Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures (liaden)

by Sharon Lee

  Ren Zel pushed away from the counter. “I… not…” He sighed in his turn, sharply, frustrated with his ineptitude. “Forgive me. I mean to say—not this evening, sir.”

  “Huh.” The boss extended a long arm and hooked a key off the board by his computer. “This ain’t a guild hall. All we got here is a cot for the willfly. Happens the willfly is already in the air, so you can use the cot.” He threw the key and Ren Zel caught it between both palms. “You pass the entry tests, you find your own place, got it?”

  Not entirely, no. But comprehension could want upon the morrow.

  “Yes, sir,” Ren Zel said respectfully, then spent two long seconds groping for the proper Terran phrase. “Thank you, sir.”

  The man’s eyebrows rose in apparent surprise. “You’re welcome,” he said, then jerked his head to the left. “Second door down that hall. Get some sleep, kid. You’re out on your feet.”

  “Yes,” Ren Zel whispered, and managed a ragged approximation of a bow of gratitude before turning and limping down the hall. He slid the key into the slot and the second door whisked open.

  The room beyond was no larger than it needed to be to hold a Terran-sized cot. Ren Zel half-fell across it, his head hitting the pillow more by accident than design. He managed to struggle to a sitting position and pulled off his boots, setting them by long habit where he would find them instantly, should he be called to fly. After sober thought, he removed his jacket and folded it under the pillow, then lay down for a second time.

  He was asleep before the timer turned the room lights off.

  * * *

  ON ITS FACE, THE case had been simple enough: A catastrophe had overtaken two first class pilots. First board was dead; second nearly so, and Guild law required that such matters be reviewed and judged by a Master Pilot. So the Guild had called upon Master Pilot Shan yos’Galan Clan Korval, Master Trader and Captain of the tradeship Dutiful Passage.

  Shan had, he admitted to himself, ridden the luck long enough, having several times during the last three Standards been in precisely the wrong place to be called upon to serve as Master of Judgement, though his name had been next on the roster.

  This time he was the only Master Pilot near, and in fact had already filed a flight plan calling for him to be en, the planet on which the fatal incident had occurred. Thus the Guild snared him at last, and offered a budget should he need to study what was left of the ship, or convene a board to do so.

  A budget was all very good, but it did nothing to lessen Shan’s dislike of this particular duty. Still, he had read the file, reviewed the raw data from the flight box and, finally, in a state of strong disbelief, flew the sim.

  Even in simulation, flying fatals is—unpleasant. It was not unknown that Master Pilots emerged weeping from such flights.

  Shan emerged from flying the Casia fatal in an all-but-incandescent fury.

  First board was dead because she was a fool—and so he stated in his report. More—she had allowed her stupidity to endanger not only the fine and able pilot who had for some reason found it necessary to sit second to her, but unnamed and innocent civilians. That the ship had finally crashed in an empty plain was due entirely to the skill of the pilot sitting second board, who might have avoided the ground entirely, had only the secondary back-up board required by Guild regulations been in place.

  Shaking with rage, Shan pulled the ship’s maintenance records.

  The pilot-owner had not even seen fit to keep to a regular schedule of routine maintenance. Several systems were marked weak in the last recorded mechanic’s review—three Standard years past!—at which time it was also noted that the co-pilot’s back-up board was non-operational.

  Typing at white heat, Shan finished his report with praise for the co-pilot, demanded an open hearing to be held at Casiaport Guildhall within a day of his arrival on-Port, and shunted the scalding entirety to the Tower to be pinbeamed to Guild Headquarters, copy to Casiaport Guildmaster.

  He had then done his best to put Casia out of his mind, though he’d noted the name of the surviving pilot. Ren Zel dea’Judan Clan Obrelt. There was a pilot Korval might do well to employ.

  * * *

  “REN ZEL, GET YOUR ass over here.” Christopher’s voice was stern.

  Ren Zel checked, saw the flicker of anger on his co-pilot’s face and waved her on toward the gate. “Run system checks. I will be with you quickly.”

  “Yah,” she said, grumpily. “Don’t let Chris push you around, Pilot.”

  “The schedule is tight,” Ren Zel returned, which effectively clinched the argument and sent her striding toward the gate. Ren Zel altered course for the counter and looked up at the roster boss.

  “Christopher?”

  The big man crossed his arms on top his computer and frowned down at him. “What’d I tell you when you first signed on? Eh? About what I didn’t want none of in this hall?”

  “You wished no vendettas, Balance or whateverthehell I might do for fun to disturb the peace of the hall,” Ren Zel recited promptly, face betraying nothing of the puzzlement he felt.

  An unwilling grin tugged at the edge of Christopher’s mouth. “Remember that, do you? Then you remember that I said I’d throw you out if you brought anything like that here.”

  “Yes…” What was this? Ren Zel wondered. Half-a-relumma he had been flying out of the Terran hall. And now—

  “Guy come in here last night, looking for you,” the boss said now. “Fancy leather jacket, earrings, uptown clothes. Blonde hair going gray; one of them enameled rings, like the House bosses wear. Talked Trade, and I wouldn’t call him polite. Seemed proud of his accent. Reeled off your license number like it tasted bad and wanted to know if it was registered here.” Christopher shrugged. “Might’ve told him no—ain’t any business of his who flies outta this hail—but your number was right up there on the board, with today’s flight schedule. He didn’t talk Terran, but he could read numbers quick enough.”

  Jabun? was Ren Zel’s first thought—a thought he shook away, forcefully. There was no reason for Jabun to seek him; he was dead and it was witnessed by the Eyes, surely Jabun, of all the Clans on Casia, knew that.

  In the meantime, Christopher was awaiting an explanation, and his co-pilot was awaiting him at the ship they were contracted to lift in a very short while.

  “I—do not know,” he told the roster boss, with what he hoped was plain truth. “There is no one—no one—who has cause to seek me here. Or to seek me anywhere. I am… outside of Balance.” He hesitated, recalled his co-pilot’s phrase and offered it up as something that might be sensible to another Terran: “I am no longer a player.”

  “Huh.” The boss considered that for a moment, then shook his head. “OK, but it better not happen again.” He glanced to one side. “Look at the clock, willya? You gonna lift that ship on time, Pilot?”

  “Yes,” said Ren Zel, taking that for dismissal. He turned and strode quickly toward the gate. The leg that had been crushed had not-entirely-healed, and was prone to betray him at awkward moments, so he did not quite dare run, though he did move into a trot as he passed the gate onto the field.

  The client’s ship—a packet somewhat older than the one that had belonged to Elsu Meriandra—was mercifully near the gate, the ramp down and the hatch open. Ren Zel clattered up-ramp, slapped the hatch closed as he sped through and hit the pilot’s chair a heartbeat later, automatically reaching over his shoulder for the shock strap.

  “Tower’s online,” Suzan said, her fingers busy and capable on the second’s board. “We got a go in two minutes, Pilot.”

  “Yes.” He called up his board, flickering through the checks; reviewing the flight plan and locking it; pulling in traffic, weather and status reports. “Cargo?”

  “Port proctor’s seal on it.”

  “Good. Please tell the Tower we are ready.”

  He and Suzan had flown together before—indeed, they were already seen as a team among certain of the clients, who had made a point
to ask Christopher to “send the pilots we had last time.” This was good; they made a name for themselves—and a few extra dex.

  Suzan was a solid second classer with more flight time on her license than the first class for whom she sat co-pilot. She flew a clean, no-nonsense board, utterly dependable; and Ren Zel, cautiously, liked her. From time to time, she displayed a tendency to come the elder kin with him, which he supposed was natural enough, considering that she overtopped him, outmassed him, and could easily have given him twelve Standards.

  “Got the go,” she said now.

  “Then we go,” Ren Zel replied, and engaged the gyros.

  * * *

  NIGHT PORT WAS IN its last hours when Ren Zel and Suzan walked through the gate and into the company’s office. Christopher’s second, a dour person called Atwood, waved them over to the counter.

  “Guy in here looking for you, Ren Zel.”

  His blood chilled. Gods, no. Let it not be that Christopher was forced to send him away.

  Some of his distress must have shown on his face, more shame to him, for Suzan frowned and put her big hand on his sleeve. “Pilot?”

  He shook her off, staring at Atwood, trying to calm his pounding heart. “A—guy. The same who asked before?”

  Atwood shook her head. “New. Chris says,” she glanced down, reading the message off the computer screen: “Tell Ren Zel there’s another guy looking for him. This one’s a gentleman. Asked for him by name. Might be a job in it.” She looked up. “It says he—the guy—will be back here second hour, Day Port, and wants to talk to you.”

  He took a breath, imposing calmness. By name. And who on casia would speak his name, saving these, his comrades, Terrans, all. Ah. Christopher perhaps would… understand… Terran gentleman. How such a one might have the name of Ren Zel dea’Judan was a mystery, but a mystery easily solved.

  He glanced at the clock over the schedule board: last hour, Night Port, was half gone. Too little time to return to his room, on the ragged edge of Mid Port. Too long to simply wait on a bench in the hall…

  “‘Bout enough time to have a bite to eat.” Suzan grinned and jerked her head toward the door.

  “There’s a place couple streets down that actually brews real coffee,” she said. “C’mon, Pilot. My treat.”

  * * *

  COFFEE, REN ZEL thought, some little while later, was clearly an acquired taste.

  The rest of the meal was unexceptional—even enjoyable—in its oddness. The one blight was the lack of what Suzan styled ‘poorbellows’. An inquiry after this unknown and absent foodstuff gained Ren Zel the information that poorbellows were a kind of edible fungus, after which the coffee tasted not quite as bitter as he had at first thought it.

  The meal done, Suzan drained her third cup and went to the front to settle the bill, stubbornly refusing his offer to pay for his share with a, “Told you it was my treat, didn’t I?"

  Ren Zel shrugged into his jacket and followed her slowly. “Treat” was a Terran concept, roughly translating into “a gift freely given,” with no Balance attending. Still, it went against his sense of propriety, that his co-pilot should give him a gift. Perhaps he might search out some of these poorbellows elsewhere on port and make her a gift in return? He considered it, then found his thoughts drifting elsewhere, to the mysterious “gentleman” whom he was, very soon now, to meet.

  That the “gentleman” was Terran seemed certain. That he would, indeed, offer Ren Zel dea’Judan a jump-pilot’s contract, as Christopher seemed to think, was—not so certain.

  But if the offer was made? Ren Zel wondered, stepping out onto the walkway and slipping his hands in the pockets of his jacket. If the unknown gentleman offered a standard jump contract, with its guarantee of setting the pilot on the world of his choice after the terms were fulfilled, then Ren Zel might yet prosper, though in a solitary, Terran sort of way. If he chose his port wisely, he—

  “There!” The unfamiliar voice disrupted his thoughts, the single word in Liaden. He looked toward the sound, and saw a gaggle of five standing halfway to the corner. All were dressed in Low Port motley; four also wore the leather jackets of jump-pilots.

  And not one of them, to Ren Zel’s eye, was anything like a pilot.

  The foremost, perhaps the one who had spoken, bowed, slightly and with very real malice.

  “Dead man,” he said with mock courtesy, “I am delighted to find you so quickly, we are commissioned to deliver you a gift.”

  Yes—and all too likely the gift was a knife set between his ribs, after which his jacket would become a prize for the fifth in the pack.

  “All right, Pilot, let’s get us back to hall and see this mystery man of—” Suzan froze, the door to the restaurant still balanced on the ends of her fingers, looking from Ren Zel to the wolf pack.

  “Friends of yours?”

  He dared not take his eyes from the face of the leader, who seemed dismayed by the advent of a second, much larger, player in the game.

  “No,” he told Suzan.

  “Right,” she said, and pushed the door wider, rocking back on her heel. “There’s a back door. After you.”

  Keeping his back to the wall, he slithered past her, then followed as she sped through the main dining room, down a short hallway and into the kitchen. She raised a hard to a woman in a tall, white hat, and opened the door in the far wall. In keeping with a co-pilot’s duty, she stepped through first, then waved him after.

  “OK. Down this alley about two blocks, there’s a beer joint. Tom and Gina hang out there on their downshifts, we’ll pick ’em up and all go back to the hall together.”

  It was prudent plan, Tom and his partner being no strangers to street brawls, if even half of their stories were to be believed. Ren Zel inclined his head. “Very well.”

  “Great. This way."

  They had gone perhaps a block in the direction of the tavern, when Ren Zel heard a noise behind them. A glance over his shoulder showed him the wolf pack just entering the alley by the rear door to the restaurant.

  Suzan swore. Ren Zel saw the gleam of metal among the pack as they moved into a ragged run nothing like the smooth flow of pilot motion. Though it would serve. And when they were caught, the wolf pack would not care whether they killed one or two.

  He already had one death on his hands.

  “Go on,” he said to Suzan. “I will speak with them.”

  She snorted, “Pilot, I thought you knew I wasn’t as big a fool as I look. Those boys don’t want talk—they want blood.” She reached down and grabbed his arm. “Run!”

  Perforce, he ran, stretching to match her pace, willing the bad leg not to betray him. Behind, he heard their pursuers, chanting—“Dead man! Pilot slayer! Dead man!”—and found time to be grateful, that Suzan did not speak Liaden.

  “Here,” she gasped and pulled him with her to the right. One massive shoulder hit the plastic door, which sprang open, and they were eight running paces into a dark and not overcrowded room before Suzan let him go, shouting, “Vandals right behind us! Call the Watch!”

  Several of the patrons of the room simply dropped the long sticks they had been holding and bolted for the front door, for which Ren Zel blamed them not in the least. Left on his own, he spun, fire lancing the bad leg, which held, thank the gods, and looked about him for a weapon.

  There were several small balls on the green covered table just beside him. Before he had properly thought, he had snatched the nearest up. The ball was dense for something so small, but that was no matter. His hands moved in the familiar pattern, the thing was spinning and then airborne as the first of the wolf pack charged into the room.

  The ball caught the fellow solidly in the nose. He went down with a grunt, not quite tripping the man immediately behind him. That one, quick enough, if not pilot-fast, leapt his comrade and landed on the balls of his feet, a chain dangling from his hand.

  He saw Ren Zel and smiled. “Dead man. But still alive to pain, eh?” The chain flashed as the man
jumped forward. Ren Zel ducked, heard metal scream over his head, grabbed one of the fallen long sticks and came up fast, whirling, stick held horizontal between his two hands.

  The chain whipped again. Ren Zel threw the stick into the attack. The chain wrapped ’round the gleaming wood twice, and Ren Zel spun, trying to pull the weapon from his adversary’s grip.

  With a laugh, the wolf jumped forward, grabbed the stick and twisted. Ren Zel hung on, then lost his grip, danced back a step, and then another as the man raised the weapon in both hands and swung it, whistling, down.

  Once again, action preceded thought. Ren Zel dove, rolling under the green covered table, heard chain and stick hit the floor behind him, and came up on the far side of the table just in time to see Suzan place a well-considered bar stool into the back of his opponent’s head.

  Elsewhere in the room, the remaining three of the pack were engaged with those of the patrons who had not run. Suzan waded back into the melee, swinging her bar stool with abandon. Thinking that he might yet have use for a weapon, Ren Zel, went ’round the table to retrieve the long stick. The thing was shattered, the pieces still wrapped in chain. That he let lie, judging he was more likely to harm himself than any adversary, should he try to wield such an unfamiliar weapon. He straightened, ears pricked. Yes—from the open front door came the sound of a siren, growing rapidly louder. The Port Proctors would soon arrive, Ren Zel thought, with a sinking sense of relief. All would be—Across the room, the pack leader dropped his man with a flickering knife thrust. He spun, seeking new blood, saw Suzan’s unprotected back—

  “Ware!” Ren Zel screamed, but the word was in Liaden; she would not know…

  Ren Zel jumped.

  The knife flashed and he was between it and his co-pilot, one shoulder, covered in tough space-leather, taking the edge and turning it. Ren Zel spun with the force of the blow, deliberately using it as he came back around—

  And the bad leg failed him.

  Down he went, the wolf leader atop, and it was a muddle of shouts and blows and kicks before the quick shine of the knife, snaking past the leather this time, slicing cloth and flesh. Ren Zel lashed out, trying to escape the pain. The knife bit deeper, twisting. He screamed—and was gone.