“The captain should reenter the ship,” Martin said. “I’ll want to get the net set out. I’ll need Jim, Beeah, and Mehar.”

Before Ky could contact the rental agency, Martin reported that the loader had arrived. He and his crew had already installed the first of the visual scans, so Ky could watch the loader grind across the dock toward the ship and listen in on the conversation with her crew.

“Sorry,” the operator said. “Had to get clearance from Immigration and check your financials.” The operator had a gray uniform with RENTALL EQUIPMENT in red on the front and back.

Martin held up a hand. “We will need to scan your machine.”

“Fine. I get paid by the hour; don’t hurry.” The operator lounged in his seat.

Martin used a long-handled mirror and various other tools to check over, under, and around the loader. “Now you,” he said. “Get down.”

“Me? You’re only renting the loader; you don’t need to scan me.”

“Oh, I think we do,” Martin said. The man shrugged, started to climb down, and suddenly launched himself at Mehar, whipping a knife from his boot. She sidestepped neatly and thrust a short baton into his gut. He folded around it, dropping the knife. Mehar stepped back; Martin moved in, swung the man around, and clipped him smartly on the jaw. “Good job, Mehar,” he said. “You’re a natural at this.”

“I would rather not be,” Mehar said, hooking the baton back on her belt.

“Beeah, Jim—perimeter.” Martin’s reminder focused the other two on the dock access. Ky watched, fascinated, as Martin secured the man’s knife by scooping it into a plastic bag, then fastened his wrists and ankles with cargo cords, as he had done with Jim at first.

“Captain—”

“Yes,” Ky said. “I saw that.”

“You said station police didn’t want to give us protection. Think they’d be interested in taking in a perp?”

“I suppose we’d better ask,” Ky said. “And I’d better talk to the rental company, too.”

“Threaten them,” Martin advised. “They sent you a ringer or they were bent to start with.”

Ky looked up the emergency numbers and called the station police, here called the Garda. “You did what?” was the response of the desk clerk. “You can’t just hit people and tie them up.”

“My crew was attacked with a knife,” Ky said.

“Witnesses? Other than your own crew?”

“Recorded in video,” Ky said.

“Oh. Well. We’ll send someone over.”

Who to call next? Getting more security on their dockside seemed more important than wrangling with the rental company. Lastway’s business directory listed five security services, but only three were bonded and insured: Baritom, Maxx, and Padilla Protection. She had no clue which to pick. The stationmaster, she knew, would not be allowed to give an opinion—who else could?

ISC. They had their own security, but they must use onsite firms for personal protection sometimes, and they would surely know who to contact for dockside surveillance. Ky contacted their Lastway office and asked for the station director.

“Who’s calling, please?”

To ISC, the Vatta name should still be gold-plated, Ky thought. “Captain Kylara Vatta,” she began, “of the—”

“Vatta!” Then, “Just a minute…”

Less than a minute, and a gruff male voice barked at her. “Who do you think you are, queen of the spaceways? Don’t you realize we have better things to do than baby-sit some rich trader’s brat?”

“I beg your pardon!”

“You Vattas are spoiled rotten,” the voice went on. “Can’t wait your turn like everyone else! Think you’re special. Well, out here, Captain Vatta, we’re all citizens and we don’t try to cut in line. You’ll take your place in the outgoing queue just like everyone else and that’s final.” The connection blanked.

Ky stared at the console as if it had grown actual teeth, and then called again.

“What?” said the angry voice she’d just heard.

“I wasn’t trying to cut in line,” Ky said. “I had a question.”

“I’m not a damned information desk,” he said, and cut the connection again.

Ky told herself that everyone at ISC must be under tremendous strain. She still found it hard to believe that the station manager of an obscure office like Lastway could have reason to be that angry with Vatta Transport, or any particular Vatta, but he was, and that was a fact to cope with.

Who else? She scanned the business directory, looking for familiar names. Somewhat to her surprise, Lastway Station had three branches of Hark!, the sectorwide pastry franchise: “The original Hark!, in business at this location for 17 years…”; “Hark! #2, convenient to the financial district”; and “Hark! Light: same flavor, less filling.” She doubted that they’d have much knowledge of security companies. The Captains’ Guild? She contacted them.

“I’m sorry but we consider the Vatta account closed at this time,” said the reception clerk as soon as she gave her name. “Any services would be on a cash basis only.”

“I’m not planning to stay there,” Ky said. “I just had a question.”

“A question?” He sounded as if he’d never heard of asking a question. “What about, then?”

“What private security companies onstation would you recommend?”

“The station business directory has a list.”

“I know that, but only three are bonded. What services have other captains found reliable?”

“I’m afraid, under the circumstances, that I can’t take the liability risk of recommending anything in that line. Now if you wanted a recommendation for a good restaurant—”

“Oh, fine,” Ky said. The clerk went on, completely missing her tone.

“Julian’s is very nice—they grow their own fresh vegetables, and they have a cultivar of synthibeef that’s extremely good. Or, if you prefer seafood, there’s Fish Heaven. All local produce—”

“Thank you,” Ky said. “That’s very nice. I don’t suppose you have any idea where I can purchase ordnance?”

“Ordnance?” The clerk’s voice squeaked. “You mean like… er… weapons?”

“Exactly,” Ky said. It was a forlorn hope, but scaring him looked like the only fun she was going to have.

“Well… there’s always the MilMartExchange, over on Hub Four.”

“Thank you,” Ky said again. “Are they in the business directory?”

“Yes, Captain. Under HEAVY EQUIPMENT NEW AND USED.”

“You’ve been most helpful,” Ky said, her good humor restored. Heavy equipment new and used, huh? Was this why the Sabines had been so suspicious of her “farm equipment” on the manifest?

She looked at the directory again, shrugged, and called Baritom Security Services because it came first on the list. Baritom Security Services put her on hold long enough to be annoying; then a senior sales representative came on. “You can understand that we have concerns about any assignment with a Vatta family member at this time—with Vatta accounts frozen—”

“Hard goods,” Ky said. “Acceptable to Immigration Control.”

“Oh. Well… the liability risk—”

“I am willing to waive liability where no misconduct by your employees is involved,” Ky said. “We need dockside security as well as personal escort.”

“I’m afraid we would have to add a surcharge for the additional hazard.”

“If you add the surcharge, I’m less willing to waive liability,” Ky said.

“Surcharge. Dockside… that’s a minimum of six personnel, two on each shift. Escort charges vary with shift. When would you want them?”

“As soon as possible,” Ky said. “I’m uncertain of the duration at this point.”

“That’s all right. We can have a team at your dockside in… fifteen minutes. An escort will be dispatched when you request—were you needing one this shift?”

Ky looked at the chronometer, set now to Lastway Station’s standard time. The shift would end in a half hour, and the next shift was mainday or business. She wouldn’t get out of here before then. “No, not this shift,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”