by Sharon Lee
However, the more she considered the notion that Lina Faaldom had been asked to provide a second opinion, the more she believed that she would find herself a class of one for daibri’at—which had the effect of lifting her spirits somewhat as she came nearer the practice room. After all, if daibri’at practice was a mere subterfuge, then she would be back dancing menfri’at at her proper level, within a shift or two.
That thought cheered her so much that she was nearly dancing in fact when she reached her destination, and put her hand against the plate.
The door whisked open—and her mood crashed, from bright cheerfulness to dark despair.
For she was not Lina Faaldom’s only student in the dance of daibri’at. There were five others in the room ahead of her.
And one of them was Arms Master Schneider.
—•—
Shan tapped the keypad, and reached for his glass.
His first glance at the messages in-queue failed to discover the words, “Terran Trade Commission.” It was beginning to be worrisome, this lack of communication from the Terran Trade Commission.
He had initially considered it a positive sign that the honored members of the Rating Committee hadn’t laughed in his face, or issued a flat no on the spot, but had rather promised to take the matter of upgrading Surebleak Port’s rating, under advisement, review the files he had provided, and contact him with their ruling in three Standard months.
As that date came ever more near, he was beginning to suspect that their unusual agreeableness had been nothing more than a stall.
Well. He closed his eyes and indulged himself with a few deep, calming breaths before opening his eyes to consider his message queue again.
Carresens-Denobli…
He blinked, touched the access key, and eased back into his chair’s embrace, his eyes still on the screen, and a communication he had never thought to see during his career as a master trader.
In short, he was looking at a working memo from the Carresens Syndicate, under the signature of one Janifer Carresens-Denobli, Trader-at-Large. Trader Carresens-Denobli styled the memo a “first exchange of thoughts.” He confessed that he had only just begun thinking of Surebleak as a port of potential interest to the Syndicate, and thus his first thoughts were necessarily incomplete.
Other matters will doubtless occur to each as we discuss this in more depth, trader-and-trader. I offer here, as my first thoughts, a loop that accommodates Surebleak and also Ashlan, which is an anchor port for three Carresens long-loopers and many others, of the small-loop ships. I am thinking, too, of Nomi-Oxin-Rood, which is something much on the lines of Surebleak—there is potential, but nothing that would tie it into existing routes. If there were to be a new loop, perhaps a hybrid loop, though I have not thought deeply on this, it may be that the potentials of Surebleak and Nomi-Oxin-Rood may be realized, to the mutual benefit of traders.
I append a list of such cargoes as might be of interest to Ashlan and Nomi-Oxin-Rood, for which I have some information. Also, I append a list of those cargoes which are standard on Carresens ships, in our loops which now exist.
Of very great interest to me is information regarding those items which might find favor with the traders of Surebleak, and also perhaps an indication of speciality items, which might show well in the Festevalya, and so open up the mind of the wider universe to Surebleak.
I await in lively anticipation your first thoughts regarding this enterprise, which may be directed to me at the beam code below.
Sealed by the hand and will of
Janifer Carresens-Denobli
Carefully, Shan set his glass aside.
Of the several names he had given to Theo as possible contacts along the exploratory loop he had launched her upon…of those several contacts, he had supposed from the beginning that the Carresens would roundly ignore Korval’s overture and their ambassador.
The Carresens, after all, had no need of outside trade arrangements; they were complete in their trade family and their vast, intersecting network of loops, and felt no need to expand their range, or change their methods.
Until, apparently, now.
He tapped up a new screen and filed a query for Janifer Carresens-Denobli, then flipped back to reread the good trader’s “first thought,” and open the appended lists.
They were remarkably complete lists, for a mere “first thought.” One might almost wonder if the Carresens—or if this particular Carresens—had been expecting contact from Korval.
The list of the trade goods commonly carried by Carresens ships made for fascinating reading, revealing, as it did, quite a bit regarding the nature of the Carresens loop and long-time trade worlds.
Shan drew a careful breath.
What in the name of the gods had Theo said to the man?
The console chimed then and he flipped back to the research screen, learning in very short order that Janifer Carresens-Denobli not only stood as one of the Carresens three Ranking Traders, but was also a senior trade commissioner.
“The question changes,” Shan murmured, picking up his glass, and draining what was left. This was no ordinary Carresens trader. How had Theo gotten an interview with this person?
But that was obvious, wasn’t it?
Her ship.
Putting aside the fact of its sentience, the ship…was an old ship, with, let it be said, interesting lines. A ship that had been specifically built, a very long time ago, to be a long-looper.
Carresens and Denobli would not yet have merged families and routes, Shan thought, when Bechimo had been built. And if the present-day family members hadn’t quite seen anything like those lines, rest assured that they had records. Almost definitely, they would have been in contact with the Uncle, trade being one of his many…hobbies.
In fact, it wasn’t at all unlikely that the Carresens or the Denoblis—either or both—had invested in the building of Bechimo, many, many Standard years ago.
So, then, Theo wins an interview with a high-ranking Carresens trader because of her ship. The Carresens might even be excused for thinking that the ship was a message.
And so one of the three Carresens elders set himself to explore just what, precisely, that message might be, and if it was to the benefit of the Carresens.
Well, well; how novel. How exciting. He would have to consider carefully, to offer Trader Carresens and his Syndicate as fully realized a “first thought” as he had been offered.
Surely, there was profit to be made, for all.
They only needed to work out the details.
—•—
“And here arrives a new practitioner of our art,” Lina Faaldom said, as Padi stepped into the room, the door falling closed behind her. “Join us, please.”
Padi slipped her boots off and moved six steps across the soft floor, bowed to the master’s honor and straightened to meet a straight, honey-brown gaze.
Lina Faaldom was very slight, and somewhat shorter than Padi, who, after all, came from a clan known for the height of its members. She seemed to project—perhaps, being a Healer, she did project!—a cool serenity that put Padi immediately on her mettle. She was here to take a lesson, not a nap!
The master was seen, perhaps, to smile before she inclined her sleek head.
“Please, allow us to know your name,” she said, and raised a hand slightly, as if to restrain Padi’s enthusiasm. “Here, we are all students. Therefore, we share call-names only.”
“Yes,” Padi murmured, and bowed to the five who stood patiently in a semicircle before the master. “I am Padi.”
The student closest to her, who she thought worked in the cafeteria, bowed. “Riean.”
Next in line was Arms Master Schneider, who bowed and murmured, “Jon”; then a woman whose face bore the marks of many years, “Keslis.”
Then was Caz Tar, with an outworld accent; Padi thought him about Quin’s age. And she had certainly seen the next student, Brisalia, among the maintenance crew.
“Lina,” sa
id Master Faaldom, in her cool voice. “Please, Padi, take your place beside Riean. You will want to have an arm’s width or more between you; we stretch wide here!”
This was apparently a joke, greeted by several chuckles. Riean grinned, and obligingly stretched his arms out at shoulder height, giving Padi her range. She nodded her thanks and took up a position beside, apart, and slightly behind him.
“Good,” Master…Lina said. “As I have said, we are all students here. Some of us have been studying longer, but daibri’at is a discipline which may be studied for a lifetime, the diligent student finding always some new facet to explore. The art has been described as a many-petaled flower; also as a multifaceted gem. And we come together, as students, to practice, each at our own level. As the eldest student of the art present, I often lead our practice. However, this is not always the case. Any one of us may lead a practice. And each of us will be asked to do so.”
She looked at them each, one by one, then said, “Since we have a new student among us today, who will explain our art?”
“I will,” said Brisalia. “Daibri’at focuses the student’s attention on movement. It’s…inward-turning. We pay attention to the movement, and our mind’s connection to our muscles, instead of focusing on the results of our movement.”
“As we do in menfri’at,” Arms Master—Jon—added.
“That is a useful contrast,” Lina said. “Menfri’at is an outward-looking art. It acts upon others. Daibri’at is inward-looking. From it, we learn the intent of our movements.”
The intent of her movements? Padi thought. Surely, when she kicked at a target, or an assailant, she intended to connect; to disable the threat? What other intent—
“So, having described what is essentially indescribable, let us begin our practice. Please find your center—feet under hips, weight evenly distributed. We will bring our arms up until our palms touch over our heads, and we will take four complete breaths before lowering our arms to our sides.”
Padi was already centered—one thing menfri’at had taught her was to always be centered; you never knew, after all, when an attack might come—and raised her arms until her palms touched.
…only then seeing that…Lina and the rest were still in the process of raising their arms, slowly and deliberately. She slid a surreptitious glance at Riean, and saw his eyes half-closed and his face rapt in concentration, as if the process of centering himself and beginning this simple movement had triggered some deeper process.
She looked to Lina again, seeing that her palms were now touching over her head, and watched as those four “complete” breaths were executed, as slow and as measured as a pilot might take them, in preparation for board rest.
Then, the arms came down, as slowly, if not more slowly, than they had risen. Padi lowered hers, as well, struggling to match the agonizingly slow pace, and found she was trembling and slightly sweaty by the time her fingers were pointing toward the floor again.
Lina opened her eyes and smiled.
“Next, we will raise our arms, as we just did, and, when we have completed four breaths, we will bend at the hips and bring our hands to the mat.”
Once again, the agonizingly slow rise of both arms. Padi grimly kept pace, pilot instincts, honed for precise, rapid action, abraded almost past bearing. At the top of the form, she breathed four complete breaths, hinged at the hip and bent until her fingertips touched the mat.
A drop of sweat plashed against the mat between her feet and her fingers. Padi breathed in, feeling her muscles shake with the need to move, breathed out, four times, and came up again to her full height.
“Excellent,” said Lina. “Now, place your right foot ahead of your left on the mat, bring your hands up as if you are holding a large ball, immediately before your heart.”
Padi followed the form demonstrated, bearing down until her muscles ached, refusing to allow herself to snap into a series of kicks, or to simply collapse crosslegged to the mat and have done.
“Very good,” Lina said, and smiled directly into Padi’s eyes. “Now, breathe in, and pivot from center, keeping your ball directly before your heart…”
CHAPTER FOUR
Tarigan
In Jump
They were in Jump, en route to Bieradine, and the pilot had given copilot Tolly Jones leave to grab a snack, and stretch his legs. There was ’mite in the galley, so he added hot water and stirred up a mugful. Unlike some spacers, it wasn’t his drink and/or food of preference, but it had its uses as a quick pick-me-up, which it happened he needed. The pilot was pushing them, just a little, nothing bone and blood couldn’t put up with, stipulating that bone and blood was what you’d call in form.
Which he wasn’t, quite.
He swallowed the ’mite as fast as he could, put the mug in the washer and exited the galley, turning left, to take a little walking tour of Tarigan.
She was a tidy ship, augmented in interesting ways, which Pilot Tocohl had already drilled him on. The pilot wouldn’t suffer one bit of damage if he did something stupid that breached the hull, but he’d be a dead man, and it was courteous of her to notice his disability in that regard and take steps first off to be sure he was safe on the ship.
His tour ended, as it had on his three other walkabouts, at the alcove that held the autodoc. He paused at the side of the single unit, palm flat against the opaque hood, and frowned at the status board.
Haz—his former partner, in Port Security, Hazenthull nor’Phelium—had taken a couple hits for him, which normally would’ve made as much difference to her as getting slugged with a marshmallow. She was that big, and that tough. Too bad for her that the particular sort of marshmallows she’d caught had come out of the gun of one of his late…directors, and they’d been poisoned. It was a particularly nasty poison the directors employed, which he knew from personal experience, but him and the pilot’d gotten Haz into the ’doc plenty quick. He’d expected her to be up and around by now.
The good news was that the ’doc had consistently reported that she was on the mend. In fact, the end-of-treatment display was finally lit up this time. He leaned close to have a look.
Fourteen hours ’til the hood came up. He patted the top of the ’doc softly, as if Haz might feel his hand and take some comfort from knowing he had her back.
Just like old times.
He patted the ’doc once more and left the alcove, heading for the bridge.
* * *
“How fares the Explorer?” the pilot asked from her station.
She was a sight for tired eyes, was Pilot Tocohl. Smooth and personable and specifically nonthreatening, the curve of her gleaming white chassis suggesting something feminine; the smallness of it hinting at vulnerability. She moved herself about the ship by floating a few inches above the deck plates—nothing so crass, or noisy, as wheels or skis. He hadn’t worked out if her motivating force was antigrav, magnetics, or a tightly focused and utterly silent air pad. It seemed rude to ask.
It was Tolly’s opinion, as an expert in the field, that there wasn’t the least need for Pilot Tocohl to sit station. Pilot Tocohl had direct access to all ship’s systems right there inside her pretty little head, or he was a three-nosed Andulsin frog.
“She’s got a healed-by date,” he said in answer in his pilot’s question. “Fourteen hours from now this bridge is gonna be full up with big, stubborn woman, who’ll be wanting to talk to her captain, stat.”
“I shall be very glad to see her, and in such condition,” Pilot Tocohl said composedly. “In the meantime, I wonder, Pilot, if you will answer some questions for me.”
“Do my best,” he said, like his stomach hadn’t kind of cramped up, hearing that. “Understand that I don’t know the answers to all the questions.”
“Oh, yes, I do understand that,” she said. “Before we begin, let me request that you not lie to me. If you do not wish to answer a question, simply refrain from doing so.”
“All right, Pilot,” he said, and slipped into his
chair. “I’m curious myself, though. The—my contact, who approached me about this project…he has my credentials.”
“Indeed, your credentials are…impressive,” she said. “And you are undeniably resourceful. Our mutual contact was quite clear that you are a mentor of great talent. The most talented in your field, he said.”
“To be fair, the field isn’t that big, the Complex Logic Laws bein’ what they are.”
That the pilot was herself a violation of the Complex Logic Laws went without saying. His being hired as copilot was to cover for her. She was a prototype, so the script went, some kind of a cybermech pilot, sophisticated, but stopping short of illegal. Which was why she sat station. He was along for the ride, to observe, to make notes, and to abort her if something went wrong.
However, his contract had two sections to it, and the second part engaged his services in evaluating and, if possible, socializing, a newly realized AI, who had come to Tolly under unspecified, but difficult, circumstances, unmentored.
He didn’t have anything against sitting copilot, but he might not have taken the contract just to give Pilot Tocohl cover, seeing that his own blanket had lately developed a considerable number of holes. The second part of the contract, though…that had grabbed his attention and it hadn’t let go.
Never mind that the Complex Logic Laws made Pilot Tocohl and all her kind out to be rogue devices, bent on destroying human life. If encountered, according to the CLL, an AI was to be confined, deactivated, or destroyed; nobody was to take it into their heads to build one for any reason whatsoever, under pain of death.
It hadn’t always been that way. Truth said, it wasn’t that way, even now. AIs got born…not as a frequent thing, but often enough that mentors were needed. They worked the underside, but not one mentor Tolly’d ever met or heard of had minded that.
Pilot Tocohl turned toward him, the flat screen at the apex of her slender core column showing the shadow of a face, smiling a shadow smile.
