In spite of everything, Marce was thrilled. It was his first time on a command deck of any sort, and the calm professionalism of the Yes, Sir bridge crew in the face of what could reasonably be considered enemy action was inspiring. These were good people, Marce decided. Except possibly for Kiva Lagos. He hadn’t quite gotten a bead on her yet.
He looked over at Lady Kiva, whose current expression could be read as intent, or condescending smugness, depending on one’s own personal inclinations. Every experience Marce had of her was of someone one did not want to mess with. She reminded him of Vrenna that way, albeit with less of an actual conscience.
“What are you smirking about?” Kiva asked him. She’d caught him glancing at her.
“I was just thinking about you spacing Chat,” Marce replied, lying.
“What about it?”
“I was wondering if you would have spaced him for good if he hadn’t talked.”
“Hell, yes. Motherfucker was going to set off a bomb on my ship,” Kiva said. “You don’t fuck with my ship. You don’t fuck with my people.”
“I’m a crew member now,” Marce said. “That means I’m one of your people, too.”
“And we’re not going to give you up, now, are we?”
“Hopefully not.”
Kiva nodded. “So there you go. Don’t be a dick about it, Claremont.”
Marce grinned at this.
The communication channel between ships crackled open again. “This is Captain Wimson of the Red Rose, asking for direct parley with Captain Blinnikka of the Yes, Sir.”
Blinnikka slapped open his personal circuit. “Blinnikka here.”
“I understand you wish to cut the shit, Captain.”
“If that’s all right with you, Captain.”
“It certainly is. Why not be civilized about it. By now you’ve figured out what we are.”
“You’re pirates. You’ve been tracking us for most of a day.”
“Correct. And by now you realize that one of our associates has disabled your ability to enter the Flow.”
“Affirmative.”
“However, today is your lucky day, Captain. We are willing to leave you your cargo and stay out of your way while you either repair your ship or turn back to Imperial Station. All we need from you is to deliver two people to us.”
“Who are those people?”
“The first is our associate, the one who planted the bomb, who I’m sure you probably now have sitting in the brig. The second is a passenger. Lord Marce Claremont.”
“Captain, we can’t turn over your associate.”
“‘Can’t’ is a very strong word, Captain.”
“Let me amend. We can turn him over, just in very small pieces. He appears to have mistimed his bomb. He went up with it.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“If you want we can scrape the walls and hand him over in a bag.”
“Thank you, no. His retrieval was optional. Lord Marce’s, however, is not.”
“Our passenger manifest has no Marce Claremont, lord or otherwise.”
“I thought we agreed to cut the shit, Captain. Marce Claremont is currently on your ship under the name of Kristian Jansen, which is an identity the House of Lagos uses when it wants to smuggle someone off-system. You might want to inform your employers that they should change up their house identities more often than they do. You do have a Kristian Jansen on board, yes?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Good.”
“But there’s a problem.”
“Captain Blinnikka, I regret to inform you that if the ‘problem’ is Claremont is also in small pieces, I’m going to be required to do the same to your ship.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means that I either get Claremont alive, or make the Yes, Sir dead. Those are your options.”
“We would take you with us,” Blinnikka said.
“No, you wouldn’t. Now, what is the problem with Claremont?”
“He’s not dead. But he is currently in a medically induced coma.”
“Why?”
“Because he was in the corridor with your ‘associate’ when the bomb went off. He and several other crew members were trying to interrupt your friend. He survived. Two other crew members didn’t.”
“Condolences, Captain.”
“You just threatened to destroy my ship and kill my entire crew, Captain. Your condolences are hollow.”
“Understood. Can Claremont travel?”
“We can hand him off to you alive and stable. Everything else is up to you.”
“Agreed. We will come alongside in three and a half hours. We’ll have a shuttle ready to transfer him.”
“No. We’ll send a shuttle to you.”
“Captain—”
“None of you are setting foot on my ship. You want him, fine. I’ll give him to you. But we’re coming to you.”
“Then I want you on the shuttle for the handoff. As assurance you’re not sending a shuttle-sized bomb.”
“Not me,” Blinnikka said. “I’ll send the owner’s representative instead. That will suit your purpose. And a medical staffer. They stay on the shuttle, you send in your own people to take Claremont out of it. Everything done in ten minutes maximum. Any longer and we’re going down together, whether you believe it or not.”
“Done. We’ll inform you when we’re ready to receive you. Red Rose out.” The connection was cut.
“Thanks for volunteering me, asshole,” Kiva said, as soon as the connection was wiped.
“The ship is underway,” Blinnikka said. “I’m in command now, Lady Kiva. And I need you to do this thing. So shut up and do it, ma’am.”
“Fine.” She pointed at Marce. “And you’re coming with me. Congratulations, you just got promoted to the medical staff.” She looked over at Blinnikka. “Okay?” Blinnikka nodded.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Marce said.
“You don’t get a vote. And you also told Pinton you were willing to help. Stop whining like a fucking child.”
“You could have just said, ‘I need your help.’”
“All right. I need your help. Stop whining like a fucking child.”
“That’s not better.”
“Where is your Kristian costume?”
“I threw it away.”
“Well, go dig it out. And then go to the medical bay. We have things to do.”
*
“Hold out your thumb,” the Red Rose medical technician said to Kiva.
“The fuck you say,” Kiva replied.
The technician sighed, turned away, and called out the open ramp of the shuttle. A Red Rose crew member with a bolt thrower strode on the shuttle ramp.
“Hold out your thumb, or Sax here will blow your head off,” the medical technician said.
Kiva held out her thumb; the technician jabbed it. Then she did a retinal scan. “You’re Lady Kiva Lagos,” she said.
“How the fuck did you get our personnel database?” Kiva asked the technician.
The technician ignored her and went over to Marce. “Thumb,” she said. Marce offered it.
“Gusteen Obrecht,” she said. She went over to the body on the medical gurney. For that one, she checked the thumb, and the retina, and drew blood from a vein in the right arm. Marce watched that final test, and waited for the result.
“Marce Claremont,” she confirmed, and then Sax called to another Red Rose crewperson, who came on board and whisked the gurney away. The medical technician nodded to Kiva and Marce, and turned.
“Hey,” Kiva said. The technician turned back, and Kiva reached over and grabbed a small rucksack—the rucksack Marce brought on to the Yes, Sir, in fact—and held it out to the technician.
“What is that?” the technician asked.