by Sharon Lee
“So, they’re what? Independent operators? Pirates?”
Her stomach clenched—tighter, as she saw Clarence’s fingers move on the board, rapidly setting up the action-pad for a fast lift. Since they weren’t on a proper hot pad, nor under control of a proper space-traffic system, they were already in a push-to-fly mode, despite the fact that there was some minor air traffic on and about the air-center.
“Pilot, I cannot make a firm determination on—”
“Tree-and-Dragon please, Tree-and-Dragon please!”
Clarence’s hands paused near the action-pad, a finger flip away from the low-level weapons. Joyita’s background wobbled slightly; firmed as he pressed his lips together disapprovingly.
Theo touched the comm button.
“This is Pilot Waitley. Go ahead, please.”
“Bro Moddasin here, Pilot. I meant to get to you sooner, but the ’rangemints with the haulers weren’t as…” There was a pause, and then what might have been a whisper away from the mic—“is true!”
“Sorry, Pilot,” Bro Moddasin continued, louder. “Our ’rangemints with the haulers weren’t as clear as I’d thought, so we had to bring in a back-up company. This…ummm…this side of the field ain’t really been used since the…well, anyhow, for a while, so the hauler’s breaking trail ’fore bringing in the shipment. Could be some hours, still—might even be tomorrow—but we’ll get those pods out there, never you worry.”
On screen one of the vehicles was backing up, giving way for another which seemed to be having a better time of it.
Inner calm, Theo told herself, mentally dancing a phrase of menfri’at. For good measure she added another two phrases, ending in a short, sharp hand move that could be read either as restrain or kill, depending on emphasis.
Alas, that last had been a little more in the world than she’d meant, as Clarence’s chuckle indicated, and she was glad that she was on radio and not live screen.
“Pilot? You were calling me.”
She looked to the topside camera view once again, shook her head.
“Frader Group, I hear you. I was going to question the integrity of the inbound items—so I’m glad to learn that these are not the pods we want. Please, a radio check in four hours and at that point I’ll reschedule our day to match incoming cargo. We’ll be engaged in maintenance that should occupy us until then.”
A pause, and a low off-mic snarl that sounded like “…ought to at least know if it’s safe by then!”
“I understand that you’ll be busy until just after our lunch hour, Pilot,” Bro Moddasin said, somewhat more loudly than necessary. “We’ll check with you then.”
“Transmission ended, Pilot,” Bechimo confirmed. Then, plaintively, “May we instruct them to use proper call-sign?”
Theo took a breath—and let it out, slowly. They didn’t get many spaceships here at Cresthaller, but Bechimo was correct—lack of the proper forms was just one more thing that put a pilot’s back up on this port. It was possible that Tower didn’t have the forms available to them.
Though she suspected they wouldn’t much care for receiving them.
She looked toward Clarence, hand-signing, Do this, please, as she turned her chair and came to her feet.
“Bechimo, if you will, in concert with Second Board, please compile an up-to-date list of proper codes, confirmations, and etiquette, both in file and hardcopy, for me to pass along to the Frader Group. You’ll find my notes from the academy an adequate start, and some of the information we received at Frenzel should be useful, too. Make copies as well for the tower; we’ll transmit them all as time permits, before lift-off.”
* * *
Theo sat at her station, absorbed, listening and, to some extent seeing, Clarence’s calm evaluation of pod serial number ending 57, which was the last of the four. They’d passed two of the first three, with one failing Bechimo’s electronic-link scan as well as getting bad marks from Clarence’s visual—he’d finally said, “Let’s mark this number as unacceptable and go from there, Theo. I think between the pair of us we’ve seen enough of this one. If they have something to repack cargo into we’d need to mark that that as a repack and get an extra surety—can’t say the problems are new. That’s the report from my end.”
Besides Bechimo’s technical turn down due to power supply issues and lock security concerns, that pod’s seals had looked bad, even over video, even to someone who’d spent as little time as possible in Practical Cargo Handling 302 back at Anlingdin Piloting Academy. While she’d done check-cargo on many of the trips with Rig Tranza, Primadonna’s courier lifts were dainty compared to Bechimo’s working multipod lifts. It was, Theo thought, a good thing they had Clarence.
“I predict the Less Pilot will accept the fourth pod,” Bechimo said. “It is very like the first and third, Pilot. The internals report themselves well, there’s no pressure difficulty evident, the scans show good integration of the shield and lock system. I am observing the Less Pilot’s hands-on techniques and analyzing them in consideration of producing a procedures manual more current than the one I was fitted with. It may be that, should a different Less Pilot be utilized at some point, the most useful techniques can be shared and repeated.”
This was good news in several ways—for one, Bechimo was showing a personal interest in on-going operations. Too, it meant that Clarence was regaining confidence enough to be able to teach, if need be—he was explaining himself to Bechimo and Theo as he worked.
“Forward lockpoint six,” he was saying, “shows signs of attachments, but like the other lockpoints onboard there’s no evidence of corrosion, misalignment, wear, or stress. My report shows this lockpoint acceptable. Also, I note that there’s no sign of extraneous color-coding—remind me to go over that in detail at another time, since that’s a sign that a pod may have been used for smuggling—and there’s a full and proper complement of static standard and polarized spectrum reflectors, again, with no indication of patterning.”
Clarence had a good hand with the camera, pointing it steadily where he was talking about and otherwise holding it still.
“Patterning—that’s where the reflectors can be used to mark a unit for a break-in—or sometimes it just shows that something’s been attached for a free ride.”
Joyita, in Screen Six, nodded gravely.
Theo echoed that to Clarence as, “Noted, and we’ll add that to crew consult next preflight.”
Bechimo had been doing an excellent job of switching external camera and sensor angles to follow Clarence’s tour; he walked with Bro Moddasin and one of his retainers, Moddasin a respectful shadow. The retainer was a nervous guard despite, or perhaps because of, the presence of the various transport drivers.
“So that pod you’re not taking,” Bro Moddasin suddenly spoke up, his voice low and deferential. “Sir. That’s gonta get us a black mark with Tree-and-Dragon, ain’t it?”
Clarence frowned at him. “Black mark? I don’t take your meaning there, Bro.”
“Well, what I mean tasay—we din’t keep the thing so it’ll take space, which we was trusted to do. Tree-and-Dragon sets a good deal by contracts—well, naturally! Sets a good deal, too, what I heard, on people keeping their things pretty.”
Clarence walked a couple steps in silence, then said slowly, “Well, now, here’s the thing, laddie: I ain’t Tree-and-Dragon. Pilot an’ ship’re contractors; pilot hired me, so I got nothing to say about Tree-and-Dragon’s internals. Pilot did let me know that the front office didn’t exactly think any of these pods might’ve survived. Thinking about it from that start, us bringing out three in pretty good shape might get ’em to thinking that Frader Group’s reliable to do bidness with.”
Bro Moddasin looked up, naked hope on his face.
“D’ya think they will?”
“Just as likely to think that than t’other,” Clarence said carefully. “But what’s it all to you, if you don’t mind my askin’?”
The other man snorted.
�
��You’ll’ve noticed we ain’t much used to star-traffic here. And you’ll’ve maybe noticed too that there ain’t no station up in orbit where these pods, say, coulda been held outta the weather, and transferred with a lot less sweat o’man.”
“Little bit of unpleasantness a few years back, wasn’t it?” Clarence asked.
“Damned bit of foolfire,” Bro Moddasin corrected hotly. “Only a brat, myself, but my bigsis was in it. Went up with a bunch of ’em to hold the station. Last we seen o’her, an’ my mother—well, that’s family stuff, no matter to you. But here’s Cresthaller-gov bringing in every ship they could snabble, by hook or by lie, and setting trading ships agin one another, all and every bit of it to secure their position, an’ what’ve we got at the end of it all and twenty years downwind, eh?”
He looked at Clarence meaningfully.
Clarence shrugged. “What d’you have, then?”
“Nothin’.” Bro Moddasin spat. “Zackly nothin’. There was ships usta stop here—them pods prove that! Well, there ain’t anymore! And there won’t be, ’til word gets out that the old gov is long out, and no such a thing’ll happen again. We need us a trade line that’ll take an interest in us, maybe go halfsies on a station—work in partnership, see? Ten, nine year ago, buncha fellas made a consortium, they called it. Started in at rebuldin’ up there…”
He shook his head.
“Short story shorter, what was left of the station was unstable, and ain’t none o’them come back to their families, neither.”
Theo listening to this, bit her lip. If what Bro Moddasin said was so, and the government had engaged in acts of, well, piracy, he was right to suppose that no ships would risk themselves here again.
“So, anyhow, if Tree-and-Dragon was to take an interest…” He sighed abruptly, and his shoulders lost their tension. “I’ll tell you what, we’re not gonna be able to stay on this ol’ ball o’mud much longer. We need too much stuff. Saw some of them science and news reports on the vid.”
They’d come ’round to the hatch, and Clarence stopped, Bro Moddasin at his side.
“It’ll take us some hours to get the pods on and balanced,” he said slowly. “If there’s a world packet, you might wanna transmit that to the ship. Those science lectures, too, if you might. The pilot does file reports, and we send on whatever we get from the port and interested others.”
“Do you?” Bro Moddasin stared. “Do you, by the brigger.” He grinned. “You’ll be getting transmissions from the Frader Group, and from Cresthaller Port Authority, too, before you lift.” The grin broke, and Bro Moddasin swallowed, hard. “Good day to you, Pilot. Sir.”
He turned, then and strode away toward the trucks, yelling, his guard at his back.
* * *
The Uncle consulted the readout over the medical unit—the same medical unit that had until recently been occupied by Win Ton yo’Vala—and felt…relief.
Perhaps it would be just, he thought, closing his eyes briefly, to admit even to intense relief.
In his relief, he sighed. The man he and Dulsey had transferred from the field ’doc into this much more sophisticated and adept unit had been very much more dead than alive. It would not have surprised him, just now, to find that, even with so much more support, that it had been easier for the patient to let life go, than renew his grip.
Such was the tyranny of Korval’s genes, that, no matter how painful, they would always choose for life.
In that, the Uncle owned, he was fortunate. For he had no wish at all to come before the delm of Korval, and admit that his had been the last hands on Daav yos’Phelium before his death.
He scrutinized the readings again, more coolly.
Daav yos’Phelium lived, yes. The unit had returned him to a level of stability that was considerably less than optimum. If there was no improvement…But there—what was the phrase?
Why borrow trouble, when one might have more than one wants, for free?
Chapter Eleven
Middle Orbit
Departing Cresthaller
“Just by the way,” Theo asked Clarence, “what are we going to do with those transmissions from Tower and from Frader Group, and Bro Moddasin, and the local info-feed?”
Though large, it wouldn’t be a problem to store the file. She just couldn’t think of any particularly good reason why they should.
Clarence glanced over, letting her see surprise on his face.
And that, Theo realized abruptly, was true. He was letting her see. Clarence’s control over his expressions was nearly as fine as Father’s, and she was beginning to think that his motives were as nuanced.
“Told Bro we’d send it on to Shan,” he said, over-patient.
“Yes, that’s what you told him,” Theo said, matching his tone. “What I want to know is what we’re actually going to do.”
Rust-red eyebrows lifted over very blue eyes, and he inclined his head, as Liaden as you’d want, which Theo didn’t, especially, at the moment.
“Pilot, it grieves me that I have given you cause to think me easy with my honor. I assure you, I spoke my true intentions. More, I believe Master Trader yos’Galan will be glad of the information, and discover it not only to be of interest, but of use.”
Theo sighed.
“It is not your honor, but your meaning that I question,” she said, insisting on her point, despite the change in language. “Bro Moddasin himself stated the case concisely. Cresthaller has nothing. Nothing to draw trade; nothing to induce investment. This is a port that the Guild rates as no reason to call, while Travasinon ignores it entirely. With such assistance as that…”
“That’s right,” Clarence said, back in Terran, and nodding vigorously. “That’s just it. See, the thing is, the place ain’t in a bad situation for a switch-off hub. I’m thinking that’s what it was before the war—Chimmy, you want to check records an’ see if I’m right about that? Theo, if Shan’s thinkin’ about a loop, he’s gotta be thinking about swap-outs and pod-drops. You’ll say there’s Frenzel Port, just up the road, but you seen what that was like to get in and out of. Someplace less crowded, you’re in, you drop your pods, pick up what’s been left, and out you go, slick—”
“Clarence.” Joyita in Screen Six looked up and out, making eye contact. “Trade records show Cresthaller as an active regional pod-drop and pick-up hub. A comfortable stop, as it was rated in the guide books.” There was a pause, and a near-aside of, “I never visited.”
“The planetary government unwisely attempted to control a local trade negotiation by intimidating station and ship crews.” Joyita blinked, and looked down, as if he were reading a report.
“This was not well received, as you may imagine. Leaders escalated by announcing plans to seize entire ships, which was also unwise and the station soon suffered a firefight, and became uninhabitable after grievous loss of life and property.” There was the hint of a shrug as he finished up. “The failed government fought on for some time, I gather, but they are no longer seen to be a factor on-world.”
Clarence nodded. “’bout what Bro said.”
“And your plan is—what?” Theo asked, dropping back into Liaden for the properly acidic, “Forgive me, Pilot; I fear that I am quite dull today.”
Clarence grinned. “Touch of the da there,” he commented. “Good. But see, I don’t got a plan. I see an opportunity that might appeal to a Master Trader. Worth a pinbeam hey-up, I’m thinking, with the bulk of Bro’s material there to go regular mail.”
“And this opportunity is…?” Theo prompted.
She carefully didn’t point out that pinbeams were expensive of power, and that they’d already sent Shan one pinbeam already, relaying the Senior Sexton’s warning regarding Trader Fasholt. Never mind the expense, if they sent him a pinbeam every ship-week, he’d think she didn’t know any…
“What I’m wondering is if Tree-and-Dragon might not know of—or know of somebody with—a big old bulk freighter or the like what’s weighing heavy on the books. Som
ething that holds air, has some offices and a dock, and enough engines to get it somewhere…”
He paused, frowning at something about half-way to Screen Four.
“So, how about Shan, or this other party, say, rents Cresthaller this old ship to orbit as a small station? If a ship gets in and they got outgoing, they do. If they take on some transships, great. Gets ’em back in space. Gets ’em a chance to rebuild the notion that it’s not out of reason risky to leave something at Cresthaller station to be called for later.”
Said that way, it didn’t sound completely space-brained, and it might be something that a Master Trader with a long view of investments could find interesting.
It came to Theo that Clarence was a man who was very used to be in charge of things—and she had an idea that TriPlanetary Freight Forwarding had needed somebody in charge sometimes. She’d seen his resume, of course—but it was a pilot’s resume, only mentioning his stewardship of the forwarding company as the duty that had kept him from flying for so many years.
“I have identified,” Bechimo said suddenly, “seventeen vessels on the open market with cubic capacity sufficient to deal with the storage of the most recent gross reported in-shipping, assuming an active shuttle and reasonably spaced ship dates.”
Clarence raised his hands, palm up, and slid a quick glance to Theo.
“Well, there! We can append those lists to that other packet of stuff we’re sending to the home office then.”
He nodded, nearly a bow, in Theo’s direction. “Shall I create this report, Pilot?”
Theo inclined her head. “Let it be noted as your analysis. If you will, share it when it is done, and before we send to the Master Trader.”
“Yes, Pilot,” Clarence said. He put his pad aside and reached to the board, opening up a text window in Screen Nine.
* * *
Dulsey looked up as he entered the workroom, her right hand curled before her, as if she held something captive, but not too close, within the cage of her fingers.
“How fares the pilot?” she asked.
“Better than when we took him up; less well than I would like to see him.” He sighed. “It was not my plan nor my intent to set up a hospice for wounded Scouts.”
