by Sharon Lee
* * * * *
There was a sound behind them.
No, Win Ton corrected himself, nothing so unsubtle as a sound. Merely a small disturbance of the air.
“Two come,” Stost said softly, “behind us.”
Wonderful hearing, Win Ton thought, and nodded.
“Yes. Perhaps they are stationers who have no taste for riot.”
Stost snorted lightly. “Stationers walk like cows; the floor rings with each step.”
Well, that was true. Win Ton sighed and recalled that the captain of Chandra Marudas was by no means an idiot.
Carefully, he reached to his collar, fingered the chain, and had it over his head. His ship key. Bechimo’s key.
“Take this,” he said to Stost, so lightly that he scarcely heard himself. “If I should be taken, return it to the captain’s own hand, none other.”
“The captain will certainly shoot me if I fail in my duty to her crew,” Stost breathed in protest.
“She will not.” He paused. “I think she will not, though she would certainly shoot me if I surrender that key, either willingly or through force. You will guard the ship and the captain best by keeping that safe.”
The chain and key vanished somewhere on Stost’s person.
“These who follow—do not fight them, but do not go with them. Allow them to take me, if the dice fall that way. Return to the ship and tell Theo—the captain—what occurred.”
Stost said nothing.
The pair behind them increased their pace.
Win Ton increased his, walking briskly, with Stost keeping pace. Ahead, the hall curved to the left; he could see the pale light that signaled a public stair reflected on the decking.
He could also hear voices, as of a group of friends talking energetically among themselves.
Talking Liaden among themselves.
He sighed, looked to Stost…and signed, we go on.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Bechimo
Dockside
He jumped when she stepped out onto the dock, like he hadn’t expected to see her, even after all of this…unseemly display. Then, he smiled.
“Engineer! I’m so glad—”
“I am busy,” Kara interrupted, speaking Terran slowly and distinctly, as if to an idiot, which certainly he was. “You were informed of this.”
“Yes, I was! I understand that I came at an—an awkward time, with the pod transfer just starting. I didn’t realize, that is…I’m sorry for interrupting you were busy.
“I listened to the transfer on my comm. You were very good; everybody—the drone pilots and everybody, I mean—they’re all impressed with your work!”
“I am flattered,” she said dryly. “However, I am no less on duty now than I was earlier. We will be undocking and departing very soon. I have no time to talk. You may go.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, not trusting that he would leave if she simply turned and went back into the ship.
His smile faded and he drew back slightly, staring—then he forced the smile back into place. It looked very uncomfortable.
“Your ship can’t leave until your exec is back from his meeting with the veep,” he said. “Maybe I didn’t explain—well, I didn’t explain, and I’m sorry about that, too. But I brought those files you were interested in, Kara—Engineer! If you have just a half hour, I’d like to show them to you and explain them. I reserved a lounge for us, just right down the hall, so we could concentrate.” He hesitated, then plunged on headlong.
“This is fresh information, just in from Eylot; it will only take a few minutes to show it to you.”
Was the man demented? Surely even a fool could understand that she was not able nor interested in going anywhere with him.
She felt, through the anger, a tiny flicker of alarm and was suddenly very glad that she had brought Chernak as backup.
Well, one could only try again. If he did not leave this time, then she would go inside and call his superior to come and fetch him home.
Decision made, she spoke again, clearly and distinctly.
“I am on duty, Intern. I will be pleased to receive the files but I have no time to talk, and certainly no time to visit the wonders of Minot Station.”
She moved her hand as if she were brushing an annoying insect away, deliberately insulting, and said again, “You may go.”
She turned toward the hatch.
* * * * *
Hevelin was becoming fidgety, transferring weight even as he sat, giving the impression of Grakow preparing to pounce, showing patience and impatience at once. His shared thought was of a crowd of norbears rushing toward an unseen threat, preparing for battle.
Such ferocity! thought Chernak. Who would have expected so much? But there, this was a ship of the unexpected. Captain Waitley had spoken true.
The youth at their door was being difficult to dislodge. Too difficult. He brought to Chernak’s mind a soldier sent ahead, to delay and disarm an enemy force, until his comrades could surround them.
Kara turned toward the hatch, clearly done with this nonsense. Chernak approved and shifted slightly.
“No, wait!” the ridiculous youth cried. “Please. At least let me give you the files!”
Kara turned back—a mistake. Chernak took one step forward.
The youth extended his bundle and Kara extended a hand to receive it.
Hevelin growled, low and menacing.
The intern thrust the package at Kara’s face, lunged, and with the free hand grabbed her wrist.
Chernak leapt forward, Hevelin roaring inside her head.
Outside, the package flew up—and away. The youth retained his hold on her wrist, yanking her close while he pulled a small gun from his pocket.
Chernak cleared the door as Kara seemed to collapse toward the deck, her hand slapping at her leg.
The youth screamed. Chernak hit the deck in time to see the gun fly high out of his hand. Hevelin left her shoulder in a leap, skidding on blunt claws as he landed. Chernak let him go, her focus on Kara…
…Who seemed not to need her protection.
The intern hit the deck on his back, hard.
Kara kicked him once in the ribs, to ensure he stayed down, which was only sensible, and fell to her knees beside him, pressing polished metal against his throat. “Yield or die!”
There was blood on the deck. The downed man was panting, his face bleeding from a long cut. Kara’s hand was heavy across his throat and he struggled to speak.
Chernak stood near, ready to assist, but not expecting that she would be needed.
“Yi-yield—”
That was well, but now came the pounding of feet against decking. Chernak looked up. From the hall nearest their position came Clarence and a second man at a dead run. The stranger was not as quick as Clarence, but he was quick enough.
They would reach the safety of the ship before the pursuing crowd caught them.
* * * * *
Arrayed on the stairs before them were four pilots in leather jackets. Comrades all. Technically.
“Well met, Win Ton yo’Vala!” The voice was pleasant, the language was Liaden, the mode was comrade, though comrade with a subtle edge to it, as if the speaker held a stick-knife, still folded but ready to deploy.
Ing Vie yos’Thadi was a subtle man and a ruthless one. Win Ton had last seen the good captain on Volmer, specifically upon the deck of Vivulonj Prosperu, the Uncle’s own ship. Win Ton had been ill unto dying, the Uncle’s questionable technology deemed the last long throw for his life.
And before bringing him to that last, doubtful chance, yos’Thadi had elicited a promise, an oath that, should the dice fall in Win Ton’s favor, he would give yos’Thadi—yos’Thadi’s team—the Old Tech ship.
“What, no kind word for a comrade? Was it not myself who brought you to your healing? Was it not myself who stood most faithfully by your door, and who allowed Theo Waitley entry, so that she might gaze upon your face, for all she could know, fo
r one last time?”
“I see you, Ing Vie yos’Thadi,” Win Ton said, as modeless as if he spoke Terran. Comrade—no. This man, at least, was no comrade.
“So brief! Would you deny us? But, there, you are in haste and have no time for pleasantries. So be it, we shall do business.”
He bowed slightly, the knife’s edge briefly shown, and straightened.
“It is time to pay your debt. Our side of the bargain is proved fair, as you stand before us, hale, strong, and in your own mind.”
The pair of Scouts who had been following behind them arrived. Stost pivoted to face them, his back against Win Ton’s. And what did it say about the path he had traveled thus far, that Stost at his back comforted him more than the presence of Scouts?
“I am alive, yos’Thadi; I agree. As to the debt—do you know that much of the universe believes a contract made by coercion is no contract at all?”
“Come, we had agreed to do business; amuse me at some other time. At this time, you will turn that ship over to the Scouts, for proper disposal.”
He moved down one step, so that he stood before the rest, and extended a hand.
“Give over the key and return immediately to active duty. We shall include you in our company.”
Of course they would. Make no doubt he would be among those who manned Bechimo on the last journey to the Scout’s warehouse…where he would be destroyed.
“I regret,” Win Ton said, in a tone that conveyed no regret at all. “I do not presently carry a key to Bechimo.”
yos’Thadi considered him, eyes glinting, face bland.
“He tells the truth,” said the woman at his right and one step higher. She met Win Ton’s eyes and bowed gently, as between colleagues. “Menolly vas’Anamac, healer and first mate.”
Win Ton gave her bow back to her. “Menolly vas’Anamac, I am pleased to meet you.”
“So, you do not have the key,” said yos’Thadi. “We shall contrive. You will not, I know, object to the escort of comrades. The ship itself will let us in.”
He stepped aside; the Scouts ranged behind him did likewise, clearing a path up the stairs, to the dockside.
“Pathfinder, we go with these,” Win Ton said in Old Yxtrang. “This is a matter for the captain.”
Stost blew out a breath; perhaps it was a laugh or merely irritation that they did not merely knock over these upstarts and go on their way.
“The captain will solve this with knives,” Stost predicted.
“That is the captain’s choice,” Win Ton said and walked forward to the stairs.
* * * * *
She had walked out of Primadonna reluctantly once, full of necessity and hurt, Tranza urging her on to her future. This exit was instead full of sadness, hurry—even relief. Doing what she could, saving what she could.
Keeping her personal world in balance.
Theo shook herself and went through the hatch, out onto the dock, where the shrouds hung close until she stepped onto the dock, and all the noise and bustle of Minot Station opened before her.
The first thing she heard, close by, was voices, then echoes of multiple people hurrying, talking. Relieved to be away, Theo sighed and paused, shifting the bags to a more comfortable position.
The deck was…vibrating; nearby, she heard the sound of many feet, moving fast, and a tremendous metallic clang, closely followed by Kara’s voice, yelling.
What was Kara doing on the dock? And she was in danger! Theo took one step—and stopped, as the images filled her head, blocking out the dockside.
Bechimo was…overwhelmed. He was not directly under attack, but rather beset by multiple threads of information, by too many decisions, and too many decision points, every one of them scrambled by the random actions of humans.
She saw Kara on the dock; Clarence and Tranza; Chernak guarding Bechimo’s entrance, star hammer in hand. A mob ranged too close to that entrance; she saw hammers, bars, pieces of pipe in angry hands…and Bechimo, near as she had ever felt him to panic, weapons not live, but a whisker from disaster.
Calm, she thought, standing in the bonding space, feeling him all around her. I will handle this. Monitor the action. If anyone approaches or seems to threaten—no weapons! A loud noise: have Joyita make an official announcement—a warn-away and a reminder to respect our perimeter. Call Station Security, if you haven’t already. I’m on my way…
Theo blinked the dock back into existence around her, heard a yell—a scream—saw people running past her, toward Bechimo. Her ship was in danger, her people—
She ran, impeded by the bags, but she couldn’t—she wouldn’t—just drop Tranza’s life and treasures.
And so she ran.
She would get there in time, before anything bad…worse…happened.
She would.
* * * * *
“Seven lawns of Ligorra, woman! Who are you killing now?”
Clarence was looking down on the wounded intern, possibly amused. His companion stood in the shadow of the ship, recovering his breath, his attention fixed on the pursuing mob.
Chernak did not fault him for that. It was an unruly affair, this mob, and not a true weapon showing among them. However, pipes, hammers, and pry-bars could do damage enough—and would, unless they were dispersed quickly.
“See to this idiot!” Kara snapped at Clarence, which was proper in the command chain which had left Kara as field captain.
She came to her feet and ran for the open hatch.
“Come with me,” she cried as she rushed past.
Chernak followed, to the tool locker, and received two hammers, one to a hand. They were…surprisingly heavy, but Kara hefted hers as if it had no weight at all.
“Back me,” she said, looking up into Chernak’s face. “We have to stop them now.”
“Yes,” said Chernak, pleased to find her thus astute. Again, she followed at a jog.
Kara stopped at the orange line on the decking, which marked out Bechimo’s private dock.
“Leave!” She shouted to be heard over the low roar of the mob. “There is nothing for you here. The men you were pursuing are members of this ship’s crew.”
“The redhead, maybe so,” one yelled from safe inside the ranks. “But t’other one, he owes and he don’t leave until he’s paid.”
“That’s it,” said another, and stepped forward, deliberately challenging Kara’s authority.
“I said—leave!” Kara shouted.
And she threw the hammer.
The challenger jumped backward, lost his balance, and fell to the deck; the hammer also struck the deck, with an enormous clanging that silenced all gathered.
The fallen man scrambled to his feet, leaving his pipe on the deck. Chernak hefted her own hammers, ready to rearm Kara or throw one herself.
The crowd, however—there came laughter from the crowd, and whistles.
“Never mess with a mechanic carrying a star hammer!” one called out.
“Space, no!” another called. “Mechanics always win, Thurlow. C’mon back here afore she gets mad!”
The former challenger took the wise advice of his comrades and disappeared into the mob. Kara remained where she stood, feet planted wide, and arms crossed over her breast; Chernak owned herself proud to stand honor guard to such a warrior.
The crowd shuffled its many feet, not quite decided on a course—and then separated hastily, giving way before a group of six strangers, Stost and Win Ton marching at their head.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Bechimo
Dockside
There were too many people around her ship.
Theo slowed to a walk, trying to make headway, pushing past people oblivious to somebody shorter than they were. Neither of the bags had sharp edges. Unfortunately. And her elbows were demonstrably not enough.
She pushed harder. The man blocking her way grunted and stepped aside without looking around, and she advanced another three steps.
Maybe if she started kicking kneecaps?
“Make way for Captain Waitley!” a large voice boomed over the crowd, and another, just as large, repeated, “Make way for Captain Waitley!” A clang punctuated that call, as if somebody had dropped a star hammer to the deck.
Not that she could fault the method; the crowd parted before her and she walked, finally unimpeded, to her dock.
She let the bags fall as she crossed the orange line and straightened up to survey the situation.
Kara was standing inside their perimeter, staring out over a mob scene, arms crossed over her chest like she was daring them to try anything that would give her an excuse to have Chernak let fly with one of the two star hammers she held.
Beyond the perimeter, apart from the general crowd of stationers, stood a cluster of leather-clad pilots, with Win Ton and Stost apparently in attendance. Stost also held a star hammer.
Clarence was over by the hatch, first aid kit to hand, and Tranza right with him. Together they seemed to be advising a down and bloodied person. Or maybe they were keeping him down.
So much she saw before Chernak brought one large boot down hard on the decking, waking a ring that was only somewhat less authoritative than the previous racket, and loudly announced, “Captain Waitley returns!”
Clarence looked up and gave her a nod. Tranza looked up and kept looking, eyes wide.
Kara turned away from glaring at the crowd and came to Theo, leaving Chernak to keep order.
“Captain.” She saluted a formal change of command, just like they’d learned in Command Protocols, way back at Anlingdin.
Theo dragged the answering form out of memory and accepted her authority back.
“Welcome home, Captain,” Kara said, sounding perfectly calm, despite her hair coming undone from its usual careful braid and the streak of dried blood on her face.
“Thank you,” said Theo and spun slowly, surveying the situation and letting everyone there see her take charge.
They were looking at her, too, she saw. Eyes everywhere, set in faces ranging from surprised to worried to demanding. Terrans, Liadens, pathfinders, crew—and a norbear, walking on his back legs, a small gun cradled in his hands.
Theo took a breath.
First order of business, she told herself, disarm the norbear.
