by Sharon Lee
Had she been his Trooper, he would that moment have bestowed upon her a bonus, a grade increase, and permission to have the Flower of Genius tattooed at the outer corner of her left eye. He would have had her at his own table for a full cycle, and he would have assigned to her such assistants as might profit from her, to the benefit of the Troop.
She was, of course, not Troop, but Terran, and better for her in these dark days that she was so. He must reward her service otherwise.
And so he would. But first, orders.
“Yes; a bath and sealant. Can this procedure be added to the current work session?”
“Sure. Sealant wants thirty-six hours to cure. If that fits your schedule, then I’ll get on it.”
“Do so. Account your time on the invoice, even if it is less than an hour. I insist.”
She hesitated, then gave a jerky nod.
“You got it.”
“Thank you,” he said, and smiled at her—the small smile that did not bare the teeth, that Terrans found soothing and acceptable.
“You have been of service.” He paused. “Your name?”
“Name?” She tapped the embroidered badge on the right breast of her coveralls. “Gorish. Fleeny Gorish.”
“Thank you, Mechanic Gorish. I leave you now to your work.”
He gathered the somewhat subdued Ochin with a glance and left the bay.
* * * * *
The trees had been magnificent. Their crowns must have reached above the tall canyon rim, and together they had probably shaded the valley from the blaring heat of the local star. An entire ecosystem had no doubt depended on them.
Before they’d fallen, one by one, Theo thought, looking down the valley into the carnage of a fallen forest. She began walking, relieved that the walls of the canyon shaded her from the worst rays of the star.
She walked steadily, the number of dead trees reducing as she did, until, as she broke out again from the canyon into a ridge that might have been formed by a now-dry waterway, the count came down to a single tree, which had grown taller than the tallest of the fallen she had passed, before it had fallen and another tree grew up at the farthest extent of its branches, racing for the sky before it, too, fell, seeding its successor in arid soil.
She crossed the dry waterway on the wide corpse of a tree. Ahead, there were only a few more trees; beyond them, blasted boulders and sun-baked rocks. Dust spiraled briefly in a burst of hot wind.
A leaf fluttered, bright green.
Theo gasped, choked on the dust, and trotted forward.
Tangled in the dead branches of the last tree was…
…another tree. Small, taller maybe than was wise, given its lack of girth, green leaves fluttering from thin branches.
She reached to her belt, found a water bulb and leaned close, offering the tree her shadow as her body blocked the wind.
Her hands were broad and brown, dust thick in the grooves of wide knuckles. She emptied the bulb and sat there, half dazed with walking, heat, low water and lower rations.
After a while, she lay down in the tree’s scant shade, the welcome smell of a green, growing thing lulling her to sleep.
Theo stretched a hand out, meaning to touch finger to leaf. Light bloomed, and she sat up in her bunk, in her cabin. She looked around her, to be certain that it was her cabin; that the long line of dead trees, and the last of the line, still living, was nothing more…
“Theo?” Bechimo asked, his voice the merest whisper in her ear. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” she murmured, settling herself back into her bunk. “Nothing wrong, Bechimo. Just a…dream…”
Her eyes drifted shut; she was asleep again before the light turned itself off.
* * *
Theo woke again before the alarm gave tongue, rising gently from the deeps of sleep to full and pleasant wakefulness. For a moment, she lay with her eyes closed, listening to the sweet murmur all about her, delighting in the stroke of space along her skin, and the simple, sensual pleasure of fully functional, perfectly tuned subsystems. These things faded from her attention during the normal busyness of a duty shift, so she had decided that she would take time at each waking to attend and acknowledge the senses she had acquired, when she had become, not merely captain, but bonded captain, of the self-aware and not-exactly-completely-legal ship, Bechimo.
“Good morning, Theo,” Bechimo said now, inside her ear, or inside her head.
“Good morning,” she answered and opened her eyes. She swept the blanket aside and came to her feet, already stepping into the first move of her morning dance.
It was a specialized dance, designed to wake and warm mind and muscle. Theo danced it well and with pleasure. When she was done, she entered the ’fresher, feeling Bechimo’s attention withdraw from her as she did so.
She grinned. When she had first come aboard, she’d had words—strong words—to say about privacy and where she expected to be unmonitored by Bechimo himself. As a result of those words, he had promised to leave her private in her bath—a sincere promise, sincerely made, she thought. But still a promise that he couldn’t, with the best of intentions, keep.
Ship systems automatically monitored all crew. Granted that those were automated systems, and Bechimo had no more need to attend them when all was well than she had to keep an ear on her own heartbeat.
Now that they were bonded, she figured he was just generally aware of her, as she was of him. Most likely, more, since Bechimo’s processing power far exceeded her own. If her shower gave her an extra thrill this morning, for being colder than she cared to have it at first, he’d note that, along with the blossoming of her pleasure, as the temp warmed. He might not pay particular attention to it, but it would be there, inside the data flow.
The fact that he’d started providing a sensation of withdrawal to her after they had become bonded…was interesting. Maybe he meant to reinforce the idea that he kept his promises. Or to emphasize that, even though they were bonded, they were still separate individuals.
Showered, and dressed in ship clothes—sweater, loose pants, and sticky-soled slippers—Theo walked down to the galley to draw breakfast: tea and a veggie roll. Kara’s ability to coax vegetables—lots of vegetables—out of the ’ponics units, and Clarence’s baking skill produced some…interesting combos. The veggie rolls, now, in Theo’s opinion, weren’t bad at all, warmed and with a swipe of soy cheese on them.
She was alone in the galley, though she could hear voices from the bridge: Clarence and Kara, and an occasional comment from Joyita. The rhythm of their voices sounded relaxed—prolly just telling space tales to keep themselves awake. There wasn’t much to do, here in this pocket of wyrd space that Bechimo held to be safe, except keep watch, and log the instances of flotsam coming in.
The ship, and the tree that had been its only passenger, had been one such bit of flotsam; the largest they’d encountered, and hopefully, Theo thought, swiping more cheese on her second roll, the last.
She could at least make sure it was the last they had to deal with, stipulating that nothing had come in while she slept. Shan and Val Con had both sent messages, urging her to go home to Surebleak. Shan had also told her to abandon the Loop she and Bechimo had been exploring for him—his right, under the contract, but…
Theo sighed.
First of all, Surebleak wasn’t Bechimo’s home port. Not that Bechimo had a home port precisely, having been more or less a fugitive from one set of authorities or another since he’d been built. She was a little shaky on the exact date for the Complex Logic Laws, but even if he hadn’t been a violation when he’d been built, he was definitely a violation now.
There were people hunting him, specifically because he was an AI. Most seemed to want to use him…somehow. There might even, Theo reflected, sipping tea, be others who wanted Bechimo because he was a violation; there were bounties paid to folk who brought in rogue AIs, or proof of having killed one. If Bechimo had enemies of that ilk, though, they were being much m
ore circumspect than the other sort.
And then there were those who overlapped the group that just wanted to control Bechimo. That was the group which was hunting them—Theo, Bechimo, and the crew—because they were contractors of Clan Korval.
Clan Korval, which in this case meant Delm Korval—her brother Val Con and his lifemate, Miri—had done violence against the planet of Liad. He’d had his reasons and…they’d seemed good to him. Necessity—that’s how Liadens designated an action that must, however distasteful, be taken. So, Val Con had acted as he had because it had been, in his opinion as delm, necessary.
She’d been raised on the Safe World of Delgado, and the part of her that knew violence was never the answer—was horrified by the actions he had taken against a civilized world.
A much larger part of her—the part that was a courier pilot and captain of a star ship, who had seen bad ports and bad people intent on wreaking havoc, no matter what—understood what he’d done, and why, and even, sort of, a little, admired his decisiveness.
…except for the part where he’d left behind angry people with the intent—and the means—to hunt and hurt her and hers.
They were targets, no mistake. They’d be in danger—she had to believe that they would be in danger—from the instant they broke out into normal space.
Bechimo wanted them to stay right here, safe according to him, in this dark pocket of space, until the trouble blew over. Say that Bechimo was a little timid in some matters, and that centuries of being hunted had reinforced his conviction that hiding was the best and only answer to danger.
On the other hand, they were targets; if they went to ground at Surebleak, as Shan and Val Con wanted, how was that different than staying huddled here—safe?
She sighed, reached for her teacup—
Ice blasted across her skin, gone before she could gasp, as if someone had opened a door into a raging blizzard—and closed it again.
“Bechimo!” Theo was on her feet, running toward the bridge. “What just happened?”
“Flotsam has arrived,” Bechimo said, flat-voiced.
She didn’t ask him what kind of flotsam because she was on the bridge by that time, staring at Clarence’s number two screen.
“That’s not flotsam,” she said, her eye following the eerie silhouette. “It’s a shipwreck.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Orbital Aid 370
There came what must have been a final transition warning, a mild beeping unlike the military klaxons to which they were accustomed, followed by deep vibration in the nearby equipment. The beeping, and then just a shudder and the familiar feel of entering transition, a cessation of external things—now no sense of weapons bearing on them or being fired in defense, in truth, little sign that the ship existed as lighting faded and fell to backups, and air systems sighed—and stopped. These were not good, or usual, conditions, for a ship in transition.
The wall-mounted comms were silent, not even yielding static. Chernak and Stost sat, strapped in, perhaps less patient now than worried, for they were pilots, and the ship was far too quiet around them.
They held for as long as they were able, but eventually even the patience of such pathfinders as they must break. Air was leaking, loudly, somewhere out in the corridor—yet the ship paid no heed, producing neither siren, nor hazard lights.
The scream of escaping air increased, and it was then that they released their straps and rose as one. There was no need to speak; their necessities were plain.
They commandeered the two work suits able to accommodate them, barely fitting, each dressing one-handed, for neither dared let go their prizes—the hard-won cases—helping each other with the seals.
That done, and still no word or warning from the ship, nor any crew, they stepped out into the hall, Chernak at the lead, heading for the bridge.
Gravity wavered; strange vibrations wandered fore and aft around the structure of the ship. The scream of escaping air was muted by the suit. Surely, Chernak thought, the ship was dead around them. There was nothing more for them to accomplish on this side of glory.
Save the orders, as yet unfulfilled.
Orders.
The orders had been given by Pathfinder Over Commander Jevto.
“Pathfinders, we have a mission from Third Corps Headquarters, specifically for you. You are to retrieve particular items, transport and preserve them, not merely from the Enemy, but from destruction. There are travel orders, here—cash and gems, there are passes…”
He’d handed over those things, stalked around the room, turned on them. The vingtai on his left cheek was overlong and corded—the weapons master who had blooded the new soldier’s grace blade had been careless, or making a point: it stood out now like a length of rope under the skin, as his jaw muscles worked for greater control.
The quivering stopped; the commander thrust his hands out, encompassing the dozen of them, not the eldest, nor the wisest, nor even the luckiest of all pathfinders in the corps. No, they were only the ones who had been at hand. They would have to do; there were no others.
“You are not fools. I will not tell you that you will ever see Headquarters again, or that you’ll long see familiar stars. It is essential that you be in space on the day and time identified in your orders…and in transition.
“Your duty in this war now is to survive and to outlive it, for our defense will soon fail here. You will survive, and you will become the Troop where you…arrive, pledging your services to established civilian authorities, if any can be found. If there are such with Troops already attached, those you will choose. They will need your skills, I have no doubt.
“Absolutely you must be in space, shipboard, at the times indicated. This is the last duty Third Corps can perform in the service of life; our last strike against the Enemy. Survive to serve in what we are told will be a bold new universe.
“Follow your orders, Pathfinders.
“Now, go.”
* * * * *
It had been a ship, and a big one, many times larger than Bechimo. Theo raised a hand, calling for weapons—then curled her fingers tight: abort.
“Increase shielding,” she said aloud, eying the random debris traveling along the wreck’s transit path.
Damage…
Damage that included bent and shredded metal, whole sections of what looked like laminated hull-metal split and wrenched into unnatural shapes, as if half the ship had imploded and half had exploded. It spun on a twisted, limping axis, moving away from them. It was not at first obviously any kind of ship in particular, then the splintered stump of the spine and the cargo pod mounts came to the fore.
Theo blinked, suddenly seeing as Bechimo saw, the data from multiple sensors merging, turning the view of sundered metal fabric into a tunnel through the wreckage. Halls, walls, equipment trailed into the depths of the thing.
She blinked again, banishing that input. The view on the screens—the same view that the crew had—was horrific enough.
“Ought we…” Win Ton began, “match and search—” He cut his question short, having gotten his answer as Bechimo vibrated slightly—the impulse drives, that would be…
“Acceleration and rotation engaged,” Joyita announced. “Is there a point we particularly wish to inspect?”
“Survivors,” Theo said.
“Still outgassing, looks like,” Clarence said quietly, nodding toward what was likely the prow of the ship as it rotated by. “Look there—that’s not collision damage; they took fire!”
That was Clarence’s experience speaking, and now Theo could see it: that had been the crew compartment; the signs of targeting lay in trails of dents and shred-rimmed holes. And that section, blasted, looked to have been the lifeboat mounts, and no way to know if the boats had been gone by the time the ship was hit.
“I am receiving no distress signals, no life signs, nothing that scans as a functioning computer system,” Joyita said, his eyes downcast, as if he were tracking data on his own screens. “Perha
ps it was abandoned and destroyed on purpose…”
He paused. Overlays were appearing on Clarence’s number two screen, showing foggy bright spots.
“Timonium,” Bechimo stated, “in a non-trivial quantity. Equipment and devices leeching energy from what appear to be leaking storage units. I see no signs of active weapon points. There is subetheric static; the devices are attempting to speak to each other, but the network is in fragments.”
Kara leaned forward, frowning at the image.
“There!” she said sharply, pointing. “There were letters or symbols there! What does it say?”
Bechimo and Joyita answered simultaneously, words over words.
“Unit Three Hundred Seventy,” said Joyita, “Orbital Services.”
“Orbital Three Seven Zero,” said Bechimo, “Service Unit.”
Theo snapped her gaze toward Joyita. He was smiling, perhaps even chuckling.
“Captain Theo,” he said with a nod, “we’re extrapolating. The symbology is old space, the craft damaged, pieces missing. We are recording, and we shall attempt to do a reconciliation.”
“And salvage?” Kara asked, adjusting sensors, taking measurements. “There’s so much of it, we ought to be able to…”
“Salvage at this location is out of the question,” Bechimo broke in. “We lack the crew and equipment required to properly assess the wreckage, and we cannot be locked to the task, unable to move at will. Also, we should not bring others to this balance point. And…”
He was talking too fast and giving too many reasons, Theo thought, and what she could hear through their bond was more chaotic still: a confusion of concerns, a chaos of possibilities. Yet even as he panicked on the human-interface level, he was, on a whole other level, calmly evaluating the mass and dimensions of the wreck, methodically searching for a clue to the proportions of the crossing point, and analyzing the tenor and touch of the Old Tech devices.
On yet a third level, he was overdriving the life sensors, and his scans found the escaping gasses of crew atmosphere, of propulsive units, as well as the likely remnants of incinerated plastics. He was judging the spread of the debris, estimating that no more than seven hours had elapsed, Orbital Unit time, since it had been destroyed.
