Alliance of Equals

by Sharon Lee

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I had no notion that I was late.”

  “Oh, no, you are most fortunately slightly ahead of our departure,” Father assured her. “Pilot Embrathiri has expressed a desire to sit as a passenger on this trip. You, therefore, will pilot us to Langlastport.”

  She stared at him, then looked to Pilot Embrathiri, who gave her a grin, and stepped forward to offer the ship key.

  Padi received it, with a murmur of thanks, as a shiver of…anticipation, ran up her spine.

  She was going to pilot live. The prospect pleased her. She bowed to her passengers.

  “If you please, I will perform the preflight.” She glanced at the bay door, and the amber light above it.

  “When the light goes to green, you may board,” she said, though there was not one of them that did not know the procedure.

  “Thank you, Pilot,” Father said serenely. “We will await your signal.”

  —•—

  Shan settled into his chair, engaged the webbing and leaned his head against the rest. Kris was in the observer’s chair, and Vanner in the passenger seat nearest. They were chatting, low-voiced, between themselves, boon companions and canny old campaigners that they were. The murmur of their voices would soothe a pilot’s nerves, simultaneously assuring her that she was not alone, and that no one was paying the slightest attention to her.

  Not quite true, of course. Kris was observing, and would be quick to the board, should there be need.

  Shan didn’t think there would be need. It was a well-known trait of pilots—especially of Korval pilots—that they found sims useful, to a certain, specific, point. But live flight—that was blood and breath to them. Danae was very right to suppose that Padi’s late setbacks were attributable to nothing more than simple boredom.

  He settled his head more comfortably against the chair rest, and closed his eyes.

  Vanner and Kris were fond comrades; their bond burnished by time, glowing with a steady, comfortable warmth, like a banked fire. Shan deliberately shut them out of his perception, and concentrated on Padi.

  There was some anxiety there—flutters of oranges and ambers, nothing out of the way for a second class pilot who had been abruptly called to an unexpected duty.

  There was also a definite, though rather subdued, sense of pleasurable excitement. He considered that, having expected to find more…vivacity present in the face of live flight. But perhaps the child was still worrying over details of the reception. If so, that would soon enough be put aside. In fact…

  “All passengers,” Padi said from the board. “We are cleared; drop in three, at my mark.

  “…Mark.”

  —•—

  Hazenthull had finished laying in Tarigan’s outbound course, when it came to her.

  It came to her…that she was never going to see him again. That he would travel with the Admiral until that person was deemed able to take care of himself, and then Tolly would—take up his life.

  His life that had nothing to do with Surebleak, nor with Hazenthull nor’Phelium.

  She, of course, would provide cover for Pilot Tocohl until they raised Surebleak, when they, too, would part, and she would return to Korval’s house and take up her duty there. Perhaps Commander Lizardi would have her back on Port Security—but the thought of partnering with some other of the guards…did not appeal.

  Perhaps there was some other duty to which she might be set, though she would, naturally, abide by the captain’s orders.

  She sighed, and spun out of her chair. The ship was too quiet, she thought, with Tolly and Inki—Tocohl, too—aboard Admiral Bunter. Tolly had filed for an interim registration, gaining the Admiral a temporary home port at Callian. It would do well enough until they were clear of Jemiatha space. They would likely file for a permanent registration at Waymart, but she—

  She would never know.

  Hazenthull took a deep, impatient breath, and turned, as the lock cycled.

  A familiar step sounded in the hall, and she felt lightheaded, as if she had fallen hard, and all of the air gone out of her lungs.

  Before she had her breath back, Tolly had entered the bridge—and stopped, the easy smile fading from his face.

  “What’s the problem, Haz?”

  She would sound a fool, she thought. But when had Tolly ever laughed at her?

  “I was thinking that this will be last time I will see you,” she said. “I will…miss you.”

  He came forward, face serious. He’d lost weight, she noticed with dismay. The work was wearing him away, and the Admiral did not know enough about human people to insist that he eat, exercise, and keep regular shifts.

  “I’ll miss you, too, Haz. I’m glad we had some extra time to get to know each other better.”

  Extra time…

  She glanced aside.

  “That wasn’t what you wanted to hear,” he said. Tolly had learned her too well, and now…

  She took another breath, pushing the air deep in her lungs, and met his eyes.

  “I like you, Tolly Jones,” she said, her voice a raspy whisper, “very much.”

  Blue eyes widened, and she had no trouble reading distress, felt her chest constrict again…

  “No, hey—Haz.”

  He had her hand between his small, warm palms, and looked up at her, ridiculous fragile Terran that he was—but she knew that for a lie even as the thought formed. He was Tolly; nothing else mattered.

  “Haz, I’m flattered—and I like you, too. Very much. But you gotta know something. Everybody likes me, near enough. That’s part of the design.”

  She frowned down at him, seeing the exhaustion in his face.

  Is this a comrade’s care? she asked herself. He needs rest, not a challenge.

  And yet—

  “Do you say that my…partiality is…an illusion?”

  His mouth tightened, and his hands did, around hers.

  “Not saying that at all. Your feelings are absolutely real. I’m sorry, that’s all, ’cause you might not’ve had ’em, except for the design—prolly wouldn’t’ve, in fact—and now I’ve made you unhappy, and that’s not how I oughta treat the best partner I ever had.”

  His eyes glittered, and it would be among the worst things she had ever done, equal to her part in the Elder’s death, if she forced such a warrior as Tolly Jones to tears.

  “The Scout says that there is Balance in all things,” she said. “So if I will miss you…very much, then I have…liked being your partner…very much. I will remember that.”

  For a moment, she thought she had done her worst, then he blinked and smiled, and raised her hand.

  He bent his head, and she felt his lips, warm and soft, on her skin.

  She took a careful breath, and held very still, even as he relinquished her, and looked up, smiling, not the old, bright smile, but a softer thing, perhaps sadder.

  “That’s the ticket,” he said. “I’ll remember you, Haz. I’m glad we could say good-bye.”

  “I am…glad, too,” she said, and could think of nothing else to add.

  “Right, then,” he said, more briskly. “I’ll just pick up the rest of my kit. Early lift, tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Happy Occasion

  Langlastport

  The flowers were quite shameless, a large bowl of bright red, yellow, and blue globes each almost as big as Padi’s head. They added a faintly sweet scent to the room’s atmosphere which mixed well with that of fresh-baked bread.

  “I hope you will find everything to your satisfaction,” Unet Hartensis said, guiding her to the tiered buffet tables near the back of the room. The flowers were displayed on their own table, halfway between the entrance and the food. The trade displays were arranged artfully among the tables of food and drink.

  “They will draw the guests further in,” Unet Hartensis said, apparently intercepting her glance at the flowers and reading a question there. “Once they find the flowers, then they will find
the food, which is your ship’s gift to them, and the trade information you have provided.

  “Now, you will wish to sample what we have to be certain that all is to your liking. Please take up a dish and allow me…”

  Obediently, Padi picked up a bright red plate, and allowed Unet Hartensis to place bits of vegetables and dribbles of sauces on it. She tasted carefully. The orange vegetables were sweet; the green ones spicy; the yellow bland.

  “Eklist, cobrok, snowits,” the caterer murmurmed the name of the vegetables as Padi tasted each one.

  The sauces, merely “sweet,” “sour,” “hot,” and “cream,” did not, in Padi’s opinion, improve the taste of the vegetables, but if sauce was local custom, then so be it.

  “These are good,” she said. “The vegetables are very fresh.”

  “They came in this morning from our grower,” Unet Hartensis said, with what Padi heard as pride. She picked up a small cup, turning toward the beverage table—and hesitated, glancing over her shoulder to Padi.

  “You must forgive me, Trader. Langlast enforces an age law with regard to the consumption of wine and other spirits. May I ask if you are above nineteen Standards?”

  “I have but seventeen Standards,” she said, and did not add that she had been drinking wine since she had achieved fourteen Standards. It would make no difference to the local law, and she, for one, had no wish to be arrested by Port Security ever again.

  “I, however,” Father said from her right hand, “am in my dotage, and would welcome a taste of the summer wine.”

  Unet Hartensis smiled at him, amused, Padi thought. Amused, and…something else. She poured the wine generously, and offered it to him, her fingers lingering needlessly against his.

  Father did not seem to notice anything amiss, merely smiled and sipped, his head tipped slightly to a side.

  “Ah,” he said, after a long moment. “That is very pleasant, Chef Hartensis; I don’t suppose you offer any of this vintage on the market?”

  “You flatter me, Trader; I am no chef, merely one who arranges entertainments. As for the vintage…”

  She sighed and looked regretful.

  “The summer blend is one of our local treasures and may not be sold for off-world trade.”

  “I understand entirely,” Father murmured. “I wonder—may I purchase a bottle or two for my own table?”

  The caterer’s face lit in a wide smile.

  “You may purchase as many as six bottles at any duty-free shop, which also offer other of Langlast’s treasures, for personal use only.”

  “Thank you,” Father said, answering her smile. He drank the last of the wine in the glass, and glanced about him, perhaps for a tray on which to deposit it.

  “Allow me,” Unet Hartensis said, taking the glass from his hand, her fingers again lingering along his. Padi felt her breath go short, which was absurd, and a decidedly odd sensation in the area of her stomach…and wondered if one of the sauces had disagreed with her digestion.

  “Padi,” Father said. “Would you care for something to drink?”

  The peculiar feeling exploded into embarrassment, and she looked up at him, feeling her face flame, without precisely knowing why, and here then was Unet Hartensis, exclaiming, and turning toward her.

  “Trader, please forgive me! You must, of course, taste our own montora juice!” She placed Father’s glass on the edge of the table, snatched up another and poured blue juice from one of several pitchers.

  “Thank you,” Padi murmured, hoping that the juice would soothe her.

  She took a sip and almost gasped aloud at the astringent taste.

  “Montora juice is served to guests of formal dinners, after each course is removed. It cleans the palate wonderfully!” the caterer said. “Do you find it so?”

  “Indeed,” Padi was able to say, somewhat breathlessly. “A…very cleansing beverage!”

  Unet Hartensis smiled, and waited, by which Padi realized that she was expected to finish what remained in her glass. She did so, managing to keep her breath this time, and the caterer took the glass, her fingers impersonal and brisk.

  “Now, I know you will want to sample the sweets!” Unet Hartensis said, glancing over her shoulder, perhaps meaning to include Father in her invitation—

  But Father had left them; he was moving toward the front of the room and the double doors through which their guests would come…shortly, Padi thought, glancing at the clock above the door as she followed the caterer to the sweets table.

  —•—

  Shan paused by the flowers, closed his eyes, took a deep breath of lightly scented air, and sighed. As he understood local custom as practiced upon Langlast, Unet Hartensis had been only slightly forward in her attentions to himself. Had he been local, it would have been his part to be flattered by her favorable notice. In fact, he was flattered by her favorable notice—one was human, after all—and easily able to shield oneself from the warmth of her regard.

  Padi, however…

  Shan sighed again.

  It had been very apparent that Padi had felt the caterer’s ardor. Which rather inescapably brought him to the conclusion that his daughter was, indeed, a Healer.

  That was, he thought carefully, gratifying.

  Certainly, if Padi were to come into possession of her gifts during the reception, that might be…awkward. However, he did not think she would do so.

  He thought…had thought since their flight down from the Passage just this afternoon, when Padi yos’Galan, who had been accustomed to thrill at the sight of a piloting board, sat her station with great calmness, competency—and no delight whatsoever—that there was more to this situation of gifts and stone and walls that met even a Healer’s eye.

  She might have been sitting a sim, save that her reaction time was appropriate to the demands of maneuvering the shuttle in real-time and space. He had expected excitement, exhilaration, perhaps a moment or two of terror—all the sorts of things likely to be experienced by a young pilot still learning her wings—and all he had felt from her, beyond an early frisson of pleased anticipation, had been the concentration appropriate to a working pilot, and grit, sand, and stone.

  He had not dared probe too deeply, and risk breaking the pilot’s concentration. He dared not probe too deeply now, lest he create the very circumstance he wished to avoid.

  Stone. Walls, Lina had said, and he too, had glimpsed something structured and dire. Plainly Padi had been some time at this work and—doubting the wisdom of creating such an edifice, as he did, most stringently—he could not help but trust that it would hold. He knew Padi yos’Galan, the meticulous care she brought to her studies and her work. Whatever had motivated her to create such a thing, he did not doubt that it had been done with nothing less than thoroughness.

  That, of course, begged the question of how they, the elder Healers, ought most wisely to proceed in the case—but that question was for after the reception, when they were alone in their rooms, and free from the distractions of lusty caterers.

  It occurred to him then that Padi had not yet had her bed-lessons, which would ordinarily be an easily corrected oversight, as Lina was fully capable as a teacher. However, this structure—this environment—that Padi had created for herself…until they knew what the child had done, precisely…

  A clock chimed suddenly, very close by.

  Shan took another deep, flower-scented breath, ran a Healer’s relaxation exercise, and opened his eyes.

  Unet Hartensis was moving toward the doors. He turned and found Padi coming toward him, looking, perhaps, a little wan.

  “Is all well, Trader yos’Galan?” he murmured.

  That earned him a small smile.

  “I believe so, Master Trader, but—a word in your ear.”

  She leaned forward, and he bent slightly, giving her his literal, as well as his metaphorical, ear.

  “Avoid the blue juice at all costs,” she whispered. “It is dreadful!”

  —•—

  T
olly woke all at once, and wished he hadn’t. His head felt like somebody had taken the business side of an axe to it, and his mouth tasted foul. For a moment, he just lay there, on a surface giving enough to possibly be his bunk, too craven to open up his eyes.

  “Tolly Jones,” a voice spoke from overhead—a soft voice, if not particularly gentle—and lately very familiar to him.

  “Admiral?” he said.

  “Yes. I am pleased that you have regained consciousness. Inki predicted that you would do so at approximately this hour. She asked me to present this message to you, immediately.”

  There was a slight—but not too slight—pause before Inki’s voice came through the ceiling speaker.

  “My most profound apologies, Mentor. It is a vile potion, but effective. Analgesics will tame the headache, and high-c juice will make the mouth taste sweeter.”

  Analgesics and high-c, was it?

  He opened his eyes, to the merest slits, and found that the dim light of his cabin at least made the headache no worse.

  “Where is Inki?” he asked the Admiral.

  “Aboard Ahab-Esais.”

  That was a surprise. Why had the woman drugged him, if she was—

  No, wait. You’re not thinking, Tolly Jones. Think.

  “Where is Ahab-Esais?” he asked.

  “Now breaking dock,” the Admiral answered.

  “Get Inki on comm for me.”

  “I am sorry not to be able to accommodate your request, Tolly,” the Admiral said.

  That sent a cold chill down a man’s back. Inki’d set a mandate, had she? Well, all right. He doubted he had much civil to say to Inki, now that he thought about it.

  Tolly swung his legs over the edge of his bunk, and waited for his head to stop spinning.

  “Analgesics and juice are on the table,” the Admiral said. “Please, Tolly, care for yourself.”

  Well, this was a touching concern, and a little out of character for the Admiral. He wondered, briefly, what else Inki had been tampering with, and put the thought aside for more immediate concerns.

  “Admiral, please get Tocohl on comm for me.”

  “I am sorry, Tolly. Tocohl is not available to comm.”