Ghost Ship

by Sharon Lee

  “Not part of the Scholar Base,” she said, sounding more puzzled than annoyed.

  “I believe there is no university on-planet.”

  “What?” Ella tapped the mumu again, stared, and looked up. “There’s not even a secondary feeder school. As a matter of fact, it’s listed as a”—Another tap—“a world in transition?”

  “Yes.” Kamele leaned forward, holding the disposable cup in both hands. “Surebleak has recently had an influx of—colonists, I suppose they would be. The pressure on the local population and culture must be quite acute—unprecedented. It would make a fascinating study.”

  “Fascinating and completely out of your field,” Ella said, and sighed. “All right, I suppose I should have asked this first—why are you going to Surebleak, of all possible places? Why not Valhalla, if you’ve got a year’s leave?”

  Valhalla was a resort world. The joking promise of the two of them visiting it—together—had seen them through many late nights grading survey course papers. They had finally made the joke a reality, in celebration of their joint ascension to Scholar Experts.

  “Valhalla was all surface and no substance,” Kamele said. “You remember, Ella.”

  “I do. After the third day, we were both wanting a library.” She fixed Kamele in her eye. “Which doesn’t answer my question, Scholar Waitley.”

  Kamele took a breath and met her friend’s gaze firmly.

  “I am going to Surebleak because that is where the Delm of Korval is.”

  “The Delm of Korval,” Ella repeated, frowning. “That was a game between Theo and Jen Sar.”

  “A game based on reality, as I’ve lately learned from Theo herself.”

  “And the Delm of Korval is located on Surebleak, which has no discernible educational infrastructure. Not very . . . accomplished, is she?”

  “I don’t presume to judge. Until recently, the delm—and the clan—of Korval was seated on Liad. They were exiled by the governing body for acts against the homeworld.”

  Ella blinked. “So . . . they’re . . . sociopaths?”

  “Possibly. The particular act of aggression for which they were expelled had to do with firing upon the planet and leaving a rather large hole in the surface.”

  Ella’s face softened toward a smile; her friend scented a joke.

  “Kamele—”

  “No,” she interrupted and pointed at the mumu. “Look it up. I found that the Trade Guild papers carried the most succinct accounts.”

  Ella sat for a moment, then bent to her mumu, tapping in the request a bit harder than was strictly necessary.

  “While we’re waiting for the library to process that,” she said, crossing her arms on the desk and leaning forward, “why this sudden desire to meet a genocide?”

  There, Kamele thought, they had arrived at last at the difficult part. She took a deep breath, put the disposable cup of cold coffee on the edge of Ella’s desk, and looked directly into her friend’s face.

  “Jen Sar Kiladi is a pilot for the Delm of Korval,” she said, her voice absolutely level.

  “According to whom?”

  “According to Theo, who further informs me that he has no plans to return to Delgado.”

  “Well, why should he return to Delgado? He’s not an idiot; he has to know that his career is dead. A little unsteadiness in male behavior can be overlooked. But to vanish, papers ungraded, committee work undone, without requesting permission or even telling Admin that he was resigning his chair—that’s not unsteady, that’s dangerously erratic.”

  “Possibly it is. Yet I never knew Jen Sar to be either unsteady or erratic. This sudden, disordered flight is completely unlike him.”

  “No,” Ella said sharply. “Kamele, it is entirely like him!”

  Kamele took a deep breath to cool the spark of irritation. Ella and Jen Sar had not been friends, though he had been more circumspect in his dislike. And Ella had not, Kamele reminded herself, been fortunate enough to have shared daily life with Jen Sar; she could not be expected to know him as well as Kamele did.

  “In fact,” she said levelly, “it is not. I never knew him to stint any formality.”

  “Except when he had a point to make,” Ella answered tartly.

  That was, Kamele thought, fair. Jen Sar had never held shy from achieving what he termed “Balance,” a form of Liaden social engineering.

  “It’s difficult for me to imagine that he had any . . . point to make with his students,” she said carefully, “And even if he had considered that Admin had grievously overstepped, he is not, as you said, an idiot. He would know very well that an unannounced withdrawal from the university would harm his colleagues and his students far more than it would inconvenience Admin.”

  She shook her head. “No, I think that something else happened; that, given his choice, Jen Sar would have been . . . more orderly in his withdrawal—or not have left us at all.”

  “Given his choice?” Ella stared, then abruptly stood and came around the desk. She bent down and gathered Kamele’s hands into hers.

  “Kamele, I don’t want to hurt you, but you have to give over this . . . delusion. Jen Sar is gone; he left you. Completely irregular, if not antisocial—but, either road, a clear indication that he considers his role as your onagrata . . . finished. It may be the truest statement he ever made, while he was on this planet. Allow him that last gesture of truth and—and dignity. You’re an accomplished woman in the prime of your life. Your honors are laurels upon the brow of this university, as even Admin admits! Take your year, since it’s been granted, pursue your own work. Rest. Your absence will give Admin opportunity to reflect on the fact that the lack of your insight lessens the effectiveness of its programs, and to miss your energy and courage. You will return to acclaim, and increased honors. You will take an onagrata who reflects your standing, which will silence the gossipers.” Her fingers tightened around Kamele’s. “You need a change of venue—that, I agree. But you do not need Jen Sar Kiladi.”

  It was rational, what Ella said. Jen Sar himself, Scholar Expert of Cultural Genetics that he was, would have agreed that she argued only proper behavior, as it was parsed on Delgado. And yet . . .

  Gently, Kamele withdrew her hands from Ella’s. The other woman sagged back against the desk, shaking her head.

  “What you see as a pattern of untruth,” Kamele said, holding Ella’s eyes with hers, “I see as reticence; an unwillingness to speak of a perhaps painful past. Within the boundaries of our relationship, and as Theo’s role-male, he was as true as anyone I’ve known.” She leaned forward to touch Ella’s wrist. “As anyone I’ve known.”

  Her friend moved her free hand, wordlessly.

  “I’ve been reading a good bit of anthropology lately,” Kamele said after a moment. She smiled, briefly. “Not my field, but fascinating. Liadens are very closely attached to their clans; the delm acts as chair and holds absolute authority. If a delm calls a clan member home, or reassigns them, mid-task, there is no question that the clan member will obey. To disobey means social repercussions. Serious social repercussions.”

  Ella frowned. “So Jen Sar is a . . . member of the Korval clan?”

  Kamele shook her head. “No, Kiladi isn’t listed as being a member . . . Line, as they’re called.”

  “Then—”

  “Wait.” Kamele raised her hand and shook her head. “Wait. My research failed to uncover any current clan to which Line Kiladi was attached. There was, however, a hint that perhaps that clan had been . . . disbanded, at some point. When that happens, I learned, the members made homeless are sometimes attached—formally or informally—to another clan.

  “When he was a young man, Jen Sar was a pilot. The Delm of Korval has a specific interest in pilots. It is possible, at least as a working thesis, that the Delm of Korval attached Jen Sar, offering place and protection in exchange for the obedience required of a full clan member. In light of recent troubles, the Delm of Korval may well have called every pilot to her hand to a
ssist the clan. Including Jen Sar Kiladi.”

  “Who would have found some way to wiggle out of it, if he’d wanted to stay,” Ella said, not quite steadily. “Jen Sar never did anything he didn’t want to do.”

  Kamele nodded, and swallowed. The next step in her reasoning was difficult. And, yet . . .

  “Threats may have been made,” she said; the experience of many years of teaching keeping her voice steady. “He may have no plans to return to Delgado because he is held hostage by the Delm of Korval.

  “And that is why I am going to Surebleak. I will speak to Jen Sar Kiladi, and I will—I will work to achieve his parole, if that is what he wishes.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Jelaza Kazone

  Surebleak

  Miri and Val Con danced like they were one person, with no hesitation, or fumbling between steps; there were no missed signals, or quick corrections, only a seamless flow of intent and execution.

  Theo’s chest ached, watching them. To understand somebody that well; to trust—to know—that their hand would be exactly there to meet yours when you finished your spin, so that there was no need for even the slightest glance . . .

  It was a small dance—the volentra, Padi and Quin had called it, when they were teaching her the steps—the “hello dance.” Miri and Val Con danced it with obvious delight, light-footed and playful as they retreated, spun, clasped hands, and drew close.

  Small and simple as it was, they danced alone for the first section, as if the whole room were mesmerized, hardly daring to breathe, much less join them on the floor.

  Then Pat Rin stepped into the dance square, Natesa on his arm. Luken led out a buxom, jolly lady whose face was older than her hair, followed by Priscilla and the lady in the red vest. A black-haired woman escorted the bespectacled man with fair hair Pat Rin had been talking to out onto the floor, and grinned a challenge up into his face. He grinned back and threw his hand out, she caught it and they were dancing—pretty well, Theo thought, for non-pilots.

  “Theo! Did you forget how to dance the volentra?”

  She turned to frown at Padi, who was wearing a high-necked dark green dress that showed off her pale hair, and not the red-and-gold brocade with the deep neckline that she’d claimed from House stores. Theo hadn’t thought that one would get past Lady Kareen.

  “Of course I haven’t forgotten the volentra!”

  “Then why are you just standing here? It’s time to dance!”

  Padi grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the floor, and perforce Theo went, minding the long skirt that wanted to tangle her feet.

  “Here!” Padi released her and dropped back two steps, flinging out her hand, taking the lead.

  Theo shook her hair back and retreated, the hem that had been bedevilling her suddenly flowing with her movements, as much a part of her as her own two legs. She’d practiced the steps enough with Padi to be reasonably certain of the location of her cousin’s hand when she finished her spin, and she resisted the pull-in just enough to get a grin and an acknowledging step forward—acceptable variations to the dance, which wasn’t so much about the steps as it was about the intent of coming together in good will.

  The volentra ended. Partners fell apart or came closer together. A movement caught the edge of Theo’s eye, and she turned her head to watch Val Con escort Miri to a chair at the edge of the floor, and bend over to say something into her ear that made her laugh.

  “May I claim my dance, Theo?”

  Ren Zel was at her elbow, and Padi was already soliciting the hand of a new partner from those paused on the floor.

  Theo smiled, wanting nothing more than to dance again, now that she had danced once.

  “Yes!” she said, maybe a little too positively, and took his hand just as the band swung into a kaprian.

  * * *

  She danced with Pat Rin, and with Thera Kalhoon. Peripherally, she was aware of other family members on the floor, and others, circulating among those who chose not to dance. She saw Father, talking to the gilt-haired lady who had danced with Luken, and Val Con, moving among the guests with the apparent intent of saying at least a few words to everyone present.

  The band leader announced that they would play one more selection before they took a break, and promised a line dance when they reconvened.

  “This, then,” said a familiar voice at her shoulder, “would appear to be my last opportunity.”

  She spun, laughing. Father bowed.

  “I have come to redeem my promise,” he said, and held out his hand, the lace falling smoothly away from his wrist.

  Theo put her hand in his.

  The intro line began—and Father’s eyebrows went up.

  “Now, who called for that?” he murmured. “You may excuse me, Theo; certainly you do not wish to dance the presta with your father.”

  She shook her hair back and grinned at him.

  “I’ve never danced with you,” she said, “not once. And you’re the reason I dance at all. No, I’m not going to excuse you.”

  “So, then.” The grin he gave back to her was sharp. He moved his hand in an upward twist, hers following, so that their fingers were joined and the inside of their wrists pressed together, waiting . . .

  And the music began.

  The presta started slow, with a treble circle, as if the dancers were opponents, sizing each other up, instead of partners in a joint effort. It then moved into a series of sharp steps, done not quite at arm’s length, then a disengage, and full turn.

  They were dancing near the edge of the floor. As Theo turned, she saw Miri coming out of her chair, fast, twisting; a man abruptly airborne—

  A woman screamed, someone shouted, there was a crash, another shout—

  Theo spun out of the dance square, dropping into an entirely different dance pattern, and Miri was on her feet, crimson staining her pale gold sleeve, the man she had thrown rolling, finding his feet in a scramble. Theo moved in opposition, meaning to keep him from Miri at any price, and suddenly there was Val Con—Theo had never seen a man move so fast, or with such focused violence.

  He hit Miri’s attacker before the other man was completely centered, striking him chest-high, bearing him backward, slamming him into the wall and holding him there with both hands around his throat.

  From the back of the room came another scream, a curse, the sound of a scuffle and sudden silence, but Theo couldn’t look away from Val Con, who was set for murder, the man he was holding clawing at his hands, and from behind a “Death to outworlders!” another crash, and—

  “Val Con,” Miri said, sounding breathless, looking pale. “I ain’t broke.”

  If he heard her, he gave no sign, and the man he was holding was crying now, and his movements seemed not so—robust.

  “Val Con.” Father stepped forward, raising a hand without looking, fingers flashing two name-signs, summoning—Nelirikk Explorer, it was, with Natesa at his side.

  Father put his hand gently on Val Con’s shoulder, just like he wasn’t slowly strangling somebody.

  “The moment is past, child. Release him to the Judge’s custody.”

  It seemed to Theo that Val Con shivered. She saw his fingers relax, just a little.

  “Miri.” His voice was hoarse.

  “I’m good, Boss. Let Nelirikk have him.”

  The big man stepped forward. Val Con released his victim. Father caught his wrist, pulling him back and slipping an arm around his shoulders, murmuring, “Peace, now; all’s well . . .” just like he’d done when she was a littlie and had gotten herself knotted up in a temper.

  The man who had attacked Miri was on his knees, retching. Nelirikk grabbed him by the back of the collar and hauled him to his feet. The room was so quiet you could’ve heard a feather strike, as Kara used to say.

  “Okay, Theo, you can stand down, too.” Miri said softly from her side. “ ’Preciate the backup—quick and on point.”

  Suddenly there were people along the edge of the dance floor—the pilo
ts Theo had seen circulating earlier, Thera Kalhoon’s fair-haired husband, the lady in the crimson vest, Padi, Quin, and Luken bel’Tarda—a living curtain, cutting them off from the view of the guests.

  “Well done,” Father was telling Val Con. “Come now to your lady and assure yourself that she is well.”

  Beyond the curtain of people, Theo saw Pat Rin walk into the center of the dance floor, raising his voice to be heard at the back of the room.

  “There has been an unfortunate incident. Matters are now in hand. Please, join us for dinner, where we will all regain our good humor.”

  - - - - -

  “You’re bleeding!” Theo cried, snapping forward. Inside her head, Miri saw Val Con’s pattern flare red.

  “No, I ain’t,” she said, holding out the arm so they could both get a look. “I had a cup of the redberry juice Melina Sherton brought in for me, and I dropped it when he grabbed me. Damn waste. And the dress, too.”

  “Damn the dress,” Val Con said clearly, stepping out from under Daav’s arm and grabbing her shoulders, not exactly gentle, either, so he knew she wasn’t hurt, even if he was still coming down from terrified.

  “Didn’t I just say so?” She sagged, so that he had most of her weight in his hands, and then leaning against him, in a hug.

  “You were right,” she said, putting her arms around his waist. “I should’ve had Beautiful. I guess seeing me just sitting there all alone an’ vulnerable give him a new idea.”

  “Wait . . .” That was Theo, sounding shell-shocked, poor kid. “You knew somebody was going to attack you?” Miri pushed her forehead into Val Con’s shoulder, feeling cold and shivery.

  “Cha’trez?”

  “Adrenaline,” she muttered. “Pat Rin got everything under control?”

  “He was herding everyone in to dinner,” Daav said, “which ought to answer for now. In the meanwhile, I assume that the household dramliz are moving among the guests with an eye toward preventing a sequel after the guests have dined?”

  “Anthora had already picked up two—accomplices, I must suppose them, now,” Val Con said over her head. “But with so many people . . .”