by Sharon Lee
He paused. Theo waited.
“The advantage that Brulilt holds for us, aside from its isolation, is that we may reach it quickly.”
“Your proposed timetable?” Theo asked.
“Captain, with your permission, I am ready to move now. We will arrive in Brulilt System inside of two shifts.”
Theo closed her eyes and considered what he had said, and also what she was…feeling. Bechimo was anxious; she might even say he was afraid.
“Has there been any more flotsam?” she asked.
“No, Captain. However…”
He stopped, and Theo nodded.
However. Right. In a random universe, anything was possible. The wreck of Orbital Aid 370 could be the last bit of…flotsam that would ever cross into this location.
Or, Spiral Dance could have been the vanguard of more and ever-more-dangerous debris.
Bechimo was right, Theo thought. They couldn’t dawdle here any longer.
She threw back the blanket and reached for her sweater.
“Please ask Joyita to call the crew together for a quick meeting on the bridge.”
“Yes, Captain.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bechimo
“Ain’t the ugliest piece o’space I’ve seen,” Clarence said, after they’d all taken a long look at Brulilt System. “That said, I’m hoping we’re not making a long stay, Captain.”
“Temporary quarters only,” Theo answered, feeling grit slide against her—against Bechimo’s—skin. “As soon as we debrief our guests and come up with a plan of forward motion, we’ll be leaving.”
Win Ton shifted in his chair, but said nothing. Which, Theo admitted, showed really admirable restraint. While he’d agreed with the necessity to leave their little patch of wyrd space, he had argued for a remove to the nearest Scout outpost, where the two pathfinders could be off-loaded, as he had it, “with grace,” whereupon Bechimo and crew would return to their proper duties.
Clarence had said nothing to that, loudly. Kara had looked uneasy. It had been left to Theo to ask the question.
“Do you have an estimation of their life expectancy, if we do that?”
Win Ton had stiffened, then sighed.
“Unless they presented difficulties, they would very likely live long, healthy lives.”
“So long as they didn’t mind losing their liberty and any other associations except each other and the Scout historians,” Clarence added, sotto voce.
Theo nodded.
“That’s why we want to take some time with this,” she said. “We need to debrief the pathfinders, find out what they want or need. They’re mature adults. They get to have a say in what happens to them now.”
She looked at each of them in turn. “Any other objections?”
Kara had no objections; Clarence had no objections; Joyita had no objections. Hevelin, so she judged by the tumbling images of stars and ships and stations inside her head, was positively excited by the idea of shifting base.
Win Ton…bowed to the captain’s honor, lips pressed together, which Theo took to mean he had only that one objection, and that she’d be hearing it again.
“Good,” she said. “Let’s go.”
* * * * *
Chernak woke, swathed in comfortable blankets against the cool, rich air they had chosen with a triple roll of the dice. It was not the richest air the ship would serve up for sleep, nor the chilliest temperature, but sufficient to assist two weary and—they admitted this between themselves with a single glance—frightened soldiers into a deep and healing sleep.
Always, upon waking she would recall the last order or necessity of the day before, to prepare her mind and her reflexes for the new day and duty shift before her. Often enough, she’d discover Stost waking at the same moment, but—she turned her head to find that, this waking, he slumbered on, his face serene.
That is well, she thought. Stost had given her rest in the midst of peril by carrying her duties with his own. Let her now return the gift. She would keep watch for both, though their present condition was far less perilous.
Or so she hoped…which hope brought to mind the last orders of the previous day, issued by Comm Officer Joyita, after Clarence and Win Ton had left them, the hallway door whisking shut at their backs.
There had been, so she had noticed—and certainly Stost had—no sound after the door closed that could be a lock engaging. Of course not; the door only needed to be coded to accept certain palm prints—and to ignore others.
She and Stost had shared a glance in which they agreed, wryly, not to submit the door to the test. Where, after all, would they go? To the bridge, to make the ship their own?
Into that moment came a voice, speaking behind them.
“Pathfinders.”
They’d spun as one—and straightened with a certain amount of ruefulness to find it was only Joyita, speaking from the screen.
He had nodded gravely upon gaining their attention and continued, his face calm, and his accent improved yet again.
“If you have need or question, each screen has the touchpad to call; or if you press the blue switch before you retire, simply speaking my name at moderate volume will open a session with me at any hour. Else, a tone will sound to wake you—” Here, a tone sounded, high and unpleasant. “The same tone will be the notice that shift begins on the next quarter chime. Have you any questions, Pathfinders?”
They had not. Joyita had tipped the light half-nod and half-bow that seemed to be the shipboard acknowledgment of polite assent.
“Sleep well, Pathfinders. The ship is vigilant for you. Sleep well!”
Last orders then, thought Chernak, had been to sleep well, which orders she had realized and Stost continued to fulfill.
Last shift, they had each lifted a pad from a side room, and put them side by side in the common space, camp-style, which was…a comfortable reminder of earlier days. The plan had been that of the last ten-day, the last hundred-day—in truth, most of their past thousand days, that one would sleep while the other watched, with a rotation halfway down the shift.
It was Stost, scheduled for first sleep, who said, “The ship is vigilant for us, Senior. No less a person than Joyita has said it. Lay down your knife and rest.”
Almost, she had protested, but again, he had the right of it. If, indeed, Captain Waitley, commander of all local space, was daft enough to risk ship and crew in a dangerous live recovery, only to decide, mere hours later, to stealthily kill those recovered—she had the means to do so from her chair on the bridge. Standing watch as the air was evacuated from their suite of rooms would be less than useless.
Chernak had, therefore, made herself comfortable next to him, each with work knife on their free side, habit being habit.
Their first easy drift into doze had been interrupted as Grakow entered the lists and, with much rhythmic pushing of paws against blankets while emitting a rumbling sound that was oddly pleasing, at last settled between them, the tiny soldier warmed by the large, and all had slept.
Their makeshift bed shook of a sudden. Chernak turned her head to find Grakow on his feet, back arching high, legs braced in a long and lasting stretch that became an encompassing, boneless relaxation, shrugging skin back into a wide-mouthed yawn that revealed teeth sharp as needles. Waking ritual apparently complete, the cat wrapped tail around toes and looked at her, green eyes bright and expectant.
Chernak stared back. She had never slept with an animal in the same room; the warhounds and their soldiers had their own barracks, in such places where they had duty…
“Good waking, Senior!” Stost said, his voice hoarse but cheerful. “And also to you, Grakow.”
The cat turned his head, as if to acknowledge the well-wish, then leisurely rose to his feet and strolled off, possibly to locate breakfast.
Chernak’s stomach growled in sympathy.
“I agree,” Stost said. “Let us rise, make the rooms neat, and ourselves soldierly. Then, we may share the food left o
ver from last shift for our own breakfast.”
“You are full of plans, my Stost,” Chernak said.
“Are they foolish plans?”
“By no means. Let us embark upon them immediately.”
She cast the comforting blankets back, and rolled to her feet.
* * *
The promised lock-bags had arrived toward the end of their last shift and also light-duty, belted uniforms of a not unpleasing cut, complete with the Laughing Cat upon the right breast of each. They had at the same time surrendered their weapons to Win Ton and saw them stowed in the bags, which he then bore away to “storage.”
They had been patient and obedient, and kept their faces easy, though the lack of sidearms and warblades made Stost feel exposed and naked, despite the fine new uniform. For a surprise, they were allowed to retain their work blades and their grace blades. Orders of the captain, so Clarence had informed them. Their ship was a civilized ship—or so they understood him to say—and they were guests of the captain.
Their uniforms—their proper uniforms—had been taken away by Clarence, who perhaps promised that they would be cleaned, mended, and made ready for them later.
They had managed to keep the all-important cases by the simple expedient of shifting them into Grakow’s room when eyes were elsewhere and placing them out of sight.
Dressed now in the Laughing Cat uniform and shod in soft ship slippers, the bedding reassembled and the quarters made neat, they met again in the main room.
Stost was truly hungry now, his thoughts turning eagerly to the contents of the coldbox. He noted that he was concentrating on one task at a time, moving linearly, more like a common Troop on orders than a pathfinder in…strange circumstances. Chernak was doing likewise, which meant that, for the moment, they were patient and awaited events.
She came out of Grakow’s room and raised an eyebrow. The cases had not been disturbed while they slept, then. He did not sigh in relief, but it was a near thing.
Chernak nodded at him and moved toward the coldbox.
A chime sounded, a rounder, more mellow tone than the wake-up call Joyita had demonstrated for them last shift. Instinct turned him toward the screen.
“Good waking, Pathfinders.” Joyita’s accent had improved again while they slept. As all pathfinders, he and Chernak were facile with languages and generally quick to learn—core specs for the X Strain. It would appear that Joyita had similar specs, though he seemed a civilian—born, rather than made.
“Joyita,” Chernak, elder and senior, returned the greeting first.
“Joyita,” Stost said in his turn. “What news?”
The grim mouth softened somewhat in a smile.
“A timely question. There are three pieces of news for you.
“First, the captain has moved the ship from the location at which we found you. She sends her assurances that we are secure in this new location.
“Second, on the advice of our medical technician, you were allowed to sleep for as long as your bodies required. This puts you at an odd schedule with regard to the crew. The captain therefore requests that you make a meal from those items in the coldbox. If there is a specific food or beverage that you require, please tell me and it will be delivered to you.
“Third, the captain will come to you in one hour and asks that you hold yourselves ready for debriefing.”
* * * * *
Hevelin wanted to meet the new people. He was insistent on this point, even adamant. The barrage of images was intense—enough to produce a tiny flicker of headache—but became less intense in the same instant that Theo noticed it.
She sighed, sipped her tea, and considered the norbear standing on the chair before her. She’d come into the galley for a cup of tea and to order her thoughts before she debriefed the pathfinders. Engaging in a dialogue with a noisy and excited norbear had not been on the agenda.
The images slowed again, until they arrived in the tempo that Theo considered to be normal norbear conversation. An image of Grakow came to mind, then Chernak and Stost. Accompanying was a sense of wanting—needing—to…to know them.
Theo sighed and blew her bangs out of her eyes.
“Hevelin, I’m sure they want to know you, too. But they’ve been through a lot”—a somber image of Orbital Aid 370 flashed behind her eyes—“and we need to let them rest and find their equilibrium. We don’t want them to make a mistake because they’re tired or confused. And we don’t want to make a mistake because we have…assumptions. I need to talk to them, find out what their necessities are and what they need to know so they can make good decisions.”
A flicker of disappointment reached her.
“Bored?” Theo asked. “I can ask Kara to teach you astrogation.”
A starfield glittered inside her head and vanished, replaced by a scent—a familiar, minty scent.
She frowned. Was she smelling the tree here in the galley? There must be a problem with the ventilation system. Except that Bechimo never had those kind of minor maintenance issues, and she hadn’t felt any bobble in Systems.
The scent was stronger; a picture of a seed pod formed in her mind and she looked back to Hevelin, who had placed two actual seed pods on the table next to his chair.
“Oh no. What have you been doing!”
The image, the expectation, was clear. He wanted her to have one of the pods. He pushed one toward her, while his paw hovered over the other possessively.
An image swooped through her thoughts on a chilly breeze, and she saw the shadow of a dragon.…
The pod—her pod—smelled so…good. Not like anything in particular; just like—well, like the promise that she would enjoy eating it very, very much.
She didn’t have to eat it; she remembered Father telling her so.
But she wanted to eat it. She put her mug aside and took one step toward the table.
“Theo!”
Bechimo’s voice rattled her brain inside her skull. “What are you doing?”
“Accepting a gift from an ally,” she said, mouth watering.
“That pod is not safe!”
“No, it’s perfectly safe,” she said, feeling certainty in her bones. “Better than safe.”
“There is nothing better than safe,” Bechimo said flatly. “I will call Kara—”
“No!”
That was an order! She heard sparks crackle, felt a thrill of electricity in the interface between herself and Bechimo…and she felt Bechimo pause.
“Theo,” he said quietly. “That pod might kill you.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve had one before, and it didn’t…do anything, really. Except it tasted better than anything I’ve ever eaten.”
“Theo,” Bechimo’s voice was quieter still. “I have checked my records. You have not eaten a pod from the tree in Forcing Room Three. It has, in fact, only produced these two pods which Hevelin has brought to you within the last ten hours.”
“Not from this tree,” Theo said dreamily, most of her attention on the pod, which seemed to quiver with eagerness under her regard. “From Val Con’s Tree.”
Her pod—smaller than the pod she’d had from Val Con’s Tree—was bright and green smelling, with a hint of spices she’d never tasted. She breathed in, savoring the complexity, as bundles of ideas presented themselves for her consideration. That, she realized, was her bond with Bechimo functioning. He was thinking heavily, pulling in data at a rapid rate, building hypotheses.
Was her own scent part of the allure of the pod? How was her poor human nose good enough to scent the difference between her pod and Hevelin’s—in fact, was it that good? Hevelin had done the primary sort, keeping one pod and proffering the other. Yet she was certain that the pod remaining was for her. Was there some other subtle but tangible clue to be reckoned upon? The color? The shape? How could a seed pod be imbued with readable intent?
Bechimo’s sensors were at work, overlaying her own, he much less willing than she to admit the reality of the tree being able to tag
seeds in a way that would inform an intended recipient. He was not denying the tree’s potential sapience, nor was she; in fact, he was more accepting of that potential, as he formed the theory that the tree had created the pod in order to harm her.
As if he’d heard that theory form, Hevelin lifted his pod, holding it carefully in two paws. With great deliberation, he brought the pod close and subjected it to a thorough inspection.
Theo felt the inspection, noting with the norbear the lack of offensive insects, the firmness of the green shell, the pleasing shape. He inhaled, sharing with her the overtones and undertones, a particular bouquet rising at the front of her nose, then expanding with delicious promise.
The pod was, so Hevelin determined, ripe and ready to be eaten.
That being so, he placed fingers at sudden green seams and sighed with pleasure as the pod fell into quarters.
He raised the first section to his lips slowly, as a gourmet might savor the moments before sampling a new and thrilling taste. He squinted in pleasure; Theo did, too, surprised by the tang on her tongue, the nutty essence that had beneath it a dark, fruity juiciness.
He ate the remaining sections with gusto, without doubt or concern. When he was done, he sighed in deep contentment and looked up at her. There was again the chill sense of dragon wings overhead, coupled with a brief glance of Father, and his fair-haired friend—who, Theo realized abruptly, must be Val Con’s mother. She felt Hevelin receive that identification with a deep, satisfied purr.
Distantly, Bechimo operated as a ship, sensors sensing, evaluating, testing—and this Theo could feel. Internally Bechimo’s thoughts bounced, twitched, concern for security blanketing himself and his captain—and this Theo could also feel. In the background were multiple jealousies and warnings about the tree’s loyalties, about her own to distrusted Korval, about—
Theo sat on a vacant stool; Hevelin left his and settled on her lap.
“Bechimo?” She said it out loud, low but clear.
Hevelin looked about now, as if looking for the person he’d sensed with Theo.