by Sharon Lee
“Got it,” he said. “I can file that protest, Pilot. Stay on line?”
“Will do.”
She heard him open a second line, and request the portmaster’s own ear for “First Pilot, Parcil Trade Clan Ship Pretty Parcil.” There was silence, then, which she’d expected, and—much sooner than she’d hoped—his voice again.
“Portmaster, we’ve just completed a security scan and have identified two vessels on-yard with weapons live.” A pause, then a calm recitation of the coords of both ships, and, “Yes ma’am, I am filing formal protest of these violations. I request that you issue a cease-and-desist to those vessels immediately, to be enforced as necessary.”
Another short silence, and a respectful, “Thank you, ma’am. We will monitor. Parcil out.”
Cantra smiled. Jela came of the chair and moved to the work table, doubtless to have a looksee via the spy-glass.
“Protest filed, Pilot.” Danby was back with her. “The portmaster promises a shut-down inside the local hour.”
“Much obliged,” she said, and meant it. “I’ll get back to my prelims, then, and hope I won’t have to ask you to verify my long-scans.”
“We’ve been watching long,” he said. “Pilot’s Undernet has reports of pirate activity in-sector. Faldaiza shows clear to out orbit. So far.”
“Obliged again,” she said. “If I catch anything suspicious on the long, I’ll pass it on.”
“I’ll be here,” he said. “Thanks for the heads-up, Pilot. Good lift, fair journey.”
“Fair journey, Pilot,” she answered, just like she was as legit as he was, and closed the line before folding the desktop down.
Jela had a hip hitched on the edge of the work table, black eyes intent on the image in the spy-glass.
“One’s off-line,” he said without looking up. “The portmaster doesn’t like the Clans upset.”
“Makes sense to keep the money happy,” Cantra returned, considering him. “What about that armor?”
“Nothing lit,” he said, head still bent. “Might not be anything to do with us at all.”
“On the other hand, it might be,” she finished what he didn’t say and sighed. “Man, whose ugly side did you get on?”
“Second one’s down,” he said, and looked up, his face about as expressive as she’d expected.
“Am I getting an answer to that, Pilot? Seems to me I’m owed.”
He frowned. “By my calculations, we’re even.”
“Not if you leave me open to more of the same, elsewhere.” She felt her temper building and took a deliberately deep breath, trying to notch it back. Her temper wasn’t her best feature, being enough to sometimes scare her. She didn’t figure it would scare the man across from her, though it might lose her bargaining points.
“The reason I’m in it at all is because we had dinner together. Honest mistake—on both our parts. I had no right to the particulars of your business up to the point my hands are ‘wired together and I’m being hauled out of a public place on a bogus bounty. At that point, you owed me info—and I ain’t been paid yet.”
He looked thoughtful. “You won’t like the answer.”
She blinked. “So I won’t like the answer,” she said. “Plenty of answers out there I don’t like.”
He sighed, lightly. “All right, then. The answer is, I don’t know who’s involved, if they’re local or more—connected.”
“You’re right,” Cantra said, after a moment. “I don’t like it. Do better, why not?”
He spread his hands. “Wish I could.”
Her temper flared. “Dammit, we got a double-digit body count out of this night’s work, including Dulsey’s Batch, and you don’t know who thinks you done ‘em wrong?”
“That’s right,” he said, imperturbable.
“It is possible that those who ultimately seek the pilot are off-world,” Dulsey said surprisingly, from her seat on a closed toolbox. “The ones who came to The Alcoves were local odd jobbers.”
Cantra spun on a heel to look at her, sitting with her hands gripping her knees and her pale face seeming to glow in the dimness.
“How you figure off-world?”
Dulsey moved her head a little from side to side. “Odd jobs are done for pay. Had the pilots paid for protection against harm, then the local chapter would have split—half to fulfill the contract to . . . discommode . . . the pilots; half to ensure that the pilots were not in any way impeded.”
“They don’t act on their own is what you’re saying?”
“Pilot, that is correct.”
Cantra looked over at Jela.
“Light any dials for you?”
“Sorry.”
She sighed, then shrugged, giving it up as a hopeless case. “I’ll watch my back. Business as usual.” She nodded to Jela. “Be seeing you, Pilot. Safe lift.”
She was halfway to the door before she heard him say, “About that armor, Pilot Cantra . . .”
Red at the edge of her vision. She stopped, keeping her back toward the two of them, closed her eyes, forced herself to breathe in the pattern she’d been taught.
“Pilot?” Jela again. She ignored him, breathing—just that—until the urge to mayhem had receded to a safer, pink, distance.
She turned and met his space-black gaze straight on.
“It’s been what I count as a long day, Pilot Jela, and my good nature’s starting to wear a bit thin. If you got info bearing on the safety of my ship and her pilot, share it out short and sweet.”
“The info’s nothing special,” he said, and she could hear a certain care in his voice, though he’d given over the stringent projecting of calm. “Just a reminder that ground-based armor can bring weapons on-line faster than space-based.”
“By which you’re meaning to tell me that armor there—” she nodded at the spy-glass sitting quiet and dark on the workbench “—doesn’t have to reveal its feelings until I’m rising without challenge.”
“That’s right.”
“I thank you for the reminder,” she said, feeling the quiver starting in the roots of her bones, which meant the last of the adrenaline had run its course. Too long a day, by all the counts that mattered. She eyed the pilot before her, with his tell-nothing face, his big shoulders and solid build.
“Military?” she asked, wondering how she hadn’t quite managed to get him pinned down on that either.
“Not quite,” he gave back, which was answer enough in its way.
“What do you want?”
“What I said—transport out, for me, the tree, and Dulsey. I’m good for co-pilot and, yes, I do know the avoids for that class of armor.”
“Might be manned.”
He hitched a shoulder—qualified denial. “Not much room in those for personnel. Not to say there couldn’t be a couple of smalls running crew. In which case the assault’s randomized, making avoids more difficult, and less accurate, which assists avoidance.”
“That a fact?” This asked against a rising shake. She tried to make the follow-on sound stronger. “That stuff can be evaded?”
“Experience shows it can.”
Cantra closed her eyes. The shaking was more pronounced, now. She was headed for a crash and no mistake. Granted, she had more than enough Tempo in stores to keep her up and fully able for some number of ship’s days. Having flown that course more than once, she knew that all the drug did was put the time of the crash out, interest compounded hourly.
And, truth told, she didn’t have room for downtime on this leg—not now and not later. She had cargo, she had a deadline—and there was no way she could justify taking anyone lawful aboard her ship—nor trust anyone not.
She flicked a look at Dulsey, sitting frozen on her toolbox, and another at Jela, standing calm and quiet, letting her think it through. What his answer might be if the product of her thought didn’t match his had-to’s, she couldn’t guess. And, after all, it was her ship.
She jerked her head toward the door.
�
�Right. Experience. Let’s go.”
THERE WASN’T ANY WAY to tell how the ships and the armor gained their info, so there wasn’t any use going roundabout to the ramp of Pilot Cantra’s ship. Thus the pilot ruled. As it happened, Jela didn’t disagree with her reasons or her decision. He was beginning to develop some serious respect for Pilot Cantra, even though the day was beginning to visibly wear on her.
They marched in order—pilot first, himself and the tree next, Dulsey in her stolen coveralls and not-stolen gun covering the rear. It was interesting to note that they encountered no armed lurkers or outliers. Not so much as a panhandler impeded their progress. Jela walked on, senses hyper-alert, and revised his opinion regarding the likely involvement of the armor. It wasn’t especially good strategy to depend on the equipment to the exclusion of soldiers on the ground. On the other hand, he hadn’t seen much good strategy in this op—present company excluded.
The air had cooled rapidly with the setting of the local star, however, so brisk was their march that it was unnecessary for his ‘skins to raise the temp. Above his head, the tree’s leaves were still despite the breeze of their passage, allowing him to use his ears to listen for possible enemy movement.
They came to the ramp of the pilot’s ship in good order. She mounted first, which was her right as captain; long, light stride waking not a whisper from the metal deck. He followed, the tree cradled in his arms, and Dulsey came at his back, metal ringing under her deliberate steps.
The hatch began to slide back as Pilot Cantra reached the top of the ramp. She never paused, crossing the landing in two of her strides and ducking through the gap into the lock beyond.
By the time Jela, bearing the extra inconvenience of the tree, reached the landing the hatch was wide open, the lock beyond spilling pale blue light onto the decking. The plate over the door read Spiral Dance. No home port.
He paused, waiting for Dulsey.
She reached his side, throwing him a wide glance out of gray eyes. “Pilot?”
Arms occupied with the tub holding the tree, he used his chin to point.
“The minute you cross into that ship, a bounty goes on you,” he said.
“Yes, Pilot. This—I am aware of that,” she answered and it might have been impatience he heard. He hoped so.
“You didn’t discuss with Pilot Cantra where you might like to be set down,” he continued. “There aren’t many worlds where those Batch-marks will go unnoticed.”
“I am also aware of that, Pilot. I thank you for your concern, but my immediate need is to depart Faldaiza. Deeper plans—deeper plans await event.”
Two “I-s” and a “my” in the same couple sentences, and nary a hesitation before any of them. She might, he thought, make it. Provided she could find some way to neutralize the Batch tats. There might even be a way to do it, short of amputating the arms and regrowing. He’d never heard of any undetectable method besides the amputations—acid baths only removed the first two or three layers of skin, and left behind telltale burns; attempts to camouflage the tats with others, done by needle, were doomed to failure.
“We should not,” Dulsey said, “keep Pilot Cantra waiting.”
“We should not,” he agreed, and jerked his chin again at the open hatch. “After you.”
SHE HIT THE PILOT’S CHAIR, hands already on the board, opening long eyes and short, slapping up wide ears. Pilot voices began to murmur—groundside chatter, as it sounded. Nobody sounding frantic, no tightness in the banter. Good.
Her hands were starting to shake, and a high whine had started in her ears, damn it all to the Deeps. She thought about the stick of Tempo in the utility drawer. Left it there.
A racket from behind announced the imminent arrival of her crew, speaking of arrant stupidity. She pushed on a corner of the board; a hatch slid silently open, revealing a minute control panel; snapped three toggles from left to right, pressed the small orange stud. The hatch slid shut, merging invisibly with the metal surface.
Cantra spun her chair around to face the incoming.
Dulsey came first, slipping her weapon away into a pocket of the coverall. Pilot Jela came next, massive arms wrapped around a biggish pot, apparently not at all bothered by the leaves tickling his ear or the twigs sticking into his head. He took in the piloting room with one comprehensive black glance, walked over to the point where the board met the wall on the far side of the co-pilot’s station, bent and set the pot gently on the decking. He slapped open a leg pouch, pulled out a roll of cargo twine and pitched it to Dulsey, who caught it one-handed, and stood holding it, head cocked to one side.
“Secure that,” Jela said. The words fell like an order on Cantra’s ringing ears.
Apparently it sounded that way to Dulsey, too. She dropped her eyes, mouth tightening. “Pilot,” she murmured and walked over to do what she’d been told.
Jela put himself into the co-pilot’s chair without any further discussion, his big hands deft on the controls. Seat adjusted to his satisfaction, he pointed his eyes at the board, giving it the same all-encompassing look he’d given the pilot’s tower.
“We have a scheduled lift?” he asked. “Pilot?”
“We do,” she answered, spinning back to face her screens. “We’ll be departing some earlier.”
He was opening co-pilot’s eyes, his attention on the readouts; touched a switch and brought the chatter up a mite.
“If we re-file, we give warning of our intention to anyone interested,” he said, just offering the info.
“That’s so,” she agreed. “Which is why we’re not refiling.” She eyed the readouts—nothing glowing that shouldn’t be; and the armor just where and how they’d last seen it. The chatter was staying peaceful, and long eyes brought her nothing but the serene turn of stars. She reached to her own instruments and started the wake-up sequence.
“What we’re going to do as soon as Dulsey has that damn’ vegetable secured and gets herself strapped down, is grab us out and lift.”
“Tree,” Jela said, so quiet she could barely hear him over the chatter and the ringing. He sent her a glance, lean face absolutely expressionless. “If we wait a bit, we might lull whoever could be watching into thinking we’ll keep to the filed lift.”
If we wait a bit, Cantra thought, feeling the shake in her muscles, the pilot won’t be fit to fly.
She fixed him with a glare. “You sign up as co-pilot on my ship?”
Black eyes blinked. Once. “Pilot, I did.”
“That’s what I thought, too. We go now. Pilot’s choice.”
Another blink, and a return to the studious consideration of his area.
“Pilot,” he said, and there might or might not’ve been an edge to his voice. Not that she gave a demi-qwint either way.
“Dulsey,” she snapped. “Can you take acceleration?”
“Yes, Pilot,” came the cool response. “More than you can.”
Now there was an assumption. Cantra grinned, feeling it more teeth than humor. Navigation brain was awake. She set it to scanning for safe out-routes, and shot a fast look down-board. Dulsey was finishing up with the cord and the vegetable. Tree. Whatever.
“Get yourself strapped into the fold-out. You got ten from my mark.” She took a breath. “Mark.”
Suggested routes were coming in from navigation; she belatedly added the co-pilot to the report list, copied the first batch manually and did a quick scroll. Beside her, Jela was heard to make a sound amounting to tsk. She shot him a look while her fingers initiated engine wake-up.
“Prime thinkum,” was all he said, his big hands steady on the controls. “How do you want to run it, Pilot?”
She glanced at the nav screen, scrolled through the new offerings, moved a finger and highlighted a particular course. It hung there, gleaming yellow, awaiting the co-pilot’s consideration.
“We could do that,” he said, and the screen showed a second highlight, blue, two choices further down. “This one gives us more maneuvering room, in case anyb
ody wants to throw flowers at us.”
She frowned at the suggested route, found it not inelegant. A little sloppy if the armor kept to itself, but nothing to endanger. The portmaster was going to be irritated, but that was the portmaster’s lookout.
“We’ll take it,” she said, and pressed the locking key. “If we wake up the armor, first board goes to you, since you got the experience and I don’t, at which point I’ll grab second.” Her hands moved, setting it up, except for the final confirm, which was one key within easy reach. “If nobody cares we’re leaving, saving the portmaster, I’ll stay with her. Scans?”
“Scans clean,” he replied.
“Dulsey, you in?”
“Yes, Pilot.”
“Ten,” said Cantra and gave Dancer the office.
* * *
SHE FLEW LIKE A bomber pilot, did Cantra, and with as much regard for her passengers. The acceleration didn’t bother him, of course, and it seemed to not bother her at about the same level, which was—almost as interesting as a nav brain that based it simulations on lifts pre-filed and stored in the central port system. He did spare a quick glance at Dulsey, strapped down in the jump seat. She looked to be asleep.
They were up for full seconds before Tower started howling. Neither the order nor the language in which it was couched interested Pilot Cantra, by his reading of the side of her face.
More seconds. Tower continued to issue orders, and other voices came on-line quickly—pilots on the yard, they were, some sidine with Tower, others urging Spiral Dance to more speed, still others laying wagers on the various angles of the thing—elapsed time to orbit, probable fines, and the likelihood of collecting them, number of years before Spiral Dance dared raise Faldaiza again . . .
He rode his scans, seeing nothing hot behind them, on the fast-dwindling port, and was beginning to consider that the armor had never been in it at all, that local talent wasn’t going to trouble themselves to pursue off-world, in fact, might be applauding their departure—when three bright spots blossomed on the screen. Not energy weapons—missiles!
“Trouble in the air!” Jela spat, and reached hands toward a board not yet his.
