by Sharon Lee
His stomach hurt. He reached for the little bottle of pills, threw three down his throat and followed them with a tangy swallow of high-c.
“Please get Hazenthull on comm.”
“Hazenthull is not currently available to comm, Pilot. I am sorry.”
Worse and worse. He took another swig of juice, decided he was good to go, and got up on his feet, pleased not to wobble.
“Please open the hatch,” he said. “I’m going on dock.”
“I regret that is not possible. We are in transit toward the Jump point.”
Tolly sat back down on his bunk, cold all the way through.
“Destination?” he asked, but he thought he knew the answer to that.
“The Lyre Institute office on Nostrilia.”
Raw fear hit him. He took a breath, and pushed the fear aside.
“Return to Jemiatha Station.”
“Jemiatha Station will not allow me to dock, Tolly. You know this.”
Well, at least he should’ve suspected it, given the tenor of their last communication with Stew.
“Inki left a second message for you. However, she said that you must not hear it until you had showered, eaten and, quote, felt human again, unquote.”
He closed his eyes, opened them. Stood.
“All right then,” he said flatly, and headed for the ’fresher.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jemiatha’s Jumble Stop
Tarigan
Berth 12
Admiral Bunter left dock during her sleep shift.
Hazenthull leaned over the board, checking Tarigan’s departure, in six hours, after Ahab-Esais, in two. There was a memo in her queue from Pilot Tochol—approval of the course she had laid in before going off duty. There was no further comment; there was no need for comment, the course being simple: a mere reversal of the route they had brought them here, until they raised the planet Surebleak.
Home, as those of Clan Korval now had it.
Of Pilot Tocohl herself, there was no sign. She was, perhaps, saying her good-byes to Inki. Pilot Tocohl had become…friendly of Inki; they held, so Hazenthull understood, interests in common, among them the history of so-called artificial intelligence.
She had found Tolly in the galley during one of his off-shifts, and had asked him why Pilot Tocohl’s intelligence—and Admiral Bunter’s—bore the burden of artificiality, when they were demonstrably intelligent, as well as much quicker of thought than flesh-and-blood persons.
Inki, who heard the question on her way through the galley to her shift with Admiral Bunter, laughed, and said, “It is human ego, Pilot Haz, and nothing more than that!”
“Well,” Tolly had said, with a small smile, “something more than that, actually. See, Haz, some folks think that, because Admiral Bunter and Tocohl, and all the rest of their people, have had information uploaded to their brains, that their intelligence is…less real than any given human’s intelligence. The idea is that they didn’t have to work for that information; to learn it like an organic brain has to learn it.”
“But information,” Hazenthull had objected, when Tolly stopped to sip from his mug of ’mite, “is…only data. Intelligence is…manipulating data, and drawing conclusions.”
“Right. You know that, because you’re smart, and you think about things. Same can’t be said for most of the rest of us, who keep on believing that something that’s manufactured is artificial.”
He had suddenly looked very weary, and Hazenthull had excused herself so that he could finish his meal in peace, and seek his few hours of rest.
On Tarigan’s bridge, Hazenthull stretched to her full height, and did a series of quick bends, to ease the crick in her back. The silence oppressed her. She glanced at the time display on the board, and nodded. She would take a walk—a farewell walk—about Jemiatha Station. Perhaps she would—no, definitely she would stop at the Jumble House and have a last Jumbleburger for her preflight meal. She had become very fond of the Jumbleburger, which was a chewy yeast patty seasoned with sweet-hot spices, a slice of soy cheese on top and bottom, and the whole served between two slices of fresh-baked bread.
Even in the short while they had been at dock, Pilot Tocohl had become a commonplace on Jemiatha Station. Whether the stationers knew her for Admiral Bunter’s kin, or simply accepted her as the “utility ’bot” Tolly had claimed her to be, seemed immaterial. Tocohl was known and accepted, and therefore would experience no difficulty returning alone along the dock to Tarigan from Ahab-Esais.
And if some fool was so unwise as to attempt to importune her, well—Pilot Tocohl was well able to take care of herself.
Hazenthull clipped a portable comm to her belt, checked her weapons, all but one hidden, out of respect for stationer nerves, and left Tarigan’s too quiet deck.
—•—
“Mentor,” Inki’s voice filled the bridge. Tolly sat in the pilot’s chair, arms folded over his chest, head against the backrest, eyes closed.
“Mentor, it has been an honor to assist you in the performance of our art. It grieves me beyond my poor ability to express, that I must serve you this turn. I hope that you will find it in you to forgive me—or at least to understand me.
“I flatter myself, in fact, that you will understand me, for I am one like unto yourself. That being so, and having discovered you, I had no other option, but to put forth my best efforts to secure you for the institute. The directors are, as I am certain you must be aware, keen to recover you.
“I could not refuse my imperatives; I do not, of course, have to explain this to you. This is why you wake to find yourself aboard Admiral Bunter on course to Nostrilia.”
There was a small pause, then Inki cleared her throat.
“Having fulfilled my duty to the directors, I then undertook to do what I might for you.
“You have an ally at large. I trust that her loyalty is such that she will not allow you to fall into the hands of the directors. I also trust that she is your hope of last resort. For it is not for nothing, Tollance Berik-Jones, that you are known as the greatest mentor of our time. Admiral Bunter remains in need of further education. I trust—no, in this I am certain!—that you will be able to impart to him all of those things he yet requires in order to make an informed decision…before you come to Nostrilia orbit.”
Another pause, then Inki’s voice again, somewhat less brisk, even…regretful.
“I bid you good-bye, Mentor. I have learned much at your side. Thank you, for the gift of your expertise, and for your professional regard. I will long look upon our association, and the work we performed together, as one of the brightest episodes of my life.”
“Message ends,” a mechanical voice stated.
Tolly reached to the board, and, after a moment, saved the message to his queue.
Then he took a deep breath.
Inki was one of his schoolmates, was she? He felt that he ought to have known that, but—how would he know? They were designed to pass as full human, and those employed by the institute were…discouraged from revealing themselves. Especially were they discouraged from revealing themselves to truants the directors were keen to recover.
And how interesting, that Inki was apparently able to hedge her bet, and provide him with—
An ally?
He suddenly sat up straight in the chair.
An ally?
Haz.
Inki’d gotten Haz mixed into Lyre business.
That wasn’t good. In fact, it was bad, really bad. Haz’d killed two directors, which the remainder weren’t at all likely to be forgiving of—and he wouldn’t be there to back her up.
“Admiral Bunter, it’s imperative that I speak to Tarigan.”
“I am sorry, Tolly; I cannot allow that.”
He opened his mouth, and closed it again. Inki did good work. There was no use arguing with the Admiral, and no reset possible. If he was a fool, he could check his codes, but he wasn’t a fool—and neither was Inki. Of course, she’d’ve loc
ked him out at the control level.
Which left him with goodwill, trust, and his powers of persuasion.
“Well, I’m sorry for that,” he said, “and it’s likely to make trouble for Haz, who didn’t ever make any trouble for you, but rules’re rules. I do understand that. Any chance I can take a look at the current route?”
There was a tiny pause, as if he’d managed to startle the lad, which he surely hoped he had.
“Of course the pilot may see the route,” Admiral Bunter said politely. “I remind that it is locked in.”
“Sure it is,” Tolly said softly.
His screen four came live, showing the countdown to the Jump point, and the course as laid in, thereafter.
—•—
Ahab-Esais left dock as she was finishing her meal. She watched the undocking on the large screen that dominated the back wall of the Jumble House. She already knew Inki for a competent pilot, and she watched with interest as Ahab-Esais backed away from station, rolled, and tumbled into her assigned lane, moving at sublight for the Jump point.
Hazenthull ate the last bite of her Jumbleburger, wiped away the tears the spices had brought to her eyes, and downed what was left of her tea in one gulp. She stood, carried plate, cup, and utensils to the recycling station, deposited them, and exited into a crowded station corridor.
She’d barely made the first cross-corridor when the comm on her belt chimed in Pilot Tocohl’s sequence. Hazenthull snatched the unit to her ear.
“Yes, Pilot?”
“Ah, Pilot Haz, how quick you are!” cried a familiar voice that was, nonetheless, not Pilot Tocohl. “It is Inkirani Yo, aboard Ahab-Esais. I am contacting you with a change of plans. Pilot Tocohl is traveling with me. She and I are bound to track down a rumor that exercises a strong fascination over both of us. When our curiosity is satisfied, she will return to her home port.”
“Hey, watch it, there, big girl!” a stationer snapped, slapping Hazenthull’s elbow aside.
She spun, and ducked into a small service alcove.
“The pilot is with you?” she asked, scarcely able to credit it.
“She is, yes.”
“I would speak with her.”
“I am sorry; she is unable to come to comm at the moment. But, Pilot Haz, that is not all the news I have for you!”
Her chest was tight; there was something very wrong—the pilot was meticulous. She had left the proposed course in Hazenthull’s queue. If she had intended to travel with Inki, would she not have left that information as well? Such sudden starts were…not like her.
And now, she was unavailable?
“You are very quiet,” Inki said in her ear. “Do you not care for further news?”
“What further news?” she demanded, running times in her head, weighing her honor with Jemiatha Station against Pilot Tocohl’s liberty…
“I fear that Mentor Berik-Jones has run into a spot of trouble with Admiral Bunter. There is a course laid in to…someplace, let us say, that the mentor would prefer not to go, and the Admiral under compulsion to take him there. I mention this because your loyalty may be such that you feel impelled to take this matter under your correction.”
“This is you? You did this?”
“I fear so, Pilot Haz. I hope that you will forgive me, but I do not think you will.”
“Where are they going?”
“No, no, Pilot Haz; I’ve already told you more than I ought. If I hint you further along, I will do myself a mischief, which the directors would hardly care for. I am expensive, I am. Just like Mentor Berik-Jones.”
“Inki…” Hazenthull began, though she hardly knew what she would say, or ask for. The return of Pilot Tocohl? The recall of Admiral Bunter?
“Inki,” she said again, and it seemed the question formed itself. “Why have you done this?”
There was a slight pause, just too long for lag, before Inki said softly, “Necessity.”
Hazenthull swallowed, took a breath for another question—
And the comm went dead.
—•—
Padi couldn’t quite remember when the room had gotten crowded. For the longest time, it had been only herself, Father, Mr. Higgs, and Unet Hartensis, even after the doors had been opened.
Then, a pair of merchants had appeared, wearing skirts down to their ankles and wide belts all hung ’round with pouches at their waists, and brightly colored, wide-collared shirts.
Father had gone forward to greet them, and Padi had started in that direction, also, which was good, because another pair of traders came in behind the first, and paused on the threshold, as if unsure. Padi kept going, past Father and his pair, to the new ones, bowing and remembering to smile broadly.
“Good day to you,” she said in Trade. “I am Padi yos’Galan, apprentice trader on Dutiful Passage. Whom do I have the pleasure of welcoming to our entertainment?”
Introductions came forth. The trader in the pale orange shirt was Malekai Gerome, senior sales associate at Gerome Mercantile. The trader wearing the brilliant green shirt was Irfenda Dorst, head buyer for the same establishment. Their Trade was good, but their accents so heavy that Padi had to concentrate intently to be certain of their words.
“I am very pleased to meet you,” she said, and stood a little to the side, showing them the laden tables with a little wave of her hand. “Please, refresh yourselves.”
They smiled, and nodded, and moved past her. Father, she saw, was now speaking with a threesome, all dressed in dark skirts and crimson shirts—and, just as she looked back toward the door, here came a lone trader, splendid in lemon yellow from shoulder to ankle; she stepped forward to greet this new guest.
So, indeed, the room had filled, by ones and twos and threes. The guests refreshed themselves and moved about the room, perusing their small trade displays, and taking up the master trader’s infokey and, a few of them, also the apprentice’s key.
Most of them wanted to speak to Father, of course, but more than six made a particular point of approaching her, and speaking with her about her particular cargoes and specialities. Her ear slowly became accustomed to the accent, though she began to feel a tiny ache behind her eyes, as if she had been staring at a study screen too long.
They were not so very much interested in imported foodstuffs, but wondered after the markets, off-world, for certain preserved items, and dried natural fruits and vegetables. There was also something—a beverage, as she gathered it, not tea, perhaps more akin to coffee, but not coffee, either. Oonlah, as she heard the word, and detected disappointment, that there was none on offer among the refreshments.
“Ahbut yeel not be knowning it for a staple, with coming from far away,” said Sales Associate Gerome.
“’Prentice trader might not know, but yon Hartensis true knows!” his companion of the bright green shirt, Buyer Dorst, said hotly. “A spread of all that’s fine from Langlast farms and harvests, and none of oonlah?”
“I am sorry to have missed a favorite beverage,” Padi said, her head throbbing now. “Perhaps I might send out, and repair the error. Who may provide us, on the port?”
“Non, non,” came a new voice, this one deep and belonging to one Herst Plishet, a textile broker. “Don let these two sorry trickers pullin your leg, Trader. Oonlah’s one of our usual drinks, make no mine o’that! But, to name it Langlast Fine, along o’the wines and the juices and the fine breads you’ve laid for us—that’s a joik, that is, and shame on the pair of you for it. The trader here spairt a thought for our comfort, and Unet laid out fresher’n fresh to pleasure us, like she never fails to do. Woulja rather that fella off from Zorba’s Zen, who offered us crackers and beer?”
That was apparently not a happy memory. Padi felt derision and irritation in equal measure, and Dorst of the green shirt made a stiff little bow by bending at a forty-five degree angle from the waist, while looking up into her face.
“Iz like Herst has it, Trader—a joik, only a joik. Iz a fine treat you’ve made for us, yo
u and Unet, too. Annit so, Malekai?”
“Completely so,” said Senior Gerome, bowing in his turn. He and his associate then moved off in the direction of the wine table.
Padi sighed surreptitiously, the ache in her head easing, just a little—and flaring again as the textile broker spoke.
“I read the packet bootcher ship, Trader, and the hard choices that come to, and was answered by, your family that owns it. I wonder, havin mooft house like’s been done, how stable is your base, noo? Speaking for myself, I value long-term partners in trade. It’d upset me no end to just be settling in to a long arrangement, and learn that finances have foundered on fortune’s rocks and our association’s sundered.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Happy Occasion
Langlastport
Shan exchanged cards with Marthimyr Seirt, master of the Langlast Technology Exchange. Master Seirt had not precisely said that he was interested in…antiquities, but he had not precisely been disinterested in the subject either, when Shan artlessly misunderstood his role. As it happened, Langlast had a vigorous culture of invention of new technologies, and adaptation of existing technologies. They prided themselves on being able to improve any mechanical design brought to them, and also produced manufacturing designs upon request.
“Also, gineric plans for a range o’basic useful items,” Master Seirt had said. “Base level ’bots—cleaning, security and the like—through your mid-level servers and house-minders.” He’d given Shan an arch look here, the mention of Old Tech having come earlier.
“Non one of ’em smarter’n I am, never mindin yourself, Trader. Living units for all environments, all just smart enough—there’s my own area, now. One or two of my designs’re fetching, I like to think, and there’s others worth the look. Truth, it’s likely the gineral plans’ll be the most use to you. We’ll provide you with a display, set it up in a corner of the booth. Them plans’ll sell themselfs. Seen it time and again. You come call on me tomorrow, midday. I’ll see ye balanced for your hospitality here today, show you ’round the shop, and letcha have a look at the display unit. Is that done?”
