“The medbox . . . I don’t know, Captain,” Gavin said. “It’s not—you know—meant for major problems.”
Heris managed not to snap at him. “At least you can tell it the problem. All I know is it’s a cellular poison, and there’s some kind of antidote. Now: send someone down with a recorder, so that I can document Iklind’s position and the monitor readings. Then we can bring his body out.” Even as she said this, she realized she was straining the crew’s resources.
“Milady,” said Heris, “we have several problems.”
Just what I need, thought Cecelia. Problems with the ship. Now she’ll start whining about how different this is from the military. She nodded, trying for a cool distancing expression. That and a straight back usually dissuaded complainers.
“We’ve had a death among the crew, environmental technician Iklind.”
“What! A heart attack? A stroke?” Despite her determination not to react, she felt her heart lurch in her chest, and her voice came out shrill and harsh.
“No, Lady Cecelia.” Heris had tried to think of a nonthreatening way to tell her employer—considering how old the woman was—but had not come up with anything better than the bald truth. “He died of hydrogen sulfide poisoning, the result of opening a sludge tank without protective gear. In addition, another crewman is suffering severe inhalation injury from the same source.”
“But all we have is a medbox!” Cecelia felt as if she had just fallen off at a gallop. A crewman dead, and another sick . . . was this what came of hiring an ex-military captain? She tried to remember the specifics of the medical unit.
“It’s a standard industrial pollutant,” Heris said. “The unit has the right medications and the right software to treat him—I checked that, of course, before coming to you.”
“Oh—I—” Cecelia realized she’d slumped, and straightened again.
“I’m very sorry to have given you this shock. Perhaps I should call someone?”
Cecelia recognized someone giving her time to pull herself together, and was caught between resentment and gratitude. “I’ve never lost a crew member before,” she said. “Not since I’ve owned the Sweet Delight.” She struggled with the mix of emotions, and tried to think clearly. “Poison gas from the sludge tank, you said? Has someone put something in it?”
Heris recognized the attempt for what it was, and masked her amusement that anyone—even a rich old lady—could travel in space and not know the most common and deadly of the environmental by-products. “No, milady. Sludge generates several toxic gases, which are normally converted into harmless chemicals used in your ’ponics sections, when the environmental system is functioning smoothly. This isn’t sabotage, just a mishap. . . . Iklind apparently decided to open the tank without proper protective gear, and Timmons tried to rescue him, but hadn’t sealed his own helmet.”
“Then who saved Timmons?” asked Cecelia.
“I did,” Heris said. Cecelia’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. “I had told them I would inspect the system, and they were to meet me—properly suited—at the access bay. Instead—” She shrugged. “I don’t know why Iklind didn’t wear his suit, or why Timmons didn’t wear his helmet . . . but I will find out.”
“Very well, Captain.” That was clearly dismissive. “I . . . will expect to hear more from you tomorrow.”
“That’s not quite all,” said Heris carefully.
This time the gaze was direct and challenging. “What? Is something else wrong?”
“I realize,” Heris said, “that you just had this vessel redecorated, and it must have been expensive . . .”
“My sister did that,” Cecelia said. “What of it?”
“Well . . . your main environmental system is overloaded; that’s why I was going to inspect the system: it was not functioning to specifications. Your former captain did not have the system purged and recharged at the correct intervals—”
“He must have! I remember the bills for it.” Cecelia called up her accounting software and nodded when the figures came up. “There it is: Diklos and Sons, Refitting General, Baklin Station.”
“Sorry, milady,” said Heris. “You got the bill, but the work wasn’t done. I could see that from the sludge tank Iklind had opened, and since then I’ve had the other moles—environmental techs—check the filter and culture chambers. It’s a mess. The sulfur cycle’s in trouble, and that impacts your nitrogen uptake in hydroponics. It isn’t presently dangerous, but it will require some caution until we reach a refitting station. My recommendation would be to do that as soon as possible. By choosing a different set of jump points, we can be at your chosen destination only one day after your request.”
Cecelia glared. “You didn’t find this out before we left.”
“No, milady, I didn’t.” Cecelia waited for the excuse that she herself had rushed their departure, but it didn’t come. Her captain had no expression at all, and after a moment went on. “Initially I accepted the log showing that the purge and recharge had been done, and the fresh inspection stickers; you are quite right that I should not have done that. Logs have been faked before, even in the Regular Space Service.” A tight smile, which did not reach the captain’s eyes. Cecelia wondered if she ever really smiled. “But I noticed an anomaly in the datastream two days ago, and began tracking it down. Your moles—sorry, ma’am, your environmental technicians—claimed it was your gardeners’ fault. But the plain fact is, the work wasn’t done. I believe it will be possible to document that, and get a refund from Diklos and Sons; your reputation should help.”
“Ah . . . yes.” Cecelia felt off balance; she had been ready for evasions and excuses, and her captain’s forthright acceptance of blame surprised her.
“I realize, milady, that one reason you changed captains is that your former one could not keep to your schedule. But in this instance, I feel that your safety requires an emergency repair of the system.”
“I thought,” Cecelia said pettishly, “that I had specified an environmental system far larger than I’d ever need, just in case something went wrong.”
“Yes, milady, you did. But with your present guests and their personal servants, that limit has been exceeded—and with the degradation of performance of the system, and the lack of refitting capabilities at Lord Thornbuckle’s, it would be most unwise to proceed without repair.”
“And that will take—?”
“Six days to the nearest refitting facility, I’d trust; two days docked; and with a reasonable course and drive performance, we should be, as I said, just one day late at your destination.”
“I suppose that’s better than the eight days late I had before—which landed me with young Ronnie, because I wasn’t there to argue hard enough and loud enough.” Cecelia shrugged and said, “Oh, very well. Do what you think best; you’re the captain.” But her captain didn’t leave, merely stood there. “What else?” she asked.
“I strongly recommend some restrictions in the next six days. At present we have no shipwide emergency, but I would prefer to prevent one.”