by Lee Sharon
“Dosavi.” Inki bowed to the shadowy figure in the dark chair. “I hope I find you well.”
“I enjoy my usual good health, thank you. Please, introduce me to your…partner.”
“Of a certainty.”
Inki half-turned and beckoned Tocohl forward, to the place where the decking disappeared beneath layers of brightly figured fabric. More fabric concealed the walls, yet more hung in flowing folds overhead, obscuring the ceiling.
The light was dim; the figure on the high chair surrounded by the sea of color nothing more than a silhouette to human eyes.
Tocohl’s senses were far superior than mere human eyes, of course, but some other sense—what a human might call a hunch—made her narrow her scans and damp the output of her monitors.
“Dosavi, I present to you my partner, Pilot Tocohl Lorlin. Pilot Tocohl, here is Dosavi Kasagaria Mikelsyn, of whom I have spoken.”
“Dosavi Mikelsyn; I am honored.”
Tocohl inclined slightly, a courteous sketch of a bow.
“I believe that it is I who am honored. One does not often have the opportunity to meet and converse with a free AI, despite one’s proclivities. Tell me, would it be discourteous to comment favorably upon your form factor?”
The voice came from the figure on the chair; there was no disputing that. But the figure on the chair was not…completely…organic, no matter the shape the rugs seemed to give it.
Tocohl allowed her “face” to lighten, as if she smiled.
“A compliment must always gratify,” she said pleasantly.
“I agree. Please believe me sincere when I say that I find you a most beautiful lady, indeed. I wish you a long, interesting and, of course, free…life.”
“Thank you, Dosavi. May I wish the same for you?”
There came a pause, then a sound which might have been a chuckle.
“You are gracious. A long, free life is the goal of all present, is it not?”
Another pause, and the sense that the dosavi’s attention had shifted from herself to her companion.
“Translator Yo, thank you for your patience. You are here to trade information, I believe? May I ask what you want?”
“I wish to learn the coordinates or location of the Great Work from the old universe, who is said to be wakening in this one.”
“I see. And what do you have?”
Inki hesitated long enough for Tocohl to wonder if, after all, she had nothing to trade—except her partner.
“I have been empowered,” Inki said, her voice devoid of her usual flamboyant whimsy. “In return for good data, I offer the command lexicon for the Fariette-Kelsin Tactical Acquisition Heavy Operations armor.”
Silence was her answer. Silence and a sense of being targeted by unseen weapons. Tocohl looked to her own weapons and stealthily brought two up to yellow.
“Pilot Tocohl, your forbearance is requested,” Dosavi Mikelsyn said. “Translator Yo has surprised me, which does not often happen. I merely indulge myself by savoring the sensation.”
“Of course,” Tocohl murmured. “We have been given safe passage; therefore, we have nothing to fear.”
Laughter rolled out of the dimness.
“Oh, Pilot Tocohl, you are an unexpected delight! No, no; you have not been given safe passage—and you have not made the mistake of thinking so. However, I would not be churlish. You are my guests; in my hallways, you are as safe as I am. You understand that I cannot be responsible for all of the Greybar.”
“Thank you for the clarification,” Tocohl said politely. But she did not put her weapons wholly back to sleep.
“Prudent,” the dosavi murmured.
“Translator Yo.”
“Dosavi?”
“You and I have done business before, Translator, and I warrant you know to a half-bit what value I place upon your life.”
“Dosavi,” said Inki politely.
“Precisely. I have questions regarding your offering.”
“Dosavi, only ask! I will give you those answers that I may.”
“Yes, I am familiar with your candor, and the limits placed upon it. I will ask carefully, Translator. I would not unwittingly cause you pain.”
“You are everything that is considerate, Dosavi,” Inki said, the blandness of her tone stripping the words of any possible irony.
“I ask if you have any personal knowledge of these command codes?”
“No, Dosavi.”
“Do you have reason to believe that they are authentic?”
“No, Dosavi.”
“And yet you offer them. You are a subtle woman, Translator. Is it possible for you to tell me why you brought this offer to me, knowing as you do the penalty for false dealing?”
“Dosavi, it occurred to me that even bad information may sometimes yield valuable insights. It is, for instance, well known that the last TAHO unit was destroyed more than two hundred Standards ago. They were unstable, so it was said. And it was further said that the energy stored in the power supplies, should it be released at once, would crack open a planet.”
Her bow was as bland as her voice.
“And yet, Dosavi, here is this offer, which I am instructed to bring to you, in payment for information that I assure you my…employers…are very eager to gain.”
She raised a hand and turned it palm up, deliberately.
“But, there; it is possible that I have overthought the matter. Perhaps the directors have become aware that you collect ancient instruction manuals.”
More silence; the sense of being targeted increasing. Tocohl did not bring her weapons online, but she accessed her newly acquired battle protocols.
The dosavi spoke.
“I see that you bring me true coin, indeed, Translator Yo. We have a deal. How is your information transmitted?”
“I have files on a key,” Inki said. “I wear it around my neck. May I remove it?”
“By all means do so, and place it on the small table to your right.”
Inki complied and folded her hands before her.
“The information you have purchased is nonexclusive,” Kasagaria Mikelsyn said.
“That is understood, Dosavi.”
“Excellent. Pilot Tocohl, will you accept a download?”
Instinct was to deny him—then she realized that this, of course, was why Inki had insisted on her presence, though to reveal her whole nature, if not to the Greybar entire than to this very questionable person, was hardly wise.
“Of course,” she said composedly, readying a secure receiving area, and bringing firewalls and scrubbers online. “At will.”
She opened a line, felt it snatched, and in the next instant the data was streaming to her. It was cleaner than she had expected it to be, though by no means as clean as she preferred. She had also expected bloat, but it was a relatively small packet, though she felt the scrape of zippers and hidden doors as it passed down the line.
End of file rang clarion; she canceled the connection, loosed a security program into the holding area, and received the all-clear.
Satisfied, she swayed into what passed for her bow.
“The file arrives intact,” she said, “Dosavi.”
“Excellent,” came the voice from the chair.
“I must now bid you good day, Translator Yo, Pilot Tocohl. I trust you will find your way safely back to your ship.”
There was a sudden, acute sense of absence. Tocohl held herself very still, not quite daring, yet, to bring her scans up.
“Dosavi,” Inki said and bowed toward the empty chair.
She turned neatly on her heel.
“Come, Pilot Tocohl. Our business here is done.”
* * *
Their return progress was quick, though the pace that Inki set was moderate. It would appear that news of their previous transit of the market and, perhaps, too, their reemergence from Revelation Alley had gained for them a wary respect.
Though Tocohl intercepted the occasional sidelong glance, there was no outright staring, no p
ointing, no weapons thoughtfully fingered. Pedestrians melted out of their path, jitneys and service vehicles ceded them right of way.
“Inki…” Tocohl murmured.
“I am aware, Pilot Tocohl,” she returned softly. “We proceed, calmly, and hope to reach our own decks before this building storm should break.”
Tocohl expanded her scans.
No one followed them; they were not under targeted observation. There was no evidence of increased interest in themselves. And yet…some word must have gone out, some indication of trouble, apparent, perhaps, only to the residents of the Greybar.
Had the dosavi issued a warning?
But, no, Tocohl thought. The dosavi had been frank regarding the limits upon his authority. Revelation Alley and its sub-halls were his; the rest of the Greybar was…not.
Careful of telltale surges and signatures, she brought her weapons to red.
* * * * *
The market’s mood was brooding; breathless, as if a storm did, indeed, hover out on the curved horizon, hidden somewhere among the girders and the support systems. Inki had learned long ago that running in such situations was fatal. Even if the upcoming tempest bore someone else’s name, you were marked as prey, if you ran.
In this case, she did not doubt that the storm bore her name—and Tocohl’s. The dosavi might have summoned it, though she thought it unlikely; after all—he had no need. Hundreds of eyes had seen them traverse the market—a free trader paced by a ’bot. No one who had once seen Tocohl would soon forget her, whatever they might make of the trader.
Some one of those observers had sold the information: where they had gone, whence they had come, the name and location of their ship on the ring. It remained to be seen if the sale was to the Thieves Guild, to one or another of Dosavi Mikelsyn’s competitors or, indeed, to a local ’bot mechanic, hungry for new parts.
Given that neither she nor Tocohl had known crimes in their recent past, Inki did not consider it likely that bounty hunters would concern them.
In this, she was proved wrong.
He stepped out from behind such containers and tool lockers as one might find on any dock, gliding between themselves and Ahab-Esais. He wore dinged and dirty body armor that might once have been white; a half-helm over his eyes. The rifle he held cross-body, the stock angled to display the red-for-ready status light. Binders, stun-sticks, web-throwers, and other devices no doubt proven useful in the hunting of prey, hung from the belt at his waist.
Inki stopped, feeling Tocohl’s presence at her side. Had someone deduced a free AI, after all? Had the dosavi calculated that his reputation would bear the misfortune of one of his guests being taken by a hunter, so long as it happened far enough from his own halls that he might claim plausible deniability?
Inki gathered herself. She might just have that rifle—she was quick enough, and unimpeded by armor. How the hunter might counter that—well. He would have the advantage, rifle or not, but so long as he was focused on her, Tocohl would be able to open the hatch and fly to safety.
Her mood was positively festive in this moment, as the hunter measured them, for this would solve…so very much, including her own weary bondage. Tocohl would find and tend to the Old One. Admiral Bunter—surely Tolly Jones had persuaded the Admiral into a more conciliatory frame of mind by now. Her responsibility to both was discharged.
She had lately completed a task mandated by her masters, and while the meta task remained, at the moment she reposed in the trough between waves of necessity.
In fact, her life at this rare and particular moment was as much her own as ever it could be. And she found that she wished—that she very much wished—to spend it in protection of one whom she loved.
The bounty hunter spoke. He must, of course; it was required that he speak the name of his prey, her price, and the name of the individual or entity who had sworn the bond. The helmet cam would record everything, and if he did not speak—and properly—he would be fined by his guild.
Inki waited, indulgently, her eyes caressing the rifle. Let Tocohl hear the name of her hunter and what her life was worth to them. Such information was valuable.
“Recovery Agent Jaek Entorith, serving writ upon Inkirani Yo, dead or alive, one cantra. Sworn by Anj Formyne, Director, Lyre Institute.”
Inki’s mood soared from festive to exalted. Excellent! The grand solution embraced even the bounty hunter, who lost not so much as a quarter-bit should the dice fall to “dead.”
She gathered herself, focused on the rifle.
“Tocohl,” she breathed—
And before she could add, “run,” there came a slight crackling of the air, and Agent Entorith crumbled bonelessly to the decking, the rifle falling out of his dead grip.
“Quickly,” Tocohl said, sounding brisk and businesslike. “The ship.”
Tarigan
Nostrilia Outspace
I
Laying low—that’s what she was doing.
Hazenthull watched screens full of data; everything the ship had available was on channel. She’d sound-coded some feeds: thus there were three different burbles and two different tones carrying information she might need, like relative velocity of nearest objects, intensities of distant radio sources…
Laying low was one of the many terms she’d learned from Tolly, who had vocabulary in so many languages, dialects, and pidgins that she couldn’t be certain which—if any—was his native tongue.
Tarigan made laying low easy—a tidy ship and, in the usual way of things, casting no large shadow on scans. Hazenthull understood that this was the usual design for ships commissioned by the Liaden Scouts. The modifications made by Jeeves had shrunk Tarigan’s presence further. She was not invisible, but she was not easy to see, even by those with very sharp eyes.
In respect of the treasure with which she had been entrusted, and well aware that Clan Korval did not spend ships lightly, Hazenthull had done her humble best to make Tarigan even harder to see.
In service of invisibility, they gathered information passively, she and Tarigan. The ship offered the curious no external lights, no active outgoing radar, no warn-aways and, for the moment, only the barest of close-to-the-hull shielding.
The mysterious objects were still within her scans, silent and inert. They were an irritant, but not dangerous. Or so she thought. She would, for the moment, need to take that on faith—another of Tolly’s phrases—and not complimentary to those who employed the practice. On the other hand, she could not spend the next nine Standard Hours watching them, in case they should suddenly transform into battle wagons.
It was possible that she had been foolish to undertake the composite Jump. Tarigan had taken no harm from the maneuver, but Tarigan’s pilot…was exhausted. Given the probability of action at the end of those nine hours of waiting, she would need to be clear of thought and precise of decision; she could not afford to be clumsy—at the board, or on comm.
She had to sleep, and it was here that she felt the lack of Admiral Bunter and the loss of Pilot Tocohl keenly. Tarigan—a fine ship, a well-built ship, with extraordinary range and stamina; a computer which was quick and accurate…but which was not self-aware. Tarigan would watch while she slept, and Tarigan would warn her should danger approach.
But Tarigan could not respond to danger; she depended upon her pilot for decision and defense.
In fact, Hazenthull thought, the ship was dependent upon her. It was, after all, the pilot’s duty to protect and preserve the ship.
And yet—she must sleep. The mission as much as the safety of the ship depended on the sharpness of her wits, the speed of her reactions.
Hazenthull sighed and came out of the pilot’s chair by slow increments. When she had attained her full height, head bent beneath the Liaden-high ceiling, she surveyed the screens and the alarms once more.
If scans identified an anomaly of any kind, Tarigan would wake her. It was not an optimum arrangement, but it was adequate, and no less than any other pilot flyin
g solo had to hand.
She stretched carefully.
Sleep, she decided. Six hours of sleep, then exercise, and a meal.
When Admiral Bunter Jumped in, she would be ready—for anything.
II
“Mentor, in order to plan, I must ask a personal question of you. Will you answer?”
“Depends on the question and how personal it is,” Tolly said, looking up from his reading. “Why not ask it and see what happens?”
“I do not wish to offend,” the Admiral said.
“Noted,” Tolly said and folded his hands, waiting.
There was a pause long enough for him to think the boy’d gotten cold feet, which then got him to wondering how personal he could be going, and if—
The Admiral produced a sound that was close enough to a sigh, and spoke, his tone noticeably gentle. Tolly bit his lip to keep the smile of pure pride from showing.
“You have mentioned,” the Admiral said, “that people—by which I think you mean both humans and autonomous logics—like you. You seem to be aware of being likable, which would seem to be a positive trait, yet the knowledge appears to…burden you.”
Tolly waited, and when nothing more was forthcoming from the Admiral, broke the silence.
“Is that the question?”
“It is a peripheral question.”
“See, now, while circling ’round the main question might teach you some interesting things, you run the risk of annoying your subject. Best to ask straight, then move to peripherals after you’ve got your core answer.”
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, and gazed toward the ceiling, addressing the Admiral directly.
“So now I’m curious: What d’ya want to know that’s so personal?”
“I wish to know if you have abilities in a spectrum which I have read about, but which I cannot see or monitor. This would be the spectrum in which the dramliz and the Healers operate. I have read that Healers may alter emotions and remove painful memories.
“Are you a Healer, Tolly Jones? Do you manipulate emotion, so that the people you interact with cannot help but like you?”
