Then she closed the hatch again, which was both safety protocol and good sense, if one wished to discuss Rory’s decisions not in Rory’s hearing.
“The delivery ship wasn’t a delivery ship. It wasn’t even a smuggler. It’s a Tadeshi warship running a false ID, and someone shot a hole in it. Zhang took evasives as a precaution but its turings aren’t firing. I don’t know exactly what kind of warship it was. Zhang doesn’t either. Maybe you’ll know.”
The spots of color on his cheekbones intensified. “Because I’m Tadeshi?”
Yes, Thorsdottir wanted to say. Your political origins automatically confer specialist knowledge on military vessels. Jaed Moss had come from station-born privilege, and although the Free Worlds had compulsory military service, Thorsdottir knew for a fact that Jaed had never served. There were advantages to one’s father being the usurping power behind the Tadeshi throne.
Thorsdottir knew that Jaed was a little bit (a lot) sensitive about his familial background, and also probably a little nauseous from Zhang’s flying, so she tried to be, if not kind, at least neutral.
“No. Because you told us that you used to have a poster of all the Tadeshi warships above your bed, and I therefore assume some expertise on your part.”
“Oh. Well. I can look.”
“Good. Then get out of your harness and come do that.”
Jaed’s eyes followed her across the cabin. His fingers plucked at his harness as if at a harp’s strings. “Um. So someone got here first, shot up G. Stein, and now we’re doing . . . what, exactly?”
Thorsdottir braced both hands against the hardsuit rack.
“Now we’re going to board and see what they were hiding, or smuggling, or whatever they were doing.” She kept her voice as neutral as a k’bal in a conflict.
Jaed pinched his lips together and watched while Thorsdottir popped the seal and released her hardsuit from its place on the rack. He had acquired, thanks to Rory, more than a little arithmancy; Thorsdottir supposed sourly that he was probably looking at her aura and seeing just how unhappy she was with the prospect.
The cabin hatch clanged open. Rory ducked through, smiling so brightly and sharply that Thorsdottir’s heart dropped. Rory had looked just like that before she challenged the Prince of Tadesh to a duel to first blood to establish his worthiness to marry her. See how all that had turned out.
“I’ll just be a minute,” said Rory in a tone that dared anyone to argue. She kept the smile bared as she squeezed through the narrow space between the bunks and helped herself into her own hardsuit.
Thorsdottir bit her lip and craned her neck to see through to the cockpit. Zhang had cranked around in her seat, straining her harness and staring do something at Thorsdottir. They had all discussed, at length and in detail, why Rory should remain in Vagabond when they did hostile boarding actions. Practically, Rory was the back-up pilot, if something happened to Zhang. She was not experienced, or particularly skilled, with weapons, most of her practice having been confined to simulations and a long history of playing Duty Calls; but she had a good relationship with Vagabond’s primary turing, which seemed to regard Zhang as a professional hazard.
Since Rory had decided not to honor their prior agreements, it fell to someone to argue with her, and from Zhang’s expression, she expected that someone to be Thorsdottir.
Jaed was studying the former princess. “Rory. What’s going on?”
Thorsdottir expected a nothing, which is what she or Zhang might’ve gotten; but Rory looked at Jaed, and hesitated. Then she raised an insouciant eyebrow.
“I heard a transmission coming from G. Stein. It’s not on the standard channels, and I thought it was just noise. But there’s a pattern to it that I can’t pin down. It’s like . . . a whisper. Or I’m just hearing feedback. Or maybe it’s some arithmancer’s grocery receipt.”
“Or maybe,” muttered Thorsdottir, “it’s a battle-hex that will fry us the moment we breach the hull.”
Rory grinned at Thorsdottir. “You sound like Grytt.”
“Thank you,” said Thorsdottir. “Where would this communication be coming from, though? Or who? Hardsuit comms won’t penetrate a ship’s hull. The main turing is down.”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m going with you to look.”
“So you intend to leave Zhang on board as our pilot?”
Rory looked up sharply, as if Thorsdottir had shouted please do not be stupid about this (which she had in fact been thinking) instead of making a respectful, quiet-voiced query.
“Is that a problem?”
Thorsdottir wished again for Grytt or the Vizier (who, like Rory, had rejected his title and who, like Rory, Thorsdottir couldn’t quite imagine without it). They had come pre-loaded with Authority, capital A, to which even a princess might respond.
Though since, through no fault of their own, they had left Rory to extricate herself from Jaed’s father’s coup attempt and imprisonment, their influence over her might be somewhat diminished even if they were here. Still. They had never hesitated to tell Rory what they thought, and so Thorsdottir—mouth dry, heart crawling up into her throat—said, somewhat sharply, “Yes. You’re the agreed-upon back-up pilot. If you truly believe there are people over there, then Zhang is better prepared for a firefight than you are.”
Rory’s eyes narrowed.
“And if there is an arithmancer or a battle-hex, how much help will Zhang be?”
Well, first, Zhang’s ’slinger bolts went where she aimed them, every time, with appalling accuracy. Arithmancers—even military, battle-hex wielding arithmancers—were susceptible to ’slinger bolts. Secondly, and more importantly, to Thorsdottir’s reckoning, Zhang had a Royal Guard’s paranoid caution, not a princess’s curiosity.
The words backed up in Thorsdottir’s throat. Rory demanded honesty from her—they weren’t friends, exactly, weren’t staff anymore, so what? Crew? Close associates? But not equals, not Grytt-or-Vizier level authority, not anyone who could say what was necessary. She wished for Rory to use that uncanny insight and just, for once, read Thorsdottir’s mind.
Rory stared at her, expectant.
“I’ll go,” said Jaed. “Instead of Zhang. I can shoot, and I’m an arithmancer. In case, you know. Battle-hexes.”
It was not often Rory was struck silent. She regarded Jaed with round eyes and her mouth just a little agape. Then her lips came together, and her brows leveled out, and her expression went smooth as glass. She slapped the seals closed on her suit with more force than necessary.
“You’re half the arithmancer I am.”
The utterance was not kind, in either sentiment or delivery, and shocking for that reason. Rory demanded honesty, and gave it in return; but she was usually better at diplomacy.