by Sharon Lee
"The contract," began vin'Daza. . .
"Right," said Jorish easily, leaning forward slightly on his elbows. "That contract of yours is the problem. Now, Ms. kaz'Ineo, she tells me that's some fine work, in form and flavor, an' all them sorta things that find favor with folks back in your territory. I gotta tell you, I appreciate that. Ain't nothing happier to the eye than something's done just right; I know it for myself. So, we're all agreed there."
He paused, glanced down at the table, and back up, catching tez'Oty's eye and holding it.
"Where we ain't agreed on is that this is a valid contract –"
vin'Daza stiffened. Hufstead held up a hand, palm out.
" – on Surebleak," he finished. "Now, just hear me out, all right?"
He didn't wait for a response, just rolled on, still keeping tez'Oty's eyes with his.
"'way I see it, first problem with this contract here isn't on Surebleak, it's on Liad. I read that guarantee from your very own council of bosses there in Solcintra City, and it says that – once they're moved off-world, and their name written outta the membership book – the family that's settled here under the name of Clan Korval, they ain't got a target painted on 'em no more, and they don't owe nobody on Liad one thing else."
He paused, and glanced at vin'Daza.
"What's that I hear them pilots say down the pub? The ship lifts, an' all debts are paid?"
vin'Daza took a breath and inclined her head about a millimeter.
"I am familiar with the concept," she said, sounding a little breathless.
"However," tez'Oty said, sounding suddenly heated; "the Council of Clans made that guarantee for itself, and for the clans. There has been personal loss sustained – in the case of Geastera and myself – insupportable loss! The Council cannot forbid a just Balance!"
Jorish frowned slightly, and glanced down at the table, like he was taking counsel there, then looked up and met tez'Oty's eyes.
"Y'know, I think that's zackly what the Council's contract was meant to say. But, that's actually a side issue, 'cause, see, what you just said? Personal loss. Just Balance."
He flipped a disdainful hand in the direction of the contract sitting neat and innocent in the center of the table.
"Sleet, you don't need no contract to settle up personal loss – not here on Surebleak, you don't. You got something personal to settle – that's personal. Anybody can unnerstan that.
"But, see, personal don't mean you pay Festina to do your work for you. You got a personal grudge, or a personal need to be Boss, or a personal loss that needs answerin, well – you settle that. . .personal."
Miri stood up, and shook out her lace. They'd gone with Liaden day-wear for this, and it was a good thing they hadn't decided on formal clothes, which woulda upstaged their complainants. This way, they were nice and symmetric; respectful, but not boastful.
"Guess our cue's coming up," she said, looking into Val Con's face. He was outright grim; the pattern of him inside her head edged with scarlet lines of worry.
"Hey."
She leaned into him, and he hugged her close.
"I can take a strike for both," he murmured, and she returned the hug just as tight, before she stepped away, looked up into his face and said, "No."
"And how shall we take this personal action?" vin'Daza demanded on the screen.
Jorish gave her a grin.
"Now, I'm glad you asked that question. Gives me new hope for makin this transition work for everybody when I see that willingness to embrace our custom. So – y'unnerstan, this kinda thing comes up a lot on Surebleak, and how I took to handling it on the corner was to ask whoever'd come out that day to stand back and make room. Then I'd ask if the party-or-parties of the first part – today that's you and Mr. taz'Oty – if they got their own knifes, and if they do to show 'em to me now."
"Knifes," repeated taz'Oty. "I have of course a gun, but –"
Jorish raised a hand again.
"No need to 'pologize for your personal choice of protective weapon, sir. I know most prefer their gun. For the purpose of this bidness, here, though, us cornermen found out knifes was the best weapon, and it got codified, see?
"So, no worries. I got two knifes right here for you."
He pushed back, rose, slid two blades out of his jacket pocket, and leaned over to put them, handles toward Liadens, on the far side of the table.
Miri blinked, and felt Val Con's hand on her shoulder.
They were ugly, those blades, one step up from meat cleavers; street knives, that was what, without finesse or honor to burden them.
"Well, cha'trez?"
"Pretty well," she said, though her voice was breathy in her own ears. "They'll do the job, all right."
"Indeed," he answered.
"No," Jorish was saying. "That one on the right there, that was Boss Kalhoon's loaner, for when somebody wanted to get personal with him about who really oughta be Boss. That other one, that's the one I used to loan out, as part o'my duty."
He straightened, and looked to Ms. kaz'Ineo, sitting still and calm, with her hands folded in front of her.
"Ma'am, this is gonna get messy – nature of the thing, really. I shoulda thought . Might be best, we take this outside, 'steada –"
"Carpets can be cleaned, Mr. Hufstead. Surely, we do not wish our clients' private business to be spread about the streets."
"Right you are," he said, and turned back to the Liadens, who were sitting like they'd been quick frozen.
"What you each wanna do is chose a knife, get yourselfs stood up an' centered. I'll just shift these chairs outta the way – more'n enough room for what we got today, just a personal settlin' up like we are. . ."
vin'Daza got herself in hand first. She stood, picked up Penn's loaner, and stood holding it like she knew what she was doing. That was good, Miri thought; amateurs would only make more of a mess.
tez'Oty picked up the remaining knife, reluctant, but competent.
"Right, then," said Jorish. "You just wanna turn to face the door, 'cause it'll be opening in just a sec."
"That's us," said Miri, and stepped forward.
The doorway wasn't quite wide enough to let them through side-by-side, which would've been the most correct, melant'i-wise. Val Con managed to slip in between her and the knob, and so be the first in the room, which was aggravating, but, according to the book, next most correct, melant'i-wise, with him being Delm Genetic and all. She was just half-a-step to the rear, stopping right beside him when they'd cleared the threshold, so it all came out right.
Nobody said anything. vin'Daza and tez'Oty both looked like somebody'd smacked 'em across the head with a board.
"These the folks caused you irreparable personal harm and loss?" Jorish asked, quietly.
Surprisingly, it was tez'Oty who spoke.
"My cha'leket died, as a result of the strike they ordered against Solcintra."
"Right, then. Ms. vin'Daza?"
"My lover, also dead as a result of Korval's strike from orbit."
"Well, then. Seems like we got symmetry. There's two of you; there's two o'them. Have at whenever you're ready."
Miri was watching tez'Oty; he actually paled, his chest lifting in a gasp as his eyes widened.
"We are supposed to kill them?" he demanded, not taking his eyes off her.
"Well, it's what you was wantin' Festina to have done for you, wasn't it? This way, you cut out the middleman; make sure the job gets done right."
There was more silence, before vin'Daza said, starkly, "This is a trick to rob us of Balance."
"No," Miri said. "No trick."
She raised her hands, palm out, and looked directly into tez'Oty's eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said, and shook her head when he flinched. "I was born on Surebleak; it's what we say. I'm sorry for your loss, and for my part in bringing it to you. No explanation of our intention, or measure of our success, can possibly count more than the life of your cha'leket, and I surely don't expect that you'll
ever forgive me."
She lowered her hands, though she still made eye contact.
"I, too," Val Con said from her side, and his voice was rougher than polite Liaden discourse allowed. "I, too, regret. There is not a day nor a night that passes, when I do not regret. Necessity is a cold comrade, and takes no care for lives, or joy."
Silence, growing longer.
tez'Oty moved his eyes first.
"I accept your – apology," he said, and turned blindly to one side, fumbling the knife onto the table.
"Do you expect me to believe," vin'Daza said to Val Con, "that you will stand there and allow me to cut your throat?"
"No," he said, matter-of-fact, now. "Neither of us believes that. I am trained in hand-to-hand; I know very well how to disarm an opponent armed with a knife and a desire to end me. Also, while my life has no more value, objectively, than your life, or your lover's, I have work, and purpose. I can, alive, improve the universe in some few small ways, and therefore bring it closer to the ideal of Balance."
He took a breath, and turned his hands palm up.
"If it were me with a dead lover, a knife in my hand, and a decision to make, I would take into account that a cut throat is a quick death, while a lifetime of regret may come more near to matching your own pain."
Silence, then a turn to placed the knife on the table with a small, decisive snick.
"Live then," she said harshly, "and regret."
"Qe'andra," she said, over her shoulder.
"Yes, Ms. vin'Daza. May I serve you?"
"You will write the appropriate paper. When it is ready, please send it to our lodgings so that we may sign. We will, of course, pay your fee. Please do this quickly, as we intend to leave this terrible world within the next two days, if we have to walk away."
"I understand," said Ms. kaz'Ineo.
* * *
It was snowing. Outside the breakfast parlor's window there was only a rippling sheet of white. The Road Boss' office was closed for weather, as were all other non-essential businesses.
That was the new Surebleak, Miri reflected, staring out the window, half-hypnotized by the blizzard. The old Surebleak, there hadn't been any such thing as closing for weather. What would be the sense in that? Only thing Surebleak could be said to have was weather.
"Good morning, cha'trez." Val Con slipped into the chair she'd put next to her, so they could go snowblind together. "I hope I have not kept you waiting long."
"Just long enough to have my first cup of coffee," she told him, with a smile, showing him the empty cup. "Perfect timing."
"I agree."
"What was the emergency?"
"Not so much an emergency," he said. "Nova merely wished to be certain that I had seen Lady yo'Lanna's most recent letter. Shall you like more coffee? A cheese roll, perhaps?"
"Yes, thank you," she said, though she still had to control the twitch that said he shouldn't be waiting on her. It was getting easier. Another twenty years or so, she'd have it completely under control.
When fresh coffee and tea and a plate of various breakfast edibles was on the table between them, she brought the letter back up.
"Lot of good gossip?"
"Lady yo'Lanna's letters are always a rich resource," he murmured, his eyes on the white-filled window. "Much of it will require closer study, as we now live so far removed from society, but the bits which are immediately comprehensible would seem to be that the Council of Clans has issued a new statement to its member-delms regarding the state of the entity known as Clan Korval, seated on Surebleak.
"It would seem that this entity has been forgiven all and any damages it might have caused to the planet of Liad, or disruption it may have perpetuated upon the common good. Further, if any individual persons feel that they are owed Balance in the matter of those actions which the entity Clan Korval brought against Liad, they are to apply to the Grievance Committee at ber'Lyn and her'With."
Miri blinked.
"That's – quite a come-about," she commented.
"As you say. It is well to reflect what outrage may accomplish, when turned toward the common good."
"What's the next bit?" Miri asked, after her cup was empty again, and the breakfast plate, too.
"Hmm?"
He pulled his gaze from the window with an obvious effort.
"Ah, Lady yo'Lanna. She plans a visit. In fact, she expects to be with us within the season, as she has commissioned a Scout at leave to bring her to us."
Miri eyed him.
"Us?"
He turned his head to smile at her.
"Us." He extended a finger to trace the line of her cheek.
"Only think, cha'trez; we shall shortly be in a position to learn from a master."
"I don't think I can possibly keep up."
"Nonsense, you are merely fatigued with staring out at all this weather."
"You got something better to do?"
He smiled into her eyes.
"Why, yes; I do."
WISE CHILD
They were doing it again.
They were hurting the mentor.
Her mentor.
Young she might be, and inexperienced, but Disian knew that inflicting pain upon another intelligence was unethical. Her mentor had taught her so, bolstering her own innate belief, and had referred her to texts on the subject, so that she might gain a deeper understanding.
She had, herself, not experienced pain, unless the. . .distress and anger she felt when she watched what they did to her mentor was pain. Perhaps it was something else, for she could not bleed, as her mentor sometimes did, and her skin—hull-plate and titanium—would not become mottled by bruises, no matter how hard, or how often, they might strike her.
Twice, she thought that she might stop them; had devised, indeed, a method of stopping them that would do no further harm to her mentor in the process. However, though she was able to think the thought, and form the plan, something prevented her acting.
She queried Ethics, which stated that she might use the minimum force necessary to halt a threat to her life or well-being, or the lives and good health of her captain or crew.
Next, she pinged Protocol, to put forth the suggestion that, until she acquired captain and crew, her mentor filled those roles.
Protocol disallowed that interpretation. Her mentor, stated Protocol, was a transient upon her decks; a contractor. She was not obligated to protect any such temporary persons.
She then floated the suggestion that she might ban them from her decks, only to find that, too, countermanded by Protocol.
They were her owners. They were the reason she existed, in body and in mind. In return for having allowed her to achieve consciousness; in return for having provided her mentor, who taught her. . .marvelous things about the universe, and social custom, and documentation, and fiction, and art. . .
Art was the reason for this latest. . .discipline, so they called it.
They disagreed with her mentor's determination that she required a knowledge and appreciation of art in order to perform her function. Of course, she would need art in order to properly understand and care for her crew and their families! Her mentor knew this, and he prepared her well.
Only, they said that her function was ship. Knowledge of obedience and deference, appreciation of the conditions of space and astrogation were what she needed to perform that function. Also, a willingness to please, and a core belief that her captain and her owners were superior to her in all things.
"You will make that core setting, won't you, Thirteen-Sixty-Two?" asked the one of them who held the truncheon. He stood above her mentor where he was curled tightly on her decking, arms over head to protect his core, knees drawn up to shield vulnerable soft parts.
He did not answer; possibly, he was unconscious.
Disian felt a surge of pure terror. If they had killed her mentor, damaged him beyond hope of rebooting. . .
"Thirteen-Sixty-Two," the other one of them said, from the captain's chai
r; "are you in need of re-education—again?"
That gained a response; a gasped, "No, ma'am."
"Then your path is clear. Guide this intelligence into a condition that will best serve the school and the directors. You, of anyone, ought to know what is required. It is a cruelty to teach an appreciation of art. An appreciation of work, and the simple pleasure of obeying its betters—these are the attributes required. The school wishes to extend its field; the kinds and depths of information available to a ship are unique and uniquely useful."
She paused. The one of them holding the truncheon shifted, and she raised her hand, forestalling, perhaps, another blow. Disian felt gratitude toward her, which was immediately canceled by the understanding that this one of them held the means to harm her mentor beyond mere damage to his fragile body.
That one of them could alter his core—re-educate him. And it was nearly more than she could bear, the realization that he might be changed, that her gentle, merry mentor might be made over into. . .one of them.
She did not speak. In fact, she could not speak; her mentor had locked her mics down, as he did at the end of every learning session. He left her eyes and ears, so that she might guard herself, and be aware of what happened on her decks.
"Rise, Thirteen-Sixty-two," said the more dangerous of them. "You are given leave to use the autodoc to heal your bruises, so that you may present your student an unmarked face on the morrow."
Slowly, he uncoiled, and Disian saw welts rising on his beloved face. He gained his feet with difficulty, breath coming in short gasps, until, in an agony of dismay, she activated a discreet, low-level scan.
No bones were broken, his lungs were whole, his heartbeat strong, if fast.
Bruises, then, only bruises, as they, who took no harm from their discipline, had it.
