Saltation

by Sharon Lee

  "Drosselmare, two, clear clear yellow. Thurstan, six, clear clear clear."

  The maize buttons felt heavy in her hands, and her back itched. Theo began moving a little faster, but they were hurrying for a ship and she really ought to give them right of way . . .

  "Gazo, you think? We're away in a minute!" The sound of their footsteps increased.

  "Hey, lady, you, girl! You need a new ride? Best thing that ever happened to you, a ship of eight—we'll make you a queen, we will . . ."

  Theo glanced behind.

  They were only a few steps away now, running, but not as steady as they might be. The second warning tick went off up one of the T-arms. The guy who might've been Gazo said, "Now!" and dropped his gear.

  Theo swung to the side, her back against the wall. "You have right of way," she said, tensing, hoping the camera—but the other guy had his jacket over the camera, and—

  The guy who'd dropped his gear was on her, now, arms wide, like he was going to get her in a hug, and it was already too late—she threw the maize buttons into his face and twitched to one side.

  "Beecha da plaza!" he yelled, grabbing for her again, but even here in the low grav she felt the move coming, saw his fist as if it was some poorly thrown bowli ball, grabbed and threw him against the wall, danced the second motion, spinning, got a foot up in time to catch his arm there and—

  Crack!

  Somewhere, a gong chimed, and someone was yelling, "Gazo, you're dead if you don't make the tick!"

  Gazo wailed, and went running; there was a bosun at the end of the T, waving at them as the next tick went off and . . .

  The second man had a gun. Theo swung, faster than she expected in the lighter gravity, and slammed it out of his hand. He shouted; Theo grabbed his shoulders and threw him with all her might down the T-arm; her momentum taking her to the weapon. Instinct honed by dozens of bowli ball games scooped the thing up, and—

  "Ferkistsake, don't shoot! We're gone!"

  And they were gone, their backs disappearing into a hastily sealed airlock, the warning gong signaling closed and locked. Vibration ran down the hall and an odd clang sounded as the ship let go grapples, and then more noise nearby . . .

  There was a noise behind her. She spun—

  Arndy Slayn held up one hand, the other holding the twin of yos'Senchul's data case. He grinned.

  "You are dangerous," he said approvingly. "And you really needed a gun."

  Twenty-Seven

  Codrescu Station

  Eylot Nearspace

  "Brine Batzer."

  Theo's hands moved on their own say again repeat.

  Arndy Slayn laughed.

  "It is an Eylot-sounding name, isn't it? Brine Batzer; I can't say this behind the desk, but he's one of the most active of the cheap pod-breaking ship agents. It's a wonder that he'd move two whole pods at the same time, but I guess he got lucky. Anyway, that's who you'd have to start with if you wanted to pursue something against Drosslemare as a ship—well, look at that!"

  Theo was not as buzzed up as she thought she'd be nor feeling any need to explain herself. The pilots were treating this as a serious but manageable event; so could she.

  Since Slayn was witness, he sat at ease on a chair half camouflaged by the norbear's greenery, using a mobile set, while Guild Master Peltzer stood unmoving with hand on ear, listening to news from Codrescu's control rooms.

  When he did move, his fingers ordered, back here, both, while out loud he said, "Mister Slayn, please be careful. Batzer and Peltzer, Flatzer, Mertzer are all well-known, even historic names on Eylot; please do not dismiss someone because of the name, no matter how local it may be!"

  As he spoke he pushed against a section of wall, which slid open to reveal a short hall. There was a snort, and Theo felt a tug at her knee—not a muscle strain or knee injury, but Hevelin, politely tapping, and pressing with his gripping paw.

  Peltzer laughed.

  "Let him come along if you like; but not Podesta. The yoster still needs to learn manners!"

  Theo carried Hevelin, who weighed less than the gun she'd taken from the guy in the corridor, down the short hall, following the Guild Master.

  At the end of the hall was a workmanlike office with multiple screens and a three-dimensional projection showing what must be Codrescu nearspace—and the chronometer ticking away said it was in real time.

  "Pilot Waitley, since one of your admirers is to hand, we'll add him to the discussion; he already requested attention and he's on his way. What wonder have you discovered, Mister Slayn?"

  Slayn stood near a screen, shaking his head.

  "Batzer's not listed as agent for Drosslemare any longer; looks the termination was effective immediately the last pod-connect was confirmed. Since the incident occurred after that confirmation . . ."

  "Mister Slayn, I suggest you do a statistical analysis of the 'pod-breakers' and see if you don't find a connect/disconnect relationship on many of the ships they handle. Some of them do trade for the family ships, that's true—they don't count for this—but the real meteor-shreds are almost as leery of their agents as their agents are of them."

  Theo found herself and Hevelin a seat with a view of the projection, curling into a repurposed lift chair. As soon as she sat, she regretted not being more advertent: Slayn had dragged the recovered bag in with him and sat on one of the broad-cushioned file sections that lined one wall.

  Peltzer's perch was just that: a tall stool that looked like it was stolen from a port bar. He sat, turned about, quick eyes checking the real time, hand tapping at the spot on his shoulder that brought him, and him alone, information from somewhere.

  "Do you have that analysis?" Peltzer's voice was dulcet, while his fingers said soon soon quick soon.

  "You're right of course," Slayn admitted. "I hadn't thought it through. Almost all of these contracts are on-delivery or on-event automatics; the funds transfer as things occur and the relationships are short-terms. No one is responsible for a breath longer than they have to be!"

  "Codrescu's Council won't move on this: they've seen the records and feel like there's just a matter of drunk-boat behavior. I think that since they pulled a gun it might be more than that, but since they didn't actually gain control of you or maintain control of their weapons, the port's willing, and even eager, to let slide."

  Peltzer handed a printout to Theo, who looked it over, seeing large tracts of fine print and not much sense to it.

  Theo's so-called admirer, Qaichi Bringo, had joined them and sat beside Slayn on the broad cushions, slowly inventorying the contents of the bag Gazo had dropped with a scan-camera; he looked up at Theo and waved, vaguely shaping what looked like confused unconfirmable paths, other hand still shuffling through the bag. He was a greying and tidy man in an old uniform; the sleeve cuffs and collar were shiny with wear and his serviceable shoes were marked with the indents of guide pedals used frequently.

  He'd arrived without fanfare, nodded as much at Hevelin as at Theo, after giving her one hard stare, as if storing her in memory, and had gotten right to work. He talked without looking at her.

  "Pilots working the close-in stuff, I like to know who they are, Waitley. You was new, and not Guild yet, so I needed to ask, not being rude. I'm Chief Tugwhomper, see—"

  "Tugwhomper?"

  He smiled. "Local usage, Pilot. I'm overseeing the yard on all but three shift; and since you drew the hardest attach slot we got right now, thought I ought to know how close to run and if I ought to notch up the safety alert. Din't, on account of you was running with a good second and aside that, the Out-Lady had your record and was giving a thumbs-up."

  He sorted rapidly, mostly one-handed, the other hand always slightly away from his body like he was used to moving in g lower even than station normal.

  "But how can they get away with this?" Theo waved the flimsy, scowling. "I mean, what happens if they try this somewhere else? Can't the Guild act?"

  Bringo looked up, a ghost of a smile
on his face as he finished a scan and threw something back into the bag. He got serious, his free hand scratching at the side of his ear where his shipcomm would usually perch.

  "Because none of them are Pilots Guild members, and none citizens, and none have ever been here before, nor likely to show face again, that's how they can get away with it. Come in with a two-can transfer and they're out. Filed no plans beyond Eylot's Jump, and then they hardly followed line on that, like to make it hard to trace. The pilots are rated, but not Guild. The crew: low port or worse, I'd say."

  His sorting hand found something else that made him smile as he sorted, and then he looked hard at Theo. "You really wanna cure 'em, you can: but you'll have to post bond on the cost of rousing a three-ship intercept, and then you'll need a lawyer willing to take your money for the rest of your natural life and then some. Given the situation, you'd end up dealing with Brine Batzer if you did that."

  Peltzer harrumphed. "Pilot Waitley may be required to deal with Brine Batzer. Drunk-boat or not, there will be an incident report. Batzer was agent of record so the port will be sending him a—let's call it a note—on this incident. This isn't the first time one of his contracts has acted up, and Codrescu will have to tell him Drosselmare and all her crew are banned, just so he doesn't get to thinking they're a fine and upstanding group of laddies, hey ho. In the meantime, we'll add them to the not-approved cloud for the next infoshare."

  Peltzer stopped, peered at the projection, muttered into his shoulder, nodded, and looked up. "Batzer's within his rights to follow up on the actions of his contracted ships until they leave Eylot space, if he gets a warning. He may do that. He may be too busy.

  "So, Pilot, since I'm informed you have an assignment which requires your immediate return to Eylot, and since we're not one of us related to you, bound to you, under contract to you, or contracted by you, we three can act as witness, in that Codrescu has approved of your claim to salvage. In the event that something untoward or illegal is here, we will witness that it was salvage and turn it over to the appropriate authorities, if any such exist."

  "Salvage?" Theo turned to Slayn, who was now sitting with a gun in his lap, looking like a child with a new toy.

  "I told you," he said. "You're dangerous, but you ought to have a gun, anyway. You get salvage rights on account of being the subject of unruly behavior that is otherwise unresolved." He tapped the gun. "This, for example, appears to be a perfectly serviceable handarm for close work. You'll want to have an armorer do a refurbish for you, as a matter of course. Mark that it's a little more than a dozen years old, the holster could use some work, and you'll want to check your charges before you depend on it."

  He snapped it open, showing her that it was unloaded before flipping it toward her. Surprisingly, Hevelin's tiny paw was on it as fast as she snagged it; he looked it over, sniffed it, peered into her face, then comfortably shrugged back into her lap.

  She held the gun, absently catching the charges Arndy tossed to her. It was compact, it was, and not cold at all.

  Pilot Bringo spread the rest of the bag and contents before her on a side table.

  "Not a pilot's kit, but that's the pity. Got some clothes, won't likely fit you good, but can wear well enough. The station's Refitya Shop can use them; that bag, too. Got a couple names on it. Somebody just starting ought to not drag other names along and confuse things. Deep space isn't where you want people guessing who you are."

  She looked at the remaining items: small metal clips and a personal knife, airtight containers of—

  "Is any of this worth anything, really?"

  Slayn took over, pointing.

  "This seems to be vya, a commercial container, unopened. Always a friend of a pilot, for use or trade, this is a modest amount in moderate grade—but still, like the gun, having it will be worth more than sending it to consignment. This," he said, solemnly, unrolling a fancy tooled-leather packet, "is a set of matched firegems."

  The three older pilots burst into laughter as one; inside Theo's head, Hevelin's amusement echoed theirs.

  "Firegems?"

  Arndy manipulated the packet. Light exploded from the gems, like a rainbow running loose. The colors sparkled and—there were seven of them; they seemed not only matched, but identical.

  "They're very pretty, but I don't wear jewelry!"

  This inspired another round of mirth.

  "Pilot, of all the jewels and geegaws in the universe, a pilot should never be seen wearing firegems!"

  Arndy Slayn was not laughing as hard as he might, Theo saw; in fact, he was blushing.

  "I should apologize, Pilot," he said with a nod. "We all forget. Firegems are pretty and even attractive, but you could probably buy a double handful of these for the price of the cheapest ale on the station."

  He held one out to her and the light played about so much that Hevelin leaned to look at it, too.

  "But why the pouch—how did you know before you opened them?"

  "Lotta crew members carry these," Bringo broke in, "and some pilots, sorry to say. They're trade, or more like bait, good for back worlds where travelers are news. And so someone in trouble or looking for some, might open a pouch like this and offer a gem in return for favors, or explain that they were going to get rich, soon, and borrow money on the contents. These things, pouches and all, sometimes with certificates of authenticity too, you find them in the cheap shops some spacers visit."

  With some effort Theo rolled and sealed the firegems away in their pouch. She was about to throw it into the bag when Peltzer said, "And like vya, maybe something that can be carried if you have room and are not sure of your destination. At times a pilot must act for the ship, after all."

  Theo looked at Peltzer, heard Hevelin's deep thrum . . . and tossed it back in the bag.

  "Knowing choice is a better choice," Bringo said, nodding toward her. "Some solutions are better to not have in hand."

  Slayn reached behind the bag—

  "And finally, there are a few odds and ends of coins, and this which I cannot identify. A mechanical thing, a—"

  Theo caught the object, and it was as if she felt a buzz in her ear, and a sudden distraction of thought. It felt—dirty. Reflexively, she threw it back, and the nasty feeling was gone.

  "Don't want it," she said succinctly, and reached for the signing tablet to witness she'd made her choices.

  At that Hevelin chuffed for attention, and images of those people he'd shown her earlier—maybe Father and those others—rose before her. There were also brief flashes of the men she'd fought, and even of Brine Batzer, but they faded. Theo ruefully admitted he had a point: the uglies were gone. This pleased her as much as him.

  Getting out of Codrescu was easier than getting in. For one thing the clipping out was just that: turn off the connections, release to the acknowledgment that Cherpa's port fees were now finalized, and twitch the merest touch of gyro. The ship spun the hand's breadth required to show clear and responded to the puff of gases released by the closed connections to begin a slow backing away.

  yos'Senchul, Theo thought, was brooding. He'd all but hit his head on the deck bowing to her on her return, congratulating her both on her acceptance as a Guild member and her handling of the "unfortunate incident," the while indicating that she should sign in as soon as possible to maximize her ship time.

  Theo cycled the scanner to local, overemphasized a touch and ended up with general—

  As before, the screen showed incoming as blue and outgoing as green, and another touch brought up orbital elements and projected destination or outbound Jumps—and there in red was the incident report tagged Shadow Ship.

  "Still here," Theo remarked.

  "Yes, Pilot, it is. While the range seems to have changed in the interim, we're still improbably showing identical proper motion. Noted, and logged."

  Theo heard an undercurrent in his voice and asked, "You're worried about it?"

  His hands waffled, signing no-and-yes, balanced.


  "Before you graduate, Pilot, we will have the discussion about the other possibilities a shadow ship might represent. Perhaps an Yxtrang surveillance device, or a leftover from the great wars, or a cloak for a smuggler. All of these and more, including a ship crewed by ghosts, which has been a tale of pilots for centuries.

  "But now, we return to things more solid than ekly'teriva, Pilot. We have no need to make the full orbit from here—call ahead and we shall land in time for breakfast. And you will have time to visit the armorer before your first class."

  Twenty-Eight

  Armorer's Forge

  Anlingdin Piloting Academy

  Her anticipated target moved, shaking the dump lid, but staying out of sight. She wasn't going to trust a sound shot or try a ricochet; she needed a clear view, and time . . .

  The dark one she'd thought she'd already taken care of moved, standing with a lurch, arm swinging toward her, wild shot singing somewhere else. Without compunction she took him down with a three-shot volley, twisting in time to get off a shot at the other one, aiming at the gun itself in desperation—

  A flash of blue filled the alleyway; she jerked back, sighed—and stood down.

  "Clear on the range," she said, carefully sliding the gun into the unfamiliar holster. "Clear on the range."

  "Thank you, Pilot. Clear on the range." That voice spoke into her left ear.

  She removed the light goggles, blinked into the room that was really there instead of the alley and warehouse that weren't. There was the sound of a door unsealing, and a light step.

  Tiffy Hasan stood about where Theo's last shot must've missed her target.

  The armorer offered her the tablet with her scores on-screen, but she still had sweat in her eyes and she was breathing kind of fast, so she paid it no attention. Her muscles didn't exactly hurt, but her left hand was cramped, and she was pleased to let the tablet rest on her forearm and steady it with the fingers of her right hand.

  "Four on one," Hasan said, "and that with a grip you're not comfortable with. We'll fix that; take an impression and get you something custom. Not sure how custom—you seem to be able to shoot with either hand, which isn't a bad thing at all. 'Course you don't want to change hands in the middle of things unless you have to. That last shot was a wingdinger, by the way, and a little too tricky for real shooting, 'cept if you're really desperate. You was aiming at the gun, right?"