Linesman

by S. K. Dunstall

  A higher-than-average number of ship captains died of brain tumors that began in the right auditory cortex. Common theory was that because the lines were pure energy and ended on the bridge at the Captain’s Chair, the line energy irradiated the brain. If the lines could leak into a captain’s head, then why couldn’t the captain’s thoughts leak into the lines? Helmo was close to his ship.

  If you took that further, could the lines have been trying to talk to him yesterday while he was in the void?

  • • •

  EAN felt—through line five again—when the shuttle left. Abram didn’t come back immediately.

  Radko arrived first, bearing the ubiquitous pot of tea and three glasses. After she left, Ean poured himself a glass and was halfway through it before Abram arrived back with Michelle. He tossed a uniform shirt to Ean. It was plain, with nothing on the pocket at all. The name stenciled above the pocket was WHITE.

  “I want to see that contract again,” Abram said to Michelle.

  Michelle brought it up.

  Ean silently poured them both tea—Rebekah wasn’t here to sneer at his uncouthness—while Abram read the whole contract, frowning. “This contract says that you now work for us—the Empire of Lancia—and that you will carry out whatever work we ask you to do on the lines,” he said.

  It was a standard contract except for the length. And the agreement that extra training would be provided and that Ean paid some of those costs, but Ean wasn’t going to bring that up now.

  “What happens if we ask you to do something you don’t want to do?” Abram asked abruptly.

  What could you do to the lines except fix them?

  “Something a regular linesman wouldn’t do.”

  “Well,” said Ean, not really sure what he meant. “There’s the code of conduct. All the cartels abide by that.”

  “And if something is against the code of conduct?”

  “The cartel master takes responsibility for disciplining any linesman who breaks the code.” A heavy weight seemed to settle on Ean’s stomach, bringing acid and bile. “What exactly is it you want me to do?”

  “What happens to the linesman?”

  “It depends how bad it is. The cartel master gets rid of him. If he’s lucky, he goes to a lower cartel house. If he’s unlucky.” Ean shrugged. He ended up working for what scraps he could get or getting out of the lines altogether. Not that Ean planned to stop working with the lines. Ever. He’d find a way. Somehow.

  He poured himself another tea with hands that shook. The tea was sour in his mouth. He forced himself to face the truth he should have faced a day ago. “It won’t make any difference to me.” His voice was steady if a little hoarse. “You heard Rebekah. Everyone thinks I’m crazy.”

  Whether he did or whether he didn’t do what Abram asked, no one would ever buy his contract. Except perhaps Rigel, but even he couldn’t buy it back if Ean had violated the code of conduct.

  Two days ago, he’d been a ten, stupid enough to think that someone would buy his contract because of that. Maybe not the higher cartels, but definitely some of the secondary ones. Rebekah had proven what a dream that was. He gripped the glass hard. There was nowhere to go from here. Except back to the slums, and he wasn’t going back there. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  “You seem to have an affinity for line six.” Abram’s gaze could have been compassionate if Ean wanted to interpret it that way. He didn’t. “I want you to break line six on those two ships.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Michelle put up a hand to cover her mouth, but his end-of-line employer didn’t say anything.

  “I don’t break lines. I fix them.”

  Abram pointed to the uniform shirt he’d tossed Ean earlier. “Do whatever you have to do to stop them coming any closer than they are now. Michelle will get you onto the ships.”

  Ean gripped the shirt so tight it creased. “And Lady Lyan will, presumably, explain why I have to sing while she’s being interviewed.”

  “She will do whatever she needs to as well.”

  Ean stood up, clutching the shirt to him, and walked out without another word.

  He’d liked Abram and Michelle, had even started to think that maybe not everything from Lancia was bad. He should have known better.

  Yes, he went straight to the fresher and scrubbed until the water ran out. Michelle and Abram would no doubt think it typical of him, part of his general craziness. They hadn’t cut off his water supply yet. Captain Helmo would do that soon, he was sure. He wiped his eyes, still wet long after the water had run out and tried to work out what to do now.

  Technically, they owned the contract and could ask anything line-related of him. It was only the code of conduct that had stopped the sabotages of the Great War, and that was why the code was enforced so strictly in the cartels. But these people weren’t cartel. The cartels couldn’t touch them—except perhaps refuse to service their lines, and how likely was that, given that Lancia was one of the richest empires in the galaxy. Someone would do it, and it would soon be forgotten.

  Except for the linesman who’d betrayed the code. He’d never be forgotten. Nor would he ever work as a linesman again. Ean closed his eyes and leaned against the side of the fresher. That was the point, wasn’t it. He’d never work anyway. No one would buy his contract.

  How was it that Lancia still screwed up his life, even ten years after he’d left it?

  Even so, linesmen didn’t betray the lines. Rebekah Grimes would have laughed at him for that and called him crazy again, but they didn’t. Their job was to protect the lines and keep them safe and well.

  • • •

  WHEN he arrived back at the small meeting room, he found nine armed spacers waiting with Abram, plus Michelle, who had changed into what Ean was starting to recognize as formal attire. Charcoal trousers and a matching jacket today, with the crown of Lancia embroidered on the pocket.

  “What if I don’t do it?” he asked Abram.

  “If you genuinely try, and fail,” Abram said, “then that is fine. It was the best you could do.”

  “What if I don’t try at all?”

  “We have a jail. You are staff. You disobeyed orders.”

  Lancian jails were always overcrowded.

  “And if I refuse to go?”

  Abram looked at the nine soldiers. “You won’t refuse.”

  Ean looked at them, too. Radko was among them. “So are they here to protect Michelle or make sure I do what you want me to?”

  “Both,” said Abram. He handed Ean a blaster. “It’s not loaded, but you need it to look the part.”

  Ean took the blaster and looked at the spacers. Nine serious faces stared back at him. Ten, if you counted Michelle’s.

  “The shuttle is ready,” Abram said. “Blue Sky Media first.” He put out a hand to stop Ean. “Do what you have to. Do what you can.”

  Four soldiers fell in front of Michelle, five behind. Radko, who was last, beckoned to Ean. “Try to march in time,” she said softly.

  He let his ear pick up the rhythm of their steps and walked to the same beat.

  • • •

  ON the shuttle Michelle said, “Don’t blame Abram. His job is security, and he’s doing what he has to do to ensure that.”

  Ean just looked at her.

  “Both of us are doing what we have to do to ensure survival.” Michelle sighed and looked as if she would have said more but didn’t.

  It was just a pity their survival was going to destroy his. No matter what, he was going to work with the lines. He’d find a way.

  Radko spoke up from where she was seated. “Commodore Galenos has our full support,” she told Ean. “We trust him. He makes hard decisions sometimes, but he has to.” Other spacers nodded.

  “I support him, too,” Michelle said. “No matter what he does.” />
  They didn’t have to destroy the lines though, did they? Or their careers?

  Ean got more nervous the closer they came. “I’m not sure I can do this,” he told Michelle, as they docked.

  Michelle just smiled. A tired smile, but at least her dimple showed. He was starting to think of that as her honest smile. “Just do what you can. That’s all Abram asks.”

  If he didn’t do it, the media would move close to the other ship and likely vaporize them all to dust. That was the only reason he was even considering this.

  Ean stepped on board the media ship, heavy-hearted.

  The reporter was Sean Watanabe. Ean knew his face from countless vids, once would even have been impressed to see him this close. Watanabe came to greet them in person. Genetically, he was a good match for Michelle although Ean was pleased to see that Michelle managed to win the subtle presence standoff between the two. Why did he care?

  “Lady Lyan. So good of you to agree to meet us.” The robo-cameras were already rolling.

  Ean could hear the lines. Poor lines, not badly maintained but not well maintained, either. Line one was a mess of egos and jockeying for favors, line five was overworked and really needed attention. Line six was fine.

  He felt sick thinking of what Abram had asked him to do. He had to talk to the lines. Privately, because he was sure neither Abram nor Michelle would appreciate the media’s filming it.

  Maybe he could use how he felt.

  He gasped and clutched at his stomach. He caught the attention of one of Watanabe’s hangers-on, one who looked like an assistant but not too important to be missed.

  “Do you have any—?” Ean gasped and clutched at his stomach again. “Toilets?”

  The assistant looked at him, askance. Luckily, Radko came to his rescue. “Allergic to shellfish,” she confided in a loud whisper. “Barfs it up.”

  “Oh,” said the assistant.

  “But does that get him out of work?” Radko asked. “Not on our ship.” The whole ship was fiercely loyal to Michelle, but they were always ready to spoil her reputation.

  “Toilet,” Ean begged.

  The assistant led the way.

  If Michelle noticed them drop out, she didn’t give any indication of it.

  The toilets were tiny cubicles that Ean could hardly fit into. This wouldn’t be what they offered Lady Lyan if she asked, he’d have bet. Ean locked the door and really did spend some time retching. He didn’t want to do this.

  The ship noticed his discomfort. His mind filled with the music of the ship lines—almost as if they were trying to fix him.

  Before the void, he wouldn’t have known what to do next. Suddenly he did. The lines had tried to talk to him in the void, hadn’t they. Why didn’t he talk back? He could explain what the problem was. The lines had a right to know what was happening. He had a duty to tell them.

  Ean sat on the floor, head on the bowl, and started to sing. He sang of the strange ship one hundred kilometers away. He sang of the Haladeans and what had happened to them.

  “Maybe we should check if he’s all right,” the assistant said.

  “He’s fine,” Radko said. “He always sings when he’s stressed. It’s his way of coping. Leave him awhile.”

  He sang of the Alliance and what they were trying to do. He sang of the distance limits and how Abram needed the ship to stay at least one hundred kilometers out. Finally, he sang a bargain direct to line six. I will fix your other lines after this is done if only you heed the hundred-kilometer limit.

  Line six sang back, deep and heavy. Agreement.

  The agreement vibrated deep in his bones.

  He couldn’t move for a long time after he’d stopped singing.

  “Are you okay?” the assistant asked eventually, anxiously.

  He forced himself to answer. “I’m fine,” and staggered out of the cubicle. “Everything’s fine,” he said to Radko, and weaved off down the corridor with no real idea of where to go.

  Radko caught up with him, and said quietly, “Go back and wash your face and hands. Make it look as if you have been sick.”

  The assistant wrinkled her nose and pressed into the wall as he pushed past her back to the washbasins.

  Reaction set in as the adrenaline left. By the time they reached the others, the back of his uniform was saturated with sweat. The assistant really had a right to wrinkle her nose then, but she had disappeared as soon as it was decent to do so.

  • • •

  MICHELLE had bought a change of clothes. Back on the shuttle, she stripped and wiped herself down with a towel. “Interviews are hard work,” she said.

  Ean could imagine.

  “Did you do it?” she asked.

  Ean nodded and tried not to look at her. Her legs were longer than he’d expected. Even when he looked away, he could still see an expanse of bare calf out of the corner of his eye.

  He remembered once, years ago, when someone had tried to sell pictures of a naked princess and some foreign dignitary. Michelle appeared comfortable with her own body. The whole thing had probably been one of those manipulated media things that Tarkan Heyington loved so much.

  “You should have brought a change as well,” Radko said quietly from beside him.

  Michelle handed him her towel when she was done. “I can relate to the perspiration bit,” she said, as Ean wiped himself down. It was a bit late now, the sweat had dried into his clothes.

  “Me, too,” Radko admitted. “I sweated buckets down there in those toilets. Have you heard him sing?” She looked at the other soldiers as she asked, not just Michelle. They all shook their head.

  “It’s like space and deep and high and clear and people and—” She trailed off. “It’s just—”

  Michelle paused halfway through pulling on clean pants. “It sounds like the confluence.”

  Radko shrugged. “I’ve never heard the confluence.”

  Michelle finished getting dressed, watching Ean all the while she did so. Ean tried not to wriggle uncomfortably.

  “I really wish you had experienced the confluence firsthand,” she said to him.

  Yes. Ean did, too. Then maybe he wouldn’t have gone on and on about how everyone talked about the ship and the confluence in the same way when really they were just talking about the lines in general. Because that’s what Radko was describing. His singing the music of the lines.

  Except Radko wasn’t a linesman. Why would Radko talk about his singing the way linesmen talked about the confluence or the ship?

  The bell chimed for their arrival at the Galactic News ship. Michelle strapped herself in, but took the time to give Ean a reassuring pat on the shoulder before she did.

  • • •

  THE second ship went much the same as the first one, only this time Ean didn’t have any trouble convincing the assistant—young, male, full of his own importance—that he was unwell.

  All the lines on this ship were bad. Ean took the time to strengthen some of them first—Abram wouldn’t be happy, but he didn’t have to know—before he sang them the song of the ship and how important it was to keep the distance.

  Then he sang the bargain song. Stay far away and I’ll come back and fix you when we’re done.

  The lines didn’t believe him.

  “How do we know?” Deep and heavy. Line six.

  “How can we trust you?” Deeper still, and it got into his bones. Line nine.

  Even line ten came in, high and clear, and the other lines let it speak alone.

  “Can’t you hear it through the lines? It’s my promise.” He would make good on that promise unless he was dead, and even then Abram would have to get someone else to do it for him.

  “It’s a deal.” Rich and warm and pleasing to the ear, and not something Ean heard often. Line eight. He nearly stopped singing at the unexpectedne
ss of it. Lines seven and eight never got involved. No one even knew what they did.

  “Deal,” he agreed, trying to match the tone.

  The assistant banged on the door.

  “Leave him,” Radko said. A struggle started up outside.

  “He’s crazy. You’re both crazy, and I’m calling security.”

  Ean stood up, flushed the toilet for effect, and staggered out as two security guards with Tasers rushed in. He walked straight into a Taser zap. Radko felled both security by rolling at them and kicked out at the assistant at the same time. When she stood up she had a Taser in each hand.

  “I don’t want to use these,” she said. “But I will if you won’t listen.” Her voice was uneven, and she was panting. It had looked effortless.

  The two guards twitched.

  “They’re crazy,” the assistant said. He started to stand up.

  Radko’s aim didn’t waver. “Tell him to lie down, or I’ll fire on one of you.”

  The guard didn’t even bother to speak. He just lifted a leg and hooked it between the young assistant’s legs. He went sprawling again.

  Ean staggered to his feet. Now he really did want to be sick.

  “What do you want?” asked the second security guard.

  “Nothing,” Radko said. “My friend here was unwell. Okay, he stayed a long time in the toilet but—” She half shrugged. “This—” She waved a hand at the sprawled assistant. “He started banging on the door and—” She waved her hand again. “And then he called you.”

  “He was hiding something,” the assistant said. “He played music to hide the sound of what he was doing.”

  Radko ignored that. “When you burst in, you had Tasers. We’re Lady Lyan’s bodyguard. We’re trained to react to things like that. I’m sorry.”

  She turned the Tasers off and offered them, handle first, to the two guards. Ean held his breath.

  The first guard sat up and took his with a chuckle. “You’re fast enough, but I doubt this one will stay long in Lady Lyan’s bodyguard.”

  “He’s not well.”

  The second guard wasn’t so forgiving or so believing. “And the music?”

  “He’s young. It’s what he does when he’s not feeling well.” Radko glanced at Ean, then turned and confided to the guards. “He’s the youngest on the ship. We baby him a bit.”