Liaden Universe 20: The Gathering Edge

by Sharon Lee

  “Belts tight, masks tight.”

  “Belts tight,” Stost said, and they were, now that he was back in position. Chernak noted that the backup emergency absorber was not on his belt; a glance to the side showed her that he had placed it in Grakow’s capsule, which he had also sealed as best he could with Utiltape. She said nothing. The absorber was said to be good for a quarter shift for a civilian—she hoped it would not be tested near that long on the cat.

  In front of them now, trajectorywise, the trader Bechimo loomed, landing lights on, very bright, pinning them in the apex of brilliance. The lights flashed now from the right, now from the front, now left, and beneath, as the repair bug continued its tumble.

  Stost caught a long glance through the ports. Several of the lights were indeed flashing—not for warn-away, but in some rhythm matching one or another of their surfaces.

  They were going to attempt, so Joyita had said, in his painstaking and badly accented way—Bechimo was going to give them a tap—Joyita had proposed gentle touch, but given the relative sizes of the crafts involved, Stost took leave to doubt it.

  This tap—it was dangerous. Captain Theo Waitley had nerve, and a belief in her own piloting skill that Stost very much hoped was not misplaced. For if the tap was too hard, it would send them—Chernak, Grakow, and himself—tumbling far away into unknown space. Granted, if that happened, they had too little air to suffer long, and in any case, there were the grace blades and no reason, in such a case, not to use them.

  If Captain Waitley’s belief in her own skill was accurate—then there was still the matter of timing to consider.

  In fact, Stost thought, they were more likely to die in the next small while than to survive. Chernak had also reflected upon these things—how could she not?—and she had never tolerated failure in herself.

  “Chernak,” he said impulsively, “we have done well. To have arrived here at all, we have done more than well. And then, to have properly challenged the whims of worlds, to have each other as witness, we have done well, better than even pathfinders—than pathfinders such as ourselves—might be expected to have done.”

  She looked to him, a faint smile on her mouth.

  “Truth,” she acknowledged.

  “Will you prepare to draw?” he asked then, feeling his own grace blade in sheath, testing the snap which might release it.

  She sighed.

  “I do not do so, Stost, though you may. For now, I count.”

  Stost smiled, and removed his hand from the sheath.

  “I hear Grakow complain,” he said, “being without a blade. We will all wait, then.”

  The radio snapped and Kara’s voice was with them in the tiny ship, counting in a measure he did not have, though none could dispute his ability to count. She was not counting time, which was a good thing, for she began in thousands. They listened to her countdown, having nothing else to do but listen, even Grakow holding still and respectful.

  “One hundred,” Kara said, and other sounds came to them around her voice. The sounds of the rest of the crew perhaps, voices quiet in volume, and assured in tone, as if this were a standard docking and not—

  “Six dozen,” came the voice of Win Ton, pursuing what was possibly another countdown of similarly obscure meaning.

  Kara, then, saying the words that meant fifty, then forty-five, then…forty-one and then…

  “Thirty. Bechimo? I am counting thirty and stop relative. Copy that all. Thirty and stop.”

  The flashing of lights continued to illuminate their tiny cockpit, with what was now a noticeable drift of shadows and color across the field of vision. When Bechimo showed, it was very close—maybe five times the distance as a Troop is tall. Still that drift.

  “In five,” Kara said and added, possibly to one of her mates, “I see the twisting you mean. There is also a loose hose or belt.”

  Stost heard Chernak mutter, then she said, “Offer them that the left flashing light drifts very slowly. The tumble though…”

  Stost punched the comm.

  “Kara. Chernak say drift, left flashing light.”

  “Yes. The captain uses it as a marker. We hold now at twenty-five. Joyita?”

  Words that were familiar, attempted Troop words—perhaps an attempted Troop sentence. Stost caught nothing of it besides noise as Grakow’s closed-in complaints rose in volume. This time, however, Chernak’s ears had been the quicker.

  “Look about you, Stost,” she ordered. “Are there any controls which might retract things or extend them? Anything movable? Mechanical?”

  They had not done a complete check of the docked ship before boarding; the Bug Hut had held it too closely. Were there movable fittings? Deployed?

  Stost searched.

  “Nothing,” he said at the end of his search. “There is a note here for rigging anchor, but it is mechanical and on load zero. There is something else here, which must be a locking rod, but I am not an engineer and—it appears to be locked in.”

  Kara’s voice came, sounding muffled, as if she spoke away from the comm, then came again, strongly.

  Counting.

  “Moving in to ten. Ten. Slow, ten. The captain starts us now.”

  Ten. Ten was a continuous flashing of lights, and still that slow drift of what was now a bright green light among the flashes. Stost tried to see without looking directly at the array, ordinary reaction being to close eyes and turn aside.

  For a space there was no communication, just the flashing of lights, the same sounds of breathing, broken once in a while by Grakow’s plaints, or by Chernak, with her own counts.

  Joyita came on then, his voice somber. “Urgent technical command. Repair boat cease broadcast all frequencies. All ranging stop. Is critical. Listen only until new orders. Listen only. No reply, comply.”

  Stost signed assent to Chernak, who signed it back, ostentatiously punching the buttons that bound their radar and left them speechless.

  “Isolation? Are we noisy?” he asked, uncertain—and surely now was not the time to be uncertain…

  “Reason it, Stost. We do not wish to blind them; they do not wish reflections. They do not wish confusions; they wish not to risk receivers. We listen and wait, Stost, as all good Troop do, when ordered by their captains.”

  Stost’s head came around a little bit more at that, a question between them, and Chernak sighed.

  “It is in their hands. We are in their hands. The Triumph of the Troop requires us to relinquish all.”

  He smiled and settled back once more.

  From beyond their quiet shell, a voice. Kara’s voice.

  “Moving to five. Soon measure mass by push touch.”

  There were questions and comments on the other ship which came over channel, unknown words, and words repeated in new patterns or with new emphasis.

  Overloud and sudden, Chernak, who had the better view from the ports, spoke.

  “Collision imminent, honored Stost. Recheck belts and straps.”

  He had done so several times of late, and given an order that could include moving, he did so again, seeing no great need to conserve Utiltape for another day. Grakow’s capsule had been shifting in the observer’s chair. He had glimpsed the cat throwing himself against the wire hatching. It would not do to have the cat loose, nor the capsule. He stretched the tape out in two more strips lengthwise and two more crosswise. It must hold, because it was all there was.

  From Kara, unexpectedly, came an understandable phrase: “Verto obtu deenda, verto obta lansk chadi.”

  Incident angle yields reflective angle.

  “Fine. Verto obtu deenda, verto obta lansk chadi,” he agreed, speaking low to Chernak and Grakow.

  “Moving in to one,” Kara stated.

  Unexpectedly, most of the lights vanished. It was only sense, of course; Bechimo’s lights were spread across a surface they were too close to, except for one, which was a strobe for them.

  Inside their cabin, a light glowed orange, accompanied by a new bell
.

  “Internal rebreathe,” Chernak said.

  Grakow took issue with the new sound and battered at the pod door.

  “Straps and belts checked. My roll of Utiltape is empty.”

  “Understood, strap belt tape.”

  One was horrifying, because the ship was not round and it was not square. Bechimo was a mountain to them, moving in as if it was about to crush them into less than dust. What precision could a tradeship bring to such a game?

  Stost took a deep breath and composed himself to accept duty’s reward.

  Another sound came to them then, the merest whisk of a noise. It was repeated, with a clang at the end. If Chernak opened the port window, she might reach out and touch Bechimo’s scarred hull.

  “We drag something,” Chernak murmured, “or they do.”

  It would not do to catch on a projection and have their momentum fling them away into space, nor would it…

  “Chicancha,” Kara said. “Chicancha, Chicancha, Chicancha.”

  “Now,” Stost said, placing a steadying foot against Grakow’s capsule and extending a hand toward Chernak.

  “Now,” Chernak answered, and there was a boom almost too loud for the ears to comprehend: acceleration and matched hisses from Stost and from Grakow. There was perhaps a groan from their modest ship and shield, the repair bug. Then, they bounced.

  The light in the tiny cabin did not waver, but a dozen previously quiescent alarms made themselves known—some with a simple squawk, others with ongoing tattles. Grakow’s complaints were hissing and growls, while Stost cussed, feeling as lost as a cadet while his stomach warred with his balance and in a moment Chernak’s complaints joined his. A thin green light washed the cabin, and their vessel abruptly achieved—direction.

  “The tumble!” Stost exclaimed. “How can we fall?”

  Grakow gave one more high-pitched howl, and the sense of movement—of falling—stopped, replaced by a strange sensation indeed, as if their ship was lying on its back, and they, also.

  “Down,” Chernak breathed. “We’re down; we’re in!”

  “Grakow, be brave!” Stost whispered urgently.

  The cat’s labored breathing was loud in the small cabin, but not nearly as loud as the thunk that traveled through the fabric of the ship.

  A vibration, another firm thunk. Light flooded the cabin through the side ports and in front, green going to yellow, yellow gone to a bright, merciless white, leaving glare and shadow; striations in the light, like webs.

  Above them, metal. Beside them, metal, with signage and walls becoming real and the striations more evident.

  Now strange steam flowed over the port, and cameras showed metal and steam as the room beyond filled with atmosphere—

  Their vessel shook then, modestly—and again—and again, in a certain and thoughtful rhythm.

  Chernak looked out her window and saw a helmeted face peering in at them.

  She struggled briefly and raised a hand.

  Outside, the suited figure raised a hand in response, held it, then raised it further, tapping on the side of the helmet, where ears would be on a head. The gloved hand moved, fingers twitching dramatically, then both hands covered the ear spots. The figure slowly shook its head from side to side.

  “No comm,” Stost cried, quick to get the message. “Theirs is out—or ours.”

  Another figure joined the first. The one pointed to the floor, then at them, then at the floor.

  “They want us to join them, Senior,” Stost said.

  Chernak sighed and reached to her webbing.

  “Unstrap, Junior,” she said. “It grows stuffy in here, and the air is out there.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Seebrit Station Speakeasy

  “Sir.”

  Pilot Erthax stood up from behind the back table and brought fist to shoulder. There was a large glass on the table, half full of brown liquid, which was no doubt beer, and unlikely to be the first Erthax had taken to slake his thirst.

  “At ease,” Vepal said. “Ochin, you, too. We will eat here, then return to the rooms.”

  “The ship?” Erthax asked, as they each settled lightly onto the bench seats.

  “The ship,” said Vepal, “has been sabotaged. Do you have any knowledge regarding this?”

  Erthax frowned.

  “Sabotaged, sir? In what way? The distribution monitors were vulnerable, given the age of the ship, and the repair log had no record of any replacement. The original equipment did well to last as long as it—”

  Vepal held up a hand.

  “Not the distribution system. There are three bombs attached to the underbelly of our vessel, one directly over the Jump engine.”

  He saw the man’s pupils widen…and waited.

  Erthax picked up his glass and gulped what was left of his beer, letting the empty hit the table with a thump.

  “Sir,” Erthax said carefully. “I had…suspicions.”

  “Did you?” Vepal said with interest. “But you said nothing to your commanding officer and head of the mission.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Explain this omission.”

  “Yes, sir. The head of the mission, my commanding officer, is a Hero of renown, even among other Heroes; I felt sure that you had already deduced the same thing—that the mission was a danger to certain of those in command, and others, not so high up in the chain.”

  “So you considered bringing your suspicions to me would be redundant?”

  “Sir. Yes, sir.”

  “And you never noticed anything amiss, or an inclusion to our hull, in all the cycles we have served together?”

  “No, sir, nothing amiss, nor any attachments.”

  That was…not completely unbelievable, given how difficult even the sloppily placed device had been to see. Still, Erthax had suspected the ship had been put into harm’s way and had not seen fit to mention it to his commanding officer. Nor was this the first lapse in discipline, though it might be the most serious.

  “The repair tech has repaired the distribution array and such other modules as tested unequal to the strain of a fully functioning system. She discovered the detonators and will, per my order, be bathing them in acid, then encasing each in military grade sealant. The seal cures in thirty-six hours, which will give me time to make such contacts as I might on-station.

  “Once we have cleared station space, we will pause in a non-traffic zone. You will suit up and remove the devices from the hull.”

  Erthax drew a breath. Vepal waited with interest, wondering if discipline were going to take another blow. The pilot was prone to think himself indispensable to the mission; as if Vepal had no skill as a pilot.

  “Yes, sir,” Erthax said, face stern and soldierly.

  Across the table, Vepal heard Ochin sigh. The task of removing the devices should have fallen to him, of course, Rifle that he was, and so the most expendable. Still, relief, while reasonable, should not have been audible. He would have to speak to Ochin, and find him some disagreeable task to perform, for the good of discipline. There was always the brightwork, of course, but perhaps something else would present itself.

  Vepal glanced about him; there did not seem to be a menu—ah.

  He touched the green stud set flush with the tabletop and the menu opened to them, splashed across the entire table.

  Vepal scanned the descriptions, learning that a Seebrit steak was vat-grown yeast flavored with genuine derived soibeef nuggets, fried up with roots, yunyuns, and gourmet fungi, served with a hand-loaf of fresh-bake—

  “Here we all’re now, mates! Bes’ lil bar on-station, an’ so I ’test! First round’s my round! Bartender!”

  Vepal raised his head to stare at the front of the establishment, where a dozen persons of various Terran persuasions, wearing light leathers, were pushing in the door and crowding the bar. They shoved and jostled each other for the stools, which were too few to accommodate them, even when the several which had already been occupied were surrendered. T
here was a roar of laughter at the haste with which this was done, and a shouted “The Paladins sweep all before!”

  “Bartender!” the first unsteady voice called out again. “Three pichers o’your best brew for m’mates! Bring it quick, now! We worked up a thirst marching across those dust docks o’yours!”

  Several of those customers seated at tables away from the bar shifted, as if they would rise and leave—then subsided, as they realized that the only way out was through the ruffian crowd.

  “Three pitchers comin’ up!” a less-wavering voice made answer. “Whyn’t you folks take over some of them tables—alla the tables you want, back in back, see?—so m’regulars can get in the door an’ have their tuck ’n tipple.”

  “Sure, sure—you just bring them pichers quick, you hear me?”

  “Eymin’s drawin’ ’em now. You just get yourselfs sorted out back there—”

  “Yxtrang!” a female voice said sharply.

  From riot, the room froze into silence, and suddenly a dozen Terran mercenaries were starting at him—at him and his small command. The Terrans seemed quite sober suddenly, as they fanned out.

  Their movement toward Vepal’s table cleared the path to the door sufficiently that the other diners leapt to their feet and bolted, leaving half-eaten meals behind.

  “Hey!” shouted the bartender, “those guys’re paying customers. Got station ID, guaranteed no trouble! Let ’em eat their supper.”

  He might as well have saved his breath. Four of the mercenaries detached themselves from the larger group and were approaching Vepal’s table.

  “Stand down,” Vepal said in Troop, even as he felt his own blood leap with the prospect of battle. “Stand down. We are here on a mission of peace. We have guaranteed that we will be peaceful and do no damage to the station.”

  Neither Ochin nor Erthax asked what the station would do, if they were damaged; truly, thought Vepal, if it came to the question, they would fight. Of course, they would defend themselves. Only, they needed not to strike the first blow, nor to show the first blade.

  The mercs came on, knocking aside the furniture in their path, faces grim, eyes gleaming.