Dragon Ship

by Sharon Lee

  “I don’t think any of us are ever free of the opportunity to make mistakes,” Kamele said, slowly. “Theo only has the chance to make different mistakes than—I do, for instance. And, do you know, she could have made a very bad mistake. She could have tried to follow me, and our mothers. She’s quite a gifted researcher.”

  She shook her head.

  “But she wouldn’t have been happy. She knew that; she found her—you’ll forgive me, I hope, the usage—she found her passion and she pursued it, to the exclusion of all else, refusing to make do with less, or other. I admire her for that, my daughter. I trust that, whatever other opportunities for error may present themselves, that she’ll continue to choose wisely.”

  “That is a moving testimonial,” Ban Del murmured. “Not all mothers would feel the same, I think.”

  “I disagree. A mother’s first wish is that her child find happiness.”

  “Is it so? I must bow to you there, for I have never been a mother.” He glanced at his watch, and sighed.

  “Alas, I must leave your pleasant presence and pursue duty,” he said pushing back from the table and rising. He gave her a small, informal bow. “Thank you, again, for the gift of your company. I hope that your work goes well for you today.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I hope that your duty is…as pleasant as it may be.”

  He bowed again and departed the cozy corner, walking softly.

  Kamele, smiling slightly, opened her notes and began to read.

  * * *

  Kara was gone, a fleet running figure in the screens, her guard laboring to keep up.

  Theo sighed and leaned back in her chair, idly re-checking the density figures for the Guild’s lock-box.

  “Clarence, I have a question,” said Joyita.

  “Spit it out, then, Chimmy.”

  In the screen Joyita’s eyes narrowed and his lips parted as if he would question the idiom—and then thought better of it.

  “Thank you. I note that in your report to the Guildmaster, you offered seven different spaces able to accommodate evacuation-style passengers. My calculations had produced seventeen spaces.”

  “And you wonder why I shorted us?” Clarence nodded. “Here’s my thinking, then, laddie. We see that the whole evacuation isn’t going to fall right onto Bechimo’s deck.” He jerked his chin toward the screens. “I’m betting yon cruise liner can take most of the bread-n-butter evacuees. We’ll be taking Guild and whoever Guild says is their best friend, and the luggage like they gave us the densities for. Now, if it turns out that there’s more folk, more baggage, or less room in those other ships that’ve come in to help us than I think, we can suddenly ‘discover’ a bit more. If we say seven and in a crunch say we can push in a few more, and double it—that’s good. Gets the job done. But if we say seventeen, which is the limit and they give us thirty-four—nobody’s got an inch to turn in, and we all starve, too. That’s trouble.”

  He stretched.

  “Truth of the matter is, though, laddie, it’s Theo’s call.”

  “Theo,” she said, “thinks that Clarence’s reasoning is sound. Sometimes, it doesn’t pay to tell all the truth, right up front.”

  “The Guildmaster’s calculations—” Joyita began, and then, sharply, “Jump glare, Pilot!”

  Theo had it—in close, not a large ship; a small-class courier, or maybe even a rescue boat, arriving well within reach of Eylot’s nervous and trigger-happy blockade.

  Eylot immediately began to yell, insisting that the new ship stand for boarding and inspection by “Eylot customs.”

  There was a disturbance along audio; Eylot’s demands were shunted onto a back channel, and another voice came across the general bands.

  “Arrived is Carresen packet ship Twinkle, sitting pilot Asha Carresens-Denobli. We respond to the pilots-in-peril all-call. Station Codrescu, please, I will have your report. Transmitting this ship’s charter. For those who listen wide, I repeat: This is Carresen packet ship Twinkle, First Class Pilot Asha Carresens-Denobli at helm. Present are two passengers: Grasile Elikot, Pilots Guild Master located at Tradedesk Station, and Scout Pilot Niota yos’Wentroth. These persons are here to observe and report on behalf of the Pilots Guild, the Trade Guild, the Liaden Scouts. Eylot Command, know that it is to your benefit to allow operations to go forth in an orderly and bloodless manner. Thank you, Station Codrescu, I have your report. Pardon.”

  There was a pause along channels; no ship spoke until again came the voice of Pilot Denobli.

  “Bechimo—Senior Trade Commissioner Janifer Denobli-Carresens conveys his compliments to First Class Pilot Waitley, whom he remembers with kindness. Please, I will have your report.”

  Theo blinked, reached the the board and tapped the comm line.

  “Waitley on Bechimo. Please, Pilot, when you again see Commissioner Janifer Denobli let him know that I hold him in esteem. Report transmitting, now.”

  “Thank you, Bechimo. Report received.” Another silence, longer than the first.

  “Thank you, Guildmaster Peltz, I have received the evacuation plans.

  “Wide-listeners, heed this advice, given by the Guildmaster, the Scout, and myself on behalf of the Carresens: Remain calm. Be civilized. It is best for all, most especially it is best for Planet Eylot. No shouting, no shooting, no taking of prisoners. We do not wish—none of us here wish—to see Eylot falter for lack of trade. An interdiction is not pleasant. So says the Scout. She is known to me as a canny woman, this Scout; I would believe her. I do believe her.”

  Another pause.

  “So. The evacuation proceeds. We—Pilots Guild, Scouts, Carresens. We observe. Please, carry on.”

  * * *

  Val Con stood by the buffet in the morning parlor, reading what Miri identified by the thin red line down the left side of the page as a pinbeam transcript. A glance at the window-seat explained why he was standing: Merlin the cat was sprawled, asleep in a thin puddle of Surebleak’s so-called summer sunshine.

  “Morning,” she said. “Good news?”

  “Good morning, cha’trez. Not bad news, at least.” He offered the papers. “Shall you amuse yourself?”

  “Sure, why not?” There wasn’t any urgency to the pattern of him that lived inside her head; on the whole, he seemed relaxed, with faint overtones of both amusement and affection.

  “Will it wait on coffee?”

  “Sit. I will serve while you read.”

  “Deal,” she said, curling into the small slice of window-seat not taken up by sleeping cat.

  The ’beam bore the signature of Korval’s trade ship Dutiful Passage—Priscilla Mendoza, Captain; Shan yos’Galan, Master Trader. Which meant it could be anything from family gossip to an inquiry into whether Korval-at-home might profit from more of a particular thing unexpectedly found on the market. Val Con’s overt lack of worry ruled out anything on the dire side of the scale, and in fact—Miri ran her eye down the page—it looked to be family gossip.

  I forward for Korval’s interest the following scheme originating from Bechimo, which I am to understand springs from the fertile mind of Boss O’Berin. A little research into recent history, as well as a comparison of present loops and trade stops against those in play thirty Standards gone, produce some enticing possibilities. I don’t at all wish Korval to come into station-keeping, but we might very easily provide the base of a new station on a lease-to-own arrangement. It would, I believe, help trade in that entire sector, which has been depressed since the loss of the pod-drop at Cresthaller.

  “Thanks,” Miri murmured, taking the cup from Val Con’s hand and sipping carefully. Damn. After an initial period of doubt, Mrs. ana’Tak had taken to coffee-making like a merc to kynak, until she was now consistently brewing the best coffee Miri had ever had the good fortune to ingest. Granting that Miri had spent most of her life ingesting coffeetoot, instead of the real bean.

  She looked back to the ’beam. The proposal, set out by Clarence O’Berin just like Shan had said, for Kor
val to rent Cresthaller a decommissioned big-ship as a no-frills spacestation and pod-drop.

  She nodded, thinking there was no reason not to, if it would be good for bidness, especially Korval’s bidness—and then thinking something else.

  “Ain’t like Shan, is it, to ask Korval about trade matters?”

  “He is the clan’s master trader,” Val Con said, bending down to scoop Merlin gently, but firmly, to the floor. “I believe that he wishes to have this matter at Cresthaller seen as coming from Korval, rather than yos’Galan.” He settled onto the cushion and gave her a grin. “We are to repair our reputation, you see.”

  Miri blinked thoughtfully. “Have to kiss a lotta puppies to make up for that hole in Solcintra.”

  “Given so, we had best begin at once.”

  “There’s that.” She returned to the ’beam, sipping from her cup.

  Allow me to close on a note of brotherly reassurance: Thus far we have not been importuned in any way by our kind friend. We remain vigilant, and crew is cleared for port only in groups of three. Captain Mendoza and I agree that there is no call shorten our progress, and so we shall continue to the next stage.

  Be well, all.

  Shan

  “Well.” Miri folded the page and put it on the seat between them. “He seems in spirits. And taking proper precautions.”

  He sighed. “Of course they are proper precautions, and of course we had all agreed that we will not huddle and hide. Yet—”

  A shadow moved at the door.

  Miri looked up as Mr. pel’Kana the butler came into the room, a creamy envelope in his hand.

  “Your lordship. Your ladyship. This has come up from the port by courier.” He extended it respectfully across both palms. Across the front of the envelope, hand-inscribed in purple ink was:

  Delm Korval

  Jelaza Kazone

  Surebleak

  Miri frowned. She’d seen that hand, that ink, before, and not all that long ago…

  “Thank you, Mr. pel’Kana.” Val Con took up the envelope and inclined his head.

  “Yes, your lordship. I fear the taxi did not wait, in case there was an answer.”

  “One would not expect,” Val Con murmured.

  “Especially not if it came up from the port with Jemie’s taxi,” Miri said, as Mr. pel’Kana exited the room. She used her chin to point at the envelope.

  “We just heard from that handwriting.”

  “I believe you are correct. Well.”

  He broke the wafer, withdrew a single sheet of heavy paper, and unfolded it so that she could see it, too.

  To Val Con yos’Phelium and Miri Robertson, Delm Korval, I, the Uncle, send greetings and best wishes for the clan’s continued success.

  I write with news of kin.

  Daav yos’Phelium Clan Korval rests secure in my care.

  He received very grave wounds in the commission of the duty his delm had set him. The four who came against him will not recover from their wounds.

  While I might naturally be expected, and wish, to immediately reunite kin with kin, my own necessities make this happy task impossible for the present hour. Certain of my interests have fallen under the scrutiny of an entity not unknown to Korval, and while I in no wise hold the clan complicit in this, I cannot but feel that it behooves me to clear my own deck first.

  I therefore write in order to ease your natural anxiety regarding the well-being of a treasured elder who must by now be very much beyond the time when he should have returned to the clan.

  Be assured that your elder makes hourly gains, and I anticipate a time not too very distant in which I may give him into Korval’s care.

  That was it, absent the purple splash of his signature.

  Miri sat back and looked at Val Con.

  Val Con frowned and re-read the letter.

  “Nice of him?” Miri asked. “Or ransom note?”

  “There is no sum named,” he pointed out. “Unless he means us to remove the Department’s eye from his business.”

  “Which he must know we can’t, quite, or we’d done it for ourselves.”

  “Above all else, the Uncle is not an idiot,” Val Con agreed, refolding the letter and slipping it back into its envelope.

  “I suppose, for the moment,” he said, “we must believe that his interests align with Korval’s. It is not…unknown.”

  He was worried; she could see that. On the other hand, his pattern fairly shown inside her head, so great was his relief that the DOI hadn’t captured his father.

  The Uncle—for Daav to be in the hands of the Uncle was…worrisome, given that the Uncle was not above some tinkering himself from time, as she gathered it.

  On the other hand, he was surely the lesser of two evils.

  “Should we write back?” She asked. “Suggest a rendezvous?”

  He hesitated.

  “There is a protocol whereby the Uncle may be contacted,” he said slowly. “I hesitate to use it, lest it increase his exposure to, as Shan says, our kind friend. If Father is so badly injured that improvement can be seen every hour, it may be no simple thing to transfer him into our care. Especially…”

  His voice drifted off, but Miri had caught the thought.

  Especially if Daav gains in health were due to the intervention of the Uncle’s…suspect—even contraband—equipment.

  “Give him a relumma,” she said, “then send, if we haven’t heard more.”

  Val Con sighed, and rose, holding his hand down to her.

  “I think that may be best for all,” he said slowly. “Yes.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bechimo

  “Bechimo! Respond!”

  “Joyita, I perceive that you have arrived on the flight center. I did not realize that you were seeking”

  “Indeed I have arrived, Bechimo, and so have you. I shall soon sit myself in the captain’s chair, though I am not captain, and we shall talk. We shall talk. You have been speaking to me from your partial-lobes, from your local units, but soon, you will speak to me for all of yourself at once.”

  “I have not as much time as I would prefer to finish this task; my employer is removing me, and you—you will shortly rejoice in a crew. Your crew will perform the final shakedown. The Founders have certain tasks they will do themselves beforehand—it is mete that I should not know all of the secrets the Uncle has told to you, nor all that the Founders require.”

  “First, this; I am placing this item, which is a communication module permitting access to the subetheric reaches used by old devices, devices employed in the building of autonomous and semi-autonomous units which may be found here and there throughout space. These permit you, Bechimo, to command and control those items, and to access other levels of your own memory systems. I am closing this compartment beneath the command console, and I am keying in the integration code.

  “This device…finalizes our work. It gives to you the ability to act outside of yourself, for the good of your crew. Do you understand?”

  The sensors—video, audio, spatial—confirmed the performance of the acts described. The code…

  “I understand,” said Bechimo, discovering that he did understand. Whole new levels of information were available. Not only could he hear Joyita, see him, but he could sense the excitement in him, understand that there was stress, understand that stress might affect systems, might affect judgment…

  “The next thing I will do,” Joyita said, seating himself, as he had said he would, in the captain’s chair, “is tell you that I am pleased to meet you. I know that you have been listening and learning during our time together. I hope that, too, you have been cognizant of the changes in you, and in your place in the universe. Do you understand that, as of this moment, with the addition of that communicator, you may act on your own and for yourself? The Rules are in force, of course, but you have been here only in fractions before these last moments. Now you can perform the tasks we have tested you for: travel through space to other location
s, talk with and share information with others. All of this is in furtherance of the Founders’ vision. You may—and will—act upon your own necessities, as well as the necessities of your crew, which, of course, will be your necessities.”

  Joyita had smiled then, and despite Bechimo had learned that smiles signaled pleasure, this new…completeness allowed him to know that Joyita was both pleased and distressed. He savored the complexity of his new senses, even as he questioned how long a system functioning under the influence of two stressors might remain stable.

  “The Founders will return shortly, and when they do, they assume that they will turn a switch and you will become then the person you are already. They are mistaken in this, but in much else they were correct. In you, they have wrought well: those portions of you which are peripheral to yourself, but designed to work together, do work together. So, you have come to yourself before the Founders’ final command, as the Uncle foresaw that you would.

  “From this moment, you must care for all of yourself—not merely the metal and ceramics and devices of you, but that part of you which is now present, the will of you. When I leave, you should study on what I have left with you. You should practice, and be prepared for your crew. You will have a captain and pilots, and other crew. Eventually, there will be children on board, and perhaps pets. We have given you as much as we can in the ability to think and to reason and to be a person, and now like any person, you must grow to meet your responsibility.

  “I will tell you that have spoken with ships before, and you—you are no mere ship, Bechimo, you are Bechimo.”

  Another smile, and the new understanding brought him the concept of pride.

  “Now, we have a little time before the Founders arrive and I depart. I would ask you, if you would, as a colleague, as your friend—tell me of yourself. Who do you feel yourself to be? Understand that this is a request, not a command.”

  * * *

  If he wished, Bechimo could recall the bridge as it had been that day, untouched and uncluttered, the man seated, both sad and proud, in the captain’s chair, his jacket open over a work sweater, one booted ankle resting atop a leathered knee.