Dragon Ship

by Sharon Lee, Steve Miller

  Bechimo considered the “Embassy Mobile” designation for some time, spread among processors, and decided that it was an actual appreciation and in some way a reward for their arriving to assist Codrescu. There had been a transmission to record and a hard-copy vellum document handed over.

  “If you hit any port that insists you can’t have an alien on board,” Guild Master Peltzer had told Pilot Waitley, “this is our best shot for you: the Pilots Guild recognizes Hevelin as the Elder Traveling Norbear Ambassador and you, Pilot, are both certified and required by the Guild as his guardian. I’d also watch for them places that got traveling aliens they shouldn’t—we’ll authorize you to act, with Hevelin’s guidance, in those cases.”

  “You expect us to run across norbear cubs in space?” the pilot asked, lightly.

  Peltzer had sighed—Bechimo’s speech recognition procedures not only knew them but graded them for meaning.

  “We have come across a few, here and there, and we’re doing our best to keep them out of zoos and such. They so much like to travel . . . sometimes they’ll stow away. Hevelin’s been wanting a change for a while, I know. Much better you than spoil of war to Eylot!”

  Bechimo initiated searches for precedents for the guardianship in various political and history archives, then let the thread go to concentrate on more current events.

  Presently, the Joyita extension was engaged in a discussion of uniforms, one which mostly involved ven’Arith and O’Berin, but sometimes had input from the pilot and sometimes from the archives—one might not say “memory” for those bits of allowable information—of the Joyita-that-was, who had on several occasions spoken of utility clothing, uniforms, and the like while Bechimo was yet borderline aware. The extension adopted Joyita’s preferences for monocolor dress in work areas, and for colorful—O’Berin called the suggestions flamboyant!—marks of rank for off-ship excursions.

  Conversation continued comfortably, but the pilot, and perforce Bechimo, studied the larger situation. The inner system was crowded, and in his days of self-directed travel he would not have come this far into the system, not even in search of company.

  And there was that . . . slight doubtfulness that he felt was required here, an extra few points added to negative information, an extra point knocked off of positive information.

  With his awareness, he’d sometimes gained access to what Joyita himself had called “the hunch engine,” a net of comparative and projective databases working off the interplay between memory, thought and sensors. Accessing that had resulted in him being where he was now: with a crew on mission. He recognized there was a balance to be observed, that in fact his hunch machine was often not entirely correct. There was always plenty to do, so analyzing hunch engine musings often occurred in the quiet times, when Theo slept.

  B. Joyita was now conversing with an outside ship as per the new pattern of things, and Pilot Waitley allowed the Exec and his board partner to interact with the Ynsolt’i comm and traffic systems, some of which were computers and programmed brains, some of which spoke with their own voices if they spoke, some of which spoke with the recorded and amended voices of humans.

  One or two of the nodes in the loop were human and spoke for themselves. Bechimo had been sampling radio communications since arrival, recording and analyzing the accents and speech patterns in use, sometimes referring them to Joyita’s motion and speech units without passing the information on to the flight deck. His purpose was to refine Joyita’s presence and thus the efficiency of the ship—and increase his own effectiveness.

  Pilot O’Berin, as Exec, had found them a dock on Trade Three—a joyful thing, meaning their first trading could go on—and also, that the crew could tune their day schedule to the station and berth in question. Guide 79 was their off-ship navigator and contact now; Bechimo heard Clarence’s banter as he spoke of weather on a world he had never been to and plans for evenings that were hardly in the schedule. Guide 79’s voice was feminine and human, of that he was sure, and the tone suggested someone who took her role seriously. Clarence was, he decided, being friendly to this person; a tacit willingness to regard Guide 79 as benign.

  The new friend provided numbers vocally and in a press-file; by the time Clarence repeated them for the others on the flight deck, Bechimo had them, and set to work, setting aside the random thoughts of an AI with extra processing time. Now he had a course, a rendezvous point, a time schedule, and while the numbers were long coming—at least two seconds!—when run on Board One, they were now showing up on Board Two and the reserve Board Three used by the tech. Pilot Theo’s transcription of the information was flawless and matched his own.

  There was a long slow flow into the system, with other ships being fed into the same queue, the order and progression of arrivals to match departures and empty slots in available berthings.

  Things being generally in order, and the pilot watching, Bechimo continued to observe the ebb and flow of nearspace, to update the communications maps and monitor the various bands of communications the pilot usually attended to. Also, he began the usual inquiries of the local info channels. There was always plenty to do.

  — • —

  Theo squinted at the screens, watching the overlays tell the tale of destination and precedence, Ynsotl’i a blue-green presence hanging over their head and their berth currently out beyond their vision, on the the other side of the world.

  The largest ships took the most maneuvering time and effort, and got the most attention . . . if Ynsolt’i used the straight traffic system she’d learned at the Academy they were in group one, with Bechimo falling into group three and courier ships into group four or five along with the local craft.

  When she’d been sitting Second to Rig Tranza there’d been a few arrivals like this, where ships were expected to keep to lanes and the locals provided a dedicated flight director for anything that was interstellar. Several times there’d been offers of an actual pilot on board, which had always been declined. If it happened here—certainly with Bechimo’s lines Ynsolt’i would have no one more expert than Bechimo to berth the ship!

  Still, there was Guide 79, and Theo was just as happy to have Clarence on the detail, knowing she wasn’t all that good with small talk.

  Theo regarded the deck. Joyita was taking messages and dealing with the basic incoming information—and talking uniforms, of all things, with the crew. Theo smiled—she could get used to this. Clarence sat Exec, his sketch book filling with a new round of faces and a few notes and a large underlined 79, and even triangles now that Hevelin had drifted back from his knee to lean against her leg and watch the big screen. She felt a contentment there and hoped he knew hers. She was glad to have his company.

  Kara still observed and probably ought to for the next two or three arrivals, and then get a chance to sit Second. Clarence had a touch with explanation though . . . so Theo considered again, figuring to make it three observations and then a live run as Second. Kara’s theory was good, she was sure, but she hadn’t had enough time in grade with Eylot’s politics keeping her from practical trips. No reason to rush things, now that Kara was crew.

  That was something else they’d need to take care of—Kara ought to have her own key, for the times she might end up as PIC. Bechimo had hinted that he could arrange that.

  Theo sighed, gently. There were still lots of issues to be worked out—but for now . . .

  “Theo, we’re being given a chance to move up in line—do you want to hear this?”

  Clarence signed a saves time, and touched his ear. Theo signed put through, and a woman’s serious voice began speaking.

  “Bechimo, Guide Seventy-Nine here. We’ve got a spot that developed with someone having nav problems, so there’s an open ’twixt and ’tween if you’re good for it. Here’s the numbers we see . . .”

  Theo saw the idea—there was a gap too small for a group one or two ship opening ahead—but Bechimo was considerably smaller than either of those classes. If they could take that,
though, they’d save a shift getting in, and get a dayside discount on their berthing as well, which was not to be sneezed at. They’d also have a shot at a single full fifteen hour trading day instead of breaking their trade hall time across two. If they . . .

  “Comments?”

  “Depending on the ships ahead, somewhat,” admitted Clarence, “it sounds good to me.”

  Bechimo, in the person of Joyita, spoke next.

  “All of these ships carry bulk cargoes of metals and ore, and the last dozen years of records on each of the ships: good, clean flight records, no accidents or port fines listed. None are for our destination—we will leave the queue before they do and thus should not be involved in close-quarter maneuvering.” He paused, did Joyita.

  “Also, the Portmaster’s Office suggestion falls just within published rules for the system, Pilot,” he said. “Given volume of traffic, it frees several spaces after us, making the flow more efficient for some time.”

  “Kara?”

  Kara looked up, startled, from her study of the boards.

  “Pilot?” Her hands signed in loop query.

  Theo smiled, bowed lightly, pilot-to-pilot.

  “You are in the line of piloting succession, now. So yes, your concerns or comments are of interest. Everything on the flight operations deck is including you.”

  A bow of acknowledgment, and two hands, lifted in balance, and a fallback to one of the Liaden phrases Theo’d learned only recently.

  “Every motion teaches, and I am the student.” She finished that with the appropriate bow and a smile of her own. “I am eager.”

  Theo nodded.

  “Pass it on, Exec, we’ll do it.”

  — • —

  Kamele put away the day’s work with a sigh. She had, she knew, no hope of becoming fluent in High Liaden—the formal dialect—by the time she reached Surebleak. While she was confident of her abilities in the written form, the complex kinesics, and the chorded fusion aspects of the spoken tongue put it beyond her, even with sleep-learning. Or, one might say, especially with sleep-learning.

  While sleep-learning had its uses, it also had its perils, such as the student emerging from the unit lacking certain key elements that might only be gained by spending time with those who had come by the knowledge—or language—in a more natural manner than having it stuffed wholesale into their heads.

  She shook her head. All those years with Jen Sar and she had never pushed him to teach her Liaden. Once, early in their relationship, she had asked if he wished her to learn, so that he might hear the language of his home.

  His answer had been a soft laugh, and a light, sensual touch to her cheek.

  “But you speak the language of my home, now,” he murmured, and then . . . she had lost track of the conversation, and by the time the matter had occurred to her again, it seemed to have been quite settled that Terran would be the language of the household.

  It was, she thought, to be hoped that the delm of Korval, now situated on Surebleak, would speak Terran. If not . . . then a solution must be found. An interpreter employed. Her experience had taught her that Liaden society enclosed a class of explorer-scholars, known as Scouts. One such—Cho sig’Radia her name was—had taken Theo into her mentorship and guided her to her piloting school, and another had taught her the art of bowli ball, and perhaps others things. . . .

  Yes! Perhaps one of those able persons might be available, for a fee. The newspapers told her that many Scouts had relocated to Surebleak, with Korval.

  It was peculiar, Kamele thought, walking back to her cabin through the ship’s midway, almost deserted at this early dinner hour, that so many Liadens were relocating to Surebleak. It might almost seem that there was some ethical rift, in which one portion of the society considered genocide reprehensible and punishable by banishment, while the other portion found the attack upon the homeworld by one of its prominent citizens to be perfectly reasonable, even justified, even a Necessity.

  “Good-day, Kamele,” a lately familiar voice spoke from quite close.

  She looked up, half-startled, to find Ban Del ser’Lindri at her elbow.

  “There you have it,” she said. “A scholar in a brown study sees nothing but her own thoughts! Good-day, Ban Del. I hope your duty today was pleasant.”

  “As pleasant as may be,” he answered, as he always did. “But you must tell me what thoughts beguiled you so thoroughly.”

  “I was regretting that I had never applied myself sufficiently to have learned to speak Liaden.”

  His eyes widened.

  “But surely . . .” he began—and pressed his lips together.

  She considered him.

  “Surely?” she asked.

  “No, I am maladroit,” he said, ruefully. “You must hold me excused, for I fear my day at duty has tired me.”

  “But what did you think?” Kamele pressed.

  “Why, I had made an assumption, which is, as I’m certain you’ll agree, always fatal,” he said, with a rallying gaiety that was not at all like his usual manner. “I had only recalled you had said that your daughter’s father was Liaden, and before I could engage my manners, my tongue had shown me for a boor.”

  “It’s hardly boorish to make assumptions based on what people have told one,” Kamele said slowly. “After all, that’s how we build our impressions of people and events.”

  “So it is. And yet one feels a need to make amends. Will you join me for dinner?”

  It was not an unusual request, and one that Kamele regularly received with pleasure. Today, however, she sighed, and shook her head.

  “I’m afraid that duty has been stern with both of us,” she said regretfully. “Mine has given me a headache, and I would be very poor company. My intention is to lie down in a dark cabin and try to bore it away.”

  “Ah.” He bowed gently. “I understand. Indeed, I hope that your efforts are made with success and that I may see you later this evening, perhaps at the Vishilond?”

  “I make no promises,” Kamele said. “But, if I recover, I’ll certainly stop for a drink at the Vishilond.”

  “That is all that a friend might hope for—your health and a chance to enjoy your company.” He took a step back, smiling up at her. “Until soon, Kamele.”

  “Until soon, Ban Del,” she answered, and went on her way, trying as she did—trying most earnestly, to recall if she had ever told Ban Del ser’Lindri about Theo’s father.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Ynsolt’i Approach

  Hevelin’s lean had been comfortable for the past half-hour, but now he stood erect on Theo’s knee, surveying Joyita, who’d been largely silent of late, and Clarence, who’d been surprisingly busy with small adjustments and back and forth with their guide.

  Abruptly, Clarence smacked his drawing pad to the floor with a sound of disgust.

  “This box looked a lot bigger from the outside, Theo.”

  Theo glanced over, saw Clarence with Kara shadowing him, both looking at the small screens where the fine-ore haulers Vitran Thirteen and Vitran Seven ran close enough together to appear as a wall. On the other side Growdy’s Trinket was essentially a solid block of metal with some boosters and a life unit attached, and all three of them were dwarfed by the asteroid collector Metrose, a stately traveling bin of raw leftover system-building stuff.

  Directly ahead were a couple of ships only slightly larger than the Trinket, and . . . the rest were starting to become harder to be sure of as the view of the destination was continually occulted and eclipsed by the ships around them. Ynsolt’i’s bulk was blocking their night-side view at the moment.

  “Understood, Clarence. You’re keeping an eye on the prize, right?”

  He nodded. “I am. The only good thing I see here is that these are all local ships and we have to assume they know the drill. They’re talking to each other like they’ve done this trip a dozen times. We have a half shift more before we ought to really be looking for a little more room and getting our final bearing
s—”

  It was Bechimo rather than Joyita who broke in.

  “Conditions are now suboptimal, Pilot. In addition to the drift of the nearby vessels, which borders on breaking the published routes rules, I note a change in traffic patterns beyond, which is concerning me.”

  Screen Two cleared itself of the catalog of traders expected to be on the trade floor they were approaching and, instead, showed ghostly outlines of the surrounding ships, and beyond that, a number of converging lines with numbers and . . . Theo counted seven of them.

  “These vessels have not been identified by the Portmaster nor Guide Seventy-Nine and their own output is extremely limited, to the point that one might call them dangerously suppressing information. The three closing most rapidly are broadcasting incomplete and nearly identical IDs, barely enough for collision avoidance.”

  On Screen Two, the direct view of the three was occluded by Vitran Thirteen.

  Theo grabbed the info, began checking the IDs of the other four . . .

  “Those four are—”

  All seven of the mystery-ship images blossomed with targeting information.

  “The three corsair-class ships are near stealthcraft and match the design details of the ship which attacked me during your rescue. The four you delineate are local military response vessels.”

  “Bechimo, must you do targeting before we determine—”

  “I routinely target the nearest thirteen potential threats, Pilot, and more in uncertain situations, such as now. My goal is always to present the most relevant information for the pilots’ consideration.”

  “Where are we getting this other ship location information? Is it calculated and inferred?”

  Now Joyita broke in on Bechimo, gesturing as if to his screens, which of course were phantoms.

  “We pick up unshielded feeds from the other ships as a matter of course, and the planet provides real-time updating of weather and navigation . . . your screens are the best hybrid approximations we can muster.”

  Joyita was moving hands rapidly over controls, eyes busy, sparing a glance to the crew as he spoke.