by Sharon Lee
It was the fifth time she had told him so, and it made him feel she was even younger than he had first supposed.
“They help make my stay here livable,” he answered now. “It pleases me that they please others as well.”
“That’s important on something so closed up as this.” She stood, snatching one last chernubia before donning the Stubbs as he indicated.
“It is important to stay occupied and pleased with your diet,” he agreed. “So let us study basic operations. It is unlikely that you will need to deploy the DRAPIN—that is the Direct Report And Pinbeam option—which rapidly drains the energy source and requires a modicum of effort; more on this later. You will be acting as our mobile unit, and while the Stubbs can report continuously on deployment of the antenna, the antenna itself may make your travel . . . less convenient. We shall therefore assume that you will not be simultaneously traveling and transmitting. Instead, let us assume that you have arrived at a destination. Or not even a destination—let us call it not a bivouac but a simple rest stop. You then release the stand . . .”
Here Robertson did as indicated.
“The unit may be set to begin automatic operation when the stand is released. However, I understand from your commander that she prefers the reports to be under your control. To access the basic operator program, one merely inserts the key. To adjust the program from your side—if, for example, you wish to access the location transponder screen, you must insert both keys.”
She looked up, gray eyes slightly squinted. “Both?”
He removed from the envelope the scout had given him all three keys; it was conceivable that she might need them all, and the idea of a “manager’s key” kept safe on-station to be issued only at need, was ludicrous.
“This one,” he said, handing it to her, “is basic. With this key, anyone can turn the unit on or off. You may carry it in your pocket if you like.”
The basic key was flat, silver-colored, and recognizable as what it was. Unlike an everyday key, though, it was clad on several levels with a patina of a metallic insulation and had shaped insets at both ends.
Robertson accepted it without comment; her fingers were surprisingly cool as she made light contact with his hand.
“Right then,” she said, nodding so deeply in agreement that at first he took it as a bow. “This is a work-day key.”
“Yes. Good. A work-day key. This, too, is such a ‘work-day key’.” He waved it for emphasis. “Normally, they both must be inserted in order to set local reports or alerts, or to use the unit as a communicator. If you lose one key, you may still access basic functions with the other. I will give you the override instructions before you leave for the surface. This system is to insure that little mistakes do not happen, that alerts are neither set, nor lost, easily. It is perhaps best that these two keys not be carried in the same pocket. If you have an assistant, that person might carry one.”
He handed the second key over reluctantly, startled again by the cool touch of her fingers, and more so by her laugh as he held the pair up and compared them by eye.
“That’d be good, wouldn’t it? Miri Robertson’s assistant! Might be a long time before I’m in charge of anyone ’cept that—what is it?—Stubbs Ranger, what already knows what its doing.”
He bowed, acknowledging that he had heard her.
“It often happens,” translating a line from one of his nadelm’s favorite melant’i plays, “that expectation and event are not the same. When necessity exists, conduct follows.”
She looked at him firmly, gray eyes serious, and nodded once more.
“That’s the way it works everywhere, ain’t it? Push comes to shove, that’s when you find out what somebody’ll really do.”
She shook herself then, as if casting off unwanted implications, and showed him the keys.
“So, all I need to do is put these in once a day and you’ll get the data and whatever else you need?”
It was his turn to smile.
“If this ‘stop once a day’ is all that is possible, then that is what we will hope for. But we have hopes for far more than that!”
He produced one of the hardcopy instruction manuals and a series of charts he’d printed out of the station’s own records. “You will know about the basics of weather from your schooling. But this world you invade—for many reasons this is not a world of standard weather.”
Robertson shook her head energetically.
“Nah, you can’t depend on what I know about from school. My folks never sent me to school.”
After a moment, Brunner realized he might be said to be staring, and dropped his gaze.
“Surely, some education . . .” he offered, daring to look up again when he heard her short laugh.
“Not so you’d call it school. The money came in, and it went out, and school was on the list for when there was enough. Never was enough, I guess. But I do a lot of reading, you know? My mother taught me how to read. Liz—Commander Lizardi—she gets me classes to study when we got time. And, sorry . . . weather ain’t been covered yet.”
He raised his hand, concerned she’d feel ashamed.
“School came not easy to me, either,” he offered, “for my clan also often felt the money spent better elsewhere.” He sighed, and brought his focus back to the necessities of training.
“If I am able, I will send to you information explaining why you are seeing what you are seeing. The equipment can be used that way. The important point, for here and now, is that most weather texts, most weather information we have for habitable worlds, assumes some tectonic activity, some long-term patterns even on worlds mostly ocean, for the ocean has predictable currents.”
He pulled a chart and placed it on the table so Robertson’s gaze fell upon it easily.
“This is key. For Klamath is perhaps not really a habitable world as we would like to see one. It has not enough core definition; it has not formed . . . say that it has not formed dependable solid plates to top the mantle. Instead, all the land is on rafts! Some, like plates, are stuck to each other; in time, for all we know now, they may become plates. Others merely glance off each other like a transient crowd in a space station at boarding time, moving generally in the same direction but with independent velocity and goals.
“You are experienced at swimming?” he asked suddenly, concerned that this, too, might have been denied her by “folks” who had better use for their money than educating their youth.
“Yep. Gotta be able to swim to be a Lunatic. Why?”
“Because on Klamath, it is as if the plates are swimming. On most mature worlds the plates remain in close proximity to each other, they are bordered and ordered. They may be said to ‘stick’ on a volcanic vent, or quake when subsurface forces collide. Most short-term motion—that is, motion over a dozen—or a dozen dozen—Standards—that motion is limited to modest amounts caused by the grinding of plates against themselves, or plates slowly being submerged or becoming emergent. But on Klamath, the motion can be—and often is—more considerable. This motion may include ‘waves’ beneath the lands, making the surface bob up and down, far less stable than one would like, and altering atmospheric and ocean currents in the process.”
“Sounds complicated!” The soldier stared intently at the charts, but he despaired of her comprehension.
He sighed, perhaps too loudly, and found her gaze, faintly ironic, on him.
“So what’s this mean for what I gotta do, beside not get motion sick?”
He smiled, as her comment was clearly a joke. “Yes, this is good. You cannot fix the world or make the people not colonize it: they are there. So for you to stabilize the populace, for the commander to succeed in her mission, you need weather warnings and weather information. For me—for the station—what you can do is help us by reporting in as often as possible. Understand that on Klamath, everything is changeable. You may camp at night at one altitude and awake in the morning, still comfortable, at another. Each report assists us all!”
She
nodded. “Guess you’ll want to put that in writing to the commander. I’ll do what I can, but she’s gonna have to decide a lot of it.”
“Yes. That is well-thought. I will make some notes for the commander. But for you, there is also this: another key. This one is a manager’s key. It will permit you to leave the Stubbs on auto-function if need be, and return for it later. You might, with sufficient information, also be able to reprogram the unit for specific local necessities. This is unlikely, but you should be aware of the ranges of possibility open to you. Also, this key permits the setting of the DRAPIN, which I mentioned earlier.”
Robertson shook her head lightly, as if denying the need.
“Are you sure this thing can send a pinbeam? That’d take a lot of power!”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “It does require much power. So much so that it is an option we mention rather than demonstrate. This key, however, permits that.” He showed it to her, a small thing, made of slightly phosphorescent blue metal.
“This must not be lost. It must be kept safe and returned to me at the end of your mission. The other keys may be replaced or circumvented, if need be. This one cannot.”
He handed it to her. She held it up for frowning study.
“So it’s important?” she murmured, perhaps speaking to herself. “Like treasure?”
“Like treasure,” he agreed, astounded anew that this valuable and rare equipment was going to war with so volatile and naive a halfling.
“Gotcha!” She slid a finger under the top seal of her uniform and the second, as if, Brunner thought, panicked, she were disrobing!
She saw him start and laughed.
“You’re safe, Tech!”
Quick, beringed fingers reached behind her neck, pulling from beneath her collar a flesh-colored cord. Following the sinuous flow of cord came a small pouch, sliding up between the open shirt-top.
“Treasures!” she said as she pulled pouch and cord over her head. She gave him a friendly grin.
“See, all mercs gotta have someplace to keep their important stuff. Some use belts, some use secret pockets, you know, for their cash and gems and cards and stuff. Me, I’m kinda skinny, and I don’t own much cash but that’s all right, ’cause I don’t have that many treasures, either.”
She casually dropped the pouch on the table and flipped it open. Within were several small metallic containers and a cloth-wrapped something—
“How ’bout I tuck it inside here?” she said, flipping the cloth open and casually exposing—Brunner stared. A clan badge? But she had denied any knowledge of Liaden! She asked for coffee, and—but the child was speaking.
“This is my best treasure, see?” she said, while Brunner strained to recognize the half-shrouded device. “Got it from my mother. I’ll keep your key just as safe, if you understand me.”
He looked into her face, aware that she was already folding the cloth over badge and key, returning the pouch to its hiding place while he gathered words.
“Galandaria,” he said in low tones, and inclined his head.
“What’s that?” She showed no faintest hint of comprehension as she resealed her shirt, her rough Terran at odds with the artwork she’d called her treasure, at odds with her quick bright eyes, at odds with the moment.
Brunner looked away, let his mind run for a moment, cataloging possibility. This was not, as he had supposed, only an ignorant Terran halfling, but a woman acknowledging both her legacy and her isolation. Trusting him with her secret. With her treasure.
He had a moment to wonder why—but, there, the answer was plain. She was about to descend into danger, with her commander and her troop. Whatever necessity required her to act—to be—merely a Terran halfling, yet she could not allow him, a Liaden like herself, to be deceived.
“Yes,” he said in soft Terran, accepting the burden of her secret. “I see that you will keep the key as safe as your best treasure, as I would myself.”
“Right,” she said. “Got that. Tell you what, if all this works out good for you, you owe me a cup of coffee, how’s that? Tea’s all right with these cakes, but coffee would be perfect.”
He smiled at her apparent reversion to simplicity.
“I agree to owe you a cup of coffee, Robertson, and to pay promptly when we meet again.”
She nodded happily. “So, you need me to memorize any frequencies or stuff? I got a real good memory.”
“Let us first review the basics again,” he said. “This unit can function as a communicator if need be. I am, as you know, Ichliad Brunner. You will ask for me if there is need.”
* * *
Brunner was working alone in the meteorology lab when the first transmission from the Stubbs came through. This was not necessarily by happenstance. As soon as Commander Lizardi and Corporal Robertson had departed the station for their posting, he had volunteered to take what Jack called “night-shift” and what the crew in general just called Slot C. There were fewer people about then and there was often work to be caught up on from the preferred “day-shifts,” of Slots A and B.
Coincidentally, Slot C was most concurrent with Miri Robertson’s expected working hours of daylight.
It took several station-days for the request to go up and down the short command chain. In the interim Brunner managed to stay at work beyond his assigned shift and to arrive before, in case there should be a problem, though what he might do, if there were . . .
But, as it turned out, both his care and his worry were unnecessary.
The Stubbs came online flawlessly, registering locality and altitude, barometric pressure, wind speed, humidity. Allergens were noted, as were pollutants. Cloud cover was ranged and categorized. The somewhat variable mix of atmospheric gases was logged every ten ticks, the air temperature every ten ticks, alternating with the gases. Piggybacked on the databursts was a quick recording in her soft drawl: “The manuals say I should do a base test. Here it is. If there’s a problem, the manuals say you can reset remotely or have me recalibrate.”
The readings continued for a short time, and ceased in an orderly shut-down, and Brunner breathed a sigh of relief, tinged with anticipation. Now, perhaps they could get accurate—and uninterrupted!—data to work with!
Less than a quarter-day later, a new report came in, and that, too was an orderly report, sans voice, which Brunner regretted. He found Robertson’s willing approach to the manuals both thoughtful and interesting. Perhaps her appointment to the weather machine was not mere whim on the commander’s part after all.
Days passed, overfull of work; data came in, perhaps half the time accompanied by a recorded message from the operator. Brunner continued on Slot C, and no one complained, save the company’s accountant, who felt that he should not receive a bonus for working a shift he clearly preferred. He signed a paper, waiving his right to the Slot C differential, and was left alone to do his work.
To hear the news source tell it, the introduction of “professional warriors” had taken the heart out of the enemy or enemies. All fronts were quiet; even the reports of atrocities decreased. The enemy or enemies had, the news source reported, withdrawn, to pray and to take counsel of such wise ones and elders as they had. The government in Chilonga Center, in the province where Lizardi’s Lunatics had been stationed, audibly held its breath.
Brunner watched the weather, made predictions, noted his errors; he collaborated with Dr. Boylan, the planetologist, on a study of the likelihood that there was a long-term subsurface flow echoing the jet stream. The Stubbs continued to report, so whoever had been targeting the stationary weather machines seemed not to have the interest—or the means—to destroy a roving unit.
Betting pools were formed: days until the end of the war, where the next cyclone would form, which government would fall to a coup.
As always, Brunner declined to bet, but found himself importuned anyway, as those who had formed a pool on the probable length of survival of the various mercenary units inquired after the supposed “inside information
” he was gaining from his contact on the surface.
In retrospect, it was a time of peaceful repose such as Brunner had rarely experienced during his tour of duty.
* * *
The first hint that things might be returning to normal came, not from Brunner’s intense study of Klamath’s erratic weather systems, nor from his rather less intense study of the news reports, but from his contact on the planet’s surface.
“Okay.” Robertson’s recorded voice sounded breathless. “Just wanted to let you know that we got through it fine, and the machine’s good. Some of us got messed up and we had to send a few off to the hospital in Chilonga Center. We had real good luck, though, ’cause I read the manuals, and when I can, I have the local prediction mode up. Caught a march on the Bluebies that way. Anyhow, we’re gonna be moving fast so don’t expect too many updates for awhile.”
What “it” had been he did not know, though he was heartened to hear that she had survived it in good health and with the Stubbs intact.
Automated reports flowed up from the surface, though there was no communication from the operator for nearly a Standard week. Brunner chose to view the arrival of the data as proof of her continued good health—after all, she had said she would be out of contact.
He went back to his work. The pressure systems had undergone a subtle and not entirely comprehensible change. Brunner pulled archives, did overlays, ran projections, sorted and resorted the data, stretching his work shift well into Slot A.
Ten days after assuring him of her survival of “it,” Robertson sent another message, short and barely intelligible over a sound like ship’s engine cycling.
“Wow! Lotta wind!”
And indeed there had been a lot of wind as a high and a low had fought their own battle over a quarter of the planet, starting at the pole and spiraling down across the equator where they’d formed battle lines over the tortured isthmus connecting Chilonga’s embattled territories with those of their bitter invaders.
He had taken heart from that message as well; whatever fighting that may have taken place since her last contact was far from her mind at that moment.
