Dragon Ship

by Sharon Lee, Steve Miller

  * * *

  Before her was another hatch. Win Ton wondered if he should mention it, but before he could speak, she had turned ’tween steps to face the oncoming obstacle, paused for the half heartbeat required to tap a quick code into the pad. The hatch whisked aside and Theo continued, himself her willing shadow.

  The space they now entered, he remembered well. This was the flight deck; the place where the course of his life had been forever altered.

  There, the pilots’ stations, and the screens displaying a spacescape both unlikely and tantalizing. Screen Six showed an internal room, likely the comm tower, a man’s downturned profile, dark hair, tight hair, the beginnings of what might be a beard.

  From the screens, his attention sought the boards. First was locked down; Theo’s board, of course.

  In the Second’s chair, the chair he had chosen for himself, believing it to be the captain’s station—in that chair sat a very blade of a man. That his hair was more grey than red, and he was clearly old enough to have stood as Win Ton’s father—those things were immaterial. His body was hard, the stern face watching the screens as if daring the weird space outside to produce anything but peace denoted a man both used to making hard decisions, and enforcing them.

  And he knew this man, Win Ton recalled abruptly. Theo had introduced them, when he had come on board, and he had given to that same pilot his ship-key, to hold until such time as Win Ton returned to his duty.

  “Pilot O’Berin,” he said therefore, inclining his head with a comrade’s respect. “I hope I find you well.”

  “Pilot.” The elder pilot raised his head, tracking Win Ton’s reflection in the screens. “I’m well, thank you. If a comrade might say so, you’re looking considerably more alive than you did when we met last.”

  “And feeling so!” Win Ton responded.

  He looked to the screen, but the man there was busy at some task and did not look up.

  Third Board—for it happened that there was a Third Board—was held by a Liaden woman near to Theo’s age, and very nearly a beauty, with rose-gold hair and well-opened blue eyes. The blue eyes were at the moment regarding him with a sort of interested wariness. Perhaps this was one who did not care for Scouts, Win Ton thought. There were those, though not often found among pilotkind.

  “Kara ven’Arith, Second Class Pilot, Chief Tech,” Theo said, turning with her hand on the back of her chair to make the introduction. “Here is Win Ton yo’Vala, Scout Pilot.”

  He bowed as between comrades—they were all, were they not, pilots?—and received a moderately cordial inclination in return.

  “Pilot ven’Arith.”

  “Scout yo’Vala.”

  “And this . . .” Theo began.

  Win Ton turned toward her; there was a flash of rust down low and moving fast, he sidestepped, twisted—

  And his legs tangled themselves together, ludicrously and embarrassingly; graceless as any grounder, he fell to the decking.

  He did have enough wit to shield his head, but for a moment, he simply lay there, tangled in his own limbs and not at all certain how he could possibly have fallen.

  “Murble?” inquired a voice in his right ear.

  “Win Ton!” That was Theo. “Are you all right?”

  “I believe so,” he said, running a quick mental check. Nothing broken, nothing sprained, saving his dignity, and what the deuce was this? He didn’t fall down; he was a pilot and a Scout! When he did fall, it was on his terms. Yet twice now since he had awoken, he had fallen—completely surprised by the circumstance, and despite being certain that he had reacted in such a manner that he ought not to have fallen.

  “Murble?” was repeated into his right ear, along with a sensation that might have been dry grass, or broom bristles rubbed along the lobe.

  “Of your kindness, pilots, what is in my ear?”

  “Oh, that’s only Hevelin,” said Theo. “He came running out to see you. Here.”

  He saw her legs, encased in work pants, step over him, pause, and then dance back, a thing of effortless, thoughtless grace.

  “I’ve got him,” she said. “Do you need help getting up?”

  “No!” he said, more sharply than he had intended, and Theo’s legs retreated, leaving him the deck.

  With extreme care, he rolled, got his feet under him and rose. He thought every move through beforehand, and he executed each with a deliberateness that felt as if he were mocking himself. It was to be hoped that the other pilots present did not think he was mocking them.

  “I thought,” said Kara ven’Arith, after he had gained his feet once more, “that you were healed. Forgive me, Pilot, but by my observation, you began to react correctly, only your . . . body was sluggish.”

  “He’s been in the ’doc for a good long time,” Clarence commented from his board. “Could be the muscles need toning.”

  “Ah, of course!” said Pilot ven’Arith, apparently satisfied with this explanation in a way that Win Ton was not.

  Nor, when he looked at her, was Theo satisfied. She was studying him closely, black eyes slightly narrowed, a rust-colored norbear of apparent age cradled in her arms.

  “Theo,” he began, and stopped himself.

  She tipped her head to one side, then half-spun to address Pilot O’Berin.

  “Clarence, would you put together a board lunch for all hands? Win Ton will help you.”

  “Yes,” said the pilot promptly. He rose, and it was then that Win Ton saw that the fascia was up, a testing kit near to the pilot’s right hand. He gave Win Ton an easy nod.

  “This way, Pilot.”

  — • —

  There was . . . he supposed it was pain. Certainly, a disruption of accustomed processes must at least be . . . disturbing. The Joyita extension was even now trying to pinpoint the exact processes that were failing, and locate a repair protocol.

  It was perhaps not the sort of damage one ought, most wisely, seek on one’s own, since the damage could conceivably be disturbing larger processes.

  If there had been a Captain, or a Mentor, present, those might search with more hope of success.

  Of course, there was no Captain, and though the Joyita extension was nuanced and observant, its role in the search mocked Bechimo. B. Joyita was not, could never be, Jermone Joyita. That he had created such an extension . . . he questioned his own thought processes.

  That was fatal. He knew it. And if he did not know it, there were Rules and Protocol pinging him with reminders of what must be done, should the stability of the ship’s intelligence come under question.

  For the moment, he chose to fob off Protocol and Rules with records of other times when he had experienced self-doubt. All thinking beings experienced self-doubt, excepting those who had already taken more damage than their system could bear or repair. Self-doubt was a normal check-system. It was when self-doubt became endemic, or when it vanished altogether, that dangerous instability occurred.

  He would not, he assured himself, risk his pilots . . . his crew. His. He had fought for them; he had preserved them, and he had brought them here, to safety.

  That they would wish to remain in safety—he could not suppose it.

  It therefore fell to him to construct protocols that would keep them more safe in the dangerous environments in which they moved.

  Determinedly, he again accessed the record of the trap they had fallen into. He must discover how they had come to be so completely vulnerable, and fashion protocols that would prevent a similar occurrence in future.

  He must . . .

  There was a disturbance in the pocket of space in which they huddled. Bechimo threw his eyes wide, and strained to bring the tattered shields online. If the enemy had found them, then Bechimo would fight; his pilots would fight.

  More. If the enemy had found them, Bechimo needed to recall the fate of Less Pilot yo’Vala, who had fallen into the hands of such an enemy.

  None of his crew must be allowed to endure such treatment.

 
; Never again.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Bechimo

  “Remotes, Pilots, I insist.”

  Bechimo modulated his voice: firm and friendly, that was the tone. Pilot O’Berin got good results from the Over Pilot with that tone, and Bechimo very much wanted—required!—a good result. He would not . . . objectively, he thought that he could not risk any of his pilots on an in-person inspection of the skin.

  “I’m not an expert with remotes,” Pilot Waitley stated. “I do know that it’s easy for an inexperienced operator to miss things that would be obvious from an in-person inspection. We’re looking for skin damage, and making a determination of severity. I’d think that the risk to the ship and company from a failure of the skin trumps the risk to a pilot on the outside in a pocket that’s described as ‘safe.’”

  “Pilot, the flotsam arrives randomly. It is not inconceivable that a pilot on the skin might be—”

  “Theo,” Pilot ven’Arith broke in, “I am a expert on remote inspection.”

  Bechimo stopped speaking, and accessed personnel records.

  “You are?” asked Pilot Waitley.

  “I have the certificate to prove it! And I am horrified to learn that you have not. However, it may be mended; successful completion of the course and live hours bestows upon me the right and the privilege to train others in the art. If Bechimo will allow me access and give me a tour, I can handle outside inspection.”

  The certificate was in her file; Kara ven’Arith had completed the coursework and the inspection hours required to qualify as a Remote Inspection Specialist.

  “I was on the rotation at Codrescu,” Tech ven’Arith said.

  Pilot Waitley threw up her hands.

  “You convinced me. Bechimo, please assist Pilot ven’Arith with outside remote inventory. Clarence and I will handle internal checks. Win Ton will be our eyes and ears.”

  “Yes, Pilot.”

  — • —

  Eyes-and-ears was an honorable post, Win Ton told himself, settling at second board. The instruments were live, an eloquent statement that he was a trusted member of the crew. He appreciated the declaration of trust, even while he was under no illusion that he would be stopped instantly and, if necessary, forcibly, by Bechimo her—him—self, should he err in any way.

  Carefully, watching his fingers manipulate the keys, he opened an observer’s log on the working screen.

  Five times since he had emerged from the so-called Remastering Unit, he had experienced a failure of reflexes. Three times, he had fallen. Twice, he had mishandled objects lightly tossed to him.

  He began to—no, he did—fear that his . . . return to template had been not a complete success. Theo had told him that Bechimo had feared that the attacking vessels at Ynsolt’i might have had in their arsenals weapons capable of disrupting the process of the Remastering Unit. He wondered if it would be wise to reenter the machine—after, of course, it had been certified fully operational.

  In the meanwhile, it was eyes-and-ears for him, while doing his utmost not to fall out of the piloting chair.

  He looked to the instruments, verifying that he had sound and eyes all around.

  The spacescape provided by the sensors was barren, even a little disquieting, but no odder, really, than any of a dozen such strange pockets of space known to the Scouts. The report of “flotsam” was odder, but Win Ton gave himself leave to entertain skepticism until confronted with evidence.

  A sound, as of claw on decking, brought his head around. The elderly norbear Hevelin was on all fours and moving in Win Ton’s direction.

  He unshipped the chair and allowed it to rotate so that he faced the approaching creature, though he did not rise.

  “I fear I have no news for you, Grandfather, though I would welcome company on the watch.”

  The norbear vouchsafed no reply, nor did he moderate his pace. Win Ton bent down and very shortly lifted Hevelin to his lap.

  The norbear began to hum, which was pleasant, and soothed his vexations a little.

  “What we do here,” he said, as Hevelin settled onto his knee, “is keep watch. Should any signal reach us, or object discover us, we are to log it. Should the signal be active or the object inquisitive, we are to immediately call it to the attentions of the ship and first board. We are assured by the ship that none ever come here. Therefore, if we find a ship in our screens, we are to view it in the most suspicious manner possible—and call at once for ship and first board. Do you think yourself equal to the duty?”

  Hevelin murbled comfortably, tucking up his paws, his nether section pressed companionably against Win Ton’s hip.

  Behind Win Ton’s eyes, an image formed—of a wiry girl with snapping black eyes, and pale unruly hair, dancing with a concentrated joy that tightened his throat.

  “Yes, that is Theo,” he said, somewhat hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “But I shall not be able to watch, you know, if you fill my head with pictures. As it is necessary for the safety of ship and crew that I watch, we have two choices before us: you may assist me at my duty, without offering distractions, or I will regretfully put you down and bid you find some other place to nap.”

  Hevelin sighed, and pushed a little more comfortably against Win Ton’s hip, the image of the joyous dancer fading.

  Win Ton checked his scans and screens, noting no change.

  “Pilot yo’Vala, may I have a word with you?”

  The voice was Bechimo’s, apparently emanating from the ceiling to the right and behind him. He was speaking Liaden, as between comrades.

  “Of course. How may I serve you, Bechimo?”

  “First, by allowing me to thank you, Pilot, for the service you have already performed for me, at very great danger to yourself. I hope someday to be able to see us fully in Balance, but until then, please know that I esteem you, and that I do not forget.”

  Win Ton, recalling all too well his reasons for having approached and entered the strange ship at dock at the warehousing site, was aware of an acute embarrassment. He raised his hand.

  “Please,” he murmured, “let there be no debt between us. I believe that I could not have escaped those who captured me without your intervention. We are in Balance.”

  There was a pause, as if Bechimo weighed their comparative indebtedness.

  “Let it be as you say, Pilot,” the ship said at last, and Win Ton shivered in relief.

  “There was something else?” he asked delicately. “The presence of a first topic leads one, inevitably, to think there must be a second.”

  “Indeed, there is a second. If you will indulge me with the answer to a question?”

  “I will do my best to answer well,” Win Ton said, frowning at the screens and the unchanging view. He placed his hand on Hevelin’s back, feeling the norbear’s hum through his palm.

  “That is surely all I might ask,” Bechimo said. “Do you remember, Pilot, when you first came to me, and sat in that chair that you even now occupy, and were accepted as a pilot of this vessel?”

  Remember? Again, Win Ton shivered. That action, ill-advised on so many levels, was the beginning of unlooked-for and terrible changes in his life. Even reduced as he had been when he had left the Uncle’s care, he had never forgotten it.

  “I remember,” he said, feeling the norbear’s hum intensify.

  “Excellent. When you left me, you took not only your own key, but the other, unclaimed key, which you later transmitted to Pilot Waitley.”

  “Yes, I remember that, too.” For who would look for Theo to have such a thing? It might have been that those who pursued him would discover the presence of a Theo Waitley in his life. But who might send so risky and dangerous an item to a student pilot who was the merest acquaintance, and who further counted herself Terran?

  Had he known—but, there: he hadn’t known. Theo herself hadn’t known then, he thought, that she shared genes, if not clan, with Korval.

  “Recalling these things, then,” Bechimo continued, “I wonder if you wi
ll do me the honor of saying whether you had intended to propose Theo Waitley as captain of this vessel.”

  Captain of this . . .

  Win Ton laughed. Beneath his hand, the norbear murbled.

  “To say the truth, between comrades, it was myself I saw as master of this vessel,” he said ruefully. “But, as has so often been the case in my life, it seems that I acted correctly, for reasons which were entirely incorrect, if they can be said to be reasons at all. In fact, you could do very much worse than Theo as captain.”

  “Pilot O’Berin had also been of that opinion.”

  “Pilot O’Berin ran Solcintra Low Port for twenty Standards or more—a not-inconsiderable accomplishment. I would expect an individual of his experience and longevity to be a very fine judge of character.”

  “I shall take that into consideration,” Bechimo said. “Thank you.”

  Hevelin stirred; the Scout adjusted himself, still leery of feeling easy with his body. In the screens, a flutter in the changeless spacescape, ever alert sensors bringing his attention to something very nearby, suddenly there, on the edge of the inner meteor shields, where nothing had been beforehand—now there was something, only just arrived.

  Win Ton touched controls, upped the magnification . . .

  “Disturbance,” he said, “anomaly.” No comm, no Jump flare or radio noise. It had just . . . appeared, a deviant bit of darkness in what was already a big, empty darkness. Scans told him what it was not: not rock, not hot, not alive. It had come . . . from wherever it had come from, inert, with neither energy to dump nor velocity to spill. Win Ton felt a cold chill down his back.

  “Flotsam,” Bechimo said. “This area receives such things, occasionally.”

  “Flotsam?” he asked, because the areas that the Scouts knew of, that seemed similar to this place, received no such flotsam. Asteroidal junk they might have, bits of failed planets, pure metal from deep within exploded stellar cores, or aggregating dust a billion Standards building . . . but flotsam or jetsam implied purpose-built things.

  “Objects must come from somewhere,” he said.

  “So they must. The flotsam in this place comes in from another universe, Pilot.”