Nimisha's Ship Read online

  He shook his head, stroking the silky hair that hung loose down her back. Nimi’s hair . . . He broke off that thought.

  “Jeska says they can’t go any further with the Mark Five; you need to find my mother.” Her tone was interrogatory as she tilted her head up at him.

  He took two steps downward so they were at eye-level. “That’s true enough. I’m here to . . .”

  Her hands came from behind her back and, with one, she seized his much bigger hand and closed his fingers around what she put in the palm.

  “My birth-mother would want you to have these now, then.” She stepped back, holding her lips closed, but her eyes watered.

  Rustin closed his fingers about the round circles: six of them, a full stack and exactly what he had come about.

  “You had them?” he whispered in astonishment.

  She nodded and then, with a lift to her chin and in a louder voice, said, “My grandam is expecting you, Commander Rustin. If you will be pleased to enter . . .”

  “Mimicking the RM is not done, Lady Cuiva,” he said, grinning as he followed her into the impressive foyer with its ancient Terran marble floor in alternating black and white squares. There were fine statues in the many niches, all artfully restored to the condition in which they had left their sculptors’ yards. The flowery Acaderillus shrub filled the room with a delicate odor. It was the only indigenous Vegan object in the Residence entrance hall.

  Cuiva slipped over to the stationary RM and flicked it back on.

  “That’s all right, RM,” she said. “Commander Rustin is expected. You may conduct him to my grandam.” With that and a saucy wink at Caleb, she glided over to the door into her quarters and was gone.

  “I will conduct you to Lady Rezalla directly, Commander.” The RM turned and started up the left-hand side of the double staircase, also of priceless Terran marble. It moved with the dignity befitting its occupation. Rustin followed, wishing he could have followed Cuiva instead as he slipped the data circles into his tunic pocket.

  With his errand accomplished, what excuse could he give Lady Rezalla as the purpose for this visit? And how like Nimisha to have entrusted the data files to her daughter, rather than her mother! Who would have thought it? Well, he should have. But one simply didn’t go about asking underage children if they just happened to have been entrusted with irreplaceable documents. What to say to Lady Rezalla? She must be thinking he was the bearer of tidings.

  He could be! His hand brushed the data disks. He could well be. The Fleet already had permission of Lady Rezalla to take the finished hull out of the Yard. Yes, that was why he was requesting this interview. To inform her that the removal would occur shortly—as soon as he had added to the ship the special adjustments he now had deposited safely in a uniform pocket.

  Though Lady Rezalla’s quick and piercing glance begged for news of another kind, she did not refer to her missing daughter when Caleb explained the purpose of his visit. He deeply wished he could relieve her fears with some sort of reassurance. No news was still, in its own way, good news.

  “And you feel safe,” she asked, pausing on the word, “taking out the Prototype Five, Commander?”

  “It has passed every single test the Fleet can give it, Lady Rezalla,” he said quite truthfully. “I have no hesitation at all in putting it through the most grueling maneuvers.”

  “Except those that would take you down the maw of a wormhole, I trust,” she said drolly.

  “Indeed, Lady Rezalla. I shall avoid them as I would a black hole.”

  “Do.” And she inclined her head graciously.

  As a little present for her courtesy in receiving him, he presented her with the latest “book” of scents—fine sheets of paper, no longer than the palm of his hand, each impregnated with a different aroma—from the parfumeries of the Outer City, famed for their exquisite fragrances.

  “How charming,” she said with a delighted smile. “You are much too good to me, Commander.”

  “Nothing can be too good for a lady of your charm and eminence,” he replied in words formulaic but delivered sincerely.

  She opened the first sheet, inhaling delicately. “Oh, like roses. Terran roses. Attar made from them was supposed to be the most seductive fragrance of all.”

  She passed the tiny sheet to him and he inhaled obediently without informing her that his nose was woefully inept at distinguishing “pleasant” smells. The funk of recycled air he knew; florals, he did not.

  “Elegant. Truly elegant.”

  “I’d term it dainty, Commander, but then”—she smiled winsomely at him, cocking her head in such a way that he wished she was neither a First Family Lady nor related to the woman he did love—“this scent was contrived for feminine, not masculine, tastes.”

  “Indeed.” He inclined his head, smiling in such a way as to thank her for her discreet flirtatiousness. “I would also like your permission to bring Lady Cuiva to see how we are progressing with her mother’s design.”

  Lady Rezalla gave him a long, almost acid look. Then she made a graceful gesture with her lovely hand. “Forgive me, but I could wish that my granddaughter was not quite so fascinated by her mother’s profession.” Caleb made a small bow of comprehension. “She has lately insisted that she be tutored in space navigation . . . and doubtless the anomalies that are . . . hazards.” Her mouth closed firmly for a moment as she took a deep breath before continuing. “However, the child’s loyalty and dedication must be considered. I shall not have it said that I denied her.”

  “Never, Lady Rezalla,” Caleb protested.

  The long hand was lifted again, forestalling further reassurances. “You may have heard rumors about the machinations of that young . . . young . . .”A proper term seemed to escape her.

  “Scut, milady?”

  She gave him a stern look but her eyes twinkled. “That will do until I can think of something more thoroughly derogatory. That scut Vestrin.”

  “He can’t still be pursuing a court action on the grounds that his father made the bequest to Lady Nimisha?”

  She nodded, smiling with a wicked and determined gleam in her gentian-blue eyes—so like her daughter’s. “As well we were forewarned by you, Commander, for, of course, my body-heir had made a will prior to her departure and, in it, bequeaths all her estate and assets to Lady Cuiva. You will shortly meet Perdimia, who will accompany Lady Cuiva wherever she may go.”

  “Oh! Yes, I see. Sensible precaution. But surely not even Lord Vestrin would attempt to . . . harm a child. A First Family child wearing such a prestigious tattoo.”

  “Cuiva is not yet Necklaced in her minor majority, Commander. I would not put anything past that—no, ‘scut’ is not appropriate. He may not be a bastard”—Lady Rezalla spat the epithet—“but roué he most certainly is. I would put nothing past a creature of so little honor and such great greed. He has laughed . . . laughed . . .” she paused again, “at public functions over my body-heir’s disappearance.” She drew in a deep breath, her nostrils pinched by her wrath.

  “You may be sure that I would protect Lady Cuiva with my life,” Caleb said, bowing again and feeling almost sick with a combination of anxiety for the child and animosity toward Lord Vestrin.

  “I know that, Commander, but you will double whatever precautions you have previously used in any excursions on which she accompanies you.” Now she rose, extending her hand in gracious dismissal.

  “I shall keep you informed of the progress. You will attend the commissioning?” Caleb asked, hastily adding, “A formality which you, as Owner-Representative, should attend—if you can fit such an engagement in your calendar?”

  “I wouldn’t miss that for the worlds,” she said, again in a droll tone. She always managed to astonish him, despite her adherence to the conventions of Family.

  He bowed over her hand and was honored when her fingers pressed his with far more strength than he would have expected from her. But then, Cuiva often mentioned that she took physical exercise every m
orning with her grandmother. Lord Vestrin would not get past Lady Rezalla if he made an attempt on Cuiva in the older woman’s presence.

  Rezalla accompanied him to the door, and when it opened for them, she turned to the waiting RM. “Escort the commander to Lady Cuiva’s apartment. You may tender your invitation personally. She has missed your company. You may make whatever arrangements for the visit are required.”

  Caleb said all that was suitable for such gracious condescension and then, pivoting smartly, followed the RM. In the hall, and unobserved, he patted the disks in his pocket. He would have preferred racing back to the Yard to see what they contained, but he was concerned enough about Cuiva to want a word with her—to bawl her out for stepping outside the front door without this new bodyguard. What had she been thinking about?

  Although the RM opened the door, a woman quickly inserted herself between Caleb and the room.

  “This is Commander Caleb Rustin, Miz Perdimia,” the Residence Manager said with just the slightest hint of remonstrance, as if the woman should have known who he was.

  She stepped back. She was short in stature but wide in body, as if her legs did not balance her torso in length. Her hazel eyes were keen, and from the way she stood, Caleb had no doubts of alertness, even with the RM presenting him to Cuiva’s door. He also noticed, and saw that she caught his swift glance over her person, the knife sheaths in her boot and on her left forearm, and the strap of the one that probably hung down her back as Jeska’s had.

  “I’d like a word with Lady Cuiva, Miz Perdimia. Lady Rezalla said I should invite her myself.”

  “Cal?” Cuiva cried, hearing his voice and rushing into the room.

  “Lady Cuiva . . . what have we been talking about just this morning?” Perdimia’s face was expressionless as she turned to the girl.

  Cuiva went from a dead run to a solemn walk between steps. Her face reflected that she did indeed remember what had been said “just this morning.”

  “Not rushing here and there,” she murmured and then brightened as Caleb stepped past the bodyguard and held out his hand to her. She went up on the balls of her feet to rush to him and, sighing, came forward at a sedate pace, but she clung to his hand with both of hers. He could feel her trembling, and when her fingers squeezed, he knew that he wouldn’t say anything about their clandestine meeting on the front steps. Not in front of Perdimia and certainly not after a recent schooling on the same peril.

  “Indeed, my young friend,” Caleb said, shaking her hands to make her contact his eyes. “How will you ever learn the decorum a Necklaced minor major must have if you don’t start practicing . . . right now!” He stared at her to emphasize the final two words and she flushed, but then recovered her ebullience and swung on his arm, nearly pulling him off balance. “I have your grandam’s permission to show you the Fiver we’ve been completing.” He looked squarely at Perdimia. “I invite you, Miz Perdimia, in your own right as well as in your role as Lady Cuiva’s companion.”

  “Sir, that’s real nice of you.” Perdimia’s face relaxed.

  He had a good notion that she quite probably came from a service family and, like Jeska, had not measured up to the height requirement. She had the required background and was making good use of it. More important, she took her job seriously, which reassured Caleb in light of what Lady Rezalla had confided to him.

  “When? When, Cal, when?” Cuiva said, swinging on his arm. She saw Perdimia’s expression. “Oh, Cal doesn’t mind, Perdimia. We’re old friends,” she went on, standing upright again and affecting a very mature stance, obviously copied from her grandam. “I used to go out to the Yard all the time with my mother and we even—”

  It was Cal’s turn to raise eyebrows at her effusiveness.

  “Ooops,” she said, covering her mouth with her hand and squinching down, grinning wickedly as she knew she should not mention the EVA’s her mother had allowed her to do. “His son said I could. He comes with us sometimes, doesn’t he, Commander?”

  Caleb and Perdimia exchanged glances over Cuiva’s head as she went from child to an echo of her grandam in the space of a second. Perdimia gave a shrug and a shake of her head. But she also smiled.

  “Imp!” she said affectionately. “When had you in mind, Commander? I check all engagements with Lady Rezalla.”

  Caleb let his hand pause at the pocket that held the disks—a pause that sharp-eyed Cuiva caught and made her giggle. Then she became adult again and watched as he took out his touchpad and turned it on.

  “A week from today? At about this hour? Would that be convenient?”

  Perdimia had her touchpad strapped to her right wrist, which confirmed his notion that she was left-handed. “That day is free after the eleventh hour.”

  “Oh, no, make it earlier, Perdimia,” Cuiva said, hanging on to the woman’s arm. “I can do a double session of studying the day before or the day after.”

  The two adults again exchanged looks, and Perdimia yielded.

  “Excellent,” Caleb said, tapping in the time and date as Perdimia made a note. “I shall speed up the work in train—” Again he paused his hand at the pocket before letting it fall to his side. “—and look forward to the company of you two ladies. I’ll collect you, Lady Cuiva, Miz Perdimia, at the appointed hour in the Yard skiff.” He bowed to both. “I must return to my duties, if you will be good enough to excuse me now, Lady Cuiva?”

  The girl elegantly dismissed him with a wave of her hand as he backed three steps before turning for the door. He heard her giggle and allowed her to hear his chuckle as he closed the door behind him.

  He took the skimmer back to the Yard as fast as possible, only just clearing the Old Quarter before he opened the thrusters and poured on the power. He landed at the lock closest to Nimisha’s private machine workshop and cycled through it, pausing only to remove his formal tunic in the dressing room. He took the precious disks out of his pocket and jingled them in his hand as he walked himself a leg at a time, into his heavy shop coverall, stumbling a bit as he shrugged it over his shoulders and sealed the fastenings. He strode to Nimisha’s desk. Two disks clattered out of his hands in his haste to insert the number one in the slot of the reader. And there it was: the menu of final details that would make all the difference to the incomplete Mark 5 still in its production gantry. The comunit burped authoritatively. He switched on the visual, one hand resting on the little disks that were so bloody important.

  “Oh, it’s you, Commander,” the guard said, swallowing. “For a moment—”

  “My apologies, Ferron, I should have checked in.”

  “That’s all right, sir. It’s just that—”

  “I know. Lady Nimisha preferred to use the private entrance.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s it, sir. And, sir, still no word?”

  “Still no word.”

  “Will you be staying long?”

  “Possibly all night, Ferron, so log me in officially. Want to check over some details. We’ll be working overtime to finish the Five B from now on.”

  “Will we, sir? That’s good to know, sir.” Ferron disconnected.

  Caleb let out a sigh of relief. He should have checked in himself, but his little lapse only proved how alert security in the Yard was. Most of the workforce had already gone home now that the Five B was so near completion and three shifts were no longer needed. He made a quick note to have Jeska double-check those on the day shift when Cuiva and her bodyguard visited.

  Then he whistled at what was scrolling across the screen.

  By all the Lords of Space and Time, she had left the best for last, hadn’t she? He skimmed quickly. Some were minor adjustments, mere tunings. Others were guidance chips with subtle differences to the standard ones, if he read them right: just the sort of tinkering that distinguished Rondymense programs from naval. He ran a quick pricing on labor and materials and decided the cost was a fractional increase, if any. And the minor alterations—losing a circuit here, increasing the strength of that one there—
made so much sense. He sighed. Some people simply stuck loyally to what worked well enough. What was the old adage? “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it”? Well, here was proof that sometimes what isn’t broken should be fixed.

  By morning, when the first shift arrived, he had reviewed all Nimi’s little improvements, organized a schedule for their manufacture and insertion, and put out a call for Nimi’s favorite mechanic. Hiska would be invaluable in constructing Nimi’s improvements. She’d worked with Nimisha on the Fiver, and Caleb hoped she’d assist him now that he was in possession of Nimi’s disks. He and Hiska would do the six boards of Nimisha’s unique design. He could do them himself but Hiska was the professional and might, now, reveal what else Nimisha had kept up her sleeve. Might, Caleb amended wryly. Hiska was as much a law unto herself as Nimisha was. The two women, from socially opposite spheres, rarely needed to converse as they worked. In fact, one might hand the other a tool without a word spoken. Hiska tended to issue sounds rather than words, though Caleb had heard the mechanic chew out a subordinate in a fashion that would have made a tough petty officer blush with envy. A grunt or a monosyllable was often all she needed with Nimisha, though Nimi would add a please or thank-you as the occasion warranted.

  Caleb shook his head, fatigued by the night’s concentrations and grieving anew: This particular part of the Ship Yard was more bereft of Nimisha’s presence than anywhere else in the Yard, even her executive office.

  The door to the outer corridor opened and banged against the wall as Hiska came hurrying in, the lioness ready to protect her lair.

  “Good morning, Hiska,” he said as if delighted to see her despite the obvious anger that powered her steps as she strode across to the worktop.

  Seeing the little stack of info-disks, she came to a total halt. Her eyes met his again, the most urgent question easily read.

  “No, no word from Nimi, but Lady Cuiva felt I should have these now.” He let the stack slip through his fingers and then straightened them into a neat column. “I don’t think any of us want the second Fiver to go out less than her best.”