The Dragon Variation

by Sharon Lee

  "Daav?" Aelliana murmured. He glanced down into shadowed green eyes. "Tell me what is wrong," she whispered.

  "Wrong . . ." He sent one more glance at the halflings: Hungry, afraid and too proud to ask aid. Too young to be here, hustling strangers for two dex the game . . . He sighed sharply and smiled into Aelliana's eyes.

  "I think we should play," he said softly, "since these young gentles ask so nicely."

  She hesitated, her eyes scanning his. He saw the decision cross her face, then she turned away, fingers dipping into a pocket. Two coins flashed toward two halflings.

  "Done," she said with professorial sternness. "We shall take the merchanter."

  The start of joy from their opponents was regrettably obvious.

  "After you, Pilot," Daav said, and followed her to their station.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  After the safety of the ship, the well-being of the passengers is the captain's greatest care.

  —Excerpted from Cantra yos'Phelium's Log Book

  THE SITUATION WAS NOT quite untenable, but it was far from good. They were down on fuel, having chosen to run from the last attack rather than pit the merchanter's light weapons against the pirates' superior firepower.

  The pirates had followed, of course, and were now lurking just off-station, waiting for the hapless merchanter to set forth.

  Daav's suggestion—faking a refuel and coming around the planet to attack—was refuted by Aelliana: "Suppose they go for a LaGrange Point rather than a simple orbit? They'd have all the advantage and we would be in a difficult orbit."

  Her suggestion of dropping all cargo pods but one in favor of a high-value freight and top acceleration had merit, though it relied heavily on the skill of the pilots in eluding the pirates and gaining the Jump point first. Meanwhile, the longer they sat at station, the more points they lost.

  Instinctively, Daav glanced over the instruments, checking ship's stats. The board was authentic, the image surrounding them utterly convincing. The bits of station-chatter filtering across the open line had apparently been lifted from tapes of the real thing.

  The station master's messages had been rather too courteous to a ship which had come in trailing pirates and debris, but there were limitations, Daav thought wryly, to even the best of games. He sighed and put his attention back on the cargo board.

  "How if we drop five pods," he suggested softly. "We trade in the cargo with known destinations for cargo the pirates can't suspect."

  "It would give us an edge in gaining a Jump point," Aelliana agreed, fingers flying across the board. "Carador," she said, echoing his thought as if they were partners of many years. "We'd have close to a stern chase to Jump. If the timing favors us, and if we buy all the Greenable listed, we should turn a profit."

  "Agreed. What of the synthfish—high intrinsic value and rare on Carador, according to the chart."

  "But badly affected by high acceleration. We'd need an eighty-nine percent survival rate to make our margin and we could hit—" She paused, briefly. "Six gee is not out of reach—"

  Not quite out of reach, Daav thought with a mixture of amusement and respect. Aelliana Caylon expected a great deal of her ship—and of herself.

  "All right," he said, watching her fingers work the keypad to prove the results her head had already produced. "We load Greenable. But I want to buy pod-lot 47—distress merchandise listing. It won't slow us too much and it's cheap."

  "Surplus material from Losiar's Survey? But—"

  "Trust me," he murmured, and her fingers danced, approving the purchase while she sang out orbit and range figures for him to check.

  Daav felt better now, though the run was still risky. The creator of this game had a wonderful mind for trivia, and with a very small corner of luck he hadn't just bought fifteen thousand Terran tons of survey rods. The density levels on that pod were extremely close to something his lamentable pack-rat of a memory thought it recalled . . .

  The ship readied: He pulled in the fuel figures, calculating times in his head and running trajectories as if they really were about to launch.

  "They'll fire to capture, won't they, Daav?" Aelliana's voice was serious.

  "Or at least to get the goods. Likely a capture, though, since they score extra for that."

  "Yes. I'm arming the long-range weapons as soon as we break seal, and hit the meteor shield to full—"

  Her face was earnest, snared in the seeming reality of the game. Daav lifted an eyebrow. "Station will scream—not to mention the fine."

  "Only if we come back," she returned and Daav nearly laughed with joy of her, speaking as bold as if she broke a dozen rules every morning, and he—what was he but the grandchild of a pirate, himself?

  The sequence ran down to go. The ship tumbled away from its dock and Aelliana slapped up weapons and shield.

  In the real universe, taking arms off safety so close to a station would cost the pilot her license. In this universe, station, as predicted, screamed, though with nothing approaching the verve of any actual station master of Daav's acquaintance.

  "They see us," Daav said as the pirate ship hove into view around the curve of the nearer moon. "I'll take the guns, you fly her."

  The virtual ship shuddered and acceleration pressed him into his seat as the couches tilted to simulate motion. He watched the cross-hairs converge, his hands moving toward the fire button—

  "Fancy-Freight we've got a fine on you unless you cut those weapons now! You have your warning—cut those weapons—" The simulated station master blared his accusations.

  "Trap!" Aelliana cried. "They broadcast everything we do to the pirates!"

  "Hah. So that's why the children think they have a fixed game."

  His hands moved, slapping fire buttons. Virtual rockets crossed virtual space, arcing away toward the suddenly retreating pirates.

  The explosion was a bright flare across his screen. It drew howls of protest from the station master and unsubtle curses from the pirates, who immediately returned fire.

  A waste of energy, Daav thought, holding his own meager weapons in reserve: Fancy Freight was still in the shadow of the station, protected by its defenses.

  That situation changed as Aelliana kicked the ship into a lurching high-gee skid toward the proper Jump point. Even on game time they'd need all of the luck to make the distance and score.

  Daav watched his boards carefully, saw the pirate ship taking a leisurely tumble toward—

  "They're targeting the wrong Jump point," he said quietly. "They thought we were heading out with the flegetets on board for Terra."

  Aelliana sighed. "I regret those—But the math didn't work. Four hundred percent profit and three hundred percent dead . . ." Her eyes narrowed.

  "They aren't coming on with as much acceleration as they did before, Daav."

  He looked to his screens, touched a knob to increase magnification.

  "Took some damage, poor children—running on eight tubes instead of ten. Pegged to the intercept course, though—you have that stern chase you wanted—"

  "I didn't want a stern—Ah, no . . ."

  The distress in her voice caught him. He looked up sharply, saw real pain in her face.

  "Aelliana! What has happened?"

  "I—" She looked over to him, eyes wide and stunned. "I—miscalculated. The fuel reserves on the pirate ship—they have the edge. I forgot—Forgot! They'll catch us before Jump."

  Daav blinked, recalled the reserves the pirates had taken on from a peripheral kill early in the game. Something moved in the corner of his eye; he turned to track it—and saw six missiles drop out and leave the pirate's ship.

  "Recalculate," he said, automatically calling up interceptors, slapping dead plastic where the defense beam toggle would be on a real ship—"based on losing the lot of non-Greenable."

  The screen flared as one of Daav's interceptors took out a missile; half a second later another did the same.

  "Aelliana?" he asked gravely, glancing up
at her again.

  "Yes. I had forgotten that you are a Scout. That was a difficult interception there . . ." She lapsed into silence, flying and calculating at once, then shook herself.

  "We may win, but the margin is small—one percent, perhaps one-point-five, depending on when and how we lose that pod." Her voice was somber.

  "Shall we surrender, then?" Daav asked quietly.

  There was a moment's hesitation, too short for him to be certain that the struggle he sensed was anything other than his imagination. Her eyes lifted to his, green and wide.

  "No."

  "Good," he said, letting her see the pride he felt in her, and turned back to his board.

  The play got tighter as the pirate ship's greater power-to-mass ratio began to tell. The pattern of attack changed though: Now the goal was interception. No fancy flying for extra points, no capture option, just interception.

  "Daav. We have one hundred seventy-six seconds until Jump. They'll intercept in one hundred forty."

  "I see. When they're thirty seconds behind, jettison Lot 47. That should give us—"

  "The added acceleration will help, but they'll still catch us by fourteen seconds—"

  "But we'll be throwing things at them. They'll have to avoid."

  "That's random—I can't calculate—".

  "No surrender," Daav said earnestly.

  "No surrender."

  They were quiet then, each watching their screens. Daav fended off several more missile attacks. The pirates were being more careful with their weapons now, and so was Daav. By his count they had thirteen to launch and he had three . . .

  "On my mark," Aelliana said calmly, "it's five. Mark. Four, three, two, one . . ."

  The ship lurched as the pod fell away, looming huge in the simulated view screen. It tumbled behind them, directly into the path of the oncoming pirates.

  Daav counted to three and launched his last missiles.

  "Oh," said Aelliana, "that's more mass away . . . I still don't think it's going to be—Daav, a bad trajectory. You've targeted the—"

  Two missiles skimmed the edge of the tumbling pod, dodged by and went on toward the pirate ship, which was beginning evasion. The missiles followed, and the pirate launched four interceptors.

  Daav's third missile hit the tumbling pod full center. The flare of explosion grew, brightened, grew still more, expanding into a glowing rainbow cloud.

  The Jump warning went off: twelve seconds.

  "What was it?" cried Aelliana.

  "In a moment. They'll be firing the last of their—yes. Avoidance pattern, please."

  Through the glowing cloud came two missiles, though only one was on course for them. Aelliana used the maneuvering rockets to spin the ship, hit acceleration, kept accelerating until the red warning light came on.

  They saw the simulated explosion fade into green nothingness behind them in the instant before the virtual ship Jumped away.

  Aelliana cheered.

  The piloting chamber melted, the shock webbing retracted. Daav rose, looked about—and sighed.

  The pirates were gone.

  "THIS WAY, SED RIC," Yolan hissed, groping ahead in the thick darkness of the service corridor.

  There! Her questing hand found the emptiness that meant the cross-hall. Another few minutes in this stifling darkness and they would be free of the Virtual Arcade and the two undoubtedly angry marks they had deserted at Pilot to Prince.

  Yolan sighed. She hated the service corridors; the hot dark gave her horrors, calling forth ghosts and hobgoblins from childhood stories. There were no ghosts or goblins, of course. She knew that. The world held far more terrible things than mere monsters. Cops, for instance. Port proctors, for another. Not to mention angry marks who had won a game they had no business to win and were now cheated of their cash.

  "Here." Sed Ric's voice rasped in her ear.

  "Right. Stay close." She found his hand and held it—to lead him, she told herself fiercely—and groped her way toward the cross-hall.

  Slowly, she moved forward, free hand extended, fingers touching the wall. The wall ended, her fingers stroked emptiness—

  Something grabbed her hand.

  Yolan screamed.

  "Well," an amused masculine voice said. "What a noise." Light snapped on and Yolan blinked, gasping into silence.

  Before them stood the very marks she and Sed Ric had just rooked of their rightful winnings. The man, with his sharp, foxy face and his worn leathers, looked infuriatingly amused, though his fingers, now around Yolan's arm, were surprisingly strong.

  The pale-haired woman held a portable light, and she looked angry, her eyes cat-green in the sudden brightness.

  "What clans own you?" she demanded as Sed Ric stepped up to Yolan's side.

  Yolan moved her shoulders. "We own ourselves."

  The green eyes widened. Shocked her, Yolan thought, with a twist of bitter satisfaction.

  "You're clanless?" the woman asked, casting a look at her tall friend.

  "More profit to ourselves," Sed Ric said, "than the clan ever showed."

  "Playing tourists for two dex a round?" the man drawled, dark eyes showing something Yolan thought uneasily was not amusement. "And running when it's time to pay?"

  "We usually play for higher stakes," Sed Ric said, as Yolan snapped, "We don't often lose!"

  "Hah." The man looked from one to the other, moved his shoulders and glanced at his partner. "Well, Pilot? You had wanted them."

  "If you want your four dex," Sed Ric, with a calm Yolan knew he was a long way from feeling, "we'll pay now."

  "After we've chased you and shaken it out of you," the pale-haired woman said ironically. "How kind." Her bright eyes moved from Yolan's face to Sed Ric's. "In truth, you are clanless?"

  "Yes," Yolan hissed, and felt the man's fingers tighten around her arm.

  "Grace to the pilot, Clanless," he said softly, and Yolan swallowed, abruptly cold.

  "Where do you live, then?" the pale-haired pilot demanded.

  Yolan clenched her jaw.

  "I expect that they had been sleeping in a wayroom," the fox-faced man said. "I also expect the rent on the cot came due today, and that the money they stole from you, Pilot, was meant to buy it tonight." He sounded bored.

  "Is that true?" the woman asked.

  It was Sed Ric who answered. "True," he said, trying to sound as bored as the man. He didn't quite succeed.

  There was silence, stretching long. Yolan tensed against the man's hand; froze at his lifted brow.

  "What shall you do, if we let you go?" the woman asked quietly.

  Yolan looked away. On the Port tonight, she thought dismally, clenching her jaw tight. No place to sleep and nothing to eat, unless the luck smiled. They could always walk a bit further south, slip over the line into the Low Port. There might be something to gain there. But Low Port was dangerous . . .

  "Low Port, is it, Clanless?" If anything, the man sounded more bored than previously. He looked at Sed Ric. "Will you sell your lady here to the first bidder, or were you planning to sell yourself and leave her without a partner?"

  Sed Ric's jaw tightened. "We don't have to cross the line."

  "No? Well, it's your life, free as you are of the restrictions of House and, apparently, honor." He said carelessly, though his grip on Yolan's arm never slackened.

  The pilot stirred. "Will you play an honest game?" she demanded, her eyes wide and half-wild in the glow of her torch. "Or are you thieves, and craven?"

  "We'll play," Yolan snarled and Sed Ric said, "What's the game?"

  "Take the four dex and buy a bed," the pilot said sharply. "Tomorrow dawn show yourselves to Master dea'Cort at Binjali Repair Shop in Mechanic Street, Upper Port. Tell him that Aelliana Caylon thought you might be of use. You tell him, too, to keep four dex out of whatever wages he might care to grant you and put it aside, to repay a debt of honor." She fixed them both with a stern eye. "You're still game?"

  Yolan hesitated, looking f
or the trap; it was Sed Ric who said, "Still game."

  "Good." The pilot stepped back, dimming the torch. Her mate released Yolan's arm and likewise went back, clearing the way to the exit hatch.

  "That's it?" demanded Sed Ric. "That's the whole game?"

  "Something more," the man said, taking the pilot's hand and flicking a quick smile down into her thin face. "Over on Scorn Street there's a grab-a-bite called Varl's. You know it?"

  "Yes," said Yolan.

  "Go over now and order yourselves a meal—high-quality protein, and solid carbohydrate, mind me! Tell the counter help to add it to Daav's chit."

  "But, why?" demanded Yolan, horrified to find herself close to tears. She hadn't cried in—in—Sed Ric's hand came up to grip her shoulder; she bit her lip and blinked.

  "Why not?" returned the man, amusement back in the foxy face.

  "At least work long enough to pay back what you owe," the woman said. "If you've no delm to look to, how much more closely must you mind your own melant'i?"

  Yolan stared at her, torn between a desire to laugh and to fling herself into the thin arms and wail.

  In the end, she did neither, merely took Sed Ric's hand and inclined her head gravely.

  "Good evening, gentles."

  "Good evening," the man returned, and "Take good care," said the woman.

  They walked away, scarcely comprehending what had happened, triggered the hatch at the end of the hallway and slipped out into the night.

  After a moment, Daav and Aelliana followed.

  SHE SHIVERED as they came out into the street and Daav looked at her in concern. "You're cold."

  "A little," she admitted, handing him the torch and watching him stow it in his belt pouch. She shivered again. "I left my overshirt on the—Dear gods."

  He turned, following the direction of her eyes, seeing the crowd, the clutter of kiosks, the ship-board, the clock—

  "The time," she whispered urgently. "Daav, I must go home."