by Sharon Lee
“Ah.” A world that was alike protected from the so-called Department of the Interior, and the Juntavas—perfect.
Pat Rin inclined his head.
“I believe that is—desirable.”
She nodded, as if she had expected no other answer. As perhaps, Pat Rin thought, she had not.
“What’s the name of this place?” Cheever asked from his corner of the table.
Natesa turned to look at him. “Why, Surebleak, pilot. Have you heard of it?”
Surprisingly, the big man threw back his head and laughed.
“Oh, I heard of it, OK.” He transferred a wide grin to Pat Rin. “She’s right, Boss. If there’s a world where anything can get lost and never looked for, it’s Surebleak.”
“Good,” Pat Rin said, and inclined his head to both. “Then it is settled.”
DAY 50
Standard Year 1393
Dutiful Passage
Lytaxin Orbit
THE SHIFT WAS more than half done. First Mate Ren Zel dea’Judan finished the last report in the queue and leaned back in his chair, reflecting that it was odd that the paperwork of war and the paperwork of trade should be so similar.
Though, he thought, reaching for his cup, to be precise, they were no longer at war, but rather stalled in some halfling state between the usual and the unthinkable, waiting for the gods knew what.
Ren Zel sipped, found the tea tepid, sighed and drank it anyway.
The reports provided by the mercenary forces on the planet below spoke of the “mop up phase” of the on-going military operations, and indicated that the present hostilities between the mercenaries and those Yxtrang soldiers remaining were sporadic and disconnected, ranging over considerable geographic area. Clan Erob’s airfield, which had been a point of contention before the Yxtrang warships had abruptly withdrawn from orbit, abandoning thousands of soldiers to their deaths, was secure. What was left of Lytaxin spaceport was also secure.
The captains and mates of the ships now surrounding the Passage—officers old in warfare—gave as their expert opinions that it was extremely unlikely that the departed Yxtrang would return with reinforcements to retrieve the soldiers they had left behind.
Ren Zel shuddered, and not because his tea was cold. To be abandoned by one’s ship among hostile strangers, the last duty remaining one to die well . . .
It struck too close to the heart, that, and set uneasy memories snarling. To have one’s death recorded and made fact before ever one had lain down and—
“Have done!” he told himself sharply and stood.
He wanted tea. Fresh, hot tea, and an end to the nattering of ill memory. He was clanless—dead to kin, outside the laws of Liad. Dead in truth, had Shan yos’Galan not put forth his hand, and declared that he and his crew welcomed pilots of ability and steady will. Here, on Dutiful Passage, Ren Zel dea’Judan, deceased of Clan Obrelt, had comrades, and a place, and work—as pilot and, now, as first mate, under Shan yos’Galan’s lady lifemate, Priscilla Mendoza. His wealth exceeded, by many orders of magnitude, anything another clanless might hope to achieve—aye, and many who were clanned, as well.
Tea. He moved to the refreshment console—and the comm unit on his desk beeped.
Pilot-quick, he was across the room, finger on the button.
“First Mate.”
“Hi there, First Mate,” Radio Tech Rusty Morgenstern said brightly. “Got a call on the priority channel for the officer in charge. Want it now?”
Priority channel? “Certainly.”
“All yours,” Rusty said. There was a click as of a second line being opened, then Rusty’s voice again, almost painfully respectful. “Here’s Pilot dea’Judan, ma’am—officer on shift.”
“Thank you, Mr. Morgenstern,” said a cool feminine voice. “Pilot dea’Judan?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ren Zel agreed in his careful Terran. “May I know to whom I have the honor of speaking?”
There was a slight pause, as if the lady were taken aback to find one who did not know her.
“I have the honor,” she said, abruptly and icily in the High Tongue, in the mode of announcement, “to be Korval-pernard’i. My personal name is Nova yos’Galan. I will be arriving at Docking Bay Two in one-half hour, Standard. My necessity is to meet with the captain immediately upon my arrival. Am I plain?”
“You are extremely plain, my lady,” Ren Zel answered in the mode of oathbound to lord, which was precise, as even the laws of Liad must acknowledge, while disputing his right to speak at all to a living Liaden lady. “Arrangements will be made to welcome you at Bay Two in one-half hour, Standard.”
“That is well,” said Nova yos’Galan and signed off. Ren Zel frowned.
Nova yos’Galan, first speaker in trust for Clan Korval, was the sister of Shan yos’Galan. He had met the lady once, standing protected and anonymous within the shadow of his captain’s melant’i. That same captain who casually brought his sister’s reputation a whisper from ruin by introducing Ren Zel, in Terran— “Pilot dea’Judan, sister. Ren Zel, my sister Nova, also a pilot.”
Now she came, Korval-pernard’i, riding a double wave of danger, and demanding to see the captain of Dutiful Passage. By whom she could only mean her brother, who was . . . no longer aboard.
Ren Zel leaned over the desk and punched in a quick sequence, barely glancing at the keypad. The second remote trill was cut off by the deep, resonate voice of Priscilla Mendoza, who had been first mate before him.
“Mendoza.”
“Pray forgive me for disturbing your rest,” he said in formal Liaden, scarcely heeding his own speech. “Circumstance requires.”
“Appalling circumstance, apparently, to have kicked you back into the High Tongue,” said Priscilla in light Terran. “What tragedy has overtaken us, friend?”
Ren Zel smiled slightly and amended his language. “I pray forgiveness,” he said carefully. “One has just now closed conversation with a lady of high mode, indeed.” He glanced at the clock on the wall beside the refreshment unit. “In precisely twenty-eight minutes, Standard, Nova yos’Galan, Korval-pernard’i, will arrive at Docking Station Two. Her desire is to enjoy an interview with the captain, immediately upon her arrival.”
Priscilla said three hard-edged words in a language neither Terran nor Liaden. Ren Zel blinked.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, as gently as Terran allowed him.
Her sigh came clearly out of the speaker. “No, I beg your pardon,” she said, equally gentle, “for I must send you into peril alone, and for no better reason than I cannot face the upcoming interview with Korval-pernard’i on an empty stomach.”
She sighed a second time. “Please do me the favor of meeting Lady Nova at Docking Bay Two and escorting her to my office.”
“I?” Ren Zel bit his lip. “Priscilla, I am—”
“Pilot, first mate, and crewman of good standing on this ship,” she interrupted. “Lady Nova knows how to value such things.”
And he had, after all, Ren Zel reflected wryly, received his orders from his captain. He inclined his head, as if she could see him—and who knew that she could not, dramliza that she was? “I will meet Lady Nova and bring her to you in your office.”
“Good,” said Priscilla.
His hand moved toward the disconnect—and stopped as she spoke his name.
“Yes?”
“It will not be necessary,” she said, “to tell Lady Nova that her brother is not presently aboard.”
The ways of the dramliz were mysterious, Ren Zel thought, but the ways of Korval were stranger still. Again, he inclined his head.
“I understand,” he said, and the connection light went out.
***
THE STATUS LIGHT went from red to green, and the hatch slid open, revealing a tall blond woman wearing the leather jacket of a Jump pilot over serviceable dark shirt and trousers. Her face was comely, as he had recalled, and fell easily into a frown, though he had taken care to be in place several minutes beforeti
me, so that she would find him neither tardy nor breathless.
He bowed, oathbound to lord, which might have waked a question in her mind, had she been less focused upon her own business. As it was, she returned his courtesy with an inclination of the head, and a brief, “Pilot.”
“Lady,” he murmured, straightening in proper time and keeping his gaze decently averted. “I am sent to bring you to the captain.”
“So I surmised,” she answered drily, the accent of fabled Solcintra gilding her words. “If the captain has likewise desired you to lead me the long dance, I pray you will allow yourself to be persuaded otherwise. I do know the shortest route, and will have no difficulty escorting myself.”
Well, and Captain yos’Galan had been known, upon occasion, to issue such orders to those sent as escort, Ren Zel allowed, and bowed again.
“The captain was off shift,” he offered, softly, “and required time to prepare.”
“Of course,” said Lady Nova and swept a slim hand toward the corridor. Korval’s clan ring flared briefly in the light, silver and green. “My business with the captain is urgent.”
“Certainly. If your ladyship will accompany me . . .”
***
ALL HONOR to the lady: She did not insist on the shortest route, through the narrow service corridors. However, the pace she set through the public corridors was swift enough to discourage conversation, which Ren Zel could only feel was to his benefit.
Soon enough, the bright red door of the captain’s office came into sight. The lady broke her step, courteously allowing Ren Zel to lay his palm against the plate. The door slid silently open and he preceded the guest across the threshold, as protocol required, saw his captain sitting tall and proud behind the desk and swept a low bow as Nova yos’Galan stepped past him.
“I bring—” he began, and then halted, as Priscilla’s voice overrode his, speaking mild Terran.
“Well met, sister. Will you have wine?”
Ren Zel straightened. Sister. What came next was between kin. He had no business here. He moved one careful step forward. Both women looked at him, but he kept his eyes on Priscilla’s face.
“Captain, shall I take your place on the roster this shift?”
She smiled. “That will not be necessary, first mate. Please, pursue your rest shift.”
He bowed—“Captain”—again—“Lady”—and resisted the impulse to back out of the office.
The door slid shut behind the brown-haired pilot. Nova took a deliberate breath, and glared at the woman behind the desk. “So. Sister and captain, is it? Where is my brother?”
“Planetside,” Priscilla said in her deep, calm voice, and raised a hand as if she felt Nova’s cry of protest rising. “It was an accident, I swear. We had taken damage and he insisted on being part of the repair crew. The enemy attacked and separated him from the ship.” She paused, then added, “Seth Johnson gave his life to protect his captain and his ship in that action. I think you knew him.”
Nova bowed her head, recalling with the vividness that was her gift and her curse the long, rat-faced Terran pilot. “Who are we, that people die for us? All honor to him.”
“All honor to him,” Priscilla repeated softly.
Nova looked up. “First mate rises to fill the void in command, when the captain is separated from the ship. It is understood. Now—sister?”
“Shan and I have declared lifemates.”
Nova closed her eyes. “With recourse to neither law nor first speaker.”
“The clan was scattered; our enemy in pursuit,” Priscilla murmured. “I refused to leave the ship to be safe, and he was too wise a captain to order his first mate away.”
Nova opened her eyes. “Ah, I understand! A sacrifice upon the altar of duty! How like Shan, to be sure!”
Priscilla threw back her head and laughed. After a moment, Nova sighed and moved forward to take a chair. “I believe I will have a glass of the white, if you please. Sister. And then you may tell me how my brothers fare, planetside.”
“Shan,” said Priscilla, moving gracefully across the room to the bar. “Fares well. Val Con fares . . . less well.” She poured two glasses of white wine and carried them to the desk. She handed Nova a glass and sat again behind the desk, her own glass cradled in long, slender fingers.
Nova’s mouth tightened. “How much . . . less well . . . stands my younger brother?”
Priscilla raised her glass and almost laughed again, to catch herself employing one of Shan’s delaying tactics.
“Val Con was desperately wounded in the strike that broke the back of the Yxtrang on-world. He remains in the catastrophe unit at Erob’s medical facility. The med techs there are divided in their predictions of the final percentage of his disability.”
The color drained from Nova’s face, leaving it a sticky beige color; her distress slammed across Priscilla’s inner senses with the shrill force of a scream.
“Nova—”
Her lifemate’s sister raised a slim, golden hand, and turned her face aside. “A moment, of your kindness. Val Con—” Her breath caught. “If he is not able to fly . . .”
If Val Con were not able to fly, Priscilla thought, following Nova’s logic effortlessly, then he could not, by Korval’s own law, be delm. And Korval needed its delm now as never before, with Plan B in effect, and enemies on all sides.
“Val Con’s lifemate is out of the ’doc and by all reports will make a full recovery,” she said to Nova’s stricken eyes. “She will be able to fly. Korval has its delm.”
“Lifemate,” Nova repeated flatly, and had recourse to her glass, eyes half-closed.
“Lifemate,” Priscilla asserted. “Shan says—lifemates in the fullest sense, shadowing the link that your parents shared.”
Nova closed her eyes. “Gods be merciful,” she murmured. She had another sip of wine and opened her eyes. “I will be leaving for the planet surface as soon as I have cleared descent with the appropriate commanders,” she said, with a forced and brittle calm.
“There are Yxtrang on the planet surface,” Priscilla pointed out, though she had very little hope of turning Nova from her course. “You will be placing yourself in peril.”
The other woman stared at her for a long moment, violet eyes unreadable.
“I acknowledge the possibility of peril,” she said, slowly. “However, the report I have from the mercenaries is that Erob’s House is no longer in immediate danger of attack and that the Yxtrang have lost heart. I am Korval-pernard’i. Necessity exists.”
And that, Priscilla thought with an inward sigh, was that. She knew better than to try to talk any Liaden out of an action that had been found, by some fey balancing of duty, desire, and melant’i, to be “necessary.”
“May I ask you a thing,” Nova said suddenly, “as captain of this vessel?”
What now? Priscilla wondered, but kept her face and voice serene. “Yes.”
“I wonder how you came to name a clanless first mate?”
“Ah.” Priscilla leaned back and sipped her own wine, her eyes drawn upward, to the glittery frivolous mobile Anthora yos’Galan had given her brother Shan. “Ren Zel is able; mere hours away from master pilot. He is respected by his shipmates, and—” She brought her eyes down to meet Nova’s gaze. “And, he is not . . . entirely . . . clanless. This ship—this crew—are his kin. He will fight to keep both safe, with his last gasp of life.”
Nova sat for a moment, then inclined her head. “It is well-reasoned. I thank you.” She stood, leaving her empty glass on the corner of Priscilla’s desk. “If I may have the use of a comm?”
Priscilla rose. “You may use this one, and welcome,” she said. “I am wanted on the bridge.”
“Thank you. Sister.” She smiled, then, sudden and genuine. “I am glad to be able to say it.”
LIAD
Department of Interior
Command Headquarters
THE BOX WAS approximately five foot square, matte black and, on casual inspection, sea
mless.
Commander of Agents, completing an inspection that was not at all casual, paused before the door and looked to the hovering technician.
“I would examine the interior.”
“Certainly, Commander.” The tech removed a cylinder no longer than his forefinger from a pocket and depressed a section of its black surface. There was no sound, but when Commander of Agents again faced the box, it was to discover that one wall had slid away. The interior was very dark. Commander of Agents produced a hand light from his pocket, flicked it on and stepped into the box.
Its interior dimension was somewhat less than the outside led one to expect; the ceiling short enough that Commander of Agents needed to duck his head and round his shoulders. A taller person would not have been able to stand at all, but would need to kneel upon the ungiving metal floor.
“The apparatus,” the technician murmured from the doorway, “is enclosed in the floor and the sidewalls. If one braces oneself against a wall, or kneels or lies down on the floor—the lethargic affect is far greater. The test subject has been able to experience the weakening of his abilities, which was not expected, but which may prove useful. In the short term, the perceptible ebb of power has been observed to awaken panic to the verge of hysteria in the test subject.”
Commander of Agents played his light around the interior of the box, noting with satisfaction the smooth, nearly featureless metal walls. There were a series of small vents—33 holes altogether, the report had said—on the immovable wall. These were for ventilation, or for the introduction of gasses, as necessary. On the very center of the “ceiling” were several indentations—these the microphone and speakers for communicating with the inmate, or for introducing sounds as might be required. An uncomfortable place, altogether, in the normal way of things, but for those of the dramliz—a torture.
“You lost a subject, I believe?” he said over his shoulder to the technician.
“Commander, we did. The first dramliza understood her circumstance very quickly and was able to raise sufficient power to hurl a fireball at the apparatus beneath the floor.”