Constellation

by Sharon Lee

  With that thought, she bowed vaguely in direction of Korval’s distant Tree, it being the closest point she could see that was not of the port and thus not of the Council, and turned on the comm-retrieval, in case there was commerce.

  * * *

  The pecking order at the taxi line was nearly immutable, with latecomers—meaning those firms or clans with three generations or less experience—sitting on the second line for manual wave-ins, while those older—the “holding clans” who had permanent transport licenses with no expiration date—shared the first line in an intricate dance Vertu could call, but whose logic was born of something other than service to the traveling public.

  Clan Wylan ought, perhaps, not be be among those called latecomers, being not recent to the trade, but to the location, but there—that was an old battle, lost some generations back when a racing park gave way to manufacturing in a slyly executed move by an Olanek—and the Balance for it would come from someone else, for her need upon retrieving the Ring from the insensate hand of her predecessor had been to preserve the clan, which to this point she had done.

  The current Wylan license would grow to a holding license in only another twelve Standards; Vertu’s personal goal was to take that first drive for the clan and retire, her duty done, with daughter to take up the Ring. But for now, within her clan, port duty went first to the one who’d had least of it within the last twelve-day and she’d been the lucky one for some time, finding on-call work from the scout back office, from the Binjali repair shop, from people traveling anywhere but to or from the port’s pick-up line.

  For that stretch of good fortune, she today had the on-port line while her daughter, Fereda, did the outer routes and her no-longer-halfling son, Chim Dal, still likely partied his night off with friends who might well make him late tomorrow morning. Ah, to have such energy—and such friends!—as he did.

  Dutifully, Vertu pulled her taxi into the secondary line, watching the first line’s ballet as they accepted or neglected fares. A quiet shift, she was perhaps seventh in line as she waited, allowing the car’s music system to wake up the day. Soon she was sixth, and then fifth, and fourth . . . fourth behind three drivers sitting for the morning meal as they waited.

  That, of course, was one of her advantages—she did not eat nor game while on wait, nor drink, smoke, or chat for more than a moment or two with other drivers—and so she was not in the wrong to move forward when the manager of line one waved frantically at line two, despite the shiny row of on-duty line ones, all disdaining the next fare.

  And so, there must be a reason.

  She blinked as she pulled to the front, for the next fare was not one but two uniformed mercenary Terrans and their luggage. Clearly too large for many of the top-end cabs—even without their hand-carry—with it, they would have needed a moving service, or indeed, a multicab like the very one she drove.

  The Terrans nodded to her, and the darker one held out a Unicredit card as she slowed to a stop.

  She popped the doors, intending to assist, but they hustled into the cab without aid, depositing their luggage between them, the dark one still holding the card out.

  “We need to visit this address,” he said in what might be flawless Trade, but who knew, after all, Trade being a language without a home. He pulled out a folded sheet of hard copy which he held for her to see, adding, “We may be some time at the location.”

  She bowed a slight acknowledgment, pointing out, “Traveler, time and distance are what I charge for, and so we are Balanced.”

  She accepted the proffered card and waved it at the reader, which happily beeped and accepted the charge, for one Howler Higdon, if she read the transliterations correctly.

  “Soonest is better!” the larger of the two said.

  “Yes,” she agreed, “soonest is always better.”

  * * *

  Unusual to say, the address was one she’d never delivered to before—in fact, she barely recognized the subquadrant, much less the crossroads, and was pleased to find the vehicle map knew more than she did. The quadrant was hardly one visited frequently by anyone, especially not sudden Terrans, but she accelerated away from the line at a heady pace, wondering what they might want to see in the overgrown semi-wild sections of Solcintra’s abandoned old lands.

  The in-cab camera showed the Terrans at peace with themselves, watching the trip with interest but unconcern, quiet. She’d anticipated perhaps a visit to a brothel, or a gambling hall, or even a shopping extravaganza—not any of them out of the way destinations for Terrans, in her experience. This was perhaps even beyond the last unusual request she’d had—a Terran starpilot demanding a direct ride to Korval’s holdings—but there, she’d learned from that trip to take the money, drive . . . and let the traveler take care of the details.

  Routed through minimum traffic once away from the spaceport exit, the cab quickly passed through the usual areas of tourist interest—the largest buildings, the gaudy townhouse estates of the most overreaching High and Mid-Houses, the quaint rows of elegant shops where the rich shopped, the fastidiously landscaped inner and mid-parks, the—

  The Terrans spoke low among themselves, and if the language was any she’d ever been schooled in, it was not recognized by her ear at this level, at this cadence.

  “Your pardon, Driver.”

  She glanced to the screen, found his eyes waiting.

  “Does the Serene Taxi Agency employ other vehicles? Might you be able to summon more if need be? Of this size or larger?”

  She blinked, which he must have seen—he had enough Liaden to see the true-name, and hence to read her own on the driver-slot. Not, perhaps, a common Terran, here . . .

  “I have several cars in my service,” she admitted, “though availability depends upon prior routings and arrangements. Have you an immediate request—does your friend need another destination?”

  That made the dark man smile and the larger man chuckle.

  “No, Driver,” the larger one said. “It is that, if we find our destination as we envision it, we may wish to invite others to an event.” He paused, glancing with some meaning she did not grasp to his companion, who suppressed a smile as he continued, “The word for such an event is picnic in Terran, or call it a lunchfest, perhaps, in Trade.”

  She had Terran, to an extent, and this word picnic had come to her along with others of use to her trade and security—rob, take, orgy, bash . . . The destination they had chosen seemed an . . . odd . . . place for a picnic.

  “Ah,” she said, to indicate that she had heard, but not wishing to add more. She watched the city wind down to the true old houses and abandoned shells of things long left to the elements as Greater Solcintra had grown. Some of the area actually belonged to this or that clan, other parts had been early communal areas built shortly after landfall and ostensibly under the benevolent oversight of the Council of Clans. They called much of this area a park, but as so many things the Council did it was a convenient sop to appearances rather than a reality to be enjoyed by the average Solcintran.

  Here, when they arrived, was a sharp corner leading into a sudden ridgetop. There was a short cross-street; perhaps buildings had adorned each end at some distant moment in history. After that came a turnabout overlooking hills falling away so sharply that at least one of them might be called a cliff, hills that fell in green profusion to wild streams and scattered rock below. It was in its way even more unregulated than the wilderness around Korval’s valley, and a little disquieting, for it showed dissolution rather than desolation. The edge of the turnabout nearest the cliff lacked a buffer or curb, and there were marks there as if someone used the spot to push unwanted items into the ravine.

  Vertu stopped on the side of the pavement with a curb, car and timer running, finding the address matched perfectly the one the dark Terran had given her. She looked into the camera then, finding her passengers looking elsewhere.

  “Here we find your address. Shall you depart from me here, where there are n
either people nor businesses, lost in the the backwoods of Solcintra?”

  She trusted that Trade might somewhat hide her amusement, for surely she’d had worse fares. Still, as a destination it . . .

  The larger Terran said in a Trade undertone clearly meant for his companion rather than her, “This could do it.”

  She glanced up, meeting the dark man’s gaze in the camera, amusement flickering about his lips and eyes.

  “If you might hold for us a short while, Driver. We must take a few readings . . .”

  She bowed toward the camera, turned as if to show them the functioning of the doors, which, the cab being still, were able to be opened by either of them.

  “You are my fare, and so I will await you, as the cab is empowered to charge you for time as well as travel.”

  “Yes, that is so.” He smiled into the camera, and the pair moved quickly, opening the doors and exiting, pulling their luggage with them.

  She watched as they walked to the paved edge, speaking too quietly now for her to overhear, gesturing in directions that indicated the sweep of the streams below, and of hills on the farther side.

  A piece of luggage was snatched up, zipped quickly from its sheathing—and there stood on a tripod, an object from another piece of luggage mounted to it—and another. The dark man stood back from it, staring into a hand-held, free hand moving as if he counted seconds.

  The larger man moved to the cliff edge, staring into the distance, hands to face as if he shielded his eyes from glare, or held some small object to peer through.

  “There!”

  The larger man pointed, and made some kind of hand-signal, and both of them were at the tripod, hefting it just over the rim to the hillside, sliding down the dirt there, urgently doing things she couldn’t quite see, until half of the tripod was out of sight, and half held its head above the paved plateau.

  The larger man lurched up the side of the hill to the pavement, taking businesslike strides past her and the taxi to the cross-street where he turned, surveying the view like a tourist, and then with purpose. He stooped, staring toward the tripod and his friend with a solemn expression.

  “And so?” he called out.

  The smaller man replied across the distance, clearly saying:

  “We’re synched. Port-comm, ship-comm, Higdon Central. Enough to start on, I’d say.”

  “Got your recall on?”

  “Can activate at will.”

  “You know the drill, then. You’ll probably see me before you hear from me.”

  A wave and the Terran near the tripod moved down the slope, disappearing from view. The large man strode back to the cab, opened the door smoothly and slid in, carefully engaging the lock.

  “Thank you for waiting,” he said as he adjusted his lanky form to fit the seat. “Please start driving,” he said carelessly, hand perhaps pointing toward the greater city.

  Vertu bowed, put the car in motion. There were not all that many routes from here, after all . . .

  She glanced into the camera, let the car straighten into the main road.

  He watched, his face nearly Liaden in neutrality.

  “I’d like to return to the spaceport area, but not to the point you picked us up. I’ll show you where as we get near, if I may. Also, I’d like to discuss hiring this vehicle for the next Standard Day, and another fifteen vehicles like it, if they may be had. I am able to pay cantra, in advance, at triple day rate, if you prefer.”

  Returning her attention to the road, she bowed vaguely toward the camera.

  “This discussion, we shall have it,” she allowed in careful Trade, “when we have a stop on the road.”

  * * *

  Wylan let the car’s taxi-channel chatter to itself as she turned off the direct route. The noodle shop made an excellent stop on the road, and the location was agreeable to the Terran. He, nameless, had been quite patient with her short quick inquiries over timing and locations once she’d admitted she’d be dealing with—she used the Trade term allies—to fill in the cars her own agency could not provide. That most of those would not be directly under her command she’d not let on, but there, the details need not concern him.

  Into the camera, she began—

  “Your need must be great, oh traveler, and you have many friends. I must, you understand, be sure of my necessities before committing so many of my resources . . .”

  Also into the camera, the Terran: “May I speak in confidence with you, and ask, if you find my offer not to your liking, that you permit me to make the offer to others—”

  She bowed lightly in her seat, also raising her left hand with a slight shoo-away sign.

  “If my melant’i finds your offer unfortunate, I will tell you so, carry you to a destination, and be done with it. I cannot be responsible for the melant’i of others, says the Code, nor should I wish to!”

  “I appreciate your understanding,” he said, “and your honesty.” He paused, reaching about his person as if in search of something, finally arriving at a bent card—yes, very much a card such as she herself might convey upon meeting new acquaintances of worth.

  “It seems that I am come with a less-than-presentable card, and ask you to forgive my haste. Let me share this, if I may, as is—”

  She opened the port and took the flimsy, which was a very high-quality paper indeed.

  The card was two-sided—one side printed in Trade, the other in Terran. Simple typography conveyed extremely chilling information.

  Commander Octavius Higdon

  Higdon’s Howlers

  Military Missions. Security to mayhem.

  Guaranteed Service.

  There were contact numbers listed, and the man in her cab’s passenger compartment—this Commander Higdon—quietly awaiting her reaction.

  Vertu met his eyes in the screen.

  “And you wish to invade our park?”

  He sighed openly, which surprised her, but then Terrans were complicated, it was well-known.

  “I wish to expose my acquaintances to a larger experience here on Liad, and the park is an excellent location for it. In fact, my compatriots will carry their lunches and be prepared to enjoy them there, at my direction. Additionally, we are involved in a . . . situation of Balance—and my understanding is that by showing a presence here we may arrive at an equitable solution in a timely fashion.”

  It was likely that she blinked at him, so unexpected was his declaration.

  “Balance from off-worlders . . . is not something one often sees, here on Liad,” she managed, “since so many things that follow the Code are subtle and enforced by . . .” she paused, seeking the right phrase in translation.

  “Social pressure?”

  He’d leaned forward, had the commander, offering his suggestion with deference.

  “An accurate turn of phrase,” she said. “I thank you.”

  He nodded then and, perhaps, threw in a shrug of indeterminate meaning, and made a hand gesture indicating, perhaps, motion.

  “As we noted before, soonest is better. A quick Balance sees you paid ahead and permits my friend at the gully to sleep indoors tonight! Thus, permit Higdon’s Howlers to charter your vehicle at the three-times rate now, and we shall add the others as you may arrange or broker, understanding that the request is on short notice.”

  Vertu paused, considering, staring into the slightly thickening sky above, measuring her need.

  Fereda, of course, was her need—it would be well to solve the girl’s urge for the soonest marriage. A single heir was all she required, of a good—if not High—clan.

  The candidates were there, for Fereda kept track of those most eligible, as she kept track of the most likely contract price. And it was not as if Fereda had either a fear or a distaste for those she preferred as a father to her child—it was that her cha’laket was an artist and near-healer, fragile in her necessities, and would not willingly abide a frequent parting. That Fereda thought this possible—well, that would be hers to mend.


  The price of a husband had twice been within reach, and lost each time to business. This time, this time, it would not be so. Three-times day-rate for each of Wylan’s three cabs, plus the broker fee from those others she enlisted. She would not—could not—name the sum entirely, but that it would be of use to Clan Wylan—that she could say with assurance.

  “I will broker this,” she said, “and since Balance requires care and concern, for this my own retainer will be five times the day-rate. My other cars, and those of my associates, they will be paid for at your offered rate, per car, in advance, as they arrive to work.”

  There was a pause and a glance, and a hint of a smile.

  “This can be done, if we may adjust the number of total vehicles to a dozen.”

  She bowed agreement.

  “Here is five cantra,” he said, showing them to the screen before placing them in the pass-through tray, “to seal the arrangements.”

  * * *

  It was the third return trip from the park to the port, and by now the fact of their passing was drawing attention, despite the window shields hiding their cargo of potential mayhem. Vertu’s cab was in the lead, with Fereda just behind. Vertu was sweating, despite the climate-controlled driver’s space.

  They’d ferried the soldiers and their weapons, yes, to the hidden park—and they had done so several times, with the other dozen allied cabs assisting as they might.

  Something had happened there, fighting and such, but the signs she’d seen of it were all on the rim of the park: soldiers tired and rumpled, some without the weapons and objects they’d carried in, soldiers dirty despite obvious attempts to clean up. Soldiers injured, who were assisted into passenger compartments by their undamaged comrades.

  On this, her third return to Port, a wounded man occupied the seat behind Vertu, laughing with his mates, arm and shoulder bloodied. He included her in his conversation—a distraction, for he spoke Terran in a thick dialect that was almost as thick in Trade.

  “Don’cha worry, ma’am,” he said when his mates had hustled him into the car. “Don’ feel a thing. Don’cha worry ’bout Tommee, no’m. I’ll wrap this up some so’s we don’t getcher pretty car dirty. ’Mander made sure we know this ain’t like it’s a zone transport or nothing.”