Liaden Universe [19] - Alliance of Equals - eARC (6 page)

“Lina hasn’t had another glimpse of this wall, though she’s still aware of Padi shifting the energy raised in the dance…somewhere.” She smiled slightly. “She asked me to tell you that her least-willing student has become over these last few sessions…somewhat more willing.”

Shan lifted his glass high. “Behold me, relieved! One naturally wishes one’s heir to accumulate accolades, but ‘least-willing student of
daibri’at
in the history of the dance’ is not quite in the line of one’s fondest hopes.”

Priscilla laughed.

“She already has ‘
avid student of menfri’at
,’” she pointed out.

“There is that. Am I to understand that Lina remains willing to wait, to watch with the rest of us, and to hope that the child wakens to her fullness with—shall we say—as little trauma as possible?”

“She’d rather not force Padi into her power,” Priscilla said, her eyes serious. “Neither would I.”

“Nor I. The Healers are in accord.”

He raised his glass again, in salute. Priscilla raised hers. There was a small, sharp clink as the rims kissed, and they drank.

A moment only to savor the vintage before Priscilla raised her glass once more. Shan lifted his in echo.

“To the bright life who would share our lives and our love. We invite you to this time and this place, where we will welcome you and treasure you.” She drank with a flourish, and set the empty glass aside.

Shan did the same, though with perhaps more puzzlement than flourish.

Priscilla extended a hand.

Her skin was cool and smooth, her fingers pale as cream against his brown palm. The familiar sweep of her aura simultaneously soothed and thrilled him.

“Priscilla?” he ventured.

“Yes, my love?”

“Are we going to have a child?”

She smiled, and he did, giddy with her joy.

“If the Goddess is willing—and you are.”

He bent his head to kiss her hand.

“Willing, though laggard. Why now, I wonder?”

A dark thread rippled through her joy, gone before he could read it.

“If I say that the Goddess came to me in a dream and told me that now is the time, the soul which will come to us as our child is ready…will that make you less willing?”

He considered that seriously. His respect for Priscilla’s faith did not particularly extend to her goddess, whom he regarded as unnecessarily meddlesome. On the other hand, the delms had made it clear that full nurseries were a priority of the House. Not that the delms were anything less than meddlesome themselves.

However, the thought of holding their child, with Priscilla’s black eyes and softly curling hair, fair melted him where he sat.

He shook his head, and smiled wryly.

“Let us leave it there—I am willing. No! I am eager.”

“Not too eager, I hope,” Priscilla said.

She swung her legs over the side of the lounge, drawing him to her as she sat up.

He rose to his knees, and kissed an upstanding nipple, the shiver of her delighted lust warming him.

“Not too eager,” she repeated, running her fingers through his hair. She slipped a hand beneath his chin and raised his face.

“We have hours,” she whispered, and kissed him.

—•—

Padi was at Runig’s Rock, and she was afraid.

So much depended on her—on all of them—but
she
was the only one who was afraid. Quin was grim, and Syl Vor serious, but they weren’t
afraid
. They didn’t huddle in their beds after lights-out, shivering with nothing more than
fear
.

Grandfather Luken and Cousin Kareen were quite matter-of-fact, even when discussing those plans of evacuation the success of which depended upon them staying behind to hold the enemy, to buy pilots and passengers time to board the ship, time to tumble out into space, and be well away. Time bought with Kareen and Luken’s
lives
, which they very well knew, and yet—
they
were not afraid.

Padi yos’Galan, whose duty was to stand copilot, to protect the pilot, and the ship, and the passengers—
Padi yos’Galan was afraid.

Syl Vor, whose duty was the most terrible of all—to protect the babies. To keep them quiet, and warm; fed and calm.

And, under no circumstances, in no conceivable situation, was he to allow them to fall into the hands of their enemies. Syl Vor carried a pistol, and Grandfather had very carefully explained who those pellets were for, and that Syl Vor must be very quick, and very certain, and that he must not miss when it came to the last shot.

Syl Vor was solemn; he was earnest. Syl Vor did not want to hurt the babies, his cousins. Certainly, he did not want to hurt himself.

But Syl Vor was not
afraid
. He absorbed his duty, learned what he must do and the manner of it. He drilled; he danced; and sometimes, in the evening, when drills and dance and lessons were done, he would sit and draw pictures of home: certain of the cats, Jeeves, the east flower garden, the stream, and the stepping stones…

Of them all, each holding duties far more terrible than her own…only
Padi yos’Galan
was afraid. Sometimes, in the night, she was so overcome with fear that she
cried
under the blankets; her fist stuffed in her mouth, lest she wake Quin, who had sharp ears, even in sleep. Not that Quin would mock her, but he was her pilot. He would question her ability to do her duty—rightly so. He might properly bring his concern to Grandfather, who would—what? There was no one else to take Padi’s duty. Grandfather held a third-class license; Cousin Kareen was no pilot at all. She was Quin’s copilot; that duty was hers, and hers alone, and she could not let fear cripple her.

“Ah!”

The cry woke her, and she sat up, chest heaving with sobs, her face wet with tears. Lights came up, illuminating her familiar quarters on the
Passage
—where her screen, stylus, and boots were all floating significantly above the surfaces where they been resting when she sought her bunk.

No! Not here, not now!

She covered her face with her hands, and swallowed, taking a deep breath against the sobs, just as she had done, the night she had decided, on the Rock, what she must do with her fear.

That night, she had completed a pilot’s breathing exercise, and when the sobs had subsided, she had lain down and run the Rainbow, telling herself at the end of the sequence not to sleep, but to arise, with sharpened senses, and go to the practice room.

She had done that, without waking anyone, and there, she had danced. In her mind’s eye, she had danced inside her room at the end of the Rainbow, and her dancing had built a closet, made of stone. She had stepped into the closet and screamed out all her fear and all her tears. When she was empty, she exited, and locked the closet behind her.

Aboard the
Passage
, with less than two hours until the end of her sleep shift, she could not go to any of the practice rooms. The ship would note her deviation from schedule, and alert Father, or the captain, or the officer on duty. She would have to explain herself, and it was the last thing she wanted to tell anyone—least of all Father—that she was a coward—and that she had lied to him.

So, then.

Shivering, but no longer crying, Padi slipped out of her bunk. She glared at her boots, which were floating at about the level of her nose, breathed in, and snapped, “
Behave
!”

They hit the floor with a solid thump. Behind her she heard the stylus strike the desktop and roll, and her screen settle with a bump.

Padi looked about her quarters. Far too cramped
here
for
menfri’at.

But it was not, she thought suddenly, too cramped to dance
daibri’at
. For focus, was it? And to make her aware of her intent?

Yes, certainly.

The closet had weakened since its creation. She would reinforce it; make it so strong that the fear would never break free again.

She took a breath, brought her imaginary ball in front of her heart, and called upon her intentions.

CHAPTER SIX

Dutiful Passage

Andiree Approach

They had made good use of their hours together, Shan thought with a certain satisfaction, as he settled in behind his desk. No doubt, it was very wrong of him to wish that they had hours—even days!—more ahead of them.

“Which, of course, you do,” he told himself, as he opened his mail queue. “Or so one trusts. Viewed correctly, in fact, this small interlude of labor provides an opportunity for you to recruit your strength.”

Priscilla was on the bridge, as a captain ought to be, during breakout. Soon enough, he would himself be on the trade bridge, eager ’prentice in attendance, and the entire Port of Andiree clamoring to do business with them.

Or not. Ports were fickle things, and had become more fickle still in these new circumstances in which Korval found itself.

But, there! One would strive to think happy thoughts. Anthora swore that a positive attitude had the ability to change worlds.

…which was a fairly unsettling thought, considering the source.

The breakout bell sounded; the
Passage
shifted into normal space with scarcely a quiver. Shan smiled, and turned to his screen as it flashed and cleared, gong announcing an incoming emergency report.

* * *

It was a preliminary report, very brief, with a promise of details to follow:

Pale Wing
, one of Korval’s first-line ships—in fact, the ship on which Padi had served as cabin boy—had been fired upon on approach to a port where she was well known and, previously, welcomed.

Shan drew a hard breath, his stomach clenching, reaching for the comm even as it buzzed. He touched a key.

“Yes, Priscilla, I have it,” he said.

“The detailed report just hit,” she said. “Forwarded to all pilots and reserve pilots. Meeting at fifteen hundred hours in the second-level conference room.”

“I’ll be there,” he said, turning back to his screen and the detailed report.

—•—

Hazenthull leaned against the counter where Tolly had been, and closed her eyes, the better to think.

It was true that she was the least of the small-Troop which had been come under the command of Hero Captain Miri Robertson, who had vanquished the Fourteenth Conquest Corps. Though she had received several so-called “therapy sessions” from Lady Anthora yos’Galan, who had the ability to reach inside heart and mind and make such adjustments as were deemed necessary…

Despite this, she, an Explorer, had not progressed nearly so well as even Diglon Rifle. Diglon had embraced their new circumstances with enthusiasm, and set himself to learn…everything, while she…found comfort only in her work cycle at the port, in the simple duties of a guard, as if she were nothing more than a Rifle herself.

Comfort in routine, and then, when Commander Lizardi had paired her in duty with Tolly Jones, something more than comfort. Something that she had not felt since before the Elder had fallen.

Comradeship.

Tolly Jones had deserted his post, and she—she had followed after him, to ensure that he came safe to his next destination. She had chosen—
chosen
—her partner over the Troop.

She had chosen her partner over her service to the captain, if it came to that, though she had not expected to find herself—

The door to the galley whisked open. Hazenthull straightened, hand rising in a salute to the pilot’s honor…

…and hesitated a damning instant before completing the strike to her shoulder.

The pilot was small, seemingly fragile, perfectly clean and white. Perhaps she glowed somewhat. Or, thought Hazenthull, perhaps it was merely that she was so
very
white, that she
seemed
to glow in the galley’s low lighting. Certainly, she
floated
, a little distance above the decking, wafting forward under some noiseless compulsion.

“Good waking to you, Hazenthull Explorer.” The voice was mellow, and female. She spoke Terran with a light, lilting accent. “I am Tocohl Lorlin, pilot. Allow me to welcome you aboard
Tarigan
, and to thank you for your care of my copilot.”

“You are welcome,” Hazenthull said, which was an important civilian phrase.

There was a pause. The screen at the apex of the pilot’s body tilted slightly upward, and Hazenthull saw the shadow of a woman’s face.

“Perhaps I distress you, Hazenthull Explorer. Speak frankly, please.”

Hazenthull drew a breath.

“Pilot, not…distress. Surprise. Is it permitted to inquire into your nature?”

“Certainly. I am an autonomous intelligence; a full individual person.”

Hazenthull nodded. Such persons lived, as she had learned, a perilous existence, pursued by mercenary hunters, should they reveal themselves, whereupon they would be stripped of their personhood and either enslaved or killed. Jeeves, the head of Security in the House of Korval, was one such, and she subordinate to him in rank.

It would not, of course, be wise to mention Jeeves to Pilot Tocohl. She might, however, say something of the truth.

“I have met your like, Pilot, and I am no friend of the laws which oppress you.”

The shadow face might have smiled.

“That is well said, thank you. I will tell you that I am well acquainted with Jeeves, and it was he whom I called when you fell into my care. He queried Captain Robertson regarding her orders, given the urgency our mission, and naturally recorded her response. I will make that recording available to you.

“Regarding the status of this ship and pilots—our mission is
most
urgent. We are bound into a situation that is not…necessarily stable. It may, in fact, be quite dangerous. Your presence on our team would mean that Tolly and I would be able to more fully concentrate on our primary mission, knowing that you will ensure our safety while we do so.”

“What is this mission?” Hazenthull asked.

Pilot Tocohl bowed slightly.

“The mission is very complex and quite…secret. You will appreciate that, for the safety of the pilots and of the mission, I cannot divulge more until I have your agreement to be a part of our team.”

“The captain has given me to you,” Hazenthull pointed out.

Pilot Tocohl tipped her screen to one side.

“And yet, if you do not like the assignment, or feel that you cannot support us, it would be best for all concerned if you were to leave at the first opportunity. We will be coming out of Jump at Bieradine. You may leave us there, if you so decide. I will transfer funds sufficient to a safe and comfortable layover, until a Korval ship arrives to take you home.”

Staying safely by herself held…less appeal than it might. Hazenthull drew a deep breath.

“I would hear the tape and review the file on Bieradine,” she said, adding courteously, “if the pilot pleases. Also, it may assist the pilot in her own deliberations to know that I, too, am a pilot.”

“I have your résumé from Jeeves,” Pilot Tocohl said. “Based on it, and on what Pilot Tolly has told me of your partnership, I believe that we could do no better than to have you with us on our mission. My only hesitation lies with you. If you cannot give your full support, then it is best for all that we part.”

“I understand,” Hazenthull said, and then, though her mind was already made up, “My decision will be clearer, once I have heard my captain’s instructions.”

“Of course. There is a study room beyond the galley. You may be private there. I will give you full access to everything save the particulars of the mission.”

“Thank you,” Hazenthull said, “Pilot.”

“Thank you,” the pilot said. “For your patience in the face of this…irregular circumstance. Please, follow the orange line on the floor. It will lead you to the study room.”

Hazenthull glanced down, espying the thin, bright line running along the decking.

She bowed slightly from the waist, and turned to follow the path to the study room.

—•—

Shan knew that the details were horrifyingly similar to the attack upon
Bechimo
at Ynsolt’i, and let it be known that
Pale Wing
was nothing like an independent sentient ship with the gods only knew what Old Tech capabilities built into his systems. A tradeship, built—
well built
—in Korval’s own yards, she was a fine vessel, was
Pale Wing
, with a fine crew aboard her. But, as one must phrase it, in the case,
only
a tradeship, and no more able to maneuver sprightly in tight traffic than an average rock.

There it was, on his screen—
Pale Wing
on the approach to Liltander, an extremely busy trade hub, very much like Ynsolt’i. The ship was well known to Traffic; indeed,
Pale Wing
’s pilot and Liltander’s Traffic Guide greeted each other as old friends might, and fell easily into a routine well known to both. Everything proceeded in a seemly and normal manner until, with
Pale Wing
deep inside the pattern, constrained by other traffic, two light-craft, armed, and with perhaps the appearance of police cruisers or hunter ships, arrived and attempted to divert them from their designated path and final docking.

An appeal was made to the Guide, who said, angrily—so it seemed to Shan, listening at his desk—that the matter had passed out of her hands.

The light-craft again demanded that
Pale Wing
alter course, on threat of specific violence—and the pilot complied with the order.

To a point.

Ama ven’Tyrlit sat as captain of
Pale Wing
, a woman of great personal fortitude, and a master pilot besides. The next maneuver had her mark on it—bold to the near edge of insanity and impeccably executed.

Pale Wing
inched through traffic, not quite on the coordinates given, but near enough that it could be seen that a good faith attempt was being made to comply. Only when she was clear of the tightest congestion was it revealed what that small deviation had gained her.

A freighter loomed between
Pale Wing
and the hunters; a relatively clear avenue before her, and it was a mad dash then, at velocities that made him catch his breath, with the hunters scrambling to be away from the freighter.

By the time they were in the clear, it was too late, at least, for the easy fulfillment of that specific promise of violence.

Pale Wing
had aligned herself with Traffic Control, where she commenced to keep station, while sending out a broadband call for a guild mediator.

And there the matter stood. The hunters might yet have fired, but the risk to the station, or their own visibility, stayed their hand. The call for a guild mediator ought to have frozen all pieces in place, of course, but Shan had no illusions about that, had there been fewer witnesses.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the last scene from
Pale Wing
’s video log—the two hunters, looking very much like those that had threatened
Bechimo
, waiting just outside the shadow of the station. And
Pale Wing
, just
inside
that shadow, holding an entire station hostage to the good behavior of savages, while a world, and more, watched.

A call went out for a guild mediator. Liltander being a hub, there was bound to be a guild mediator—or three dozen—lying about, waiting for something to do to pass an afternoon or evening.

Shan swallowed, his stomach sour. Self-preservation aside, a ship endangering a station was not something that any mediator worth his certification would overlook. There would at least be a fine, if not an interdiction, and while the hunters would very likely reap more, and worse, that was very cold comfort indeed.

The screen beeped, indicating that the log had skipped ahead four-point-six Standard hours, to the arrival of the mediator, and his judgement.

Shan reached for his wineglass.

* * *

The guild mediator had leveled a fine—not as large a fine as it might have been, but more than negating any profits
Pale Wing
might have expected to wring from the traders of Liltanderport, had she been permitted to resume docking.

Which she was not.

The guild mediator suggested that
Pale Wing
take up whatever goods were waiting for her, send down any directed cargo by tug—and quit Liltander space.

What befell the hunters was even less satisfying, as they had been able to produce documents linking them to the local security net, as contractors. The guild mediator could do little but remand them to the discipline of their chief, which he did in the strongest possible language.

The log entry ended. Shan closed his eyes, ran through a quick focusing exercise, and opened his eyes to the message waiting light.

A letter of apology was in-queue from Captain ven’Tyrlit, who offered her resignation, if he wished it; and a letter from
Pale Wing
’s trader, the redoubtable tel’Brakin, begging his instruction.

—•—

Some hours later, she was back in the galley, a mug of tea cooling in her hand while she stared at a particularly uninteresting piece of decking. She had finished her review of the files Pilot Tocohl had released to her, and—

“What’s the problem, Haz?”

Tolly hitched up onto the edge of the galley’s long counter and sat there, arms braced on either side, booted feet swinging above the decking.

Hazenthull stirred, and sighed. Tolly was a skilled reader of people, and while they had not been partners for a very long time, they had been an effective team. Tolly himself said that they
clicked
, as if they were two modules that operated well enough on their own, but which, joined, became a single, deadly efficient device. It was nothing to wonder about, that he saw her at brown study and correctly deduced that she was ill at ease.

She raised the mug, tasted cold tea, and grimaced.

Shifting out of her lean, she turned toward the pot.

“Would you like tea?”

“Sure, tea’d be fine,” he answered, and waited while she poured, taking the cup she gave him between his palms, and lowering his face into the steam.

Hazenthull resumed her lean against the counter, holding her mug carefully in one hand.

“You decide to leave us at Bieradine?” Tolly asked, raising his head, and giving her a straight look from guileless blue eyes.