by Sharon Lee
Silence. Could be he’d given Bechimo a bit to sort over, after all.
“Now that’s all settled,” he said, “I’ll thank you to be quiet and let me figure out how to go about this.”
“Would a schematic of the device’s original configuration be of assistance?”
“Happens it would. Send it to the work screen, would you?”
* * *
Clarence shook his head.
“No way for me to be getting in there for the releases,” he muttered.
. . . and if he tried releasing the whole device without getting to the internals first? Well, the schematic was pretty clear about that.
The problem was multifold, one of the wrinkles being that landing lights were both big and heavy to begin with, and the necessary slick for the outside of a starship’s hull meant that there were magnetic triggers and locks that made the fascia go through five turns before it popped out enough to hit the release. The light crystal itself was almost exactly the same energy-neutral shade as the hull when it was unpowered, as now, making quick-guess alignment iffy at best and dangerous at worst.
“Damn.” He’d left all—well almost all—the fancy tech belonging to Juntavas back on Liad, except some little bits that were prolly sitting in Andy Mack’s safe by now. What he figured they had here was a tracker—a high-power pinbeam equivalent. Didn’t want to be close to it if it let that energy go or called home. Good thing it was that Bechimo hadn’t let Uncle just cold call to say howdy.
“I can help,” Bechimo offered, subdued and sudden from the job cart.
“I’m not refusing help,” Clarence said.
Across the hold, the service hatch rose, admitting a rectangular metal box on tractor treads, standing about as high as Clarence’s belt buckle.
“Thought you weren’t going to be risking anything so valuable as a remote?”
“I have crafted another solution,” Bechimo said from the job cart. “Pilot O’Berin, please review my understanding.”
“All right.”
“It is imperative that the mere—that the ship Arin’s Toss be presented to the agent of the Uncle intact and without such devices as have been attached by those who seem not to wish him well.”
“Check.”
“It is also imperative that none of my pilots achieve the state of being killed.”
“In this case, I think we’ve got a match there, too.”
“It is highly desirable, but not imperative, that the remote unit takes no damage.”
“I’m thinking that remotes can be replaced easier than people,” Clarence said carefully. “But I’ve got a certain amount of ignorance on the topic. For instance, I don’t know if losing a remote will be . . . painful, or impair you in any way.”
“No impairment, thank you, Pilot. There is an ongoing lack of expected feedback from those remotes which have been lost in the past. I do not equate this with the pain I have had occasion to observe. However, I think that this new method will endanger neither yourself nor the base remote.”
The unit came to a stop next to the job cart.
“Now.” An arm made out of what looked to be silver tubing extended until its clawed tip was resting on the chassis against the damned slick light box. Clarence held his breath, but the arm was apparently going no further. Instead, two tiny black objects emerged from the main housing and minced down the arm bridge.
At first Clarence thought they were spiders, with bulblike bodies rocking in a cradle of eight delicate high-stepping legs.
“Secondary remotes,” Bechimo said. “Once the exterior bezel is released they will enter the device under my guidance, deactivate the interior trips, and retreat, neutralizing such points as seem to be a threat. I expect that they will be destroyed before the work is completed, but anticipate that they will disarm enough of the device’s internals that the remote will be able to deal with the remainder in a fashion that will allow it to remain intact.”
“If you please, Pilot, deploy the containment field.”
“I’ll do that,” Clarence said “if you’ll let me see what the remotes see—I’ve done this kind of work myself once or twice. Might be able to help keep all the parts working as long as we need them. Monitor and record my comments, if any.”
The schematic on his work screen was replaced by a split view of the light crystal and the hull around it.
He engaged the containment field—and retreated with the job cart behind the protective wall at the back of the hold.
“Pilot?” That was his boss, her voice sounding worried over the headset. “How’s it going?”
“It’s going,” he told her. “Bechimo’s machined some secondaries to get into the small places with. Looks like it might work.”
“How long?” she asked, and then, sounding apologetic, “I have an inquiry.”
“We got video now, thanks to Bechimo. Didn’t he tell you?”
The silence was explicit, and Clarence shook his head.
“Right—so you’ll want to share the video that’s on my work screen with Pilot Waitley, if you would be so kind, Bechimo?”
“Yes, Pilot,” came the subdued agreement from the ship.
“Let’s get to it, then.”
- - - - -
The “getting to it” wracked nerves, consumed time. Theo fielded another inquiry from Dulsey, watched the screens, and didn’t push her copilot to hurry.
The trouble was partly equipment. A normal power-pull could match the eight magnetic spots and twist a retaining ring out in a matter of seconds—which Theo knew because it had been one of the things she’d had to help with on field duty at Hugglelans, her break job while she was at the academy.
Here, they were working with Bechimo’s old-fashioned four-point portable unit, run from the remote, trying to release the first four points and then rotate to the second set of points to both unseat and pull. The assists showed a good, clear picture of what was going on—a continual battle of lock spin slip, lock spin slip, lock spin slip, the while waiting for whatever tell-tales might be set within the unit to act.
Her screen showed the progress at the rate about a completed full turn a minute, with Bechimo’s low toned, “approximately two minutes remaining for fascia removal” was less than reassuring.
The threads appeared as gigantic spiral gutters as the assistant remotes continued to scan for evidence of problems and Theo danced a continuous slow motion relaxation dance as she sat, watching the other monitors and scan readings in turn.
“Slow!” Theo called out.
Lighting in the hold was brilliant, and Clarence had already had the remotes scan the area once, so Theo could see the boxy one, spindly arm holding the light crystal demounter. Now she could see the discoloration—
“Manufacturing artifact,” suggested Bechimo, “there is no obvious utility.”
“Might be an optical assist?” Clarence’s voice was level, making her wonder if he’d ever startle her by breaking into full song the way her former pilot Rig Tranza had done.
“Unlikely, but noted. The unit was seated in existing hardware without such a sensor location.”
“Point,” Clarence agreed. “Continue.”
Theo nodded. Her copilot might not be a Tranza, but he was level-headed, and that was good to know.
She looked at the board and grimaced. It was midnight at Surebleak Port. At the far end of the Road, at Jelaza Kazone, the night flowers would be at full glow in the inner garden. On another night, she and Cousin Luken would have finished their last round of pikit, sitting for a moment or two longer, chatting, then would have gone upstairs together, parting at the top of the stair, he for his rooms, she for hers.
- - - - -
The bedside comm chimed once, then Miri heard Val Con murmur.
“Yes? . . . Ah. Please see them comfortable in the map room. I will come down at once.”
“Think even Scouts would learn to call during business hours,” Miri muttered, opening her eyes, and pushing the
covers back.
Val Con caught her hands, and smoothed the blankets over her shoulders.
“I will go, cha’trez. You will remain here, and sleep for us both.”
“Now there’s a fair divide on the work,” she said, letting him press her into the pillow. Gods, she was tired.
“Sleep,” Val Con murmured.
She felt his lips, warm against her cheek . . .
. . . and slept.
- - - - -
Despite the even slower rate, Clarence was fine with the progress they were making, and fine with Pilot Theo’s approach to be joggled from the outside—and appreciative of the effort she was likely making to keep her temper.
There.
The retaining plate’s threads gave way with a slight lurch, with the extended demounter cradling the descending basic unit with a hairsbreadth between hull and the cylindrical innards.
“Our next phase begins, Pilot,” announced Bechimo as the tiny mobile units ascended into the interior. “Please watch with care!”
Clarence stared at the larger remote as if Bechimo resided there—should an AI actually sound nervous?
“Hold!”
On screen, one of the secondaries was following the other—and there was already something out of the ordinary.
“That blue blob—”
“Noted. The object is not on the original schematic, and carries the chemical signature of a known explosive. It is of insufficient size to be a danger to the ship as a whole but could be a hazard to crew or small components. Roughly the equivalent of a handgun projectile load.”
The camera moved jerkily, the second unit following the first up the blue blob, across a connection plug, to an actual light crystal similar to the specs, turned and stopped, the wonders of a circuit capsule before it. This was the real payload, though above it and packed around it were several more of the blue blobs.
“Seen one of them before,” Clarence began, the same instant Bechimo sang out, “Identified from catalogs.”
Clarence laughed. “No wonder—there’s only one of them Shack designs are any good, and that’s the one, right there. Thing is, there’s some extra plugs, and something else above, as far as I can see.”
The image bounced heavily, switching between the two miniremotes.
“I am building a stereo image. I believe that there are parts numbers visible that will permit—”
“That’s a short range call-me-back; might be that—”
“It is cross-connected to several power systems, as is the pinbeam itself: The schematics clearly show that once energized for a landing or docking the device would broadcast locally and the pinbeam would send a momentary burst with coordinates to a prechosen location. The small explosives are not currently powered, though there is an auxiliary power supply they could access.”
The remotes began a skittering run that did bad things to Clarence’s sense of balance. He snatched at the job cart.
“Uh, Bechimo, warning on that stuff. Some of us can suffer motion sickness!”
“It was not intentional. A random walk program was employed while recording; I believe I could now duplicate this if required and have a firmer understanding of the device. The total explosive forces are not a danger to the external hull of the mer . . . of Arin’s Toss. There is minor danger to the internals present, as long as they are not employed in Jump, where they could change the external configuration of the ship and create a phantom equation wave capable of altering Jump destination. Given the forward location, employing the explosives on high speed atmospheric entry might also be a cause for concern.”
Clarence closed his eyes as the image bobbled again. “I sure wouldn’t want to be on the inside trying to figure out what was going wrong while I was shedding pieces.”
There was no reply from Bechimo, which was probably just as well. Clarence opened his eyes, cautiously. On screen, the spider things were emerging unscathed from the interior.
“It is my understanding, Pilot O’Berin, that what we have here is of little danger to us, but would in fact be a threat to Arin’s Toss and its crew, if permitted to remain. I suggest we continue with the removal. Once the device is removed and neutralized you will be able to enter the ship and access a proper replacement from ship stores.”
“You’re good with that? You figure we’re safe?”
“If time were not a limiting factor I believe I could disassemble the entirety. However, the Less Pilot waits upon the completion of this project. He is frail, and he is ours to care for; we cannot in kindness force him to wait any longer than strictly necessary. Once the unit exits the hull, we must move with alacrity. The containment field is sufficient to prevent damage to our own ship systems, and since this hold has not been much used previously it is in excellent condition.”
“You got that, Pilot? Bechimo thinks . . .”
Theo’s voice came, unhurried.
“Nothing to argue with. You two are on the spot, and time’s passing. Go.”
“Bechimo, we’re on, if you’re up to it.”
“The remote is in proper position, and the assistant remotes are recovered. We shall withdraw the unit, and the remote will direct it insofar as it may be possible. There are five explosive packages; allow me to tell you when they are neutralized or detonated. I begin.”
“Are you sure—” Clarence heard Theo start, but Bechimo’s remote was already acting and the mass of the crystal and attendant parts was sliding out, nearly as tall as Clarence, into its spindly grip. The unit tottered, badly balanced in the gripper and fell heavily to the decking.
An explosive incandescence came from the floor, and a blast muffled by the field, but plenty loud enough for his nerves.
Hers, too, apparently.
“What was that?”
“Warn-away strength only, Pilots,” Bechimo said, over the whole ship. “No damage done. Pilot Waitley, please let the Uncle know that—that Arin’s Toss will be ready for his pilot to pick up within a Standard Hour.”
This was punctuated by another explosion, slightly less exclamatory than the first.
“A time delay, Pilot, three more,” reminded Bechimo.
“Second, get out of there,” Theo said.
Unseen, Clarence shook his head.
“I’m behind the blast wall. I think I’ll just rest here ’til we’re done.”
“All right,” she said. “Just—don’t do anything dangerous, all right?”
Clarence laughed.
THIRTY-NINE
Jelaza Kazone
Surebleak
In contrast to the hallway, the map room was brightly illuminated, as if its sole occupant wished to banish every shred of shadow. If that were his purpose, yet it fell short of complete success; the man himself threw a small eclipse over the map he bent to study.
Val Con shut the door silently behind him, and said, “I was told that Scouts awaited my pleasure.”
Scout ter’Meulen, for it was none other, turned slowly, making a show of his lack of surprise.
“And so it was Scouts,” he said, “and one of them so exhausted that I begged a cot for her and an hour’s quiet recuperation, while you and I talked about the weather.”
Clonak ter’Meulen was his father’s oldest friend; a man Val Con had known all his life, and had once trusted without reservation. These things being so, still they did not make the Scout any less annoying when he was in a whimsical mood. Which he most often was.
Eyeing Clonak, Val Con noted the lines of weariness in the older man’s face. Only one exhausted, was it? he thought, and sighed. Well, Clonak was capable of whimsy on his deathbed. Best to get through it as quickly as possible and petition Mr. pel’Kana for a second cot.
“The weather is,” he therefore said, “remarkably mild for the season, which is, in case you had wondered, spring. We all of us anticipate the arrival of summer, and a growing season slightly shorter in duration than one of my aunt’s formal dinner parties.” He folded his hands before him. “But
perhaps you have a storm warning,” he finished politely, “having so lately come from orbit.”
Clonak snorted a laugh. “You’re not going to let me have any fun, are you, Shadow?” he asked in Terran.
“As much as it must naturally pain me to discommode a guest . . .” Val Con murmured, then said more sharply, “Clonak, it is—”
The Scout held up his hand. “Local midnight, or beyond. I can tell time, child. And I can also tell when someone has subverted his duty.” He fixed Val Con in a cool, taffy-colored gaze. “Scout Commander yos’Phelium.”
Val Con sighed. “I fear you will have to be more specific—of which particular infraction do you speak?”
“Perhaps Interdicted World I-2796-893-44 strikes memory’s chord?”
In fact, it did, and pleasurable music it was, despite that they had been hunted there, and Miri nearly lost to the treachery of an Agent of Change. In Balance, they had made friends, and gained a brother.
“The locals call it Vandar,” he told Clonak. “I make a clean breast—it was either land there and live, however we might, or die attempting one more Jump in a stripped vessel that had been marked for salvage.”
“It is forbidden to land on Interdicted Worlds,” Clonak said sternly.
Well, it was. But Scouts did so not infrequently; and he and Miri had taken care to adhere as nearly as possible to local custom.
“I plead survival,” he told Clonak. “Call a tribunal, if you have a taste for farce, and let it be tried. In the meanwhile, allow me to offer you the protection of our House while you rest.”
Clonak shook his head.
“We’ll wake Hath in a moment so she can tell out the details for you. Your survival has endangered the survival of others, Scout Commander. The Department of the Interior has noticed Vandar.”
Val Con went cold. Foolish of him to have thought that the Depatment would not notice Vandar, having already lost there one full Agent of Change to the mission of retrieving one Val Con yos’Phelium. He had thought . . . no, he had not thought! And Clonak was correct; survival or no—his landing upon Vandar had endangered innocents, and not only those whom he knew by name.
