by Sharon Lee
“Pilot,” Joyita said, his voice frankly strained. “Thirty-seven rounds of apparent cannon fire were loosed by Tredstone. Some of those projectiles will intersect the course of Goma Chang and Beeslady. Codrescu station does not appear to be under attack at this time.”
Clarence’s fingers moved—do now.
She nodded in agreement.
“Bechimo, please take us in. Now.”
* * *
“Codrescu station self-defense district here, Pilot Waitley, and welcome,” Arndy Slayn said into his mic. “We are in a state of emergency and you have arrived in an area where ships have been fired upon without warning by planetary authorities. You are at risk.”
He didn’t know what else to say but did know better than to say, you’re a figment to a ship with shields up, and that could take out the station with a bad tumble, even without ill-intent.
Peltzer was talking behind him, low and steady, re-raising the station alert level, hallway by hallway, ship by ship. The norbear was burbling up a storm, and Waitley was coming back at him.
“Am here in response to Guild pilots-in-peril declaration. I acknowledge statement of risk and affirm that I am a Guild-certified Jump class pilot aboard an armed ship with weapons available, operating with peaceful intent to assist with pilots-in-peril declaration. Is this declaration still in force? Please advise.”
If he’d been caught napping at this advent of this apparition Eylot’s planetary defenders had been caught worse: They now leapt—noisily—into the conversation.
Radio noise got bad: radar and broadcast bands warred with sensors as reaction
hit the ether.
Slayn answered, “Condition maintains, Bechimo,” but his voice sounded garbled even in the local speakers as a burst of power flooded nearby space.
“This is Eylot Control. Bechimo, you are an unregistered ship with an unregistered pilot. You are subject to Eylot’s martial law declaration and must immediately surrender ship, pilot, crew, and cargo to proper lawful authorities for disposition. You have violated recently promulgated traversal laws forbidding entering the twenty light minute protective sphere without pre-approval by this office. Drop to the following neutral orbit for boarding and inspection.”
The coords came then, and for a neutral orbit it looked pretty forbidding, within potential range of some of the known ground-based energy weapons as well as being sandwiched between two of the orbits occupied by recent additions to the strike-fighters.
The video feeds showed Slayn the small tradeship, now just shy of lock-on range at the open docking Berth Eleven for a hard dock, and within moments of Connect Two if they wanted a tube. It rotated slowly, showing strange lines that the computer tried to ID out of archives—and not recent ones, at that. It carried pods, but otherwise there wasn’t a lot of easy information to be gained from visual. No logos showed, no numbers, no shipmakers marks—a wide-back pod carrier of an odd layout.
“Bechimo acknowledges response, Codrescu, condition maintains. Working. Eylot Control I am a Guild pilot on location responding to a guild emergency request; this supersedes non-emergency operational orders. Please clear channels so I may respond to emergency situation.”
Silence on the airwaves was short-lived; during the silence Slayn caught Peltzer’s signed all regs, all regs, and saw the norbear, formerly clinging to the senior officer, now balance himself on back legs and jump to the deck, grabbing up a food frond and staring directly at the main speakers.
“This is an emergency order, Bechimo,” declared Eylot Control on an even more powerful burst of noise. “The Guild order is null and void and you are required by Eylot regulations to cease non-standard operations or suffer consequences.”
A new snap of radio frequency noise, and along the chatter-channels came a sudden raucous chorus of “Pharst!” “Damn, that’ll do!” and “Don’t bite on that!”
Slayn looked to the display, blinked and looked again.
Bechimo’s shields had already been up, he knew; the normal fuzzy radiowave cocoon of interference showing clearly. Now Bechimo’s radar image positively glittered on the video screens, a bright hard-edged nugget of repellant force surrounding the ship.
“Eylot Control,” came a new voice, “Pilot Clarence O’Berin, Executive Officer of Bechimo speaking. We have conducted a resource search regarding emergency operations and find no option for a non-Guild certified agency to interfere in a Guild-declared pilot-in-peril situation. We have no evidence that Eylot Control has such certification. Our first board is currently engaged in pursuing emergency necessities and requests you route your requests through myself or Comm Officer Joyita until the emergency operations are complete.”
Slayne heard Peltzer clear his throat—turned.
ID off insist on, was the sign…repair.
Exactly. There should be no excuse for an error while Waitley was playing such dangerous games with Eylot’s temper. Slayn turned back to his mic.
“Bechimo, Codrescu traffic here. There’s been an inbound oversight. Please give full ship ID.”
On screen, the hard-eged ship continued a very slow axial rotation, maintaining its station.
More noise from the Eylot side. They were scrambling ships to intercept the orbit Bechimo had been ordered to, though Pilot Waitley and crew had made no effort to change vector.
A pause on the part of Bechimo as other noise from the Eylot side came through. They were scrambling ships to intercept the orbit the trade vessel had been ordered to, though Pilot Waitley and crew had made no effort to change vector.
Another harumph from Peltzer.
Slayn looked up.
Pilot on local, he was told by hand; channel opens now.
“Sure secure?”
That was Waitley on one of the hyperlocal transit frequencies, while on the open channel came the Exec’s voice, perhaps amused, but playing along with the request.
“I’m guessing there was some leftover Jump voltage there, Codrescu. We’re recycling that channel through local frequencies and here you go from comm:
“This is independent contract tradeship Bechimo, out of Waymart,” said another new voice, “under First Pilot Theo Waitley, owner-operator of Lucky Cat Ltd. Current operations are under Lucky Cat Ltd, with contract operations for Surebleak Clan Loop Unlimited, Surebleak Port, Surebleak.”
On screen Bechimo continued to rotate slowly, the wide back now showing, in fact, the bright image of a laughing cat, in orange, covering a large portion of the surface.
“Not entirely,” Slayn said, answering Waitley’s query, “but we’ll bounce through side bands for a couple so the computers can mesh a quiet handshake, how about?”
“Good plan,” she allowed, “we’ll do it. Then tell me what you need.”
On screen, the ship continued to rotate. Another mark began to slide into view; something he couldn’t quite visualize on the narrow edge of the ship, and then the roll showed a green image, which came clear quickly, filling the underside with little room to spare.
“Tree-and-Dragon,” he said out loud, and into the open mic.
Behind him he heard Peltzer say, “Tree-and-Dragon!” in synch with the chatter-squads from other ships, while Hevelin the norbear chuttered, and added a happy “Murble-drow-drow.”
* * *
“Thank you, Bechimo, I know that wasn’t easy for you.”
Theo sat within the firm webbing of the overpilot’s seat still set for combat operations, every screen live, Screen Six showing the convincingly sweaty face of Comm Officer Joyita.
“As you say, Pilot. Your response was entirely inline with our goal, however, and so it was necessity: with respect to a pilots-in-peril situation the Tree-and-Dragon sign gives psychological and moral depth to our arrival, forcing Eylot to consider their own aims carefully.”
Theo dared breathe, glancing to where Exec O’Berin’s hands were busy tagging radio signals he wished to follow.
“I’m for it, too,” he said; “and I have to admit I
wouldn’t have thought to triple-size both of them!”
She nodded, more for herself than Clarence, who was still searching for local signals.
“We needed to let them know that we weren’t some ghost signal that Codrescu whomped up with mirrors—and that we have contacts, since no one’s really heard of Laughing Cat.”
She laughed briefly with that last—“Guessing now though every visual that they’re grabbing is going to make them stare at us and make us look three times bigger than we are!”
“I’m hearing a lot of chatter, and some bleed from inside the station, too, where folks are kind of wondering what they’re dealing with. Couldn’t have done anything better to calm things down on orbit here, I’m thinking, than to show the dragon wings to them.”
“Hope it works,” Theo muttered, then: “Anomalies, incoming, threats?”
Joyita made a motion on screen, almost a recognizable sign…
“Pilot, this signal is weak, originates from outside the station security zone, but in local orbit. I have isolated the source; it is the utility craft Beeslady, of quite an unusual design.”
“Show me.” Theo’d spent so much time doing ship-recognition drills back on Primadonna there was a chance she might know something Bechimo didn’t…
“Thas a T. Waitley out dere ’gin Bringo? So glad, so glad. Luck me an’ I’ll ged dere. Whoa looky a purty cat. ’ain’t had a cat my own sinct I boosted outta Terratown when I’z a dozen. Phwa, ’spect you dun know I was ever that age, eh Bringo? Like cats, always haz.”
On Screen Five, dorsal, the image zoomed past one of the station’s outriggers, past Outyard Seven with netted drums, tanks, and pieces of stuff, and beyond that where the station nor nor Eylot necessarily held sway…
Craft was giving a lot of credit where it might not be due—what it looked like was the odd parts of an asteroid-landing training buggy and a junkyard tractor, with a survival pod tacked on. The bright was mostly gone from it, like the pieces had been grit-specked so long that it was filed to gray. It was also, Theo realized, showing signs of venting…and the vector lines Bechimo projected only vaguely intersected Codrescu’s amalgamation of ships and stuff.
“Beeslady,” came Bringo’s distinctive voice, “whereheck are you?”
Came a snicker, came a cough, then: “Bringo, kinda close to a pri-vet orbit, guess am; wuz cleanin windas and helpin out wif them’s IDs switching on the Chang when they gotz the go-on an shift-boss didn’t get me a cut-away quick ’nuff. Hain’t been runnin so fast o’late, and dat damn Eylot shot me, an all I wuz doing was helping out a pal, you know, and usin up lottsa dem ’mergency thrusters I boughted from you last year. An me wrasslin the extras to point while dem gauges go orange or red and da pressure goes yellow or so…but comin in, I git there, never haven’t.”
“Beeslady, repeat?”
“Heard me, Bringo!”
“Beeslady, will you declare emergency or do I have to come take that yoke out of your hands myself?”
“Bringo, ain’t never. Jess is a bit iffy for a bit. Never did declare…dem it!”
The visual showed a rusty-looking cloud on one side of the thing now, and an odd tumble and roll—
“Gas leak!” Theo said, while Bringo’s orders poured forth:
“Cut the exhaust or abandon, Beeslady…”
“Going there,” Theo said, punching the local controls. “Show me an intercept line Bechimo. Clarence, tell her we’ll be there—”
“Talking now, Theo.”
The little craft drifted out of center screen as Theo oriented the ship to the line, then they heard other chatter, advice, starting to crowd the radio band.
On screen, the gyrations slowed, the gas release changing hue from rusty to golden—and then the whole of it was shrouded in a finer cloud of steam.
“Cain’t ’bandon, Bringo. Suit’s fritzy. Knees gouged out, I guess, holes right through. Got water leak now, top it all. Luck me, tryin ta pull this ’splosive ’lease out and dump out anyhow, got oxymask I do…sed luck me, deemit!”
“Luck, Beeslady, all you can use! We got help on the way—”
“Dem dem demmit dem gotz blood in my eyes, get here oh slitz—”
Whatever signal there was from the little ship ceased, but the impression Theo had was that the cockpit had blown open in one final flood of thick color, and Theo slapped the board, demanding, “Match course for rescue!”
Their acceleration was sudden, the deceleration quick and just as sudden, with pressure straps straining and the image now of a wildly tumbling collection of tubes and scraps, impossible to dock with, nothing to dock to, with pieces flying away and the pilot’s station empty, but for what might have been boots, or legs, still strapped in.
Theo felt as if she been struck and dropped off a cliff. She wanted to be able to reach out and grab what was left of the ship and shake it until the pilot poked her head out from some safeplace in the hull…
There wasn’t one, of course. If Beeslady had ever been a safe place, it wasn’t one now.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Codrescu Station
“No useful search patterns are present.”
Bechimo voiced what Theo had known at her first sight of the pilot’s capsule. His was the first recognizable voice in the noise that grew around them as ships and comrades and stationers reacted, overwhelming channels with shouts and cries of protest—all too late. Just like they’d been.
Too late.
Bechimo’s sensors were acute; Theo’s screens showed video, radar, and the results of more subtle search regimes, all verifying that, other than the tangled metal and ceramic hulk of the utility craft there was nothing within range that bulked large enough to have been a person, nothing that might be usefully identified.
“Theo?”
That was Clarence. She heard him, as she touched the scans, automatically, for surely there might be some way to…
But Bechimo was ahead of her. Every scan she touched already had statistics and analysis behind it.
“Crew person recovery system is activated,” Joyita said soberly. “This seemed the best modality for the situation we find. We receive no results appropriate to the launch of further assistance.”
Theo looked to Screen Six. Joyita met her eyes, and she would swear that his cheeks were wet.
“Theo,” Clarence said again, his voice soft and careful. “Rescues are chancy. And with a bad suit on top…”
She threw him a look, grimmer than he wanted or deserved, she thought, from the way his face went instantly bland.
Deep breath, Theo, she thought. Inner calm.
The deep breath, she managed. Two of them, in fact.
She’d flown fatal training sims, and seen vids of a dozen wrecks or more at the Academy. People died in ships—she knew that. Had first-hand knowledge, if it came to that—witnessed a plane blown out of the air, seen the recording of Father destroying an enemy in battle, had with her own hands…But this was not that.
This—this was a non-combatant, a…
“It’s just so stupid,” she managed, her voice shaking. “What was it for?”
Bechimo rode station beside the tiny tumbling wreck, each second compiling and recompiling images from the different sensors, giving the main screen a staccato flash of the recognizable and the unguessable.
Clarence cleared his throat after an accidental closeup of the interior showed a shattered control board, worn in spots, and stained with what might have been years of sweat and work-dirt, now open to vacuum. A place someone had lived, after all, a pilot’s home.
“Violence is a tool. You might be violent to prove that you can be violent. Certain value in that, sometimes. Best use—you’re right—is when there’s a point to be made, or defended, or Necessity. Wasn’t that here, was just someone’s frustration…”
He paused and Theo saw him touch the ear-bud.
“Am I feeding this to the station, Pilot? They might have a necessity we don’t. Might have an i
dea we don’t.”
Her hand told him do that.
By now they’d drawn the interest and censure of Eylot command; they’d become witness to a useless death and were away from the confused swarm that was Codrescu central.
“Bechimo, you are to stand by for orbit change orders from Eylot Command. We are tracking you and have ships on the way for inspection. Failure to comply with orbit change orders places you in extreme peril.”
The query light came up on Theo’s board—she saw it out of the corner of her eye as she was watching just one more revolution of the remains of Beeslady, hanging wraith-like in the main screen, shrouded by gasses and vapors.
“Ignore them,” she said. “Else, log them and we’ll get to them when we’re ready. First, we need to hear from Codrescu.”
* * *
“Slayn here, Bechimo,” offered Codrescu, “We have your feed. Our records show Beeslady to be an independent housekeeping ship; Pilot Third Class Giodana Govans, owner-operator. The ’lady was originally registered as available for contract operations forty-five Standards ago, and we see no change in ownership since then. We have no records of next-of-kin, no records of outstanding financial interest. Someone out there might owe her favors, but—she’s just been here, Pilot, working barter and short-terms. She has docking rights, guess that might be inheritable. She has a Guild box and a Guild card and never took a favor she didn’t return.”
The class was so long ago, but she’d been over the forms a couple times at the Academy and thought she recalled her part.
“Bechimo, here. We copy.”
She took a breath, thought of Kamele’s voice, crisp and without hesitation, outlining the steps necessary to complete a given task.
“Initial verbal report follows; please append our feed as appropriate, and distribute to Guild offices as appropriate.
“Independent Trade Ship Bechimo, registered of Waymart, PIC First Class Pilot Theo Waitley, reports the destruction of a ship known to us as Beeslady, with all hands lost, due to willful hostile action on the part of Eylot military command. Beeslady, a light utilty craft, was to the best of my knowledge unnavigable after being holed by Eylot weapons, and the pilot reported that the state of the ship and pilot after that encounter made abandoning ship unlikely. Pilot—is that Govans prime or secondary?—Pilot Govans reported blood on the flight deck and a damaged flight suit. She requested assistance shortly before the ship’s system’s failed catastrophically, leaving no habitable situation and no sign or likelihood of survival.”
