Lee, Sharon & Miller, Steve - Liaden Books 1-9

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  Relax, he told himself gently. Stop thinking so hard. This was Edger's ship; likely it would take a Battlewagon a week to break in, if there were trouble. He had security, safety – for the moment. For the next week or two. He was secure. He could relax.

  Carefully, refusing to look at the flowing floor, he crossed to the opposite wall and sat on the wide upholstered shelf. He lay down after a moment and began to review the plans he'd had for helping Miri, wondering if that were the mission the Loop was figuring.

  No, he reminded himself, you're at low energy. Training tells you to be at your best before attempting long-range planning. Relax.

  Closing his eyes, he reached for the simple relaxation drill he'd learned as a Scout cadet, so long ago: Recall the colors of the rainbow, one-by-one, and assign each a special property. Relax the body somewhat, then the mind; relax the body more and the relaxed mind would relax still further. Using that as a beginning, one could go to sleep, set goals, or enter special states for study, review, or reflex-reaction control.

  Relax. He began the ritual, lying quietly, hands loose at his sides. Visualize the color red. Red is the color of physical relaxation…

  It took concentration, with the other colors flashing in his head. Red. He held it before his mind's eye, using it to relax tight chest muscles; he felt the warmth of his blood, flowing; he eased tense neck muscles, then leg muscles – and moved on with the technique. He saw through the colors flickering behind his eyes, seeing only the color he desired as he went through the layers, relaxing physically, mentally, physically, mentally.

  He felt as if he were floating, barely conscious of the comforting pressure of cloth and leather against his skin.

  Mentally, he approached the switch level, the depth of mind where he might assign his concentration to a project or merely go to sleep, if he chose that path.

  His thought was focused on the color violet – the end of the rainbow. Behind the color another image began to form unbidden, undesired. He tried to suppress it, but it grew more vivid. He recognized the sequence; one of the training-review programs from The Lectures, the series of tortures and teachings that had graduated him from Scout to spy. Too late, he thought to break the rainbow's spell; found himself locked in, forced to watch: There. Before him: People dying. His targets. His victims.

  That program rated the efficiency of kills; it was not supposed to impose itself after training.

  But it was rating his last fight.

  The man shot in the eye: That was rated highly efficient; the shoulders of a crawling man protect the heart and lungs, and a spine shot is unlikely.

  The woman who had half-crouched: That was efficient, slightly off-center to the left in the chest. Even if not a death-shot, she would be out of action for the duration of the incident.

  Now he was swept fully into the review: five, six, seven, ten, twelve – every shot he'd taken to save Miri, to save himself, all those people, dead yet recalled so vividly. Not many poor-risk shots, not many misses. Dead people. Blood on the floor, on the wall. The knife throw at the hidden assassin was rated circumstantially excellent: that man and the woman should have been shot.

  No! That was Miri!

  Relentlessly, the training-review went on, driving Val Con further and further into the dead past.

  The walk to the control room convinced Miri of several things. One was that her shirt felt indecently delicious against her: soft and comfortable and erotic all at once.

  Another was that the sheer size of Edger's ship hadn't really hit her before. So far she'd passed a room that was half swimming pool and half lawn, and another room that was a gigantic sleeping compartment.

  The third thing she'd become convinced of was that the strange effects – the colors and the shifting fuzziness of things – were real. They were nothing like the hallucinogens she'd taken years ago, nor did they bear any resemblance to the truly weird stuff that had happened in her head that time she'd been poison-speared in the leg.

  Comfortable in her certainty, she stepped into the control room – and stopped.

  Val Con was not at the board.

  She tried to ignore the strange colors of the floors and walls, the odd rainbows snowing out of the crystal in the center of the… it was hard to define things with all this change going on. She scanned the room again.

  There! He was lying on one of the long slab seats, but he hardly looked restful. In fact, he looked poisoned, somehow, transfixed – muscles all in stark relief, mouth grimacing, eyes screwed shut.

  Miri approached slowly and stood frowning over him. His fists were clenched, she noted. He was breathing.

  "Hey, Tough Guy!"

  There was no response.

  "Pay attention to me!" she tried, raising her voice.

  Nothing.

  She put her hand on his shoulder. "C'mon, Tough Guy, this is important!" She shook the shoulder, lightly at first, then hard.

  "Tough Guy! Let's go!" The command voice didn't work – and that was bad.

  He was sweating, the renegade lock of hair plastered tight across his forehead, his face a muddy beige color.

  Miri bit her lip and felt for the pulse in his wrist. It was strong and steady, but fast. That was all right for now, but it wouldn't stay that way if he didn't come out of it soon.

  She yanked on his arm, pulling him into a sitting position, hoping to see a reaction. Any reaction.

  Nothing.

  "Val Con!" she cried, using her voice as a whip, making his name a command to return. "Val Con!"

  He did not respond.

  She swore, softly and with feeling, recognizing battle shock, otherwise known as hysterical paralysis. She'd seen enough of it to know the symptoms – and the cure.

  Some people could be pulled out easily, by a familiar voice calling their name. Other people required more drastic measures. Pain, physical and immediate, worked best.

  She hurled herself forward, shouting in his face. "Val Con!"

  Nothing. Not so much as a stutter in the rapid rhythm of his breathing.

  She stepped back, surveying the logistical problems. Several approaches seemed to guarantee certain death, assuming that this patient recovered with the quick completeness of the patients she'd treated in the past.

  Probably he'd recover much, much faster.

  In the end she decided for a kick to the shoulder, hoping the spin would have her out of range before he snapped out of it.

  She tried calling his name and shaking him again, just in case the gods had had a change of heart, then took a deep breath and kicked out, spinning as she connected, moving to the left –

  The impact hit her with the force of an enhanced bull-whip, smacking her and rocking her; her left arm was a dead thing, hanging useless in the socket. He was coming and she dodged; she knew he would grab her and as he threw her she began to roll, going with it, eating momentum with each revolution, trying to stay tucked with the arm that was dead – and slammed against the far wall, breath exploding out of her in a cry.

  Far away, she heard a sound that might have been her name.

  Tired, she thought carefully. He was tired. That was why she was still alive.

  "Miri!"

  She pried her eyes open and rolled awkwardly to sit against the wall, arm still numb. He was kneeling at her side, close enough to touch, and the muddy agony was gone from his face.

  "I'm okay," she said, willing it to be so.

  The horror eased from his face, but a tightness around the eyes remained. "Forgive me…" He let his voice fade away, shaking his head.

  She tried a grin, to which he responded not at all.

  "Hey, everybody makes mistakes," she said. She eased herself against the wall, gritting her teeth as sensation began to return to her arm, and laid her good hand on his sleeve. "How 'bout getting me a drink of water, friend?"

  He rose and moved away. She leaned back and closed her eyes, trying to gauge from the quality of the pain whether or not her arm was broken.


  Some obscure sense nudged her and she opened her eyes to find him kneeling beside her again, wordlessly offering a mug.

  The water was cold, which felt luxuriously good on a raw throat. She set the empty mug on the floor at her side, and the grin she offered him this time was nearly real. "Thanks."

  He did not reply; the horror was a shadow lurking far back in his eyes. "Miri, how can you be my friend?"

  "Well," she allowed, shifting her shoulders, "it is more of a challenge some days than others."

  But he was having no part of humor. She sighed and moved her arm, flexing the fingers. Not broken, then.

  "You should have taken the ship without me," he told her.

  "I don't waste my friends," she snapped. "And you were standing there, risking bloody mayhem because you figured me at less than a Standard and you had less – and didn't care!" She shook her head. "Tell me why you did that – why you saved my life this past three or thirteen times. No reason for you to be my friend!

  And I lied to you," she added, after a moment. "Tried to run out and leave you to die."

  "You did not know. And it is reasonable that my life expectancy be shorter than yours. You go into battle, fight an enemy pointed at you as you are pointed at him, collect your fee, and move on. Should you meet an old adversary in a bar a Standard or ten or twenty hence, what would ensue?"

  "Huh? I'd probably buy him a drink, and then he'd buy me one, and we'd be cryin' into our third about the good old days."

  "Exactly. Were I in the same position, however, my old acquaintance would immediately renew hostilities. With every assignment, I add one or two such enemies. Sooner or later, my luck will be down, while the luck of a person I wronged in the past will be up, and I will die. As such things go, I am on the wrong side of the wager – three years is a long time for a spy to live."

  "You're telling me you're waiting to be gunned down?" She eyed him in disbelief.

  He shook his head. "No. I was chosen to be who – what I am now because I am a survivor. I fight when there are no odds at all in my favor. I manage to stay alive, somehow, some way. It's a good trait in a Scout. Apparently it is essential in a spy." He tipped his head. "You still have not told me why you brought me with you, when you fear me, when you could have come alone."

  "I told you: I don't waste my friends. Even a friend who's crazy, or who could kill me."

  "No!" His reply was too sharp, too quick.

  Miri raised her eyebrows. "No? Well, you're the odds-man." She laid her ringers lightly on his forehead. He flinched away and she shook her head. "I don't think they did you any favor, putting that thing in your head. No wonder you're crazy."

  She shifted again, raising her arm above her head. She felt as good as new, except for an ache high in the shoulder and another that spoke of bruised ribs when she breathed deeply. "Help an old lady get up?"

  He stood and bent, settled his hands about her waist, and lifted her easily to her feet.

  Fighting dizzy nausea, she made a grab for his arms and dropped her head forward against his shoulder. He held her patiently, and she suddenly noted how good his hands felt on her, how soft his shirt was and how warm, with the warmth of the skin beneath.

  She pushed away and he let her go, though he stayed at her side as she walked across the room to the table, which was getting bigger and smaller in a rhythm she could almost hear.

  "I think we both better get some solid, old-fashioned sleep," she told him. "Sleeping rooms down that hall. I'll show you."

  She turned, staggered, and would perhaps have fallen, except he was there, hand on her elbow. The instant she was steady he withdrew his support and she turned to look at him fully.

  Horror still lurked in his eyes. She was suddenly struck with a fear that it would never leave them.

  Reaching out, she tucked her arm through his, pretend- ing not to feel the slight withdrawal. "Maybe we'll do better if we lean on each other, huh?"

  He did not answer, though he let her hold onto him and thus force him along the hallway.

  She glanced at his face. "Val Con yos'Phelium, Second Speaker for Clan Korval."

  "Yes."

  "Who's First Speaker?" she asked, firmly ignoring the kaleidoscopic hijinks the walls and floor were indulging in.

  "My sister Nova."

  "Yeah? What's Second Speaker do?"

  He almost smiled. "What the First Speaker commands." There was a slight pause before he elaborated. "Second Speaker has no power, except if the First Speaker is unable to perform her duties. In that situation, the Second Speaker takes these upon himself until the First Speaker is again able or until another has been chosen."

  "How do you choose a First Speaker?" Miri persisted. "By age? Nova's older than you?"

  "Nova is younger, a bit. Shan is eldest. He had been First Speaker after – after Uncle Er Thorn died. But he is a Trader, you see, so he trained Nova for the task and then refused Second, saying he would be off-world too often." His voice was almost back to normal. "Nova is best choice for First: she is on Liad most of the time and is a Rememberer, which is an aid when speaking for the Clan before the Clans."

  "You ain't on Liad much, are you? How come you drew second slot?"

  He actually smiled. "It gives Nova just cause to complain that I am so seldom at home."

  She laughed and nodded at a shimmering doorway. "Here we go."

  They entered and he allowed her to lead him to the bed, finally retrieving his arm as she sat, feet swinging high off the floor. He turned to go.

  "Val Con."

  One eyebrow tilted as he looked back; the horror was still there.

  She waved at the bed. "You're beat too, remember? That's what started this whole thing. And this bed's big enough for all the Gyrfalks to sleep on and not be crowded." She grinned. "Your honor's safe with me."

  He shadow-smiled, sighed, and came back. "All right."

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stroked the coverlet and glanced at the woman who already lay curled, eyes closed.

  "Miri?"

  Her eyes flicked open. "Yeah?"

  "Thank you for your care. I was – trapped – in my thoughts…"

  "No problem. Used to have to do it three-four times a year. Part of the joys of being a sergeant. Now go to sleep, okay? And turn off the light, if you can figure out how it works."

  He laughed softly. "Yes, Sergeant," he murmured. He waved a slim hand over the flat plate set high in the wall above the bed. The light dimmed to two glowing bulbs, one red and one blue, miming alien moons.

  He lay atop the coverlet, staring at them, afraid to close his eyes…

  "Go to sleep, kid," Miri grumped at him.

  Obediently, Val Con closed his eyes.

  And slept.

  He woke, unsure of what had called him back, and lay listening, eyes closed. Silence – no. The sound of someone breathing in sleep, nearby. His right arm was numb and appeared to be pinned.

  He opened his eyes.

  There was Miri, face drowned in sleep, head resting on his right arm, one hand beside her cheek, fingers clutching his sleeve.

  He felt a surprising twist of something sharp in the center of his chest – painful, yet not painful. He clamped his teeth to contain the gasp and took several deep, slow breaths. The sensation became less sharp, though it remained, warm and cold together.

  He had never seen her face at rest before; he noted the slim brows that curved above the lightly lashed eyes, and the spangle of freckles across her nose, spilling here and there onto her cheeks. Her full mouth was smiling faintly, as if what she dreamed pleased her.

  Beautiful Miri, he thought and was surprised at the thought, even as he extended a hand to stroke her cheek.

  Six hours before, he had tried to kill her.

  He snatched his hand back, fist clenched, and flung his mind away, seeking that which had awakened him.

  The ship has ceased its labor.

  He shifted slightly. "Miri."

  She stirred, l
ashes flickering, and tried to settle her head more firmly on his arm.

  "Mira," he repeated. "Wake up."

  The gray eyes flicked open, regarding him softly for the space of a heartbeat before they sharpened. "Why?"

  "The ship has stopped, and I require the use of my arm."

  She frowned, released his shirt, and twisted to a sitting position with a cat's awkward grace. "Stopped? Are we there?"

  "No," he said, trying to rub feeling back into his numb arm. "The ship rests after eight hours in drive, Watcher said. It is out of drive now, which means we have four hours in normal space to recalibrate and measure and make necessary adjustments." A needling sensation signaled the return of utility to his arm; he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and dropped lightly to the floor.

  Miri surveyed the room. The psychedelic effects seemed to have stopped while they slept, and she thanked the gods for their favor. She slid across the bed and jumped down. "Well, what're we waiting for? Are we going to the control room or ain't we?"

  She stared at the navigation tank for several minutes before she walked over to the board and sat astride one of the benches, facing her partner.

  "Val Con?"

  He flicked a glance at her, then returned to the board. "Yes."

  "Umm – I ain't a pilot or a navigator, so maybe I'm missing something, but – ain't that the same star pattern we were in when this tub went into drive?"

  He sighed and straightened a little on the bench to ease his back. "No, not exactly. We are actually four light-years from Prime." He bent forward to check a dial and moved his eyes to her face again, half-smiling. "Or, put another way: We've just reached Terran short-Jump."

  "What!" She stared at him, suddenly suspicious. "You're laughing at me."

  He held up his hands. "No – or at us. Clutch ships are slow – rather like Clutch people. I don't remember how it is exactly that their drive works – one of those things people make you study but there isn't any real use for it…" He pushed three knobs in sequence, glancing up at the tank. "But it does work on an entirely different principle than Terran or Liaden ships – Electron Substitution Drive. For whatever good a name may do."

  "Like saying you understand how a Terran ship works because of the Congruency Flaw," she agreed, frowning absently at the tank. "Boss, it's gonna take us a hundred years to get out of the sector."