Ghost Ship

by Sharon Lee

  “My name’s Theo Waitley,” she answered. “I’m looking to hire a copilot. You come . . . highly recommended as a reputable and honest pilot.”

  Clarence tipped his head, considering the face, and the eyes.

  “That’ll be your da doing the recommending, I think. He tell you anything else about me?”

  “He said you knew how to take orders, and were a handy man in a fight,” she said, sounding peevish, and added, “I seem to attract fights.”

  “Oh, aye, you’ll do that. Comes with the turf, like they say hereabouts.”

  She sighed. “Everybody knows that, too,” she commented, and gave him a glare. “I thought you might be a friend of my father’s—”

  There was a but there, hovering on the edge of not-said, and wise she was to doubt it. Clarence grinned and shook his head.

  “Friends—well, now, we might could’ve been, in a different set of circumstances. As it happened, he had his melant’i, and I had the business to tend. Say that I set value on him, and still do.”

  “He obviously values you,” she said, almost like she didn’t know what Daav yos’Phelium’s regard was worth. She sighed and jerked her head toward his hands, that he was still rubbing with the rag.

  “Have you decided if you’re going to shoot me?”

  Her da’s sharp eyes, sure enough. Clarence gave her a nod.

  “As it happens, I’ve decided not to shoot you, lassie.”

  “Good,” she said, though there wasn’t much easing of her frown. He was beginning to form the theory that the lass was ill-tempered by nature.

  “Are you at liberty to be hired?”

  “I work here casual,” he told her. “You offering long-term?”

  “I’d like to introduce you to my ship.”

  There was an inflection there, too, as he tried to remember which ship on port might be her own—and failed. Tcha. His memory was getting old, along with the rest of him.

  “Would that be now?” he asked politely.

  “If you’re at liberty. Otherwise, name the hour and I’ll meet you at the Emerald.”

  Daav must’ve sung his praises to the polestar, Clarence thought. Or he’d laid down some bit of law that the lassie felt compelled to heed.

  “Let me clear it with Mack,” he said. “If he’s done with me for the day, we can step over to see your boat now.”

  - - - - -

  Clarence O’Berin, Theo thought, wasn’t at all what she had expected him to be.

  What she had expected him to be, she couldn’t have said. Like Father, maybe, or like Tranza. Older—that, she had expected, and, thinking about it, had figured that having an older man as backup wasn’t a bad thing. Lots of experience to call on, and a tendency to weigh before weighing in, where an older woman might tend to force a situation. Bechimo being the ship he was, they were all going to need to keep a low profile.

  Or, at least, as low as possible.

  Which led her thoughts right back to the man walking alert and quiet beside her. A dangerous man, no doubt. Yet not out of control. He’d had the hideaway tucked in his palm when he came out from behind the tractor, but he’d waited, measured the situation, and made his decision rationally and calmly.

  That was good.

  What was . . . somewhat worrying was the fact that Clarence O’Berin felt it necessary to arm himself to meet a casual caller at his place of employment.

  If he was not only dangerous, but hunted . . .

  . . . that didn’t make him any different, did it, than Bechimo.

  Or her.

  “Here we are,” she said, leading the way up the gantry.

  “I thought your da told me you was for courier,” Clarence said from behind her.

  “I was,” she said. “But things—got complicated.”

  “Things do tend in that direction, more often than not. Taken note of it myself.”

  Theo took a breath, and paused, key in hand, but not yet quite willing to trigger the hatch. She’d told Bechimo that she had a recommendation for a crewman, another pilot, who would sit second until the Less Pilot was himself again. Bechimo had been—call it cautiously excited—and inquired after the pilot’s name—to check against his lists, Theo supposed.

  Not too very long after receiving it, he said that he would be pleased to have Pilot O’Berin brought aboard for a tour, adding that he would in the interim research the pilot’s background.

  That was good and prudent. She’d researched Clarence O’Berin herself, to the extent of pulling his Guild records and finding that his flying had been sparse for about as long as she’d been alive. Father had explained that his employment had tied him to port, but that he’d started his career as a courier pilot and, now he was retired, he wanted to reclaim his wings.

  “If you’re having second thoughts, Pilot, I can turn and walk off now.” His voice was even—too even, Theo thought suddenly, like she might say it, to cover a hurt.

  “No problem,” she said brusquely. “Both of my parents were professors; I get the habit of staring into nothing from them.” She pressed the key home and the hatch rose.

  * * *

  “Bechimo was built as a loop ship,” she said, guiding Clarence O’Berin to the piloting chamber.

  “They don’t much do that anymore,” he commented, which was only true, and a subtle way to let her know that he knew that there hadn’t been a ship built with lines like Bechimo’s for hundreds of years, if then.

  “I hope you don’t mind an older ship,” she said, to let him know that she’d heard him on both levels.

  “She seems comfortable and took care of,” he answered. “I’d like to see the maintenance logs and suchlike, if that’s allowed.”

  It was Guild rule that a pilot under consideration for a command chair, which Bechimo’s copilot certainly was, was allowed access to maintenance logs and ship’s record. If access was denied, the pilot could walk, with any talking money still in his pocket, and the Guild would back him. She’d told Bechimo that a Guild pilot would want to see those records; he’d assured her that there would be no problem.

  And if there was, then Clarence O’Berin would walk, and she’d’ve learned something else about her ship.

  “I’ll call those up, if you’d like to see them now,” she said, moving to the pilot’s chair.

  Clarence O’Berin stood just to her right, between the stations, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, reminding her suddenly and vividly of Father when he had come aboard the Toss.

  “Bide a bit,” he said, his quick eyes on the arrangement of the copilot’s board and screens. “You’ve got yourself a looper—” He glanced away from his study long enough to offer her a smile. “Now, what I’m wonderin’ is—do you have yourself a loop?”

  Theo nodded. “Shan—Master Trader yos’Galan—designed a mid-loop, and has hired this ship to run it once, complete. Since it’s a new loop, the pilots are asked to gather info—there’s a bonus for that. Standard three-way split for bonuses—one share to each pilot, one share to the ship.”

  Clarence nodded, thoughtfully, but didn’t say anything else, like he thought she wasn’t done yet, which, now that she considered it, she wasn’t.

  “Before we take up the loop, we have a cargo transfer in Surebleak near-orbit. I’m waiting for word now on the specific rendezvous and time.”

  He nodded again. “What’re we swapping?”

  We. Theo didn’t know whether the funny feeling in her stomach was relief or regret. Still, the man deserved an answer—

  “We’re swapping the courier ship in Bechimo’s hold for the pilot who holds the key to second board.”

  A flash of blue in her direction, like maybe he was having second thoughts about his we, but all he said was, “Who?”

  “Crystal Energy Consultants.”

  Clarence O’Berin threw back his grey head and laughed.

  Theo felt a flicker of irritation. “Is that funny?”

  “No, now, lassie, don’t look black
death at me! How d’ye happen to have one of the Uncle’s ships in your hold, if you don’t mind sayin’?”

  “I was contracted to Crystal Energy Consultants as a courier pilot,” she said, trying to keep her voice even and not sound like she was annoyed. “The Toss was my ship.”

  “Then this fine lady come along and you decided to be your own woman. Fair enough. And the pilot we’re receiving in exchange? Seems to me if that one holds second key, there’s no need to be tempting port pickup pilots with visions of testing out a new loop for Korval.”

  He was upset, Theo thought, having given that we and now thinking that she was pushing it away. She shook her head, fingers rising to sign, steady, complex, and short form.

  “The pilot who holds second key was . . . captured by people who wanted to gain possession of this ship. He refused to guide them to Bechimo, or—or to me, and for that he was tortured and . . . badly damaged. He’s dying—but maybe the healing unit on this ship can do the necessary repairs.” She gave him her best imitation of Father’s most opaque stare. “It’s an old ship, and it carries some . . . non-standard tech.”

  Clarence waited, watching her.

  “He might—I gathered, as far as Uncle knows, and he’s the closest thing to an expert I have on this—Win Ton might be a long time healing, if he doesn’t die instead. In the meantime, this ship is under contract to Tree-and-Dragon to test the master trader’s new route. I need—backup. I attract trouble. I need a copilot who’s capable and smart, who knows when to stay on the ship and keep the hatch closed, and when to set the ship as backup and come down on the ground to sort things out.”

  He didn’t say anything or move a muscle for a long count of three, then he sighed, took his hands out of his pockets, and stepped over to the copilot’s chair.

  “A smart ship’s a real benefit to a pilot,” he said, settling in. “I value a smart ship.” He raised his voice slightly. “You hear that, Ship?”

  Theo held her breath.

  “I hear that, Pilot O’Berin.”

  “Good. What’m I to call you?”

  “Bechimo. How shall I address you?”

  “Clarence’ll do it.”

  Theo sighed out the breath she’d been holding.

  “Bechimo, please provide Clarence with ship’s log and maintenance records.”

  “Yes, Pilot.”

  She touched certain tabs, bringing up the copilot’s contract Ms. dea’Gauss had written for her, spelling out duties, pay, and shares.

  “Sending to your Three screen,” she said quietly, “Clarence.”

  * * *

  It didn’t take him long to vet the logs, though he lingered over the contract before setting his thumb against the plate with a sigh.

  “dea’Gauss does good work,” he said, and spun his chair to face her. “When d’you want me on duty, Pilot?”

  Theo considered that. Uncle was due within the next local day. She could easily let the man go home and put his groundside life in order before—

  “Pardon, Pilot Waitley,” Bechimo said, sounding a lot more respectful than he usually did. “I have a communication from the Uncle. He expects to land within the hour, and desires a meeting with you at the Emerald.”

  In the copilot’s station, Clarence laughed softly.

  “I’m thinking that means now,” he said.

  - - - - -

  Quin jumped, kicking into a quarter-turn midleap, flexed his knees, brought his elbows in to his sides . . .

  The hideaway in his jacket shifted, destroying his center. He kicked again, much good it did him, hit the mat on one knee, ducked into a somersault and snapped to his feet.

  “Impressive,” Padi said, from her lean against the bar. “But not at all what Theo managed.”

  “I know that!” Quin snapped, and sighed. “I would have matched it, but my gun shifted.”

  “You insisted that we practice as if we were on-port,” she pointed out.

  “Are you going to ask a port tough to wait until you go back to the ship and change into your exercise clothes?” Quin asked, still snappish.

  Padi raised her hand, fingers whispering peace. “I had said you insisted, not that you were in error. In fact, it seems to me that we ought to have been practicing in port dress long since—for just the reason your last effort illuminated. Full pockets make a simple dance—something more complex.”

  Quin shook his head. “Theo managed that move in a gown, landed firm, centered, and already in defense stance. I was looking directly at her and I cannot say for certain how it was done.” He gave Padi a small smile. “She’s rather quick, our Theo.”

  “It would be instructive to have her dance with Uncle Val Con. Could the eye even follow?”

  Quin dropped to the mat. “Not much chance of that very soon, is there?” He pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them.

  “There may be an opportunity,” Padi said, kneeling beside him and looking into his eyes, “in future. Are you still worried about your father’s lifemate?”

  He moved his shoulders. “Worried . . . she will be something different in the house, but with so much else different . . .”

  “And after all,” Padi said brightly, “you will have Grandfather, so it will seem just as always.”

  “I will, but—” He looked up, face earnest. “Padi, does it seem . . . odd to you, that we are going—that you are going on the Passage with your father, and I to the city with mine, while Syl Vor and the twins stay here, without us? We were at the Rock so short a time, and yet it seems that we had always been there, waiting for word, practicing the drills and Grandfather walking the rounds . . .”

  “I know.” She leaned forward and touched his cheek. “Cousin, we sat board together, and trained together, and depended, each on the other. It does seem odd, that we will be separated. But—we had to learn to work together. And the Rock seemed strange, didn’t it, at first?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “And we’re behind, you know,” Padi continued. “My father says he doubts I’ll find time in my schedule to sleep, I’ve so much to catch up aboard the Passage.”

  Quin grinned. “Surely he knows you better than that!”

  “Perhaps he has some catching up to do, as well,” Padi said smugly, and came to her feet as the door to the practice room opened.

  “Your pardons,” Mr. pel’Kana said. “Master Quin, Mr. McFarland is here to take you to your father.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Emerald Casino

  Surebleak Port

  Surebleak

  “Ah, Pilot Waitley, how good of you to come so quickly.”

  Uncle rose from the depths of the backmost booth and bowed gently, in no particular mode—or at least not in any of the modes her cousins had managed to drill into her head yet. His beard was more definite, and carefully groomed; his dark hair was lacquered red at the tips, and a single gold ring pierced his right ear. He wore a plain dark sweater, a leather vest, and leather pants. There was a workmanlike gun on his belt—only prudent on Surebleak Port—and another, smaller gun, Theo thought, in his right sleeve.

  “And this worthy person is—”

  “Pilot O’Berin,” she said. “My copilot.”

  Uncle gave her one of his cool smiles. “Copilot, very good,” he said, and, then, over her head, “Pilot Clarence O’Berin?”

  “That’s right,” he said easily.

  Uncle’s smile deepened, if it didn’t exactly warm. “Excellent,” he said, and swept out an arm, indicating the empty seats. “Please, Pilots, join me. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering wine.”

  Theo slid into the corner seat, which was as good a choice as any. She had solid wood at her back, and a good view of the room, but she was more or less boxed in. If trouble came, she’d just have to take a dive under the table.

  Clarence sat angled at the end of the bench, which gave him a clear view of Uncle and of her, while partially shielding her from the room. Taking up copilot’s duty, just like that, The
o thought.

  “Pilot Waitley, you must allow me to say how very much I regret the events that overtook you at Tokeoport,” Uncle said, pouring two fingers of wine into each of the three glasses at the center of the table. “However, as it seems that these regrettable events have had the happy result of uniting you with your destiny, we ought perhaps not lament too widely, but simply toast your . . . good fortune.”

  He set the bottle aside and picked a glass up, holding it aloft.

  Clarence picked up one of the two remaining without hesitation and held it high. Theo, sighing internally, perforce picked up the third and raised it.

  “Pilot,” Uncle prompted, “the toast?”

  She blinked, then remembered Val Con and Father—“To the luck,” she said.

  “The luck,” Clarence seconded, “every bit of it.”

  “Indeed,” Uncle said. “To fortune.”

  Theo let the wine dampen her mouth and sweeten her tongue, just enough to be polite, before she put the glass down. Clarence, she saw, did about the same. The Uncle drank deeply and with obvious enjoyment, which was fair enough—he’d bought the bottle.

  “Before we address the more pressing matters before us, I wonder, Pilot Waitley, if you were able to retrieve that item from the lock box?”

  She nodded, held her primary hand between them with fingers wide, signaling no threat, while she reached inside her jacket with her off-hand and drew out the flat box she’d picked up on Tokeoport.

  Carefully, she put it on his side of the table, next to the wine bottle, angled so that he could see the unbroken seal.

  “The others are in the ship’s safe,” she said.

  Uncle exhaled, slowly.

  “Pilot Waitley, you are a resourceful and determined woman. The usual fee, and a hazard bonus, will be in your account within the next local day.” He put his hand over the box, lifted it and slipped it into his vest pocket.

  “You will also find the buy-out fee in your account,” he continued, and finished the rest of the wine in his glass. “I do regret that you will not be able to continue in my employ, Pilot.”

  “It doesn’t seem practicable,” Theo agreed, “given that your name appears on certain lists.”