The man’s face was closed, tight as a fist; Ronnie wondered what he was thinking. Oblo spoke first.
“That’s our Serrano, Petris. She didn’t know. She did it for us—they probably wouldn’t let her come back and explain—”
“Yes,” Ronnie put in. “She said that—she had to resign, right then, in that office, and not return to the ship. She said that was the worst of it, that someone might think she’d abandoned her crew, but at least they’d be safe.”
“That . . . miserable excuse for an admiral . . .” Petris breathed. Ronnie sensed anger too deep for any common expletives, even in one so accomplished. “He might have done that. He might think it was funny.”
“Nah,” said Sid. Ronnie recognized the nasty voice that had raised the hairs on his arms earlier. “I don’t believe that. It’s the captain, like you told me at first. Why’d she resign if she wasn’t up to something, eh? Stands to reason she has friends to cover for her.”
“You weren’t in her crew,” Oblo said. “You got no right to judge.” He looked at Ronnie. “You are telling the truth.” It was not so much a statement, as a threat.
Ronnie swallowed before he could answer. “I overheard what I told you—and I told George. I hated her; I hoped to find some way to get back at her. But . . .” His voice trailed away.
“But you couldn’t quite let us believe the lie, eh?” said Petris. He smiled, the first genuine friendly smile Ronnie had seen on his face. “Well, son, for a Royal ASS peep, you’ve got surprising ethics.” He sighed, and stretched. “And what would you want to bet,” he asked the others, “that Admiral Lepescu planned to let her know later what he’d done? When it was too late; when it would drive her to something he could use. . . .”
“Does he know she’s here?” Ronnie asked, surprising himself. “Could he have known who hired her, where she was going?”
“Lepescu? He could know which fork she ate with, if he wanted to.”
Chapter Twelve
Heris came out of the shower toweling her hair, to find Cecelia sitting upright in the desk chair, already dressed for the day’s hunt.
“I didn’t know I was late,” Heris said. Her own clothes lay spread on the bed; she had come from the shower bare, as usual, and shrugged when she realized it was too late for modesty. She hoped anger would not make her blush; Cecelia had no right to invade her room.
“You’re not,” Cecelia said. “I can’t find Ronnie. Or George. Or their girlfriends.” Then her voice sharpened. “That’s a—a scar—”
Heris looked down at the old pale line of it, and shrugged again. “It’s old,” she said. And then, realizing why Cecelia was so shocked, explained. “No regen tanks aboard light cruisers. If you get cut or burned, you scar.” She pulled on her socks, then her riding pants, and grinned at Cecelia. “We consider them decorative.”
“Barbaric,” said Cecelia.
“True,” Heris said. “But necessary. Would you have quit competitive riding if you’d had to live with the scars of your falls?”
“Well . . . of course not. Lots of people did, in the old days. But it’s not necessary now, and—”
“Neither is fox hunting,” Heris said, buttoning her shirt and tucking in the long tails. “Very few things are really necessary, when you come down to it. You—me—the horses—all the rituals. If you just wanted to exterminate these pseudofoxes, you’d spread a gene-tailored virus and that’d be it. If you just wanted to ride horses across fences, you could design a much safer way to do it—and not involve canids.”
“Hounds.”
“Whatever.” Heris leaned over and pulled on her boots; they had broken in enough to make this easier and she no longer felt her legs were being reshaped as the boots came up. She peered into the mirror and tied the cravat correctly, slicked down her hair, and reached for her jacket. “Ready? I’m starved.”
“You didn’t hear me,” Cecelia said, not moving. “I can’t find Ronnie and the others.”
“I heard you, but I don’t understand your concern. Perhaps they started early—no, I admit that’s not likely. Perhaps they’re already at breakfast, or not yet up from an orgy in someone else’s room—”
“No. I checked.”
Heris opened her mouth to say that in a large, complicated building with dozens of bedrooms, near other buildings with dozens of bedrooms, four young people who wanted to sleep in could surely find a place beyond an aunt’s sight. Then she saw the tension along Cecelia’s jaw. “You’re worried, aren’t you?”
“Yes. They didn’t hunt yesterday; they were supposed to be out with the third pack, and Susannah mentioned she hadn’t seen them. The day before, you remember, Ronnie missed a lesson.”
“But—”
“I found Buttons, and asked him. He turned red and said Ronnie, George, and the girls had gone picnicking day before yesterday. He didn’t know about yesterday, or said he didn’t. And there’s more.” When Cecelia didn’t go on, Heris sat on the bench at the foot of her bed. She knew that kind of tension; it would do no good to pressure her. “There’s a flitter missing,” Cecelia said finally. “I had to . . . to bribe Bunny’s staff, to find that out. Apparently Bubbles is something of a tease; it’s not the first time she’s taken out her father’s personal flitter, and the staff doesn’t like her to get into trouble. They cover for her, with the spare. So Bunny doesn’t know a thing. . . .”
“And they’ve been gone a day . . . two days? Maybe three?”
“Yes. According to the log—they do keep one, just to be sure Bubbles doesn’t get hurt—they left well before dawn day before yesterday. Filed a flight plan for some island lodge called Whitewings. I’ve never been there, but I’ve got the map.” She handed Heris the data cube; Heris fitted it into the room’s display. “The problem is, they aren’t at Whitewings, either. It’s a casual lodge—no resident staff, although it’s fully equipped. There’s a satellite beacon on the flitter, of course, and there’s been a steady signal here—” Cecelia pointed to an island much nearer than Whitewings. “No distress call, and it’s at another lodge. Michaels, who’s the flitter-chief, thinks Bubbles just changed her mind and decided to hide out on another island in case I followed the trail this far.”
“She’d know about the beacon, though—”
“She’d think I wouldn’t.”
“Ah.” Heris stared at the display. “What’s on this other island?”
“Bandon? It’s another lodge, more a family place, although it’s got a large landing field. Michaels says the family goes there every spring, at least once. When the children were younger, they used to camp on one of the smaller islands, while the adults stayed on Bandon. He says it’s lovely: forested islands, clear water, reefs. Imported cetaceans, some of the small ones that Michaels said play with humans. Bubbles has always liked it better than anyplace on the planet, he says. Whitewings is colder, usually stormier.”
“That makes sense. So you think they’re all sunning themselves, swimming lazily—?”
“No. I can’t say why. But I think they’re in trouble. And I can’t imagine what. This is a safe world; there’s nothing on the islands to hurt them—I asked Michaels. Their com links are unbreakable; if they needed help, they’d ask for it. They can’t be in any real trouble—not all four of them. But—”
“Tell Bunny,” Heris said. When Cecelia’s expression changed, she realized she’d used his nickname for the first time. He had always been Lord Thornbuckle to her. She started to apologize, but Cecelia was already talking.
“I don’t want to do that. Not yet. He’s upset right now with that anti-blood-sports person who got herself invited under an alias. He’s not at his best.”
“But if his daughter—no, never mind. What do you want me to do?”