Legacy Systems (Adventures in the Liaden Universe®)

by Lee, Sharon

  Jen Sin sighed. Gods knew he was no delm, and thankful for it, too. Delms did math in lives, set in courses that would be flown by pilots not yet born. The Delm decided who to spend, and when, for what profit to the clan. And just as well, Jen Sin acknowledged, that he wasn't clever enough to do those sorts of sums.

  His attention was occupied for a bit, then, dodging various busy eyes in orbit, and when he had time to think again, at his ease between two security rings, he found he was thinking of his team.

  When he'd first come out from the Scouts, he'd thought of them often--the comrades closer than kin; the six of them together stronger, smarter, faster than any one of them alone.

  Well.

  There was a time when he could have gone back, delm willing, which she hadn't been. Could have gone back, no questions asked, no accommodation required. Could have, then.

  Now, what he had was couldn't, though would still burned in his belly, even now that it was too late. His team had long ago moved past their grief, taken on someone else, shifted tasks and priorities until they were, again, a team--different from the team it had been.

  And no room for Jen Sin yos'Phelium, at all.

  #

  "I would prefer the Starlight Room, if it is available," he said, and passed over the identification for one Pan Rip sig'Alta, and a sixth-cantra, too.

  The desk-man took both, bland-faced, scanned the card and returned it, the coin having been made to disappear.

  "Sir, I regret. The Starlight Room is unavailable. May I suggest the Solar Wind?"

  "The Solar Wind, excellent," he murmured, and received the key-card the man passed to him.

  "The hallway to the right; the second door on your left hand. Please be at peace in our house."

  That was scarcely likely--a certain tendency to unpeacefulness in perilous places being one of his numerous faults. Thus far, however, all was according to script. That, he told himself, firmly, was good.

  Jen Sin entered the hallway, found the door, and used the key, stepping across the threshold immediately the door slid away, a man with no enemies, in need of an hour of solitude.

  Two steps inside, the door already closed behind him, he checked--a man startled to find his solitary retreat already occupied.

  This was also according to script--that there should be someone before him. Who, he had not been privileged to know. No matter, though--there were yet another few lines of code to exchange, which would in theory assure the orderly transfer of the packet tucked snug in an inner pocket of his jacket. And the safe departure of the courier.

  Jen Sin allowed himself to display surprise before he bowed.

  "Forgive me," he said to the severe young woman seated by the pleasant fire, a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table before her. "I had thought the room would be empty."

  "Surely," said she, "the fault lies with the desk. However, it seems to me fortuitous, for I find myself in need of a companion other than my thoughts."

  All and everything by the script. He ought to have been reassured. He told himself that.

  Meanwhile, acting his assigned part, he inclined his head formally.

  "I am pleased to accept the gift of comradeship," he murmured, and stepped toward the table with a Scout's silent footsteps.

  He paused by the doubtless comfortable chair, the back of his neck feeling vulnerable. There remained one more matched exchange, to prove the case. Would the child never speak?

  She looked up at him, and smiled, wistfully, so it seemed to him.

  "Please," she said, "sit and share wine with me."

  That. . .

  . . .was not according to script, and now he saw it--the anomaly that his subconscious, ever-so-much cleverer than he, had noticed the moment he had cleared the threshold.

  The wine bottle, there on the table between the two glasses. . .

  Was uncorked.

  Jen Sin kicked; the table, the glasses, the wine becoming airborne. He slapped the door open, heard glass shatter behind him, and a high scream of agony.

  He did not look back as he stepped into the hall, turning left, away from the foyer where the doorman presided. Deliberately bringing to mind the floor plan he had memorized to while away the hours alone in transit to Delium, he ran.

  Less than a half-minute later, he let himself out a service door, wincing as the alarm gave tongue. Then, he was again running at the top of his speed, down the delivery corridor to the street beyond.

  #

  He had not surrendered the packet, his ship, or his life, though he had pretended to give up the two latter.

  The man hidden on the gantry, justifiably proud of the shot that had dropped him at the ship's very hatch, had taken the key from Jen Sin's broken fingers, turned, and slapped it home.

  Obediently, the hatch rose. Jen Sin, slightly less dead than he had appeared, lurched to his feet, and broke the man's neck. The long rifle clattered to the landing pad, where he doubted it disturbed the gunman's three associates. The body he left where it fell, as he staggered into the lock, and brought the hatch down.

  He crawled down the short hallway; dragged himself painfully into the pilot's chair. Gripped the edge of the board until his vision cleared. It hurt to breathe. Cunning thrust of the knife, there--he ought to remember it.

  Time to go. He extended a hand, brought the board clumsily to life, his hands afire, no spare breath to curse, or to cry. The 'doc, that was his urgent need. He did know that.

  Not yet, though. Not just yet.

  He sounded a thirty-second warning, all that he dared, then gave Lantis her office, sagging in the chair, and not webbed in, and in just a while, a little while, only a while, a while. . . He shook his head, saw stars and lightning.

  As soon as they gained Jump, it would be safe enough then, to tend his hurts.

  An alarm screamed. He roused, saw the missile pursuing, initiated evasive action and clung to the board, to consciousness, in case his ship should need him.

  So much for discretion, that was his thought, as Lantis bounced through lanes of orderly traffic, Control cursing him for a clanless outlaw, and not one word of sorrow for those firing surface-to-air into those same working lanes of traffic.

  Korval either would or would not be pleased, though he had the packet. He kept reminding himself of that fact--he had the packet. The woman at the meeting room, spoke the lines out of order, no sense to it. If she were false, why not just finish the script and take what was not hers? If she were an ally, and captured--then, ah, yes, then one might well vary, as a warn-away--

  She had not survived, he was certain of that, and to his list of error was added that he had cost Korval an ally. . .and added another death to his account. He might almost say, "innocent," save there were no innocents in this. He might, surely, say "dutiful," and even "courageous" might find a place in his report--and Korval--he--was in her debt.

  His ship spoke to him. Orbit achieved. At least, he could still fly. He set himself to do so, heading for the up and out, the nearest Jump point, or failing that, the nearest likely bit of empty space from which he might initiate a Short Jump.

  His side where the knife had gotten past the leather, that was bad; his fingers left red smears on the board. The doc. . .but Lantis needed him.

  They had almost reached the Jump point, when a ship flashed into being so close the proximity alarms went off. Jen Sin swore weakly at pinheaded piloting, and a moment later discovered that not to be the case at all.

  The new ship fired; the beam struck directly over the engines.

  The shields deflected it, and there came evasive action from the automatics, but the other ship was a gunboat, no slim and under-armed courier.

  The Jump point was that close. Once in Jump space, he would have some relief. Enough relief that he might live through this adventure.

  There really was no other choice; he had no more time on account.

  Blood dripped from fingers remarkably steady as they moved across the board, diverting eve
rything but the minimum amount necessary to function--from life support, from auxiliary power.

  From the shields.

  He fed everything to the engines, and ran for the Jump point, as if there were no gunboats within the sector, much less the ship that even now was launching enough missiles to cripple a warship.

  They hit the point with too much velocity, too much spin; in the midst of an evade that had no chance of succeeding. He greatly feared that they brought the missile with them.

  Jen Sin groped for and hit the emergency auto-coords, felt the ship shiver, saw the screens go grey--

  And fainted where he sat.

  * * *

  The Light pulled and riffled the files from the ship. The operator kept one eye on its screen while she pursued her own sort of data.

  Engine power was minimal, and life support also; the shields were in tatters. The dorsal side showed a long, deep score, like that delivered from an energy cannon. That the hull had not taken worse damage--that was something to wonder at. Still, her readings indicated life support and other services low past the point of danger.

  It was, the operator acknowledged, a ship in dire trouble, yet it held air, it held together, and it had come under its own power into the space at Tinsori Light. All those things recommended it, and the operator felt a cautious thrill of anticipation.

  If the ship were fit to be repaired--but that was for the Light to decide.

  If the pilot lived--her duty fell there.

  The operator shivered, in mingled anticipation, and fear.

  * * *

  They'd taken bad hits, him and his ship, and unless they raised a repair yard, or a friendly station soon, there was no saying that they'd either one survive.

  He'd come to in Jump with emergency bells going off and a blood-smeared board lit yellow and red. It took determination, and a couple of rest periods with his forehead pressed against the board while pain shuddered through him, and his sluggish heartbeat filled his ears--but he pulled the damage reports.

  Whatever had hit them as they entered Jump had been--should have been--enough to finish them. The main engine was out; the hull was scored, and there was a slow leak somewhere; life support was ranging critical and running off impulse power, along with the lights and screens.

  In short, he was a pilot in distress and with a limited number of choices available to him.

  One--he could manually end Jump and hope Lantis held together, that they would manifest in a friendlier portion of space than the port they had just quit, and within hailing distance of, if not an ally, at least a neutral party.

  Two--he could ride Jump out to its natural conclusion. Normal re-entry would be kinder to his ship's injuries. His own injuries. . .

  He looked down at his sticky hands, the Jump pilot's ring covered with gore, and allowed himself to form the thought. . .

  I am not going to survive this.

  Oh, he could--probably--crawl across the cabin and get himself into the autodoc. But under emergency power, the 'doc would only stabilize him, and place him into a kindly sleep until such time as ship conditions improved.

  He may have blacked out again, just there. Certainly it was possible. What roused him was. . .was.

  Ah.

  Lantis had exited Jump. They were. . .someplace.

  Gasping, he leaned toward the board, squinting at screens grown nearly too dark to see.

  The coords meant nothing to him. He remembered--he remembered hitting the auto-coords. But the auto-coords were for Korval safe spots--the ship yard, the Rock; quiet places located in odd corners of space, such as might be discovered by Scouts and pilots mad for knowing what was there? Auto-coords had taken stock of Lantis as injured and hurt as it was, and, measured through some prior delm-and-pilot's priorities, cast them together through limitless space to one particularly appropriate destination, to one last hope.

  He looked again at screens and arrival data. The coords still meant nothing to him, though their absolute anonymity to a pilot of his experience and understanding gave him to believe that pursuit was now the least of his problems.

  The space outside his screens was a place of pink and blue dusts pirouetting against a void in which stars were a distant promise.

  If there was a friend of Korval in this place, it would, he thought, be good if they arrived. . .soon.

  As if his thought had called the action, an interior screen came to life. Someone was accessing the ship's public files.

  Hope bloomed, so painful and sudden that he realized he had, indeed, given up himself and his ship. There was someone out there--perhaps a friend. Someone who cared enough that it did them the honor of wanting to know who they were.

  Jen Sin reached to the board, teeth gritted against the pain, and did pilot's duty, waking the scans and the screens, directing the comp to pull what files might be on offer at the address helpfully provided by their interrogator.

  He found the visual as the files scrolled onto the screen--stared at both in disbelief, wondering if everything, from his waking at Jump-end to this moment, were nothing other than the final mad dreams of a dying mind.

  A station rose out of the dust, like no station he had ever seen, all crags, sharp edges, and cliffs. There were no visible docking bays, nor any outrigger yards. From the center of the uncompromising angularity of it, rose a tower; white light pulsed from its apex in a rhythm of six-three-two.

  On the screen, the information: Welcome to Tinsori Light, Repairs and Lodging.

  He touched the query button, but no further information was forthcoming.

  An alert trilled, and Jen Sin blinked at the stats screen even as he felt the beam lock around Lantis.

  For good or for ill, friend or foe, Tinsori Light was towing them in.

  * * *

  The pilot had queried the Light.

  The pilot was alive.

  The operator rose, hands automatically smoothing her robe. Once, she thought, she must have had a robe that wrinkled, showed wear, became stained. This garment she wore now, here, in this role--this robe was never mussed, or rumpled. Always, it was fresh, no matter how long she wore it, or how much time had elapsed.

  But the pilot--alive. She stared at the screen, as if she could see through the damaged hull, into the piloting tower, and the one sitting conn. Was the pilot wounded? she wondered. It seemed likely, with the ship bearing such injuries.

  Wounded or whole, there were protocols to be followed, to insure the pilot's safety, and her own. The Light would have its sample--that she could not prevent. Though, if the pilot were wounded, she thought suddenly, that might go easier; there would be no resistance to entering the unit.

  The Light was not always careful of life. That the pilot might be frail would not weigh with it. It was hers, to shield the pilot, to follow the protocols, and to insert herself between the Light and the pilot, should it come to be necessary.

  She looked again to her screens, at the progress of the ship toward the service bay.

  Should she, she wondered suddenly, contact this pilot? If she was injured, she might want reassurance, and to know that assistance was to hand.

  The operator studied the screens; the lines of the ship being towed into the repair bay.

  She sighed.

  It was like a design she knew. The Light obviously considered it like enough that repairs could be made. But languages were not so easy as ships.

  In the end, the operator tucked her hands into the sleeves of her robe, watching until the ship entered the repair bay.

  * * *

  Blackness ebbed.

  He observed its fading from a point somewhat distant, his interest at once engaged, and detached. First the edges thinned, black fogging into grey, the fog continuing to boil away until quite suddenly it froze into a crystalline mosaic, the whole glowing with a light so chill he shivered in his distant point of observation.

  In that moment, he became aware of himself once more; aware that he was alive, healed, perhaps returne
d to perfect health.

  The chill light sharpened, and from it came. . .nothing so gross as a whisper. A suggestion.

  A choice.

  He had been returned to optimal functioning; to perfect health. But there existed opportunity. He might become more perfect. His abilities might be enhanced beyond the arbitrary limits set upon him by mortal flesh. He might be made stronger, faster; he might sculpt the minds of others, turn enemies to allies with a thought; bend event to favor him--all this, and more.

  If he wished.

  The decision-point was here and now: Remain mortally perfect, and perfectly limited. Or embrace greatness, and be more than ever he had--

  A sharp snap, and the complaint of pneumatic hinges shattered the crystal clarity of the voice. Warm air scented with ginger wafted over naked skin.

  Jen Sin yos'Phelium opened his eyes. Above him, a smooth hood, very like to an autodoc's hood. To his left, a wall, supporting those hinges. To his right, the edge of the pad he lay upon, and a space--dull metal walls, dull metal floor, and, nearby, a metal chair, with what was perhaps a robe draped across its back and seat.

  He took a deep and careful breath, tears rising to his eyes at the sweet, painless function of his lungs. He tasted ginger on the back of his tongue--knowing it for a stimulant. She'd gotten him to the 'doc after all.

  That thought gave pause. He closed his eyes again, taxing his memory.

  There had been a woman--had he dreamed this? A woman with a pale pointed face, her black eyes large and up-slanted, and a hood pulled up to hide her hair. She had picked him up--surely, that was a true memory! Picked him up, murmuring in some soft, guttural tongue that was almost--almost--one that he knew. . .

  And there; a key phrase or sound, a match in a part of his memory he was sure was as new as his health.

  "Do you wish to sleep, a better bed awaits you," a voice commented. The voice of his rescuer. Now that his brain was clear, he understood her perfectly well, though she spoke neither Liaden nor Trade, nor the Yxtrang language, either, though closer to that tongue than the other two. Sleep-learned or not, it was a language his Scout-learning marveled at even as he heard it.