Dragon Ship

by Sharon Lee, Steve Miller

  “Nor would I be so churlish as to roust someone from both their usual table and their routine,” the man said, turning from the table and bowing gently. He looked up at Kamele with a smile. “Forgive me . . . Professor? And, please, enjoy this pleasant corner.”

  He reminded her of Jen Sar, though he was a much younger man, his hair a gentle brown, two shades darker than his eyes. It was, Kamele thought, the Liaden manner, the bow, the soft phrasing. She found herself smiling even as she inclined her head.

  “I could not work, having robbed you of at least a little time to cherish the perfection of this table,” she said. “Please, join me for tea, and a chernubia.”

  He smiled, very slightly, and returned her courtesy.

  “Thank you, Professor. I will be delighted.”

  TWENTY

  Departing Tradedesk

  Theo leaned against the counter in the break room, munching on a chipcookie from the two dozen Clarence had brought to the ship from Rodi, the owner of The Nook. He’d also brought away her recipe, and if he made good on his threat to never be without one of Rodi’s cookies again, Theo foresaw a lot of extra periods on the walking mill. For both of them.

  Clarence could even sell the cookies, if he wanted to go into baking, but he could never sell the recipe. That, he was to give away, if somebody asked, which is how Rodi had come by it herself.

  It was, Theo owned, a strange arrangement, but it didn’t seem to do anybody harm, and might, she thought with a half-smile, make some people happy.

  Her smile faded somewhat. What they hadn’t accomplished at Tradedesk was the hiring of another hand or two. And that had been simply because the Guild office, for all it was on-station, had been closed.

  DOWN-CIRCUIT TO CHUSTLING, the sign on the door read. RE-OPEN STATION DAY 211.

  So, if not exactly happy, Theo was at least content. Laughing Cat had taken on some spec cargo for Ynsolt’i, almost all of it from rainy season tenants of the Festevalya, along with a catalog key from the, she suspected, hastily formed Autumn Rains Cooperative. Laughing Cat was listed as the sole distributor of the cooperative’s wares to Ynsolt’i, which was both good and safe. As proof of that last, even Bechimo had approved.

  “They gamble, but not enough to harm themselves, should they lose,” he said, while Joyita in Screen Six appeared to be turning catalog pages.

  “It was well thought,” he said, looking up and making eye contact with Theo. “This Chairman Charn Duxbury may be worthy of us.”

  That had made Clarence laugh, and Theo grin.

  “I did not intend a joke,” Joyita said, sounding curious rather than hurt.

  “And so it’s not funny, and too funny at the same time,” Clarence said, his laugh subsiding to a grin. “There’d be those who’d think that a known nexus of violence and a retired Juntava should be the ones worrying about being worthy.”

  Joyita’s stern face relaxed into a smile. “Such people are uninformed,” he stated, dismissing the matter.

  “The pilots are off-duty,” Theo announced, still smiling as she rose and danced three or four steps, just to relish the feel of the movements. “The shift’s yours, Joyita.”

  “Yes, Pilot. I anticipate an easy and unexciting glide to the Jump point.”

  “So do we all, Chimmy,” Clarence said, locking his board and coming to his feet with a stretch and a sigh. “I’m for some downtime.”

  The cookie finished, Theo thought that maybe Clarence had a point. A nap, to put the edge back on, so she’d be sharp when they finally found that Jump point, about seven hours out.

  * * *

  “Pilot, attention. Theo Waitley, attention.”

  The time between shuttered eyes and a full reclined sleep to open eyes, hand on light, and, “Pilot here, go ahead,” was less than five seconds.

  “Pilot,” Joyita said, “not covered under General Operating Procedures—arrival of an all-call captain’s pinbeam with Pilots Guild source-stamp and a level of urgent.”

  “Right there.”

  She snatched up her robe and ran for the Heart, throwing herself into her chair, and slapping first board live.

  Joyita glanced up as she hit the chair, then turned his attention to what must surely be his own board.

  “Waitley in,” she said.

  An urgent pinbeam? she thought. The sheer energy cost of the things made them rare, and automatically urgent! She’d only begun to think of them as at all usual when she was working for Crystal Energy Consultants, to whom money seemed rarely an issue. She couldn’t recall getting a single pinbeam in all her time aboard Primadonna.

  “Authorize, please, Pilot,” Joyita murmured.

  Theo swallowed a cuss word, and pressed her finger onto the plate. Words immediately began to flow across the comm screen.

  Pilots Guild Urgent Advisory Relay, Pilots in Peril. Pilots Guild Urgent Advisory Relay. Pilots in Peril. Pilots Guild Urgent Advisory Relay, Pilots in Peril.

  Triple repeat, she thought, in case it was getting translated through voice translator—and then started on the text itself:

  Urgent advisory: Armed Security Emergency, Orbital Trading Station Codrescu, planetpoint Eylot NA1, one hundred forty-five minute equatorial, standard ranging and frequencies, Armed Security Emergency . . .

  “Hardcopy this,” she snapped as she read on, her stomach dropping and the last vestige of sleep evaporating.

  . . . Orbital Trading Station Codrescu, planetpoint Eylot NA1, two hundred ninety permanent residents, multi-hundred passengers and crew of client ships, four docked local system ships, three remaining docked deepspace ships. Station Ops have ceded command to Guild Master Peltzer. Peltzer requesting immediate evacuation assistance under armed threat, repeat armed threat. Warning shots fired, local damage, Pilots in Peril.

  Peltzer! She knew that name, and though she had only been there once she felt like she knew the place; she had friends there—people she knew—Arndy somebody, and Bringo, and . . .

  Kara! Kara worked on Codrescu now!

  “Joyita, rouse Clarence.”

  The sound of rapid steps behind her. “Don’t bother, Chimmy.”

  Clarence flung himself into his seat, eying the message as he pulled webbing tight. Theo nodded.

  “Bechimo, plot us the fastest course to the Eylot System, direct if possible. Triple check all new cargo for run readiness.”

  “Pilot, I—”

  “Orders,” she said flatly.

  “Second live,” Clarence announced, followed by, “Damn fools.”

  “Update?” he asked.

  Theo shook her head. “Just in. Bechimo? You have those coords?”

  “Pilot, good numbers take time and thought—”

  “Never mind,” she said flatly. “I’ll do it.”

  She heard Clarence’s breath catch—

  “Use these numbers and tell me how long before we’re up to Jump potential, please.”

  She closed her eyes, visualizing the lacework that was Eylot’s system, seeing the big station, and little Codrescu, the working station. She took a breath, and began to read the numbers off.

  Silence attended her when she came to a stop. Theo opened her eyes.

  “Opinions, crew?”

  Joyita was looking . . . elsewhere, a tight smile on his lips. Clarence was minding his board.

  “Your numbers are incomplete, Pilot,” Bechimo stated. “Lacking the decimals on the fifth will mean a drift . . .”

  “Second seat first!”

  Clarence nodded, maybe to himself, his eyes on his readouts and his smile as small and tight as Joyita’s.

  “Guild matter, Pilot. We’re not scheduled, exactly—nobody’s really expecting us at any particular place, anywhen. It’s your call, I’m guessing, though I allow pilots-in-peril isn’t a good thing to hear. Can’t tell what’s up, really, without a full report. We could be flying right into a firefight!”

  “The coords I’ve given are for an eighteen-light-minute-out orbit, high off the ecliptic
. It’s a resonant spot—we can hang there quiet. I expect Bechimo can recognize the orbit.”

  There was no response.

  “That’s a good spot, Bechimo, isn’t it?” Theo prodded. “Safe?”

  “The Eylot System is unbalanced politically, Pilot, as you well know. The Pilots Guild identifies it as a problem zone. In such a place there are no ‘safe’ orbits. There is no reason for us to go to Eylot System. We have Ynsolt’i filed.”

  Theo took a deep breath.

  “We have a pilots-in-peril situation,” she said, letting her sense of inner calm color her voice. “You know how important pilots are. If we—if Clarence and I were in peril, we’d want our fellow pilots to help us. As for system instability—you’ve used these coords as stand-off position, yourself. Is it unacceptably dangerous or does the location still have merit for surveillance and scouting?”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Screen Six flicker; Joyita’s image vanished, replaced by a bland wash of blue.

  “Less Pilot, the Over Pilot is overestimating the relevance of this situation to our mission. You are more than an adequate pilot, and have had long years of experience. Surely you can see that rushing—”

  Clarence made a fuffing noise under his breath, or perhaps said a word in some heat, and signed a quick get to it!

  “Like Pilot Theo says, if I sent a help-me hail to all of space, it’d be because I needed help—or thought it was too late. Might be you don’t know that about pilots. Sometimes what they gotta do is let somebody else know what happened, as a warning, and maybe to be sure it don’t happen again. Now, this ain’t one pilot, this is a bunch of ’em, and civilians too, and time’s wasting. I’m inclining to Theo’s view: best thing to do is go and see what’s needed, assuming fuel and resources aren’t an issue.”

  “Ship’s complement has been heard,” Theo said, hearing the snap in her own voice. “Pilot is taking a ten-minute analysis break; ship will inform me of other outgoing traffic, radio, ship, or otherwise.”

  “No chatter here to speak of,” Clarence pointed out, “just some local broadcast stations, telemetry from weather satellites, and the air center’s noise—plenty of aircraft going hither and yon.”

  “Are those coords confirmed as locked, Bechimo? Please do me the favor of making sure Clarence’s figures match mine.”

  There was, for a few moment, only the sound of breathing—Theo’s, louder in her ears than she liked, and more ragged and urgent in her tension; Clarence’s, smooth and quiet, barely discernible for all that he sat hardly an arm’s length away, and Bechimo’s, insofar as his breathing was the breath of the ship entire: fans, blowers, filters, the hum and rumble that meant everything was good—all systems up, and running.

  “Less Pilot’s figures match your figures, Pilot. My figures match both pilots; I have entered them into the destination output, Pilot. We reach the Jump point in one hour point three-three minutes.”

  “Excellent.” She frowned at her screens.

  The view of Tradedesk was . . . unchanged.

  “Why aren’t they moving?” she murmured.

  “Lot of ’em are scheduled elsewhere and the company won’t take kindly to a loss o’bidness while the captain hares off on some errand of her own.”

  “But, pilots-in-peril could mean—”

  “Anything,” Clarence cut in ruthlessly. “And most will go about the usual, and let somebody else deal. That’s the way of it most times, lassie.” He threw her a half-grin.

  “Yourself, you come from meddling stock, if you’ll not mind my saying it. Most of us—even pilots—tend toward Bechimo’s view.”

  Theo frowned, looked at the countdown to Jump, and took a decision.

  She opened a comm line, and tapped in the code listed on the back of Asu’s card.

  * * *

  “Yes, Communications says the Guild all-call was received.” Asu’s voice held that note of exaggerated patience that meant she was really very annoyed and would rather be doing something else.

  “Will the Perfection be responding?” Theo asked, who had never much cared when Asu was annoyed.

  “Will the— Theo, we’re a cruise ship! We have passengers!”

  “Put them off at the station,” Theo said. “There are pilots and civilians in peril. Bechimo can’t handle an entire evacuation!”

  “No one’s asking you to handle an entire evacuation,” Asu said. “Theo, that message went out to All Captains. No one’s asking you personally to do anything. Someone else will answer—someone with more experience. Time. Discretion. It’s not your responsibility.”

  “Yes, it is. It’s the responsibility of pilots to respond to pilots-in-peril,” Theo said.

  “Theo, can we end this circular conversation? I’m not captain, but I very much doubt that a Diamon Ship of the Line will put off her passengers in order to participate in some possible evacuation at—”

  “I call in my marker,” Theo interrupted. “You owe me.”

  “I don’t owe you a cruise ship! You know that marker was personal.”

  Theo bit her lip, aware of Clarence’s eyes upon her.

  “Right. Well, I had to try. Thanks, Asu. Waitley out.”

  She cut the connection, closed her eyes and mentally danced a few steps of a calming dance.

  Pilots-in-peril, she thought, remembering that Rig Tranza had drilled her on Hugglelans’ policies, adding that such things were, “Rare, Theo, but that’s why we gotta go over the policies. We know all about the usual, but it’s the rare calls that’ll bite you on the nose.”

  Hugglelans’ policy had a proximity condition built into it—no sense Jumping a ship to the other side of the galaxy to help out in an emergency that would have likely worked itself out before best possible time of arrival.

  Eylot fell within the proximity range established by Hugglelans, which for the purposes of this particular emergency, she was taking as a reasonable guide for Bechimo’s actions.

  Hugglelans’ policy stated that, if more than one Hugglelans ship was in proximity, the ship(s) with the least time-sensitive cargo were to answer the call, after clearing with Hugglelans Galactica home office.

  Hugglelans had required reports at intervals, and a return to service within a range of deadlines. Pilots failing to report or to return the ship to service within the proper deadline would be considered pirates to be pursued and prosecuted to the full extent of Guild law.

  That all checked: Bechimo was free, if not obligated, to answer the call. At least, according to Hugglelans regs.

  She was, Theo admitted, not thrilled about returning to Eylot space. On the other hand, she wasn’t going to Eylot itself; she was a certified Guild Pilot with a clean record, answering a legitimate pilots-in-peril.

  There really wasn’t anything they could do to her. Even supposing they were inclined, in the midst of an emergency.

  Right, then.

  Theo opened her eyes.

  “Second, file change of course with Tradedesk, open band, all channels. Bechimo for Eylot in response to pilots-in-peril. End.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Codrescu Station

  Peltzer was asleep.

  The Guild-Master-turned-station-master had been near out on his feet for over a station-day, and in the cramped inner office that was the Guild Hall’s control center, having him asleep meant Arndy Slayn could plan on his own relief.

  In the meanwhile he’d sent for Qaichi Bringo—Chief Tugwhomper and unofficial security consultant—so the room would have coverage in case he dozed.

  Peltzer’s nap was taking place in his usual working chair—an actual acceleration couch upright in front of his control-board-like desk, as if he were still actively flying—and he slept with no snore, nor tremor, the old norbear, Hevelin, napping companionably against his leg.

  The sounds in the room were normal, other than an extremely low level and filtered audio feed letting him know the warn-aways were in operation and the occasional feed of something that the stati
on controllers thought odd. The propaganda broadcasts were not in the flow, nor, alas, was the usual chatter. Only oddities were fed through to Control.

  Codrescu’s ordinary systems were still being run from the station control room, with the three regular resident staffers who oversaw facilities maintaining that important business. The station master himself was gone—took the first flight out after Eylot’s demands had gone from veiled to actual threats.

  “I’m a contract guy, Peltzer; a facilities guy. I’m good on commerce, I’m good on basic security. This—I’m not good for! Your people are most at risk, and I don’t have call-on staff or weapons enough to resist an invasive boarding, nor is it in my job description! I’m invoking my flight-out contract, and I’m asking you to take over operation until this matter is resolved. I’ll be on-world.”

  Peltzer had quoted chapter and page number out of more regulation manuals than Slayn could handily remember—at least two of which he suspected the Guild Master had made up on the spot. All for nothing; the station master was going, that was plain, and somebody had to be in charge.

  Slayn had witnessed this touching moment of what Liadens might see as a classic melant’i play: by abandoning the station, the station master could both save himself and give the Guild room to work. With the associate station master leaving as well, that left hired help to man the place. Hired help and the Pilots Guild. At that moment Arndy Slayn, First Class Pilot, had gone from Guild technical assistant to Acting Station Master. The self-defense options for the entire station now lay at his command, on the assumption that a Guild official was more responsible than the hired station crew.

  With a murble of intent, Hevelin rose from his recline against Peltzer’s leg and stared thoughtfully at the 3D map of nearspace projected on the main screen. Slayn was unsure of the depth of the norbear’s understanding of the current situation. Certainly the old guy knew times were exceptional—he was old, and he had a lot of memories of usual to take measure against. For anything else—well, that was the whole thing with norbears, wasn’t it? You just didn’t know what they knew—you just knew they knew something.