Scouts Progress

by Sharon Lee

  "But, who can say? I might have been chosen by a woman of an established tent, secure enough to please herself, and then I might have had a life of ease!"

  His grin was infectious. Aelliana smiled back and thought she had never felt so happy.

  "Shall we walk?" Daav asked, and Aelliana put her hand unhesitatingly into his and allowed him to lead her once more into the bustling, exhilarating, magical evening.

  THE VIRTUAL ARCADE WAS full of bodies and light in motion, and sound that ranged from racket to roar.

  Aelliana and Daav waded through the uproar, stopping here and again to watch the play at the games. Aelliana, Daav noted, seemed particularly interested in the more sophisticated games of chance, and as they went further into the Arcade, her tendency was to stop for longer intervals, lips moving silently, as if forming the boundaries of an equation.

  Another might have felt pique at this apparent desertion. But Daav neither hurried nor chivied her, finding himself well-content with watching the changes in her eyes and face as this thought or that caught at her. He did keep a firm hold on her hand, for in her present tranced state he considered it possible that she might wander away and lose herself, and used his body to shield her from the worst of the crowd's jostlings.

  So it was, traveling in this stop-and-go, eventual way, that they came to Pilot to Prince. Aelliana watched the computer replay a space battle of epic proportions from memory: Battle gave way to an emergency docking, which evaporated into a trading session, which segued into—

  Daav smiled at the attention she gave the game. It was popular among the shuttle-toughs and Port-crawlers and usually, he thought, had lively play. This evening, it stood empty.

  Not quite empty, he amended, as two figures stirred in the dimness of the back corner and walked toward them: A girl and a boy—halflings, no more—identically dressed in tight clothing a parody of genuine spaceleathers, faces hard, hungry—desperate.

  Daav tightened his hold on Aelliana, meaning to draw her away, but before he could do so, the boy raised his hand and the girl called out:

  "Game, gentles? Sed Ric and me will stand the fee, if you care to play for something more tangible than fun."

  Aelliana frowned. "You mean play for money?" she demanded, with very real sternness. "That would be terribly foolish of you, ma'am."

  The girl smiled humorlessly. "Ah, the challenge is too heady for the lady! Let us play three-way with your partner, then—he looks a man game for—

  "Wait," said Aelliana, looking about her for the 12-sided die in a wheel that was the symbol of a sanctioned betting station. "This game doesn't pay off," she told the girl seriously. "You would be risking your funds against strangers. That hardly seems fair."

  The boy—Sed Ric—laughed this time. "So what is fair, ma'am? We all risk our money with every purchase. We'll pay the game fee—dex a player at hazard—if you care to see what kind of pilot you might be."

  Aelliana glanced at the replay in progress beyond the boy's shoulder: A holed ship careered about the screen until a barrage of rockets sent it slamming into a nearby asteroid.

  "You will lose your money," she said flatly. The boy jerked a shoulder.

  "Maybe so," the girl said. "We're not afraid to bet."

  Aelliana hesitated, her hand tightening—indeed, Daav thought she would turn and walk off. . .

  Her eyes wandered back to the screen, flicked to the posted game-regs.

  "We can win," she murmured, perhaps to herself.

  "Can we?" Daav asked, just as softly, and with one eye on the halflings. Tension whined off the pair of them; Daav's teeth ached with the intensity of their desperation.

  They bore themselves as if they knew kin and clan—not ordinary Port rats. Though marred by fear, there was a certain smooth efficiency in their movements which spoke of potential pilots—If they don't skid off the edge of mid-Port, Daav amended silently, and land themselves in a Low Port bordello.

  "Daav?" Aelliana murmured. He glanced down into shadowed green eyes. "Tell me what is wrong," she whispered.

  "Wrong. . ." He sent one more glance at the halflings: Hungry, afraid and too proud to ask aid. Too young to be here, hustling strangers for two dex the game . . . He sighed sharply and smiled into Aelliana's eyes.

  "I think we should play," he said softly, "since these young gentles ask so nicely."

  She hesitated, her eyes scanning his. He saw the decision cross her face, then she turned away, fingers dipping into a pocket. Two coins flashed toward two halflings.

  "Done," she said with professorial sternness. "We shall take the merchanter."

  The start of joy from their opponents was regrettably obvious.

  "After you, pilot," Daav said, and followed her to their station.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  After the safety of the ship, the well-being of the passengers is the captain's greatest care.

  —Excerpted from

  Cantra yos'Phelium's Log Book

  THE SITUATION WAS NOT quite untenable, but it was far from good. They were down on fuel, having chosen to run from the last attack rather than pit the merchanter's light weapons against the pirates' superior firepower.

  The pirates had followed, of course, and were now lurking just off-station, waiting for the hapless merchanter to set forth.

  Daav's suggestion—faking a refuel and coming around the planet to attack—was refuted by Aelliana: "Suppose they go for a LaGrange Point rather than a simple orbit? They'd have all the advantage and we would be in a difficult orbit."

  Her suggestion of dropping all cargo pods but one in favor of a high-value freight and top acceleration had merit, though it relied heavily on the skill of the pilots in eluding the pirates and gaining the Jump point first. Meanwhile, the longer they sat at station, the more points they lost.

  Instinctively, Daav glanced over the instruments, checking ship's stats. The board was authentic, the image surrounding them utterly convincing. The bits of station-chatter filtering across the open line had apparently been lifted from tapes of the real thing.

  The station master's messages had been rather too courteous to a ship which had come in trailing pirates and debris, but there were limitations, Daav thought wryly, to even the best of games. He sighed and put his attention back on the cargo board.

  "How if we drop five pods," he suggested softly. "We trade in the cargo with known destinations for cargo the pirates can't suspect."

  "It would give us an edge in gaining a Jump point," Aelliana agreed, fingers flying across the board. "Carador," she said, echoing his thought as if they were partners of many years. "We'd have close to a stern chase to Jump. If the timing favors us, and if we buy all the Greenable listed, we should turn a profit."

  "Agreed. What of the synthfish—high intrinsic value and rare on Carador, according to the chart."

  "But badly affected by high acceleration. We'd need an eighty-nine percent survival rate to make our margin and we could hit—" She paused, briefly. "Six gee is not out of reach—"

  Not quite out of reach, Daav thought with a mixture of amusement and respect. Aelliana Caylon expected a great deal of her ship—and of herself.

  "All right," he said, watching her fingers work the keypad to prove the results her head had already produced. "We load Greenable. But I want to buy pod-lot 47—distress merchandise listing. It won't slow us too much and it's cheap."

  "Surplus material from Losiar's Survey? But—"

  "Trust me," he murmured, and her fingers danced, approving the purchase while she sang out orbit and range figures for him to check.

  Daav felt better now, though the run was still risky. The creator of this game had a wonderful mind for trivia, and with a very small corner of luck he hadn't just bought fifteen thousand Terran tons of survey rods. The density levels on that pod were extremely close to something his lamentable pack-rat of a memory thought it recalled. . .

  The ship readied: He pulled in the fuel figures, calculating times in his head and r
unning trajectories as if they really were about to launch.

  "They'll fire to capture, won't they, Daav?" Aelliana's voice was serious.

  "Or at least to get the goods. Likely a capture, though, since they score extra for that."

  "Yes. I'm arming the long-range weapons as soon as we break seal, and hit the meteor shield to full—"

  Her face was earnest, snared in the seeming reality of the game. Daav lifted an eyebrow. "Station will scream—not to mention the fine."

  "Only if we come back," she returned and Daav nearly laughed with joy of her, speaking as bold as if she broke a dozen rules every morning, and he—what was he but the grandchild of a pirate, himself?

  The sequence ran down to go. The ship tumbled away from its dock and Aelliana slapped up weapons and shield.

  In the real universe, taking arms off safety so close to a station would cost the pilot her license. In this universe, station, as predicted, screamed, though with nothing approaching the verve of any actual station master of Daav's acquaintance.

  "They see us," Daav said as the pirate ship hove into view around the curve of the nearer moon. "I'll take the guns, you fly her."

  The virtual ship shuddered and acceleration pressed him into his seat as the couches tilted to simulate motion. He watched the cross-hairs converge, his hands moving toward the fire button—

  "Fancy-Freight we've got a fine on you unless you cut those weapons now! You have your warning—cut those weapons—" The simulated station master blared his accusations.

  "Trap!" Aelliana cried. "They broadcast everything we do to the pirates!"

  "Hah. So that's why the children think they have a fixed game."

  His hands moved, slapping fire buttons. Virtual rockets crossed virtual space, arcing away toward the suddenly retreating pirates.

  The explosion was a bright flare across his screen. It drew howls of protest from the station master and unsubtle curses from the pirates, who immediately returned fire.

  A waste of energy, Daav thought, holding his own meager weapons in reserve: Fancy Freight was still in the shadow of the station, protected by its defenses.

  That situation changed as Aelliana kicked the ship into a lurching high-gee skid toward the proper Jump point. Even on game time they'd need all of the luck to make the distance and score.

  Daav watched his boards carefully, saw the pirate ship taking a leisurely tumble toward—

  "They're targeting the wrong Jump point," he said quietly. "They thought we were heading out with the flegetets on board for Terra."

  Aelliana sighed. "I regret those—But the math didn't work. Four hundred percent profit and three hundred percent dead. . ." Her eyes narrowed.

  "They aren't coming on with as much acceleration as they did before, Daav."

  He looked to his screens, touched a knob to increase magnification.

  "Took some damage, poor children—running on eight tubes instead of ten. Pegged to the intercept course, though—you have that stern chase you wanted—"

  "I didn't want a stern—Ah, no. . ."

  The distress in her voice caught him. He looked up sharply, saw real pain in her face.

  "Aelliana! What has happened?"

  "I—" She looked over to him, eyes wide and stunned. "I—miscalculated. The fuel reserves on the pirate ship—they have the edge. I forgot—Forgot! They'll catch us before Jump."

  Daav blinked, recalled the reserves the pirates had taken on from a peripheral kill early in the game. Something moved in the corner of his eye; he turned to track it—and saw six missiles drop out and leave the pirate's ship.

  "Recalculate," he said, automatically calling up interceptors, slapping dead plastic where the defense beam toggle would be on a real ship—"based on losing the lot of non-Greenable."

  The screen flared as one of Daav's interceptors took out a missile; half a second later another did the same.

  "Aelliana?" he asked gravely, glancing up at her again.

  "Yes. I had forgotten that you are a Scout. That was a difficult interception there. . ." She lapsed into silence, flying and calculating at once, then shook herself.

  "We may win, but the margin is small—one percent, perhaps one-point-five, depending on when and how we lose that pod." Her voice was somber.

  "Shall we surrender, then?" Daav asked quietly.

  There was a moment's hesitation, too short for him to be certain that the struggle he sensed was anything other than his imagination. Her eyes lifted to his, green and wide.

  "No."

  "Good," he said, letting her see the pride he felt in her, and turned back to his board.

  The play got tighter as the pirate ship's greater power-to-mass ratio began to tell. The pattern of attack changed though: Now the goal was interception. No fancy flying for extra points, no capture option, just interception.

  "Daav. We have one hundred seventy-six seconds until Jump. They'll intercept in one hundred forty."

  "I see. When they're 30 seconds behind, jettison Lot 47. That should give us—"

  "The added acceleration will help, but they'll still catch us by fourteen seconds—"

  "But we'll be throwing things at them. They'll have to avoid."

  "That's random—I can't calculate—".

  "No surrender," Daav said earnestly.

  "No surrender."

  They were quiet then, each watching their screens. Daav fended off several more missile attacks. The pirates were being more careful with their weapons now, and so was Daav. By his count they had thirteen to launch and he had three. . .

  "On my mark," Aelliana said calmly, "it's five. Mark. Four, three, two, one . . ."

  The ship lurched as the pod fell away, looming huge in the simulated view screen. It tumbled behind them, directly into the path of the oncoming pirates.

  Daav counted to three and launched his last missiles.

  "Oh," said Aelliana, "that's more mass away . . . I still don't think it's going to be—Daav, a bad trajectory. You've targeted the—"

  Two missiles skimmed the edge of the tumbling pod, dodged by and went on toward the pirate ship, which was beginning evasion. The missiles followed, and the pirate launched four interceptors.

  Daav's third missile hit the tumbling pod full center. The flare of explosion grew, brightened, grew still more, expanding into a glowing rainbow cloud.

  The Jump warning went off: 12 seconds.

  "What was it?" cried Aelliana.

  "In a moment. They'll be firing the last of their—yes. Avoidance pattern, please."

  Through the glowing cloud came two missiles, though only one was on course for them. Aelliana used the maneuvering rockets to spin the ship, hit acceleration, kept accelerating until the red warning light came on.

  They saw the simulated explosion fade into green nothingness behind them in the instant before the virtual ship Jumped away.

  Aelliana cheered.

  The piloting chamber melted, the shock webbing retracted. Daav rose, looked about—and sighed.

  The pirates were gone.

  "THIS WAY, SED RIC," Yolan hissed, groping ahead in the thick darkness of the service corridor.

  There! Her questing hand found the emptiness that meant the cross-hall. Another few minutes in this stifling darkness and they would be free of the Virtual Arcade and the two undoubtedly angry marks they had deserted at Pilot to Prince.

  Yolan sighed. She hated the service corridors; the hot dark gave her horrors, calling forth ghosts and hobgoblins from childhood stories. There were no ghosts or goblins, of course. She knew that. The world held far more terrible things than mere monsters. Cops, for instance. Port proctors, for another. Not to mention angry marks who had won a game they had no business to win and were now cheated of their cash.

  "Here." Sed Ric's voice rasped in her ear.

  "Right. Stay close." She found his hand and held it—to lead him, she told herself fiercely—and groped her way toward the cross-hall.

  Slowly, she moved forward,
free hand extended, fingers touching the wall. The wall ended, her fingers stroked emptiness—

  Something grabbed her hand.

  Yolan screamed.

  "Well," an amused masculine voice said. "What a noise." Light snapped on and Yolan blinked, gasping into silence.

  Before them stood the very marks she and Sed Ric had just rooked of their rightful winnings. The man, with his sharp, foxy face and his worn leathers, looked infuriatingly amused, though his fingers, now around Yolan's arm, were surprisingly strong.

  The pale-haired woman held a portable light, and she looked angry, her eyes cat-green in the sudden brightness.

  "What clans own you?" she demanded as Sed Ric stepped up to Yolan's side.

  Yolan moved her shoulders. "We own ourselves."

  The green eyes widened. Shocked her, Yolan thought, with a twist of bitter satisfaction.

  "You're clanless?" the woman asked, casting a look at her tall friend.

  "More profit to ourselves," Sed Ric said, "than the clan ever showed."

  "Playing tourists for two dex a round?" the man drawled, dark eyes showing something Yolan thought uneasily was not amusement. "And running when it's time to pay?"

  "We usually play for higher stakes," Sed Ric said, as Yolan snapped, "We don't often lose!"

  "Hah." The man looked from one to the other, moved his shoulders and glanced at his partner. "Well, pilot? You had wanted them."

  "If you want your four dex," Sed Ric, with a calm Yolan knew he was a long way from feeling, "we'll pay now."

  "After we've chased you and shaken it out of you," the pale-haired woman said ironically. "How kind." Her bright eyes moved from Yolan's face to Sed Ric's. "In truth, you are clanless?"

  "Yes," Yolan hissed, and felt the man's fingers tighten around her arm.

  "Grace to the pilot, Clanless," he said softly, and Yolan swallowed, abruptly cold.