by Sharon Lee
He’d done the rehash twice more, from different directions, the while they walked the perimeter of the clearing. By the end of their walk one of the creatures, the one Klay called Oki, the one who’d done the most to free him, had come to them and walked as if part of the conversation for a turn, and then natural as could be grabbed Klay’s hand and pulled himself on Klay’s shoulder, the usual low murble of greeting suffused with the gentle mental touch he thought was a hello, or maybe a request for news or—something.
The expression on Rusko’s face went from horrified to resigned with a shake of his head.
“Susrim told me that you and Squithy have both been too friendly with these things. I didn’t believe you’d let them up in your face, though!”
Klay shrugged, the paw on his shoulder support enough for his rider.
Rusko stepped back with a sigh.
“I can’t believe I need to ask you this, now. But I do. First, please put the creature down.”
There followed a modest contest of will, and in fact the creature came down, leaning for a moment against Klay’s leg until a strong glance and hand motion chased Oki away. The creature retreated a dozen or so steps and Klay looked meaningfully toward the nearest of the three paths, and waited until Oki started in that direction.
“He’s down.”
Rusko saluted the obvious and went on alert pilot status, pulling away his quiet and putting on the command aspect he seemed to shun when it came to people.
“Tell me this. This is professional evaluation, this is a command evaluation. Could you feel confident as a Pilot in Charge, assuming neither Trahn nor I was available? Could you take Dulcimer to the next port with current crew? Could you finish a cargo route with current crew sans Pilots One and Two?”
Klay’d blinked, thought to the boards, thought to the ship, thought to the crew.
“You’re asking if I’d have taken—could have taken the ship on if we hadn’t walked out from the clearing and found you? Or if you’d been killed instead of just having bruises and breaks?”
Rusko nodded, said, “Yes, exactly. If the cave-in had killed us both, would you have been able to survive—either call in Choody or just get to the next port, which might have been better.”
Klay harrumphed, sighed, nodded.
“Yes. The first—just to the next port—It wouldn’t have been pretty, but it wouldn’t have been hard, really, other than bodies or lack of ’em. The second thing—moving on—would be harder and we’d need some signature cards we don’t have so I could sign for cargo and expenses—I hadn’t got that far. But crew from number three down, yeah, we can run the ship. Shall I make a report for you?”
Rusko’s turn to blink. Then: “You’re positive?”
Klay’s nod brought a quiet whistle from the pilot, who’d surveyed the ship and the landing zone solemnly, and echoed a nod.
“I’m going to be asking everybody the same question and so will Trahn. The ship’s got to be sure of itself. Don’t discuss this with anyone until were decide what we’re going to do.”
The stuff about Squithy . . . he thought on that some more. Hadn’t much thought of her as a partner possible. Hadn’t much thought about anyone being with Squithy. Wasn’t impossible, but you like to feel the person you were talking to was on the same wavelength, and that didn’t happen all that much with Squithy, in his experience. Or hadn’t. But once they’d secured the clearing she’d been right there in helping find their way, and keeping the furries out of their way. More, she’d even told him she asked the creatures if they’d seen Tranh and Rusko, and they’d pointed the way. Then they’d walked them all the way back to the ship and circled ’round the clearing like they owned the place, trying to take Squithy to the three paths. She’d been patient with them, like she was paying attention and knew things that weren’t just if her blood pressure was good or if she’d seen seventy-seven red things on the day.
So really, if he ran the ship he’d just put her on breakfast once a week, just to test her. . . .
The rarely used PA system burped a scratchy high-volume tone, bringing the startled Klay to his feet. Following the noise came the pfffft of some quick huffing test of the microphone link, and then Rusko’s quiet matter-of-fact voice.
“Dulcimer crew meeting for all hands begins in five minutes. Bring with you any local plants or wildlife in your possession, please. All crew members includes you, Squithy, no matter what you’re doing. Five minutes, be prompt.”
On the third day of Jump, Rusko on Board One and Klay on Two, Falmer was still sitting with Tranh. The break swelling wasn’t going down so well for Tranh and he had some infection, so he’d been hit with heavy-duty antibiotics and general relaxants to make him be quiet. He’d been able to hold the basic meeting before the lift, using the logbooks that Klay’d pointed out to him and some agenda templates Squithy’d dug out of ship-files. Basic meeting was a promise to make long-term changes—and a Captain’s apology for having screwed up a run.
“Choody got me to go where he wouldn’t go, and now that I’m injured won’t come through on the pay for us having been there. So this is a ship-rule: Dulcimer don’t deal on bar-deals without crew input. That’s a rule. Also, Dulcimer’s not dealing with Choody, nor coming back to Thakaran, as long as I’m on the deciding side. That’s a rule.”
He paused then, having shifted slightly and then gone white trying to move his leg a little with his hand. “I’ll put you two”—that was said to Susrim and Falmer—“to finding long-range replacement runs for us to think on. Given Choody and his connections we’re going to be dropping as many of the old runs as we can—Da never did make it big, and he kept rubbin’ against the underside figuring he’d get a deal. But we’re out of that side now—another ship’s rule, no dark trading. I got some stuff Da and Jenfer left us, and . . . some other things . . . that we ought to be able to move quick as can and be good. Then straight cargoes, all.”
At that he’d said, “That’s after Port Chavvy,” leaned back in his seat with half-closed eyes, and said, “Rusko’s got the rest of it. It’ll be a boring run out cause we’re not for Choody’s station, but we’re set foodwise. Rusko’s on after me.”
At that he’d stared at Falmer and smiled. “Now I’ll take that painloss you gave me, right?”
With that he pressed a patch against his wrist with a sigh, and waved his command hand one more time, wiping a little sweat off his forehead, and said “We’re going to Port Chavvy because we still have a Founding Member share there, so we can port as long as we need to while we spook up more business. You guys got work to do!”
Rusko’d done well, all things considered, and they’d planned their shifts as best they could, including Squithy in some, including the business of trying to shoo away the norbears, which Susrim had named by accident.
“I tried looking those things up,” she said, “and all I got is images and notes—and they never was mentioned to be here on Thakaran. Couple of entries that they’ve been seen with scouts. Warnings from a couple sectors that they’re contraband. Standing offer from Crystal Biogenics, and a competing one from University. Biogenics is paying a haul of cash for a Standard’s visit, and University’s looking for a breeding pair but don’t talk money—
“And more, couple smuggler’s myths that they showed up around old tech sites on a couple planets, no sense why, but that’s it. A dozen different names, calling them shore dogs and green apes and some Liaden stuff that translates into sleepy bear Terrans. But they’re not. They’re mammals, but they are not dogs nor green apes nor bears!”
She’d scrunched up her face when she’d said it, and Squithy had laughed out loud without it sounding like hysterics for once, and repeated the words, pushed together.
“Norbear. If they aren’t dogs or cats or dragons they’re norbears!”
Which had put a cap on the all together part of the discussion since Tranh had fallen asleep.
Klay was still sore from some bruises, but that was minor c
ompared to Rusko’s—he tended to complain about the stiffness in his arms, and Falmer’s suggestion that pulling Tranh out of the fallen cave roof had strained him apparently annoyed the pilot to the point of snippiness.
Still, ship stuff was going on, and it being just before shift change, he wasn’t surprised entirely to see lights showing movement . . .
“Where’s Falmer?” he asked, watching the lights.
“You need analgesic? Falmer’s sticking with Tranh.”
“Isn’t Squithy on breakfast?”
“She is—you can go first if you need . . .”
“So that means Tranh’s in with Falmer, Squithy’s doing breakfast, you’re here, I’m here, and Susrim’s on sleep.”
He’d gotten Rusko’s attention, saw a raised eyebrow and quick glances to housekeeping boards.
“’Ponics door has opened a couple times here . . .”
Rusko made a noise that might have been a complaint, and reached to touch a tab.
“Susrim?”
Klay thought he’d heard motion over the connection, but the sound ceased.
“Pilot Rusko here, is that you, Squithy?”
A light noise then, and another, and—
“Murble . . .”
Klay was out out of his seat instantly—
“We’ve a ‘norbear’ stowaway!”
“This isn’t good! Take it,” Rusko ordered. “And get Squithy to help you.”
Klay ran, half-bouncing off the slide-door on his way out.
“I thought so!” was what Squithy said, her step light behind his as they squeezed into the right-angle passage. There were marks in the passage, in fact all up and down the passage, some scuffed over, some clear, near-handlike footprints in white.
Klay looked toward the lower corner where the door would open first—but Squithy was moving in that direction.
His palm hit the waist-high release, wondering if the faint hand-shaped mark there was dangerous far too late, and the door slid open, Squithy on one knee, ready to catch . . .
Ready to catch the norbear, who, rather than rushing to escape, was sitting quietly in a comfortable pose on top of Growcase C, staring at the greens, sipping from a wide-mouthed sampling bowl, a trail of splashes and white spots leading back to the push-spigot. Both arms were white, and there was a vague halo whitish about the chest.
“Oh, good!” said Squithy. “Holdhand herself!”
“Holdhand? You know this one?”
“’Ponics? What’s happening?”
“Murble lamurbla,” said the norbear, using bright care to sit the cup down without spilling, it, and glancing at the speaker. Then, she reached toward Squithy, offering her hand to hold.
“Norbear is in here in ’ponics, Pilot. Admiring the carrots, I’d say.”
“Capture it. We’ll have to put it out an airlock, I guess.”
By then Squithy had the norbear in her arms, and stared up at the speaker, the murbles almost drowning out out her denial.
“You can’t, Rusko. They saved Klay.” Her voice quavered then and rose in volume to a whine dangerously like Squithy of old.
“Squithy, don’t start now. We’ll figure out a way to make it quick, but . . .”
“Stop talking!”
That sounded even more like Squithy of old . . .
Klay ventured, “Rusko, let’s . . .”
Squithy held onto the creature, cuddling her . . .
“It’s my fault she’s here! She believed me when I told her we’d be leaving and never coming back to that planet. And now she’s here. She’s a widow and she came here because Klay’s here to keep us safe and . . . Oh no!”
Klay saw her stare behind him and turned as a chorus of murbles broke out behind him. He heard Squithy, but it didn’t sink in immediately, she was going on and on about something—
“Rusko, Pilot! Don’t you see, they think slow and it helps me thinks slow. And they saved Klay and they made me real crew! And it isn’t all of them, just . . .”
Klay saw two more of the norbears at the door, these even more covered in white, the flour falling off of them and falling on to the floor and on the tiny creatures they held to breast and who clung to their feet, the trail of flour down the passage toward dry stores. . . .
“The widows, Rusko, only the widows came.”
Squithy looked hard at him, but he’d already noticed the shy touch of a hand at his knee, heard the murbles.
“We’ll have to talk, Rusko,” Klay said steadily. “We’ll have to be convincing for Trahn!”
“What’s Trahn got to do with it? This is on my . . .”
“That Crystal Biogenics, Rusko. I’m guessing they’re about as dark as you can get and still be seen. But they’ll probably take Trahn’s old tech, and whatever you’re hiding from that cave, too.”
“Murble?”
“What?” The last speaker was Rusko, the former was the norbear climbing to be held, and the reaching for the beaker of water Holdhands had left on the greens case.
“I’m thinking we’ve got a little clean-up to do . . . might need some help. The widows and kits, they’re a little dusty. Guess the place is a little out of true.”
Port Chavvy was being a challenge for Dulcimer, both internally and externally. They’d been on port four days, and the problems . . .
Rusko’d been threatening calling sabotage and spacing the lot of the norbears, and Squithy and Klay with them. While he wasn’t quite serious, only the slowly improving health of Tranh cheered him at all—while he swore they’d not lift ship until the stupidity of several generations of Smiths and Patels was cured.
They’d rented a tool rack, which sat here externally—it had taken cash up front to get it delivered, and promise of a full-time responsible guard to let it stay. That stricture had Squithy get all antsy because she thought, it being “all her fault for thinking too fast and thinking too hard,” she ought to be guarding it—which no one wanted beside her, since the norbears were all over her wherever she went. She could be gone a few minutes at a time, but after that, they got restless.
Internally, the rack meant Klay got elected for most guard time while Falmer, Susrim, and Rusko did clean-up and Tranh fumed and took his meds, Falmer having convinced the port hospital that med-officer meant med-officer without having to transport Tranh the whole way down there.
Klay peered at the rack, as he was supposed to from time to time, counting the tools and checking the inventory sheet. Squithy’d been out just once, Falmer four times, and Rusko once. Rusko was currently making sure the free-stacked stuff from the cleaned hold was still under watch, and grabbing a couple of breaths of flourless air as well.
The flour—shouldn’t have happened. The norbears had found the unsecure dry-food storage door and wandered in, Squithy’s vague information about lying down for lift-off giving them an urgency which brought them to push things around so the kits could snuggle against their moms. Then some of the kits had discovered pulltabs, and gone on a binge of bag openings, and others of the kits . . . had found the secret door.
For like all indie spacers, the Smiths and the Patels fancied themselves could-be smugglers—just like Tranh and Rusko had with their secret deal to gather Old Tech for Choody!—and they’d their hidden compartments and secret latches and . . . and then the elders gunfought and lost without telling their ship kin the wheres and whens of things.
Klay’d yet to see all of it. He’d heard enough to see what had happened—the discovered cubby holes had led to a secret compartment with some secret stuff in it, and that fed to another place, and the kits having figured out latches had ended up in a closet of the ship’s full toolroom, and thus—once the air way was open—the ship’s automatics and stinks systems had started up with vengeance. The tools, the stores, several passageways, all covered in flour.
Rusko, a neat man at all times, only had a little flour on him.
“Everything’s coming along,” he said before signing out another hand-pull airspray,
“and we got Trahn doing inventory inside. There’s a lot of cleaning going on . . .”
Klay nodded, and asked, “How’s she holding up?”
She, of course, was Squithy. She’d run herself ragged the day before, finally getting the norbears to understand how they could help—and what “stay out of the way” meant.
“I’m watching her, and I swear it feels like she’s finally figured out how to pace herself. She’s doing good.”
“Do you believe her?”
Now that was a loaded question, since it brought in norbears, which they all agreed they wouldn’t mention, not even to each other, outside the ship—and it also put Rusko on the spot. If he believed the whole thing—that Squithy hadn’t let them into the ship on purpose, but had simply explained they were going away, and told them about the ship . . . and they’d got the details of how things worked by listening to her and watching her mental tour of the ship . . . and that they’d got the idea that having their families somewhere where there were no Tobors to trap and eat them was a good thing all on their own.
Rusko looked away, following the progress of an odd group of crewmen, all of an almost golden skin tone, all small—smaller than Klay, for sure, and a couple of them dressed like—like—rich folk.
“What are they, Liadens?”
Klay laughed.
“What else? They’ve been stomping up and down the dock every few hours—guess it must be exercise class. Got themselves a trade ship like hardly stops here. They asked me “what ship” the first three times I saw ’em, but they’ve stopped. We’re boring.”
Rusko snickered.
“Liadens! Space sure is getting strange, isn’t it?” Rusko fiddled with his airspray, making pfffufff a couple times.
“It is, isn’t it?” Klay agreed. “And Squithy?”
Rusko shrugged.
“Well, asked that way, she’s not as strange as she was. I’m thinking she’s not out of true anymore, all told.”
Klay fixed Rusko’s eyes with a straight look, asked, “And so that means . . .”
“That means we’re not looking to offload her anytime soon, or you, or the . . . excess cargo. I’ll send her out with a handwich. You’ll be wanting to get used to having her around.”
