Free Fool's War by Sarah Zettel

slowing the ship down. Understand?”
    “Absolutely.” Yerusha matched his conversational tone and folded her hands behind her back. “But if you’ve got problems this run, Watch, they’re not coming from me.”
    “Glad to hear it.” Schyler straightened up. “Report to the Law then, Pilot. In her cabin.”
    “Yes, Watch.” She touched her forehead, turned on her heel and marched smartly down the stairs.
    The berthing deck was immediately below the bridge. The Pasadena had been built to keep the crew as far away from the engines as possible, just in case. The deck’s corridor was as bare and uninspiring as the bridge. Yerusha found herself wondering why Al Shei hadn’t invested in at least a pre-fab mural to brighten the place up a bit. The woman didn’t seem like one of the engineering aesthetic types who believe bare machinery was beautiful. Then again, she’d already heard rumors about some of the woman’s tight-fisted peccadillos, so maybe she shouldn’t be too surprised no cash had been laid out for corridor trimmings.
    Yerusha kept walking around the curved hallway until she found the cabin labeled ZUBEDYE RESIT. The ENTER light shone green, so Yerusha just knocked once to signal that she was there and went inside.
    The lawyer’s cabin was not so much living quarters as office. She had her bunk folded away. An active, permanent desk had been welded to the wall where most cabins had a fold-down set of boards. Resit sat at the desk, pouring over a set of films.
    Yerusha wasn’t surprised to see her so deep into her work even though they were only five minutes out of free fall. As ship’s lawyer, she had to be a one-woman bureaucracy. She had to have a working knowledge of the local statutes wherever they were taking on or dropping off cargo. She had to make sure contracts, tax forms and manifests were all prepared and legal. The crew had to get reports on any behavior-related ordinances that would effect them, and cultural and legal advice had to be available to anyone who needed it. Al Shei and Schyler would have to know the circumstances under which they could seek work, and the contracts would have to be drawn up to cover cross-system traffic.
    Much of the job could have theoretically been done from a station or groundside, but the expense of FTL communication prevented that. Unless you were a mega-corp or a monarch, it was easier and cheaper to bring your counsel with you.
    A big input-output box sat on the corner of Resit’s desk. It had been unceremoniously piled with films filled with cramped Arabic writing. Guessing it was Resit’s AI law firm, Yerusha waved to the box in acknowledgement.
    “Would you do me the courtesy of an introduction, Law?” she inquired, indicating the AI.
    Resit’s mouth pressed into a long, straight line. Yerusha met her eye calmly. Resit obviously shared her cousin-employer’s prejudices.
    “Incili. This is Jemina Yerusha.”
    “How do you do, ‘Dama Yerusha?” answered the AI in a clear tenor voice with a slightly British accent.
    “Pleased to meet you, Fellow.” Yerusha saluted the AI.
    “Thank you, ‘Dama Yerusha.”
    “All right, Incili, that’ll do.” Resit tapped her pen impatiently against the desk top.
    “‘Dama.” The voice shut off.
    “You called for me, Law?” Yerusha unfolded the stool from the wall and took her seat. Resit, Yerusha noticed, had changed from her usual skirt to a pair of baggy, opaque blue harem pants.
    Skirts not being conducive to the maintenance of modesty in free fall. Yerusha forcibly suppressed a smile at the image of the lawyer with her hems billowing about her ears.
    Resit sealed the films in front of her. “It’s part of my job, Yerusha, to try to stay apprised of any trouble the crew might have on the run.”
    Yerusha held up her hand. “Is this going to be about the can blowing out at Port Oberon?”
    “No,” answered Resit coolly, and Yerusha knew she’d made a tactical error. The lawyer had been all set