Linesman (2 page)

The first six months of his apprenticeship, Ean had wondered if he'd ever become a linesman. Until he'd learned that when they told him to push, they actually meant they wanted the line straight. He could sing the lines straight.

“It's probably a manifestation of your being self-taught,” the not-so-antagonistic trainer had told him. “You push as you sing, and that bad habit is so entrenched now, you can't do it without singing.”

Ean had never been able to break the habit.

He could feel the two apprentices in the corner listening as the linesmen talked. One of them was strong on line five, the other on line eight. Rigel didn't normally get anyone above a
seven. Ean opened his eyes, but he couldn't see which one it was.

The trainers had told him you couldn't tell what line a linesman would be without testing, but sometimes Ean could hear the lines in them. The trainers had told him it was because he'd learned bad habits by not being trained in childhood, and that of course he could tell what someone was because he'd already seen the number of bars they wore. Ean didn't care. He would bet that Rigel had just got himself an eight. How long he would keep him—or her—was another question altogether. A higher cartel would poach him.

The conversation turned to the confluence. One of the sevens—Kaelea—had been out there to service the Bose engines, “Because the nines and tens couldn't do it, of course. They're too busy,” and Ean hadn't needed his eyes open to see the roll of eyes that accompanied that. “It's . . . I don't know. It's huge, and it's . . . you can feel the lines, but you don't know what they are, and—”

He could hear the awe in her voice. But he couldn't tell what the lines were. Sometimes he could pick the level from the linesman's voice when they talked about the line. He hadn't mentioned that particular talent to the trainers either. They wouldn't have believed him, or they would have said it was another bad-training defect.

Kaelea had said “lines” rather than “line,” which meant there was more than one line out there. What would have multiple lines anyway? A ship? A station? As Ean had pointed out to Rigel, he was good at picking lines. He'd at least be able to say if there were lots of different lines or just a few.

He'd like a chance to prove that he could find out, anyway.

“We make more money hiring you out while the rest of the tens are busy trying to work that out,” Rigel had said.

That was true. Ean was busier than he'd ever been, and Rigel smiled more broadly every time he sent Ean out on a job.

Ean dozed after that.

One of the linesmen touched his arm. He blinked blearily, trying to focus.

“Are you okay?”

It was Kaelea.

He realized the cart had stopped, and everyone else was out.

“Come on, Kaelea,” one of the other gaudily dressed people said.

“I don't think he's well.”

“Leave him, or you'll be fined, too.”

“I'm okay,” Ean said. “Just really, really tired.” He wasn't sure she heard him. Next time, he'd take more care of his voice.

He struggled to sit up and almost fell getting out of the cart.

“I'll help you,” Kaelea said, waving off his protests, and led him up to the house. “My room is closer,” and by now he was staggering too much to care. God but he was tired.

She pushed him down onto the bed and started to pull off his sweat-stained shirt. “I don't think Rigel saw you,” she said. “You may not get a fine.”

He tried to protest, but closed his eyes instead and was instantly asleep.

•   •   •

EAN
woke, naked and sprawled out on the bed and couldn't remember how he'd come to be that way.

For a moment, he couldn't work out what had woken him either.

“He's a ten, you say?” The clipped vowels of the Lancastrian noblewoman made him think he was back home in the slums of Lancia.

He struggled awake fast. That was one nightmare he didn't want to return to.

“Definitely a ten.” The oily tones of Rigel, Ean's cartel master, reassured him on that much at least. He was years past the grottoes of Lancia. “Certified by the Grand Master himself.” Then his voice rose and cracked. “You can't be going to—”

It was all the warning Ean had before the disruptor beam slammed into his mind and ten lines of song came together in a discordant cacophony. His brain almost burst with the noise. He didn't even think. He turned the lines so they flowed back in on themselves down the line, back to the disruptor. The weapon disintegrated in a flash of heat and flame. He was only sorry to see that the Lancastrian lady had thrown it down before it had disintegrated. He would have liked to have burned off the hand.

A disruptor was a one-use weapon, made with a full set
of lines, created especially to destroy other lines. Ean had heard they cost as much as a small shuttle. Who could afford one, let alone use it? Who would even think to use such a monstrous thing against humans?

“He is a ten,” the noblewoman agreed. She sounded almost surprised.

“Of course he is.” Rigel was white.

Ean was pretty white himself. A disruptor would have killed anyone less than a ten, could even have killed him if he'd been a fraction slower.

“I've dealt with you before, Rigel,” the noblewoman said. “Last time you sold me a five as a six.”

Rigel did that occasionally, when he thought he could get away with it, and most people knew a Lancastrian wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

“I . . . Surely not.” Rigel was back to his oily, obsequious best. He thought he was back in control.

Ean knew better. Lancastrian nobles may not know their line ratings, but they definitely knew revenge. He pulled on his pants and a pair of boots. He was in Kaelea's room. He didn't remember what had happened after they'd arrived. “So did you really want a ten, or just to teach Rigel a lesson?”

He was glad the gutter slum was gone from his accent. He spoke Standard now, could have come from anywhere in the Conglomerate. His voice, still hoarse, was better than it had been when he'd gone to sleep.

The noblewoman glanced at him and Ean saw for the first time the distinctive blue eyes of the Lyan clan. He forced himself to not wipe his suddenly damp palms down the side of his trousers. This wasn't just any clan. This was royalty.

The woman was smiling, actually smiling, at a slum creature like him. She wouldn't do that if she knew what stood in front of her.

“I did want a ten, but I wasn't planning on getting one from here,” she admitted.

Rigel didn't get it, not at first. He opened his mouth and closed it again. “But he's a ten,” he whispered, finally.

“If I'd died, I wouldn't have been, would I,” Ean said. He understood Lancastrian revenge.

“But I would have offered her at least a nine.” Not that Rigel had any nines.

Both Lancastrians shrugged.

“When I ask for a six, I expect a six,” the Lancastrian noble said.

“But—” Rigel couldn't seem to stop the fish imitation.

Ean gathered up the rest of his clothes. “You obviously don't need me.” He could see Kaelea hovering in the passage. “I'll leave you to it then,” and made for the door.

“Hold,” said the Lancastrian noblewoman. “I'll take him,” she said to Rigel.

Rigel smiled his oily smile.

“Less the cost of the six I purchased.”

The smile stopped, fixed. Then Rigel bobbed his head suddenly. “Of course, my Lady Lyan.”

Lady Lyan. Only three women could call themselves Lady Lyan, and Ean bet this woman wasn't one of them. Any true daughter of the Lancastrian emperor would be tied up so tightly in protocol and security guards, she wouldn't be able to move. So who was this imposter? She must be one of the illegitimate children. There were rumors they were plentiful. Not that Ean cared, he supposed, but he hoped they would never come across true Lancastrian royalty or soldiers while he was working for the imposter. They were likely to all be killed.

“And I want the contract,” Lady Lyan said.

The color faded again from Rigel's face. “But—” Ean could almost read his thoughts. No matter what Rigel said, Ean brought in 90 percent of the money right now. “Well, obviously that will cost more,” Rigel said eventually.

“I don't like being cheated,” Lady Lyan said. “I don't like my staff's dying because I give them tasks they can't do. Take the money and be glad I didn't destroy your whole cartel as I planned to.”

Rigel made one more token protest, but Ean knew he'd already lost. The Lancastrian had done her homework. She knew how much it would hurt Rigel to lose his only ten, whether by death or by contract conversion. That was what she had come in today to do, and they all knew it. Ean was just grateful to be alive.

Even so, he was surprised Rigel didn't protest more.

Lady Lyan beckoned to Kaelea, still hovering in the hall. “Witness.”

Kaelea looked as if she would turn and run, but Rigel beckoned frantically, too.

The exchange of contract took less than a minute. They all witnessed, then it was over.

If Ean was lucky, the Lancastrian noble would on-sell his contract today. Then, finally, maybe, he could get out into the confluence with all the other nines and tens. He didn't want to think about the alternative—stuck working for a Lancastrian. He'd sworn he would never have anything to do with Lancia again.

•   •   •

THEY
left immediately, without giving Ean time to pack.

“Send his things on,” Lady Lyan ordered Rigel. She looked at the shirt Ean now had time to pull on. “Except the uniforms.”

The thought of Rigel's pawing through his possessions gave Ean the creeps. He was unlikely to get anything sent through. He considered demanding time to get his things, but he hadn't collected much in the ten years he'd been with the cartel, and anything of value was already programmed into his comms, which was in his pocket. Better to save his fights for important things, he decided.

His new owner had a private cart waiting. Not owner, Ean reminded himself. Employer. This woman might own the contract, but she was still obligated to pay him. And if she didn't—for who could trust a rich Lancastrian to abide by their contract if they could get out of it—then he could go to the cartel Grand Master for breach of contract. His contract stipulated minimum amounts, plus bonuses, and how frequently he was to be paid. He thought about the contract as they waited for the cart. It wasn't good pay.

His new owner—employer—must have been thinking similar thoughts. “Does Rigel pay everyone so badly?”

Only those desperate enough to indenture themselves into a twenty-year contract. Ean shrugged. A Lancastrian like her
wouldn't understand how badly he'd wanted to become a linesman.

“You've been with him a long time.”

Ten years two tendays ago. Ean had spent it repairing a military ship, the GU
Burnley
. He'd only realized the date because the captain of the
Burnley
had told him the ship was ten years old, too. Ean shrugged again. “You know what it's like when you're a kid and desperate to learn the craft.” Not that he'd been as young as most. “Sometimes you'll do anything.”

“With age comes wisdom, eh.” His companion laughed. “I can relate to that. I'm Michelle by the way.”

Which didn't help identify which Lyan she was, illegitimate or not, because every member of the Lyan household took a form of Michel as one of their given names. Still, it was clever. She had every right to use it although most of them would not have dared. This woman had guts, identifying herself the way she did.

“Ean Lambert,” Ean said.

•   •   •

SURPRISINGLY,
they made for the docks rather than the hotels, where the private cart avoided the landing hall altogether and went straight to a shuttle out on the edge of the field.

The name stenciled on the side of the shuttle was
LANCASTRIAN PRINCESS—SHUTTLE 1
. Ean shook his head at the bare-faced effrontery.

They took off without having to go through customs.

In the confined enclosures of the cabin, Michelle leaned back with a sigh and closed her eyes. Ean used the time to study his new employer.

She was classically beautiful, with the heart-shaped face and high cheekbones typical of the women of the Lancastrian royal family. Rumor said they had paid a fortune to geneticists over the last two hundred years to develop those looks. Her lashes were long and black, curled over clear, unblemished, cream skin. The geneticists had definitely earned their money in this case. Except for the hair, perhaps, which was the royal family black, but Ean could see a slight wave instead of the expected regulation straight. Nor the deeper-than-expected
dimples in her cheeks, particularly the right one. The emperor definitely wouldn't have liked that. Still, if Michelle was illegitimate, the geneticists wouldn't have been involved this generation, would they. Maybe some imperfections had crept in.

Ean smiled to himself, but it was a grim smile. Ten years ago, there was no way he could have studied even an illegitimate child of his regent this close. Michelle—and of course he would never have dreamed of calling her Michelle either—might own the contract, but there was no way Ean was going back to what he had been.

“What's so amusing?” Michelle had opened her eyes—so very blue—and was watching him.

Ean met the blue gaze. “Will you on-sell the contract?”

“I don't know.” Michelle sat up as the bell chimed for landing. “We do need a ten.”

So was there a job? And was it at the confluence? Ean hoped it was.

On-screen they could see their destination. A large freighter. Ean didn't recognize the model—it looked custom-built—but until six months ago, he had only worked on one- and two-man freighters and second-class company ships. Ships like this one in front of him were for the likes of House of Sandhurst or House of Rickenback.