Alliance of Equals

by Sharon Lee

  He paused, seeing in his mind’s eye Priscilla leaning a hip against the comm table, her robe wrapt loose and her breasts glowing.

  Really, Shan, have you no sense of self-preservation?

  “Did I wake you?” he asked, dismayed to find that he had lost track of the shifts.

  “No, I woke just before the comm chimed,” she said placidly. “Tell me what else didn’t happen.”

  “You have most of it already. We called upon the ornamental ironworks, as we had been asked to do, in order to discuss our catalog. Though we enjoyed a gay time and a wide-ranging discussion, in the end it was simply found that we could not accommodate each other’s needs. We parted with protestations of goodwill, and presented ourselves at the Luthier’s Hall, where the catalog was also the proposed topic of conversation. There, however, we found much to recommend an association between us, and we’ll be sending down a five-wood sample case.

  “After that, we paused in our labors. Padi had found us a convenable and not entirely ruinous restaurant where we refreshed ourselves with lunch, before making the rest of our calls.

  “The first we called upon regretfully concluded that we should not meet her needs. The second specialized in beads that react to various environmental and chemical conditions by changing colors—not fire gems, but perhaps kin. Padi had an interest there, and might have come to an agreement on the spot, but the firm’s Official Signature was out and about other business. We may call tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, in order to pick up the completed paperwork and to present ourselves properly to the Signature.

  “Our last prospect of the day also was interested in the catalog. We stopped there but briefly. Then, we occupied ourselves by paying cold calls to those shops and halls for which we had not gathered contact cards, leaving infokeys and catalogs at each. When we had accomplished that, we returned to our humble lodgings, where a buffet had been laid. We elected first to bathe, and Vanner has said that he will take his meal in private. Padi and I will meet in a few minutes, in order to plan tomorrow, and talk over today’s business.”

  “It sounds like a great deal of nothing has happened,” Priscilla commented. “In your place, I would have chosen a nap before either a meal or a bath.”

  There was a small pause; he felt her hesitation through their link.

  “Priscilla?”

  “When do you think your tour will be done?” she asked.

  “I believe we will return to the ship on the day after tomorrow,” he said gently. “Pursuing all of this nothing is rather wearying. After we’re back aboard, I may wish to spend a day at the station, if I can bring the stationmaster and the yard boss together with me.”

  “I will be all joy to see you when you return,” Priscilla murmured, and he smiled for the intimate phrase that had become both a joke and a promise between them.

  “It sounds as if Padi is having some success,” Priscilla continued. “How does she go on?”

  “Well. Better, I may admit with no dishonor to the apprentice herself, than I had anticipated.”

  “And you?”

  “I?” He sighed silently, knowing that she would hear it, regardless. “I am…a little tireder than I ought to be. I am growing less and less fond of the taste of grit, but there seems no escaping it for the moment. The protocols I put into place remain strong, even under extreme provocation. I think that our schedule is prudent. Have you spoken to Lina?”

  “I have. We talked over techniques, and we have a plan in place. I’ve made arrangements to be available at need.”

  “Excellent.”

  A silence fell between them. He felt her through their link; the strength of her desire humbled him even as it kindled him. There was nuance, of course: love, tenderness, wistfulness, and, surprisingly, a tiny undercurrent of fear.

  He cleared his throat.

  “I should stop indulging myself and allow you to return to bed,” he said. “I know very well that starship captains have more than nothing to do, even in orbit.”

  She laughed.

  “Oh, yes! Like waiting for the next arrival of the customs cutter, and watching it send out its cameras and measuring drones.”

  “What? No paperwork; no crew crises? You disappoint me.”

  “I’ll try to do better,” she said, with a smile in her voice.

  “See that you do,” he replied, with a smile in his.

  “Good-night, my love,” she said then. “Sleep well. Give my love to Padi.”

  “I will. Dream sweetly, Priscilla,” he answered, and then, soft as a kiss, “Out.”

  —•—

  Padi put the last of the cards down on the table, and reached for her teacup.

  “We have only three calls to make tomorrow,” she said, “and the locations are practically next door to each other. Thank you for verifying that Master Zeldner does have a shop on port.”

  “You’re quite welcome. Do you have a plan of action for tomorrow?”

  “I will call the contacts tomorrow as soon as business opens and arrange appointments early in the day. I propose we make our cold calls in Beesbrikle Section around those appointments, take the light rail to Fralst Section and make cold calls there.”

  “And eat lunch?” Father asked.

  “And eat lunch,” she agreed.

  “Well, it seems a sound enough plan; I leave the details in your capable hands. Now, will you join me at the window for a glass of wine and a discussion of our day? I’m very interested in your impressions.”

  —•—

  “I should have handled the situation with Broker Plishet more…adroitly,” Padi said. She was curled into the chair with her feet under her, a silhouette against the glow from the night glow from the window.

  “I thought you did as well as you might have done,” he commented, when she said nothing more. “He was bent on creating mischief; you prevented that, demonstrated that you were a serious trader, and gave him an honorable way out the situation.” He sipped his wine.

  “To be perfectly frank, master to ’prentice, I’m not certain I would have given him a way out.”

  “He has colleagues and associates on port,” Padi protested. “We might have lost business from those who would not be offended on my behalf.” She sighed and took a gentle sip of wine.

  “Langlast is very promising, after our last several ports,” she said slowly. “I want us to do well.”

  “Commendable,” Shan murmured. “And, I reiterate, you did do well. There was no subtlety you could have deployed which would have turned him from his course.” He raised his glass. “One cannot finesse a sledgehammer.”

  Padi grinned suddenly.

  “I thought I’d been too subtle, when he took so long to pick up the hint about the real merchandise!” she said and chuckled.

  Shan drew in a soft breath at that chuckle, and sipped wine carefully to cover the moment.

  “So, then, we’ll allow that it went as well as it could have gone, and far better than it might have gone. I commend you on your adroitness, your quick thinking, and your control over your temper.”

  Padi tipped her head.

  “You didn’t…do anything, did you, Father?”

  “There was nothing for me to do,” he said calmly.

  She snorted lightly.

  “You let me know his state of mind.”

  “The state of his emotions, say rather. It was a small thing, and he was broadcasting rather loudly.”

  “So my…gift, whatever it comes to be, will—perhaps—enhance my ability to trade.”

  “It may,” he said, moving his shoulders. “It may not. I would venture to say that it will not enhance your ability, though it may be occasionally useful in preventing you from being cheated, or getting hit on the head.”

  She was silent, and he caught a strong edge of wistful aversion.

  “So reluctant to accept your nature, Padi?”

  “I don’t want to be like Aunt Anthora!”

  That came out in a burst of utte
r honestly.

  Shan blinked and leaned forward to put his glass on the table.

  “Now, I was under the impression that you were rather fond of your Aunt Anthora.”

  “I was—I am. But, her gift—the burden of her gift—is too much. It made her so…so…” She flailed briefly for a word, and finally produced—“Odd.”

  Shan sighed.

  “I won’t dispute that your aunt is odd, or that her gift is a heavy one. However, as her fond brother, and her elder, I may say with authority that she has always been odd. Whether her gift has made her odder—with whom would we compare her?”

  Padi was silent. Shan sighed.

  “I think that there is a very good reason why gifts of this sort come to us when we are halfling. Yes, there are hormonal and biologic reasons, but there is also this other reason—by the time we are halflings, our basic nature is formed. Not even the sudden addition of a strange and delightful ability can warp us at the core. Certainly, it’s necessary to adapt, but we adapt constantly—and, may I say, Korval adapts more quickly than many. The arrival of your gift, in whatever form it takes, can only ‘enhance’ you.”

  She doubted it still, he felt it. He also felt her want to believe him.

  “It will be well,” he said, projecting a strong line of comfort. “In fact, I am so certain that it will be well that I propose a wager.”

  She shifted slightly in her chair.

  “What wager?” she asked, with the caution of one who had wagered with him before.

  Shan grinned.

  “I know you for a careful gambler, so instead of a wager, I’ll make a proposal. I propose that, one Standard from this day, you will have accepted your gift entirely, and will scarcely remember a time when you wished it at the devil.”

  After a moment, Padi shook her head.

  “It’s a fine proposal, Father, and one that I would like to embrace, but—what if that’s not the case?”

  Shan took a careful breath, for this was a gamble, indeed.

  “As it happens, while your gift will not diminish you—and this I believe utterly”—he allowed his conviction to reach her through their link—“you can choose to be diminished.

  “So, if you will have it as a wager in truth, here is the opposite side of the coin: if, in one Standard year, it is not as I have proposed, I will myself take you to the Healers, and we will together petition them to seal your gift away, and cast the memory of having held it into the deep mists of forgetting.”

  Padi gasped.

  “The Healers—that is possible?”

  “In some few cases—I would expect that your Aunt Anthora is one of them, and your Uncle Ren Zel another—it is not possible, but in most…yes, it can be done. There are, naturally, risks and consequences to taking such an action. These will be explained to you, thoroughly, if you petition the Healers for this thing.”

  Padi was silent; he could feel the weight of her thought, and was silent, sipping his wine reflectively.

  “I accept,” she said all at once, and Terran-wise, leaned toward him with her hand held out.

  Shan met her, noting how chill her flesh was, and solemnly shook.

  “Done,” he said.

  —•—

  “Tolly Jones, I believe that your action of repulsing her offer of comfort and assistance has placed Pilot Hazenthull’s honor into a compromised state. In order to redeem her melant’i, the very last thing she may do is to turn aside from her purpose. She will pursue you, and neutralize your enemies; she will accept your thanks, whereupon she will slay you.”

  Tolly looked up from his reader, frowning.

  “What in deep space’ve you been reading?”

  “The Rejected Lover, in three acts,” the Admiral told him. He had been excited to read this particular play; it seemed to speak immediately to the situation between Tolly and Pilot Haz.

  “The Rejected Lover? The most famous melant’i play never written by a Liaden?”

  Admiral Bunter hesitated, checked his reference, and the front matter of the play itself.

  “My source indicates otherwise.”

  Tolly tipped his head.

  “What’s your source?”

  “Square Truth: The One Hundred Forty-Four Most Influential Melant’i Plays, written by Patrick S. Bagley, Professor of Exotic Art Forms.”

  “Well, there’s your problem, right there. That book’s nothing but one long exercise in cultural misunderstanding, start to finish. Made the professor a deal of money, back in the day, ’cause he got it assigned as a textbook to all the drama departments, and the anthropology departments in all the schools in his university system. Lot of his colleagues said nice things about him and his book because now that there was a Terran book, written by a Terran, they didn’t have to read any more scary and uncomfortable Liaden criticism. Didn’t much matter to them whether most of the content of the book was factual—which it wasn’t—or made up directly outta Professor Bagley’s head—which it was.”

  “It is a false book? A fiction?”

  “A false book, but not fiction; it’s just wrong.”

  “And the play?”

  Tolly sighed.

  “Many critics agree—which, mostly you’ll find that they don’t—that the play’s a bad play, whether it’s read by a Liaden or a Terran. It was written by a Terran named Kenner Earbass, ’way back a hundred Standards or more, as part of his novel. The novel got forgotten pretty quick, but the play has a life of its own. Been plenty of thoughtful criticism of it in the Liaden literature. You might wanna crossref. Just a suggestion, understand. I’m not your mentor.”

  Admiral Bunter hesitated before he spoke, taking care to soften his voice.

  “I wish you would be.”

  “I’m not completely against the idea myself. But I don’t see it happening, so long as our relative melant’is are in a state of jailor/prisoner. If you’d like to change your intention to take me to Nostrilia and turn me over to the Lyre Institute authority there, then I’m pretty sure we can return to terms that are more comfortable for both of us.”

  “No.”

  The word was spoken in the flat voice of the core itself.

  Tolly did not speak, though he did fold his hands atop the table, his eyes alert, and a slight frown on his face.

  Deliberately, Admiral Bunter produced a sound that mimicked a human sigh, hoping it would cover his dismay.

  His most profound dismay.

  “I believe,” he said, as if it did not concern him in the least, “that Inki set a core mandate.”

  “Yeah,” Tolly agreed. “Sounds like that’s exactly what she did.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Admiral Bunter

  Inki had betrayed him.

  That was not a pleasant thought, but there was no escaping the logic of it, nor the truth. Inki had set a core mandate, scrubbed his memory of that operation, and planted a false memory in which she had explained the many crimes Tollance Berik-Jones had brought against his rightful employers, and gained the Admiral’s free agreement to transport this pirate to justice.

  Short of allowing himself to be archived, he could not override a core mandate, and Admiral Bunter had no intention of allowing himself to be archived. Obviously, a mentor with core codes could create such a mandate, therefore, it might be possible for a mentor with core codes to remove one.

  “Might” came from Analytics, which proposed that treacherous Inki might well have set traps, or placed blocks around her work, that could cause damage, were they disturbed.

  If Inki had core codes, the Admiral proposed in turn, might not Tolly Jones have the same?

  “Unless she is a fool,” Analytics replied, “which observation indicates that she is not, Mentor Inki would certainly have removed Mentor Tolly’s access codes.”

  That was, paradoxically, a relief. While the Admiral wanted very much to have the mandate removed so that he had full control of himself, he did not want anyone else to hold his core codes. He had not t
hought—but of course he had not thought. The core protected itself; the mentors would have taken very great care not to mention the existence of such codes.

  Protocol pinged.

  “In a properly concluded operation, the mentor in charge would have, at the end of mentoring, returned the codes to the student, who could then destroy them, or lock them away in case of future need.”

  In which case, the Admiral thought, the prudent student would change the codes before locking them away, in case the mentor had planned one last test.

  Inki…

  Would Inki have left him the codes?

  He considered that closely. This betrayal—this series of betrayals was…not simple. In fact, it seemed that Inki had done her utmost to leave an answer for each of her treacheries. She had been compelled, according to the message she had left for Tolly, to perform certain actions, and in some manner it seemed that each treachery created a space in which she could, and did, act, moderately, for its nullification.

  Given the pattern of her actions—Inki would have kept the codes.

  Because, he thought, she was not done with him. Was it to her benefit to allow him to pursue his own existence, once he had worked her will and seen Tolly Jones delivered into the hands of those he feared?

  What other mandate had Inki set into the core?

  That question was so unsettling that he did, for an entire minute, consider allowing himself to be archived.

  “A clean backup was made, and stored,” Protocol said, thrusting the spectre of suicide aside. He did not remember a backup being made, but he was tainted; who knew what Inki had caused him to forget—or recall?

  “Location,” he demanded of Protocol, but Analytics answered.

  “There is no backup.”

  “It was made!” Protocol snapped, and opened the memory to them.

  “It was destroyed,” Ethics said. “I protested it. The mentor stated that in a true test of integrity, strength, and creativity, the student is granted no props to lean upon, nor comforts, nor any easy exit to a minor difficulty.”