“On the other hand, if you reprogrammed the beacon, your tech did an excellent job—even got the warble in the 92 band exactly right. We have people who would pay a bonus for that kind of work, if that individual is here and wants to immigrate—” Another thing about the Guernesi, they were always looking for a profit.
“Now, I notice you have major ship weapons aboard . . .” And how had they figured that out? With the weapons locked down, no scan should have detected them. “Since you’ve come in past Compassionate Hand space, I’m afraid we’ll have to visually inspect and seal them . . . I don’t want to insult you, but the Benignity tries our borders at intervals.”
“How—!” Oblo couldn’t contain himself. “Your scans are—are they for sale?”
The young woman dimpled at him. “Of course, sir. I can give your captain a list of suppliers certified by the government. We have no restrictions on the foreign purchase of military-grade materials.”
“Mr. Ginese will accompany you on your inspection of the weapons,” Heris said. “What about small arms?”
“May not be taken off the ship; the penalty is death, and destruction of the ship that brought you.” That was clear enough. “If you want to shoot yourselves aboard your own ship, that’s your business.” She spoke into a communicator hooked to her uniform collar; the language was unfamiliar. “I’m just asking our weapons inspection team to step aboard . . . if your Mr. Ginese will meet them at the access hatch?” Of course. Heris was already impressed. She had never been here—R.S.S. vessels visited only on ambassadorial duty—and the rumors she’d heard didn’t begin to match the reality.
“You do not have to state your business here,” the young woman went on, “but if you do, it would be my pleasure to advise you on the easiest way to accomplish your purposes.”
“Medical technology,” Heris said. “I understand that you have superb research and clinical facilities—”
“Yes—can you mention a specialty?”
“Neurology, specifically the treatment of neurochemically induced cognitive dysfunction.” That had been in the papers the king had given her.
“Ah, yes.” The inspector spoke into her collar mic again, and waited a moment. “According to the current listings, I’d recommend Music—”
“Music?” Heris knew she must have looked and sounded as confused as she felt. The younger woman smiled, but not in mockery.
“Sorry, Captain. It’s this translator. All the planets of Guerni’s fifth star are named for the artes liberales: music, mathematics, history, and so on. Music is the planet with the largest medical complex devoted to neurology. From here, it’s a very short jump, and about two weeks on insystem drive—we do ask, by the way, that you do not jump except at the designated jump points: we have a lot of traffic. By the time you arrive, Music Station will have a list of contacts for you. Do you wish to append any patient data at this time?”
“No,” said Heris, feeling slightly overwhelmed. “No, thank you.”
“Our pleasure. As soon as my team reports your weapons sealed, you’re free to go. By the way, while I’m sure you wouldn’t think of doing any such thing, I should warn you that unsealing your weapons will be a cause for retaliation, even should you manage to frustrate the automatic detonators on the seals which are designed to blow a ship of the size that usually carries these weapons. Good day!”
Heris had worried about getting three identical young men named Smith through the Customs Inspection at Music Station. She had imagined every possible complication, but when she brought up the problem, all three laughed.
“We’re used to this,” Gerald A. said. “If we don’t wear the same clothes, or stand together, or go through the same intake booth too close together, no one will notice. All the machines care about is whether our physical features match our formal ID. And of course they do, from blood type and retinal scan to DNA analysis.”
“We can do costuming,” Gerald B. said. “But it’s not really necessary here.” Heris wondered. She still didn’t trust their judgment; she still suspected that one of them actually was the prince, concealed by a shell-game with the nametags. But when they showed up at her office, without the nametags and in different outfits, she had to admit they no longer looked so identical. One wore a scruffy set of spacer coveralls he must have gotten from a crew member; he slouched against the wall looking sullen and grubby. Another displayed himself with the peacock air of a young man of fashion, and the third had the earnest, slightly harried look of a businessman late for a conference. They looked different enough, but how lax were the Guernesi?
Heris continued to worry until she was through Customs herself, with her royal letters to the physicians, and found the three Smiths grinning at her from the shuttle waiting lounge.
Chapter Fifteen
Carly’s influence on the treatment team extended into the stable as well. Maris Magerston had been Cecelia’s hippotherapist from the beginning, when she had been slung over the horse’s back like a stuffed doll . . . she knew that wasn’t a fair description, but that’s what it had felt like to her. Although Maris had patiently explained why she was sprawled on a broad pad, facing backwards, she still hated it. In her mind she had composed one furious argument after another, shutting out Maris’s description of this and that muscle group doing important things. She didn’t want to be this way, an inert load on the horse’s back; she felt ridiculous, ugly, flabby, useless, old. She wanted to ride, and that meant sitting up and facing forward.
She arrived one day for her session to find an argument going on between Carly and Maris; Brun, pushing her hoverchair, guided it into the tackroom out of sight and let her listen. Maris sounded angry and defensive; Carly, as usual, sounded calm and cheerful, as she said she thought Cecelia was ready to ride properly.
“We start all our clients that way,” Maris said. “I’ve read those articles, thank you—” Carly must have handed her something. “We’re not quite as ignorant out here as you seem to think. But it’s dangerous to rush clients . . . and she’s over eighty . . .”
Carly took her up on the oblique attack. “Are you upset that I’ve been called in to supervise?”
“Oh, no!” Definite bitterness; Cecelia could imagine Maris’s expression. “We’re not bitter. We’re just local therapists on a backwoods planet, all so grateful for a chance to learn from the great Dr. Callum-Wolff.”
“You sound pretty upset to me . . . I probably would be, too. You’ve been doing a good job for a lot of people all your career here; you do what you’ve been taught, and people get better . . . and I come along telling you to change. Is that about it?” Carly’s voice held no anger and no defensiveness.
“Well . . .” Maris sounded much calmer. Then she actually chuckled. “Actually, I have your training cubes, up through three years ago. I’d have come to your presentations, if you’d ever come here before.” A long pause. “The thing is . . . Lady Cecelia’s really special on this planet, to a lot of people. And we were all trained as strict structuralists, Spinvirians. ‘When you know the electrochemical scan of a nerve, you know what it can do.’ Period. If I let her get hurt—especially doing something new—”
“Ah. Tough choice. I see your problem. Well, I could be bossy and overrule you—that’d give you an out—but I’d rather not. I do wish you’d let us try.” That tone restored—at least symbolically—Maris’s authority.
“Oh, why not? At worst, she’ll just fall off.”
Brun pushed her back out, as if they’d just arrived; Cecelia hoped her expression hadn’t betrayed a joy she wasn’t supposed to feel yet. This time they lifted her up into a proper saddle, facing forward. It felt entirely wrong: her legs were wrong, her back was wrong, her seat was wrong. She couldn’t see. She felt a warm hand on either leg: Brun, on the right, and the stable girl Driw on the left. They had been to every session; and Brun had told her enough about Driw that she felt she knew the groom well.