Elizabeth Moon - Vattas 2 - Marque and Reprisal

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2024-12-05 0 0 1.85MB 451 页 5.9玖币
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MARQUE AND REPRISAL
ELIZABETH MOON
BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK
For all who serve in the armed forces, or in any other capacity in which they
discover and must learn to cope with the darkness within, with gratitude for the service,
and understanding of the dilemmas. And for Jen, for a rescue.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Usual Suspects outdid themselves again, from the fencing group to the
family. Thanks are also due to the Camp Allen staff, for letting Michael come another
year (during which week I got a lot done), and to his special-ed teachers at the high
school. The helpers who pitched in with Fox Pavilion (Scott Hawes, Leslie D’Allesandro
Hawes, Ruta and Ferris Duhon) saved me a lot of work and worry with that project, and
freed more writing time. Beth Sikes is due thanks for insightful comments on some of the
characters. The terriers in the Leading Rein, in Austin, instructed me on the character
traits of Jack Russell terriers. L. D. offered technical expertise on certain aspects of
military procedure. S. and G. shared technical expertise in the areas of communications,
corporate organization and finance, and related matters. My agent and editor cheered me
on when I felt stuck (which, in this book, happened more than once), and Jennifer Davis
helped me unstick from a bad musical situation and get into a good one. Several used-
book and antiquities shops in London contributed their ambience to a seedy space station.
As always, mistakes are mine.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER
ONE
Kylara Vatta looked at the mass of paperwork from Belinta’s Economic
Development Bureau and sighed. The real life of a tradeship captain: paperwork and
more paperwork, negotiation with shippers, customers, Customs officials. The life she
hadn’t wanted, when she chose to enter the Slotter Key Spaceforce Academy, and the life
she had fallen back into when she was expelled. Boring. Mundane.
Not that her recent experiences in Sabine had been boring or mundane—terrifying
was more like it—and no one would want another trip like that.
Except that she did. She remembered very clearly the rush of excitement, the
soaring glee of the fight itself, the guilty delight when she’d killed Paison and
Kristoffson. So either she wasn’t sane or . . . or nothing. She thought of the diamonds
tucked into her underwear drawer. Not enough to restore her old tub of a ship completely,
but enough to take her to somewhere else, somewhere she could make the kind of life she
really wanted. Perhaps the mercenaries would accept her violent tendencies; they’d
offered a chance. Perhaps someone else. It would annoy her family, but not as much as
the truth would hurt them.
No. She had to finish one job at least. Crew depended on her. The ship belonged
to her family, as well, and she could not possibly earn enough to buy it away by the next
stop or the next. She sighed again, signed another sheet, and stared at the next. All right,
then. Take this old tub to Leonora, deliver that cargo, then to Lastway. If she couldn’t
finance a refit by then, return to the original plan and go home by commercial passenger
ship. If she made enough profit, enough to do the refit, she could get that done and bring
the ship back to Slotter Key, and then resign. Or—she stared into a distance far beyond
her cabin bulkhead. She could send the ship back with someone else. Quincy, for
instance, knew enough to run the ship herself.
In the long run, her family would be better off without her. If her father knew how
she’d felt when she killed . . . no. She had had those nightmares, trying to explain to that
gentle man, hoping for his understanding but seeing the horror in his face. Better the
smothering, overprotective love that had annoyed her in their last conversation than that
horror, that disgust, that rejection. If she went home, he would sense something; he would
try to probe, try to get her to confide in him, and eventually he would wear her down. It
would be worse than anything else that had happened, to have her father sorry she was
ever born.
She should just go away. Years later, maybe, she might be able to explain it to
him, and he might be able to accept it. Years might put a safe skin on the raw truth of
what she was.
She worked her way through the rest of the forms, then decided to take them to
the local postal drop herself. Belinta Station had few amenities, but a walk would be
refreshing in itself.
“Quincy—I’m going to drop the paperwork off,” she said into the ship’s intercom.
“Find anything to load, or do you want us to start transferring what we left in
storage?”
“I haven’t found anything yet,” Ky said. “I may have to go downside for that. Go
on and load . . . see if you can get some of the station dockworkers to help with that.
Usual rates and all.”
She glanced at herself in the mirror and decided she was presentable enough. She
needed a new uniform—the one she had left after Sabine no longer had the crisp, perfect
tailoring her mother had paid for—but only if she was staying with Vatta. If she joined a
mercenary company, she would wear its uniform; if she stayed independent, she’d have
to find one of her own design. But to drop off forms to be transmitted to a bureaucracy,
gray tunic and slacks should be sufficient. She clipped on the Belinta Station access pass.
Outside the ship, Belinta Station hardly bustled with activity. Only three ships
were in dock, and the other two were insystem haulers servicing Belinta’s meager
satellite mining operations. On their own dockside, Quincy was talking to a burly man in
the ubiquitous green tunic of Belinta dockworkers. Beeah, beside her, held a compad
ready to record employee data if Quincy’s negotiations were successful. Ky walked
briskly past two men chatting on a bench, a woman standing by a lift entrance, barely
restraining a bouncing toddler, the faded ads for Belinta’s few and unenticing tourist
resorts, and turned left into the wide main corridor. Here were the currency exchanges,
banks, communications services—local and ansible—Belinta Port Authority, the hiring
hall, and, finally, the postal service. Midshift, few others were in sight. Someone with a
briefcase just going into Belinta Savings & Loan, two women chatting as they emerged
from Allsystems Exchange.
Beyond were rows of blanked openings to spaces that would someday, if Belinta
proved prosperous, house more services, more stores, more people. No traffic at all
moved down there.
Ky turned into the postal service’s entrance and walked up to the counter where a
display readNOW SERVING NUMBER SIX EIGHTY-TWO . The only clerk in sight
did not look up, but said, “Take a number.” Typical Belintan courtesy, Ky thought, and
looked around for the number generator. By the entrance. She pulled the tab; the counter
display changed toNOW SERVING SIX EIGHTY-THREE and the clerk said, “Number
six eighty-three!” in an annoyed tone, as if she’d kept him waiting.
“This is all for the Economic Development Bureau,” Ky said.
“To whose attention?” asked the clerk.
“It doesn’t matter. Just the EDB.”
“It has to be directed to an individual,” the clerk said. “You can’t send mail to the
whole bureau.”
“It says on the form,” Ky said, pointing to the block underRETURN TO . “No
name, just the bureau.”
“It has to have a name,” the clerk said. “It’s the rules. All mail to government
agencies must be directed to an individual.”
Ky was tempted to make up a name. Instead, she said, “Do you have a directory?”
“Customers are not allowed to use our confidential directories or communications
devices,” the clerk intoned. “This is a security issue. Customers are advised to identify
the correct recipient prior to arriving in the postal service office. Next, please.”
Ky glanced behind her. No one stood in line. “It wouldn’t take a moment to look
it up.”
“Next, please.” The clerk still wasn’t looking at her. Ky wanted to reach across
the counter and wring his skinny neck, but that was the impulse of a moment. This was
part of being a tradeship captain; this was the kind of senseless, ridiculous, annoying
nonsense she could expect.
“Fine,” she said instead. “I’ll deliver it myself.” After all, she had to go downside
anyway, to find out if there was any cargo worth carrying from this wretched planet.
“Glad to be of service have a nice day,” the clerk said all in one breath.
Ky went back the way she’d come, past the corridor that led to the docking area,
past Goodtime Eats and Jerry’s Real Food and Quick-snack, where the two women she’d
seen earlier were head to head over a small table, to the ticket office for the shuttle
service. She could not remember just when the daily service left—
“Two and a half hours,” the clerk said. “Be at the boarding area a half hour before
departure.”
That gave time to go back to her ship and change. She turned to go but a screech
from the PA system stopped her. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know,” the clerk said.
“Stay wherever you are,” a bone-shaking voice said. “All personnel stay wherever
you are. Emergency crews one and two, to dockside on the double. All personnel . . .”
“My ship!” Ky said. “I have to get back—”
But the ticket office entrance was closed, the metal grate locking with a final
chung even as she moved toward it.
“You heard ’em,” the clerk said. “We’re all supposed to stay put.”
“Well, I can’t,” Ky said. “Open that thing.”
“Can’t,” the clerk said. “It’s automatic, like section seals. Station Security
controls it. Unless you’ve got the override code like one of the emergency crews . . .”
The PA announcement had stopped. Fifteen minutes later, the grate slid back into
its slot, squeaking a little. “Return to normal activity,” the PA said. “All personnel return
to normal activity.” Still no announcement of what had prompted the lockdown. Ky
hurried back to the docking area. She saw nothing unusual except a Station Security
officer standing near Gary Tobai’s open hold bay talking to Quincy.
“What was that about?” she asked, coming up to them.
“Nothing to concern you, madam,” said the officer. “Please stand away.”
“It’s the captain,” Quincy said, just as Ky said, “It’s my ship; it concerns me.”
“Oh.” The man looked confused. “You’re not in uniform.”
“It needs cleaning,” Ky said. “Here’s my tag.” She held it out, and he scanned it.
“What happened?”
“We believe an attempt was made to rob your ship,” the man said. “Individuals
known to us as of dubious character were hired to move cargo, and this individual” —he
nodded at Quincy—” noticed something untoward with one of the containers and
challenged the individual transporting it, suspecting that a substitution had been made.
Two individuals ran away; this individual called the alarm.”
Theft by casual dockside labor was a constant threat, Ky knew. “Did you catch
them?”
“They have not been apprehended yet,” the officer said. “They made it to the
unoccupied spaces. We are confiscating this container, which they tried to put aboard,
and we are searching for the legitimate container your crewmember reports missing.”
“I’m sure you’ll take care of things,” Ky said.
“We will find you here?” the man asked.
“No,” Ky said. “I must go downside to deliver reports to your government. My
shuttle leaves—” She checked the time. “Sorry, I must hurry. Quincy will serve as my
agent for the duration of my visit down. All right, Quincy?”
The old woman nodded. “I can do that. Will you be buying cargo?”
“Quite possibly. I expect to be downside a few days. I’ll keep in touch.” Ky
hurried into the ship. She put on her remaining uniform with the formal captain’s cape
and made two quick calls to arrange lodging at the Captains’ Guild and an escort to meet
her at the downside shuttle terminal. She hesitated, then put several of the diamonds in
her pocket. She didn’t expect anything to cut off her access to Vatta resources, but just in
case, it couldn’t hurt to have hard currency.
She made her shuttle connection with a few minutes to spare, and rode downside
with a mixed lot of Belinta station workers going home for the weekend break. She
cataloged them automatically—clerical, clerical, equipment operator, service worker—
and wondered why she bothered. It was the same mix she could find anywhere across the
galaxy, no duller here than elsewhere. She spotted her escort at the passenger exit and
they exchanged the passwords and ID checks, another familiar routine. The ride into the
摘要：

MARQUEANDREPRISALELIZABETHMOONBALLANTINEBOOKS•NEWYORKForallwhoserveinthearmedforces,orinanyothercapacityinwhich heydiscoverandmustlearntocopewiththedarknesswithin,withgratitudefortheservice,andunderstandingofthedilemmas.AndforJen,forarescue.ACKNOWLEDGMENTSTheUsualSuspectsoutdidthemselvesagain,from...

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