by Sharon Lee
“A serious problem, I allow,” Pat Rin sank back into his chair. “As I would not willingly add a moment to your lady’s distress, we had best assay your topic at once.”
“If that means dump it in your lap, that’s what I came to do,” Penn said, the light sliding off his glasses making him seem to wink. “See, I had a job applicant today.”
“Surely nothing so unusual there,” Pat Rin said. “Those who are landing in search of opportunity will naturally try to make their own.”
“Get my share of them,” Penn agreed. “Mostly, they’re wanting to sign on as street patrol, or into a work team. This guy, though—this guy was applying to be one of my ’hands.”
A Boss’s ’hands—his primary bodyguards and most trusted employees—were usually personally chosen by the Boss from those he had worked with and knew to be trustworthy. It was not a position from which one was hired upon application, nor did the most usual Surebleak promotional system—assassination—assure a hopeful applicant of success.
“I am to understand from this that your applicant was from off-world.” Pat Rin said.
Penn nodded. “Gave me a ’stick with all his experience all listed out, pretty as you’d want it. Problem being that anybody’d bothered to read the info packet there at the port would know right off that a Boss can’t hire a ’hand from outside. Need somebody who’s been around, knows the turf.”
All true. And yet, there were those who knew that the best opportunity was that which you made yourself.
“Do you have the data stick, I wonder?” he asked.
Penn nodded again, reached inside his jacket and pulled it out. “There you go,” he said, putting it on the edge of the desk.
Pat Rin considered it: a cheap, one-use data stick like might be purchased at a variety store on any port in the galaxy.
“It does,” Pat Rin said slowly, “seem odd.”
“Tell you what,” Penn said. “Even if he’d been local, I wouldn’t’ve took him up as crew. Something off about him—like one of ’em that just likes to kill things—you know the kind. Had a lot of interest in the trouble we been having with getting things built.”
“Oh, indeed?”
“Yeah. Whole thing just felt—off, like I said.” Penn shook his head. “Your sister get any nibbles on that reward?”
“Not yet, though Mr. Golden remains optimistic.”
Penn grinned and levered himself out of the chair. “Mike Golden was born with a smile on his face—his gran told me so.”
“Optimism is not always foolish,” Pat Rin said, rising to open the office door.
“That’s so. An’ nobody I know’ll call Mike a fool. Good choice for a ’hand. Level-headed. Knows the turf and everybody on the street.”
“I believe my sister values him for just these attributes,” Pat Rin said. “Please, give my regards to your lady wife.”
“Will do,” Penn said as Mr. pel’Tolian came into view.
“Boss Kalhoon is leaving,” Pat Rin told his butler.
Mr. pel’Tolian bowed. “Please, sir, after me. Mr. Valish awaits you at the door.”
Pat Rin watched the two of them until they turned the corner at the end of the hall, then went back into his office and picked up the data stick.
TWENTY-NINE
Jelaza Kazone
Surebleak
“Okay,” Miri said, putting her glass of lemon water down with a grimace. “I’m going to be glad to get off of that stuff,” she commented, then nodded to Theo. “You’ll be wanting something to wear that’s closer to Lady Kareen’s expectations, I’m thinking?”
Theo sighed. “After last night’s dinner, maybe I should just write it off as a bad scavage.”
“And rob her of all of the fun of disapproving of you? Besides, you’re doing fine. Val Con likes to tweak her, but it seems to me she doesn’t have any trouble processing the unpainted truth.” She grinned. “She’ll still think you’re a barbarian, understand, but she might get around to noticing that it’s not deliberate rudeness.”
“This Code she keeps quoting . . .”
“You can sleep-learn the basics while you’re here, if you want. Though, if you were thinking about deep study, I’d suggest shoring up your Liaden instead. Kareen’s an expert on the Code. You can’t know more than she does about it—hardly anybody can. But you’re gonna be meeting Liadens out on the routes, and being able to follow the ins and outs of the conversation might serve a pilot well.” She gave Theo a bland look. “Just a suggestion o’ course.”
“It’s a good one,” Theo admitted. “I’m not a fast study with languages.”
“Got to keep practicing, is what I’m told,” Miri said. “Bechimo speak Liaden?”
Theo stared at her. “I never thought to ask.”
“So, we’ll ask.” She raised her voice slightly. “Jeeves?”
“Yes, Miri?” The plummy male voice did seem to come out of the ceiling, about midway down the room, from within a cluster of painted clouds.
“I wonder if Bechimo happened to mention if she spoke Liaden? Theo’s going to need some immersion.”
“Bechimo’s preferred pronoun is masculine,” Jeeves said from the clouds. “One moment, please.” There was a barely discernible pause before he said, “Bechimo indicates that he is fluent in High Liaden and Low, as well as the children’s tongue.”
“Thank you,” Theo said. “That’s very helpful, Jeeves.”
“You are welcome, Pilot Waitley. Is there any other service I might perform for either of you?”
“I’m good, thanks,” Miri said.
“Nothing else now,” Theo added.
Miri eased back in her chair.
“Now, you’re wanting to go shopping. I’m tied here for the next bit. If you don’t mind her company, Padi’s got good sense—having lately spent a lot of time in Lady Kareen’s company. Or—”
The door to the study unceremoniously swept open, admitting a dark-haired lady in pilot’s leather, silver eyes sparkling, the . . . verve of her entrance such that Theo had to look twice, to be certain of the man who had followed her into the room. He met her eyes; gave her a tiny bow and a tinier smile.
“We are returned!” the dark-haired lady announced, ringingly, in Low Liaden.
Miri eyed her. “So I hear. Good morning, Ren Zel.”
“Good morning, Miri. Excuse us, please, for disturbing you.”
“You did not disturb me. It is somewhat concerning that I find myself almost undisturbed by your lady.” She sighed and picked up the glass of lemon water for a sip.
“I assume everything went as you planned?”
“Of course not!” the lady answered, and spun suddenly, snatching Theo’s hands into hers.
“Is this Theo?” she cried in accented Terran. “Welcome, Sister!”
Sister? But—the family tree had Val Con as the only issue of the union between Aelliana Caylon and Daav yos’Phelium!
“And so he is,” her newly proclaimed sister said, soothingly. “The only issue. Which might be counted a blessing. After Uncle Daav left us—before I was born, you understand!—Val Con was fostered to yos’Galan, and I grew up knowing him for my brother.” She smiled, brilliantly. “The Lines are quite clear, but we’re rather a muddle in practice. I am Anthora, and this—” Her smile softened as she looked past Theo, and the quiet pilot stepped forward. “This is my lifemate. Ren Zel, here is Uncle Daav’s own Theo!”
“Ren Zel dea’Judan,” he said softly. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Pilot. You must, I beg, forgive Anthora. She is not often this shatterbrained.”
“No,” Miri said dryly, “pretty often, she’s more.”
Theo bit her lip.
“You may laugh,” Anthora yos’Galan said composedly. “It is quite true. Miri, I will take Theo to stores and see her outfitted.”
“That’s Theo’s call.”
Anthora looked to Theo, silver eyes oddly compelling. “Come, Sister, say you’ll have me.”
&nbs
p; “It’s very kind of you,” Theo said. “But if you’re just in, you may want to rest.”
“How sweet you are! But no, I am completely rested and occupation is exactly what I want.” She bestowed a smile upon her lifemate. “Ren Zel, my love, will you tell Miri all our adventure?”
“Certainly, when she has time to hear me.”
“Might as well pull up a chair and have at it,” Miri said. “Anthora, if you and Theo are going shopping . . .”
“Yes, at once!” She tugged on Theo’s hand, and Theo perforce went with her toward the door.
“This is most excellent! How fortunate that your visit coincides with our return!”
* * *
“There! What do you think of yourself now?”
Theo considered the pilot in the mirror. The shirt was simply cut, and fit as if it had been made for her out of some soft, agreeable fabric in a shimmering dark blue that she thought was very pretty. The pants were charcoal grey, snug at the waist and loose from hip to hem. She almost looked, she thought, as if she belonged in this house, among these people.
“But of course you belong!” Anthora said from her perch on a high wooden table, neatly booted feet swinging.
Theo looked at her.
“Could you please not do that?” she asked carefully.
Anthora pressed her fingertips to her lips. “Your pardon, Theo! Of course, I will wait until you have spoken aloud to answer. I often do have manners—only it has been so easy these last weeks, between Ren Zel and I—but you quite right! I must fall in again with civilization.”
Or you’ll scare the country cousin, Theo thought. Anthora’s lips twitched, but she said nothing.
“Actually, what I meant was—could you please stop listening to me think?”
She frowned slightly, but really it was the only explanation. Even Kara had insisted that the powers of the dramliz were many, and Kara was as fond of a fact as anyone Theo had ever known.
“Yes, I can hear you think,” Anthora said, like it wasn’t even a little bit strange. “You have such wonderfully clear thoughts, you see. However, you are again correct; it is ill-done to listen where I have not been invited, and I will restrain myself—if you may grant me a small measure of grace.”
“Grace?”
“Indeed.” She slid off the table and stood before Theo—somewhat shorter, with high, round breasts and comfortable hips.
“I resemble my mother,” Anthora murmured, “in everything but height, and decorum. Now!” She placed her hands on Theo’s shoulders and gazed directly into her eyes. “Let me look at you.”
Theo tensed, but really, what was she worried about? The new cousin—sister?—was just looking at her intently, as if she wanted to memorize Theo’s face, and every unruly strand of her hair.
“You must,” Anthora said softly, “give over this guilt, sweet Theo. You acted correctly and with courage. To kill is regrettable. To survive is primary. Know this and do not hesitate.”
Theo cleared her throat. “I got thrown out of school—”
“Yes, I see it—a nexus of violence.” Anthora laughed softly. “They had no dramliz to See for them; nor any of Korval by to instruct them. The luck runs roughly around us. Around all of us. And most especially, it would seem around you. Ren Zel was positively dazzled, when we came in—he could scarcely see to pilot! The brilliant unlikely tangle of you, Theo Waitley! Truly, you are Daav yos’Phelium’s daughter.”
She paused, and sighed.
“Yes, that is a muddle, and your best course is to speak with him. If I may—your father regards you. But my purpose here is to straighten this dangerous kink, if you will allow it.”
“What dangerous kink?”
“This belief that violence is never the correct answer. That one who would be a courier pilot—or who would be openly affiliated with her paternal kin—need never kill. We are, as you have noticed, hunted. This will not, I think, go away in any near future. You must therefore look to your own resources. To second-guess your reactions might well prove fatal, Pilot.”
Theo stirred, remembering another voice, soft, You should dance every day. This will be good practice, for as a courier pilot you will need to stand as ready as you did today.
The Healer, that had been, at Anlingdin Academy. She hadn’t understood then, not fully, but between then and now she’d learned a little more about Liaden Healers.
“There’s already . . . I think there’s been . . . something . . .”
“Yes, and very subtle it is; excellent work. I suggest that I undertake something similar. You must, however, give me permission.”
We have permission, then, to heal these problems?
“I will be able, I think, to stop the dreams.”
Theo twitched.
“How do you know about the dreams?”
Ever since she’d—the corsair. Two different dreams—ship-killing in Father’s study, and what seemed to be a factual replay of what had actually happened. One or the other would wake her up, maybe as many as three times on a sleep shift. But she’d always just go right back to sleep . . .
“I know because I am a Healer,” Anthora said, her voice utterly calm, believable as nothing else Theo had ever heard.
“Most usually, in a Healing of the sort I intend, the dreams do stop. Understand that this is not a promise, but the probability is high.”
Theo took a deep breath. “Do it. Please.”
“Certainly. Come over and take my place on the table, eh? Close your eyes. I am going to touch you, so . . .” Cool fingers rested lightly against her right temple. “What I would like you to do for me is—go to sleep, Theo.”
She tried. She emptied her mind and tried to breathe deep. She even danced a relaxation dance inside her head. Nothing helped, she was awake and alert—tingling, actually, and full of energy—the opposite of what was wanted!
“I’m—” She bit her tongue before “sorry” quite made it out of her mouth, opening her eyes and looking into Anthora’s mischievous face. “I can’t seem to settle down right now.”
“That’s all right.” Anthora smiled and touched her cheek lightly. “Maybe later.”
- - - - -
Bleak Lady was registered out of Surebleak, one of the few ships on-port that could be said of, though Korval was beginning to change the registrations on some of their boats. Being a home-port vessel and known to run courier for the Boss or Bosses—that got her and her pilot a quick-drop, once Tower caught the request.
And a good thing that was, Clarence thought, locking the Lady’s boards down tight, else he’d be playing with his thumbs abovestairs for a couple days yet.
He sighed, and sat for a tick, palms flat against the worn plastic. Andy Mack’s tight little courier was not so bleak as her name—what she was, was scarred and bloody-minded. Faithless as he’d been to his art, he deserved nothing fairer, and truth told there was something to be said for bloody-minded. The two of them—they weren’t easy, not yet. But he’d felt that they’d reached an accord, this last trip, and that she was beginning to trust his hand.
Of those ships abovestairs, waiting to be cleared for landing—he’d recognized some names. The Juntavas Boss of Liad got to know a few names after a Standard or thirty on the job. Like everything else in life that had to do with people, some ships were better and some were worse. The two names that’d caught his eye . . . well. No doubt the Registry Office, like it was called—put together jointly by Korval, the Portmaster’s Office, and the Committee of Bosses—no doubt that those ships would be found undesirable. The Registry Office having, among other tools, access to the database of a Juntavas Judge. Still, it wouldn’t hurt nobody for him to just step aside and drop a word in the ear of whoever happened to be on the desk this evening.
First, though, he’d stop by the shop to see what was new since he’d been gone. That done, and his errand, he’d grab a bite to eat before going off to his lodgings. A small routine, and one he wasn’t certain was full formed, yet. He�
��d met Daav a few times at the Emerald, maybe not entirely by chance, and they’d been comfortable together.
And it was funny, Clarence thought, pushing up out of the spavined pilot’s chair, and stretching the kinks out before turning toward the hatchway. Funny that Daav yos’Phelium should be one of the ties that bound him to Surebleak. But, there. It wasn’t that he had so very many friends.
His own lasses and laddies—those he’d had, and he’d made as certain as he was able that they’d come up right and tight. Seen a few on the port, over the last months, and they’d been as respectful and law-abiding as they was able. Most took in the situation and lifted again. Truth told, there wasn’t anything for the Juntavas to want on Surebleak. Not yet. They’d arrive, eventually, but right now it was too raw.
Though he had noticed Matty still on the ground and about the port. A good lad, Matty, and better’n Surebleak, no offense meant to the home port. Could be he’d signed on with the Judge—that’d be a good situation for him. He supposed he could ask, next time he saw Daav, or young Conrad, or Natesa herself.
. . . Or he could leave it alone as Juntavas business, and no concern of his.
He triggered the hatch and slipped out into a cool afternoon, pausing on the gantry to pull up his collar and seal the front of his jacket. Off to his right stretched the sights and glories of Surebleak Port, such as they were. Ahead, the single crimson word repairs wavered in the chilly air. He nodded, strolling down the gantry and across the yard.
- - - - -
Their orders came directly from the Commander, to bring the old defense device into the service of the Department of the Interior. Their team included programmers, data techs, and machine psychologists, for the task was no mere wipe-and-replace. Rather, they were to reassign the device’s loyalties, leaving all else intact. It was to seem, so the Commander allowed them to know—it was to seem as if the device acted upon order from Korval.
What action the device was to undertake, that, the Commander did not allow them to know, but what matter?
They had their task, and they had their enemy. That their efforts would destroy the enemy—that was enough.