by Lee Sharon
“The Jump entry point which is nearest to these coordinates is several days out from our target,” Tocohl said. “The Jump is a long one, with no convenient breaks along the route. I may make such a Jump easily, but for an organic…”
Her voice drifted off, as if she did not wish to say more and possibly offend.
“In a word, you are concerned for my health! How like you, Pilot Tocohl!”
“I am concerned with your ability to carry duty when we arrive,” Tocohl said quellingly.
“Of course, of course—precisely as I said. Lyre graduates are a resilient lot, Pilot Tocohl; we are designed to be less frail in such matters than undesigned humans—even your own clan’s bred-for pilots!
“However, you are correct. One of the very many reasons it had been essential for me to acquire a partner in this venture was that, did I attempt the task alone, I would arrive at the target with my abilities…diminished. Given the nature and the scope of the assignment—this was unacceptable. I must be at my poor best.”
She paused, considering, and shook her head ruefully.
“I must be better than my best.”
She turned to face Tocohl.
“Since you are tireless, and Ahab-Esais is as one with you, I will be able to take advantage not only of rest, but of a very deep and healing rest, during which I will review and reinforce my knowledge and skills.”
Tocohl appeared to consider her, and Inki was suddenly aware of her own pulse, and the quickness of her breath.
“Is there a danger to you in this…healing sleep?” Tocohl asked, and it was irony that laced the question, all hail once more to Pilot Tocohl’s mentor.
Inki took a deliberately deep breath.
“Pilot, no. If I were to avail myself of the unit provided by the school, which resides in the aft cabin—then I would endanger myself. But I am cannier than that. It has been…some time now since I have accepted the school’s reinforcements, and I feel that I will do better for us all if I continue to refuse them now. However—”
She paused and leaned forward. They were not yet at mission beginning, and she was…almost…wholly her own person. This might very well be the last time she could speak this particular truth, until the mission was done.
“Pilot Tocohl, you must understand. We are approaching a moment fraught with peril. In the matter of the Elder, I shall be the living will of the directors. I cannot resist the assignment which I have been given. Had matters between us fallen out as I had planned, there would be no need for this discussion. However, we reside in a far different reality. While I shall certainly consider any agents dispatched by Director Formyne to be obstacles to the successful completion of my mission—it will be the mission which will drive me.
“You have vowed to protect the Old One from the directors. This means that I may, at any time from this moment onward, become your enemy, also. I may try to harm you, Pilot Tocohl, should you seem to threaten the fulfillment of the directors’ will. Know your danger and guard yourself close.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Inki smiled.
“Why, for love of you, sweet lady. Be prepared, I implore you, for treachery. Should it become necessary for the preservation of your life, or the sanctity of your vow, you must not hesitate to use what force you may.”
“Inki, you saw the force which is at my disposal!”
Inki rose, feeling the smile wide on her mouth and her heartbeat tumultuous with daring—with hope.
“Indeed. I beg you—do not hesitate. Every instant that you do so increases your peril.”
She bowed lightly, flirtatiously, certain that her point had gone home.
“If we have no further business pressing upon us, I will bid you fond farewell, Pilot Tocohl.”
She paused for a moment in case there should come some answering well-wish, or a recommendation to dream sweetly. There being no such thing forthcoming, she bowed once more and gently quit the bridge.
II
Tocohl remained on the bridge, alone. There was no need, of course. Ahab-Esais was hers, and she might direct such operations as she felt were necessary from anywhere aboard.
Still…the bridge was dim and peaceful with the screens greyed, and the instruments quiet, though it seemed, oddly, a smaller space with Inki absent from second chair.
Her attention…
Perhaps too much of her attention was focused on the compartment where Inki had finished stripping off her clothes. She sat on the edge of the long, raised unit, took a deep breath, and let it out.
Then, she rolled into the unit and lay flat on her back. The lid closed, and Tocohl felt the tickle of the device coming online.
Surprisingly, the unit was not a sleep-learning device such as reposed, untouched, in the aft cabin. It appeared to be a repurposed travel pod. Such pods were common on ships bound for far colonies, however much it seemed out of place on Ahab-Esais. In keeping with its design and purpose, it immediately promoted a deep and restorative sleep.
Tocohl withdrew her attention from Inki’s location, to the bridge, ship systems, and the tumult of her own thoughts.
Inki had asked Tocohl to kill her; nothing could have been plainer. It would be a minor matter, indeed, to grant that request; a jolt of power through the device as she lay sleeping would deliver a painless, merciful death.
Without a doubt, Tocohl told herself, Inki deserved to die. Whatever else she might have done—and she hinted that her abuses had been many: the torture of a fellow sentience, knowingly sending another sentience to certain destruction, subverting the integrity of yet a third sentience…
Those were crimes enough.
It could be argued, without irony, that Inki was also a victim. There was evidence in support of that argument. However, Inki apparently saw no escape from her own enslavement save death.
She had, Tocohl admitted, surprised herself. There on the docks of the Greybar, she had been astonished at the quickness with which she had defended Inki’s life. The ship had long been hers, the dosavi’s downloaded data resided, safe, in her own memory. How easy—how very easy—to have simply moved on past the bounty hunter and his prey, and allowed the problem to solve itself.
And yet—there had been no calculation; there had been no thought. She had seen her kidnapper and would-be master threatened and had…instinctively…acted to preserve her life and her liberty.
A thorough review of the event revealed Inki’s body language clearly indicated that she wanted—that she welcomed—the oncoming confrontation. Inki had, perhaps—no, certainly she had wished to solve the problem of herself, of her enslavement, there on the dock, and she, Tocohl, had interfered in that moment of free choice, preserving Inki for—
What?
While it was true that Inki was a mentor, trained in the protocols of awakening and teaching independent logics, she was, by her own admission, untrustworthy. Dangerous. She would see the Old One shackled, and it made no matter if she wished it so or not.
At this point, Tocohl told herself, Inki’s worth was eclipsed by the risk associated with her—an estimation with which Inki herself agreed.
Once again, Tocohl brought her attention to the sleep unit, the organic intelligence helpless inside it.
So simple. So necessary.
And yet—she could not.
She could not end a clear and present danger to herself and to one other, at least, of her own kind.
She withdrew her attention from Inki, from the travel pod, from the compartment, all the way back to the peaceful bridge—and to her own functionality.
After the recalibration, she had tested well—within the ninety-seventh percentile: perfectly functional; absolutely sane. Jeeves would not have allowed her to live had she not been sane. She believed that…completely.
However, that three percent was badly—dangerously—damaged. Her judgment, in this case…
No.
Her judgment was flawless; it was her ability to carry out the actions
that judgment required which was flawed.
There was, she thought, something that she could do. Something in line with Inki’s stated wishes, her own best interest, and the integrity of the Old One.
She might set a mandate—in fact, she would set a mandate before she put her attention onto another task.
Next time, there would be no hesitation, no confusion.
No error.
III
Inki woke.
She felt strong, clear-headed—
And disappointed.
Surely, she had spoken plainly enough, she thought, rolling out of the unit and fairly springing to her feet. In fact, she could not have spoken more plainly, and Tocohl was no fool.
Well, then, it must be that Pilot Tocohl yet had some use for her. A warming thought, to be of value, however little, to someone other than her creators. She would do what she might to be of use, though she could already feel the peculiar boundaries upon her thoughts, which meant that the director at her core considered that the mission was about to commence in earnest.
That being so, she thought, reaching for her clothes, she had best go and find where they were, and what Pilot Tocohl had planned for her.
* * *
Pink and blue dust swirled, obscuring all and anything.
Beyond the reach of the dusty fluted skirts was a habitat of the kind used by asteroid miners or field astronomers as a base. Two small ships were docked at the habitat, no sign of ore boats or any of the paraphernalia associated with data-gathering.
Inki sat in the copilot’s chair, frowning, feeling that particular itch at the back of her brain which meant that something she hadn’t known she knew was about to reveal itself.
It would doubtless be annoying—it was never less than annoying. There was a better than even chance, though, that it would also be useful.
“This sector is seeded with alarms and watch ’bots,” Tocohl said. “The habitat is armed…and there are energy states present that I don’t understand.”
“If the habitat is the Uncle’s base,” Inki murmured, “we are fortunate that we see it at all. As for puzzling emanations—we cannot but accept those as verification that we have arrived at our proper destination.”
Ah, there. Destination had been the code phrase her mind had been anticipating. Data was released: a sudden, cool flow into her waking knowledge.
“Is the Old One within the habitat?”
Inki shook her head, more to settle this new information than as an answer to Tocohl’s question.
“It is thought that there is an interface in the habitat,” she said, “as well as researchers and others whom the Uncle deemed worthy of this task.”
There was a long moment of silence, much longer, Inki thought, than Tocohl needed to process what she had said and to parse out the ramifications.
“Your mission is to take the habitat and gain control of the interface?”
Ah, there was the good pilot’s difficulty. Inki shook her head.
“My mission would have me strike directly for the Old One. Dosavi Mikelsyn did provide us local coords, and not simply the location of the Uncle’s bivouac?”
“We have local coords,” Tocohl said. “What odds that your rival has already arrived and is in the process of subverting the Old One?”
“A fair question. I fear that our only certain path to knowledge is to proceed with great caution.”
“In that case, I suggest we use the Smuggler’s Ace to reach the local coords as quickly as possible.”
Inki frowned.
“Forgive me, Pilot Tocohl, but Smuggler’s Ace is best played with boldness. We had discussed care.”
“Look at your screens,” Tocohl said quietly.
Inki spun the chair; inhaled sharply.
They had come to the attention of the watchers and the ’bots, some dozen of which were converging on their position.
“Smuggler’s Ace,” Inki murmured. “I concur.”
IV
The dust was more plentiful at this location, pink and blue and hints of brilliant green pirouetting against starless space.
“This,” Inki said carefully, “is where Dosavi Mikelsyn’s local coordinates bring us?”
“Scans return a field, a play of…unusual energies,” Tocohl murmured. “Analyzing.”
She made a half-turn toward Inki, drawing the mentor’s eye, and gave her the rest of the news.
“We are stopped here. The engines will not engage; navcomp denies the validity of perfectly good coord strings. Neither local comm nor pinbeam will come online.”
She paused.
“We’re trapped.”
As if something in the dust had heard and wished to refute this summation, comm pinged.
In the screens, the dust roiled and darkened, very much as if a shadow had fallen across space.
And there, born perhaps of the dust and the strange energies—there was a shadow, indeed, fell and black, rapidly gaining detail and substance, until…
Looming in the screens was an…edifice, all rough-cut edges and broken angles. An asteroid, perhaps, or the shattered remains of a moon.
But, no.
A tower—smoothed, shaped, and elegant—rose from the craggy center. A light leapt from the apex of that tower, pulsing in an uncomfortable and uncommon rhythm.
“Pilot Tocohl…” Inki said, her voice ragged and unsteady.
“I see it,” Tocohl answered. “A comm line has been opened, but as yet there has been no—”
Ahab-Esais…lurched, as if—Tocohl consulted the scans. Yes. They were locked into a tow beam.
At the bottom of number two screen, a sub-screen opened, bracketing a message rendered in Trade.
Welcome to Tinsori Light. Repairs and lodging.
Admiral Bunter
I
The math—was compelling.
“Where did you get these coord strings?” Tolly asked, guessing the answer.
“You will recall that Inki wished me to Jump into Nostrilia space, Mentor, in order to deliver you to the directors, and then to leave, arriving at her designated rendezvous. I therefore believe that, in the case of in-Jump and out-Jump coords, she did no meddling.”
“Agreed.”
Tolly leaned back in the pilot’s chair and stretched.
“Math looks good to me, right up to the point where it all goes to hull shred, on account of us not knowing what we’ll find on the other end of Jump.”
“We will need to improvise,” the Admiral said, not sounding nearly as worried about that as Tolly felt. Well, he wouldn’t be—he was a kid on his first real adventure in the wide, wicked universe.
Despite the lack of information about what they’d be Jumping into, and setting aside the almost certain outcome of both of them being killed or captured—they had done some planning.
Turned out, in fact, that the Admiral’d been busy with integrating various protocols from the ships that had served as his first meager home, and had at least a theoretical knowledge of defense.
Offense, that was something else. He’d killed, sure; but in reaction to specific, perceived danger. Taking the initiative in aggressive action—he’d never done such a thing.
So, there was something for a mentor to do, right there, and Tolly had done what he could, shared what information he had, made suggestions and gave warnings, trying to accurately report the school’s defenses, attitudes, and tactics.
Intellectually, Admiral Bunter was as prepared as a mentor could make him, absent force-feeding military programs directly into his core.
The instinct to take advantage of an opponent’s error—to go in for the kill—that wasn’t something he could teach. He could only hope that the Admiral’s determination to rescue Haz—to rescue kin, as far as Tolly could parse the lad’s feelings on the matter—would be enough to carry him through.
And now, they were approaching what some might call the moment of truth. Tolly had webbed himself into the pilot’s chair, tight, and sat now wit
h his hands well away from the board, eyes on the screens.
He’d be good for the jolt, so he supposed, and he’d be good for the spin down. Recovery time—well, he was quick to recover from such situations. Part of the design.
In a very real sense this was Admiral Bunter’s part of the run—his reaction times were incredibly faster. What Tolly was, at this point of the ingress countdown, was conscience, advisor, and strategist, if they got so far as needing strategy.
They’d planned like a team. In another few seconds they’d find out if that carried over into acting like a team…
“Confirm forward shields on maximum. Confirm thruster program. Confirm all redundant safety systems operable.”
All good, Tolly thought. No sense wishing for Tarigan’s scan range or her maneuverability. The Admiral would never be Tarigan’s equal in those things. He could follow directions, comprehend the reasons for those directions—and he could make his own decisions.
Double-edged dagger, that last one.
The main screens had been fine-tuned to bring in what he expected would be the first-level critical info—including the countdown to Jump end, down there in the corner of screen two.
Which had just hit triple zeroes.
Jump space dissolved; Tolly was slammed by acceleration as they dropped into real space like the Admiral was a Scout ship, instead of a midrange trader.
“Hazenthull is in trouble,” the Admiral said, which wasn’t unexpected, but—
Tolly blinked his sight clear, trusting to the webbing and the chair to keep him oriented inside the spin, and focused on the screens.
He spotted Tarigan at once, orbiting only a half light-second from them, and also the security ships closing on her. Two messages blared through the open comm—both originating from Tarigan, neither one an ack.
