Scouts Progress

by Sharon Lee

  She inclined her head, very solemn. "I am—pilot."

  "Good," he said, and shut down Jon's computer. "Let us see if Trilla has come on-shift."

  Chapter Twelve

  The delm must be a smuggler-class pilot—take from yos'Galan if yos'Phelium fails, as it likely will. I'm a sport, child of a long line of random elements, and Jela—

  Young Tor An's folk have been pilots since the first ships lifted beyond atmosphere, back among the dead Ringstars. yos'Galan will breed true.

  The best pilot the clan possesses must be delm, regardless of bloodline. This will be taken as a clan law.

  The delm's heir must be a pilot—of like class to the delm—and as many others of the clan as genes and the luck allow.

  There must be ships, spaceworthy and ready to fly: As many ships as it is possible to acquire. Such a number will necessarily require funds for maintenance—whole yards devoted to their readiness. Therefore, Clan Korval must become wealthy as Jela and me only dreamed of wealth.

  Serve the contract, as long as it's in force. The boy don't hold with oath-breaking.

  —Excerpted from

  Cantra yos'Phelium's

  Log Book

  "LIFTING TO OUTEIGHT?" Trilla grinned. "Convey my undying affection to Gat."

  "Yes, very likely," Pilot Daav returned, shrugging into a worn leather jacket.

  Aelliana looked at that battered item hungrily. "Pilot's jacket" most would say, because of the cut, and as if any third-class barge runner might have one. In truth, only those who mastered Jump held the right to wear a pilot's jacket.

  Trilla laughed and winked at Aelliana. "Scholar, good day to you. What luck at Chonselta Guild Hall?"

  "Second class provisional," she said, pulling her eyes away from Pilot Daav's jacket, and warily meeting the other woman's merry glance.

  "Everything fulfilled but the flight time! Ge'shada, pilot." Surprisingly, the Outworlder swept a bow of congratulation. When she straightened, her face was somewhat more serious.

  "Daav's among the best you can have next to you at board, don't fret yourself there. Very good with ships—eh, Master Daav?"

  "It humbles me to hear you say it, Master Trilla."

  She laughed again, fingers shaping the sign for rogue. "Get your box, then, and haul out. I've work to do. Where's the Master?"

  "Apel's."

  "Think they'd just set up house—be cheaper, which ought to compel Jon."

  "Yes, but Apel's not such a fool," the man said earnestly. "Besides, I expect she likes drinkable tea."

  "Much more compelling, I allow. Heard news of crew?"

  "Clonak, perhaps, and Syri. Al Bred this evening, if at all. The back-up jitney's on-line."

  "Put you on that, did he?" She grinned and lifted a hand, turning toward the office with Patch at her heels. "Good lift, pilots."

  "Thank you," Aelliana whispered, watching the man raise the bulky cargo box easily to his shoulder.

  "After you, pilot," he said courteously, black eyes level and calm. Scout's eyes, that saw everything, gave back little, and judged nothing.

  "Of course," she stammered, and turned to lead the way to the crew door, feeling him, silent and solid, behind her.

  Outside, he stowed the box in the jitney's boot, straightened and stood looking down at her from his height, head tipped to one side.

  "Shall you drive, or shall I?"

  Aelliana swallowed, trying without success to calm nerves set all a-jangle by the last few harrowing days. The acquisition of the precious piloting license had not eased her position within Mizel, but rather increased the necessity for Ran Eld's unquestioning acceptance of her subservience. It had been necessary to placate her brother not once but several times, each time bowing lower, until she could taste carpet dust on her tongue, mixed with the bile of impotent fury.

  It had been a risk to steal away today, she thought with a heart-wrench of panic. In general her days off were spent in the tiny office at Chonselta Tech. Ran Eld knew that. What if he were to seek her there and find the door bearing her name locked? He would want to know where she had been—would demand to know—and what might she tell him, that would buy his belief, while preserving her limited independence? She had been mad—she was mad, gods help her. How could she have thought—

  "Scholar Caylon." Calm, deep voice, warm sense of a body near—too near!—something, feather-light, against her sleeve—

  She gasped, cringing back, shoulders jamming up around her ears. Through her hair, she saw alarm cross the tall Scout's face, replaced instantly with careful neutrality. His hand, for it was his hand, dropped from her sleeve and he stepped back, beyond the boundaries of isolation she had woven for herself.

  If he had simply turned and gone, she would certainly have fled to the ferry, and spent the return trip to Chonselta pleading with a pantheon of uncaring godlings for the grace of undiscovery.

  He did not leave. He spoke, in Adult-to-Adult mode, very precisely, so the accent of Solcintra rang sharp against her ear.

  "I regret that my presence troubles you, Scholar. Allow me to bring Trilla, so that she may sit second board for you."

  His presence did trouble her: Tall, slim and graceful, with his odd, twisty earring and neat, overlong hair, the black eyes bold in a sharp, compelling face—He troubled her as the cat had troubled her, and for the same reason.

  The cat—so soft, so comforting. Once she had started to stroke it, she could not stop; the joy the creature received from her caresses had awakened some dangerous nameless need—

  The cat had seen her.

  Tall Daav, with his bright black eyes, had seen her as well and knew her to be—real.

  "Scholar?"

  "I—" She shook her hair away from her face, forcing herself to meet those sightful eyes. "I beg your pardon yet again, sir—pilot. The last few days have been—uneasy. It would be best, I think, not to lift today."

  "Hah." His mouth curved slightly—a gentle smile—though his eyes remained neutral. "Sky-nerves, we had used to call it at Academy," he said, in Comrade once again. "The best cure is to lift as planned."

  Lift as planned. Aelliana felt the words strike somewhere at the nearly-forgotten core of her.

  She took a deep, trembling breath and inclined her head.

  "That is doubtless excellent advice," she said evenly and saw something move in the depths of the Scout's dark eyes. "I will ask that you pilot the jitney, however. It seems the surest course for arrival."

  The smile became more pronounced. "I drive with delight," he said, and moved 'round the jitney to the driver's slot.

  AELLIANA FILED A COURSE on the challenging side of the equation, scrupulously remembering to bring the navcomp on-line, and took the opportunity of the quarter-hour wait to tour Ride the Luck.

  The refurbished hold was eminently satisfying, though the pilots' quarters remained in their previous state of lavish comfort, lacking only the ceiling mirrors.

  Aelliana looked about the chamber, feeling the slight vibration of the ship's gyros, hearing the hum of the support system, the muted clamor of Port chatter feeding in over the mandatory open line, and sagged against the wall, the room blurring through a rush of unaccustomed tears.

  Hers.

  The fierceness of possession warmed her, terrified her. It was dangerous to want something this much. So many things might go wrong—and the clan . . . Until the day she cleared Liad orbit, heading for her Jump-point, she was an asset of Clan Mizel; her possessions no more her own than the clan's. Mizel could as easily dispose of Aelliana Caylon's ship as it was legally able to dispose of Aelliana.

  "Pilot?" Daav's voice came quietly from the wall speaker at her shoulder. "We are cleared to lift in two minutes."

  "Thank you," she said, pushing shakily away from the wall. Sky-nerves . . . "I am on my way."

  THE LIFT TO OUTYARD Eight was almost—restful. Master pilot that he was, Daav kept a serene second board. He took communications to his side with a murmured, "By y
our leave, pilot," and offered neither chatter nor any other assault upon her privacy.

  Not so Yardkeeper Gat.

  "What ship?" It was not so much query as demand, loud enough to pierce Aelliana's concentration on the approach path, so she shot a glance full of startlement to her co-pilot.

  A wiry golden hand moved to flick the proper toggle. There was a band of lighter gold about the third finger, Aelliana noted, and a faint indentation, as if Pilot Daav had left off an accustomed ring.

  "Ride the Luck," he answered the abrupt query. "Pilot Aelliana Caylon at first board. Daav from Binjali's on second. Yard comp downloaded ship's particulars two-point-four minutes gone, Keeper, and cleared us for Bay Thirty-Two."

  "I don't care what her name is or how good she can add! I've got a second class provisional on a non-standard approach to my Yard. What does she know about docking? How do I know she won't hole the ring?"

  Daav grinned, which did unexpectedly pleasant things to his foxy face. "Ah, the sweet anticipation!" he said gaily. "Never fear, sir, all shall be resolved in a very few minutes. Unless you would rather we simply jettison the cargo and leave?"

  "All a good joke, is it?" the Yardkeeper snarled. "Bay Thirty-Two ready to accept Ride the Luck. You've got eight minutes to get in, unload that cargo and dump out."

  "Unless, of course, we hole the ring," Daav murmured politely.

  The in-line hummed empty.

  Daav laughed, sending a bright glance toward Aelliana. She ducked her head, but did not entirely turn away.

  "Non-standard approach?" she asked, voice breathless in her own ears.

  "Dear Gat. He only means to say that, measured against other first approaches to ring-docking by provisional second class pilots he has seen in the past, this one is a bit too quick, a bit too flat—very nearly Scout-like, in fact." His fingers moved, swift and certain among the instruments. "Two-thirds local velocity must be dumped within forty-three seconds, pilot, else we buy a bumpy docking and Gat's disapprobation."

  "Good gods." Aelliana spun back to her board.

  SEVEN-POINT-NINE MINUTES later, Ride the Luck tumbled out of Bay Thirty-Two, oriented, and commenced descent.

  The boards worked sweetly under Daav's fingers; he was agreeably surprised in Ride the Luck, which seemed to sing with joy around them.

  He was likewise surprised in Aelliana Caylon, who, for all her skittish, wary ways, knew what to do with a ship in her hands. From power-up to dump-out, there had been not one false move. The minor flutter of hesitation upon approach he assigned to Gat's account, for breaking the web of her concentration and recalling her to the chancy world of human interaction.

  The course she had chosen to OutEight had been ambitious for a second class provisional, though well within her abilities. Daav had several times noted her pushing the navcomp, as if she found its entirely respectable response time almost too slow to bear. The filed descent was worthy of a Scout and Daav had no doubt she would execute it with aplomb.

  Aelliana Caylon, he thought, watching her fragile hands flickering over prime board, might very well be that rarest of precious things: a natural pilot.

  Guild law required a master pilot engaged in evaluating a junior to judge and implement appropriate training. Aelliana Caylon, in the judgment of Scout pilot/Master Daav yos'Phelium, was easily capable of achieving first class. It was likely that master pilot was within her grasp, did she care to leave her own work for a relumma or two and devote herself to study.

  Thus, a variation from the simple meeting of second class flight-time requirements was mandated. Daav ran an experienced eye over his scans, double-checked the filed approach and addressed the pilot, pitching his voice soft out of care for her concentration.

  "I wonder," he murmured, keeping his eyes scrupulously on his board, "if you might wish to attempt a sling landing."

  "Now?" she asked, voice sharp with surprise.

  "You will have to master the skill, soon or late," he said, all gentle reason. "Why not begin today?"

  "To refile the course, to tie up the Port's emergency sling. . ."

  "The most minor readjustment of course," Daav soothed, "and no need to discommode Port at all. Binjali's has a sling."

  Hesitation. Daav consulted his scans and dared push his point a bit, before time became too short.

  "I can call Jon, if you like it, and see if we have clearance. We will come in on automatic first time, of course." He paused. "Unless you have already trained on sling-shots?"

  "No. . ."

  "I'll call now," Daav said, flicking the line open.

  "Good-noon, Captain darling!" Clonak ter'Meulen's voice filled the tiny cabin a moment later. "What service shall my humble self be delighted to perform for you?"

  Daav's lips twitched. "Where's Jon?"

  "Up to his neck in a gyro-fix. Service?"

  "Sling-shot, automatics, current coords—" he reeled them off, confident of Clonak's abilities as of his own. "Flight plan downloaded—now. Cleared?"

  "Cleared, oh Captain. You and the pilot can take a nap. Until soon."

  "Until soon, Clonak." He cut the connection and turned his head to glance at Aelliana Caylon.

  She was looking directly at him, green eyes wide, less misty than he recalled, and holding something akin to—amusement.

  "It seems a sling-shot is mandated," she observed, and there was the barest thread of laughter, too, in the weave of the fine, strong voice. Daav grinned.

  "Your pardon, pilot. Of all people, you must know what Scouts are!"

  "Bent on mischief," she agreed, astonishingly tranquil, "and decided entirely upon their own course." She turned back to her board and her hair shifted to conceal her. "I shall file an amended descent."

  THEY WERE WELL INTO the amended descent when a certain subtle lack called Daav's attention to the upper left quadrant of his board. Apparently the navcomp's inefficiencies had become too burdensome to tolerate, for it was shut entirely down. He reached for the reset.

  "That's wrong," Aelliana Caylon told him sharply.

  "Wrong?"

  "Off by two places." Her fingers were flying over the board, as well they should, he thought abruptly, with her running such a course on manual. He punched navcomp up.

  Wrong, indeed, and off by nearly three places. Swearing silently, he called for the back-up. It came on-line with a suspicious stutter, accepted its office—and failed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the absence of clan, a partner, comrade or co-pilot may be permitted the burdens and joys of kin-duty. In the presence of kin, duty to partner, comrade or co-pilot must stand an honorable second.

  —From the Liaden

  Code of Proper Conduct

  "COMP TWO DOWN," Daav said, eyes raking the scans. It was too late by several minutes to change course now.

  "We're committed to the sling. I'll call Jon and file the change. Begin sending your numbers to me for verification."

  "Yes," she said, never looking away from her board. Daav hit the comm.

  "Navcomp suspect," he told Clonak a heartbeat later, "back-up's dead."

  "How lovely for you, darling."

  Daav grinned. "Pilot Caylon will be bringing her to the sling on manual."

  A short pause, then a cheery, "Right-o!" in what Clonak fondly considered an Aus accent.

  "Ride the Luck out."

  "Ta-ta."

  Daav slapped the line off, dumped his holding bank and leapt into a river of numbers.

  Ordered and swift, the equations flowed, through his bank, into the board and out, a continuous perfect stream of checkpoint and balance. He forgot about the navcomp, which should have been tested and cleared as standard procedure. He forgot the oddities of the woman beside him. He forgot Delm Korval.

  There were the equations flowing to him, cold and pure, to be verified and fed in. There were the scans. There was the sense of the ship around him. There was the background chatter along the open line.

  "When you feel the sling loc
k," he said, hardly hearing his own voice through the wall of his concentration, "you will cut the gyros. Immediately."

  The small portion of his mind not urgently concerned with equations, scan and ship expected an outcry, for to cut the gyros was to be immediately and irrefutably within the talons of gravity. Cutting the gyros meant the ship would fall. . .

  "Yes," said Aelliana Caylon and said no more.

  He picked up the next sequence, noting that it was the set-up—the final equation. He scrutinized, verified and locked it, leaning back slightly in the web of safety straps.

  "Twelve seconds. Mind the sling-lock, pilot. . ."

  It came, a distinct sensation of ship's progress halted, of plate metal and blast glass grasped tightly in the jaws of an inconceivable monster. . .

  Aelliana cut the gyros.

  The stomach twisted, the inner ear protested, the heart clutched as for an instant it seemed that the monster's jaw had slackened, and the ship sliding free to—

  "Caught," Daav announced quietly. "And retained. A difficult task, executed well. Ge'shada, pilot."

  "No need for congratulation," she said. "You were correct, after all. I shall need this skill." She threw him a glance, eyes brilliantly green in a pale golden face. "What is the procedure for clearing the sling?"

  "Jon sends a workhorse and hauls the ship to its berthing—heading out now, your two-screen."

  "I see. And the pilots?"

  "In this case, I believe the pilots should make haste to Master dea'Cort. The luck was in it, you caught that error in time."

  Once again, that brilliant green glance. "I know regs demand the navcomp be running—but I find it distracting. Doubtless it is my inexperience and I do expect to learn better, s—" She paused, lips tightening. "I cannot help but keep checking the equations, and when it started giving me bad numbers. . ."