by Sharon Lee
The third looked him over very carefully, and drew from some inner pocket a hand on which gleamed a single, silvery ring. He opened his palm, displaying a pin which was the twin of the Tree-and-Dragon Nelirikk wore.
“I, too, serve Tree-and-Dragon, Nelirikk Explorer, and am at some pains to recall your name among our lists.”
Nelirikk stood rooted, as if he faced the very scout, the scout who—
“I am recently recruited, sir. I am personal aide to Captain Miri Robertson, First Lytaxin Irregulars, who is lifemated to Val Con yos’Phelium, Clan Korval. I serve Line yos’Phelium.”
Gently, the scout lieutenant sighed. The man with the mustache shook his head, Terran fashion, and looked piercingly at the man with the dragon in his hand.
“Clans revert to type, my friend. So here we have a true Soldier and if that ship over there isn’t a Juntavas courier—a pirate, in plain speaking—I’ll eat my coord book.”
Ignoring his companion’s speech, the nameless scout bowed deeply.
“Sir,” he said to Nelirikk, “I must put myself in your hands and beg the grace of an introduction to your captain, she who lifemated Val Con yos’Phelium, for I, too, am pledged to line yos’Phelium. Where may she be found?”
“Sir, she is in the infirmary, recovering from wounds received in the recent glorious battle.”
“Is she able to speak with me? Or perhaps her lifemate might speak with me.”
“The captain is now allowed visitors. I think it likely that she would speak with scouts, although I cannot guarantee. Her lifemate . . .”
He paused, recalling what had been brought out of the Pilot Elite fighter.
There was sudden bleakness in the air, and the face he looked down upon was very close to one he knew in its bland intensity.
“Her lifemate, sir, is in the sealed autodoc. The medical technicians expect he may be able to speak next week, and perhaps in a month to walk.”
The air warmed, the face before him all but smiled.
“Then I am persuaded you should take me to his lady with all speed.” And abruptly the shift came, from High Liaden into the tongue of the Troop.
“Soldier, do your duty well, for your charge is a heavy one.” He bowed, and the language was again Liaden, in the mode the scout’s brother had taught him was called ‘Comrade.’
“I am very pleased to see you, Nelirikk Explorer. My name is Daav yos’Phelium.”
AUTHORIAL DENIAL
The book you have just finished reading is not our fault.
We freely admit that Conflict of Honors, Agent of Change, and Carpe Diem—the first stories in the Liaden Universe—were our fault. Yes, we committed those stories—and others. We’re not ashamed.
But having committed those stories—and seen them published, back in the late 80’s—we were told by our publisher that the numbers weren’t there. No one had read our books, that means in Publish-Speak. And, since no one had read the first three, the outlined fourth—and the proposed fifth—would not be needed.
We don’t pretend that this news wasn’t a blow—even a severe blow. But life goes on. We had moved to Maine just before Carpe Diem came out; we busied ourselves exploring our new state, landing—and losing—gainful employment, buying a house, and adding cats to the household as appropriate. Amid it all, we wrote.
Steve wrote computer columns, features, book reviews, brochures, web pages, and advertising. Sharon did some of that, some of the other, some more of something else. That was for other people.
For ourselves, we wrote Liaden stories. Over dinner, during drives in the country, one or the other of us would break out of conversation, or reverie, with, “Story stuff. What if. . . ?” We fine-tuned the Liaden Code of Proper Conduct, argued esoteric points of melant’i, painted in scenes, and met some wonderful characters.
Let’s be clear here. The Liaden Universe is where our hearts are. Home. Yxtrang, DoI, Aunt Kareen, and all.
Sometime during all this life-going-on time, the rights to our novels reverted to us. Sometime a little later, the internet arrived in Maine and we—electronic communications addicts from the old days of neighborhood bulletin boards—drove on up to join the party.
Within days, we were deluged—a phenomenon that continues to this day, though it has slowed to a gentle shower—with e-mail. “Are you the Steve Miller? The Sharon Lee? When’s the next Liaden book? When is Plan B coming out?”
One of our early correspondents put together an electronic list for discussion of things Liaden, and so the Friends of Liad were born. From them, we began to understand that people had read our books—and wanted more.
Without the encouragement and support of the Friends of Liad, Plan B would likely have never been written down.
But the blame for Plan B doesn’t rest solely on the heads of the Friends of Liad; there’s another party equally culpable.
Stephe Pagel.
A book isn’t done until it’s published, and Stephe is the man who decides what—or if—Meisha Merlin will publish. He not only decided to make Plan B a reality, but he contracted to reissue the first three books as the omnibus Partners in Necessity, two prequels in the omnibus Pilots Choice, and the single-book I Dare. He’s also been heard to say that a book about Clutch turtles would be really cool.
Clearly, this man merits watching.
Oh, and one more thing: True enough that a book isn’t done until it’s published, but a story—a story’s not done until it’s been read.
That’s where you come in.
For reading our book, for completing the arc of wonder—thank you.
Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
October 1998
I DARE
A Liaden Universe® Novel
DAY 276
Standard Year 1392
Master Jen’s Workshop
Neglit
THEY HAD DOUBTED his skill. Laughed at him, by Erlady! Took leave to believe him a once-was—a ten-thumbed, aging Terran, half-blind; incapable of bringing the table silver to luster, never mind to copy a ring.
That had been before the Liadens.
They were Liadens, right enough, with the pretty cantra pieces dandled like candies ’tween their slender elvish fingers and sweet words of flattery in their mouths.
Truth owed Erlady, it were the cantra pieces spoke loudest. A man and his grandson, with three cantra pieces to draw against, lived well, for a year or six, here on backworld Neglit.
And they promised him three cantra more, when they came to collect the ring.
The ring. Now, there was a beautiful piece of work. In his young days, he would have snatched the job up for the challenge of it, no thought of payment in his head.
He’d aged out of that nonsense—paid he would be. Well-paid. And still he had the delicate, brutal trial of the work, the result of which, polished and re-polished until the intarsia-work gleamed like water in the beam of his work-light, proved he was yet a master of his craft.
They’d sought him out, the canny Liadens. Him, Jen of Neglit Center, though they surely had all the fabled master jewelers of Solcintra to choose from. Yet they traveled to an outworld, sought out an old and fading Terran master, commissioned him to make—to remake—their ring. And why was that?
The tale they’d spun for Terran wits was simple enough. The original ring, a family heirloom, had gone missing, and must be replaced before certain elders of the house noticed its lack.
Such things happened, drain pipes and gambling games being universally hazardous to jewelry. And mayhap the jewel-masters of Solcintra gossiped ’mong themselves, and a whispered word might waft to the ear of the stern elder, to the dismay of his pretty patrons.
Mayhap.
He was canny enough not to question them too nearly. He had no ambition to risk his six cantra, though he might have balked, if they had wanted paste or light-gold or glass.
But they were keen in their instructions: he was to use only pure-gem, true-gold and emerald. A replacement, that’s
what they insisted on: full duplication of the ring that was lost.
A replacement, exact in every detail, is what he had made for them.
He picked the ring up, turning it this way and that, admiring the simple power of the design. Caught in fluid perfection, a bronze dragon hovered, wide-winged, above a tree in full green leaf. Smiling, he set it against the holopic they had given him of the original.
“I witness ye’d deceive the master who made yon,” he told the copy fondly.
“Indeed, it is remarkable work,” said a strongly accented voice at his elbow.
The master jeweler started badly and jerked around on his stool, frowning down at the pale-haired Liaden in his costly leather jacket. “Enough to give a body his death, sneak-footing behind one!” He caught himself up, looked from his visitor to the workroom door, with the bell hung above it, that jangled when one of his rare customers came in from the street.
He looked back to the Liaden’s smooth, emotionless face. “How came ye?”
The Liaden gestured behind him, to where the inner door stood ajar. “Through the house.”
Fear—the tiniest spark of fear—flickered in the master jeweler’s heart. The boy was his last treasure. He did not think these were child-thieves, yet—
“I have distressed you,” the Liaden said gently. “It was not my intention.”
“Well.” Mindful of the three cantra yet to come, the master jeweler moved his hand, smoothing the fear out of the air, and spoke moderately. “Understand ye, it’s late. The boy needs his rest.”
“Of course,” said the Liaden and a shadow moved at his shoulder. The master jeweler looked up, meeting the still eyes of the female Liaden.
“The child was asleep,” she said in her soft, emotionless voice. “We did not wake him.”
He ducked his head, relieved to look away from her eyes. “Thank’ee.”
“Surely,” she said, then moved forward. Her partner stepped aside, giving her clear view of the worktable. She paused, face as ungiving as ever, studying holo and reality, sitting side by side in the work-light.
“Excellent,” she said at last, no faintest lilt of appreciation in her voice. She raised her cold eyes to his face, and went toward the table, her path forcing him to turn somewhat on the stool. The male Liaden had vanished into the shadows of the shop.
“You are indeed a master jeweler,” the woman said. She extended a hand and plucked the ring up, turning it under the light, then lowering it to compare against the holopic. Trapped on his stool, the master jeweler watched her, seeing neither pleasure nor relief on her cold, comely face.
“Yes,” she said finally, and dropped the ring as if it were a common trinket into the pocket of her jacket. The holopic went to the other pocket, from out of which came three cantra coins, shining across her palm like moons.
“You have earned your fee, Master Jen,” she said, extending her hand, the coins glowing, murmuring comfort and ease and schooling for the boy. He leaned forward, felt a sharp pain at the base of his skull.
The Liaden woman stepped back and let the body fall to the floor. Her companion took the polishing rag up from the worktable and used it to clean the gore from the wire-blade before slipping it away into an inner pocket. From another pocket he drew forth a vial, and anointed the corpse with its contents. Then he recapped the container, and wiped it, too, with the polishing rag before returning it to its place.
The woman raised her hand and turned, walking unhurriedly down the dim, cluttered room. He followed her back into the house, past the still figure in the small bed, through the forced door and out into the night.
They were five minutes gone when the first flames licked to life, feeding on the lines of accelerant left to nourish them. Five minutes more found house and workshop both engulfed in fire so fierce the water from the firefighter’s cannon sizzled and evaporated before it ever touched flame.
Five hours from the start, the fire was out, having consumed house, shop and contents, leaving not so much as an ash on the scoured stone floor of the basement.
DAY 283
Standard Year 1392
McGee Spaceport
Fortune’s Reward
“HOW MANY TIMES you figure on firing me?”
Pat Rin yos’Phelium sighed. “Refresh my memory, Mr. McFarland. How many times have I succeeded in firing you thus far?”
The big man grinned. “OK, that’s fair. But, see, I thought we had an understanding. I ain’t only your pilot; I’m your backup. This idea of yours—to cash up and go to ground—not a thing wrong with it. In fact, it’s a great idea, even considering how much you bothered to tell me, which I really ain’t dumb enough to think is the whole story. Only thing wrong with it is you’re planning on going in without backup, and that just ain’t bright. How you go to ground—you go easy and smooth, making just as few ripples as you can. But you go with the certain knowledge that no matter how smart you are, or how low you keep your head, something’s gonna happen—most likely having to do with blind stupid luck—and you’re gonna be needing backup.
“You gotta suppose they’re gonna find you, and be ready for it. You go in thinking anything different and you might as well take a pistol right now and blow your own brains out. Save everybody some trouble.”
Such eloquence. Pat Rin raised an eyebrow. “You intrigue me, Mr. McFarland. I wonder how you became such an expert in going to ground.”
“Someday I might tell you,” the big man said, shortly.
It occurred to Pat Rin that he had annoyed his pilot quite as much as his pilot had annoyed him. He took a fresh hold on his temper and inclined his head.
“Forgive me, Pilot. I did not intend to cause you pain.”
“You didn’t,” Cheever said, still tending toward short. “Unless you count a headache.” He sighed, gustily. “Look, we been through this. Covering you is part of the deal between me and Shan. Do me the favor of believing I ain’t dumb enough to go back on my word to a Liaden, OK? You got a problem with the arrangements, take it up with him next time you two are in the same room together.”
“Ah.” Pat Rin considered that. Such solicitude was . . . unusual; his cousins every one being younger than he, and accustomed all their lives to seeing him set his own course. What had persuaded Shan this time that Pat Rin might meet with difficulties large enough to warrant a Cheever McFarland? Unless . . .
Shan was a Healer, not a prognosticator. However, Shan’s youngest sister, Pat Rin’s cousin Anthora, was a dramliza of some note—including among her talents the ability to foretell event. Pat Rin had once witnessed Anthora in the throes of her gift, and did not doubt that the ability was genuine. Perhaps she had foreseen the cold shadow of the clan’s danger even as he was preparing to leave planet, and whispered a word in her brother’s ear?
And, in the end, what matter? Pilot McFarland was correct. It lay well outside the scope of Pat Rin yos’Phelium’s melant’i to disturb an arrangement between Shan and another.
He sighed, and favored the pilot with a straight look.
“I am counted quite a good shot,” he said, with what mildness he could muster. “I offer this as a point of information.”
“Yessir, I don’t doubt it. But you gotta sleep sometime.”
And that, thought Pat Rin, would appear to be that. He inclined his head, granting the point as much to Shan as to Cheever McFarland.
“Very well,” he said. “Since you insist upon remaining in my employ, I will tell you that I require a dawn departure.”
The big man favored him with a stare. “You do.”
“Yes, I do,” Pat Rin said, rather sharply. “Have I made a demand which is impossible for you to meet?”
“No. Would’ve made things a easier on us both, though, if you’d’ve thought to call the tower and have us moved to a hotpad.”
It was Pat Rin’s turn to stare. “In order to accept a hotpad hook-up, I would have had to file my license number with the tower,” he said, wondering if the pilo
t had returned from his leave just a little drunk, after all.
Cheever nodded. “Yeah, but my card’s already on-line. You could’ve filed the request manually, direct into the queue, an’ nobody’d known it wasn’t me on the board.”
“Pilot McFarland—”
“Cause you know the protocol for accepting the hook-up, right? Just like you know the rest of the board? I tell you what, it beats hell outta me why you won’t sit second. I don’t think I ever seen anybody as hungry for the boards as you are—and I sure could use the help. Backup, get it?”
“Mr. McFarland, I am not a pilot. Placing my hands upon that board—”
“What’s the protocol for accepting a hotpad hook-up?” Cheever demanded.
Pat Rin glared, goaded. “The keys to accept the hotpad hook-up are twelve-green-right and the appropriate ship axis is north-south-east-west—that assumes one has a matching power-source, which we do else the power light would indicate blue-blue-red rather than the blue-blue-blue presently showing, and we would be using converters, at a cost of an additional half-cantra the Standard—pro-rated to the Terran minute—for the service.” He drew a hard breath, and attempted once more to leash his temper. That a mere hireling should challenge him on so basic a drill! Did he look like a fool?
The Terran nodded. “Right. So you coulda done it, though they woulda likely hit you up for a higher charge unless you remembered to tell ’em to orient from ventral instead of dorsal, since this is a pre-1350 ship and they’d’ve mistook your protocol ’cause the lines look so new.” He nodded again, possibly to himself.
“If you got that much, you can move us around when we’re locked on to an outside bay in orbit somewhere. I’d right appreciate it if you’ll sit second for me, ’case we might need an extra pair of hands or eyes somewhere down the road. Boss.”
