by Sharon Lee
“Hey, Dilly,” Tommy said cheerfully from behind her. “Here’s the professor’s daughter come to see her. Got down late last night.”
“Theo Waitley,” Theo added, giving Dilly a frown for a frown. “I’ll wait, if my mother isn’t awake yet.”
But the woman’s face had undergone an astonishing transformation; her smile was as broad as the street at Theo’s back, and her eyes fairly sparkled.
She stepped back, holding the door in one hand and swinging the other wide in a gesture that apparently meant come in.
Theo felt a gentle pressure between her shoulder blades. Tommy was urging her forward.
“Morning meal’s just getting started,” Dilly said, closing the door behind Tommy and flicking the locks shut with hardly a glance. “Lady Kareen and Scout vey’Loffit, they’re having their first cup o’tea. The professor’ll be down right quick; I heard her rustling around in her room. Here, I’ll show you where.”
She started down the hall, then paused and looked over her shoulder.
“Tommy, Esil’s just putting down for the ’hands in the kitchen. You go on, and I’ll see you there quick, soon’s I get Ms. Theo settled in with the Lady.”
* * *
Lady Kareen hadn’t changed much, anyway, Theo thought, as she made her bow from the threshold of the dining room.
“Good morning, Aunt,” she said, in the mode between kin, feeling Bechimo’s touch on her thoughts. “I hope I find you well.”
“Niece,” the elder lady replied, inclining her head, “I am in the best of good health, I thank you. Please, join us at table. Kamele will be with us very soon.”
She turned to her table mate, a plump man with his grey hair in a long tail down his back.
“Her Ald, my niece, Theo Waitley, through the liaison of my brother with our colleague Kamele.”
She turned again to Theo.
“Niece, I make you known to Scout Historian Her Ald vey’Loffit.”
“Sir,” Theo bowed again—delight at making a new acquaintance; she thought so, anyway. “I am pleased to meet you.”
“Captain Waitley, it is a very great pleasure,” he answered. “Kamele speaks of you often.”
“Theo, please,” Kareen said again, “sit. Kamele will be with us directly.”
“Thank you,” she said and slipped into the chair nearest the door.
“Tea?” Kareen asked.
“Yes, please.”
Kareen poured, and Theo carefully raised the cup, breathed in the steam, and smiled.
“Joyful Sunrise,” she murmured appreciatively and sipped.
“For the morning meal, there must be elegance,” Kareen said.
“For the morning meal, there must be stimulation!” Scout vey’Loffit countered energetically, “and we are this morning given two reasons to have our wits about us!”
He fixed Theo with a sharp blue gaze.
“Captain Waitley, from whence do you come to us?”
She wasn’t quite sure of the mode, but thanks to Bechimo, the question was plain enough. She considered answering in Trade—and then decided that would not only be rude, but would call the Scout’s melant’i into question. On the other hand, holding a complete conversation in Liaden was just as likely to end in disaster.
Don’t leave me, Theo thought at Bechimo, and felt the particular warmth that she thought of as reassurance.
“We were most recently at Lefavre, sir, and before that, Minot.”
“Lefavre?” The Scout leaned forward somewhat. “Now there is an interesting port for a Korval ship! Does the master trader seek an alignment with the Carresens-Denobli Cartel?”
In fact, one of the people she’d talked to on Shan’s, the master trader’s, behalf had been Janifer Carresens-Denobli, and it had been on the topic of mutual benefit—but that had been on Tradedesk. Scout vey’Loffit had asked specifically about their business on Lefavre. Shan’s secret—or, at least, his business—was saved by a technicality.
Theo felt some measure of relief, though she wasn’t sure why—and the Scout was waiting for an answer, which she’d better give him truthfully.
“Sir, we transported a distressed pilot to the hiring hall there. A dock-and-drop only.”
Scout vey’Loffit smiled.
“Ah, a charity lift,” he murmured. “And Minot? How did you find matters there?”
Minot had been backward, corrupt, and self-serving, Theo thought. Not that she could exactly say that. Or maybe she could. She felt the words sorting themselves into her front brain.
“Well enough for a back-station seeking to build alliance with worlds that dance with interdiction,” she said calmly. “It was there that we took up the pilot in distress, whom the station found an inconvenience upon its systems.”
The Scout glanced at Kareen, who only picked up the pot and poured tea into his cup.
“Well,” he said, cup in hand. “Stations are fragile environments, of course, and resources must be closely guarded.”
“Exactly so,” Theo said, and heard an echo of Father’s dry irony in her own voice, with a mingling of pleasure and horror.
“Do you plan a long stay among us?” Kareen asked, maybe to cut off any more questions from Scout vey’Loffit, or maybe just because she wanted to know. “You had scarcely arrived for your last visit before you were away.”
“The schedule at this present is fluid. There are matters to discuss with one’s brother. Bechimo carries a crew of four, and in addition, we have two passengers who must, for the moment, impose upon the house. One would not wish to overburden Korval’s resources.”
That got her a sharp look from bright black eyes.
“Such concerns do you credit, of course, but you may put them aside. Even in current circumstances, Korval is well able to accommodate an additional six. The clanhouse is large and the stores are plentiful. Indeed, I am given to understand that a small harvest was coaxed from the house fields, despite the climate in which we find ourselves. The cellar is most at risk, but I do not think we shall see it dry within a half-dozen years.”
“In fact, the greatest poverty of Surebleak is its lack of a drinkable beverage,” said Scout vey’Loffit. “Korval might do a service to the world, Kareen, and bend its efforts to producing a potable wine.” He sipped his tea, consideringly.
“Or three,” he added, as one being just.
“Perhaps the Scouts might assist in the project,” Kareen suggested.
“The Scouts, as I’ll remind you, my lady—”
There was the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall. Theo turned in her chair as a slim woman with flyaway pale hair arrived in the doorway, paused for a moment with her hand on the jamb, her expression tentative—and then radiant.
“Theo!” she cried, taking another step into the room.
“Mother!”
Theo rose without fully intending to do so and threw herself into Kamele’s arms.
* * * * *
Val Con walked across the back field, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, collar turned up against the breeze. He ought, he thought, to have allowed Jeeves to call ahead, but he was curious—a failing common to all scouts—and wondered what Bechimo might do, now, with an unexpected visitor at the door.
The hatch was closed, lights off, Spiral Dance dark on her pod mount. In the lighter air of morning, he could see that it was a hard-used ship, kept up though perhaps not kept well. A working ship, in a time when work was scarce, and soldiers might commandeer a vessel that was maintained too well, for the war effort.
There was a score in the ground, marking the place where the end of the ramp had rested last night. He stopped there and raised his voice slightly, though he was fairly sure that Bechimo knew he was there and would hear him if he whispered.
“Hello, the ship! Scout Commander Val Con yos’Phelium, brother to your captain, asks entrance.”
There was no hesitation; likely Bechimo had already decided upon a course should this very thing occur. He had, a
fter all, been on Bechimo’s deck before and, by his standards at least, comported himself well.
When the ramp was down, he strolled leisurely up its length, through the open lock, and paused.
“Well come, Pilot yos’Phelium, brother to Captain Waitley,” Bechimo said from over his head and somewhere to the left. “Would you care for tea?”
“Tea would be very pleasant, I thank you.”
“Please follow the blue line to the galley.”
He glanced down; there was indeed a blue line glowing along the decking, and he dutifully followed it to the galley.
* * *
The tea was steaming gently in a pretty ceramic pot; a matching cup sat beside it on the serving counter.
“There are sweeteners and other additives in the cabinet to your right,” Bechimo said, voice still coming from overhead and to the left, “if you wish them.”
“Thank you, I am quite content with only tea in my cup,” Val Con said.
He carried it to the nearest table and settled onto one of three stools.
As he sipped, he surveyed the area: tidy and shipshape, which was no less than he had expected from Theo—or from Bechimo. There was a screen in the long wall, presently blank; various storage compartments and lock-downs behind the counter and along the short wall.
“The tea is well chosen,” he said, setting the cup down gently. “I thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
“I mean no disrespect to the captain or crew in their care of the ship,” he murmured, “but should you have need, Korval maintains an adequate yard at the port. It would be our very great pleasure to accommodate you.” He paused and added. “We are, of course, discreet.”
“Of course,” Bechimo said, his tone excruciatingly courteous. “I am honored by your care.”
Val Con inclined his head—and turned toward the door, as something dark moved in the corner of his eye…
A grey-and-brown striped cat sauntered down the room and pressed lightly against Val Con’s knee.
“I do not believe I have had the pleasure,” he murmured.
“This is Grakow,” Bechimo said promptly, “the third survivor of the wreck of Orbital Aid 370.”
“Grakow, I salute you. The household includes several cats, should you wish companionship.”
He bent to offer a forefinger. Grakow studied it gravely for a moment, then politely touched a slightly damp black nose to the fingertip. Courtesies observed, he moved on, ’round the counter and out of sight.
“We thought it best not to add to the confusion of our arrival, and Grakow seems content for the moment. Should he become restless, or seem to miss the pathfinders, I will contact Jeeves.”
“Excellent.”
Val Con had another sip of tea, which really was very good. Wise of Theo not to stint on rations. A well-fed crew was liable to be much more forgiving of the captain’s foibles.
“Forgive me,” said Bechimo, “if I am too forward, but I wonder about your purpose in coming to me. You might easily have asked Jeeves to convey the information regarding Korval’s Yard.”
“Indeed, I might have done. However, it has been some time since we last conversed, and, as I find myself in the position of having to solve for you in the face of what I am assured are overzealous and ambitious Scout archivists, I thought it wise to renew our acquaintance.”
“I regret this unseemly disturbing of your peace—” Bechimo began.
Val Con raised a hand. “Please, please! Put yourself at ease. I have had very little peace this last year and expect to have none for the next—and possibly the next after that. But—this judgment that I am called upon to give…in order to be as Balanced as possible in the matter, I find that I must ask you a question.”
“I will do my best to answer any questions you may have which touch upon the upcoming judgment.”
Val Con smiled.
“Promised like a Liaden,” he murmured. “Tell me, did you deliberately entrap Scout yo’Vala at the warehouse?”
There was a small pause.
“Entrap…I think not. As I had not been…collected, I was not in the records, and he had been tasked with verifying the inventory. It was therefore reasonable, and entirely in keeping with his duty, to approach and try the hatch.”
Another pause. Val Con waited.
“My…error, as I suppose it must have been, was—I opened to him. He was not on the Allowed List, but neither was he on the Disallowed List. I had been promised a captain. It had been…long…and I was lonely…”
“And here came a pilot worthy of you, intelligent and courteous, properly requesting admittance,” Val Con finished softly. “I believe I understand.”
“I very much regret that my decision has cost Scout yo’Vala…so much. And yet, his actions…my actions—our actions, taken together, have brought me together with my captain, and she with her crew. These outcomes are not…illegitimate.”
“I agree. It is not unusual that infelicitous action produces results that are felicitous in the extreme. I do not, myself, understand the mechanism involved, but I have observed the effect.”
“Precisely so! I had thought it a function of the Luck.”
“The Luck is a fickle thing, also in my observation, and while it is the tradition of my House to allow it a will and a weight, we do not suppose that it is always an agent of felicity, even in the long view.”
There was a muted thump as Grakow landed on the tabletop.
“Thank you for joining me,” Val Con said and looked toward that section of ceiling from which Bechimo’s voice seemed to issue. “I think that we must, in the end, allow the universe to embrace forces which are forever beyond us, and go on as well as we might, stipulating that no outcome, however unlooked for, is illegitimate.”
“As you say,” Bechimo answered politely and fell silent.
Val Con sipped his tea; Grakow bumped his elbow forcefully with a surprisingly hard head.
“Ah, no, my friend,” he murmured, placing the cup back on the table. “I learned long ago not to spill my tea.”
“Have you,” Bechimo said cautiously, “asked all of your questions?”
“In fact, I may have done, for the moment. However, there is another matter. I fear that I must ask for access to your records.”
“Records?”
“Indeed. At issue, as I understand the matter, is whether this vessel is Old Tech or utilizes Old Tech components. The certificate of building and the yardmaster’s final checklist would do much to clarify this point and to assist me in my deliberations. A list of those who financed the work, and their shares, would also be useful.”
Silence.
Val Con got up and went to the pot to refresh his cup. When he returned to his place, Grakow was curled on his stool, precisely as if he had been there for hours.
“Your pardon,” he murmured and took the vacant stool to the right.
He sipped his tea. Still, Bechimo did not speak.
“Scout yo’Vala assumes that these things exist,” Val Con murmured, “as you are of an orderly disposition. He also tells me that, in the depths of his extremity, when you had caused the ship key to act for his benefit—at that time, he himself believed that you were an artifact of the Old Technology. He may, I think, be forgiven, as I understand that he was quite ill at the time.
“Since recovering his health, he has revised his opinion and states that he believes you merely to be old. As it happens, my own feelings coincide with his. However, in the matter of a judgment, facts take precedence over feelings and belief.”
Ever more silence.
“On the topic of facts,” Val Con continued, “it is unfortunate that I require access to these documents quickly. Very nearly immediately, I fear, as I am informed that the other party involved in this judgment is likely to be with us today—tomorrow at latest—and in a state of mind which I shudder to contemplate.”
A small sound. It might have been a sigh.
“The informatio
n you request is under Captain’s Seal,” Bechimo stated.
“Ah. In that case, I ask that you apply to the captain for me. I believe you have that capability?”
The silence this time had a certain edge to it, as if he had startled the ship.
“I will see what may be done,” Bechimo said. “This may take some amount of time, as the captain is focused elsewhere. Please, avail yourself of our hospitality while you wait.”
“Thank you.”
There was a sense of withdrawal, which was quite clever, Val Con thought. He would have to ask Theo if she knew how it was done.
Grakow had quit his stool for the tabletop once more. He rolled over, exposing a tempting, coffee-colored belly, paws waving innocently in the air.
Val Con grinned.
“Despite appearances, I was not born yesterday. I do, however, thank you most sincerely for the opportunity to amuse you.”
He finished his tea and carried the cup to washer.
That done, he strolled to the center of the room and stood, hands in pockets, contemplating the blank screen.
Well, he thought; best to know it all.
This time he did not raise his voice, but merely said conversationally, “Comm Officer Joyita. A word, if you have the leisure.”
* * *
The screen came live as quickly as if someone had snapped a switch. Before him was a crowded comm tower, with three screens live, a desk cluttered with piles of printout, several styli, two tea mugs, and what appeared to be a portable comm unit.
This, Val Con saw in his first glance.
His second glance, more comprehensive by far, took in a lean, hard-used face, the slightly crooked nose with the old scar spanning the bridge. Dark eyes, harder even than the face, met his.
Perhaps peculiarly for a comm officer, he wore a pilot’s jacket, in a style and color which had gone out of fashion some years prior to the birth of Val Con’s grandmother. He wore rings—four on one hand, plain bands of brown metal with a silvery sheen.
“Sir? May I help you?”
The voice had depth and warmth. One wished to trust that voice. The accent was Terran, though Val Con could not place it more specifically. Given the jacket, that was perhaps not unexpected.
