Ghost Ship (35 page)

Val Con had taken the plate and a cup over to Miri and gone back to pour a cup of tea.

“The dance lessons,” Theo said. “I figured that out later. And the lace-making, too, when I was a littlie.”

“The string game?” Val Con looked over to them, green eyes bright.

“A variation,” Father said.

“Did you make lace, too?” Theo asked.

Val Con moved his shoulders. “There is a game that we teach our children—a string game; it teaches the ability to see space as a whole and as matrices, and imparts an understanding of the relationship between each.”

“A game.” Theo looked at him—a pilot who had grown up surrounded by pilots, taught from an early age, and honed to be a pilot.

“There would be games, wouldn’t there?” she said. “Math games, and coordination games—bowli ball—”

“Not,” Val Con said sharply, “for children. Bowli ball is for those who have learned what pain is, and who have their muscles and their reactions under control.”

“And your daughter,” Theo pursued, “she won’t have to fall down and not know why she’s so clumsy.”

“I fell down rather often myself when I was a child,” Val Con said, sipping his tea. “I could see, you know, what
needed
to be done, but my body was still too unformed to do my mind’s bidding.”

“And while adults may be vigilant, it is difficult for someone who is years past their first training to always comprehend what may be regarded, and regarded, pursued.”

“One more thing that must be said, while we are bringing you to terms with your destiny,” Val Con said. “Theo, you must realize and accept that the luck, as we call it, rides roughly around us. As you saw this evening.”

“And don’t,” Miri said suddenly, rising from her chair and bringing her barely diminished plate back to the tray, “don’t go believing that what happened was your fault—we invited it in, just like you said.”

She looked up at Val Con. “You ain’t eating.”

“Neither did you.”

“Then we’ll both be hungry. Time to go change, I’m thinking, and lead another dance.”

“I think you are correct.”

Miri nodded. “The two of you be smarter than us and at least have a snack, right? Then come on back to the ballroom and help us send up the first line dance. Gotta show our honest guests that everything’s fine.”

They left, hand in hand, leaving Theo looking at the tray and feeling very far from hungry.

“At least a piece of cheese and a cup of tea,” Father murmured. “To give you strength enough to dance.”

It was so like him that Theo laughed, and gasped, and suddenly turned to put her hand on his sleeve.

“Father!”

“Yes, Theo?”

“I love you,” she said.

His mouth tightened, and he put his hand over hers.

“I will try to be worthy of that, child.”

THIRTY-FIVE

Runcible System

Daglyte Seam

The strike at Korval’s heart had failed.

Worse, Korval had not killed the native chosen to immolate himself on the fires of political necessity. His capture intact meant the immediate departure of those of the Department who were known to him, and the strategic withdrawal of all agents of the Department on Surebleak.

Korval was on guard now. They would not lay themselves open in such a manner again.

Commander of Agents issued instructions regarding the retraining of the agent who had supervised the failed attempt.

One true strike was all that was required.

Well . . . they were not yet out of blades.

- - - - -

It must’ve been eighteen times now he’d had Jellianne’s tractor on the rack and it was starting to wear out its welcome. That it ran at all was a marvel; he’d seen more able machines sold for their scrap value on what had been “his” port, back on Liad. Not that he missed Liad, particularly, but it did give a body some perspective on Surebleak.

“Clarence!” that was Mack, yelling in from the doorway. Might be there was some flying to do. That would be welcome, and not only because it would get him out from underneath the blessed tractor.

“Somebody here to see ya!”

No, Clarence thought, putting his wrench down quiet in the tray, and considering that particular note in his boss’s voice. No, maybe nothing so welcome as flying. He didn’t think Mack would set him up, but Mack, hard, canny man that he was, couldn’t know, or see, everything. A man from outworld was bound to have friends and associates from outworld, and none of Mack’s business to know who they were, or which were more welcome than others.

Then there was the possibility—slight as it might be—that somebody’d cared enough about Sanella Thring to have mentioned her going missing to somebody else. Not to say that he hadn’t made enemies all his own during his time working for the Juntavas. Man who didn’t make enemies wasn’t doing his job.

“You sleepin’ under there?” Mack yelled.

“Give an old man a minute,” he called back, fingers locating the palm gun on the tray.

Setting his foot against the floor, he pushed, none too energetically, and the creeper rolled leisurely out from under the tractor’s belly. He came up slow onto his feet; heard Mack walking away toward the crew room, nodded to himself and picked a towel up from the top of the tool cart.

Wiping his hands, he walked around the tractor, and stopped cold, staring at the woman waiting for him.

Just a slip of a thing she was, which his years among Liadens had taught him to discount entirely. If the too-big jacket was hers, she was fast, and tough, and stronger than she looked. There was something else, too, a familiarity that went deeper than a mere understanding of the breed. Something that teased his memory while she stared at him with the devil in her eye, a wispy cloud of yellow curls framing a pale, pointed face that was beginning to display a touch of irritation.

“Pardon,” he said, not letting go of the rag nor the gun. “Do I know you?”

“
I
don’t know
you
,” she answered, with emphasis, and it was the voice that did it, or maybe the unspoken dare that he just try to knock that chip off her shoulder, and see how far she could throw him.

“There it is—you’re Daav’s girl.”

The touch of irritation became an active frown. “Does
everybody
on this planet know who my father is?”

“Well, now; a good many’ll be knowing him, sure. He likes to move around the port and chat up the pilots. Not his job any more, no more’n it’s mine—but some habits’re hard to break. As for the rest of the world, I believe it was Himself’s plan that the family be known.” He gave her a smile, just in case she was of a mind to soften. She wasn’t.

“What’s your name then?” he asked. “And your business?”

“My name’s Theo Waitley,” she answered. “I’m looking to hire a copilot. You come . . . highly recommended as a reputable and honest pilot.”

Clarence tipped his head, considering the face, and the eyes.

“That’ll be your da doing the recommending, I think. He tell you anything else about me?”

“He said you knew how to take orders, and were a handy man in a fight,” she said, sounding peevish, and added, “I seem to attract fights.”

“Oh, aye, you’ll do that. Comes with the turf, like they say hereabouts.”

She sighed. “Everybody knows that, too,” she commented, and gave him a glare. “I thought you might be a friend of my father’s—”

There was a
but
there, hovering on the edge of not-said, and wise she was to doubt it. Clarence grinned and shook his head.

“Friends—well, now, we might could’ve been, in a different set of circumstances. As it happened, he had his
melant’i
, and I had the business to tend. Say that I set value on him, and still do.”

“He obviously values you,” she said, almost like she didn’t know what Daav yos’Phelium’s regard was worth. She sighed and jerked her head toward his hands, that he was still rubbing with the rag.

“Have you decided if you’re going to shoot me?”

Her da’s sharp eyes, sure enough. Clarence gave her a nod.

“As it happens, I’ve decided not to shoot you, lassie.”

“Good,” she said, though there wasn’t much easing of her frown. He was beginning to form the theory that the lass was ill-tempered by nature.

“Are you at liberty to be hired?”

“I work here casual,” he told her. “You offering long-term?”

“I’d like to introduce you to my ship.”

There was an inflection there, too, as he tried to remember which ship on port might be her own—and failed.
Tcha
. His memory was getting old, along with the rest of him.

“Would that be now?” he asked politely.

“If you’re at liberty. Otherwise, name the hour and I’ll meet you at the Emerald.”

Daav must’ve sung his praises to the polestar, Clarence thought. Or he’d laid down some bit of law that the lassie felt compelled to heed.

“Let me clear it with Mack,” he said. “If he’s done with me for the day, we can step over to see your boat now.”

- - - - -

Clarence O’Berin, Theo thought, wasn’t at all what she had expected him to be.

What she
had
expected him to be, she couldn’t have said. Like Father, maybe, or like Tranza. Older—that, she
had
expected, and, thinking about it, had figured that having an older man as backup wasn’t a bad thing. Lots of experience to call on, and a tendency to weigh before weighing in, where an older woman might tend to force a situation.
Bechimo
being the ship he was, they were
all
going to need to keep a low profile.

Or, at least, as low as possible.

Which led her thoughts right back to the man walking alert and quiet beside her. A dangerous man, no doubt. Yet not out of control. He’d had the hideaway tucked in his palm when he came out from behind the tractor, but he’d waited, measured the situation, and made his decision rationally and calmly.

That was good.

What was . . . somewhat worrying was the fact that Clarence O’Berin felt it necessary to arm himself to meet a casual caller at his place of employment.

If he was not only dangerous, but
hunted
. . .

. . . that didn’t make him any different, did it, than
Bechimo
.

Or her.

“Here we are,” she said, leading the way up the gantry.

“I thought your da told me you was for courier,” Clarence said from behind her.

“I was,” she said. “But things—got complicated.”

“Things do tend in that direction, more often than not. Taken note of it myself.”

Theo took a breath, and paused, key in hand, but not yet quite willing to trigger the hatch. She’d told
Bechimo
that she had a recommendation for a crewman, another pilot, who would sit second until the Less Pilot was himself again.
Bechimo
had been—call it cautiously excited—and inquired after the pilot’s name—to check against his lists, Theo supposed.

Not too very long after receiving it, he said that he would be pleased to have Pilot O’Berin brought aboard for a tour, adding that he would in the interim research the pilot’s background.

That was good and prudent. She’d researched Clarence O’Berin herself, to the extent of pulling his Guild records and finding that his flying had been sparse for about as long as she’d been alive. Father had explained that his employment had tied him to port, but that he’d started his career as a courier pilot and, now he was retired, he wanted to reclaim his wings.

“If you’re having second thoughts, Pilot, I can turn and walk off now.” His voice was even—too even, Theo thought suddenly, like she might say it, to cover a hurt.

“No problem,” she said brusquely. “Both of my parents were professors; I get the habit of staring into nothing from them.” She pressed the key home and the hatch rose.

* * *

“
Bechimo
was built as a loop ship,” she said, guiding Clarence O’Berin to the piloting chamber.

“They don’t much do that anymore,” he commented, which was only true, and a subtle way to let her know that he knew that there hadn’t been a ship built with lines like
Bechimo
’s for hundreds of years, if then.

“I hope you don’t mind an older ship,” she said, to let him know that she’d heard him on both levels.

“She seems comfortable and took care of,” he answered. “I’d like to see the maintenance logs and suchlike, if that’s allowed.”

It was Guild rule that a pilot under consideration for a command chair, which
Bechimo
’s copilot certainly was, was allowed access to maintenance logs and ship’s record. If access was denied, the pilot could walk, with any talking money still in his pocket, and the Guild would back him. She’d told
Bechimo
that a Guild pilot would want to see those records; he’d assured her that there would be no problem.

And if there was, then Clarence O’Berin would walk, and she’d’ve learned something else about her ship.

“I’ll call those up, if you’d like to see them now,” she said, moving to the pilot’s chair.

Clarence O’Berin stood just to her right, between the stations, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, reminding her suddenly and vividly of Father when he had come aboard the
Toss
.

“Bide a bit,” he said, his quick eyes on the arrangement of the copilot’s board and screens. “You’ve got yourself a looper—” He glanced away from his study long enough to offer her a smile. “Now, what I’m wonderin’ is—do you have yourself a loop?”

Theo nodded. “Shan—Master Trader yos’Galan—designed a mid-loop, and has hired this ship to run it once, complete. Since it’s a new loop, the pilots are asked to gather info—there’s a bonus for that. Standard three-way split for bonuses—one share to each pilot, one share to the ship.”

Clarence nodded, thoughtfully, but didn’t say anything else, like he thought she wasn’t done yet, which, now that she considered it, she wasn’t.

“Before we take up the loop, we have a cargo transfer in Surebleak near-orbit. I’m waiting for word now on the specific rendezvous and time.”

He nodded again. “What’re we swapping?”

We
. Theo didn’t know whether the funny feeling in her stomach was relief or regret. Still, the man deserved an answer—