by Sharon Lee
“I understand,” Daav assured him. “Though I’m scarcely of note anymore, having lived retired for so long.”
Clarence laughed. “Oh, so you did! So you did! And when you gave over rusticating, what must ye do than take on a whole invasion force and win Nev’Lorn Station free?” He shook his head, abruptly sober.
“What I thought you might like to know is that someone’s taken a pet. One of my previous young ’uns come to me with a story—funny story, she had it, and so it was.” He tipped his glass at Daav.
“Happens someone came to the Juntavas, offering contract and good, hard cantra for a hit on Ride the Luck.”
He lowered his glass.
Daav sat very still, suddenly feeling the full weight of Aelliana’s attention.
“Happens the prospective client was someone the Juntavas don’t deal with, now that they’re known,” Clarence continued, “so they went away. To the next likely taker.”
“Well.” Daav sipped his wine, buying a moment in case she wanted to speak—but it seemed his lifemate was content to listen.
“Korval does appear to have made an enemy or two,” he said to Clarence. “The Department of the Interior was . . . rather a larger enterprise than even its operatives had guessed.”
The other man nodded.
“This news doesn’t take ye by surprise, necessarily.”
“That they’ve targeted The Luck particularly, rather than—or in addition to—Korval entire is . . . interesting. One wonders if we have someone acting off of initiative. But in the end—Korval is hunted, my friend.”
“And has been, this while.” Clarence sighed. “It’s bothered me, that it happened on my port.”
Aelliana moved nearer. “Not your fault,” she said, using Daav’s voice. “Clarence, they eluded everyone.”
“So they did, but—” He shook his head, and repeated it, “But.”
“I wonder,” Daav said, when it seemed clear that neither Aelliana nor their guest was going to speak again, “what your retirement plans are? As I understand it, you gave notice well before Korval was banned from the homeworld, for acts of aggression and piracy.”
“So I did.” Clarence sighed. “My initial plan had been to offer as courier—not, you understand, to the Juntavas; they had what they’d paid me for, and then some, laddie. I was after honest work, if you’ll do me the kindness of not laughing, and found I was too old to be honest.”
He set his glass aside, and glanced wryly to Daav’s face. “Nobody honest wants to hire a courier who barely clocked enough flight time to keep his card, never mind one who’s old enough to be your grandda.
“If you want the unvarnished truth, I was in a fair way to not knowing what to do with myself, when your boy did me the favor of blowing a hole in downtown Solcintra, and taking Korval to a better place. I said to myself, ‘Clarence, laddie, there might be opportunity on Surebleak, and those who are so needful of a pilot that they’re willing to squint at the credentials.’ ”
Daav nodded, finished his wine, and set the glass next to Clarence’s on the side table.
“Andy Mack,” he said, “is the man you want, on the port.”
Clarence nodded. “Heard that. He was off on a lift when I stopped by. Hope to chat with him in the next couple days. Does repairs, too.”
“As I understand it, his was the only reputable repair shop at port until our own yard was established. Supply lines being what they had been, he did—and continues to do—a good deal of custom rebuilding. He told me that it was a lucky thing for him that the company had left so much equipment behind that a determined man could repurpose.”
“Sounds to be practical.”
“He is that, to a fault. If you need a reference . . .” Daav hesitated delicately and Clarence grinned.
“Thank you, laddie. I’ll bear it in mind.”
FOURTEEN
Arin’s Toss
In Transit
The first Jump out from Gondola was short. Theo’d planned on catching a hard-earned nap while the screens were grey, but—no luck there.
Oh, she was tired enough from her day of shopping in Gondola’s gravity, with its icing of intrigue, and mellowed out by the fresh salad and new-baked bread she’d made for dinner. In fact, she pretty much hit her bunk and the sleep zone at the same instant.
There were warm hands and soft lips awaiting her, expert and arousing. Laughing, she reached for her unseen partner, who eluded her in the semidarkness and put strong arms around her from behind. Pinned, she gasped—and gasped again, in delight, as her ear was nibbled, followed by the murmur of a male voice, “So soft, like sea mist . . .”
“Win Ton?” She laughed, and wriggled, trying to turn, to see him—and abruptly he let her go.
She spun, and suddenly, in the way of dreams, it was brighter—more than bright enough to see that it wasn’t Win Ton who raised his hand to touch her cheek, but the man who had followed her, with his flat eyes and expressionless face—
Theo threw herself back, away from his embrace, with a force that woke her, the echo of her shouted “No!” still ringing from the metal walls.
* * *
She put on her warmest sweater, made herself a cup of tea, and settled into the copilot’s station, bag of booksticks to hand.
“Might as well do something worthwhile,” she told herself, bringing up the comp. Three seconds and no brainwork to set up a private archive; another second to slot the first ’stick and set it to downloading.
Frowning, she scooched back in the chair and pulled her feet up onto the seat. The realization that the guy who’d been following her on Gondola had bothered her on a deeper level than mere passing annoyance was bad enough. The matter of company—she was still warm from the first part of the dream, and . . . wistful.
And wishing that she wasn’t quite so alone on her ship.
The board pinged. She leaned forward, slotted another ’stick, and tapped go.
Might be a good thing to do some research on her next port o’call. See if there was time and opportunity for recreation, like Tranza used to call it. As a general thing, Theo preferred a game of bowli ball to quick encounters with strangers. Bowli ball with strangers was more satisfying, anyway. Still, sometimes . . .
The board pinged. She leaned forward to slot another ’stick, and reached for her tea.
* * *
Theo finished her tea and took the mug into the galley. The last ’stick was downloading, and the count on the Jump-grey screens was down into single digits.
She webbed into the pilot’s chair—and three things happened simultaneously.
Arin’s Toss hit normal space.
The proximity alarm went off.
The pinbeam pinged.
Theo slapped the shields up full, brought the guns live, and hit the warn-away before she registered the tumbling, irregular shape in the screens.
Not a missile, or a pirate ship—just space junk.
Slow-moving space junk, at that.
She nudged the Toss just a hair; the rock tumbled past; and she did a leisurely three-sixty, verifying that there wasn’t anything else on close scan or on midscan. Then she capped the guns, and sat, carefully, back.
A faint orange glow on the upper right of her board drew her eye.
Right.
Pinbeam.
She reached out and tapped the button.
++Course amend immediate++add Tokeo++original deadline delivery stands++further instructions await Tokeoport++END
“What!”
The Gondola to Ploster run didn’t have a lot of air in it, already. To add in another—
“Where in Chaos is Tokeo, anyway?” Theo demanded of the empty bridge, but her fingers had already queried the comp and there—there was the answer on the lower left screen.
She stared at it.
Her fingers threw the coords into the route already laid in, requesting a waypoint from navcomp, even while she figured the thing rough in her head.
Navcomp
beeped; the route unfolded, and Theo sighed.
It was, she thought, good to see that her math was holding up under the strain of running courier solo. She and navcomp agreed the side trip could be accommodated and the original deadline met.
But she was going to have to fly like a madwoman to do it.
- - - - -
Commander of Agents had since the very early days of the Plan, personally monitored the search for Old Technology. So it was that the report of the newly re-formed Salvage Team came directly to her desk.
The Scouts had—predictably but disappointingly—sealed and now actively patrolled the treasure house of Old Technology that they had been gathering for so many centuries.
There had been no further encounters with the ship that had used ultimate force to resist boarding, nor had the Scout who was the key to the ship been recovered.
There were the continued rumors and reported “sightings” by those made no cleverer by their wine, of a ship that left no Jump sign, that abruptly appeared on scans, and just as suddenly vanished. An old story: older than the Plan, and long since grown tedious.
Commander of Agents touched the screen. If the Salvage Teams could not return something other than negative results and children’s stories . . .
But . . . perhaps they had.
Commander of Agents read the entry three times before leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes, the better to consider this unlikely finding.
It was said that the very presence of one of Korval within a social equation might influence random event, that the galaxy dignified as “luck,” to their benefit. Indeed, this ability had been documented by those who had been set to study Korval.
However, it had also been observed, and entered into the Department’s files that, occasionally, this influence was observed to fail—or even to reverse—whereupon Korval found itself at peril.
It would appear that one such case was before them now.
In the recent war of occupation upon Lytaxin, a heretofore unknown defense weapon of old, though not ancient, lineage was brought online. The actions of that device—one Pod 77—had without a doubt preserved the clanhouse of Korval’s old ally, and could be counted a major deciding action of the war.
Pod 77 was situated on Lytaxin, well-guarded and beyond the influence of the Department in its present, diminished state.
However, the waking of its brother had quickened a second, similar device, which, upon performing a self-assessment, identified certain functions that were subpar, and sent out a request for assistance.
It was this request that the Salvage Team had intercepted, thereby learning that the device, which identified itself as Pod 78, was calling upon the Delm of Korval for aid.
- - - - -
It was a neat shop, as far as mechanics’ shops and suchlike places can be neat. Those tools that weren’t in use were hung in place; the ’crete floor was sanded and swept and the service bay was ventilated and well-lit. There was a ground-tug on the repair floor, an array of belts and drivers were laid out on a cloth; tool cart pulled up handy.
There not being anybody presently at work on whatever repairs were going forth, Clarence kept walking toward the back of the bay, where a couple of overalls and a utility vest surmounted by a shock of green hair were having coffee and discussion.
“Now the question is, do we machine them parts?” That was one pair of overalls, worn by a balding man perched on a stool.
“Don’t seem like there’s any question there at all, Shugg.” The second pair of overalls were stretched over a long spare frame, grey hair wisping over his shoulders like fog. “Unless you’re thinkin’ we should order in new?”
The woman with the bright green hair laughed. “Might as well order a new tug, while we’re at it.”
“Bound to come to that,” the tall man said, raising his mug. “Portmaster’ll wanna be keepin’ up appearances. Right now, though, I’m thinking we’d best give ’er another tight goin’ over, replace what we can from parts on hand, machine out what we gotta. That one ’scope seat’s gonna be the bastid; ain’t made scopes with that config since afore Max here was borned.”
“I’ll get on that, then,” Shugg said, with the air of a man being given a rare treat.
“Right. When Tatia comes in she can do the inventory—”
“I can do that, Colonel,” said Max. “Got nothin’ on my boards ’til the tug’s able.”
“Right, then. You make up a pull list for Tatia; that’ll save us some time. Shugg, I’m wondering if it ain’t worth a walk over to the Dragon yard, see if they got anything we can mod.”
“Was gonna check in with ’em soon’s I finish my coffee.”
“That’s the trick, then. Lemme know what you get. Help you with somethin’, there, Pilot?”
Clarence stepped forward so the light hit his face fair, hands out where they could be seen, stance nice and easy.
“I’m looking for Andy Mack.”
“You found ’im,” the tall man said, as Shugg and Max moved off to their various errands. “An’ you are?”
“Clarence O’Berin. I hear you might could use a pilot.”
“Might could,” Andy Mack said, considering him out of blue eyes that weren’t nearly as guileless as the rest of his face. “Come on back to the office and let’s get to know each other. Cup o’ coffee?”
“Thanks.”
“Pot’s right there. Help yourself.”
* * *
“Ticket’s good.” Andy Mack said, tossing it back across the desk. Clarence caught it one-handed and slipped it away into his jacket.
Andy Mack leaned back in his chair, which screamed like a man who’d just seen his lover die, and put his feet up on the desk.
“Lifted just enough to keep it good,” he said. “What was you doin’ more interestin’ than flying, if you don’t mind my askin’?”
“Desk job,” Clarence told him, which wasn’t exactly true, not that way he’d run it. He sipped his coffee and considered the man across from him. Not a stupid man, nor a naïve man, Andy Mack, and if that “Colonel” the tug driver was so free with was true, not a squeamish man, either.
“Did admin for the Juntavas, if you want it. Kept Solcintra Port open for business.”
“That so? And now?”
“Now, I’m retired,” Clarence said, easy and reasonable. “And I want to fly again.”
“Juntavas won’t throw you a biscuit?”
“I’m retired,” Clarence repeated, raising his cup and looking at Andy Mack over the rim. “It’ll sound strange, maybe, but I want to fly honest.”
“Don’t sound that strange, though I’ll mention Surebleak’s not the sort o’ geography often produces honest.”
“I hear Boss Conrad’s doing some cleaning and painting.”
“Oh, he’s doin’ that! Which reminds me to tell ya—we do some errands now an’ then for the Boss—the Bosses, likewise. Not the kind of stuff, usually, they want to hear about on the port. You bein’ retired from the Juntavas, I’m thinkin’ you know how to keep the odd secret?”
Clarence felt his lips twitch. “I can do that.”
“Good. Know Judge Natesa?”
“By reputation.”
“Huh. She speak for ya?”
“I don’t know why she should.” He took a breath, weighing it, but there—the man had offered. “I’ve got an in-world reference, if one’s needed.”
Andy Mack held up his hand. “That would be the da?” He didn’t wait for Clarence’s nod. “Saw him to the Emerald last night—night before, maybe. Anyhow, he mentioned you; said as how he’d hire you hisself in a beat an’ a tick, but he wasn’t in a hirin’ position no more. Says you’re a honest pilot, an’ a honorable man.” He looked owlish. “Not a word we been used to hearin’—honorable. I reckon we’ll get accustomed.”
“Could happen,” Clarence said.
Andy Mack grinned. “Could, couldn’t it? Well, you’re hired, Clarence O’Berin.” He reached
to the desk, picked up a set of ship keys and tossed it across. “Go take a look at Bleak Lady and familiarize yourself.”
Clarence held the keys tight, feeling his chest grab. He took a breath, and remembered to smile.
“Thanks,” he said.
FIFTEEN
Arin’s Toss
Tokeoport
The Pilots Guild didn’t rate Tokeoport do not call. Not quite, it didn’t. The Quick Guide did stress that pilots ought to go on-port in pairs. It also suggested that a senior crew member be with the ship at all times; that all invoices be triple-checked for accuracy and authenticity; and any fees should be paid into a Guild escrow account, and released on lift.
And if any of that wasn’t enough to make Theo’s stomach hurt, there was one more piece of unwelcome news imparted by the guidebook.
There was no Guild office on Tokeoport.
Oh, there was an automated booth on Commerce Street, and a wayroom that would open to an up-to-date Guild card. But as far as the actual presence of a representative of the Pilots Guild—not on Tokeoport.
Tokeoport also seemed to be missing a Guild-certified—or even Guild-recommended—escort service.
Theo muttered a couple of Tranza’s favorite cuss words under her breath.
Whatever Uncle’s job was on Tokeoport, there was only her to do it. Which meant that she was going to have to go on-port without a partner, not to mention leaving the Toss without senior crew aboard, and she was going to have to be about whatever it was fast, or she’d miss the delivery deadline on Ploster.
Well, she thought, glaring at the screens on Tokeo approach, she was just going to have to be advertent, and wear her gun open on her belt, which the Quick Guide also suggested. Strongly.
Traffic was light, which, she thought grumpily, was what you’d expect, coming into a port that was just one point up from unRegulated. What there was for Uncle to want here—
A glimmer on the edge of her Number Two screen drew her eye. It hadn’t been there a moment before; there was no scatter, like you’d get when a ship Jumped in within range of your scans, and she knew, even before the comp tagged it as a phantom—she knew what ship it was.