by Sharon Lee
Studying the lay he posted two plastic practice chips on the bet line. Being the Stro Palaz, he added a blue to his, then to defense, and continued.
The morning was good for playing against the house and for the house, there being very few patrons in the casino at all and none yet wandering his end of the main hall.
The basic card players—they were a constant, like the dicers and the endless staccatos at the robot machines, and might be found round the clock, betting on a better tomorrow. The sticks players, like the roulettiers, tended to come in with the flow of traffic to and from the port. A busy day on port usually was a good thing, with the buzz of voices and the buzz of action.
Today—the whole place felt muted. The low-key morning music found few bodies to bounce off, none to excite to dance rhythm, none to inspire to sing along, none to drop coins or call for chips. The Emerald’s automatics took care of sound levels and air-moving these days. Maybe if he coughed a few times he could prime a little energy into the place.
It was the weather, of course—the weather was good and the port’s long-awaited changeover to new systems and orientation had been started in the overnight, with the advent of the good weather.
The weather and the port noise together could have put him to sleep if he’d not been scheduled here, though the night had been light.
Villy smiled, though he’d taken a financial hit—his late date at Ms. Audrey’s had called off the tumble at nearly the last minute. At least it had been nearly the last; he hadn’t lit the candles or started the oil warming or set out all the toys. He was sorry to lose the cash but the pilot promised him a bonus for the next time, to make up for what he’d called “opportunity costs.”
There’d be opportunity costs today, too, it looked like—with no action, there’d be no tips.
In front of him, the sticks. Villy pulled seven . . . and then there was a slip.
Frowning, he added a chip to each side . . . and became the other player in the hand . . . and . . . sensed something, perhaps a shadow, moving.
The shadow half-behind him was a Liaden, silent, precise, watching. His boots were pilot boots, as Villy had learned. The jacket was a pilot’s jacket. The gun was a little bright, but if he was a pilot he’d have more than one, for sure.
He looked too young for a Scout, though he might have been—Villy had trouble figuring Liaden ages, smooth-skinned and beardless as they were—but he wore a pilot’s jacket and earrings rich enough to be a pilot of some experience or note.
But the jacket, worn loose, showed a local shirt and hint of glitter near the throat and the hair was looser and longer than he’d expect.
That was mixed signals, it was, and Ms. Audrey warned staff to watch for mixed signals at the House and he guessed the same mattered here at his share job. Something might be up and worth watching careful.
He weighed the pilot’s looks, realized that he was closing in on staring, though the seeing was good.
“Pilot,” he said with one of the careful nodding bows he’d learned from Cheever McFarland. “Are you interested in a game?”
Villy got back so exact a copy of his bow, with a hint of the lookover he’d been guilty of, and he wondered if he was being mocked. The face showed a firmness he was becoming used to among the Liadens he dealt with; in fact it could be of the same mold as Boss Conrad or the Keeper of the Road. Alert blue eyes reading his moves and face while giving back little enough. There was, maybe, a very little hint of an ironic smile. It made him feel, that look did, as if the observer had an advantage, and knew it, or had seen him looking a trifle long. The Boss himself had a look like that.
Still, Villy had experience looking at men; this one was interesting, nearly tempting. Perhaps there was advantage on two sides if they should play a throw or two.
“A game?” The voice was polished, with that Liaden lilt, and Villy held his sigh back. Perfect, even spoken in Terran with the slightest edge of a Surebleak click.
“Perhaps I will game later, but not immediately, no. I meant not to distract you, but rather to watch your practice.”
“Watching a game as you participate is a wonderful way to learn,” Villy offered, seeing the suppressed grin flit across the pilot’s comely golden face. “Are you familiar with the game?”
Villy swept the practice sticks up, half-looking to the pilot, and was startled when the jumble revealed an escaping blue, which he let go rather than risk the bundle. The blue was snapped out of the air by the pilot well before it reached the floor.
In a single motion the stick was returned to him with a bow of some complexity.
“Indeed, V. Butler, I have some experience of it. It was wise of you not to attempt that recovery.”
V. Butler—Ah, his name badge. Pilots were sharp . . .
“I’m Villy Butler. And for this game, I am Stro Palaz, you know, Game Master, for the morning. To keep that, I gotta practice. This is a practice tube—for the games, we have Palaz Dwaygo Solcintra-style, with the standard thirty-six, with colors; else we have the local Quick-sticks, same length but light weight, twenty-five plus the pick-stick. The other tubes are sealed, and . . .”
“The Boss offers choice. I should have known.”
“Of course the Boss offers choice! Why, the . . .”
But that quick, the pilot’s hand rose in a sign Villy almost knew, and he said, “Peace, Villy Butler. If the Boss says it, so must it be, eh?”
Villy held his retort back, offering now a tube of each sort.
Again a mystery bow, this time with a bit more of a smile.
“Perhaps when there’s more action, my friend, if I am here that long. I’m . . .”
Here it was as if the pilot was at a sudden standstill for words, as if his Terran had failed him. He went on—
“I’m to meet someone here,” he said, “regarding occupation.”
Then he shrugged, adding, “They could not tell me when they will arrive with any precision, other than today. I am, so to speak, at their convenience, as time permits. So, let me explore—the last time I was here there was no time to acquaint myself with the facilities—and perhaps I’ll play if I have time.”
Villy accepted a kind of half-bow, collecting the sticks carefully while watching the pilot move on, steps coordinated and silent. Well then, the morning wasn’t half-wasted, after all. Practice, with a view.
Quin ambled away from the comely young Game Master, by habit acquainting and reacquainting himself with obvious exits, likely exits, and potential exits, as well as the permanent staff stations, the rest rooms, the doors to the private parlors. Off to one side, he knew, was the private room where staff had “held” the delm on their first visit. As if they’d be “held” by anything as flimsy as the port’s real hoosegow, much less a room with a lock on the plastic door.
The casino was remarkably devoid of patrons this morning, a mere dozen or so scattered throughout.
A careful appraisal revealed nearly as many visible staff as customers, which was well enough, for it permitted him a good look at the results of the recent upgrade. The lighting was more subdued than the last time he’d seen it; the seating improved, the flooring more resilient and sound absorbing. He’d heard discussions of the aromatics, mood lights, and sounds supplied by a nerligig sitting in a repurposed closet—as the room filled, the music and scents would strengthen and the lighting would become more focused on the equipment, allowing patrons the feeling that they were not cram-full and reinforcing the reason they were there—to gamble.
Quin received nods of apparent recognition from several of the staff, as well as a few customers. A passing Scout accorded him a cordial bow, and he got two profuse pairs of bows from elderly Liaden gallants in last year’s Solcintran afternoon wear.
The two gallants, now. He’d seen them, elsewhere, together. The first image came to him as he demanded it. Yes, the memory games Grandmother had taught on station were working! He saw the gallants now in his head, more than their faces, distantly sippi
ng from crystal glasses at Trealla Fantrol, politely bowing to Uncle Shan. He . . . he must have barely been in public then.
Emigres, then, distant allies of Korval, coming to one of the few places on Surebleak with even a remotely Liaden tang to it.
Quin paused, wondering how many other such there were now on world, and how many arriving, wondering what more they could do here but stand in the wake of pilots. Here there were no Liaden clubs, no Tey Dor’s to shoot and be seen at, no promenade, no . . .
Truth, he missed Tey Dor’s himself, as rarely as he’d been there—so many stories of his clan echoed there, so many stories of yos’Phelium . . . so many of his father. He missed it not only because of the utility of practice and competition, but for the society of it.
He moved on, completing his tour. There wasn’t much more to see. The Emerald might be the best casino on planet, but it was still a smaller operation than one would find on most port city peripheries elsewhere in the galaxy.
He sighed as he stood in front of a row of the robot bet-offs, having no pressing interest there. On the other hand, several of the card tables were peopled, and he moved into observe . . .
Alas, the occupied tables backed on a closed section, there being no need to spread out. Ah, well, no close-up spectating this way, which was a shame. Quin looked about him. The wheels now . . . the gambling wheels usually permitted . . .
His scan took in the back of the room, where V. Butler was earnestly practicing the sticks.
A glance to the chronometer over the service counter showed him . . . that the clock was artfully sited to receive as much glare as possible, and thus was difficult to read.
He flipped his hand through several iterations of the pilot sign no details yet to himself. He took three steps forward, and now the clock was visible, but no real help.
The clock told him nothing: as ever, he didn’t know when his father would arrive. He didn’t know what was to be discussed. He didn’t know. . . .
The same often maintained at his new home: the Boss would arrive when he did, unless he’d stayed in working in his office, which he often did; sometimes he’d be held from dinner or lunch, or breakfast by some or another strangeness, sometimes he’d come to table a few minutes after his Natesa arrived and sometimes with her—and no time either, for Quin, no matter that he’d been warned to expect real duty, any day now. He’d been told the move from undertree was to train him to be Boss. To be Boss!
So here he stood while the real work of the Boss was going on within view of the front door.
Quin grimaced, ruefully pleased that Grandmother wasn’t there to see him with his face so open. A pilot’s quick relaxation exercise brought him some calm, but still—
What he should do was flash his Tree-and-Dragon, demand a quiet place to sit, and study. There were still unfinished lesson modules from TriGrace he could access, and there was always piloting math to . . .
He felt the anger rising again, then.
No.
His father had sent him here. Or his father and Natesa. Or the Boss and his grandfather. They’d sent him here while there was work to be done, piloting work . . . and they’d sent him to the Emerald. For occupation.
Very well then. If he was to wait at the Emerald and be occupied there, if he was to wait “as time permits,” he would damn well be occupied.
Oh yes, he would.
He made a desultory run at a console card sim picked randomly; it burbled game choices until he stabbed the button rapidly to change languages, annoyed by the thing’s terribly accented Trade. The hands were fast, but his coin was multiplied several times, and he challenged the machine to games and to languages, making it speak to him in homeworld Terran, and then in what it thought was Looper Terran, just for the practice.
Someone else was playing nearby, and apparently losing, for he heard what might have been the slam of disappointed hand on console.
His public pocket had been nearly to let when he’d started—in his sudden preparations he hadn’t bothered to arm himself with Terran bits above what he normally carried. Now he had a game card . . . which he stuffed into that pocket, starting another. He’d heard a machine on the other side of the aisle make the player out of funds sound, and someone sighed, loudly.
The console card game was flat, though he was winning. Despite his practice of two calming mental exercises he still felt an undercurrent of tension which he couldn’t resolve—and it didn’t help that the casino was hardly soundproof, so the action at the spaceport rumbled through from time to time. He stood up straighter, remembering that he was a pilot, dammit, and not a school child, and moved down the aisle, waiting on the pleasure of his elders and stalking opportunity here.
He walked, cringing at some of the front panels, and moved by a machine calling itself “Target Practice” as numbers on a multiplier panel jumped from two to seven. There, the promise of an extra seven times payout—why not? It was denominated in half-bits, which amused, and so he stopped to play.
Given the images of weapons, he chose the personal models, and then the rarities . . .
The machine took a fair portion of his earnings quickly, but he played with the choices of caliber, style, and targets. On the fifth run he threw his hand-arm against a longshot, and was rewarded with a slowly rising whoop of machine joy, which gave way to . . . oh! He’d hit that shot, at seven times the stake, with a red bonus. The bonus matched his original stake and—on screen—appeared as piles of energy packs. The multiplier was still in effect and the totals kept rising and voices announced he was into triple bonus round. He’d already won quite a bit—wouldn’t his father be amused to discover he’d come away with a cantra? There was some amount of money in reserve, he wouldn’t know how much until the next round.
Now he had to choose his weapons again.
He laughed, chose a silly looking zero-gravity dueling pistol, and touched the machine to urge it on. Targets began to arise.
Someone was standing close by, and then started playing the game next to his. Ah, searching for the lucky spot, no doubt. Well. No matter.
His machine blinked and brightened—now the multiplier was showing an even dozen!
Quin laughed again, for there were a dozen targets to chose from on the machine, all valuable gems on distant pedestals. Well, all gems but for the gaudy necklace of pearled firegems with a firegem pendant—so he chose that, and palmed the trigger button.
The machine’s antics were amusing as the pistol lined up on screen and a single bullet entered the firing chamber through a ghostly hand. Then it asked hm to choose windage and loft and if the pistol pulled high or to the right or . . .
His choices were random, and he pressed the shoot button.
The machine dutifully mimicked a supposed shooting sound and showed his shot traveling . . . arcing very neatly to hit the blazing firegem pendant full on.
The firegem spun in its virtual spot, spitting fire! Dancing from the flames were numbers, and each number accompanied by a beep, or a horn, or the flash of light or color, and sometimes all . . .
It was amazing, and then appalling.
Quin took a half-step back as the sound continued and numbers ran, all in bits. He translated as best he could to the latest approximation in cantra as the numbers ran on . . . and then halted.
Had it actually come to a cantra? Well, more or less, since the exchange rate varied. Still . . . maybe more than a cantra!
Quin saw the screen reform into a fire-rimmed challenge:
“Double or Nothing, sharpshooter?” it asked.
It took no time to decide that question.
Quin cashed out, waiting patiently for the card to clear, then holding it in hand a moment.
Around him now, others—staring at the machine. A casino employee came by, nodded brusquely.
“Done with this session, sir?”
“I am,” Quin bowed, stuffing the chit into his public pocket with the other.
“Need security?”
&nb
sp; It was not a silly question on a world like Surebleak, and if he’d needed a ride to quarters he’d not have been behind with the request. . . .
“I do not.”
“My turn,” a Terran voice demanded, but the security man said, “Hold, friend,” and waved a portable read-wand at the machine. “We have to take records of the major wins, you know. Just a moment.”
The machine blinked, chattered, rebooted into brightness—and the multiplier lights fell from 12 to 1.2.
The man beside him made noises—a local by the hard-worn looks of him—and he stared at the machine, a low continuous stream of cussing going on.
“My run,” he was muttering, “shoulda been my run!”
Quin stood, surveying the rest of the casino distantly. Not another robot game at this point, especially not with the burly Terran already busy shoving funds into Target Practice . . .
Well. The cards were in progress, but perhaps not those, either—he’d chosen the robogames because leaving would be easy, when the Boss arrived.
The sticks—Villy seemed a pleasant enough table host. That was an idea now that he had enough cash to buy a bundle or two. By now there might be a game there—or he could start one.
His steps led that way, and there was Villy, packing his practice sticks away one by one. At tableside was a Terran as badly dressed as the one he’d just left behind, hulking, and apparently waiting.
The sticksman now was presenting two tubes to the newcomer, who was larger even than Mr. McFarland, very pale, and extravagantly overdressed unless one had never before been challenged to meet the mere freezing point of water.
Quin moved forward, hand motioning his desire to buy in.
The pretty pilot was back, which was a relief. The ’reesta, meanwhile, was either a fool or a fraud; could anyone really be that unaware of the way things worked in a casino after having been in the Emerald hours at a time these past five days? Well, Villy’d never had him at this station, but he had seen him and his crony about, hanging at the low robots for long stretches and sometimes drifting to the cheap cards. It was hard to miss men so unused to Surebleak’s weather, or so willing to play the cheap games.