A Passage of Stars

by Kate Elliott

  The corridor she entered was unnumbered and unnamed. But from here just one last alley would bring her to the section where she had landed.

  The alley was old, broad, and inhabited. Once she stumbled over a child, lying in a shadowed patch of the path. After that she went more slowly. A low, cracked voice begged for a drink. Far ahead, someone screamed. A family had gathered in an open seal that led into a patchworked hovel of one room, plastine ribbing covering old leaks. Bunks crowded two walls; at the third stood a low altar. When they saw Lily, they slid the seal shut. The green phosphorous torches that usually lit, however poorly, the alleys gave way to the inconstant flickering of red. Lily could scarcely see her hands. The screaming, half-sobs now, sounded from just beyond the corner. She paused.

  Sounds of a struggle, but an unequal one. Someone striking someone else. A determined but useless resistance. Threats: prison, rape, death.

  Lily came around the corner. In the first instant she saw three thugs beating and kicking and ripping the clothes off a child. In the second instant she saw that it was a girl, profusely tattooed, and that the child was fighting with all the frenzy of hopeless panic.

  “—think you’re too good for this kind of work,” said the man nearest Lily as he struck the girl across the face. “Getting above yourself, I’d say.” He saw Lily.

  She took him out cleanly, before he could react, doubling him over with a kick, striking to the head. He fell heavily to the floor. The tattooed girl shrieked and bit the arm of the woman who was holding her. The other man, jumping back, drew a short blade.

  “Let her go,” said Lily.

  The woman kicked the girl in the ribs, jerking her arm away, and launched herself at Lily. Lily sidestepped and pushed her into the wall, on the same beat spun backward and kicked the knife out of the other man’s hand. He hesitated. Lily snapped a kick hard into his groin. As he doubled up, grunting, she drove a final kick up into his chin—“Let the momentum go through your target,” Heredes would say—and felt the impact, the shattering of bone. With a high scream of pain, the man fell in a heap clutching his jaw.

  The girl had grabbed the knife; now she shouted a warning. Lily felt a hand grip her shoulder; she spun into it with an elbow straight to the woman’s face, and with her hips still turning, a punch solid to the belly. The woman fell, retching.

  Lily grabbed the girl’s arm, pulling her to her feet. “Come on,” she said.

  “Shouldna we—” The girl gestured with the knife. The first man shifted on the ground; the woman caught her breath.

  “Run,” said Lily, and she ran, tugging the girl along behind her.

  They had to push through a group of onlookers. None hindered them, but Lily did not stop until they came out of the alley into the wild disorder of the corridor. She let go of the girl’s arm and strolled as if undisturbed toward the berth the brothers had put into. The girl followed two steps behind her. When they came to an awning that sheltered three children and a rack of knee-length tunics, Lily paused, un-clipping her com-screen.

  “Now,” she said. “I’ll buy you something to replace that—” She halted, staring.

  The girl stood in the corner of the shop’s portico, shielding herself as well as she could from the street. She had stuck the knife under her belt and with both hands held together her torn shift to cover her abdomen and breasts. The three children had run into the shop, so the girl stood alone under the incandescence of a lighting tube.

  She was beautiful, despite, or perhaps because of, the branching intricacy of the tattoos on her face and body. She had that peculiar transparent loveliness that can settle on the most unlikely adolescents, giving them an uncanny quality of perfection. An edge of cloth slipped to reveal the budding swell of a breast, swirled with the yellow and rose and soft green pattern that marked her throat and face.

  “That were fast,” said the girl in a matter-of-fact voice that held no self-consciousness.

  “What was?”

  “That fight were. Whoosh, and gone.”

  “It seemed slow to me.” Lily looked pointedly at the rack of clothing. “We’d better get you some new clothes.”

  “Why?” said the girl.

  “You can’t go around in something that’s ripped to pieces—”

  “Why’d you help me?” The girl’s voice had a husky quality much older than her years.

  “I couldn’t let them—” Lily faltered. “Whatever they meant to do.”

  “They meant to sell me to ya man from B run, as a bed girl. But I wouldna have it.”

  “Sell you? That’s against the law.”

  The girl regarded Lily with disbelief. “Sure, it be against ya law. Be you supposing that ya Security bothers to protect us tattoos?” She shook her head, a wise old soul marking the illusions of the innocent.

  Lily, abashed, and knowing that it was perfectly true that prejudice against the Ridanis extended to a double standard in protecting them from such abuses, looked away.

  “Anyways,” Paisley continued defiantly, “I got my pride. I mean to be ya technician.”

  This choice of vocation surprised Lily enough that she glanced up, appraising the girl. “Better you than me.”

  Now the girl looked surprised. “You don’t think it be loony?”

  “No, I don’t. Though I don’t suppose it will be easy. Now would you choose one of these tunics?”

  “Sure,” said the girl cheerfully, stepping forward to thumb through the rack, drawing out immediately the most expensive sleeveless tunic. “You can call me Paisley. I like ya one.”

  “Fine,” said Lily. The shopkeeper came out, the transfer of credits quickly accomplished. Paisley, meanwhile, had changed garments by the simple expedient of putting the new one on over the old and ripping the old one off until it lay in tatters around her feet. The knife had disappeared.

  “Sure.” She smoothed the fabric down with one hand. “I do like this.”

  “I have to go,” said Lily. “Can you get back to your family all right?”

  Instantly the stubborn expression settled in the girl’s face. “Don’t have none,” she declared. “Turned me out. See, I got as much time in ya eddication networks as I could sneak, and I tested and got ya good enough marks to get me into ya school, but ya school said it be not fitting for ya tattoo to set in ya same room with ya unmarked students. Sure, and supposing thems parents were to find out—wouldna none of thems be coming back to ya school after it be known ya tattoo were allowed in.”

  Lily winced. “I’m sorry. I really am. It’s wrong. But I have to go. Will you be all right?”

  “Sure.” Paisley pulled at one of the crop of bead-encrusted braids that surrounded her face. “I be going with you.”

  “You can’t go with me.”

  “You in trouble? I know every way around here.”

  Lily raised her hands, lowered them. “I’m sorry, Paisley, Good-bye.” She turned and walked away down the corridor.

  Paisley followed her, padding along three meters behind, not at all chastened. By pretending to be going on and breaking suddenly into the lock, Lily managed to get the door shut before Paisley could react. She saw, briefly, a look so close to desolation on the girl’s face as the door slid to that she almost reopened the lock then and there, feeling that she had somehow succumbed to the same prejudice that oppressed the Ridanis throughout the Reft.

  But she needn’t have worried. When she reappeared with Bach and her duffel bag, Paisley had not moved. The girl’s face brightened when she saw Lily, shifting to astonishment as Bach floated out behind.

  “Sure,” she breathed, staring at the robot. “And glory.”

  “Hoy,” said Lily. “Okay. Get me to M2 as fast as you can. I’ll pay you for it.”

  The girl stiffened. “It ain’t payment. It ain’t right to offer me credit. It be poor of you.” Then, seeing that she had caught Lily off-guard, she smiled. “So come on. I can get you there in three alleys. Quick as ya vacuum through ya leak.”

&
nbsp; “Pleasant thought,” muttered Lily.

  “But you got to introduce me.”

  “Introduce you?”

  “To ya ’bot.”

  “His name is Bach. Can we go?”

  Paisley made a solemn movement halfway between a bow and a curtsey. “Much pleased, min Bach. I be Paisley.” Bach winked lights and made a muted response. “And you?” She looked at Lily.

  “My name’s Ransome. Now are you going to show us or not?”

  “Sure,” replied Paisley, cheerful again. “Just got to get all squared between us, min Ransome. Seeing as you saved my kinnas and now got my service. Till it be returned, a’course.”

  “Your kinnas?”

  But Paisley was already off.

  She traveled at a run. For one so slender, she had remarkable stamina. Bach had trouble keeping up, and in the locks, he invariably lost his equilibrium and rolled upside down. It did indeed take only three alleys—the longest of which was completely empty, barely lit, and resonant with low hisses and echoing footsteps—one inconvenience with four Security personnel, and two importunate drug dealers to reach M2 section and berth 11. The entire corridor was deserted.

  “Night cycle,” said Paisley succinctly as she stared at berth 11’s com-panel. “Why you want in here?”

  A muffled beep sounded, and the light on the panel changed to yellow.

  “Hoy,” breathed Lily. She whistled a brief command to Bach. He skimmed out to the far wall, opposite the lock. Lily edged out along the wall. When Paisley began to follow, she halted, turning her head.

  “Get to the other side,” Lily hissed. “I’m going in.”

  The tattooed girl nodded. “What for?”

  “A man.”

  “Sure,” said the girl, her eyes wide with excitement and understanding. She pushed away from the wall and darted down the corridor.

  Another beep; the lock door began to open. Lily stepped out away from the wall and moved closer to the opening lock as if she were simply a passerby. The quick, low exchange of two people conversing sifted out on the air, and one stepped out.

  At such close quarters, it—he?—was incontrovertibly alien, as tall as a sta but much thinner, pallid with the suggestion of colors under the skin. Scant yellow hair, not quite like hair, crowned him. He was nothing she had ever seen before.

  His glance, sweeping the corridor, seized up abruptly and obviously on Bach. He spoke words to someone unseen behind him and fell into a crouch. From his side he drew some weapon. Aimed it at Bach.

  Lily threw herself on him, knocking him down; as they both fell, she flung herself onto one shoulder and rolled in a somersault up to her feet. He lay sprawled, reaching for his gun. Paisley darted forward, grabbed the weapon, and ran on. Lily turned, to face the doorway, turned—

  A force like a solid wall of wind struck her. It spun her around as if an arm had shoved her back and sideways. She saw a tall, painfully thin figure in the lock door, weapon in hand. There was a piercing brilliance and a cry from Paisley. Bach began to sing. A hammer came down on her like a fall of rocks and she knew nothing more.

  5 Paisley’s Story

  LILY WOKE TO THE sound of her own voice, a faint, peculiar counterpoint to the dull ache in her head.

  “… nevertheless this matter of gathering firewood for the school remained unresolved,” she heard herself say.

  “What be firewood?” asked a new voice.

  Lily sat up, immediately regretted it. “Ah,” she said—felt herself say this time—bringing a hand to her forehead.

  “Min Ransome!” The second voice raised considerably, a lance aggravating the pain. “Want ya water?”

  “Quiet,” said Lily. Reconsidered the phrase. “I want quiet.” About four meters away, leaning against the opposite wall, sat Paisley. She held a metal flask in one hand as if frozen in the act of handing it over. Next to her hovered Bach. He rotated a quarter-turn and sang a muted question.

  “My head hurts,” replied Lily. “But I think I’m all here.”

  “I got ya food and water,” whispered Paisley. “Might help.”

  “Hoy,” said Lily, but she reached and took containers from the girl and drank and ate. Bach and Paisley waited, patient as only robots, those long used to poverty, and true hunters can be.

  Lily rose gently to her feet and paced out their cell. About four meters by four meters of grey wall, so high ceilinged that it seemed out of proportion. A door-shaped seam was in one wall, with a recessed control panel next to it, encased behind plastine. She sat down finally and looked at Bach.

  “I didn’t know you could do that,” she said.

  A rising second from Bach.

  “Do what?” asked Paisley.

  Lily took another drink from the flask. “My voice.”

  Bach sang, Thy voice know I best.

  “What’d he say?” asked Paisley.

  “Sure,” said Bach, the girl’s voice now, “and glory.”

  Paisley shrieked and started away from him, then giggled.

  Lily whistled a long phrase.

  “What’d that mean?” demanded Paisley. “If he kin talk, why’s he make ya music? Why don’t you just talk to him?”

  Bach sang back to Lily and she smiled faintly, looking at Paisley. Against the grey monotony, the girl’s tattoos seemed muted. “At first, when I found Bach, it was the only way we had to communicate. By the music. Later of course I discovered he knew Standard, and he got into the computers, and it would have been easier, sure it would have, but less of a challenge. And much less efficient for Bach.”

  “Oke,” said Paisley, trying to look wise. “Maybe, I guess.”

  “Consider this,” continued Lily, “it keeps me sharp, staying in that kind of practice. And the two of us can communicate and no one else can understand us.”

  “Sure.” The girl found firm ground here. “Like ya hand talk. No one else knows.”

  “Right.” Paisley beamed like a student just given the day’s gold star. “After all,” Lily finished, “the extra effort gives you the advantage.”

  Paisley nodded sagely, surveying Bach with a more calculating eye. “Once we scam here, we could haul ya fast imperial.”

  Bach sang, If thou pleasest, couldst thou translate?

  “Does that mean theft?” asked Lily.

  “Oke much!” said Paisley, growing enthusiastic. “With min Bach we could run ya real—” She faltered. Bach was singing in a dissonant key to Lily, who frowned. “I didn’t mean it!” cried Paisley. “I just—” She caught her breath. “I really do want to be ya tech. Honest lock. Not nothing else. Glory hang me if it ain’t true.”

  Lily blinked. “I believe you. It just occurred to me that to—ah—scam this place we might have to burglarize our way out. Out of wherever we are. Both of you”—her gaze fixed them together—“I need a complete description of everything that happened. Everything you saw, or think you saw, or heard.”

  “We be gone,” said Paisley. “You went down, min Bach went all bright, so I couldna see. One of ya boyos grabbed me and I couldna shake loose and he dragged me in.” She appeared, for an instant, forlorn, but her face brightened. “But I lit fussy, sure,” she concluded.

  The young lady did most commendably bite, kick, scratch, and scream. God in Heaven alone knoweth what alarms her commotion raised down the section. As thou wast interred within the vessel, it seemed most prudent to me to follow. At this time seven Kapellan crew members arrived at the lock.

  Lily whistled for an interruption, and Bach closed his phrase elegantly. “What did you call them?”

  They register to the description of Kapellans, an alien sentient bipedal species native to a star system near the one which humans once referred to in the common Terran usage as Kapella. However, according to all current information in my data banks, their presence in this sector of space is anomalous, therefore—He halted abruptly midphrase.

  The ship shifted like a great animal beneath them. Bach rolled slightly in the air. Pais
ley lunged out with a hand to steady herself. The watch call echoed above them, three short chimes, one long one, and a brief spoken phrase.

  Vectoring to window, sang Bach. Thou desirest estimate?

  “Yes.”

  I transpose. Window transition will occur in twelve minutes.

  “What’s for eating?” Paisley’s attempt at a calm voice failed. She had shrunk against the wall, one hand tugging her shift in an unconscious gesture down over her wildly patterned knees.

  “We’re going over,” said Lily grimly. “I can’t have been out that long. They must have got to Tagalong. Hoy. They must have power.”

  “We on ya road?” Paisley’s eyes widened. “I never thought.”

  Bach sank down to the grey floor next to Lily.

  You mentioned them before. She put a hand on his cold metal surface. “Kapellans.” She tried the word slowly in speech.

  “What?” Paisley pushed herself upright and walked across the cell to sit beside Lily.

  “Imperial class ship,” Lily muttered. “Anomalous. This sector—sector?—of space. Therefore what, Bach?”

  Therefore data doth not compute. Thou wilst find nevertheless that it alone fits the required specifications.

  There was a silence. Paisley pulled a comb out from her mass of braids and, unraveling a slender plait near one ear, combed the hair out, a cupped hand holding loosed beads, and began braiding it again.

  “What happened after we were all in the lock?” asked Lily.

  “See,” said Paisley, her deft fingers unslacking in their task, “we was all on, so I stopped fussing and started looking. Ya boyos didna like me much. They let me go and herded me, much as they could. Just corridors, smaller’n Station. Closed doors. I counted, though. I could scam us out easy as frilled back, honest lock. Didna hear naught. Saw three of ya boyos in different clothes off to one place. None more. They tossed us here. Bit later we hooked off from Station. Noisy, that. And here we be.”