by Sharon Lee
Meanwhile, it is my hope and wish that you continue to stay in touch with me at this address; only understand that my mission may make it difficult for me to reply for dozens or perhaps hundreds of days at a time. That I cannot immediately answer, or perhaps even receive, your messages in timely fashion makes no difference to my regard for you, nor my desire to hear from you.
Clan, mission, and duty permitting, as well as your agreement, of course, I shall again someday be by your side for a quiet breakfast.
Yours in many ways,
Win Ton
* * *
She thought of calling the hopeful proto-pilots with whom she'd recently shared bed-time—first thought of one, then the other.
Then, she thought of Win Ton, and shook her head. Her friends would only be an annoyance to her, in this state of mind. And, since they were friends, she didn't call.
Which didn't change the fact that her mind was unsettled, and her body too, as if she'd spent the morning ingesting caffeine and sugar treats. She wanted to move, to dance, to not be right here with the letter, which she'd unfolded and read yet again, and refolded, hands caressing the lines that Win Ton had inked.
Kara. Kara might provide some comfort, or at least a willing ear—and it was obvious that her deep sky navigation problem was not happening right now!
It was work of a moment to slip the letter back into the lock-drawer. She pulled the chain up until Win Ton's gift was spinning before her eyes. Frowning, she tried to see through the patina of age and mysterious origin to whatever it was that he thought was there, or meant to be there. She thought of writing back immediately—but what was the use in that? He was already on the way to his assembly point.
She stood, and danced a few steps, which didn't calm her, exactly.
Air, she thought. Air would be good; air and color and the sight of craft overhead.
She closed the quietly behind her.
As she walked Theo felt like her shoes picked up extra energy from the ground, and when she stood still it felt like her blood vessels and muscles were full of energy. The calming steps she danced became attack variations as soon as she moved, the quieting motions of pretest relaxation flowed into dance which flowed back into power moves, which flowed into kicks and stunts.
Finally she admitted defeat and walked fast, striding toward the Culture Club at a ground-eating pace, forcing the energy in her arms and legs into the pace of her march. She was going the long way, hoping to calm herself before she encountered anyone else.
She heard the sounds long before she saw it: the quick steps, the laughter and crowing, the grunts and curses, the silences of waiting. She rounded the shrubbery that defined the big side lawn, where a crowd surrounded the action.
Bowli ball! And by the tenor of things, a match well in progress. Or maybe a match well out of hand.
Kara was the first she saw; the only one of the standing players she knew by name. Sprawled around the grass were seven other DCCT members in various states of disarray ranging from bloody nose to ripped shirts to grass-and-mud-stained pants. One, Yberna, was curled on her side, like she might have taken a shot in the gut.
There were three standees in the playing zone; two of them, both guys she didn't know, were playing a back and forth together that meant they were teaming it against Kara, trying to make it as hard as possible for her to know when the ball was hers. Sweat streamed down her face, and if she saw Theo, she was too busy to show it.
Suddenly, the ball was in play, heading for Kara; too fast and too wobbly to deal with cleanly. It struck her high on the shoulders, knocking her off-center and rebounded straight above her. Theo yelled, Kara looked up and managed a one-handed slap that sent the ball back to the originial thrower with considerable energy. It wasn't elegant, but it was enough to "keep bowli," as Kara found center again, and the crowd cheered.
"Kara's still in!"
"Clean clothes," yelled the taller of the two guys, showing his teeth in what he might've thought was a grin. "Play if you dare!"
The ball was on the way before the tall player finished yelling, and Theo charged, recognizing at the last moment that the spin was not quite what she'd expected.
"Kara," she called, and saw the fleeting nod and hand flash as Theo fed the ball to her as lightly as she could, allowing her a moment's respite; Kara returned the favor soundlessly and this time Theo flung the ball to the short guy.
Even as it left her hand Theo felt the odd pull, as if the normal permutations of spin and power of a bowli ball were off somehow. Maybe the ball wasn't true; maybe . . .
That fast it was back, and thrown not to her, but at her. These guys were playing bloodball; no wonder the usually happy crew from the Club was scattered—
"Take him, Theo!" The crowd was surely partisan, the encouragement was Bova at full voice.
The ball danced; she grabbed it, felt the thing slip even after the catch; her toss was meant to go toward Kara but the ball was beyond, meaning it was up for grabs and the tall guy did just that, charging and faking toward Theo while slamming it at Kara.
"Grah!" was about what Kara managed, taking the ball with her left hand and barely getting it along toward Theo.
The spin went wonky, and the bowli ball shot off with an unexpected burst of energy. Which was just—wrong.
Theo lunged, snatched, and spun, meaning to return to Kara—but Kara was down, struggling to get her feet under her, to get back into play.
The ball in Theo's hands twisted and growled, like it was fighting her. She tried to gentle it, almost lost it, and danced in a quick circle, barely containing it inside her own motion, her mind suddenly considering board drills. In particular, the bad gravity board drill; the equation for near-limit Jumps—and suddenly she had it! It was like the ball had two drivers!
Her mind flung itself around the ball's absurd motion, as her body reacted, took the ball and spun it against the spin it demanded, nearly catching the tall guy in the head, his touch more a pass than a catch, so the short guy could take it, and Theo was charging for the point where the ball had to go, when—
"Full halt!"
Theo went down on one knee, obeying that order. She shook her hair out of her face, and looked up, not at the short guy, but at Pilot yos'Senchul—but no, it wasn't.
In one hand, the pilot held the bowli ball, hard and steady, though Theo knew it was kicking to get free. In the other hand, the pilot held a data transport bag.
Theo took a breath and climbed to her feet. It was yos'Senchul, but—two hands?
He shook the ball at the assembly. "No one leaves until I have some answers. First. This ball—it has an owner? Someone who should claim it?"
The question was penetrating and serious.
The tall guy cleared his throat. "That girl there, sir, she threw the toss and should get the return."
yos'Senchul looked to Theo, grim.
"Pilot Waitley, do you own this object?"
Theo shook her head.
"Sir, no. I just got in the game. It is my catch and toss, and I've got it figured now so—"
"Yes, Pilot, I could see that you have it figured." yos'Senchul turned, holding the ball out like a weapon.
"Pilot ven'Arith, does this bowli ball belong to you?"
Kara was on her feet, breathing hard, her face wet with sweat. She bowed, some special thing with hand motions, and knee tucks, performed without a stutter, though an instant before she'd been shaking.
"Master Pilot, it was brought to the game by someone else."
yos'Senchul turned to the tall guy.
"You, sir, who wished the ball returned to Pilot Waitley?"
He gulped. "I brought the ball, but I don't own it, I mean I got it from—"
"I see," yos'Senchul interrupted. He looked to the shorter player, who was staring at the ground. "And you?"
"I've had the ball awhile," the guy muttered. "I mean, you know, a guy needs an edge."
"Ah. Tell me, how long have you had a death wish?"
The short guy looked up, eyes wide. "Death wish, sir?"
"Surely, a death wish. It is one thing to play a clean, high stakes game among pilots; for surely pilots delight in such things. It is another thing to bring into play between uninformed pilots an amateurishly modified gladiator ball. I have saved your life, not because I am your friend, but because Pilot Waitley would have blamed herself for your suicide or that of your comrade."
The man went pale but said nothing.
"Did you not hear Pilot Waitley say she had figured the ball out? Look!"
yos'Senchul put the data case down against his knee, and pulled back his other sleeve, revealing a metal and ceramic arm adorned with a plethora of readouts.
"As I hold this ball, it contains enough stored energy to launch itself to the nearest town. Pilot Waitley says, and I trust her enough to have her pilot my own craft, that she has figured the ball out."
The instructor bowed toward Theo, gently.
"Tell us, Pilot: what do you see?"
Theo returned the bow.
"There's something extra in the ball, like a resonance. It takes the ordinary changes and, I sort of plotted it, I think. The more often the ball is thrown quickly, the more energy it takes from the spin and every so often the energy comes out in a throw. I can see the timing of that release."
"Enough. Close enough. And your strategy?"
He looked at her expectantly, and Theo raised both hands, weighing the phrasing.
"I was going to take the pass from the shorter player, dive, roll, and give the ball to the taller, chest high. He keeps his hands too far on the fringe, and he's not quick—"
Enough, yos'Senchul signed. He bowed again.
"Pilot, thank you. An able strategy, indeed, and more than sufficient to have told the tale."
Turning to the two men, now standing well isolated from the DCCT players, yos'Senchul waved them casually before him with the admonition, "Sirs, you may thank me for saving your lives, while we walk together to the Commander's office. A discussion of the source of the modification kit will not be out of order."
Twenty-Four
Diverse Cultures Celebration Team
Anlingdin Piloting Academy
Yberna was more than just tired, she was ill. Theo didn't think she'd ever seen anyone that exact shade of yellow, especially considering how pale the girl usually was, and the color didn't go well at all with scrapes and bruises. With yos'Senchul gone DCCT was acting like a team, indeed—someone had broken out extra oxygen and there were a couple first aid kits circulating among the combatants.
"I'll be fine," Yberna said, her hands trembling and her lips going blue, "I just need a little oxygen."
But oxygen didn't help, nor did the simple remedy of keeping calm that some were loudly advocating. Even before yos'Senchul and his wards were out of sight, Kara was on the comm with the infirmary, demanding an emergency pickup at DCCT.
"Yes, we have first aid providers," her voice rose, shutting down adjacent conversations, "but none of us has prenatal training and Yberna is pregnant."
The words struck Theo's ears like a sonic boom, and she wasn't the only one whose near-squeaked "pregnant?" broke the air. She managed not to ask "how" as a follow-up, but surely Yberna wouldn't have planned a pregnancy for this late in her school career!
"It isn't silly to rest, Yberna," Kara was saying, "and we're not going to carry you down the hill over our backs like a day pack! Here, use this for a pillow, and try the relaxation exercises for concentration. They've got a crew out the door already."
"Thank you, Pilot Waitley, you have done well for your friend, and you, Kara ven'Arith, you have great empathy!"
Theo nodded to the crew chief's bow, pleased to see him, surprised to be recalled.
"Theo? Theo, please? Did you really know? Were you going to knock him down?"
Yberna was being tucked into the stretcher, monitors squinching closed on her wrists as she peered around the medical staff, trying to move against the pressure pads that held her still. The one who had bowed to them—Theo saw a name tag reading "Healer el'Kemin"—fluttered a vague hand-sign, perhaps meant to be say please in truth.
Theo nodded vigorously. "On the next throw, Yberna. He had it coming to him."
Yberna attempted a smile.
"Good! We can't let them win, you know!"
The stretcher was locked to the pallet attach points and the hoverlift smoothly rose.
The med tech—Healer el'Kemin—and one of the other staffers got up behind the driver; the other two ran outrigger and Yberna was away, weakly trying to wave. Healer el'Kemin, reached down to touch her head, likely adjusting a medication, because the girl went quiet, as if she'd suddenly fallen asleep. "Make way, clear, make way, clear!"
The sled was gone, moving briskly down the hill toward the dispensary.
Kara took a step after them. "I should—" she began, and was intercepted by Vin, wielding a med kit.
"Kara, hold still; you're bleeding."
DCCT's common room was alive with swirling conversations, the galaxy-portrait end walls giving back echoes and the knots of noise moving and coagulating. Theo'd never seen the group so animated. It was almost as if they'd won something, despite Yberna's difficulties.
Freck was almost bouncing.
"Did you see that? Theo was going to take them out big time. Think they can run up here from their silly club and take all of DCCT with one trick? I think this planet loyalty stuff is way overrated for pilots!"
Theo hadn't recognized them but enough of the crew had: two of the Young Pilots of Eylot, membership restricted to those born on Eylot of Terran descent.
The sudden holiday mood was helped by Bova and assorted helpers rushing around with sweet rolls, served with creamy topping and an accompanying hit of oxygen.
Theo took the roll, and spurned the oxy, frustrated that so many conversations were going on at once that she couldn't get more than the gist of things. She gathered that the Young Pilots had a complaint—DCCT got first shot at the break jobs at Hugglelans. That, they claimed, was a right of the planet-born.
Trying to follow the discussion got more frustrating as Bova played wrong-side advocate and took up the Young Pilots' argument, which felt a lot like a Simple sermon to Theo.
"I should have gone with her! I got in the game to let her drop out!"
Theo turned and touched her friend's shoulder.
"Two problems: no room for a copilot on the sled—and she was already asleep. You'd have slowed the ship."
Kara closed her eyes, and maybe she did a dance move in her head, because Theo saw some of the tension flow out of her. Eyes open, she moved her hands: truth.
"How did you figure out what was wrong with the ball? I saw—and felt!—that it was moving strangely, but I couldn't understand it. You just grabbed it and went, like you knew exactly what was going to happen!"
Theo shrugged.
"I didn't know, exactly; I was just reacting to what the ball was really doing, and not what it should have been doing. It's like dance competition stuff—at some point something's got to vary, so you have to be patient, and alert, and when the vary comes, deal with it. I did know that we were getting acceleration in there, and I'm afraid I was already running with a lot of energy when I came looking for you, so I was primed to run the numbers, and that's the course I saw. I didn't have time to calculate all of the variables, just that I could return it to him with spin and velocity he couldn't handle. Mostly I wanted to stop the game long enough to be sure you were just winded."
"Just winded? I wish I could say that. I was going to half measures, to just keep the ball in play. You were right on top of it compared to the rest of us."
Theo sighed, held out a hand. It was absolutely steady. Kara held out her hand, holding it still, and laughed as she rippled those fingers into some kind of nonsense rhyme about pilot's choice copilot's bad dream.
Kara lifted her hand toward her face, then made a fist and forced it
down to her side.
"Guess they didn't give me a full numb on this thing. Is it awful?"
Theo leaned in closer, shook her head.
"Looks raw, but not drippy or anything. It ought to hurt, I'd say."
"Itches." She chewed her lip, then took a deep, deliberate breath, like she was putting something aside to worry about later.
"You said you were coming to see me?"
"I was," Theo admitted. "I had to get out of the dorm, and I wanted to . . . check custom. You're looking pretty shook, though. Maybe you should lie down."
"No," Kara said definitively. "I should not lie down. Come on, let's find someplace where we can hear each other speak."
The language room was vacant. They shut the door and sat on one of the tables, Theo cross-legged, and Kara swinging her feet, like she still had excess energy to burn.
Kara listened, her face far more serious than usual, quite in what Theo thought of now as Liaden face: bland and careful. It reminded her of Father's face when he was being particularly himself: almost a mask without a hint of what he was thinking. She'd always thought of it as something personal, belonging only to him; discovering that he shared it, not only with Kara, but with yos'Senchul, and apparently the whole race of Liadens had been . . . strange, at first. Also familiar, and obscurely comforting, was the slight tilt of Kara's head, indicating attention to Theo's concern.
Theo finished in a rush.
"But this gift—is it too much? What do I promise by accepting it?"
Kara moved her shoulders, her gaze focused maybe on her alternating boot tips, maybe on lessons so deep-learned it took effort to pull them out where they could be explained.
"The Code," she said slowly. "The Code lists many occasions upon which the giving of a gift is either appropriate or required. There is another list, matching gift to occasion, so that one neither presumes by too much generosity, nor insults by too little. The occasions: an evening visit, to seal a contract marriage, to end an affair of pleasure—there are, as I say, many such." She paused, and looked to Theo.
