by Sharon Lee
Or not. Ports were fickle things, and had become more fickle still in these new circumstances in which Korval found itself.
But, there! One would strive to think happy thoughts. Anthora swore that a positive attitude had the ability to change worlds.
…which was a fairly unsettling thought, considering the source.
The breakout bell sounded; the Passage shifted into normal space with scarcely a quiver. Shan smiled, and turned to his screen as it flashed and cleared, gong announcing an incoming emergency report.
* * *
It was a preliminary report, very brief, with a promise of details to follow:
Pale Wing, one of Korval’s first-line ships—in fact, the ship on which Padi had served as cabin boy—had been fired upon on approach to a port where she was well known and, previously, welcomed.
Shan drew a hard breath, his stomach clenching, reaching for the comm even as it buzzed. He touched a key.
“Yes, Priscilla, I have it,” he said.
“The detailed report just hit,” she said. “Forwarded to all pilots and reserve pilots. Meeting at fifteen hundred hours in the second-level conference room.”
“I’ll be there,” he said, turning back to his screen and the detailed report.
—•—
Hazenthull leaned against the counter where Tolly had been, and closed her eyes, the better to think.
It was true that she was the least of the small-Troop which had been come under the command of Hero Captain Miri Robertson, who had vanquished the Fourteenth Conquest Corps. Though she had received several so-called “therapy sessions” from Lady Anthora yos’Galan, who had the ability to reach inside heart and mind and make such adjustments as were deemed necessary…
Despite this, she, an Explorer, had not progressed nearly so well as even Diglon Rifle. Diglon had embraced their new circumstances with enthusiasm, and set himself to learn…everything, while she…found comfort only in her work cycle at the port, in the simple duties of a guard, as if she were nothing more than a Rifle herself.
Comfort in routine, and then, when Commander Lizardi had paired her in duty with Tolly Jones, something more than comfort. Something that she had not felt since before the Elder had fallen.
Comradeship.
Tolly Jones had deserted his post, and she—she had followed after him, to ensure that he came safe to his next destination. She had chosen—chosen—her partner over the Troop.
She had chosen her partner over her service to the captain, if it came to that, though she had not expected to find herself—
The door to the galley whisked open. Hazenthull straightened, hand rising in a salute to the pilot’s honor…
…and hesitated a damning instant before completing the strike to her shoulder.
The pilot was small, seemingly fragile, perfectly clean and white. Perhaps she glowed somewhat. Or, thought Hazenthull, perhaps it was merely that she was so very white, that she seemed to glow in the galley’s low lighting. Certainly, she floated, a little distance above the decking, wafting forward under some noiseless compulsion.
“Good waking to you, Hazenthull Explorer.” The voice was mellow, and female. She spoke Terran with a light, lilting accent. “I am Tocohl Lorlin, pilot. Allow me to welcome you aboard Tarigan, and to thank you for your care of my copilot.”
“You are welcome,” Hazenthull said, which was an important civilian phrase.
There was a pause. The screen at the apex of the pilot’s body tilted slightly upward, and Hazenthull saw the shadow of a woman’s face.
“Perhaps I distress you, Hazenthull Explorer. Speak frankly, please.”
Hazenthull drew a breath.
“Pilot, not…distress. Surprise. Is it permitted to inquire into your nature?”
“Certainly. I am an autonomous intelligence; a full individual person.”
Hazenthull nodded. Such persons lived, as she had learned, a perilous existence, pursued by mercenary hunters, should they reveal themselves, whereupon they would be stripped of their personhood and either enslaved or killed. Jeeves, the head of Security in the House of Korval, was one such, and she subordinate to him in rank.
It would not, of course, be wise to mention Jeeves to Pilot Tocohl. She might, however, say something of the truth.
“I have met your like, Pilot, and I am no friend of the laws which oppress you.”
The shadow face might have smiled.
“That is well said, thank you. I will tell you that I am well acquainted with Jeeves, and it was he whom I called when you fell into my care. He queried Captain Robertson regarding her orders, given the urgency our mission, and naturally recorded her response. I will make that recording available to you.
“Regarding the status of this ship and pilots—our mission is most urgent. We are bound into a situation that is not…necessarily stable. It may, in fact, be quite dangerous. Your presence on our team would mean that Tolly and I would be able to more fully concentrate on our primary mission, knowing that you will ensure our safety while we do so.”
“What is this mission?” Hazenthull asked.
Pilot Tocohl bowed slightly.
“The mission is very complex and quite…secret. You will appreciate that, for the safety of the pilots and of the mission, I cannot divulge more until I have your agreement to be a part of our team.”
“The captain has given me to you,” Hazenthull pointed out.
Pilot Tocohl tipped her screen to one side.
“And yet, if you do not like the assignment, or feel that you cannot support us, it would be best for all concerned if you were to leave at the first opportunity. We will be coming out of Jump at Bieradine. You may leave us there, if you so decide. I will transfer funds sufficient to a safe and comfortable layover, until a Korval ship arrives to take you home.”
Staying safely by herself held…less appeal than it might. Hazenthull drew a deep breath.
“I would hear the tape and review the file on Bieradine,” she said, adding courteously, “if the pilot pleases. Also, it may assist the pilot in her own deliberations to know that I, too, am a pilot.”
“I have your résumé from Jeeves,” Pilot Tocohl said. “Based on it, and on what Pilot Tolly has told me of your partnership, I believe that we could do no better than to have you with us on our mission. My only hesitation lies with you. If you cannot give your full support, then it is best for all that we part.”
“I understand,” Hazenthull said, and then, though her mind was already made up, “My decision will be clearer, once I have heard my captain’s instructions.”
“Of course. There is a study room beyond the galley. You may be private there. I will give you full access to everything save the particulars of the mission.”
“Thank you,” Hazenthull said, “Pilot.”
“Thank you,” the pilot said. “For your patience in the face of this…irregular circumstance. Please, follow the orange line on the floor. It will lead you to the study room.”
Hazenthull glanced down, espying the thin, bright line running along the decking.
She bowed slightly from the waist, and turned to follow the path to the study room.
—•—
Shan knew that the details were horrifyingly similar to the attack upon Bechimo at Ynsolt’i, and let it be known that Pale Wing was nothing like an independent sentient ship with the gods only knew what Old Tech capabilities built into his systems. A tradeship, built—well built—in Korval’s own yards, she was a fine vessel, was Pale Wing, with a fine crew aboard her. But, as one must phrase it, in the case, only a tradeship, and no more able to maneuver sprightly in tight traffic than an average rock.
There it was, on his screen—Pale Wing on the approach to Liltander, an extremely busy trade hub, very much like Ynsolt’i. The ship was well known to Traffic; indeed, Pale Wing’s pilot and Liltander’s Traffic Guide greeted each other as old friends might, and fell easily into a routine well known to both. Everything proceeded in a seemly and
normal manner until, with Pale Wing deep inside the pattern, constrained by other traffic, two light-craft, armed, and with perhaps the appearance of police cruisers or hunter ships, arrived and attempted to divert them from their designated path and final docking.
An appeal was made to the Guide, who said, angrily—so it seemed to Shan, listening at his desk—that the matter had passed out of her hands.
The light-craft again demanded that Pale Wing alter course, on threat of specific violence—and the pilot complied with the order.
To a point.
Ama ven’Tyrlit sat as captain of Pale Wing, a woman of great personal fortitude, and a master pilot besides. The next maneuver had her mark on it—bold to the near edge of insanity and impeccably executed.
Pale Wing inched through traffic, not quite on the coordinates given, but near enough that it could be seen that a good faith attempt was being made to comply. Only when she was clear of the tightest congestion was it revealed what that small deviation had gained her.
A freighter loomed between Pale Wing and the hunters; a relatively clear avenue before her, and it was a mad dash then, at velocities that made him catch his breath, with the hunters scrambling to be away from the freighter.
By the time they were in the clear, it was too late, at least, for the easy fulfillment of that specific promise of violence.
Pale Wing had aligned herself with Traffic Control, where she commenced to keep station, while sending out a broadband call for a guild mediator.
And there the matter stood. The hunters might yet have fired, but the risk to the station, or their own visibility, stayed their hand. The call for a guild mediator ought to have frozen all pieces in place, of course, but Shan had no illusions about that, had there been fewer witnesses.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the last scene from Pale Wing’s video log—the two hunters, looking very much like those that had threatened Bechimo, waiting just outside the shadow of the station. And Pale Wing, just inside that shadow, holding an entire station hostage to the good behavior of savages, while a world, and more, watched.
A call went out for a guild mediator. Liltander being a hub, there was bound to be a guild mediator—or three dozen—lying about, waiting for something to do to pass an afternoon or evening.
Shan swallowed, his stomach sour. Self-preservation aside, a ship endangering a station was not something that any mediator worth his certification would overlook. There would at least be a fine, if not an interdiction, and while the hunters would very likely reap more, and worse, that was very cold comfort indeed.
The screen beeped, indicating that the log had skipped ahead four-point-six Standard hours, to the arrival of the mediator, and his judgement.
Shan reached for his wineglass.
* * *
The guild mediator had leveled a fine—not as large a fine as it might have been, but more than negating any profits Pale Wing might have expected to wring from the traders of Liltanderport, had she been permitted to resume docking.
Which she was not.
The guild mediator suggested that Pale Wing take up whatever goods were waiting for her, send down any directed cargo by tug—and quit Liltander space.
What befell the hunters was even less satisfying, as they had been able to produce documents linking them to the local security net, as contractors. The guild mediator could do little but remand them to the discipline of their chief, which he did in the strongest possible language.
The log entry ended. Shan closed his eyes, ran through a quick focusing exercise, and opened his eyes to the message waiting light.
A letter of apology was in-queue from Captain ven’Tyrlit, who offered her resignation, if he wished it; and a letter from Pale Wing’s trader, the redoubtable tel’Brakin, begging his instruction.
—•—
Some hours later, she was back in the galley, a mug of tea cooling in her hand while she stared at a particularly uninteresting piece of decking. She had finished her review of the files Pilot Tocohl had released to her, and—
“What’s the problem, Haz?”
Tolly hitched up onto the edge of the galley’s long counter and sat there, arms braced on either side, booted feet swinging above the decking.
Hazenthull stirred, and sighed. Tolly was a skilled reader of people, and while they had not been partners for a very long time, they had been an effective team. Tolly himself said that they clicked, as if they were two modules that operated well enough on their own, but which, joined, became a single, deadly efficient device. It was nothing to wonder about, that he saw her at brown study and correctly deduced that she was ill at ease.
She raised the mug, tasted cold tea, and grimaced.
Shifting out of her lean, she turned toward the pot.
“Would you like tea?”
“Sure, tea’d be fine,” he answered, and waited while she poured, taking the cup she gave him between his palms, and lowering his face into the steam.
Hazenthull resumed her lean against the counter, holding her mug carefully in one hand.
“You decide to leave us at Bieradine?” Tolly asked, raising his head, and giving her a straight look from guileless blue eyes.
Though he was considerably smaller than she was, being Terran to her Yxtrang, Tolly was not a child, nor was he a simpleton; Hazenthull had known that since the first patrol they had made together. She had lately, however, begun to think that he was…even more complex than she had supposed.
“I read the file on Bieradine,” Tolly continued, after he had taken a sip of his tea. “Looks like a nice place for a vacation. Lots to do—climb mountains and swim lakes until you get tired, then go on down to the city, and take it easy, tour the museums…”
“I am not leaving the ship,” Hazenthull said heavily. She knew from experience that he was capable of continuing to spout such nonsense, for—well, until someone or something diverted his attention.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Tolly said. “I’d miss you.”
That was…not quite nonsense, though it partook of certain Terran cultural cues of which she was not entirely certain. That he would miss her—they had been partners, after all; they had each trusted the other to guard their back. That was not something that faded…quickly. If it faded at all.
Did she not miss the Elder, still? And that despite her sessions with Lady Anthora. She had been his junior for…very nearly her entire career as an Explorer. He had been a constant of her life, until she had…
“Haz? If you’re not leaving us, then what’s the problem?”
She sighed.
“The problem is that…the captain gave me to the mission—”
Tolly sat up a little straighter.
“Haz, this is your decision. If you don’t want anything to do with the mission, say it; we’ll put you off with a nice draw account and the pilot’ll square it with—”
“No,” she interrupted. “Hear me. I do not know what the mission is, but you do. Pilot Tocohl does. The captain must also know what the mission is, and has judged that I will be of benefit to the team. Even if the pilot had permitted me to learn the mission before making my decision, I could not…reverse the captain’s orders in this. Because she is the captain.”
“And she’s got both pieces. Yeah, I see that.”
Tolly sipped his tea. After a moment, Hazenthull sipped hers.
“Being who and what she is,” Tolly said slowly, “Pilot Tocohl has…feelings, let’s say, about people being denied the right to make their own decisions.”
Hazenthull blinked.
“I had not considered that,” she said. “But, to make a decision, one must have…”
“…sufficient data. Yeah.” He sipped once more, and put his teacup aside. “She didn’t exactly think that through.” He looked up into her face and gave her a grin. “If I was called on to give a professional opinion, I’d say Pilot Tocohl hasn’t had a lot of practice at this yet.”
She frowned.
“Surely the pilot can hear what we say.”
“Sure she can, but we haven’t been disrespectful, and I can express my professional opinion.” He sighed.
“Tell you what, Haz, since you’ve made your decision to stay, based on the data available to you, just like the sensible woman I know you are, let’s ask the pilot to release the mission files so you can get up-to-date. In the meantime, what I can tell you, since you’ve decided to stick with us, understand, is—we’re bound for Jemiatha’s Jumble Stop, which is located at the far end of nowhere, near enough. They got a little bit of problem with an AI born too fast and without proper training.”
“This is why the pilot goes. This is one of her…people she seeks to aid.”
“That’s it,” Tolly said. “It’s also why I’m going. I told you once—remember?—that I was a specialist. Training AIs, that’s my specialty. ‘Mentor’—that’s the job title.”
He put the cup on the counter at his side, and slid to his feet.
“Since you’re staying aboard, we can Jump-in/Jump-out at Bieradine, which’ll please her—and me, too, come to say it.”
“I will tell the pilot my decision now,” Hazenthull said, shifting out of her lean to put her mug aside.
“Good,” he said, turning away, and turning back to her when she said his name. “Yeah?”
“The woman on the port,” she began…
The woman she had killed for him—the woman who had addressed him as Thirteen-Sixty-Two, and struck him in the face with a gun when he did not answer quickly enough…
She shook her head—the Terran gesture signifying frustration at her own inability to choose between the multitude of questions she wanted to ask him.
“Who was she?” Tolly murmured. “She was tel’Vaster’s backup.”
“Tel’Vaster was the man who tried to shoot you in the back?”
“That was him. Her name was Glinz Pirl-Dorn. She…both of ’em…were directors—sorta the direct opposite of Pilot Tocohl, when it comes to matters of free choice.”
“She spoke as though she…owned you.”
“Well, by her way of thinking, she did own me—or at least considered me hers to use. It happens that I think otherwise—and there hangs an interesting story, maybe, but I’m going to have to tell it to you sometime else. Tea break’s over and I gotta get back to my chair.”
