He had then shaken out Theo’s jacket, and placed into the inside pockets the acceptance letter from Anlingdin Piloting Academy, her identification, a flat folder of pictures, and most of her money, leaving enough to buy sundries in an easy-to-reach outside pocket.
“A pilot will also have her license, and a weapon,” he had said, handing Theo the jacket with a smile in his dark eyes. “A pilot ought to always be ready to lift. That means that her essentials are in her jacket, and her jacket is always with her. The contents of the case—even those things that we have just agreed are essential—can be, and sometimes must be, left behind.”
Kamele was no pilot; yet, in packing for this journey, she had recalled Jen Sar’s lesson to Theo, and done her best to emulate it. In the end, it meant that she took with her from Delgado one large case on a tether, and a smaller one that went over her shoulder. The interior pockets of her jacket contained those things of importance—items that it would be difficult-to-impossible to replace: identification, tickets, credit cards, and a datakey containing her research and notes regarding the delm, and the clan, of Korval.
While she had, according to Jen Sar’s definition, overpacked for this journey, by comparison with her fellow travelers, she was as unencumbered as a bird in flight. Her cases came with her to her tiny cabin, and stowed easily in the under-bunk storage. When it came time, as now, to debark, it was a matter of complete simplicity to put on her jacket, shoulder the small bag, pick up the leash of the large bag, and exit. No need to go halfway across the station to claim checked baggage; no need to rent a wagon, or a porter; no need to research the necessary and proper local bribes.
No, all she need do was verify the location of the ship she was transferring to, walk leisurely down-station until she came to the appropriate boarding room, and check herself in.
The boarding room for Hoselteen was small, and a little shabby. It was also very nearly empty. On the left side of the room, two men sat on a sofa facing the entertainment screen, one with his head on the other’s shoulder. On the right side of the room, a woman in an orange-and-white jumpsuit released the security curtain covering the front of the snack counter.
“Toot ’n’ tea up in five ticks,” she called over her shoulder. “Make yourself comfy.”
“Thank you.”
Kamele found herself a chair with an adjustable arm desk in a bright corner of the room, and settled in with a smile.
Jen Sar had taught her so much during their years together; she would be glad—no!—happy to see him again.
Her smile faded.
If she was allowed to see him again. If her research was correct, if Jen Sar was held . . . prisoner, the delm of Korval might deny her that pleasure.
She straightened where she sat. The delm of Korval might try to deny her. If she dared. But she, Kamele Waitley, full professor and junior administrator—she had made a vow. If Jen Sar were held against his will, she would parole him.
And that vow she would keep.
— • —
Theo had spent the trip back in the white car musing on the concept—on the problem—of luck. As an exercise, she tried to view her whole life as a series of lucky or unlucky incidents.
On the lucky side, there was Father’s position as Kamele’s onagrata—
Or was that unlucky?
Jen Sar Kiladi had been a Gallowglass scholar; students from planets almost as obscure as Surebleak competed for places in his seminars. Because of that—and because he was Father—he could afford, and had chosen, to live in a house in town, rather than in the apartments that were his by right, inside the Wall. And Kamele had opted to move in with her onagrata, rather than insisting that he allow her to provide for him, a situation which had made them . . . odd.
But was odd lucky, unlucky, or null?
Theo stared out the window, blind to the ugly landscape the car passed through.
Odd—she’d been odd. Physically challenged and a danger to others—that’s how odd the Safety Office had thought she was. Kamele and Father had fought for years, which she learned later, to prevent the Safeties from drugging her into conformity. And then, when it seemed like the Safeties would take the decision into their own hands, for the good of the greater number—then Kamele suddenly had to travel off-world—and she took Theo with her.
Off-world, she met Cho sig’Radia, the Scout who had sponsored her to Anlingdin, when she had hardly even known what a “pilot” was—and she’d met Win Ton, too, who had woken Bechimo and gotten her involved with a ghost ship—was any of that luck, or just . . . life?
And if she, whose life it was, couldn’t point at any one event and say, There! That was lucky!—then it just seemed plain that the Sexton . . . was superstitious.
Except that Anthora, and Father, too, had talked to her about luck, and how she—just the fact of her moving down her life—made it run rough, whatever that meant. Father had seemed to think it meant, in part, that she needed backup, which is how she happened to have one Clarence O’Berin sitting Second Board.
She wondered if Clarence believed in luck.
She wondered if her loud, bright, rough luck was . . . dangerous.
Theo sighed sharply and blew her bangs out of her eyes.
Then, she reached into her pocket, and pulled out her needle and lace.
— • —
“Bechimo, this is Frenzel Control. You are cleared to lift in six hours local, starting with my mark. Mark.”
Clarence erupted from the galley, where he’d been enjoying a solitary lunch, and slapped the switch.
“Bechimo here, Control. We’ve filed no request.” He glanced at Screen Six as he said it. The screen was filled with a foggy grey fizz, like static.
“Bechimo, lift request filed through Chaliceworks Aggregations, Frenzel Main Office.”
Chaliceworks had been Theo’s target, right enough, but if the lassie had wanted them in for a rush lift, why hadn’t she called and had him file all right and proper like a copilot ought to do?
Clarence touched the switch.
“Control, we have a delivery scheduled—necessary supplies.”
“Fradle’s has been notified of your departure schedule, and will expedite delivery,” Control said.
Bad and worse, thought Clarence, but he kept his voice easy.
“’Preciate the assist.”
“Scheduling is tight, Bechimo; we had to do some fancy work to accommodate a lift so soon. You will keep the schedule.”
“We will, yes.”
“Frenzel Control out.”
“Bechimo out,” Clarence said, but the line was already cold.
“Did you trace that?” he asked.
“The call originated at Frenzel Tower,” Bechimo said. “It appears legitimate. I have attempted to contact Pilot Waitley via the comm unit she carries.”
Clarence felt a kind of cold, gone feeling in his gut. Daav’s daughter. No telling what the lassie had got herself sideways of.
“And?” he asked, though he thought he knew the answer.
“I cannot reach her. The comm is shielded.” There was a pause, and in Screen Six, behind the static, the shadow of a head, shoulders, arms . . .
“It is possible that I can track Theo Waitley through her pilot’s key.”
“Is that a fact?” Clarence thought about that. “‘Less it’s something with no chance of disturbing a security screen, hold that in reserve. Port Control ain’t likely to be colluding in murder.”
“The Over Pilot may be in danger. Harm could befall her.”
There was an edge of what might be true and real panic in Bechimo’s voice. Clarence smoothed the air with one hand: hold course . . .
“That’s right. And what I’m sayin’ is, let’s just wait a minute or two, and see if that call don’t come in, or herself does. In the meanwhile, you—”
“A white car has stopped in front of the trade entrance,” Bechimo interrupted.
His Screen Seven flickered, showed the view, and the
car, the back door rising, and Theo stepping out onto the dingy tarmac.
Clarence closed his eyes briefly.
The door lowered, and the car had pulled away before Theo gained the hatch, striding like she had a good head o’steam going.
“Less Pilot, the Over Pilot has returned,” Bechimo said, sounding breathless, and here came the lass herself, black eyes snapping and pale hair looking like she’d been running her fingers through it for the last hour.
“Welcome home,” he said, giving her as easy a smile as deceit could fashion. “Frenzel Control gives us six hours to get ourselves gone.”
Theo glared; sighed.
“Chaliceworks wants us off-world within the day,” she said. “They said they’d make arrangements with the port.” She shook her head. “I should’ve warned you. I apologize.”
“Pilot Theo, have you been harmed?”
There was a note of genuine panic in Bechimo’s voice. The laddie was becoming accomplished, thought Clarence.
“My temper’s sprained, but otherwise, I’m fine. They were very courteous. Master Trader yos’Galan’s proposal . . . didn’t meet their needs.” She sighed and looked straight into Clarence’s eyes. “Also, they don’t trust luck.”
He nodded. “That would be a matter they’d need to overcome, if they wanted to partner with Korval.”
Theo sighed.
“Problem is, I’m not sure I even believe in luck.”
“Give yourself time,” Clarence counseled, eying her. The lass looked wrung out, but he saw no sign of temper, which he was inclined to think a good thing.
“Cup o’tea, Pilot?”
“Actually,” she said, “lunch. You eat?”
“In process when Tower called to chat.”
“Let’s hit the galley, then,” she said. “We can catch each other up.”
— • —
It was an hour to lift, and counting. Fradle’s had delivered, and supplies had been stowed.
Theo walked back into Bechimo’s Heart with Clarence, calmer now, and with a headache beginning, which could’ve been the aftermath of anger, or the effects of breathing too much world dust, or an allergic reaction to Ricia’s blue fog.
Whichever, she dropped into her chair, glancing by habit to Screen Six—and froze.
A man looked at her from out of Bechimo’s screen. A beardless man with tight trimmed dark hair, thin lips, wide mouth, and a brown, hard-used face, as if this younger man had all of Clarence’s experience and none of his smiles.
The image sharpened, and she saw a touch of stubbled beard below the growing sideburns, a hint that perhaps a mustache could grace the upper lip, the shadow of what might be a scar on the bridge of the broad nose.
He moved a shoulder, as if to ease a tight muscle, and raised a hand that showed two rings of some silvery brown metal—one on the thumb, and another, on the second finger. A wide bracelet of the same metal was clasped tight ’round his wrist.
The pilot, for surely he was at a board, leaned back slightly. His jacket, of antique cut and color, a buff not much used in today’s fashion, bore unmistakable signs of scuffs and wear, some so familiar that Theo understood them to be transposed from her own jacket, inherited from Rig Tranza.
Theo heard a soft sigh, and looked away from the apparition in the screen. Clarence stood entranced, his hands resting lightly on the back of his chair. His eyebrows lifted slightly, and she looked back to the screen.
An ID box had formed at the bottom of the screen, bearing the legend: B. Joyita, Bechimo Communications Officer.
“Who is Joyita, Bechimo?” Theo asked, keeping her voice soft and even.
“A detail, Pilot. The Less Pilot’s point—and your own—is taken. We need more personnel. If we seem too few, we become endangered. Joyita allows both pilots to be about other duties, knowing that they leave a senior crew member behind, for ship’s security.”
“So,” Clarence sighed. “A treat for the eyes, ain’t you just, Chimmy-lad.”
In the screen, Joyita’s lips tightened—Theo couldn’t say if it was an attempted smile, or a grimace of distate . . . or just a random animation.
“Thank you, Clarence,” the image said, mouth moving in perfect sync with the words. “You are a treat for the eyes, too.”
TEN
Landing Pad Number Nine
Regent’s Airfield Number One
Cresthaller
“They don’t seriously expect us to ship those!”
Theo stared at Screen M, for Manifest, where land trucks lumbered slowly through the edge growth, ignoring her suggestions for routing around the pits and piles clearly visible from Bechimo’s topmost camera.
They were on-port. A port without the active ability to refuel them. A port that was little more than an undersized commercial airport. A port so minor, on a planet so seldom visited, that Travasinon didn’t list it at all. The Guild Quick Guide did grant Cresthaller an entry, with the notation: No reason to call.
In fact, Theo thought, there wasn’t any reason to call—no trade, no traffic—nothing except a dispirited cluster of warehouses around three airstrips.
The airstrips looked to be in good repair, at least—they’d’ve been perfectly adequate for playing touch-and-go with the Star Kings she’d trained on.
Once Tower understood that it was a spaceship coming in and the offer of a flagger had been maladroit, at best, Bechimo had been directed to land in this overgrown area behind the warehouses, where rusted rails and the shattered remains of what once might have been a service road were apparent on the scans as they came in.
Theo had considered pulling up and away, but Bechimo located a good level spot where the tarmac was mostly in one piece, and down they were, pod-pickup portside.
“Shall we inform them that their mission is futile?” Clarence asked. “Or will the pilot reject them from the dockside?” He moved a shoulder—Liaden body language signaling disdain. “If we dismiss them now, they may return to their naps more quickly.”
“I was hoping to have cargo and profit from this place . . .” Theo muttered, wondering what the devil Shan had been thinking to send them to this . . . this . . . pit!
“You, me, and Chimmy, too!” Clarence said, back in Terran. “No tellin’ what Shan wanted out of it, but I’m thinking a dead loss wasn’t on his mind. Not to say the trip’ll be a total waste—a little polishing and we’ll have us a drinking tale about the time we tried to load four cans so rusty they came apart at lift! Come to think on it, we oughta have a beer or two right now, to be in the proper spirit for the linkups!”
Despite herself, Theo laughed. Joyita, in Screen Six, looked worried.
“See, I don’t know how it is at the real ports,” Theo said earnestly. “Always been on quality routes, myself—and you’d best believe there’s no beer before loading when you fly with Rig Tranza! On the other hand, it turns out I’m related to a lot of pilots. I haven’t heard any of their stories yet; might be that pods come apart every trip out, or it’s counted a bust!”
Clarence’s mouth quirked into a barely suppressed grin.
“The problem with pilots is they lie as good as they fly, absolutely. The best ones, why, they can fib their way through a bad Jump sequence as easy as they can explain how they happen to have a bottle of wine in a dry port.”
She snickered again, and shook her head.
“Well, let’s see who we can raise. Out-line, please, Joyita?”
“Yes, Pilot,” said the communications officer, glancing down at his hidden board.
A button lit on Theo’s board.
“Port link live, Pilot.”
“Bro Moddasin?” Theo said, trying for her mother’s tone of crisp and cool authority. “Are you on channel, Bro Moddasin?”
Shan’s information had been for Frader Transport Group, the last contact so long ago that there had been no contact name. Bro Moddasin had answered Bechimo’s general call for Frader Group, but whether he was the owner, the foreman, the shipping
agent, or rented the office next door was unclear.
He’d sounded . . . almost horrified to hear that Tree-and-Dragon had purchased a contract from VenskyTrade to pick up four pods warehoused under seal and held by Frader Group.
For that, Theo couldn’t blame him. According to Shan’s information, the pods in question had been in Frader Group’s keeping for the last twenty-three years Standard. Bro Moddasin could be forgiven for supposing that nobody would ever call for them. The reason that pods were stored surface-side instead of the usual orbital storage was that Cresthaller’s outport had been destroyed—by accident or sabotage didn’t matter—during the local war, which had ended nineteen years ago Standard.
The note that had come with the Cresthaller file was sensible, handwritten in a beautiful script that she could now read, even if she’d hate to have to read it back to a stickler.
Theo, we purchased this contract more for the contact, and to keep our shipping ally in business, than for the contents. So, Pilot, if the materials are no longer at hand, simply reconnoiter, research the current market and retrieve recent commerce records while being pleasantly noncommittal. If the situation is unstable, move on. Under no account must you jeopardize your ship for this.
The channel light remained dark. Theo sighed. For somebody who was even theoretically an official representative of a trading company, Bro Moddasin was hard to contact.
“Comments anyone?” Theo glanced at Screen Six, then to Clarence, but neither offered advice, until he hand-signed ten count?
Theo sighed, gently, her hands making the noncommittal wavelike motion that was the hand-talk equivalent of a shrug.
“Pilot,” Bechimo said suddenly. “I have been observing the approaching vehicles. Factoring in tread mark depth, speed, bounce, and visible spring-loading, I have formed the theory that they are not in fact transporting pods loaded with the items the manifest provided. There are no active transponders, nor are there appropriate markings on the visible rigging. It appears that all four are controlled by individual drivers.”
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