Alliance of Equals

by Sharon Lee

  “Yes. I think I may say that Head Tech Varoth and I were discussing the operations here in the garden. The tech is pleased with your work, and your comportment. The mention of your relationship to Captain Mendoza came as a comparison favorable to yourself while being unfavorable to another of the staff here.” She tipped her head. “Have I explained that well?”

  So she had compared well to a co-worker. Almost, she could hear Tech Varoth’s voice, “Gods thanked, at least he’s not the captain’s daughter; and she doesn’t stint her work!”

  “You have explained well,” Padi told Faw Chen. She thought for a moment.

  “Are you in a position to carry my explanation to Tech Varoth?”

  “I am, and I will,” Faw Chen said firmly. “Also, for my own, better, understanding, I will speak with the cultural officer.”

  The cultural officer was the librarian, Lina Faaldom, who had access to Scout tapes, and, if necessary, to Scouts.

  “May I,” Faw Chen asked softly, “ask another question in the same direction?”

  Padi felt her stomach twist a little, foreseeing the question, but it was perfectly reasonable that it be asked. It was, in fact, necessary.

  “Yes,” she said, and managed a smile. “But quickly, or I will not finish my shift-work.”

  Faw Chen smiled.

  “Quickly, then: you are the child of the master trader?”

  “Yes, I am.” She licked her lips. “Again, melant’i comes into the matter. On this ship, I am the master trader’s apprentice, and anyone who thinks that Master Trader yos’Galan will permit error or sloth from his heir, his apprentice, or anyone who is under his hand, must…must not know him very well!”

  Faw Chen laughed.

  “Well said! And now, having done with my work, I will leave you to yours. I will note in the log that I diverted you to my own purposes, which will placate the head tech, should you not finish.”

  “Thank you,” Padi said. “But I would, really, rather finish.”

  Faw Chen smiled.

  “Of course you would,” she said.

  —•—

  Vivulonj Prosperu stopped at Gilady to take on supplies. Leaving those details with Dulsey, the Uncle went below to check on their guests.

  “How fare the pilots?” she asked when he returned to the galley.

  Uncle tipped his head, frowning slightly.

  “Progress is satisfactory. He rushes headlong toward waking while she prefers a more deliberate pace. I have amended his speed somewhat, though more for the comfort of the ship than because I fear he will do himself harm. With such an abundance of pure material, there is very little chance, now, that he will fail. Still, I would not have him proceed her by too many days. Enough so that he might guide her, but yet not so much that he…becomes bored, shall I say?”

  Dulsey laughed.

  “A pilot at leisure is a fearsome creature, to be sure!”

  “Just so,” said Uncle, with a slight smile. “And a bored Dragon twelves times more so!”

  “There is that,” Dulsey acknowledged, and used her chin to point at the entertainments screen.

  “There is a news packet,” she said. “It might make for an amusing hour.”

  They had, of course, received a news packet, as part of the station’s service. It would be old news, space being wide, and Gilady not well positioned within it. Still, there was sometimes something of interest in such packets, and they were, as Dulsey said, often amusing.

  “It might, at that,” Uncle said. “I will brew tea.”

  * * *

  “Ynsolt’i,” Dulsey murmured, scanning the items list.

  “One is hard put to suppose that anything of interest could have happened at Ynsolt’i,” Uncle said, pouring tea.

  “That is precisely why we must view it,” she said. “Imagination clearly fails us.”

  “I agree.”

  Dulsey cued the proper episode, and the two of them gave the screen their attention.

  The nightmare of congestion that was Ynsolt’i’s normal traffic state unfolded before them, as seen from the angles of perhaps a half-dozen ship-eyes. It was a moment before it became apparent that it was not merely the crush of ships, but one ship in particular that was being followed.

  “Bechimo,” said the Uncle, who had reason to know those lines well, and leaned forward slightly in his chair, watching as the ship was maneuvered into a tight approach, with scarcely room for even a mathematical variation.

  “If the pilot sneezes, Bechimo will bounce off of that rig,” Dulsey said, apparently forgetting that whatever had happened there had been finished long ago.

  Behind the tightly boxed ship, another phased in—a corsair with the lines of predator. Breath caught, they watched as more hunters appeared. Orders were issued; Bechimo was to yield to escort, and prepare to surrender to authority.

  The answer to that was remarkably clear, as if the pilot had spoken directly into the comm of every ship about Ynsolt’i.

  “Orsec Twelve, First Class Pilot Theo Waitley, on Bechimo, flying for Laughing Cat, Limited, here. Be advised that we’re targeted by three unannounced ships and that we are targeting in return. I am directing my Exec and my ship to take immediate defensive and responsive action as required. We will not comply with your request while, outside, hunter ships approach.”

  Evasive action, indeed! The Uncle realized that he had been holding his breath and took in air, his whole attention pinned to the screen.

  There was too much noise; pilots objecting; pilots demanding—the tumult went unheeded as Bechimo ran, and returned fire until the hunters, one by one, were lost in traffic.

  Except for one.

  That one…leapt forward, firing what the energy grid at the bottom of the screen classified as neutrinos.

  Bechimo returned fire; the attacking ship was hit—The vid flickered, and when it steadied again, Bechimo was gone.

  There came more noise: pilots demanding to know what had happened, some few clever souls proclaiming that Bechimo had Jumped, others claiming that a Jump in such traffic was impossible, the other ship must have been killed in the same blast that had taken the hunter…

  When at last it was over, Uncle took a deep and not entirely steady breath, and leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his belt buckle, a slight frown on his face.

  “You’re not amused?” Dulsey asked, her voice quieter than usual.

  “On one level,” he said slowly. “One must allow Pilot Waitley and Bechimo to be formidable. And one might almost feel, a little, sorry for the poor agents of the Department. How could they have considered it possible that Bechimo’s crew would give themselves up? What were they thinking, to provoke and attack, with so many witnessing their actions?”

  He flung a hand up and toward the screen, fingers sketching disdain.

  “This is the enemy Korval cannot defeat.”

  “Nor can we,” Dulsey observed drily.

  He sniffed. “Nor have we. Yet.”

  “Fair enough. But at this pace, there will be nothing left for us; Pilot Waitley and her ship will have eaten them all.”

  “Perhaps not, though certainly they are within their rights to take as many as they deem fit.” He shifted somewhat in his chair. “It is unfortunate that the actions of idiots pressed Bechimo into an indiscretion—again, with so many eyes upon them.”

  “I mislike that neutrino bath,” Dulsey confessed. “It seemed Bechimo’s shields were thinning…badly.”

  “I thought so, too. And while we may sit here, comfortable in the knowledge that they long ago outmaneuvered brigands, within the moment it must have seemed as if there was nothing else to do, save Jump. The situation is regrettable—but survivable, most especially given Seignur Veeoni’s work, eh?”

  Dulsey smiled.

  “In fact. When will she publish more widely?”

  “An excellent question. I think it must be soon. Very soon.”

  —•—

  “Andiree will be the f
irst new stop on the route,” Father said, as Padi brought him his wine. Before he had asked her to refresh his glass, they had been talking about her cartography coursework, but she knew him too well to be found on the wrong foot by so minor a change of topic as that.

  “So it will,” she agreed, placing the glass on the flat disk of green-and-blue mottled stone that served as a coaster. Padi remembered the stern-faced person who had given it to him—Ambassador Valeking of Granda—as a gift of good faith. Ambassador Valeking hadn’t liked Father; her dislike so plain that Padi, who had been present at the meeting in her melant’i of cabin boy, had tasted sour grapes for hours afterward.

  Father had been amused by the Ambassador, though Padi hadn’t been able to fathom precisely why. And in the end, neither dislike nor amusement had mattered, so far as she could see; Korval and Granada together reread the standing treaty, no changes were made, and both parties signed, accepting the terms for the next twelve years.

  Oh, and Father had gotten a pretty stone coaster.

  “How do you plan to mark this momentous event?” Father asked as she settled into the chair across the desk from him.

  She considered him blandly, her best trading face in place.

  “I plan to mark the occasion by taking on cargo that I will sell for profit at Chessel’s World,” she told him, seriously.

  Father’s eyebrows rose. He picked up his glass and settled back. “But how piquant! Tell me more.”

  The urge to sit up straighter and stiffer in answer to his comfortable slouch was almost irresistible. Nonetheless, Padi resisted it, sitting respectfully at attention, as befit a ’prentice in the presence of a master, but with muscles relaxed and face bland.

  “My studies have shown me that Chessel’s World is the largest importer of milaster in its quadrant. Demand long ago outgrew the planet’s ability to produce it. The homegrown sort is triple-A grade, and is reserved to the Redcap caste and above. The rest is imported, which means that the lower castes pay too much for a product that is often inferior.”

  “Shocking,” Father murmured, his silver eyes half-closed. “But tell me how you will turn this sad situation to your hand.”

  “Easily enough,” Padi answered. “Andiree produces milaster—enough for its needs, which are modest, and a surplus, which is sold for export.”

  She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees and her eyes on Father’s face.

  “Andiree milaster does eventually find its way to Chessel’s World,” she continued, “but it is transported slowly, via serial transfers between looper ships. By the time it arrives at its market, it is not in the best shape, nutritionally, and the transport costs have raised its price considerably, though the traders’ margin is small.”

  “This is dreadful; neither side of the trade is satisified!”

  “No,” she dared to correct him. “Both sides are, grudgingly, satisfied, but neither is happy.”

  “However, you have a scheme that will repair this situation.”

  “I have a scheme that will deliver a superior product to market, and which will provide a profit. For us. Dutiful Passage.”

  He raised his glass and gestured with it, an invitation to continue.

  “The Passage is not a loop ship; we propose to Jump from Andiree to Chessel’s World. We will therefore have only our own transport expense in the equation, with whatever the cargo itself costs. At Chessel’s World, we can undersell our competitors, very slightly, while earning a significantly larger profit, for a superior product.”

  “My recollection of the lists suggests that milaster, despite its popularity at Chessel’s World, is a low-end item.”

  “Yes,” she acknowledged. “That makes it fitting spec cargo for a ’prentice, who is neither plump in pocket, nor likely to be sought out in the marketplace for her name alone.”

  “How much do you intend to commit?”

  She named a figure: fully half of her original spec fund for this trip, reserving those small profits she had gained at their previous ports.

  “Depending on supply, of course,” she added.

  “That is quite a lot of money,” he commented.

  She allowed herself a smile. “I wish to become considerably plumper in pocket.”

  “As who does not? Well, you appear to have thought the matter out. Please, keep me informed of your progress.”

  “Yes, Master Trader.”

  “Excellent. Now, I fear, I must come the parent for a moment, and allow you to know that Arms Master Schneider has been to see me, expressing some concern regarding your defense training.”

  Padi blinked. “Concern?”

  “Indeed. He praises your abilities in menfri’at lavishly, and is quite convinced that you will eventually excel at a higher level. His concern, however, has to do with your—let us say your willingness to embrace the ultimate answer to all questions. He expressed it thus: ‘If she was in a street scrape, there wouldn’t be anybody but her left standing.’ As arms master, he finds that you are too willing to adopt a single-solution stance to multiple—oft-times complex—problems. Such inflexibility weakens your defenses. He also confided his concern that this dependence upon one solution springs, not from control, but from a lack of confidence in your own abilities. He has therefore recommended that you be placed into the daibri’at class taught by Lina Faaldom. This will necessitate a very slight change in your schedule, which I trust will not discommode you in the least. You will begin with Master Faaldom your next on-shift.”

  Padi took a breath, and another, struggling slightly. She had expected to be moved from her dance class, yes—but to a higher level within menfri’at!

  If Arms Master Schneider had been concerned about control, why could he not have spoken to her, his student? Surely he did not share Tech Varoth’s absurd notion that her kin-ties meant that she could not be corrected!

  She took a hard breath, aware that Father had stopped speaking and was looking at her with curiosity.

  “Surely, if my moves lacked control,” she said keeping her voice even, though she wanted to shout. “Surely, if I were inept, Arms Master Schneider had only to correct me.”

  “It is not, as I understand it, your moves which lack control,” Father said, his eyes on hers, “but your motivation.”

  “I…don’t understand,” she said, trying not to feel as if she had…failed. Daibri’at—that was for babies! Well, no, of course it wasn’t. Hadn’t Syl Vor practiced menfri’at with them at the Rock? Very focused he had been, too, and his kills the cleanest of any of them, though she and Quin had been dancing for years. But daibri’at hadn’t a use; it was all about describing graceful movements, and breathing into the moment. It was, it was more akin to flower arranging than real dance.

  “Padi.”

  Father’s voice was soft, warm. She blinked up into his face.

  “Sir?”

  “I wonder, child, if you’ve been experiencing any discomfort? If perhaps your head might pain you at odd times, or you are suddenly disoriented, or…frightened, for what seems to be no reason?”

  In fact, she thought irritably, he was wondering if she was cha’dramliza—a Healer—which she assuredly was not, nor would she ever be. Of that, she was determined.

  Oh, it was reasonable to expect that she might be—Father himself was a Healer, and so was Aunt Anthora, though Aunt Anthora…well. In any case, Korval was strong in the dramliz talents; talents that typically manifested when one became halfling.

  However, just because many of Korval became Healer or dramliza, did not mean that all of Korval did so. One need look no further than Quin and Cousin Pat Rin to find kin who were not Healers.

  As she was not a Healer, nor ever would be.

  She shook her head, and smiled for Father’s care, which was proper, and really, she was quite fond of Father and did not wish for him to worry.

  “No, sir; nothing like that. I’m only running to keep up, so if sometimes I seem odd…”

  “No odder than usual,
I think,” Father said, and gave her one more considering look before leaning back in his chair and reaching again for his glass.

  “Well, now, I have heard your plans for Andiree and Chessel’s World! Would you care to hear mine? I fear you’ll find them considerably less bold than yours, and so I warn you!”

  “Only if you will explain what you mean to accomplish by meekness,” she said.

  He smiled.

  “Did I say meek?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dutiful Passage

  In addition to her duties as librarian and cultural officer, Lina Faaldom served the ship as a Healer. Padi had been in the habit of considering her a sensible woman; the information that she was master of a dance as trivial, as purposeless, as daibri’at…had come as a shock. But, there. Quin was…mostly…quite sensible, wasn’t he? And didn’t he, regardless, spend time better used for reading, or for exercising, threading beads along wires and chains? Some of his creations were quite pretty, and could at least be given as gifts, and worn. And some cachet accrued to the creator when others willingly wore his handmade trifles, even if the stones were semiprecious, at best.

  By contrast, this…daibri’at left no residual that might benefit one or one’s acquaintanceship. Of course, when one danced menfri’at, there was no immediate benefit, saving that gained through exercise. The real benefits became apparent when one was set upon by brigands and obliged to defend oneself or one’s comrades.

  The aim of daibri’at, as far as Padi could divine, was…to look pretty.

  In short, she thought, moving briskly down the hall toward her class with Master Faaldom, daibri’at was a waste of her time.

  She did, however, have her orders and her schedule, which was why she was on her way to one of the smaller practice rooms. It had occurred to her, while she showered, that the case of Lina Faaldom being a Healer might not be…an accident. Father might well have asked a colleague for an evaluation of his daughter’s proclivities and talents.

  After all, Father clearly expected her to come Healer—perhaps he even wished for his heir to share his talent. One didn’t like to disappoint Father, of course, but—no. She was not a Healer. It was simply not possible.