Read Heris Serrano for Free Online

flattering and charming them. She would not cooperate if that's what Lady Cecelia had in mind. She would make it clear that she was a captain, not an entertainer. She would eat decent spacefaring meals in her own quarters, since the ship offered no separate wardroom for ship's officers.
     
    Cecelia had heard about spacefleet captains from her sisters: cold, mechanical, brutal, insensitive (which meant they had not worshipped at the shrine of her sister Berenice's beauty, she thought). She enjoyed her meals too much to invite a boor to share them.
     
    * * *
     
    That first evening of the voyage proper, Heris ate in her cabin, working her way through a stack of maintenance and fitness logs. The crew cook provided a surprisingly tasty meal; she had been prepared for bland reconstituted food, but the crisp greens of her salad had never seen a freeze-dry unit, she was sure. She missed having a proper wardroom for the officers' mess, but the officers on Sweet Delight, such as they were, were not likely to become rewarding dinner companions.
     
    At least Lady Cecelia had not stinted on fresh food or on the quality of maintenance. Heris nodded at the screenful of data. Not one back-alley refitter in the lot; if the lady was bent on hiring incompetents, as Heris had begun to suspect, she did so from some other motive than mere economy. The bills would have paid for refitting a larger and more dangerous ship than the yacht, but Heris supposed part of it went into cosmetics, like the decor. Which reminded her, she must explain to Lady Cecelia the need for tearing out that plush covering the umbilicals.
     
    She ignored the gooey dessert for another stalk of mint-flavored celery, slid her tray into the return bin, and called up data from the next refitting. So far—she refused to let herself contemplate all the future days—nothing had gone very wrong. This life might be bearable after all.
     
    * * *
     
    "I suppose you want us to dress," Ronnie said. He lay sprawled in the massage lounger, his admittedly handsome body still dripping sweat from his workout on the gym equipment. Cecelia eyed him sourly; she wanted a massage herself, but not on the clammy cushions he would leave behind. When she'd chosen the luxurious zaur-leather upholstery she'd assumed she'd never have to share it. The saleswoman had mentioned the potential problem, and she had shrugged it off.Now she felt aggrieved, as if it were anyone's fault but hers.
     
    "Yes," she said. "I do. And be prompt; good food doesn't improve by sitting."
     
    "Thank you, Lady Cecelia," said Raffaele. She appeared to be George's companion, slight and dark—though not as dark as Captain Serrano. "These young men would never dress if you didn't make them, and we can't if they don't."
     
    "Why not?" She was in no mood to honor custom; she watched the girls share a glance, then Raffaele tipped her head to one side.
     
    "I feel silly, that's all. My red dress, and the boys in skimps?"
     
    Cecelia chuckled in spite of herself. "If you're going to feel silly just because some lummox doesn't live up to your expectations, you'll have a miserable life. Wear what you want and ignore them."
     
    Another shared glance. One of the girls might have been more tactful, but Ronnie burst out first. "That's what you do—and that's why you never married and live by yourself in a miserable little ship!"
     
    Cecelia stared him down. "That's why I have the money and position I do—independent of any alliance—to do what I want—and that's why I was available to help you when you got yourself into this mess. Or perhaps you don't know that the first suggestion given your father was that you be packed off on an ore-hauler to Versteen?"
     
    "They wouldn't have!" Ronnie looked almost horrified enough.
     
    Cecelia shrugged. "They didn't, but largely because I was available, and could be talked into it. If your mother—well, never mind. But my point is, that if I had been a conventional member of this