Saltation

by Sharon Lee

  It was his turn to lean forward, using his cup to point to her before he spoke.

  "Ah, I forget, you were very much raised as a child of Delgado, as ill as it suited you. Of your maternal side I know only that it was sufficient to the task of birthing you. But no, I look to the paternal side here, Pilot."

  The slight to her mother was almost lost in the twist of pain associated with Father.

  "Jen Sar Kiladi," she said coolly, "is also a scholar, Uncle, and a retired pilot." She took a careful breath. "Do you know my father?"

  "Know your father? No, not your father, if you mean to ask if we have met in person. However, your gene lines are hardly so short that your sire marks the length of the shadow, and I have met others in the line . . . some years before you were born, I daresay. As is illustrated by your own performance, the line is one prone to survival. Guild records indicate you carry at least one weapon you took barehanded from the care of a previous owner."

  Theo started to speak, held it back—at least he hadn't mentioned her riot!

  "But you see, your records are just updated, and trustworthy Jump pilots being at a premium, there are ways to achieve as much assurance ahead of time as possible. As an employer willing to trust into your care a vessel of both monetary and sentimental value, I feel that such records ought to be available. It helped, of course, that the Scouts were willing to assist."

  "Scouts? What Scouts?"

  Uncle smiled, precisely as if he saw through her, but was willing to give her points for trying to play the game.

  "Your Win Ton, for one. He sleeps just beyond your view at the end of the hall, guarded by the chief of his medical team."

  Theo's glance was unsubtle.

  "I'd not be so cruel as to say so, and not prove it, Pilot Waitley." He motioned, giving her permission to investigate, just as Dulsey appeared at the end of the way.

  Theo nodded to Uncle, rose not as steadily as she might like, saw Dulsey's face go bland as they passed each other in the lushly carpeted hall.

  Around that corner the hall turned utilitarian, with beige walls and floor; bulkheads and pressure doors obvious. Sitting neatly cross-legged athwart the first double-wide door Theo came to was the same Scout who'd disturbed her and Win Ton with the news of a message.

  The Scout rose languidly and bowed in recognition to Theo.

  "Pilot, I see you. Alas, Scout yo'Vala is not receiving visitors."

  Dulsey spoke from behind Theo's shoulder.

  "The Uncle decides, Scout. You may permit entry."

  Theo glanced aside. In fact both Dulsey and Uncle were behind her, bare feet on the plain decking, the Uncle gesturing a clipped open.

  * * *

  Theo read rapidly, finding the usages no stranger than contracts she'd read in class, and certainly better paid than Hugglelans' newest offer. The confidentiality agreement carried with it an extra payment, but—

  "And so," Uncle went on, "we both have more information than we did before. The Scouts have entrusted me with some news, of course, but they cannot hide from me, as much as they might wish to do so, the identity of the pilot to whom your Win Ton has given the second key—actually, the first key—because the keys speak to this ship, which was built at the same yard as Bechimo."

  Theo glanced up, seeing no joy of surprise in the man's face, but rather serious intent.

  "They speak?" Win Ton had said that, hadn't he? That his key had talked to and manipulated the Old Tech devices on his prison ship?

  "Yes. I understand, from the man himself, that he entrusted you with one of the phrases, and I find it compelling."

  His hands motioned a repeat please.

  There was no reason she knew of not to. Theo shrugged. " 'There are secrets in all families.' "

  "Wonderful. A phrase so old it is new again. So, we soon come to the truths we share and the truths you need to know. First though, is the contract reasonable?"

  "A cantra for going to Liad?"

  "Liad is a war zone, Pilot. I cannot say it will be without risk."

  He sipped his tea.

  "The rest meets with your approval? In short: I provide a ship, a destination for the ship, and a list of items or documents to be delivered or picked up. At each port you will have a public pickup or delivery; which permits you to claim time, ports, from the Guild; as well as a reason to be in system. From time to time I may provide a 'wait for' order as items must reach your location, at times I may issue a 'skip run' and you will then not follow the previous route but move beyond, or rendezvous as is pertinent. You provide piloting, care of my ship, and act as delivery or receiving agent. You will be issued three pinbeam codes for use as required in emergencies or other exigencies, which you will use with care."

  "What will I be carrying, Uncle?"

  He smiled, and raised his hand like a lecturer looking for attention from a class.

  "To the best of your knowledge you will be carrying rare books, special or unique reference items, and the occasional replacement part. Some of these are antiques, some are reproductions, some are both. You will not be carrying drugs, jewels, or other material generally considered illicit."

  "This is good pay."

  "A good pilot is worth good pay."

  "What about Win Ton?"

  He raised both hands as if weighing an invisible cat.

  "Yes, you see, these things are all run together. Win Ton has saved the Scouts, and myself, some difficulty by acting with haste. His actions have brought to him the problems he discussed with you—but see, I tell you that he is not giving away confidences, but rather was subject to an interview after he was given a drug to relax him into the device in which he now sleeps. It is not a mere med unit like the best ships and hospitals have, it is a med unit of the type the Scouts have long abjured and fought against, in that it uses forbidden, even secret, technology."

  He paused, seeing her concentrate, spun the comment query off of his fingers in that clipped accent of his.

  "How can you forbid technology?" Theo asked. "How can you keep it secret? If someone can make something, so can someone else, eventually."

  Uncle nodded slightly.

  "That would be my understanding, as well, Theo Waitley. The med unit operating on your Win Ton is something more than a standard autodoc unit in that, if required, it can replace tissue to the point of . . . let us say near to the point of creating a clone. Our med unit onboard, as it stands, is Win Ton's best chance to survive the next two Standards or so."

  Theo eyes widen, hope quickening. "It will cure him?"

  "It will not cure him!"

  At this Uncle rose, and began to pace, hands making rhythmic motions as if he posted to a keyboard, or struck a small drum set.

  "If I had been permitted to work with and collect this technology several hundred years ago when I wished to, we might again be at that point. But I was not and in any case—at hand what we have is a machine which is far more powerful than the Scout catastrophe units; if you have a brain to hand, almost any other injury you might name can be healed over time; if you have time, even aging can be reduced considerably. But to do that, we need a very complete sample, a very secure sample."

  He paced, and Theo's hands won the race with her mouth, confirm data several hundred years outpacing her spoken, "Sample?"

  He pause, and smiled slowly.

  "In fact, a secure sample: what we have now of your Win Ton is contaminated; his blood and his cells carry within them the very things of which we need to cure him. The Win Ton you saw in the viewport of the machine, that Win Ton, the biologic system, has been altered to hide what is new among what is old, to make all of him somewhat other than the Win Ton you knew previously."

  Theo shuddered, wondering, saw data confirmed go past as she considered—

  "Clones, people clones, aren't legal, are they?"

  He waved his hand with no meaning other than frustration, walking a few steps away and back as he thought.

  "Fashion," he said finally.
"It is a matter of fashion to make these rules. Cloning has been legal, it has been illegal. Good people have died a final death because they might not be cloned, my relatives among them—and for that matter, yours. Progress has been held back until the point that these Liaden fools Win Ton has been tangled with can threaten everything out of ignorance!"

  "The Scouts?"

  He sat suddenly, anger leached into an earnest and almost beseeching tone.

  "The dissidents, the Department of the Interior. The fools who have collected good and bad Old Tech without discrimination and use it without understanding. The Scouts, the old Scouts, made it easy for them by putting these devices in safe places where they thought no one would find them, not knowing that technology cannot be suppressed over time. Banned, perhaps, outlawed certainly, but that's a passing thing waiting for the right person or group to write new rules.

  "What may cure your Win Ton is what the Scouts are afraid of. Bechimo has a med unit that far surpasses even the unit on this ship, upon which both Dulsey and I depend. More! Bechimo certified Win Ton yo'Vala as copilot. It holds a sample—a secure sample—enough to rebuild him completely, properly, and without contamination."

  Theo took a breath.

  "You believe in this Bechimo then? It isn't just a coping—an artifact of his wanting to survive?"

  Uncle leaned forward, his old-young face earnest.

  "Please, listen and hear, Theo Waitley. The keys, both of them together, are Old Technology, good technology, and they speak to some of the devices in this ship which are also Old Technology. Bechimo is the next step; it was a hybrid built of the Old Tech that was fading of age and very advanced current tech of its time. And that is its danger to the Scouts, and to these dissidents, that what we built really was, and is, better than what they have and treasure."

  Uncle's hands tussled with words or ideas she couldn't read.

  "We?" she ventured, at last.

  He sighed, gently.

  "Call it we, if you like, Pilot. I believe in the Bechimo because I stood on her deck as she was being finished, so I know she exists. We can discuss the philosophy of these things called existence and self over a drink sometime, or a pot of tea, if you like. In the meantime, there is an issue of time, on several accounts.

  "Win Ton yo'Vala's prognosis if I turn him back to the Scouts is not good: perhaps two hundred or three hundred Standard days, maybe four hundred if they are content to allow him to stay in the machine until he dies, useless and helpless, inside a cocoon. My machine—well, the machine calculates that at the current rate Win Ton will have a series of dozens of good days, and then of tens, and then of fours or threes, all interspersed with more and longer time within the med unit. With good food, diet, exercise, care, he may well have a thousand days or more of interrupted, painful survival.

  "If we can get him to Bechimo, the ship should be able to restore him. It may well improve him. Then he may have centuries, as you should."

  Theo bit her lip.

  "Win Ton said Bechimo was looking for me."

  "Yes, that's true. And with both of you together here it may well find you—and quickly! Which we can by no means allow!"

  "Whyever not? If Win Ton needs the ship, then let it come here. I'll open it, we'll get him into this super-rated autodoc, and—"

  "Think, Pilot. What happens here or anywhere public when a self-controlled ship comes to port demanding a space, or just taking a space? If someone warns it away, and it assumes you, or Win Ton, is in danger, it may attack—surely if someone tries to board it without your permission, it will repel boarders again!" He tapped the table for emphasis. "If you do not know this, know it now. Bechimo is self-aware. It is also ignorant, having been reft of an association which would have taught manners and something of human interaction."

  "Win Ton said it was an AI," she admitted, and sighed. Uncle was right. Better to let the ship find her in . . . less crowded conditions.

  "How will I know it?" she asked. "Bechimo."

  "We can provide a matching program," Uncle said, and reached further, to tap the contract at her elbow.

  "What I want you to do, Theo Waitley, is to accept my contract. There is a ship in orbit, an old ship but serviceable and proud. The port records are open to you ahead of time and you may check it thoroughly. It is built on an old Terran commissioner's ship plan, and is mostly standard, aside it has had several power upgrades. Accept the contract, and go. Bechimo will find you, I make no doubt. Be canny and choose your time and location. Once you have it in hand, then the choice of what you will do is, as every choice a pilot makes, your own."

  He paused, regarded his hand a moment, then looked at Theo with no sign of anything but seriousness.

  "In the meantime, it is best, I believe, for all of us, that you accept my contract."

  Theo looked down at the contract, the phrase Solcintra, Liad coming into sharp focus. Clan Korval was based in Solcintra, Liad, as she knew from the news reports. Delm Korval—who was delm to pilotkind, wasn't that what Kara had said? Her father, Win Ton—pilots both. Would it be possible—?

  And what could it hurt, she thought suddenly, to ask? Neither Father's disappearance nor Win Ton's circumstance was something that Sam Tim could solve on his own!

  "I'll do it," she said.

  Uncle inclined his head, and offered her a pen.

  "Your signature, please." He produced a pouch from somewhere, and dumped its contents on the table before her: five cantra pieces, a ship's key, and what looked like a clay game piece.

  "The ship I wish you to pilot is Arin's Toss, Pilot. Dulsey, please bring a screen, so that the pilot may review the records."

  Theo looked at the small fortune sitting beside her, idly reaching out and touching the mint-fresh coins with the stern face on it, and then the key . . . and then the clay piece, which felt oddly fuzzy for something so hard, which felt comforting, the way the key round her neck had felt when she'd looked at Win Ton, who would be her copilot if he could . . .

  Now that she had decided, now that all of her problems seemed to be pointing in the same direction, she wanted to lift, to fly, to be doing something.

  She stood.

  "Just a moment, Pilot; Dulsey will be here—"

  "That's fine," she interrupted. "If the ship will fly, I'll fly it."

  She picked up the game piece, and flipped it. It snugged into her hand like a norbear.

  "The usual rules apply," she said. "Let's go."

  SALTATION

  Forty-One

  Arin's Toss

  Volmer

  The Book of Ships worknet description of Arin's Toss, out of Bluestone, Waymart, called it

  an excellent example of the early trade-merge ship, with the courier-weight vessel built on Terran proportions, denominated and calibrated with Terran mensuration, and reminiscent of the family-vessel forbears it descended from. The ship has been surveyed as recently as Standard Year 1389, when its single classic Class Three mount point was replaced with a more modern Class Two mount during refitting that included installation of a dual core drive to replace what was claimed to be an original Terran Sentry-Overbrook.

  Reading about it, though, was nothing like being there. Theo had in hand already the hard-copy printout and three reader versions of the ship's details, down to replacement part numbers, lists of shops that had worked on it in the last century, and the promised pinbeam info as well.

  They'd toured the ship first, inspecting it externally on the way in as Dulsey piloted the minishuttle belonging to Crystal Energy Consultants.

  For the initial runthrough, Theo sat second seat, Dulsey demonstrating the few nonstandard board-set items the antique retained with the ship quiet. Some of the surfaces were polished metal, some were clearly refits, but the entirety made the ships she trained on at the academy look old and grubby, and Primadonna just a little . . . dowdy.

  Theo frowned, the memory of her last visit to Primadonna was still uncomfortable. Rig had taken her comm, her ke
y and her news of a ship with a wide grin, and the advice to "fly her like she's part of you, Pilot Theo, because that's what she'll be, so soon it'll make your head spin!"

  Mayko . . . had not been pleased. She demanded to know who had hired her, and how she felt, after Hugglelans had taken her aboard and trained her, to be signing with another company. Until Rig told her to put it in a can, that was, and Theo was left to pack in peace.

  Arin's Toss, though—They did a full run to Jump sequence with the board on neutral and Theo sitting second; then brought it down to quiet again. Theo took over, reset the board to zero and did the entire sequence again, adjusting toggle strengths and seating and light angles and straps to things that would be comfortable to her.

  The intro time flew by; and on the morrow Theo would—

  GAWGAWGAW.

  Theo snatched for the comm—but it wasn't lit! She looked to Dulsey, who pointed.

  Right, she thought. Pinbeam.

  "Test message?"

  Dulsey's hands were eloquent: Live message get.

  Theo signed accept and pressed the read now button, glad to see open text in Terran.

  ++Request/require immediate shipment pallet fifteen++new local conditions++arrive shields up++doubled terms arrive on-before Day 201 Standard 1393++haste++purple44+arrival Day 203 Standard 1393/later unacceptable++listening++

  Theo glanced to the other pilot, surprised to see reaction on that normally serene face. Dulsey brought the second board live just in time to catch an incoming comm call which she flashed to the open speaker. Uncle's voice was clear.

  "Hello, Arin's Toss. We'll have to rendezvous for a transfer; are systems good there?"

  Dulsey looked to Theo, answered, "We have done first sequencing and introduction. There should be a dozen more hours or longer—"

  "You can do the math; we are attempting a very finite deadline on a unique item."

  "Waitley, can you get the Toss to—that would be Solcintra, Liad, planetside port by darkest night, day two-oh-one, if we can get Toss loaded?"