Engaging the Enemy by Elizabeth Moon

resistance, resisted the urge to jerk back—then delicately, delicately, drew the line in…and set the hook in one quick move. The fish shot forward, raising a welt in the water; Grace grinned. It was headed downstream, just as she’d hoped, and she let out line before resisting. It jumped then, an arc of silver striped with red, and shot upstream. Grace argued, through the line.
Not that way…this way.
The fish turned downstream again; Grace again gave it more room, following along the bank.
    She knew the man was there, where she had expected him, as he had expected her. Still, she played the fish, and he played the courteous fisherman who yields to someone with one on the line. She was sure there were no watchers, but if there were, they would see only what anyone would expect to see. At last she had it in the shallows, almost in reach of her net, a huge trout for this water, fifty centimeters at least.
    â€œWant some help?” the man asked.
    â€œPlease,” Grace said.
    He stepped past her with his own net and skillfully slid it under the fish without damaging it. “Release or dinner?”
    She thought about it a moment. She enjoyed Beckmann trout, but the fish, big as it was, would not feed the whole family. “Release,” she said.
    â€œDo you want to, or shall I?”
    â€œI’ll do it.” She laid down her rod. He held the fish properly, firmly but without damage, the fins folded down; she removed her barbless hook from the bony jaw and stuck it in her vest. “My release.”
    â€œOf course.”
    He held the fish until she had lifted the net, then stepped back. Grace carried the fish—a good heavy one, but she wasn’t going to weigh it—to deeper water. She loved this part, the feel of the fish in her hands, its quivering impatience to be free. The fish gaped, gills working, then it flexed and she opened her hands. It fled upstream, back to its home under that log.
    â€œVery nice work,” the man said now. “Beautifully played, and on a barbless hook, too.”
    â€œThanks for your help,” she said. And with a nod to his tackle some yards away, “A wet-fly man, I see.”
    â€œAnd you’re a dry-fly…takes a light touch, that.” After a pause, he went on. “You are aware this is private water?”
    â€œWe’re leasing Brookings Manor up the hill there; our privileges run from the lake to Bender’s Bridge.”
    â€œI’m sorry, I didn’t realize…I’m leasing Greyfalls Cottage; guest rights go from that point”—he nodded to it—“downstream a kilometer. My name’s Anders MacRobert, by the way.”
    â€œI’m Grace Lane Vatta,” Grace said. “Would you like a sandwich? I brought some in my creel.”
    â€œThank you,” he said.
    They sat on another of the granite boulders near the river, where the rush of water would frustrate any hidden listening devices in the trees twenty meters away; Grace handed him a wrapped sandwich and unwrapped another for herself. He handed her a bottle from his creel.
    â€œWe have a problem in Spaceforce,” he said, looking out across the river. His lips barely moved.
    Grace resisted the temptation to glance around, and took a bite of her own sandwich. “I’d agree. Do you know what?”
    â€œIt’s related to the privateer program,” he said. “Do you know about that?”
    â€œThat Slotter Key uses privateers instead of a real space navy, yes. That certain officers function both in the official Spaceforce and as advisers on privateers, yes.”
    â€œYour niece Ky has a letter of marque,” MacRobert said.
    Grace felt the blood draining from her face. “She
what
?”
    â€œShe has a letter of marque. It’s all official, though it’s not quite…usual.”
    â€œI…should think not.” Grace had not expected to be surprised at whatever MacRobert