She quickly tried to divert her thoughts from that, but the direction was inevitable; she could not control it. Before she could even catch her breath, she was showering Dap with other visions. Visions of the past . . .
Visions of pain.
Glimpses of her frightened half-brother Levin, steeling himself against the abuse of their uncaring father, so frightened that he was unable to reach out even to his sister, rejecting even her sympathy. Glimpses of Levin striding out of the house and out of sight down the road in dwindling daylight; of Jael herself gazing at her father's closed door, unable to gain his attention, suffering and wanting and needing . . . but her father was too busy with the machinations of his business, too busy with his consorts . . .
Jael, what is this? Dap whispered.
Images of Jael, years later, this year, arming herself with a self-esteem she didn't feel, and reporting to the rigger hall. But it wasn't like the rigger school, where she'd known classmates she liked and trusted, where at least some people hadn't known yet of her father. Instead, the images were of her rigging on the only two paying flights she'd gotten in the year since her graduation, before word of who she was had spread finally to the last corners of the shipping community. They were solitary flights, because she was fearful of seeking out companions, ashamed to let her fellow riggers know of her deep loneliness and need . . .
Jael, I had no idea! It . . . it doesn't have to be that way!
The anguish welled up in her. Doesn't it? What was I supposed to do? Can't you see that no one would fly with me? No one, no one . . .
But Jael, you have to assert your rights. You can't just . . . I don't know . . . hide from it!
Oh no? How about this? She couldn't prevent it from spilling out now in a great rush: all the years of loneliness and failed hope, glimpses of her inner self that she had never meant to let anyone see. It was all pouring into the dreamlink now, thundering onto Dap like a waterfall: her anger toward her father for ruining her dreams—not by forbidding them, but by failing to care, failing to make her dreams his own—by destroying the honor of the name LeBrae through his greed and dishonesty in the spacing business. And there was anger not just toward her father, but toward her brother as well—for his unwillingness to stand, and to live. And anger toward herself—for not cutting them both loose and making her own way in the world—for being a failure, not just as a rigger, but as a person.
In the dizzying energy of the dreamlink, she could sense that the link between Dap and herself was straining, like a fabric being pulled, stretched, torn. What was she doing? The openness of mind and soul was the dreamlink's strength, and its danger. Leaking back to her through the link was Dap's surprise, and dismay, his astonishment that anyone could feel, or could release such staggering need.
Just fantasies, she lied to him, but the lie crumpled in an instant. I can't help it, I didn't want you to—and her coherent thoughts broke off as her embarrassment became a trembling glow, reddening the images of the link.
Jael, he whispered, I didn't expect—how could I know? How could you be keeping all of this inside?
And Dap's thoughts blurred into a hiss of static as he struggled to absorb what she'd shown him. For a few moments, no words came back to her through the dreamlink, no comprehensible thoughts. Dap seemed so appalled by her need. He seemed to want to pull away. She sensed his . . . what? Revulsion?
Jael, I knew it was hard for you, but . . . how can you . . . how could anyone . . . live with this? And his thoughts lost all clarity and spun away.
Dap! You promised me understanding! Wait—please don't—!
But it was too late; the bond was severed, torn by Dap's horror. What else could he possibly feel? Dap! But he was already doing what any sane person would do. Without a sound he closed himself off from the dreamlink. Without physically moving, he faded like a ghost from the glow that had become the world around Jael, the glow that was now only a suffocating shield around her, protecting only her own hurt and self-loathing. She sensed that Dap could no longer even look at her; she sensed him rising from his seat and turning away, leaving the room. And she cried mutely in pain.
She made herself her own last audience; she let her pain dance in the field like threads of fire, tightening around her like a noose, choking her. There was no one here to help her escape from her pain—there never had been, not in Dap, nor in her father before—they forgot their promises and closed the door on her, one just like the other. She wanted to kill someone, she wanted to kill them both, she would kill herself with this hatred if she didn't do something to—
—control it—
—bottle it—
—which she did, gathering it in from the burning glow of the dreamlink and wrapping it tightly around her finger and corking it back inside where it belonged. And then, when she knew she was safe and still sane, she rose and turned off the dreamlink augmentor. The glow died, leaving the room cold and silent and sterile. There was nothing here that could hurt her now.
Except what lived within her.
Unwilling to cry, unable to answer Dap's croaking harshness—"Wait, Jael! I'll take you home!"—from the hallway, she strode out of the room and out of the house and began the long trek on foot back to her room, through the gathering evening darkness.
Chapter 3: Contract to Fly
WHEN SHE arrived the next morning at the spaceport lobby where the riggers mobbed and brooded, she saw, to her relief, no sign of Dap. He'd caught up with her last night, followed her in the car to make sure she got home safely; but she'd been too angry to get in or speak with him. She'd been embarrassed, humiliated, shamed. She couldn't believe that his concern was sincere, not after the way he'd left her like that in the dreamlink.
She would put Dap behind her, as she had put all of the others behind her. Regardless of what anyone here at the spaceport thought, she meant to rig on a starship. She would not be kept from it by Dap or by her fellow riggers or by what anyone thought of her father. They could discriminate if they wanted to, but they couldn't stop her.
Her determination kept her going through that day. But the presence of the other riggers in the halls was a drain on her spirit—not so much any one individual as the sheer numbers, the weight of all the riggers competing with her for work. She found herself glancing across the lobby from time to time, watching the activities of the unregulated shippers. Once in a while, a rigger drifted over that way from the lounge, but most of the riggers who worked for the unregulateds stayed away from their peers on this side of the lobby. There was a clear, if unofficial, class distinction between the two groups of riggers. Those who worked for the unregulateds were more poorly trained and paid, more exploited, more likely to fly substandard equipment, more likely not to return from space. And in those riggers, there was often a certain look in the eyes, an appearance of resignation, weariness, and defeat.
Never will I do that, she had vowed. And as she watched, thinking of the riggers who had worked for, and been worn out by her father, she silently renewed that vow. And yet . . . she knew that for many unfortunate riggers, it was the only way to make it into space. On this planet, at least, there were too many riggers and not enough registered ships. And when one had the dream . . . when one was driven by the need, by the compulsion . . . it was a matter either of taking whatever means there was to get into space, or of withdrawing into a self-absorption that made them unfit for any work at all—except maybe the selling of their dreams and visions to the commercial dreamtapers, and what a squandering of talent that was. But so too was it a waste to be used up and discarded by shippers who valued one's talents only for a brief and inexpensive career. No, she wouldn't give in to that temptation. Not yet, anyway.
She left the spaceport feeling discouraged, but not beaten. Not quite. She went to the rigger hall library and spent a couple of hours alone, running simulations of local star routes. For a time, she managed to keep her spirits up.
By the next morning her courage seemed to have evaporated. S
he opened her eyes and stared up at the blank ceiling, without the slightest trace of hope. She spent most of the day in her room—withdrawn, trying to muster the will to return to the spaceport, but unable to find the determination. When she shook herself out of her mood, finally, late that afternoon, she vowed that she would, she must return for the spacing calls the following morning.
That simple declaration gave her the focus she needed to begin gathering her inner strength again. It took just one day to get an assignment, she reminded herself—one right day, one right convergence of events. It was a matter of persisting until the stewards could no longer deny her without due cause. And because she had the credentials and she had good performance reports on the flights she had made, there was no due cause, no just reason for denying her work. There was only prejudice because of her father—because more than one shipper here claimed that Willie LeBrae had cheated them out of business. But prejudice could be overcome. Had to be overcome. With persistence. With strength.
She was reminded of just what kind of strength it would take when the following day she arrived well in advance of the morning call, and watched the stewards pass her over in favor of three riggers her own grade who had come in after her. It took another hour, but eventually her anger reached the boiling point. She approached one of the stewards. "I want to know why you won't give me a chance," she said, in a voice that to her, anyway, seemed loud.
The steward looked surprised by her question. He glanced around the rigger lounge, where several people had looked up. A thin smile cracked his features. "Well, now." He rubbed his fingernails across the front of his blue shirt. "You must really want to fly, I guess."
"Yes. And you know it." Jael glared at him, until his smile became waxen and twisted by self-consciousness. "I don't care what you think of my father's company, either," she said. "I had nothing to do with it. Nothing."
The steward looked down for a moment, his lips moving in silent thought. His eyebrows went up. "You think we're not being fair—because of your father?"
You know damn well, she thought bitterly. But she said nothing; she just kept the steward fixed in her scowling gaze.
"What do you expect me to do?" The steward cast a deliberate glance across the lobby, toward the unregulated quarter, as if to suggest, Why don't you go over there?
"You can give me work!" Jael snapped, ignoring his intimation. She was suddenly aware of an increasing number of people looking in her direction, but she no longer cared. "On this side," she said, a little more softly. "I've earned it."
The steward's eyes narrowed.
"My ratings are good enough."
He shrugged. "Maybe."
"You know they're good enough." She was pushing her luck, she knew. But what did she have to lose?
"I'll see what I can do," he muttered, and turned away.
She started to call after him. But the steward had already dismissed her. She returned to the lounge and took a seat in silence. Almost, she made the room go away by retreating to her inner mind, but something told her not to let it go that easily; even as she called to mind happier images, she kept one eye on the steward's corner. She would not let him think that she had quit, or forgotten.
The next three hours passed slowly indeed.
* * *
"LeBrae." Poke. "Jael." Poke.
Her eyes flew open. She was being nudged awake in her chair by the young rigger she'd seen the other day, Toni Gilen. "What? What is it?" she murmured.
"Over there." Toni was pointing in the direction of the registration area. "They asked me to come get you."
"Who did?" Jael asked. But she already saw who Toni was pointing at. Beyond the lounge area, the steward she'd talked to was standing beside a large, bearded man dressed in a black tunic-length vesta robe over loose black pants. They were discussing something, and glancing in her direction. "They want to see me?" she asked Toni.
The younger rigger's eyes widened, and she took a seat without saying anything more.
Very well, then, Jael thought. They want to see me. She straightened her clothes and strode toward the two men.
"Is this the one?" the large man asked the steward as she approached.
The steward's lips curled into a self-satisfied smile. "This is Miss LeBrae."
"LeBrae?" said the other man. He nodded, as though in thought. "What's your first name, Miss?" he asked, in a gravelly voice.
"Jael. Jael LeBrae," she said. "Qualified for Class Three single and Class Five multiple." Her voice trembled slightly, and she struggled to keep it steady.
The shipper pursed his lips. "Would you be interested in flying a Class Three single, Jael?"
Her heart thumped, and she almost squawked, Yes! But caution made her swallow the urge, and she stammered, "Could you tell me . . . please . . . the particulars on your ship?" She glanced at the steward, who was supposed to act as the provider of such information.
The steward's gaze was guarded, but his voice was needle-sharp. "I thought you were anxious to fly."
"I'll tell you everything you want to know," the shipper boomed, interrupting. "My name is Captain Deuteronomous Mogurn, and I'm flying a freighter, Cassandra. She's out in docking bay 27 right now, ready to go as soon as she's crewed."
"And your cargo?" the steward intoned, fulfilling his role sarcastically.
"Artifact goods of substantial value," Mogurn said with a wink. It wasn't clear whether the wink was meant for Jael or for the steward. But the cargo description was as much as he was required to give, and no more. No specifics were required to be given the rigger, though there was no reason to expect secrecy, either.
Jael blinked, considering his answer. "And . . . your registry information?"
The two men exchanged glances. Then Mogurn slowly smiled. "Perhaps we should step over here to discuss that," he said, gesturing away from the rigger area.
Jael froze, and for the space of perhaps three seconds, she was aware of nothing except the pounding of her heart. What did that mean? Unregistered? Registry stewards were not supposed to engage in solicitation for unregistered shipping. Was someone being paid off here? What are you doing to me?
The two stood waiting for her response, their expressions betraying nothing. She tried to find her voice, and at last managed, "Why can't we talk about it here?"
For an instant, the two men seemed taken aback. Then the steward's smile widened slightly, and he answered, "Well, Miss LeBrae, what we're offering you is something a little different. And you have to discuss it over there—if you want to go to space, that is."
I told you, she whispered to herself, then realized that she hadn't spoken the words aloud. She cleared her throat. "I don't want to fly unregulated. I said that before."
"This isn't, perhaps, what you think it is," Captain Mogurn said in a dry voice. "Won't you even hear us out?"
As she looked back at him, she couldn't tell whether she should dismiss him out of hand or not. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to hear what he was offering; after all, no one could force her to fly. "Okay," she mumbled reluctantly, and followed the shipper a short distance away from the rigger lounge. The steward bowed, and somewhat to her relief, left them.
Mogurn led her to a quiet corner, then turned, and for a moment seemed to examine her critically, looking her up and down. Jael felt her face growing warm under the scrutiny; she was aware, more than ever, of her slight stature, of her youth. After a moment he said, "Do you mind telling me, Jael, why you wish to go into space?"
The question took her by surprise. She'd expected to be asked about her record, her skills—but not this, not so bluntly. How could she explain a burning desperation to fly—to see space again, to witness the landscapes of the Flux? Her voice caught a little, as she tried to answer. "I suppose it's really . . . the only thing that interests me."
"The chance to see all those worlds?"
"Yes . . . I guess. But mostly it's the flying. It's what I'm good at. I don't . . ." She hesitated.
"Don't
what, Jael?"
She groped for words. "I . . . don't know what I'd do if I couldn't rig." And at once she regretted her forthrightness. She didn't even know this man!
Mogurn chuckled softly. "You wouldn't turn inward like a vegetable, would you, like some of your peers?" His thick eyebrows quivered, and she couldn't tell if he was laughing at her, or at all riggers who couldn't live without their chosen work.
She shrugged indignantly.
"Well," Mogurn said, his tone changing to one of accommodation, "would it surprise you to know that I understand how you feel? That I know what it's like to want, even to need to do something? That something like that got me into space in the first place?" He stroked the front of his vesta robe, scowling. A slight twitch had appeared in the corner of his left eye, and he rubbed at it for a moment with his fingertips. "This is all a long-winded way of saying, maybe you shouldn't lump all shippers in the same category. There are some unregistereds who are better than some of your fully registered shippers."
Dragons in the Stars Page 3
