by Sharon Lee
Win Ton might not have known the source of the smile but he received it blandly, and repeated his bow note for note.
“Thank you,” she said in Terran, which was courtesy and far better than embarrassing them both with an inept bow in reply.
“I hope you haven’t been trying to get my attention for very long.”
“I only arrived as the incline began to fall,” he said. “But you looked so focused, I thought a warning that you were not alone would be courteous.”
“Appreciated,” she said, “and well done. Have you been practicing on your off-hours?”
“I must confess it a natural talent. I can also imitate a tea kettle.”
“That’s going to come in handy,” she said seriously. “I assume you wanted to see me alone for some specific reason?”
“Indeed. I have…information that the captain should also have available, if you will permit me to share it.”
She tipped her head, considering him. He was in total Liaden bland-face, but she knew him well enough that she could read the expression he wasn’t showing.
He was nervous, but not, she thought, of her. Was he about to break a confidence, and that was why he had made an effort to find her alone? Or—
“The captain needs the information, but not the complement?”
He nodded this time, his face brighter. “Exactly so. Precisely.”
“But you need my permission to share—and to share only with me, the captain?”
She let that question have an extra doubtful note of query, a trick she’d learned from both Father and Kamele.
His face was set and serious now.
“That is correct, Captain.”
She waited and saw the corner of his mouth twitch, though he wasn’t so improper as to actually smile.
“Call it a melant’i issue, Captain. I consider it possible that you will find the information useful in your conduct of the next phase of our voyage. While it is not, precisely, confidential, it is…primarily held by certain persons with a need to know.” He paused, and this time the smile was definitely there.
“Which you have become. Ordinarily, the group consists of portmasters, station masters, Scouts, and some levels of security personnel. It concerns a situation that some say is improbable, at best. Some deny it can be true at all. It came to me as part of my previous official duties.”
Theo considered, recalling the last time Win Ton had involved her in something that had come his way in the course of his duty.
“Is it dangerous for me to know this?”
Win Ton went still, then bowed very slightly, acknowledging a hit, a bow Theo happened to know well. Padi had used it often, and it was amazing how much nuance, not to say irony, could be fit into so modest an inclination of the torso. Comparatively, Win Ton’s offering was…stiff, as if he had been hit, in fact.
“The information is not dangerous to anyone. Technically, it is public knowledge; anyone may know it. Once it is in your possession, you are free to use it as necessary, if necessary. It can be confirmed at any port with proper facilities; indeed, Bechimo may be able to verify.”
“If Bechimo has it, and it’s so important for me to know, why hasn’t he brought it to my attention? Or,” she amended, “why do you assume he hasn’t done so?”
“The nature of the information is that it is often believed to be nonsense. Bechimo may have it in a—an interesting rumor file. Such things are not necessarily useful to you in making decisions which involve…lives.”
Theo shook her head, Terran style.
“No?” He interpreted, and she managed a small laugh.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had someone try so hard to convince me that I need to know something, Win Ton. So what is it you want to tell me—the coords to Temp Headquarters?”
He took a step back, face tightening, then softening into mere polite blandness again. “Those are not for me to know.”
Theo looked hard at him.
“Does anyone know them?” she asked interestedly.
“That, I cannot say.”
She let the pause lengthen, but he added nothing. Bechimo was in the background, measuring her heart rate, and probably Win Ton’s, too.
“All right,” she said at last. “What is it, Pilot yo’Vala, that the captain should know?”
Some tension went out of him and he bowed, acknowledging receipt of her permission.
“There exists an Yxtrang ambassador, Theo. He often travels, but he has his own very small embassy. It is on the border of the Clanave Sector and the Carresens’ holdings. He may hold a…more viable solution for the pathfinders than either allowing them to…strike out on their own, or placing them in the care of the Scouts.”
“An Yxtrang ambassador? Why would anyone let him run free?” The thought and the exclamation arrived together.
Win Ton outright grinned. “Did I say that the information protected itself by seeming to be nonsense? To the question—would you arrest the Yxtrang ambassador, Captain?”
She shook her head. “What would I do with an arrested Yxtrang?”
Win Ton bowed, very precisely, and well beyond the measures Theo had for such things, even reinforced with Bechimo’s notes. She thought she caught an edge of one of Padi’s more ironic notations of a hit…delivered at its core.
“Indeed, what would you do with an arrested Yxtrang? Or, perhaps, two? Consider this carefully, my captain and my friend, very carefully. Never consider the pathfinders as mere passengers.”
With that he bowed, slowly enough that she would be certain to read it correctly—Thank you for listening—and left her.
Theo sighed and fuffed her hair out of her eyes.
“Bechimo, did you record that?”
“It seemed prudent. Shall I delete?”
“No, keep it.”
She sighed again.
An Yxtrang ambassador. Really?
“Are you able to verify this information?”
“I will search my files, as Win Ton suggested. If I have nothing, then verification must wait upon our arrival at a port.”
“Right.”
“What will you do, Theo?”
“Do? Well, first, I’m going to take a shower. And then…I’m going to hold this information until we can verify. Does that seem prudent to you?”
“Yes, Theo. It seems very prudent, indeed.”
She grinned suddenly.
“See? I can learn, too.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Bechimo
The pathfinders had fallen quickly into routine. It was, after all, a known routine, even a soothing one. Mission prep, that was it. They were quick studies, and they studied to good effect. As much as Ms loved battle, so did pathfinders find joy and purpose in study. Immediately, they had shortened their sleep shift; one read or compiled their notes while the other took learning in the device, which they had decided must be an acceptable risk. It would have been better to reserve one, and not risk both and the mission itself, on a device of which they must, by policy, be wary.
In the end, they must trust the device provisionally, for both needed language and information, and above all else, context. And information was more quickly gathered—and understood—when two harvested together.
Language learned in the manner of the device required periods of active practice or the learning would fall out of memory. They therefore spoke the Trade tongue to each other and read the texts provided by Joyita, reinforcing their ability to communicate.
Willingly would they have added another—or all!—of the several tongues spoken shipboard, but that had not been allowed.
One language at a time learned from the device, to avoid confusions, that was Joyita’s advice, which the captain accepted, so they learned Trade with a ferocity that might have given even an M pause.
In addition to language, the device was able to impart history. The process was finicky, but they quickly developed a system whereby one would, with assistance from Joyita most often,
though Win Ton and even Clarence sometimes had suggestions to make—one would learn a particular event, or period, in broad outline and, after, read in more detail, thus reinforcing history and their grasp of the written form.
In truth, it was exhilarating, even as they learned the shape of a universe that was at once strange and dismaying.
There seemed, indeed, to be no ascendant civilian authority at the feet of which they might place their knives. Nor yet did there seem to be Troop. There was what they must suppose to be a splinter group, which named itself Troop, and held a so-called Temporary Headquarters. Those not of the group referred to them as Yxtrang, which was not a Troop designation—but no matter the name, it was apparent from the histories that they were not Troop, but pirates and marauders.
The pathfinders’ routine included walks about the ship and time in the galley with whomever they found there, or only themselves, if they were askance the shifts. Though in truth, they rarely found themselves alone for the whole of a walkabout. Most often, they were joined by Win Ton or Clarence, less by Kara, and least often, the captain.
They never met Joyita during these small outings, though he was their frequent partner at study, available at the speaking of his name to suggest a text, a word, or an approach to further research. They would from time to time invite him to meet them in the galley, or to join them in walking about Bechimo’s few corridors, but always he declined.
Duty, he said, and he seemed to have a surfeit of it.
* * *
It was Chernak who found their duty in the matter of Joyita. This was not unusual, as she was both the elder and, of the two of them, held the sternest sense of duty.
When she brought the question to him, Stost admitted that he had been worried for some time about the lack of presence in someone who seemed to be always present.
“I placed the mission first, Elder,” he’d said in the patois they spoke between themselves. “If we engage this and do not survive this journey to a place where duty resumes, the mission ends with us.”
“So you thought to lie low?” There was no anger in her question, nor any suggestion that he had placed his priorities wrongly. By this he knew that she had been considering the case for some time and had not arrived at her conclusions lightly.
“Yes,” Stost said, “I thought to lie low.”
“At first, I thought so, too,” Chernak said. “Then I thought further. If this is an instance of the Enemy, then the mission is in danger, because the Enemy has become aware of us. We must know, Stost. And when we know, we must act without hesitation.”
He sighed, but she was right.
“Yes,” he said.
And so the plan was formed.
* * *
They had discovered in their chance-met conversations that, while Under-Captain Clarence was the most recent acquaintance of Captain Theo, it was Kara who was the most recent addition to the ship’s company. She had shared training with the captain, and had come from a socially unstable world which had lately tipped itself into turmoil.
Kara was Liaden, as was Win Ton, though he hailed from what was dignified as the homeworld, as distinct from Kara’s outworld. There was a difference also in training. Kara had trained as pilot and mechanic, while Win Ton had previously stood as a mentor to the captain, his titles and experience making him perhaps the equal of a pathfinder pilot. Clarence—an open and even voluble source of information—was of the opinion that Captain Theo had an edge on Win Ton, the student having outpaced the mentor.
There were no doubts expressed by any of the crew, at any point of conversation—no doubts at all of the captain’s competency, young as she was. Neither was there any doubt expressed by crew of the competence of any other crew member. And, yes, in addition to other specialties—Captain Theo, Clarence, Kara, and Win Ton, each and every, was a pilot.
It was not said, if Joyita was likewise a pilot.
Yet, four pilots in a crew of five on a small tradeship?
That alone was cause for astonishment, nor, according to Clarence, was it an accident. Captain Theo had high expectations of her crew and involved them in ship’s business to a notable degree.
“Consensus-building,” Clarence had said with a laugh, and a look over her shoulder at Kara. “Young-learning sticks all the way down your life.”
Kara had shaken her head at him.
“In truth, Theo would make a very bad tyrant.”
“Now, I think she’d be a fine tyrant, myself,” Clarence had countered. “An’ it’s all to her credit, that she works so hard against her nature.”
The ship itself, proud Bechimo, was revered, as her battle scars deserved. A worthy ship, a ship of distinction, which had brought her crew safe out of not one, but several risky ventures. A good ship, a ship of many parts—and who could find fault with such?
During one break, Chernak and Stost found Clarence and Win Ton together in the galley. The discussion went wide, as it might when Clarence was involved, and somehow—ah, it had been their description of Grakow’s attacks upon a handmade toy of stuffed cloth which Captain Theo had personally provided—that a discussion of violence had come to the fore.
“Cats can be cruel,” Clarence said, “but only to a point. They’ll attack a vulnerable toy, forget it, then go back to it, playing predator, almost like they’re laughing at it. But they won’t do that to a port rat—with rats, cats’re pure business. You know, you might even call them a nexus of violence!”
He had laughed then, and Win Ton, too. Win Ton allowed the smile to openly linger, while Clarence’s grin was broad and his eyes danced.
Stost had shared a glance with Chernak before venturing, “We are not much familiar with companion creatures. Is it a language lack that I do not see the joke?”
Win Ton’s fingers had moved quickly, with what might have been a warning, but Clarence shrugged it off, a chuckle still sounding.
“Here’s the joke, then, if you got time to hear a story,” he said, settling back in his chair, as like one of the Troop preparing to entertain the mess with a ribald poem or an epic.
“Now, Captain Theo was sent to a piloting academy in order to learn what could be taught her,” Clarence began, his voice taking on the rhythm of a storyteller. “Understand, in the normal way of things, she’d’ve never left her homeworld, and likely would’ve followed her mother’s path to being a teacher and a researcher. By unlikeliest chance, she did leave her homeworld and came to the attention of a Scout, who not only realized what Theo was—or could be—but was able to take action on her behalf.
“What this Scout did was send Theo off to the Anlingdin Piloting Academy on Eylot World, and what you have to know about Eylot is that it was as full of politics as it was possible for one planet to be and not flash out into civil war.”
“What prevented it?” asked Chernak, this naturally being of interest.
“Time,” Clarence said promptly, “and proper agitation. It all come to a boil while Theo was on-world.” He shook his head, sadly it seemed, but perhaps not, because Stost noted that his eyes danced still.
Clarence continued. “Long story short, the agitators needed a sacrifice to the war effort, and they figured Theo for easy prey. Apparently, they didn’t bother to research their subject first.”
“An error,” Chernak put in. “Insufficient information can be fatal.”
Clarence bestowed one of his more delighted smiles on her.
“Right you are. Now, in this case, there weren’t any fatalities, but that wasn’t the fault of the agitators.
“Them—well. They set a mob on her, near enough. Theo will tell you it was half-a-dozen bullies and four of ’em already drunk. Kara, who was there, will tell you it was a cadet class of forty, some carrying edges and bats, looking for somebody to hurt.”
“The captain was injured?” Stost recalled the smallness of her. Quick, yes, and fierce, as they had seen, but even a pathfinder might be hurt if a mob fell upon him.
It was Win Ton w
ho answered that question, fingers tossing something unreadable, but intent, at Clarence.
“Theo fought them to a standstill. She was injured, but not badly, nor were any who came against her badly injured. Or killed. Kara will tell you that as well.”
His tone made it seem, subtly, that Win Ton felt it had been too bad that the captain had chosen to stay her hand.
“Were they disciplined?” Chernak demanded.
“It was not the first incident,” Win Ton said, “and the mob was acting under direction. As Clarence said, they thought to make her an example, to their own profit.”
“Stupid idea, from boots to hat.” Clarence took up the narrative again. “It was Theo who got disciplined. The board ruled she was a ‘nexus of violence’ and threw her outta school, just short of finishing with her first class license.”
Clarence had taken a long swallow from his mug then. When he put it down, he looked at them, one by one, his face more serious now.
“She had contacts—not just Scouts and pilots, but contacts on-world. Pretty quick, she was hired on as second board on a solid ship, where first was a good pilot—and patient, too.”
“Now to be fair,” Clarence went on, “they might have had a point about that nexus of violence, because people have taken shots at us—you’ll have seen the marks on the hull, coming in like you did. Can’t say we did one damned thing to bring it on, but—hey, speaking of Eylot. It did finally hit the flash point like I said, and the politics wanted to take over the station, too. That put pilots and long-time stationers at risk. So this ship—us and Captain Theo in the chair—we went to that station and we took off pilots and crew before anybody got hurt—and more than one ship followed our lead.”
He leaned back in his chair and nodded.
“Throw her out? Tell her never to come back? Didn’t she just spit in their eyes and come away with the official gratitude of the Pilots Guild and an ambassador on board to boot.”
He nodded at them, smiling again.
