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

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  Cantra glanced down at the status lights on her cuff. Dark, they were, which she'd expected, but still wasn't pleased to see. Well, it'd been a long shot. Usual rules applied.

  They passed through two more rock doors, crossed a couple of corridors and finally took a right turn onto another. Abruptly, there was rug over the rock, the glow-strips became whole panels and the ceiling, revealed at last, was a faceted vein of rose colored quartz. There were green plants there, too, like she remembered—maybe the same ones for all she knew—flanking a portal ahead.

  That next door didn't open at their guide's approach. He put his hand on the plate in the center, breathed a word Cantra thought might have been his name.

  The door slid aside, and the guard stepped back, waving at her with an impatient hand. "The Uncle will see you."

  * * *

  The room—it was the same room, with its shelves of neatly rolled books, the tables groaning under their burdens of tech, art, logic tiles, and best-to-not-knows. Brocades were hung to hide the rocky walls, and the footing was treacherous with layers of carpet and pots and-what-not holding plants.

  There were more plants than there'd been, the last time she was here—some held in wall sconces where they might benefit from being closer to the ceiling lights, others were shown off in tiered stands. Might be she was more alert this time, but it seemed there were far more flowers than she remembered. Certainly the room smelled as much of flowers as of rock and people.

  A man sat at one of the tables, heedless of the languorous blue blossom hanging a couple hand spans over his head while he carefully fit tiles into a logic-rack. He glanced up as they entered, smiled and rose to his feet.

  Sweeping 'round the table, he came forward to meet them—a young man, tall and lean, his long dark hair swept into a knot at the back of his head and fixed with two porcelain sticks. He was dressed in a crimson robe heavy with embroidery, with here and there a wink of gold—smartstrands.

  "My dear Pilot Cantra!"

  His voice was deep and musical, the hands stretched out in greeting a-glitter with rings inset with strange stones. His eyes were a cool and calculating gray; his face beyond all reason familiar. "How delightful to see you again!"

  You heard rumors, when you ran on the edge. Rumors of devices and techs that made possible what maybe shouldn't be within grasp. You heard rumors—but hearing and seeing were two different things.

  Cantra felt her stomach clench, and her throat tighten. Reflexively, she bowed, low and slow—no more nor less than what a simple pilot owed a man of power and learning—and by the time she straightened her stomach and her face were under control.

  "Uncle," she said, keeping her voice nothing but respectful. "You're looking well." He folded his hands before him and inclined his sleek head.

  "I thank you. I feel well. Certainly more well than when last we spoke."

  She drew a deep breath. It would gain nothing to tell the man before her that they had never met. The smartstrands—she figured it was the strands; hoped it was the 'strands and not some other, more terrible technology—made it seem to him that he was the very Uncle she had known, with that Uncle's memories and manner of speaking. Even the same voice, made young and vibrant.

  She drew another breath, careful and close. Best to get her errands over with, get back to Dancer, and get out.

  "I believe you told Karmin that you have something which belongs to me?" The Uncle said delicately.

  Right. Errand number one.

  Forcing herself to move smoothly, she turned and motioned Dulsey to step up. "Belongs here, she says, and I don't say she's wrong."

  The Batcher threw her one half-panicked gray glance before obediently going forward to make her bow, so deep it looked like she was trying to sink into the rock floor beneath the patterned rug. Behind her stood Jela, legs braced, hands at his sides, face specifically noncommittal. Errand number two.

  Dulsey straightened, cleared her throat. Said nothing.

  The Uncle smiled, wide and delighted. Reaching out, he captured her hands in his, the rings winking balefully in the pale light.

  "Welcome, child," he said gently, looking down into her eyes. "What is your name?"

  She swallowed, and seemed to wilt just a little, her fingers clenching the Uncle's hands like her last hope of aid.

  "Dulsey, sir," she whispered. "Dulsey..." and here Cantra thought she might be adding her Batch number... but if she was, she swallowed it, and stood up straight and bold.

  "Dulsey," he murmured caressingly. "You are home now. All your cares are behind you."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "What is your specialty, child?"

  She took a deep breath and it seemed to Cantra that she stood a mite straighter still. "I'm an engineer," she said, and there was no mistaking the pride in her voice.

  "An engineer," the Uncle repeated, and smiled wider. "We are most happy to welcome you." He squeezed her fingers and let her go, folding his hands against his robe.

  "We will send you to the infirmary, first, so that the tattoos may be removed. Trust me, you will feel immensely better when that is done. Then—"

  "Pardon me, sir," Dulsey interrupted, fingers suddenly busy at the fastening of her sleeve. "But the tattoos were erased on ship."

  The Uncle lifted an elegant dark brow and looked to Cantra.

  "Were they, now?"

  Cantra shifted her shoulders—not yes and not no, ambiguity being the best defense against the Uncle. According to Garen.

  "I can't see 'em," she said. "'Course, I ain't got a deep reader."

  "Of course not." The Uncle swayed a slight bow. "But I do."

  "Thought you might," Cantra allowed. She had a feeling she might want to glance over at Jela, standing quiet and ignored just inside the door. She fought the urge, figuring it was none too soon to break herself of the habit.

  Dulsey had her sleeve shoved up past the elbow now, showing a pale, unscarred arm. The Uncle considered the offered appendage for a moment before he stepped to a table laden with weird tech, gesturing her to follow him.

  "Step over here, if you will, child. It will be the work of a moment to discover if you are in truth free of the marks of your slavery." He picked a long tube up from the general clutter, and thumbed it on.

  It began to glow with a vivid orange light.

  "Extend your arm, if you please," he said to Dulsey. "You may feel some warmth, but the process should not hurt. If you experience any pain, tell me immediately. Do you understand, Dulsey?"

  "Yes, sir," she said, eyeing the tube with more interest, Cantra thought, than dismay. "Very good. Now hold out your arm. Yes..." Delicately, he ran the reader down Dulsey's arm.

  From the corner of her eye, Cantra saw Jela shift—and fall again into stillness.

  "Ah," the Uncle breathed. He lifted the reader away, thumbed it off and put it back in its place among the clutter.

  He looked at Cantra over Dulsey's head.

  "You will pleased, I know, Pilot, to learn that the tattoo is indeed gone. Completely."

  "Good news," she said.

  "Indeed." He moved his eyes, and added a caressing smile for Dulsey.

  "Since you have already been relieved of your burden, you may proceed to the second phase, child." He turned toward the door and raised his voice slightly.

  "Fenek?"

  The door opened to admit a dainty dark haired woman with eyes the color of the flower hanging over the Uncle's worktable.

  "Sir?"

  The Uncle placed a kindly hand on Dulsey's shoulder.

  "This is our sister, Engineer Dulsey, Fenek. She requires clothes, a meal, a hammock and an appointment with the teams coordinator. Please assist her in obtaining these things."

  Fenek didn't exactly salute, but she gave the impression of having done so. "Yes sir!"

  She positively beamed at Dulsey and held out a slender hand.

  "Come, sister."

  The Uncle gave her a gentle push. "There are no bounty hu
nters here, Dulsey." She turned her head to stare at him.

  "You knew?"

  He smiled indulgently. "Certainly, I knew. We pride ourselves in getting all the latest news and rumors, child! You'll see."

  He waved then, and a trick of the smartstrands—or of some less-savory technology—cast a pale sparkling gleam toward the side of the room. "Now, go through the house door there with your sister Fenek and tend to your needs."

  "Yes," Dulsey said, and stepped forward.

  Fenek dropped back, holding the door open with one slim arm. On the threshold, Dulsey turned, and held out her hand.

  "Pilot Jela."

  He blinked, as if suddenly called to a realization that he wasn't the pile of rock he'd been imitating so well, and put his hand out to meet hers.

  "Dulsey." He smiled his easy smile, squeezed her fingers lightly and let her go. "Remember an old soldier now and then, eh?"

  "Yes," she whispered, and turned.

  Cantra raised a hand and smiled, hoping to forestall another episode like the one on the ship. Not smart to let the Uncle think there was divided loyalties in his house.

  "You take care, Dulsey," she said, deliberately casual.

  A pause, then a brief nod—Good girl, Cantra thought. Bright as they come.

  "Yes. And you take care, Pilot," she replied, and turned, walking between a pair of tall purple plants with delicate pink fronds, and through the door, Fenek following.

  Twenty-Five

  Rockhaven

  The door closed, and the Uncle turned, the smile slowly leaving his face, which was fine with Cantra. She could have done without the intent, we're-all-believers-here stare, which had been a feature of the former Uncle, too, and even more unsettling on the face of a young man.

  But now his eyes lit on the plants Dulsey had just passed and he went to one of them, only half looking at her as he groomed it, letting the pink fronds flow over his hand as he made tiny noises and dropped bits of browning leaf to the carpet.

  "I wonder, dear Pilot Cantra," he asked over his shoulder, "do you believe in fate?"

  "Fate?" Now what? she wondered—then figured she'd find out soon enough. "I don't believe there's some megascript that makes us all act in certain ways," she said carefully, not wanting to move into the scans of those things it was better not to think on too close—or at all.

  "Ai," the Uncle breathed. "Well, you are young and doubtless have been busy about your own affairs." He finished with the plant and turned to face her full again, left hand flat against his breast.

  "I, however, am old, and I have seen sufficient of the universe to consider the existence of that script, as you have it—probable. For instance—"

  His left hand was suddenly outstretched, fingers pointing at a place approximately halfway between her and the silent Jela, rings a-glitter.

  "You, dear Pilot Cantra. I had never expected to see you again. You must tell me, how has the receptor flush served you?"

  "No ill effects," she said.

  "Good, good. I am delighted that our little technique provided long-term satisfaction. We had been using it for some time in aid of those in our community with need, with no ill effect. However, we had never had the opportunity to test it on a natural human. The lab will be pleased. But, as I was saying—I had no expectation to ever see you again, my dear, and yet here you are come to me by your own will, in company..."

  The Uncle smiled gently, not at her. She risked a glance out of the side of her eye. Jela wasn't smiling back.

  "Companied..." the Uncle fair crooned, "by a True Soldier. Nothing could be more fortuitous!"

  Well, that sounded ominous enough for six. And Jela was decidedly disamused. Funny 'bout that, Cantra thought abruptly. Along the course of their time together, she'd certainly seen Jela use force, and he wasn't shy about making those he deemed would be improved by the condition dead. But he was rarely out of temper. This cold stare into the teeth of the Uncle's smile was—worrisome.

  Like she needed something else to worry about.

  "Well," she said brightly, drawing the Uncle's eyes back in her direction. "I'm glad you're pleased, Uncle. I wouldn't say us being here proves fate so much as wrongheaded wilfulness on the part of certain pilots. It does put me in mind of a thing, though." She touched the seal on her leg pocket and drew out the gel-pack.

  "Saw something a few stops back that I thought might interest you."

  The light eyes considered her.

  "You've brought me a gift?"

  Cantra smiled. "That's right. I was raised up to be civilized."

  The Uncle laughed. "You were raised up, as you care to style it," he said, sweetly, "to be a dissembler, a thief, and when need be, a murderer."

  No argument there. Cantra let her smile widen a bit. "Where I come from, that's what passes for civilized."

  He allowed her to approach and took the packet from her hand.

  "Indeed." He ran his finger under the seal, and the pack unfolded, revealing the three little ceramic toys.

  Behind her, she heard Jela take a long, careful breath.

  The Uncle stood as if transfixed, long enough for Cantra to begin to think that she'd made a bad mis—

  "Why, Pilot Cantra," the Uncle purred. "You have managed to surprise me." He looked up. "Where did you get these?"

  "A couple stops back," she repeated, agreeably. "Teaching devices, is what the trader told me."

  "Did she, indeed?" The Uncle used the tips of his fingers to turn the ceramics over. "And did you test them, to be certain that they were what was advertised?"

  No reason not to tell the truth. "I tested the ship," she admitted. "It prompted me for a basic piloting equation. Emitted praise and warm fuzzies when I gave it."

  "Ah. And the others?"

  "I didn't test the others," Cantra assured him. She'd meant to, but in retrospect the interaction with the toy ship had been more disturbing than pleasant. A good deal like the Uncle himself.

  He gave her a long, penetrating look, which she bore with open-faced calm.

  "The directors breed marvels, indeed they do," he said softly. "And you the last of your line, more's the pity." He lifted the gel-pack on his palm, and looked past her, to Jela. "You have seen objects like this before, I think, sir?"

  "I have," Jela said, and it was the same hard, perilous voice he'd used when she'd showed him the first aid kit. "They're not toys. They're sheriekas-made and they're dangerous."

  "Not necessarily," the Uncle crooned. "It is true that they mine information from the unwary and send back to the Enemy when and as they might. However, we find that minds trained to a specific agenda may not only gain more information from the devices, but can feed them—let us call it misleading—information to pass on. To the confoundment of the Enemy." He smiled gently. "Which I am certain that one such as yourself would allow to be worthy work."

  "The sheriekas are outside of our knowledge," Jela replied forcefully. "We barely understood what they were when they retreated at the end of the last war. Now..." He moved his big shoulders. "The best thing to do with those devices is destroy them." He sent a quick black glance to Cantra. "And send the name of the trader who sells them to the military."

  The Uncle t'sked, turned and put the gel-pack down on the cluttered table.

  "I would have thought the military would take a bolder stance," he said, meditatively. "It is well that we have taken this work to ourselves, I see."

  "I'd think the work best left alone," Jela said forcefully. "Unless you have a reason for wanting a world-eater's attention."

  "One might," the Uncle said with a smile. "One might. Think of what might be learned about the nature of the Enemy, should one of their mightiest engines be captured!"

  He raised a hand suddenly. "But stay, I don't wish to raise such controversial topics so soon in our partnership."

  Cantra felt a flutter along her nerves, and deliberately reposed herself to stillness.

  "Partnership?" asked Jela.

&nbs
p; "Surely." The Uncle smiled, cold enough to raise a shiver, though the room was a thought over-warm for Cantra's taste. "I am offering you a place, M. Jela. Here, your talents will be appreciated and well-rewarded."

  Well, thought Cantra, specifically not looking at Jela. This might work out all by its lonesome...

  "No," Jela said, shortly.

  Or maybe not. She cleared her throat, the Uncle's gaze moved to her face.

  "Truth is, Uncle," she began, and looked casually at Jela where he stood, solid and reassuring and—

  Lose it, she snarled at herself. He ain't your partner—never was—and while he sat your co-pilot, that ends now, and good riddance.

  Jela shifted at his post, his face tightening, eyes widening and focusing somewhere beyond the Uncle's room.

  "Tell your operative to stand away from the tree," he said sharply.

  The Uncle tipped his head. "Your pardon, M. Jela? Do you address me?"

  "I do. Call off your operative. Now."

  "What operative?"

  Jela didn't bother answering that, only said again, in a voice nowhere near patient—

  "Tell your operative not to touch the board and not to approach the tree. There's nothing hidden in the tree, and if she doesn't stand back, I can't tell what it might do to protect itself.

  Intruder on the ship. Cantra gritted her teeth, glanced down at the tell-tales—still jammed, blast it to the Deeps. Dancer was on her own, and if the fool did touch that board...

  "Your operative is regarded as a threat, Uncle. Your operative is in danger."

  "Come now, you can hardly be in touch with your ship, which lies quietly at dock. For our own security we smother all ship communications..."

  "I'm not in communication with our ship," Jela said then. "All my comm systems are dead in here, and I'm betting the pilot's are the same, or she'd have triggered something unpleasant already, being a lady who isn't fond of strangers on her ship. However, I am in communication with the third crew member, who stands within striking distance of your operative, and who is prepared to act."

  An alarm blared, and the Uncle's robe briefly blazed golden as the smart-strands took receipt of info.