Liaden Unibus 01

by Sharon Lee

  "You will both attend me here tomorrow at the same hour," the master pilot said, and with another slight bow strode away down the hall. Er Thom stared after him, frowning.

  "Trouble, darling?" Daav was fair glittering himself, black eyes wide in his narrow face.

  Er Thom drew a deliberate breath, trying to quiet the exuberant pounding of his heart. "Say, rather, puzzlement. I botched things rather badly at the phase-change and yet he makes no mention of it. Had I made an error one-twelfth as grievous on the practice board, he would not have held shy of apprizing me, never fear it! Yet, today, with three ham-witted errors to my tally, he is 'much encouraged'!"

  "Perhaps he means to see if you repeat the errors tomorrow?"

  "Repeat them tomorrow?" Er Thom stared. "I should never had made them today! I've been working phase equations in my head since Master Robir showed us the forms, when we were eight."

  "Learning curve," Daav said, linking his arm in Er Thom's and beginning to stroll down the hall in the master pilot's wake. "I tremble to tell you how badly I've bungled my math at piloting. We were training on sling landings, you see, and I transposed my vectors."

  Er Thom laughed. "Tell me you came in upside down!"

  "But of course I came in upside down," Daav said amiably. "And hung upside down in the sling, like seven sorts of fool, while Master dea'Cort used my situation to lesson the rest of the class on the need to thoroughly check one's equations." He sighed and looked briefly mournful, then dropped Er Thom's arm with a grin.

  "Enough telling tales out of piloting class!" he said gaily. "It will no doubt astonish you to learn that I am ravenous. If we hurry, I can wheedle an apple out of the cook before reporting to the cargo master for duty. Catch me."

  He was gone, running full speed down the hall.

  Er Thom bit back a newly acquired curse and hurtled after.

  * * *

  IT WAS WELL into Fourth Shift and both of them should have been long abed. Instead, they were in the control room at the heart of the Passage. Er Thom was sitting first board. There was no second. Daav was leaving for school on the morrow. He sat, hands folded on his lap, in what would have been the jump-seat in a smaller ship—a passenger on this, their last flight together.

  Er Thom's hands moved across the board with swift surety, no wasted motion, no false moves. His face was intent and his shoulders just a bit rigid, but that was expectable, the sim he was flying being somewhat in advance of his skill level.

  The screen flashed a familiar pattern—Daav's own particular nemesis, as it happened—and he leaned forward, watching as Er Thom adroitly—one might say, casually—fed in the proper course for an avoid, and the simultaneous adjustment to ship's pressure. Quietly, Daav sighed, leaned back in his chair—and jerked forward the next moment as the screen flared and Er Thom's elegant choreography degenerated into a near random slap at the Jump button, which was entirely wrong and too late besides.

  Using the exercise he had been taught by the Scouts, Daav released the tension in his muscles, then put his hand on his brother's shoulder.

  "A good run, darling. Don't repine."

  Er Thom looked up, blue eyes flashing a frustration of his own ineptitude that Daav understood all too well.

  "It can't quite be a good run, can it," he snapped, "when the ship is destroyed around one?"

  "Well—no," Daav admitted. "On the other face, you flew further than I have yet to fly."

  "Truly?" Er Thom looked so startled that Daav laughed.

  "Yes, truly, you lout! Remember me, the ten-thumbed junior brother?"

  "All too well, thank you!" Er Thom replied with a gratifying flash of brotherly scorn. He sobered almost immediately. "You have changed, you know. Even in so short a time. I—do you find it at all . . .odd or, or . . .lonely, to, to—" He floundered.

  "Do I find it disquieting to be away from all that was usual in my life, and made to stand singleton before the world, when I have no memory but of being half of the whole we two made between us?" Daav said in a serious and quite adult voice. Er Thom took a breath and met bleak black eyes straightly.

  "Yes," said Daav, "I do."

  "So do I," Er Thom murmured, relieved, in an odd way, that at least this much had not changed—that he found his brother and himself at one on this matter of importance to them both. "One's . . .mother . . . assures one that these feelings will pass. Do you think — "

  The door to the control room opened and Petrella yos'Galan strode within.

  "Of course I would find you both here," she snapped, but Er Thom thought her face was—not entirely—displeased.

  "Good shift, Aunt Petrella," Daav said politely. "Er Thom has just been having a run at the general-flight masters sim."

  Petrella's eyebrows rose. "Oh, indeed? And how did he fare, I wonder?"

  "Poorly enough." Er Thom spun his chair to face her. "My ship was destroyed two-point-eight minutes into the flight."

  Astonishingly, his mother grinned. "No, do you say so? Well I recall that dicey bit of action! Forty-four times, I lost my ship exactly there. The forty-fifth—well, say I survived another minute."

  "And I," Daav said mournfully, "am doomed to forever lose my wings at two-point-three."

  "There?" Er Thom turned to stare at him. "But that was a mere nothing!"

  "So you say!"

  "No, but, Daav, all one need do —"

  His brother raised a hand. "Yes, yes, I saw you. Perhaps my wretched fingers will have learned their lesson, now I've seen it can be done." He looked up to Petrella, a wry grin on his face. "Fifty-two times."

  She smiled back. "I will hear that you've mastered the whole tape soon enough."

  Daav inclined his head. "Your certainty gives me courage. Aunt Petrella."

  "Now, that, neither of you lacks." She paused, her sharp blue eyes flashing from Er Thom back to Daav. "We raise Venture within the hour, nephew, and tomorrow is the appointed day of your departure. Exert yourself to comfort one who was ever acknowledged as the timid twin: Are your arrangements in order and satisfactory to yourself? Better—would your mother my sister express her satisfaction with your arrangements?"

  Daav raised his hand. "She and I discussed the scheme in detail before I had her aye. Scout Academy provided a list of pilots who might be receptive to allowing a first class provisional to gain flight time as their second—a list Mother studied with some interest before declaring that it would do."

  "So." Petrella inclined her head, and glanced again to Er Thom.

  "I wonder, my son, if you might not do the Captain the honor of ferrying Scout Candidate yos'Phelium to the planet surface tomorrow. I would expect you to stay by him until he has satisfactorily made his contacts, attend to the few small errands you will find listed on your duty screen, and return the Captain's Shuttle to the ship."

  Er Thom's breath caught.

  "I'm to pilot the Captain's Shuttle alone? Mother — "

  She tipped her head, and he thought he detected the beginning of a twinkle in her stern blue eyes.

  "Surely that is a task well within the skill of a second class pilot?"

  He smiled. "Yes, Captain. It is."

  "Good, that is settled, then." She turned. At the door, she looked over her shoulder at them. "The hour has perhaps escaped your notice, pilots. I mention—as elder kin and as a master pilot—that flight is much more enjoyable when one is awake at the board." She inclined her head—"Sleep well"—and was gone.

  * * *

  DAAV WALKED UP to the duty counter, which looked for all the worlds like any counter in any hiring hall one cared to name. Had Er Thom not read the sign as he followed Daav into this place, he would have supposed himself in an office of the Pilot's Guild, rather than the sector headquarters of the Liaden Scouts.

  The man behind the counter glanced up from his book, and registered Daav with one quick Scout glance. The glance lingered a moment on Er Thom, as if the Scout found the appearance into his hall of a halfling in Trader clothes somewhat p
uzzling.

  Daav laid his license on the counter. "One seeks Scout Rod Ern pel'Arot."

  "So?" The Scout appeared amused. "If one is so ill-advised as to seek Scout pel'Arot on Trilsday, then one must be prepared to seek him at the Spinning Wheel."

  Daav inclined his head. "I shall do so. May one inquire the direction of the Spinning Wheel?"

  The Scout's amusement was almost palpable.

  "Down on the blue median, handy to Terraport." He moved his shoulders and picked his book up.

  "I am informed," Daav said, which his brother considered nothing more nor less than prevarication, pocketed his license and turned away, Er Thom trailing a respectful two paces behind.

  Back on the walkway, Daav paused, face thoughtful. Er Thom looked up the street, down the street, but spied nothing remotely resembling either a blue median or a Terraport.

  "Singularly unhelpful, that duty clerk," he grumbled. His brother looked at him, surprise on his sharp-featured face.

  "No, do you say so?" He, too, looked up and down the busy thoroughfare. "Now, I think he told us everything we needed to know, if only we apply—ah." He moved forward, stepping off the curb, angling through traffic as if the rushing groundcars were mere figments. Er Thom gasped, then ran after, eyes on his brother's narrow, space-leathered back.

  He caught up on the far side of the street, where Daav had paused before a public display-map of Venture Port and near environs.

  "Down on the blue median," Daav murmured, "and handy to Terraport." He frowned at the flat display, then reached out and pushed the power-up button.

  The display flickered and rolled; colors flashed; flat shapes expanded into three dimensions. The bright pictographs of written Trade appeared last, putting names to this or that building or wayfare.

  Daav laughed.

  "Here we are," he said, leaning forward and laying his hand wide over a block limned in electric blue. "The blue median, or I'll eat my leathers."

  Er Thom leaned forward, squinting at the pictograph identifying a red-lined block just the north of Daav's blue. "Terran Mercantile Association," he read, and Daav laughed again.

  "Terraport." He turned his grin on Er Thom. "Now, what was so difficult about that?"

  "He might have said 'near the Terran Trade Hall,'" Er Thom pointed out, struggling to keep his lips straight and his face serious.

  "Well," said Daav, with a final, calculating stare at the map, "he might have done so. But then he would not have been a Scout." He moved his shoulders, and sent a diffident black glance to Er Thom.

  "You have errands to complete for Aunt Petrella, I know, and the blue median does look to be somewhat off your course. Shall we part here?"

  Er Thom stared, "I am charged foremost with seeing you safely to the end of your arrangements. You heard her say it." He paused, as another, unwelcome thought intruded. He bit his lip. "Unless you do not wish me with you . . ."

  Daav blinked. "What nonsense is this? Of course I want you by mel" He leaned forward, catching Er Thom's arm in a brother's warm grip. "Why else did I come all the way from Liad to see you?"

  "Ah." Er Thom glanced aside, blinking, then looked back to his brother and smiled. "Why are we arguing with each other on a public street, then? Let us locate Scout pel'Arot and get you berthed."

  "Very well." Daav glanced 'round, then pointed toward the east. "This way, I believe."

  * * *

  THE SPINNING WHEEL was found to be at the end of a short side-way off the main thoroughfare, just half-a-block from the Terran Trade Hall. The Trade pictograph on the corner street sign read "Blueway Cul-de-Sac 12." Below that, a board bearing the hand-painted Terran words "Avenue of Dreams" had been nailed to the post. Daav slipped down the slender way, Er Thom at his side.

  A thick-shouldered Terran male sat on a stool beside the door to the casino, watching them with interest. He waved his hand as they approached the door.

  "Hold it."

  As one, they checked, exchanging a glance. It was Daav who moved a step toward the doorman and inclined his head—proper, as it was Daav's errand they were come upon.

  "Yes?" he said.

  The man frowned and jerked his thumb at the casino's door. "This here's a gambling hall. No kids allowed, by order of the portmaster."

  "I understand," Daav said in his slow, careful Terran. "May one know the local definition of 'kid'?"

  "Huh." The doorkeeper showed his teeth. It was perhaps, Er Thom thought, a smile. "A 'kid' is somebody who don't hold a license or a guild-card." The teeth showed again. "So, maybe you got a pilot's license?"

  "Indeed." Daav went forward another step, reaching into his pocket. Er Thom moved, too, and put a hand on his brother's arm, halting him just outside the range of the man's Terran-long reach.

  The doorkeeper saw the gesture, and laughed—a rusty sound no more cordial than his smile. "Your buddy thinks I'm a chicken-hawk."

  "But of course you are no such thing," Daav answered calmly and held his license up for the man to see.

  The hostile humor faded from the doorkeeper's face. "First class pilot? How old are you?"

  Daav lifted an eyebrow, his face set in haughty lines that reminded Er Thom forcibly of their mother. "Is my age significant? As you see, I hold a valid license. The portmaster's word is met."

  "You got that," the man admitted after a moment, and turned a rather more respectful gaze on Er Thom.

  "OK, doll. You got a first class card, too?"

  "I do not." He showed his license, gripping it as firmly as he might with the tips of his fingers. The doorman sighed.

  "Second class. How old are you?" He held up his big hand. "It don't make no difference to whether you can go in—your friend's got that pat. Call it curiosity. I don't peg Liaden ages too good, but I'm damned if either one of you looks more'n twelve Standards."

  Er Thom slipped his card back into its pocket, glanced at Daav and looked back to the doorman.

  "I have fourteen Standard Years," he said courteously.

  "And I," said Daav. "Good day to you." He moved toward the door, Er Thom at his shoulder, and the doorman let them go.

  Inside at last, they paused, blinking at the muddle of noise, lights and people.

  The Spinning Wheel was one large, high-ceilinged room; perhaps at some former time it had been a warehouse. The games of chance were strung out across the thickly carpeted floor, each surrounded by a tangle of players in modes of dress from dock worker coveralls to full eveningwear. People were also in motion, drifting between this table and that; still more were busy with the gambling machines lining the back wall.

  In the very center of the room was a lighted golden wheel reaching nearly to the ceiling—the device that gave the casino its name. And the cluster of people around that table was equal, Er Thom thought, to the entire crew roster of the Dutiful Passage.

  Er Thom's heart sank. How were they to find one man—one man whom neither had seen before—in this crush? He glanced at his brother's face and was curiously dismayed to find that even Daav looked daunted.

  Er Thom bit his lip. "Perhaps there is a message board?" he suggested, almost certain that there was not. "Or a paging system?"

  "Perhaps . . ." Daav murmured, almost inaudible over the din. "I wonder . . ."

  "You kids looking for somebody?" The woman who asked it was Terran, tall and willowy; elegant in a red shimmersilk dress. Her hair was yellow—very nearly the same shade as Er Thom's—her eyes a piercing dark brown.

  "In fact, we are," Daav said, making his bow as visitor to host. "We were sent here to find Rod Ern pel'Arot."

  For a moment, the woman hesitated, and Er Thom was about to despair. Abruptly, her face cleared, and she snapped her fingers.

  "Is the week half-gone already?" This was apparently a rhetorical question, since she rushed on without giving either of them opportunity to answer, "The Scout, right? I didn't see him come in, but it's his day, and he hasn't missed one since I've been hostess. He'll be upstairs in the ca
rd rooms." She cocked a cogent eye.

  "You know what he looks like?"

  Daav smiled at her. "Like a Liaden?"

  The woman laughed. "Sharp, are you? Yes, like a Liaden. A brown-haired Liaden, going gray, with three fingers missing off his left hand."

  Daav bowed. "I am grateful."

  "You're welcome," she said cheerfully and pointed across the crowded, noisy room. "You'll find the lift over in the far corner, there. See where there's a break in the line of bandits?"

  "Yes," said Daav, politely, Er Thom thought, if without perfect truth.

  The woman nodded. "Have a good time—and hope the Scout's winning today." She swept off, the red dress swishing against the carpet.

  "Well," said Daav. Er Thom turned to meet his brother's amused eyes. "Still game for the adventure, darling?"

  "How could I beg off now?" Er Thom asked. "I'm all agog to meet this Scout of yours. Especially if he's winning."

  "Oh, I don't know," Daav said, moving slowly out onto the main floor. "It might prove more informative to discover him at a loss."

  Frowning, Er Thom followed.

  It was rather like wading through a particularly sticky river, crossing that room. Lights flashed beneath the surface of a table where the dice struck, drawing the eye. Horns blared, uncomfortably loud, announcing a winner at a second table, and claiming the attention of all within earshot. The giant golden wheel in the center of the room clack-clack-clacked as it revolved, lights flickering along its edge, the wager marks a bright smear reminiscent of the attenuating light one might glimpse in the second screen in the instant before one's ship entered Jump.

  Er Thom paused, captivated by the effect. Gradually, the great wheel slowed, its attendant noises spiraling downward into subdued clack, clack, clacks, the wager marks discernable as individual symbols once more. Released, Er Thom's eye fell upon the throng of bettors pressed up against the wheel's table, and caught sight of a familiar badge on the sleeve of a jacket. He followed the sleeve up and discovered the face of Mechanic First Class Bor Gen pin'Ethil, thralled with anticipation, gray eyes pinned to the progress of the wheel, which clack . . . clack. . .clack . . .CLACKed to a halt, the lights around its edges flickering like a case lot of lightning bolts.