by Sharon Lee
By necessity, then, she waited.
For the cameras, she adopted an easy stance, proud without being prideful. She was a pilot, and pilots had pride. As did judges, of course, and certain of the better class of Juntavas assassin.
Scarcely had she counted to eight when the door at the end of the hall—the door that led to the interior, and all the treasures collected therein—opened, admitting a man no longer young, his hair silver and his eyes wide and gray. Childlike, one might say, in ignorance.
As she was very much not ignorant, she bowed, supple and sweet, as she had been taught from a child.
“Master bel’Tarda,” she said, in her soft, accented Liaden, “I am Inas Bhar.” She gave him that name—the one her father had bestowed upon her at birth. Her other names were such as might impart little comfort to a man with so much duty weighing upon him. Yet, there was room for comfort on both sides.
“Called Natesa,” she added, straightening. She raised a hand, slowly, specifically unthreatening, and showed him the token. The tree-and-dragon flashed in the light, then held steady.
That should have been enough to seal the thing. She should have received from Luken bel’Tarda a bow, and perhaps a courteous word or two, and a pass into the rocky heart of the station.
What she received, instead, was the barest of nods—scant, even meager, courtesy—and a question, harsh in the mode of Stranger to the House.
“Who sent you?”
It was, on its face, a reasonable question, as she was, indeed, a stranger to this House, and to this guardian. Yet the mode—not one of the kindest, no, but yet without an inherent harshness; that was from the man himself. And that—gave one pause.
To cover her moment of calculation, she bowed again, youth deferring to years.
“Master, I am sent jointly by Korval Themselves, and by the Boss of Surebleak. Their personal names are, perhaps, known to you: Val Con yos’Phelium, Miri Robertson, and Pat Rin yos’Phelium.”
Luken bel’Tarda’s face tightened. It could not be said that he was inept, or in any less control of his face than one would expect of an elderly Liaden who was, in addition, a merchant of renown—still, Natesa felt that what she had seen was hope, sternly suppressed.
“Why did they not come themselves?” Luken demanded, keeping still to a harshness that must, from all she had been taught of his nature, pain him considerably.
She did not bow this time, though she inclined her head slightly, and sent him as soft a glance as she might manage from beneath her lashes.
“You may not have heard that the Council ordered Korval to depart the homeworld, declaring the Captain’s Contract void. The clan, therefore, seeks to set down roots on the planet Surebleak, where they have the advantage of kin to aid them.”
She paused. He waited, his silence reminding her that she had not answered his question.
“Korval is needed at the forefront, as they are the face and voice of the clan. Yos’Galan is likewise required to show themselves good for business, and also, to supervise the peaceful settling of the House. It was thought that I would accompany Pat Rin to you—in fact, it was quite set, until there was a difficulty among his jurisdictions which could neither be ignored nor left for a lieutenant.
“It was then decided that a young cousin—Gordy Arbuthnot—might sit my second; another emergency claimed him when we came to the Port itself.” She did bow this time, feeling that it was proper.
“Thus I came alone, Master, trusting to what I have been given to know, and to the goodwill and uncommon sense of yourself and Lady Kareen. The delm’s order must be obeyed.”
“That is, of course, true for we who stand within the delm’s honor, Inas Bhar, called Natesa,” Luken said, his intonation less harsh, his mode unchanged. “You must forgive me for wondering why you feel thus.”
Natesa sighed. She would very much have preferred to answer this particular question in far different circumstances. Preferences were not spaceships, alas, and only truth and candor would win this old man’s trust. Pat Rin had told her as much.
She met his eyes firmly. “I have the honor to stand as Pat Rin yos’Phelium’s lifemate,” she said.
Luken’s eyebrows rose, but whatever he was about to say in answer to such a bold claim was cut off by the opening of the door.
She had seen a picture of this young pilot, but even if she had not, there was no doubting who he was. Far too much of his father showed in his face—his father in a temper, if every truth were told.
Natesa bowed, pilot-to-pilot, that being the least challenging of the modes readily available to her, and one that observation had shown to be acceptable—even soothing—to all of Korval, of whatever rank, saving Pat Rin himself.
“Quin yos’Phelium, I greet you.”
He did not return the courtesy, though he allowed himself to be stopped by Luken’s outflung arm.
“Why hasn’t my father reported in?” he demanded.
* * *
In the end it was the recording, hastily made and poor in quality, that won them. They heard it, all together, in the control parlor, Luken standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Lady Kareen, a spare woman with iron-gray hair and hard dark eyes. Quin and the others of Korval’s treasure were ranged behind them. Even the babes were silent as the brief message played; and Quin was seen to blink rapidly several times, as if to vanquish tears.
“Father, Mother—I greet you and I ask forgiveness, that I do not come to you myself. Necessity demands that I be elsewhere—a fuller accounting will be made when we are all again enclanned. In the meanwhile, I desire you to accept the protection and escort of my lifemate, Inas, also called Natesa. It may seem madness that the children are desired in the midst of such disarray as she will acquaint you with. Be assured that it is the delm’s madness, and very much the lesser of several risky paths.
“We are, every one of us, safe, a happier outcome than I would have predicted only a few relumma gone. Come home, now. The delm desires it no more than I do.
“Until soon.”
Despite the tape, Natesa could tell that neither of the elders was entirely at ease with her—for which she blamed them not at all. She asked them to trust much, and recordings, after all, could be forged—or forced.
And, yet . . . There was something—an undercurrent between them; something, Natesa thought, that they knew and which the children did not. Something that was inclining them toward her, even more than Pat Rin’s voice, or her possession of the codes.
“I think that we must,” Lady Kareen said at last. “If the delm is mad, it is no more than Korval has ever been, and yet the clan endures.”
“I agree,” Luken said, and looked to Natesa.
“These other risks of which the boy speaks. What of those?”
What of those, indeed.
Natesa spread her hands.
“There was a story told in nursery when I was a child, of a peculiar beast which had seven heads, all savage. It would seem that the best—indeed, the only—way to defeat such a creature was to strike off its heads—”
“I know this story!” cried the smaller boy—Syl Vor, his name was. “Every time one of the heads was cut off, the creature grew two!”
She smiled at him, where he knelt beside the babes in their baskets.
“Precisely so.” She looked to the lady and gentleman, waiting with edged politeness. “To stretch the simile full-length, Korval struck off the head of its enemy—perhaps even the greater one, that ruled coordination, schedules, and necessities. But in doing that, it has freed dozens of lesser heads to act independently.”
The elders exchanged a speaking glance.
“We go,” the lady said decisively.
The gentleman inclined his head. “I agree.”
He nodded to Natesa. “We have a ship, which of course the delm will not wish to lose. Quin here is rated an able pilot. Let us—”
“Grandfather?” the young girl, Padi, interrupted. She was, Natesa saw, staring at the scree
ns.
“What ship is that?”
* * *
Guns—in Grandfather’s hand; in Grandmother’s hands.
Father’s lifemate—her hands were held before her, slender fingers spread, declaring herself no threat.
Quin threw a glance at the screen, at the ship approaching Beacon One along the proper vector.
“You have shown them the path,” Grandmother said, her voice so cold that Quin shivered.
Pilot Natesa tipped her head. “Please explain,” she said.
It wasn’t Grandmother, but Grandfather who did that, in a clipped, hard voice nothing like his own.
“This same ship has been lurking at the edge of scan range the last four-day. It vanished, you appeared.”
What? Quin pushed forward.
“Why didn’t you—” he began, and gasped when Padi stamped on his foot.
“It is possible that I did show them the path,” Pilot Natesa said, calmly, “or some part of it.” There was a sharp snap, which was the safety coming off of one of the weapons.
It might have been someone cracking a nut, for all the attention Pilot Natesa paid it.
“If they have the proper codes,” she continued, in her calm, musical voice, “then you may dispense with me. If they do not have the codes, I beg that you will allow me to assist.”
Quin bit his lip. Father has lifemated a gambler, he thought. Of course he had; like called to like.
“Assist!” Grandmother snapped. “If they do not have the proper codes, there will be nothing to assist with, as the beacons will have—”
Syl Vor gasped.
Quin turned, his eyes leaping to the screen that showed the ship, which had not moderated itself in the least, nor, according to the legend at the bottom, broadcast any code.
A thin red line came from what must be the stranger ship’s forward laser cannon.
Beacon One exploded.
Grandfather slid his gun away and bowed to Pilot Natesa.
“We accept your assistance,” he said.
* * *
Quin sat at the pilot’s station; Padi at second; Grandfather in the jump-seat between, where he could see both boards, though he had none of his own. Grandfather might only be a third class, but he had been a pilot for longer than Quin and Padi together had been alive, and experience, so his instructors had impressed upon him, counted.
It was not their own ship they piloted, but Father’s Fortune’s Reward, that Pilot Natesa had brought to them. He and Padi had done a rapid board check, and he had found those pre-sets that Pilot Natesa had told him of, coded precisely as she had said. A quick check with the navcomp verified that their course was for Surebleak nearspace—again, precisely as the pilot had said.
He fingered the keys, bringing the presets into the active queue. One tap and they would load. One tap . . . but not quite yet.
Padi had the audio wide on all the bands. He himself was connected by private line to the control parlor, where they had left Grandmother and Pilot Natesa. The screens showed the docking bay, live, feeds of nearspace . . . and the terrible approach of the wolf-ship. All three beacons were gone, now, and the ship was on-course for the opposite-side dock.
Quin chewed his lip, and wiped damp palms surreptitiously down his thighs. What was to prevent the wolf-ship from loosing their weapons on Runig’s Rock, breaching it, killing . . .
He ground his teeth, tried to bring his ragged breathing under control—and felt a hand, firm and warm on his shoulder.
“Pilot Natesa seems to be fully capable,” Grandfather said, as calm and unhurried as if they were discussing whether or not to go for a walk. “And her reasoning is, by my reckoning, sound.”
Quin swallowed, inclined his head, recalled the pilot’s explanation.
“They have been brutal with the beacons, yes—but the beacons are merely mechanicals—barriers to their progress. This place—is a treasurehouse of many kinds. They will not wish to undermine it, nor to destroy that for which they search. Their first goal must be yourselves, for hostages have a high value. However, they must also be on the hunt for any small thing that may give them an advantage, or a grasp upon Korval.”
“Dragon by the tail,” Padi had said, irrepressible even in this hour of danger.
Pilot Natesa laughed.
“Foolish, are they not?” she asked, seeming almost merry. “Yet, they must be answered sternly, for their foolishness cannot be allowed to endanger us. Thus—”
She had turned to Quin then, keys in hand and her eyes serious. Quickly, concisely, she had given him the boardcodes and the key under which the presets had been filed.
He had his doubts. Especially he had his doubts about leaving Grandmother behind.
She, however, had brooked no argument.
“The pilot is wise, and I make no doubt, experienced,” she said coolly. “I will remain, as I know the systems, and may provide back-up.”
“Grandmother—” he began, and stopped when she held up her hand, imperious.
“I know my duty, as you know yours, Pilot.”
There was no answering her in this mode, Quin knew, yet to leave two—one of them his Grandmother—to face who knew what kind and number of savage crew? How would he answer his father for that?
It was then that Pilot Natesa placed her neat hand upon his arm.
“So soon as this small task is completed, Pilot Quin, we will be away, in the very ship of the clan, so that the delm will have no cause to scold either of us for losing it,” she said softly, her dusky face calm, and a smile in her dark eyes.
Obviously, the pilot anticipated nothing more than a few moments’ inconvenience. She was his superior, in rank and in age. And, as Grandmother had said, he knew his duty.
“They’re docked,” Padi said, jolting him back to the here-and-now of his board. A moment later came Grandmother’s confirmation, for his ear alone.
“Our visitors are committed. On my count of six, Pilot yos’Phelium. One.”
Padi hit the in-ship.
“Syl Vor, are you strapped in?”
“I am!” he called back from the cabin he shared with the twins, who had already been made secure.
“Stay that way until we sound ‘all clear.’”
“All right,” Syl Vor answered, amiable as always. “Do you think Mother will be at the port? And Uncle Shan?”
“Remember, the pilot told us there was a great deal of busyness, Boy Dear,” Luken said, leaning forward and directing his voice toward the mic. “We shall see them, soon enough, though. No fears.”
“No fears, Grandfather,” Syl Vor agreed.
“Six,” Grandmother said, calm and purposeful.
Quin reached to the board, and Fortune’s Reward dropped away from Runig’s Rock.
* * *
“They’re away,” Pat Rin’s lady mother said.
“That is well,” Natesa replied, leaning over the back of the chair. The dock light glowed a steady green in the screen; the hallway she had entered so short a time ago empty and bright.
“Am I correct in assuming that the hallway may be filled with something other than plain air?”
“You are,” said Lady Kareen.
“It would be simplest,” Natesa said, “if they would fall at once. Do you watch here and when they are fairly into the hall, release your most potent, nonlethal mixture.”
The lady tipped her head, as if she might question this, as well she might; prisoners were always a risk, and yet—
“The delm will wish to speak with them,” Kareen yos’Phelium said, and inclined her head. “I shall do as you say, Pilot. And yourself?”
“I?” Natesa shook her head. “I will assume that they are clever enough for suits, and shall be devising a secondary plan.”
The lady was seen, faintly, to smile.
“Very good, Pilot,” she said, and looked to her board.
* * *
The Jump-point was coming up. Fortune’s Reward was steady as she went. Screens in a
ll directions clear, saving those to the rear, which showed Runig’s Rock, sitting quiet in its little eddy of space, to all appearances inert.
“Approaching Jump,” Quin said, unnecessarily. He glanced to the rear screens again, hoping to see the second ship—their ship—tumbling away from dock.
What he saw instead, in the instant before normal space blurred Jump-gray, was a jerk, as if the station had been hit by space junk, or—
The warning chime sounded, and he brought his attention to the board.
* * *
They had been clever enough for suits, and not nearly as careful as she had hoped they would be.
Natesa fell back as they entered the main hallway through the shattered door, weapons ready, spread out in a pattern that told her they knew their business well.
She regretted, for a moment, Pat Rin’s mother, then gave over regrets altogether.
* * *
The warning chime sounded, and Fortune’s Reward was out into normal space.
Crowded and unfamiliar normal space.
Quin snatched at the controls, bringing weapons up, demanding answers from the navcomp.
“Padi, grab the beacons, please,” he said calmly, because he was too frightened to be anything but calm. “Then get the local feeds. We’re off-course.”
A moment’s wrestling with the navcomp showed that they were off-course, though not as much as he had feared. More, the reason was perfectly obvious—in fact, it surrounded them.
Surebleak nearspace wasn’t merely crowded, it was crammed with ships. Scout ships, small traders, large yachts, and a great number of mid-sized craft, not meant for long-Jump, but well-enough for short trips.
Padi fed him the beacon locations; he pulled the chart, located port and fed the numbers to the navcomp. That done, he began to calculate a course of his own, and winced when Padi brought audio up a little too strong.
“Tree-and-dragon,” someone close said, and that was—maybe that wasn’t good.
“Kill our ID,” he told Padi, and saw the appropriate light at the top of the board go dark.
He felt Grandfather shift behind him, as if in protest—and then still. The pilot made those decisions for the ship, and Quin was the pilot.
As it happened, he hadn’t been quick enough.
