"Moon, Elizabeth - Familias 01 To 03 - Heris Serrano" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moon Elizabeth)

Hardly, she thought. He needed to listen to her. "Ah, Ronnie. Very good-I meant to ask you, did you bring your hunting tackle?"
"My . . . uh . . . what?"
"Your riding clothes, your saddles-"
"I-no! Of course not. Aunt Cecelia, just because you're crazy enough to ride big stupid animals across rocks and mud-"
"I presumed," said Cecelia, overriding his voice with a surge of glee, "that that was your rather large order at Hardin's and Vetris's and Spaulding's. But since it wasn't, perhaps you'd return some of that foppery, whatever it was, and get yourself some decent riding kit. We are going to Bunny's, as you know, for the season, and since I'm saddled with you, you might as well saddle a horse and learn something useful." She felt good about the pun; puns usually came to her four hours too late, if at all.
The fashion in invective, she was happy to discover, had swung once more from the rough crudities copied from the lower classes to an entertaining polysyllabic baroque style. When Ronnie ran out of breath (which happened more quickly, she noted, with the longer words and phrases), she interrupted again, before he could start another rampage.
"I do not care that you do not like horses, or riding, or that none of your set consider hunting a reasonable or enjoyable pastime. I do not care if you are miserable for the entire year of your exile. You may sulk in your cabin if you like-you will certainly not sulk in mine, or interfere with my pleasure one bit more than I can help. And if you do not order yourself the proper clothes, saddles, and so on, I shall do it for you and charge it to your account." Although it would really make sense to wait until they were at Bunny's-all the really good saddlers came there for the season. But her blood was up. So, it seemed, was his. She could order what she liked, he said angrily, but he was not about to pretend to copy the amusements of a horse-faced old spinster with more money than sense, and he would be damned if she ever found him on a horse chasing some innocent helpless animal across the dripping fields.
"If you think the fox is either innocent or helpless, young Ronald, you are more foolish than I think." She was not sure which of them broke the connection. She did not care. She called her personal assistant at Spaulding's and arranged everything as she wished-of course they knew all his measurements already, and of course they were happy to help a wealthy aunt surprise an almost-as-wealthy nephew. In a final burst of pique, she put the bill on her own account, and not Berenice's. . . . She wanted no questions from the doting mother who had let the brat become so useless.

Chapter Two
Heris led the way into her cabin, wondering if civilians had any concept of shipboard courtesy. Would they know enough to stay on their side of the office? Sirkin did; she stood across the desk as Heris called up the files on the desk display, looking young and earnest.
She looked at the course Sirkin had originally planned. Direct, reasonable flux levels, no abrupt course changes, adequate clearance of the mapped obstacles. It was close to the course she would have selected, although R.S.S. ships could and did shave the clearance margins in the interest of speed.
"And Captain Olin disapproved this course? Why?"
"He said it was too risky. Here-" Sirkin laid her finger on the display, and it enlarged to show finer detail. "He claimed that coming this close to T-77 with a flux of 0.06 was suicidal. I asked him why, and he said he was captain and I'd learn better in time."
"Hmm." Heris leaned over the display. "Did you look up T-77 in the reference library?"
"Yes, ma'am." Heris looked up at the younger woman-then remembered that it might be legitimate civilian usage. The R.S.S. used "sir" for either sex-it meant respect, not recognition of one's chromosome type. Sirkin seemed respectful and attentive. "Baird and Logan said that T-77 is a gravitational anomaly, nothing more. Ciro speculates that it's a burnt-out star. But all the references agree that it's not as dangerous as Gumma's Tangle, and it's perfectly safe to transit that at a flux of 0.2. I was being conservative." That had the bite of old resentment. Heris shook her head.
"Captain Olin must have had some reason. Your relative velocity would have been quite low, there-did you suggest boosting your flux and achieving a higher V?"
"No, ma'am. He said it was dangerous at 0.06; boosting the flux would make it worse-"
"If he meant a flux/mass interaction. That's not the only danger out there." She chewed her lip, thinking. She hadn't been in that area for a long time; she wished she had access to R.S.S. charts and intelligence data.
"But why didn't he say so?" Sirkin had flushed, which made her look even younger. "I could have redone it for a higher flux-"
"He didn't want to go anywhere near T-77," Heris said. "Let's see what else he didn't want to go near." She looked at the rest of Sirkin's course, comparing it to Olin's, and calling up references when needed. Slowly, she felt her way into Olin's logic. "He didn't want to go near any of the low-danger obstacles, did he? Made you go clear around Cumber's Finger, instead of taking that short Wedding Ring hop-and that's a safe hop everyone takes. Made you wander over here-and why?" She looked up, to meet the same confusion in Sirkin's expression. "Did Lady Cecelia have a preferred arrival time? Did she ask him to be here on a certain day?"
Sirkin nodded. "She had wanted to be here eight days before we arrived, for some kind of family party. Olin told her he couldn't make it; it's one reason she wanted a new captain. She said he was too slow."
"You heard her?" Heris let her brows rise.
Sirkin turned red. "Well . . . I overheard it. I mean, Tonni over on the staff side, he told Engineering, and Mr. Gavin told me."
"Staff side . . ." Heris said.
"You know. There's the household staff, with Bates on top, and there's the ship's crew, with the captain-with you-on top. We're not supposed to mix much, but at certain levels we have to. Our moles are always getting into rows with milady's gardeners."
Heris felt she'd fallen into a farce of some kind. Gardeners aboard ship? But she couldn't let this young woman sense her confusion. "When we say 'staff,' we mean non-line officers," she said, as if it had been a confusion of terms.
"Oh." Sirkin clearly had no idea what that meant, and Heris let it pass. Far more important was getting this ship ready to travel. She could ask Sirkin, but she should learn more about the rest of the crew, and inspections would do just that. She looked back at Olin's chosen route and shook her head.
"I wonder . . . it's as if he knew something about these areas not listed in the references." She wondered what. There were always rumors about "robbers' coasts" and "pirate dens" to excuse ships that showed up late or missing cargo. But those were just rumors . . . weren't they? Olin had chosen to skirt more dangerous-according to the references-points more closely; he had shaved past T-89 inside the line she'd have taken with a cruiser. Of course a cruiser massed more. Slow on the first leg of the trip, hanging about for a long time . . . then racing through the middle section, direct and sure . . . then dodging about again at the end. Smuggling came to mind, but she controlled her expression. Later she could figure out what, and with whom, Captain Olin had been smuggling.
"And you're the newest crew member? What made you decide on this job rather than another?"
Sirkin blushed. "Well . . . it was a . . . friend of mine." From the blush and tone of voice, a lover. Heris looked again: blue eyes, brown hair, slender, unremarkable face. Just very young, and very emotional.
"Aboard this ship?" She kept her fingers crossed.
"No, ma'am. She's back at school-a third-year in ship systems maintenance. If I'd signed with a corporate ship, they'd have expected me to stay with them forever." Not really forever, Heris knew, but to the young even the basic five- and ten-year contracts sounded permanent. "When she graduates-she's not exactly at the top of her class-we wanted to be together, same ship or at least same company. . . ."
"So this is a temporary, until she graduates?"
"Yes, ma'am. But I'm not treating it any less seriously." That in the earnest tone of the very young. Heris allowed herself to smile.
"I should hope not. When are you planning to leave Lady Cecelia?"
"It depends, really. She'll graduate while we're at that fox-hunting place-at Sirialis, I mean." Sirkin's fingers twitched. "Lady Cecelia expects to get back to the Cassian System about six local months after that, and she won't take offplanet work until she hears from me."
You hope, thought Heris. She'd seen more than one juvenile romance collapse when a partner was offplanet for a year or more. "You'll have to keep your mind on your duties," she said. "It's natural to worry about her, but-"
"Oh, I don't worry about her," Sirkin said. "She can take care of herself. And I won't be distracted."
Heris nodded, hoping they hadn't sworn vows of exclusion or anything silly like that. Those were the ones who invariably got an earnest message cube at the next port, with the defaulting lover explaining what happened at excruciating length. In her experience, it always happened to the best of the younglings in her crew. "Good. Now, I plan to have the crew cross-train in other disciplines-would you prefer another bridge assignment, or something more hands-on?"
Sirkin grinned, and Heris was almost afraid she'd say How fun-but she didn't. "Anything you wish, Captain. I had two semesters of drive theory and one of maintenance, but I also had a double minor in Communications and computer theory." Very bright girl, if she'd topped out in her nav classes and done that as well. Heris approved.
"We'll try you in communications and the more practical side of shipboard computing systems, then. That should keep you busy enough."
"Yes, ma'am."
"That's all, then." With a last respectful nod, Sirkin left. No salute. Heris refused to give in to the wave of nostalgia she felt; she shrugged it away physically and drew a deep steady breath. No more salutes, no more old friends she could call on to find out, for example, what was known about the members of her new crew. She might have that later, as she made friends in the Captains Guild, but not now.
And at the moment, that was her most pressing need: knowledge. According to the ship's record, all the crew but one had been supplied by the same employment agency. A good one: she had chosen to sign with them herself because of their reputation; they supplied crew to major commercial lines and trading corporations. Lady Cecelia was part of an important family; surely they were not sending her their dregs. . . . Yet she had the feeling that at least half these people were below average. She hadn't expected that, not with the wages Lady Cecelia had offered her, and was paying the crew. She should have gotten more for her money. Sirkin was the only really top qualifier, just going by their records-which she didn't. Records only told so much.
She punched up the local office of Usmerdanz, and worked her way up the levels until she found someone she could really talk to. "Captain Serrano . . . yes." The owner of that silky voice had found her reference in the file, she could tell. "We . . . ah . . . placed you with Lady Cecelia-"
"Yes," she said, interrupting. "I notice that Usmerdanz also placed other crew members, and I was wondering if you could give me some details."
"All pertinent details should be in the ship files," the voice said, with an edge as if a knife lay under the silk. From their point of view, she was the unknown quantity; she had been on their list less than a month, and there would always be questions about someone of her rank who resigned a commission without explanation. "Surely Captain Olin left the files open-keyed . . ."
"I've accessed the ship files," Heris said. "But I find nothing equivalent to our-to the Space Service's fitness reports. Are periodic evaluations handled by the captain aboard or . . . ?"
"Oh." The knife edge receded behind the silk again. "Well . . . there's no established schedule, not really. In the commercial ships, of course, there's always some sort of corporate policy, but not on private yachts. Usually the captain keeps some sort of reports. You found nothing?"