by Sharon Lee
“What? But—”
Jack’s shoulder lifted minutely and Brunner stopped himself, biting his lip. Jack rose at the prompting of his guard, bound hands held awkwardly in front of him. The other guard looked to Brunner.
“We apologize for disturbing your work, Technician Brunner.”
“Jack—”
“See you, Brunner! Hey, it’s about time I got a vacation. Don’t expect the scout to be such good company, though—”
He passed through the door on the heels of his guard, the others following.
The door closed, leaving Brunner alone with the equipment.
* * *
Getting in close enough to kill the gun, Redhead thought, as she rested behind the scant cover of a charred bush, that was gonna be tricky.
But not half as tricky as getting back out before the Stubbs blew.
Liz, she’d laid down the law, and it was the scariest thing Miri had heard so far in her life.
“Soon’s Redhead’s diversion goes off, we’re running, and it’s every hand for themselves, you hear me? If your partner falls and don’t get up, run. If I fall—run. If you get hit and fall and it ain’t fatal—get up, damn you, and run!”
Miri figured she’d be a little behind the general race, what with having to set the Stubbs and all. She had the route to the rendezvous set in her mind, so that was okay. Skel, he’d wanted to stick with her, but she’d told him to look out for himself, like Liz’d said, and she’d see him at the shuttles, or for sure on the station, after.
Time to move. She took a breath in deep, got her feet under her, and moved.
* * *
Brunner locked the lab door, went to the cupboard, set his thumb in the lock and pulled the door open.
Calmly, and not at all surprised, he removed the non-station communication device and a data stick.
Returning to the monitors, he cleared one, inserted the stick, and touched the “talk” button on the communicator.
“Jack?” Cautious. Low.
“Brunner,” he answered serenely. “I am the meteorologist of record. You and your compatriots are in place and willing?”
“We’re willing, sir, but the dock’s locked up.”
“Security?”
“Not now.”
A schematic blossomed on the screen as the feed from the datastick kicked in. Brunner looked at it, understood what he was to do, and spoke into the communicator.
“You can move at once.”
“Yessir, but—”
“I will take care of the airlock and the bay door. If anyone should ask, you do this on my orders, which you believe I am able to issue. You understand this?”
“Yessir.”
“Good. The airlock will cycle in three minutes from my mark. Mark. What is your name?”
“Jamin Fowler, sir.”
“Jamin Fowler, fly well. The weather will be unsettling on-planet, bear in mind that it will soon be worse. Be quick, and bring everyone you can.”
“We aim to do just that, sir.”
“Good,” Brunner said. “Good.”
He glanced over at the weather screen, saw the window for the Stubbs open, and data begin to flow. Surely not! he thought, suddenly not calm at all. There was no time now to stop and—
The data continued to flow, he reached out, touched the speaker plate—
Static from the speaker was abruptly cut off. On the screen, the data flow ceased, and the window reformed, displaying the legend:
NO SIGNAL. CACHING HISTORY. ARCHIVING. DONE.
* * *
Day 57, Standard Year 1393
Solcintra, Liad
“We had managed,” Delm Lysta said, “to quiet the problems you have caused. We brought you home to the clanhouse, fed you, clothed you, kept you from prying eyes and wagging tongues. You have, in return, tended our inner gardens, and for the most part you have been respectful.”
His delm turned on him suddenly. Brunner recognized the play, and the actor whose stance was but poorly emulated.
“Tell me why you thought, what gave you the least reason to assume, that you would be permitted to broadcast your name to the world now? You fall yet short of the ten Standards we had agreed to retain you in-house for your own protection. Have you no sense of propriety? Is it that you specialize in disasters?”
The delm pounded a key, sweeping the on-hold play from the wall-screen taller than he and replacing it with:
Scouts Confirm Meteorologic Concerns Over Blast Aftermath read the teaseline, above a wonderfully colorful and overwrought full motion graphic representation of the beam blast and the resultant dust plume. Below that was his paper, exactly as he had written to yo’Lazne, detailing his concerns regarding trace timonium and other radioactive by-products, the assumptions of dispersal difficulties, the recommendation that nearby residents be tested for pollutants at least and perhaps treated to a prophylactic stay in an autodoc.
There was more. He was quoted from his letters of testimony regarding the investigation into the actions of Phaetera Company in the matter of Klamath, his certifications were listed. As he had given his opinions in his melant’i as a professional and an expert, he was signed as I. Brunner, Master Meteorologist, with neither clan nor even city of residence appended.
His analysis, including jet-stream particulate distribution, fall-out rates, half-lives, everything he’d sent to the scout, were included by link.
Brunner sighed and turned to his delm.
“By warning the people of Liad of the peculiar nature and dangers of the blast plume, and showing potential areas of concern, I have shamed the House?”
His delm stamped feet, twice. Brunner wasn’t certain of the play from which the gesture was borrowed, though the mood he knew far too well. The delm being a forever-hopeful playwright, all actions were seen through another author’s eyes.
“Ten Standards. Ten Standards you were to remain silent to the world, and then to remove yourself to a quiet occupation. This morning, already, I have had three comm-calls and a piece of mail inquiring if this is the clan home of I. Brunner.
“We have an orderly house.” The delm sniffed. “And we will have an orderly house. This—” waving energetically at the wall “—is not a quiet occupation, do you understand? I am willing to acknowledge you ten years a gardener, and to divert a portion of the trust to set you in that service.”
Brunner bowed, acknowledging that he’d heard.
The comm-line blinked; the delm ignored it in favor of staring toward the door toward the outer halls, where a rarely heard chime echoed discreetly.
“This, if this is more of your doing we shall—”
The what of the doing was interrupted by yet another comm-call; this one, at least was known to the house for the comm emitted a quiet chirchirchir, stolen from the sounds of chiretas closing out the last act of A Clan Dissolute, the extended critical version.
The delm said, “Answer,” and the comm dutifully did so.
“Cousin,” started the voice, and Brunner winced. “Imagine my surprise—”
“Hold Cousin, there’s a knock.”
Brunner winced again: Act II, Scene 6 of The Interminable as echoed in Act I, Scene 4, of the current rage False Melant’i.
Verena stood at the door when the delm opened it. A polite if rapid bow followed, and a sweep of words.
“There are visitors to see Ichliad. They ask by name and they have—”
A stamp of feet.
“Ichliad does not receive visitors. Not from friends and not from the curious! This House does not permit.”
Brunner still stood, wondering if the child would break and run. He was pleased to see that she did not, nor did she look at him.
“My delm, please. I have cards.” She showed them, two, fanned between small fingers. “Also, the lady sends this—” She raised her other hand, showing a slightly phosphorescent blue key.
Brunner’s stomach went into freefall.
Lysta snatched the cards, re
ached for the key, but Verena stepped sideways, extending her hand to Brunner.
“The lady said that I should place it in Ichliad’s hand, for she had promised to bring it back to him, when her mission was done.”
He moved, received the key, and stood for a moment staring at the imprinted Stubbs logo in archaic Terran script.
“She died,” he said, perhaps to Verena, perhaps to his delm. “On Klamath. I—she was not listed among the survivors and—”
“Korval!” His delm’s voice carried shock without artifice. “We cannot receive Korval. They are—”
“—thrown off-planet for being bad boys and girls,” an ironic voice concluded in backworld Terran. A red-headed woman in working leathers stepped into the room neatly between Verena and Lysta, followed by a slender, dark-haired man wearing a battered pilot’s jacket.
“Hi, Brunner,” the woman said to him, gray eyes measuring him, head to toe.
“Redhead,” he whispered. “Is it you?”
She grinned, and he saw the halfling soldier. “’Fraid so. Amazing what some people’ll do to get a cup o’coffee, ain’t it?”
She reached behind her, took the man’s arm and brought him forward. “Ichliad Brunner, I make you known to my lifemate, Val Con yos’Phelium Clan Korval.” Now she spoke Liaden. Her accent was Solcintran, pure and perfectly clear.
Korval Himself bowed, a bow most exquisite in its exactness and in its brevity: The bow of one owing a debt beyond paying.
“Ichliad Brunner, I am most glad to meet you,” he said softly.
“And now that you have met him,” Lysta said sharply, “I will ask you to remove yourselves from this clanhouse.” The cards were thrust out imperiously, exactly the famous gesture performed by Nadelm Casaro in A Clan Redeemed. Brunner closed his eyes.
Korval turned and bowed again, delm to delm. He seemed unaware of the attempt to return the cards.
“Lysta, forgive us for coming to you in such a state of disarray,” he said smoothly. “There is a long history between my lady and Meteorologist Brunner; many events to be told over, several Balances to be crafted and weighed. You will have heard the news; we do not have much time here.”
Val Con glanced at them, his free hand executing a sign Brunner took to be “Continue.”
“Too long and too short,” Redhead murmured from her place next to Brunner. She sent him a quick look from beneath her lashes.
“You and me got a lot to talk over, like the man says,” she continued, as Korval walked Lysta over to the other side of the room, still talking, his posture one of concerned respect. “So, quick question—you looking for work?”
Brunner blinked. “Work?”
“Yeah, work. ’Cause, see, where we’re going, we’re gonna need a weatherman, and I want to hire the best there is. I’ll tell you right out, the weather ain’t as interesting as Klamath’s, but we’re figuring to set satellites, warm the place up. Going to need some studies done, and—”
Did he want work? he asked himself, and almost laughed. His fingers itched for a portable, so that he could begin making notes. And yet—He lifted his head, watching his delm speaking with Korval.
“Your choice, Weatherman,” she murmured, and he did laugh, then, loudly enough that Lysta turned to stare. “And look, I mean we can get you going today, if you want. But really, just say no if you don’t think it’d be a fit. You’ll have to work with some pretty strange folks, like us, and some mercs, and some scouts, too.”
He raised a hand a moment, and held the key she’d brought back to him to eye level.
“I think, I need to know something first. How is it that your name was never on the station rescue list?”
“Well,” she said in Terran, “I got rid of that gun that was holding us down and then . . . I took some damage. When they brought me up, they didn’t bring me in-station. While the crews were getting Jack and the scout out of the brig, they just took me right to the scout’s doc. I really did mean to bring that thing right back to you!”
He sighed and it turned into a slow smile and a gentle laugh. “Scouts, mercs, strange people, Redhead and her partner. And odd weather . . . ”
Redhead bit her lip as he paused, vaguely hearing something his delm was saying to Korval about how Solcintra’s theater could be improved if new plays were sometimes brought to stage . . .
“Yes,” he said, and bowed to her. “Indeed, I would very much like to have work. And very much, I expect it will be a fit.”
Hidden Resources
Runig’s Rock
The ship was still there, hanging just inside the sensors’ range. Not a ship of the clan, certainly; nor yet the ship of an ally, the captain of which would have been given the passcodes, hailing protocols, and some understanding of the capabilities of this, Korval’s most secret and secure hidey-hole.
This ship . . . This ship only sat there, making no attempt at contact, seeming to think itself both hidden and secure—watching.
Waiting.
The urgent question being—waiting for what?
Alone in the control parlor, Luken bel’Tarda leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, wearily.
His wager, slim as it was, rested on the square marked “orders,” while Lady Kareen, his collaborator in maintaining the integrity of Korval’s treasurehouse, had her coin on “back-up.”
That the fruition of either choice would do more than inconvenience themselves and that which they guarded was assured. With Plan B in effect, he and Lady Kareen were their own safety and rescue. Even if they had been inclined to endanger others of the clan in these uncertain times, the news that reached them was not encouraging. Liad in turmoil, trade in disarray, murmurings even of the Juntavas, which in saner times certainly took care to keep itself and its business far from the news feeds . . .
No, even if they had been so minded, there was no certainty that any of the secure message drops remained so, and they could not risk what they guarded on anything less than certainty.
They were not without resources—weapons, that would be. And so it was that he and Kareen had decided, uneasily, to wait, though at an increased level of alertness.
Luken rubbed his eyes again and looked once more to the screens.
The ship was gone.
* * *
Syl Vor was snoring.
To be perfectly truthful, it wasn’t so much a snore as a sort of puff puff puff sound that Quin customarily found . . . comforting. If his small cousin were sleeping thus deeply, it must after all mean that they were perfectly safe, no matter that they were in hiding, and deliberately cut off from clan and kin.
Tonight, though—say that tonight, thoughts of kin weighed heavy on Quin’s mind, magnifying the small sound of Syl Vor’s sleep into an intolerable annoyance.
He had tried turning onto his side, and putting his head under the pillow. But then it was hot, and he couldn’t find a comfortable place for his hands, and his feet kept twitching, and—
Syl Vor sneezed, tiny and sharp, like a kitten; he muttered, bed clothes rustling as he resettled himself without really waking up.
Quin took a careful breath, loud in the sudden silence.
There was no sound from the bunk beneath, where his cousin Padi slept as if all were well, as if they hadn’t just today—
Wel, it wasn’t her father who hadn’t reported in, after all. Cousin Shan had missed several call-ins, but then began reporting again, just as usual.
Pat Rin yos’Phelium, however . . .
Pat Rin yos’Phelium had never once reported in. Which meant . . .
Quin swallowed, hard.
It does not mean, he told himself, that Father is . . . is—anything could have happened! He might be safe with, with an ally, or . . . traveling! Or . . .
But his inventiveness failed here, and after all he wasn’t a youngling like Syl Vor. He knew what Plan B meant. More, he knew that people could die. That people did die.
Even people one cared about.
But not
, he thought, Father. He’s far too clever. He will have—he will have done SOMEthing . . .
He swallowed again, and it was abruptly intolerable, lying here with his thoughts whirling, and the children asleep around him.
Syl Vor sneezed again.
Quin gritted his teeth and sat up in his bunk. He put the blanket aside, and swung silently over the edge.
* * *
Luken had walked the Rock for the third and last time during his shift, manually verifying every reading. It was, in its way, a soothing routine, and by the time he let himself into the family quarters, he was fairly calmed. He might, he thought, be calmer, if he could know what had moved that ship, now, and whether it had gone for good, or for ill.
It might be, he told himself, that the ship master had never harbored any intentions regarding themselves. There were reasons enough for a ship to drop out of Jump and tarry a time. Urgent repairs would be one reason. An importuned or wounded pilot, another. Also, a ship and a pilot might from time to time find it necessary to lie low for such reasons as tended to beset pilotkind. It was an odd eddy of space they sat in, and far out from usual traffic. Still, they were not hidden, only inconveniently located. Despite which, a pilot of Korval had found it—the place and the Rock—and so another pilot might also.
A clatter drew his attention as he turned into the main hall. A clatter and a light, glowing green over the door to the galley. The lady’s constitution was excellent, as was her discipline, but he had once or twice met Kareen yos’Phelium awake during the latter part of his shift. An early riser, she styled herself on the first such meeting, with a wry modesty much unlike her usual mode. She had offered him tea at that first, and perhaps, not-quite-chance, meeting. He had accepted and they had talked the pot empty. And so it was on the second meeting, and the third. On the subject of their shared duty, he came to know her as a stern and subtle thinker, and was glad of her insights.
Indeed, he thought, putting his hand on the latch, he would be glad of her insight just now.
Nor would a cup of tea be out of the way.
