by Sharon Lee
She dropped to one knee behind the jitney, shivering, and her breath coming hard, though she’d hardly run any distance at all. Her right hand, the one she’d broken the woman’s wrist with—her hand hurt. She shook it, carefully, and winced.
Gonna need to get some ice on that, she thought, which brought her neatly back around to the fact that there was an armed . . . person between her and her ship, a deadline getting shorter with each breath she took—and she didn’t have time for this!
Think, Theo.
As far as she understood from the Guild Quick Guide, Tokeoport didn’t exactly have a law force, proctors or security; it was the portmaster who was the final judge of right and wrong.
Theo sighed, weighing her choices: confront the woman guarding her ship, or take the problem to the portmaster, who might or might not have time to hear her, and who might or might not think the situation merited penalties all around?
“I don’t have time for this,” she muttered.
She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. The shivering had eased off; her joints felt like they had too much give in them and her hand ached. Her primary hand, of course.
Carefully, she peered around the jitney and studied the woman blocking her entry to the Toss.
A middle-tall Terran wearing clean, but well-scarred working leathers that hung too loose off her broad shoulders. As far as Theo could tell, the gun was clean and cared-for, but her boots weren’t by any means new. The belt holding the woman’s pouch and holster was notched too far back; the tongue was double-tucked under the front loop to keep it out of the way.
Theo sat back on her heels.
Chances were what she had here was an opportunist, somebody who made what money she could by charging pilots a “toll” for letting them onto their own ships. The Quick Guide had described just such a scam, as an illustration of why it was advisable to leave at least one crew member aboard.
She touched the inner pocket where she’d kept her Terran money, not really surprised to find it flat. The second money pocket appeared to be untouched, and the most private pocket, with its precious two cantra pieces, was secure.
The chronometer hanging on her belt showed a time elapsed on Tokeoport that didn’t make her happy at all.
It might, she thought, touching the second pocket again to feel the comforting hardness of coin beneath her fingers, be most efficient to pay the woman off, get aboard and leave this chaos-driven, antisocial world.
Whatever she had picked up here had better be worth it, she thought darkly, and stood up, carefully, from behind the jitney.
* * *
The woman watched her approach with every appearance of interest, neither holstering her weapon nor bringing it forward.
Theo stopped six long paces out and raised her hands to belt height, fingers spread.
“Good day to you,” she said politely.
The courtesy seemed to amuse the woman; she half-smiled and gave an easy nod.
“Evenin’.”
“You’re between me and my ship,” Theo told her. “I need to board.”
“It’ll cost ya.”
Cost her, to board her own ship? Theo swallowed against a jolt of pure anger.
Expediency, she reminded herself, and, with the anger still on way too warm, inner calm.
“How much will it cost me?” she asked, as evenly as she could manage.
“More’n you’re likely to think fair,” the woman said, and brought the gun up, finger tightening.
Theo dropped back, her body finding the proper dance move—twist and kick. The gun spun out of the woman’s hand. Theo lunged, her opponent dodged, there was a whine in Theo’s ear and a ping against the hull.
“Not at me, you fool!” the woman shouted, half turning.
She gasped, a look of surprise on her face, and crumpled even as Theo jumped for the hatch, key in hand.
There was another whine, another ping. Theo raised the key—
It shattered, spitting energy, stinging her fingers.
She spun, intuiting the shooter, rather than seeing her, dove forward in a somersault, snapped to her feet and ran. Something slapped her on the right shoulder; she ignored it and kept running, slamming through the gate and into the alleyway, running without thinking, and there was something in the middle of the way—piles of rags or—
Sobbing, she collapsed to her knees, staring at the ruined faces of the man and the woman who had tried to rob her. A neat hole, like the sort made by a pellet, was in the middle of each forehead.
Behind her, she heard the gate to the hotyard clang.
- - - - -
BOSS CONRAD SUGGESTS PUBLIC WAY CONCEPTS
TO COMMITTEE OF BOSSES
Following last week’s fatal shootout at the borders of Plaski and Glenbiny, Committee of Bosses spokesman Boss Kalhoon tells Blair Road Booster that the committee is under serious advisement by Boss Conrad to rapidly adopt a joint Public Way policy for Surebleak Port and contiguous trails, alleys, walks, routes, and roadways.
While some of the policy would merely codify the way things have always been done, others would change the way hucksters, vendors, indie-walkers, beggars, scrappers, and trade folk operate while in areas administered by and for the public by recognized Bosses.
Last week’s tangle left three dead and more than a dozen injured when a former Plaski underboss, Craig Edwards, demanded spot rent of cloth huckster Lin Thicum, of Plaski. Thicum refused and moved her wagon into the road across the line into Glenbiny, at which point Edwards and several backers pulled and fired without warning, wounding Thicum but catching immediate fatal return fire from a car blocked by Thicum’s rag wagon.
“Manners are important these days,” Kalhoon said, “especially with so many new people using the road. Not only will we need to settle what parts of the road are Public Way and which parts can be vend spots, we’ll all need to be careful about pulling in a Public Way. While Thicum might have had problems for blocking a car from the Road Boss’s house, the driver, cook and gardener in that car work for the Road Boss and needed to keep the Road open, which Edwards was impeding.”
The Committee of Bosses is expected to have a policy in place tonight, so watch the morning edition of Blair Road Booster for details.
- - - - -
Theo knelt in the dark, nearly doubled over from the stitch in her side. She’d brought her breathing under control, but she couldn’t stop the shivering. There was something wrong with her eyes—nearby objects had an alarming tendency to slide in and out of focus—and she felt . . . feverish; hot and sticky in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion.
At least she wasn’t alone, here in the dark. There was . . . someone standing just out of sight, behind her left shoulder. Backup. Someone familiar—Win Ton, she’d thought at first, but no! It was Father. No, how could she have been so—Kara, of course! Or—well . . . well, what did it matter who, as long as she knew that someone had her back?
She took a breath, deep as the ache in her side would allow, and shivered again.
The wayroom had opened to her Guild card, just like the Quick Guide had promised. She’d dialed the lights off and locked the door behind her, and now—now, she was waiting.
She had enough credit on her card to keep the wayroom locked for days. If they’d been ordinary thieves, she might’ve had some hope of waiting her pursuers out—whoever they were, and whatever they wanted.
It could, she thought, be the Toss they were after. Uncle had . . . enemies—Val Con among them, by policy, if not by inclination. The trader on Gondola—Mildred Bilinoda—she’d been worried—worried that Uncle was taking chances that would endanger his contacts—
And his pilot?
Was it a plan? she wondered. Had he intended her as a decoy? Why? And would he risk the Toss—no ordinary ship, but old, and lovingly maintained . . .
There was a movement, out there.
Theo huddled closer inside the disposal unit’s inlet door, and st
rained her eyes.
The dusk was smeary with colors, like she was trying to sight through a faded and unsteady rainbow. She could see enough, though. She could see three figures, two with guns ready, standing slightly aside, guarding the back of the woman who stepped forward and touched the wayroom’s intercom button.
“Pilot of Korval, I greet you.” The words were in Trade; the woman’s voice solemn and sweet. “It is Osa pel’Naria at your service, Pilot. I stand here with two of my team, to escort you to your ship.”
Escort her to her ship—how likely was that? Theo thought. And then thought that maybe it was, if they thought she still had the key.
Cutting through the hull was bound to attract unwanted attention, even on such a port as this. They might also worry about booby traps and failsafes, those being standard ship security among grey traders, according to Rig Tranza. For a man who’d been a respectable pilot for a respectable shipping conglomerate for slightly more years than Theo’d been alive, Rig Tranza had known a lot about the practices of grey traders.
“Pilot of Korval,” the woman was at the intercom again. “Perhaps you doubt our intentions. Allow me to show you a token of our goodwill.”
She raised her hand, showing the spy-eye a small object that shot sparks of silvered flame in Theo’s blurry vision.
“I bear a token of your House,” the woman said. “Will you not open to me now?”
Wait. A token? Of her House? And—what had she said, just there at first? Pilot of Korval?
The galaxy spun and came to rest about forty-five degrees off true.
Theo caught her breath, remembering Miri holding the Tree-and-Dragon pin out to her, “Take it, and keep it by. Never know when it might be handy.”
She’d taken it and put it—put it in the pocket with her easy money, and then forgot about it.
The two footpads . . . she flinched away from the memory of their crumpled bodies, their eyes staring into—into Galaxy Nowhere, wasn’t that it?—they’d taken her easy money; she didn’t need to touch the pocket to know that it was empty. They’d taken her easy money, the pin mixed in with the coins . . .
Think, Theo. There was no proof that these—that Osa pel’Naria had stolen the pin from the people who had stolen it from Theo. She might’ve gotten her pin from the Delm of Korval, just like Theo’d gotten hers. It might be a legitimate offer of help. If there was a pass-phrase or a ready-sign, Miri hadn’t told her that, only, “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.”
A burst of wind sent a cold, damp eddy into Theo’s huddling place. The storm she’d seen massing behind the Tower was apparently going to deliver some rain, after all.
One of Osa pel’Naria’s backups glanced up at the dark sky, and murmured something. The woman moved her free hand, out of range of the camera, fingers spelling out a quick search, bring, all means necessary.
The two moved at once, one going left, the other going right. In her watching place, Theo bent her head, hiding her pale face from the person who strode by with quiet, purposeful steps.
All means necessary, was it? Theo took a deep breath. If these were potential allies, she’d rather be on her own. Another breath.
Time to get walking, she told herself. Soon they were going to figure out that the wayroom was empty, and then they’d widen their search.
The problem was, where she was going to walk to.
Portmaster, she thought. In the absence of a Guild office, safeties, or any other ordered enforcement structure, the portmaster was her single hope for getting a message out to Uncle.
She should have done that first off, she realized now, but she’d been worried about making the Ploster deadline—way beyond blown, now—and then she hadn’t thought at all, just run, and found herself in front of the wayroom before she realized its potential as a trap.
Using the card and locking the door on an empty room, had been a pretty good decoy, but she should have run again instead of staying in harm’s way.
Well, at least she had a name to give to Uncle, after she got his ship loose and put serious space between it and Tokeoport.
She got her feet under her, and eased toward the disposal’s mouth. The wind whooshed again, throwing grit into her face. She shook her head, took a step . . .
“Pilot of Korval,” Osa pel’Naria said again. “Do us the honor of allowing us to aid you.”
It was said so sincerely that Theo wavered, one step into escape; then she remembered the two dead people in the alley and moved, out of her hiding place and into the wind-laced dark.
* * *
Sheet lightning dyed the sky gold and orange by the time Theo hit the Tower. She shook the rain from her jacket and approached the counter.
“Theo Waitley, Pilot First Class,” she said to the man seated there. “I’d like to see the portmaster.”
“On what business?” he asked, more bored than interested.
Best to keep it simple for the front desk, she’d decided, so she gave him the most pressing problem.
“I’ve been wrongly denied access to my ship.”
He looked even less interested. “What ship?”
“Arin’s Toss.”
“Oh,” he said, “that ship.” He touched a key on his console, and glanced over his shoulder to the woman stepping out of the alcove.
“Pilot Waitley of Arin’s Toss to see the portmaster,” he said.
The woman nodded, and moved a hand in a broad “come on” motion. “Follow me.”
SEVENTEEN
Portmaster’s Office
Tokeoport
Portmaster McKlellan had a square face softened by a fringe of grey beard; his eyes were pale brown and very round.
“Waitley, is it?” he asked, extending a hand as square as his face. “Ticket.”
Theo put her license in his hand, not without a pang, and watched him slot the thing into the reader.
He looked up, frowning.
“This’ll take a couple minutes, Pilot. Coffee’s over there if you want some. Even if you don’t, sit down. Hate people hovering over me.”
“Yes, sir,” Theo said. She moved down the room to the pot, poured burnt-smelling brew into a disposable cup and went back to sit in the red plastic chair at the corner of the portmaster’s desk.
She sipped the coffee carefully, finding it just as bad as she’d feared, and took stock.
She’d stopped shivering, by which she supposed that the adrenaline had run its course. Her vision was still blurred with random color, bruises were rising on her primary hand and her fingertips were blistered where the key had burned her. She figured she’d find other bruises and minor scrapes, but mostly she’d been lucky.
Luckier than the pair in the alleyway, anyway.
There was a squeak as Portmaster McKlellan shifted in his chair. Theo looked up into frowning tan eyes.
“Ticket’s clean, much good it’ll do you, Waitley.” He pulled it out of the reader and tossed it in her general direction.
Theo twisted in the chair, snatched, and managed to catch the license before it landed in her cup.
“The problem,” she said, “is my ship . . .”
“You’re right there—the problem is your ship,” he said, leaning back in his chair and folding his big hands over his belt buckle. He shook his head. “I got a warrant on file from the FTC, says that ship is in violation of standards. Suspicion of variant and illegal tech. It’s not local talent got it cordoned for toll, is what I’m telling you, Pilot. If that was all, you an’ me would have a little chat about how much your ship means to you, arrive at a fee, and we’d take care of the problem for you. Or not, depending on whether your credit was good. This here”—he waved at the screen—“this here’s galactic, and legit. That ship ain’t goin’ nowhere on your say-so or mine. Which brings us to your next problem—and this is what’d be worryin’ me, if I was sitti
ng there, turning my nose up at a perfectly good cup o’ coffee.”
“I prefer tea,” Theo said, raising the cup and making a show of sipping coffee. The Federated Trade Commission? If they impounded Arin’s Toss—which it looked like they’d done, in the most assertive way possible—they were bound to ask questions about what she was carrying. She didn’t know, and a truth test would prove that. But—Theo suppressed a shudder—truth tests weren’t necessarily enjoyable.
She looked back to the portmaster.
“What’s my next problem, then?”
“Being stranded on Tokeo ain’t something most pilots look on with favor,” the portmaster said, “but in your case, that’s not the problem.” He shifted slightly in his chair and suddenly there was a gun in his hand. Theo froze.
The portmaster nodded.
“Your problem,” he continued, in exactly the same off-hand tone, just like he wasn’t holding a gun on her. “Your problem is that you, as pilot of that very wanted ship out there, are also ‘of interest’ to the FTC, who’ve offered a nice reward for anybody who nails you down long enough for them to take you into custody.” He settled into his chair, gun steady.
“They’ll be here shortly. Might as well finish your coffee.”
- - - - -
The key reported injury to the Captain. The key reported that it had instituted first aid procedures. The key advised that these measures were at best temporary, and that the Captain would soon require care, else she would fall. Perhaps, she would fail.
Carefully, Bechimo diverted energy to the key, which used it to support the Captain. It was a half measure. Less. Had there been a proper bonding . . . but no. To entertain regret at this juncture was to endanger the Captain. The Captain’s well-being and liberty were paramount, so the Builders had stipulated and so Bechimo would—
Logic lit yellow; Rules blared orange; the Morality module blushed a rosy, warning, pink.
Brought up short, Bechimo accessed the problem areas.
