by Sharon Lee
"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 half-way 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 hand 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.
*
* *
"MASTER PILOT, I regret," Casiaport Guildmaster was all but stuttering in distress. "Notification should have been sent. I swear to you that I will learn why it was not. However, the fact remains that no hearing has been scheduled. The case was adjudicated by three first class pilots, fault has been fixed and the matter is closed."
Shan lifted his eyebrows, feeling the woman's guilt like sandpaper against his skin, and she rushed on, babbling.
"Guild rule is plain, as the Master Pilot surely knows. Three first class pilots may judge, in the absence of a Master—and may overturn, in the case of a disputed judgement."
"Guild rule is plain," Shan agreed, in the mode of Master to Junior, which was higher than he usually spoke with another pilot. "Though it is considered good form to allow the Master Pilot in question to know that his judgement has been disputed."
"Since I am here in any wise," he continued, "I will see the file."
The Guildmaster gasped; covered the lapse with a bow.
"At once, Master Pilot. If you will step down to the private parlor, the file will be brought."
Shan inclined his head. "Bring also Pilot dea'Judan, if he is on-Port."
"Pilot dea'Judan?" the Guildmaster repeated, blankly.
"Pilot Ren Zel dea'Judan Clan Obrelt," Shan explained, wondering how such a one had risen to the rank of Guildmaster of even so backward a port as Casia. "Surely you recall the name?"
"I—Indeed I do." She drew a deep breath and seemed to recruit her resources, bowing with solemn precision. "I regret. Ren Zel dea'Judan Clan Obrelt is dead."
Shan stared. "And yet I ran the license number through the port's own database just before departing my ship and found it listed as valid and active."
The Guildmaster said nothing.
"I see," Shan said, after several silent moments had elapsed. "I will review the case file now, Guildmaster." He turned and walked down the hall to the private parlor.
The file, brought moments later by a pale-faced duty clerk, was thin enough, and Shan was speedily master of its contents. True enough, his judgement had been set aside in favor of the cooler findings of three first class pilots, all of whom flew out of Casiaport Guildhall. Shan sighed, shaking his head as his Terran mother had sometimes shaken hers, expressing not negation so much as ironic disbelief.
There was a computer on the desk. He used his Master Pilot's card to sign onto the news net and spent a few minutes tracking down the proper archives, then shook his head again.
The legal notices told the story plainly: Obrelt had been cruelly Balanced into banishing their only pilot and naming him dead. None that kept strict Code would deal with a man who had no Clan to stand behind his debt and honor . . .
It was the description of the circumstances surrounding death, fully witnessed by the Eyes of Council, that sent him once again into the public ways of Casiaport and finally to the Gromit Company's shabby Mid Port office.
There, the luck was slightly out, for Pilot dea'Judan was flying. The man behind the counter, one Christopher Iritaki, had suggested he return early next morning and had promised to let the pilot know that an appointment had been set in his name.
Shan presented himself at Gromit Company slightly in advance of the appointed hour, to find Mr. Iritaki's second on duty.
"I'm sure they'll be back any minute, sir," Ms. Atwood said, sending a faintly worried look at the clock. "They just went a couple streets over for a bite and a cup of coffee. Ren Zel's solid. He wouldn't miss an appointment for anything short of catastrophe."
"I'm sure you're right," Shan said soothingly. He smiled at the roster boss and had the satisfaction of seeing the worry fade from her face.
"I could fancy some coffee myself," he confided. "Do you happen to know which shop the pilots favor? Perhaps I won't be too late to share a cup with them."
It happened that Atwood did know which shop, which was a favorite among the company's pilots. "Only place on Casia you can get real coffee," she said, and Shan would have sworn there were tears in her eyes.
A few moments later, possessed of directions to this mecca, and having extracted Ms. Atwood's promise to hold Pilot dea'Judan, should he arrive back at the Hall in the meantime, Shan sauntered out into the sharp air and rumble of early morning Casiaport.
Though there was nothing in his face or his gait to betray it, Shan was in a fever to shake the dust of Casia from his feet. His evening had been spent delving deeper than was perhaps good for his peace of mind into the affairs of Casiaport Guildhall and a certain Clan Jabun. The information he uncovered was disturbing enough that he found he had no choice, as a Master Pilot who owed duty to the Guild, but to call Jabun before a full board of inquiry.
However, he thought, stretching his long legs and turning into the street where he would find the "best damn coffee on Casia," that job of form-filing would certainly wait until he had Ren Zel dea'Judan safely in hand.
The coffeeshop hove into view on his left, precisely as promised. Shan checked his long stride, but did not approach the door, which was crowded around with people, all staring up-street, where a commotion was in progress.
Shan felt the hairs shiver on the nape of his neck. What was it that the Ms. Atwood had said? That nothing would keep Ren Zel from an appointment except calamity?
The scene up-street had every trapping of calamity, including the white trucks and flashing blue lights of Casiaport Rescue, clustered in such abundance that the Port Proctor's sun-yellow scooters were scarcely noticeable.
Shan stretched his legs again, moving quickly toward the hub-bub.
He had no trouble walking through the cordon thrown up by the Proctors—he was never stopped by guards if he did not wish to be—and into what the sign by the door dignified as "Wilt's Poolroom and Tavern."
Inside—well.
All about were knots of med techs, attending the wounded. Elsewhere, Proctors questioned several unmistakable grounders who were for some reason wearing pilots' leathers. Toward the back of the room, a figure was shrouded in a white plastic sheet. Not far distant lay another figure, blood a black pool on the floor. Shan touched a stud on his belt, alerting every Dutiful Passage crewmember on Port that there was a comrade down and in danger. Help was on the way. Now . . .
Directly before him, a Terran woman was shouting at a med tech.
"Hey!" she yelled in Trade, grabbing the tech's arm. "There's somebody over there who needs you."
The tech turned, glanced along the line of the Terran's finger, then slid his arm free, sighing slightly.
"I am not allowed to tend that one."
"What?" the Terran gaped. "You just patched up four of the worst desperadoes I've seen on this Port in a long time and you ain't allowed to tend a pilot who was wounded while protecting his co-pilot?"
"He is Clanless," the tech said, with a note of finality in his soft, Liaden voice.
"He'll be lifeless if you people don't do something for him soon!"
The tech turned his back.
The Terran pilot raised her hand, and Shan swung forward, catching her lightly 'round the wrist.
"Precisely how will being arrested for assault help your pilot?" he inquired in Terran.
The woman spun, pulling her wrist free. She stared at him; took a deep breath.
"He's gonna die."
Shan glanced at the still figure in its pool of black blood, noting the ragged breath, and the sweat on the pale, unconscious face. He looked back to the Terran pilot.
"Perhaps not. Just a moment." He stepped forward, claiming the med tech's attention with a genteel cough and bowed when the man turned.
"Good-day. I am Shan yos'Galan Clan Korval, Captain of Dutiful Passage."
Recognition moved in the tech's eyes. "Captain yos'Galan, I am honored." He bowed, deeply.
Shan inclined of the head, then pointed across the room to the downed pilot.
"That person is one of my crewmen, med tech. His contract started today. I understand that you may not tend h
im, but my melant'i is clear. I require the use of your kit."
Relief flickered across the tech's face; he held the kit out with alacrity. "Certainly, sir. Please return it when you are through."
"I will," Shan inclined his head once again and turned, gathering the Terran pilot with a glance and lifted eyebrow.
"What'd you say?" she asked, following him to where her pilot lay, alone in the midst of all the official bustle.
"That I required the use of his kit in order to perform first aid on my crewman." Shan knelt down, heedless of the blood, and began to remove the towels she had used to try to staunch the blood.
"He ain't your crew," she protested.
"Ah, but he is a pilot, and I am partial to pilots. Besides, he might well have been mine, if he'd managed to stay out of trouble long enough to . . ." His breath caught. The wound was bad—deep and ragged. Immediately, reflexively, he ran a quick mental sequence to relax and focus himself.
"Knife," the Terran said, succinctly. "He took it for me. At least," she amended, as Shan opened the med kit and poked among the various tools of the tech's trade, "the first strike was meant for me. Got between me and the blade—I coulda handled it, but he's so damned fast. He'd've been OK, except the bum leg went out on him and the hood was on him like a terrier on a rat . . ."
Shan had found what he was looking for—a suture gun. "Unpleasant, but effective," he commented,fingering the settings. "At least he's unconscious. We'll just do a quick patch, I think—something to hold him together until we can get him up to the Passage."
The Terran blinked. "You're the guy the pilot was supposed to meet at the hall this morning."
He met her eyes. "In fact, I am—and I am remiss. My name is Shan yos'Galan Clan Korval."
She sucked air, eyes going wide. "Tree and Dragon," she said, possibly to herself, then inclined her head, roughly, but with good intent. "I'm Suzan Fillips."
Shan nodded. "Suzan Fillips, your pilot needs you. Please hold him while I do the patch."
She did and Shan bent to the unpleasant task, sending up indiscriminate petitions to all the gods of mercy, that the boy beneath his hand remain unconscious.
