Linesman

by S. K. Dunstall

  Ean choked. No one had ever asked him to assess lines before. “I’m not sure I’d know how,” he said.

  “How did you know Katida was a line eight?”

  “I . . . You could feel it.”

  He’d heard about people like Fergus. They showed enough promise to contract to the cartels but they couldn’t pass certification. The contract was automatically canceled on failure to certify, but some of the failed stayed on as personal assistants or other workers. For a while there, when Rigel had taken so long to get him certified, Ean had thought he’d end up as one of the failed as well.

  Rigel never took the failed linesmen on, but Ean knew of at least three of Rigel’s people who had ended up in other houses.

  Yet even when he’d worried that he would fail certification, Ean had known he knew the lines. Was Fergus like that, too?

  “Find out what he is,” Abram said. “Find out what he can do. Teach him what you can.”

  Teach him. Ean could imagine his old trainers fainting with horror at the thought. Fergus probably would, too, if he knew about Abram’s plan. Ean suspected he didn’t.

  “Gospetto checked his voice,” Abram said. “Says he can sing.” He grimaced. It could have been halfway to a smile. “Says he has better voice control than you.”

  Ean could imagine.

  The lessons with Gospetto had continued twice a day over the last week. Every day, Ean could smell the rancid fear-sweat that grew stronger as the hour progressed. Gospetto had fainted twice.

  Ean didn’t blame him. The voice tutor’s bruises were still fading.

  Abram took a long sip of tea. “We don’t know yet if Fergus is spying for the cartels,” he said. “He’s under guard until we can be certain that he is not.”

  “But you want me to teach him.” The thought still gave Ean disquiet. No one had ever wanted him to teach the lines.

  “I’ve been talking to the engineers,” Abram said. “They believe that if you can make a linesman of him, he’ll come over to our side automatically. Just for that.”

  Imagine if Ean had failed certification. What would he do to work with the lines? What wouldn’t he do?

  • • •

  FERGUS was under guard at the shuttle when Ean arrived. He still wore his Rickenback uniform. Was he still a Rickenback employee then? Or did they just not want to give him a Lancastrian uniform?

  His face was gray. He looked tired.

  Sale’s people waited for Ean. Radko was there, too, her ankle strapped, supporting herself on a pair of crutches.

  Ean looked dubiously at her ankle. “What happened?” Last time he had seen her, she’d been fine.

  “Hairline fracture,” she said, and made a face. “They think. After all this time.”

  “Shouldn’t you be on sick leave then?”

  “What’s the point? We’re not in port. I can’t do anything. I might as well work.”

  “She’s here to keep you in line,” Sale said. “To make sure you do what the commodore says.”

  Ean strapped in beside Fergus, who flinched away. Ean noticed. Everyone noticed. Not a good start although Ean wasn’t sure if the start was bad for him or for Fergus. Lancastrians were loyal.

  He sat back and closed his eyes. He’d been able to feel that Katida was a line eight. Maybe if he relaxed, he could feel what line Fergus was. If he was a line at all. Maybe he was a line eleven or twelve. How would he tell then?

  The lines were strong in his mind. He sang softly to each of them. He didn’t need the comms anymore, or the void—although it helped—to be aware of each of them. The last few jumps had increased his line senses. The lines were part of him now.

  He had a special message for the Galactic News ship. “We’re coming. We’ll fix you.”

  Six ships, sixty-one lines. There was no signal from the elusive line twelve that Rossi had spoken of. He was deaf and blind to it.

  No indication what line Fergus was, either.

  Fergus twitched beside him, and Ean opened his eyes. “Sing with me,” he said to Fergus.

  Fergus looked horrified.

  “I’ll tell you what to sing, and when.”

  He sang an explanation to the lines. “Introducing Fergus, one line at a time. He’s inexperienced. Be kind to him.”

  “Line one, Helmo’s ship,” he said to Fergus, and sang a greeting to that specific line. “You sing it now.”

  Fergus stared at him wordlessly.

  “That’s an order,” Sale said from where she was strapped in.

  He stared at her, opened his mouth then closed it, and shook his head.

  “An order, Linesman.”

  Ean thought it was the “linesman” that did it. Fergus shook his head again, opened his mouth, and started to sing.

  Gospetto was right. He had a good voice. Clear, pure, and note-perfect even though he’d only heard the tune once.

  Line one didn’t even hear him.

  What if they were wrong? Ean led him through greeting each of the other ones, then the twos, then the threes.

  Nothing.

  The only reason he didn’t stop was because the lines were enjoying their time, each waiting patiently for its turn. They were starting to get personalities. If anyone ever said again that the lines weren’t intelligent he’d . . . he didn’t know what he’d do. It was an outright lie.

  Nothing for lines four, five, and six, but line seven surged strong in reply.

  Fergus stopped singing.

  “It’s okay,” Ean said, soft and soothing, the way one would to a skittish animal. “It’s the lines.”

  The only sound in the cabin was the machinery circulating the air.

  “Let’s sing it again. Okay?”

  They sang it again.

  Fergus got a reaction from every line seven.

  “What do you hear?” Ean asked softly.

  “I—” Fergus swallowed. “I . . . think they’re saying hello.” He blinked, and swallowed again. “I—”

  “Let’s try the next line,” because it was unfair to the other lines waiting so patiently. Ean sang the greeting for the first line eight.

  Fergus heard nothing from line eight up.

  “Well done,” Ean said when they were done.

  The predominant feeling among the line sevens right now was a baritone eddy of hope. It hadn’t been there before, and it sounded a lot like Fergus. Exactly how strong was Fergus if he could dominate the other sevens like that?

  Did that mean Governor Shimson was a linesman, too?

  That was another one for the cartels to reconsider. It was generally believed that the lines had an order of strength. That line one was lowest, and—until now—that line ten was the highest. That a linesman’s ability went up the list and stopped when he, or she, could go no further. Fergus would never have gotten past line one.

  They didn’t even know what line seven did yet.

  “Ready to dock,” Craik said, and Ean put off his pondering and prepared himself for the security on the Galactic News ship. After their last encounter, what would they say when he started singing to the lines?

  Radko was watching him. That seemed to be her job. He glanced at Fergus, then raised seven fingers to her. Radko nodded and noted something on her comms.

  • • •

  AS they moved in to dock, another call came over the comms.

  “This is the Argent, carrying Executive Tenzig d’Abo of Galactic News. Shuttle, please stand down and make way for the executive.”

  “What the—?” Sale snatched the comms.

  Abram was there before her. “Argent, you are in violation of the no-go zone. All ships need permission to enter this zone.”

  “Captain.” Ean wasn’t sure if it was an intended insult or if the person who was speaking didn’t realize who he was speaking to. �
��We have Executive Tenzig d’Abo of Galactic News on board. We do not require permission to visit our own ship.”

  Sale checked the comms. “D’Abo’s CEO of Galactic News,” she said.

  Her team was more tense than they had been a moment ago. Ean could almost feel the air crackle with static. Sale looked at Radko’s bandaged foot with a hiss of annoyance. “Maybe you should stay on the shuttle,” she said.

  “If I need to run on it, I can,” Radko said.

  “Shuttle, please stand down to allow the executive to dock first,” the person on the Argent said.

  Sale frowned at Ean. What had he done? “We should come back another time.”

  “I’m not sure line ten could survive another jump.”

  Unbidden, Jordan Rossi’s rich tones percolated into his mind. He imagined him saying, “Lines don’t survive. They’re bands of energy.”

  Why would he be thinking of Rossi right now? The less he thought about other tens, the better.

  Even the lines had a taste of Rossi about them.

  Sale’s frown grew deeper, but she nodded. “Continuing on course,” she told Abram.

  “Thank you, Sale. Argent, you have entered restricted space without permission and are in violation of laws 874.2.3.1 and 874.2.3.2 and 27.2.”

  “Executive d’Abo has every right to visit his own staff.”

  “Why don’t we let them dock first?” Ean suggested.

  Sale’s withering look told him he’d asked something stupid.

  “We don’t know who’s on that ship,” Radko said. Thank the lines for Radko, who at least explained. “Could be anyone. Including Gate Union people.”

  Maybe he needed more of that paranoia Katida wanted him to get. Except that the world wasn’t always out to get them. Sometimes a ship was just a ship.

  “Going in now,” Craik said, while Abram and the person on the Argent argued about the rights the executive had to visit his own staff.

  By the time Craik docked the shuttle, Abram had prevailed, and the Argent had moved away to await a boarding party. It was now, according to the screen, placed midway between the media ship and the Wendell. D’Abo was threatening legal action, Abram was pointing out that Galactic News had signed an agreement to abide by the Alliance’s conditions in order to have the media ship remain.

  Ean tuned them out. He had work to do.

  He sang softly under his breath to the ship lines while Sale dealt with the crew member who greeted them. By his coveralls he was an engineer although he didn’t introduce himself. The name on the pocket said BONNA.

  “If you’d sent a higher-level linesman in the first place, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

  The lines told Ean he was hiding something. He wondered if they could tell him what Bonna’s secret was.

  The lines felt different today. The lower lines were much stronger. Especially line one. Engineer Tai and his crew had done good work.

  Bonna looked nervous, and who could blame him with his secret and all, and a team of soldiers crowding him, hustling him along as if they wanted the whole thing finished before they even started. “This way.” He led them toward Engineering.

  As they walked, Ean sang line ten, strengthening it so that if they had to jump, ten would survive it. At least he wasn’t the one slowing them down this time. Radko was. Ean stopped to help her. “You shouldn’t be walking.”

  “I have a stick. I’m not an invalid.”

  She did have a stick, and he probably couldn’t help much.

  “Besides, I just got my hair to sit down from last time.”

  Her jokes got worse.

  Sale said, across any further attempt at humor, or maybe she was making her own jokes, “I hope you all know the layout of this ship by heart.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they chorused obediently.

  Except Ean—and Fergus, who shrugged and gave a slight shake of his head. Ean smiled at him, and he smiled back. The first bit of camaraderie they had shared.

  “Sing,” Ean invited him. “Sing line seven,” and after a momentary hesitation, Fergus joined him in singing to that line.

  Ean expanded his song to include the other lines—all of them this time, not just the higher lines. Line one was definitely different today. Stronger and more familiar. Maybe it was getting used to him. Maybe he was getting used to it.

  It was also, he realized suddenly, because some of the crew had changed. Half the egos had gone, and in their place was something he knew. It reminded him of Captain Wendell.

  Ean slowed outside the Engineering door. “What if it’s a trap?” he asked. Katida’s wished-for paranoia was well and truly kicking in.

  Sale looked at him uneasily. “What do you mean?” But she and Radko had already grabbed an arm each and started to bundle him back the other way.

  “What if—”

  What if he was wrong?

  The door to Engineering opened, and ten dark-green-uniformed soldiers streamed out. Twenty. Gate Union people. Wendell’s crew.

  Sale swore. “Too many,” she said. “Craik, Losan, cover us. The rest of you.” She indicated a side corridor.

  Ean hoped she knew the layout of the ship and wasn’t leading them into a dead end. He stopped to help Radko.

  “Go,” Radko said. “Don’t wait for me.”

  He ignored her. Fergus came around to the other side, and the two of them ran for the corridor, supporting her between them.

  “Ean. Save yourself, or I’ll kill you personally later.”

  A beam of light melted the bulkhead above him. The corridor was full of the acrid smell of melted plastic. An alarm started wailing.

  At breakfast one morning, Katida had said they didn’t use blasters on ships because they did too much damage. They used Tasers instead. Why would Wendell’s people use blasters? Surely, they knew how dangerous it was.

  The passage forked.

  “Left,” Sale called to the two soldiers in front, turning to blast one of the dark-green-uniformed people behind her. A blue light arced out, felled him. He rolled and kept coming although his face was contorted with pain.

  Maybe that was why they didn’t use Tasers. The people didn’t stop.

  The two soldiers who’d veered into the left passage came running back. “Half a dozen down there,” one of them reported.

  How many intruders could a ship this size hold?

  They turned down the right passage. “There’s a cargo compartment three doorways down,” Sale said. “If we get in there, we should have some cover, and we’ll be able to fight back. Ean, get ready to open the door if it’s locked.”

  She really had looked up the specs of the ship.

  Ean ducked as another blaster bolt crackled above his head. Radko let Ean and Fergus support her fully momentarily. Next moment a blaster bolt crackled past his ear, so close he felt the burn of it. A green-uniformed soldier went down. He stayed down.

  The smell of charred meat followed them.

  Ean gagged, then was too busy running and trying to work out how he could sing to unlock the door.

  “They’re switching weapons,” one of Wendell’s people called into his comms.

  “Damn,” Sale said. “They counted on us using Tasers.”

  They didn’t make it to the third corridor. Four soldiers jumped out of the second, firing. Sale’s people turned into the first.

  “They’re herding us,” Sale said. “Forget this. We’re not going where they want us to.” She fired back around the corridor, both ways.

  “Enemy ahead,” Craik reported.

  “Damn. How many soldiers does he have?”

  Ean’s breath burned in his chest. He should exercise more. Maybe he would after this although you would have thought that Gospetto’s training would have doubled his lung capacity by now.

  They ran down the
only corridor that was empty. Sale was right. They were being herded. Ean felt like they’d run halfway around the ship.

  Another blocked corridor. Four soldiers this time. By now more of Sale’s people had armed themselves with blasters. The soldiers went down. Sale’s people jumped over them.

  Radko turned to fire behind them. Ean stumbled over a body, and only just missed being fired on because the Wendell soldier firing his way pulled her weapon up at the last second. The wall above Ean’s head melted in a line of molten plastic and sparking wires.

  The moment stretched.

  Another soldier pointed his own blaster at Ean, then pulled up and away, too, and turned to fire on Radko, who had already ducked and rolled.

  “Move,” she yelled at Ean.

  They hadn’t fired on him.

  Fergus hauled Ean up.

  “Thanks.” Either soldier could have killed him, but they hadn’t.

  Radko was already standing, more agile on her one good foot than Ean was on two. Ean and Fergus each wrapped an arm around her waist and ran.

  • • •

  THEIR way was clear now.

  The next door led to a large control room with monitors everywhere. And desks.

  “Not perfect,” Sale said, “but good enough.” She raised her voice, and her weapon. “Everybody out.” It started a mad scramble the way they had come. “Ean, can you open that door?”

  “That door” had a red, flashing light beside it. Ean had already sung it open before he realized what the sign under the light said. RECORDING.

  Craik and Losan were through—armed and threatening—before he could tell them they were about to make the galactic news.

  Radko shoved Ean behind a desk. “Keep your head down and don’t move until we say you can.”

  “But they’re not shooting at me,” Ean said. Maybe it was because he didn’t have a weapon. “I can—”

  What could he do?

  Radko ducked behind the desk herself and dragged Fergus down, too, firing one-handedly over her shoulder as she did so. “Both of you stay down.”

  The programmers’ exodus from the control room had bought them time. Outside the door, someone screamed, and someone else shouted, “No firing on the civilians.”

  “Unbolt those desks,” Sale ordered, and two of her people did so, using lasers to slice through the metal struts that bolted them to the floor.