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

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  "A cup of wine, Ran Eld, if you please—and a saucer of soup, if any remains."

  Provided with these, she tasted her wine before turning her attention to her middle daughter, who sat yet in her pose of mouse-about-to-be-devoured. Birin Caylon felt a stir of compassion. The child looked unwell, her thin face was pinched and there were great bruised circles under her misty eyes.

  Abruptly, Birin wondered if a particular Scout might be the subject of this lesson in appropriate behavior. She had a spoonful of soup. Really, she thought, Ran Eld is too hard on the girl.

  "No doubt but that Scouts are odd-tempered," she said, after another spoon of soup. "I recall your father, Aelliana. What that man was for questions! He would babble on concerning a certain mix of tea, or the practice of drinking morning-wine only in the morning, or whether cats told jokes. He found the most mundane affairs cause for high amusement. Very nearly he drove me to distraction—and he merely trained at Academy and not a true Scout at all!" She sighed.

  "Your grandmother, who was of course delm at that time, found him unexceptional. For his part, he showed her great deference and spoke highly in her praise, so he was not lost to proper feeling at all, as some claim of Scouts."

  "And yet you do not deny that he, as all Scouts, was odd in his manner," Ran Eld said.

  "No," said Birin, frowning after her thoughts. "No, my son, I cannot deny that he was considerably out of the common way. At the time, I suspected him of laughing at me. However, I have come to see that much of his oddness must be laid to his training." She paused.

  "It is necessary for those who would take up the chancy duties Scouts claim for themselves to undergo rigorous and specialized education, the better to survive in the wide universe. It is to be regretted that an effect of attaining excellence in this curriculum must also make one—different.

  "I have heard it said that Scouts are other than Liaden— that of course is nonsense. What I believe is that Scouts are burdened with an understanding that takes into account not only Liad, but the universe entire." She reached for her wine. "I believe such understanding sets them apart forever from those who look no further than Liad."

  "Then you credit Scouts with heroism, do you, ma'am?" Sinit's voice carried clear amusement and Birin turned to frown at her.

  "I credit Scouts with otherness," she said sternly, "and perhaps with loneliness. It is possible that there is something to be learned from them, should one have the ability to grasp it. Not all do—which is no shame. Nor is there shame in finding that one has that certain ability." She moved her gaze to Ran Eld, sitting attentive beside her.

  "I find no disgrace in the companionship of Scouts."

  He inclined his head politely. Satisfied, Birin returned to her soup.

  The silence was broken by the scrape of a chair. Aelliana rose and made her bow.

  "If you please, ma'am. I have student work to review."

  Birin waved a hand. "Certainly. Good evening, daughter."

  "Good evening," the girl whispered and pushed her chair to, leaving a full plate of food and an empty teacup behind.

  At the door of the dining hall, she paused and spun, one hand outflung. The silver ring that had belonged to her grandmother caught the light; lost it.

  "Please, ma'am," she said breathlessly. "What came of him?"

  Birin glanced up with a frown. "Of whom?"

  "My—my father."

  "Child, however should I know what came of him? I last saw him twenty-seven years ago, when we signed the completion of contract."

  "Oh." Her shoulders drooped inside the cocoon of her shirt. "Of course. Good evening, ma'am."

  "Good evening, Aelliana," Ran Eld called dulcetly, but the doorway was empty.

  * * *

  "He did what?" Var Mon stared at his cha'leket in patent disbelief. "Have you gone mad?"

  "No, but my Lord chel'Mara doubtless has!" Lyn Den crowed. He flung himself into his cha'leket's arms and kissed his cheek. "Come and rejoice, darling, I needn't join the Terran mercenaries, after all!"

  "As if they'd have you," Var Mon retorted grumpily, "or as if you'd live a day in battle, if they did. And the office of informing your father doubtless falling to myself. Lyn Den, are you certain it was Vin Sin chel'Mara?"

  "Am I likely to forget his face?" the other asked, spinning about in sheer exuberance. "Hello, Rema."

  "Lyn Den." She inclined her head and came to stand at Var Mon's side, her face serious. "How do you go on?"

  "Delightfully. Deliriously. I have had the best fortune imaginable, could I but convince this brute of a cha'leket that my mind is firm."

  "Or as firm as ever it has been," Var Mon muttered. Rema smiled, briefly.

  "What's come about? Has your father redeemed your debt?"

  "Better—a dozen times better! Vin Sin chel'Mara himself met me after my early class—only imagine His Lordship cooling his heels in a university hallway! He met me, I say, and returned my entire loss, with a paper stating I owed him nothing in the future; that anything I might have come to owe him in the past is forgiven. Here—" He pulled a much-folded piece of vellum from his sleeve—"read it for yourself."

  Var Mon snatched the paper free and unfolded it. Rema put her head against his and together they scanned the brief document.

  "His signature, certain enough," she murmured, fingering the drop of orange wax and pendant silver ribbon. "Sealed up proper as you please."

  "Well." Var Mon refolded the page and thrust it back to his foster-brother, setting his face into a most un-Var Mon-like frown.

  "I judge you've encountered an unreasonable bit of good luck. One only hopes that the fright you've had will be sufficient to keep you out of gaming-houses for the rest of your days."

  "Oh, indeed. I intend to live retired and entertain but rarely, and that at home."

  "Laugh, do," Var Mon said, severely. "Rema and I are a twelve-day away from our solo examinations. Have the grace to grant me ease of mind where you are concerned. Or must I leave Academy and appoint myself your keeper?"

  "There, old thing, don't take on!" Once more, Lyn Den flung into Var Mon's arms. He lay his cheek against the leather-clad shoulder. "I'll be good, darling, never fear it. Truly, I've learnt my lesson—if I never see a deck of cards again it will be some days too soon for my taste!"

  "Well." Var Mon allowed himself a tender smile as he set his cha'leket back. "Mind you stay wary. You'd best get on, now. We're bound for piloting practice—and you have your afternoon classes to consider."

  "Monster." Lyn Den grinned, sobered. "Shall I see you again, before you leave for your solo?"

  "Of course," Var Mon said. "You know I daren't leave planet without making my bow to my mother your aunt."

  "True enough," Lyn Den laughed and swept a bow. "Pilots. Good lifting."

  "Take care, Lyn Den," Rema called, as he ran lightly down the Academy's front ramp. She glanced aside and met Var Mon's puzzled eyes.

  "A peculiar course for His Lordship to plot," she commented.

  Var Mon sighed. "Do you know, I was only just now thinking that exact thought."

  CHAPTER TEN

  There shall be four levels of pilot acknowledged by the Guild. The base level, or Third Class, shall be qualified for work within system and orbit, operating ships not above Class B.

  Mid-level, or Second Class, shall be qualified to lift any ship to Class AA within system and orbit.

  A pilot holding a First Class license shall be competent in accomplishing the Jump into and out of hyperspace.

  Master Pilot is one able to perform all aspects of piloting with excellence. This grade may undertake to train and test any of the lower three levels.

  For the purposes of these by-laws, Scout-trained pilots shall be understood to hold a license equal to Master Pilot.

  —Excerpted from the By-laws of the Pilots Guild

  The testing chamber was familiar, even comforting. In just such a cubicle had she taken her university placement tests, winning a full m
athematics scholarship to the University of Liad.

  Even the problems that flashed so quickly across the screen were comforting. There were no mysteries here; no danger. No doubt.

  Aelliana's fingers flew across the keyboard, structuring and restructuring the piloting equations as required. She hesitated when the focus of testing shifted from practical application to law and regulation, blinked, shifted thought-mode and went on, speed building toward a crescendo.

  The screen went blank. A chime sounded, startling in the sudden absence of key-clicks.

  "Part One of your examination is completed," a mechanical voice announced from the general area of the cubicle's ceiling. "Please await your examiner with the results."

  Aelliana sat back in the squeaky chair, hands folded sternly in her lap, head slightly bent, eyes on the quiet keys.

  She felt no anxiety regarding this initial phase of testing. The piloting problems had been quite ordinary, almost bland. The abrupt change from math systems to regulatory language had startled her, but the questions themselves had been entirely straightforward.

  She was less sanguine regarding her ability to perform satisfactorily at a live board. It was true that she had lifted and landed a Jump-ship. It was equally true that she had done so exactly thrice, each time monitored closely by Scout Lieutenant Lys Fidin, one of her most brilliant—and outrageous— students.

  Within the shelter of her hair, Aelliana smiled. Lys had taken advanced training, gaining for herself the ultimate prize. When she left Liad it had been as a First-In, among the best the Scouts possessed, trained to go alone into uncharted space, to make initial contact with unknown cultures, to map unexplored worlds and star systems.

  It had been Lys who attempted to convince her teacher to "go for Scout", and would hear nothing like 'no' when it came to Aelliana's lifting a live ship.

  "Theory's all very well," the Scout insisted. "But, damn it, Aelli, you can't teach pilots survival math without ever having a ship in your hands!"

  Lys won that effort, and lift a ship Aelliana did.

  The next campaign had been for Aelliana's enlistment in a piloting course, which came to a draw: Ran Eld would certainly have denied such an expenditure from his sister's wages and might well have felt moved to make a retaliatory strike to remind her of his authority.

  So, Aelliana audited Primary Piloting at Chonselta Tech, read the manuals from basic to expert, worked with the sim-boards in the piloting lab—and with that Lys had to be satisfied.

  "Scholar Caylon." The door to the cubicle slid back with a rush, revealing Examination Officer Jarl. He bowed.

  "I am pleased to report that you have flawlessly completed the initial testing. If you will accompany me to the simulation room, you may commence the second segment of the examination."

  Once again scene and task were familiar, clear and comforting. Indeed, Aelliana found the sim sluggish, less sprightly than the board she still worked from time to time in the piloting lab.

  The slow response threw her off-balance during the systems check and clearance operations. By the time it became necessary to engage the gyros and lift, she had largely adjusted to the slower pace, though the sluggard navcomp irritated. In the end, she simply ran the equations herself, feeding the numbers into the board and executing required maneuvers without bothering to wait for the comp's tardy verification.

  She attained the prescribed orbit and, as before, the screen went abruptly blank. A chime sounded, the webbing retracted and the hood lifted. Aelliana stepped out into the larger room.

  Examination Officer Jarl, who had been monitoring her progress in the master-sim, cleared his throat.

  "Very quick—ah—Scholar. I note you were routinely ahead of the navcomp."

  "The comp was slow," Aelliana said, hanging her head. "It was much more efficient to simply do the calculations myself and feed them in manually." She paused, gnawing her lip. "Shall I be penalized, sir?"

  "Eh?" He coughed. "Oh, no. No, I don't believe so, Scholar. Though I must remind you that Port regs insist a ship's navcomp be engaged and online during lift and orbiting."

  "Yes, sir," Aelliana whispered. "I will remember."

  "Good," he said, rising and rubbing his hands together. He looked at her askance, as if she had suddenly grown a second head, then made his bow.

  "As before, Scholar, a flawless—if slightly irregular—performance. I believe it is time for you and I to walk out to the field and see what you might make of the test-ship."

  "Yes," Aelliana said and followed him out of the sim-room, head down and stomach churning.

  Aelliana initiated the system checks and webbed into the pilot's chair, nervously double-checking the calibrations in her head. She brought the navcomp online and ran a test sequence, comparing the computer's results against her own.

  Satisfied to six decimal places, and relieved to find this board more lightsome than the sim, she glanced over to the examination officer, who was webbed into the co-pilot's station.

  "I am here as an observer, Scholar," he said, folding his hands deliberately onto his knee. "If difficulties ensue, or if it becomes obvious that ship's control is not firm, I shall override your board. If that should occur, it will be understood that you have failed the third phase of testing and may retest in twelve days. In the meanwhile, I am barred from answering any questions you may ask, or from offering any aid save override and return to berth. Is this clear?"

  "Sir, it is."

  "Good. Then I will tell you that I expect to arrive in Protocol Orbit Thirteen within the next local hour. Once stable orbit has been achieved, you will receive instruction for return to planet surface. You are cleared to proceed."

  Aelliana took a deep breath, shook her hair back and opened a line to Chonselta Tower.

  Stable P-13 orbit was achieved in just under one local hour. The lift was without incident. Aelliana paid scrupulous attention to her navcomp and charted a course remarkable for its dignity.

  It must be said that several times during this stately and undemanding progress Aelliana found herself computing quicker, less grandmotherly approaches. Once, indeed, her hand crept several finger-lengths in the direction of the communications toggle, while her mind was busy formulating the change of course she would file with the Tower.

  She pulled back with a gasp and continued the course as filed.

  "Protocol Orbit Thirteen achieved, Master Pilot," she murmured, tapping in the last sequence and relaxing against the webbing. "Locked and stable."

  "So I see." Examination Officer Jarl spun his chair to face her. "You disappoint me, Scholar. After such a run at the simulation, I had expected a lift like no other."

  She swallowed, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "This navcomp is more able, sir."

  "That would account for it, naturally," he said with a certain dryness. He glanced at his board, then sent a sharp gaze into her face. "Tell me, Scholar, how much time could have been saved, had you filed that change of course mid-lift?"

  "I—As much as five-point-five minutes, sir. Perhaps six, depending upon precise orientation with regard to orbit approach."

  "I see," he said again. "Yet you chose to continue the course first filed, despite significant time variation. I wonder why."

  Aelliana inclined her head. "The safety factor was slightly higher," she murmured, "as well as the chance of absolute success. It is—important—that I gain my license, sir. I dared risk nothing that might endanger a positive outcome."

  "Dared not put your license on the line, eh? Forgive me, Scholar, but this is not promising news. Surely you know that a pilot's first concern is for passengers and for ship. If he loses his license preserving either, that is regrettable, but necessary."

  Aelliana bit her lip, feeling sweat between her breasts, where The Luck's keys hung. Surely—surely he would not fail her because she had chosen a less-chancy approach. The regulations—

  "I shall give you an opportunity to redeem yourself, Scholar, and to show me your mettl
e."

  She caught her breath, hardly believing she heard the words.

  "Sir?"

  He inclined his head, lips curved slightly upward.

  "I wish you to return us to our original location. I expect you to halve your lift time—or better."

  It was frightening, exhilarating. It demanded every bit of her attention, so that she forgot to sweat or worry or take precious seconds to calculate some alternate, less rambunctious descent.

  She abandoned the navcomp early on, letting it babble gently to itself while she ran and modified the necessary equations and plugged them into the board.

  Local traffic presented no difficulty, though she caught an edge of chatter from a slow-moving barge: At least one pilot thought she was pushing the luck. She forgot it as soon as she heard it.

  Numbers flickered, equations balanced, altered, formed and rebalanced; Aelliana dropped the test-ship through eleven protocols, skimmed along the twelfth and fell like a stone into atmosphere.

  Lys had taught her to extend the wings and wait on the jets. It was a Scout trick, designed to conserve fuel in circumstances where fuel might very well be scarce.

  "Fly her as long as you can," the Scout had told her. "You don't have to kick in those retros until you can see the street where you live."

  Flying was somewhat more difficult than mere lifting or jet-aided descent. Flying meant manual defeat of local weather conditions. Local weather conditions had been milk-mild on Aelliana's three previous ventures.

  They were not so today.

  The ship bucked and twisted, nose going down despite her efforts at stabilization. Scan reported precipitation, turbulent winds. Maincomp reported hazard.

  Aelliana hit the jets.

  One short blast, as Lys would have done it—just enough to get the nose up and calm the bucking. They flew smoothly for a minute, two.

  Aelliana hit the jets again.

  And again.

  And one more time, as she took up the approach to the Guild's field. This time she kept them on, letting them eat the remaining velocity, until the ship hesitated and touched down, light as a mote of dust, on the designated pad.