by Sharon
It was a lovely place for a junkyard, and Pat Rin found himself absorbed in the shimmer of the innermost ring; the colors of the storms swirling across the planet's surface; and the beautiful tracery of the lightning flashes—
"Boss?"
Cheever McFarland's voice boomed into the quiet ship, startling Pat Rin out of his reverie.
"Yes?" he snapped. There was a delay, longer than could be accounted for by the relative nearness of their ships.
"Um, yeah," Pilot McFarland said. "Sorry to bother you. But anyhow, we might have ourselves a problem, a kind of decision problem, if you know what I mean?"
Pat Rin shook his head, a habit which his mother had deplored in his cousins, and to which he had finally succumbed on Surebleak.
"Pilot, I am destined for problems of decision on this project," he said, making a conscious effort to lighten his tone. "If you can explain the situation in non-technical terms I will hear it and contribute what I may to the solving."
Again, he shook his head. The decisions. First had been the decision of which cluster of ships was most promising; then, after nearly two days, the decision to abandon them in favor of a potentially more . . . useful . . . solution.
The first cluster chosen had been a mixed collection of ships, all operable, but with visible problems ranging from missing space-suits to thruster fuel supplies too ancient to be reliable. A notation in the folder indicated that they had been for sale and were awaiting inspection of a potential buyer—fifteen Standards before. Apparently they had been passed over, and for good cause.
The possibly more useful solution came in the form of a pod of vessels of strange design and even stranger decor. Passed over in the first glance because they were parked among what looked to be random parts of two or three space stations, they proved on second glance to be asteroid miners. One side of each ship was painted flat black, and other a white so bright that it was nearly silver. And gaudily adorning each side—in white on the black side, in green on the white side—was the tree-and-dragon shield in so large a size that it could easily be seen before the true shape of the ships.
There was no way, of course, to quickly alter the look of the fleet, and because they were non-standard ships, checking them for utility was more difficult. Morever, their keys had been filed in a folder marked "reserved," though for whom Pat Rin had been unable to discover. Thus, each vessel was serially inspected and tested, and proved to be in remarkably good repair for ships left on their own in deep space. So far of the dozen, five had been found unfit.
Cheever McFarland cleared his throat. "Boss, this boat here is the queen. Call it a command ship. We got the complete package running and everything looks to be in great shape. Got a test program right here on the board that lets me check out the other ships remotely."
Pat Rin considered. This hardly seemed to be a problem . . . but the other man was continuing without waiting for an answer.
"Thing is, we got eight ships here that are in great shape. Got a lot of power, a lot of shields—these things are set for heavy duty asteroid belt mining!—Shugg says we can modify some of the rock drills and blasting charges—set 'em up as weapons."
Again, thought Pat Rin, this was good news, and not a problem at all. Eight ships and eight pilots was perfect.
"So, I'm thinking that the best thing is for us the bring these back and for you to fly that one home," Cheever McFarland finished.
Pat Rin froze; the words "I cannot!" stuck edgewise in his throat, caught up somehow with the lightnings across Sherzer II. With memory's ear, he heard Cousin Er Thom's soft, sweet voice, explaining why it was that Korval bought used ships, out-of-date ships, ships that had been foreclosed on—and why it was that they invested in repair yards, gave scholarships to pilots, and paid a good percentage of the Scout's maintenance bills.
"Your mother—she lives for the Code. Its study has become her life, and she excels at it. But, Korval—Korval is not the Code. Korval is ships. Always remember: Korval is ships."
He was brought to himself by Cheever McFarland's voice. "Boss? Other thing we could do is leave that one here and come back for it later."
Pat Rin blinked. Leave his ship? "No," he snapped, and took a deep breath.
"I will bring Fortune's Reward home, Mr. McFarland," he said, deliberately calm.
There was a slight pause, then, "Right. That's settled, then."
"WELCOME PILOT." The words were warm amber against a dark screen. "Please log in."
Taking a deep breath, Pat Rin leaned forward, gingerly set his fingers against First Board's keypad and typed Pat Rin yos'Phelium Clan Korval.
"Please insert license."
Pat Rin glanced at the place in the board where a true pilot would slot his license for the ship's perusal, then back to the screen.
As he watched, the amber letters faded; reformed into another query.
"License available?"
Lower lip caught between his teeth, he typed No.
Astonishingly, the ship remained undismayed. "Palmscan, please," the next screen directed.
He placed his left hand on the pad, felt the tingle of the scan . . .
"Confirmed. Full access available."
Something clicked nearly beneath his fingers, loud in the silence of the piloting chamber. Pat Rin snatched his hand back as a section of the control board to his left parted neatly at the seam and an auxiliary panel rose, locking into place with a snap.
For a long moment, he stared at it. Full access, indeed, now that the weapons were available to him.
"Autodefense?" his ship inquired. "Autoshield?"
What did he know of such things? He touched a key, accepting both.
That quickly the board came fully back to life, with lights blinking and switches setting or resetting themselves. The screen layout went from Cheever McFarland's idiosyncratic groupings to default—and stabilized into a pattern familiar to him from childhood: this was the layout Uncle Daav and Cousin Er Thom had preferred; he himself had drilled on a dummy board set up just this way . . .
Low on the screen to the right was radar and sensor scan forward, low on the left was radar and sensor aft; low in the center was Jump status, and what—according to Cousin Er Thom—Uncle Daav had called the go-dial, a graph showing the balanced Jump potentials of the three strongest nearby gravity wells.
Above—and largest—was the "forward" visible view, with the aft view smaller to the left; ship status reports sat to the right, all cheerfully green: air supply, backup air supply, sensor power checks, weapons functions (green for the particle beam, green for the missiles: eight marked short, eight marked mid, four marked long; and one green for something marked chaff-bomb), and multi-channel receiver and back-up.
"Boss?" Cheever McFarland's voice came, quietly, over tight band. "Problems?"
Pat Rin sighed, gently. "I am acclimating myself, Pilot. The view from first board is somewhat larger than that from second."
There was a brief delay. "That's all adjustable—" the pilot began, and broke off. "Yeah, OK," he said after a moment, and somewhat sheepishly. "I think I know what you mean. But really, Boss, there ain't gonna be any problems. All you gotta do is tell the ship where you're going—check it against the book, you got plenty of time. Hell, after you put in the coords, set the auto-count, and sit back and snooze 'til it's time to punch the 'fresh scan' button for the sensors when you pop out."
"Which is why most pilots rejoice in having someone of wide experience sitting second for their first few dozen hours of flight, if I recall correctly." Pat Rin could hear himself getting testy with his absent stalwart, and authorized a complete systems check to take his mind off his tension.
After a moment, Cheever McFarland's voice re-emerged from the speaker, sounding suspiciously as if the pilot were suppressing a sneeze, or perhaps a chuckle.
"Right. On the other hand, you done right well for yourself with the jump in and kick butt approach—and we both know you got the math cold. But listen, whi
le you been sitting there talking to yourself, we've been getting ourselves together out here. We're all sitting within sight of each other, and we're setting up a Jump plan. I'm figurin' we can take this whole shebang outta here in about three hours. As it comes to happen, Natesa don't have a whole lot to do—won't for another hour or two. You want I should have her walk you through the check-out procedures a couple times?"
Pat Rin looked down, saw the ring on his hand, the tree-and-dragon bold and new—and bowed slightly toward the unseen speaker.
"Indeed, pilot, that sounds like an excellent idea. I will await her signals with anticipation."
Day 47
Standard Year 1393
Surebleak Space
JUMP HAD CONSUMED seventeen Standard hours, forty four minutes, twenty seven and numerous odd-bits of seconds, during which time Pat Rin did what he always did in Jump: He read and studied.
This time, however, he read not of the whimsical philosophy of Harshaw, nor the patient rhymes of yos'Sandow, nor even from the Code—which, until lately, he had studied several hours a week.
No, during this historic and unlikely Jump he had studied tactical manuals and piloting theory, and technical manuals, as he had not since was a halfling. He studied the dozen pre-logged destinations in the ship's computer, laughing at the ironies of Liad and Lytaxin; puzzling over the one marked with a symbol from a Terran card deck, until he suddenly understood what the venerable ace of spades had to do with a Liaden pleasure-yacht.
The pre-logged Jumps were all what Cousin Er Thom would have called "dirty Jumps," calculated for broad energy levels and without updating for current mass or velocity. Emergency runs, all of them, for use in times of dire trouble, pilot injury, or the tragedy that put the ship into the hands of one who was no proper pilot at all . . .
He checked weapons—both the ship's armament and his various pistols. Gods, he was bringing a small fleet into Surebleak, each double marked visually as belonging to Korval. Yet, what choice had he?
And so with an hour to go he brought himself again to the pilot's seat and molded it and the board to him as best he might. He had become accustomed to seeing the transmission recordings, and added them above the main forward view. Pulling the chair up to the second stop, he locked it at an angle slightly less rakish than that required by Cheever McFarland's frame; raised it, turned the seat temperature down several degrees, then set it to automatic. The board he moved down, then brought it back to its original position. He engaged the shock webbing and sat back, eyes on the Jump grayed screens.
Carefully, deliberately, he reviewed those things Inas-called-Natesa had told him, both the quiet love-talk—which had been a comfort and a distraction in his isolation—and the practical matters that pilots share between themselves.
"Let the ship tell you if there is a problem," she had murmured, for his ears alone. "Your eyes will be quicker than your fingers in the first seconds of breakout. Place defense on automatic, and bring up your shields. Be in the seat well ahead of time, and always strap in when you sit first board, even in quiet orbit about a friendly world. Test the alarm levels because alarms should warn, not frighten or distract. Be certain that you can easily reach the controls and be certain that your ring will not hamper you nor catch on a toggle. I love you . . . .
"You will Jump first, denubia; and we will come in around you. We will be no more than a minute or two behind, and within a tenth-sec or closer on radio. I expect you to pilot like you shoot . . . "
Breakout.
Fortune's Reward announced itself around its Jump glare as Bitty Kitty, out of Fron Du Lac; the ship's air system purred, and his hand moved as if of its own accord, slapping "refresh scan." A glance at his screens oriented him wonderfully: Surebleak's port beacon was located and centered. There was no sign yet of his fleet, the Jump gauge was moving toward ready, and the gravity well indicator showed he was in tight. A good Jump, in fact. Pat Rin smiled.
"Pilot Cheever McFarland and Owner Pat Rin yos'Phelium," the voice snarled in Trade over the broadband. "You will maintain course and prepare to match locks in three Standard minutes. This is the Department of the Interior. Repeat: Maintain course and prepare to match locks. Disobey at your peril."
Pat Rin jerked forward, brought up short by the webbing. The scans showed nothing, and then several small bursts of energy—a ship maneuvering, perhaps. Or two—
An alarm warbled to life, and the aft radar scan showed him the signature of a ship, closing rapidly.
"Fortune's Reward, you are in our sights. The Department of the Interior is authorized to fire on you if you fail to comply. Your reply is mandatory."
Warning lights were flashing now, rippling across the board in waves of yellow. The scans showed him a second ship, starboard—and a third, hanging back, to port.
Natesa had walked him through the firing procedure, accepting the fact that his ship was now armed with her usual serenity.
Now, as she had taught him, he sighted on a ship, touched the acquire key, waited for the flash; moved to the next. And again. Fortune's Reward recorded its enemies, and he glanced to the status bar. The coils were recharged. Good.
Quickly, quickly, he brought the coils up, armed his weapons with a snap of a toggle, and pulled up the screen of dirty Jumps. He snatched the local coords with a slap of his hand, and took a deep breath.
Then he played the ace of spades, the gambler's best friend.
REALITY SHIFTED.
Jump glare. Bitty Kitty automatically declared itself to the universe. The snatched coords of his departure point were locked in, and the ship's Jump gauge showed a slow-building energy. Surebleak was a cloudy, distant, disk.
There was an eternity to wait, then, knowing that any second Natesa would be Jumping in, all of his would be Jumping in—vulnerable and unwarned . . .
His hand moved, slapping up the hailing frequency.
"Intruder alert! Port Surebleak, beware! Boss Conrad declares the highest alert!"
And, finally, coils were ready. He held his breath, touched the button—
Reality shifted.
He broke in just a few mimutes from his departure location, the Jump glare of four other incoming ships blossoming at the corners of a great square before him. Also before him, on courses at tangent to his—the ships of his enemy.
"In the name of Port Surebleak," he broadcast on the hailing band, his hands busy on their own errands across the board. "I demand your immediate surrender!"
He glanced down to see what his fingers had wrought; saw an interception course charted and locked; and a digit poised above the acceleration stud. He pressed it. Fortune's Reward answered, pushing him into the cocoon of the pilot's chair.
Across the open bands, Korval ship Patience of Stone announced itself. Korval ship Handtruck II announced itself. Korval ships Timonium Core and Survey Nine announced themselves.
The screens flared as three more ships broke Jump in a tight, triangular formation, directly into the path of the closing enemy.
"Boss Conrad requires an answer!" It took him a heartbeat to recognize the voice that lashed across the frequencies. Natesa. Chest tight, he looked to his scans; found her ship—as surely the ships of the Department would find it . . .
Korval ships Diamond Duty, Crystalia, and Pebble Probe announced themselves.
Natesa repeated her demand, and the three enemy ships were rotating, as if seeking targets . . . .
Glare and noise. A single ship broke Jump dead ahead of Pat Rin, turning the four, three, one configuration into a cone shaped gauntlet for the enemy ships.
Korval ship Survey One announced itself.
The enemy ship closest to Pat Rin increased its rotation; and a voice blared across all possible bands: "Pat Rin yos'Phelium, you are declared outlaw by Liad. Surrender or we fire!"
Surrender. Yes, certainly. He bit his lip, fingers sure and quick as he pressed acceleration, engaged the weapons comp and brought up the stored configurations.
"Fla
ran cha'menthi," he said quietly to the open band, and pressed the launch button.
FORTUNE'S REWARD'S first missiles spread out toward the enemy. The ships of the Department, neatly contained by the oncoming Tree-and-Dragon ships, returned fire in all directions at once.
The whir and thump of the missile launch unnerved him—he knew his ship's sounds and this was new to him. Then a whir again and the ship sounded normal.
He realized that he should have been in his spacesuit before engaging the enemy when his shields took a hit from an energy weapon. Fortunately, the shields—like the missiles his enemy may have been surprised to find launched from a supposedly unarmed ship—were late model, of a type most usually carried by those accustomed to going into harm's way, and easily up to the task of a fending off a glancing shot.
His screens had multiplied, showing him missile tracks and beam markers, energy levels and a variety of ranges. A light came up on the board and abruptly there was chatter—his small fleet talking among themselves—
"Way to go, Boss! We're on 'em now. Just let me—" Shugg.
"I'm warmed and ready on the main cutter, Cheever."—Dostie.
"I'm closing on the lead . . . "—Natesa!
He wanted to shout, to warn her off, but his throat was too tight to admit the words and his quarry had fired again and the screens showed him things he had never needed to know before and he loosed two more missiles at the computer's prompting.
"It's the perfect globe—we'll get them all!" shouted the Colonel.
"Fire on the shields," Bhupendra Darteshek said quietly. "Going to yellow."
On screen, Pat Rin saw the first of his missiles disappear—intercepted. The tracking computer reported the second and third still on course, and—
Cheever McFarland's voice came across the tight band, as easy and calm as if he were suggesting wine before dinner:
"Let's break the middle rock. If you're not engaged, hit button number four on your red board. If you can't mesh, tell me."