"Well—"
"There are shippers here, I imagine, that someone like you should never come near. Registered shippers. People who would use you and throw you out like an old dog when you were no longer useful to them." Mogurn's eyes, which were blue-grey and more than a little bloodshot, squinted at her. "Stay away from those people, Jael! No good can come of dealing with them!"
She blinked, unable to answer. Of course there were shippers like that. Her own father had been one of them. Was Mogurn claiming to be different?
"But don't throw the good out with the bad," Mogurn continued, gazing across the lobby. He stood beside her now, as though standing with her. He glanced back over toward the rigger area. "It's not always so great over on that side, either."
"What do you mean?"
His breath hissed out heavily; he was a very solidly built man, but he seemed slightly asthmatic. She wondered how old he was. Fifty, maybe? Sixty? "Don't you know?" he asked. "I think you do." And he paused, as though to make the point, "Regulated, unregulated—there's no guarantee you'll be treated fairly either way. Wouldn't you agree?"
Jael flushed and nodded ever so slightly. "I guess that's sometimes true."
"Of course. We both know it. And the regulators know it. And yet they maintain this fiction that the only safe way for a rigger to work is within their cozy little system—where they have control!" Mogurn seemed to realize that he was speaking too loudly; he cleared his throat and readjusted the shoulders of his vesta.
Jael could not answer. She'd been thrown off balance by his assertion, but how could she deny it? The registry made a pretense of fairly apportioning jobs, but it was only a pretense, and no one resented it more than she.
"May I ask you something?"
Startled, she tried to focus on Mogurn's words; she kept drifting off into her thoughts. "What?"
He rubbed his cheek. "How old are you, Jael?"
"Why? What does that matter? I'm sixteen, local. That's about eighteen, standard."
"Yes. Well, I just wanted to point out that you cannot expect to fly all of your life. Most riggers have to stop by the time they're twenty-four or twenty-five, unless they're exceptional." He paused. "Perhaps you are exceptional. But . . ."
She closed her eyes. She knew what he was going to say.
When she looked again, he was gesturing toward the lounge full of riggers waiting, passing time, and she thought of all the boredom and frustration there, and knew he had pointed at the truth: most of those riggers would end their careers in frustration, rarely flying; and with each passing year, many of them would slowly lose that curious, intangible inner vision that had made them riggers in the first place. "You might not have that much time left, Jael," Mogurn said in a soft growl. "And I'm offering you a chance."
She trembled, two powerful desires conflicting in her mind. Never, she had promised herself. Never would she fly with an unregulated shipper. But what if her choice was that, or never to fly at all? Which was worse? Was she being ruled even now by her father—by her reaction to him? Was she wrong to assume that all unregulateds were like him?
"And," Mogurn continued, "I'm offering even more. I'm offering something that can help you become one of those exceptional ones."
She turned. "What do you mean?"
His eyebrows arched. "I have a method, Jael. It is both a training device and a reward. Riggers on many other worlds compete for it—a way to enhance their skill, to improve the odds. You've been at an unfair disadvantage here—but I can help you, if you fly my Cassandra. And that is a promise that I'll wager none of these others"—and he jerked his head toward the registry area—"can offer."
Jael drew a sharp breath, her suspicion conflicting with her curiosity . . . with her desire, flaming in her heart. "I . . . don't know." A way to improve her chances in the future? She at least ought to consider it. Shouldn't she? "Can't you tell me more about what it is?"
Mogurn sighed impatiently. "Can I tell you what love is, Jael? Or life? You have to experience it, to know. And now you must display some courage, and the will to fly!"
Jael looked away from him, stalling.
"Don't be undecided too long, Miss LeBrae," Mogurn warned. "I subscribe to a shipper's code of ethics. But I need a rigger for my ship, and soon. If you are not interested in flying, I must seek another. I have little time, and I have given you much of it already." Mogurn's eyes seemed to bore into hers.
A hundred thoughts flew through her mind: all of her vows, her hopes and doubts and fears, and her determination to fly. She gazed at the rigger lounge and saw the steward who had brought her to Mogurn. He saw her, as well, and his eyebrows went up as he turned away, as though saying, There will never be a job for you here, not on this side. And she felt a renewed rage and frustration, and for a moment, she felt utterly incapable of decision. Then her determination burned through again, and she drew a slow breath. Which is more important—some self-defeating vow, or flying? She remembered her father standing over her, saying, "Never pity yourself, Jael! Seize the moment!" She never thought she would take her father's advice, but as she looked back up at Mogurn, she heard herself saying, "I want to know more about your ship before I say yes or no. Do you have the specs and service records for me to see?"
A smile twitched at the corner of Mogurn's mouth, and he nodded. "Of course. If you'd like to come with me, you can review everything." And Jael swallowed and drew herself to her full height and followed him across the lobby.
Chapter 4: Departure
SHE MET Dap on her way out. She was just tucking her flight contract into her tunic pocket when she saw him approach.
"Jael, wait! Please," he said, falling into step beside her. "Can I talk to you—please?"
She paused in midstride and looked at him, frowning. She no longer felt angry, exactly, just distant. "About what?" She started walking again, more purposefully than she had walked in a long time.
"Well, I don't . . . I just . . . just want to apologize," he stammered. "Jael, I know I was rude the other night. I don't blame you for being mad."
"Good," she sighed.
"But I wish . . . I wish you hadn't walked off like that! I could have explained why I was . . . anyway, I'm really sorry."
"Yes. So you said before," she answered, not meeting his gaze.
"I guess you don't believe me, but at least let me try to explain!"
"I believe you," she lied. "I'm very sorry, Dap, but I've just signed onto a ship and I have to get ready to leave. Maybe I'll see you when I get back."
That stopped him in his tracks. She barely glanced back at him as he hurried to catch up again. "You got a job? That's wonderful! I'm really happy for you. Jael, who is it with?"
That stopped her. She sighed to herself and turned. "Do you really care?"
"Yes, of course I do!"
"I'm flying with a shipper named Deuteronomous Mogurn, and his ship is Cassandra." She had a feeling of unreality as she heard herself saying the words.
Dap's brow furrowed. "Mogurn? I don't know the name. But Cassandra. Isn't that an unregist—"
She stepped away angrily. "I know what it is. You don't have to tell me—"
"Wait—I didn't mean—Jael!" He finally grabbed her arm and physically brought her to a halt. "Jael, you aren't flying an unregistered ship, are you? After everything you said?"
"Yes I am and would you please let go of my arm?"
He stared at her, dumbfounded. "But . . . why?" His grip loosened.
She pulled her arm free and straightened up. "Because I want to fly and it has been made clear that that is my only avenue at this spaceport. Is that reason enough?"
"But . . . you don't have to . . . you could tell them—"
"What, Dap? What? I just accepted the job and gave my word that I would be aboard in three hours. All right?" She started to walk away again, but something in his expression made her pause and look back at him.
He nodded and said softly, "I guess I understand. If I had to, I suppos
e I might do the same." His eyes seemed to lose their focus as he gazed out over the hills. He shook his head, then focused back on Jael. "But I really hope . . ."
She waited. She didn't know why she was standing there listening to him, but she waited. "Hope what?" she said finally.
"That . . . you've chosen well. That you'll be . . . very careful." He swallowed, then rumbled in his pocket. "Here, I'd like to give you something." He brought out a thin gold chain, with a small, luminous stone on it. "This was from Deira, to me. She said it was to help me remember our time in the net together. Well . . ." he cleared his throat nervously—Jael had never seen him so fidgety before—"I'd like you to have it as a keepsake. Sort of a good luck charm. And a way of saying, I hope it works out all right for you . . . out there." He held the chain out to her, his gaze wide and earnest.
She hesitated, then opened her palm and slowly closed it around the cool metal chain, the stone. For a moment, she almost forgave him for the other night, but the weight of her anger was too great, and her fear over what she was about to do too strong. She could find no words to say any of that, so instead she said, "Okay. Thanks. And now, I really have to go."
"Good trip, Jael."
She sighed and nodded. Then she turned and strode, then ran, up the hill toward the multidorm and her quarters.
* * *
She set her bag on the ground and looked up at the starship. It was a modest-sized floater: silver-grey, shaped like a flared, flattened teardrop. It drooped like a guppy's belly in the middle and was festooned with a variety of protrusions for maneuvering units and flux-field and rigger-net projectors. The name Cassandra was painted in black just above the bulge of the flux-field reactors, but the letters were well worn by the elements of space and atmosphere, as were the identifying numerals amidships. It looked like a sturdy enough vessel, though one could hardly tell much by external appearances. Still, the service log had seemed acceptable, more carefully annotated than she had expected from an unregulated shipper; and the owner was flying with her, as captain, which provided some incentive for good maintenance. Perhaps her worries about substandard equipment, at least, were unjustified. The spaceport service crew had just driven away as she had walked up. She would check over the rigger controls herself before departure.
Jael strode to the base of the ship where it nested in the docking cradles. The outer door of the entry lock was open, at the top of a short ramp. She stepped into the airlock and searched the door panel for the communication switch. "Jael LeBrae. Request permission to come aboard."
There was a short silence. Then a staticky voice answered, "Come on up to the bridge, Jael. Top level. Seal the lock when you come."
She touched the appropriate switches and stepped into the ship. The outer hatch, then inner hatch, hissed closed. She glanced around at the power deck; the ladder up was in a pool of light, spilling down from deck two. She slung her bag strap over her shoulder and climbed. The next level was a second engineering deck. She located and climbed one more ladder, and stepped off into a tight, ring-shaped hallway. It took only a moment to figure out the layout. In the center of the ring was the commons area; several other doors around the outer circumference of the hall were living quarters. Around the circle to her right was the entrance to the bridge.
Mogurn emerged from the bridge and greeted her. "Put your bag in the first cabin, then come join me on the bridge. We're checking out for flight." He turned and disappeared again.
Jael pressed the entry plate on the next door beyond the bridge. When the door paled, she walked through it into the cabin. It was small and spare: a bunk, a fold-down chair, and a tiny lavatory. All perfectly standard, perfectly Spartan. She stepped back out into the hallway, opaqued the door, and hurried to the bridge.
It was dimly lit, but filled with illuminated displays, Mogurn was seated at the front, his back to her; he was inspecting a thicket of instruments, mostly normal-space gear and remotes from the rigger-nets. There were two Seiki-model rigger-stations, one flanking either side of the bridge: couches recessed into tight, horizontal alcoves. That was where she would do her flying. Two rigger-stations, one rigger. The second station was a backup, or possibly where a co-rigger would fly, if there were one. It was hard to tell at a glance; the variety in ship and rigger-station design was almost endless. Some setups were complex, like tall-masted ships of the sea, requiring several riggers working in perfect harmony; others were compact and without frills, perfect for single riggers. She fleetingly wondered if Mogurn might be cutting corners, using only one rigger where two were optimal. Such a thing was not unheard of, especially among unreg—but never mind that, she thought. What sensible owner would endanger a valuable ship and cargo in order to save one rigger's salary?
"Go ahead and familiarize yourself with the setup," Mogurn said, glancing up into a small mirror. "I'll be through here in a few minutes."
Jael nodded and began looking over the instrumentation near the starboard rigger-station, which was marked as the primary station. She could inspect a station in her sleep if she had to, which was a good thing, because suddenly it was hitting home that she was about to depart for deep space with a man she scarcely knew, and whose credentials were marginal at best. She had flown solo before, yes, but never in such an unprotected fashion. Not that she was concerned for her own personal safety; there were implicit guarantees, even with men like Mogurn.
There had been a time when a female rigger might not have dared to board a ship like this, to be isolated with a man of unknown character for days or weeks at a rime. But over many decades of starship rigging, the loss of too many ships had proven one thing: the fragile balance of sensitivity, imagination, and control that enabled a rigger to steer through the Flux was easily destroyed. Whatever the treatment of unemployed riggers planetside, the well-being of a rigger in flight was considered sacrosanct. Even the unlicensed shippers acknowledged that fact. Even Jael's own father had recognized it.
These reassurances flickered through her mind as she ran through her checklist on the rigger-station. It was important to make herself ready for flight, as well as her station. The worries of the world, of the rigger halls and the spaceports, had to be purged from her thoughts. The sooner her head was clear, the smoother and safer the flight would be.
"We're bound for Lexis on the first leg," Mogurn remarked, without turning. "Bypassing the mountain route, of course."
"Ah," Jael said, searching her memories for what she'd learned in training about that route. Oh, yes . . .
"No point in getting into any trouble with . . . unnecessary hazards . . . on that mountain route, is there?" Mogurn added.
"I guess not," Jael murmured. There were legends about the route from decades of rigging, but perhaps no more than with any of a hundred other unusual regions, each replete with legends. What was it here? Dragons, as she recalled. Nothing to worry her.
"No. No point in getting into trouble," Mogurn said. He was still busy at the nose of the bridge, and for a few moments, neither of them spoke. Jael continued her checkout. Then he asked, "You do know the route, don't you?"
Jael paused. She had never flown to Lexis, but she knew the essentials of the route, the library hypno-briefings on the various currents of the Flux. She said as much to Mogurn.
He turned in his seat and gazed at her. "Well, I've been that way many times. So even if you're the rigger and I'm not, I trust you'll accept some guidance in the matter of navigation."
She blinked. "Of course," she said, shrugging.
"Good." Mogurn turned back to his panels. "Just so you know. The mountains are dangerous. I'll expect you to keep me informed."
As if she wouldn't do that anyway, she thought, checking the last of the instruments on the outside of the station. She leaned in to peer at the actual flight readouts. "All right if I—"
"Go ahead. It's part of your checklist isn't it?"
"Yes." She slid into the alcove, reclining on her back on the couch. Squirming into a comfort
able position, she allowed the nape of her neck to touch the neural contacts in the neckrest, and she waited for the tingle which confirmed that she was in contact with the dormant net control. She focused her eyes on the instruments over her head and began bringing power to the control system. After a few moments, she closed her eyes and allowed the tingle of the system to spread into her limbs and into her mind.
She felt herself surrounded by darkness. She reached into the sensory net with imaginary hands and tested it, probing at its limits to see how it felt. The net was still confined within the spacecraft hull—it would be extended fully only after they were in space—but its form was sufficient for testing. She stretched the arms of her imagination against the darkness, and her inner eye sketched out lines of perspective against that darkness, lines that gave shape to the nonspace surrounding her. As she explored the field with her mind, her physical body remained motionless on the couch. Once she was satisfied that the field was responding adequately to her thoughts, she withdrew from the net, withdrew back into her physical body.
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