Ghost Ship (11 page)

“So he went in with a legend.”

“Exactly. Pilots, on the other hand, may be as skilled and as formidable as they like, and still the Jump may kill one. Compelling as we find it, piloting is not a safe trade.”

“And you like to brawl in taverns.”

“That, too.”

She snorted a soft laugh, and shivered against a renewed assault from the breeze, this one showing teeth.

“Flowers ain’t gonna make it,” she said gloomily.

“Some may adapt, and we mustn’t discount the gardener. The food crops have her first attention, of course, but she did allow me to know that she had our garden under care.” He moved his shoulders. “Father had used to keep the inner gardens himself.”

“Yeah, he said that. Thinking of putting him to work?”

“Of course. Though perhaps gardening is not the best use of his talents. Nor of Mother’s.”

There it was again, a little thrill of . . . worry laced with pain that accompanied Val Con’s considerations of his parents. Miri bit her lip. Sometimes, knowing what your partner felt about something was worse than not knowing. And what was even worse than not knowing, was not knowing whether she should
do
something, or just figure it was his to work out.

He shifted, moving a hand to massage her aching back.

“Miri, it will be well.”

“So you keep saying.” She sighed. “Talk me into anything, can’t you?”

“Indeed, I cannot. I distinctly recall several instances when I failed of getting my way—to my profit, not to say, my survival.”

A chime sounded from the room behind them. Miri frowned.

“We late?”

“More likely it is one’s sister Nova, wishing to know if we
intend
to be late,” Val Con said, pushing away from the rail.

She followed him inside, sliding the door closed behind her, shutting out the toothy, feral breeze. Over the snick of the lock, she heard the hallway door cycle, and felt the flutter of Val Con’s surprise.

“Good evening, Jeeves.”

“Master Val Con. Miri. I regret the necessity of disturbing you. A matter of security has presented itself which I thought best to bring immediately to your attention.”

The thrill of dread she felt then was all her own.

“
House
security?” she snapped, thinking of all those people—Gods, the whole clan, ’cept for the kids, still hidden away. They’d known it was a risk to bring the adults under one roof, but—they’d considered it acceptable, with Jeeves to guarantee a whole-house defense net.

And that, Robertson,
she told herself,
is why Clan Korval is so small. The man just told you so, didn’t he?

“Forgive me,” Jeeves said, headball flickering in her direction. “House security is firm. I speak to . . . maintaining the security of allies.”

“This,” Val Con said, stepping back from the door with a slight bow, “sounds as if it could be complex. Please enter, Jeeves, and make yourself comfortable.”

“I am always comfortable, Master Val Con. The chassis suits me excellently.”

“It pleases me to hear you say so—and to observe that you have not held shy from making those modifications which are of benefit.”

Jeeves rolled in, wheels muted by the carpets, and settled himself before the double chair. Miri came forward to perch on one arm, Val Con on the other.

“Now,” he said, “maintaining the security of allies?”

“Quite so, sir. I have heard from Pod 77, which you will recall is located upon Lytaxin, a gift from Korval during the time that Theonna yos’Phelium wore the Ring.”

“I recall that Pod 77 comported . . .” Val Con paused, head tipped slightly to one side. “Jeeves, I must ask your assistance in the matter of the pronoun.”

“The pronoun would be
it
, sir. A complex machine and, as I believe you were about to observe, sensible of its duty. It is in fact this sensitivity to duty which led it to contact me.

“Firstly, the attack upon Erob’s clanhouse brought it to fuller functionality than it had enjoyed for many years. Its programming prompted it to seek downloads and upgrades, whereupon it was noted that such downloads as might be useful to it were not necessarily compatible with its existing systems. This places its mission, received from the Delm of Korval, in peril and so it sends, rightly, that it requires upgrading.”

Miri blinked. “Do we have an Old Tech repair person on staff?”

The headball flickered in the pattern she thought of as a chuckle.

“It may be that a Scout trained in the preservation and disarming protocols would be able to perform repairs on a fractin-driven device, though such attempts have in the past not been notably successful. Fortunately, though of course Korval has Scouts on call, this is not the problem that faces us. Pod 77 is of much more recent construction. Indeed, as it supplied a complete systems architecture in its report, I am able to say with confidence that it is of a vintage and design with which I am very familiar. I am more than competent to guide Pod 77 in making the needed alterations and upgrades. The delm may wish to dispatch a human repair person to install hard memory expansions. I will know what to recommend after the alterations are in place and tested.”

“This is then . . . a request to proceed with assisting Pod 77?” Val Con asked.

“Pod 77 does require permission from Delm Korval to accept my assistance as the delm’s proxy. I have taken the liberty of sending it Korval’s lineage so that it may derive that the present delm is indeed the successor of the delm who gave it duty.”

“Will a voice stamp do? Or do we need to go back to Lytaxin our own selves?” Miri asked. She flicked a grin at Val Con. “Not sure the kinfolk’d be real happy to have me visiting again so soon.”

“I believe that a certified voice stamp will serve admirably,” Jeeves said. “I will ascertain from Pod 77 whether there are specific command phrases required.”

“Excellent.” Val Con came to his feet. “We thank you for bringing this matter to our—”

“There is one more thing, sir,” Jeeves interrupted delicately.

Val Con paused, and Miri felt a thrill of dread—his, hers, theirs.

“And that is?”

“I have also been contacted by Pod 78. With a request for repair.”

ELEVEN

Mozart’s Modicum

Starport Gondola

Mozart’s Modicum was a tea shop at the intersection of Orange Main and Blue Main, a good jog from the Gondola Book Market, well over into the green section of the port. Jog, Theo did, a bag of booksticks slung over her shoulder, and pleased that she’d advertently coded a
second
alarm into her watch, once she got a look at what she’d be dealing with. The book market was easily the size of Anlingdin Academy; a person could spend days—years—inside, browsing the wares and stopping every now and then at one of the convenient market cafes for tea and a handwich.

Of course, she didn’t have years, she had exactly two hours, ship-time, before her meeting with Merchant Bilinoda.

Right here. At Mozart’s Modicum.

After the book market and her jogging tour of the port, she had expected the “tea shop” to be oversized, brightly lit, and crammed with people.

In fact, the address she had been given was a small shop with a striped awning shading a modest green door. On the door, picked out in subdued glitterchips, was the name of the shop, and a subtitle:
Classic teas and chernubia.

Theo sighed, pleased by the quiet neatness of the words, the door, the awning. Then she shook herself, remembering that she was here for a reason, and that time was moving.

She went forward; the door opened for her and she stepped into a pleasantly dim interior. Tables were set at odd angles across a wide, shallow room. Many of the tables were occupied, and there was a pleasant hum of unhurried conversation in the air.

Along the right wall was a long, low transparent case, with sweet things of all kinds on display, from simple butter cookies to a cake carved into the shape of a long-necked animal Theo didn’t recognize.

At the far left of the sweets bar sat a single, unoccupied table, almost invisible in the dimness. Hers, by direction. Theo crossed and sat down, sliding the bag off her shoulder and onto the floor next to her.

By the time she’d put her hands on the table, a man was at her side—slight and short, but not, she thought, Liaden, dressed in black shirt and trousers, with a spotless white apron over all.

“Service, signorine?” he asked. “Something sweet? Something tart? Something sour?”

“I would like a glass of Joyful Sunrise, if you please,” she said, which was the phrase her instructions had given her to say.

The waiter bowed.

“An excellent choice, signorine. It will be but a moment.”

He left her, and Theo deliberately sat back in her chair, trying to look relaxed and calm, despite a sudden tingling of nerves. She took a deep breath to calm herself.

This is your first in-person pickup,
she told herself.
It’s normal to be nervous. Keep at it long enough and it’ll be natural and easy.

“Your tea, signorine.” The waiter smiled at her start, and settled a cup and saucer on the table before her. He poured, and put the pot on the table.

“Has the signorine reconsidered a
chernubia
?”

Theo smiled and shook her head. “They look wonderful, but today I’m on short-time.”

“Understood, signorine. Please, enjoy your tea.”

He tucked the tray under his arm with a flourish and left her, as silent as he had come. Theo frowned. Hard-heeled shoes on a stone floor ought to make
some
sound! For that matter, even as isolated as her table was, she should at least hear the murmur of voices from other tables. She
had
heard the sound of voices, when she came in, but now . . .

She bent her head and closed her eyes.

Nothing, that was what she heard; her table was a dead zone—or, she thought, her uneasiness back in full force, the table was inside a security field. She wondered if the other patrons would see more than a silhouette, if they glanced her way.

She opened her eyes, finding the teacup, a delicate pale pink affair rising like a flower from the leaf-shaped saucer. The scent of the tea was likewise delicate, with a sharp undernote that promised alertness.

Carefully, she placed her hands around the flower cup and raised it to her face, inhaling the aroma before assaying a cautious sip.

Complexity pirouetted brightly across her tongue: rose, citrus, new rain. Beneath was a tang like ozone, edgy and exciting, as revitalizing as a snap of ammonia beneath the nose.

Her whole body warmed—and she realized that she wasn’t alone.

Gently, without haste, she lowered the cup to its saucer, and raised her head to meet the eyes of the woman across from her.

They were shiny and as hard as river stones, those eyes, black and narrow in a round pink face.

Theo felt a shiver of distaste, even as the words she’d been directed to say rose to her lips.

“My uncle sends his best wishes.”

“Your uncle takes unnecessary chances, which endanger more than his precious liberty,” her companion snapped, which wasn’t the answer Theo had been told to expect.

She raised her eyebrows, pushed the chair back, and reached for the bag by her boot.

The woman’s pink face got pinker. She raised an inelegant hand in the sign for
hold
.

“Please assure him of my continued regard,” she said, which
was
the right answer. She placed a packet next to the teapot. It was not quite as long as Theo’s hand, as broad as both together, and two fingers thick. It was wrapped in purple mesh and tied with a purple-and-gold ribbon, like a Mother’s Day present.

It could, Theo thought, be an old bound book. Or almost anything else.

“I suggest,” said the woman across from her, “that you place that in an inner pocket. The shielding around this table is good, but we can’t discount the presence of those with sharp eyes.”

Theo nodded, and picked up the packet—it was heavier than she had supposed, and rigid, which neither confirmed nor invalidated the notion that it was a book. She slipped it into the largish inside left pocket, and pressed the seal.

Her companion stood.

“Enjoy your tea; it would be a shame to waste it.” She turned away then, setting her feet deliberately, like she was used to walking where the footing wasn’t always firm. Every step should’ve rung against the floor, instead she moved in complete silence until she reached the
chernubia
display, turned left—and vanished from view.

Theo sighed, and picked up the flower cup to sip some more tea.

It would be a shame to waste it.

- - - - -

The Less Pilot was yet a stranger to his key.

The Captain—the Captain was hale and at liberty, moving freely among the worlds. The Overkey provide a route: from Volmer to Liad; from Liad to Denko, thence to Gondola. Busy worlds.
Dangerous
worlds. The Builders particularly forbade Liad as a port
Bechimo
might seek, even in the most extreme need.

Gondola was not forbidden, but the archives indicated it was a port to approach with the utmost caution. There were pirates there.

That entry had been cause for concern, and
Bechimo
monitored the Captain’s key closely, recalling the damage visited by pirates upon the Less Pilot. Thus far, the Captain’s safety had not been compromised, which was well. And yet . . .

Why did the Captain not come? What were these errands, that they were allowed to come before
Bechimo
’s rights? Did the Captain think the vessel unworthy? Was there some test, some rite of proving that was yet to be accomplished?

Bechimo
scanned archives, protocols, the Builders’ files—all and everything. There was no mention of rite or test. Either the Captain would come, or the Captain would signal
Bechimo
to approach. The bonding, promised by the Builders. There would be, at the Captain’s order and desire, a Less Pilot, and crew, cargo. Perhaps . . . there would be family.

Perhaps, this time, properly bonded, and the Captain willing,
Bechimo
would not fail them.