by Sharon Lee
He slid off his stool and bowed to her as between comrades, indeed.
"I will leave you to your meal. Speaking with you has been a balm. Good-shift, Kara."
"Good shift, Orn Ald," she answered, and turned to watch him walk away before once again taking a stool and pulling her meal toward her.
After a moment, she stood again, picked up the tray and carried it over to the disposal.
#
The bowli ball zagged, then zagged again, avoiding Bilton's grasp as adroitly as if it had eyes and reason. Kara, next nearest, jumped, spinning lightly, and capturing the ball against her chest. It kicked, not hard, and the moment her feet hit decking, she threw it well to the left of Yangi.
The rangy red-haired pilot showed her teeth in what might equally have been a savage smile or a grimace of pain, and launched into a long vertical lunge. She snatched the ball, holding it in the crook of her elbow as she tucked to roll mid-air, coming down flatfooted, knees bent. Her smile grew positively feral as she threw ball with considerable strength, straight down at the decking.
Predictably—at least to those wise in the ways of the device and the game—the ball shot upward. Unpredictably, it skated to the right, into the space occupied by the hapless Fortch, the least apt of their players, nearly as new on station as she, and yet unaccustomed to his local mass.
He jumped for the ball, twisting in an effort to eat his unwanted momentum, actually got a hand on—
"Kara ven'Arith!" The all-call rattled the walls of the so-called Arena.
Bilton leapt, and came spinning to the deck, the bowli ball dancing along his fingers, shedding energy as it did.
Yangi grabbed Fortch by the belt just in time to keep him from ramming his nose against the wall.
Kara, flatfoot and hands at her side, stood waiting.
"Kara ven'Arith to Central Repair," Master Thelly's voice blared. "Kara ven'Arith to Central Repair, now!"
#
"Sorry 'bout it, Kara—know it's your rec shift. Vechi had an accident in Green-Mid-Six. Got 'er out to the clinic, but the work'd just got started, and needs to be finished. You got least hours on the card."
"So I win," she said, showing cheerful in the face of his worry, though she was worried, too. This accident was the fifth among the tech-crew in the last eighteen Station-days; more than the total accidents for the last six Standard months. Not only newbies, either—two old hands had spent a couple work shifts each in the station's autodoc, getting patched up from injuries from 'freak accidents'.
Kara finished belting on her kit, and looked 'round.
"Vechi's wagon's still down in Mid-Six," Master Thelly said. "Had to carry her out."
Kara stared at him.
"What happened this time?"
"Wild charge," Master Thelly said, looking even more worried. "You be careful, hear me?"
"I'm always careful," Kara told him, picking up her tea bottle.
He grunted. "So's Vechi."
#
Green-Mid-Six was a well-lit and roomy utility hall in a low-grav segment of the station. Kara had helped with the complete maintenance overhaul of the systems housed in this hall during her tenday tour. Vechi's orders, still up on the work wagon's screen, were to check an anomaly in Bay Four. The hatch was off, and leaning neatly against the wall. The test leads were still tidily wrapped on the wagon, so the wild charge must have struck Vechi either as she removed the hatch, or when she did her first eye-scan. That was standard procedure for a tech with an anomaly report to retire: A visual scan to make sure there wasn't any obvious damage—melted leads, snapped fuses, anything broken or compromised.
If the tech's eyeballs or nose didn't locate a problem, then the leads from the wagon were attached, and a series of diagnostics were run.
A wild charge build-up, thought Kara, pulling on her gloves, while contemplating the open access from the side of the wagon—that would create an anomaly, all right.
It would also create damage with a very particular signature. Once identified, all that remained was for the tech to pinpoint the cause, for the reports, and file a work order for rebuild.
Gloves on and light in hand, Kara advanced on the open access port.
Even though she knew what she'd see, Kara still blinked as her light illuminated the interior of the hatch.
Carnage was the word that came to her mind; and also the thought that there would be no identifying the failed source; there simply wasn't enough left to support a forensic diagnostic. The smell of ozone was not completely gone, nor that of the antiseptic sprays they'd used on Vechi.
She returned to the wagon, tapped up the main schematic screen and traced the power flow.
The station operated with tertiary back-ups, only sensible in so vulnerable a habitat as a space station. She was pleased to see that the back-up had come online without a glitch and there had been no discernible disruption of service.
So much was to the good. She opened another screen, logged the damage and created the work order for the rebuild. In plain truth, she was likely to draw that one, but right now she was Vechi, with Vechi's orders to clear.
She tapped the screen, bringing up the list of work orders. Anomaly resolution went to the top of a given roster-list, so this had been Vechi's first stop on her shift. It glowed yellow on the screen—begun, but not logged as complete.
Below was a long list of work orders, all patiently showing green—waiting for tech.
Kara sipped from her tea-bottle as she created a ref-file, attached the open, incomplete, order to the rebuild order, raised her finger to tap the next task in line—and stopped, frowning.
Vechi was the fifth tech injured in the line of duty. Had the others all been checking anomalies, too?
In less than thirty seconds, she had the anomalies report open on one side of the wagon's screen; on the other, the tech department's injury report.
The injured techs: Vechi, Mardin, Whistler, Harfer, and Gen Arb—and yes, each had been checking an anomaly report when they had been injured.
Kara's fingers were quicker than her thoughts. She called up the real-time functions, using her key for the big ops board, that she sat on rotation every eight station-days.
The wagon's screen was too small to accommodate the whole function screen, but all Kara wanted to do was to set an alarm. That done, she opened up the next work order in-queue.
#
About half-way through Vechi's shift, Kara paused between jobs to file a manual schedule adjustment. There was, she reasoned, no sense going off duty for one shift, only to have to report back for her regular work-shift. Best to just keep on, with the loan of Vechi's wagon, and swap out her second shift for rest. That would get her two rest shifts in a row, and put her back onto her regular schedule.
The system OK'd the change, which meant that Master Thelly was on maintenance himself, and would scold her the next time they met, per standard procedure.
Content with her changes, Kara finished out Vechi's shift, closed the list of completed work orders, signed in as herself and downloaded her own run of work.
She was in Green-Mid-Forty-Five; her work started in Blue-Mid-Twelve, conveniently near. Kara regarded the change of venue as a break.
She sipped tea as she walked, the wagon following. The best route to Blue-Mid-Twelve involved a shortcut through Orange, where the root of Ten Rod Two joined the station structure proper.
And there she quite unexpectedly found Fortch, the pool pilot who had not yet mastered the station's gravity, in front of the utility-core for the arm, an access hatch wide open, and several tools haphazardly sticking from his pockets and belt.
"What are you doing in the tech-tunnels, Pilot?" she asked, using her tea-bottle as a pointer, her voice sharper than it ought to be, for truly, he could be temp-help, or—
But if he was temp-help, where was his repair wagon? Where was his kit?
Fortch seemed to feel himself at a disadvantage. He licked his lips.
"Kara! I didn't know you were wor
king down here!"
"And I didn't you were working down here."
"Oh, well I am – working. Filling in. Just checking something out for Master Thelly, that's all. There was a glitch on the screen and he asked me to – but wait, I need to talk to you about your license problem...”
He was moving, as if trying to stay between her and the open hatch. Lights were on, and covers hinged back from equipment.
Behind her, the anomaly alarm went off on the work wagon, and three things happened in a quick succession.
Fortch jumped toward her, a spanner suddenly in his hand.
Kara spun as if she were playing bowli ball, ducked under his outstretched arms, using the open tea-bottle to fend off the tool he swung down. There was a clang, the bottle was torn from her hand and spun away, splashing tea everywhere. Her spin continued as his lunge faltered; she came up behind—and pushed him away from her, hard as she could, toward the open utility room.
He, inept in the station environment, skidded on the tea-splashed deck, arms pinwheeling now, half-fell and half slid, snatched for his balance, cursing —and lost his balance altogether, striking his shoulder on the access door and crashing heavily into the room, arm up in a desperate and failing bid not to fall into the panels and wiring.
There was a sharp snap and a dazzling flash, and he collapsed to the decking, unmoving.
#
The door to the Station Master private office opened, and Kara stood up, preferring to meet her fate thus.
"Tech ven'Arith, thank you for your patience," the Station Master said gently, giving her a bow as well-meaning as it was meaningless. "You're free to go."
She blinked at him.
"To go?" she repeated. "Go—where?"
"To your conapt, I'd say," Master Thelly stuck in. "You got the next three shifts off—use 'em to sleep!"
"But—" She looked among them until she found Orn Ald yos'Senchul's face. "Fortch is dead."
"So he is, and that is unfortunate, since there were questions that various of us would have liked to ask him. Clearly, however, he was undertaking sabotage against the station and his efforts might have killed hundreds. Stopping him was of utmost importance—and stop him you did." He inclined his head.
Kara noticed that her hands were clenched. She opened them, and shook her fingers out.
"But—why?" she asked. "Why was he trying to. . .harm the station?"
Bringo, the Chief Tugwhomper, looked grave.
"Had a drink wit' the boy not so long ago," he said slowly. "Shortenin' it considerable, he told me he figured out how to get his paper, Eylot-side."
Kara shivered, suddenly cold.
"By killing the station?"
"Now, missy. Coulda just drunk too much coil fluid and talkin' big. Cheer 'imself up, like."
"There will be an investigation," said the Station Master. "Might be something in his quarters will be helpful. In the meanwhile, Pilot ven'Arith, the lesson you're to take away from you is that you acted in self-defense – properly acted in self defense. If Fortch hadn't had the main power bus to the arm open he'd be alive. I'd say the fatal mistake was his, not yours."
Orn Ald's voice then, quick, comforting Liaden preceding a gentle bow between comrades.
"The station is in your debt, Kara."
"That's right, and we don't aim to stay that way," said Guild Master Peltzer. "There's a reward for preserving environmental integrity. Understand, it's not what any of us can call exact Balance—more like a symbolic Balance. Be as may, I reckon that reward's gonna show up in your account." He gave the Station Master a hard look, and that individual smiled.
"Without a doubt, Guild Master. Without a doubt."
"That's all set now," said Master Thelly, firmly. "Kara—go get some rest."
"Yes," she said, numb, but with a dawning sense of relief. She bowed a simple bow of respect to the group of them, and turned toward the door.
As she stepped into the hall, she found Orn Ald yos'Senchul next to her.
"Will you share a meal with me, comrade, and allow me escort you to your conapt?"
"Yes," she said again, and considered him. "And you will tell me everything that the others didn't want to tell me, won't you Orn Ald?"
"Oh, yes," he said serenely. "I'll do that."
Eleutherios
It had been many years since the organ had last given voice. Friar Julian had been a younger man—though by no means a young man—then, and had wept to hear the majesty brought forth by his fingers.
Godsmere Abbey had been great, then, before the punishments visited by earth and air. Now it, like the city surrounding, was. . .not quite a ruin. Just. . .very much less than it once had been.
Though it no longer worked, Friar Julian cared for the organ, still, waxing the wood, polishing the bright-work, dusting the keys, the bench, the pedals. As the organist, it had been his duty to care for the organ. Duty did not stop simply because the organ was broken.
Indeed, it was all of his duty, now: the care and keeping of odd objects—some whole, some broken, others too strange to know—and odd people in similar states of being. The odd people brought the odd objects, for the glory of the gods and their consorts, and the Abbey sheltered both, as best it might.
It seemed fitting.
Before the earthquake, before the Great Storm, Godsmere Abbey had the patronage of the wealthy, and the high. Witness the walls: titanium-laced granite that withstood the quake damage-free—saving some very small cracks and fissures; the roof-tiles which had denied wind and rain; the rows of carven couches in the nave—why, the organ itself!
They were gone now—the high, the wealthy, and the wise. Gone from the city of Collinswood, and from the planet of Fimbul, too; gone to some other, less contentious place, where they might be comfortably safe.
In the meantime, there was no lack of work for those few friars who remained of the once-populous spiritual community of Godsmere. With loss and want, their tasks had become simpler—care for the sick, feed the hungry, nurture the feeble; and curate the collection of artifacts that filled the North Transept, and spilled into the South.
From time to time, the Abbey accepted boarders, though a far different class than had previously leased the courtyard-facing rooms, seeking tranquility in the simplicity of their surroundings, and the sloughing off, for a time, at least, the cares that weighed their spirits.
A bell rang, reverberating along the stone walls: the call to the mid-morning petition.
Friar Julian passed the dust cloth over the organ's face one more time before tucking the cloth into the organist's bench.
"I will come again," he promised it, softly, as he always did.
Then, he turned and hurried down the steps, out of the organ niche, to join his brothers in faith in giving thanks to the gods and their consorts for the dual gifts of life and conscience.
#
Later in the day, another bell rang, signaling a petitioner at the narthex. Friar Anton stood ostiary this day, and it was he who came to Friar Julian in the kitchen, to say that two city constables awaited him in the nave.
Friar Julian took off his apron, and nodded to Layman Voon, who was peeling vegetables.
"Please," he said, "call another to finish here for me. I may be some time, and the meal should not be delayed."
"Yes, Friar," Layman Voon said, and reached for the counter-side mic, to call for Layman Met, which was scarcely a surprise. Voon and Met had vowed themselves to each other in the eyes, and with the blessings of, the gods and their consorts, and worked together whenever it was possible.
Friar Julian and Friar Anton walked together along the back hallway.
"How many?" asked Friar Julian.
"One only," replied Anton.
That was mixed news. They had been without for some number of months, and while one was certainly better than none, two—or even four—would have been very welcome, indeed.
On the other hand, it was true that supplies were low in these weeks b
etween the last planting and the first harvests, and one would put less strain upon them than four. Unless. . .
"In what state?" Friar Julian asked.
"Whole." Anton was a man of few words.
Friar Julian nodded, relieved that there would be no call upon their dangerously depleted medical supplies.
They came to the nave door. Anton passed on to his post at the narthex, and the great, formal entrance, while Julian opened an inner, passed through it into the clergy room, and thence, by another door, into the nave itself.
Three men stood in the central aisle, among the rows of gilt and scarlet couches. Two wore the dirt-resistant duty suits of the city constabulary. Out of courtesy, they had raised their visors, allowing Father Julian sight of two hard, lean faces that might have belonged to brothers.
The third man was shorter, stocky; dressed in the post-disaster motley of a city-dweller. His hair was black and unruly, his face round and brown. Black eyes snapped beneath fierce black eyebrows. An equally fierce, and shaggy, black mustache adorned his upper lip.
He held his arms awkwardly before him, crossed at the wrist. Friar Julian could see the sullen gleam of the binder beneath one frayed blue sleeve. He turned his head at Friar Julian's approach, and the cleric saw a line of dried blood on the man's neck.
"Just one today, Fadder," called the policeman on the prisoner's right. "He's a sly 'un, though."
Friar Julian stopped, and tucked his hands into the wide sleeves of his robe.
"Is he violent?" he asked, eying the man's sturdy build. "We are a house of peace."
"Violent? Not him! Caught 'im coming outta Trindle's Yard after hours, wida baga merch on his shoulder. Problem is, nuthin' caught 'im going in, and t'snoops was all up and workin'. 'Spector wants a vestigation, so you got a guest."
"There's something strange with his ID, too," said the other policeman, sternly. "Citizens Office is looking into that."
"But violent—nothin' like!" The first policeman took up the tale once more. "He ran, sure he did—who wouldn't? Nothin' to be ashamed of, us catching 'im. And he's smart, too—aincha?"
He dug an elbow into the prisoner's side. It might as well have been a breath of wind, for all the attention the man gave it. The policeman looked back to Friar Julian.
