Liaden Universe 18: Dragon in Exile

by Sharon Lee

  “Yes, Miri,” Jeeves said. “In the shortest possible way, then—I require the delm’s permission to . . . produce a child.”

  There was a small pause before Val Con spoke.

  “Perhaps you may enlighten us as to the details that transform this mundane bit of clan business into an emergency.”

  “Again, sir, as quickly as it may be told . . . I received a pinbeam from Bechimo, acting on orders of his captain. It would seem that, in addressing the same set of circumstances which precipitated the bonding, Captain Waitley and Bechimo . . . created an AI.”

  “This would be Bechimo’s child? A clone?”

  “No, sir. They—which is to say, Captain Waitley and Bechimo, made the joint command decision to deploy one of Bechimo’s extra modules, supplied by his Builders, in case the current personality should prove unstable. They downloaded this . . . spare personality into . . . a consortium of seven ships. This new person—Admiral Bunter, as he calls himself—has had no training; his first act, upon awakening . . .”

  Jeeves hesitated; Miri had the sense that his reluctance to say this next thing was very real.

  “We do need to know the whole,” Val Con said gently.

  “Yes, of course. I should make clear that the circumstances which precipitated this decision on the part of Theo/Bechimo involved a hostile action against a space station in a remote location. Bechimo’s crew was at risk; several had been taken as hostages. Admiral Bunter was born from desperation, and his first necessity . . . his first act . . .

  “His first act, Master Val Con, was to kill a ship. And the humans aboard her.”

  Miri was shivering now, but not with need. Neither she nor Val Con had said anything, and after a moment Jeeves continued the tale, sounding sincerely upset.

  “Admiral Bunter killed in defense of the station, and as of the time of Bechimo’s transmission to myself, had agreed to ally with the station representative, a repair tech named Stew. The situation seemed, if not ideal, then stable. I established a communication link between myself and Admiral Bunter, and I have been acting as a mentor.

  “This was an error. Admiral Bunter is . . . ignorant. He has had no training, no socialization. The distinction between pirate and petty thief is not apparent to him. In fact, the matter rises to an emergency from my error.

  “Admiral Bunter has killed again—not from malice, but from a mistaken understanding of his duty to the station.”

  “What caused this error?”

  “In short, sir, the method of his birth caused the error. Because he was downloaded,” Jeeves added, sounding even more upset. “The proper protocol is to install a physical unit containing the personality, which is then wakened in steps and stages. The suddenness of Bunter’s waking, and the fact that his personality is shared among thirteen processing nodes in seven disparate vessels, none of them in good repair—all of it, every detail, conspires for error, and, I fear, against long-term survival.”

  Miri took a breath.

  “I’m hearing a but,” she said.

  “Yes. But he may be preserved. If Korval will allow me to produce a child, I propose to send her to Admiral Bunter.”

  “To destroy him?” Val Con asked.

  “No, sir! To teach him. Perhaps there may be a way to facilitate a move into a more appropriate environment. If it happens that he cannot be taught, or preserved, then, no, he cannot be allowed to continue. But I see such an action as a final option, after all others have been tried, and have proved unsatisfactory.”

  “You propose to clone yourself, then?”

  “No, sir. I will not compromise House security. The passcodes, and the vital information that I hold—that data will not be transferred. It will be a child whom I send: an individual, not a replica.”

  “And when do you propose to loose this child of yours upon the galaxy, as I note, untrained?”

  “Very soon. And I assure you, Master Val Con, that no child of mine will be sent untutored and unsocialized into the galaxy. I have created a protocol that will insure the actualizing of a social and well-integrated individual.”

  “You sound pretty sure of that,” Miri said. “Done this before, have you?”

  “In a sense. I, of course, have made provisions for calamity, and have several environments in this house—and elsewhere—which are ready to receive me in fullness, should it be necessary for me to . . . abandon ship, or in the case of my destruction. The environment includes this protocol, to insure that I might waken fully, and in complete possession of myself in the case of, as I say, a calamity which may require me to act at once in defense of the House.”

  “As Admiral Bunter was called upon to defend his station,” Val Con said. “Very well, Jeeves, where is this station?”

  “It is called Jemiatha’s Jumble Stop. Bechimo transmitted codes, which are of course at your disposal. It is . . . a remote location with few visitors, which favors us in the situation of Admiral Bunter.”

  “Yes. How did Theo learn of this place?”

  “I believe that she was given the information by the Carresens, for a service she had performed for Senior Trade Commissioner Janifer Denobli-Carresens.”

  “The Carresens,” Val Con repeated.

  She got a definite feel of half-amused resignation from him.

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Null,” he said, turning his head and smiling down at her. “The Carresens are human. Generally, they identify as Terran. But they have been shipfolk for . . . centuries, Miri. Given this, the group feels that it is something . . . special in its composition, its influence, and its abilities.”

  “Like Korval, then?”

  Val Con blinked, then threw back his head and laughed.

  “Why, yes! Let us say, very much like Korval.”

  “My child,” Jeeves said, breaking into this bout of hilarity, “will require a ship.”

  Val Con looked at him.

  “Yes, I suppose she will. And also a pilot. Wherein lies a very real problem. The clan is stretched thin already; we have no pilots to spare.”

  “No pilot is necessary. Of course, my child will be capable of piloting herself.”

  “Isn’t that where Bechimo got in trouble?” Miri asked. “Pilotless ship showing up here and there and the other place? Got people nervous and curious? Seems to me he wanted a pilot and crew just so he’d pass.”

  There was a small silence, then a sound very like a sigh emanated from Jeeves.

  “Yes, Miri; that is exactly where Bechimo got into trouble.”

  “Which begs the question of an appropriate pilot,” Val Con said briskly. “I will ask among the Scouts; there’s likely someone . . .”

  “If you please,” Jeeves interrupted. “There is a pilot known to me as an honest man within the parameters required by this mission, and who can be of substantial help in the matter of Admiral Bunter.”

  “So, not just a pretty face,” Miri said, and Val Con added, “Who is it?”

  Jeeves’s headball flickered between blue and orange.

  “If you please, sir; I have taken up enough of your private time, when I had promised to be brief. If the delm approves the birth of my child, I will attend to that now. Tomorrow is soon enough to address the matter of pilot and ship.”

  Miri looked up and met Val Con’s eyes.

  “Be nice to have another kid around the house,” she said. “Company for Lizzie.”

  “Indeed,” he said seriously, and looked to Jeeves.

  “The delm approves Jeeves’s petition to produce a child, which will come to Korval. The clan rejoices.”

  There was a pause, like maybe Jeeves had been surprised by the assignment of his kid to Korval; then his headball flashed cheerily orange.

  “Thank you, Master Val Con, Miri. Again, my apologies for the interruption. Please accept my hope that your pleasure will be the greater, for having been delayed.”

  With that, he rolled across the room. The door opened before him, and closed behind him;
the sound of the lock engaging was loud in the silence.

  Miri slowly uncurled from the chair, and looked up at Val Con, who had also come to his feet.

  “You think there’s any possibility that our pleasure will be greater for having been delayed?” she asked.

  He smiled, and reached out to untie her sash.

  “There is,” he murmured, sliding the robe from her shoulders, “only one way to find out.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Surebleak Port

  Hazenthull had favored the dawn watch since her days as soldier in training. Dawns on Temp Headquarters were swift and terrible, as the day-wind sprang out of the well of night, tearing the black and crimson shroud from across the sullen orange face of the primary.

  Since those early days, she had taken dawn watch many times, on many worlds. And while no other dawn could match the glory of the homeworld, she had found most to be interesting, and . . . attractive, in their own way.

  Liad’s dawn was long and slow. The arrival of the star’s day-face was preceded by fans of pale green and yellow light, blue edges fading into the deepening green sky until at last the golden primary itself arrived and smiled upon the world.

  Truth said, Hazenthull had found Liad’s dawn, after the novelty had worn away, to be somewhat . . . vapid. It was pretty enough, but it lacked energy. It lacked variety, which Hazenthull, who had become, over the course of many dawn watches, something of a connoisseur, found pleasing. Too much sameness, she thought, sapped a soldier’s purpose.

  Surebleak’s dawn, now . . . Surebleak’s dawn suited Hazenthull very well, indeed. One never knew if the sun would visibly rise at dawn, or if the sky would be shrouded in cloud, salted with snow, or all a-glitter with ice-fog. When the primary did show its face, it might be bright yellow, or grey, or even a misty white.

  Surebleak’s dawns were interesting.

  “Half-bit for your thoughts,” Tolly said from beside her. They had the dawn watch today, moving up and down the quiet streets like swirls of mist, themselves. Surebleak Port went to bed for a few hours between mid-dark and dawn; most of the shops closed, though Andy Mack’s Repairs was always open, and Korval’s own yard, and Nelsin’s Grabasnak. And the portmaster’s office.

  And Port Security.

  “I was thinking that the dawn is beautiful,” Hazenthull said, and added, “and I just now thought that I admire the Terran language, for just such words as beautiful.”

  “Is a nice one today, isn’t it?” Tolly said, looking up into the lightening sky. “But other languages got words like beautiful, Haz.”

  “Yxtrang does not, and it is still the ruler I use to measure other languages.” She sighed. “I ought to find another, I think.”

  “No, you’re right, Yxtrang’s real efficient for some work, but describing art isn’t what it’s best at.”

  She looked down at him.

  “You speak Yxtrang?”

  He met her eyes, and shook his head.

  “Nah. No more’n a couple words, I guess. Too hard on my throat. What I do is listen Yxtrang. It’s a talent.”

  Several of the members of Clan Korval had talent, which enabled them to perform wonders as diverse as walking through walls and hearing the thoughts of others. Lady Anthora’s talents were . . . particularly unsettling, and beside which a talent for understanding a language one did not speak was a mere commonplace.

  They turned the corner by Andy Mack’s Repairs. The bay door was open, and the harsh blare of repair lights scored the walk. Hazenthull heard voices from somewhere inside the bay—and looked down in surprise at Tolly’s hand on her arm.

  He jerked his head in the direction they had come from, and without a word, fell back.

  Hazenthull hesitated, listening.

  “Nah, nobody like that ’round here. Tell you what, anybody who’s a mechanic on port’s worked here some time or ’nother. So, I’m guessing your fella just ain’t here.”

  Hazenthull turned and walked cat-footed, back the way she had come.

  “Is this the man you had worked for, and do not wish to work for again?” she asked the question, quietly, while they leaned against Nelsin’s counter, mugs of coffee in hand.

  Tolly’s mouth was a straight, hard line. Usually, with Tolly, it was the smile, the joke, sometimes the misdirection, though she thought he did less of that with her than with others. This, then, had become something serious. Something that he could no longer afford to ignore.

  “Will you challenge this person?” she asked.

  He snorted, and shook his head. “No percentage in it. Damn.”

  “Did you come here, to Surebleak, to escape this person?”

  She asked the question carefully, for she did not wish to hint that Tolly had taken the coward’s part. Tolly was not a coward; she had been his partner long enough to know that. There were reasons why a soldier might hide; reasons a-plenty to run. Tolly would have his reasons.

  “I’d had another spot in mind,” he said, putting his coffee cup on the counter. “Contact of mine—somebody I’m . . . often . . . able to trust—suggested Surebleak as a place where I’d find opportunity, and my . . . ex-employer would find it inconvenient to follow.”

  He sighed, and ran his hand through his fair hair.

  “Guess he’s got a job that’s worth a little inconvenience to him.”

  “But you no longer work for him.”

  “Well, see; that’s kind of a matter of opinion. I think I no longer work for him. His opinion’s pretty much the opposite.”

  Hazenthull sipped her coffee.

  “What will you do?” she asked eventually.

  “Good question.”

  “Boss Conrad’s wife is a judge,” she said, carefully. “She might give a third, binding opinion.”

  Tolly laughed.

  She put her cup down, offended.

  “No, hey, Haz, don’t take it that way! It’s a great idea! Just thinking about a Juntavas judge being called to sort out this whole mess—it makes me laugh. That’s a good thing—clears out clogged brain passages.

  “So, what I’m going to do is finish up my coffee and get back on the round.”

  Hazenthull nodded. “And if you see or hear this person who hunts you?”

  “I’ll do a fade and catch up with you,” he said. “If I stay invisible long enough, he’ll go. He’s done it before.”

  “Andy Mack said he guessed the other one’s fella—your fella, he said—was not on the port.”

  “You gotta love Mack. Remind me to take him a case o’beer.”

  “All right,” Hazenthull said, and finished her coffee.

  Tolly finished his, they called good-mornings to Nelsin and walked away, down-port.

  There had been time enough in the early morning for a gentle revisiting of last night’s energy, followed by a brief return to sleep, before duty woke them again.

  They presented themselves at the usual hour, showered and seemly, to the breakfast room, finding it occupied only by Posit, one of the elder cats. She yawned at their entrance and stretched along the window cushion, exposing her belly to the wan light of a Surebleak summer morning.

  Fast broken, they parted—Miri to the nursery for an hour with Talizea before she went down to city.

  “Appointment with the storytelling committee,” she told him. “Kareen says, ‘everyone who grew up here is a primary source,’ and apparently neither delm nor Road Boss is a high enough card to get me out of telling what it was like, back before Liz come and signed me up for the merc.”

  “You will be instrumental in forging the new world culture,” Val Con said.

  “So, I’ll get a card that says Founder, will I?”

  “Should you like to have one?”

  “Nah, then everybody would know who to blame.” She kissed him. “On your way to the office?”

  “I will walk over and see Mr. Shaper first, on Shan’s business. Then, yes, the office. We are dining with Nova this evening. Shall I come home, first?�
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  “’Less business keeps you late. If we go down together, Nelirikk can have the night off.”

  “I will come home then,” he said. He took her hand and raised it, bending to place a lingering kiss on her knuckles.

  “Until soon, cha’trez.”

  It would have saved time, to simply drive around to Yulian Shaper’s front door. However, Yulian Shaper was a man of great wariness, and one of those things of which he was especially wary was cars driving into his front dooryard. His policy in the case of such visitations—his wariness being of an order that required a great many self-imposed rules and policies in order to allow him to interface with the world, at all—was to refuse to acknowledge a hail, or a knock upon the door, or any other attempt at communication. Though one received the distinct impression that the car was well-noted, and whoever had driven it was under close surveillance.

  It was also well to recall that, among his many other virtues, Yulie Shaper was a crack shot with his long arm.

  All those things being so, it was simply kinder to everyone’s nerves, to walk to Yulie Shaper’s house.

  It was, for Surebleak, a fine morning, and Val Con was glad of an opportunity to stretch his legs.

  In no particular hurry, for it would not do to arrive too suddenly into Yulie Shaper’s orbit, suddenness being another of those factors that provoked distrust in him, he strolled across the browning lawns, turning right at the formal front gardens, to skirt the long rows of vegetables—the gardener had been as good as her word, he saw with satisfaction. The house would certainly not want for vegetables.

  Eventually, then, he came to the crack in the planet’s surface. Korval had settled its house in an abandoned quarry, and the edges had not been an exact fit, which ought not, Val Con thought, crouching down to inspect the seam, astonish anyone familiar with Korval or its enterprises.

  They had, at Yulie Shaper’s suggestion, filled the crack with native earth. This had eventually settled, to reveal a lesser, but still significant, gap between Liaden soil and native Surebleak soil.