Dragon Ship

by Sharon Lee, Steve Miller

  Only, he was getting ahead of his guns here, Miri thought, forcing herself to recall what, exactly, Scout sel’Iprith had said—and hadn’t said.

  “Is there evidence,” she asked, “that the Department of the Interior was involved in this confrontation? Our report from Pod 78 was only that it had been tampered with, considered itself in peril, and had activated the self-destruct routine.”

  “Korval understands that the Scouts have a policy of assuming the Department of the Interior complicit in all activities of this nature. With that stated, there was at the time I was dispatched to bring a progress report to Korval and to headquarters, no evidence of Department of Interior involvement. The miscreants may have been merely pirates. Had the housekeeping been done more thoroughly in the aftermath of the confrontation, we might have also been obliged to posit a mischievous space-camp attendee among those who might be potential tamperers.”

  She bowed, very slightly, and reached into her belt.

  “A copy of our team’s process and a complete report is on this datakey,” she said, offering it in the noncommittal space just before and between them.

  Val Con’s grip on her fingers was going to do damage. Miri extended her free hand and took the key.

  “Our thanks.”

  “Korval.” Another bow. “With your permission, I am wanted at headquarters.”

  “One more question, of your kindness, Scout Specialist,” Val Con said, his voice strained.

  She folded her hands at her belt and waited.

  Val Con inclined his head. “Daav?” he murmured.

  Olwen sel’Iprith’s mouth tightened. “Daav yos’Phelium was my team captain, many years ago it will be now. I know him—knew him—very well.” The mouth curved, just a bit, the faintest of faint smiles.

  “And that is why I believe the third scenario to be the least likely,” she said. “Even were it the Department of the Interior.”

  THIRTEEN

  Tradedesk

  Protocol at Tradedesk required a first-time ship to permit inspection, even out here in what was euphemistically called “spider country.” Spider country was an older assemblage, still showing webs of crosswires, supports, cables, commlinks, and the like that made both of Eylot’s stations look tiny and almost neat.

  Thankfully the approach lanes were well-marked and roomy, the area having initially been designed for a generation of super-traders and cruise ships long since superseded. It was, in fact, the equivalent of one of Frenzel’s backfields—you could say you’d been to Tradedesk, but it was clear the big shiny welcome mat was reserved for others.

  For all that, they’d had clear guidance, no-nonsense prelatch instructions, an excellent strong latch and, after a two-minute pressure and temperature equalization, an entirely professional inspection team. The bulk of their inspection had already been performed as Bechimo came in: video and radar scans, trace gas analysis, confirmation of pod location and hookups.

  Exactly because of the inspection team, Bechimo’s Screen Six was a catalog grid for the moment, and B. Joyita’s name had been omitted from the roster.

  “Next time through, we won’t need an inspection,” Theo told him. “But this time, if they insist on meeting you . . .”

  Joyita had smiled. “Understood, Pilot. We need to take on more details.”

  Bechimo had been experimenting with Joyita’s voice. At first indistinguishable from Bechimo’s light, genderless voice, Joyita now spoke in an easy tenor. Lately, he’d been experimenting with idiom.

  It was, in Theo’s opinion, simultaneously unnerving—and fascinating. She wondered what the final Joyita would look and sound like, and her head hurt whenever she tried to remind herself that Joyita was only a projection of a fragment of Bechimo, and not his own person at all. Because, of course Bechimo couldn’t create a whole new person out of archives, graphics and info-grids.

  Could he?

  For right now, then, Joyita was hidden, Bechimo was only a ship, albeit an odd, old-style ship pretty much like something nobody’d ever seen before.

  And so the inspectors arrived.

  There were two of them, their Terran intelligible if oddly emphasized, and they made their way onto the bridge respectfully, with Clarence in the lead. They each carried a hand unit, and both were pilots, though only one, the woman, wore wings. Both were grey-headed and neither, as far as Theo could see, carried weapons. Their uniforms were noncommittal—they could have stepped dayside on any number of worlds and, with multiple starbursts, flags, and stripes, they looked to be covering three or four jobs at once: lifeguard and med tech, police, assistant proctors, and certified inspectors. What mattered was that they had the right IDs as far as Clarence and Bechimo were concerned.

  Theo met them standing; and, respectful, too, of tradition, they did not approach the live consoles.

  “Captain, here’s Inspectors Grafton and Rutland. Inspectors, Pilot Theo Waitley.”

  “Inspectors, welcome aboard Bechimo. How may we serve you?”

  Rutland, the woman, nodded, held her hand out—not in offer of a handclasp, but to personally deliver a card, which Theo took.

  “We look around some,” she said, “with big eyes. Two of you got plenty a room in here, just two crew?”

  “We’re just starting out, Inspector—learning the ship, truth be told, and seeing who else we might need.”

  The inspector pointed toward the welcome room with a wide nod and open smile, appreciative.

  “Seen that Tree-and-Dragon out there—you mighty lucky them folks keep stuff around that no one else knows they want, eh? Looks better than clean, looks brand new! They must have cut you a heck of a deal, what with their troubles.”

  Theo took a half-step back, not wanting to bring Korval into this at all. She spread her arms to encompass the whole of the ship.

  “Actually, consider Bechimo an inheritance, Inspector; but yes, Korval’s Master Trader feels the need for new routes, and their contract was a welcome start for us.”

  The catalog on Screen Six changed pages, showing a green outline and then, briefly, a page of shoes.

  The inspector glanced at her handheld, nodded again. “Saw them pods out there—look like they might need an inspection seal on them if you was up at the main shop, but they’ll do for here. Not getting that many ships in been to Cresthaller.”

  She looked speculatively at the pair of them, Clarence having properly stepped toward consoles while Theo dealt with the visitors.

  “Well, says here ain’t had any Cresthaller shipping ’leven Standards, so if ships been there, they ain’t mentioning it, anywho. I’m seeing a port visit on Frenzel, no cargo pickup . . . but hey, this is a roomy little thing—can I see what you have for air holds?”

  There was another flicker as Screen Six changed pages—now displaying a page of uniforms.

  “Clarence?” Theo murmured, sweeping a hand out to both indicate the path, and offer her Second as guide.

  “If you need to look at quarters,” she said to the inspector, “we have a protocol of showing our own, so I’ll be available.”

  The male inspector’s right hand went to his eyebrow in a kind of salute as the three left the bridge. She heard Clarence offering tea or other refreshment, and another man’s voice refusing with, “On duty, y’know.”

  There was another flash at the corner of her eye as the catalog page changed . . .

  “Stop that!”

  Theo spoke vehemently under her breath as Screen Six changed catalog pages again, this time showing a close-up of a hand-held unit much like that carried by the inspectors.

  “Pilot, this monitor was not visible to the—”

  “Silence!” she hissed.

  The screen flashed a new page as she spoke—this the catalog’s opening presentation screen.

  Security Solutions Unlimited was the name of the catalog. It remained stable, as Theo glared at it. She was tempted to open a keyboard link to Bechimo and thought better of it; instead she grabbed her l
acework out of the bin.

  The page on Screen Six was steady.

  There was no need, she told herself firmly, to be nervous. Yes, Bechimo had hidden compartments. Camouflaged and well-concealed compartments, designed, as she was given to understand, by a past master of such arts.

  And even if one was discovered, what harm? They were empty, all of them. Well, except for the cellar—the core room—where Win Ton slept, and it wasn’t like having a crew member in a healing unit was contraband, or illegal. His was another name that didn’t appear on the roster, as he wasn’t active crew.

  Aside from those few really minor issues, Bechimo was entirely what she said he was—a loop ship feeling out a route, a ship inherited by accident from people she’d never met nor could have met, with whom she probably shared not a single gene.

  The lacework felt good in her hands. She sighed, settled into her seat, glared at Screen Six, just as a reminder, and was pleased to see the catalog page solid. She spread the lace, seeing a field of stars and misty nebula spread out along the threads . . .

  Voices, growing louder as they approached the bridge. Theo shook her head and took her needle in hand. The voices paused; there was a sound at once hollow and sharp—somebody rapping a bulkhead. Then the voices got louder again, accompanied by footsteps and the swish of fabric, and three people came back onto the bridge, Clarence’s quick-signing coming through to warn her that he was bringing the inspectors past the consoles . . .

  “And that’s it,” he was saying aloud. “I’m a practical pilot first and second, and what with Surebleak not being quite the garden spot of the universe after all, no matter what my lads had all promised, it was easy enough to take a break from retiring to a snowball to get back out in Jump space and live in the warm!”

  There was appreciative laughter and smiles all around; whatever else they’d done, the inspectors had got a story of some kind out of Clarence, which wasn’t all that hard to do.

  Inspector Rutland paused, and nodded approvingly.

  “Ah, Captain, that’s a good way to keep the hands up to speed, that stringwork. My mother’s not at a board anymore, but she does three kinds of strings and I bet she could sit down and slap a course in if there was need. My aunt now—they’s twins, my mother and my aunt—my aunt got lazy and I bet she’s sorry ’cause she needs to medicine up to keep spry enough to open a door. Never stop keeping at things.”

  Theo laughed. “I don’t think there’s much danger of that. There always seems to be so much to do that I don’t get to work with the lace as much as I want.”

  “That’s the way of it! Plan on livin’ to a double-hunnert, myself, just to get the to-do list settled.”

  She paused, with a hard look at Screen Six before she turned back to Theo.

  Theo reached for her calm, and tried to make her face as bland and unreadable as Father’s when he was at his most annoyed . . .

  “Pilot, that’s a good company there, that catalog you got on-screen. They got a workshop up here—not a whole front-office thing, but a workshop. If you’re on-station a few days, just use my card and ask to look around. They might wanta see your ticket ’fore they sell you some of the strong stuff, but they can get it right quick. Make sure you tell them you heard of ’em through Cady Rutland, and ask for the pro discount.”

  Theo breathed a little easier, swallowed, and nodded with as much of a smile as she could pull together.

  “It can be tricky making sure the outfitting’s done right,” she said. “Especially since we haven’t built the route yet. I’m trying to be careful . . .”

  “That’s good. Careful gets you through, most times. I’m retired from two ships now, and I have to say to you buying cheap is the worst mistake a pilot or an owner can make when it comes to security. Not saying you have to pay high-orbit prices for everything, but you have to make sure you’re working quality.”

  The quiet inspector made a hand motion Theo barely caught. It might have been coffee. Rutland apparently caught that, looked at her handheld, and shook her head.

  “Right, then, Pilot; we’ll send you a copy of our report when it’s done—ought to be tomorrow morning. Wanta thank you—it’s been a slow day out here for us, and your Clarence made us feel welcome, so I hope you didn’t mind too much we took our time . . . but we’ll be gone now. You’ll need a pair of these slidekeys—one for each of you—they work the regular doors and the station airlocks, just in case. So! Inspecting’s done, and I’m glad it was our go—wanted to see this ship up close. Your Bechimo looks first class for the day my great-greats were out and about.”

  Theo smiled. “Inspector, Bechimo is first class. All of our surprises have been positive.”

  — • —

  The card cut went to Clarence, and for his impudence, he was first on-station, with a slidekey to test and an hour to tour.

  Somewhat to his own surprise, he hoped that the station scanned—not safe, never that, o’course—but civilized. He was twitchy, that was what; ready for some time on his own and off-ship. None o’that being the fault of his comrades, nor of himself, come to it. Best just to say that he needed his downtime.

  He reached the end of the tube on that thought, and used the key, the door sliding open slick as you please, not that he had expected otherwise.

  Well, now, plenty of time left for a stroll to the first hub, to see what there was to see. He set off down the hall, walking quick, for the air being a touch brisk. Sounds of voices, and what was maybe music came from ahead.

  If they had more crew aboard, he thought, instead of only just the two of them, and a chimera in Screen Six, then there’d be time for everyone to have a proper down-shift with a door closed, and not having to have one ear always cocked for, say, a little altercation between his pilot and his ship. He’d seen two personalities less agreeable to each other, but it had been a while.

  Well! The lassie was talking more crew, in point o’fact, not that Bechimo was noticeably warming to the notion. But if they was to be more efficient, and not come at daggers drawn, then, yeah, another pilot on-roster would be good. Somebody maybe cunning with their hands, who might help Bechimo build those remotes he’d been wanting, and deserving, not to say kit-bashing the damned hydroponics unit. Only that one more person would ease things considerably—and here was the place to do it, what with a full Guild Office and a hiring hall right on-station and open for bidness.

  Here now, just up at the hook in the hall, that was one source of voices. GrabOne according to the red Terran letters over the door.

  Clarence stuck his nose in the door—and stopped before the rest of him followed. It was just a cubby, like you get on station corridors some distance from the core—and the food on offer looked like nothing more than rations—old rations at that, while the prices posted on the board over the counter were—well, never mind. They weren’t having his bidness, since he had perfectly good, fresh rations in his jacket.

  He shook his head and moved on toward the thump and boom of the maybe music.

  It occurred to him that a Guild Office on-station might present other opportunities, and he mulled them over as he strolled into Taverna Classica.

  This was a familiar setup—couple tables, couple booths, long line of bottles behind a high bar that could double as a barricade if some long-spacer turned ugly with too much cheap alcohol. Might be it also served as a meet place for the local boss, if there was one—and there was bound to be.

  “Drink, pop?” That was from the bare-chested laddie with muscles on his muscles standing behind the bar. “First one ona house, you just in.”

  “Maybe later,” he said, giving the boy a nod and a grin.

  “Sure. Bring a friend.”

  Not likely. Clarence retreated again to the hall, checked his watch. To the next intersection, then, before it was back to the ship and report.

  This other notion of his, though. A Guild Office on-station meant he might change his own situation, if he had a mind to it, the question being
—did he have a mind to it? Was he happy in his ship or—now that he had recent flight time on his card—was he looking to better himself?

  He laughed softly.

  It wasn’t too likely he’d come up better than Second Board and Exec on a ship contracted to Korval. The lassie had a few faults, despite which she was a hardworking pilot, with strong notions about what was owed to her ship and her crew. And Bechimo was nothing if not careful of the health and well-being of his pilots. Truth told, he could well do worse in comrades, honest though they might be.

  That thought gave him cause to grin, as he walked on by himself. Hadn’t that just been a moment, when she called out to Bechimo for the locations, sizes and access to the private compartments? Daav would’ve been proud, he thought, and grinned again.

  If he had a regret in his current placement, it was that he hadn’t yet had to stretch himself, excepting the necessity to juggle certain personalities. Bechimo—sometimes mistaken, but never in doubt, that lad. Theo, on the other hand, she had the temper, didn’t she just? And that peculiar, straight line o’vision that saw through everything between her and what she wanted.

  Small wonder the two of them had differences. Another hand, like he was starting to think was necessary—somebody easy in the temper—’nother hand might help with that, too.

  The hall widened into a court of sorts, and Clarence smiled. He’d found the good neighborhood, after all. To his right was The Nook, according to its sign, a bright and comfy spot with a menu above the counter, promising fresh-bake bread, vegetable soup, made-from-scratch desserts, and a line of fresh juices from Vincza. There were several tables and stools off to the sides, but the house specialty was a “take-with dinner.” The whole looked clean and cared for, down to the broad woman behind the counter, who looked up from her work with an easy smile.

  “You like anything you see, Pilot, we’ll fix it up for you. You like something you don’t see, ask. Maybe we can fix that, too.”

  “Thanks,” he told her. “I’m on reconnoiter; lookin’ for a place to send my mate for a bite, a little later.”