Sixteen interstellar ships besides her own were docked at Lastway at the moment. Three were corporate: Pavrati’s Emerald Sky—she wasn’t going to try to talk with them. Mellin & Company’s Sunburst. She didn’t know much about Mellin & Company, except that they traded into the next quadrant. Outbound’s Ringwalker. Outbound typically hauled supplies for start-ups, the basics for terraforming and initial colony construction. The rest were listed as independents, from a huge bulk carrier Orlando’s Song to little Lacewing, with even less cubage (but better engines) than Gary Tobai. Ky started at the head of the list, excluding Pavrati, and worked her way down in the order given.
“This is Captain Vatta,” she began, when Sunburst answered and her call had been transferred to Captain Sunder. “I’m wondering if you have any information about these attacks on trading vessels—”
“On Vatta vessels,” he corrected. Onscreen he was clearly a humod, though she didn’t recognize the function of some of his physical characteristics. Why the sagittal ridge, for instance? The large bulge on his left forearm? And were those functional gills on his neck? “I have heard nothing about attacks on other registrations.”
“That’s reassuring for now,” Ky said. “But I presume that when whoever it is finishes with Vatta they will start on someone else. Do you have any concerns about that?”
“If I did, I would not share them with you,” he said. “Your luck is down; I do not want to be contaminated.” And he shut off communication.
“Well, thank you very much,” Ky snarled to the blank screen.
With minor variations, this was the response she got from all of them. They all worried; they all recognized that whoever was attacking Vatta might shift to another target. None of them thought allying with Vatta would improve their chances. Nor were they making any effort to cooperate with each other—at least none they would admit to a pariah like her.
“Shortsighted idiots,” Ky muttered to herself. “They’ll end up in my fix soon enough if they don’t start thinking ahead.”
“Talking to yourself?” Lee, yawning, came onto the bridge. “Where’s Sheryl?”
“I sent her down to work cargo; she was getting twitchy up here by herself.”
“If you want privacy, I can go fix us something to eat,” Lee said. “It’s my turn for galley duty anyway.”
“Good idea,” Ky said. “Though I don’t know what I need privacy for, since none of the other captains will talk to me about the situation. Some offer sympathy, at least, but they’re afraid we’ll infect them with our bad luck.”
“You could try telling them that you are the very embodiment of good luck,” Lee said. “Look how many attempts on your life you’ve survived.”
Ky laughed. “I don’t think that’s the sort of good luck they’d appreciate,” she said. “But yes, I’m hungry.”
When he brought in a tray for her, he said, “Quincy said to remind you about that package, the one that came while you were out. She put it in your cabin; did you see it?”
“No,” Ky said. Hunger beat curiosity for the moment. “I’ll look at it after I eat.” She worked her way through a bowl of Lee’s spicy meat-and-vegetable concoction, then went down the passage and retrieved the package. She recognized MacRobert’s handwriting. Probably another spaceship model, and what would this one have as a little surprise? She took a bite of the custard Lee had brought for dessert before she put her thumb on the integral scanner. The top layer of wrapping opened along a flat seam and rolled back. Underneath was another layer of wrapping.
She opened that and found a thick padded folder with the seal of the Slotter Key Diplomatic Service embossed on it instead of the box of model spaceship parts she expected.
“What’s that?” Lee asked.
“I have no idea,” Ky said, running her fingers over the seal. She opened it. Behind a clear plastic protective cover lay a document with the State Seal at the top, and blocks of dense printing. She started reading. What—? It couldn’t be what it looked like. She put it down and rummaged in the depths of the package. An envelope, with a letter from MacRobert.
“No, this isn’t another spaceship model,” the letter began:
Your family said you’d show up at Lastway eventually, so this was sent by hand to a trusted local agent. Trouble’s brewing. Don’t know how bad it is, but there’s things you need to know. First off, Spaceforce is only a small part of Slotter Key’s space defense. The other part is contracted out to private concerns—what you’d call privateers. Your actions at Sabine show that you have, as I always thought, the right mix of attitude and ability.
So, fine, MacRobert suspected she was a killer at heart… then her mind really registered privateer. “Pirates in traders’ clothing,” as one of her instructors had called them… Was MacRobert trolling through the cadets at Spaceforce Academy, looking for potential pirates?
“You always were a bit too independent for Spaceforce,” the letter continued:
That fancy folder from the diplomatic service is a letter of marque, authorizing you to act on behalf of Slotter Key to do harm to our enemies, to attack and seize ships and cargo. At your discretion, and using your own best judgment. You’re supposed to keep the letter handy to show when called for. You’ll notice that it could be mounted on your bulkhead with the handy bracket on the back of the frame. It’s not worth the antique materials it’s written on when it comes to stopping return fire and it’s recognized as a legitimate charter or commission only in the jurisdictions listed at the bottom. Be sure to read that, or you could get interned in a very boring jail somewhere. You won’t be able to do much in that little tub, so I suggest you get yourself a better ship as soon as you can.
In the meantime, be sure you order galley supplies from Buchert Brothers and specify the following under “odor barriers”: MASKEM 315–2337, six units. Someone will call and ask if that is the correct code, and you’ll say yes. When the delivery arrives, be sure to open that container in a secure location. You’ll recognize the contents. Right now that’s all the help we can give you.
You’ll want to know who Slotter Key’s enemies are… I can’t tell you that right now. We know something’s wrong at ISC, more than what happened at Sabine, and there are other indications that something big is coming. Use your best judgment. The Commandant sends his respects.
Ky looked back at the letter. In archaic and complicated language, it authorized her, Kylara Evangeline Dominique Vatta, to seek out and impede, harrass, annoy, frustrate, confiscate, attack, and destroy any and all enemies of Slotter Key wheresoever she might find them, in space or in dock, by any means whatsoever that lay within her power, and further instructed officers of Slotter Key, diplomatic, military, and “affiliated,” whatever that was, to assist her in these endeavors.
Along with stunned astonishment, she was aware of feelings she could not entirely approve. Excitement. Anticipation. Glee.
“It’s… interesting,” she said to Lee, after a long breath. Should she tell him? Why not, after all. In the unlikely event she ever used it, she’d need a pilot. “Our government wants me to turn pirate.”
“What?”
“Privateer, actually. This—” She tapped the padded folder. “—is a letter of marque. We studied this kind of thing in school; I had no idea anyone actually did this. Now, not centuries ago somewhere else. It’s… license to do just about anything.”
“To anyone…?”
“No, to the enemies of Slotter Key, which this other letter states they can’t identify at the moment. It must’ve been sent—” She looked again at the letter and its date. “Yes. Before the attacks on Vatta started, and before we became persona non grata to the Slotter Key government. Which may make this null and void, though I don’t know…”