Liaden Universe 18: Dragon in Exile

by Sharon Lee

  “Need help here?” the Terran asked.

  “No,” Nelirikk said before she could answer. “The captain is having a discussion with this person on the ground, and the members of his troop.”

  “We’ll keep the perimeter, then,” the guy said, and he and Hazenthull separated to do just that.

  Miri took a breath.

  “Now, here’s another thing!” she said to Smealy’s crew, who were all three still waiting there by Jakob’s, their eyes bright and interested. “You go back to wherever you come from and you return any dues you collected from people who’re waiting to get their exceptions. You don’t do that—or I hear you’re still signing people up? And you’ll come before the Council so fast your ears’ll fall off. And—any one of you pulls another stunt like this, where you’re trying to destroy my cred—”

  Something moved in the side of her eyes, down and to the right. Smealy.

  She kicked the gun out of his hand before he quite had it clear of the pocket, and stomped on his fingers for good measure.

  He screamed, which she couldn’t blame him for.

  “You got a lot to learn about communication,” she told him, and swung wide. “Get up.”

  Give him credit, he tried to, but the broken hand wasn’t doing his balance any good. Nelirikk finally felt sorry for him, reached down, grabbed his collar and hauled him to his feet.

  “You want we should take him to the Whosegow, Boss?” That was Hazenthull’s partner.

  “No,” she said. “His crew’ll take care of him. Won’t they, Smealy?”

  He stared at her, good hand cradling broken hand and shook his head.

  “Cut me a break, Boss.”

  The man was scared, and he had a right to be, judging by the faces of his crew. On the other hand . . .

  “You got two freebies, Smealy. Third time, you pay real money. That’s how it’s done, ain’t it?”

  It was, and he knew it, and she could see him know what kind of care his crew was going to give him for screwing up—twice—and calling their business out on the open street.

  She felt a little sick, like she’d been punched in the stomach, but there wasn’t anything to do, except send him back to his crew. If she backed down now, her cred as Boss—and Val Con’s cred as Boss, too—took a hit it couldn’t afford, with them just setting up. Saying no to the exceptions racket—that was just the first test.

  Smealy pulled himself up as straight as he could, and gave her a curt nod.

  “Boss,” he said, and marched away, back to his crew.

  She tensed, thinking they’d shoot him right there, but there was more than the Road Boss’s cred on the street right now, including Security and the crowd that’d gathered ’round to witness. The guy with the cannonball head swung out of formation, got his good arm around Smealy, and walked him away, the other two closing in behind.

  Miri watched them go, and wished she felt like she’d done the right thing.

  “Captain,” Nelirikk said for her ears alone, “the Scout approaches.”

  She looked to the left, toward the Emerald, and here he came, moving light and quick through the crowd, the sun plucking sparks from the silver threads in his coat. Now she was paying attention, she could feel his concern; he must’ve felt her lose her temper at Smealy, and come down to see what all the noise was about.

  Noise was over now, of course, so she raised her hand, and called, just like Smealy’d done.

  “Hey, Boss.”

  Heads turned, then, and people pulled back to give the man room to pass.

  “Miri, are you well?”

  She heard his voice, soft inside her head, asking the question, then he was at her side, hand stretched out to her.

  “Hey, Boss,” she said again, like she was standing in the middle of a battlefield. She grabbed his hand and gave him a grin. “You missed all the fun.”

  “You’ll have to tell me about it,” he answered, his own voice pitched to carry. “Over tea, perhaps? At the Emerald?”

  “Sounds great,” she said, and tucked her hand through his arm, feeling the embroidery scratch her palm. The two of them turned back the way he’d come, Beautiful falling in behind.

  “It’s a good thing you come along,” she said, for the benefit of the crowd, as it parted before them.

  “Why is that?”

  “I’m starving.”

  “Okay, now!” Tolly called out, as the captain and the Scout left the field, attended by Nelirikk. “Show’s over; time to get back to bidness!”

  It was correct, to disperse the crowd, and their duty, as Security, to clear the public way. However, those who had gathered were being . . . somewhat difficult to disperse. At first, Hazenthull assumed that it was because they were yet in awe of the captain’s skills. But as she encouraged them to motion, a muttering came to her ears. It would appear that there was some discontent with the Scout’s actions, though he had arrived after the captain had properly chastised Streeter Smealy and returned him to his comrades.

  She listened more intently, and because of that perhaps did not attend to her position as she should have done.

  The first inkling she had of her partner’s peril was a sudden scattering of the crowd under his direction, a shout, and a blur of motion as Tolly snatched a red-haired man over his shoulder, bringing him down hard on his back against the tarmac. She saw Tolly sweep a hand out, even as he spun, hand on his sidearm, scanning the crowd for his attacker’s compatriots.

  The crowd was moving now, of its own accord, drawing away from trouble, from danger, saving the woman who threw herself forward, berating Tolly for striking a blameless man. It was Tolly, he would not strike her or push her away; he paused to engage her, his back to the man he had thrown.

  The man who had rolled clumsily to his knees, his hand rising with intent, the palm gun held quite steady.

  Despite his apparent steadiness, he might still have missed the back of Tolly’s head; he had taken a bad fall, and it was plain that he was shaken, if not wounded.

  On the other hand, all of her previous life experience had taught Hazenthull that there are no sure misses on the battlefield.

  There are only certain hits.

  Her sidearm was in her hand, the crowd around her vanishing as if it had been no more substantial than smoke.

  She aimed for his shoulder, but at the decisive instant, he faltered, and half fell . . .

  The pellet struck him in the eye.

  Tolly had the damned whistle; he was golden. All he had to do was move out, fast. It left Haz with the crowd, but there wasn’t a crowd on Surebleak Haz couldn’t handle with one hand tied behind her back. Commander Liz was going to be seriously unhappy, but Commander Liz had been destined for unhappiness this day, no matter—

  “You hit that guy!”

  A broad-shouldered woman threw herself into his path, her face angry.

  “Sorry, ma’am. He was drawing—”

  “He was not! I’m gonna report you to your captain! What’s your name?”

  That’s when the gunshot sounded, loud even in the noise of the port. Tolly spun, but tel’Vaster was already down, the top of his head gone, and there was Haz, gun as steady as her eye, standing there daring anybody else to come ahead.

  Tolly’s gun was out, too—reactions, damn reactions—and he spun, surveying the area. One good thing, the street had cleared. Bad thing was that a pair or more of their now-former coworkers were going to be bearing down on them real soon.

  Not to mention tel’Vaster’s backup, which there was at least one on port, and not so distant from them, or the man had changed out of recognition in the last couple years.

  For a long, critical second, he couldn’t think; couldn’t breathe. Then he remembered that there was a ship waiting for him. The key and the contract had come that morning. He had someplace to go; someplace that neither tel’Vaster nor his backup could guess at.

  He thought of his meager possessions, but everything he really needed, in order to
survive, was on him: ship’s key, license with a good name on it, contract, his own weapons, and all the cash he owned.

  Flipping his service gun, he held it out, grip-first, to Hazenthull.

  “Take this to Commander Liz. Tell her I’m sorry, Haz, right? Tell her I’m off-world and won’t be any more problem to her.”

  “Tolly, did this man have a partner? A troop?”

  “Prolly so. Which is why I gotta go, Haz. You watch yourself!”

  He turned, and ran, moving not quite at the top of his speed. No sense scaring the reg’lars; no sense calling the attention of somebody who might know what he was looking at.

  He didn’t go straight to the hotpad where his ship waited. Tarigan, out of Waymart. ’Course it was out of Waymart. All the best ships were.

  Anyhow, he took the port tour, and when he was as sure as he could be that he wasn’t trailing tel’Vaster’s backup, he made a wide loop and headed in, toward the general yard.

  Two ship rows short of his goal, something moved in the corner of his eye. He turned his head, and saw Hazenthull round the top of the row, loping along, nice and easy, on those long legs of hers. She probably wasn’t even winded.

  Tolly bit his lip on a grin. Didn’t Haz always have his back? Better she saw him safe onto his ship. She’d sleep easier for it.

  He kept going, like he hadn’t spotted her. A row and a half . . .

  A stiletto made out of fire and ice drove in one ear, through his brain, and out the other ear.

  He screamed, stumbled . . . and stopped.

  Tolly was running an evasion pattern. That was good, Hazenthull thought. He wished to be certain that the comrade of the man she had killed would not find and follow him.

  It was better that she followed, to make certain that he reached his goal. She was his partner; she had his back.

  They came at last to the ready-yard, and she remembered that he had a ship waiting for him, and a piloting contract in hand. Good, then, all she needed to do was see him safely inside his ship.

  She saw him turn his head as she rounded the corner after him, and knew that he had seen her. He gave no sign, though, and did not try to angle away and elude her. She took that for his approval of her escort; and the tie that bound them, still.

  He was running easier now, as if his goal was near. Hazenthull felt something in her chest loosen, though she was breathing easily. Very soon now, he would be safe; his enemies confounded. He would lift, and she would never—

  Ahead of her, Tolly stumbled.

  He stopped.

  He turned, slowly, until he faced the small woman who strolled out from between two ships, a gun in one hand, and a short, ceramic pipe in the other.

  Hazenthull froze, wondering if this was, indeed, his new pilot. She watched as the woman came closer and Tolly did not move, did not react to her presence at all, even when she raised the hand that held the gun and whipped it across his face.

  “Well, Mr. Berik, or is it something else today?” the woman said.

  Tolly did not answer. The woman raised the gun again . . . then lowered it.

  “Answer, Thirteen-Sixty-Two: what name are you using today?”

  “Tolly Jones.” His voice was flat; his face, bloodied where the gun had opened a gash on his cheek, was without expression.

  Hazenthull began to move, with care; neither Tolly nor his captor looked in her direction.

  “Tolly Jones,” the woman repeated.

  “Where were you going in such haste, Tolly Jones?”

  Hazenthull felt her stomach tighten, and moved more quickly.

  Tolly simply stood, saying nothing, looking at nothing, save in the direction of the woman’s face.

  “Answer, Thirteen-Sixty-Two! Where were you going?”

  Hazenthull drew her gun.

  “Release your gun and the other object, and step back with your hands on your head!” She snapped.

  The woman turned, pilot-quick, and fired.

  Hazenthull felt a burn in her belly, fired, and missed her target.

  The woman shot again, and this time the burn was high in her chest. Hazenthull took careful aim, and squeezed her trigger.

  The target, Tolly’s enemy, crumpled to the tarmac. Hazenthull moved, meaning to pick up the gun, staggered and went to one knee. The belly shot—but, she must remove the gun, she must . . .

  “Haz . . .”

  It was Tolly’s voice, blurry and uncertain, but his own voice.

  “C’mon, Haz, I can’t carry you. Up, up, let’s go . . .”

  She got to her feet, and leaning on him, she walked, past the dead woman, alone on the tarmac with neither gun nor pipe nearby, slowly down the row of ships, round a corner, and onward, to one ship that stood with its hatch open and a shadow hovering within.

  “Your father awaits you in the parlor, sir,” Mr. pel’Tolian said, as he helped Pat Rin remove his coat.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I will go to him now. I trust everything has been calm and orderly in my absence.”

  “Very much so, sir. Mr. McFarland took several calls dealing with insurance; he referred them to the Watch. Boss Gabriel confirmed his appointment with you, here, midmorning, on the day after tomorrow. Ms. Natesa asked that you be told that she will be in-house for dinner. Mr. Meron has asked for her assistance with the freelancers.”

  “Thank you.” He smoothed his sleeve.

  “Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I will go to my father. We will wish for tea.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Luken was in his favorite chair in the parlor, booted feet stretched toward the fire.

  He glanced up and smiled sleepily at Pat Rin’s entrance.

  “Ah, there you are, boy-dear, in the very nick of time. Another moment or two and you would have found me napping.”

  “Perhaps we will nap together,” Pat Rin told him, sinking into the chair opposite. “I believe that I may be getting old, Father.”

  “Nonsense, you’re the merest stripling.”

  “And Quin a babe in arms, I apprehend.”

  “No, boy-dear, there you are out. Quin is older than either of us.”

  “I fear you may be correct.”

  The door opened to admit Mr. pel’Tolian, tea tray in hand.

  He placed it on the table between them, poured and served with quiet efficiency—Luken first, then Pat Rin, the proper and correct order of service for an intimate gathering of family.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” he asked. “Cook asks me to tell you there is a batch of shortbread, only now removed from the oven.”

  Pat Rin’s mouth briefly watered; his cook’s shortbread was no trivial matter.

  “Father?” he asked.

  Luken moved a hand in a regretful negative.

  “I have only just lunched, I fear.”

  “Please thank Cook,” Pat Rin said. “I think we are well set up.”

  “Sir.” Mr. pel’Tolian bowed and left them, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

  They sipped their tea, and both sighed in appreciation of the leaf. Then Luken set his cup aside.

  “I had come to tell you that I will be removing to my apartment this evening,” he said. “All is at last in order.”

  Pat Rin took a breath against a sharp prick of loss, which was nonsensical; Luken had made no secret of his intentions to withdraw from his foster son’s household as soon as he had located a suitable establishment.

  That the establishment found most suitable happened to be located across the street from Audrey’s House of Joy, where Luken already passed many nights, could surprise no one who was aware of the relationship that had leapt up, seemingly fully formed, between Luken and Audrey. The relationship itself might give one pause, given the very great differences in their circumstances, but, again, a small amount of consideration revealed that they held more in common than might otherwise be supposed.

  Both were in the business of providing pleasure to others
; both possessed an artistic and discerning eye. Beauty was meat and bread to them, and each had for all of their adult lives been the sole proprietor of a business that they had grown from modest into remarkable. Too, they were close in age, and had in less than two Standards seen their respective societies assaulted by, and reeling from, change.

  “Surely, I have not taken you in surprise,” Luken murmured.

  Pat Rin glanced up, smiling ruefully.

  “Not surprise, merely regret. I have enjoyed your presence in my house—as have Natesa and Quin. And my staff. I had hoped you might tarry a while longer, but I well know the lure of setting up one’s own establishment.”

  Luken laughed, gently.

  “As if I were in my puppyhood! No, my son, if you will have the truth, the establishment maintained by Boss Conrad is . . . somewhat too busy for a man of my years to find either restful or exhilarating. And”—a sharp glance here from wide grey eyes—“no man wants his father at his shoulder every hour.”

  He stretched out a hand. Pat Rin leaned forward in his seat to take it.

  “I propose that we go on as we had been accustomed to do, when you were not traveling. Let us meet for dinner once a twelve-day and catch ourselves up.”

  Boss Conrad’s schedule was not often giving. Pat Rin yos’Phelium’s schedule, however—and so he vowed upon the moment—would in this thing overrule the Boss.

  “Done,” he said, and squeezed his father’s fingers affectionately before releasing them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Surebleak Port

  If it’d been him, alone, he’d never gotten Haz into the autodoc. The pilot took a hand, though, and between them, they got her folded up inside, knees to forehead, but inside, and the lid down and the automatics up.

  His pilot sank to the floor plates as the status lights came up, and Tolly followed suit, collapsing to his knees, his shoulders pressed against the ’doc, and his skull ringing like a carillon.

  “You will want to see to your face,” his pilot said, her voice rich and warm in the mid-tones.

  “Just a cut,” he said, and made himself raise his head and look at her. Nice design; functional and nonthreatening.