Duty Bound

by Sharon Lee

  The Scout moved his shoulders against the wall. "While it is true you are unlikely to profit by selling this boy back to yos'Galan, it is also likely that the presumption of offering him will gain you her attention." He snapped upright. "Let them go."

  Straudman frowned. "Both of them?"

  "A first class mechanic is something the yos'Galan will miss," the Scout said simply.

  For a moment, there was silence, then Straudman nodded and waved a hand at the room in general.

  "Get them out of here."

  "I'll take them," said Scout pel'Arot.

  "It's time I was back at station." He moved forward, beckoning to Er Thom with his two-fingered hand. "After me, cub. And try not to trip over your own feet." Which, Er Thom thought, was really uncalled for. Though it was nothing compared to what Daav had to say to him, some few minutes later, at the head of the Avenue of Dreams.

  * * *

  PETRELLA YOS'GALAN sighed gently, and folded her hands atop her desk. In the chair facing her across the desk, Er Thom recruited himself to await her judgment, the echoes of Daav's thundering scold still ringing in his ears.

  In the right hands, silence and stillness were potent tools, as he well knew, his foster mother being past master of both. whether his true-mother shared that mastery he did not know--though he expected that he was about to learn.

  His mother closed her eyes, sighed once more, and opened them.

  "Since your cha'leket has exercised duty of kin and spoken to you frankly on the subject of endangering yos'Galan's heir by choosing to confront the Juntavas planetary administrator in his very office, we needn't discuss that further." She paused before inclining her head courteously.

  "I will say, first, that your instincts do you honor. Your reported assessment of Mechanic pin'Ethil's state--that he was unwell--has been verified by the ship's healer. I am assured that the compulsion to continue play once one has begun, to the cost even of one's melant'i, may easily be lifted by the Master healers at Solcintra Guildhall. Accordingly, Mechanic pin'Ethil will be sent home for Healing." She glanced down at her folded hands, then back to his face.

  "I will, of course, write to his Delm. It would honor me, if the crewmate who offered him care in his disability would assist me in composing this letter."

  Er Thom blinked. He? Almost, he thought he heard Daav, laughing inside his head: Yes you, idiot. Who else

  Hastily, he inclined his head. "I would be honored to assist, ma'am."

  "Good." Another pause, another long moment's study of her folded hands.

  "All honor to you, also, that you chose to lend Mechanic pin'Ethil your support." She raised one hand, though Er Thom had said nothing. "I know that you have said that there was no choice open to you in this; that your duty was plain, as the mechanic's crewmate and as the sole representative of Korval present. However, it must be recalled that you are but a halfling, and it was perhaps not ...quite... wise of you to go unarmed into an unknown and possibly dangerous situation." She smiled, faintly. "I had said we would not repeat the course flown by your cha'leket. Forgive me, that there must be some overlap in approach."

  Er Thom inclined his head. "Daav was plain with me, ma'am; I'm an idiot child, unfit to be left alone."

  Improbably, her smile deepened. "Ah. Well, perhaps our approaches do not overlap so very much, then. I would say to you that those of the Juntavas are at best chancy and at worst deadly. Korval has an ...arrangement... with the Juntavas, dating back many years--the appropriate citations from the Diaries will be on your screen at the beginning of your next on-shift. Please read them and be prepared to discuss them with me over Prime meal." She did not wait for his seated bow of obedience, but swept on.

  "For the purpose of this conversation, let us say that the agreement between Korval and the Juntavas is one of mutual avoidance. The Juntavas does not touch Korval ships. Korval does not interfere with Juntavas business. Matters have stood this way, as I have said, for many years." She frowned over his head, as if she saw something on the opposite wall of her office that displeased her, sighed, and continued.

  "The meat of the matter is that, despite this long-standing agreement, despite the fact that the Scouts keep watch--the Juntavas is not a safe host. That the gentleman you ...spoke to... would have killed you out of hand is, perhaps, unlikely. For Mechanic pin'Ethil..." She moved her shoulders. "Mechanic pin'Ethil is not of Korval, though he serves on a Korval ship. The Juntavas is clever enough to use that distinction to advantage."

  His horror must have shown on his face, for his mother gave him another of her faint smiles before asking, "Tell me, my son, what would you have done if any of the armed persons in that office had decided to kill Mechanic pin'Ethil?"

  Er Thom stared. Visions fluttered through his head, too rapid to scan, and finally he lifted his hands in exasperation. "I--something. I am a pilot of Korval. I would have done--something."

  A small pause.

  "Ah, yes," his mother said softly. "There is a long history of doing...something...among the pilots of Korval." She smiled at him and in that instant looked the very image of her twin."I believe we had best accelerate your defense instruction, pilot."

  "Yes, ma'am." He inclined his head.

  "Hah." She considered him out of abruptly serious blue eyes, once again unmistakably his true-mother. "I would offer--as elder kin, you know--that we have all of us bid farewell to the comforts and the companions of childhood in order to learn our life-trades and begin to shape adult melant'i. I would say that--here is one who recalls the day she watched her sister walk into Scout Academy without her, and who later that same day was shown her quarters onboard the old Adamant Passage. I assure you that the ache in one's heart does ease, with time, and with the necessities of daily duty." She raised her hand stilling his start of denial.

  "I do not say that you will cease to love, my child. I merely say--you will become an adult." She smiled once more, sweet as Daav. "With luck."

  Er Thom grinned, then inclined his head. "I thank you, for the instruction of elder kin."

  "So." She glanced aside at the clock on her desk. "It is time and past time for you to be abed. Come to me at Prime, and mind you have those entries read."

  "Yes, mother." He stood, made his bow and moved toward the door.

  He was nearly to the door when he heard her speak his name.

  "Ma'am?" He turned to find her standing behind her desk. Slowly, she bowed the bow of honored esteem--

  "Sleep you well, pilot of Korval."

  Breath's Duty

  Delgado

  Leafydale Place

  Standard Year 1393

  IN HIS YOUTH, fishing had bored the professor even more thoroughly than lessons in manners, though he had more than once made the excuse of fishing a means to escape the overly-watchful eyes of his elders. Over time, he had come to enjoy the sport, most especially on Delgado, where the local game fish ate spiny nettles and hence could be hooked and released with no damage to themselves.

  It was an eccentricity his neighbors, his mistress, and his colleagues had come to accept--and to expect. Periodically, the professor would set off for the lake region and return, rejuvenated, laden with tales of the ones that had gotten away and on-scale holograms of the ones that had not.

  So it was this morning that he parted comfortably from his mistress, tarrying to share a near-perfect cup of locally-grown coffee with her--the search for the perfect cup and the perfect moment being among her chiefest joys--and with his pack of lures, dangles, weights and rods set off for the up-country lakes.

  The car was his other eccentricity--allowed however grudgingly by the collegiate board of trustees, who were, after all, realists. The work of Professor Jen Sar Kiladi was known throughout the cluster and students flocked to him, thus increasing the school's treasury and its status.

  The car was roundly considered a young person's car. While fast, it was neither shiny nor new; an import that required expensive replacements and a regimen of consta
nt repairs. Its passenger section had room enough for him, occasionally for his mistress, or for his fishing equipment and light camping gear. Not even the board of trustees doubted his ability to drive it, for he ran in the top class of the local moto-cross club and indulged now and then in time-and-place road rallies, where he held an enviable record, indeed.

  The local gendarmes liked him: He was both polite and sharp, and had several times assisted in collecting drunk drivers before they could harm someone.

  His mistress was smiling from her window. He looked up and waved merrily, precisely as always, then sighed as he opened the car door.

  For a moment he sat, absorbing the commonplaces of the day. He adjusted the mirrors, which needed no adjustment, and by habit pushed the trimester. The sun's first rays slanted through the windshield, endowing his single ring with an instant of silvery fire. He rubbed the worn silver knot absently.

  Then, he ran through the Rainbow pattern, for alertness.

  The car rumbled to life at a touch of the switch, startling the birds napping in the tree across the street. He pulled out slowly, nodded to the beat cop he passed on the side street, then chose the back road, unmonitored at this hour on an off-week.

  He accelerated, exceeding the speed limit in the first few seconds, and checked his mental map. Not long. Not long at all.

  * * *

  HE GRIMACED AS he got out of the car--he'd forgotten to break the drive and now his back ached, just a bit. He'd driven past his favorite fishing ground, perhaps faster there than elsewhere, for there was a lure to doing nothing at all, to huddling inside the carefully constructed persona, to forgetting, well, truly, and for all time, exactly who he was.

  The airfield was filled to capacity; mostly local craft--fan-powered--along with a few of the flashy commuter jets the high-born brought in for their fishing trips.

  On the far side of the tarmac was a handful of space faring ships, including seven or eight that seemed under constant repair. Among them, painted a motley green-brown, half-hidden with sham repair-plates and external piping, was a ship displaying the garish nameplate L'il Orbit. The professor went to the control room to check in, carrying his cane, which he very nearly needed after the run in the cramped car.

  "Might actually lift today!" he told the bleary-eyed counterman with entirely false good cheer.

  As always, the man smiled and wished him luck. L'il Orbit hadn't flown in the ten years he'd been on the morning shift, though the little man came by pretty regular to work and rework the ship's insides. But, who knew? The ship might actually lift one day. stranger things had happened. And given that, today was as good a day as any other.

  Outside the office, the professor paused, a man no longer young, shorter than the usual run of Terran, with soft, scholar's hands and level shoulders beneath his holiday jacket, staring across the field to where the starships huddled. A teacher with a hobby, that was all.

  An equation rose from his back brain, pure as crystal, irrevocable as blood. Another rose, another--and yet another.

  He knew the names of stars and planets and way stations light years away from this place. His hands knew key combinations not to be found on university computers; his eyes knew patterns that ground-huggers might only dream of.

  "Pilot." He heard her whisper plainly; felt her breath against his ear. He knew better than to turn his head.

  "Pilot," Aelliana said again, and half-against his own will he smiled and murmured, "Pilot."

  As a pilot must, he crossed the field to tend his ship. He barely paused during the walk-around, carefully detaching the fake pipe fittings and connections that had marred the beauty of the lines and hidden features best not noticed by prying eyes. The hardest thing was schooling himself to do a proper pilot's walk-around after so many years of cursory play-acting.

  L'il Orbit was a Class A Jumpship, tidy and comfortable, with room for the pilot and co-pilot, if any, plus cargo, or a paying passenger. He dropped automatically into the co-pilot's chair, slid the ship key into its slot in the dark board, and watched the screen glow to life.

  "Huh?" Blue letters formed Terran words against the white ground. "Who's there?"

  He reached to the keyboard. "Get to work!"

  "Nothing to do," the ship protested.

  "You're just lazy," the man replied.

  "Oh, am I?" L'il Orbit returned hotly. "I suppose you know all about lazy!"

  Despite having written and sealed this very script long years ago, the man grinned at the ship's audacity.

  "Tell me your name," he typed.

  "First, tell me yours."

  "Professor Jen Sar Kiladi."

  "Oho, the schoolteacher! You don't happen to know the name of a reliable pilot, do you, professor?"

  For an instant, he sat frozen, hands poised over the keyboard. Then, slowly, letter by letter, he typed, "Daav yos'Phelium."

  The ship seemed to sigh then; a fan or two came on, a relay clicked loudly.

  The screen cleared; the irreverent chatter replaced by an image of Tree-and-Dragon, which faded to a black screen, against which the Liaden letters stood stark.

  "Ride the Luck, Solcintra, Liad. Aelliana Caylon, pilot-owner. Daav yos'Phelium co-pilot, co-owner. There are messages in queue."

  There were? Daav frowned. Er Thom? his heart whispered, and he caught his breath. Dozens of years since he had heard his brother's voice! The hand he extended to the play button was not entirely steady.

  It wasn't Er Thom, after all.

  It was Clonak tEr'Meulen, his oldest friend, and most trusted, who'd been part of his team when he had been Scout Captain and in command such things. The date of receipt was recent, well within the Standard year, in fact within the Standard Month...

  "I'm sending this message to the quiet places and the bounce points, on the silent band," Clonak said, his voice unwontedly serious. I'm betting it's Aelliana's ship you're with, but I never could predict you with certainty...

  "Bad times, old friend. First, you must know that Er Thom and Anne are both gone. Nova's Korval-pernard'i..." Daav thumbed the pause button, staring at the board in blank disbelief.

  Er Thom and Anne were gone? His brother, his second self, was dead? Anne--joyful, intelligent, gracious Anne--dead? It wasn't possible. They were safe on Liad--where his own lifemate had been shot, killed in Solcintra Main Port, deliberately placing herself between the fragging pellet and himself... Daav squeezed his eyes shut, banishing the horrific vision of Aelliana dying, then reached out and cued the recording.

  "...Korval-pernard'i. The name of the problem is the Department the Interior; their purpose is to eat the Scouts. Among other things. One of those it swallowed is your heir, and I don't hide from you that there was hope he'd give them indigestion. Which he seems to have done, actually, though not--but who can predict a Scout Commander? Short form is that he's gone missing, and there's been the very hell of a hue and cry--and another problem.

  "Shadia Ne'Zame may have discovered his location--but the Department's on the usual bands--monitoring us. Listen to Scout Net, but for the gods' sweet love don't attempt to use it!

  "Shadia's due in any time and I'll send a follow-up when she gets here. You'd scarcely know the place, with all the changes since your training.

  "If you've got ears for any of us, Captain, now is when we need you to hear." There was a pause, as if Clonak was for once at a loss for words, then:

  "Be well, old friend. If you've heard me at all..."

  It ended.

  Daav stared for a moment, then punched the button for the next message.

  There was no next message. Days had gone by and Clonak had not followed up.

  Daav shifted in his seat, thinking.

  Desperate and under the shadow of a pursuing enemy, Clonak had found him. And Clonak had not followed up. Suddenly, it was imperative that Daav be somewhere else.

  He flicked forward to the microphone.

  "This is L'il Orbit, ground. I think I've got the problem fixed now.
I'm going to be checking out the whole system in a few minutes. If I get a go, I'll need you to move me to a hot pad."

  "Hot damn, L'il Orbit, way to go!" The counterman sounded startled, but genuinely pleased. "I'll get Bugle over there with the tractor in just a couple!"

  "Thank you, ground," Daav said gravely, already reaching for the keyboard.

  "Hello," he typed.

  "Go," said maincomp.

  "Complete run: Flight readiness."

  "Working."

  So many years. His brother and sister dead. His son in trouble. The son he wasn't going to be concerned with after all. And somehow the Juntavas was mixed around it.

  Scout Commander. Daav sighed. Scouts were legendary for the trouble they found. The trouble that might attend a Scout Commander did not bear thinking upon.

  The ship beeped; lights long dark came green. He touched button after button, longingly. Lovingly.

  He could do it. He could.

  He had left all those battles behind.

  "Ground," he said into the mike, the Terran words feeling absurdly wide in his throat, "this bird's in a hurry to try her wings. Everything's green!"

  "Gotcha. We'll get you over to the hotpad in a few minutes. Bugle's just got the tractor out of the shed."

  Daav laughed then, and laughed again.

  It felt good, just the idea of being in space. Maybe he could talk to some of the pilots he'd been listening to for so long--He grimaced; his back had grabbed.

  Right. Easy does it.

  And then, recalling the circumstances, he reached to the keyboard once more.

  "Hello," he typed. "Weapons check."

  * * *

  "I'M NOT A COMBAT pilot, either, Shadia. I think we did as well as might expected!"

  The gesture in emphasis was all but lost in the dimness of the emergency lighting.

  "I swear to you, Clonak--they've murdered my ship and if they haven't killed me I'm going to take them apart piece by piece, and if they have killed me I'll haunt every last one of them to..."