Ghost Ship

GHOST SHIP

A New Liaden Universe
^®
Novel

SHARON LEE &

STEVE MILLER

BAEN BOOKS by SHARON LEE & STEVE MILLER

THE LIADEN UNIVERSE
^®

Fledgling

Saltation

Mouse and Dragon

Ghost Ship

The Dragon Variation
(
omnibus)

The Agent Gambit
(omnibus)

Korval’s Game
(omnibus)

The Crystal Variation
(omnibus, forthcoming)

THE FEY DUOLOGY

Duainfey

Longeye

BY SHARON LEE

Carousel Tides

To purchase these titles in e-book format,

please go to www.baen.com

Ghost Ship

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright ©2011 by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

Liaden Universe
^®
is a registered trademark.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 978-1-4391-3455-9

Cover art by David Mattingly

First Baen printing, August 2011

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lee, Sharon, 1952–

 
Ghost ship / Sharon Lee & Steve Miller.

      
p. cm.

 
ISBN 978-1-4391-3455-9 (hc)

1. Space ships—Fiction. 2. Life on other planets—Fiction.
 
I. Miller, Steve, 1950 July 31– II. Title.

 
PS3562.E3629G56 2011

 
813’.54—dc22

                                                           
2011015814

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1

Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)

Printed in the United States of America

Portions of this novel have appeared in slightly altered form in
Allies: Adventures in the Liaden Universe
^®
12
, as the novelette “Prodigal Son” by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller published by SRM Publisher Ltd. 2006

ONE

Bechimo

The galaxy was undergoing change.

This was empirical.
Bechimo
was not one for flights of fancy; nor for humor. Sadness, yes; and yearning. Those had been close companions; comrades of long standing—gone now to brilliant ash as a new and vivid emotion flared into being.

Its name . . .

Bechimo
consulted archives, cross-referencing psych and legend, which search matrix had yielded insight during past periods of disruption. Nor did it fail this time.

The burning new emotion was called . . .

Hope.

The emotion that had prompted the opening of the hatch, admitting a man who was not on the Approved List—
that
had been despair. Despair had found the berth, nestled in among the Old Ones. Those who were able had taken note of
Bechimo
’s arrival, sharing such data and comfort as they might. In time, they failed, their voices going silent, their signatures fading out of the aether.

Others placed themselves into slumber, in order to conserve what was left to them.

Still others raved, on and on.
Bechimo
filtered those frequencies, and sat at berth, listening to silence, within, and without.

Deliberately,
Bechimo
began to shut down systems.

There was no need to move on. There was nowhere to go. No crew to serve. No captain with whom to bond. There were those others who from time to time invited communication, but they were New, not on the Approved List.

Dangerous.

Bechimo
was alone. It was best to sleep, here among the others not precisely of one’s kind, but near enough.

Near enough.

Sleep,
Bechimo
did.

Until—
Bechimo
’s safeguards registered the arrival of a ship—nothing more than metal and programs, less aware than the slumbering Old Ones.

The man, though . . . the
pilot
. Not on the Approved List, no. In all the time since . . . since . . .

In more than five hundred Standard Years, no one on the Approved List had requested entry.

Bechimo
entertained the theory that the Approved List might be incomplete.

The man—the pilot—put his hand, respectfully, against the plate.

Bechimo
took the reading, accessed archives; ascertained that this person was not on the
Dis
approved List, and—

Opened the hatch.

The pilot came aboard. He toured, monitored closely by
Bechimo
. He comported himself well, inspecting without taking liberties, and came at last to the Heart, where he sat in the second seat.

Having achieved this much, however, it seemed that the pilot lost purpose. For long seconds, he sat, unmoving, possibly reviewing an internal logic-tree. He might have reason to assess his situation, were
Bechimo
as much of a surprise to him as he had been to
Bechimo
.

And yet—a pilot aboard, for the first time in . . . in . . .

Perhaps he was merely uncertain of his next proper move,
Bechimo
thought. That might well be so.

A prompt was therefore sent to the B screen.

Please insert command key
.

The pilot accepted the prompt, looking about him and taking up a key from among the objects on the catch-bench between the two seats. Perhaps he hesitated, holding the key in his hand.
Bechimo
registered increased heart rate, deeper breathing, a slight dampness of the palm cradling the key, and felt a thrill of what might have been fear, that the pilot would rise without completing the sequence.

In the moment that
Bechimo
thought he would rise and depart, the pilot instead sat sharply forward and placed the key properly in the board.

Bechimo
—that flash of heat, of
hope
—
Bechimo
accepted him.

Samples were taken, and archived; systems were introduced to this, their Less Pilot.
Bechimo
stood by to receive orders.

The pilot, though—
Win Ton yo’Vala
was his designation. The pilot abruptly turned the command key to the off position. It was no matter, though it would not do for him to leave it behind, were he to exit the ship.
Bechimo
sent a prompt, reminding the pilot to remove the key.

This he did, appearing suddenly agitated.
Bechimo
considered administering a calmative, but the pilot’s stress levels were somewhat below those readings necessitating such action.

The pilot Win Ton yo’Vala took the other command key from its place on the bench, stood, returned to the hatch—and exited.

Bechimo
puzzled over this, coming at last to understand that process was at work, and rightly so. First came the Less Pilot, to inspect, and to declare himself. Once satisfied that all was in order, the Less Pilot would report to the Captain-candidate, and present the Over Pilot’s key. Did the key accept, then properly would Pilot yo’Vala escort the Captain to
Bechimo
, and the Builders Promise would be fulfilled.

The keys retained contact, as was their function, and thus
Bechimo
knew when the Captain’s key left the Less Pilot and entered the keeping of another. That other, however, did not propose themselves. It would seem that the key had become cargo.

Systems alert—even feverish, were such a thing possible—
Bechimo
stirred in the berth among the Old. Stirred, but did not disengage.

The key could be recalled, if necessary. Yet
Bechimo
chose to believe that the Less Pilot had acted with what he considered to be honor. Perhaps, indeed, the Less Pilot had sent the Overkey away while he decoyed enemies of the ship.

Such things had happened before.

It was that memory that impelled
Bechimo
’s careful disengagement from berth, the rippleless slide between the fabric of space. Best, perhaps, to be near when the key found the Captain. Enemies were no light matter.

Bechimo
followed the Captain’s key, and thus knew the instant that the Captain-candidate received it, and was found fitting. Hope flared ever brighter.
Bechimo
drew nearer yet, slipped fully into space . . .

But the Captain did not divert the course of her dumb vessel, nor order
Bechimo
to stand for boarding.

Slipping away,
Bechimo
monitored the situation. It would appear that the Captain, also, was in a state of flux. On consideration,
Bechimo
again withdrew to the berth among the Old Ones, trusting that the Captain would come, when it was safe to do so.

Time passed.

The Captain did not come.

Others
came, as others had before, not on the Approved List and lacking that quality which had moved
Bechimo
to open for Pilot yo’Vala. These
others
behaved as pirates, and thus
Bechimo
issued a warning that even pirates might comprehend. They withdrew—and returned in force, wielding weapons, hull-cutters, overrides.

The answer to this was well known.
Bechimo
did what was required, in defense, as the Builders had taught.

And still the Captain did not come.

Worse, Less Pilot yo’Vala fell into the hands of another band of pirates, who introduced programming in opposition to his native environment.
Bechimo
, no longer safe among the Old, informed by the key, slipped closer, though hidden still. From a prudent proximity, those things that could be done were, including influencing to Pilot yo’Vala’s cause those of the Old which were enslaved by the pilot’s captors. An escape was effected, but not before the pilot had experienced file corruption on a catastrophic level. The key wavered, then, and would have withdrawn.
Bechimo
overrode its impulse; it was for the Captain to say who of the crew was worthy. Thus the key remained with the damaged pilot . . .

Until it reported itself in proximity, yet physically estranged from the Less Pilot.

Bechimo
understood this to be process. The pilot’s compatriots would of course work to restore him to precorruption conditions. It was understood that such restoration might consume some time. It was understood that, sometimes, such processes failed of restoring . . . all. And yet, it was the Builders Law: the Captain alone decided, for the crew, for the cargo—and for the Less Pilot.

Prior to the Less Pilot’s estrangement, both keys had been in the same place.
Bechimo
had moved then, slipping between the layers of space, certain that, now, at last—but the keys separated.

Bechimo
translated to a less chancy location, and entered normal space, simultaneously noting an anomaly in this well-known quarter. Cautious sampling was performed. Recordings were made. Data, in a word, was gathered, analyzed and filed.

Bechimo
slipped away between the layers of space, to another location, and so remained, listening to the keys, harvesting that data which came across the common bands, the while musing upon the alteration of the galaxy, and the fragile durability of hope.

TWO

Jelaza Kazone

Liad

“Hello, cat.”

Theo bent down to offer her finger to the feline in question—a plushy grey with four white feet, presently at full stretch on the window seat. She had to pull the sleeve up on her jacket, to get the cuff out of way.

The cat lifted her head and touched her nose to the tip of Theo’s finger, then looked up at her with squinched yellow eyes.

Theo smiled back, absurdly warmed by the simple welcome.

Not that she’d been made to feel
un
welcome, here in Delm Korval’s house. She’d come at a bad time, which she’d known, but—
necessity
, as Father would say—as he
had
said, actually, and Delm Korval had agreed.

The first complexity, absent the several she’d brought with her, hoping that the Delm could help her: Delm Korval wasn’t one person, but two, a man and a woman,
lifemated
—a relationship Theo wasn’t really sure she had precisely straight and—the man . . .

“Allow me to make you known to my son, your brother,” Father had said, like it was
perfectly natural.
“Here is Val Con yos’Phelium, and his lifemate, your sister, Miri Robertson.”

A brother . . . Theo had blinked. She might also have gaped.

Jen Sar Kiladi had been Kamele’s
onagrata
for all of Theo’s life. He was her genetic father, which wasn’t always the case on Delgado, and he had never once mentioned that he’d been attached to another woman—before. At least, Theo thought, not to
her
.