by Sharon Lee
“We will of course come again,” Father promised, and with that they sought the door.
—•—
“Vessel approaching,” Dil Nem said firmly from the pilot’s chair. “Langlast portmaster identification.”
He did not say that this meant nothing; the three ships that had pursued Pale Wing had, after all, been able to show an affiliation, however tenuous, with legitimate Liltander security.
Priscilla frowned at the screens over the third mate’s shoulder. The approaching vessel looked to be a working ship of some kind. Scans showed armament—two small guns—and very little armor. Port ID…
“Query their purpose for approach,” she said.
Dil Nem did that, nodded and glanced over his shoulder to Priscilla.
“Customs boat, Captain. They state routine fly-by, and advise that we will see them at intervals.” A pause. “They will release camera drones and magnetometers; this is standard procedure.”
“Port database confirms ID,” said Pilot Jorik, on comm.
Priscilla nodded.
“Log them,” she said.
“Aye, Captain,” said Jorik. “All occasions?”
“All occasions.”
—•—
“Will you share a glass of wine with me, daughter?”
Padi blinked, and sat up, startled.
They had dined privately in their suite, all three together. After, Mr. Higgs had excused himself to his room. The headache had faded again over the course of the meal, and Padi had been content merely to sit for a moment or two, treasuring both the absence of pain and the absence of any necessity to introduce herself or, indeed, to speak at all.
Except, she must have dozed off, and that would never do! She and Father still had the gathered keys to sort through, and a port itinerary to make, after which she would study for a few hours before bed.
“Forgive me,” she managed, to Father’s uplifted eyebrows, “I hadn’t meant to fall asleep.”
“The day has scarcely been free of stress,” Father said, repeating what he had said at the reception. “I find the gravity a trifle wearisome, myself. I offer again, daughter—will you share a glass of wine?”
Father had stopped at the duty-free shop in the lobby of their hotel to purchase a bottle of the local summer wine, and had set it on the wine table in their suite. Padi had supposed he would have a glass while they worked; he most usually had a glass of wine to hand, and had given it no more thought than that. But—
“I see that you are a little timid of a green vintage,” Father said, in the face of her continued silence. “Allow me to reassure you, based upon my sampling at your reception. I found it bright and balanced; a very pleasant little wine, and unlikely to produce any more lethargy than we already enjoy. We must, of course, assume that the bottle has not been mistreated, but I believe we may reasonably suppose that to be the case.”
That was merely nonsense, of course, words to fill time, and allow her to gather her thoughts. Plainly, Father was not intending to resume work after the meal. Father wished to speak with his daughter and his heir, between kin, which was certainly not a proposition she could—or wanted to—decline. She did wonder if she had erred in some grievous manner during the walk from the reception to the hotel, and which necessitated this change of plans.
But, there was a very easy way, after all, to discover that.
Padi inclined her head.
“Thank you, Father; I would be pleased to share wine and a moment with you.”
* * *
“It is pleasant!” She exclaimed, essaying another sip, and sighing. “What a pity, that—”
She swallowed the rest of what she had been about to say, feeling her cheeks warm.
Really, Padi, this is not a trade session! she told herself. Strive for some conduct.
Father grinned at her over the rim of his wine cup.
“Difficult, isn’t it? But don’t despair! Couching all and everything in terms of trade and profit is a positive sign of progress toward your goal. I swear so to you, as your grandfather once swore to me.”
According to those tales she had heard of him, Grandfather Er Thom had not been much given to joking. He had, however, been rather incisively ironic.
“We have,” she pointed out, a little more sharply than was perhaps entirely proper, “been trading all day.”
“Indeed we have, but now we must adopt another mode, if you will allow me.” He shifted somewhat in his chair, and stretched out a long arm to place the wine cup on the table between them. They sat side by side, in matching upholstered chairs by the suite’s large window, overlooking Langlastport and the mountains beyond.
Padi put her glass on the table, also, and inclined her head formally.
“You wished to speak with me, Father?”
“Excellent. You set the tone well. In fact, my child, I do wish to speak with you. More—I wish to ask you a question. It is a question I now feel that I ought to have asked long since, but better tardy, so it is said, than never arrive.”
He paused. Padi waited.
Father sighed, and moved a hand—pilot talk for straightest route possible.
“I wish you to tell me, please, daughter, what happened at Runig’s Rock.”
Padi blinked.
“Happened? Nothing happened—which was the intent, as I understood it. We had our lessons, and we walked our rounds; we exercised, played cards, and read; Syl Vor drew; the twins slept—oh!”
She put her fingers against her lips, recalling one thing that had happened, and about which they had not considered it wise to be forthcoming. Grandfather Luken knew, of course, and…well, perhaps Quin had told his father, now that they were home and it hardly mattered any more. Still, it had been an infraction; they had disobeyed Grandfather Luken and Cousin Kareen, as well as violating systems…
“But don’t keep me in suspense!” Father urged. “What is this one thing that happened?”
“Well…Quin had been…distressed…for Cousin Pat Rin. We had news, from time to time of you, and the Passage, and Aunt Nova—but it was as if Cousin Pat Rin had simply fallen away into the starfields…”
“Because, after all,” Father said, after she had paused for a moment to collect her thoughts, “that was what he was supposed to have done.”
“Well, yes, certainly! But, Father, you know Quin! He’s made of nerves! So, I said to him that we might look at the check-in list.”
Both of Father’s eyebrows rose.
“Did you?” he murmured.
“Yes, sir; I thought it would ease him. We…well, I…circumvented the codes, so that he could check the list—I broke nothing!—and we put everything back as it had been when we were done; but the point is—which is to say, what happened—is that he found that his father had not checked in—not at all. Not even once.”
“I can scarcely suppose that this was the comfort you had hoped to offer kin,” Father said, reaching for his wine cup. “How did Quin go on after that?”
“Pretty well. That is, he spoke with Grandfather, who of course scolded him for listening at doors. Then he pointed out that Cousin Pat Rin was not a fool, and would therefore not endanger himself by foolish action. If checking in would expose him to enemies, then surely, he would fail to check in.”
“And that comforted Quin, did it?”
“It did, yes.”
“Well, then, the episode seems to have ended well, though I regret that an action of yours stirred Luken into sternness. He does so dislike being stern.”
“Yes,” Padi said.
“Was he also stern to you?”
“No, Father. I think—that Quin did not tell him I had helped with the codes.”
There was a small pause, followed by a light sigh.
“Ah. Well, a pilot must have a care for his copilot, after all. Especially when there is only one available.”
“Yes,” she said again, and sighed herself, leaning back into the chair. She did not close her eyes. She h
ad already disgraced herself once by falling asleep after dinner. It would scarcely do to fall asleep again, in the middle of a conversation. Though, now that Father had the answer to his question, perhaps—
“Forgive me,” he said, interrupting her train of thought, “that I am not specific. I have nothing to lead me, save this stone…edifice…with which you increasingly distress your elders, the maintenance of which appears to be taking a very great deal of your energy. What happened, child, that you felt you must create such a thing?”
She caught her breath.
“I thought I had…hidden it,” she whispered. “I—does it hurt you? I never thought—”
She hadn’t thought—why should she have thought?—what her construct might feel like to Healer senses.
She blinked away sudden tears.
“I have control enough that it does not hurt me, though it occasionally surprises and dismays me,” Father said softly. “In fact, I will make bold to say that it hurts—and has hurt—you far more grievously than it may ever hurt me.”
He leaned over to put his hand on her knee.
“Padi—why?”
His voice was gentle; she saw concern in his face; felt tenderness in the touch of his hand. Love swelled in her throat, choking her, and then the tears came, faster than she could blink them away. She reached for the Small Dance she had made in her head, meaning to lock the shame away with the rest of it, and—
“Do not!”
The command rocked her back into her chair; it took the breath from her lungs. She gasped for air—and bent forward, her face hidden against her knees as the tears flowed, hot and shameful.
“I was afraid,” she managed, her voice shaking. “Oh, Father, I am such a coward!”
—•—
The customs ship had released its camera drones—three—and continued its own inspection until they returned, having recorded the Passage by thirds.
“Transmission,” said Pilot Jorik. “We’re cleared; report sent to Langlast portmaster; copy to us under cover of this communication.”
Jorik looked to Priscilla, who had remained on the bridge during these events.
“States there will be a recheck.”
Dil Nem gave an unLiaden snort.
“Do they expect us to receive contraband in orbit?”
“It might happen,” Priscilla said. “Though I wonder how we would conceal the pods.”
“Heard there’s a field,” Jorik said. “Pirates—serious pirates—use it. Disrupts scan and visual. Any new pods we took on would be invisible, close enough.”
“Thus, the cameras, and the magnetometers,” said Dil Nem, with a sigh. “Well, perhaps that is reason enough for such prudence. How common are these devices?”
Jorik shrugged.
“Wouldn’t think they were as common as all that. Don’t know that I actually believe the thing even exists. Wouldn’t have to be a pirate to want one, either. Plenty of small shippers and grey-traders would welcome a way to dodge a little bit o’excise.”
“Well,” Priscilla said, coming out of the captain’s chair and stretching tight muscles. “Leave a note for the next team, to expect the customs boat at intervals, to log it and record their procedure, with a copy to my screen.”
“Yes, Captain,” Jorik said. “Done.”
“Thank you. I’ll be in my office, if there’s need.”
—•—
“So I danced it all into a stone closet, at the very heart of myself,” she said, her voice dull.
Most of the tale had poured forth, as ungoverned as her weeping. That passion was spent now. She was exhausted, poor child, and the headache was back, which was worrisome for more than the usual reasons. He’d blocked the damn thing three times now, and he was not the most unskilled Healer the Hall had ever trained. Yet here it was again, edgier and angrier than before.
And he…
He had to be very careful, indeed, here.
Gently, he extended a line of comfort to the shame-filled child beside him, and, gently, spoke her name.
“Padi.”
“Father…forgive me.”
“For being afraid? I forgive you freely! In the interest of Balance, I will, of course, ask that you forgive me for being afraid. In fact, I believe we had best do the thing properly, if we’re to do it at all, and forgive the delm for being afraid, Aunt Nova, and Cousin Kareen. Pat Rin was certainly afraid, he confessed as much to me. To my observation, Luken is not a fool, therefore, he must also have been afraid.”
Padi had raised her head and was watching him from eyes squinted half-shut with pain.
“Aunt Anthora?” she asked. “Never tell me she was afraid!”
“I must do so, however. She was very nearly caught and killed, you know, by a device created specifically to entrap and harm those of the dramliz. The next time you are home, ask her for the round tale.”
He crossed his legs, looking out over the darkening landscape.
“Let us see, who else must we add to our list—why, you as much as told me that Quin was afraid! I expect we shall have to forgive him—and also Priscilla, and Uncle Ren Zel…”
“Uncle Val Con?” Padi asked suddenly. “You said…the delm…”
Shan sighed, and extended a careful hand to cover hers where it was fisted on her knee.
“I wager that Uncle Val Con was more afraid even than I was, and I do not mind telling you, speaking as we are, among kin, that I was terrified.”
She swallowed, hard.
“Also,” she whispered, “I lied to you.”
“Yes, you did.” He squeezed her hand gently. “It grieves me, that you felt you must. I am desolate, that I must have given you the impression that I would refuse to assist you with the arrival of your gift. However, surely Priscilla is everything that is discreet and trustworthy—might you not have gone to her?”
“No!” She took a breath and managed, somewhat, to moderate herself.
“No, you never—Father, you never—but we were at the Rock, and there were enemies, and I didn’t need it. I needed—I needed to be strong, and not afraid, and not distracted, and—I locked it away, with the fear.”
He nodded seriously.
“I quite see that. You stood, after all, in the front line of defense. You needed your wits about you.
“But once you had been retrieved from the Rock, and enclosed by the clan’s protections—couldn’t you have spoken then?”
Padi shook her head.
“It was…gone. If I thought about it at all, which I cannot say that I did, then I would have recalled that the fear and…and my…talent, were tied together.” Another breath, followed by a whisper.
“And I didn’t want to be known for a coward, Father. A pilot of Korval is not a coward.”
Her face was averted. He squeezed her hand again, and released it, settling carefully back into his chair.
“That supposition is worthy of further study,” he said. “I will look out the Diaries references for you. In the meantime, my child, I suggest that we take a small break to shower and refresh ourselves, and meet back here in an hour. Does that align with your schedule?”
Padi smiled faintly, but with good intent.
“Yes, Father.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Admiral Bunter
“Tolly, I have a question.”
Caught in the act of making a cup of tea, he glanced toward the galley’s ceiling,
“I’ve got a pallet load of questions my own self,” he said conversationally. “Life’s a questionable affair, no denying.”
There was a pause. He finished the transfer from pot to mug, whistling lightly.
“I wish to ask my question of you,” Admiral Bunter said, sounding a little…surprised. “May I do so?”
“Well, now, there’s a conundrum,” he said, leaning his hip against the counter. “Did the two of us ever talk about melant’i?”
“We talked about role models and chains of command. I have access to anthrop
ology texts. Compare and contrast indicates that melant’i is a Liaden cultural artifact comparable to chain of command, entwined with individual honor.”
“Hmm.”
He had a sip of tea.
“That’s a good first approximation,” he said eventually. “I do remember we talked about approximations, and how dangerous it is to make assumptions, cross-culture. Melant’i, now—chain of command…”
He shrugged, frowning down at the floor for a second, before he looked back up to the ceiling.
“You could start thinking about melant’i that way, so long’s you remember that the chain, and command, too, can be the same individual. Also, one person’s melant’i can interact with another person’s melant’i—has to, in fact. Then, there’s group melant’i. And, like you said, it’s all tied up in honor—by which I mean right action—personal, and group, and also, melant’i itself has honor that can be tarnished, or even broken, by wrong action.”
Another pause. Tolly sipped tea.
“This does not appear to be a very useful concept,” Admiral Bunter said. “It is too broad, and it lacks ease of use.”
“No, now, that’s where you’re wrong. Melant’i’s one of the most useful tools in the whole toolbox, once you get the hang of it. Most Terrans don’t bother…well, they’re of your mind, is all it is: too confusing, hard to apply, why make simple things complex? I can see their point, but here’s what I like about melant’i, personally.”
He paused to sip his tea, then looked up to smile at the ceiling.
“What I like about melant’i, particularly, is how easy it makes sorting out complex situations. Me, for instance—I’ve got a complex melant’i, just like everybody does. I’m a manufactured human—a thing that’s not supposed to exist, by law, just like your AIs. ’Case you’re interested, the law I’m a violation of is the Free Gene and Manumitted Human Act.
“So, melant’i-wise, I’m an outlawed thing; a specialist in the field of the training and socialization of autonomous, sentient, self-aware intelligences; an autonomous individual person; an industrial spy; an assassin; a person who has been a prisoner and forced to do…that which he did not agree to; and a person who has escaped his imprisonment…several times.”