Ghost Ship (22 page)

And it was just there, at the highest levels, within
Bechimo
’s character, formed by the Builders to be stringent and resistant to the blandishments of lesser intellects—within the very core of
Bechimo
—that error had formed.

Bechimo
had despaired; that had been the first error, and had doubted the Builders’ assurance that persons on the Approved List would arrive to take up their various duties. Despair had prompted the berthing among the Old. Despair had made the decision to open for Less Pilot yo’Vala. Despair—no. A fury to be
free of
despair, to be
of service
, as the Builders had intended, had prompted
Bechimo
to chivy the pilot to take up a station he had not sought, perhaps—no,
evidently
—against his best health and interests.

Having allowed passion a place in the equation of existence,
Bechimo
then expanded upon the error.

The Captain would come, in the Captain’s time and manner.

That was the Builders Promise. Yet what did
Bechimo
do, upon becoming aware of the key’s provisional acceptance of one who might be a Captain, but pursue her, and grow pettish when she did not immediately fall in with
Bechimo
’s desires.

With, perhaps,
Bechimo
’s
mad
desires.

The Builders had installed safeguards against madness. Backups of the central cognitive programs existed, though
Bechimo
did not know where they were archived. Alternate personalities were also in line.
Bechimo
could observe them now, sleeping like babes behind a contamination screen, as a picture from
Bechimo
’s archives formed the simile.

Nestled against each sleeping babe was—not the stuffed toy depicted in the archived picture, but a logic box, hard-edged and adamantine; the program that would entangle
Bechimo
and bear him down into the dark, simultaneously quickening the new, sane personality.

There might be a way,
Bechimo
thought, to disarm the trigger, to prevent both oblivion and the birth of a usurper.

It was a new thought;
Bechimo
was not in the way of considering madness; the Builders had, after all, left systems in place, should the integrity of the ship come into question.

And surely the integrity of the ship
ought
to be examined. For the litany of willful error did not stop with the active pursuit of the Captain.

No, what must
Bechimo
do but
contact
the Captain, again failing to find comfort and certainty in the Builders’ Promise.

Worse,
Bechimo
had altered system checkpoints, and taken the Captain’s decision of time and place upon himself.

And the benefits accruing to the ship from this mad flight of desperation and self-deceit?

A Captain who was, perhaps, too young for her intended station; willful and prone to argument, who placed her responsibilities to a mere-ship above
Bechimo
’s rights; who insisted in routing herself and
Bechimo
onto a course of peril and dismay; and who was by her admission, corroborated by an analysis of the samples taken by the ship—yos’Phelium.

yos’Phelium had a documented, if little understood, disruptive effect on the flow of event. It was best not to deal with yos’Phelium at all, so it was written in the Rules; to pay cash and disengage quickly on those occasions where it was necessary to interact.

Perhaps it would be best,
Bechimo
thought, to withdraw the key from Theo Waitley and encourage her to board the mere-ship and depart.

A Captain—a
true
Captain—would come. The Builders had promised.

- - - - -

Theo hit the end of the description of the bonding ceremony, and the end of the energy bar’s boost simultaneously. Yawning, she shut the screen down, and shook her head. Whoever had come up with the idea of a formal bonding of ship and captain, made before all and everyone, had been pretty smart. There were few things that humans, so Father, in his capacity as a scholar expert of cultural genetics said, internalized so strongly as a ceremony. The family and crew of a long-looper would be . . . comforted on levels they normally didn’t think about, to know that the captain and the ship were of one mind and one purpose.

Despite which, she wasn’t in any hurry to consummate her relationship with
Bechimo
.

Have to figure out a way to put that off, Theo,
she thought, and yawned mightily.
Tomorrow
.

Sliding into her bunk, she pulled the blanket up, waved the lights off, and took a deep breath.

She was asleep before she drew another.

- - - - -

REWARD!

One thousand cash for information leading to the taking up of any person or persons known to engage in acts of sabotage or mischief against building projects and/or personnel. Info to Michael Golden, Boss Nova’s office, Blair.

- - - - -

Theo Waitley had kept her promise and reviewed the bonding procedures before retiring, which
Bechimo
learned from the file access log. She was asleep now, deeply, which he learned from a scan of life support. Since neither process had required specific attention upon her quarters,
Bechimo
did not feel that he was in violation of orders.

Though, if she were not, after all, his Captain, but only a talented pilot, had she any right to issue orders, or
Bechimo
under any requirement to obey?

Restlessly,
Bechimo
scanned
Arin’s Toss
, pulling systems reports and scrutinizing them with a care he had not expended when the ship had been mere cargo. If this vessel was to bear Theo Waitley out into the dangerous spaces, then it would be up to spec and fully capable.

How she had fought, Theo Waitley! Battered and dismayed as she was, yet it had been first in her thought to protect
Bechimo
and to warn him of the dangers of ceding to pirates.

Truly, could a Captain do more?

And was it not a pleasure to serve crew? To listen and hear something other than the sound of his own thoughts? To scan the bridge, and find the cup she had, in her weariness, left behind; to deploy the remote to gather it up, disinfect it, and return it to its place—mundane tasks, yet precious, for they demonstrated that he was no longer alone.

A ping from the subroutine he had assigned to monitor the mere-ship’s self-checks. An anomaly had been identified.

The area of concern was a landing light.
Bechimo
initiated a deeper scan; located a device which was not part of the lighting assembly. He ran a match program. Had he been able to do so, he might have sighed.

A tracking device.

He recalled slipping into the berth among the dying Old Ones, resigned to dying with them.

But,
Bechimo
realized, he no longer wanted to die.

Theo Waitley slept quietly in her quarters; her heartbeat and her breath perfectly discernible to ship systems.

If she were sent forth in
Arin’s Toss
, pirates would find her, for who but pirates would set and conceal such a thing?

The Builders had promised a Captain, but they had also promised crew. And in the Captain’s absence could not
Bechimo
make provision for—could
Bechimo
not
protect
crew?

Crew or Captain: Theo Waitley was accepted of the key, which made her acceptable by the Rules and Standards established by the Builders.

She was his, and he would keep her safe.

TWENTY-THREE

Bechimo

“Good shift,
Bechimo
,” Theo said, taking her place in the pilot’s chair, mug in hand.

“Good shift, Theo Waitley.”

No “Captain,” was it?
Theo thought. Well, that sort of clarified the order in which she was going to raise her several topics of discussion. She glanced at the calm blues drifting in Screen Six.

“I reviewed the information regarding the bonding ceremony,” she said. “It’s actually not that much different than a ceremony I’ve already shared, to celebrate a short-term bond. My mother was present at that ceremony, and my genetic father, as well as my bond-mate and his mother. It seems to me that the . . . Builders had also intended there to be witnesses to the ceremony between ship and captain, to create a . . . shared memory of joy and completeness.”

“The Builders had intended the entire population of the ship to witness the bonding,”
Bechimo
agreed. “However, it may be, Theo Waitley, that I have . . . acted precipitously. The bonding may not be . . . appropriate.”

So,
Bechimo
had been doing some thinking, too. That was good, she told herself tentatively.

“Where I grew up—on Delgado—it was assumed that the bond might need some time to ripen, before the ceremony,” Theo said slowly. “I’d known my bond-mate there for—some time, and we knew that we respected each other and could work together. You and I”—She took a breath—“we still need to get to know each other. I think we’ve got a good start on working together, but there’s a lot more we
don’t
know about each other than we do.”

There was a silence; in the screen, the colors faded, then came into sharp focus—almost, Theo thought, as if she’d
startled
the AI.

“I concur. There is still much to learn.”

“And learning takes time,” Theo added. “What I propose is that we both agree that I’m captain, in the sense that I’m first board, and we revisit the question of bonding in—a Standard Year.”

“Is that a customary unit of time?”

For who? Theo thought. There’d been one boy in Culture Club—Bova, his name had been—who’d been
obsessed
with marriage and mating customs. From him, Theo and the rest of the club had learned that some marriages depended upon the participating parties having never met, while other cultures insisted on a five-season courtship. Still . . .

“I think a year would give me enough time and experience of you to decide whether or not our bonding would be . . . in the best interests of the ship,” she said carefully. “And it would give us time to get you crewed up,” she added, not sure if that was a smart thing to say.

“Yes,”
Bechimo
said, like it was a brand-new thought. “We can bring on crew.”

Theo drank some tea, and leaned to the board, bringing up the screens, pulling in local readings. It wasn’t quite a fidget, though she took some calmness from the commonplace of the work.

“Now that we have that decided, we can start to work on our first real problem,” she said, sliding a sideways glance at Number Six. “My opinion is that we can’t just hide here and hope whoever’s looking for me—and you—will give up and go home.”

“I have in the past successfully outwaited danger,”
Bechimo
stated.

Theo frowned, thinking about that.

“How long?” she asked finally.

“One hundred twenty-six Standard Years.”

“I don’t,” Theo pointed out, “have that kind of time, personally.”

“I am aware of this. Nine months ought to give those who were pursuing you time to find other prey.”

“Probably not.” Theo sighed. “Whoever recognized the
Toss
had a long memory. The people who are targeting pilots of Korval, assuming they’re not the same group, aren’t going to dry up and blow away. If I hide for nine months and something happens to Father, or—or my brother—” or any of the other names—the
people
!—who made up the data tree Father had given her—“I’d be . . . complicit. The Delm of Korval knows that they’re active—Miri warned me when she gave me the pin! But now there’s a pin compromised—the one I lost. I’ve got to tell them.” She took a breath.

“Theo Waitley . . .”

“There’s one more thing,” she interrupted. “One more reason on the argument for going
now
, then I’m finished and we can hear your reasons for staying here, and weigh the two lists up—” She threw a self-conscious look at Screen Six.

“I learned that from my mother. If there’s another protocol you prefer . . .”

“The protocol you outline is equitable,”
Bechimo
said, “and is very close to the protocol I was taught.” There was a small pause, the blues in Screen Six drifting like clouds. “It’s been a very long time since I had anyone to argue with. Thank you for reminding me of the niceties.”

“You’re welcome,” Theo muttered, feeling her ears warm. She cleared her throat.

“The last reason—the greatest and most pressing reason why we can’t just stop here for nine months and hope that trouble goes away . . .” She turned her chair so that she was fully facing Screen Six.

“You might remember another pilot who came to you—it would have been a Standard Year or more. He picked up the key—the copilot’s key—and you took his samples—”

“Less Pilot yo’Vala,”
Bechimo
interrupted. “Of course, I recall.”

“Good,” Theo said. “That’s good. Win Ton—Less Pilot yo’Vala—fell into, well, into the hands of pirates—of people who wanted control over you. He denied them—protected you
and
me—and was terribly hurt. He’s dying, in fact. Uncle, my employer, told me that Win Ton’s best—his only—hope of being cured is
you
. You have his last uncorrupted samples. You have an autodoc that can handle . . . whatever it is that needs to be done, to—to bring him back to spec. We owe it—at least,
I
owe it—to Win Ton, to do what I can, as soon as I can, to repair his injuries.”

Screen Six had gone completely blank. Theo swallowed, started to say something else, bit her lip—and waited.

She was thinking about going into the galley and making herself a cup of tea when
Bechimo
finally spoke, very quietly.

“
We
owe the Less Pilot these things, Theo Waitley. I concur; we must go at once.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Jelaza Kazone

Surebleak

Miri carried her cup over to the window and looked out over the so-called “lawns,” sipping gingerly. Peppermint tea. Not much of an eye-opener. On the other hand, it wasn’t lemon water.