Engaging the Enemy (2 page)

Going back to the implant's replay was hard. She wanted to skip ahead, but she knew she must not. Her mother's face—distorted by bruises, smeared with wet ash, all too obviously dead—was relieved only by the life signs readouts along the edge of the visual field. Her father had looked at her mother a long time before someone took her body away, as his own condition worsened. Blood pressure dropping, core temperature, arterial oxygen…the implant cut functions not in use, finally managing only the recording she now watched and heard. She saw her aunt Grace through her father's eyes, saw the fierce old woman not as the dotty, fussy prima donna she'd always seemed. Aunt Grace, in that hour, could have been any battlefield commander in a crisis. Any good one.

The implant shut down while her father was being evacuated, apparently because his condition had deteriorated to the point that the implant could no longer get enough energy to record. There was another Urgent file, of a family meeting—Ky could not tell where or when—and then the implant shut down again.

Stella'd said that her father had told Aunt Grace to take his implant. Had Grace accessed these files, marked them for urgent retrieval? Or had her father done that? She found it easier to ponder that than to think about the images she'd seen.

She spent the next hour exploring the implant's capacity, though a short period wasn't enough to access all the organization in detail. A command-level implant held far more, had many more functions, than the one she'd used before she entered the Academy.

The new ansible function she'd acquired in external link contact with Rafe was enclosed in its own kernel and now carried the ISC logo. She would have to ask Rafe about that, but not at the moment. Ship-related functions were actually much broader than she'd realized; she could even override any of her crew at the controls, if she wanted. Though
Fair Kaleen
had not been updated for decades, longer than she'd been alive, the old Vatta command datasets deep in the ship's AI had served Osman well and he had never bothered to delete them. Her implant had already interacted with the AI to bring it up to current Vatta standards. In the financial hierarchy, she had access to all her father's knowledge as of the time of the attack, everything from who held which insurance policies on what to the interstellar potential of the tik trade. Much of that was beyond her; she'd never cared much about the investment end. She'd study it later, or find someone who already understood it. Stella, maybe.

“Captain…do you want something to eat?” That was Toby, tapping gently on her door.

“Yes, thank you.” She stood up stiffly, feeling the exercise she'd done that morning. She should eat. She should sleep. The implant informed her that she'd been working six hours—six hours? What with the earlier session, exercise, and the second session, she'd skipped one meal already.

Fair Kaleen
's mess had seating for twenty. Ky's crew clustered at one end of the long table. The last meal of first shift was the first meal for third shift, so all but Mitt, on bridge watch, were there. Ky sat between Alene and Lee.

“I've got the inventory for all the aired-up compartments done,” Gordon said. “I know what the ship's AI says are in the unaired compartments, but I don't know if it's right.”

“Do we have anything clearly identifiable as legally owned?” Ky asked.

“Most of it's unmarked or in ordinary shipping containers, but without bills of lading. Osman didn't keep a record of the ships he stole from—at least not one I've found yet.”

Her father's implant had a section on laws relating to privateering. The privateer took possession of an enemy ship and its contents, and profited by selling off cargo. Open containers were presumed to belong to the ship that carried them, and went to the privateer without question, but sealed containers with bills of lading were supposed to be sequestered and put in the control of a court-appointed assessor at the next port. If they proved to be genuine shipments, then they were shipped on to the original consignee, but with a reward judgment payable to the privateer for “stolen goods recovery.” Sealed containers without proper bills of lading could be tricky. Technically they should go through adjudication, but privateers opened sealed but unlabeled containers to convert them to private use.

She accessed the ship's AI and downloaded the current inventory. Even richer than she'd thought at first. But what could she do with it? Wealth could not bring the dead to life. Even if she rebuilt the house on Corleigh, her father and mother would not live in it…her uncle would never sit at the head of the table in the Vatta Enterprises boardroom.

She wanted to go back, back before all this, back home, back to the room she knew so well—had known so well—back to a place where every step she took, every voice she heard, was familiar.

And that would never happen.

She forced herself back to the present. “Was Osman's version of the inventory accurate, when you checked it as far as you could?”

“Yes. I was surprised, but I suppose he never expected anyone would have access to this ship's data.”

“Then I'm going to assume whatever's in the unaired compartments is the same as the list. It's not as if we needed all that.” Which was silly, she knew as she said it. They needed much more if she was going to restore just the physical side of Vatta, let alone strike back at their attackers.

After the meal, she settled into her cabin to consider what next. A year ago—was it really that long?—she had been a happy, ambitious fourth-year cadet in the Slotter Key Spaceforce Academy, looking forward to a career as a Spaceforce officer and a relationship with her fellow cadet Hal. Since then she had been kicked out of the Academy and dumped by the man she loved. Her subsequent career as a trader in the family business—which she had expected to be boring—had been marked by war, mutiny, attempted assassinations, and finally the capture—from a rogue Vatta—of this very ship. Her family and its thriving interstellar business had been almost destroyed. Her own government had sent her a clandestine letter of marque, authorizing her to act as a privateer on its behalf, shortly before refusing to defend or support her family when some enemy attacked. Now she was supposed to save what was left of the family and business, with no allies and too few assets.

Too many changes too fast. She focused her attention on the ship again, checking system by system via her cranial implant. All systems nominal, and her senses told her everything felt, smelled, sounded normal as well. She had no excuse to avoid the larger issues. What was she going to do next? Where would the next attack come from?

Not while they were in FTL flight, at least. She activated the sleep cycle enabler for the second time, and woke eight hours later, this time clearheaded enough to realize that the first sleep hadn't been enough. Now she felt solid out to the edges again. Ready to work. She considered another workout in the gym, but decided instead to work on what she least wanted to do, methodically go through Osman's cargo list and assign her best guess at the value, item by item. Some of it was easier than she expected, thanks to her father's implant. Some was nearly impossible—who could say what someone would pay for prohibited technology most people didn't know existed?

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she had been up for two hours without eating. In the galley, she ignored the enticing Premium Gold Breakfast Pak—she felt bloated with all the good food they'd been enjoying—and settled for a protein bar and mug of juice. Someone had left a sticky mug and bowl in the sink; she rinsed it automatically as she considered an array of options. She had two ships now:
Gary Tobai,
old and slow, and this one, larger, faster, and—most usefully—very well armed. The nucleus of a fleet, albeit a very small fleet. If she was going to command a fleet, she needed a staff. Before that, she needed a full crew of capable personnel on each ship…and before that, she needed to know how much money she had to hire the capable personnel and supply the ships…

“'Morning, Captain.” Gordon Martin reached past her for a bowl and poured a modest serving of dry flakes into it. He looked, as always, like the veteran soldier he had been before he joined her crew. “I've finished the security survey; Osman's bad boys didn't have time to put in many traps. All disarmed.”

“That's good,” Ky said.

“Do you object to my doing some practice on the firing range today?” he asked. “I've checked the reinforcement of the target frames; it's plenty safe for what I'm using.”

“That's fine,” she said. She should get in some practice time, too. “Martin, I wanted to talk to you about command structure, now that I have two ships—”

“Think you can keep this one?” he asked, pouring milk onto his flakes.

“I'm going to keep this one,” Ky said. “It's a Vatta ship. I'm restoring it to its proper ownership.”

“Well, then. You're talking tables of organization?”

One did not say
I guess so
to older veterans, which was Martin's identity no matter what the papers said. “Yes,” Ky said instead. “Simple, but something that can scale up.”

“Based on Vatta tradition, or…” His voice trailed off; he eyed her as he munched on the flakes.

Ky shook her head. “Until we take care of whoever's been attacking Vattas, the old protocols aren't any good. Sure, we need our tradeships back at work hauling cargo and making money, but we can't count on that until we aren't being blown up, shot at, and all the rest. I'm thinking small fleet. I have two ships now. I'm reasonably sure that not all Vatta ships have been destroyed; as we find them, we can bring them into the plan.”

“We. Meaning you?”

“We meaning me, my cousin Stella, and you, Martin. And the rest of the crews.”

“But with you in command.” No doubt in his voice at all.

“Yes,” Ky said. “I am the only Vatta I know of with the right training.”

“Yeah. I see that…” He ate two more spoonfuls, then put the spoon down. “See here, Captain, you have to understand: my background is supply and security. The security duties grew out of supply and inventory control. I've been in a ship in combat, in the Slotter Key System, but I don't know as much as you need about weapons and tactical things.”

“What about that organization stuff?” Ky asked.

Another spoonful of flakes as he looked thoughtful. Then he nodded again. “I do understand a lot of that. If you're asking me.”

“Martin, the thing that's bothered me since I first took command of
Gary Tobai,
back when she was the
Glennys Jones,
is the lack of a clear chain of command on civilian traders. Sure, the captain's the boss, but who's next? On the smaller ships, it's a muddle. Muddles in war get people killed.”

“So what is it you want me to do?”

“Take over training new crew into capable combat-ready crews. Find me some weapons specialists—if you don't know the weaponry, I'll bet you know personnel and can spot the good ones. Help me get this ship organized and ready.”

He was nodding along with her words. “Yes, ma'am, I can certainly do that. And I can spend this transit with my head in a cube reader learning the manuals on this ship's weapons, too. I just never had the chance before.”

“I know I need a second in command, an exec. I wondered if you—”

He was shaking his head now. “No, ma'am. I'm not the right person for that. I might've made a good senior NCO if I'd kept my nose clean, might even have made a good sergeant major, but I'm a hands-on, feet-in-the-dirt person. The air gets too thin for me in officer country.”

“For now, anyway,” Ky said. “You might surprise yourself later. So—what do you think of the other personnel aboard?”

“Your pilot's good,” he said. “He should shape up with a bit more training—I don't suppose you'd tell them all to get in the gym every day for some physical training?”

“Of course,” Ky said. “Good idea.”

“That kid Toby's awfully young, but he's smart and hardworking. Can't always tell at that age.”

“I hope to get Toby back in school as soon as we can find a safe place,” Ky said. Right now she couldn't think of a safe place, but surely she could find something better than the very obvious target they were in.

“Jim's coming along—”

“Thanks to you,” Ky said.

Martin shrugged. “Typical young lout,” he said. “All he needs is discipline and training; he's got the right instincts most times, though that stupid dog made me wonder. Not officer material, though. Alene's better suited to civilian work than military, but she might fool me in another six months. Sheryl…nice woman, but definitely not military.” He stopped there.

“And Rafe?” Ky prompted. Rafe had to be part of her plans. She still wasn't sure what she felt about him, but for his connections alone he was a valuable resource.

Martin's expression hardened. “Rafe. Begging the captain's pardon but I was not aware he was actually on crew.” He fairly bristled with disapproval. Ky didn't know whether to be amused or annoyed.

“I'm doing the work,” Rafe said, appearing with his usual instinct for the critical moment. As if to prove this, he picked up Martin's empty cereal bowl and spoon and Ky's empty juice mug, and went to the galley sink. “But I believe, Martin, you have other reasons for leaving me out of your fascinating analysis.”

“You were eavesdropping again,” Ky said.

“I was not interrupting an obviously important conversation,” Rafe said. “In order to not interrupt but be aware when it might be polite to come in, I had to be within hearing. If you call that—”

“Eavesdropping,” Ky said. “And I do.”

“I understand your loyalty is to ISC,” Martin said. “Not to Vatta, or the captain.”