by Sharon Lee
TWENTY-NINE
Solcintra
SHE GOT TWO HOURS’ SLEEP before the kid woke her up, shoved a mug of hot tea into her hand and dragged her down the hall. There, they’d found the scholar in a fever of calculation so intense he’d barely been able to wrap his tongue around a non-math sentence. In the end, he’d simply spun the screen so they could see for themselves— ‘quations that sent a chill down her piloting nerves, and fetched an actual gasp out of the boy.
More tea and a quick meal happened between questions—not all of which were asked before it came time for pilot and co-pilot to depart for the meeting with the client.
Nalli Olanek was before them in the conference room, attended by a man so non-descript, Cantra thought he would have vanished entire, had it not been for the scroll under his hand.
“Speaker,” she said, inclining her head, but not bothering to sit down. “You get the contract written?”
“Indeed.” Nalli Olanek moved a hand and her companion rose, bowing with neither flattery nor irony.
“Captain yos’Phelium,” he said, offering the scroll across his two palms, as if it were priceless treasure. “It is my sincere belief that I have conveyed the agreed-upon duties, responsibilities and command chains accurately.”
She eyed him. “Who are you? If it can be told.”
He bowed again, and gave her a surprisingly straight look right in the eye. His were brown.
“My name is dea’Gauss, Captain. Account and contract keeping are the services which my Family has been honored to provide for the High.”
“I see.” She extended a hand, caught the boy around his wrist and brought him forward. “This is my co-pilot, Tor An yos’Galan. He’ll sit right here with you and go over those lines. If everything checks out with him, then he’ll bring it to me—same like you’ve got outlined in that section on command chains, right?”
“That is correct, Captain.”
“Good. Me an’ Speaker Olanek need to take a little trip.”
The Speaker’s eyebrows rose. “Do we, indeed? May one know our destination?”
Cantra gave her a hard, serious stare. “I want you to have a tour of the ship,” she said. “Get a good idea of what you and yours are contracting for.”
Nalli Olanek frowned. “We are contracting for passage off of Solcintra and—”
Cantra held up a hand. “You’re contracting to travel on a ship,” she interrupted. “Ever been on a ship, Speaker?”
The other woman’s lips thinned. “Of course not,” she said distastefully.
“Right. Which is why you need the tour. You not being wishful of putting your folk in the way of Captain’s Justice, it’ll fall to you to figure out how to keep them calm and happy and out of the captain’s way. And to do that, you need to see, touch and smell exactly what you’re contracting for.” She jerked her head toward the door.
“Let’s go. Soonest begun, soonest done, as my foster-mother used to say.”
* * *
CREDIT WHERE CREDIT was earned, Cantra conceded: Nalli Olanek was tough. It was clear enough that the means and workings of Salkithin distressed her. By the time they’d finished the tour, and Sergeant Ilneri had delivered himself of a short lesson on slow-sleep so pat and slick she figured he must’ve only given it twelve hundred times before, the Speaker was pale, but she hadn’t broke out into active horror, nor demanded to be brought back down to cozy Solcintra where the council of law called outlaw to any such devices as the sheriekas might use, and others of more normal habit to the wider galaxy. Gene selection beyond physical pick-and-choose, commercial AI, even personal comm units were either disallowed or else heavily regulated on Solcintra, and though many such devices would have given the service class an easier life, they seemed as wedded to the minimal tech as their now-departed overseers.
Seeing her charge was like to wobble a bit in her trajectory, Cantra set them a course for the galley and waved the other woman to a table while she poured them each a mug of tea.
“You’ll want to be careful of that,” she said as she settled into the chair opposite. “It’ll be pilot’s tea—strong an’ sweet.” She sipped, watching with amusement while Nalli Olanek sampled her drink and struggled to keep the distaste from reaching her face.
“S’all right,” Cantra said comfortably. “What they call an acquired taste.” She had another sip and set her mug aside, looking straight and as honest as she could muster into Nalli Olanek’s cool gray eyes.
“Now’s the time to say out what you think, Speaker. Your folk going to hold still for putting their lives in the care of this ship—not to say the slow-sleep?”
The other woman sighed. “Truthfully, Captain—it will be a challenge, even in the face of such an enormous catastrophe as Captain Wellik proposes. Slow-sleep—” She closed her eyes, opened them, and pushed her mug toward the center of the table.
“You understand,” she said, “that I must ask this, though I believe I know what your answer will be. Is it necessary that we ride as sleepers, wholly dependent upon the—the devices that govern the operations of this vessel for our well-being?”
“Sleepers don’t use as much of the ship’s resources,” Cantra answered. “Since we don’t know where we’re going, and we don’t know how long we’ll be a-ship, the pilots have got to calculate on the conservative side of the ‘quations; we’d not being filling our guarantee of care for all the passengers doing it any other way. It ain’t our intention to dice with anybody’s life. Now. You heard what Sergeant Ilneri had to say about the redundant life-support systems, right?”
Nalli Olanek’s mouth tightened. “I did. And I understand that he meant to convey the point that, should the . . . device . . . supporting the sleepers fail, the ship would be in such peril as to be unlikely itself to survive.”
Cantra looked at her with approval. “That’s it. Those asleep are every bit as well-protected as those of us who’re going to be awake for the whole adventures. The captain makes no difference between who’s asleep and who’s not in her calculations of passenger safety.” She sipped tea, watching the other woman over the rim of the mug. “There ain’t any High or Low ‘mong the passengers on this ship, ‘cept as you need to keep trouble out of my hair. I won’t have it, and I don’t expect to have it proposed.”
“I understand.” The Speaker folded her hands on the table, knuckles showing pale. “Livestock—”
“Livestock travels as embryos and Batch samples,” Cantra said. “It’s gotta be that way, for all those good reasons the sergeant listed out for you. The ship’s equipped with reconstitution equipment. Captain Wellik states the garrison stands ready to help get those samples in order for you, if needed.”
“We have samples and Batch seed, as it happens,” Nalli Olanek murmured, and smiled when Cantra looked at her in surprise. “Several of the husbander Families have created a . . . bank, as I believe they call it, in case there should be an emergency requiring that the flocks and herds be re-established.” She reached for the tea mug; thought better of it, and refolded her hands. “I believe they were thinking in terms of illness—plague. But—surely this qualifies as an emergency.”
“You could say.” Cantra finished her tea, and considered the other woman. “Some other info you’re going to need. Share it or hold it—that’s your call. But you need to have it, so you understand what we’re likely to have before us.”
Nalli Olanek snorted lightly. “We have received much information from Captain Wellik’s office. Also, we have—obtained those records upon which the High Families based their decision to return to the core. I believe that we are conversant—”
Cantra held up her hand. Nalli Olanek stopped, eyebrows arched delicately.
“I figured Wellik’d be free with the info of what’s coming,” she said. “What he doesn’t have—though he should by the time we get back to the ground—is a picture of what comes after we make what Ilneri’s calling a retreat.”
“Ah. I had assumed that we w
ould simply outrun the Enemy; locate worlds beyond the Rim, perhaps.”
Grounders. Cantra felt the sharp words lining up on her tongue—and heard Jela’s voice, damn’ near in her ear. She doesn’t have the math, Pilot. She’s never seen the Rim; there’s no way she can know it like we do . . .
Well. She looked down at her mug, then back to Nalli Olanek.
“The Enemy’s actions,” she said, keeping her voice friendly and calm— “the decrystallization, like Scholar dea’Syl names it—that’s creating a wave front of energy—or say it creates an opportunity for that wavefront to exist. The actual math is tricky, admitted. What we’re going to be doing is riding this wave of opportunity straight on out of—straight out of everything we know, Speaker. The best the scholar can figure is that those objects and energy states which haven’t been compromised by the Enemy’s actions will be introduced into another—energy phase let’s call it—and then into—another galaxy.”
“Another galaxy . . .” the Speaker repeated, brows drawn. “But such forces—we will be damaging . . . existing worlds?”
“Don’t know,” Cantra said, which was the truth as spoken by none other than Rool Tiazan, damn his pretty blue eyes. “Never been done before. Don’t know if we can do it now, though the scholar’s math says it’s possible.” She paused, then added, in the spirit of being as honest with the client as was safe. “Understand, it’s not a risk-free thing we’re doing. The only reason to take this kind of chance is because there’s no other choice.”
Silence.
When it had stretched a while, and Speaker Olanek didn’t look any less grim or get any more communicative, Cantra cleared her throat.
“What’s good,” she said, making her voice sound like it was just that. “What’s good is that the initial burst—that ought to be fast. And see, what you can’t tell from down here in the thick of this galaxy, is that really, most of what’s in a galaxy is empty space, anyhow. The Arm’s collided with other galaxies back in the ‘way back, so pilot lore tells us, and mostly what happened is we moved through each other like ghosts.
“So what we’ll be doing is going into a transition, almost like normal. That part’ll be quick, real quick. What we might have to do in order to come to land, that might could take a while. Which brings us right ‘round again to the necessity of slow-sleep.”
“I—see.” There was a little more silence, then Nalli Olanek pushed away from the table and stood.
“I thank you for the tour, Captain yos’Phelium,” she said formally. “It has been most informative. I believe we should return home—” Her face tightened, and she took a hard breath. “I believe we should return to Solcintra, and see if your co-pilot has cleared the contract for signature.”
“Right you are.” Cantra came to her feet, collected the mugs and set them into the washer, then led the way down the hall to the shuttle bay.
THIRTY
Solcintra Near Orbit
THE BOY SAT the board like he belonged there, which was a good thing, Cantra thought. Ought to be one of the two of ‘em knew what he was doing.
Granted, Pilot Y. Argast had checked them both out on the full board, neither stinting nor accepting less than perfect from the pilots who were going to be flying Jela’s ship. And granted that they’d both passed muster. The boy, though, he sat his tests cool as Solcintra snow, showing confident clear through—and it weren’t no bogus confident, either, not from a lad as easy to read as the for’ard screens.
Herself, she’d given Argast as much confidence as he liked, and an edge of Rimmer attitude to go with, which might’ve been enough to help him miss the fact that she’d damn’ near bobbled twice—or maybe not, though he was respectful enough not to mention it.
“Captain Wellik sends that he’s coming up, and requests a meeting with the pilots,” he’d said, leaving the observer’s chair with a grin so cocky he might’ve been a Rimmer himself.
Cantra eyed him. “He say why?”
Argast’s grin got cockier. “Captain doesn’t give me his secrets to hold,” he said. “You’re lucky he sent ahead.”
Though truth told, he hadn’t sent that far ahead. The tower door had barely closed on Argast’s heels, when it opened again and there was Wellik, trailing an honor guard, and carrying a case.
“Permission to enter the tower, Captain?” he’d said, with no perceptible irony.
Cantra sighed. “Looks to me like you’re already in.”
“In fact,” he agreed, “I am. We’ll do this as quickly as possible, as none of us has time to waste . . .” He put the case up on the board’s ledge, opened it and in short order produced about twenty-eight sets of ship keys, emergency keys, gun-bay keys, lock-up keys—plus, as she might’ve known there would be, forms to sign for each set, certifying that she’d received them.
Forms signed and stowed, Wellik brought another handful of papers out of his case.
“Captain, as you are no doubt aware,” he said, brisk and straight-faced, “policy requires that any vessel decommissioned from military service must retire its name. Now, I’ve put down on the manifests here—” he rattled his fist full of paperwork— “that Salkithin is being decommissioned and turned over to an appropriate agency, which intends to put it into service as a luxury cruise vessel . . .”
The boy sneezed—which saved her the trouble of doing it herself. Wellik looked up from his paper with a frown.
“As per instructions received from M. Jela Granthor’s Guard,” he continued, forcefully. “My office has completed the appropriate paperwork, excepting the names and affiliations of the new owners and the name of the vessel. We have, to insure compliance, provided work crew and materials.” He glanced up again, teasing a single sheet of print-out from the rest.
“Before we proceed, Captain yos’Phelium, your co-pilot requested that you be given this information, since I encountered him first on the issue. He felt it was a good thing that the name of the vessel be demobilized, granting the sometimes quaint and even superstitious approach to life exhibited by the local population.”
Frowning, Cantra took the paper, gave it a quick read—and then another, slower.
Salkithin—Jela’s own sweet ship—had been named after a planet on which a force of less than twenty thousand soldiers had successfully held off an enemy attack until a trap could be sprung. Thing was, the planet’s forces—and the planet—died with the enemy. Damn’ if that didn’t sound like a familiar situation.
Salkithin. Soldiers found that kind of naming important, and for herself, she wouldn’t have cared. The gentle citizens of Solcintra, though—that was another matter. The boy had the right of it. And, she thought, he did have the right of it—he’d caught the problem before it became a problem, just like a co-pilot ought to do.
“I’m going to be meeting with Sergeant Ilneri,” Wellik was saying, “and doing an inspection. I’ll leave these with you—” He held the papers out to the boy, who received them with a slight bow. “Please fill in the name of your ship, sign the forms and have them ready for me when I’m done inspection.”
He turned, sealed up the case, took it in hand, and was gone, waving them an airy salute.
Cantra glared at the blameless door. “Now, what I don’t know about naming ships—” she began—and then stopped because the comm let go with its incoming message tone.
Wellik’s papers still in hand, Tor An crossed the tower—communications being on the co-pilot’s side of the board—flipped a toggle—
“Tcha!” he said, sounding something between put-out and impatient.
“What now? The local priests want to bless the hull and shrive the pilots?”
He turned from the board, a half-smile on his mouth.
“Nothing quite so drastic. The dea’Gauss sends that he must bring us an amended contract for review and signature.”
“Amended?” She frowned. “Amended how?”
He glanced back at his screen. “It would appear that the Service Families have . . .
reformulated themselves and are now the High Houses of Solcintra. The dea’Gauss believes that an addendum putting forth this lineage will—be in the pilot’s interests, should there be a dispute regarding payment.”
“Which you know and I know and dea’Gauss knows there likely will be,” Cantra pointed out. “Not to say that Nalli Olanek ain’t as honorable as they come when dealing with one of her own. But I’m betting there ain’t no rules saying she’s got to treat straight with a pair of kenake pilots. Stands to reason she’ll do her utmost to short us.”
The boy sighed and turned from the screen. “I believe you are correct, Pilot,” he said seriously. “However, there is surely no harm in allowing the dea’Gauss to amend the contract as he suggests. It will be one more thing on our side of the trade table, when it comes time to sue for our fee.”
“Right you are. Tell him to fetch it on up, then.” She waited while he sent the message on.
“Now,” she said, when he turned back to her, Wellik’s papers in hand. “What will you be caring to name this fine vessel, Pilot Tor An?”
Damn’ if he didn’t pale, the rich golden skin going to a sort of beige—and here she thought she’d been doing him the kind of honor a well-brought-up boy from a trade clan would cherish.
“I?” he gasped. “What right have I to—surely it falls to the captain to name her ship!”
“No hand at it,” she said, laconic and Rim-wise. “And as to right—you’re my co-pilot, and my heir. Says so in those papers dea’Gauss drew up between us and the Service Families. If I die on con, the ship goes to you.”
“The contract . . .” He took a breath, color returning to his face. “The contract must demonstrate a clear passage of responsibility, for the safety of ship and passengers. However, the contract describes necessity for this one flight which we are soon to undertake. We—we cannot know that we will work well together, long-term, or that we will wish to continue our association beyond contract’s end . . .”
“Assuming that there’s anything at the end of the contract saving gray screens the pilots’ last duty,” she said, maybe a bit harsher than she needed to. “You saw those ‘quations, Pilot. They shape up to a certain future, in your opinion?”
