Skyblaze (7 page)

Vertu shook her head. ''I have . . . limited
funds.''

''Don't we all? Worse luck, too. What've I
got but the Colonel hisself willin' to stake me a cab, but I gotta
find a 'nother driver. With references. 'nother driver's bad
enough. References -- wellhell, I'm the first legit cab ever, less
you count them little jitneys they're usin' to move folk around
Port proper.'' Another blue glance in the mirror. ''You don't
happen t'have references, do ya, Vertu?''

For a moment, she sat there, thinking of the
references she could have produced, before Skyblaze, and the
Council's judgment and her banishment from clan and kin . . .

''As a driver, locally,'' she said, keeping
her voice steady with an effort. ''I fear not.''

''Wellhell,'' Jemie said again, making the
turn from the Port Road onto Fuller Avenue with commendable
caution. ''You're for Mack's shop, though, right?''

''I am, yes.''

''He know you?''

''No. I am sent to him by the Patrol.''

''Well, maybe we can talk him inta letting
you do a -- whasit called, when you try somebody out and see if
they can do the job? A parole?''

''Probation?'' Vertu suggested, wondering
after the connection between the Colonel who staked cabs and Andy
Mack of Port Repairs.

''Right.'' Jemie sighed, and the cab made a
smooth turn out of Fuller Avenue and into the Port Road. Behind
them, Vertu could see the blinking red lights of emergency
equipment. Ahead of them was the entrance to Surebleak Port.

''You gonna need a ride back, Vertu?''

She looked out the window. The snow had
dwindled to a stop, and the star was slightly more robust in the
greycast sky.

''I believe that I'll walk.''

''I b'lieve that you'll freeze your tail,
you try it,'' Jemie said frankly. ''Tell you what, I'm gonna stop
at the Emerald and eat m'supper. You finish with Mack, come on over
-- it's just 'round the corner. I'm still there, we'll work
something out for pay -- maybe you can drive f'me one night I need
to be elsewhere. That suit?''

''That -- suits. But --''

''No buts, woman! We'll work it out. Later.
Right now, here y'are. Get on out and let a girl get something ta
eat.''

The door opened at her elbow. Vertu reached
into the pocket of her coat, fished out the few coins she found
there and put them in the pass-tray.

''Hey --''

''For the cab,'' she said, overriding
Jemie's protest. ''The cab costs, and those costs must be
covered.'' She pulled her coat around her and exited.

''Thank you!'' she called and closed the
door.

*

The man was Terran and grizzled, and he'd
hauled himself out from beneath an obscenely large and smelly piece
of something that appeared to be an engine of some sort, the while
complaining, ''Whoever used this scooter last is gonna have to
learn to adjust it proper!''

Vertu heard the same thing three times and
was still not sure if ''this scooter'' was the item with wheels
that he rode flat on his back as he came out feet first or if it
was the object he'd been under.

''I'm Mack,'' he said brusquely. ''These are
rescues, eh? I guess someone thinks that's important, but it ain't
like I don't got a hundred dozen other rescues to deal with
--''

He looked at the knotted kerchief she held,
and let her continue to hold it while he stretched several times,
as if being under things was not what he was best at.

''This thing's a rescue,
too,'' he muttered, ''and damned if I know why they found it now
and not a generation ago when we might still've had parts somewhere
here or in half the ports near-space. But no,
now
they find it, and it's up to me
to get it running.'' He shook his head, glared at her and demanded,
''Who'd you say sent you?''

''Scout Lieutenant
ter'Volla sends me. These --'' she held up the kerchief, ''are
rescues. They are all from the pockets of a crime victim. They are
important because they belong to a
galan'ranubiet
.''

Andy Mack blinked.

''I got lotsa vocabulary,
young lady, but that's one I don't know. And who are
you
, by the
way?''

''Vertu dea'San,'' she said, biting the clan
name away.

He shook his head again. ''Everybody's
important, you ever notice that, Ms. Vertu?'' He shook his head
once more. '''specially when they want somebody else to do
something for them.''

Vertu inclined her head, the smile coming.
''Scout ter'Volla gave me to say that, yes he did know that you
were very busy and that you might call upon him for Balance.''

He snickered, waved one hand toward the
ceiling.

''ter'Volla, is it? Well then, I can see
who's climbing the gantry next time I need some lights
changed!''

Vertu laughed, which was needful: such
sounds had not come willingly to her since her son had dropped her
and her scant luggage at Solcintra Port in obedience to the
Council's order.

''All right, then, since the Scout's willing
to pay. Bring what you got over here and I'll take a look . .
.''

Vertu bowed then, thanks to a master, but if
he noticed, or knew, he offered no bow in return because he was
already striding toward a room-side table. The place echoed with
their steps, and there were other noises in constant background hum
-- heaters and blowers, perhaps, and maybe a device compressing
air, and perhaps the hiss of air leaking from someplace that was
not the cold outside but a spherical tank.

''Ms. Vertu,'' he said
over his shoulder, ''what is a
galan'ranubiet
, and what's it doing
owning a handkerchief full o'junk what needs repair?''

She strode with him, impressed that for one
who claimed not to know the word he'd managed to both recall it and
pronounce it. True, it was not a Solcintran accent he used, but
he'd been taught by a native speaker. The clicks and sounds of the
place were not sufficient to hide a facility with language.

''A
galan'ranubiet
is a person, Andy
Mack, a person with an extreme
melant'i
. . . an earned
recognition, that would be. Someone with, let us say, knowledge or
skills of importance to a whole community.''

''Well, hand it over,'' he said, ''and if
that's the case, I pity the person because no doubt they got more
to do and less to do it with than they ever did.''

Vertu placed the kerchief on the desk, and
was surprised to see him reach not for it, but for a small pad of
paper and a writing stylus.

In good, round script he wrote, ''Received
of Vertu dea'San, one bag of community treasures . . .'' then he
looked up -- ''Who're these from?''

''The man's call name, what they know him as
on the street, it is 'The Hooper'.''

Andy Mack's startlement was clear in the
near explosive intake of breath.

''Crime victim? The Hooper? Is he in health?
What happened?''

There was no playfulness in him now, but
full attention.

''The Patrol wrote in the report that he was
'beat up by punks'.''

The Colonel's expression got even more
serious, but if he was going to speak his words were swept away by
the deep voice of a large man who was suddenly, otherwise silently,
beside them.

''Beat up by punks? Guess that's a report
waiting for me!''

*

The jacket was battered and totally
incongruous for the weather; the face somehow familiar. That she'd
reached for her gun as a first reaction wasn't lost to the man who
owned the face; his hand twitched but he suppressed it
instantly.

Her
hand had been slower to stop and closer to acting; perhaps in
a public place it wouldn't have been noted.

She blushed even before Andy Mack started
chuckling --

'''swat you get from sneaking in a back door
like a galoot 'stead of coming in like folk!''

Recognition stirred on the galoot's face as
he dragged a handy stool from beneath the workbench, the gun-hand
going to forehead in a salute to all present. Snow fell from
creases in his jacket; in other spots it was already going to
patient water-drops that held on as if frozen by a root. He sat
fluidly, his size having nothing to do with his grace.

''Andy, you give me a key and leave to use
the door, I'm gonna. Save my ears and brain from freezing, using
the back way -- ''

''Too late on that save?'' Andy Mack's
mischievous grin got the best of him, and turned into a
chuckle.

''It ain't froze yet. If it was we'd both've
drawn. And pardon me, driver, for giving you a start. I'm
McFarland.''

''Pilot McFarland, yes, it is good to see
you again.''

''And you, driver. Got some bunch of light
years 'tween you and . . .Solcintra, I think it was.''

''I am Vertu dea'San, Pilot --''

Andy Mack interrupted, holding a hand toward
each of them.

''Damme if you didn't make me forget my
manners, Cheever. But looks like you met before --''

''Briefly,'' Vertu managed. ''It would have
been a taxi-ride from the small private-ship side of Solcintra Port
to some place unexpected -- I think Korval's valley, to yos'Galan's
house. We have not met in a social way, Andy Mack.''

The mechanic stood then, shaking the foot
he'd had tangled around the chair as if it had been asleep.

''We have here,'' he announced formally,
''Vertu dea'San, deputized by ter'Volla on Patrol to bring items of
interest to us all to me in order to make something wrong as right
as it can be. I'm pleased to be receiving such visitors, I
am.''

He nodded, then turned with a flourish.
''This here -- this is Cheever McFarland, Master Pilot, come as
Boss Conrad's Right Hand, if I have that proper.''

Cheever McFarland nodded, and Vertu answered
with a seated bow, each murmuring appropriately.

''Good, so let me see what we got here, if
you can be patient, Cheever, and then you can get to whatever
brought you out in the snow.''

*

The plastim of tea was better than she'd
expected, and it was even recognizably a Vertuna blend, as promised
-- the tea her namesake, due to a prior Wylan's whim. Empty now,
she moved it aside as the pilots told over the contents of the
kerchief. Drawing her more and more into conversation like comrades
rather than strangers, they'd made as sure as they might that The
Hooper's physical injuries were minor.

''So they roughed him up because they could,
was that it? Thing is that if he said what he did, The Hooper, in
front of trusty witnesses, them boys have got themselves a mess of
trouble anywhere there's someone for the block. Took the
casket-bottle? Stupid --''

''But what happened next? Patrol show up?''
That was McFarland.

''Not until I had pulled my gun, and Granita
fired hers. Harley was struck with -- the Patrolwoman said 'bird
shot' -- instead of a charge from this.''

She showed the gun in explanation, and there
was a whistle, and an, ''Ah.''

''I see we should talk,'' Andy Mack said.
''You tell me your campaigns and I'll tell you mine!''

Cheever it was who understood her quick
questioning look --

''Not been on campaign? That's a heavy duty
merc weapon for a civilian taxi-driver then. Can I see it?''

She checked it for safety, and handed it
over to the hand of the Boss, who held it appreciatively.

''Real one, Colonel -- not one of those
cheap look-likes they sell down the Low Ports.''

McFarland made a gesture, which she
interpreted as asking permission to hand the weapon to the other
man, and she nodded.

''Not more'n two Standards old, by the
serial number. They don't usually sell a Nordley on Liad though --
and I know you can't often pluck one up out on the dock here!''

He returned the weapon, respectfully.

''It was a gift,'' she explained carefully.
''On the day of Skyblaze, a solider gave it to me, in thanks for
the ride. His mates insisted I should have it --''

Neither of the men said anything, and she
felt like there was something more she needed to tell them.

''The soldier, he'd been wounded already
when I picked them up. Then, we got back to near port and a man,
came at us, there was shooting, and he pointed -- umm, they called
it anti-armor, at us! I could do one thing to protect my fares -- I
ran the car at them and he shot wild.''

They waited, and she wished there was tea in
the cup.

''This Tommee, this boy, he was wounded and
trying to shoot, too, and then he said ''Thank you much for the
ride ma'am . . . and gave this to me, since I might need it, and it
was all that he had.''

The Colonel pressed his hands, then slowly
spread them with tips touching its opposite twin, staring into the
cavity as if some truth existed there, and nodded slowly.

''He made a good call, the boy,'' he said
after a moment. ''His mates were with him to sing him home?''

She closed her eyes, hearing the question
fully, shaking her head with the Terran not-so.

''They said they could get him to medics,
that he had some time off coming, and a vacation --''

Her voice drifted off, remembering Tommee's
wounds, the still, bloodied form of the man who had targeted her
cab, and, later, standing before the Council, hearing their
judgment come down. So much lost, that day, by so many . . .

''It was for my part in the rebellion --
carrying enemy soldiers who were in league with those ships that
fired upon the homeworld -- that is why I am here. On Surebleak.''
She took a breath and met Cheever McFarland's eyes. ''If I was to
aid Korval in their madness, then I might go to them in their
banishment.''