by Sharon Lee
Which brought her back to the topic she’d been dancing lightly around, all the time she’d been in the ’fresher.
She, Theo Waitley, daughter of Scholar Kamele Waitley, raised on the safe, nonviolent world of Delgado, had killed a pilot and her ship, and may her grandmother never hear of it!
Every coin has two sides, Father said from memory, and Theo nodded to herself. The flipside to this particular coin was that people were actively trying to capture, if not kill her, whether because she was the pilot of Arin’s Toss, or because she’d been carrying a pin with Korval’s clan sign on it, or—or because she had a key to Bechimo. Only look at what had happened to Win Ton, because he had a key to Bechimo!
“The trouble is, Theo,” she told herself, rolling up the all-duty-all’s legs so she could walk, “there’s just too many people who could be after you, and not enough data about who is after you.”
Unless it was all of the above.
On which cheerful thought she went out to the bridge to talk with her ship.
- - - - -
The ship—the marvelous ship that had eluded the Department’s grasp for so very long. The ship had been sighted.
More! The ship had been instrumental in the abduction of a pilot properly in Departmental custody; a pilot very much of interest, flying the elusive Arin’s Toss, known to belong to the lately and strangely absent player, Crystal Energy Consultants.
Not content with succoring the pilot, the ship had also stolen Arin’s Toss from beneath the very noses of several operatives of the Department, and destroyed the corsair and pilot that had risen in pursuit.
All, however, was not lost to debacle and disgrace.
For the pilot—First Class Theo Waitley—had been wounded, and, wounded, had bled. Her blood had been analyzed, so that the Department might seek her again, and more fully.
So it was discovered that First Class Waitley, pilot of Arin’s Toss was genetically—
Korval.
- - - - -
She’d compiled a list in her head while she was in the ’fresher, but the eerie spacescape displayed on the screens drove out all questions but one.
“Where are we?”
“At coordinates known to myself. Good shift, Captain. I am pleased to see your health so much improved.”
“Thank you,” she said, still staring at the screens and the comprehensive nothing displayed there. “I’m grateful for the use of your facilities. And for your care,” she added, deliberately looking away from the screens to the empty bridge. She sighed and turned on her heel, fingers forming the sign for location?
“Bechimo, where are you?”
That wasn’t one of her prepared questions, either, but she couldn’t keep on staring at a vent, or at the screens.
“I enclose you, Captain.”
“Right.” Theo bit her lip, then walked to the pilot’s chair and sat down, bringing her feet up to rest on the seat, and wrapping her arms around her knees. “Can you,” she said, “speak from my Number Six screen? It’ll give me something to focus on, like a face.”
And make me feel less like I’ve gone off my head, she added silently.
There was a pause, so long that she thought she’d offended, then Number Six began to glow a soft blue. Theo nodded.
“Thank you.”
“It is my pleasure, Captain.” The voice that came out of the screen’s speaker was crisper, and less wistful.
Theo nodded. “You had a status report, you said?”
“Captain, I do. Ship’s general status is excellent, with no harm taken from the recent assault visited upon us by pirates. The mere-ship Arin’s Toss is in the large hold, and reports itself in good order. We have supplies enough to sustain you for approximately nine Standard Months, by which time, we may, with caution, risk a supply run. I have taken the liberty of unlocking ship’s archives to you. All is in readiness for the ceremony of bonding, which may commence at your order.”
Theo stared at the flowing blues within Number Six screen, listening to the echoes of Bechimo’s voice. When she was sure she’d heard everything correctly, she took a breath and inclined her head.
“I have received the report, and I have questions.”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Yes.” She frowned, then decided that reverse order was just as good as any other.
“This ceremony of bonding . . . isn’t something I’m familiar with. Can you explain?”
“Yes, Captain. The Builders wrote that the ship and captain must commit, each to the other, and be bound together as one in purpose. In this manner, the ship may act fully for the Captain, and the Captain will enjoy completeness with the ship.”
It sounded, Theo thought, through a kind of breathless panic, like a Carfellian oath-pairing, which was dissolved only upon the death of one of the partners. Or like the little bit she’d read about lifemating, though without the sharing of thought and emotion that Father and Val Con insisted on.
In other words, it sounded . . . absolutely terrifying.
“Is there,” she said carefully, “a description of this ceremony and the Builders’ notes pertinent to it, in the archives that you have unlocked to me?”
“Captain, there is.”
“I will study those files before we proceed with the ceremony.”
There was a pause, the blues darkening toward indigo in the screen, then something that sounded very much like a sigh.
“The Captain will of course wish to inform herself. It serves the ship well, that the Captain is both cautious and serious.”
Well, thought Theo, that was generous, even with the sigh, and one item from the status report dealt with in good order. Next . . .
“I’m pleased to learn that we’re so well supplied, but I’m puzzled. It sounds as if you plan to . . . hide—here?—for nine Standard Months? Do I understand that correctly?”
“Yes, Captain. This is a secure location. Never have I met a mere-ship here. Occasionally, an object may Jump in, but none have arrived with intent, or under the control of a living pilot.”
Theo frowned suspiciously. This sounded too much like the stories elder students liked to tell the newbies: ships coming out of Jump three hundred years after they’d gone missing, all crew at stations, dead. Or the Jamie Dawson, holed and crewed by skeletons, that had been reported by sane and seasoned pilots at the location of space battles across a hundred Standards.
Or Ride the Luck, come blazing in from Galaxy Nowhere, to turn the battle at Nev’Lorn.
Theo took a slow, careful breath.
“What kinds of objects,” she asked, neutrally, “and how did they achieve Jump?”
“Hardware and shred, most usually,” Bechimo said. “Ships, several times, holed or otherwise incomplete. Ceramic couplers. Wire. Once, a teapot.”
Theo frowned, wondering if Bechimo had a sense of humor, or if she was more unstable than Jeeves had guessed.
“A teapot.”
“Yes, Captain. A teapot, in pristine condition. After I had tested it to be sure it contained no harmful radiation or substances that might be poisonous to crew, I placed it in the family galley.”
“Really. Is it there now?”
“Captain, it is. Shall I fetch it to you?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Theo said, trying for the tone of cool unconcern that Kamele used when she thought someone was having fun at her expense. “I’ll want a tour later; you can show me the teapot then.”
“Very well, Captain. Regarding your query concerning the origins of these objects, my hypothesis is that these bits and pieces were separated from ships in Jump. Perhaps those vessels entered transition using unstable equations; perhaps they were improperly balanced; perhaps they were seeking to enter a state—by which I mean, this continuum that we inhabit—from an incompatible beginning state.”
“So you think that these objects are coming in from another galaxy?”
That wasn’t completely impossible, she thought. She’d read that ther
e was sometimes bleed between galaxies, when they passed through each other. Rocks and trace gases, mostly. If anybody’d ever found a teapot, they’d kept quiet about it in the literature, for which Theo couldn’t blame them.
“Another galaxy, no, Captain. It is my belief that these objects are the remnants of a catastrophic event in another universe.”
Another—universe. All right, Theo thought, that’s definitive. The ship was pulling her leg.
“You’ll have to show me the math for that,” she said. “Right now, though, we’ve got some priorities to straighten out.”
She put her feet flat on the floor, pushed the sleeves of the all-duty-all’s up her arms, and faced Number Six squarely.
“You’ve been in contact with the Toss, you said?”
“Yes, Captain. I have pulled and reviewed systems reports, and taken receipt of the ship’s status update. The mere-ship has taken no harm and may be released on autopilot, at your command.”
Released on autopilot, was it?
Theo shook her head. “That’s a wanted vessel, and she’s not mine; she belongs to Uncle. I have an obligation to see her safely returned to him. But before that, I wonder if you can convince the Toss to open to me. My key was destroyed on Tokeoport, and I need to board.”
Blue and indigo and silver swirled inside Screen Six. It almost seemed to Theo that she saw a face there—a reflection, glimpsed between glass and curtain.
“Begging the Captain’s pardon, there is no need to board the mere-ship. Bechimo is better equipped to protect you, in case of another attack by pirates. We are well supplied and—”
“Actually,” Theo interrupted, hearing what sounded like an edge of panic in the crisp voice, “there are a couple of very compelling reasons for me to board Arin’s Toss. One, my clothes are on board, as well as my books and some . . . personal family records. Two, I need to see if there are any messages from my employer. I missed a delivery, and I’m pretty sure that didn’t escape his attention.”
The blues swirled, silent.
“There are clothes in stores,” Bechimo said, sulkily.
“But not my clothes,” Theo pointed out. “And you probably don’t have the data key my father gave me the last time I saw him.”
Was that the glint of an eye, there behind a translucent swirl of silver-blue?
“No, Captain; I do not have that.”
“I need to board Arin’s Toss,” Theo said, keeping her voice matter-of-fact. “That’s priority one.”
Silence. The swirling colors in Number Six screen drifted and stilled.
Theo took a breath, remembering the taste of lemon in the air during the battle against the corsair, the sudden sharpening of her wits and her reactions, though she’d been, as she was beginning to understand, badly hurt. Very badly hurt. And if Bechimo could introduce stimulants into ship’s air, then she could also introduce a sedative, or a hypnotic.
Theo felt chilled, suddenly, though the ambient temp was a little warmer than she generally preferred. Trapped, she thought, and shook her head.
Think, Theo.
Bechimo could have kept Win Ton here, but she’d let him go. Bechimo wanted a captain, though it was far from Theo to understand why. A captain, to order things maybe? To command?
To command.
Theo stood, and nodded at Number Six screen.
“Bechimo, please advise Arin’s Toss that Pilot Theo Waitley requires access immediately. She has my fingerprints and retinal pattern on file, and I will submit to either or both of those scans for the purposes of identification and ship security.”
The blues flickered and flowed, concealing and revealing what might be the edge of an ear.
“Done, Captain.”
“Thank you, Bechimo. Please guide me to the Toss.”
“This way, please, Captain.” A strip of orange light struck the decking, leading the way out of the piloting chamber. The hatch opened with a small sigh, showing the hallway continuing beyond the orange guide strip.
Theo took a breath, and went forward, trusting her ship to guide her.
TWENTY-ONE
Bechimo
It was a teapot, all right.
At first glance, even an ordinary teapot, high-glaze white, with a round belly and a snubbed spout; an everyday item that would have been perfectly at home on the kitchen counter at Leafydale Place.
The glaze said ceramic, but when Theo lifted it, it was as light as blown plastic. When she struck it with her fingernail, it sang like crystal.
“What’s it made out of?” she asked, replacing it carefully on its shelf.
“Analysis suggests spun ceramic thread hardened with quartz,” Bechimo answered.
“And from another universe.”
“So I believe, Captain.”
Theo nodded and closed the cabinet door, making sure the lock was engaged. “Have you kept any of the other . . . objects that Jumped in?”
“I have several specimens in a small locker in the workroom. Some of them are very interesting, indeed. Would you care to inspect?”
“Not just now,” Theo said. “Just now, I’d like to finish the tour, get something to eat and talk some more about our short-term planning.”
“Certainly, Captain. This way, if you please. The recreation room is at the end of this hallway. Since there has been no . . . need, I have not been keeping the pool filled. Of course, now that it is again required . . .”
The door to the rec room opened ahead of her and she stepped inside, pausing to survey the exercise stations and the game units. The swimming pool was behind glass at the bottom of the room—a lap pool, nothing particularly fancy, and swimming was, as she knew, good exercise.
Still, it was bothering her, as she toured. Well, no. It had started to bother her, when Bechimo had shown her to her improbably spacious quarters, after she’d left the Toss, belongings and an extra ship key in hand.
“Bechimo,” she said, turning away from the glass wall and moving toward the hall. “How many did the . . . the Builders intend you to carry?”
“The family—from three to twelve—and other crew, or passengers, to another twelve. The Builders had intended the ship as a long-looper, Captain.”
She stepped into the hall, trying to remember her Theory of Trade class. Profit routes came in a couple of different sizes—small loops, with established customers, pickups and deliveries for each; longer loops, which presented some opportunity to diversify—to pick up something that wasn’t on the manifest and hope to trade up somewhere down the loop.
Long loops were the most costly to maintain, and potentially the most profitable. A long loop was built on a base of regular stops and customers, because the base paid the bills. But the route had flex in it, time in the schedule to go wide, and opportunity to trade on the fly. The most profitable long loops were designed—and pretty often run—by a Master Trader, which meant that the “family” Bechimo had been meant to house would have been the Trader, her daughters, onagrata, kin, and apprentices.
“I went for courier,” Theo said, following the guide lights back toward the crew section, “because I didn’t want to be tied to a route.”
Bechimo didn’t answer.
Back in the crew section, Theo stepped into the galley. The pot she’d left warming was hot, so she made herself a cup of tea in a ceramic mug painted with what might have been bluebells, and opened the cupboard to frown at a prosaic assortment of high protein energy bars, sibs of the two she carried in her jacket.
Energy bars, in Theo’s opinion, were no substitute for real food; but they did give a good fast burn when it was needed—and she’d noticed she was starting to wilt. If she’d been smart, she would’ve tucked herself in for a solid couple hours of sleep after she’d gotten out of the ’doc, to finish healing and to replenish her systems. She hadn’t been smart, though she was going to have to be, soon. It probably wouldn’t impress her new ship if she fell on her nose in the middle of giving an order.
She carried
the mug and the bar to the bridge and curled into the pilot’s chair. After a cautious sip of tea, she slotted the mug in the holder, broke the seal on the energy bar and nodded in the direction of Screen Six.
The screen began to glow, showing the now-familiar swirls of blues, as Theo broke off and chewed her first bite.
“We need to talk about this idea of yours that we’re just going to sit out here and hide for nine months, Standard,” she said. “That won’t do. In fact, we should be returning to regular space in twelve Standard Hours, after I’ve had some sleep and a proper breakfast.”
The blues grew darker, and swirled faster.
“Such a course will endanger the Captain and the ship.”
Theo nodded. “It will, but there’s no choice. Arin’s Toss doesn’t belong to me. If I just hold onto her for nine months, I’m going to return to normal space to find out I’ve got ‘pirate’ stamped across my record.”
“The mere-ship may be loosed on autopilot, bearing a recording from yourself explaining the circumstances that dictate this action.”
“The Toss is a wanted ship, with real pirates after her. We discussed that. I’m her pilot of record and I’m not sending her out without protection. She might be only a mere-ship to you, but she’s my responsibility.”
She heard the anger in her voice and took another bite of energy bar. Not a good idea to get mad at the AI who can decide you’re too much trouble right now, Theo, she told herself.
“Also,” she said, after she’d had a sip of tea to wash down the gritty mouthful, “I have to go to Surebleak. Those people who were after me on Tokeoport—if they’re working for Clan Korval, then I’ve got something to say to—to my brother. If they’re hunting Korval pilots, then I have to warn him—warn Father. They have the pin Miri gave me”—unless, she added silently, it was in the ship I killed—“and they can use it to trick real Korval pilots. I have to deliver that message.”
“Korval can take care of itself,” Bechimo said flatly.
Theo blinked at the screen, which was grey and indigo now.