mentioned the potential problem, and she had shrugged it off. Now she felt aggrieved, as if it were anyone’s fault but hers.

“Yes,” she said. “I do. And be prompt; good food doesn’t improve by sitting.”

“Thank you, Lady Cecelia,” said Raffaele. She appeared to be George’s companion, slight and dark—though not as dark as Captain Serrano. “These young men would never dress if you didn’t make them, and we can’t if they don’t.”

“Why not?” She was in no mood to honor custom; she watched the girls share a glance, then Raffaele tipped her head to one side.