Heris faced Brun over the dining table in her suite at the fanciest hotel the Station offered. One waiter hovered, serving expensive food Heris didn’t want, but had to pretend to eat. Brun, still playing the spoiled rich girl, gobbled eagerly. Finally she chose the most elaborate of the dessert pastries offered, and waved the cart and waiter away. “We’ll ring when we’re through, thanks,” she said. As they left, she picked up the pastry and bit into it, showering flakes in all directions. When the door closed, she took a small gray wand out of her pocket and handed it to Heris with a grin.
Heris picked it up, and scanned the room. Apparently clean of recorders, spyeyes, and such, and this wand, activated, made as good a privacy shield as civilian life afforded. She turned it on its side and placed it between them.
“So—you’ve taken my advice in that direction?”
“Of course. I told you I was serious.” Brun put her pastry down, wiped her mouth, and leaned forward. “Ronnie said you wanted to see me about his Aunt Cecelia; I thought I should make it easy to explain.”
“Good for you.”
“You know what they’re saying about you?”
“Ronnie told me some of it.”
“Ronnie only knows what his parents tell him. His mother’s telling all her friends that you’re the most dangerous woman since that charlatan that bilked the Kooslin sisters out of their fortune by pretending to contact their dead lovers . . . and then killed them to cover up when their nephew found out about it. She nearly killed him, too.”
“I never heard of that.”
“No, you wouldn’t have. But the thing is, Berenice is telling everyone that you must have had that kind of influence on Lady Cecelia. She even thinks that stuff on the island didn’t really happen—that you hypnotized Aunt Cecelia into thinking it happened. Dad’s not here, or he’d set her straight about that. She’s hinting that you even did something—no one will say what—to cause the stroke. Ronnie thinks his mother’s upset about the redecorating, but I know it’s more than that. I’m not sure just what.”
“I had thought of going down to see her, of course—”
Brun shook her head. “Better not. I don’t think Berenice’d let you see her; you’re not family, and she’s got a right to decide who else can visit.”
“What about you?”
“Me?” Brun looked startled, then thoughtful. “I’m not family, or one of Cecelia’s friends, but . . . I suppose . . . I could be Dad’s representative, sort of.”
“Exactly what I thought,” Heris said. She hesitated a moment, then decided to trust the girl. “Did Ronnie tell you about the will?”
“Will?”
“I presume he didn’t, then; it will come out later, if there’s a competency hearing, or if Lady Cecelia dies. Apparently, she changed her will almost as soon as she arrived, and she left me a . . . er . . . substantial legacy. The yacht.”
Brun’s eyes widened. “So that’s what—”
“That may be part of it. She didn’t tell me she was doing this, or I’d have talked her out of it, of course. But the point is, that if there’s a chance the stroke was caused by a drug or something, then I’m the obvious suspect. It’s understandable that her family would resent the bequest, and that it would make them suspicious of me and my motives. They’re not going to listen to anything I say. But I hope you will.”
“What else?”
Quickly, Heris outlined the attack on Sirkin and Yrilan, and what she had found out about its background, including the dishonesty of Cecelia’s former captain and the loot found aboard the yacht at Takomin Roads. “So you see, I worry that if her stroke was drug-induced—the guilty parties are working for the Compassionate Hand—in retaliation for having their comfortable little smuggling ring disrupted.”
“Oh my.” Brun’s face shifted from one expression to another, fluffhead to practical young woman, as she thought about this. “Is that what Ronnie meant when he said his aunt had been to see the king? Was she complaining to him about the Regular Space Service, perhaps—it wasn’t stopping smugglers, but it had dumped you and promoted that horrible admiral?”
“Perhaps,” Heris said. She didn’t want to mention the prince if it could be avoided. That was another motive for an attack, but one that she had no way of investigating. “My thought was this: it’s not unknown for the Compassionate Hand to suborn medical professionals. There was a case in the Chisholm system where doctors certified that someone was paralyzed when he was only drugged. It was meant to terrorize business associates, which it did, and of course it was also terrifying for the victim.” Who had died before he could be rescued, but the evidence had been clear enough; the R.S.S. had found the cube records of the drugging and the results. “If you can visit Lady Cecelia, without arousing suspicions—and without it seeming to be my suggestion—perhaps you can ascertain if she is really brain damaged or not. We can set up a discreet way to keep in touch.”
“I see.” Brun nibbled on the pastry again. “I suppose you don’t have any outrageously handsome young men in your crew, do you, that I could pretend to have fallen for on the voyage?”
“No . . . in fact, all those people quit. The only crew member from the voyage you were on is my navigator, Brigdis Sirkin. And she just suffered a loss herself; her lover was killed in that brawl.”
Brun’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes. I remember you telling me about her. I think—I think I’d like to meet her. It would be in my character, even as Bubbles, to be wildly sympathetic.”
Heris felt immediately protective of Sirkin. “She’s not expendable, Brun. I don’t want her hurt.”
Brun glared back. “I won’t hurt her; I’m not that stupid. I’m sorry she lost someone she cared about—that’s true. And I will be careful. But I can call her, or meet her, even though she’s your crew, if there’s a good reason for me to be interested otherwise.”
“Just be careful. She’s a good person.” Heris forced herself to calm down. “And I’ll have to ask her.” Not even for Cecelia would she expose Sirkin’s pain without her permission. “Let’s see. Why not have her escort you to the storage company tomorrow—assuming you really should carry out that errand—and I’ll have briefed her on the situation. Then it’s up to the two of you to make it understandable that you’d keep in touch.”
“It’s always understandable when rich young people and not-so-rich young people start spending time together,” Brun said.
Brun modified her fluffhead persona just slightly the next Mainshift; she appeared at the crew hostel without the pink-tipped spiky hairstyle, opting for a swept-back pouf instead, all the pink ends hidden under an elaborate ribbon arrangement. She wore a more conservative outfit, something she might have worn a year ago in like circumstance. Her heart was pounding; she hoped that she’d find young Sirkin in the hostel lounge, and not Captain Serrano. She liked Captain Serrano, but it was a strain trying to impress her, knowing she wasn’t going to succeed, having to try anyway.
Sirkin and another crew member, a blonde woman with sleepy green eyes, waited at the desk. Brun barely remembered Sirkin; the slender dark-haired figure was only vaguely familiar. The other she didn’t know at all.
“Captain Serrano had other things to do this morning,” the blonde woman said. “I’m Methlin Meharry, and this is Brig Sirkin. Captain said we should escort you to the storage company.”
“Yes—well—” She had planned to ask Sirkin to call her Brun, but what about this Meharry? She didn’t feel like using her title, and she was getting very tired of Bubbles. The older woman’s sleepy green eyes seemed to wake, like a cat’s.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I have the paperwork.”
Brun shrugged. “Fine, then. Let’s go.” If you couldn’t figure out what else to do, you could always be rude. On the way, she said to Sirkin, “Captain Serrano told me you had been hurt in a brawl, and your friend was killed—I’m sorry.”