by Sharon Lee
DUE DILIGENCE
Adventures in the Liaden Universe® Number 24
Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
COPYRIGHT PAGE
DUE DILIGENCE
Adventures in the Liaden Universe® Number 24
© Sharon Lee and Steve Miller 2017
Pinbeam Books
www.pinbeambooks.com
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events
portrayed in this novel are fiction or are used fictitiously
Copyright © 2017 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author. Please remember that distributing an author's work without permission or payment is theft; and that the authors whose works sell best are those most likely to let us publish more of their works.
"Due Diligence" is original to this chapbook
Cover created by Sharon Lee
ISBN: 978-0-9966346-5-6
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Due Diligence | I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VII
VIII
EPILOG
PINBEAM BOOKS
About This Book
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
NOVELS BY SHARON LEE AND STEVE MILLER
THANK YOU
Due Diligence
I
"For attachment to a criminal endeavor designed to disrupt the operations of this port, evidenced by signed papers recovered, Fer Gun pen'Uldra is fined two cantra, to be assessed from future earnings. Should there be no such earnings within one Standard Year, the amount will be deducted from Fer Gun pen'Uldra's accrued Guild dues, and his name shall be struck from the rolls."
That was steep, that was, Fer Gun thought, his belly tight and his breath coming short and shallow. Two cantra? Still, he was a Jump pilot–a damned good Jump pilot, as he needn't say himself, since the record supported him–he might be able to find a berth–
"In addition," Solcintra Pilots Guild Master continued, "Fer Gun pen'Uldra's license to pilot is suspended for one Standard year. After such time, he shall be eligible for reinstatement when a pilot in good standing testifies on behalf of Fer Gun pen'Uldra before the Guild, and guarantees his good behavior as a pilot for the following Standard Year."
It was as if a fist had slammed into his belly. For a moment, he couldn't see; couldn't breathe. They were taking his license! He was–a two cantra fine, and his license suspended? How–
"Fer Gun pen'Uldra," said the Guild Master. "Do you have anything further to say?"
Say? What could he say? That it hadn't been his signature on the damned paper? Of course, it had been his signature. That he hadn't any notion what his cousin Jai Kob had in mind to do on–or to–Solcintra Port? That he was a pilot, that was all and everything he'd ever wanted to be. His cousins did their business; his business was to fly them where business called.
He managed a breath.
"No, sir." His voice was firm, if subdued. "Nothing further to say."
The Guild Master looked to the Port Proctor standing at the corner of the table. The Proctor stepped to Fer Gun's side, her face impassive.
"Fer Gun pen'Uldra, relinquish your license to the Pilots Guild. When the terms are met, it will be returned to you."
There was black at the edges of his vision. His license. Turn over his license to this blank-faced flunky? He would die before he did anything so daft! For a moment, indeed, he thought he would turn over his fist and make a run–
But that was no good, he told himself. The Guild would blacklist the license, then, and he'd be in worse case than he stood right now.
So.
"It's in the jacket," he told the Proctor and his voice was nowhere near steady, now. "Inside right breast pocket."
"Understood," she answered, and watched while he slid his hand inside his jacket, and fingered the card–his license to fly–out of the hidden pocket, and offered it to her between two fingers.
She received it without comment, and returned to her place at the corner of the table.
The Guild Master inclined his head.
"Fer Gun pen'Uldra, you may go."
#
Well, and he'd gone–of course he had. An overnight in the holding cell had been plenty enough for him. It might fairly be said that having no place to go was a superior situation.
Out on the Port, he paused to get his bearings, acutely aware of the absence of his flight card. Not that it had weighed so much, but knowing it was gone created an imbalance in the fit of his jacket.
He took a breath, then another, ignoring the rumbling in his stomach. They hadn't fed him in the holding cell. They might have done, if he had asked, but it hadn't occurred to him to ask them for anything.
What he wanted now was Lady Graz, though Jai Kob's welcome for a wingless pilot was not likely to be warm. His value had been in his license. Remove that single value and he was only the dim-witted singleton, dependent on Telrune's charity. It was entirely possible that his cousins would leave him here, once they found his situation.
Fer Gun squared his shoulders.
Well, then. They need not know his situation. It was his business, wasn't it? Oh, he would definitely cite the two-cantra fine at Jai Kob, so he would! But the loss of his ticket. . .
It came to him that his skill had not been taken from him. He was still a pilot, and a damned good one, wherever his license reposed. Granted, he could not record his flight-time, and he would therefore not advance in the Guild.
But, he could still pilot a spaceship.
Jai Kob need not know that Fer Gun had lost his license.
He had his bearings, now, and turned east, toward the edge-yard where they'd brought the Lady down, and locked her. His stomach complained as he moved into a quick walk. He ignored it.
#
"Oh," said the dockman wisely, when Fer Gun arrived at the office, to find the board listing only three ships. "You've come about the quick-hire, have you? You're only a half-day too late. They meant quick, they did, and they weren't particular, either. Took the first good card that walked in the door."
Fer Gun stared at him.
"Lady Graz," he said slowly, to be certain he understood; "she's lifted?"
"That's right," the dockman said. "Regular pilot walked out soon as they hit port. Found a better opportunity, I'll wager. That knife cuts both ways, though, on Solcintra. The owners didn't have any trouble at all, hiring new."
"Thank you," Fer Gun said, feeling the absence of his license like a blade through his heart. He took a breath.
"Is there somewhere nearby where I might. . .buy a beer?"
#
Teetering on the edge of the Low Port, the bar was called Wingman's Folly, and the beer was cheap for a reason. The few coins in his pocket might even, Fer Gun thought, stretch to a bowl of soup, though if the food were equal to the quality of the beer. . .
Wingless and broke, near enough; and Jai Kob had set it up; had deliberately schemed to remove the idiot cousin.
And that, Fer Gun told himself, taking a cautious sip of his so-called beer, was what came of asking questions. They had not been deep questions; they had not been questions inappropriate to a pilot, though they had touched–lightly!–on the business Jai Kob conducted, with Cousin Vin Dyr's able assistance.
Two questions, and he had rendered himself a liability, abandoned to the mercies of the Port Proctors and the Guild, without money, without kin, without contacts, his only means of making a living resid
ing by now in a safe at Guild Headquarters. . .
Jai Kob might not have known that they would take his license, Fer Gun told himself. And, in truth, Jai Kob's knowledge of the universe was not in his queue of immediate worries. Those included finding some sort of food, a bed, and work.
Work ought to be possible, he told himself, nursing his beer. He was strong; he had a good head for numbers. He could take orders–gods, couldn't he just! In any wise, he could work, and he would work. The important thing was not to slip over the line from Mid-Port to Low. He was accounted good in a fight, but he had no illusions regarding the odds of near-term survival on Low Port for a single, partnerless pilot, wearing spaceleather and a good pair of boots.
The thing then was to go right when he left the Wingman–up to Mid-Port, Low Port at his back. He'd ask at the docks and the warehouses, first. Long-term would be good, but day-labor would do. The first priorities were to feed himself, and find that bed. . .
"More beer, Pilot?"
The barkeep was young and pretty, and it passed through Fer Gun's mind that he might, if he were clever, flirt his way into a bed for a night–or even several.
The idea hung there for a moment, before he rejected it. What could a lad–even a pretty lad who doubtless commanded pretty tips?–earn in such a place, situated as it was? Enough to feed and shelter himself, and a hungry pilot, too?
"No more beer, I thank you," he said, putting more of his coins than he ought on the bar.
"Come again, pilot," the 'keeper said, and swept away to tend the other custom
Fer Gun off his stool, and headed for the door, standing back as it swung open, then stepping forward.
"Going so soon?" A woman's voice very nearly in his ear. "I thought you might share a glass with me."
The mode was Comrade, the voice unfamiliar. As was the face, when he turned to look at her.
The first thing he noticed was her height–taller than he was, which wasn't usual. She wore a Jump pilot's jacket, scarred and soft with wear. Her hair was blonde, pulled back into a knot at her nape; her face sharp; her eyes blue. Not a beauty, though she could pass. There was something about her drew and held the eye. She was also, he saw on third look, older than he was. Considerably so.
"Pilot," he said, giving her Comrade, because were not all pilots comrades? "Pilot, I do not know you."
"And I do not know you!" she said with a broad grin. "That is why we ought to drink a glass together, and perhaps share a small meal. They put together a very edible cheese plate here, for which I vouch."
He hesitated, which was pure madness. If the blonde pilot had a fancy for a younger bedmate, then she was the answer to tonight's problem, at least.
And if she were a thief, or part of a wolf pack, she would, he thought with a certain amount of irony, shortly be very disappointed in him.
So.
"Thank you," he said, inclining his head.
"Excellent–here!" She guided him to a table well-back from the door, and Fer Gun marked how those at the bar kept their backs to the room, while those at table did not look up. "Sit–sit!" said his new comrade. "I will order."
She threw a hand in the air. The pretty 'tender looked up as if he had heard the gesture, ducked out from behind the bar, and walking briskly toward their table.
"Service, Pilot?" he asked.
She smiled at him, and bespoke a bottle, two glasses and a "nuncheon plate," to share between comrades.
The boy bowed, and left them, whereupon the blonde pilot flowed bonelessly into the chair across from him and folded her hands on the tabletop.
"My name is Chi," she said, with an informality that might yet equally come from a pilot shopping a bedmate, or a wolf casing a mark.
"My name is Fer Gun," he answered, matching her tone.
"In fact your name is Fer Gun pen'Uldra," she said calmly. "I have a proposition to put before you."
"No!" he snapped, shoving the chair back–and freezing on the way to his feet, staring down at her hand on his wrist.
"Will you not even hear it?" she asked.
Her grip was firm, but not painful. It was, in fact, very nearly a comrade's touch. He raised his eyes to meet hers, finding a sort of amused kindness in her face.
"I will not go grey–or dark," he growled.
"All honor to you," she said lightly. "My proposal is nothing to tarnish your melant'i."
She paused, brows contracting somewhat.
"There are those who might argue the point, but I think they need not concern us."
"Let me go," he said, though he could have easily broken her grip.
She did so on the instant, and inclined her head.
"Forgive me."
He took a breath, thinking he would rise and leave her, after all–but here came the 'tender, bearing a full tray. The plate came down between them; the bottle went to the fair-haired pilot, and the glasses, too.
Fer Gun's stomach loudly reminded him of the recent abuses visited upon it–and was it not balance, to eat the pilot's food and drink her wine, while he listened to her proposal?
"Thank you," she said to 'tender, and poured the wine, offering Fer Gun the first glass.
He waited until she had poured her own, inclined his head and sipped, finding the wine far superior to the beer. Apparently, Pilot Chi had deep pockets, which would account for her thinking she might order all to her liking.
"Eat," she said, and reached to the plate herself.
He did the same, and at his stomach's prompting twice more before he recalled that he was in company, and folded his arms on the tabletop.
"In its simplest form," Pilot Chi murmured, "my proposition is this: I require a child."
Fer Gun did not choke, but it was a near thing. He studied his comrade's arresting face, and found no hint of mockery, or madness, only a clear-eyed earnestness.
"Why not go to Festival?" he asked.
"A reasonable question. I seek to avoid notoriety. . ."
She paused, and again there was that quizzical, and slightly self-mocking expression.
"Additional notoriety. And, sadly, Festival-get will not answer my purpose, though it would seem, as you say, the simplest solution. The child must arrive properly by contract, above reproach and unexceptional in the eyes of the world. Also, I fear that I require a pilot to stand father, and I see from your records that you are a very fine pilot, indeed."
He blinked.
"My records? How did you see my records?"
"Ah. I have access to the Guild files."
He took a breath.
"That must be expensive," he said, trying to match her tone of calm nonchalance.
"Not at all."
She plucked a tidbit from the tray, and popped it into her mouth.
Fer Gun took a breath.
"If you've seen my records, you have seen that I am convicted of crimes against the port, and have had my wings clipped for it. I may fly again when I produce two cantra to pay my fine, and also a witness to my reformed character."
"Yes. Your cousins are very clever, are they not?"
He considered her.
"If you're looking for brains in addition to reactions, you'll want to shop elsewhere."
"No, I do not allow you to be stupid, merely naive. Naivety may be mended."
A sip of wine, and a glint of blue eyes. Fer Gun ate another bit of cheese, and a round of bread, washed down with a careful sip of wine.
Putting his glass aside, he leaned toward Pilot Chi.
"Clan Telrune is outworld, and Low House. We're scoundrels, in a word, and, so I learn, there is not even honor among kinsmen."
"If it comes to that, my own clan not infrequently throws out rogues. We do better by our kin than Telrune would seem to do, but, then, we are much poorer in cousins. I do not wish to rush you, pilot, but may I know if you find my proposal of any interest?"
He sipped his wine, considering.
In well-ordered clans, as even he knew, he would at this juncture pla
ce the matter in the hands of his delm. As Telrune was nothing like well-ordered, and there being no gain to the clan in breeding him, the last pen'Uldra, he supposed he might make his own decision in the case. After all, the proposed child would remain with Pilot Chi, and burden Telrune not at all. Unlike himself, who was, as Aunt Jezmin often said, nothing more than another mouth to feed, useless as all his Line had been, and luck he'd been born able to least to think with his fingers, since his brain was only a hindrance to him.
There might, perhaps, be something in the business for Telrune, should Pilot Chi prove to be of a clan useful to the delm's on-going schemes. But the truth was that Telrune's focus was scheming. He had never, in Fer Gun's memory, negotiated a contract for alliance–or for any other thing. Mostly, his kin allied as suited themselves; babies were born, and came into the House haphazard, though Telrune did, often, remember to record their names.
In the case of the proposal before him. . .he found himself largely neutral. The issue would be no concern of his. And if it came to the pilot herself, his proposed contract-wife, she looked likely to give good sport in bed. There was that tendency to order all to her own satisfaction, but he was accustomed to have someone else do his thinking for him, now wasn't he?
And among orderly Houses, he thought, his wine glass arrested on its way to his lips, as he suddenly recalled a custom he had never truly learned. . . In proper Clans, contract-spouses were given a payout, once the conditions of the contract were met. It might be that Pilot Chi represented the manner in which he might pay his fine. Also, it would fall to Pilot Chi's clan to feed him, and clothe him, and shelter him during the term of the contract. In that free year, then, he might order his affairs, make contacts, find work. . .
"I am prepared," Pilot Chi said quietly, "to be generous."
He stared at her.
"To Telrune?"
That drew a smile.
"To yourself, though of course Telrune must be accommodated in such a way that the contract does not reflect badly upon the child."
"That's an extra-size lot of respectability you're wanting," he pointed out. "I did say we're scoundrels."
"You did. But I've no objection to scoundrels, being one myself. What I must have is the seeming of propriety. We will do the thing properly, for the sake of the child, who must be able to deal from a solid foundation."
