Elizabeth Moon - Serrano 1 - Hunting Party

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[version 1.0 - January 2, 2002 - Scanned, OCR'ed, spell-checked, and fixed paragraph breaks. Version 1.1
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Hunting Party
by Elizabeth Moon
Copyright 1993
Familias Regnant Books by Elizabeth Moon
1. Hunting Party
2. Sporting Chance
3. Winning Colors
4. Once a Hero
5. Rules of Engagement
6. Change of Command
7. Against the Odds
[Blurb]
PARTY FAVORS
They were somewhere inside, dry and safe. He imagined nooks and crannies cushioned with
colorful pillows and rugs, rock-walled chambers where naked nymphs bathed in clear subterranean
pools or streams.... He crept through the darkness, smugly certain of what he would find. The light
strengthened; he felt his way around a corner of the rock, and saw them at last.
His first thought was disappointment; the dark-haired girl had her arm around the lucky first-
comer. The Prince wondered why he'd preferred her to the more curvaceous blonde. His second
thought stumbled over the first in a wave of righteous rage. Ronnie!
"You unspeakable cad!" he said. "What are you..."
His voice trailed away as he noticed that the two black circles facing him were the bores of hunting
rifles like his own. Each girl, blonde and dark, held hers steadily. "You're hunters, too?" he asked,
with a half-nervous laugh.
Ronnie's head came around, and he saw the dark stain of a black eye and bruised face. "My sainted
aunt," Ronnie said, in a voice that didn't sound much like his own. "It's the Prince."
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Chapter One
Heris Serrano went from her room in the small but respectable dockside hotel on Rockhouse
Station to the berth of her new command convinced that she looked like an idiot. No one laughed
aloud, but that only meant the bystanders had chosen to snicker later rather than risk immediate
confrontation with an ex-Regular Space Services officer on the beach.
Heris kept her eyes away from any of those who might be contemplating humor, the dockside
traffic of the commercial district. Her ears burned; she could feel the glances raking her back. She
would not have changed her military posture even if she could have walked any other way; she had
been R.S.S. from birth or before, daughter of officers, admirals' granddaughter and niece, a service
family for all the generations anyone bothered to count. Even that miserable first year at the
Academy had seemed familiar, almost homey: she had heard the stories from parents, uncles,
aunts, all her life.
And here she was, tricked out in enough gold braid and color to satisfy a planet-bound admiral
from one of the minor principalities, all because of the whims of a rich old woman with more
money than sense. They had to be laughing behind her back, those merchanter officers and
crewmen who didn't meet her eyes, who went about their business as if purple and scarlet were
normal uniform colors, as if two sleeves covered with gold rings didn't look ridiculous, as if the
rim of gold and green striped cord around collar, lapels, and cuffs didn't tell everyone that an
R.S.S. officer had descended to the level of carting wealthy eccentrics on pleasure jaunts in
something far more like a mansion than a spacefaring ship.
Commercial dockside ended abruptly at a scarred gray wall with a lockgate in it. Heris inserted her
card; the barred gate slid aside, then closed behind her, leaving her caged between the bars behind
and a steel door with a thick window. Another keyslot; this time her card produced a human door-
opener, who swung the door aside and held out his hand for her papers. She handed over the neat
packet civilian life required. Master's license, certifications in five specialties, Imperial ID, military
record (abbreviated; only the unclassified bones), letters of recommendation, and -- what mattered
most here -- Lady Cecelia de Marktos's seal of employment. The human -- Station Security or
Garond Family, Heris did not know which -- ran a handscanner over this last, and replaced the
entire pile in its file cover before handing it back to her.
"Welcome to North, Captain Serrano," the man said, with no inflection of sarcasm. "May I be of
assistance?"
Her throat closed a moment, remembering the words she would have heard if she had gone through
a similar lockgate on the other side of the commercial docks, where sleek gray R.S.S. cruisers
nuzzled the Station side by side. Where her gray uniform with its glowing insignia would have
received crisp salutes, and the welcome due a comrade in arms. "Welcome to the Fleet," she would
have heard, a greeting used anywhere, anytime, they came together away from civilians. But she
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could not go back there, back where her entire past would wrap around her. She had resigned her
commission. She would never hear those words again.
"No, thank you," she said quietly. "I know where the ship is." She would not say its name yet,
though it was her new command.... She had grown up with ships named for battles, for monsters,
for older ships with long histories. She could not yet say she commanded Sweet Delight.
North, on all Stations, defined the environs of aristocracy. Wealth and privilege could be found
anywhere, in the R.S.S. as well as the commercial docks, but always near something else. Here
was nothing but wealth, and its servants. This deck had carpeted walkways, not extruded plastic
sheeting; the shops had no signs, only house emblems. Each docking bay had its own lockgate,
enclosing two large rooms: one marked "Service Entrance," lined with racks and shelving for
provisions delivered, and the other furnished luxuriously as a reception salon for going-away
parties. Heris's card in the slot produced another human door-opener, this time a servant in livery,
who ushered her into the salon. Heris made her way between overstuffed sofas and chairs covered
in lavender plush and piled with pillows in garish colors, between low black tables and pedestals
supporting what were probably priceless works of art, though to her eye they looked like globs of
melted space debris after a battle.
The actual docking tube lay unguarded. Heris frowned Surely even civilians had someone
watching the ship's main hatch, even with the security of a lockgate on the dock itself. She paused
before stepping over the line that made the legal division between dock and ship. The lavender
plush lining of the access tube hid all the vital umbilicals that connected the ship to Station life
support. Unsafe, Heris thought, as she had thought on her earlier interview visit. Those lines
should be visible. Surely even civilians had regulations to follow.
Underfoot, the lavender plush carpet felt five centimeters thick. A warm breath of air puffed out of
the ship itself, a warm breath flavored not with the spice she remembered from the interview, but
with the sour stench of the morning after a very large night before. Her nose wrinkled; she could
feel her back stiffening. It might be someone else's ship in principle, but she did not allow a dirty
mess on any ship she commanded -- and would not now. She came out of the access tube into a
family row; the tube's privacy shield had kept her from hearing it until she stepped across the
barrier. Heris took in the situation at a glance. One tall, angular, gray-haired woman with a loud-
voice: her employer. Three sulky, overdressed young men that Heris would not have had on her
ship, and their obvious girlfriends... all rumpled, and one still passed out on a lavender couch that
matched the plush carpet and walls. Streaks of vomit stained its smooth velour. As she came
through the barrier, the chestnut-haired youth with the ruffled shirt answered a final blast from the
older woman with a whined "But, Aunt Cecelia -- it's not fair."
What was "not fair" was that rich spoiled brats like him hadn't had the nonsense taken out of them
in boot camp, Heris thought. She smiled her normal good-morning-bridge smile at her employer
and said, "Good morning, milady."
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The youths -- all but the unconscious snorer on the couch -- stared; Heris could feel her ears going
hot and ignored them, still smiling at Cecelia Artemisia Veronica Penelope, heiress of more titles
than anyone needed, let alone more money.
"Ah," said that lady, restored to instant unruffled calm by the appearance of someone to whom it
meant something. "Captain Serrano. How nice to have you aboard. Our departure will be delayed,
but only briefly" -- here she looked at the chestnut-haired youth -- "until my nephew is settled. I
presume your things are already aboard?"
"Sent ahead, milady," Heris said.
"Good. Then Bates will show you to your quarters." Bates materialized from some angle of
corridor and nodded at Heris. Heris wondered if she would be introduced to the nephew now or
later; she was sure she could take that pout from his lips if given the chance. But she wouldn't get
the chance. She followed Bates -- tall, elegant, so much the butler of the screen and stage it was
hard to believe him real -- down the carpeted passage to her suite. She would rather have gone to
the bridge. Not this bridge, but the bridge of the Rapier or even a lowly maintenance tug.
Bates stood aside at her door. "If the captain wishes to rekey the locks now... ?"
She looked at that impassive face. Did he mean to imply that they had thieves on board? That
someone might violate the privacy of her quarters? The captain's quarters? She had thought she
knew how far down the scale she'd fallen, to become a rich lady's yacht captain, but she had not
conceived of needing to lock her quarters.
"Thank you," she said, as if it had been her idea. Bates touched a magnetic wand to the lockfaces;
she put her hand on each one. After a moment, the doorcall's pleasant anonymous voice said,
"Name, please?" and she gave her name; the doorcall chimed once and said, "Welcome home,
Captain Serrano." Bates handed her a fat ring of wands.
"These are the rekeying wands for ship's crew and all the operating compartments. They're all
coded; you'll find the full architectural schematics loaded on your desk display. The crew will
await your arrival on the bridge, at your convenience."
She didn't even know if she could ask Bates to tell the crew when to expect her, or if that was
something household staff never did. She had already discovered that the house staff and the ship
crew had very little to do with each other.
"I could just pass the word to Mr. Gavin, the engineer," Bates said, almost apologetically. "Since
Captain Olin left" -- Captain Olin, Heris knew, had been fired -- "Lady Cecelia has often asked me
to speak to Mr. Gavin."
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"Thank you," Heris said. "One hour." She glanced at the room's chronometer, a civilian model
which she would replace with the one in her luggage.
"Philip will escort you," Bates said
She opened her mouth to say it was not necessary -- even in this perfumed and padded travesty of a
ship she could find the bridge by herself -- but instead said, "Thank you" once more. She would
not challenge their assumptions yet.
Her master's certificate went into the mounting plaque on the wall; her other papers went into the
desk. Her luggage -- she had asked that it not be unpacked -- cluttered one corner of her office.
Beyond that was a smaller room, then the bathroom -- her mouth quirked as she forced herself to
call it that. And beyond that, her bedroom. A cubage larger than an admiral would have on most
ships, and far larger than anyone of her rank ever had, even on a Station. A suite, part of the price
being paid to lure a real spacer, a real captain, into this kind of work.
In the hour she had unpacked her few necessary clothes, her books, her reference data cubes, and
made sure that the desk display would handle them. The chronometer on the wall now showed
Service Standard time as well as ship's time and Station time, and had the familiar overlapping
segments of color to delineate four-, six-, and eight-hour watches. She had reviewed the crew bios
in the desk display. And she had shrugged away her regrets. It was all over now, all those years of
service, all her family's traditions; from now on, she was Heris Serrano, captain of a yacht, and she
would make the best of it.
And they wouldn't know what hit them.
-=O=-***-=O=-
Some of them suspected within moments of her arrival on the bridge. Whatever decorator had
chosen all the lavender and teal furnishings of the rest of the ship, the bridge remained functional,
if almost toylike in its bright, shiny, compactness. The crew had to squeeze in uncomfortably;
Heris noticed who squeezed in next to whom, and who wished this were over. They had heard, no
doubt. They could see what they could see; she might be wearing purple and scarlet, but she had
the look, and knew she had it; all those generations of command came out her eyes.
She met theirs. Blue, gray, brown, black, green, hazel: clear, hazy, worried, frightened,
challenging. Mr. Gavin, the engineer -- thin, almost wispy, and graying -- had announced, "Captain
on the bridge" in a voice that squeaked. Navigation First, all too perky, was female, and young,
and standing close to Communications First, who had spots and the slightly adenoidal look that
Heris had found in the best comm techs on any ship. The moles -- environmental techs, so-called
everywhere from their need to crawl through pipes -- glowered at the back. They must have
suspected she'd seen the ship's records already. Moles never believed that strange smells in the air
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were their fault; they were convinced that other people, careless people, put the wrong things down
the wrong pipe and caused the trouble. Gavin's junior engineering techs, distancing themselves
from the moles, tried to look squeaky-clean and bright. Heris had read their records; one of them
had failed the third-class certificate four times. The other juniors -- Navigation's sour-faced
paunchy male and Communications' wispy female -- were clearly picked up at bargain rates for off-
primeshift work.
Heris began, as always on a new ship, with generalities. Let them relax; let them realize she wasn't
stupid, crazy, or vicious. Then... "Now about emergency drills," she said, when she'd seen the
relaxation. "I see you've had no drills since docking here. Why is that, Mr. Gavin?"
"Well, Captain... after Captain Olin left, I didn't like to seem -- you know -- like I was taking
liberties above my station."
"I see. And before that, I notice that there had been no drills since the last planetfall. That was
Captain Olin's decision, I suppose." From Gavin's expression, that was not the reason, out he went
along gratefully.
"Yes, Captain, that would be it. He was the captain, after all." Someone stirred, in the back, but
they were so crammed together she couldn't be sure who it was. She would find out. She smiled at
them, suddenly happy. It might be only a yacht, but it was a ship, and it was her ship.
"We will have drills," she said, and waited a moment for that to sink in. "Emergency drills save
lives. I expect all you Firsts to ready your divisions."
"We surely can't have time for a drill before launch!" That was the sour-faced Navigation Second.
She stared at him until he blushed and said, "Captain... sorry, ma'am."
"It depends," she said, without commenting on his breach of manners. "I know you're all readying
for launch, but I would like a word here with the pilot and Nav First."
They edged out of the cramped space; she knew the muttering would start as soon as they cleared
the hatch. Ignoring that, she fixed the Navigation First with a firm glance. "Sirkin, isn't it?"
"Yes, Captain." Brisk, bright-eyed... Heris hoped she was as good as she looked. "Brigdis Sirkin,
Lalos Colony."
"Yes, I saw your file. Impressive qualification exam." Sirkin had topped the list with a perfect
score, rare even in R.S.S. trained personnel. The younger woman blushed and grinned. "But what I
want to know is whether you plotted the final approach from Dunlin to here." The way she said it
could lead either way; she wanted to see Sirkin's reaction.
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A deeper blush. "No, Captain, I didn't... not entirely, that is."
"Umm. I wondered why someone who'd swept the exam would choose such an inefficient
solution. Tell me about it."
"Well... ma'am... Captain Olin was a good captain, and I'm not saying anything against him, but he
liked to... to do things a certain way."
Heris glanced at the pilot. Plisson, his tag said; he had been another rich lady's pilot before he
came here. "Did you have anything to do with it?" she asked.
The pilot shot Sirkin an angry glance. "She thinks she can shave time to the bone," he said. "It's
like she never heard of flux-storms. I guess you could call it efficient, if you're on a warship, but I
wasn't hired to kill milady."
"Ah. So you thought Sirkin's original course dangerous, and Captain Olin backed you?"
"Well... yes. Captain. And I expect you'll stick with her, being as you're spacefleet trained."
Heris grinned at him; his jaw sagged in surprise. "I don't like getting smeared across space any
better than anyone else," she said. "But I've reviewed Sirkin's work only as combined with yours
and Captain Olin's. Sirkin, what was your original course here?"
"It's in the NavComp, Captain; shall I direct it to your desktop?"
"If you please. I'll look it over, see if I think you're dangerous or not. Did you ever have any
spacefleet time, Plisson?"
"No, Captain." The way he said it, he considered it worse than downside duty. She wasn't sure she
wanted a half-hearted first pilot.
"Then I suggest you withdraw your judgment of R.S.S. operations until you see some. War is
dangerous enough without adding recklessness to it; I'll expect professional performance from both
you and Navigator Sirkin." She turned to go, then turned back, surprising on their faces the
expression she had hoped to find. "And by the way, you may expect drills; space is less forgiving
than I am of sloppy technique."
-=O=-***-=O=-
Lady Cecelia noticed the shadow in the tube only a moment before her new captain came aboard.
She could have wished for less promptness. She would have preferred to finish reaming out her
nephew and the residue of his going-away party in the decent privacy afforded by her household
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staff. Bates knew better than to stick his nose in at a time like this.
But the woman was ex-military, and not very ex- by her carriage and expression. Of course she
would not be late; even her hair and toenails probably grew on schedule. Cecelia wanted to throttle
the condescension off the dark face that rose serene above the purple and scarlet uniform. No
doubt she had no nephews, or if she did they were being lovingly brought up in boot camp
somewhere. She probably thought it would be easy to remake Ronnie and his set. Whereas Cecelia
had known, from the moment of Ronnie's birth, that he was destined to be a spoiled brat.
Charming, bright enough if he bothered, handsome to the point of dangerousness with that thick
wavy chestnut hair, those hazel eyes, that remaining dimple -- but spoiled rotten by his family and
everyone else.
"But it's not fair," he whined now. He had expected her to let them all travel with him, all twenty
or so of his favorites among his fellow officers and their sweethearts of both sexes. She ignored
that, smiled at her new captain, thinking, Don't you dare laugh at me, you little blot, and called
Bates to take the captain to her quarters. And away she went, impossibly bright-eyed for this hour
of the morning (no adolescent partying had disturbed her sleep), her trim figure making the girls in
the room look like haggard barflies. Which they weren't, really. It was terrible what girls did these
days, but these were decent girls, of reasonably nice families. Nothing like hers, or Ronnie's
(except Bubbles, the snoring one, and the present cause of dissension), but nice enough.
With a last glance at the captain's retreating form, she turned back to Ronnie. "What is not fair,
young man, is that you are intruding on my life, taking up space on my yacht, making my staff
work harder, and all because you lacked the common sense to keep your mouth shut about things
which no gentleman discusses."
Sulky. He had been sulky at one; at two, his parents had doted on his adorable tantrums, his big
lower lip. He was sulky now, and she did not dote on the lip or the tongue behind it. "She said I
was better. It's not fair that I'm getting sent away, when she's the one who said it. She wanted to be
with me --"
"She said it to you, in the confidence of the bedroom." Surely someone had already told him this.
Why should she have to explain? "And you don't even know if she meant it, or if she says it to
everyone."
"Of course she meant it!" Young male pride, stung, flushed his cheeks and drove sulkiness into
temper. "I am better."
"I won't argue," Cecelia said. "I will only remind you that you may be better in bed with the
prince's favorite singer, but you are now on my yacht, by order of your father and the king, and the
singer is stuck with the prince." Her pun got through to her a moment before Ronnie caught it, and
she shook her finger at him. "Literally and figuratively: you're here, and he's there, and you've
gained nothing by blabbing except whatever momentary amusement you shared with your barracks-
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mates." He chuckled, and the odious George -- who had well earned the nickname everyone in
society knew -- snickered. Cecelia knew the odious George's father fairly well, and dismissed the
snicker as an unconscious copy of his father's courtroom manner. She supposed it went over well
in the junior mess of the Royal Space Service, where the young sprouts of aristocracy and wealth
flaunted their boughten commissions in the intervals of leave and training. "You're the one who
talked," she said, ignoring the side glances of her nephew and his crony. "The... er... lady didn't.
Therefore you are in trouble, and you are sent away, and it's my misfortune that I happened to be
near enough to serve your father's purpose." He opened his mouth to say something else she was
sure she would not want to hear, and she went on, inexorably. "It's better than it could have been,
young Ronald, as you will see when you quit feeling sorry for yourself. And I am stretching my
generosity to let you bring these" -- she waved her hand at the others, -- "when it crowds my ship
and wastes my time. If it weren't that Bubbles and Buttons were going to Bunny's anyway --"
"Well -- in fact they don't want to go --"
"Nonsense. I've already sent word I'm bringing them. A season in the field will do you all immense
good." She gave him another lengthy stare. "And I don't want any of you sneaking offship to cause
trouble on the Station before we launch. It's bad enough having to wait for your luggage; I shall
have your father pay the reset fees for changing the launch schedule. I hope he takes it out of your
allowance."
"But that's not -- " She held up her hand before "fair" could emerge and decided to drop her own
bombshell now.
"And by the way, my new captain is ex-Regular Space Service, so don't try any of your tricks with
her. She could probably tie you all in knots without trying." Cecelia turned on her heel and walked
out, satisfied that she had given them something besides her hard-heartedness to think about.
It was too bad, really. She lived on her yacht precisely so as to avoid family complications, just as
she had avoided marriage and political service. They could have found some other way to keep
Ronnie out of the capital for a year or so. They didn't have to use her, as if she were a handy piece
of furniture. But that was Berenice all over again: big sisters existed to be of service to the beauty
of the family.
Stores. She would have to cheek with Bates to be sure they had ordered enough additional food --
after last night, she suspected they might need more. Young people did eat so, when they ate. She
reached her own suite with relief. That miserable decorator Berenice had sent her to insisted on
doing the whole ship in lavender and teal, with touches of acid green and cream, but she had not let
him in here. Perhaps the young people did prefer lavender plush, but she hated it. Here in her own
rooms, she could have it her way. Brighter colors, polished wood, carved chairs piled with pillows.
She paused at her desk. Inlaid wood made a pattern of vines and flowers; until she pressed the
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central blossom, it could have passed for an antique of Old Earth. The desktop cleared, showing
the floorplan of that deck, with ghostly shadows of the others. A cluster of dots showed Ronnie
and friends, back in the lounge. A dot in her bedroom; that would be Myrtis, her maid. A dot for
the captain, in her quarters; a moving dot that must be Bates, coming back. She touched her finger
to that one, and his voice came out of the desk speaker.
"Yes, madam?"
"Have Cook check the quantities Ronnie and his friends consumed last night; they seem to eat
quite a lot...."
"Cook, has estimated an additional fifteen percent over your orders yesterday, madam, and has the
purchase order ready for your stamp."
"Thank you, Bates." She might have known. They were usually two steps ahead of her -- but that
was their duty. She flicked up the lower service deck on the display, found Cook's dot, and touched
it. Cook transferred the purchase order to her desktop, and she looked at it. Even with six
additional people aboard, it looked like enough to feed them all three times over. It would serve
them right, she thought, if she made them eat survival rations until they got to Bunny's. Certainly it
would cost less and take up less room. Cook had pointed out that they'd need to air up two more
refrigeration units and set out another full section of 'ponics.
That would start another argument between crewside and staffside. The environmental techs were
ship's crew, under the captain's command; Cecelia knew better than to interfere with her captain's
crew. But that part of 'ponics devoted to the kitchen came under the heading of "gardening," which
meant staff -- her staff. Felix, head gardener, and two boys (one female), kept her private solarium
in fresh flowers and Cook supplied with fresh vegetables. Felix and the environmental techs
always got into some hassle which required her decision -- one of the things she had not liked
about her former captain was his tendency to let things slide until she had to quell an incipient riot
in staff.
She found Felix's icon, touched it, and told him about the 'ponics section. He wanted to use half of
it for a new set of exotics he'd bought seedstock for; the pictures of the so-called vegetables didn't
impress her. Felix insisted, though, that if he could have seed available when they arrived at
Bunny's, he could trade with Bunny's ferocious head gardener for her favorite (and rarest)
mushrooms. Cecelia shrugged; Ronnie and his pals could eat the things she didn't like.
"And what you tell the moles, eh?" he said finally, having won his main point. "You got to let
them know it's okay, whatever I grow."
"I will tell Captain Serrano, our new captain, that I've approved your use of an additional 'ponics
section for fresh produce."
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：273 页 大小：675.94KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-04

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