by Sharon Lee
Thirty-Seven
Conrad Café
Pilots Guild Hall
Volmer
"Primadonna isn't exactly neutral territory," Win Ton allowed. "Nor would our Scout rooms be, I gather," he said cautiously, glancing down-room to the table his companions had commandeered. "Certainly it is too public, here."
There was a dance or a game going on, beneath his words. Theo sensed it without understanding the rules. She agreed, though, that if she was going to be with him for the first time in, well, years, she'd rather it be somewhere other than a crowded café.
"Are we in competition?" she asked blandly, taking her hand off of his.
Win Ton, this apparition of a Win Ton, sighed lightly, eye wrinkles tightening as he leaned toward her, speaking as low as might be heard in the cramped room.
"We are not in competition." His shoulders moved in what might be a shrug as he weighed his words with care. "We are, however, working on multiple balances and necessities, which might put us at odds, and so should not be dealt with in a place as distracting as this one, nor in a place—"
"First, you said you wanted some place quieter."
He didn't argue, his left hand making an exaggerated and unformed attempt at acknowledged.
"We can use a comm booth then, or a conference room." The thought that had been niggling at her back brain surfaced and spoke itself: "What are you doing here, anyway?"
"Speaking with one of my favorite people."
Theo frowned.
"This is complex." He pursed his lips. "I am willing to have you choose a location, Theo, but really, no more, here, if I may be so bold. I'll order another tray of tea and—"
Theo motioned, not at Win Ton but at the waiter.
"Guild conference room? Is one available?"
The waiter looked at Win Ton, in uniform, and at the other Scouts, again at Theo in her leather, and hitched his neck in an odd motion, using his head to point.
"Upper left quad of the display. Looks like there's two available—the blue lights. One's clear until next shift, the other's got . . . a while, that's the numbers on the right column. Other four are solid. Show your card at the desk."
"So, yes, it is complex. I am at fault in some things, for which I will plead necessity and also admit that I have overstepped, and offer to hear your balance on the issues as time permits."
They were seated, just the two of them, across the table of the conference room. There'd been an awkward moment when the door closed, leaving the Scouts with their weapons and awareness behind, and Theo'd wanted to fling herself into his arms, a moment made more awkward by his apparent realization and careful half turn offering her the choice of seats, and the fact that she carried the tray with the tea and snacks.
"I, who, why . . ." she began, and sputtered out; the look of intense concentration on Win Ton's patched face silencing her.
"I honor you, Theo Waitley, I honor you immensely. You quite properly have many questions, and I will attempt to answer them as quickly as I may, in as clear a fashion as I may. I request your patience. Please believe me in all ways eager to explain a situation that is as complex as it is nearly inexplicable."
Theo danced in her mind, calling on the routine she called inner calm. She hadn't realized before how many cues about Win Ton she took from his hands and shoulders. Now, with his hands—not fully operational . . .
There on the chair, she centered herself, and looked to his face, with patience.
"Would you like some tea?" she asked.
He inclined his head. "I would very much like some tea. Thank you."
She poured for both of them, and sat back, cup held in one hand.
"I'm ready when you are," she said.
He smiled weakly, though to Theo's eye, with honest intent, and sipped his tea, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders.
"The easiest questions may be your most recent. The Scouts I travel with are, as a unit, security and support. One is a med tech, each is a specialist. Consider them for argument sake, if you will permit yourself a moment of absurdity, my bodyguards."
Theo thought about that; sighed and acknowledged, accept.
"Excellent. I am here, we are here, because it was likely that in fact you would be here or within hailing distance, and because the task I am set to by the Scouts has a thread which runs through Volmer. As a haven for Juntavas in the past it has been a place where Scouts and the even less reputable might from time to time have discourse on many subjects.
"So, that is the immediate why of here and who."
He paused, and surprised her by reaching inside the collar of his shirt and pulling out a necklace matching her own. Made clumsy by the wrist shields, he pulled the chain over his head and placed it on the table between them, one finger on the pendant cylinder. He looked into her eyes.
"This, my friend, and the one you wear, are the start of all of it, as well as I can manage the story. I will tell it to you, requesting you share the information only on a true need-to-know basis."
She nodded, but he was already moving on, seeming to look at her and through her at the same time.
"In my travels immediately after my contract wedding, I was started as a courier to deliver a ship, before my long-term assignment was to begin. I had cause to visit a—let me call it a site—requiring periodic maintenance of various reporting equipment. This site is one where, in the distant past, various objects and devices of doubtful source and design were sequestered from polite commerce, and in that distant past the planetary site was manned. My duties were simple: to be assured that the airlocks still functioned, that the holds still held, and that the sovereignty of our organization over it was not in doubt. This particular assignment was one of what they call the 'garbage runs' that Scouts must make from time to time, personal observations being important, and besides, Scouts need to be kept busy and in training, even between long-term assignments."
Theo tried to concentrate on Win Ton's words and not on his face. There was something there she wasn't used to seeing in him, a reserve beyond simple attention to his own story, or a distraction.
Impulsively she asked, "Are you in pain?"
Win Ton bowed slightly to her.
"Another question we shall arrive at in good time. Suffice it to say that at the moment I feel no pain. And that so, we continue."
Theo felt the hair on the back of her neck tingle and involuntarily looked behind her, perhaps to the very spot Win Ton looked, for again he was not looking directly at her. If there was anything there, it was invisible to her eyes, and she returned her attention to his face.
"While I arrived at the happy news that most of the items on my checklist and inventory were in fine order, I discovered much to my surprise that there was, among the expected items, one that was listed on no manifest. It being anomalous, I explored.
"I am not quite the aficionado of ancient technology that Captain sig'Radia is, but what I found in plain sight appeared to be an antique ship."
He smiled, as if there was an amusing secret to be revealed.
"When I say antique I mean one in which the mount points for add-ons are all of what we now think of as 'legacy' and inadequate; but still the lines were attractive and it sat close enough to the rest of the assemblage that I considered its location not an accident. There were no signs of egress or return, and conditions were such that when I approached, I left footprints in the surface dust."
He smiled again. "Indeed, I was pleased to leave footprints, to and fro. In any case, in size my mystery was no battleship or trade monster, let us say just large enough to carry Torvin in the main hold."
The mention of Torvin made her smile, and gave her useful scale. Not a tiny ship, just sitting—
"No pad, no guidance markers, no—?"
He waved his hands lightly. "No, no . . . not a place outwardly inviting landing, I think. Certainly there are no current incoming guidance or landing markers which might be regarded as invitation . . .
"Standard haili
ng having failed, despite the signs of the ship being on low power, and finding no signs of human life on the various scans available to me, I approached, with imaging on. And arriving at an available airlock, I pressed cycle, fully expecting the works to fail."
He glanced toward the ceiling, then gave her a strained grin.
"My expectations were dashed. The ship opened to me. As it did I could feel systems working within, and thus welcomed, I toured it.
"The crew quarters were fit for six or eight, with a separate family suite. In addition, there was a small passenger section which might hold perhaps six more. There was one large hold, as I said, and several smaller. There was a medical tech room with a quite amazing array of equipment—and I was dutifully amazed by it. The bridge itself was for the most part dark when I entered, and more crowded than we are used to, but lights came up and I . . . overstepped."
Theo raised an eyebrow. "You sat at the captain's console, and the defenses nearly killed you?"
He blew air through his lips lightly, a long sigh.
"No," he said slowly. "No. Your story would be happier than mine, I fear. True, I did sit, and I thought I sat in the captain's chair, at the front, with the copilot's seat to the left and a worktable with odds and ends upon it between. As I settled, the screens before me lit.
"Antique Terran ships have not, until now, been my specialty, Theo. I saw the letter approximating B on screen and discovered that I taken the copilot's place, as Terrans and Liadens oft mirror-image things. The screen politely requested that the copilot insert a command key. On the table between there were two chains with keys, each in their own depressions, and several cups in cup tunnels, and I grabbed up the key closest to me, which was the one I could reach, and I held it in my hands for some moments, considering that I should not, perhaps—and then considering that I must, after all, make a report and a fuller report would be better than none.
"So, grasping the key, I inserted it, firmly, and turned it to the right."
He paused to attend to his tea, raising the cup in two hands and sipping uncertainly.
Theo sighed. "It did occur to you that this wasn't smart, but you did it anyway."
He lowered his cup to the tabletop and looked into her eyes. "I cannot help myself, Theo. The curiosity overrules sense, which is ridiculous."
She nodded. "Then what?"
"Then, the ship asked for my palm on an outlined reader surface. I did as it asked, and felt several tingles of low-dose static, and then the screen turned several colors under my palm. I was even sampled for blood, I believe, as I got nicked! A light went on, and a nice musical note sounded.
"I raised my hand and the ship truly woke. The screen displayed a new message: 'Bechimo welcomes our copilot. Registry in progress.' Then, it proceeded to detail to me the state of the vessel, which considered itself fully fueled and at one hundred and thirty-seven percent of rated power. It showed condition of airlocks, of scan cameras and radar and vision checks, rated the meteor shields and defense screens, and proceeded to offer six different weapons systems.
"At that point, I thought it best to call in the experts. The tech which the Scouts had stored at this site was all Old Tech, and I had no reason to consider this ship anything but more of the same, despite it telling me that it was willing to fly; despite that it was suggesting courses, despite that it was updating star charts and energy field information to match current observations.
"Cautious too late, I turned the interlock, and turned the key to off."
He demonstrated at the nonexistent console in front of him.
"The ship noted this, and requested that I remove my key."
He waved his hand at the screen that was not there.
"This, I did." He shook his head, slowly.
"Registry complete, is what it told me, Theo, registry complete."
She shrugged. The ship would have had to acknowledge, after all . . .
"Ah, but you see, the ship continued with its work. Star chart systems continued to function. Air gauges proved the ship habitable. Defense systems were now on."
That was wrong. Theo opened her mouth to say so, then simply shook her head.
"Yes," he said wearily, "overstepped, and an idiot besides. And now, rather than having only my single ship to worry about I had two live ships on the surface, and one of them I knew nothing about. Surely the systems were close enough that I might fly Bechimo, if I dared, but what then of the remainder of my assignment?
"Thus I hit on the plan of removing the keys, both copilot and captain, locking the ship behind me, and continuing my rounds."
Theo touched the chain around her neck.
"This? You sent me a ship's key to an antique ship sitting on a planet in the middle of nowhere? Why?"
He lifted his hands limply.
"Because I had realized—not my error; that came later—say that I realized I had awoken something best left drowsing and sought to be certain that no one else found it aware. However it was, I took possession of those keys, the B key and the A key, and I sent in my reports, with images, as I continued my run, expecting at every turn to be asked to bring the keys in, or to take them to someone, or to leave them somewhere.
"No one got back to me, and I was near the end of my interim mission, arriving on what would be a long mission. So I sent you the captain's key, knowing you would keep it safe. And I kept my own key, knowing that I would keep it safe."
Theo stared at him, hard.
"This is true? All of it?" Her hand-signs alternated between full power and one hundred percent.
"One hundred percent," he said, and again lifted his cup in two hands.
"So that's the problem?" she asked. "That you acted hastily? That no one cared about your work?"
"Eventually someone at Scout Headquarters did read the report," he said, looking at her over the rim of his cup. "It had been misfiled . . . perhaps even purposefully hidden—altered. I refiled the complete report, at the direction of Headquarters."
He drank the last of the tea, sloppily, and lowered the cup to the table.
"Theo, there are people after what I carry—what we carry. They want the keys to that ship."
Theo took a very deep breath.
"If it belongs to them, then we should—"
Win Ton raised his voice, or tried to: "It does not belong to them."
He paused, his eyes downcast, then looked into her face.
"There are rogues, rogues working from Liad, and even from within the Scouts. They want that ship because it is a hybrid of Old Tech and more current technology, and because that ship has already cost them dozens of agents. Dozens."
"I don't understand this, Win Ton. You've lost me here."
He sighed, looking exhausted and frail behind his scars.
"Yes, because I have not told it all. Your pardon, Pilot." He took a moment to recruit himself, again daring to look into her face. "To continue, Headquarters is very concerned about that ship. Bechimo was built at a period when the Terran trading families were trying to reassert their trade routes; it used Old tech, stolen, perhaps dangerous tech. The ship owners and the ship builders hid it because they were under pressure and then they were . . . suppressed."
"Suppressed?" She shuddered, remembering some of the histories she'd read at the academy.
"The regional Terran trade cartels had them hounded, drove some into bankruptcy, them and their families, some perhaps were forcefully removed and blackmailed.
"This was several centuries ago, you see, and the Bechimo was never flown beyond proof flights; never in actual service. According to the stories, the crew meant for Bechimo was raided and arrested, and a lien put on the ship. Whereupon, the ship disappeared. Rumor said it could fly rings around other tradeships of like capacity. It was all that was better—and more dangerous because its builders dared to use some of the Old Tech that went into the original Terran fleets, that destroyed each other in the big war, and things even older and more dangerous.
"My research says that Bechimo has an onboard AI. More likely, it is an AI. Bechimo the ship—it can fly itself."
"Well, there are ships now that—"
"No. Well, yes. I can program a ship to take me somewhere, and if I fall over dead with poison it will still get there, in some case even over multiple Jumps. Lacking a pilot, Bechimo will itself decide where to go, and what to do when it arrives. With owners dead, perhaps it owns itself!"
"What was it doing at the Scout site?" Theo asked. "Looking for a party?"
He smiled, palely.
"Very close to that, I think. I gather that what it was doing there was that an agent from the Department—one of the rogues—had been last on the garbage run before me—several Standards before me, in fact. Given leave to look about, that agent investigated the cache of old equipment. They were testing and trying things, copying things, copying records. Inadvertently or not, they had activated the call signal, and did not know that it had finally been answered. I was first on the scene, after it had waited . . . and it imprinted on me."
Theo thought back to school, wagged her body from side to side in the chair and said, "Quack, quack, quack, gooselets on parade?"
Win Ton gave a bow so light it was barely a nod.
"Indeed. But then the rogues saw the report, hid it, shared the information among themselves, and went back for the ship."
"Which didn't acknowledge them?" Theo said helpfully.
"In a manner of speaking."
Win Ton paused, poured himself more tea from the pot, appearing somewhat steadier.
"Bechimo did not allow them aboard. When they attempted to force entry, it resisted, inflicting minor injuries as a warning. When they tried something more forceful, it wiped out the boarding party."
Theo blinked.
"Had you programmed the defenses?"
"Until now, recall, I have not had the study of antique Terran ships close to my heart."
"But how do you know this, about the landing party?"
"The survivors decided that what had worked once, would do so again. They came looking for me, Theo—and they found me."
Theo looked to the hall in horror. Win Ton raised his hands and signed heavily—not those, wincing as he did.