“No.”
“Then tell me where she is.”
Rupert side-eyed Grytt. “I can’t.”
Samur’s fern turned a terrible color, dried blood veined with necrotic green. “You can. You just won’t. She’s alone out there, Rupert. You left her alone.”
In fact, it was Rory (and Thorsdottir, Zhang, and Jaed) who had left him, Grytt, and Ivar to pursue a life of “freedom from all this” on the edge of the Verge. Samtalet was a self-sufficient mining colony, run by an elected stationmaster and council, which had a constant need for people with small ships to patrol its space for pirates and smugglers and, when encountering such persons, liberate the illegal cargo and return it to the proper authorities.
You are going to be a privateer, Rory.
More like salvagers who sometimes intercept smugglers.
I cannot tell your mother that.
No, Rory had said, entirely serious. You cannot.
“She isn’t alone,” said Rupert. “She has Thorsdottir, Zhang, and Jaed with her.”
But the point was not Rory’s solitude or company. The point was her preferences, which she had made very clear to Rupert and to Grytt (and, truthfully, to a lot of other people in several governments): She wanted to get away from politics. To live normally. To learn what normal even meant.
He added, “She is well removed from the conflict between the Confederation and the royalists,” he said, because he could tell Samur that much. “She wants to live quietly, out of the way, and just be a person, for once, and not a political symbol.”
“Oh, Rupert.” Samur’s demeanor softened, suddenly, and the lines around her eyes crinkled into genuine affection. “My daughter renounced her title, but that does not mean she isn’t a princess. Things happen to princesses, whether or not they want them to happen. Wherever that weapon is, Rory is, too. I know it. That’s a mother’s gift.”
“Samur’s probably right,” said Grytt, when the call had ended, and the quantum communications viewing ball had reverted to its neutral, spherical opacity. “Rory’s in the middle of whatever is happening out there.”
“Rory has proved herself to be adept at handling difficult situations.” Rupert rose from the chair and went to the middle of the living room. There, he stopped. He had to pack, possibly for a long time. He tried to recall if it had been his turn to do the laundry, or Grytt’s, and whether or not he could make the evening shuttle to the capital. He settled his best I am thinking, please do not disturb expression over his features and began to compose mental lists of necessary items.
Grytt had no regard for his expressions, or for his signaled wish for solitude. She came and stood in front of him, where it was impossible to ignore her. It was that tesla eye of hers. Rupert was glad it was blue, and not red; but it made an unsettling combination, paired with her dark brown original eye, particularly when they were both glaring.
“I’m not worried about what Rory does. I’m worried about you, Rupert.”
“Me?”
“You.” She made a disgusted noise in her throat, turned on her heel, and stalked into the hallway. Rupert heard a door rattle in its track. She emerged shortly after, carrying a battered duffel over her shoulder. She dropped it on the floor at his feet. It was either an offering or a challenge, or perhaps some of both. “When you call Dame Maggie, tell her to expect both of us. You’re not going alone. Politics are dangerous.”
“But your sheep, Grytt.”
“That’s what Ivar and I were discussing out there.” She jabbed her chin at the open door, through which drifted the sounds of sheep as the dogs, assisted by Ivar, herded the flock back toward the pasture. “He can manage ’em. The lambing’s done, and we should be home by shearing-time.”
“You hate void-travel.”
“Yes, I do. And war, and sleet, and those little cabbages that taste like feet that you keep insisting on making me eat. But we all make our sacrifices.”
Rupert found himself unable to meet her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Huh. I’m just going along to make sure you come back here when it’s over. There’s no way I’m going to do your share of the chores.”
CHAPTER TWO
The G. Stein drifted, dribbling threads of plasma and small plumes of what had been atmosphere from a rather large hole in its engine core. Its registry declared it a civilian delivery vessel, owned by the Flora and Flowers Terrestrial Distribution (or FFTD), which was a subsidiary of the Sons of John Corporation, which in turn was a founding member of the Merchants League.
“That’s odd,” said Thorsdottir, because it was.
First, there was exactly one human settlement in the Samtalet system, a mining station bored into the seventh moon of the heavily ringed methane giant Kaosol, which was unimaginatively and rather misleadingly called SAM-1 (there being no SAM-2). SAM-1 had one hostel, two public houses, one of which served food with its alcohol, a gym, and a general store. No florists. No demand for flowers. SAM-1’s greenhouse was very practically dedicated to food production, the materials for which came along with the bi-yearly resupply ships.
And second, G. Stein appeared to’ve fallen victim to pirates, except who would want to steal flowers? And yet, there the ship was, leaking plasma.
Beside Thorsdottir, Vagabond’s pilot-navigator, Zhang, made one of those throaty grunts that might mean I agree, that is very odd or Oh, here we go again. Knowing Zhang, it meant both.
“G. Stein, this is Vagabond,” said Rory Thorne, who, being neither pilot nor gunner, sat in the little folding chair at the back of the very small cockpit, operating communications on a jury-rigged board. Communications were supposed to run through the pilot’s station, but Zhang had declared herself unqualified. Thorsdottir thought that was wisest. Rory was good at speech-making, and Zhang was prone to distress if she had to interact with strangers.
“I don’t think they’re going to answer.” Thorsdottir had to concentrate to keep the reflexive highness behind her teeth. Rory was adamant that she be called simply Rory these days, and for Thorsdottir, shedding the custom of her profession was proving difficult.
“Sst. I’m trying to hear.” Rory waved an impatient, imperious hand. Her head was cocked, her eyes unfocused, as if that would help amplify whatever sounds might be coming through her earpiece.
Thorsdottir exchanged a look with Zhang in the main screen’s reflection. Rory Thorne might have given up her title, might insist that she was just a normal person, but she had not quite shed the habits of a lifetime of command.
That was all right. Thorsdottir and Zhang had not shed their habit of obedience to Rory yet, either. Thorsdottir thought she might be getting a little closer; Rory’s tone elicited the smallest twinge of annoyance this time.