Nimisha's Ship

CHAPTER 3

The pulses from the Mayday beacon were omnidirectional and would connect with any sensor capable of receiving the message, including planetary or lunar satellites or other spaceships.

The first comunit to catch it was on a small intersystem freighter, five light-hours away.

"Hey, cap'n," the sailor on watch yelled to the dozing master of the vessel, "distress call."

"Where?"

When the sailor told him, the captain snorted. "Like we could do anything about it this month."

"It's got a Navy tag and one from the Rondymense Ship Yard down Vega way. We gotta at least forward it."

"Rondymense?" The captain struggled to a sitting position. "AND Navy? Label it 'Flash Override.'We can't get there, but we can sure pulse a tight beam to the nearest Naval Base. Look up the coordinates and the frequency."

The nearest naval unit, a destroyer on a routine mission, caught another of the pulses and the two warnings reached the Naval Base at Dalonaga.

"Send those coordinates to the plot," the officer of the watch said, wasting no time to get to the transparent three-dimensional sphere that was used during manoeuvres.(Wars were few in this century.) The sphere could be adjusted to any given area of space and display it three-dimensionally. It also pinpointed the present position of every naval unit in that area. Of which there were currently none of these when the appropriate section appeared on the sector and with it the position of the buoy, a tiny blinking red asterisk.

"The gods wept!" cried the jig. "We had a routine signal about a trial run for a Rondymense yacht out that way. What could have happened? I'll have to bother the captain with this."

"I'd've killed you if you hadn't," was the response as the captain swung onto the bridge, his cheek bearing crease marks from his interrupted sleep. "Crappit! The ID's for that long-distance yacht Vegan Fleet's keen on. Now what the frag could have happened to it? What have we got that's fast enough to get out there and see, Addison?" he asked the duty officer.

"Sir, there's nothing close enough, sir," Addison replied, depressed. Then he brightened as he added, "The base at Coyne III has one of the Mark Twos that came out of the Rondymense Yard."

"Send a Flash Override to Coyne Ill's base commander, requiring him to send the Mark Two with all possible speed to these coordinates." The captain's finger was shaking just a little as he tapped the plot and the winking light. "The Mark Two can be Net Control and do a standard search pattern until we can get more units out there to help. No one's going to hang about when they see who sent that Mayday."

Rubbing his face as if that would assist clearer insight into the emergency, the captain increased the magnification of the targeted zone and began to scratch his skull in perplexity. It was a sparsely occupied area, which is why it was used for testing new ships, and occasionally for naval manoeuvres. Could the Rondymense ship have blundered into a missile left over from the last Games? He shook his head at that unlikelihood. If the test ship were an advance on the design of the Mark 2, it would have sensors capable of detecting a missile. After ail, the pilot had had time to shoot off a Mayday beacon, so he hadn't landed on the missile to set it off. For which mischance the odds would be in gigabytes.

The Mark 2 from Coyne III was the first to arrive, its captain having had the distinct pleasure of an excuse to redline the engines. It was joined by half a dozen other vessels, four naval, one commercial, and one luxury yacht that had altered course from a hunting preserve to answer what might be a much more exciting adventure for its First Family occupants. All participated in the standard 3-D search pattern, with the Mark 2, Swallow, acting as NETCOS.

The Swallow, commanded by a senior lieutenant on his first assignment, had followed all the recommended search procedures, starting with a long-range scan for a life pod, for debris, for traces of an ion trail. He did find that. Or, rather, traces of the ship's reentry into normal space.

The emissions were clean enough, what one would expect of a brand-new ship. But there wasn't so much as a cinder of debris or a pellet of melted metal to be found. Hailed by the incoming naval ships, one with an admiral aboard, Swallow handed over the NET-COS to the flagship while he continued on his search pattern. By now all the ships had moved well beyond the beacon. The one thing he should have tried to find was any discontinuity in the space near the beacon, but at that point in time no one had thought to check for a wormhole.

Fretting during the long sleepless days it took Caleb Rustin to reach the beacon, even redlining the Mark 4 he "borrowed" from the Rondymense Ship Yard, he had time to check for reports on any anomalies, of any kind, reported in that sector of space.

He groaned as the report divulged that eighteen ships had been reported "last heard from" in this general area. The latest one had been fifteen standard years previously, an exploration ship, the Poolbeg, FSPS 9K66E, ten aboard, Captain Panados Querine commanding. The ship and crew had been deemed officially lost in space seven years ago. The other ships listed as missing ranged back through the nearly two hundred and fifty years of space history.

No debris of any of the missing ships had ever been found, even at the Moon Base of the notorious Ebevyr Pirates who had terrorised commercial shipping for three decades over a hundred years before. However, many previously "missing" ships, or fragments thereof, including descendants of crews and passengers reduced to slavery by the pirates, were found and accounted for.

When Caleb reported his findings to Admiral Gollanch on his flagship, the admiral immediately set the more powerful search units of his database to sift possibilities.

"Wormhole?" Caleb suggested, wincing.

The admiral looked pensive. "None ever reported at those coordinates, Rustin."

"Possibly why this particular area is one of the more deserted sectors?"

"Having eaten any nearby stars and their planets?" If an admiral chose to be facetious, he could, but Caleb gritted his teeth. It was Nimisha Boynton-Rondymense who was the victim, not some totally unknown unfortunate. "What the astrographer says about wormholes is that they seem to appear in less tenanted space. The few that have been regular occurrences suggest that there are far more of these phenomena than we have documented."

"If Lady Nimisha had seen a wormhole, she'd've included it in the Mayday," Caleb said staunchly.

"IF she had seen it in time, Commander," the admiral said. "1 seem to be arguing against my wishes," he added with a rueful twist to his lips. "I'd like nothing better than to find her… and that prototype. Did you redline the Four all the way out there?"

"Yes. sir," Caleb replied without a trace of regret. "Drive and ship performed very well at maximum thrust."

"No problems?"

"I'm preparing a full performance report, sir. You'll have it shortly on a pulsed beam."

"Did well, did it? Then why in name of Holy Icons was Nimisha dissatisfied with the Four?"

"Lady Nimisha…" Caleb had to close his eyes a moment, having managed to keep desire under control. By mentioning her name, he was robbed of his calm for a second, but he continued with a firm emphasis on the verb, "is a perfectionist, and I must admit that she had already proved to me that the Fiver's drive tested out 12.25 percent more efficient before and after installation."

"Hmmm, really?" The admiral pulled at his lower lip. "Then we shall spare no effort to retrieve the prodigal and her efficient vessel."

"Especially as she made the final adjustments and additions with Jeska's help and not mine," Caleb said ruefully.

By the time Caleb Rustin arrived at the beacon, the Swallow and the other vessels that had answered the Mayday were widening their search pattern for debris or any other traces. It was now three days and fifteen hours since the beacon had first begun to pulse. Admiral Gollanch had sent on to Caleb in his faster comsystem science reports on wormhole tracings, but whatever might have been present before the Mark 2 had begun its search pattern had been overlaid by its own ion trail.

The Swallow's captain was horrified speechless and then babbled on and on about how he had followed standard search procedures as outlined in regulations and… until Caleb had to cut off the sound and look away from the screen. He got his emotions under control and held up one hand to stem the flow from the penitent junior before he flipped back on the sound.

"You did exactly as you should, Fermassy, no fault to you," Caleb said, and had to repeat it several more times until the young captain could be sufficiently reassured.

"What can we do now, Commander? We must do something,"

Fermassy insisted. "Lady Nimisha must be found! She's First Family, sir!"

"We are all exceedingly aware of that, Fermassy, I assure you. It is my devout hope that the more sensitive equipment on board Admiral Gollanch's ship may find traces we cannot."

"But both our ships are Rondymense-made, sir!" the young captain exclaimed.

"Which is why we made it here so fast. Ah, and what have we coming in now?" Caleb noticed ships arriving from three directions and welcomed the diversion from Fermassy's self-castigation.

He was not quite as pleased to discover that the luxury yacht that had diverted from its original destination to a hunting preserve was occupied by friends of Lord Vestrin. How the man would enjoy knowing that his half-sister had gone missing in such a dramatic fashion. Caleb sent a pulsed priority message directly to Rondymense Ship Yard and another to Lady Rezalla. Vestrin's dam would like nothing better than to get the Yard back into her hands under a default condition, since the Yard had been left to Nimisha, not to Nimisha and her body-heir.

BUT NIMISHA IS NOT DEAD, Caleb told himself at the top of his mental voice, denying, denying, denying.

There had been the Fiver's ion trail in normal space, ending some ten thousand kilometres from the beacon. Caleb figured she might well have propelled it as far from the wormhole as possible to be sure it would escape and send its vital Mayday. She was in the most advanced and sophisticated ship in the known galaxy, built of the best materials, all basic ship functions had proved out in the earlier models and no debris was evident. Malfunction was marginally possible. But he denied malfunction. He denied her death. But how could they find a wormhole that had never been seen? How could they even prove that it had been a wormhole that had snatched her out of this part of space?

Despite the most sensitive and sophisticated of instruments, some of which bore Nimisha Boynton-Rondymense's patent registrations, no further trace was found. Machinists and programmers on the admiral's big cruiser made alterations to existing sensors and the original beacon was shortly anchored to a highly specialised satellite. It was programmed to launch a piggyback double probe into whatever wormhole or other spatial anomaly might appear at these coordinates, simultaneously pulsing a broadcast to the nearest drone monitor. When the double probe reached the other end of the wormhole, the piggyback, with the most powerful single thruster in the Fleet's possession, would be immediately released and return with whatever information it could glean in a nanosecond's view of the exit space. Similar units would be constructed and scattered within this relatively unoccupied sector, so that no wormhole could poke its white snout through the fabric of space without instant detection. During the next month, a special station was hauled to the edge of the sector and positioned there, with a Mark 4 on detached assignment, probably the fastest ship that could be scrambled to reach a wormhole.

"We hope," was Admiral Gollanch's remark as he initialled the necessary orders. "I'll make this a three-month duty station, high risk compensation, partnered crews so they'll have something to do while they wait…"

"Ma'am? Ma'am?"

"Lady Nimisha? Please answer, Lady Nimisha. Do you wish more to eat?"

"Nimi, get to your feet and get over to the unit. I can't treat you from here."

The sentences, each in a different but recognisable tone from patient repetition to anxiety to command, gradually penetrated Nimi's fogged mind.

She struggled to sit up, rolling her eyes at the pain in her head, trying to remember what had hit her.

"Orders, please, ma'am. I am on standby."

"Standby?" Nimi repeated and forced her eyes open, one hand at her temple so that she felt the dried blood that had congealed there. "Oh." She shed the half of harness she had managed to get on and tried to stand. "Helm, report!"

She made a second and successful attempt to get to her feet and made her way to the medical station. Wove her way, she amended. She'd had quite a crack.

"Doc, how long have I been unconscious?"

"Three hours, twenty minutes, six seconds and-"

"Thank you, Helm," she cut off the hundredths. "I asked the Doc."

"Helm needs to hear your voice, Nimi," the medic said in Lord Naves's soothing baritone. "Now lie down before you fall."

The change in position made her head throb, but the infirmary unit's extensions had snaked out of their niches to clamp on her body for readings.

"Shaken but nothing stirred," the Doc said reassuringly. "We'll just relieve the symptoms and clean up that cut. A spurt of nu-skin will close it neatly."

Nimi grimaced as a swab made her aware of how tender the spot was, but the sudden coolness on her arm from a hypospray meant that the discomfort would soon disappear.

"All systems functioning normally," Helm said. "No damage reported in any section despite the turbulence of the wormhole. The hull has been scraped on both sides but has not lost integrity."

"Wormhole!" Nimisha would have shot upright if she hadn't been entangled with extendables, which were still checking her over.

"Let's just keep our cool," Doc said.

"We were drawn into a wormhole, ma'am, and you were rendered unconscious by the buffeting," was Helm's contribution.

Somehow she got the distinct impression from Helm's voice that it was her puny human fault that she was vulnerable and he was sorry for her. Hmmm… maybe she should reprogram Helm when she got back to the yard. That actor had embroidered on the script with some emotional content that was not to her liking. Damn him.

"What is our position?"

There was a long pause, during which she was given another injection "for shock," the Doc said.

"I'm waiting, Helm."

"Working, ma'am, on establishing our present position with star identification program." Helm was almost a misnomer for the functions handled by that AI: It was not only guidance, but engineering, communications, navigation, defence, and science, as well as commissary for all the supplies on board the Fiver which were not for human consumption. And it ordered those in from the lists supplied by Cater.

Nimi craned her neck to get a glimpse of the main screen.

"You'll have time enough to look at it when you've been cleared by me, Nimi, and have had something to bring your blood sugar up to normal. Cater, prepare a sweetened and restorative drink, high protein, full trace elements."

"Yes, indeed. My pleasure."

Nimisha wondered if she actually heard a note of relief in Cater's voice. The manipulative arms of the infirmary withdrew. "Move slowly now," Doc advised. "No permanent damage, but you gave yourself quite a crack."

"I'll have to see to the armrest design. Pad it better," Nimisha muttered. "Take note please, Helm," she added as she walked slowly toward the dispenser and the cup of steamy liquid awaiting her. Judiciously sampling it, though it was at just the right temperature to be ingested immediately, she thanked Cater and got a fervent "You're very welcome, Lady Nimisha," as she returned to the pilot console.

"It shouldn't take you this long to match spectro-analyses. Helm. What's the problem?"

"I can find no matches, ma'am."

Nimisha blinked. "You're programmed with every single data cube available to the Fleet on every single star system. You mean, that wormhole took us outside the Delta Quadrant?"

"That would be a correct assessment of an inability to identify any of the primaries visible. We are substantially closer to the Magellanic Clouds, so we must be nearer the southern celestial pole. I believe I can identify the constellation Doradus, but it is the only familiar starscape."

Nimisha looked out, not precisely doubting Helm but unwilling to concede that she, and her ship, were lost in space. She knew what configuration of stars she should have seen from the Fiver at the position where the wormhole sucked her in. There were no comfortingly familiar star-patterns visible, but she was still in a populous area, to judge by the multitude of primaries shining all around her.

"Well, if my brains were scrambled, at least yours can't be, Helm."

"No, ma'am."

"What about that double star? Surely it's unusual enough to have turned up somewhere on Fleet explorations?"

"It does not match within the necessary parameters for any double stars on file."

Nimisha eased herself into the pilot's chair and sipped at her beverage. It had a minty flavour and something else, more exotic, but she could feel its restorative rush.

"Int'rusting," she said, matching a tone her mother would use when faced with some unusual situation.

"Shall I log it in?"

"Might as well. Do the whole panorama," Nimisha added with a sweep of her free arm. "Might be useful sometime. No answer to our Mayday, I suppose?"

"No, ma'am."

At least Helm didn't sound worried. No, the worry was all hers.

"Helm, have we moved from where that wormhole spat us out?"

"No, ma'am. I awaited your orders."

"Yes, of course, since you weren't programmed for the standard operating procedure on exiting wormholes."

"No, ma'am."

For that matter, she didn't know what that would be either, but she could wish he had less need for so many negatives. Had she been conscious, her first action on being spat out would have been to send a probe back through the hole with the present star patterns. However, she hadn't been awake and she couldn't fault Helm for not knowing what action to take in such a situation.

"Then please prepare a new beacon, giving our registration and com-pulse configurations, the spectro-analysis of the stars in our spatial vicinity, and repeat our request for contact with any Fleet or civilian vessel."

"Aye, ma'am."

An affirmative was a nice change.

"Beacon away," Helm said a few moments later.

That was one advantage in having AI units managing the ship. They didn't have to take breaks or eat or go to the head at awkward moments, and they worked with great speed and efficiency. She sighed and drained the cup.

"That did the trick, Cater, Doc."

"I recommend some rest, Nimi, while you're awaiting a response."

"Aren't you the optimist?" she replied with a snort. But the idea of getting horizontal and sleeping was a good one. She'd be able to think better when the headache, as well as the medication that had reduced it, was gone. "You have the conn, Helm."

"I have the conn, ma'am."

She slept her normal six hours and woke refreshed. After a quick shower in water that her purifying system kept fresh enough to allow such a luxury, she dressed and, leaving her quarters, gave Cater orders for her breakfast.

"Good morning, Helm. Any report?"

"Nothing to report, ma'am."

"Good morning, Doc."

"You sound perfectly normal," Doc said cheerfully.

"Thank you. And thank you, Cater, for breakfast."

She asked for music since she liked it in the background when she was thinking hard. Indeed, she had no idea at all of what to do next, apart from waiting beside the beacon, hoping its pulse would alert someone. Her meal finished, she resumed the pilot's chair, staring out at unfamiliar constellations. Why, that band of stars in the grouping to the upper right vaguely resembled Orion's belt, but the rest of the constellation did not match.

"Helm, has your inspection of the immediate vicinity turned up any M-type planets nearby?"

"Three, ma'am." A red light briefly circled the three primaries.

"That many?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, when I find myself twiddling my thumbs, we can always go take a look-see. Might as well." Action was preferable to sitting like-who was it on her tuffet? "I'll give it another three days. That would give time for our initial pulse to reach main shipping lanes."

"Or the curious of this Quadrant," Doc added.

"A search of the records of ships missing in the general vicinity of that wormhole has proved fruitful," Helm suddenly volunteered.

"Oh?"

"Eighteen ships in the two hundred and fifty years of recorded space exploration."

"Oh!" She paused, smiling ironically. "Make that nineteen, Helm, since we've just joined that elite group."

"Yes, ma'am."

"When was the last one reported to Fleet?" She held her breath for his reply.

"Fifteen years ago, Exploratory Vessel FSPS 9K66E, the Poolbeg, was reported missing. Her last report came from this general area."

"Fifteen?" Well, she was not going to miss Cuiva's Necklacing. Somehow she'd find a way home before that auspicious event in her daughter's life three and a half years from now.

Three days later there had been not so much as a peep from the pulse. As it had been sent out in all directions, she was obviously far from any responder, even those discreet Fleet "ears" that Caleb had told her dotted known space. However, that did not mean that there wouldn't be a response. Nimisha was not constitutionally patient. She required action. If she'd been travelling to a destination, there would have been other matters to involve her. Hanging motionless in space-even though she programmed a day full of the various activities she had for diversion-exercise in the gymnasium, playing interactive games, and an immense library of tri-d and tapes-was not the same thing as having a destination.

She also spent time with Helm in gathering a file of spectro-analyses of all the primaries in their present starscape. These were inserted into the beacon's data file.

"Helm?" she began firmly after her breakfast on the fourth morning, "How much time does it take a pulse to get from one side of Delta Quadrant to the other?"

"Nine full ship days with the strength of the unit on board."

Slowly she came to the bridge and looked out at the uninformative and strange starscape.

"We shall remain in position then, to allow any searchers time to reach us," she said. "I shall make use of the suspended animation facility, Doc."

"Always ready to comply, Nimi."

"Helm, you will monitor any incoming pulses. You will have Doc revive me instantly if you have received any response. If, however, the wormhole reappears-" She paused, wondering if using that escape from her present position was sensible considering the erratic behaviour of unprobed wormholes. "-you will immediately enter it, deploying a second beacon stating the time of this reentry. Doc, if Helm takes us into the wormhole, revive me."

"Is this advisable, Lady Nimisha?" Helm and Doc asked in chorus.

"I can't be more lost than I am now, can I?" she replied. "At least I can leave behind proof that I was here and am still very much alive."

"There are three primaries with habitable planets, Lady Nimisha. Why not investigate the possibility of establishing a planetary base?" Helm suggested.

"A good idea," she said, rubbing her chin thoughtfully as Helm red-circled the three prospects again. "But there is every possibility that the wormhole would return us to our starting point, and that would be the best solution."

"Shall you stay in suspended animation until that time?" Doc asked. "If there is no response to the pulse message?"

"A good point. Who knows when that wretched hole will reappear. All right, let's set a limit of a year to this day for revival if neither a message arrives nor the wormhole appears. I don't want to stay away any longer than necessary."

"No, of course not, Nimi," Doc said, his tone approving.

To herself she put the question: Which way would I have to go to get back home? Helm had registered no directional bend in which the wormhole had bridged the space from there to here. Once again she thought how, if she had only been conscious when they reached the end of the wormhole, she could have launched a probe with her current starscape back through the hole before it closed. Though what good that would have done was moot when there were no recognisable primaries at this exit point to guide a rescue party. Eventually, the beacon would guide in a rescue vessel. Eventually!

Helm repeated the orders.

"I am also to be roused if anything… extraordinary… should occur in our current spatial neighbourhood."

"Anything not covered by standard operating procedures, ma'am?"

"You got it, Helm."

Nimisha rose, walking with stiff steps to the infirmary unit. She didn't like this expedient but it was better than waiting around and fretting herself over her inability to take action. She'd had several short spells of suspended animation and was none the worse for them. She did dislike not being present, but she could trust Helm and Doc to rouse her if anything untoward happened.

"Whenever you're ready, Doc," she began but wasn't sure how much of the sentence in her mind she actually spoke aloud, because the walls around the medical couch rose and snapped shut over her head, the sleep gas already hissing into the enclosed space.

"Lady Nimisha has only been gone five months, Cal," Admiral Gollanch remarked to Commander Rustin, who was pacing up and down in front of the desk. He sighed. "I know it seems a lot longer but you cannot deny that we have done everything possible, impossible, probable, and improbable to locate her. Finishing up the second Fiver would be a good idea. Especially, if putting her through a shake-down cruise will give us any clues as to what happened to Lady Nimisha's ship. And you tell me that Jeska Mlan, who is the Yard's executive director, agrees. So what's the problem?"

"We can't find the final specs to complete it."

"Hmmm, yes, well, she did warn me that she did not intend to give the Fleet all her secrets. But surely you…" and Admiral Gollanch extended his hand invitingly toward Rustin.

"I?" The commander grinned ruefully. "She trusted everyone up to a point. I, perhaps, further than her yard supervisors-equally, I believe, as much as she trusts Jeska Mlan. But she finished some units by herself, in her private machine shop." He paused a moment and amended that statement. "She usually had her special mechanic, Hiska, on hand, but she won't say anything. Not even if there were additional specs that Lady Nimisha kept someplace else."

Gollanch sighed. "She wouldn't have left without storing the final plans somewhere. Would she?"

"I was hoping that she had left them with you, sir."

"With me?" The admiral was surprised enough to jerk a thumb at his chest and cleared his throat. "I'd've said you would be the logical recipient. You seemed to have no trouble working closely together during the Fiver's construction. Surely she confided in you?"

"Up to a point-the point at which we are now stymied in completing the second Mark Five. Oh, we can fly her and she'd be an asset to the fleet as a long-distance scout. She could be sold as a yacht, but she's not yet a replica of the Fiver that Lady Nimisha took out on that run."

"Ah, I see," the admiral remarked, steepling his fingers and bouncing the tips together.

"Sir?"

The admiral gave a droll chuckle. "She did warn me."

"She also wouldn't leave, even on what should have been a routine shakedown cruise, without leaving such vital information in a safe place. She was too precise and careful a designer than not leave a backup."

"I concur. Would she have left them in her residence?"

"I dislike intruding on Lady Rezalla…" Rustin said, shaking his head.'

"So would I," the admiral replied with much feeling in his voice, "but the concern is not frivolous. And you have been welcomed at the Boynton-Chonderlee House, have you not? Even since Lady Nimisha's disappearance?"

"No problem there…" This was true enough, even if he had rarely seen Lady Rezalla. It was Cuiva whose company he sought, taking the girl on outings with Belac, who had similar interests in "designing things." He always made a point of asking the Residence Manager to convey his respects to Lady Rezalla and usually brought some small token for her-a delicate blossom, a rare fruit, or the sweets of which Lady Rezalla was inordinately fond. There was always a brief note of thanks for him at his next visit, handwritten in an unusually bold forward stroke. A penned note was such a treasure that he kept them all, filed in a lacquered box, as examples of a lost art. However, asking could he find a secreted file in the Boynton Family Residence was another matter entirely. "I could ask."

"That is all you can do, Commander," the admiral said with a snort, understanding both the etiquette and the audacious course of action he was asking his subordinate to undertake. He wouldn't have dared, but he was not on such terms with the Family as Rustin was. And he very much wanted to commission this prototype for Fleet use-once it had proved itself on trial runs. To have stumbled into a wormhole was a wretched piece of misfortune and not to be considered the fault of the pilot, much less the vessel.

Trying very hard not to show how ill at ease he was, Lt. Commander Caleb Rustin appeared at the door to the Boynton-Chonderlee House, a baroque creation of outstanding elegance and beauty in the Old Quarter of Acclarke City, at precisely one minute before the appointment received from Lady Rezalla.

It wasn't, however, the Residence Manager (one of the latest Class T AI's) but Lady Cuiva herself who opened the door.

"I heard Grandam say you were coming today," she said, slipping outside.

Caleb smiled down at the girl's anxious expression, and since they were not in a public spot, he gave her a quick hug. That's when he realised that she had both hands clasped behind her back.

"You don't happen to have news about my mother?" she asked so plaintively that Caleb wanted more than ever to have good news for her.

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 odour. 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 gruelling manoeuvres."

"Except those that would take you down the maw of a worm-hole, 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 perfumeries 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 rumours 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 roue he most certainly is. I would put nothing past a creature of so little honour 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 honoured 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 morning 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.

The woman 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 emphasise 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 scrunching 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 use his first name. 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, Perron, 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, Perron, 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 programmes from naval. He ran a quick pricing on labour 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, organised a schedule for their manufacture and insertion, and put out a call for Nimi's favourite 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, as much because 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."

Hiska growled and made the rest of the way to him in a less aggressive manner, her attention focused on the disks. She was a compact little woman with mousy hair cropped to her skull. Her round face had no lines whatsoever-not surprising, since she rarely exhibited emotions of any kind that would encourage wrinkles. Her grunts, snorts, humphs, ohs, and ahs did service for whatever she might be feeling. She had penetrating eyes deep-set under thick brows of the same mousy shade hair. Her hands were oddly much like Nimisha's, square palms with short, clever fingers and incredible strength when she put her body behind her grasp. Nimisha had taken her as her private mechanic years before on the advice of Jim Marroo, then Yard Manager, who had recognized an unusual aptitude in the silent person. There was no question of her dedication to Lady Nimisha and her almost zealous proprietary control of this machine shop.

"If we are to have the best possible chance of finding Lady Nimisha, we need this Fiver in the same condition as the one she went out in. Lady Cuiva gave me the disks yesterday afternoon. I didn't know she had them. I thought Lady Rezalla would have been the custodian," Caleb said bluntly. He was rewarded with as noncommittal a humph as he'd ever heard out of Hiska. "Next week Lady Cuiva's coming up to see how we're getting along. I'd like her to see the ship finished now that we have these." He gestured to the disks. "I'd like you to be especially on your guard, Hiska, as we have information that suggests Lord Vestrin might be vindictive enough to try to harm Lady Cuiva. You spot any face you don't know, you report it immediately to Security!"

Hiska stared at him, her gaze intensifying with outrage, her eyes going so round that he wondered if they'd pop out of their sockets. Then her jaw muscles tightened and her hands became blunt fists, banging into her thighs. She inhaled deeply and then exhaled so fiercely that Caleb knew no one would get into this workshop or past Hiska to harm Lady Cuiva.

Having settled that problem, he handed across to the mechanic the clipboard with his listing of what needed to be completed.

"If you'd be willing to assist me in translating these specs, Hiska, I'll know there will be no errors in the finished designs."

With more courtesy than she'd ever accorded him before, she took the clipboard from him. She scanned it quickly and gave one emphatic nod. She returned the board to him and went to unlock Nimisha's supply closet. Nimisha would keep on hand supplies of any sort that she might need in her designs. Caleb doubted that there'd be any shortage of exactly what they'd need to make the spare parts or upgrade the boards.

"Need anything at the dispenser?" Caleb called as he went for a stimulant. He'd see how long he could keep up with Hiska before he took a rest. One needed clear eyes and steady hands for some of the delicate assemblies they were about to undertake. If he started to fumble, Hiska would insist on his taking a break.

They'd completed two of the six boards when he broke a delicate connection. Hiska drew her breath in a hiss of concern. Pursing her lips, she reached over and took the tool from his hand, jerking her head at the small office. Her invitation for him to rest needed no elaboration.

"Wake me in two hours," he said.

"Humph," was her answer, and he wondered if she would obey.

She didn't. He was asleep for four hours before she judged him sufficiently rested to continue. And she'd been right. She had completed one more board and several of the finicky alterations on parts she had brought in from the Fiver.

They'd finished, and installed, all the boards by the time fatigue again overtook Caleb. He slept aboard the ship while Hiska occupied the cot in Nimisha's office when the second shift quit.