“Graveyard?” Theo looked to the screens.
A misty blue marble hung in Screen Two, wreathed ’round with ships. Theo brought up the magnification, and heard Win Ton mutter something in a language that didn’t seem to be either Terran or Liaden.
The ships were old; they were odd, some were only bits and pieces, slung together in catch nets—parts, she guessed. As she looked, IDs bloomed, not ship names, but types. Some she knew from the hours she’d spent with the silhouette tutorials Tranza had made her study. Some were industrial—she identified a core borer and a refinery boat, and a battered tug.
“How do we know of this place?” Win Ton asked quietly.
“The Carresens gave us an infopacket,” Theo said. “This was listed as a source for older model parts and modules. Joyita, we want repairs and station, please. Comm to Clarence.”
She gave Second Board a grin when he looked over to her.
“Let them know who we are, Pilot.”
— • —
Hoselteen was docked at Yonimiko-Chan, where it would remain for the next two station-days, taking on supplies, refueling, and changing out crew members.
When she had seen Ban Del yesterday, he had proposed that they explore the station together. That had sounded . . . unexpectedly delightful to Kamele, who found, somewhat to her surprise, that she was eager to step off of Hoselteen and . . . broaden her horizons.
She met him at the exit lobby at the appointed hour, seeing that he, like she, was wearing a jacket and sensible boots, rather than the soft shoes that were the norm on-ship.
“Are you ready for adventure?” he asked, bowing lightly.
Kamele laughed. “A little mild excitement will satisfy me.”
Ban Del smiled. “Then let us agree to take what the day brings to us.”
“That sounds fair,” Kamele said, walking with him through the short tube.
At the end, she paused for a moment to look about.
Yonimiko-Chan was not, according to the guide book, a premiere space station. It served both passenger ships and tradeships, the sections separated by an extensive shopping and promenade district. There were several museums in the promenade district, a public garden, and many shops and restaurants. Most passengers kept to the shopping district and to the Gold Level, where the more exclusive shops and eateries were established.
Hoselteen not being of the first line of cruise ships, its tube opened onto decking. A rug with the ship’s name and line-logo had been placed directly before the tube, which was flanked by two rather resigned-looking potted plants.
Directly ahead was a line of kiosks—an infobooth, a sweet stand, an escort service—and three scooters, each with its own driver. Passengers from Hoselteen were clustered between the end of the tube and the kiosks, talking, while several small groups were walking purposefully away from the ship, obviously intent upon exploring.
Beyond the scooters, standing half-obscured by tall plants with large purple leaves, stood a woman in what might have been a stationer uniform—a small woman, with a peculiarly inflexible face. She was standing quite still. It was, in fact, her stillness that drew Kamele’s eye. She and Jen Sar had used to play a game: he would stand quietly in plain sight, and she was challenged to find him.
That it was a challenge to find him, though he never allowed so much as a leaf to blur his outline, was a testament to Jen Sar’s talent. The first few times they had played, he had eventually moved something—an eyebrow, a finger—in order to allow her to discover him. She had finally learned the trick of observing from the edge of her eye, and though Jen Sar was not with her anymore, apparently she hadn’t forgotten.
“Come, let us go this way,” Ban Del said, taking her arm, as if they were on much closer terms than they were.
“Why this way?” she wondered, slipping her arm free.
“Why not?” he answered whimsically.
She laughed, and went with him.
They took turns choosing directions, and which store or museum to enter. They stopped, on whim, to sample ices, and fruit drinks, and cheeses. In all, it was a very pleasant outing with an attentive and agreeable companion.
Indeed, the only blot on Kamele’s day was that from time to time, in a window or a screen or some other reflective surface, she would catch a glimpse of the near-invisible woman with the expressionless face, tirelessly observing.
* * *
They were at a restaurant on the Gold Level—Ban Del’s choice; the wine and the meal his choice as well. He smiled at her over the shared cheese plate, and made charming small talk. His fingers brushed hers once or twice, not unpleasantly; he pressed more wine on her, but she laughed at him.
“I see it all! You will get me tipsy and work your will on me!”
“Will I?” he asked, still smiling. He extended his hand deliberately and laid it over hers where it lay next to her glass. “How if I give you leave to work your will on me?”
“You would be very foolish to do so, which I know you are not,” she told him—and it was then that she saw the woman who had been following them all day, and with her was a man, dressed in the same sort of clothing, that suggested a uniform, but which matched nothing else she had seen on-ship or on-station.
“Would I be foolish,” asked Ban Del, “to leave myself in the hands of a gracious and knowledgeable woman?”
“Knowledgeable women,” Kamele said, keeping her voice light, despite a growing anxiety, “sometimes frighten young men.”
“I am willing to risk it,” he murmured, and refreshed their wine glasses.
Kamele had a small, careful sip of wine. Between the time she raised the glass and the time she put it down, it seemed as if her entire point of view had been reversed. The man across from her was no longer her frequent and charming companion, but a stranger who had lured her away from a place of relative safety, having told no one where she was going or when she intended to return. They had been followed all day by a person who was decidedly not a member of the ship’s crew or company, and now . . . there was something amiss. The wine was strong for the first bottle of the evening, and Ban Del had never been so caressing on the ship. Taken together—and also with the presence of the still-faced watchers—something was very amiss.
And she might, she told herself, choosing another piece of cheese, have been a willing assistant in placing herself in peril.
She was a scholar, and therefore she tried to puzzle it out, to find a reason for her sudden nervousness, or a reason why Ban Del, who had been known to her for some weeks. might suddenly wish to do her harm.
Certainly, she thought, if his intention were robbery, there were other, wealthier persons among Hoselteen’s passengers. If his intention were kidnapping, what sort of ransom did he think he might get for a middle-aged academician?
No, she was seeing shadows in broad daylight. That Ban Del might wish her harm—it made no sense.
And then, suddenly, it did.
According to at least two news sources, Theo was wanted for questioning regarding her actions at both Ynsolt’i and Eylot. There was, so Kamele had read only yesterday, a reward posted for persons who provided information leading to Theo’s apprehension.
Ban Del followed the news; she had never found him at a loss on a topic of current event, and his interests ranged widely. Perhaps he fancied the reward money; perhaps he wished to exploit his unique advantage, and gain leverage in some aspect of his life. For surely Theo would come forward, in exchange for her mother’s liberty.
As a tale, it hung together.
Though it was ridiculous, of course.
Trust your instincts, Jen Sar had told her. After all, that had been the key in learning to see the invisible.
Trust your instincts.
“You must excuse me for a moment, my friend,” she said to Ban Del ser’Lindri. She leaned close across the table, slid her hand up his sleeve, and smiled into his eyes. “I will return immediately.”
He raised her hand and kissed it
lingeringly.
“Hurry,” he murmured.
— • —
“Tree-and-Dragon ain’t got no ’count here, Pilot Waitley,” the tech told her. He frowned down at his screen, took off his cap and rubbed his hand over a hairless head so shiny Theo wondered if he waxed it.
“You wanna open ’count, I can give it the first-timer break on parts, that’d be your ten percent, counts for if you wanna pick up pieces over the graveyard, but not whole ships, if you unnerstan’ me.”
“I understand,” she said, aware of Clarence standing at her shoulder. The crew had decided that common prudence dictated that none of them should leave the ship, except with backup. Bechimo and Kara were likely listening in through the key and comm respectively, an extra thread of backup.
“I’m a Tree-and-Dragon contractor and can’t obligate them—and anyway, we got your location from a Denobli. I’d be glad to open an account for Laughing Cat.”
“Laugh’ Cat? Who that?”
“Me,” Theo said, “and my ship.”
He glanced up, where Bechimo and his Laughing Cat coat could be seen through the port, riding docile, and directly linked to the station.
“Ship wit’ lines like that maybe gonna want us more’n once,” he commented. “Dragon’s got their own yards.” He tapped the screen, too hard, in what looked to be a sequence, and spun it ’round to face her. “Hereza form. You fill it up, while I check out back.”
He left. The comm, which had, off and on during their visit to the repair side, broadcast the buoy’s welcome message and not much else, suddenly fizzed.
Theo looked up, automatically looking for the screen, then laughed at herself.
“Donihue’s Docent in-system, Jemiatha Station. Request berth, decommission infopack.”
“Berth Nine all yours, Docent, that’s on the ventral, got it all lit up for you. Info on the way. Patch you through to graveyard, if you’re thinking that way.”
“Station, yes. Might as well get an inspect.”
Theo moved her shoulders, suddenly chilled. Well, at least she wouldn’t have to decommission Bechimo. He had lasted centuries and was probably good for centuries more.
She brought her attention back to the business at hand.
The form was straightforward, and Laughing Cat’s references and assets were hardly vast. “Denobli” was already filled in as a reference, which Theo, after a brief struggle with her conscience, allowed to stand. No sooner had she pressed her thumb to the screen than their tech was back, nodding his head and grinning.
“Gotcher Struven, new inna crate—three, new in crates!—buncha used, too, if pockets’re tight—”
“How much for new?” Theo asked, as he spun the screen back ’round to face him.
He named a price, not much higher than she had expected; with the discount, they were almost getting it for retail. She looked at Clarence, in case he had an objection, but he only nodded.
“We’ll take new,” she said.
“We want to see the box,” Clarence added. “And open it ourselves.”
“Sure thing, boss. How you payin’, Pilot?”
“Transfer from ship’s fund.”
He lifted the cap and rubbed his head again.
“Surcharge on other’n cash. Ten percent.”
She sighed.
“Now, don’ take it that way,” he said. “Gotta five percent rebate comin’—trade for the old unit.”
“The old unit needs to be destroyed,” Theo said. “It’s tainted.”
“Zatit? Welp, sometime the older Struvens, they do take up another frequency, start whisperin’ to themselves. Only thing to do with ’em then’s like you’re doin’. The old one—we can take care of it, Pilot.”
Theo considered him. “How much?”
He met her eyes. “My treat.”
She nodded. “How soon,” she said, “can you get to it?”
“Right now, as happens.” He looked up and gave her a grin. “Ain’t real busy, like you see. This here’ll be a real treat for the crew. Ordinary day here, Pilot, is me callin’ out the graveyard, talkin’ to a ship er two—sometimes gotta roll ’em starward or opposite, make sure they don’t drift into a bad reception posture or somewhat. Sometimes gotta check on station-keepin’ fuel, ask ’em ’bout batteries.” He shook his head. “Looks a mess out there, Pilot, but all of ’em’s in their place, and know it. Makes for a slow day, though, it does.”
Theo understood entirely, having seen Codrescu’s constant juggle of the outer yards, which would drift from the pressure of sunlight, or in response to reaction jets from passing ships; she’d much rather have the duties of a pilot than a station-watcher.
“Well now. You can go do a station tour; we’ll get the repair boat over and make the install. Or you can set inside and play cards, you like that better. All the same to us, s’long’s that hatch’s undogged.”
“We’ll be home to help you along,” Clarence said.
“Fine by me.” He looked to Theo. “That’s half prepay, half on finish.”
She nodded. “I’ll make the transfer within the quarter hour.”
“Soon’s we get it, soon’s we’re out. ’Fore you go, take a step back here, and look atcher box. Might wanna glance on them overheads, too, when we get there, see if we got some skin plates might match up for ya, if I may say so. Right this way, gentles.”
— • —
Kamele stepped off the light-rail, and looked around her. No carefully invisible people came to her attention, though the hairs at the back of her neck still prickled. From where she stood, she could see Hoselteen’s boarding ramp. She took a deep breath. Once she reached the ship, she would be safe.
She took three quick steps—and stopped.
A man was standing between her and the tube entrance—a man dressed in a uniform she had now seen twice before. And worse—another man was standing further on, and—yes, a woman, very near to the spot where she had first seen the other woman, earlier in the day.
Kamele sidestepped, and leaned against the side of an infobooth. This? All this for one woman who might draw out another woman, who might perhaps have a traffic violation on her record, and who might have offended the sensibilities of a planetary government, but who was by no means a desperate criminal?
There was something else going on—some waters too deep for her to penetrate, perhaps entangled with Clan Korval, or—
Hoselteen wasn’t safe: she accepted that thought as if it had the force of fact. To return was to reinsert herself into a box, in sight, predictable, and in danger. To return compromised her mission. Absurd as it sounded, it might compromise her life—or Theo’s.
She would, therefore, need to find another way to Surebleak.
For a long moment, she stood rooted, thinking of her luggage, her computer, her clothes; trying to convince herself that she was overreacting, that she had just offended someone who was in the way of being a friend, and who, very possibly, had only wished to share a little . . . recreation with her.
Trust your instincts.
She took a breath.
Her instincts may have gone mad, but . . .
Very well.
Another thought for the computer, at least—but that was, of course, nonsense.
She was wearing her jacket. She had ID, money, credit, her research on its memory stick. All essential items were with her. The rest—could be replaced.
Kamele nodded, took a breath, turned, and walked away from Hoselteen, toward the trade side of the station.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Jemiatha’s Jumble Stop
Jemiatha’s did good work. The new Struven Unit was installed within a couple hours, under Bechimo’s watchful sensors. Ship’s power never wavered, as far as Theo saw, and if Joyita’s glances and twitches at the clanks, thunks, and chungs that reverberated through the hull with the work vessels attached expressed more than mild concern, it was hidden in the pace of whatever work he did there in his private place.
&
nbsp; “We’re away, Bechimo; away and off the clock. We’ll switch you back to the office . . .”
Theo’s link to the work ship showed a smiling crew and she heard an off-vid voice—“Dinner’s on the tech!”—before the team leader’s face appeared, also showing a smile.
“Bechimo, if you got anybody mobile over there, you might want to come take a look at a couple extras we dug out while we was putting together a match catalog for you. We got a couple repair kits for some of the loop designs like your setup’s based on, and a quick-tuner tester for that Struven, couple demo unit remotes—I can send you details but prolly’s best to get a hands-on and do a takeaway. My crew’s outta here ’most a workday early, so the office can do whatever you want like an in-kind rebate. It’ll show as account activity, too—get you a bigger reference base!”
Theo glanced at Kara, seeing her hands shape plus marks.
“Send Kara, and I’ll stand backup,” Clarence said from his station. “We can pick up what we want—and still be away ahead of schedule!”
“I remind the Over Pilot that neither the Less Pilot nor the third pilot have ship-keys,” Bechimo said.
“That’s true,” Theo said. “But Clarence and I were already on the station.”
“You held your key, Pilot,” Bechimo reminded, answering so quickly that his words stepped on the heels of hers.
Kara frowned. “Do we need a key? Theo will be here to open for us.” She glanced at Clarence, who had shaped a kind of half-pretzel against the air—it’s complicated, that meant.
“Well, then,” she said to him, “we can carry Theo’s key.”
“No!” Bechimo said sharply, and Theo sighed, capturing Kara’s attention with a flicker of fingers.
“The keys are part of Bechimo’s systems,” she said, signing fullness later. “He’s not comfortable letting crew out of monitoring range.”
Kara’s face cleared. “And the keys extend his range. I understand.”
“It is my intention,” Bechimo said, sounding slightly calmer, “to manufacture keys, to replace the one lost in battle, and another new key for you, Pilot ven’Arith. Unfortunately, the process takes some time, and if we stop for it now, we will miss the favorable Jump approach.”
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