Conflict Of Honors Read Online Free PDF Page A

abruptly trembling, wishing fiercely to have Dagmar's neck between her hands.

    Arsdred, she told herself, trying to still the fury. I'll have them both. Just let me get to Arsdred.

    Slowly the rage became manageable; she enclosed it, as she had been taught, banked and ready for the proper moment.

    Woodenly she went to the sink, turned on the cold water, bent, and began to splash her face.

Shipyear 65
Tripday 130
Fourth Shift
18.00 Hours

    "Asleep, Mendoza?" Dyson inquired from the pilot's chair.

    Priscilla opened her eyes and sat up straighter. "Just resting."

    "Okay by me. End of the line in about five minutes. Word is you'll be met and escorted to the captain's office. Got it?"

    "Yes. Thank you."

    Dyson snorted. "Don't thank me, Mendoza; I'm just passing on the facts." She thumbed the comm, reeled off her numbers, and grunted at the acknowledgment before turning her full attention to the board.

    Orbit and velocity were matched with an offhanded exactitude that earned Priscilla's silent praise even as she regretted her own uncompleted certificate.

    There came assorted mechanical clankings and ringings before a final authoritative thump. Dyson locked the board with a sweep of her hand. "Okay, Mendoza. Roll on out."

    "Okay." She unstrapped and stood. "Thanks."

    "What they pay me for, Mendoza. Beat it, all right?"

    Priscilla grinned. "See you around."

    She went out the hatch and through the door—then stopped, blinking.

    Carpet was beneath her feet; she was struck by the vaulting, the well-lit spaciousness . . . She was in a state reception room.

    The identification was hard to refute. To her left and some twelve feet downroom was a grouping of chairs and loungers—Terran—and Liaden-sized in equal proportion. Farther on, a podium was shoved against the wall, directly beneath the mural of an enormous tree in full, green leaf. Hovering behind and a little above, nearly dwarfed by the tree it guarded, was a winged dragon, bronze and fierce, emerald eyes looking directly at her. There were words in Liaden characters beneath the roots of the tree.

    Priscilla sighed slightly, recalling little Fin Ton, who had taught her Liaden in an even exchange for games of go. But his lessons had not extended to reading. Priscilla turned her head carefully to the right wall, which held what appeared to be a collage of photographs and drawings.

    Obviously she was in the wrong place. She had better return to the docking pod and see if there was another door that led onto a more reasonable area—one containing her escort to the captain.

    Half a second later she had abandoned that plan. Over the door by which she had entered, the atmosphere lamp glowed clear ruby, indicating vacuum in the pod beyond.

    Priscilla turned. The door directly across from her, then? Or a ship's intercom? Surely, in a room as spacious as this one she could find an intercom.

    That thought brought to mind all kinds of interesting questions about the room itself. Tradeships did not, in her experience, devote space to ballrooms or auditoriums. Three of Daxflan's holds would have fit comfortably into this area.

    Priscilla put speculation from her mind. First, she had to find an intercom.

    The door across from her opened, and a rather breathless small person erupted into the room. He skidded to a stop about two feet away and executed an awkward bow.

    Not Liaden, she noted with relief. But—a child?

    "Are you Ms. Mendoza?" he asked, then swept on without waiting for an answer. "Crelm! I'm awful sorry. I was supposed to be here when you came in. Cap'n's gonna skin me!"

    She grinned at him. He was a stocky Terran boy of perhaps eleven Standards, dressed in plain slacks and shirt. There was a smear of grease on his right sleeve and another on his chin. An embroidered badge on his left shoulder bore the legend "Arbuthnot."

    "I've only been here a minute," she told him. "Surely he won't skin you for that?"

    The boy gave it consideration, tipping