“Do you want the job?” he asked.
Heris shook her head, looking down as if ashamed. She was afraid she couldn’t control the expression in her eyes. “No, I—you know I—had the chance to go back in Fleet.”
“And got out while the going was good, eh? Well, probably wise. And your crew—ex-Fleet as well—I don’t suppose any of them want a berth on a real fighting ship again?”
“No, sir,” said Meharry. Shut up, Heris thought at her. Don’t ruin this. “I got more’n enough scars, sir.” Meharry at her best didn’t sound entirely respectful, and at the moment she sounded downright sullen.
“I hope we won’t have to impress you, then,” Garrivay said, in a voice that enjoyed the threat. “If there is trouble, and we run short of . . . whatever your specialty was . . .” He waited, but Meharry didn’t enlighten him. Heris stared at the carpet, waiting, feeling the others at her back. Garrivay chuckled suddenly, and she looked up, as he would have expected. “Don’t look so worried, Heris. I’m not planning to run off with your owner’s ship and your crew unless I have to. You’ll never have to fight another battle. Now . . . what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Well . . . Commodore . . .” He liked the title; she could see him swelling up like a dampened sponge. “It’s partly my owner and partly the local government. You see, before you arrived, they kind of got to asking me things. . . .” She went off into a long, complicated tale she had thought up, something that kept offering Garrivay hints of intrigue and possibly profit, but entangled in enough detail that he had to listen carefully. She had rehearsed it repeatedly, adding even more complicated sections so that it took up enough time. It had an ending, if needed, but within the next anecdote or so Koutsoudas should—
“Sir—an urgent signal—” There it was; the prearranged distractor, one of Koutsoudas’s elegant fakeries. A bobble on the ship’s scans that might be incoming ships, something the bridge crew would have to report and Garrivay would have to acknowledge.
“Yes?” Garrivay turned away, reaching for his desk controls; his officers, for that instant, looked where he looked.
No one needed a signal. Heris threw herself forward and sideways, in a roll—and-kick combination that caught Garrivay on the angle of the jaw. His hands flew wide; before he could recover, she was on him, the edge of her hand smashing his larynx. Her other hand had reached the com button, preventing its automatic alarm at the sudden loss of contact. Garrivay, heaving as he tried to suck air and got none, thrashed against his desk and fell to the deck. From his earplug came the tinny squeak of someone reporting the surprise Koutsoudas had created for their sensors.
She looked up, to meet four triumphant grins. Too early for those; they had just started. She leaned over and removed Garrivay’s earplug, inserting it in her own ear.
“—it’s moving insystem at half insertion velocity, while the other—” She listened, only half hearing what she already knew, but aware of a little bubble of delight at being once more connected to a real ship’s command center. Even if it wasn’t her ship. Though it was—or would be—if the rest of this worked.
Already the others were stripping the bodies of their uniforms. Oblo looked up and waved something, a data strip it looked like. Heris leaned again to Garrivay, now unconscious, his body twitching with oxygen deprivation, and unpinned his insignia. Her nose wrinkled involuntarily at the unpleasant stench; she ignored the source and pinned the insignia to her own uniform. Thank goodness she had a uniform that could pass for Fleet in a pinch . . . because this was a pinch indeed.
“I can wear this,” Petris said doubtfully, nodding at the uniform he’d removed from someone with major’s rings.
“No,” Heris said. “It won’t really convince them, and once they discover where the uniforms came from they’ll worry again. I’m the key: if they accept me, they’ll accept you.” Otherwise, of course, they were all dead. In her ear, the flow of information stopped. She hit the com button twice, the usual signal of a busy captain that the message had been received.
From Garrivay’s inside pocket—no more twitches now—Heris took the thin wand that gave access to captain’s command switches. From here out, it would get more dangerous. Murder was one thing. Piracy, treason, and mutiny were . . . she didn’t think about it.
The wand slid into the desk slot easily. The hard part came next. To forestall just such coups as they had accomplished, the use of the captain’s wand triggered a demand for an identity check.
“Serrano, Heris,” Heris said, adding her identification numbers and rank, mentally crossing more fingers than she owned . . . if Koutsoudas was right, her aunt admiral might have managed to leave a back door in the Fleet database.
Lights flared on the captain’s desk, and the computer demanded a reason why Serrano, Heris, Commander was using Garrivay, Dekan Sostratos, Commander’s wand.
“Emergency,” she said. Then, with a deep breath, took her aunt’s name in vain. “On the orders of Admiral Vida Serrano.”
The computer paused. “Authorization number?” A sticky one. The only number her aunt had shared with her recently was the Serrano encryption code on that datacube. Would aunt admiral have risked putting her family code into the database, hiding it in plain sight, as it were? Right now Heris believed her aunt admiral might have done anything. She found another mental finger to cross, and gave that number. After the second group, the computer blinked all the lights. “Authorization accepted.” So . . . aunt admiral had had more in mind than an apology, had she? And had she known Heris would be in this sort of trouble? Koutsoudas’s remark about “lightning rods” flashed through her mind. Interesting—infuriating—but she had no time to sort it out.
Now a touch on the desk opened the service functions. She picked up the command headset and settled it on her hair.
“You don’t want the combat helmet?” Petris asked.
“No. If we can do this at all, we can do it this way. We cannot take the whole ship by force, if everyone’s turned.” She could, with the command wand, destroy it and everyone on it—and, in the process, the station to which they were docked. But she hoped very much that her string of good guesses would continue to hold. “They need to see my face. I’m legitimate, remember? The computer accepts me; my aunt is an admiral.” On the desk, she keyed up the status displays. Personnel . . . there were fifteen more known traitors on this ship, and four on one of the patrol craft. Koutsoudas thought he knew which fifteen, and she located them . . . on duty, six . . . one on the bridge, and five elsewhere about the ship.
“You can’t take the bridge alone,” Petris said.
“No . . . but I can isolate the compartments.” She touched the control panels. Now each was blocked from communication with the others, and if she could get control of the bridge crew, if they believed her, there was a chance of capturing the other traitors without a major fight in the ship.
The first thing was to establish her authority with even one legitimate onboard officer. Now on the bridge was a major Koutsoudas thought unlikely to be a traitor. Again, he had better be right. She selected his personal comcode from the officers list.
“Major Svatek, report to the captain’s office.”
“Yes, sir.” He had a voice that gave nothing away; she felt no intuitive nudge of like or dislike. Heris nodded to her crew; they placed themselves on either side of the door and waited.
The major came in without really looking, and by the time he had registered the bodies on the floor and the stranger behind the captain’s desk, Petris and Meharry had him covered.
“Sorry about this, Major,” Heris said. He looked stunned, and then angry, but not particularly frightened. “It is necessary that you listen to what I have to say, and there was no safe way to do this on the bridge without imperiling the ship.”