by Sharon Lee
Technical Details
Adventures in the Liaden Universe® Number 21
Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
Pinbeam Books
http://www.pinbeambooks.com
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are fiction or are used fictitiously.
COPYRIGHT PAGE
Technical Details
Copyright © 2012, 2013 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author. Please remember that distributing an author's work without permission or payment is theft; and that the authors whose works sell best are those most likely to let us publish more of their works.
Landed Alien was published to the Baen Books website (www.baen.com), July 2012
Eleutherios was published to the Baen Books website (www.baen.com), January 2013
The Devil's in the Details is original to this publication
ISBN: 978-1-935224-99-0
Published August 2013 by Pinbeam Books
Pinbeam Books
PO Box 1586
Waterville ME 04903
email [email protected]
Liaden Universe® is a registered trademark
Cover image from JupiterImages
Cover design by Sharon Lee
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Devil's in the Details
Landed Alien
Eleutherios
Thank you
The Devil's in the Details
Long before we were writers, we were readers: we read and celebrated science fiction as we grew up, absorbing from the literature much of the essence of the field.
One such essence of the field is the tech.
Be it a weapon, a time machine, a ship, or some other type of gadget or gizmo; be it used for good or for evil—SF is about the toys. Not, mind you, all about the toys, but the tech is important, and should play a role in any SF story. It may not be the central feature, that tech, but it needs to be there – and yes, sometimes it can be the problem.
But, the problem need not be a weapon. It need not be a self-aware bulldozer. It still can be part of the key and the foundation, it can be as important as the people. It serves man only as long as the people and the tech are working together, with intent. That of course was part of the horror of a famous scene in 2001, where Dave can't get that pod bay door open ... or the threat and menace of all the other errant robots and automatic can-openers* popular across the years.
The tech defines SF; heroes wield it, villains deploy it, masses are crushed beneath, or elevated, by it—but very few want to talk about the most important citizen of any technological society.
The technicians.
Since the Liaden Universe® is not immune to technology, it is not immune to those so very important, though largely invisible, cogs in the wheel of technological society; the often-unsung heroes who keep the tech running.
The two stories here, different as they are, deal with those heroes who not only know which screwdriver to use, but have it on their belt. Those who know, as much as anyone—and more than some—that the devil is in the details when it comes to dealing with the things men build.
—Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
The Cat Farm and Confusion Factory
Central Maine
August 21, 2013
—————————
"Proud Robot," Henry Kuttner
Landed Alien
Pool Pilot and Tech Kara ven'Arith sat in the Station Master's office, on an uncomfortable, and cold, steel chair.
She sat alone, hands folded tightly in her lap, face under rigid control. Waiting. . .
A man was dead. A pilot was dead.
By her hand.
She turned her head to the left, and stared for a long moment at the door to the outer hallway and the rest of Codrescu Station. She turned her head to the right, and gave the door to the Station Master's inner office similar close study. Neither door was locked. Why would they be?
There was no place to go, and nothing, really, for her to do.
Save wait.
Wait on the verdict of those now discussing her and her actions, there in the inner office. Would she live? Would she die? Would she be banished to the planet's surface, to take her chances there?
They would decide: the Station Master, the Guild Master, her immediate supervisor, the head Tugwhomper, and the associate supervisor of the pilot pool.
Kara took a deep breath, and wished they would decide soon.
* * *
It was silent in the common room as the graduation list scrolled across the community screen. They were all seniors in this dorm; and each a deal more solemn than even the suspense of the scrolling list might account for.
At the back of the room, Kara ven'Arith stood alone, and hopefully out of the eye of the dorm's loyalty monitor. That one had been dogging her steps for the last semester, trying to catch her in a "subversive" act. The monitor had been at great pains to explain Kara's precarious situation to her—the lack of three black marks was all that stood between Kara and the fate of her very good friend, Expelled Student Waitley.
The monitor had stared at her in what Kara supposed was intended to be a sad-but-stern manner, and which had been so ludicrous that she had been hard-put not to giggle. Worse, the thought of what Theo might say upon hearing her new title of honor was almost enough to send her into whoops.
It being fairly certain that she would earn one, if not two, of those missing black marks immediately for a failure to show proper respect, Kara had bitten the inside of her cheek and bowed her head, striving to give the impression of one too cowed by authority to speak.
The monitor hrummphed.
"You'd do better to sit up and meet my eye," she had snapped. "Sneaking alien ways won't improve your record."
Well, and that had almost brought her to join Theo. Kara had taken a deep breath, and lifted her head deliberately to meet the other woman's eyes.
"I am not an alien," she said calmly, in the Eylot dialect of Terran. "My family has held land on this planet for ninety-eight Standards."
The monitor, whose name was Peline Graf, frowned.
"And you think that makes you Eylotian?" she asked.
It was on the edge of Kara's tongue to say that she had been born on Eylot—but, after all, that did not make her Eylotian—even her delm taught so. They of Clan Menlark were Liaden, though based upon Eylot.
"You're nothing but a landed alien," Monitor Graf added, in a tone that made plain that she found this Eylotian legal reality not in the least amusing.
Kara folded her lips together and held the monitor's gaze until the other woman waved her hand in abrupt dismissal.
"I'm required to warn students who are in danger of expulsion. This has been your warning, ven'Arith. Watch yourself."
It had been, Kara had admitted to herself, after a long walk, a long shower, and a long, sleepless night, a fair warning, of its kind, and worth taking to heart. She had so much hanging, as the Terran phrase went, in Balance. Very nearly a Liaden meaning to Balance, there.
Well. She had seen what had happened to Theo, who had committed the dual crimes of not being Eylotian, and excelling beyond those who were. For those crimes, she had been targeted, trapped, and expelled. She, Kara ven'Arith, was the designated instrument of Theo's will in that matter. As such, she was honor-bound to keep all and any doors open through which Balance might enter.
That—and there was her family to consider. To be expelled so near to the completion of her
course and flight-work, even if she could show political malice as the cause? That would scarcely please her mother or her delm. Indeed, it was very likely that she would be roundly scolded for having been so maladroit as to allow her enemies to prevail against her. Clan Menlark had not prospered as pilots and as mechanics on a culturally diverse world known for its effervescent politics because its children were either maladroit or stupid.
All that being so, she had watched herself, and also, with a sort of black humor, watched those who watched her. She held herself aloof from any ties of friendship, that she might not be tainted by anothers error; she studied; she flew; she tutored; she slept; and ate; and attended all and every politically significant rally and workshop offered on campus.
By doing these things, she insured her graduation, pilot's license in hand, as her mother and her delm expected.
Her mother next expected her to offer herself for hire as a pilot, that being the clan's main livelihood. There, duty. . .diverged. Kara's heart had long been with the clan's secondary business. Even as a child, she had dogged Uncle Bon Sel's every step in the repair shop, until in self-defense he gave her a wrench and taught her how to use it. Her determination was to continue in that line, now that she had done as her delm and her mother had commanded.
That being so, she filed her app with Howsenda Hugglelans, where she had a good multi-season record as a temp worker, and excellent relations with her supervisors, and with Aito, the Hugglelans Third Son. It was not at all unreasonable to think that she might be hired there as a mechanic or a tech, and best to have all her cards in hand before she brought the matter to her mother.
The application had not yet gained a reply, but here—here came the approach to her name on the screen. She straightened, waiting, hardly daring to breathe. What if something had happened? What if someone in Admin had decided to withhold her last grade points? What if she had been given a black mark, despite all her care? What if there was some new reg, put into place secretly, that had to do only with those who weren't "truly Eylotian"? It had happened before. . .
Her chest was tight. Surely the feed had slowed? But no, that was foolish, and there! Her name!
And next to her name, her standing in the class—low, but she had expected that—and at the end of the line, her license certification. . .
Candidate Second. . .
"Candidate Second?" she gasped, stunned. She had earned a firm second class license. She had the hours, she had passed the tests, she—
"Something wrong, ven'Arith?" asked Droy Petris, with false concern. Droy Petris watched her, also, though less diligently than the monitor.
She had spoken out loud, Kara thought. Stupid, to let caution go now. Still, there was a recover to hand.
"I was astonished," she said, truthfully; "I had no idea I'd graduate at such a level."
He looked at her suspiciously, and Loyalty Monitor Graf was seen to frown, but there wasn't a regulation forbidding a pilot to express surprise.
She hoped.
#
The fiveday between the end of class and the senior graduation ceremony was traditionally a festive time, featuring parties, and picnics, dances, and epic games of bowli bowl. It was a time when friendships were reaffirmed; when new addresses and mail drop codes were exchanged.
Kara, who deliberately had no friends, dutifully attended the meetings mandated by Admin. As she was a past-champion, she also took part in the bowli ball tournament where she reveled in the play until, in the quarter finals, her lack of current connections made it easy for her to be ganged up on and evicted early from the game.
Not wishing to risk any unpleasantness in the stands, she avoided spectating. Instead, she volunteer to polish one of the long-wing training sailplanes, that it would be a welcome meeting for its next pilot, and thus received the benefit of exercise.
She also took long, solitary walks around campus, carefully avoiding such places as might call unwanted attention to her, such as Belgraid dorm, which had once housed the Culture Club, since "discovered" to be a hotbed of subversive activity, designed to indoctrinate the unwary into the customs and lifestyles of planets that were not Eylot.
She returned to the dorm from one particularly long walk to find herself the sole occupant. That would have been more pleasing if she didn't suspect that Monitor Graf had planted spy-eyes about, to watch when she could not.
Still, the absence of her dorm-mates did give pleasure. Kara stopped to withdraw a fruit drink from the cold-box, and went to her room, shaking the bulb absently.
She closed the door—senior privilege—and sat down at her desk, bringing the computer live with a light touch, snapping the bulb open while she waited for her mail to download.
Three letters came in-queue. Kara ran her eye down the list as she sipped her drink.
The first letter was from Hugglelans. She opened it, bottom lip caught in her teeth. If she had an offer, or perhaps an invitation to interview. . .
But no.
Dear Applicant.
This letter is to inform you that your application for employment has been received. We regret to inform you that Howsenda Hugglelans is not hiring at this time.
Thank you for your interest, and the best of luck in your search for employment.
Human Resources Form Number 3
Kara stared at this missive for much longer than required to master its contents. Not hiring? she thought. Or not hiring Liadens?
The thought made her angry—and then frightened. If Hugglelans had bowed to the rising tide of politics. . .
She took a breath, filed the form, and looked to the next item in-queue.
It was from the Dean of Students office. Her stomach clenched, and her mouth felt dry, despite the juice. She put the pod down on the edge of her desk, and opened the letter.
TO: Kara ven'Arith, Candidate Pilot Second Class
FROM: Anlingdin Pilot Certification Office
Candidate pilots are required to attend a re-orientation session immediately following graduation. At the conclusion of this session, those qualifying will see the candidate status removed and their license properly registered by the Eylot Pilots Guild.
Please report to Gunter Recreation Area on. . .
Kara squeezed her eyes shut, and mentally reviewed an exercise designed to restore clarity to a pilot's tired mind. That done, she took six deep, calming breaths before opening her eyes again and re-addressing the letter.
Her hands were cold and she was shaking, just a little, though that was anger, because they had found a way to hold her license hostage still longer! She had earned her Second Class license! Earned it! And now, she was being required to complete some other requirement—a requirement, she was certain was in place only for those who were not truly Eylotian! And what chance had she to qualify, to see her license properly recorded at the end of it all?
"Wait," she told herself, closing her eyes again. "Wait. Think."
She accessed another mental exercise, this to impose calm; then she did, indeed, think.
She had come this far. She had completed her coursework, gained her second class license, despite the oppressive oversight that had caused others of her classmates—friends from the Culture Club, and various others who had come from outworlds—to drop out and return home. Kara ven'Arith hadn't quit. She had been clever, she had kept her head down, she had kept herself informed of the changing requirements, and she had graduated.
She had done what was needed, and she could—she would—do whatever was necessary to clear this new barrier to claiming that which she had earned.
When she opened her eyes this time, her feelings were firmer, though they suffered a ripple when she saw that the re-orientation "session" was indeed a planetary month long.
And Gunter Recreation Area. . .was a wilderness campground, without even an air-breather landing field.
Her stomach clenched again, and she hurriedly closed the letter, marking it for later review, and opened the last file in the queu
e.
It was a personal note from Flight Instructor Orn Ald yos'Senchul, her academic adviser, inviting her to take tea with him—in an hour.
Kara smiled with real pleasure. Pilot yos'Senchul had been a support and a comfort, subtle as he was. He remained at Anlingdon, so he had told her, in honor of his contract, which the new administration was unexpectedly too canny to cancel out of hand, having perhaps learned a lesson from the Slipper instructor's dismissal.
But—good gods, the time! Kara leapt to her feet and ran for the shower.
#
"A tenday tour?" Kara took the paper Pilot yos'Senchul held out to her across the tea-table, and sat somewhat ill-at-ease, cup in one hand, folded printout in the other.
"Please," her host murmured, "take a moment to familiarize yourself. I thought first of you when I read it, and I am curious to know if you feel the same."
Immediate need. Codrescu Station, Eylot Nearspace. Student mechanic to tour, inspect, and repair station systems under supervision of Master Mechanic. Long hours. Union rates. Teacher recommendation or references required. First qualified hired.
Kara felt her pulse quicken. It wasn't a full-time job at Hugglelans, but it was far better than a walk in vacuum without a spacesuit.
She frowned, calculating. The graduation ceremony was in three days—an empty formality since her mother had let her know that circumstances would unfortunately keep her kin from making the trip to Anlingdin.
"I have my ratings and references from my break-work at Hugglelans," she said, speaking aloud, but more to herself than to Pilot yos'Senchul. "A tenday tour. . ." She frowned at the print-out again. "Immediate need," she mused, and looked up to find his gaze very attentive on her face.
"If immediate means that I may start within the next two local days," she said slowly, "I can do the tour and return in good time to attend the re-orientation class."
"Do you mean to do so?" Pilot yos'Senchul asked.
She looked at him in surprise.
"Well, I must, if ever I want to free my license of that wretched notation of candidate!"
"Yes, of course," he said, and used his chin to point at the paper she still held. "Do I hear that you are interested in filling that position, assuming that immediately is found to be accommodating?"
