by Sharon Lee
The big man finished his drink and resealed the jug. “This . . . error the captain sends us to correct,” he began.
Val Con lifted an eyebrow.
Nelirikk paused, and was seen to sigh.
“Scout, I do not say it was the captain’s error.”
“Nor should you,” Val Con said, surprised by the edge he heard on his own words. He raised a hand, showing empty palm and relaxed fingers.
“The situation—which might, in truth, be said to be error—is of my crafting,” Val Con said, more mildly. “It was I who chose to land on an interdicted world. Saying that I did so in order to preserve the lives of the captain and myself does not change the decision or the act. Once here, we inevitably accrued debt, which must of course be Balanced. All of which is aside my decision to See Hakan Meltz. At the time, I stood as Thodelm of yos’Phelium, so it was not a thing done lightly. And yos’Phelium abandons a brother even less readily than Korval relinquishes a child.”
Nelirikk was sitting very still, canteen yet in hand, his eyes noncommittal. Likely he was astonished at such a rush of wordage.
Val Con gave him a wry look. “You see how my own stupidity yet rankles,” he said. “I should at least have taken my boots off before leaping down your throat.”
A smile, very slight, disturbed the careful blandness of Nelirikk’s face. “We have both made errors, I think,” he said. “If ours are larger, or knottier, than the mistakes of the common troop, it is because our training has given us more scope.”
Val Con grinned. “Anyone may break a glass,” he quoted. “But it wants a master to break a dozen.”
There was a small silence while Nelirikk stowed his canteen.
“What I wondered,” he said eventually, “is if we will be able to remove these infiltrators without raising questions in the minds of the natives. There are, so I’m told by the Old Scout, certain protocols for operations on forbidden worlds. If we simply eliminate the enemy . . .”
“If we simply eliminate the enemy, Clonak will have both of our heads to hang on his office wall,” Val Con said. “No, I fear it must be capture and remove.”
Nelirikk frowned, doubtless annoyed by such inefficiency. “If they have established themselves, any removal will cause comment among the natives,” he pointed out.
“Indeed it will—and the least of the sins I must bear for choosing survival.” Val Con stood and stretched. “If you are rested, friend Nelirikk, let us go on. Our target is only a short stroll beyond those trees.”
- - - - -
Clarence had settled into quarters and drawn clothes from stores to replace his, left behind on Surebleak. He’d sat with Theo, pilot and copilot, and they’d worked out the shifts and chores between them. That brought up the cooking schedule, which prompted a trip to the galley to take inventory.
“Always thought of energy sticks and such as emergency rations,” Clarence said, frowning into the depths of the pantry.
“Agreed,” Theo said, pleased to find him of like mind. “We’ll need to take on supplies at our first stop.” She sighed, peering into the pantry around his elbow. “Fresh-baked bread would go good,” she said wistfully.
“Thinkin’ the same, myself. Don’t see the makin’s, though.”
Theo frowned, remembering Primadonna. They’d been provisioned by Hugglelans, of course, since they’d been part of the fleet. But Rig’d always kept—the Sweet List, he’d called it, though it wasn’t only desserts that went on it.
“Bechimo,” she said now. “We need a list, running live, equal access, command word grocery.”
“Done, Pilot. There is an automatic inventory and ordering system available. Shall I tie the list to it?”
“Good idea. Another list, same protocols, not on auto order, command word wish.” She looked at Clarence, who was watching her with interest.
“On the wish list,” she explained, “we’ll each put those things we like to have, sometimes, but that aren’t necessary all the time.” She bit her lip, suddenly seeing the white hair and drawn face, remembering the boy who had especially favored the jam-filled cookies at Vashtara’s reception buffets. “I’ll put in some of Win Ton’s favorites,” she said.
“Good idea,” Clarence answered, and turned back to the pantry. “So, for daily groceries we’ll be needin’ bread mix . . .”
“Fresh vegetables.”
“Fruit—fresh and tinned. Soup.”
“Tea—” She paused. “Do you drink coffee?” she asked.
Clarence smiled at her. “I was long years on Liad, lassie; coffee wasn’t always easy to come by, even for—at my office. I learned to drink tea, then I learned to like it.”
Theo blinked. “Wait—you speak Liaden, then? No, of course you do! I heard you tell Win Ton that you would—that you would hold his key as close as kin.”
“Best thing I might say, to ease his mind,” Clarence said, closing the pantry door and leaning a shoulder against it. “Not that I have kin, mind you.”
“Right. But the point is that you speak Liaden, and I don’t speak Liaden enough to keep myself out of trouble.” She bit her lip, not wanting to give him the impression that she was under the delm’s word, but, after all it had been a good suggestion.
“I’m not good at languages, and Miri thought that immersion might be the course to plot. Bechimo speaks High, Low and—was it the children’s language, Bechimo?”
“Pilot, yes. I also speak several other languages, and can translate for both of you on-port, via the remote comm, should there be need.”
“That’s good to know,” Clarence said, “but sometimes belt comms get . . . mislaid. Always good to have some idea what folks are talking about, around you.” He looked back to Theo. “You got Trade, right?”
She felt her cheeks warm, but, after all, it was a reasonable question, given that she’d just told him that languages weren’t her strong point.
“I had to have Trade before Father would let me go to Anlingdin,” she said ruefully, “but Trade isn’t as—it’s more like hand-talk.”
“So it is,” Clarence said comfortably. “You’re of a notion to put Herself’s suggestion into play?”
She hesitated. “Would you mind? I mean, if you do—”
Clarence straightened fluidly out of his lean and bowed.
“Pilot, I will be pleased to assist. Delmae Korval is correct; one must practice art faithfully, lest one’s edge becomes dull.”
Theo frowned, getting the width, but not the depth of it, which was her whole problem with Liaden, right there.
“Is language art—or no. A weapon? Like a knife?”
“Yes to all of it.” Clarence grinned. “All right then, lassie, if you’re game, let’s try this. We’ll need to put some thought into safe words, so we don’t risk a bad miscue. How’s your reading?”
“I can read Liaden,” she told him. “It stays flat.”
He laughed. “I’ve noticed that,” he said, and inclined, very slightly, from the waist. “Shall we share a cup of tea and plan this between us?”
“Sure,” Theo said, and added one of Father’s most annoying sayings: “Soonest begun, soonest done.”
FORTY-ONE
Starrigger’s Cafe
Mayflowerport
The message had arrived under an old code. One might even have said, had one been other than Uncle, a very old code. That in itself was intriguing. The message, when accessed, was even more so.
So it was that Uncle entered the so-called Starrigger’s Cafe at Mayflowerport as the evening storm broke. He paused in the foyer to allow the heated floor to melt the ice from his boots and brushed the snow off his shoulders. Inside, he flipped a coin to the ’tender, and went to the right, where three private trade-booths lined the wall. Booths one and two showed blue lights. Booth three showed green.
He placed his hand against Three’s plate and murmured. “It is Uncle. May I enter?”
The status light faded to yellow. Uncle pressed the plate firmly, and
was shortly seated across from a grey-haired man with black eyes wearing a Jump pilot’s jacket and an expression of polite interest. An unopened bottle of wine and two glasses sat in the center of the table.
“I am Daav yos’Phelium,” the grey-haired pilot said, his voice deep and grainy. “Thank you for agreeing to meet.”
“I could scarcely do anything else,” Uncle murmured, and nodded at the bottle. “Will you pour?”
“As I had ordered, I thought to leave the rest to you.”
The old rules of engagement were in play, then. They met not as allies, but as adversaries whose interests were momentarily aligned.
Uncle opened the bottle—a respectable vintage not entirely in keeping with the facade of the Starrigger’s Cafe—and poured. They each raised a glass, and took a single, simultaneous sip.
Daav yos’Phelium set his glass aside. Uncle did the same.
“I understand,” Uncle said delicately, “that there is an offer of employment?”
The elder pilot tipped his head. “I am desolate to have raised such expectations, and ask that you forgive my ineptness. In fact, you are to understand that there is a call upon honor.”
Uncle laughed, genuinely diverted. “Come now, sir; surely you know better.”
“Do I?” The elder pilot looked aside—perhaps at his wineglass, which he touched, but did not raise. “Do you mean me to learn,” he said, directing his gaze into the Uncle’s face, “that your contracts are suspect?”
“I allow myself to be bound by the terms of my contracts,” Uncle said. “I’m sure you’ll agree that this is mere prudence for a man who wishes to continue to work at his trade, and to gain the best employees.”
“Indeed,” the elder pilot said politely, fingering his glass. “Allow me, if you will, a small diversion, by way of satisfying personal curiosity.”
“Certainly.”
“Did you seek out and hire Theo Waitley as a courier only because she shares genes with Korval?”
“Ah.” Uncle raised his glass and sipped. “An excellent vintage; allow me to appreciate your choice.”
The other man inclined his head with a small, edged smile.
“Yes.” Uncle sipped again. “Pilot Waitley is a peculiar case. I did seek her out, in the sense that, given the nature of my business, I am continually in need of excellent pilots who demonstrate an ability to prevail in, shall we say, unexpected circumstances. My interest in her increased, as I am certain you will understand, when I came to know that it was she to whom the ambitious Scout yo’Vala had sent Bechimo’s first board key. The key having accepted her, it seemed—allow me to say that it seemed prudent—to engineer circumstances so that she and the ship were quickly united. I have some . . . paternal concern for Bechimo, despite my place on the Builders Lists. It is not healthy for a social being to be long alone—an observation that may be made, also, on behalf of Pilot Waitley.”
“So it might. And now the pilot and her ship are united, alone no longer. Is the galaxy, do you think, safe?”
Uncle smiled—gently. “My very dear sir. You know for yourself that the galaxy is neither safe nor unsafe. It is the actions of people which decide the state of our existence. Or—forgive me—our deaths.”
“I have found that to be so, yes. One must, however, consider the meaning of this partnership you have facilitated. Korval has taken steps to keep pilot and ship occupied for this next while, but it is, I fear, a temporary solution. If causality is not a fiction, one trembles to speculate upon the calamity to which they are the answer.”
“It may be that you concern yourself unnecessarily,” Uncle said. “I speak as one who is very much your elder, sir, and who has endured many changes. Very often change is merely—change, precipitating no calamity, although certainly requiring adaptation. Bechimo was built as an agent of change. In hindsight, it would seem that we built too early, or were too open regarding our intentions. It may be that, now, Bechimo’s proper time is now upon us.”
“Pilot Waitley is younger even than I,” Daav yos’Phelium pointed out.
“She is, and she will undoubtedly make errors. However, youth is a circumstance that time corrects, and error teaches us to err again along a different vector.”
Daav yos’Phelium laughed. “It does that.” He raised his glass and sipped—appreciatively, to Uncle’s eye. “Thank you for satisfying my curiosity. To return to the proper topic of this meeting, Korval at one time purchased from you two defense pods, designated seventy-seven and seventy-eight.”
“The transaction to which you refer was completed . . . some time ago, and was, as I recall, pronounced satisfactory by all involved.”
“Your recollection is exact insofar as it was reported at the time by agents of Korval. However, there is the issue of a repair warranty.”
Long years of practice preserved Uncle’s countenance, though he experienced an almost overpowering impulse to laugh.
Instead, he murmured a polite inquiry. “I do not believe that the customer purchased a repair warranty at the time of sale.”
“Again, I am inept. I beg the gift of your patience. What I mean to say is that, some while after purchase, when the pods were established each upon their base, Theonna yos’Phelium, who at the time had the honor to be Korval, contacted you specifically for assistance in programming various proprietary protocols, including the protocol for a core reset.”
Uncle felt a sudden chill breeze, despite the closed booth.
“Which one?” he asked.
“Seventy-eight reports itself upon the brink of catastrophic action, unless it is attended by the delm genetic, the most recent of whom is unfortunately occupied elsewhere.”
Uncle sighed. “A DNA sample is mandated,” he said.
“I had expected it.”
“Yes, of course. A core reboot means that the pod considers it has been compromised. Attaining the core may thus be . . . challenging.”
“I had also anticipated this. My concern springs from the possibility that, having done what mischief they might, those who wish Korval ill have withdrawn, trusting that their work will remain invisible to one unfamiliar with the system architecture.”
“I understand your need, and your concern, but fear you have failed to prove a warranty of repair. The call to honor being, of course, a mere pleasantry.”
“Perhaps. Though one does wonder after your reasons for placing such things into the hands of a madwoman.”
“I am a businessperson. She was a customer. She sought me out, bearing a list of very specific needs, and paid hard cantra for what I offered.”
“Ah. I refer to the notation left in Theonna’s hand within the official clan record. It states that the systems you had put into place for her, being built to her specifications, and untried at the time of installation—prudent, given the nature of several of the protocols under discussion—might require fine-tuning. If that were found to be the case, you were to be contacted, whereupon you would complete the work correctly.”
He remembered . . .
He’d been intrigued by a Korval, any Korval, seeking him out; he’d also been intrigued that she’d known his relationship to the shipyards of the independents, of his willingness to deal with non-standard tech and perhaps even forbidden tech.
He remembered the intensity of the woman, and that as they’d negotiated on the project schedules, he’d found himself involved in the concept over and beyond his own potential need for a similar hideaway.
The offer: Build me this and my ships will carry the supplies needed as well as blind pods for yourself; you will be paid in good cantra, and in whatever else you need to make this happen.
This was a stormfort, to be built into the unlikely and then unremarked worldlet called Moonstruck. The planet—it was a planet, for it had managed both to collapse itself into a sphere and to gather to it a seasonal atmosphere—was stable in an orbit of some .69 eccentricity around a small and quiet star known as Gemaea.
Gemaea’s system had
barely survived a nearby nova bare millennia before, leaving the star a large outer ring of gas and light rubble which might someday coalesce, but which gave the place the look of a ringed planet from the right point of view. At normal planetary distances there showed only a single notable object: Moonstruck itself.
With a period of very close to 6.96 Standards, the place was at perihelion, livable in an odd way, the atmosphere having oxygen and nitrogen in breathable quantities and densities, and water and poles on the verge of unfreezing. At aphelion? There, Moonstruck was a stony ball covered in stripes of ice, forbidding and lonely—beautiful, if one were a connoisseur.
He remembered that the job had taken longer than either he or she had wanted, but that there had been a reluctance, finally, to admit that it was done, freeing both to retreat to their solitary existences.
He remembered her necessity, very much a matter of sharing the same wine—to bring the systems live, with them both present, so that lifelong distrust of things done by others might be served.
He remembered the control cavern, its walls rough and limned with water. He remembered Theonna—eyes feverish, face afire. She had been past her first youth; the body he had then worn made him appear to be only a few years her elder. Such was her energy that he took fire from her, knowing it was madness they shared, yet a madness indistinguishable from brilliance.
He had done what she had asked. Everything she had asked, including the secondary sealing. After, they had coupled on the rough, icy floor, sharing yet more energy until, her fires temporarily burned low, they parted. For a time after that, he had been . . . erratic . . . in his dealings, plagued by episodes in which his thoughts exploded, searing the fabric of his mind.
Dulsey had at last posited an infection. Theonna was by that time long years dead, and he had gone early to the rebirth, arising unmarked by flame.
It had been . . . a very long time since he had thought of her—of the intense, peculiar pain of one’s thoughts, afire. He wondered how she had borne it.
