by Sharon Lee
Cantra looked down. Dulsey was unconscious, which was maybe a good thing; her face was swollen and beginning to show bruises; her nose was broken, and there was blood—on her face, in her hair, on those bits of her coverall not hidden by cargo twine.
The cargo twine was a problem, being smartwire’s dimmer cousin. Cargo twine could crush ribs and snap vertebrae. Not that anyone would care what damage a Batcher picked up for bounty took, so long as she was alive—stipulating that the contract called for it.
“Your passenger, I believe, Pilot?” Rint dea’Sord was having way too much fun, Cantra thought, suddenly seeing all too clearly where he was going with this.
“No, sir,” she said, her eyes on Dulsey—still breathing, all the worse for her.
“Pilot—”
She raised her eyes and looked at him straight. “Much as I’d like to accommodate you, she wasn’t no passenger.”
The thin mouth tightened. “What was she then?”
“‘prentice pilot. Sat her board neat as you’d like. ‘Course, being an engineer . . .”
“An engineer.” He laughed. “She was a restaurant worker before she turned rogue, murdered her owner, and terminated the others of her Pod.”
Cantra glanced down at Dulsey. “Why’d she do that?”
“Who can know what motivates such creatures?” He gave a delicate shudder. “Perhaps she believed that, with the others gone, she might pass as a real human. Why scarcely matters. In a short while Efron here will be taking the Batcher across the port, where a bounty hunter will receive her and pay him our finder’s fee.”
“Right,” she said, keeping her eyes on his face. “What’s it got to do with me and my fee?”
“Pilot.” He looked at her with sorrow, as if she were a favorite student who had unaccountably flubbed a simple question. “I think you are well-aware of the penalties attached to giving aid to an escaped Batcher. Whether she was an apprentice pilot or passenger really makes no difference.”
Nor would it to those who were only concerned with collecting their bounties. And as for the penalties for aiding and abetting, she did know them: Three years hard labor, and confiscation of all her goods. Which would be Dancer. By the time her years at labor were done—assuming she survived them, which wasn’t the way the smart money bet—she’d be broken and broke. She also knew that an aid-and-abet charge against a natural human, which in unlikely fact she happened to be, was subject to an appeal before an actual magistrate. The odds of her coming out a free woman on the other side of that appeal were laughable, and the accumulated penalties for her various crimes and sins against the law-abiding would add up to more and worse than the aid-and-abet.
Which simple arithmetic Rint dea’Sord had done, and then exposed himself and his operation to considerable risk by summoning a bounty hunter. Cantra supposed she ought to be flattered, that he thought her worth so much.
She smiled at him, wide and sincere.
“What do you want?” she asked, thinking the important thing was not to let Efron get twine around her. That likely meant a discussion of weapons right here and now—in fact, it would be best if it were here and now. She made a mental note to save a dart for Dulsey.
Rint dea’Sord was smiling again.
“Excellent, Pilot. Do allow me to admire your perspicacity. While it is true that I would enjoy owning your ship and your effects, I would enjoy having you in my employ even more.”
Cantra frowned. “Ser dea’Sord, you don’t need a Dark trader in your employ.”
He laughed, gently, and fluttered his fingers at her. “Pilot, Pilot. No, you are correct—I don’t need a Dark trader in my employ. I do, however, find myself in need of an aelantaza.”
Cantra felt her blood temperature drop. She jerked a shoulder up, feigning unconcern.
“So, contract for one.”
“Alas, the matter is not so simple,” he said. “The directors do not look upon my project with favor.”
The projects the directors refused to write paper for weren’t many, the directors being conveniently without loyalties, and wedded to their own profit. If she hadn’t already been chilled, the information that they had turned Rint dea’Sord down would’ve done it.
Well. How info did change a life. Cantra sighed to herself and eyed Efron. She counted four weapons, in addition to the showpiece on his belt. Two were placed awkwardly, but that wouldn’t count as a benefit unless they had a much longer conversation that she was planning for.
Rint dea’Sord was another matter. He was the man at the control board, and he’d have to go first. If she were quick—
There was a loud noise on the far side of the wall behind the desk. Rint dea’Sord reached to his desk, frowning. Efron stood as he had, damn the man, and tested the slide of the gun, his eyes very much on her.
She smiled and showed him her empty, innocent hands. He relaxed, mouth quirking at the corner just a bit—then spun as the door went back on its slide, screaming wrongful death the while.
Cantra pulled her number one hideaway and pointed it at Rint dea’Sord’s head just as Jela cleared the door.
Efron’s gun was out and leveled, no boggles, fast and smooth.
Jela, however, was faster and smoother. A kick and Efron’s gun went one way, a slap and Efron went the other, landing in a crumpled, unmoving heap. Jela kept walking, not even breathing hard, and knelt next to the unfortunate mess that was Dulsey.
“Cargo twine,” Cantra told him, being not entirely sure of his state of mind, though he looked as calm as usual.
“I see it,” he said, and set to work, not sparing a glance over his shoulder. Trusting her to cover him. Again.
Rint dea’Sord sat, hands flat on his desk, his eyes on Cantra’s.
“Who is this?”
“My co-pilot,” she told him, mind racing. Killing Rint dea’Sord was an extraordinarily good way to ruin herself in the trade. On the other hand, he held info—info he shouldn’t have had—and where he’d gotten it, and who he might share it with, had to be a concern. And he would never forget that she’d drawn on him. So, the choice: Ruined with a live enemy or a dead one on her back trail?
“A co-pilot and an apprentice,” dea’Sord said. “That’s quite a lot of crew for a woman who reportedly runs solo.”
“I missed the notice that I needed to clear my ship’s arrangements with you.” Damn it all, there was no choice. Rint dea’Sord was going to have to die.
She saw him realize that she’d taken her decision, which was nothing more than idiot ineptitude on her part.
He lunged across the desk, and she fired, hitting him high, the force of the impact slapping him backward to the floor. Swearing at herself for clumsy shooting, she moved forward to finish the job—and found Jela there before her, hauling dea’Sord up by his silken collar and throwing him none-too-gently back into his chair.
Rint dea’Sord grunted, and shuddered, his hand pressed hard to the hole in his shoulder. He met Cantra’s eyes with a glare.
“What do you want?” He gritted, the pretty Inside accent gone now.
Cantra sighed and lifted her gun.
Jela held up his hand. “Hold.”
“We can’t deal with him, Pilot,” she said, keeping her patience with an effort. “Best to get it over with.”
“I think we can deal,” Jela said. “In fact, I think Ser dea’Sord will be happy to deal.”
Until he has reinforcements on the way, Cantra thought, and kept the gun pointed in the right direction. dea’Sord flicked one fast glance at her, licked his lips and addressed himself to Jela.
“What’s your deal, Pilot?”
“Just this. You pay the pilot here her fee. All of her fee. We’ll take our comrade with us, go back to our ship and off-load your goods. We will then take ourselves out of your sphere of influence. Deal?”
Rint dea’Sord was no fool, though Cantra was beginning to have doubts regarding Jela. Her finger tightened, and he shifted, bringing a wide shoulder betwe
en her and her target.
“I can make that deal,” dea’Sord said. “Just let me get the money—” Jela held up a hand.
“Tell me where the money is and I’ll get it,” he said, calm and reasonable. “The pilot will guard you.”
Rint dea’Sord took a deep breath. “In the bottom drawer of the desk. It needs my fingerprint . . .”
“Fine,” Jela said. “Open it.”
Open it he did and there was no trick, which was, Cantra thought, a fair wonder of itself. She spared a glance at Dulsey, who wasn’t looking as much the better for being free of the twine as she might have. Jela, damn him, had the wallet open and was doing a fast count.
“Eight hundred flan sound about right, Pilot?”
Fifteen hundred flan had been the agreed-upon sum, but Cantra had never expected to see that much.
“It’ll do,” she said, and he nodded, sealing the wallet and tossing it to her in one smooth motion. She caught it one-handed and slid it into a thigh pocket. “Now what, Pilot?”
“Now, we tie him up,” Jela said, and produced the cargo twine.
HE CARRIED DULSEY, and Pilot Cantra took rear guard, in which formation they reached the ship in good order and without incident. That they were under observation was a given, but without any word from command—and he’d made sure there would be no outgoing from command before he’d gone in—there was no reason for the spotters to pay them particular attention.
The hatch slid back a bare crack and Cantra waved him past, which was a nice blend of giving the wounded precedence and taking no foolish chances. He went sideways, easing his shoulders through and taking care not to jostle Dulsey.
“I’m in,” he called as soon as he gained the narrow lock. Behind him the hatch reversed, Pilot Cantra slipping through the improbably thin opening, and stood watching ‘til it sealed. Shoving her weapon into its pocket, she snaked past, managing not to bump him, or to disturb his burden.
“Follow me,” she snapped. “We’ll get her in the first aid kit. Then you can cover me while I off-load.”
He looked down at Dulsey’s battered face and didn’t say that she needed a good field doctor. A first aid kit was better than nothing, and both were better than the ‘hunters.
They crossed the piloting chamber, passing the yellow-lit board and the tree in its pot, the pilot making for the wall that should have been common with the tiny quarters where he and Dulsey had taken their “rest.” A notion tickled at the back of his brain, and Jela looked ahead, down low, and—yes, a beam, very faint, where it could not fail to be tripped by approaching feet—or by a pilot, crawling.
Pilot Cantra’s boots broke the beam, and a section of wall slid away, revealing a low box, its smooth surface so deeply black it seemed to absorb the surrounding light. Cantra bent, touched the top and up it went, the interior lit a pale and disquieting green.
“Put her down there,” she said, stepping back to give him room.
He hesitated, knowing, in his Generalist’s tricksy mind—knowing what it was.
In his arms, Dulsey groaned, a feeble enough sound, and there was the chance that the cord had done damage beyond whatever she’d taken from the beating. And she wasn’t a soldier, dammit, bred to be hard to break, and lacking a significant number of the usual pain receptors.
“Pilot.” There was a noticeable lack of patience edging Pilot Cantra’s voice. “I want to off-load and have space between my ship and this port before Rint dea’Sord gets himself cut loose.”
“Yes,” he said, and forced himself forward. The area immediately surrounding the box was noticeably cooler than the ship’s ambient temp. He knelt and put Dulsey down as gently as he could onto the slick, giving surface of the pallet, taking the time to straighten her arms and her legs.
“Hatch coming down,” Cantra said quietly, and he pulled back, the cool black surface almost grazing his nose.
“All right.” There was a sigh in Pilot Cantra’s voice. “Let’s get rid of the damned cargo.”
SIXTEEN
Spiral Dance
In Transit
THIS TIME, AT LEAST, there wasn’t any cannon fire to speed them along, though what might be waiting at the next port in terms of surprises was enough to put a pilot off her good temper. Not that there weren’t other things.
Cantra released the shock webbing and spun her chair around.
“Pilot Jela,” she said, mindfully keeping her voice in the stern-but-gentle range.
He looked over, then faced her fully, eyes as readable as ever—which was to say, not at all—lean face pleasant and attentive, mouth soft in a half-smile, arms leaning on the rests, hands nice and relaxed. A portrait of pure innocence.
“Pilot?” he answered. Respectful, too. Everything a pilot could want in a co-pilot, saving a bad habit or twelve.
Cantra sighed.
“I’m interested to note, Pilot, that your damn vegetable was lashed in place in my tower when we brought Dulsey in to the first aid kit. As I distinctly remember you taking it and its pot with you when you left ship at Taliofi, and as I distinctly don’t remember giving you a ship’s key, I’d be interested in hearing how that particular circumstance came to be.”
He closed one eye, then the other, then used both to look at her straight on, face as pleasant as ever. Rint dea’Sord, Cantra thought grudgingly, could do worse than take lessons from Pilot Jela. Too bad he was more likely to commission them both killedshe was getting ahead of herself.
“I’m waiting, Pilot.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, easily, and paused before continuing at a clear tangent. “You’ve got a good brace of guns on this ship.”
“I’m glad they meet your approval.” Stern-but-gentle, with a slight icing of irony. “You want to answer my question?”
“I am,” he said, projecting goodwill. She held up a hand and he tipped his head, questioning.
“Point of information,” she said, stern taking the upper note. “I don’t like being soothed. It annoys me.”
He sighed, the fingers of his right hand twitching assent. “My apologies, Pilot. It’s a habit—and a bad one. I’ll take steps to remember.”
“I’d appreciate it,” she said. “Now—the question.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said again. “Your recollection is correct in both particulars—I did take the tree with me when we debarked earlier in the day and you did not give me a ship’s key.” The right hand came up, showing palm beyond half-curled fingers. “I didn’t steal a key or gimmick the comp. But, like I was saying—those guns you’ve got. Military, aren’t they?”
She considered him, much good it did her. “Surplus.”
“Right.” The hand dropped back to arm rest. “Military surplus. Not that old, some military craft still carry those self-same guns. I trained on them, myself.”
Cantra sighed, letting him hear an edge of irritation. “This has a point, doesn’t it, Pilot?”
“It does.” He sat up straight in his chair, eyes sharp, mouth stern. “The point is that you’re not fully aware of the capabilities of your gun brace. Pilot. Where I come from, that’s lapse of duty. Where you come from, I’d imagine it’d be something closer to suicide.”
Well, that was plain—and not entirely undeserved. “They didn’t exactly come with instructions,” she told him, mildly.
“Small mercies,” he retorted. “As I said, I trained on guns like yours and believe me, I know what they can and can’t do.” He leaned back in his chair, deliberate, and kept his eyes on hers. “So, I sweet-talked them into letting me in.”
Cantra closed her eyes. “I’m understanding you to say that you came into this ship through the gun bays.”
“That’s right.”
She wanted to doubt it, but there was the fact of the tree waiting for them, and Dancer reporting no entries between the time she’d sealed the hatch behind them in the early planetary day and the time she opened it again some hours later to admit Jela, Dulsey, and herself.
�
��That involve any breakage?” she asked. “Or, say—modifications?”
“Pilot,” he said reproachfully. “I’m better than that.” A short pause. “I wasn’t entirely sure that we wouldn’t be needing the guns again on the way out.”
A pragmatist, was Pilot Jela. That being so—
She opened her eyes, saw him sitting calm and easy again in his chair. “I’ll ask you, as co-pilot, to give me training on the guns to the full extent of your knowledge,” she said.
There was a small pause, then a formal nod of the head. “As soon as we raise a likely location, I’m at your service, Pilot.”
Not if I shake you first, she thought at him. Granted, she owed the man—again—but she didn’t have any intention of making Pilot Jela a permanent fixture on Dancer. Still, there wasn’t no sense to putting him on notice. So—
“That’ll do, then,” she said, turning to face her screens—and stopping at the sight of his big hand raised, palm out.
“I’ve got some questions myself, Pilot.”
“Oh, do you?” She sighed, sharply. “Lay ‘em out and let’s see which ones I care to answer, then.”
“I think it’d be best if you answered them all.”
That struck a spark from her temper. She gave her attention to the screens—showing clear, and the countdown to transition in triple digits.
“I think,” she said tightly, “that you’ve got a very limited right to ask questions, Pilot Jela. You gimmicked your way onto this ship at Faldaiza, and engineered an unauthorized entry at Taliofi. Not to mention cutting a deal with a man who needed to die, and ruining my rep into the bargain.”
“If I hadn’t ruined your rep,” he said, voice deliberately placid, but not, at least, projecting calm good feelings. “You’d have been dead, and Dulsey, too.”
“Dulsey, maybe,” she said. “He wanted me alive so’s I could do him a favor.”
“And you were happy to be of service,” he said, irony a little heavy. “At least, that’s not how I read it, listening in.”
She spun her chair back to face him.
“You were listening in on Rint dea’Sord?” She’d tried to crack dea’Sord’s comms—twice, in fact, nor was she unskilled at such things, having received certain training. “How?”
