by Sharon Lee
Mayko sighed, loudly.
"Rig, we're renegotiating all the contracts. Galactic needs—"
"Will you," he interrupted, forcefully. "Will you tell Theo Waitley she's made first class and earned a jacket? Will you tell her that, Master Ikari?"
"When she signs the contract she'll be able to requisition a jacket, just like any first class . . ."
Tranza went suddenly and completely quiet. Theo looked at him worriedly. He stood entirely still for two long heartbeats, then extended his hand. She realized with a start that he was asking for the jacket, and handed it over. He stretched it in front of himself, shook it, opened it, did a dance move—
And hung the jacket around Theo's shoulders, firmly, like it was a cape. The inside was cool, the jacket long on her.
"The jacket fits, Pilot. Welcome."
He squeezed her shoulder and stepped back, hands enjoining her to wear healthy long proud.
Mayko's fingers were against her lips, a look of what might be horror on her face.
"Rig, you can't just give your jacket away!"
He turned on her with startling swiftness.
"I precertified your jacket, Mayko, and you still wear it. A pilot can give his jacket to a pilot. Theo's a pilot. She's got a jacket."
"Tranza, calm please," Theo said, genuinely alarmed. "I can't—"
"Yours," he interrupted. "I swear and witness it. And Mayko should know better than to pull this stuff!"
"But your jacket!" Mayko insisted.
"I'll requisition one, right?" He gave her a flat stare. "Just like any first class pilot. Right."
Mayko stilled her hands in mid-sign, mouth tight.
Theo cleared her throat. "I can't keep it, Tranza."
He laughed, suddenly empty of tension.
"You, Pilot, better call me Rig."
"But I don't have a card!"
There was silence.
Rig turned to Mayko, fingers terse.
Card.
Mayko put hand to forehead, then reached into her side pouch and extracted something.
"Pilot," she said, extending it, "may this bring you joy."
This was a pilot's license, handed to her own hand. Endorsed all the way around, and registered already according to the seal. Theo Waitley, Pilot First Class.
The words got kind of watery, and Theo blinked, looking aside.
Nothing to cry about, she told herself.
"Right," said Rig Tranza. "I owe us all a drink. We can read contracts later."
Thirty-Six
Primadonna
Volmer
They'd had their drinks—one glass of wine for each of them, rather than the kynak Rig suggested—and then Theo called it a shift. She'd been long-shifting the whole trip and between the piloting, the argument surrounding the receipt of her first class ticket, and Win Ton's letter she was exhausted.
Retiring, she realized that on so-called solid ground the ship vibrated in ways it didn't in space, or docked to a station. While station docking often included swings and sways and even bounces, which the planet did not, the noises and vibrations emanating from the connect points as temperatures strove to balance in space were familiar.
On-planet noise snuck in from everywhere. The landing gear transmitted vibrations, the atmosphere vibrated against the ship's skin in the form of breeze and wind, and sounds traveled along and through the hull to fool the ear and excite sensors. Gauges flickered as air pressure changed; the ship's cooling from reentry generated creaks; on larger ships it was known to cause groans and crackles.
Theo's eyes were closed, which meant the sounds were all the more compelling. She wrinkled her nose against the distraction, and brought the question around to first things first, which ought to be sleep. She'd pointed out that regs were clear: she ought to be taking rest now, no matter what planetary time it was, and no matter Mayko's urgencies.
If she couldn't sleep, and Theo'd about given up on that, thinking of first things first meant rereading Win Ton's message with a little less surprise and a little more advertency. What might require a face-to-face meeting? An apology? If so for what? A proposal? Again, for what? Lust?
It was hard to believe that an accomplished pilot would be so bereft of company as to pine for her above all others.
So, she opened her eyes and sat up on the bunk. She yanked the reader onto her lap, and slapped the datakey home.
It is of utmost importance, my favorite dancer, that we meet together in person in the shortest possible time. I am prepared to meet you at any location you name, at Volmer if you like . . .
Theo blinked against the words and the desire. What better way to celebrate achieving her jacket than to see Win Ton? Win Ton had known her for a pilot before anyone else, perhaps, if she overlooked Father, who must also have known. Win Ton had recognized many things in her.
Her next breath was deep then, as she let the reader rest on the mattress. She closed her eyes, mentally stepping into a relaxation exercise as she sat with bare toes on an unstill floor, leaving the reader on so that she might look again at the mysteries it proposed.
She stood, eyes closed, the backs of her legs anchoring her to the ship and its minute vibrations while the darkness and the exercise fended off the need for immediate action. Her thoughts swept on despite the relaxation, bouncing between wariness and a growing awareness of her accomplishments.
Her time on Melchiza had first pointed up the necessity that had kept her not quite in tune with her compatriots and age-mates ever since: to be most responsible to the most number of people she had first to accept herself as potent and then to manage and expand that potency.
There'd been no good way to express that to Asu, nor to the team builders with their faith in doing well enough to get by in a group.
She considered Father, with his cars, his flowers, his garden—his work. As calm and reserved as he seemed, there was no sense that his first order of business was to please some ordinary standard. That must have been what brought him to Kamele, who also strove beyond the ordinary, finding time to sing in the choir while managing a child, and her career and an odd-world onagrata.
Dancer, Win Ton named her. Pilot.
She was both of those things. Also, she was Win Ton's friend, though she'd fallen out of the habit of writing to him. Right after she'd been expelled, she'd been too busy. And then—she'd been too busy. She might assume the same of him, who hadn't written again, after the letter bestowing the gift that she still wore 'round her neck.
Did you feel a connection to him? she asked herself, and answered: Yes. Yes, I do.
She opened her eyes.
It is of utmost importance, my favorite dancer, that we meet together . . .
That was true that she didn't know what he wanted from her. It was equally true that she would never know, unless she answered him. If he only wished to return a forgotten hair clip, like a proper onagrata out of a silly girl-book, so be it. If there was something more—there was an urgency, to both the letter, and its delivery. Pinbeams were expensive. Expense, in Theo's mind, suggested trouble.
She would answer him; a friend in trouble had that right. But she would answer him when she was rested, and clear in her mind.
That decided, she sighed, and stood in the darkness. Carefully, she did a small dance before stretching on the bed again, letting the words fade, dancing relaxation in her mind until she slept in truth.
"Rig," she said experimentally. "I—need to—"
He turned away from a screen full of legal-looking language, startled, already moving to balance and center and—
"Theo," he laughed, "what have you done now? I can't believe you could sneak up on me on Primadonna!"
She smiled, realized that she had been moving quietly, not wanting to rouse Mayko if she could help it.
"I'm awake and need to go back to the comm office before shift. But we didn't really settle what shifts we'd run today—"
"By all rights, you ought to be off-shift for a ten-
day, I'd say. You haven't had a real break since we started flying together."
She smiled, raising her hands.
"Haven't got that far ahead," she admitted. "I need to go down to the comm office and . . ." She hesitated, and he signed a quick your call, your flight.
"Personal is personal. Get your comm work done, take a walk, and we'll see about shifts after that. Mayko's already out so this shift is mine, and it's about time I run one, huh?" He pointed toward the lock, eloquent hands saying go, go—and, abruptly—wait.
He touched his forehead, the gesture meaning my empty head, or sometimes, I forgot.
"If you need a comm room—let me call ahead to tell them you're coming, tell them to reserve one for you, right? And I'll call you a cart since Mayko's already got ours out on the port somewhere."
Theo nodded. "Thank you, I should have thought . . ."
"No. You've been running first board, so this is my job, right?"
She hand-flashed work work work at him but he was already singing as she moved—and he stopped suddenly, pointing back toward her berth.
"Pilot, your jacket. You earned it. You're on port. Wear it!"
Theo opened her mouth to rebut and found his hands were already replying with:
Order from shift captain!
She mocked a bow then, and went back to get her jacket.
The distance to the comm office was no shorter, but in the way that even minor familiarity with a place will change perception, it felt closer to the Primadonna this time. True, the cart attendant, a young girl who drove a lot like Father, took her directly to the Pilots Guild gate, and this time when Theo entered with card in hand she was waved by as if they all knew who she was.
"Captain Tranza was to make . . ."
The clerk looked up from a desk full of screens.
"Yes, Pilot Waitley. With all the confusion going on I'm afraid there'll be a wait; if you like, you can catch up on the news at the café and we'll send someone, or listen for your call."
There was a lot of activity, and the tiny café was full of screens and talk. There was a flutter of hands and nods when she entered, and quick glances from those hoping to see a familiar face. In fact, Theo did recognize several of the gathered pilots as having been on route or in a bar or on port here at the same time in the last year. If anybody thought her jacket too big, none said, and none challenged her when she grabbed a table with a multiscreen already scrolling streams.
Korval attacks Liad one stream was marked, and another screamed out Scouts Repulse Armed Invasion at Nev'lorn. The large JONBA AGENCY First Class Pilots Wanted NOW Top Money Top Guarantee ad bounced at the top of one screen while from the bottom a pulsing blue announced Mercenaries. We Make Worlds Safe. Join Us. Your Bonus is Waiting.
At the table to her right, a large woman was talking a little too loud, as if her coffee was boosted.
"Tell you true, I have this from clean source. Aelliana Caylon is back. They say she came busting in from Galaxy Nowhere with guns blazing and blew apart battleships with her little courier ship. These are great times we live in, friend, great times!"
One of her table mates was chuckling: "So when do we expect Bopper to show up, or the Second Terran Fleet?"
Theo touched the order board for the morning tea special, and leaned back. She could have read all this on Primadonna if she'd have known the comms were backed up.
"Punch up the register, sandfoot," the woman at the right-side table told her mate. "No? Then I will. I met the Caylon once myself, I did, her and her other. Ride the Luck. She was a pick-up pilot, you know—just like us. Never missed a delivery, too!"
"She's been dead a long time, Casey. No matter how pretty she was, she's dead."
That voice was sad, and Theo glanced over to the table, where the louder woman—in Jump leather—was crowing, and the sad person craning her neck to see—
"Hah! Lookithere. Ride the Luck, Solcintra, Liad, Aelliana Caylon Pilot and Captain, Dock Sixteen-A Binjali Repair, Solcintra. Not Accepting.
"Tell me you see it! Right there in the register. Register don't carry ghosts, Tervot. And just like a Liaden to keep a working ship working, ain't it? Here, let's look for the big one! See it, see it? Dutiful Passage, Solcintra, Liad, Priscilla Mendoza Pilot and Captain, Orbit Seventeen Liad, Not Accepting."
There was a stunned silence, spreading over several adjacent tables.
"Mendoza's captain?" someone asked, somberly. "Where's Shan?"
"That's right," the loud woman said, not so loud, now. "yos'Galan was master—for how many years? Damn! They had all that fighting. You don't think—?"
There was a rustle two tables away and a plump man lurched to his feet. "I gotta get me a message out . . ."
"Queue's long on that," the sad-voiced person said, but the guy was already gone. She pulled the screen to her and threw in her own request. "Now look, Vitale, here's the news archive for when the Caylon got killed—"
The third occupant of the table laughed. "Won't take true for an answer," he said, as the conversations around started to pick up again.
The large woman shook her head.
"Hey, that's Korval-kin you're talking about. Korval is the most Liaden you can get, and if the registry says Aelliana Caylon's parked her ship at Binjali's, well I believe it, cause that's where she always flew from. You know better'n to trust news archives, Tervot!"
Theo sighed. Maybe she should go back to Primadonna, if the comm lines were that long. Or she could ask Tranza to authorize use of ship's comm; she trusted him not to snoop in her private messages.
Unfortunately, she didn't precisely trust Mayko to do the same.
Thinking of Mayko brought to mind that list of destinations, Delgado among them. Maybe she could get some crew rest herself—visit Father and Kamele. Coyster—Coyster was an elder cat now, looking like dignity itself in the last pics from—
"Vitale, shut your face!" came a vehement whisper from the table on her right.
She looked up in time to see the large woman blush, then push purposefully to her feet.
She nodded to Theo, hands asking permission to approach.
Theo granted it, warily sitting a little straighter though without resorting to dance.
The woman stepped closer, and attempted a bow.
"I'd like to let you know, Pilot, I wasn't talking personal. I'm just so glad to see The Caylon back that—well, I betcha most Liadens are glad that she's back, isn't that so? And if they managed to keep her hid so she could come back, why that's fine. I wasn't trying to, you know, impugn your melant'i or—"
Hold course hold course Theo signed, aware that everyone at the woman's table was watching with trepidation.
"I'm not a Liaden, Pilot. Please relax. I'm fine."
"Pilot, your tea, and handwich." The advertised items landed on the table before Theo, and the waiter was gone that quickly. The big woman nodded, glancing particularly at the tea.
"Yah, First, I see," she said, almost whispering. "Lots of folks are traveling quiet. Look, I'm Casey Vitale. Fly with Chenowith and Gladder. Right now I've got Aldershot on a coldpad until they get me new orders."
She handed over a card, and bowed again. "At your service. I get a little het up sometimes when I'm grounded, and right now, what with all the sudden traffic through here, I'm waiting for a beam."
Theo inclined her head, which was the proper answer to the bow—and exactly what a Liaden would have done. She sighed, reached into her pocket and returned the favor.
"Theo Waitley," she said.
Her card simply said: Primadonna, Theo Waitley, Hugglelans Galactic.
Casey Vitale grinned. "Hey, that's a good outfit. Good outfit. I—"
"Scouts!" came the call from somewhere near the door. "Crew of 'em! Weapons on display!"
That was enough to startle Theo, who looked away from Casey Vitale, trying to imagine a crew of Scouts so bold as to . . .
There was a crew of them, uniformed, and weapons in plain sight on their bel
ts, a taller one in front pointing toward the single free table in the back corner, one with a view of the exit.
Hands fluttered all around, and nods, and murmurs as the café patrons took in the sight, and the silent march of the Scouts, as one wearing a half-plex goggle over his eyes and upper face made a large, shapeless motion with his hand. His wrists were encumbered with wraparound healing bracelets or supports, and his face mottled with fresh-grown skin still not toned. His signal, sloppy as it had been, halted the rest in mid-march.
The goggled one said something deep and quiet in Liaden, and threaded carefully through the close-set tables. Her attention on the approaching Scout, Theo felt, rather than saw, Casey Vitale step back to her own table.
He paused at her table, removed the goggle and bowed, deep and wondrously slow, almost, Theo thought, as if it pained him to move.
"Pilot Waitley," he said in a hoarse, strained voice. He bowed again, not as deep, and corrected himself: "First Class Jump Pilot Waitley. Sweet Mystery. Words fail."
His eyes were brown, and strained, with wrinkles that stopped abruptly at the new skin; his upper lip had strange color where it, too, had been resurfaced. She searched his face and found him, behind the strain, and the patchwork.
Rising, she resisted the urge to throw herself on him, to touch him.
"Win Ton! Win Ton, what has happened?"
His grin was fleeting, and his voice even more of a croak.
"What has not happened?" he replied, and for that instant, he was Win Ton as she had first met him. Then he bowed, for yet a third time.
"Theo, I overstepped."
He glanced down at his wrists, and added, seriously. "I took damage. May I sit?"
Without waiting for permission—in fact, as if he must sit—he nearly fell into the chair beside her. She sank into her own chair, and put her hand over his, where it lay on the table.
He leaned toward her conspiratorially, his voice weaker even than his grin.
"We need to talk, pilot and friend. We need to talk."
