Conflict Of Honors Page 4

  On Daxflan, Sav Rid Olanek—a mere Trader—and Captain yo'Vaade split administration of ship and crew between them. That had been the one thing about Daxflan that had followed the routine she knew from other ships. Captain was a full-time job, after all; Trader, somewhat more than that. Yet here was a man supposedly doing both. And more. There were perhaps a double-dexon—twice a dozen dozen—of Master Traders in all the galaxy.

  "Gordy." His clear, rather beautiful voice held a mild note of exasperation. Priscilla brought her attention back to the present.

  "Cap'n?" The boy froze in the act of handing the man his glass.

  Shan yos'Galan sighed and laid a blunt forefinger on the grease-smeared sleeve. Gordy flushed and bit his lip.

  "There's a matching one on your chin. Are we out of water? Or soap? Is there some atavistic or religious significance attached to going about with grease on your face? Maybe you put it there purposefully, after long thought, feeling that a little facial decoration would call Ms. Mendoza's attention to you more favorably? You hoped she would be so overcome by the artistry of the smear that she would fail to chide you for being late to meet her?"

  "How did—" Gordy interrupted himself and raised his eyes to the man's face. "I'm not Liaden, Cap'n."

  "I have independently noted the fact. No doubt you feel it has some bearing on the matter at hand." He took his glass and leaned back in the chair.

  "Yessir."

  "I'm intrigued. An explanation, please?"

  "Yessir." Gordy took a breath and squared his round shoulders. "Liadens consider the face the—the seat of character. Because of that, Liadens don't use cosmetics on their faces, like Terrans might, to—to dress up or to make themselves more attractive." He paused. The captain raised his glass and waved at him to continue.

  Gordy nodded. "Also, the face has an—erotic—significance to Liadens. There are certain social situations where it's okay to touch between Liadens where Terran code of behavior would forbid. But only extreme intimates—like family members—touch hand to face or face to face." He took another breath. "So it follows that Liadens would be particularly careful about keeping their faces clean. Terrans, whose cultures don't include a strong facial taboo, are less strict."

  There was a small pause while Shan yos'Galan raised the glass to his lips. "'Taboo' is rather strong," he commented. "I think perhaps 'tradition' does nicely. Liadens love tradition, while you're dealing in generalizations, Gordy." He raised his glass again, and this time, Priscilla saw, he drank.

  "As far as it goes, your grasp of the information seems sound," he continued thoughtfully. "However, I'm not sure your inferences are correct. That tends to happen when you extrapolate from general, rather than specific. In any case, I have found—again, through independent observation, not to say experience—that it feels nicer to be clean than it feels to be dirty. Also, I have found that I prefer looking at clean faces as opposed to dirty faces. This is, I believe, a personal preference. I may be wrong. Since I am captain of this ship, though, I think I have the rank to indulge in a few harmless eccentricities. So, for the fourth time: Gordon, I would very much prefer that you endeavor to keep your person as smear-free as possible." He raised the glass again. "The next time, I'll have to dock you. What do you think might be a reasonable sum?"

  The boy looked down. He rubbed at his soiled sleeve, then looked up. "Tenbit?"

  "Fair enough." The captain grinned. "I detect the makings of a gambler in you. Or a Trader. We'll want lunch in half an hour or so."

  Gordy blinked. "Lunch?"

  "Yes, lunch. Did I use the wrong word? Cheese, fruit, rolls—that sort of thing. Speak to BillyJo; I repose all faith in her ability to resolve the matter for you. Now jet."

  "Yessir." And he was gone, the door sighing shut behind him.

  Shan yos'Galan shook his head. "It's my fate to raise small boys." He lifted his glass. "Are you ready to be interviewed, Ms. Mendoza? Or have you changed your mind?"

  Priscilla sipped her wine, then met his gaze straightly. "I'm ready to be interviewed, Captain."

  "Brave heart." He extended a long arm and flipped two switches set along the desk top. "Your name, please, and planet of origin."

  "My name is Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza. I was born on Sintia. I am a Terran citizen."

  "Do you honor the Goddess, then?" His face was sharp with interest. "Hold to her teaching exclusively?"

  "I did," she said carefully. "After all, She's part of everyday life . . . But I've been on trading ships since I was sixteen. And the Goddess isn't as powerful in the galaxy as She is on Sintia."

  "Since you were sixteen," he repeated, abandoning the Goddess abruptly. "What do you know?"

  She raised her brows. "I know how to cook for a crew of twenty, how to wash up for a crew of thirty-three, how to decode messages, how to code messages. I can drive a jitney, calculate weight distributions, figure loading capacities. Whenever possible, I've pursued pilot training. My marksmanship rating is ninety percent accuracy at two hundred paces with a standard pellet gun. I speak Trade, Terran, Crenish, and Sintian. I understand Liaden better than I speak it. If I have to, I can shoot astrogation."

  He nodded. "Your last position?"

  "Cargo master on Daxflan, out of Chonselta City."

  "And you held that post how long?"

  "Four months," she said with determined serenity. "I signed on at Tulon."

  "Did you?" He raised his glass to his lips. "And what brings you to apply for work on the Passage?"

  "I don't have any choice."

  The slanted brows pulled together. "Has Mr. Saunderson still got that impressment operation going? I did ask him to stop, Ms. Mendoza, I give you my word."

  For the third time in an hour Priscilla felt laughter rising. She drowned it in a swallow of wine. "I'm sorry—that was rude. What I meant to say was that I've been—dismissed—from my post on Daxflan. Yours is the only ship in at Jankalim now, so I'm applying here."

  "I see." He sipped wine. "Your dismissal sounds abrupt."

  "Extremely."

  He nodded again, shifted in his chair, and rested his arms on the desk top. "Ms. Mendoza, I have a copy of your record here . . . ." He spun the computer screen around.

  Priscilla frowned, her eyes traveling automatically down the lines of information. Ladybird . . . As You Like It . . . Tyrunner . . . Selda . . . Dante. . .

  Daxflan.

  "Motherless, lying, spawn of a—" She gasped, and the rest was lost as the enormity of the thing hit her. Ruin . . . . She met Shan yos'Galan's eyes. "It's a lie."

  "Do you want to say so officially?" He spun the screen back. "It looks pretty bad, doesn't it? 'Suspected larceny. Jumped ship, Jankalim, Standard 1385.'" He leaned back in the chair and sipped wine, his eyes on her face. "I don't know of any reputable captain who would take on a person with a record containing that entry—even granting the overall excellence of the rest. What happened to your earrings?"

  "The second mate hit me over the head," she said tonelessly, trying to conquer the shock. "They were gone when I came to."

  "Odd sort of thing for a second mate to do," he commented. "But maybe there were extenuating circumstances. You disliked each other?"

  "I disliked her. She liked me all too well." He was toying with her, drawing out the talking when there was no use in talking anymore. Priscilla tightened her grip on the wineglass, fighting to keep her face calm. On his ship, in his power . . . and who would miss a suspected thief who had jumped her last ship? Who would believe a suspected thief if she chose to tell outrageous lies about a Master Trader? He must have called up her record while speaking with Mr. Saunderson and seen that damning entry.

  The man across from her shifted sharply. "And yet," he persisted, demanding her attention, "liking you so well, she hits you over the head and steals your earrings." He drank. "Forgive me, Ms. Mendoza, but that sounds even odder."

  "The Trader ordered it," Priscilla said, clinging to serenity as if it were her last hope of
salvation. Let him hear, Goddess, she begged silently. Let him believe the truth.

  "Ah, dear Sav Rid." The expression on his face was one of mild puzzlement. "He will have his little joke, you know, Ms. Mendoza. But surely there were other avenues open to him, had he conceived a desire for your earrings. Why order the second mate to hit you over the head for them? Couldn't he merely have purchased them from you?" He snapped his fingers lightly. "He had offered a fair sum, and you refused to sell. Rendered desperate—"

  "Stop it!" She snapped forward, eyes riveted on his. "Captain yos'Galan, please. It's imperative that I get to Arsdred. It's a large port—I'd hoped your ship would dock there. Any crewing duties you have—I'll work my passage to Arsdred as assistant mess cook, and you can lock me in a closet off-shift! You don't have to trust me—believe what you will. I don't think it's very funny to abandon someone and ruin their record, make it impossible to find—to find honorable work . . . ." Her voice had developed a quaver. Horrified, she bit her lip and clenched her hands tightly to squeeze out the shaking. "I must get to Arsdred."

  He broke her gaze and drank wine, then swirled the remainder in the glass. "Revenge," he told the glass softly, "is a highly appropriate desire. Among Liadens, revenge is something of an art form. There are strict rules. There are certain punishments which are not considered proper revenge." He glanced at her. "Death, for instance. At least, not directly from the hand of the vengeful party. Should the dishonor attending a balancing of accounts prove so vast that one has no other choice—" He shrugged. "Well." He set the glass aside and looked closely at her. "I will not have a murderer on this ship."

  Priscilla stared at him. "But you will have a thief?"

  "You said it was a lie. Or did I misunderstand? Perhaps something else was a lie?"

  The shaking was worse, extending up her arms and down her legs. Did he believe her? Or the record? It was impossible to read the expression on his face.

  "Daxflan's record—that I was stealing and then jumped ship—that's the lie."

  "Do you want to say so officially?" he asked again.

  Priscilla shook her head. "I can't prove it—how can I? 'Suspected larceny'? His word against mine—and he's the Trader. 'Jumped ship'?" She produced a wan grin. "I'm not there now, am I? Though why anyone with three consecutive thoughts in her head would jump ship on a place like Jankalim, with twobits in her pocket. . ."

  "And no earrings in her ears," he agreed. "But maybe you saw they were on to you and were frightened. Jankalim might have been your last chance for free flight—leg irons are so cumbersome. There are excuses for a bit of poor planning . . . ." He tipped his head. "But why did Sav Rid order the second mate to hit you over the head, Ms. Mendoza? At your direction, I dismiss avaricious thoughts regarding your earrings."

  "I can't prove it," she said again. "I think they were running contraband."

  "Do you? What a peculiar thing to think. You told Sav Rid, and he was—quite understandably—annoyed. Thus the second mate, the warehouse. . ."

  "I'm not that stupid," Priscilla muttered, and wondered why he grinned. "There was sealed cargo," she continued. "I had the manifests—I knew what was supposed to be there. But—something seemed wrong. I didn't know exactly what. So I got the idea of checking the piloting equations, just to prove to myself that I was imagining things."

  "And you found what to be the case?"

  "I found the equations were so far off that the captain had to be a reckless fool. Or she had to know exactly what she was doing." She took a breath. "So I checked the densities of the cargo."

  "Did you?" He leaned forward. "Now why—no, you've had some pilot training. And I'm interrupting. Forgive me, Ms. Mendoza—you checked the densities, matched them to the captain's equations, and?"

  "The captain knew what she was doing. The densities didn't match the substances that were supposed to be in the cargo. Daxflan ships mostly pharmaceuticals. I started going through the list, checking the numbers . . . ." She shook her head. "I think there's Bellaquesa onboard. It's listed as Aserzerine on the manifest. Everything's all wrong for Aserzerine, though. Bellaquesa matches—but so does sugar. But why would you call sugar Aserzerine?. . ."

  She shrugged. "It all looked interesting—but I can't prove any of it. I never saw the stuff. And I'll lay my last bit the data's not locked under my personal file anymore."

  He nodded and leaned back in the chair again, staring blankly at the ceiling. Priscilla finished her wine and carefully put the glass aside. Now what? she wondered. She forced herself to sit loosely in the chair, hands relaxed on her knees.

  Abruptly, he spun to face her. "We leave Jankalim in fourteen hours," he said slowly. "Before the two of us can discuss specifics, there are several tests required. They are rather lengthy, and, unfortunately, my presence is demanded worldside this evening. If you feel able, you may take the tests directly after lunch. The ship will extend a cabin for you to guest in, and we can speak again at Seventh Hour. Agreed?"

  "Agreed."

  He nodded and seemed about to speak further when the door opened to admit a clean-faced Gordy behind a wheeled cart piled high with eatables.

  "In the nick of time!" Shan yos'Galan cried, flipping off the toggles. "Now you offer brandy, Gordy . . . ."

  Shipyear 65

  Tripday 131

  First Shift

  1.30 Hours

  Former cargo master Priscilla Mendoza leaned back in her chair, sipping at a mug of real coffee, the remains of an extremely edible meal on the table before her.

  The tests had been lengthy—and rather odd. Among the standardized examinations had been random lists of words to define; questions regarding her personal tastes in books, music, sports, and art; and surveys soliciting her opinion on a surprising range of topics.

  Priscilla sighed and sipped her coffee appreciatively. She was tired, her thoughts moving in hazy slow motion. Soon it would be time to look again at the map she had been given and puzzle out the route to her cabin. But having come to rest at last, with no immediate task before her, she was content to simply sit and sip, letting her eyes randomly scan the vast, nearly empty dining ball. She had gathered from the cook on duty that First Hour was not the usual time for people to be fed. He had laughed her apology aside and heaped a plate high, setting it on a tray with a steaming white mug.

  "Start on that," he had told her, grinning broadly. "If you're still hungry when you're done, come on back and say so."

  "Thank you," Priscilla said, blinking in confusion at the tray. It seemed to hold more food than she had seen at one time in months. The man laughed again and returned to his duties.

  Her eyes were drooping closed. Odd, she thought drowsily, that I should feel so comfortable.

  She sat up straight and drank the last of her coffee in a snap. After all, tomorrow's interview with the captain could end with her back on Jankalim, no better off—with the exception of a few good meals—than she had been this afternoon. So much depended on the tests, and on the captain. Did he believe her?

  Why should he? she asked herself fiercely. She sighed and looked up.

  A midsized Terran was standing across from her, coffee mug in hand, an expression of admiration on his round face.

  Priscilla felt her stomach sink. Here we go again, she thought.

  "Hi," the man said easily enough. "You must be the only person onboard who hasn't had a message to send this trip."

  "That's because I'm not onboard," Priscilla told him, then grinned and shook her head. "No, that doesn't make sense. I mean that I'm only visiting . . . ."

  "Yeah?" he said interestedly, and extended a soft-palmed hand. "Rusty Morgenstern, radio tech. Pleased to meet you, Ms.—"

  "Mendoza." She took the hand and shook lightly; she was agreeably surprised when he did not try to prolong the contact. "Priscilla Mendoza. Sit down?"

  "Thanks." He slouched down and put his elbows on the table, fingers curled loosely about the mug. "Who're you visiting, if that's not too nosy?
And how come they left you to eat by yourself?"

  "I'm not explaining things too well. What I'm doing is applying for a job. I took some tests earlier, and I'm to see the captain at Seventh Hour to find out how I did." She sighed. "The whole thing seems pointless, though. Mr. Saunderson—the agent on Jankalim—said the ship's fully staffed."

  "Well, that's true." He paused to swallow coffee. "What's your line?"

  "I was cargo master on my last ship."

  Rusty shook his head. "Got a hell of a cargo master—old Ken Rik. Forty years older'n Satan and twice as slippery. Don't play cards with him." He drank more coffee. "But that doesn't mean much. If the cap'n figures you'll work out, there's bound to be something for you to do."