by Sharon
"The ship on which I had fired was intent on performing an act of piracy. I fired to protect my ship, myself, and this port. Certainly, I would not broadcast my piloting decisions under such circumstances."
The portmaster nodded. "OK. We got the tape—that'll go with the report." She cocked an eyebrow at him. "There's names on the tape—nothing I can do about it. Just like I can't help but notice how that ring of yours has the same design as those mining ships. Should've seen it before, I guess. I've worked on bigger ports. I've seen Tree-and-Dragon tradeships."
He inclined his head, and after a moment she sighed.
"Flyer Shugg tells me he can convert those things to defense units."
"He has said the same to me," Pat Rin acknowledged, "and I fear he will need to work quickly. For you also know that one of the three pirates escaped." He met her eyes squarely. "We must assume that they will return, with reinforcements. Of the eight mining ships, four will remain here as planetary defense."
Claren Liu frowned at him. "Where are the other four going?"
"The other four—and my private vessel," Pat Rin said, softly, "are going to take the quarrel home."
THE CONVERSATION snapped off as Pat Rin followed the portmaster into the conference room, and eight pair of pilot eyes pinned him.
"Well, here's the man hisself," Andy Mack said from his lean against the far wall. "Dressed up in his nice blue jacket, just like he ain't nothin' but a dirt-hog." He looked pointedly at Claren Liu. "Thought you was gonna take care of that."
"By the book, Colonel," she said, with edged patience. "We're doing it by the book." She looked around. "Master Pilot McFarland."
The big Terran stepped forward. "Yes, ma'am."
She pointed at Pat Rin, who mustered a glare for his pilot. Cheever smiled and nodded. "Morning, Boss."
"Mr. McFarland," the portmaster insisted. "You've said that this man sat second for you, and that you'll vouch for his board skill and his knowledge of the basic piloting equations. Is that correct?"
"Basic piloting 'quations?" howled Flyer Shugg. "Portmaster, that boy pulled a smuggler's ace outta his sleeve just as pretty as any of us ever seen and you're askin' does he know his math?"
"Quiet!" the portmaster snapped. "Mr. McFarland?"
"Yes, ma'am, I vouch for him. He knows his math and he knows his board. Bit thin on flight time, but there ain't no doubt he's a Jump pilot." His smile grew to a grin. "I'll be pleased to sign his card."
She nodded. "I'll countersign," she said, and turned to Pat Rin. "What name do you want on your license, pilot?"
Pat Rin took a breath, sought out Natesa's face in the crowd.
"This is a farce," he said.
She shook her head. "Indeed, it is in verymost earnest." She moved a hand, showing him the portable viewer on the table. "If you wish, you may review the tape, as we have done. It plainly shows that your ship was under the hand of a pilot of skill and daring."
"Son," Andy Mack added, "ever' single one of us here saw you in action and ever' single one of us watched the tape, too. No use sayin' you ain't a pilot—we know better. Now, tell the portmaster what you want your card to call you and let Cheever here sign you up. This port needs all the pilots it can fly." He shook his head, long silver hair moving over his shoulders like fog, disreputable face unwontedly serious. "Or don't you think that feller bolted right back home, yellin' for help all the way?"
Pat Rin moved his shoulders, throwing off tension, and met the Colonel's eyes. "I think he did exactly that," he said; and looked to the portmaster.
"The name on the license should be Conrad," he said steadily. "Jonni Conrad."
Across the room, Natesa smiled. Closer to hand, Cheever McFarland nodded.
"Jonni Conrad," the portmaster repeated, and it seemed to Pat Rin that she was trying to suppress a smile of her own. "OK. It'll take a couple minutes—and I want you to know that I'm putting a limit on you. First Class, grade S—that's "small ship." The S'll drop off as soon as you complete the required flight time across all classes of Jump ship. Understood?"
Yes, as if he would live long enough to master the intricacies of moving a passenger liner—or a tradeship—through Jump. Pat Rin inclined his head. "I understand."
"Good." She pointed at Dostie, who stood up from her place at the table, cradling something supple and dark in her arms. Cheever took it from her, shook it, and held it out.
Pat Rin swallowed, hard, in a throat gone dry. The license—it was true that he had been sitting first board, though he had only used the ship's programs, punching buttons at the computer's prompting. Still, he could allow the license, technically. But this—no. He had no right to a Jump pilot's jacket.
"Natesa," Cheever McFarland called over his shoulder. "Boss here needs some help with his jacket."
"Certainly," she said, and stepped forward.
"Natesa . . . " he breathed, as she came to his side. "It was the ship, not me."
"Very well," she said, in her calm, soothing voice. "When we have done with the present emergency, we will lift, you and I—and you will show me. In the meanwhile, we here are all, as the Colonel has said, seasoned pilots, and we must accept the evidence of our eyes and our experience." She took hold of his jacket and perforce he slipped out of it, remembering too late the gun in its hidden pocket.
"OK," Cheever said. "Now the new one."
He held it out—a jacket in black spaceleather, of a style perhaps not recent, lined in satiny black wickaway. Hesitantly, Pat Rin slid his arms into the sleeves, felt the weight of the thing settle across his shoulders . . .
"Yes!" Dostie yelled.
Shugg and the Colonel howled and stamped their feet. Juntavas courier Karparov clapped politely; Pilot Darteshek bared his teeth and shook a fist in the air. Etienne Borden shouted, "A brother! We increase!" Cheever McFarland winked and gave him a broad thumbs' up while Claren Liu nodded, no longer trying to hide her grin.
Natesa hugged him and kissed his cheek, which set up another round of hooting and stamping from Shugg and Mack, and gently slipped his pistol into the new jacket's inside pocket.
Day 54
Standard Year 1393
Dutiful Passage Jump
REN ZEL AWOKE in good time to ready himself to take prime meal with his sister and brother. As he dressed, he considered his new estate with a good deal more calm than he had been able to bring previously. Certainly, it was no ill thing to be enclanned. Lifemated into Korval—that was . . . peculiar, certainly, and nothing that the son of an outworld mid-House might ever had aspired to, even had he not been made outcast. He wished, rather, that he might speak to the lady with whom he had shared so very much pleasure, to find what she thought of their mating, and to plan with her the best structure for their lives. Would it suit her if he remained a-ship, returning to her one relumma out of six? Was she perhaps a shipmaster in her own name, and—
He paused in the act of sealing his sleeves, blinking thoughtfully at nothing, as he recalled that Anthora taught at the College of the Dramliz in Solcintra. She held a first class license, and had completed some hours toward her master's. However, she had allowed her piloting to languish while she pursued her wizardly studies.
That there should be aught for so a powerful wizard to study at such length and depth astonished him, but there was no doubt that his recollection was correct.
And what might he bring, he thought, shaking himself free of recollection and finishing with his sleeves, to a lifemating with one of the dramliz? Shan seemed to believe that his sister had chosen him as her mate, but Ren Zel doubted that. She had not been expecting him—and she had not known his name. Therefore, some other agency was at work in the matter—the cat, perhaps; or its enormous ally, the Tree?
Well. Soon enough to ask these things when he might have actual speech with his lifemate. He only hoped that she would not repent the choice, no matter how it had been made.
He glanced at his reflection—brown hair, brown eyes, symmetrical, unexcep
tional face—and then at the clock. Time to make his way to the captain's office, to partake of prime with his . . . family.
THE HATCH CAME UP, silent and slow, revealing the lean length of the Juntavas courier. He nodded and stepped back, waving them inside.
"We're set to lift as soon as you're strapped in."
Val Con went first, Miri at his back, her song edged with wariness. The entry corridor was thin and short, blossoming into a piloting chamber of less than spacious proportion. The board was, unusually, tiered, screens set close in a semi-circle at what would be eye-level for a pilot of Terran height. A Liaden-sized pilot would need to do something about lifting the chair, or put painful strain on her neck muscles.
"Like I said, we're cozy here," Greenshaw Porter said, leading them to far side of the chamber. A door slid away at his touch, revealing two acceleration couches, one over the other, webbing retracted.
"This is it—first class accommodations."
Val Con inclined his head. "We thank you."
"My job," the Juntava told him, with a shrug. "I'm to say: The High Judge is grateful for the info."
"May he make good use of it."
The man grinned at that—amused savagery. "No doubt there." He slapped the upper couch, and turned away. "Make yourselves comfortable. I'll let the Tower know we're gone."
A passenger. Val Con looked at the couches, trying to remember the last time he had been a passenger . . .
"Well," said Miri, from his shoulder. "Which do you want? Up or down?"
THE DOOR SLID open to his palm; he stepped over the threshold and caught up short, face to face with she who had been Korval-pernard'i—his sister, Nova.
It could not be said that she smiled, but at least she refrained from frowning, and inclined her head with calm cordiality.
"Pilot," she said—her usual greeting to him, but given now in the Low Tongue, in the mode between kin. "I hear I am to wish you happy."
"Pilot," he said, matching her mode with only a tiny flutter of panic. "I thank you for your good wishes."
A moment longer she stood, studying him, or so he thought, out of bland violet eyes. Almost, it seemed that she would speak again, but she lost the opportunity in the arrival of her—their—brother.
"There, now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Shan asked brightly, though of whom he asked it was not entirely clear. "Sister, don't eat him! I swear he's better behaved than any of us here—including Priscilla—and will gain Korval entry to Houses long since closed to us by reason of our dreadful manners."
"I make no doubt," she murmured, and of a sudden did smile—faintly, but with real warmth. "I feel for you most strongly, new-brother—joined to a clan as outlaw as it is odd!" She glanced aside. "Shan, surely he wants some wine."
"Surely he does, as he's hardly a lackwit," their brother replied, and put a big hand on Ren Zel's shoulder, urging him gently toward the bar. "Come along, child, let us fortify you. Red? White? Brandy?"
"Red, if I may."
Shan extended a long arm and held the decanter high, apparently considering its all-but-full state.
"This seems sufficient to fill your glass, and mine, too. Though I fear we're out if Priscilla is drinking red."
"White, please," her deep voice said.
Ren Zel turned in time to see the door to the innermost chamber—the quarters she shared with her lifemate—slide shut behind her. She smiled.
"Good shift, brother. Have you resigned yourself to your fate?"
He felt his mouth curve into an answering smile. "As fates go, it appears . . . less tiresome than some," he told her. "I do look forward to a conversation with my lady. There are those things that we must settle between us."
There was a sound to the right, as if Nova had sneezed, but Priscilla merely nodded gravely.
"You may then rejoice in the news that our sister brings us," Shan said, putting a glass of the red in his hand. "We are returning to Liad, immediately!"
"Do not allow Shan to persuade you that you will be with your lady immediately," Nova cautioned, stepping forward. "The delm's word is that we are to raise Liad, yes. But there we will hang in orbit until he releases us to the planet."
"Weeks, months, years!" Shan intoned, with mock dismay, handing Priscilla her glass.
"Very likely," his sister said gravely, though Ren Zel thought he saw the glimmer of her faint smile.
"Well, in that case, we do what we can to strengthen our spirits. I see a feast has been laid for us, and the only thing that keeps us from enjoying it is Gordy." Shan raised his glass, silver eyes quizzical over the rim. "Or, shall I say, lack of Gordy?"
Priscilla smiled. "He'll be here—soon."
The request for entry chime sounded.
"Or even at once," Shan said and called, "Come!"
The door slid away to admit Gordy Arbuthnot, foster-son of Shan and Priscilla, as well as Shan's true-cousin, on the Terran side.
"Cousin Nova." He bowed, correctly, as between kin, and then walked straight up to Ren Zel, face and eyes serious, shoulders, just a little, stiff.
"Hi, Ren Zel."
"Hello, Gordy," he said, gently, careful of the moods and manners of a halfling. It was not impossible, after all, that Gordy held his cousin Anthora in . . . esteem—and who was Ren Zel dea'Judan to call him a fool?
"Priscilla says you're lifemated—truly lifemated—to Anthora. Is that true?"
"Yes."
The young face relaxed into a smile. "That's great. I'm really glad." He bowed, jauntily. "Ge'shada, pilot. I wish you and yours a life of joy."
Ren Zel felt tears rise, hid them with his own bow. "My thanks."
"And now," said Shan, "we can eat."
THE MEAL was rather less boisterous than the informal reception, for Nova bore news of yet another kinsman. It seemed that Pat Rin yos'Phelium had not followed protocol in terms of reporting in. Nova was inclined to find this disturbing, and solicited the advice of kin. The conversation turning on where Cousin Pat Rin might most reasonably be supposed to have taken himself, and strategies for finding him, Ren Zel was left to listen, and watch, and grow acquainted with these who were now his family.
Listening, he reached for his glass—and froze as his ears became filled with a roaring, not unlike wind, and a voice edged with panic rang inside his skull.
"Ren Zel! I need you!"
There was a moment of heart-numbing cold, and a sensation not unlike passing through a bank of particularly tenacious fog. Ren Zel shook his head, banishing the mist, and discovered himself kneeling on an icy metal floor. Beside him was Anthora, on hands and knees above a char mark.
"Ren Zel?" she whispered.
"Here." He stood—say, he tried to stand, but the ceiling was too low to allow him to do so in comfort; he must need round his shoulders and duck his head. Uncomfortably bent, he looked around him, taking in the hard silver walls, seeing the bright lines of fire bent and twisted back upon themselves, warped and pale, excepting only the conflagration that streamed from the kneeling woman down into the cold floor, for all the worlds like blood rushing from a wound.
"Anthora!" He dared to use the mode of Command. "You must stand."
"Yes." Clumsily, she gained her feet, to stand bent as he was, her hair draggled and limp around a face that was shockingly pale.
"What place is this?" he demanded, moving to her side, crabwise, and slipping an arm around her waist.
"I don't know. I—it is drinking me. The walls—they reflect any ripple of power back, at double—quadruple!—strength. I dare not force the door . . . " She made a breathless sound he scarcely recognized as a laugh. "If I could." She swallowed and pushed her head against his hunched shoulder. She was trembling. He raised a hand and stroked her cold hair.
"Then we open it another way. There must be a control box . . . " He frowned at the featureless walls, the bitter floor, but all was—
"There!"
Anthora stirred, lifted her head a fraction and shook her hair away from her
eyes. "Where?"
"Below the decking, there, do you see?" He released her and hunkered down, studying the various relays and switches in the box below the floor. He felt her hand on his shoulder as she lowered herself beside him, peering.
"Yes, I see it," she breathed. "But, beloved, it's on the other side of the floor."
"Hmm," he said, tracing wires with his eyes. "I believe . . . " He pointed. "Do you see that connection? If that were bent aside, the door would open and we could walk away."
"Ren Zel, I cannot reach those elements, and neither can you." Her voice caught. "We're going to die."
"No." He spun on a heel, nearly bowling her over. "We are not going to die. Believe it and you do their work for them!"
For one heartbeat—two—she stared at him, eyes wide. Then, she extended a hand to touch his cheek. "I see. Forgive me, denubia. I'll not be so fainthearted again." Her eyes dropped and there was the control box, plainly visible to Ren Zel, and through him, to her. The connection he had pointed out was a fragile thing; why, a cat might bend it aside . . .
"Yes!" Ren Zel whispered. He bent forward and she lost contact. The floor solidified; her inner vision fogged. She grabbed his shoulder.
There, beneath the floor plate, the connection. Hooked around the connection were four pearlescent claws adorning a large and rather furry white foot. The foot pulled, down and sideways. The connection bent, twisted—broke.
Across the tiny silvered room, the door slid open.
Anthora half-rose, staggered, vision whiting, and felt strong arms around her waist, sweeping her off her feet . . .
"RUN!" REN ZEL shouted, his voice already shredded by distance.
She tucked, and hit the floor of the antechamber rolling. She heard a shout; felt hands on her shoulders and wrenched out of the guard's grip, slamming into the legs of a chair, the hidden pistol falling into her hand. The guard lunged, trying to grab her; trying to throw her back into the box.
She fell sideways, and fired point-blank into his face.
The room was quiet; bird song wafting in the open window. Anthora lay on the floor, her back against the chair legs, retching, unable to escape the sight of the guard's head exploding, though her eyes were closed.
