Liaden Universe 20: The Gathering Edge

by Sharon Lee

  “Guaranteed no trouble, is it?” said the bald woman with blue-black skin. “Lost my kids in an Yxtrang raid. Little kids, couldn’t hurt nothing at all. Easy meat, was they?”

  She kicked a table out of her way.

  Of a sudden, Ochin stood, as if his nerves could tolerate no more. Even so, he held his empty hands well away from belt and pockets, as he watched the others approach.

  “Peace,” Vepal said again. “Let the fight come to us. Erthax, rise to stand beside our comrade—slowly, hands in sight.”

  The pilot came to his feet, and in a show of restraint, merely pushed his chair away with the pressure of one leg.

  The mercs cleared the last table and came to rest, glaring.

  Behind them, Vepal saw, the rest of the mercenaries adjusted their position, moving quietly, professionally. The four advance guard had been deliberately crude in their approach, in order to provoke them into action, Vepal thought. He folded his hands on the table.

  “What’s the hold up?” came a call from the backup.

  “Decidin’ which one to gut first,” shouted a broad-chested male with a black braided beard. He narrowed his eyes. “How ’bout you, Grandpaw? Whyn’t you stand up and show some respect to the soldiers?”

  “Kameron, stand down!” Vepal felt a stir of hope; that had been the voice of a commander and no mistake.

  “There’s Yxtrang, JinJee!”

  “Stand down!” the line before them broke to allow passage for a middling-tall Terran, black hair cut close to her head, like a proper soldier, lean-muscled, with glittering black eyes, like a raptor.

  She halted before their table, stance balanced and not overly broad, dismissed Ochin and Erthax with a sweep of those hunter’s eyes, and focused on him.

  “Ambassador Vepal?”

  “Yes.”

  She gave him a sharp nod, equal to equal, which he was pleased to return.

  “JinJee Sanchez, Commander of Paladin Mercenary Corps. Please accept my apologies for this interruption of your meal, sir. With your permission, we will restore order and remove ourselves, so that you may continue without further disturbance. Is this acceptable to you?”

  “It is acceptable, Commander. Thank you.”

  Another sharp nod and she spun to address her troops, now standing somewhat hangdog.

  “Get this place back to normal. Anything broke, you put it right there in front of the bar. Barkeeper!” She strode forward and soldiers scrambled out of her way. Already came the sound of furniture being righted.

  “Sit,” Vepal said, and his command did so, though he could feel their tension, and the ache in his own muscles, which was the price they paid for not engaging.

  “You did well,” he said to them, and to himself. “We kept the peace, and we kept our word. Honor is satisfied.”

  Ochin drew a breath; Erthax blew out a breath. Neither spoke.

  Vepal watched as the Paladins put the room back together. Remarkably little else joined the two shattered chairs at the front of the room. Commander Sanchez passed a card to the bartender, spun on her heel and once again approached their table.

  She paused by Vepal’s side and extended a hand, another card held between strong brown fingers.

  “If, after analysis, you discover dissatisfaction, please contact me, sir, at any hour.”

  “I will. Allow me to thank you for your quick action.”

  He took the card from her hand. She stepped back, chin rising, and he saw a raised, pale starburst across her right cheek—and recognized it for what it was. Commander Sanchez had been kissed by a warblade and lived to bear the scar. It pleased him to see it, confirmation that she was a warrior, indeed.

  “Thank you,” he said, “for your timely arrival.”

  “Thank you,” she responded, “for your restraint.” She glanced over her shoulder, where the last of her troop were filing out the door, and looked back to him.

  “Good evening,” she said, turned on her heel, and marched out the door.

  There was silence then, and Vepal looked about. Except for the two behind the bar, they were the only ones in the restaurant.

  “I regret the trouble,” he said to the bartender, who was staring around the room in what seemed a sort of baffled anger.

  The man looked at him, raised a hand and ran it through his already untidy hair.

  “Way I see it, not one thing that happened here was your fault. You just gimme a minute, right, an’ I’ll bring you a pitcher and some glasses. Order anything you want. On the house.”

  On the house meant that the establishment would bear the expense of their meal. It seemed an odd march to Vepal. He weighed whether he should ask for clarification, when the bartender shook his head and grinned, only a little wanly.

  “Don’t worry ’bout it. I’ll charge Commander Sanchez for it, ’long with the cost o’those chairs. Hope she takes it outta the hide of that crew—and I’m betting she will.”

  “A proper commander,” Ochin said surprisingly. Vepal gave him a look of approval.

  “A proper commander,” he agreed, and tapped the green switch again.

  “Order food,” he said, and bent back to the menu.

  * * * * *

  Win Ton stood on the rungs of the repair boat, just below what may have been the pilot’s prime view port, watching as two large persons crammed into the tiny cockpit consulted each other, possibly on the order of evacuation. Such a consultation, in his opinion, was prudent, not to say necessary. The cockpit was small and overfull with instruments. However they had gotten into the space, extraction—especially with the boat at this awkward angle—was going to be a matter of some delicacy.

  The interior was dim, and the light-duty suits they wore were scarcely revealing. Still, Win Ton felt a frisson along his nerves, and an unsettled feeling in his stomach.

  They are civilized, he told himself firmly. Theo has proclaimed it.

  The person on the left of the cockpit looked up at him, waved, and pointed at the floor of their vessel. Win Ton answered with a known Yxtrang sign for yes, hoping that it had meant the same wherever these two soldiers came from.

  “Hatch right here.” Clarence’s voice was startlingly clear through the helmet phones. “Supposed to dock heads up on those points, looks like, so the floor’s the only spot.”

  “Temp check?”

  Clarence consulted his hand scanner. “Good here.”

  Win Ton nodded for Clarence and spoke for Joyita. He was on split channel, his helmet camera only one of four live feeds to Bechimo’s bridge. “As you can see, the pilots are alert. I believe they understand my signals. Pressure on the dock is normal, air breathable, and we are about to open.”

  Joyita’s voice sounded in his left ear. “It appears that the webbing caught several small external antennas—likely source of signal loss. Confirm acceptable air. Theo repeats that this is your operation, but that she wishes to be rid of the work boat as soon as possible.”

  “Yes. Please tell the captain we are moving as quickly as practicable.”

  Looking into the cabin beneath his feet, Win Ton could see the crew on the move. One looked up and raised a gloved hand to him, perhaps indicating that they were on it. Mindful of Theo’s necessities, Win Ton used the two-handed Scout sign for hurry, pointing to the hatch location.

  Then he popped his helmet visor.

  “Some scraps of metal bent under here; ought not to impede the hatch, or an orderly exit,” Clarence reported.

  He was doing a complete walk around now, while Win Ton used the yes sign and hand rotations for speed while gaining the eyes of the second occupant, who was tugging at something near their feet.

  “They’re moving well. Unwebbing,” Win Ton narrated. “I think—yes; one repeats the sign to hurry at the other. There is some unpreventable awkwardness and delay. The craft’s position makes it necessary for those within to crawl along the back wall…Clarence—you may wish to stand back—”

  A mechanical chang woke echoes
in the bay, as below him the two soldiers hurried. The next sound, expectable, was pwoof, which was the pressure equalizing, and a near-familiar sigh of materials as the hatch began to breach into Bechimo’s atmosphere.

  As prearranged, Win Ton held back while Clarence took the lead at this juncture—Clarence with his helmet closed, Clarence in the heavier duty suit. Clarence taller than Win Ton, but by no means as tall as the pair in the repair boat.

  Clarence reached out and tugged at the hatch, making sure it had locked down. Inside, one of the crew was facing him. That one slowly raised both hands, gloved palms out and empty.

  No harm that meant in contemporary hand-talk. Clarence decided it meant the same to this person. In turn he raised his hands, showing empty palms, then took one step back, sweeping his hands toward him.

  Come ahead, that was, and apparently it, too, translated because the other turned and began to very carefully work their way, backward, toward the hatch.

  Clarence spoke into his suit’s radio.

  “You can come on down, Win Ton. Got one on the move to the hatch, showed me empty hands, all nice and civilized.”

  “Descending,” Win Ton replied. He scrambled down the access ladder and dropped lightly to the deck. Kara was speaking in his left ear.

  “No problems from our vantage. We have the locks on pressure. The gauges are good, all green.”

  “Fair enough. Opening visor,” Clarence answered, and did just that, his nose wrinkling in distaste as he got his first whiff of the repair boat’s air. “Smells like a stinks run gone bad,” he said. “Okay, here’s the first one coming out to us. Win Ton, you help with the luggage, boyo. I’ll be the smiling no-threat.”

  “Yes,” Win Ton said, taking up his position to Clarence’s left, hands down, but well in sight.

  A very large boot appeared in the hatch, quickly joined by its mate, then suited legs to above the knee. There was a small struggle, a sideways scrabbling, a grunt and a sharp twist—and an entire person was with them, standing, Win Ton thought, a little uncertainly in those large boots, looming tall despite it.

  The mask had been pushed down ’round the neck, and Win Ton looked up into a sweat-slicked brown face beneath stiff pale hair. There was a scar on his—Win Ton thought “his” was the appropriate pronoun—right cheek. His expression seemed an entirely appropriate melding of caution and relief.

  “Stost,” the soldier said hoarsely. He patted himself open-handed on his chest. “Stost.”

  “Clarence,” said that gentleman, patting himself lightly on the opposite shoulder.

  Win Ton added his own name, fingertips briefly touching the suit above his heart.

  “Win Ton,” Stost repeated. “Clarence.”

  He took a deep breath—and another, savoring sweet air, Win Ton thought, and perhaps recruiting himself to say more.

  “Stost!”

  The summons came from inside the repair boat, loud over the sound of something being pushed heavily along decking and over several bumps.

  Stost spun back toward the little craft, steady on his feet now. He leaned into the hatch, one hand braced against the skin. There came another bump and a high-pitched chattering.

  Stost, leaning in hard, laughed, then spoke, quiet and careful, as he twisted, pulling an oversized capsule halfway out of the hatch with him.

  “Grakow, jeda na, Grakow. Jeda na, Grakow.…”

  “Cat!” Clarence said sharply into the radio; Win Ton heard cat! echo from the control room as he stepped forward to help Stost with the capsule.

  Inside, a cat, indeed, dark ears and golden eyes alike held wide.

  He caught the leading edge of the capsule as it came through the hatch, steadying it.

  “Grakow,” he said politely and saw the wide ears twitch in acknowledgment of his voice.

  “Grakow,” Stost said, perhaps approving, perhaps merely reinforcing correct information. “Cat,” he added.

  “Right you are,” Clarence said, as the crate came free of the hatch. He got a hand under the back end of the thing, equalizing the surprising weight.

  “Let’s get Grakow out of harm’s way, boyos,” he said, as easy in voice and body language as if Stost was someone he had worked with many times, and who understood him perfectly.

  “Over by the lock, Win Ton.”

  “Yes.”

  He guided the capsule, Stost following willingly, and a moment later Grakow was settled by the personnel lock.

  Stost was already moving back toward the repair boat before Win Ton recalled himself, with a flush. The man seemed fit, but that was certainly no reason not to have asked immediately if he, or his partner—or Grakow—required medical attention.

  “Huffna flyn Grakow? Stost huffna flyn? Chernak?”

  Stost was leaning back into the ship. He looked over his shoulder and Win Ton could see black smears under dark brown eyes. The man was exhausted, but he merely moved the fingers of the hand braced by the hatch, “Voy huffnaka,” he said, which meant no need.

  Stost bent far into the hatch then, reaching and awkwardly leaning out, holding what appeared to be two document cases by their straps. He moved to the right of the hatch, hanging a case from each shoulder, as another pair of boots proceeded a second tall person to Bechimo’s decks.

  This one was also sweat-soaked, grey-faced, short pale hair stuck all out in angles. She stood firmly, for all of that, and straightened, deliberately, into a formal pose of attention.

  “Chernak, Stost, Grakow, chaslak Bechimo,” she said, her voice lighter than Stost’s, but just as hoarse.

  Chaslak…attend? Present? Win Ton wondered, but Chernak was saluting, fist striking shoulder smartly. Beside her, Stost did the same.

  Win Ton bowed and again said his name. Clarence, somewhat surprisingly, served up a stern nod with his name, which seemed to reassure Chernak in some way, at least as Win Ton read her. Well, Clarence had been, if not delm or soldier, a Boss of the Juntavas. It might quite possibly comfort two exhausted soldiers, to find a leader on deck to receive them.

  “Any more? Any else?” Clarence asked, pointing at the battered little craft.

  “All fine,” Stost said in the pidgin they’d worked out. “Not need.”

  “The repair boat is to be removed quickly,” Joyita suddenly spoke in Win Ton’s ear. The sharpness of his tone suggested that Bechimo was perhaps reaching the end of his patience with foreign objects on his deck.

  “Please escort Chernak, Stost, and Grakow to their quarters.”

  Win Ton caught Chernak’s eye with a hand motion and turned to the little craft, pantomiming pushing, pushing, as he waved toward the big entry lock.

  “Ship go,” he said in pidgin. “Chernak, Stost, Grakow, come.”

  Chernak said something in an undervoice to her partner. They turned toward the little ship and both put a hand on the scarred and battered hull.

  Mindful of Joyita’s terseness, Win Ton took a step forward. A hand on his arm gave him pause. He glanced at Clarence, who shook his head, very slightly. They were to be patient, then, in Bechimo’s place. Very well. He settled back on his heels, hands folded before his belt, but the soldiers had already taken one step back from their craft, both standing stiffly to attention. There came a boom, as two booted feet simultaneously struck the decking, and a muted thud as two fists hit two shoulders in unison.

  “Arak, trang,” Chernak said, clear and firm.

  “Arak ek zenorth,” Stost added.

  They stood thus, fists on shoulders, backbones stiff and stern, for the count of six.

  The salute was ended then, smartly, and the two turned on their heels, sharp as any parade maneuver, and faced Win Ton and Clarence.

  “Chernak, Stost, Grakow come,” Stost stated.

  “Right you are,” Clarence answered, turning toward the lock. “This way, to food, ’freshers, and sleep.”

  They could not have understood him, but then, Win Ton thought, bringing up the rear of their little procession, there was no need
for them to understand the words, when they could clearly see his intent.

  Clarence paused by Grakow’s capsule, bending as if to pick it up.

  Stost increased his stride, though, and a big hand closed around the handle first.

  “Grakow come,” Stost said firmly, hefting the capsule.

  “Grakow come,” Clarence agreed mildly and straightened to place his hand instead against the lock plate.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bechimo

  Beyond the hangar was a small room in proper fashion, where pilots and crew returned from a mission might remove duty suits before entering the ship. Here, they paused. Clarence began to remove his suit, while Win Ton kept watch—proper order there, as well. Suited though he was, Win Ton appeared small and lithe, a type of civilian known to Stost. Clarence was larger in dimensions, with grey mixed among red hairs—an elder and also a known type.

  Beside him, he heard Chernak shift, and the sound of a suit being unfastened. She, too, had seen the grey hairs and deduced that elders desuited first, while youngers kept guard. Stost placed Grakow’s capsule on the deck before him, and straightened into duty.

  His fellow guard, Win Ton, watched well, face neutral, eyes moving from Stost, to Chernak, to Clarence, to something behind Clarence’s shoulder…

  Stost turned his head, just slightly.

  Just beyond Clarence’s left shoulder was a screen, and in the screen, a man—a man with a face so brown and grim he might have been Troop himself. There was no vingtai, but the tale of an old engagement was writ plain across a strong broad nose. A civilian soldier, then; there had been those. He met Stost’s eyes, his own a deep and bitter brown, and inclined his head slightly.

  Stost returned the…acknowledgment, and turned to find Chernak standing in a stained and wrinkled uniform, the duty suit crumpled on the deck. She extended a hand and he gave the cases into her care, then went to work on the seals of his suit, Win Ton likewise engaged.

  Desuited, he felt himself even less soldierly than Chernak. They were, he thought, in no fit state to face a captain—even a civilian captain. She had endangered her ship and her crew on their behalf, and she would want answers. Very likely, she would want the precise answers they would be most unwilling to give. True, they had just completed an extraordinary mission…