Liaden Unibus 01

by Sharon Lee

  At last the thing was done. He set the suture gun aside and sat back on his heels. Suzan Fillips took her hands slowly from the downed pilot's shoulders and looked up.

  "Tell me about this 'bad leg'," Shan said. "Had he been injured before today?"

  "He was in a crash not too long ago and the leg never healed right," Suzan said, meeting the eyes straitly. "You know about the crash—you're the Master Pilot. I remember your name from the report."

  "Do you?" He look at her with renewed interest. "Where did you get the report, I wonder?"

  She snorted. "I'm a registered pilot on this port. I used my card and pulled the file. Even Terrans hear rumors—and we'd heard one about a crackerjack pilot who'd been drummed outta the local Guild for not having the good taste to die in a crash. I read the reports—yours and the one they liked better. Tried to get the sim, too, but the Guild won't lend it."

  The slanted white brows pulled together. "Won't lend it? Yet you are, as you point out, a pilot on this port."

  "Jabun." The voice was faint and none too steady. Both Shan and Suzan jumped before staring down at the wounded pilot. His eyes were open, a dilated and glittering black, the brown hair stuck to his forehead in wet, straggling locks.

  "Jabun," he repeated, the Liaden words running rapidly and not altogether in mode. "Not enough that they had me cast out. I must die the true death, if he must hire a wolf pack to the task. Dishonor. Danger! They must not find—" He struggled, trying to get his good arm around.

  Shan put his hands firmly on the boy's shoulders. "Pilot. Be at ease."

  The unseeing black eyes met his. "When will they have done?" he demanded. "When will they—"

  Shan pushed, exerting force as well as force of will. "Lie down," he said firmly, in a mode perilously close to that he would use with a feverish child. "You are wounded and will do yourself further injury."

  "Wound—" Sense flickered. "Gods." He twisted, weakly; Shan held him flat with no trouble.

  "Suzan!"

  She snapped forward, touching his unwounded shoulder. "Here, Pilot. I'm OK, see?"

  Apparently, he did. The tension left him and he lay back, understanding in his eyes now. Shan frowned.

  "You accuse Clan Jabun seriously," he said, in the Liaden mode of Comrade, and thinking of his own discoveries of the evening before. "Have you proof?"

  "The pack leader . . ."

  He glanced at Suzan, who jerked her head to the left, where two Port Proctors were talking to sullen man in a scarred leather jacket.

  "All right," he said, in Terran, for Suzan Fillips' benefit. "I will speak to the pack leader. Pilot dea'Judan, you will remain here quietly with your co-pilot."

  The glittering eyes stabbed his. "Yes."

  One of the Proctors looked up as he approached and came forward to intercept him. "Master Trader?" he inquired courteously.

  Shan considered him. "One hears," he said, delicately, "that yon brigand was hired by a House to deal death to a dead man."

  The Proctor sighed. "It produces the name of Jabun—but this is not unusual you know, sir. They grasp at anything they hope will win them free of the present difficulty."

  "Just so," Shan murmured, and drifted back toward Suzan Fillips and Ren Zel dea'Judan.

  "I believe you," he said to the wounded pilot's hot eyes, and looked thoughtfully at the Terran.

  From the entrance came the sounds of some slight agitation among the guards, who parted to admit a pilot of middle years, his pale hair going to gray, his leather gleaming as if new-made.

  "It's him!" shouted the man who had been the wolf pack leader, and was silenced by his guards.

  A Proctor moved forward, holding his hands up to halt the newcomer.

  "Sir, this is the scene of a death by misadventure; I must ask you to leave unless you—"

  "Ah, is it a death?" The man's face displayed such joy that Shan swallowed, revolted. "I must see for myself!"

  The Proctor moved his hand as if to deny, but another signed assent and the three of them strode across the room to the covered form.

  "Your Lordship is to understand that this is . . . unpleasant," the first Proctor said. "The nose has been forcibly crushed into the brain by a blow . . ."

  "That is of no matter," the newcomer snapped, "show me!"

  The Proctors exchanged glances, then bent and lifted the covering back. Shan rose to his feet, eyes on His Lordship's proud, eager face, glowing with an anticipation so—

  "What nonsense is this?" the man shouted. "This is not he!"

  "I am here . . . Suzan, help me stand. Jabun, I am here!"

  The voice was barely a croak, nearly inaudible. The bloodied figure gained his feet, more than half-supported by his grim-faced co-pilot.

  "The dead man you want . . . the dead man you want is here!" Ren Zel gritted out, and Shan stepped back, giving Jabun clear sight of his victim.

  "You!" Jabun flung forward one step, hatred plain in his comely face, then froze, as if he had abruptly understood what he had done.

  "Speaking to a dead man?" Ren Zel rasped. "Out of Code, Jabun." He drew a sobbing breath. "Look on me—dead by your malice. One death was not enough, one Balance insufficient . . ." He swayed and Shan moved to offer his support as well. Ren Zel gasped.

  "You, who deal in life and death—you will be the death of all you are pledged to hold!"

  A gasp ran through the room, and Shan felt a tingle in the close air of the poolroom, as if a thunderstorm were charging.

  Jabun stood as if struck; and Shan heard a med tech mutter, "Dramliza, you fool! Will you play Balance games against a wizard?"

  Ren Zel straightened, informed by an energy that had nothing to do with physical strength.

  "Jabun, you are the last delm of your House. The best of your line shall lifemate a Terran to escape your doom. The rest of your kin will flee; they will deny their name and their blood, and ally themselves with warehousemen and fisherfolk for the safety such alliances buy!

  "Hear me, Jabun! In my blood is told your tale—witness all, all of you see him! See him as he is!"

  "Pilot—" began Suzan, but Shan doubted Ren Zel heard her worried murmur, lost as he was in the dubious ecstacy of a full Foretelling.

  "It is Jabun the pod-pirate," he cried, and Shan felt the hairs raise on his arms, recalling his own researches. "Jabun the thief! Jabun the murderer! Beware of his House and his money!"

  The poolroom was so completely quiet that Shan heard his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears.

  Jabun was the first to recover, to look around at the faces that would not—quite—return his regard.

  "Come, what shall you? This—this is a judged and Balanced murderer, dead to Code, clan and kin. It is raving, the shame of its station has no doubt broken its wits. We have no duty here. It is beneath our melant'i to notice such a one."

  "Then why," came the voice of man Suzan had identified as the wolf pack leader, "did you give us a cantra piece to beat him to death?"

  Jabun turned and stared at his questioner, moved his shoulders under the bright leather. "Proctors, silence that person."

  "Perhaps," murmured one of the two who had shown him the dead brigand. "I fear I must ask you to remain here with us, Your Lordship. We have some questions that you might illuminate for us."

  "I?" Jabun licked his lips. "I think not."

  "We have authority here, sir," the second Proctor said, and stepped forward, beckoning. "This way, if you will, Your Lordship."

  "Of your kindness, pilots," Ren Zel dea'Judan said, his Liaden slurring and out of mode, "I would sit . . ."

  Shan and Suzan got him into a chair, where he sagged for a moment before reaching out none-too-steadily to touch his co-pilot's sleeve

  "Tell Christopher," he managed, and his Terran was blurred almost out of sense. "I—apologize. The hall—his pilots—I did not know. It is not done . . ."

  Suzan patted his knee. "It's OK, pilot. You leave Chris to me."

  Shan nodded, reached into h
is sleeve and pulled out a card. He held it out to Suzan Fillips, who blinked and shook her head.

  Patiently, he held the card extended, and looked seriously into her eyes.

  "Should you find yourself at risk over this incident," he said, "use the beam code on the card."

  She licked her lips. "I—"

  "Take. It." The wounded pilot's voice was barely audible, but the note of command was strong. The woman's hand rose. She slipped the card out of Shan's fingers and slid it immediately into her license pocket.

  "Good," said Ren Zel, and Shan saw now only a wounded pilot, with no trace of the power of Foretelling, nor voice of command . . .

  There was a clatter at the door. Shan looked around and spied Vilt and Rusty of his own crew, raised a hand, and then glanced down at Ren Zel dea'Judan.

  "Pilot, I offer you contract: A Standard year's service on the Dutiful Passage, after which we will renegotiate or, if you wish, you will be set down on the world of your choice."

  Ren Zel swallowed, and looked up to meet his gaze firmly. "You are Liaden," he managed. "I am dead."

  "No," Shan said, in earnest Terran. "You really must allow my skill to be better than that."

  Almost, it seemed that the wounded boy smiled. The lids drooped over the fevered eyes.

  "I accept," he murmured. "One Standard year."