Ghost Ship

by Sharon Lee

  “Sorry to be late!” Miri swept into the room, dropped into the empty chair, and gave Theo a grin.

  “You’re looking well rested, Pilot. Ready to tell out that complicated problem of yours?”

  For all it was asked in easy Terran, Theo had a sense of—sharpening—as if the air in the room had suddenly taken on an edge. She looked at Val Con; he inclined his head, inviting her to start.

  Theo took a breath.

  “Actually,” she said, “it’s two problems.”

  * * *

  They were good listeners, the Delm of Korval, and in less time than Theo would have thought possible, she had laid the whole mess before them, from Win Ton’s unintentional, if not exactly accidental, waking of the ship Bechimo; his sending the second key—the Captain’s key, by chance—to her, without telling her what it was; his subsequent capture, torture and escape; their meeting on Volmer; the realization that Bechimo—which Win Ton, and the Uncle, too, considered an aware and emancipated AI—was looking for her. And her last, terrible sight of Win Ton, unconscious inside the autodoc on the Uncle’s ship; his prognosis certain death, unless Bechimo, with the last uncontaminated record of Win Ton’s DNA in her archives, found Theo, and accepted her as Captain.

  “Scouts have a bias against Old Tech,” Val Con murmured, when finally she came to an end of it and slumped in her chair, exhausted with the telling. “An emancipated AI—one who has killed to protect her integrity, as might any other person.” He smiled, wryly, to Theo’s eye. “Yes, it is complicated, Theo Waitley. Congratulations. Truly, you are of the Line.”

  She blinked at him. “What?”

  “His idea of a joke,” Miri said. Leaning forward, she poured pale yellow liquid from the blue bottle into a glass. “Don’t dignify it.”

  Theo nodded, took the glass offered, and cautiously sampled the contents. Lemon water.

  “It seems to me that we are best served in the short term by doing nothing,” Val Con continued, accepting a glass from Miri in his turn.

  The red-haired woman nodded, poured for herself, and leaned back in her chair.

  As if in counterpoint, Theo leaned forward.

  “Wait—nothing? Win Ton’s dying! And what if Bechimo does find me? What am I supposed to do with a ship the Scouts want to kill? Hide it under my pillow?”

  Miri laughed. Val Con shook his head.

  “Your friend is well enough for the short term,” he said, sounding startlingly like Father when he thought you were being exceptionally stupid. “Your employer’s healing units are everything he told you, and possibly more. There is nothing Korval can do at this moment that is not already being done by an expert who appears to believe he has a stake in the game.” He raised a slim hand as if to forestall her, but Theo hadn’t been going to say anything. “I grant that to be disturbing of itself, but it, too, can wait upon closer examination.

  “What does merit our immediate attention . . .” He glanced toward the ceiling. “Jeeves? Have you a moment to consult with us?”

  “I am on my way, Master Val Con,” the rich voice said—not, Theo thought, from the ceiling, but from the bookshelf to the left and slightly above Miri’s head.

  In fact, the ’bot was with them so quickly that Theo thought it must have been lurking in the hallway.

  “Excellent,” said Val Con as it rolled to a stop on the fourth side of the table, its “back” toward the window. “You will of course have heard Theo’s story. If not, please access it now.” He glanced to Theo. “You understand, Jeeves is his own person. As such, he has his own methods and resources.”

  Theo nodded slowly. An emancipated AI, constructed as a butler for a single house? That couldn’t be right, could it? The Concierge had the whole Wall to take care of, and it hadn’t been sentient. She’d studied machine history; it had been a core course. And history had shown that sentient machines were dangerous. The last deliberate use had been military; the Terran Fleet had constructed three Admirals—tactical AIs, each in charge of a battle squadron, but that had been . . . seven hundred years ago, or more . . .

  “I have reviewed Pilot Waitley’s narrative,” Jeeves said.

  “Very good,” Val Con answered. “I do not ask you to break a confidence, but I wonder if perhaps you are acquainted, or have been in communication, with Bechimo.”

  There was for a long moment no answer, though the orange head-ball flickered like a tiny thunderstorm was going on inside of it.

  Theo thought of the ship’s key, hung safe ’round her neck, and left it where it was. It had imprinted on her, by some action she didn’t understand, but which Win Ton insisted upon. Until she understood the process, it was probably not a good idea to be handing it around to strangers.

  “I cannot with certainty state that I have spoken with Bechimo,” Jeeves said. “However, based on Pilot Waitley’s report of Scout yo’Vala’s actions and the fate of the boarding party that attempted to force entrance—I am concerned for Bechimo’s state of mind. This is an unsocialized person, with a justified distrust of humans, who is compelled, nonetheless, to find and be joined with her pilots. It would be well if Pilot Waitley contrived to be found as soon as is prudently possible, in a quiet location.”

  “We’ve got some concern for Pilot Waitley’s safety and state of mind, too,” Miri said dryly. “If Bechimo’s unstable—”

  “Not unstable,” Jeeves interrupted. “Merely . . . confused of purpose.”

  “And that’s better, how?” Miri glanced to Val Con.

  “Might be safer to set up the meet someplace reasonably busy, ’stead of a back alley. That way, if something goes bad, Theo’s got backup.”

  “No.” Theo shook her head. “Uncle said the same thing—about trying to arrange the first meeting somewhere quiet. Because she was engineered from Old Tech and new, and it’s not just the Scouts who want her dead, or taken.”

  “For a man known to advise most often for his own benefit, the Uncle has been remarkably frank with you,” Val Con said. “So far.” He sighed.

  “Very well, then, for the ship, certain matters must and may be solved, here and now. Theo—is there a ship’s account?”

  She frowned at him. “The Toss has its own—Bechimo? I don’t know. I’d guess her original people would have set something up, but, old as she is, who knows if the banks they drew on even exist anymore?”

  “Registration’s likely to be funny, too,” Miri murmured.

  “Precisely. These things can be mended, proactively. Theo, please pick a port.”

  It took her a heartbeat to catch that he didn’t mean just any port, but a port to serve as Bechimo’s home of record.

  “Waymart,” she said.

  “What ship ain’t outta Waymart?” Miri asked.

  “And who will find it wonderful, if there is suddenly one more?” Val Con replied. “Jeeves, will you please ask Ms. dea’Gauss to set up a standard ship drawing account for Bechimo, with a clean registration out of Waymart, Captain Theo Waitley. When that is accomplished, please give Theo a data key.”

  “He can just beam the data over to Arin’s Toss,” Theo said, before the full impact of that smooth flow of instruction hit her.

  She snapped forward, glaring into Val Con’s pretty face.

  He lifted an eyebrow—deliberately like Father, that’s what she thought, and, thinking it, felt her temper warm.

  “I didn’t ask you to lend me money!” she said, sharper than was probably polite.

  “Indeed you did not,” Val Con answered coolly. “Nor would I insult you by simply assuming that you had need. My concern here is Bechimo. A ship has necessities. And a hunted ship may come to doubt even ports that have been long secure.”

  Theo took a deep breath, and didn’t say anything while she counted backward from one hundred by threes.

  “They got this thing they say here,” Miri said into the silence. “Korval is ships.”

  Theo gave her a curt nod. “I’ve heard it.”

  “Who ain’t? Po
int is, it don’t just mean that Clan Korval owns more ships than’s strictly reasonable, and has its finger in the shares of a couple dozen more. It means that Clan Korval, through every one of its members, holds the well-being of ships and of pilots as their legitimate concern. I don’t mean to be telling you other things that you’ve already heard, Pilot Theo; I’m just learning some of it, myself.”

  Theo sighed, and inclined her head. “I’ve got a quick temper,” she said, remembering that saying I’m sorry to a Liaden was—not exactly rude, more like stupid, because it exposed a weakness.

  Val Con laughed.

  “Not alone there, either,” Miri commented.

  “By no means,” he agreed, and gave Theo a nod. “Forgive me, I had thought it implicit, when clearly it is not. I propose to establish a trigger account, attached to the new registration. Should Bechimo tap that fund, then I will indeed have lent money—to Bechimo, who is her own person. The debt will thus be settled between us, in a manner and time that we find mutually agreeable. Should the fund remain untapped for six Standards, it will return to Korval’s general ship fund, no harm done, nor insult taken.” He tipped his head. “If it transpires that this arrangement is found to offend Bechimo, I hope that you will, as my sister, plead the purity of my intent.”

  Theo snorted, and sipped lemon water while she thought.

  “If Bechimo is her own person,” she said slowly, “then she can’t be owned. That’d be slavery.”

  For some reason, Val Con smiled.

  “That is correct,” he said. “However, a ship must have a captain—which I understand to be the reason behind Bechimo’s pursuit of yourself. The registration will be for the ship Bechimo, out of Waymart, Captain Theo Waitley. If, after you have had the opportunity to discuss the matter with your ship, it seems good to incorporate Bechimo, and thus gain her the mantle of corporate personhood . . .”

  Miri laughed. Theo blinked—and then saw the joke.

  “A tautology,” she said. “The paperwork would be a nightmare.”

  “It can become as complex as you like,” Val Con said. “But let us begin modestly. A new registration, and a drawing fund, should it be needed. I believe that we may trust to Bechimo’s discretion. Jeeves?”

  “I concur. Bechimo appears to possess discretion, and a good deal of common sense.”

  “That is well, then.” Val Con looked to Theo. “A data key to Pilot Waitley when all is set in train, please, Jeeves.” He raised a hand. “I ask the pilot’s forbearance. It is not her ship or herself that I doubt, but the breadth of her employer’s goodwill.”

  Theo sighed, nodded, and sipped her drink.

  “Thank you. Now, regarding those other strands to your puzzle. Understand that we do not refuse a solving. However, we cannot undertake so complex a set of issues now, on the eve of our relocation. Come to us as your schedule allows, on Surebleak, and we will revisit these matters at greater leisure. Now, alas, we must take our leave. One more thing—”

  As if that was a cue, Miri reached into her pocket and brought out something small that winked in the light from the windows.

  “This says you’re under Korval’s protection,” she said, taking up where Val Con had left off. “I’d tell you to wear it wherever you go, but right now being under Korval’s protection is what you’d call double-edged—just as likely to make you a target as get you some help. Take it, though, and keep it by. Never know when it might be handy.”

  “It” was a pin, Theo saw, receiving it. The face showed Korval’s trade sigil—a dragon hovering on half-furled wings over a full-leafed tree.

  “Thank you,” she said, and slipped it into an interior pocket of Rig’s—of her—jacket, hearing a tiny clink as pin struck coin.

  “You should return to your ship now,” Val Con said, “and lift beyond Outyard Eight. It would be best if you are not seen to move in our orbit. That you came to Korval is interesting, but not of interest. Many pilots have come to us since the Council’s judgment; one more is not worthy of note.” He smiled. “Much as one more ship to Waymart. We have already moved a number of vessels, but there are still dozens that must lift before the Council’s hour is upon us. It would be better for you to be away from the most of it, should your employer contact you with your next assignment.”

  Theo nodded, and stood.

  “Thank you,” she said again, and swallowed. “I wanted to talk to Father again—”

  “Of course. As it happens, his is one of the ships scheduled to lift soon. There is no reason why the two of you cannot drive to the port together.” Val Con rose and held his hands out. Theo hesitated, then put hers in his.

  “Thank you,” he said seriously. “I hope you can accommodate yourself to a brother, Theo. I think I am going to quite enjoy having you as a sister.”

  FOUR

  Runcible System

  Daglyte Seam

  They came armed with pass-codes, the commander and her six-guard.

  Three remained in the antechamber, to thwart enemies, had their enemies been canny enough to follow.

  Another tarried at the third door, obedient to a prompt on the guard screen; and another again, outside the fifth.

  At the sixth and final door, Iridyce sen’Ager, Commander of the Fourth Level, placed her hand against the guard screen. The scan tickled her palm, the sampling needle pinched, accompanied by a flash that left blue images dancing on her retinas.

  Were she not Fourth Commander sen’Ager, there would come another pinch, the last sensation she would experience. She knew this, of course, but felt not the slightest agitation. Why should she be agitated, or in any way dismayed? She was precisely Iridyce sen’Ager; thus the door would open for her.

  “Await me here,” she told the one remaining of her six.

  “It shall be done,” he responded.

  The door opened and Fourth Commander sen’Ager went forward without a backward glance. Lights came up in the room as she stepped over the threshold, a creamy illumination palely stained yellow. Fourth Commander sen’Ager felt her muscles loosen as she crossed the small chamber to the waiting chair. She sat, relaxing further and more deeply still, when the restraints snapped around wrists, ankles and waist.

  She was come to take up duty, and in this enterprise the light was her friend; the device that now clasped cool ceramic mandibles ’round her head, her chiefest ally. That such duty would fall to her—it was unlooked for. Who would have expected the Commander to take a fatal strike? Who, anticipating such calamity, might guess that First, Second, and Third would likewise fall?

  Leaving Fourth Commander Iridyce sen’Ager to become Commander of Agents.

  The mandibles tightened; the creamy light clotted in her eyes until there was nothing else to see. Twelve dozen sharp wires pierced her skull and sunk, burning, into her brain.

  Iridyce sen’Ager screamed, once.

  FIVE

  Arin’s Toss

  Solcintra Port

  Liad

  “Would you like some tea?” Theo asked, leading the way up the hall toward the heart of Arin’s Toss.

  “Thank you,” Father said from behind her, “Tea would be most welcome.”

  She nodded and swung into the galley, waving at him to go on up to the pilot’s chamber.

  Tea quick, she told him in hand-talk. Be easy on my ship.

  “Thank you,” Father said again. He passed on, leaving Theo to wonder what she’d done that had made his eyebrow quirk.

  The tea was brewing before she considered the security aspects. To give an unaffiliated pilot access to the bridge of her employer’s ship, unmonitored and unescorted—that was—it wasn’t proper ship security. She had a feeling that, to Uncle’s way of thinking, it went double.

  On the other hand, this particular unaffiliated pilot was Father.

  Father wouldn’t—

  Leave his classes in the middle of the term? she asked herself. Walk away from Kamele and the cats and his house—his car—with no warning and no word of e
xplanation?

  Her stomach cramped. Father was—Father had been . . . a rock. A stickler. He didn’t tolerate lies, or excuses, or—or sneaking behavior. He—

  The teapot tweeted. Theo swallowed, and took a deep breath. Inner calm, she told herself.

  Carefully, she got the mugs down, and poured. There was an explanation for what Father had—why he had left in such . . . disorder. A perfectly rational, perfectly understandable reason. All she had to do was ask him, which she fully intended to do, not only for her own peace of mind, but for Kamele’s.

  In the meantime, she told herself firmly, picking up the mugs and slipping out of the galley, she refused to believe that he would sabotage her ship.

  Father was standing in the center of the small bridge, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. If he was considering the board and the arrangement of the drowsing screens, it was no more than any pilot would do—from professional curiosity, if no other reason. He turned, quick and neat, when she entered, and smiled.

  “Please,” Theo said, relief making her formal, “take the copilot’s chair.”

  Father’s eyebrow twitched again, but he only inclined his head, matching her formality.

  “Thank you,” he said, and seated himself gracefully, keeping his hands specifically away from the board. Theo handed him a mug and settled into the pilot’s seat.

  They savored the first sip in silence, then Father looked about him.

  “She seems well cared-for. How do you find her spirit?”

  Theo had another sip of tea, considering.

  “Willing,” she said. “We’ve only had this one job together—a rush, like I said. There wasn’t anything I asked from her that she didn’t give.”

  “And in return asked much of her pilot,” Father murmured, meaning that she’d arrived in port just yesterday strung out and wobbly from too many Jumps taken too close together.

  “Pilot’s choice,” she pointed out. “The ship can only fly the course the pilot lays in.”