Amala had grown fond of the ship, and especially Captain Ko. He had turned out to be a pudgy, happy grandfather figure, although he probably never got to bounce grandkids on his knee. He still looked the part.
And Vibol had charmed him by working up new, matching crew uniforms for Ko and the five others that kept the ship running. Not the robes that Buran’s lords and bureaucrats wore, but something much closer to those of the civilian merchant flotilla that handled most of Aquitaine’s cargo transport.
Since Vibol and Pinchon spoke little Mongolian, and the others none of the trade languages, Amala and Yuur had ended up at the center of all conversations that didn’t involve fabric. She had learned a great deal about the man who had been shanghaied to haul her around the galaxy, and the now-former Khan of Trusski who had ordered it.
It was always interesting, watching Ko’s crew laugh at one of Yuur’s stories, and then the delayed reaction while she translated it for her team.
Two days that could have been fraught and ugly had instead turned into a summer-camp sort of thing. At least until the big survey cruiser appeared out of nowhere.
Amala had thought Captain Ko was going to wet himself. Yuur had just smiled.
And now she was going to be acting as an Ambassador in the other direction. Silliness.
Everyone was crammed into the main room except Crewman Wa, who was sitting on the bridge with orders to not touch anything, but to yell if anything beeped. Amala figured that was about the kid’s speed. He was a little dense, offset by a good heart. And the ship was entirely shut down except for life support, at this point.
Outside, pings and bangs as the shuttle docked. Unlike pure freighters, TO:557231455891 was configured to also haul a number of passengers between worlds, so the best way to board in space was a crew airlock, rather than the big cargo hatch aft.
Amala noted everyone’s nervousness and stood up from the chair she had claimed earlier. She bowed to the captain with warmth.
“Captain Ko,” she smiled and nodded. “Once everything is transshipped, I will demand that Ballard release you from your bond and let you get back to your duties.”
Ko surprised her by rising, stepping close, and shaking her hand, which was an Empire or Republic thing, not something The Holding did.
“Scholar Bhattacharya, it has been our pleasure to transport you and the Khan,” he said. “I hope we will find a way to meet again.”
Amala was touched by the sincere emotion in the man’s voice. These folks weren’t the monsters Fribourg made them out to be, but just people, trying to get by and maybe a little ahead.
She turned to the now-ex Khan, Yuur Ul. They had spoken at great length about the way forward, now that the man might be technically a fugitive. Still, innocence presumed.
“Minister Ul, adventure awaits us,” she said.
He rose, looking like he was on the verge of something pithy that would leave both crews rolling with laughter.
“Scholar Bhattacharya, all life is an adventure to be had,” he pronounced with mock-severity. “The key is remembering to stop occasionally to feed the ducks.”
They shared a special smile at that one as the room erupted in laughter.
Where else could feeding ducks be possibly misconstrued as treason?
Amala nodded to her staff, who then rose and headed aft, Pinchon in the lead, Amala ushering Ul, much like Gan Ve had led her, once upon a time.
The airlock had just begun to cycle as they lined up in the corridor outside.
The hatch opened inward, revealing two faceless troopers in light assault armor, and Centurion Dimitriou in field armor. It was like coming home to a candle in the window on a snowy winter’s night.
“Hello, Mererid,” Amala said as the geologist stepped into the corridor.
Ballard’s famous rock-hopper marine was a little shorter than Amala, and thinner, but they shared enough coloring that they might easily claim to be cousins to a complete stranger.
Centurion Dimitriou looked her up one side and down the other with a critical eye.
“Gone totally native, Amala?” she asked with a droll tone.
“This is how civilized folk dress,” Amala replied, trying not to smirk. “I wouldn’t expect a geologist to understand.”
Mererid rolled her eyes and shook her head slightly.
“Status?” she asked.
“Eight fleet and one additional passenger,” Amala said. “Bringing an Ambassador from Buran for the Fleet Centurion.”
Yuur Ul stepped forward and smiled serenely. Not being at home, he was no longer wearing his court robes, but had settled into a taupe pants and tunic outfit that suggested wealth, breeding, and intellect, without being particularly noisy about it.
“Minister of the Eighth Rank: Yuur Cheani Banop Ul,” Amala made introductions. “This is Scholar Dimitriou Stella Mererid, Doctor of Geology.”
“Are all security centurions secretly Scholars in Aquitaine?” he asked with a gleam in his eyes, bowing politely to Mererid.
“We are a deep and subtle people,” Amala replied with vague mystery.
Mererid just watched the byplay with a neutral look that really wanted to interject something sarcastic. Amala briefly wondered if she and Yuur looked like old lovers to an outsider. Certainly, they were far closer personally than circumstances should have warranted.
Not that she had considered the short, bald man as anything more than a dear friend who knew great stories and jokes. But she was also no longer the person who had braved death or imprisonment to invade Trusski in the first place.
“We’ll take him into custody now,” Mererid said with a suddenly-serious voice.
Vibol surprised the hell out of everyone by stepped forward and placing himself physically between Mererid with her two guards, and Amala and Yuur.
“You will do no such thing,” he announced with a solemnity that brought everyone to heel. “This man is an Ambassador. You will treat him as such.”
Long pause of silence.
Amala found it amusing, watching a fifty-five-year-old man, erect and lean and fussy, intimidate two armed goons half his age, each with half again his mass. Plus guns.
Mererid looked up with something verging on disbelief, but she didn’t order anybody stunned or punched. Amala figured that was enough of a win.
Finally, Mererid softened her stance and signaled her two men to relax.
“What about the ship?” she asked simply.
“It was hired by the Khan of Trusski to transport us to friendly forces,” Amala said. “And did so cheerfully. As commander on the ground, my orders would be to haul all our gear aboard your shuttle and send them home. Is Command Centurion Lungu monitoring?”
“She is.”
“Command Centurion?” Amala asked the air.
Another pause. Probably taking a moment to ask her Legal Affairs people for a ruling that would be presented in Court Martial later on.
“Anything that needs settling before you talk to the Fleet Centurion?” Kanda Lungu’s voice suddenly filled the air.
“Negative, sir,” Amala said. “This is all political, at this point. My people have vouched for the Minister’s gear. Mostly clothes and some personal effects, plus papers.”
“Granted, Bhattacharya,” the command centurion said. “We’ll take everyone aboard and get you back to Keller soonest.”
“Roger that, Command Centurion,” Amala said. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, yet, Amala,” Kanda replied. “You still get to explain it all to the Fleet Centurion.”
Amala grinned. There were worse fates. And there was still a war.