by Sharon Lee
And hadn’t the ship spun three hundred sixty degrees on its axis, when that event, which had been the low point of his life, was now revealed to be his most fortunate moment?
The path narrowed again, and Chi stepped ahead of him, light-foot. He felt a warm hand slip ’round his, caught his breath—and let it out in a sigh.
Hand-clasped, he followed her ’round a pile of living green very nearly as tall as he was, which had put forth round blue flowers easily as big as his head.
On the other side of the bush, the path vanished, and he came to rest next to his wife on the edge of what looked to be a public park, the grass short and well-tended, and the space open. Roses rioted on edge of the clearing and to the right there was a bench placed before them. In the center of the clearing, though, was an enormous trunk. He craned his head back, and sighted along it.
Korval’s Tree.
“You would introduce me to a tree?” he asked, though, really, the notion scarcely seemed out of the way, given the presence of the Tree. He was conscious of Chi’s hand in his, and of the fact that the breeze in this enclosed place was slightly brisker than out in the wider garden. Wisps of blonde hair had been teased out of the loose knot at Chi’s nape, and he was suddenly taken with the notion of sliding his hands into her hair, becoming complicit in its disorder; and placing his lips against the soft skin of her throat.
Her hand tightened ’round his and she led him forward, to the very Tree itself.
“What shall I do?” he asked her. “Bow?”
“Indeed not. Merely put your hand, so, against the trunk, and let us see what happens.”
He did as she said, pressing his unencumbered hand flat against the bark.
It was rough, and surprisingly warm. He felt a wave of—of happiness?—crash into and through him, and he was so delighted that he threw back his head and laughed aloud.
He heard Chi laugh, also, through the racket of happiness, and felt her hand still warm in his. From somewhere, he heard the sound of leaves snapping, and, obedient to the prompting of the joyful presence all about, he stepped back, and raised his free hand, palm up.
Next to him, Chi had done the same, and they each caught a round, green . . . seed pod, he thought . . . at the same instant.
The uproaring welcome faded, leaving him buoyed with anticipation, he turned, to see her eyes sparkling; the loosened tendrils of her hair moving softly about her face, scandalously stroking cheeks and brow and . . .
He swallowed and brought the pod up.
“What is this?”
“This,” she announced, sounding as breathlessly delighted as he felt, “is a rare treat indeed! I wager you have never had the like. Here—”
She held her hand up, showing him the pod on her palm. Perhaps she blew on it. Perhaps she had squeezed it when she’d caught it.
In any case, the pod merely . . . fell open, revealing a nut nestled in each quarter.
“We eat them,” she said, and without further explanation, slipped a portion of nut into her mouth.
He looked down at his hand, to find that his pod, too, had fallen open, and the aroma of the nuts made him realize all his hunger at once.
He all but snatched up the first piece, managing not to cram it into his mouth. It was—he had never . . .
It was perfect.
He ate the second piece, and it, too, was perfection; as was the third.
The fourth . . . he hesitated, and looked into her brilliant blue eyes.
“This,” he said, holding it toward her; “is yours.”
She smiled and raised her hand.
“And this,” she murmured, “is yours.”
She stepped forward, and he did, each lifting the treat to the other’s lips. Warmth filled him, and surety; his loins were beyond warm, and he stepped forward again, or she did. He thrust his fingers into the silly knot, freeing silken strands for the breeze to make merry with, as he bent to press his mouth to the base of her throat, feeling her fingers tracing down his chest, and his robe—her robe . . . Gods, she felt so good.
She made a soft growling sound, and pulled his head down to her breast.
• • • • • •
Some time later, they lay together at the base of the Tree, the grass as soft as any mattress while they learned each other, and learned themselves, and cried out in joyous release.
Chi woke . . . later, to find the Tree park filled with a gentle glow, and a blanket of leaves cast over them like a quilt. Fer Gun lay with his head on her breast, and she was of no mind to move him, or to rise and go into the house.
She settled her chin atop his head, closed her eyes. Above them, the wind moved through the leaves in a lullaby.
Chi went back to sleep.
V
The good ship Comet, out of Chonselta, Liad, belied her name somewhat, erring on the side of dependable and everyday, rather than on flash and glitter. She was patient with two pilots who continually tried her, teasing out her strengths and her limits; unapologetic when they confirmed that she was not a scout ship, for they had also found that she was not a garbage scow. A working small trader, that was all and everything that she claimed to be, and that was, in fact, exactly what she was.
Pilot Fer Gun pen’Uldra proved to be something other than Chi had anticipated, given his scores, his Guild test ratings, and his speed. Oh, he was everything that was quick and knowing at the board—that she had expected. But she had not expected Fer Gun pen’Uldra to be patient with the limits of so pedestrian a vessel. She had, in fact, rather thought that he would chafe under those limits, perhaps show a bit of temper, and even some disdain for work-a-day Comet, so far beneath his abilities.
Instead, he fair crooned over her, and gave her fulsome praise when she held her line and refused to be intimidated by the demands of an extended run at the top of her range.
“She won’t let us down, this lady,” he told Chi. They had finally gotten done with testing and trying and got themselves on the way to Mondaw. Comet had gone into Jump with nary a complaint nor a bobble, all boards green and steady.
“She has heart,” Chi agreed.
They were in the galley, sharing a celebratory cup of tea. Fer Gun was having a bowl of soup, too, while Chi contented herself with some salted crackers.
“We won’t be picking up anything at Mondaw?” asked Fer Gun. “The whole reason is to meet this Vigro Welsh?”
“We are running podless, with two pilots the whole crew,” Chi pointed out. “How much cargo can we take?”
“Small packages, and courier work,” he said, lifting a shoulder. “Ships don’t fly for free.”
That was spacer economics, and true, so far as it went. Chi sipped her tea.
“We may find some small thing which needs to travel in our direction, but you will recall that the primary purpose of this trip, Captain pen’Uldra, is to introduce you to those firms and contacts with whom you will be working, once this ship is fully crewed and wearing her pods.”
As he was still frowning, she added.
“Korval funds this tour as part of the cost of doing business.”
“True enough, though it goes against the weave,” he said, finishing his soup and rising to put the bowl in the washer. “Would you like more tea? Or something a little more to eat than two crackers?”
“By the time I am done here,” she told him with dignity, “I will have had three crackers. And yes, I would like it if you would warm my tea.”
He did so, and stood looking down at her. He was, she thought, much more suited to a ship than to Liad. It had been a wanton cruelty, to conspire so carefully to rob him of his wings. Though there always remained the possibility that the cousins had expected him to succumb to Low Port. She sighed, lightly. One would so treasure an opportunity to speak with the cousins.
Still . . .
“What are you thinking?” Fer Gun asked her. “Will Mondaw be a problem?”
That was a nicely reasoned leap, and phrased so that she need o
nly answer one query.
“Mondaw ought to be nothing like a problem,” she said, truthfully. “You have the files for review, do you not?”
He laughed.
“Do I not!” he repeated. “And I will set myself to reviewing them, again, I swear. In the meanwhile, you might have a nap.”
She did try not to glare at him.
“Am I a fragile flower, Pilot?”
He traded her a stare for her glare. Those black eyes produced an admirable stare, indeed.
“The pilot requires the copilot to be able,” he said. “You’re tired. Even I can see that.”
Chi bit back a sharp retort. After all, he was correct—she was tired, and would be the better for a rest. And he was twice correct to remind her of the progression of responsibilities, though she had learnt them before she could walk; there was a teaching rhyme that her nurse had sung to her.
The pilot being correct on both counts, she smiled up into those black, black eyes.
“I will, in fact, nap,” she told him. “That is an excellent idea, Pilot.”
• • • • • •
Vigro Welsh was plain-spoken and hearty, and Mondaw something very like him. Fer Gun felt a cautious optimism. When this plan—this partnership—had first been proposed, he had had his doubts. Who would not have had doubts, partnered with Korval? Comet herself had been a reassurance—a ship in the common way, accustomed to the common work of ships, and nothing of the glittering luxury of Liad about her.
In the same way Vigro Welsh was reassuring—a merchant, who dealt in everyday wares, and presented no airs. He was comfortable in a matter-of-fact way that drew Fer Gun’s envy. Where Glavda Empri, Jelaza Kazone, and Trealla Fantrol had discomforted and distressed him, Vigro Welsh’s office and—nameless!—home was not only appealing, but seemed . . . attainable in a way that Chi’s house would never be, for the likes of Fer Gun pen’Uldra.
There had been a tour of the warehouses, and introductions to various others of the Welsh network. The merchant’s initial instinct had been to speak to Chi.
“Captain pen’Uldra will be regularly on the route,” Chi said. “He will naturally be taking on a trader and crew. This stop is to make you known to each other, and so the captain may provide Comet’s trader-to-be with current introductions.”
That had set the merchant straight, and Fer Gun had found himself the center of a very sharp attention, indeed.
He was pleased to believe, at the end of the tour, after they had shared dinner at a local restaurant that was also in the network, that Vigro Welsh would not find himself embarrassed to be associated with Captain pen’Uldra and Comet. That left an unaccustomed warmth, which still buoyed him when they returned to the ship.
Once they were in and sealed, the two of them sat in the galley over wine, and talked through what they had seen, and he had learned, and considered those questions that he had.
When the debrief was done, he would have gone to his own quarters, but Chi had put her hand on his arm and smiled in that way that made his breath short and his blood warm. He had gone with her, therefore, and pleased he was to have done so.
• • • • • •
It was next shift that trouble struck, though he thought nothing about it at the time. He’d risen, checked the comm, and the screens.
No messages for them on the overnight, but the screens showed a package sitting just over the line of their dock. A smallish package, easily carried in the courier hold, and it was such a common thing that he thought nothing of opening the hatch and walking out to pick it up.
He scanned it, naturally—he wasn’t a fool, after all—and was on his way down the hall when the storm hatch snapped shut almost on his nose.
“What is that in your hand, Pilot?” Chi asked him over the intercom, her voice calm.
“A package,” he said agreeably.
“Had we arranged for a package?” Chi asked, and it came to him, then, that her voice was not so much calm as constrained.
He frowned, suddenly and forcibly reminded of the studies she had had him make regarding lading slips, documents of transfer, the proper order and style of sign-offs.
“Had we,” Chi asked again, “arranged for a package?”
“You know that we hadn’t,” he told her curtly. “I thought it had gotten kicked in.”
There was a small silence, before she repeated, “Kicked in?”
A hasty, belated scan of the package showed no documentation, no bills, no stamps; none of the things that—that an honest package ought to have, leaving aside the detail that an honest package would have been openly delivered and signed for by the ship.
“When I was piloting for my cousins,” he said, telling her the truth, no matter how badly it reflected on him. He had learned that: you told Chi yos’Phelium the truth, as plainly and as quickly as possible.
“When I was piloting for my cousins, it often happened that a package or a pallet was kicked inside our line, and was taken aboard as our rightful cargo.” He hesitated, then finished the tale out, feeling an utter fool.
“We didn’t have so much to do with lading slips, and tax stamps, and suchlike.”
Silence for the count of twelve. He could feel the ice filling the corridor and wondered if he’d freeze to death, or if she’d only evacuate the air from the hallway.
“I am calling the port proctors,” she said at last. “You will meet them on our dock and you will give that package to them. There will be questions; there may be forms to fill out. You will be everything that is convenable and forthright with the proctors, do you understand me, Pilot?”
The proctors. It fell on him, the memory of the proctors, the binders, the standing before Solcintra port security, and the Pilots Guild Master. The demand that he give over his license into the Guild’s safekeeping . . .
It was on the edge of his tongue, then, to beg her to evacuate the air.
“The proctors are on their way,” Chi said.
She would leave him here, gods, and he could scarcely blame her. However her means, she had redeemed his wings, and he repaid her with arrant stupidity.
He took a breath, and made sure his legs were steady enough to bear him before he bowed, in full sight of the camera—the bow of deep regret—before he turned toward the hatch and his doom.
• • • • • •
“Eighth one this port-week,” the elder of the two proctors said, who was clearly displeased, but not, it seemed, at him.
Her partner finished scanning the package, produced a scan-proof bag from one of the many pouches on his belt and sealed the package inside.
“Inert,” he said. “Like all the rest.”
“And like all the rest, it will doubtless flash-bang when it’s opened,” the elder said. She looked to Fer Gun and bowed slightly.
“Our apologies, Pilot. This prank has been on-going. So far no harm has come of it, because the ships that dock at Mondaw are honest ships, and call the proctors immediately. We will need to take your statement, and we request a copy of your dock surveillance records. Perhaps we’ll get lucky this time, and see a shadow.”
For a moment, Fer Gun thought his knees would give beneath his weight. A prank; an on-going prank, and he nothing more than its latest victim. The ship had behaved correctly, and the proctors had been called.
He wasn’t going to be arrested, again. His license would remain in his pocket.
There would still be Chi yos’Phelium to deal with when this was over, but if she struck him dead on the spot for idiocy unbecoming a sentient, still, he would die a pilot.
“Certainly,” he said to the proctors. “We will be pleased to share our records.”
“Thank you, Pilot,” the elder proctor said, and produced a note-taker from her belt. “Now, if you’ll just tell me what happened, we’ll add your testimony to the file.”
• • • • • •
The child was exhausted, Chi thought. Not surprising, really; terror did drain one’s resources.
Now, he sat at the table in the galley, nursing his tea, and clearly waiting for doom to fall.
She sat across from him, and leaned her chin on her hand.
“I amend my opinion,” she said, and smiled slightly when his eyes flew up to meet hers.
“Which opinion would that be?” he asked, his voice rough. “That in fact I am not naive, but stupid beyond redemption?”
Well. Here was angst. She had forgotten, almost, how very young he was.
“It was somewhat stupid to bring an undocumented package onto this ship,” she said conversationally. “Though you were not so stupid that you failed to scan it. Habit is compelling, and we are all victims of our education. You have now, I believe, received an alternate education, and one that you will not soon forget. So, no, I have not changed my opinion of your abilities or potential.”
“What then?” he asked, his voice less rough, and his face showing some ease.
“Well, I had been in the habit, as you know, of considering your cousins to be clever. I think now that they are not so much clever as very lucky. Did they never cheat anyone on the grey-fees?”
He blinked, and straightened somewhat in his chair.
“I was the pilot; not part of the dockside arrangements. Jai Kob had his contacts.” He paused as if considering the matter fairly. “He also had Vin Dyr. Very few make progress against Vin Dyr.”
“I see. They are then common port-toughs, with an amount of low cunning, but they are not, necessarily, clever. That is a fair judgment, I think, and I have no shame in altering my opinion of them. Now.”
He winced slightly, and she smiled.
“I had been under the impression that you had known who your grandfather was. That may have been an error.”
“Grandfather?” He frowned.
“My grandfather was old and ill and unsteady in his head. He came to rest at Telrune because no one else of his kin would take him.”
“Ah,” she said, and took a breath against a hot breath of anger.
“I will send some information to your screen,” she said, rising. “We have several hours until lift, which should be sufficient for you to make yourself familiar with the data.”
