by Eric Flint
Liz took a breath. "You got a distraction in mind, I take it?"
"Yes'm." She nodded. "I do."
* * *
"Tech Brunner, I have news which may . . . ease your burden somewhat."
Brunner turned from his screen. The Scout was disheveled, even unkempt. He was, however, smiling. Brunner felt his own heart lift in response, which was surely not wise, but hearts were not known for wisdom.
"What has happened?" he asked.
"We have shuttle craft fueled and standing by, we have pilots volunteered from among the crew."
"Ah. And the permission of Chief Thurton, you have that, as well?"
"Pending receipt of a message from Phaetera headquarters. If the hour comes upon us and the message as yet unreceived, we go. This by the chief's own word."
Brunner's knees wobbled. He sat abruptly on the stool.
"This is . . . an astonishing reversal," he said slowly, and took a breath.
"Earlier, when I spoke to her—they are still pinned. Commander Lizardi had pulled back, and sent recon to seek a way around." He took another breath, remembering. "She said, this morning's count was twenty-seven. The civilians . . . they did not survive the night."
The Scout inclined his head. "All honor to them," he murmured, then straightened, eyes bright. "We have been in contact with others who are also making for the rendezvous point. We will take any and all who meet us, but . . . I fear we will not be able to wait for those who are not there."
"Understood," Brunner whispered. He cleared his throat. "Understood."
* * *
"Tech? Ichliad? You there?"
"I am here, galandaria." As if he could—would—be anywhere else until this was over, however it came . . .
He leaned his head against edge of the monitor, the plastic cool against his skin.
"I wanted to tell you," Miri Robertson said, her voice as clear as if she stood next to him in the weather lab. "Couple things. First, you done real good by us; we wouldn't've got this far without you helping us so much . . ."
Brunner closed his eyes, hand fisted on his lap. "Child . . ."
"No, hey, listen. And I gotta tell you—having you on the other end of this thing, talking to me, an' all? You didn't have to do that and it—I don't guess I can say out how much it helped, so you're gonna just hafta believe it did. A lot. We sit down and get that coffee, after this is all over, I'll try to 'splain it better, okay?"
Brunner swallowed. "Okay . . ."
"Good," she said. "That's good. Now, the other thing I got to tell you? We're gonna be moving real soon. Gonna strike for the rendezvous point—run like hell, that's the plan. Good one, huh?"
"Indeed. A most excellent plan."
"It's got a lot going for it, mostly being the only plan we got," she said, sounding amused. "But, see, the Stubbs here. I'm gonna—"
"Leave it!" he said violently. That she should worry over mere equipment when—He took a breath.
"Galandaria, listen to me. Set the unit to automatic and leave it. I will gather what data I may, while it functions. Promise me that you will do this."
"No . . . can't. I—Brunner. Look, I need this thing, okay? What I wanted to tell is—you're prolly gonna lose the signal. Don't worry 'bout that, right? Promise."
Gods, gods. He took another deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice was calm, never hinting at the tears running from closed eyes.
"Of course, you will do as you deem wise," he told her. "You have never given me cause to doubt your judgment. Now," he said, more briskly. "You should know that the Scout has just recently assured me that there will be ships at the rendezvous point. They will board any who come, but they will not wait, galandaria. Do you understand me?"
"Got it," she said cheerfully. "Right in line with the plan, huh?"
"Yes," he murmured. "Run like hell."
* * *
"Get 'im?" Skel hunkered down next to her and held out a square of chocolate.
"Did. Told me to get my ass to the rendezvous point or else." She nodded at the chocolate. "You better have that."
"Already did," he said, and if he was lying—which he prolly was—he was good. "Saved this out for you. Least I can do, huh?"
"Thanks." She took it and gnawed on a corner while she pulled up the Stubbs' manual, ran the search and pulled up the page.
"You tell 'im it ain't likely you'll be with us to meet the pilots?" Skel asked harshly.
She looked up at him, shaking her head. "Not planning on getting done just yet. You?"
"What are you planning, then, if you don't mind sharing with a friend?"
She nodded at the screen, gnawing on her chocolate. "This thing here? It's got a power supply capable of powering a pinbeam."
Skel sat back on his heels, face attentive. "Does it, now?"
"That's what it says here." She tapped the screen. "An' if I was to do a series of something stupids, like it warns me here in this manual never to do? Then it might give up all its power at once."
Skel didn't say anything. She gave him a look and a grin. "Want your chocolate back now, don't you?"
"You got everything you need to pull this off?"
She nodded, and reached 'round with her free hand to pull the grubby cord up over her head. The key was right where she'd put it, nestled next to the enamel disk her mother'd given her. She palmed it and let Skel put the string back over her head, and tuck the pouch away.
"You tell 'im up there you was gonna blow up his equipment?"
"Told him he was gonna lose the signal, and not to think anything 'bout it."
"That'll be a comfort," Skel said dryly, and Miri sighed.
"I'll make it up to him. Now, gimme a minute to read this part again, right?"
* * *
The door opened and Jack strode in, tool belts clanking.
"Tech," he said, nodding, and wandered over to the supply cupboard, belt clanking, casually opening a hatch that was coded to Brunner's thumbprint, and placing something within it.
"I see that I am wise to lock important items away," Brunner said.
The big man shot a grin over one shoulder. "Little testy? Well, you got a right, I guess. We all do. Just gotta remember that I hold the overrides. You're safe from everybody but me." He closed the hatch and walked over to the monitor shelf, hitching himself up on the stool.
Brunner sighed and turned back to his screen. "If you are here for a purpose . . . ?"
"Come down to see how the work was going, is all. Heard from that girl of yours lately?"
"Indeed. She informs me that they intend to make rendezvous. I have assured her that the ships will be there."
"Did you, now," Jack murmured, and Brunner threw him a sharp look.
"Will the ships be there?" he demanded.
"Said so, didn't you? Now, you might be interested in knowing that the chief, he got his answer from the company. And—following the letter of his instructions, y'know, just like he ought—he's had the Scout arrested and thrown in the brig. I expect to be—yeah, here it is, now."
Footsteps rang in the corridor outside; the door opened and three people in Phaetera security colors entered the room. One stood by the door, stunrod held ready, the other two advanced on Jack, who docilely held out his hands to accept the restraints.
"Phaetera Company orders Jacumbra Edgil removed from his position and the company payroll. His access to the station is restricted and he will be removed from the station at the earliest opportunity." The security guard looked up from the portable from which she had been reading, and looked hard into Jack's face. "Phaetera Company also wishes you to know that there will be no involvement in the situation on the planet below. Promises of rescue or succor made by Scout Commander Kon Rad yo'Lazne and/or Jacumbra Edgil are not binding on Phaetera Company."
What? "But—" Jack's shoulder lifted minutely and Brunner stopped himself, biting his lip. Jack rose at the prompting of his guard, bound hands held awkwardly in front of him. The other guard looked t
o Brunner.
"We apologize for disturbing your work, Technician Brunner."
"Jack—"
"See you, Brunner! Hey, it's about time I got a vacation. Don't expect the Scout to be such good company, though . . ."
He passed through the door on the heels of his guard, the others following.
The door closed, leaving Brunner alone with the equipment.
* * *
Getting in close enough to kill the gun, Redhead thought, as she rested behind the scant cover of a charred bush, that was gonna be tricky.
But not half as tricky as getting back out before the Stubbs blew.
Liz, she'd laid down the law, and it was the scariest thing Miri had heard so far in her life.
"Soon's Redhead's diversion goes off, we're running, and it's every hand for themselves, you hear me? If your partner falls and don't get up, run. If I fall—run. If you get hit and fall and it ain't fatal—get up, damn you, and run!"
Miri figured she'd be a little behind the general race, what with having to set the Stubbs and all. She had the route to the rendezvous set in her mind, so that was okay. Skel, he'd wanted to stick with her, but she'd told him to look out for himself, like Liz'd said, and she'd see him at the shuttles, or for sure on the station, after.
Time to move. She took a breath in, deep, got her feet under her, and moved.
* * *
Brunner locked the lab door, went to the cupboard, set his thumb in the lock and pulled the door open.
Calmly, and not at all surprised, he removed the non-station communication device and a data stick.
Returning to the monitors, he cleared one, inserted the stick, and touched the "talk" button on the communicator.
"Jack?" Cautious. Low.
"Brunner," he answered serenely. "I am the meteorologist of record. You and your compatriots are in place and willing?"
"We're willing, sir, but the dock's locked up."
"Security?"
"Not now."
A schematic blossomed on the screen as the feed from the datastick kicked in. Brunner looked at it, understood what he was to do, and spoke into the communicator.
"You can move at once."
"Yessir, but—"
"I will take care of the airlock and the bay door. If anyone should ask, you do this on under my orders, which you believe I am able to issue. You understand this?"
"Yessir."
"Good. The airlock will cycle in three minutes from my mark. Mark. What is your name?"
"Jamin Fowler, sir."
"Jamin Fowler, fly well. The weather will be unsettling on planet, bear in mind that it will soon be worse. Be quick, and bring everyone you can."
"We aim to do just that, sir."
"Good," Brunner said. "Good."
He glanced over at the weather screen, saw the window for the Stubbs open, and data begin to flow. Surely not! he thought, suddenly not calm at all. There was no time now to stop and—
The data continued to flow, he reached out, touched the speaker plate—
Static from the speaker was abruptly cut off. On the screen, the data flow ceased, and the window reformed, displaying the legend:
NO SIGNAL. CACHING HISTORY. ARCHIVING. DONE.
* * *
Day 54, Standard Year 1393
Solcintra, Liad
"We had managed," the Delm Lysta said, "to quiet the problems you have caused. We brought you home to the clanhouse, fed you, clothed you, kept you from prying eyes and wagging tongues. You have, in return, tended our inner gardens, and for the most part you have been respectful."
His delm turned on him suddenly. Brunner recognized the play, and the actor whose stance was but poorly emulated.
"Tell me why you thought, what gave you the least reason to assume, that you would be permitted to broadcast your name to the world now? You fall yet short of the ten standards we had agreed to retain you in house for your own protection. Have you no sense of propriety? Is it that you specialize in disasters?"
The delm pounded a key, sweeping the on-hold play from the wall-screen taller than he and replacing it with:
Scouts Confirm Meteorologic Concerns over Blast Aftermath read the teaseline, above a wonderfully colorful and overwrought full motion graphic representation of the beam blast and the resultant dust plume. Below that was his paper, exactly as he had written to yo'Lazne, detailing his concerns regarding trace timonium and other radioactive by-products, the assumptions of dispersal difficulties, the recommendation that nearby residents be tested for pollutants at least and perhaps treated to a prophylactic stay in an autodoc.
There was more. He was quoted from his letters of testimony regarding the investigation into the actions of Phaetera Company in the matter of Klamath, his certifications were listed. As he had given his opinions in his melant'i as a professional and an expert, he was signed as I. Brunner, Master Meteorologist, with neither clan nor even city of residence appended.
His analysis, including jet-stream particulate distribution, fall-out rates, half-lives, everything he'd sent to the Scout, were included by link.
Brunner sighed and turned to his delm.
"By warning the people of Liad of the peculiar nature and dangers of the blast plume, and showing potential areas of concern, I have shamed the house?"
His delm stamped feet, twice. Brunner wasn't certain of the play from which the gesture was borrowed, though the mood he knew far too well. The delm being a forever hopeful playwright, all actions were seen through another author's eyes.
"Ten Standards. Ten Standards you were to remain silent to the world, and then to remove yourself to a quiet occupation. This morning already I have had three comm calls and a piece of mail inquiring if is the clan home of I. Brunner.
"We have an orderly house." The delm sniffed. "And we will have an orderly house. This—" waving energetically at the wall "—is not a quiet occupation, do you understand? I am willing to acknowledge you ten years a gardener, and to divert a portion of the trust to set you in that service."
Brunner bowed, acknowledging that he'd heard.
The comm line blinked; the delm ignored it in favor of staring toward the door toward the outer halls, where a rarely heard chime echoed discreetly.
"This, if this is more of your doing we shall . . ."
The what of the doing was interrupted by yet another comm call; this one at least was known to the house for the comm emitted a quiet chirchirchir, stolen from the sounds of chiretas closing out the last act of A Clan Dissolute, the extended critical version.
The delm said "Answer" and the comm dutifully did so.
"Cousin," started the voice, and Brunner winced. "Imagine my surprise . . ."
"Hold Cousin, there's a knock."
Brunner winced again: Act II, Scene 6 of The Interminable as echoed in Act I, Scene 4, of the current rage False Melant'i.
Verena stood at the door when the delm opened it. A polite if rapid bow followed, and a sweep of words.
"There are visitors to see Ichliad. They ask by name and they have . . ."
A stamp of feet.
"Ichliad does not receive visitors. Not from friends and not from the curious! This house does not permit."
Brunner still stood, wondering if the child would break and run. He was pleased to see that she did not, nor did she look at him.
"My delm, please. I have cards." She showed them, two, fanned between small fingers. "Also, the lady sends this—" She raised her other hand, showing a slightly phosphorescent blue key.
Brunner's stomach went into freefall.
Lysta snatched the cards, reached for the key, but Verena stepped sideways, extending her hand to Brunner.
"The lady said that I should place it in Ichliad's hand, for she had promised to bring it back to him, when her mission was done."
He moved, received the key, and stood for a moment staring at the imprinted Stubbs logo in archaic Terran script.
"She died," he said, perhaps to Verena, perhaps to h
is delm. "On Klamath. I—she was not listed among the survivors and—"
"Korval!" His delm's voice carried shock without artifice. "We cannot receive Korval. They are—"
". . . thrown off planet for being bad boys and girls," an ironic voice concluded in backworld Terran. A redheaded woman in working leathers stepped into the room neatly between Verena and Lysta, followed by a slender, dark haired man wearing a battered pilot's jacket.