by Sharon Lee
“Indeed.” He poured himself more wine, then showed them each the bottle.
“No, thank you,” Theo said. Clarence just held a hand over his glass.
Uncle put the bottle down.
“We proceed, then, to our other business. I understand that Arin’s Toss is in the hold of your ship. What I was not able to ascertain from your communication was its condition.”
“Intact,” Theo said promptly. “Bechimo has the hold shielded, if you’ve tried to communicate directly with the Toss.”
“Prudent,” the Uncle murmured. He sipped wine, thoughtfully, it seemed to Theo. “Scout yo’Vala is being readied for his transfer to your vessel. Have you a rendezvous point to suggest?”
Bechimo had worked that out, then run it past Jeeves, who sent it on to Val Con, who had professed himself “informed,” with that particular inflection that Theo had come learn also meant that he was amused.
“I asked Bechimo to transmit coordinates to the origin point of your last message.”
“It will have bounced to Dulsey, then. As I have heard no outcry, I accept your choice. My choice of time is as soon as possible. I expect that my presence may be trying several tempers and I very much wish the Dragon to lie quiet and tend the business to which it has set itself.”
“Assuming portmaster’s courtesy,” Theo said—and lifting out of Surebleak was nowhere near the problem dropping in was—“we can be at the rendezvous point in three Standard Hours.”
Uncle pursed his lips, nodded.
“That is also acceptable,” he said and drank off what was left of his wine in a swallow.
“I suggest that we remove to our stations, and see this thing done.” He rose and bowed.
“Pilot Waitley. Pilot O’Berin. Good lift.”
“Good lift,” Theo answered, but Uncle had already slipped out of the booth and was on his way to the door.
- - - - -
Pilot Waitley didn’t let any grass grow under her wings, there was that about her. Clarence swung by Mack’s, having gotten the pilot’s permission for a detour, so long as it was quick, and explained the situation, fingers filling in what the mouth hadn’t time for.
“Quite a ship that pilot brung in. I’m not saying I’d be in your boots if she’d offered second to me, but the temptation—there would be that.”
“No notice,” Clarence said. “I’m sorry for that.”
“Ship lifts when the pilot says go,” Mack said. “You done solid for me, and I got no complaints. Comes about you’re home again and need work, remember to stop by an’ see me, right?”
“Right.” Clarence cleared his throat, but Mack’s fingers were moving.
Time flies.
“You got time to get your kit?”
“Sent one of Ms. Audrey’s over to the landlady with the rent and a note. If I’m gone when she gets back, I told her to bring it here—you can do with it as you see fit.”
“I’ll pop it in t’safe ’til you call for it.”
Clarence took a breath, feeling his throat get tight again.
“Thank you,” he said, just like his ma’d taught him back before he’d had any notions about pilots, or ever heard about favors. “I’m beholden.”
“Hell y’are. Now get outta here ’fore your pilot lifts without you and you’re back on tractor repair.”
- - - - -
“Think she’ll be back?” Miri asked, her arm tucked comfortably through Val Con’s as they strolled through the inner garden.
“Am I being asked to find odds?”
“Garden variety guess’ll do.”
He laughed lightly.
“Certainly, one hopes she will visit again, if only to shorten the long faces of her younger kin.”
“Who suddenly discovered how much fun it is to be the ones teaching instead of being taught at,” Miri said, with a laugh of her own. “Seems she worked some bits out with Daav, too.”
“And Mother.” His arm tightened as they left the path and picked their way over the Tree’s surface roots. “I think that she will visit again—she has the excuse of her report to the clan’s Master Trader to compel her.”
“Yeah, that was clever.”
“It was, wasn’t it? Whether she will desire at any point to take up a place in-clan; I cannot predict. I suspect that Father would counsel her against. I might do the same, depending, of course, if I am eventually graduated from dangerous madman to concerned brother.”
“I don’t think that’s gotta be an either/or,” Miri said thoughtfully. “I’m pretty sure she thinks Daav took a sharp rap on the head.”
“True. But Father and Theo have a preexisting, trustful relationship. The rest of us are strangers.”
“And Theo ain’t good with people.”
“Is it being bad with people to know that events would inevitably proceed more smoothly if only everyone would follow her instructions?”
“Put it that way, and she sounds more like family than ever.” Miri sighed, slipped her arm free and put her back against the Tree. The bark warmed against her, which was the Tree’s version of “glad to see you.”
She let her head rest on the trunk and closed her eyes, accepting the warmth and the welcome.
The Tree had settled since the excitement of travel had nearly drowned Val Con in exuberance, but its touch was considerably more vigorous than it had been when she’d first experienced it. The Tree had been bored on Liad, no question, and was finding the move to Surebleak, and the subsequent calls on its assistance, exhilarating. The gardener swore the inner garden couldn’t have made it without the Tree’s intervention. She also said that she’d taken some samples of the new growth and found the structures subtly changed, which Miri wasn’t sure she wanted to think about too hard, but after all, wasn’t survival the ultimate law?
She stirred a little inside the warmth, remembering times in her past where survival—personal survival—hadn’t been on the wish list at all.
There was a sense of consideration inside her reverie, like she and the Tree were in a conversation and it was turning her point over.
She found herself thinking about her mother in a depth she hadn’t in years; and Skel; and—
Her reverie shivered into an awareness of a sense she hadn’t known she had—long-sight, maybe, or delirium. She saw—stars, Surebleak’s familiar constellations; nearer in were ships, delineated in codes she wasn’t quite sure she—but there! There was the reason for this searching, this joy!
Rootless and astonishing, her wings subtle and strong, a white dragon rose through the rabble toward the distant stars.
Gasping with delight, Miri snatched herself forward, her feet tangling in a root—familiar hands caught her, and she sagged against Val Con’s chest, hearing his heart beating with the excitement still echoing in her own blood.
“What the hell was that?” she gasped, and felt him laugh, breathless.
“I believe that Theo has lifted.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Bechimo
Surebleak System
Clarence O’Berin flew a clean board, Theo noted; what Tranza used to call “no fuss, no muss.” You could tell a lot about a pilot from the kind of board they flew; she’d learned that at Anlingdin. Clean was just fine, in her opinion, and she drew her breath in sharp against a sudden stab of regret, that she hadn’t thought to ask Father to fly with her—or Val Con . . .
“Pilot?” Clarence asked quietly—and that was good, too, she told herself. He was sharp and noticed what he needed to notice, for the care of pilot and ship.
Which was something she should maybe tell the man. People liked to be praised for doing right.
“The pilot I sat second to until I earned first class told me that he admired a pilot who ran his board with no fuss. I was thinking that he’d approve of the way you handled things, leaving port.”
That wasn’t exactly what she’d meant to say, but she thought it sounded all right. Then she saw the corner of his mouth twitch, and won
dered if she managed to get it wrong, anyway.
But—“Good to know. Thank you, Pilot,” was what he said.
She nodded and left it there, flicking a glance to her Number Six screen.
“Bechimo, now that Uncle’s coming to take his property off our hands, it might be a nice gesture to drop the shielding on the hold, so he can let the Toss know he’s on the way.”
“That would not be wise, Pilot.”
She sighed. If this was the chaos-driven lists again . . .
“Why not?” she asked, keeping her voice as even as possible.
“Because there are anomalous devices attached to the mere-ship’s chassis. The ship should remain in quiet mode while within the hold and in close proximity. The units are quiescent at the moment but their full function and mode of operation are yet to be discovered.”
She stared at the screen, and its swirling patterns of blue and silver, which were beginning to darken and swirl slightly faster.
“When?” she asked, aware of Clarence in the copilot’s chair, and as much as the pilot had to trust her copilot, so did the copilot need to trust his pilot. “When were you going to tell me?”
“It did not seem necessary. My original scan of the mere-ship was performed at a distance and without direct access to the Builders’ records. On storing the mere-ship in our hold I initiated a log retrieval scan; the mere-ship’s self-test log indicated that while on Spaceport Gondola unplanned maintenance occurred while the ship was in sleep mode. A modified approach light and proximity unit has been added to the mere-ship’s forward install point. The unit appears to have additional functions and energy associated, as well as potential explosive antitamper defenses. I had taken precautions to ensure our safety. What happens to the mere-ship when it is removed from our care is the concern of those who own it.”
“Chaos.” She closed her eyes, reached for the comm, remembered protocol and said, “Second . . .”
“Pinging them now, Pilot. Private?”
“No,” she said. “Put it on speaker, so we can all hear it.”
“Yes, Pilot.” Quick fingers moved, then paused. “Got ’em.”
“Pilot Waitley, this is Dulsey. Service?”
“Dulsey, I’ve just been informed of a . . . developing . . . ummm, maintenance situation with the Toss. Requesting that we put off rendezvous until I can ascertain and repair.”
There was a short pause, as if she’d managed to startle Dulsey—but it might only have been lag; her answer when it came was perfectly composed.
“We appreciate your concern, Pilot, and will stand by. If one may offer aid, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you. I’ll assess and get back to you. Waitley out.”
Clarence cut the connection. Theo closed her eyes and counted to ninety-nine by threes, sighed, opened her eyes and stood.
“Bechimo, open the hold.”
“No, Pilot.”
Anger warmed her. She took another breath. Anger wins no arguments, she reminded herself, which Kamele used to say. It meant that shouting wasn’t allowed, but that manipulation was perfectly in order.
But to successfully manipulate an opponent into doing what you wanted them to do, according to Father, you needed to find out why they opposed you.
So.
“Why not?”
“The situation has the potential to produce damage. I cannot allow my pilot to expose herself to this risk.”
Theo bit her lip, trying to think how best to frame her argument.
“Use a remote, then,” Clarence said, spinning his chair around and directing his comment, as Val Con had, at a point on the ceiling slightly to the right of center. “You got remotes, don’t you?”
“My remotes are few and valuable.”
“As valuable as your pilot, here? Or the copilot we’re trying to get back before he dies of putting himself into harm’s way for you?”
Silence.
Clarence shook his head.
“You gotta think this stuff through,” he said, and came out of his chair, giving Theo a nod. “No good us brangling. With your permission, Pilot, I’ll take a look at the item in the hold.”
Theo shook her head. “Bechimo says it could explode.”
“Heard that. I don’t say I’m eager, but I do have some experience with tracking gigs and with explosives. Enough not to lose my head, and to yell for help if I see I need it.”
“Which begs the question,” Theo said, and glared at her screen. “Bechimo, I will be monitoring the situation. If Pilot O’Berin needs help, you will open the hold to me. I am First Pilot, he is my crew and I’m not going to leave him in need. Can we agree on those terms?”
“Yes, Pilot.”
It seemed to her that Bechimo sounded subdued.
- - - - -
Pod 78 was located upon Moonstruck, a large asteroid in stable orbit around a small sun, one of several natural anomalies that attracted tourists and cruise ships. A space camp for which there was a long waiting list had been established in Moonstruck orbit.
The explosives expert attached to the Department’s team of programmers and software engineers gave as her opinion that, should Pod 78 catastrophically give up its energy, the space camp would be instantly incinerated. Other, peripheral, tragedies involving cruise ships might also occur, if the Department were nice about its timing.
That, of course, was for Command to decide.
In the meanwhile, the engineers and programmers continued their work. Apparently whatever had prompted the device to call for repair had very soon thereafter frozen its interfaces. This allowed the engineers to work with a degree of freedom, bypassing sleeping guard-programs, following frozen rivers of data to the core program.
Whereupon it was discovered that not all of the guard-programs slept, and two things happened at once.
Pod 78 sent a message.
A countdown program began.
Despite the loss of the three technicians in the room with it when these events occurred, the message was captured by the officer sitting comm on the bridge of the Department’s work boat.
The team leader, upon being made aware of the substance of that message, pinbeamed Command.
The stakes had just risen—risen brilliantly. Pod 78 had called upon the Delm of Korval, and it was only the Delm of Korval who could avert the disaster the team had unwittingly put in train. In one throw, the Department could win—all. In order to destroy Korval, the team need only withdraw.
And wait.
Command agreed.
The team removed all traces of its work and its tenure inside the cavern. They left, locking the door behind them.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Bechimo
Surebleak System
It was a nasty piece of work, but straightforward for all of that. There were a couple of internal shunts that looked like they could get worrisome, but his biggest problem was deciding the protocol—meaning, would it blow if he just removed the gadgets entire, or if he were daft enough to try to separate the components, or if he looked at it cross-eyed. But, then, that always was the problem, wasn’t it?
Clarence sat back on his heels and considered what his instruments told him, the good news being that Bechimo had the instruments to hand, and that they were reasonably up-to-date.
He could sure use the team of experts he’d left back on Liad, though.
“Pilot O’Berin?”
The voice was soft, and a little thin, for coming through the speaker on the job cart, still it was recognizable enough.
“Bechimo,” he acknowledged, frowning at the schematic on the work screen.
“I deduce from the readings that Pilot Waitley is . . . angry with me.”
“Oh, aye, she is that, though I thought she held line pretty well, considering the provocation.”
“I do not understand the provocation. It is to the ship’s benefit that the pilot be safe.”
“Yeah, well, what you gotta understand about Pilot Waitley is that s
he’s out of a long line o’ hardheads that’re convinced they got the answer—which, in fairness, they do, more often than not—and who care about ships above almost anything else. Letting this pretty lady sit here with that bit of nasty clipped to her wings—that’s just cold.”
“Arin’s Toss is a mere-ship. It cannot think, nor could it protect its pilot when the need arose.”
“I don’t got that particular story, but I will tell you this—you want to have pilots angry with you on a regular and continuing basis, keep on calling their ladies ‘mere-ships.’ ”
He shook his head and stood up, looking down at the work cart.
“Now, if you were wanting to know why Pilot Waitley’s angry with you at this particular hour—it’s because you withheld vital information. She negotiated this trade—Arin’s Toss for your regular copilot—in good faith. The terms of the trade were that both the ship and the pilot are in good condition and would remain that way. We’re fortunate in that it appears the other party has an interest in keeping the hostage well that goes beyond his interest in recovering his rightful property.
“If this had been a real hostage-taking, where enemies of the ship were holding crew or pilots, and it was found we were planning on giving them back a booby-trapped ship, like you were planning in this case . . .”
“Yes?” Bechimo whispered.
“The most likely outcome is that the hostage would’ve been killed.” Clarence paused, then asked, off-handedly. “D’you know what killed is?”
“Yes,” Bechimo hissed—hit something there.
Clarence waited, but the air wasn’t evacuated from the hold, nor yet did a death ray leap out of the work cart and fry him on the spot, which, if you were of a mind to credit the old tales, should’ve been the next order of business. Seein’ as the tales were wrong . . .
“So, there’s Pilot Waitley’s temper explained for you. ’Nother thing is—it strikes me Pilot Waitley might object to finding she’s been made a liar. There’s some ports where a pilot’s reputation buys more than cantra.”
