Skyblaze

by Sharon Lee

  The Patrol, having gained names and reports, had dispersed, two taking Harley and his mates on foot to the so-called ''station house,'' while the Scout and Granita coaxed The Hooper into the Patrol's own car, for transport to Ms. Audrey's whorehouse, where it appeared he had call upon a room at need, and folk to give him the care due kin.

  That was, in Vertu's view, only proper -- a Treasure of the House deserved nothing less.

  For herself, she had been left staring at the white kerchief and its burden of bits and splinters, and one instrument nearly whole so that she might say with authority that she had never before seen its like.

  ''These,'' she said to Scout Lieutenant ter'Volla. ''The Hooper is galan'ranubiet. These are the instruments of his art.''

  The Scout moved his shoulders. ''He has others, yet safe in their pockets. The lack of these will not silence his voice.''

  ''Only limit what he might say,'' Vertu answered, perhaps more sharply than was required.

  He looked at her, the Scout, and abruptly he bowed as to one who has spoken a pure truth.

  ''This is so. Have you an interest?''

  An interest? She looked at the broken bits, stark against the white kerchief, remembered The Hooper checking his pockets of a morning, gentling his pets.

  ''Somebody,'' she said, ''ought to do something.''

  ''Ah.'' The Scout looked toward the ceiling, as if seeking advice from the lighting, then looked back to Vertu. ''If you find that it falls to you to serve one who is, in truth, a Treasure, then you may bear these to the Port Repair and ask for Andy Mack, who may, or may not, be inclined to repair them. Say that ter'Volla sent you, and that these are rescues.'' There was a pause, and perhaps the glimmer of a smile, before he added, ''Say also that, yes, I do know that he is busy, and he may call upon me for Balance.''

  So it was that Vertu dea'San found herself at the crossroads, consulting the map in her head and counseling herself that it was too far, at this time, in this weather, to walk.

  The pieces of The Hooper's instruments, tied up in their white kerchief, were sealed into an inner coat pocket, safe from the snow. For herself, however . . . she was cold, and the Port no small distance from where she stood.

  Truly, she thought, one needed a cab.

  And as before, precisely as if her thought had summoned it, there came a cab, the very same garish yellow cab she had seen earlier, the roof-mounted light telling all who might care that it was available for hire.

  Vertu's hand signal flashed out and up as the cab proceeded down the street, and past her to about its own length, before it pulled aside and stopped, the door nearest the walk popping open.

  She -- did not run; the footing was too uncertain for that. She did, however, hurry, noting as she entered the passenger compartment the name painted in too-thin letters on the side door: Jemie's Taxi.

  ''Where to?'' a cheerful voice asked her as the door sealed behind her.

  ''The Port, if you please. The repair shop of Andy Mack.'' Vertu said, looking up to find, not a screen, but merely a glass partition with a speaker set at low center.

  The figure in the driver's slot was thin and gave the impression of extreme youth. An impression which was not amended when the driver turned to face Vertu through the glass, shaking ragged black bangs out of brilliant blue eyes.

  ''Port's outta reach right now, sorry to say. Road was open, but what's some amateur gotta do but put his delivery wagon right across all lanes at Vine's toll -- at what ustabe Vine's tollbooths. Word comes down --'' She leaned to her control board and tapped what Vertu took to be the router -- that the road crew's working on it, but the weather ain't makin' things easy. Don't suppose you got a backup plan?''

  ''In fact,'' Vertu said to that absurdly young and open face, ''I do. If traffic is stopped at Vine's tollbooths, then we may re-route down Fuller Avenue.''

  A startled blink was her answer, followed by a look of concentration.

  ''Yanno . . .'' The driver paused, possibly checking the map in her head, even as Vertu rechecked her own.

  ''Yeah, that'd work. Thanks!''

  She faced front, and gave the vehicle its office, moving inexorably through the snow.

  ''Weather update says storm's about done,'' she said over her shoulder. ''So, not as bad as we'd braced for, but plenty bad enough. I'm Jemie, by the way. You?''

  There was no need for the driver of a taxi to know the name of a particular fare, except insofar as Unicredit or some other voucher might record it within the payment system. Nonetheless, Vertu answered, choosing to see the question as a pleasantry born, perhaps, of a slow day.

  ''My name is Vertu,'' she said, giving only one, as Jemie had done.

  ''That's pretty. Liaden, huh?''

  ''Indeed.''

  ''Pretty good idea 'bout goin' around. Fuller's nice and wide -- oughta be able to get down there, no problem. You drive?''

  It was Vertu's turn to blink. ''Your pardon?''

  ''You drive? Like a cab, or maybe a delivery wagon? Don't meet many who got the streets laid out in their head. Meet more who think it's kinda funny that I do.''

  ''Once, I had owned a small fleet,'' she said, slowly. ''Three cabs, and thinking of a fourth.''

  ''Yeah?'' blue eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. ''What happened?''

  ''There was . . . a war action. At -- On Liad, they name it Skyblaze. I -- my cab and I -- picked up the wrong fare.''

  ''Hey, that's tough.'' There was a moment of silence, as the driver maneuvered them around what appeared to be another car, abandoned in the center of the road.

  ''Amateurs,'' Jemie muttered. ''Could at least've pulled it to the curb. So!'' she said a moment later, the hazard to travel safely behind them, ''you lookin to set up?''

  Vertu shook her head. ''I have . . . limited funds.''

  ''Don't we all? Worse luck, too. What've I got but the Colonel hisself willin' to stake me a cab, but I gotta find a 'nother driver. With references. 'nother driver's bad enough. References -- wellhell, I'm the first legit cab ever, less you count them little jitneys they're usin' to move folk around Port proper.'' Another blue glance in the mirror. ''You don't happen t'have references, do ya, Vertu?''

  For a moment, she sat there, thinking of the references she could have produced, before Skyblaze, and the Council's judgment and her banishment from clan and kin . . .

  ''As a driver, locally,'' she said, keeping her voice steady with an effort. ''I fear not.''

  ''Wellhell,'' Jemie said again, making the turn from the Port Road onto Fuller Avenue with commendable caution. ''You're for Mack's shop, though, right?''

  ''I am, yes.''

  ''He know you?''

  ''No. I am sent to him by the Patrol.''

  ''Well, maybe we can talk him inta letting you do a -- whasit called, when you try somebody out and see if they can do the job? A parole?''

  ''Probation?'' Vertu suggested, wondering after the connection between the Colonel who staked cabs and Andy Mack of Port Repairs.

  ''Right.'' Jemie sighed, and the cab made a smooth turn out of Fuller Avenue and into the Port Road. Behind them, Vertu could see the blinking red lights of emergency equipment. Ahead of them was the entrance to Surebleak Port.

  ''You gonna need a ride back, Vertu?''

  She looked out the window. The snow had dwindled to a stop, and the star was slightly more robust in the greycast sky.

  ''I believe that I'll walk.''

  ''I b'lieve that you'll freeze your tail, you try it,'' Jemie said frankly. ''Tell you what, I'm gonna stop at the Emerald and eat m'supper. You finish with Mack, come on over -- it's just 'round the corner. I'm still there, we'll work something out for pay -- maybe you can drive f'me one night I need to be elsewhere. That suit?''

  ''That -- suits. But --''

  ''No buts, woman! We'll work it out. Later. Right now, here y'are. Get on out and let a girl get something ta eat.''

  The door opened at her elbow. Vertu reached into the pocket of her coat, fished out th
e few coins she found there and put them in the pass-tray.

  ''Hey --''

  ''For the cab,'' she said, overriding Jemie's protest. ''The cab costs, and those costs must be covered.'' She pulled her coat around her and exited.

  ''Thank you!'' she called and closed the door.

  *

  The man was Terran and grizzled, and he'd hauled himself out from beneath an obscenely large and smelly piece of something that appeared to be an engine of some sort, the while complaining, ''Whoever used this scooter last is gonna have to learn to adjust it proper!''

  Vertu heard the same thing three times and was still not sure if ''this scooter'' was the item with wheels that he rode flat on his back as he came out feet first or if it was the object he'd been under.

  ''I'm Mack,'' he said brusquely. ''These are rescues, eh? I guess someone thinks that's important, but it ain't like I don't got a hundred dozen other rescues to deal with --''

  He looked at the knotted kerchief she held, and let her continue to hold it while he stretched several times, as if being under things was not what he was best at.

  ''This thing's a rescue, too,'' he muttered, ''and damned if I know why they found it now and not a generation ago when we might still've had parts somewhere here or in half the ports near-space. But no, now they find it, and it's up to me to get it running.'' He shook his head, glared at her and demanded, ''Who'd you say sent you?''

  ''Scout Lieutenant ter'Volla sends me. These --'' she held up the kerchief, ''are rescues. They are all from the pockets of a crime victim. They are important because they belong to a galan'ranubiet.''

  Andy Mack blinked.

  ''I got lotsa vocabulary, young lady, but that's one I don't know. And who are you, by the way?''

  ''Vertu dea'San,'' she said, biting the clan name away.

  He shook his head again. ''Everybody's important, you ever notice that, Ms. Vertu?'' He shook his head once more. '''specially when they want somebody else to do something for them.''

  Vertu inclined her head, the smile coming. ''Scout ter'Volla gave me to say that, yes he did know that you were very busy and that you might call upon him for Balance.''

  He snickered, waved one hand toward the ceiling.

  ''ter'Volla, is it? Well then, I can see who's climbing the gantry next time I need some lights changed!''

  Vertu laughed, which was needful: such sounds had not come willingly to her since her son had dropped her and her scant luggage at Solcintra Port in obedience to the Council's order.

  ''All right, then, since the Scout's willing to pay. Bring what you got over here and I'll take a look . . .''

  Vertu bowed then, thanks to a master, but if he noticed, or knew, he offered no bow in return because he was already striding toward a room-side table. The place echoed with their steps, and there were other noises in constant background hum -- heaters and blowers, perhaps, and maybe a device compressing air, and perhaps the hiss of air leaking from someplace that was not the cold outside but a spherical tank.

  ''Ms. Vertu,'' he said over his shoulder, ''what is a galan'ranubiet, and what's it doing owning a handkerchief full o'junk what needs repair?''

  She strode with him, impressed that for one who claimed not to know the word he'd managed to both recall it and pronounce it. True, it was not a Solcintran accent he used, but he'd been taught by a native speaker. The clicks and sounds of the place were not sufficient to hide a facility with language.

  ''A galan'ranubiet is a person, Andy Mack, a person with an extreme melant'i . . . an earned recognition, that would be. Someone with, let us say, knowledge or skills of importance to a whole community.''

  ''Well, hand it over,'' he said, ''and if that's the case, I pity the person because no doubt they got more to do and less to do it with than they ever did.''

  Vertu placed the kerchief on the desk, and was surprised to see him reach not for it, but for a small pad of paper and a writing stylus.

  In good, round script he wrote, ''Received of Vertu dea'San, one bag of community treasures . . .'' then he looked up -- ''Who're these from?''

  ''The man's call name, what they know him as on the street, it is 'The Hooper'.''

  Andy Mack's startlement was clear in the near explosive intake of breath.

  ''Crime victim? The Hooper? Is he in health? What happened?''

  There was no playfulness in him now, but full attention.

  ''The Patrol wrote in the report that he was 'beat up by punks'.''

  The Colonel's expression got even more serious, but if he was going to speak his words were swept away by the deep voice of a large man who was suddenly, otherwise silently, beside them.

  ''Beat up by punks? Guess that's a report waiting for me!''

  *

  The jacket was battered and totally incongruous for the weather; the face somehow familiar. That she'd reached for her gun as a first reaction wasn't lost to the man who owned the face; his hand twitched but he suppressed it instantly.

  Her hand had been slower to stop and closer to acting; perhaps in a public place it wouldn't have been noted.

  She blushed even before Andy Mack started chuckling --

  '''swat you get from sneaking in a back door like a galoot 'stead of coming in like folk!''

  Recognition stirred on the galoot's face as he dragged a handy stool from beneath the workbench, the gun-hand going to forehead in a salute to all present. Snow fell from creases in his jacket; in other spots it was already going to patient water-drops that held on as if frozen by a root. He sat fluidly, his size having nothing to do with his grace.

  ''Andy, you give me a key and leave to use the door, I'm gonna. Save my ears and brain from freezing, using the back way -- ''

  ''Too late on that save?'' Andy Mack's mischievous grin got the best of him, and turned into a chuckle.

  ''It ain't froze yet. If it was we'd both've drawn. And pardon me, driver, for giving you a start. I'm McFarland.''

  ''Pilot McFarland, yes, it is good to see you again.''

  ''And you, driver. Got some bunch of light years 'tween you and . . .Solcintra, I think it was.''

  ''I am Vertu dea'San, Pilot --''

  Andy Mack interrupted, holding a hand toward each of them.

  ''Damme if you didn't make me forget my manners, Cheever. But looks like you met before --''

  ''Briefly,'' Vertu managed. ''It would have been a taxi-ride from the small private-ship side of Solcintra Port to some place unexpected -- I think Korval's valley, to yos'Galan's house. We have not met in a social way, Andy Mack.''

  The mechanic stood then, shaking the foot he'd had tangled around the chair as if it had been asleep.

  ''We have here,'' he announced formally, ''Vertu dea'San, deputized by ter'Volla on Patrol to bring items of interest to us all to me in order to make something wrong as right as it can be. I'm pleased to be receiving such visitors, I am.''

  He nodded, then turned with a flourish. ''This here -- this is Cheever McFarland, Master Pilot, come as Boss Conrad's Right Hand, if I have that proper.''

  Cheever McFarland nodded, and Vertu answered with a seated bow, each murmuring appropriately.

  ''Good, so let me see what we got here, if you can be patient, Cheever, and then you can get to whatever brought you out in the snow.''

  *

  The plastim of tea was better than she'd expected, and it was even recognizably a Vertuna blend, as promised -- the tea her namesake, due to a prior Wylan's whim. Empty now, she moved it aside as the pilots told over the contents of the kerchief. Drawing her more and more into conversation like comrades rather than strangers, they'd made as sure as they might that The Hooper's physical injuries were minor.

  ''So they roughed him up because they could, was that it? Thing is that if he said what he did, The Hooper, in front of trusty witnesses, them boys have got themselves a mess of trouble anywhere there's someone for the block. Took the casket-bottle? Stupid --''

  ''But what happened next? Patrol show up?'' That was McF
arland.

  ''Not until I had pulled my gun, and Granita fired hers. Harley was struck with -- the Patrolwoman said 'bird shot' -- instead of a charge from this.''

  She showed the gun in explanation, and there was a whistle, and an, ''Ah.''

  ''I see we should talk,'' Andy Mack said. ''You tell me your campaigns and I'll tell you mine!''

  Cheever it was who understood her quick questioning look --

  ''Not been on campaign? That's a heavy duty merc weapon for a civilian taxi-driver then. Can I see it?''

  She checked it for safety, and handed it over to the hand of the Boss, who held it appreciatively.

  ''Real one, Colonel -- not one of those cheap look-likes they sell down the Low Ports.''

  McFarland made a gesture, which she interpreted as asking permission to hand the weapon to the other man, and she nodded.

  ''Not more'n two Standards old, by the serial number. They don't usually sell a Nordley on Liad though -- and I know you can't often pluck one up out on the dock here!''

  He returned the weapon, respectfully.

  ''It was a gift,'' she explained carefully. ''On the day of Skyblaze, a solider gave it to me, in thanks for the ride. His mates insisted I should have it --''

  Neither of the men said anything, and she felt like there was something more she needed to tell them.

  ''The soldier, he'd been wounded already when I picked them up. Then, we got back to near port and a man, came at us, there was shooting, and he pointed -- umm, they called it anti-armor, at us! I could do one thing to protect my fares -- I ran the car at them and he shot wild.''

  They waited, and she wished there was tea in the cup.

  ''This Tommee, this boy, he was wounded and trying to shoot, too, and then he said ''Thank you much for the ride ma'am . . . and gave this to me, since I might need it, and it was all that he had.''

  The Colonel pressed his hands, then slowly spread them with tips touching its opposite twin, staring into the cavity as if some truth existed there, and nodded slowly.

  ''He made a good call, the boy,'' he said after a moment. ''His mates were with him to sing him home?''