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

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  She sighed heartily and closed her eyes.

  The man's leaving at Gimlins, she told herself, counting it out by the numbers. He's taking his tree and he's going; it's what he wants and if you had a brain in your head, which you don't, it's what you want. Yes, you owe him—he's done everything and more that a co-pilot should, to keep his pilot hale and steady. So pay him up even and set him down where he says. It's not like he can't take care of himself. And his damn' tree, too.

  The tea-maker squawked, startling her. Grousing, she pulled open the cabinet, unshipped mugs, poured, stuck a couple of high-cals into her sleeve as an afterthought and went back to the tower.

  Jela was on his feet, expression now forcibly agreeable, tension still evident, but of a different quality.

  Cantra raised an eyebrow, deliberately nonchalant.

  "Contact," he said. "We go in."

  "Great," she answered, like she meant it, and showed a smile as she handed him a mug.

  * * *

  He dressed in trade leathers, rolled up his kit and stood for a moment staring down at it: a moderate pack, the tough corderoy scarred and travel-worn. Not the sort of thing a trader would be carrying on his back to a business meeting.

  It would have to stay.

  Sighing lightly, he bent, rummaged briefly, pulled out the log book and slid it into an inside vest pocket, straightened the pack and lashed it to the wall. Nothing there that couldn't be replaced, and it could be that Cantra would find use for some bits. After all, it wasn't the first time he'd had to abandon what was his in the course of obeying orders. And it wouldn't be the last.

  Not quite the last.

  The tree, too, was going to have to stay, and take its chances with whatever care Cantra could give it. He'd tried to express this, and his reasons, though he couldn't tell if he'd actually gotten through. He hoped he had and that the tree understood—though it couldn't make any difference if it didn't.

  The voice on the comm had been furtive and something less than knowledgeable, though they'd had the pass-codes ready enough. And while that wasn't conclusive, it was better than no answer at all. His guess was that the voice on the comm was a local who had been paid to keep an ear on the old feed, with no expectation that a call would ever come in. The only thing he could reasonably expect was to be passed up the line as quickly as the contact could manage.

  He closed his eyes, trying to feel out the tree, but all he found in the back recesses of his skull was a cool and distant greenness.

  Right, then.

  It was time to take his leave of the pilot—a thought not as comforting as it could be.

  She'd stood at his back, and tolerated his infringement of her life without either shooting him or selling him; she'd been more than generous in bed, and he was going to miss her—vile temper, sarcasm, and all.

  Well.

  He straightened his vest once more, needlessly, and settled his belt 'round his waist, making certain his shib was in place and drew easily. The flexible ceramic cutting edge felt cool against his fingers, and he smiled. All in order.

  Then he went out to the tower to take leave of his pilot.

  * * *

  "With me?" Cantra repeated, with a glance over her shoulder at the tree sitting calm in its pot. "I thought you two were partners."

  "We are," Jela answered, trying to sound like there was agreement on all sides. "But it's time to split up. I can't take it with me to the meeting and—" He stopped because she had raised her hand, palm out toward his nose.

  "You risked your life—and mine, too—getting that tree off Faldaiza; you took it with you when I set you down at Taliofi. It guarded your back while we was visiting with the Uncle, and now you're leaving it with me?" She shot another glance over her shoulder.

  "Why?"

  A fair question, and trust Cantra to ask it. He moved his shoulders, easing out some of the tension.

  "The contact I've got—is deep. Likely the only thing they'll be able to do is pass me up-line. I'll have to go quick and I'll have to go light." He sent a look to the tree himself, absurdly pleased to see how tall and how full it was now.

  Looking back to Cantra, he saw her eyeing his vest.

  "No 'skins?" she said, and held up her hand again. "I know they ain't proof against all evil, but they're something better than trade leather."

  "I don't want to draw attention to myself," he said. "The meet's up in the city, and I don't want to compromise my contact."

  Cants closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  "Jela," she said, flat calm, which meant he was in for a tongue-lashing.

  "Pilot?"

  She opened her eyes and glared at him.

  "This smells bad to me. Say it smells sweet to you."

  Truth told, his nose for trouble detected a decided odor about the business, too. On the other hand, he wasn't getting any younger, and none of the usuals—none—had answered. "They had the right codes," he said mildly, into Cantra's glare.

  She sighed. "Would Pilot Muran of late lamented memory have had those same codes?"

  The woman had a wonderful mind for a detail, Jela thought and stifled his own sigh. "Yes," he said, keeping in calm and friendly. "Muran would have had the same codes. And if they are using Muran's codes, then—I need to know that, too. My orders are clear."

  "And this time you feel like following them."

  There wasn't any real answer to that, so he just stood there, bearing her scrutiny, until she sighed again and lifted a hand to push her hair back from her eyes.

  "You don't," she said, softly, "need to be this desperate to leave on my account. If there's a less chancy place to look for news of folk gone missing, Dancer's good for the trip."

  Of the things he might have expected to hear her say, an offer of continued passage was last. The brain in his fingers, quicker than the one in his head, came up with a reply first.

  Condition is?

  She glanced aside and if he hadn't known her, he'd had judged her to be embarrassed. "I don't have anything on the screens that can't wait," she said huskily.

  The offer warmed him, but nothing could be said about his next-best-hope but that it was riskier still.

  He smiled, to let her know he appreciated the offer, and flipped his hand, palm up, palm down.

  "I've got to try here," he said.

  Green eyes considered him. "Got to, is it?"

  "Yes."

  "All right, then," she said briskly. "I'm coming with you."

  He blinked. "Cantra—"

  "You can be sure that the pilot of this ship ain't taking her orders from the co-pilot, current or former," she interrupted. "You can wait for me to get dressed up all pretty like a trader, or you can leave now. If you leave, I'll follow you, which might could be awkward for you. If you wait, I'll cover your back and follow your lead."

  She was serious.

  "The ship," he said, playing the one argument that was sure to sway her. "The ship would be at risk, with her pilot on the port and maybe headed for rough ground." She smiled, which was bad.

  "Ship's safety comes under the pilot's care," she said, voice serious. "And the pilot judges the risk to the ship is acceptable."

  He had, thought Jela, done Cantra yos'Phelium a disservice. She could step outside of the boundaries she'd made for herself and take a decision that risked her and her ship, if needed.

  Damn everything, that she thought it was needed now.

  "I once let my pilot go outta here to a meet maybe a little less hazardous than the one you're on course for," Cantra said, her voice still carrying that note of complete seriousness. "Wasn't much choice about it—she was my pilot and she made it an order. And she come back on-ship in a body-bag."

  She gave him another straight-on glare. "I don't expect to let my co-pilot walk out into clear and present danger without back-up," she said. "Damn if I will, Jela. You hear it?"

  He heard it. It might have been that he heard more of it than she wanted him to hear. Or she migh
t have intended it all.

  In either case, he was running out of time to argue, and he didn't doubt she'd make good on her threat.

  So.

  "All right," he said. "I'll be grateful for the back-up, Pilot."

  * * *

  The meeting place was away up in the city, beyond yard and port—which was yet another thing not to love about it, in Cantra's opinion.

  Jela'd flagged down a robocab at the port, directing it to a point somewhat to the east and north of the final destination, according to the city map she'd hastily memorized. From there, they walked, two traders taking in the sights, of which there were a few.

  As a general rule, Cantra avoided cities. Garen had never gone beyond the port proper, contending there was more than enough trouble to be found right there—and mostly she was right.

  The last time Cantra was inside a city had been during the course of a training run, about a half-year before Pliny put paid to them all. That city had been vertical, rising bone pale and fragile out of the depths of a tumultuous planetary sea. Cylayn, that city had been named, and it was a triumph of bio-engineering. The fragile-seeming and extremely tough shell in which the city was housed had been spun by sea creatures designed for that single monumental task, who then died, dried and blew away on the constant winds, precisely on schedule, leaving behind a marvelous habitat for the imported human population.

  It had also been a marvel of security regulations and law, the habitat being, in its way, as risky as any space station, and it had been lessons in circumventing those safeguards of the common good that had occupied Cantra's time there.

  This city, now—this Pluad—was level, its streets laid out in a grid—north-south, east-west—dusty, and heavier than she liked. Then there was the noise, and the smells, and the sheer press of people.

  She was watching for anything from armed ambush to pickpockets, so it was the people took most of her attention. They weren't on a Closed World, or even close Inside, so there was a spacer's dozen of types on the street—long, short, thick, thin; pale, dark, and in-between.

  Her own type, with the high-caste golden skin and the slim, deceptively frail-seeming build, was nothing to notice in this, or almost any, crowd.

  Jela made a little bit of stir, but if she was to judge from various interested glances, the reasons would be the shoulders and the hips.

  The clothes were as varied as the people wearing them—gowns with sleeves so long they trailed on the dusty walkway, daysilks and sandals, Insider formals, a couple of spacer 'skins, trader leathers, and the inevitable tunics, sleeveless so the Batcher tats showed.

  Jela turned into a wide space in the walk and stopped. She swung in beside him.

  Overhead, suspended from a thin silvered arc, hung an inverted ceramic bowl. As they came to rest beneath, its color changed from pale yellow to bright red.

  "'Nother cab?" she asked, which was the first thing either had said to the other since leaving the ship.

  He glanced at her. "Are we being followed?"

  She sighed lightly. "Not that I've noticed."

  "Right. So we'll go further in and then take another walk." He looked around at the wide crowded walk and busy street, the low, featureless pastel buildings shining in the full light of the local sun.

  "Nice city."

  "If you say so," she answered, as a flutter caught the edge of her eye and she turned to look up the walkway.

  The next building up was a domed affair, pale pink, with a striped yellow-and-blue awning over the door. Coming out of the door were a dozen or more people in long, cowled robes striped to match the awning, bearing pale pink baskets. As they reached the common walkway, they separated into pairs, each pair taking off at a tangent. The pair walking toward their position on the taxi stand were pressing something from their baskets into the hands of those they passed, with a murmured phrase she couldn't quite pick out at this distance in the general city din.

  Cantra moved her eyes, checking the moving people and assuring herself that they still weren't being followed. Near as she could tell, which wasn't as near as she'd like.

  "Here comes our cab," Jela said from beside her.

  She turned face forward, spying the thing as it cut across four lanes of traffic, not much more than a bench seat mounted behind the hump of a nav-brain, enclosed in plas-shielding, the whole vehicle scooting along on three wheels.

  She took a step forward, felt someone too close to her right shoulder and spun, nearly knocking over one of the striped-robes—she had an impression of pale eyes, and a glint of teeth in the dimness of the cowl, and something cool pressed into her hand.

  "Die well, sister," the soft voice murmured and they were gone, the cab was arrived, and Jela was already on the seat, the door coming down, the shielding already starting to opaque—

  "Cantra! "

  She jumped, ducked under the descending door and fell heavily onto the bench, banging into Jela's shoulder.

  "Sorry," she muttered.

  "No problem," he answered, most of his attention on the map panel. He jerked his head toward the sealed door.

  "What was that about?"

  "Couple of crazies, giving me a—" She opened her hand, and blinked down at the plain square tile in her hand.

  "Looks like one of the toys I took to the Uncle," she said.

  Destination chosen and accepted, the cab accelerated. Cantra breathed a small sigh of relief for the now-completely opaqued dome as Jela sat back and held out a broad hand.

  "Mind if I take a look?"

  She dropped it in his palm. "It's all yours."

  His fingers closed over the tile and he sat with his eyes slitted for one heartbeat, two, three—

  He hissed, fingers flying wide. The tile fell to the deck of the cab.

  Cantra threw him a look, seeing true anger on his face.

  "Not impressed, I take it," she said, and he pointed at the fallen tile.

  "Did you listen to what it was saying?"

  "Didn't say anything to me," she answered, "but I'd only had it a couple seconds and I was occupied with something else, besides."

  "Try it," he said.

  "If it's got you this riled, I think I'll pass. Whyn't you just tell me about it?"

  He took a hard breath, and then another as their cab leaned sharply to one side, obviously taking a corner at speed. Cantra banged into Jela's shoulder again, grabbed for the strap and pulled herself right.

  "It asked me to embrace the sacrament of suicide," Jela said, stringently calm. "It told me to pause to remember those I love, to have compassion and include them in my death."

  "Oh." Cantra looked down at the decking, but the tile was out of sight, having doubtless slid away under the bench during the last hard turn. "Sheriekas-work, you're thinking," she didn't-ask.

  "What else?" he answered, and turned his attention to the map, and the rapid green line that was the graphic of their journey across the city.

  He tapped the display with a broad forefinger and she bent to look.

  "We'll be getting off in another couple turns—" A grin, though not up to his usual standards—"if we survive the trip. We'll walk into the meet place from above, check it out before we go in, right?"

  Relieved that he was being sensible, she gave him a smile, though she had the feeling it wasn't one of her better efforts, either.

  "Right."

  So far, the timing was good. They were within a block of the meeting place—a shop called Business as Usual, which rented guaranteed secure meeting rooms by the local quarter-hour.

  His plan was to reconnoiter, then take up a position and watch the front door. He figured he'd be able to spot his contact well enough, and take a reading before committing.

  If it read bad, he had promised himself, or even a little over-risky, he'd back off, retreat to the ship and regroup.

  Having Cantra with him complicated things, but she was fully capable, as she'd demonstrated numerous times, now.

  Besides which,
he was just glad to have her with him.

  A soldier, even a thorough rogue of a Generalist, was a pack creature, accustomed to having his comrades about him. It warmed him now to have a comrade at his back, with action maybe looming.

  The streets on this side of the city were thinner and less peopled, the buildings tending to monochrome-colored blocks, rather than the rounded pastels on the northeast side.

  Cantra was walking on his off-side, a long step behind. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her scanning the street, the buildings, the people.

  Fully capable woman, he thought again, and there was the worry again, because time was getting tight. If he didn't make a good contact today, it might come down to leaving the tree and his mission, both, in the fully capable hands of a woman who had for so long cared only for herself and her ship that she might not be able to make the leap to a larger duty.

  Leave it alone, he told himself. Mission first. Worry later.

  "Coming up," he said, pitching his voice so Cantra could hear him, but likely no others. "We want to take the right turn, go down 'til the second right and take that. That'll—"

  "Put us on the service alley," she finished, with more of a laugh than a snap in her voice. "I did take a look at that map, like I said I would."

  He glanced over and met her foggy green gaze.

  "I thought you weren't worried," she said.

  He shrugged. "Having a civilian in it worries old habits," he said, surprising himself with the truth.

  "Let's think of this as the pilot backing the co-pilot," she answered. "That ease old habits, any?"

  "It does," he said, keeping with the mostly-truth. "It's good to have a comrade at hand."

  "Strangely easeful," she allowed. "This our turn?"

  It was and they took it, passing out of full sun-light and into dense shade. Jela motioned and Cantra stretched those long legs to come up shoulder-to-shoulder.

  "If there's any trouble—and I don't expect it—what you want to do is get out of it and call for back-up," he said and gave her as hard a look as he had in him.

  Her face showed bland and pleasant—not a good sign.

  "Cantra?"

  "My idea," she husked, and her voice did fall sweet on a soldier's ear, "was to stand as your back-up. That's why I'm here."