by Sharon Lee
A gong sounded elsewhere in the house. Dollance-Marie tapped the screen off, closed the velvet box, and settled simultaneously into her chair, and into Alabaster’s attitude of cool indifference.
The door was directly across from her chair. It opened.
First through it came Bok, in crisp security grays; her face correctly impassive.
Following was a small, spare woman in an untailored leather jacket; her hair, an indeterminate color between brown and blond, caught into a tail that hung limply past her shoulders.
Behind the woman came a man somewhat taller than she, also in leather, his figure lean and his face appalling in its lack of finesse. His hair, black, was dressed like the woman’s, and he carried a satchel slung by a strap over his shoulder.
“Aelliana Caylon, pilot-owner of packet ship Ride the Luck,” the woman said, pausing just behind Bok’s position to bow, brief and neat. Her voice was admirably clear, and though she had a rather heavy accent, her words were perfectly intelligible.
“We have come,” she said, looking into Alabaster’s face with eyes that were a surprisingly attractive green, “to take up the package bound for Albion, which we guarantee to deliver.”
Alabaster inclined her head coolly, took up the velvet box and gave it to Bok, who in turn held it out to the woman.
“Daav,” she said, and the man stepped up, opening the satchel with one hand and extracting a dull brown cube.
“What is that?” Alabaster asked, sharply.
The man looked at her, eyes bright and black.
“We guarantee delivery, intact and on time,” he said, his voice deep, and his Terran quick. “While the item is in our care, it is protected as we see fit.” Perhaps he thumbed a catch. The cube snapped open, and he extended it to Bok, who, after a minute hesitation, placed the velvet box within.
The man snapped the cube shut, and slipped it back into the satchel.
“Thank you,” Alabaster said. Alabaster was always gracious to her social inferiors. “My mama wishes to have this item with her as soon as possible. Go now, and travel quickly.”
The woman bowed again. “Ms. Chimra,” she murmured, and turned so immediately that Bok had to do a rapid two-step to get in front and lead her properly out of the room, the man following both.
Alabaster nodded satisfaction for the media, rose, and left the public parlor by the inner door to the private prep room. It was there that Bok joined her several minutes later.
“Is all well?” Alabaster asked.
“It will go as planned,” Bok assured her.
The taxi dropped them at the at the main port gate, despite Aelliana’s direction that they be left at the service gate, which was nearer to the Luck’s docking place.
“It’s worth my license to do that, Miss,” the cabbie said, sounding genuinely regretful. “Service gate’s for deliveries only. Main gate’s for taxi drop-off.”
Which of course made it convenient for those on-world who knew the rule.
And for those on-world who wished to relieve two unexceptional pilots of the plain bag casually slung over the shoulder of the taller of the pair.
The attack came within sight of the gate—three masked forms, all of them taller than Daav, rushed out of a side alley, crowding them back into the shadows.
Aelliana swung left under the awning of a vacant store, perilously close to the wall. One of the three followed her, a sharp gleam showing in his low-held hand, a terror that Daav could do nothing to resolve until he had settled the two who had fixed him in their attentions.
He kicked the first where it mattered most to him, spun and came ’round in a crouch, using the second attacker’s height against him.
That one was more canny than his mate, now moaning on the ground. He feinted left, vibroblade humming to wicked life in his right hand. Daav, in no mood for finesse, drove forward, swinging the satchel against the armed hand, and driving his head into the man’s solar plexus.
His opponent went down, the knife spilling from his hand. He slammed his heel down on it, to be certain; and spun toward Aelliana, incidentally clipping the first man in the head with the satchel, which took care of that problem for the moment.
Aelliana had engaged her opponent. Even as he spun, she came in under the man’s longer reach and twisted in a classic menfri’at disarm. His weapon arced away, she clasped his arm against hers and twisted, heart-stoppingly graceful.
The man screamed as his arm was dislocated at the shoulder, and a shadow moved in Daav’s peripheral vision.
He turned, saw the woman, and the gun rising, her attention all on Aelliana—on Aelliana’s back, as she let her man drop, and—
Too far to jump, but not too far to throw. He snatched open the satchel, the cube finding his hand, and he threw, with all his might.
His aim was true. The cube struck the woman’s arm; her finger tightened even as the gun jerked, and the pellet discharged into the awning.
She was quick-witted, though, give her that. She wasted no time on her hurt, or her missed target, but leapt for the box, snatching it up with alacrity, and racing away, down the alley.
“Stop, thief!” Aelliana cried, leaping in pursuit.
Daav caught her, hugging her to him with one arm as with the other he sealed the satchel. Peripheral vision showed that a crowd had gathered, watching with interest, doubtless believing the whole thing had been staged.
“You threw the client’s package to the person who was trying to rob us!” Aelliana’s voice was only somewhat muffled by his jacket, her words were, happily, in Liaden.
“I insist upon at,” he answered in the same language, keeping his voice low. “She had a bead on my pilot.”
Aelliana stilled. “She did?”
“Yes. She did.” He did not quite manage to control the shiver; terror rising now that the matter had been dealt with.
Against his side, Aelliana went still. Sighed.
“Well. In that case, it was very neatly done, Daav,” she said calmly. “What do you propose we do now?”
“I propose that we return to our ship, and that we do so quickly, before those who have watched this whole fiasco understand that it is not a bid on the part of one of the low-ranked Leaders for market points.”
She moved her shoulders and he released her, looking ’round at the three fallen bravos.
Aelliana’s was curled ’round his arm, moaning; his two were still unconscious, though the one who had brought the knife to the game was showing signs of perhaps rousing.
“Pilot?” he murmured.
“Yes,” said Aelliana, looking about—at the three damaged, and the minor crowd that had gathered along the street to watch. “Let us go, if you please, Daav.”
The media had followed the pilots of course, Dollance-Marie had depended upon it; had timed their arrival and departure for the slow hours of the early afternoon to insure that the whole transaction would be captured. It was to have been simple—a threat of harm, a relinquishing of the package—who would not relinquish a package that had no value to them, and which was, after all, insured?
No one was to have gotten hurt.
And yet, Dollance-Marie thought, staring at the screen, three people—three men, unknown to her in their masks—had attempted to importune the pilots. To their discomfort.
The pilots had moved quickly, decisively. Dollance-Marie had never seen people move so rapidly and with such focus. The three were disadvantaged before her own operator had achieved position. It was to that operator’s credit that she proceeded according to direction, and surely not her fault that the man had thrown so well.
So well, and so wisely. Unbelievably, he hurled the very thing her operator had been sent to retrieve directly to her. She left the gun, grabbed the prize and ran—so the end was achieved, no matter what hash had been made from the means.
But it was peculiar, Dollance-Marie thought, as she turned from the screen, that the man had chosen that particular projectile. Of course, the item was i
nsured.
And that gave one pause. Dollance-Marie began to wonder if she had perhaps, and unwittingly, employed a brace of rogues. But, no, their references had been clean, ship and pilots legitimately registered, no contracts on-file. She had inspected the records herself, knowing that her mama would do likewise.
Well. Perhaps the man’s wits had been addled by the attack, and he had not fully understood what he did. It was no matter. They had done their part; the insurance would cover their loss; her mama would see—as all the world had seen!—what had happened to the Ruby, and all else—
All else would be well.
“Now, sir!” Aelliana spun to face him, poised on the balls of her feet in the center of the piloting chamber. “We guaranteed delivery of that packet; the fact that it was insured is quite beside the point!”
Daav eyed her. “Is it?” he inquired.
“Yes! Only think, van’chela, if it is said ’round port and in the places that pilots go that Ride the Luck loses what is entrusted to her for safekeeping, and fails of her guarantee. We will never work again! Now, we must find that woman, speedily, and buy the package back from her.”
“Do you think she will sell?” Daav asked, watching her face with interest.
“Do you think she will not?”
“I think that the point is moot,” he answered carefully.
“Moot? How so?”
“If the pilot will grant me a moment, I will explain. Should you not be satisfied at the end of what I say, then I will myself contact the client, the port proctors and the insurance writer.”
Aelliana frowned up at him and crossed her arms over her breast.
“Very well,” she said sternly. “Speak.”
“Opportunists,” Gan Bok said, when she brought the transport capsule to the prep room. “Climbers with low ratings and few followers. No doubt that they saw the transaction between yourself and the pilots and thought they had found a way to improve themselves.”
“Well!” Dollance-Marie answered, “they very nearly ruined everything. Is Janida badly hurt?”
“She would have it no more than a bruise. I sent her to the medic.”
“Good.” Dollance-Marie took a deep breath and looked at the plain brown transport capsule.
“All’s well that ends well,” she said, which was what her mama said, when a plan had run too near to ruin. She pressed her thumb against the lock, coaxed the lid up—
“No!”
The capsule was empty.
“Call them—Ride the Luck!” she snapped at Bok, who snatched the comm from her belt, pressed a button, listened—and looked up with a small shake of her head.
“My apologies, Ms. Chimra. Ride the Luck has lifted, on a filed course for Albion.”
John was in the private room—their room, as she had come to think of it—before her. Her favorite wine stood breathing on the table, with two glasses set ready. John himself was in dark blue slashed with silver, his collar open. The silver spiderweb scarf draped loosely ’round his shoulders called attention to his decolletage.
Dollance-Marie stopped just inside the door, her dolor momentarily forgotten as she took in the whole of it.
“I think you may be correct, that your mama will murder you,” she said, walking ’round him and affecting not to see the blush that so charmingly warmed his features. “But—if you do not falter, I believe it can be the next fashion.”
He looked earnestly into her face.
“Do you truly think so?”
“It will need to be managed, but I think we are the equal of the challenge,” she said, allowing her self another circuit to admire his person.
“Perhaps, when we’re partnered,” John said, sounding nervous—and that brought it all back, so strongly that Dollance-Marie made a small, involuntary gasp.
“Marie?” He turned, and, greatly daring, caught her hands. His eyes searched her face. “Is there something wrong?”
She swallowed and met his eyes, permitting him to hold her, though it would hurt all the more, when he let her go.
“Yes,” she said, calling on Alabaster’s cold courage so that she could meet his eyes. “My mama called for the Ruby to be sent home to her. I—I tried to keep it for you, John, but it was no use, and now—now I have nothing to give you—”
. . . to bind him, she thought, for some time, at least . . .
“Nothing to give me?” he repeated, his fingers tightening on hers. “But you had offered partnership—was that a joke?”
“A joke? No, never! I want you—”
“And I want you,” John interrupted, wantonly. “You are my true friend. We can teach each other. We’ll travel.” A glimmer of a smile touched his sweet mouth. “We’ll make new fashions. We’ll have fun!”
Fun.
Dollance-Marie stared at him.
Fun.
“I can’t remember,” she said, “the last time I had . . . fun.”
“I can teach you,” he said, smiling more widely. He raised her hands, and bent his head, his lips tasting the tips of her fingers.
“John!” She was scandalized; she was on fire. “What have you been learning?”
He laughed, lowering her hands, which she was not at all certain that she wanted.
“Dane has been tutoring me,” he said. “I told him I wanted to renew as often as he and Erin had done.”
“That amused him,” she said tartly.
“He seemed . . . intrigued. When will we partner, Marie? My mother told me that she has signed her approval.”
“Then—then at your leisure, sir!” she said, years of training coming to her rescue in this odd hour. “But, John—the Ruby. My promise—”
“You were very wrong to promise me something that belongs to your mother,” he said, looking adorably stern. “That is like stealing and it is wrong. You will never do it again, Marie. Promise.”
She stared at him, between delight and consternation. No one spoke to her—well. Her mama. And her ratings-coach. But she had never permitted any of her former liaisons to speak to her in such a tone.
But, she thought, he was right.
“Marie? If you steal again, I shall be very angry with you.”
Angry with her? A thrill ran through her.
“I promise,” she said.
“Excellent.”
He raised her hands again, but before he bent his head, she slipped free, and tucked both behind her back.
“Marie?” He asked, tentative.
“You had a task before you,” she told him. “To chose the date of our formal partnership.”
He tipped his head.
“You had said, I believe, at my ‘leisure?’”
“I had.”
“Then I must tell you that Dane and Erin offered themselves as witnesses and co-signatures, and stand at our service at any hour of the day or night.”
“They will be at dinner now,” she pointed out.
“Nonetheless,” John said, with sweet determination, “I will make the call.”
The Gransella of Hamptonshire sent her own car for them, and two security persons, weapons very much in evidence.
When they were ushered into the lady’s presence, Aelliana bowed and thanked her for her condescension.
“You served me so well at Feinik that it is certainly only Balance that I guard you at Albion,” the lady said with a dismissive flutter of long fingers. “Leadership is a two-edged knife: On the one hand, we have a record of all that we do or say. On the other hand, we provide opportunity for those who neither Lead nor Follow to engage in unRated mischief.”
Another flutter of her fingers.
“That is the price that we pay; the price we expect to pay. To ask those who are not ranked, and who do not seek to lead—to ask yourselves, for instance—to pay our toll to society—that is not acceptable. Now, what have you brought me?”
Daav stepped forward, opened the satchel and placed the transport capsule in her hand. She opened it, removed the velvet box, a
nd opened it, also.
“Ah . . .” A sigh, of satisfaction and of reverence. “Excellent.”
Raising the small box, she turned it so that they could see the contents—a single, large ruby, cut by a master, and flashing crimson lightnings at the room.
“This is what you have brought to me,” the Gransella said proudly. “One of the greater treasures of my house. Had it been lost . . .” She allowed the thought to fade with a small shudder, closed the box and looked to Aelliana.
“Such service demands a bonus in addition to your regular fee.”
Aelliana bowed, gently.
“If you please,” she said. “What will serve us more than a bonus is your reference. We are new upon the field, and . . . and, for this time, fame is as good as cantra.”
“It is better, for fame will bring you cantra!” the elder lady stated. “It is done. It happens now. Your fee has been released into your ship’s account. My car will take you back, and my people will see you to safety. Thank you. You have done a great service for my bloodline. And fame you shall assuredly have. I guarantee it!”
Intelligent Design
“Intelligent Design” comes from the “not easy” column we mentioned in the intro to Liaden Universe® Constellation: Number 3.
Deciding exactly which story to tell in a short story when every story offers so many options is one of the problems authors face. You’ll sometimes see it—let us call it experimented with—by having multiple viewpoint retellings of the same event as part of a story. In some cases no single “protagonist” is able to see it all for the reader, so we decided to see if a situation could be solved by switching viewpoint characters to catch the most important points. This story, which was originally published on Baen.com, was the result.
There was darkness on the void.
He had won the day. His scans were quiescent; no enemies identified within their considerable range.
He alone remained, supreme.