Saltation

by Sharon Lee

  "Yes, sir," he said, but his voice too, had changed slightly, as if he'd stepped in behind his badge and made it boom. "I am Third Son of the house. You may call me Aito. I will personally look into this matter, Brine Batzer, and take care of it appropriately. You may leave now, and let my people eat."

  Twenty-Two

  Erkes Dormitory, Suite 302

  Anlingdin Piloting Academy

  The light flashed on Theo's message queue.

  If she ignored it, she could relax until her tutoring assignment.

  It might, of course, be a message from Asu asking if they needed anything for the larder, or explaining that she might be late again tonight. Maybe it was that, finally, Asu topped the shuttle queue and would be orbiting until tomorrow. That would ease the tension in the room.

  Stretching into a flat-footed centering pose she closed her eyes, trying to absorb the energy instead of sighing it away. Those inner calm routines worked really well for some people, but the idea that sighing wasted relaxation was one proposed by her latest martial arts partner, and she doubted it.

  The light still blinked when she opened her eyes. She sighed anyway.

  Asu's schedules and hers diverged more and more now, with Asu concentrating on the basic licensing course—and being a social whirlwind—while Theo's mirrored, according to Chelly, the hard-core tradeship course he'd audited while summering as the school's exchange student.

  Maybe she should ignore the message. On the other hand, she hadn't ignored a message since break had morphed into school. While that had happened all too fast according to her workmates it had hardly been fast enough for Theo, who enjoyed the company and the stipends of break but missed the school constant of hands-on flying.

  Break over, she'd looked toward the time she'd be a flight deckhand, and get her own chance to sit first seat on the shuttle. That staffing notice was one she'd waited for, fully aware that each flashing message light might signal her listing on that queue.

  Theo did the hand stretch thing that was supposed to be a good antidote to muscle loss if you were in zero g for a long time.

  Asu might make flight deckhand this year, half a Standard after Theo's first of three deckhand runs and first as PIC. Most recently she'd subbed for Freck the day he broke his thumb at bowli ball. The shuttle was all work and no fun, as far as she was concerned, in part because you had to watch the crew as much as the craft.

  She stood down from the stretching, shaking her head. For all that Asu tried to rag her about her math, which was up to snuff, these days, Asu was clearly not looking toward being a professional.

  The queue lit up as she touched it—mail call.

  She danced another relaxation move—until she saw that it was not yet another one of Jondeer's extravagances for Asu.

  Signature pilot post, T. Waitley, Erkes 302.

  She felt a thrill of anticipation, and Win Ton's bright face shone in her memory, a quirky smile playing about his lips as—but suppose it was something else?

  "Go, Theo!" she said.

  Thanking the luck that her roommate was elsewhere, Theo cleared the light and sprinted for the door. Asu need never know!

  Theo's walk back was more of a trot, the small packet tucked securely into Theo's day bag. The whole proceeding had taken but a moment: Theo entered and there was no line in front of her, the student on desk recognized her on sight, and the packet was produced with a simple "Sign here, Pilot" request.

  Lieutenant Win Ton yo'Vala—she spotted it even before it was in her hands, and on signing, she almost fumbled her signature.

  Silly Theo, she told herself, just a note, that's all! After all, he owes you a bit of mail . . .

  The mailing labels had been printed and signed by Win Ton beneath their protective tapes and there were four additional signatures: a Scout captain, a pilot first class, the student shuttle pilot, and the student on desk, who was a pilot.

  She cradled the packet, which was slightly flexible and thicker than a mere sheet or two of paper, but had very little weight.

  Not a bowli ball, she thought, but there was . . . something in the packet. Another pair of wings?

  It took great control for her not to tear the thing open then and there, but she wanted privacy—suppose he'd sent her a flatpic of him at the beach or something?

  Back in quarters, with the door closed and locked, Theo used her boot knife to open the packet, finding paper, folded in half, like a proper letter, and more paper, sealed around a solid lump. She thought for a moment before putting the lump back in the envelope and unfolding the letter.

  The paper was so fine it was almost cloth. The fibers glowed with a creamy warmth, and it released a scent that was subtle and charming, with undertones not unlike vya, but not nearly so challenging to the comfortable nose. Just holding it was a sensuous experience.

  Sweetest of Mysteries, the missive began, in Win Ton's angular Terran script.

  Well you may wonder that I still recall your face and address after such a time. In the way of things I calculate that you've experienced perhaps eighty percent of your school life since you last were kind enough to touch my hand. Count me pleased beyond measure that your days, at least, have been spent among pilots and the striving for knowledge. Mine, I admit, have been full of the tasting of the three hundred teas most suited to polite society, and to the drinking of wine from a cellar whose best days were perhaps some time before the coalescence of the first black hole.

  I discover, now that I am again free to access my mail drop, several letters of yours, long held for me; I thank you for writing of the commonplace as well as the adventures and wish there had been some way for me, with decorum and according to the Code, to have done the same for you. I can, with no great damage to the Code, choose now a random day from my recent past and let you imagine that most days were much like it, once in fact my most major duty was done, which alas required both more time and effort than I would have expected.

  In any case, we would share a lakefront vista from the deep-porch opening onto the joint chambers; tapping a bell would summon several teas and a grudging morning wine, and each day I might request as much or as little of a breakfast as I wished. Alas, the Scout in me made an unusual request or two over time, but my hosts fed me all with aplomb, from full-dinner pasta to crackers and fish paste, always with a complement of juices, marmalades, jellies, and breads enough to have brought the whole of one of our dinner tables on Vashtara to full-belly belching.

  This came at the page turn and Theo laughed, admitting to herself that far too many of the cruise passengers they had traveled with had indeed overfed. But here before her, she had the account of his adventure, which was far less boring than he pretended.

  This delightful repast is to consume near the whole of the morning, though I was able to carve out for myself time for proper exercise both morning and afternoon by assuming the practice of surf-swimming, as my running was seen as a provocation to the good nature of the small but always elegant community where we resided. Only once did I make the mistake of returning from my swim with a finned creature I thought suitable for dinner, for the cook surely has a better eye than mine for what is finest in a fresh fish.

  The company most mornings included the two of us and a smattering of available house kin; on a few memorable days we also shared time with various medicos and consultants, but the less of that, the better.

  Of the afternoons, when not whiling away the time identifying craft from their contrails and altitude, I sometimes read of the popular literature so that of the evening I might discourse properly. While the fact that I am a pilot weighed heavily in my choosing, the larger clan wished to know next to nothing about what it is that pilots do, and the fact that I am a Scout was shared most quietly indeed.

  Afternoons were often social affairs; here it was that the Lady shone in her knowledge of teas, and I met the very heart of the insipid community which I had already fled to become a pilot.

  I warn you, Sweetness, the soci
ety of pilots is loud, boisterous, bawdy, challenging, and dangerous. While the High Houses of Liad may be no less dangerous and challenging, they lack the social graces of loud, boisterous, and bawdy; most of them assume competencies never aspired to and lack an understanding of what the word "survive" means unless it involves a multi-year multi-clan Balance. While one should never underestimate a Liaden—or anyone!—the assumption that survival is implicit in position is surely difficult to maintain over time.

  This on the page turn; she was momentarily distracted by some curious marginal marks; almost it seemed hand-talk brought down to paper, as if Win Ton had paused in his narrative to argue briefly with himself.

  The evening discussions were mixed events. If I have not mentioned it before, I will now: we, the hopeful couple, were situated in a summer cottage large enough to house my clan entire, and perhaps yours, too, had you one. It shared a bay with a few similar houses, and a truly wondrous view of ocean. The lady's clan sent various of her kin to us from time to time, and from discussion not well hid from me I discovered the lady's need for a child was becoming urgent and the choice of myself, younger than she by a dozen Standards, was seen as means to incite success in one with little hope.

  Thus some evenings were full of busy clan members, and others to clinical attempts to achieve mood, or will. Later, once intent, at least, was successful, the waiting was in many ways harder, for the lady had little need of my company other than in polite gatherings; I sometimes swam in the surf late as well as early, and there were times I would walk on the beach and think of mysteries such as yourself while naming stars, observing the weather and tides, and cataloging shells on the wave fringe.

  In all of this, the lady was quiet, respectful, and not so much willing or even interestingly submissive, but ultimately level-headed. She was not one to play games of chance, she was not competent at games of physical skill, nor was she, aside from her tea, a lady of passions. Memory of her pales and fades far more rapidly than that of our times together, which I treasure.

  I now turn to matters more of concern to we two as pilots. You have mentioned several pilots who have come to your attention and names are always good to share. I appreciate the depth of your reports and your wit as well. Having said that, I must come the Scout at this point about the pilot Brine Batzer.

  As you have sat second for me and have dealt well with pilots I trust, I was compelled to research this Batzer. His license, which was current some few moments ago, is of first class, though the unfortunate treatment of ship and staff you detailed seems hardly that of such a pilot! Though there, it is said on Liad that many of us have mothers with their own kitchens, meaning that habits are both born and trained, so who knows where this man may have become who he is, eh? Obviously he was not trained at my school or yours!

  Batzer very rarely comes to Liaden ports. Though scant, his record has not been good; it shows fines for minor cargo violations, fines for shipyard arguments, actions for refusal to pay standard fees, he has . . . Well, I make him sound the criminal in all of this, and you must not say to anyone that he is a criminal, for all of these infractions are at levels below that.

  He is, in a way I do not understand, well placed on certain planets of Terran extraction: at least once he was "bailed out" of an issue by appealing to a traveling Terran official. One must assume him highborn or well placed for I see him listed as pilot of several ships, all of them as owner.

  Having traversed history, and traded pilot lore, I speak now of my current estate.

  My delm has again released me to the Scouts, as I am no longer of immediate use to the clan. You may imagine with what speed I presented myself to Headquarters and requested an assignment.

  I was gifted with a garbage run, and sweet it was to be alone inside my own ship, concerned only with the simplicities of my assignment. More, having finished transporting a Torvin-class vessel to a Scout base from whence this is delivered into the hands of a pilot heading your way, I now assist in preparations for a working investigation. And such a one! I am made third in the command chain despite my admitted youth, this because the mission to hand is one I myself proposed!

  But there, I go on about myself. It pleases me to hear of your continued success at school, of your third class rating provisional and your plans for the second, and your willingness to take on tutoring—

  Tutoring!

  Chaos!

  Theo looked to the chrono. If she ran now she'd be on time for Claudy's refresher on the Star King. After the lecture she'd given the kid last time on precision and punctuality, she'd better not be late!

  Locking the letter and envelope into her drawer safe, Theo fled for the airfield.

  Twenty-Three

  Erkes Dormitory, Suite 302

  Anlingdin Piloting Academy

  The letter was still precious when Theo came back to it, later that afternoon. Claudy's refresh was an ugly memory: you'd have suspected the kid had spent the semester flying kites instead of studying navigation. Rocky as she was, Claudy did pass, though Theo'd drawn black looks and a suppressed curse for requiring a mandatory review before semester end. Really, if the kid wanted to stay current, she shouldn't play it, she should do it!

  And so Win Ton's letter—she started again with the first word, luxuriating again in the feel of the paper and the subtle, oh-so-subtle touch of scent. Theo was becoming fond of subtlety, having recently become aware of how fine a sense of timing and nuance Win Ton possessed, of how careful even his passionate words were. That his sense of smell, his understanding of color, and his advertent approach to the universe was superior to many who considered themselves pilots was without doubt.

  That made her sigh, and miss Win Ton in a way she hadn't for a long time.

  She came again to the point where she'd rushed off to deal with immediate concerns. Indeed, she felt some guilt, because she hadn't updated him entirely over these last semesters. Her third class was now firm and it would take time in grade, and a couple more trips as PIC for her to up the second class from trainee to provisional operator.

  Theo had retrieved the sealed packet from the envelope, and tumbled it in her hand as she read. It was soothing in a curious way, almost like stroking a cat.

  There were the other things she hadn't filled him in on, just as he'd not been particularly explicit about his duties as a husband—surely he would have been able to bring some joy to the pairing! Now she read on hoping for something more about his travels, his route, or when they . . .

  Alas, I am not able to convince any of the mapping computers, nor my superiors, of any route wherein Anlingdin Academy is a way point for my journey to the assembly site. As your own location is still based on the needs of tuition, and as I am not at liberty to disclose my tour destinations, immediate, intermediate, or final, there seems little likelihood that we shall see each other in the near term, as dear as that thought has been to me since we last parted.

  For a moment she felt like she'd hit free fall; but her stomach settled, and Theo sighed, closed her eyes briefly and opened them.

  If you have not already opened the packet sealed with wax from my dinner candle, I pray that you will do so now. I consider it a great favor you do me, if you will.

  Though only partway down the lovely page the letter continued on the next sheet, as Win Tin meant her not to read beyond until she had complied—or not.

  With growing curiosity she put the letter aside, broke the waxed seam, and smoothed the paper away from an inner wrapping of metal foil, the whole coated thinly in wax that verged on the liquid.

  It took a moment to find the seam. She peeled it back carefully, discovering within a coil—not a coil! A chain, like a necklace, chill against her fingers as she raised it. Pendant from the chain was a cerametal chunk that was not simply raw metal but formed and shaped with notches and ridges around a small central cylinder.

  She let the foil drop and took the cylinder between her fingers, rolled it, felt the crisp edges of the metal. It felt
good, like it should do something, rather than just be . . . interesting to look at. More, it felt old, much older than the chain. It wasn't pretty, exactly, but she liked it, if one could like a thing.

  Still, thinking advertently, she held it in her hand rather than putting it on immediately, and returned to Win Ton's letter.

  Theo, it would be both a favor and honor to me if you will hold this, and perhaps wear it and keep it with you. I discovered it during my brief garbage run, and it is to all appearances twin to one I wear about my own neck. Let us say that, as soon as I held it in my hand, I thought of you. Indeed, I can think of none other that I would see hold it. As the pair is to my knowledge unique, and found in an out-of-the-way place rarely visited by tourists or ordinary travelers, I hope it does not offend you to share such a thing with me.

  We need not speak of these again until we are together, but I feel they are a bond we can share, one that has already helped me focus on the necessities of my immediate plans, and of my plans beyond. Call it celebration, plan, or sympathetic magic, I vow I will not be separated from mine and I hope you will keep yours by you at all times.

  Though she wasn't talking, Theo felt speechless. Unique, and something Win Ton treasured, something very special.

  She sighed and felt stupid as tears fell down her face, onto her hands, onto the necklace. Happy tears, yes, but it felt so good to be—cherished.

  She brought the necklace close, peered at it, smiled, and had the silliest feeling that it returned her regard, or that Win Ton had infused it with his own.

  Shaking her head to settle her hair as best as could be done, Theo spread the chain between her two hands and put it over her head. The cylinder fell comfortably between her breasts, not cold at all, or warm, but exactly the temperature of her own body. She regretted that Win Ton hadn't been there to help her put it on—but that thought should probably wait, at least until she had finished reading his letter.