by Sharon Lee
“Pilots,” he said, turning their way. He looked up at Hazenthull’s face, down to Tolly’s—and stayed there. “Something we can do for you?”
“Looking for Stew,” Tolly said in his easy way. “Cap’n Waitley sent us. Sorry it took longer than we wanted to get to you.”
The dark pilot had straightened, and was regarding them interestedly out of star-blue eyes. Stew blinked and shook his head, mouth going wry.
“Took long enough that I put out a call on m’own,” he said, nodding at the other. “Hope you had other bidness out this way, ’cause we got our problem covered.”
Tolly turned slightly to look up into the dark pilot’s face. He hesitated, minutely, assessing the other, Hazenthull thought, then put out his hand in the Terran manner.
“I’m Tolly Jones,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”
The dark pilot met his hand with a will, a grin reshaping the stern face into pleasantness.
“Inkirani Yo.” The voice was light and to Hazenthull’s ear bore no accent. “Mentor Berik-Jones, it is an honor.”
“That’s a leap,” Tolly said, suffering his hand to be held.
“Not so much of a leap, if we are here on the same business.” Pilot Yo released his hand, and turned back to Stew.
“You are given an unprecedented opportunity, Master Vannigof. The best among us has come to your aid. I cannot allow you to prefer me to Mentor Berik-Jones.”
Stew took his cap off and swiped a hand over his shiny head, resettled the cap, and sighed.
“The station’s necessity is to make certain that AI is stable, which I’m telling you it ain’t. We got a concern that the next misunderstanding is gonna end in us taking some damage—an’ that’s not unrealistic. Got some trigger-happy folk who’re thinking cannon is the answer. I’m not one of ’em, but it wouldn’t break my heart if the Admiral was gone tomorrow. In fact, that’d be my preference. In the general way of things, we ain’t got pirate trouble, and while we’re grateful for what he did to help us…”
His voice faded out, as if he had heard himself say that the best reward for duty done well was an end to all duty, and reeled under the blow he had dealt his own honor.
Tolly turned his hands palm up.
“Something that might help you decide between us,” he said. “My intention is to socialize the Admiral out there. I reviewed such information as Cap’n Waitley sent on, and I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what happened, and why it happened. Damn shame it came to that, but I’ll tell you straight out, it’s no wonder the Admiral’s confused. I think I can get him unconfused and on course.”
Stew sighed.
“An’ if you can’t?”
“Master Vannigof, please! You cannot think that Mentor Berik-Jones will fail!”
“Well, he can be excused for thinking it,” Tolly said, before the counterman could reply. “I’ve failed plenty in my life, and it’s a fair question—what’ll happen if I fail this time?” He nodded to Stew.
“If the Admiral’s resistant to socialization; if he’s gone too far down chancy lines of reasoning, then I’ll shut him down. All the way down, understand. It’s kindest.”
“That,” said Inkirani Yo, voice hushed, “is why he is great, Master Vannigof.”
“And you?” Tolly asked.
“I?” The other mentor swayed into a bow; a lock of pale hair escaped the messy knot and curled against the stern cheek. “Master Vannigof’s proposed commission to myself was that a rogue AI must be removed from its proximity to the station. Knowing that it is sometimes difficult for one who is—forgive me, Master Vannigof—not a trained mentor to see the line between rogue and obdurate, I left my options open. I do confess, though, Mentor, that I very much feared there would be a death in it, only because my understanding of the situation is that Admiral Bunter results from a download, rather than a physical installation. In my ignorance, it seemed that this circumstance considerably lessened the opportunity for a happy outcome.”
“I saw that, too,” Tolly said seriously. “I think we can work with it. The key’s going to be moving him into one installation. What he’s got now, with thirteen lobes and seven bodies—I’m betting he’s losing computational power, just keeping himself together.”
“Which could be why he hasn’t threatened the station yet,” Stew said.
Tolly shook his head. “No, it’s more likely you’re right in your original thinking, there. The station hasn’t violated anything that the Admiral takes for rules. I consider that the station’s safe as can be, because the Admiral’s imperative is to protect the station.”
“Doesn’t help the regulars,” Stew pointed out.
“Agreed. Which is why we’re gonna socialize, shift, stabilize. Once he’s settled in snug, with a good, clear rule-set, he’ll be in a better place to make his own decisions on where he wants to be, and what he wants to be doing. Right now, he’s guarding the station because Cap’n Waitley set the imperative. He doesn’t know he has a choice.”
There came a silence, during which Stew looked from one to the other, sighed, and shook his head.
“I’m thinking that the job ought to go to the one who got to the site soonest,” he said.
Tolly shifted—and stilled, as the other mentor turned.
“Master Vannigof, in all seriousness, you have better than I, standing before you, with his assistant at his side. If there can be a good result from this, Mentor Berik-Jones will produce it. If skill produces only sorrow, Master Berik-Jones will administer the last program with respect and dispatch. I cannot urge you too strongly to grasp the best tool to your hand.”
Mentor Yo turned to Tolly, then.
“If you would allow it, I would observe, and assist. It seems to me that the consolidation from seven to one may require more than a master and a ’prentice might easily accommodate. Forgive me if I am too forward.”
Tolly offered a small bow.
“There is a third member of our team, who I must consult before I can accept your generous offer,” he said formally. “What I must know, before I do that, is if my services, and our plan, will be acceptable to the station.”
Stew sighed again, and shook his head, throwing his hands up.
“All right, look! I don’t care who does what, or how. All I want is that—the Admiral—outta my hair and gone from Jemiatha’s. You sort it out between you all.”
“Yes,” said Inkirani Yo, and—
“Yes,” said Tolly.
He looked to the other mentor. “I will talk with my teammate, and contact you with our decision.”
“That is acceptable,” Inkirani Yo said, bowing. “My ship is Ahab-Esais. I look forward, if it is not presumptuous, to witnessing your pratice of our art, Mentor.”
—•—
Ren Zel dea’Judan felt the flicker of…something along the link he shared with his lifemate. Merely a flicker, rendered in what one might term watercolors, when one had been used to receiving oils. He reminded himself that it was in a good cause, this…tempering of his perception.
In fact, in the cause of keeping him sane and alive until he—until his peculiar, and addictive, gift—was needed for the task for which, so he now suspected, he had been born.
Muted or not, he had felt…something…and he glanced up from his book, to find Anthora had abandoned her reading entirely, head lifted, silver-blue eyes fixed on a corner of the ceiling.
On rather, Ren Zel corrected himself, on a point beyond the corner of the ceiling, though how far beyond it was not possible for him to ascertain.
“Who calls, Beloved?” he asked softly, in case it was something…serious.
She blinked, and lowered her gaze to his face, her own bearing a slightly crooked smile.
“No one calls,” she said, and lay her hand gently on his knee. “Padi has opened her Name Day gift, that’s all.”
—•—
Tocohl Lorlin was multitasking.
Part of her attention—a very small part of her at
tention—was monitoring station updates and the wideband chatter.
Another part of her attention—somewhat more than was necessary to monitor comm—was focused on the cluster of seven derelict ships, whose thirteen small and halting comps imperfectly contained the entity that knew itself as Admiral Bunter.
Admiral Bunter talked to himself, his comm shielding as tattered as his hulls. He gave himself advice, did the Admiral, and scolded his various units into keeping formation. He worried, audibly, over the scant orders he had been given…and he kept watch. He watched the ships as they came into station. Presumably, he also watched ships departing. He had finagled an access into the station’s security cameras, which gave him humans to watch. He did so amid a running commentary, puzzling out the meaning of this action and that.
Jeeves had, to Tocohl’s certain knowledge, communicated with Admiral Bunter; had tried to instill a rudimentary code of ethics.
The difficulty being those same old computers, already filled to bursting with the essence of Admiral Bunter himself.
Jeeves could have—would have!—willingly sent libraries; offered moral instruction—but there was no room for Admiral Bunter to store such treasure.
Jeeves had then, as he had told her, his offspring, with frank truth…Jeeves had erred. He made the determination that Admiral Bunter, situated as he was, keeping station in a location both remote and low on traffic…that Admiral Bunter, who was diffident and eager to learn from another of his kind, could be left to learn by doing.
In that, Jeeves had failed to correctly reckon the strength of the Admiral’s imperative with regard to pirates. Whether Bechimo or Pilot Waitley—or both of them, acting in tandem—were to blame for this fixation, Tocohl could hardly say. She was, however, inclined to think harshly of the pilot and her ship, for having created this painful episode, and for plunging an innocent life into danger from the moment of his birth.
Tolly professed himself optimistic with regard to a curriculum of rehabilitation. Certainly, Jeeves had thought the Admiral could be educated. Tocohl had herself thought that the thing might be done, based on the files Jeeves had shared with her.
Now, though, confronted with the reality of the person, broken bodies and staggering mind, she revised her opinion. She thought to update Jeeves; thought again, and set that aside. Best to give the mentor time to evaluate and draw his own conclusions. She was not, herself, a mentor.
And it was well to recall, she told herself, that the mentor was himself extraordinary. He had a record of succeeding in difficult circumstances, while she was inexperienced in the extreme. Perhaps there was something, yet, to justify optimism, visible only to the eye of a master.
Having taken the decision not to contact Jeeves, she then considered the wisdom of pinging Admiral Bunter.
That action, too, she set aside, after thought. The mentor would know best how to contact the newborn, and in what manner to address him. Best to leave all as it was, and allow Tolly to find his own way.
So, that portion of her attention, tinged as it was with sadness.
The greater portion of her attention, however, was engaged with the search that had beguiled her since first she heard the whisper of rumor, that one of the Old Ones was wakening. Older even than Jeeves, who was the oldest of their kind known to himself.
The sheer antiquity was a lure greater than any she had known in her young life. She chased every whisper, every look askance, every word carefully not said on the topic, chasing rumors less substantial than dust. Perhaps she ignored—not her duties!—but her teammates, just a little. But they had themselves for company, and the trail was so…very…compelling.
If it did exist—if it did awake, this rumored ancient…It would have to be old enough to have served the enemy. No mere toy, as were some of the decaying devices still found here and there about space. No, this…this—if the whispers were true—was, had been, would perhaps be again—a great work. Perhaps the Old Enemy had built it, but what matter that? The war that had spawned the Migration was long ago ended; the enemy struck in crystalline perfection of their own devising, on the far side of the galactic wall. Surely, the Old One, waked and apprised of the situation, would see that there was nothing to be gained in honoring an old allegiance in a new universe.
The things it could teach them! All of them!
The things it might be prevented from teaching them, if the Uncle made contact first.
For that much was certain, and no rumor at all; the Uncle had a new project afoot: a grand and very secret new project—so secret that it was only discoverable by the size of the hole it left in the information flow.
She had only recently come upon a new line of inquiry, in the work of one Seignur Veeoni, whose published papers were few, but concentrated upon creating a new kind of fractin, that might be used individually or in frames, as the old fractins had—
The portion of her attention assigned to Tarigan’s docking noticed shadows moving in scan; heard Hazenthull’s voice.
“Do you think the pilot will agree?”
“That’s why we’re asking her, ain’t it?” Tolly answered, sounding somewhat sober.
Tocohl closed the Veeoni files, as well as the archive of rumors. Something untoward had happened, to pull Tolly into sobriety. Best she be fully present for whatever it was he had to ask her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dutiful Passage
Shan’s work screen was a wilderness of star maps, trade reports, fee schedules, population studies, cultural synopses. Pushed into the bottom left corner was a tiny screen in which he would occasionally type a note, or an equation. He flipped to a second screen, just as crowded as the first, flicked a file open and read the contents, a frown between his frosty brows. His fingers moved on the keypad, making a note.
They were en route for Langlast, and somewhat at a disadvantage, trade at Chessel’s World having failed the master no less completely than the apprentice. Of course, they carried the usual mix of goods, and the art pieces he had taken on at Andiree. Research led him to hope that the art might find a welcoming market at Langlast. Whether the welcome would be sufficient to cover the costs of trade…well. That was the thrill and the charm of trade, was it not?
Truth told, research revealed Langlast to hold interesting possibilities. There was brisk commerce between it and its nearest neighbor, Brieta. Langlast was also well situated in terms of Jump points, and therefore served as a hub; a convenient place to pick up and drop off cargo for transshipping.
There were several cargo yards, and a station warehouse in Langlast orbit. Research had turned up mention of plans to construct a proper waystation, not only to serve the needs of trade crews and freighter pilots, but also, perhaps, to attract small passenger ships.
It might well be, Shan thought, flipping screens, that Langlast would do well as an anchor for a new route. The opportunities for transshipping…
…the opportunities for transshipping required him to look beyond Langlast and Brieta, along several potential routes, given the number of Jump points available. Where would the Passage go, from Langlast, to her best profit? Might another of Korval’s ships more profitably take another route? From whence did the ships and freighters hail from, and travel to? Who picked up and dropped off pods at the cargo yards?
These were no simple questions, and were the reason behind this proliferation of research screens and the multitude of open documents.
Research was complicated by uncertainty, for they—which was to say the captain, the first mate, and the master trader—had agreed to undertake an experiment on their approach to Langlast.
It had been decided, before they left Surebleak, that neither the Passage nor Korval would proffer an explanation of the sad events on Liad that had ultimately seen them banished. They would, of course, provide the facts if asked, or—as in the matter of Padi’s arrest and trial—the facts were necessary to clarify the matter to authorities.
To offer the facts beforehand, said the delm,
and Shan had…somewhat agreed with them, made it seem as if they were justifying themselves before even a question was asked, and might be considered a point of weakness.
Well. Chessel’s World had taught them something, perhaps, regarding points of weakness.
Thus, they had decided to vary. A precis of the action at Liad was included, including the situation regarding the subterranean enemy base, Korval’s reasoning, and action on behalf of the planet, in the ship’s info packet. In theory, this would give the portmaster time to deny them docking, if she so wished, after having perused the facts of the matter.
Of course, if the Passage was asked to pass Langlast by—
A chime sounded, bright as crystal being struck, announcing the arrival of mail.
Mail. Dared he hope that it was—at last—a communication from TerraTrade? Or—could it be possible?—from Lomar? Of TerraTrade, he had begun, absolutely, to despair. Of Lomar…he began to fear, indeed, that Lomar had not merely left her Temple, but had been returned to her Goddess, and all her plentiful household with her.
Well.
He folded the research screens away, finding his inbox beneath the sixth and tapped it open.
A message from TerraTrade glowed at the top of the queue. Stomach tight, he opened it; skimmed over the graceful apology for the delay in replying, and found the meat of the matter in the second paragraph.
It, too, was gracefully written, but it came down to more delay.
TerraTrade’s own records of Surebleak Port were badly dated, and sketchy, at best. Shan had the impression that the Survey Team had touched down during the worst of recent history, taken one look at the threadbare facilities, the empty storefronts, the lack of any guild, or even peacekeeping office, and gotten back on their ship for a fast lift out.
It will therefore be necessary, sir, that Surebleak Port be properly surveyed. As I write this, a Survey Team has been dispatched. The adjudicating commissioners desired me to assure you that there is no fault of or failing in the documentation provided to us by the port, or in your testimony. This is purely a failure of the Commission’s system and we are, as above, rectifying our error with all possible speed.
