by Sharon Lee
Father was being wary.
I think he feels that you are angry with him, a little, and he feels it all the more keenly because you are right to be.
“Father . . .”
She stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and held out her hands, palms up—a sign that differences between two pilots were put to rest.
Something eased in his face; he put palms against hers; his hands were warm.
“. . . I’m so very happy to see you,” she said, swallowing hard.
* * *
They sat on the grass with their backs against the Tree, which was perfectly warm and comfortable. Theo had just finished an abridged narration of her encounters on Tokeoport and the subsequent space attack.
“The same lines as the ship you—at Nev’Lorn,” she said. “These people—they’re actively hunting pilots of Korval. Is that—Father, is that because of what you and The Luck did at Nev’Lorn?”
He shook his head.
“Korval is hunted—and pilots of Korval are particularly hunted—most recently because of your brother’s actions against this Department of the Interior at Solcintra. Before that—in my time, we may say—we were hunted by what I believe were agents of the same organization because we were . . . inconvenient to their goals. Viewed by the illumination of hindsight, it is possible that your grandmother, my mother, was murdered by an action of this very Department of the Interior. That trail, though, is long cold. Unless we recover an archive . . .”
His voice drifted off and he was silent for a few moments—which just meant that his attention had been caught by a stray, alluring thought, like a cat fascinated by a flutterbee. Theo settled her shoulders against the Tree’s trunk; he’d resurface again soon.
As indeed he did, with a shake of his head and a small smile.
“I learned from another source that The Luck herself is specifically targeted, in answer for her role at Nev’Lorn. That is . . . unusual, but I think does not appreciably increase my personal danger. Be that as may, I have promised my other children, as I now promise you, that I will be as careful as a pilot may be.”
Theo snorted.
“Yes, precisely. Now, regarding this adventure of yours at Tokeo—which I do not, by the way, thank your employer for—you, my child, need a copilot. I say this not merely as your elder in the Guild, but as one of a bloodline whose very existence disturbs and roils what we in-clan dignify as the luck. As tumultuous as event is about and around you, Theo Waitley, you must have backup. I understand that you value your solitude and your autonomy. As your father, I ask that you also value your life.”
Theo sighed. “Bechimo wants crew,” she said. “And a family. That’s what she—he—was built to want, and to know as right. If he does accept me as captain—Father, what do you know about—about bonding?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I’m tempted to say that what I know about bonding may not have much bearing on this question. Does Bechimo require a . . . ceremony?”
“Yes, exactly! I read the file, from the Builders, and it seems—it seems a lot like the ceremony that Bek and I spoke for our First Pair.”
“That would make a certain amount of sense,” Father pointed out. “Bechimo wishes a commitment and wishes to commit in return, to insure that ship and captain are focused on one goal.” He tipped his head. “And have you bound yourself to Bechimo, Daughter?”
Theo shook her head. “I told him that we needed to work together for a while, first, to see if we could. And I also said that I wanted my father to be at the ceremony.”
He laughed, clearly delighted.
“A most excellent stall, Theo; I am in awe! Shall I come to port and stand witness?”
She shook her head. “Not just yet, I think.”
“Very good. When the time comes, I am at your service. Now, regarding a copilot . . .”
“Bechimo accepted Win Ton as copilot—Less Pilot, like he has it. And Uncle will be bringing Win Ton.”
“As I understand the matter, Pilot yo’Vala will be some time recovering in Bechimo’s medical facilities. Even the most able and willing copilot might be hard-pressed to back up his pilot under those conditions.”
Theo sighed. There was that. But—
“There isn’t a Guild office on Surebleak, so hiring a copilot will have to wait until we lift out. Shan’s worked out a loop that we’re going to be running for him. I’ll contact the Guild on one of those worlds and hire somebody.”
“Ah,” said Father, which didn’t mean that he didn’t believe her, only that he had his doubts.
“It happens that—the lack of a Guild presence notwithstanding—there are presently on Surebleak Port a great number of pilots in need of work, many of them well-credentialed and honorable. I can think of one or two who might be of use to you.”
“Not Quin,” she said quickly, “or any other yos’Phelium. Bechimo’s Builders weren’t really happy about people named yos’Phelium.”
“All honor to the Builders in their wisdom,” Father murmured. “But, as it happens, neither of the pilots I have in mind is of the Line.”
Theo looked at her watch, and started up. She was going to be late!
“I have to meet Padi and Quin in stores. We need clothes for the party.”
“Then you should by all means go. I am myself behind in reporting my presence and my progress to my delm.”
He rose, Theo beside him. He turned to her with a smile—
There was a racket in the branches high above them, and two missiles hurtled out of the tree into the grass at Theo’s feet.
Father sighed, very lightly.
Theo looked up into the branches, but the disturbance, whatever it had been, seemed to have subsided.
“It’s throwing things at us?”
“Gifts,” Father said. “In a manner of speaking. Pick them up, if you wish to do so—and only if you wish to do so.”
Why shouldn’t she wish to do so? Theo wondered and bent down to pick up the . . . seed pods, they looked like.
They came willingly into her hand—almost as if they had rolled onto her fingertips. One was familiar and welcome and without a doubt meant for her. The other . . .
“It’s funny,” she said to Father. “These pods are . . . different.” She hefted the familiar and welcome one in her right hand. “This one . . . belongs to me. But this one”—She showed him the pod in her left hand—“doesn’t.”
“May I?”
He took the pod that wasn’t hers and sighed again.
“This one is mine,” he said.
Theo frowned. “How do we know that?”
“It is something given, to those of the blood. We have been in association with the Tree for—a very long time.”
She nodded, so intent on the pod that she didn’t think to ask if it was the same exact Tree.
“What do I do with it?”
“We,” Father said, in his most careful, this-is-your-decision voice, “eat them. Sometimes, there are immediate effects—euphoria, for instance. Sometimes, there is no noticeable effect. The Tree—is a biochemist, Theo. You are not compelled to accept its gift. You may throw it away. You may throw it away, if you decide it is in your best interest.”
She looked into his face.
“Is it . . . bad to eat the pod?”
“Child, I cannot say that it is. Nor can I say that it would be good.”
She considered him. “Are you going to eat yours?”
“Yes.”
She looked at the pod; it seemed innocent enough, and it smelled delicious, reminding her that she’d forgotten to stop by the morning parlor for a pickup nuncheon before her meeting with Shan.
“I’d like to taste it,” she said. “Will you show me how?”
The quarters practically fell apart at her touch; they tasted . . . better than anything she’d ever eaten. Then the last piece was gone and she was satisfied.
“Well, then,” Father said. “Shall I escort you to y
our cousins?”
“Or I’ll escort you to the delm.”
He laughed. “At least, let us both go to the house.”
They strolled along the stone pathway in companionable silence, then Theo stirred.
“Father?” she said, and then wished she hadn’t, for surely asking such a question must be hurtful.
“Yes, Theo? But, what a becoming blush! Are you about to be interesting?”
She glared at him. “It depends. I just wanted to know . . .” She took a breath. “Is Val Con . . . delusional?”
“Not that I have observed,” Father said composedly. “Is there anything in particular that leads to the asking of this question?”
Theo, you’re a nidj, she told herself, but there wasn’t any way to pretend she’d never asked, or that there was no particular reason for having asked. Father had taught her how to observe and how to form questions, just as much as Kamele had done. And, being Father, now that she’d started, he wasn’t going to let her off with anything less than the truth.
She sighed, stopped and turned to face him.
“I asked Val Con if there was a mathematician available, because of a . . . situation . . . with Bechimo. He told me to apply to you, for—for Scholar Caylon.”
“Ah,” said Father.
Theo waited. Father slipped a hand under her elbow and turned her toward the house, resuming his stroll. Perforce, she went with him.
“It’s about Bechimo’s Jump capabilities,” she said finally. “I . . . don’t have the math.”
“I understand,” Father murmured. “Come to the morning parlor for breakfast, tomorrow. We will assay your difficulty then.”
THIRTY-ONE
Jelaza Kazone
Surebleak
Theo went down the hall toward the morning parlor with a spring in her step. Apparently Anthora had done something, even though Theo hadn’t been able to cooperate. The dreams hadn’t come back and it was—it was almost as if they had had a physical weight that was gone now, and left her feeling like she was on a low-grav dance floor.
By her measure, it was early in the morning; she hoped she wasn’t too early for Father. If she was, she’d talk to whoever else was up on her schedule today, or just have another cup of tea in the window seat and think about whether she really wanted to remain in Uncle’s employ.
The talk with Shan and Ms. dea’Gauss yesterday had been illuminating on a number of levels, now that she’d had a chance to think about it in context. Uncle had said that he had wanted to hire her because she was Father’s daughter. No, she corrected herself, moving down the hall apace—because she was genetically a yos’Phelium.
Because yos’Pheliums were pretty often excellent pilots, because yos’Pheliums tended to survive.
. . . and because the luck moved roughly around yos’Pheliums and therefore they sometimes accomplished the impossible.
She shook her head, sweeping into the morning parlor, and coming to an abrupt and somewhat graceless halt.
Father looked ’round from the window. He was dressed in the wide-sleeved green shirt he’d worn to dinner last night, and his face looked . . . soft, like maybe he hadn’t slept as well as Theo had—or hadn’t yet gone to bed.
“Such energy,” he said, and smiled to take the sting. “Good morning, Theo.”
“Good morning,” she said. “I thought I was going to be too early for you.”
“I hope I haven’t disappointed you?”
“No,” she said, moving over to the teapot. She poured, then turned and raised the pot. “Would you like me to refresh your cup?”
“Thank you,” he said, coming forward, pilot smooth, yet a little less smooth in his step than he had been at dinner.
Theo hesitated. Father held the cup out between his two hands, and gave her a quizzical look.
“Are you well, Theo?”
“I’m well,” she said, pouring, “but I was wondering the same of you. Should you rest? You seem . . . tired.”
“Only careful,” he said, smiling down at the cup cradled between his palms. “Please, break your fast.”
That was an excellent idea, Theo thought. There was in particular a kind of vegetable-and-cheese-stuffed roll that she had become very fond of. She slipped one from the warming basket and looked over her shoulder.
“Would you like a roll, Father? Or fruit?”
“Thank you, no; I am quite content.”
Theo frowned slightly; it seemed like Father’s voice—no, his accent was . . . different. She didn’t think of him having an accent, exactly; he always sounded precisely like Father. Now, however, he didn’t . . . quite. Something about his voice was . . . wrong. Off.
“Please,” he said, “join me on the window seat. The view is quite remarkable. I never thought to see the lawns in such disarray.”
He turned and moved back to the window seat, a pilot—absolutely a pilot, but—
“You aren’t Father.”
It sounded idiotic—it was idiotic. Who else could it be, save Father? But the sentence was out now, sharp against the quiet air. The pilot had turned to face her again, and bowed—Approval-of-the-Student, a bow she happened to know well, since Padi had taken to using it whenever Theo mastered a dance sequence.
“That is—very astute. In fact, I am Aelliana Caylon. I was told that you are need of a binjali mathematician.” He—she—Scholar Caylon, raised the cup and smiled. “I am at your service, Pilot.”
Lifemates, Theo thought wildly. Sharing thought and emotion. But Scholar Caylon was dead.
Except Val Con had said . . .
Theo sighed and looked into the pilot’s face, seeing not much of Father there, but not a complete stranger, either. It seemed that she was observing Father in one of the rare soft moods that had sometimes come upon him.
“Val Con said that I should apply to his mother,” she said slowly, “but I thought . . .”
“Perhaps you thought that Val Con is a little odd in his head?” The pilot before her smiled. “He is, you know—but not on this particular topic.”
“Where is Father?” Theo asked.
Aelliana Caylon tipped her head. “He is asleep. I would not attempt this, if he were not, even with his permission, which I assure you I do have.” She paused, considering Theo’s face. “It is very inconvenient, I allow, there only being one body between us. Except that it would have meant a lack of yourself in our lives, I would say that I would very much rather it were otherwise. But, there! Anne had used to say that there was no cloud so dark that it wasn’t silver, at its heart.”
She used her chin to point at the window seat.
“Come, Theo,” she said cajolingly. “You can’t be so unkind as to place a call upon my skills and then withhold the problem!”
Theo shook her head. “Does Kamele—do you know my mother?”
Aelliana Caylon stepped forward and met Theo’s eyes seriously.
“I value Kamele highly. She is quite the sister of my heart.”
She extended the hand on which the old silver ring gleamed and touched Theo’s wrist.
“It is more than passing strange, I do agree, and I wish that we might spend more time getting to know each other as we should. However, if you truly need an interspatial mathematician, then, please, place your concern before me without delay. I do not wish to risk giving Daav a headache.”
Theo took a breath. Inner calm, she told herself, and inclined her head.
“Please,” she said, “let us sit together while I explain the problem. I have a data stick and a description.”
Aelliana Caylon smiled, bright and joyous.
“Excellent!” she said, settling into the seat as if she were used to it being larger or she being smaller. “Tell me everything.”
- - - - -
The locals were easily led, and had an enthusiasm for their work that was remarkable in the lower order.
They had at first held back from the suggestion that there be no blood shed in this discussion of planetar
y rights. After all, theirs was a—one could not call it a civilization, so much as a circumstance—in which “retirement” by extreme means was the norm.
He had been persuasive; he had been adamant, and they had at last agreed: only machines were to be harmed and progress impeded in this campaign. Those who repaired the road and built the schools were, after all, their neighbors, working by sufferance of the usurpers. No need to harm those who were innocent.
Especially when those who were guilty would soon be within range.
- - - - -
Something . . . changed. The light coming in the window behind them, maybe, or the temperature of the air in the room. Distracted, Theo looked up from the notes she bent over with Scholar Caylon, blinking at Val Con, who was pouring himself a cup of tea from the pot on the sideboard.
As if he felt her eyes on him, he turned his head and smiled, nodding agreeably.
“Good morning, Mother. Theo.”
“Good morning, my son,” Scholar Caylon said from Theo’s side, without looking up from the notes.
“Good morning,” Theo added, and stood up, bringing both empty cups with her.
At the sideboard, she held them out, and her brother poured.
“Thanks,” she said.
“My pleasure,” he answered. “Have you eaten yet? If not, allow me to recommend Ms. ana’Tak’s cheese—”
“Val Con,” Scholar Caylon said.
He turned neatly. “Yes.”
Scholar Caylon raised her head, her expression calm; the faint edge of satire that Father usually brought to that exact expression entirely absent.
“You have been on board Bechimo?”
“I have,” Val Con answered, “and fortunate I was to have escaped with my life.”
“Did you examine the drive settings?”
“Alas. I fear I was on my very best behavior, having given my sister, your foster-daughter, my word.”
Scholar Caylon inclined her head with complete seriousness.
“I commend you.”
Val Con bowed a bow Theo thought might not be exactly as respectful as it looked.