by Sharon Lee
Tears rose. He blinked them away, concentrating on folding the paper with clumsy, shaking fingers. Well and truly, he was a dead man. Kinless, with neither comrades nor Guildmates to support him. Worldbound, without hope of work or flight, without even a debt to lend weight to his existence.
The paper was folded, more or less. He shoved it into his jacket pocket, squared his aching shoulders and went out into Night-Port.
On the walk, he turned right, toward Findoir’s, taking all of two steps before recollecting himself. Not Findoir’s. Every pilot on Port had news of his death by now.
His comrades would turn their faces away from him, as Lai Tor had. He might speak to them, but they would not answer. He was beyond them—outcast. Nameless. Guildless. Clanless.
Dead.
The tears rose again. He blinked them away, aghast. To weep openly in the street, where strangers might see him? Surely, even a ghost kept better Code than that.
He limped a few steps to the left and set his shoulders against the cool stone wall of Casiaport Guildhall. His chest hurt; the bad leg was a-fire, and the street scene before him seemed somewhat darker than even night might account for.
Ren Zel took a breath, imposing board-calm. Dispassionately, he cataloged his resources:
A first class piloting license. A Jump-pilot’s spaceleather jacket, scarred and multiply patched. Two cantra.
He leaned his head against the stone, not daring to close his eyes, even here, in the relative safety of Main Port.
They expected that he would go to Low Port, Clan Jabun did. They expected him to finish his death there. Obrelt had cast against that, winning him the right to hold his license; winning him, so he must have thought, a chance to fly. To live.
And how had Jabun countered? Briefly, Ren Zel closed his eyes, seeing again the three-sided table, the crowd of cousins, weeping and pale; heard Jabun snarl: “What ship will employ a dead man? None that Jabun knows by name.”
And that was his doom. There was no ship on Casiaport that Jabun could not name.
Or was there?
Ren Zel opened his eyes.
Jabun’s daughter—had not spoken Terran.
Perhaps then her father did not know the names of all the ships on port.
He pushed away from the wall and limped down the walk, heading for Mid Port.
THE MAN BEHIND the desk took his license and slid into the computer. His face was bored as he scrolled down the list of Ren Zel’s completed assignments.
“Current,” he said indifferently. “Everything in order, except . . .” The scrolling stopped. Ren Zel’s mouth went dry and he braced himself against the high plastic counter. Now. Now was when the last hope died.
The duty cler—no. The roster boss looked down at him, interest replacing boredom in his face.
“This note here about being banned from the big hall. That temporary or permanent?”
“Permanent,” Ren Zel answered, and was ashamed to hear his voice shake.
“OK,” the boss said. He pulled the license out of the slot and tossed it across the counter. Exhausted though he was, still Ren Zel’s hand moved, snatching the precious thing out of the air, and sliding it safely away.
“OK,” the boss said again. “Your card’s good. Fact is, it’s too good. Jump-pilot. Not much need for Jump-pilots outta this hall. We get some intersystem jobs, now and then. But mostly the Jumps go through Casiaport Guild. Little bit of a labor tax we cheerfully pay, for the honor of being allowed on-world.”
It was an astonishment to find irony here. Ren Zel lifted his eyes and met the suddenly knowing gaze of the roster boss, who nodded, a half-smile on his lips.
“You got that, did you? Good boy.”
“I do not,” Ren Zel said, careful, so careful, of the slippery, modeless Terran syllables, “require a Jump-ship, sir. I am . . . qualified . . . to fly intra-system.”
“Man’s gotta eat, I guess.” The boss shook his head, stared down at the computer screen and Ren Zel stood rooted, muscles tense as if expecting a blow.
The boss let his breath out, noisily.
“All right, here’s what. You wanna fly outta here, you gotta qualify.” He held up a hand, though Ren Zel had said nothing. “I know you got a first class card. What I don’t know is, can you run a Terran board. Gotta find that out before I turn you loose with a client’s boat.” He tipped his head. “You followin’ this, kid?”
“Yes, sir.” Ren Zel took a hard breath, his head aching with the effort of deciphering the man’s fluid, idiomatic Terran. “I am . . . required . . . to, to demonstrate my worth to the hall.”
“Close enough,” the boss allowed, crossing his arms atop his computer. “The other thing you gotta do, after you pass muster, is post a bond.”
Ren Zel frowned. “Forgive me, I do not—‘bond’?”
“Right.” The boss looked out into nothing for a moment, feeling over concepts, or so Ren Zel thought. “A bond is—a contract. You and me sign a paper that basically says you’ll follow the company rules and keep your face clean for a Standard, and to prove you’re serious about it, you give me a cantra to keep. At the end of the year, if you kept your side of the contract, I give you your money back.” Again, he held up his hand, as if he expected Ren Zel’s protest.
“I know your word binds you, you being all honorable and Liaden and like that, but it’s Gromit Company policy, OK? You don’t post bond, you don’t fly.”
“O . . . Kay,” Ren Zel said slowly, buying himself a thimbleful of time while he worked the explanation out. He gathered, painfully, that the hall required him to post earnest money, against any misfortune that might befall a client’s goods while they were under his care. In light of what had happened to the last item entrusted to him in flight, it seemed that the hall was merely prudent in this. However . . .
“If the . . . Gromit Company? . . . does not fulfill its side of the contract?”
The boss gave a short laugh. “Liadens! If the company don’t fulfill its side of the contract, kid, we’ll all be lookin’ for work.”
That didn’t quite scan, but he was tired, and his head ached, and his leg did, and if he did not fly out of the Terran hall, who else on all of Casiaport would hire him? He inclined his head.
“I accept the terms,” he said, as formally as one could, in Terran.
“Do you?” The boss seemed inclined to find that humorous as well. “OK, then. Report back here tomorrow Port-noon and we’ll have you take the tests. Oh—one more thing.”
“Yes.”
The man’s voice was stern. “No politics. I mean that. I don’t want any Liaden Balances or vendettas or whateverthehell you do for fun coming into my hall. You bring any of that here and you’re out, no matter how good a pilot you are. Scan that?”
Very nearly, Ren Zel laughed. Balance. Who would seek Balance with a dead man?
He took a shaky breath. “I understand. There is no one who . . . owes . . . me. Anything.”
The boss held his eyes for a long moment, then nodded. “Right. Keep it that way.” He paused, then sighed. “You got a place to sleep?”
Ren Zel pushed away from the counter. “I . . . not . . .” He sighed in his turn, sharply, frustrated with his ineptitude. “Forgive me. I mean to say—not this evening. Sir.”
“Huh.” The boss extended a long arm and hooked a key off the board by his computer. “This ain’t a Guildhall. All we got here is a cot for the willfly. Happens the willfly is already in the air, so you can use the cot.” He threw the key and Ren Zel caught it between both palms. “You pass the entry tests, you find your own place, got it?”
Not entirely, no. But comprehension could wait upon the morrow.
“Yes, sir,” Ren Zel said respectfully, then spent two long seconds groping for the proper Terran phrase. “Thank you, sir.”
The man’s eyebrows rose in apparent surprise. “You’re welcome,” he said, then jerked his head to the left. “Second door down that hall. Get some sleep, kid. You’re
out on your feet.”
“Yes,” Ren Zel whispered, and managed a ragged approximation of a bow of gratitude before turning and limping down the hall. He slid the key into the slot and the second door whisked open.
The room beyond was no larger than it needed to be to hold a Terran-sized cot. Ren Zel half-fell across it, his head hitting the pillow more by accident than design. He managed to struggle to a sitting position and pulled off his boots, setting them by long habit where he would find them instantly, should he be called to fly. After sober thought, he removed his jacket and folded it under the pillow, then lay down for a second time.
He was asleep before the timer turned the room lights off.
ON ITS FACE, the case had been simple enough: A catastrophe had overtaken two first class pilots. First board was dead, second nearly so, and Guild law required that such matters be reviewed and judged by a master pilot. So the Guild had called upon Master Pilot Shan yos’Galan Clan Korval, Master Trader and Captain of the tradeship Dutiful Passage.
Shan had, he admitted to himself, ridden the luck long enough, having several times during the last three Standards been in precisely the wrong place to be called upon to serve as Master of Judgment, though his name had been next on the roster.
This time he was the only Master Pilot near, and in fact had already filed a flight plan calling for him to be on, the planet on which the fatal incident had occurred. Thus the Guild snared him at last, and offered a budget should he need to study what was left of the ship, or convene a board to do so.
A budget was all very good, but it did nothing to lessen Shan’s dislike of this particular duty. Still, he had read the file, reviewed the raw data from the flight box and, finally, in a state of strong disbelief, flew the sim.
Even in simulation, flying fatals is—unpleasant. It was not unknown that master pilots emerged weeping from such flights.
Shan emerged from flying the Casia fatal in an all-but-incandescent fury.
First board was dead because she was a fool—and so he stated in his report. More—she had allowed her stupidity to endanger not only the fine and able pilot who had for some reason found it necessary to sit second to her, but unnamed and innocent civilians. That the ship had finally crashed in an empty plain was due entirely to the skill of the pilot sitting second board, who might have avoided the ground entirely, had only the secondary backup board required by Guild regulations been in place.
Shaking with rage, Shan pulled the ship’s maintenance records.
The pilot-owner had not even seen fit to keep to a regular schedule of routine maintenance. Several systems were marked weak in the last recorded mechanic’s review—three Standard years past!—at which time it was also noted that the copilot’s backup board was non-operational.
Typing at white heat, Shan finished his report with praise for the copilot, demanded an open hearing to be held at Casiaport Guildhall within a day of his arrival on-Port, and shunted the scalding entirety to the Tower to be pinbeamed to Guild Headquarters, copy to Casiaport Guildmaster.
He had then done his best to put Casia out of his mind, though he’d noted the name of the surviving pilot. Ren Zel dea’Judan Clan Obrelt. There was a pilot Korval might do well to employ.
* * *
“REN ZEL, GET YOUR ass over here.” Christopher’s voice was stern.
Ren Zel checked, saw the flicker of anger on his copilot’s face and waved her on toward the gate. “Run system checks. I will be with you quickly.”
“Yah,” she said, grumpily. “Don’t let Chris push you around, Pilot.”
“The schedule is tight,” Ren Zel returned, which effectively clinched the argument and sent her striding toward the gate. Ren Zel altered course for the counter and looked up at the roster boss.
“Christopher?”
The big man crossed his arms on top his computer and frowned down at him. “What’d I tell you when you first signed on? Eh? About what I didn’t want none of in this hall?”
“You wished no vendettas, Balance or whateverthehell I might do for fun to disturb the peace of the hall,” Ren Zel recited promptly, face betraying nothing of the puzzlement he felt.
An unwilling grin tugged at the edge of Christopher’s mouth. “Remember that, do you? Then you remember that I said I’d throw you out if you brought anything like that here.”
“Yes . . .” What was this? Ren Zel wondered. Half-a-relumma he had been flying out of the Terran hall. And now—
“Guy come in here last night, looking for you,” the boss said now. “Fancy leather jacket, earrings, uptown clothes. Blonde hair going gray; one of them enameled rings, like the House bosses wear. Talked Trade, and I wouldn’t call him polite. Seemed proud of his accent. Reeled off your license number like it tasted bad and wanted to know if it was registered here.” Christopher shrugged. “Might’ve told him no—ain’t any business of his who flies outta this hall—but your number was right up there on the board, with today’s flight schedule. He didn’t talk Terran, but he could read numbers quick enough.”
Jabun? was Ren Zel’s first thought—a thought he shook away, forcefully. There was no reason for Jabun to seek him; he was dead and it was witnessed by the Eyes. Surely Jabun, of all the Clans on Casia, knew that.
In the meantime, Christopher was awaiting an explanation, and his copilot was awaiting him at the ship they were contracted to lift in a very short while.
“I—do not know,” he told the roster boss, with what he hoped was plain truth. “There is no one—no one—who has cause to seek me here. Or to seek me anywhere. I am . . . outside of Balance.” He hesitated, recalled his copilot’s phrase and offered it up as something that might be sensible to another Terran: “I am no longer a player.”
“Huh.” The boss considered that for a moment, then shook his head. “OK, but it better not happen again.” He glanced to one side. “Look at the clock, willya? You gonna lift that ship on time, Pilot?”
“Yes,” said Ren Zel, taking that for dismissal. He turned and strode quickly toward the gate. The leg that had been crushed had not—entirely—healed, and was prone to betray him at awkward moments, so he did not quite dare run, though he did move into a trot as he passed the gate onto the field.
The client’s ship—a packet somewhat older than the one that had belonged to Elsu Meriandra—was mercifully near the gate, the ramp down and the hatch open. Ren Zel clattered up-ramp, slapped the hatch closed as he sped through and hit the pilot’s chair a heartbeat later, automatically reaching over his shoulder for the shock strap.
“Tower’s online,” Suzan said, her fingers busy and capable on the second’s board. “We got a go in two minutes, Pilot.”
“Yes.” He called up his board, flickering through the checks; reviewing the flight plan and locking it; pulling in traffic, weather and status reports. “Cargo?”
“Port proctor’s seal on it.”
“Good. Please tell Tower we are ready.”
He and Suzan had flown together before—indeed, they were already seen as a team among certain of the clients, who had made a point to ask Christopher to “send the pilots we had last time.” This was good; they made a name for themselves—and a few extra dex.
Suzan was a solid second classer with more flight time on her license than the first class for whom she sat copilot. She flew a clean, no-nonsense board, utterly dependable; and Ren Zel, cautiously, liked her. From time to time, she displayed a tendency to come the elder kin with him, which he supposed was natural enough, considering that she overtopped him, outmassed him, and could easily have given him twelve Standards.
“Got the go,” she said now.
“Then we go,” Ren Zel replied, and engaged the gyros.
NIGHT-PORT WAS IN its last hours when Ren Zel and Suzan walked through the gate and into the company’s office. Christopher’s second, a dour person called Atwood, waved them over to the counter.
“Guy in here looking for you, Ren Zel.”
His blood chilled. G
ods, no. Let it not be that Christopher was forced to send him away.
Some of his distress must have shown on his face, more shame to him, for Suzan frowned and put her big hand on his sleeve. “Pilot?”
He shook her off, staring at Atwood, trying to calm his pounding heart. “A—guy. The same who asked before?”
Atwood shook her head. “New. Chris says,” she glanced down, reading the message off the computer screen: “Tell Ren Zel there’s another guy looking for him. This one’s a gentleman. Asked for him by name. Might be a job in it.” She looked up. “It says he—the guy—will be back here second hour, Day-Port, and wants to talk to you.”
He took a breath, imposing calmness. By name? And who on Casia would speak his name, saving these, his comrades, Terrans, all. Ah. Christopher perhaps would . . . understand . . . a Terran gentleman. How such a one might have the name of Ren Zel dea’Judan was a mystery, but a mystery easily solved.
He glanced at the clock over the schedule board: last hour, Night-Port, was half gone. Too little time to return to his room, on the ragged edge of Mid-Port. Too long to simply wait on a bench in the hall . . .
“’Bout enough time to have a bite to eat.” Suzan grinned and jerked her head toward the door. “There’s a place couple streets down that actually brews real coffee,” she said. “C’mon, Pilot. My treat.”
COFFEE, REN ZEL thought, some little while later, was clearly an acquired taste.
The rest of the meal was unexceptional—even enjoyable—in its oddness. The one blight was the lack of what Suzan styled ‘poorbellows’. An inquiry after this unknown and absent foodstuff gained Ren Zel the information that poorbellows were a kind of edible fungus, after which the coffee tasted not quite as bitter as he had at first thought it.
The meal done, Suzan drained her third cup and went to the front to settle the bill, stubbornly refusing his offer to pay for his share with a, “Told you it was my treat, didn’t I?”
