Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures (liaden) Read online

  Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures

  ( Liaden )

  Sharon Lee

  Steve Miller

  You can buy these stories as eBooks at embiid.com. Unfortunately, they come in a form that can only be read by the Embiid reader. After you have bought a story, you can escape from Embiid’s wretched typography by reading the version here. Please don’t read stories that you don’t own.

  This text was created from the Embiid version. It has been spell-checked and proofread, but not carefully. Some errors doubtless remain.

  Adventures in the Liaden Universe

  #1-#8

  Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

  Two Tales of Korval

  Adventures in the Liaden Universe #1

  To Cut An Edge

  AS AGREED, he was lost.

  He was, in fact, a good deal more lost than he wanted to be. It took him several seconds to realize that the continent overhead was not the one he’d secretly studied for—followed quickly by the realization that it was not even the world he’d expected.

  He’d crammed for oceanic Talanar, a planet quite close to the studies he’d been urged to make by his elders. This world was..?

  What world was it, after all?

  Determining fall-rate overrode curiosity for this present. He located a magnetic pole and arranged to have the ship orient thus, then began a preliminary scan of—well, of wherever it was—as he slowed rotation smoothly and watched the screens.

  Air good. Water probably drinkable. Gravity a bit heavier than the training planet: within ten percent of Liaden gravity. Preliminary scan established that this could be any of three or four hundred worlds.

  His ship was moving in, as it must. It had been dropped by an orbiting mothership, a carefully timed burst of retros killing its orbital speed. If he worked very hard and was very careful, he could keep the tiny craft in orbit, but that meant immediate expulsion, no appeal, unless he could demonstrate equipment failure…

  Instead, he nursed the strictly limited fuel supply by using only attitude jets, and hurried the computer a little to give him potential range.

  Three hours before he hit serious atmosphere. after that, depending on his piloting skills and local weather conditions, he might be in the air for an hour. The world below would turn one and a half times before he landed. He wondered what Daria would have thought—

  And quashed the thought immediately. Daria was dead, killed in the drop from the mothership, victim of a freakish solar storm. It had been stupid of them to be so involved, of course. Stupid and beautiful.

  Daria was months dead now, and Val Con yos’Phelium would be a scout. Not partnered, as they’d promised so hastily, protected against all unnamed and unbelieved disasters by the strength of each other’s arms. Not partnered. But a Scout, nonetheless.

  After he passed the test.

  He considered the readouts. There were cities down there, yet not so closely huddled that there weren’t plenty of places to land a quick, slender craft. His instructions: achieve planetfall; learn the language, customs, life-forms; survive for six standard months and sound Recall. This was not the final test, after all, merely the preliminary. Pass this, then the true Solo and, behold! Scout. Simplicity itself.

  He shook his head and began the second scan. Optimism, he chided himself half-seriously, is not a survival trait.

  * * *

  HE SET DOWN in the foothills above an amber valley where fields and possible houses lined a placid river.

  Grounded, he initiated the final pre-scan, whistling indifferently. His instrument of choice was the omnichora. A portable—gift from his fostermother on the recent occasion of his seventeenth Name Day—was packed away with the rest of his gear.

  It was remarkable the ’chora was there at all. Test tradition was that a cadet carried no tech-gear during prelims, except for that equipment found in a standard kit. However, those who had him under their eyes understood that to deprive Val Con yos’Phelium of the means of making his music for a period of six months, Standard, would be an act of wanton inhumanity. It had been debated hotly within the council of instructors, had he but known it. He knew only the end—that the ’chora was aboard the test ship; and that his immediate superior took care to comment that music was communication, too.

  Sighing, Val Con studied the results of the scan: air a bit light on oxygen, but not enough to present problems. Microbes—nothing to worry him there. Scout inoculations are thorough. Soil samples showed levels of copper, iron; a shade too much sulfur. Ho harmful radiations. In fact, it was going to be rather dim outside.

  Hull temp read orange: too hot for exit.

  He stretched in the pilot’s chair and released the web of shock straps. Asking the rationboard for a cup of hot tea, he stood sipping, trying to damp the surge of excitement that threatened, now he was really here.

  Wherever it was.

  He grinned suddenly. What did it matter? It was a Scout’s task to discover such things, after all! This was what he had been trained for. More fool he, cramming for a world lightyears distant, when he could have been—could have been sleeping.

  Resisting the urge to tell the temperature display precisely what he thought of its arbitrary limitations, he bent down, opened the crew locker and brought out two bundles.

  The first was his ’chora, wrapped in oiled yellow silk. His fingers caressed it through the fabric as he set it aside.

  The second bundle was wrapped in black leather and clanked when he hefted it. He settled back on the floor and twisted the clasps, pulling out a broad belt, also of black leather, hung about with objects.

  A Scout must wear a complete belt kit at all times.

  He looked at the heavy thing with deep resentment. Complete? If he came to require local currency, he need only open a hardware concession. Oh, some of them made sense: pellet gun, machete, rope. But a flaregun? Pitons? Surely, if there were mountains to climb, one would know in sufficient time to prepare oneself?

  Ah well, regulations are regulations. And if any of the several things he judged useless were not on his belt, should a proctor turn up, he would flunk on the instant.

  Sighing, he began the kit-check.

  Pellet gun: OK.

  Flaregun: OK.

  Machete: what can go wrong with a machete? OK.

  Stick-knife… He smiled and flipped it open to reveal the strong, dainty blade. The stick-knife was pleasing. He found knives in general pleasing, and had studied their construction during his so-called spare time, even attempting to craft a few. The most successful of these was a plain steel throwing blade, which, of course, was not with him at the moment. The stick-knife was not for throwing, but for surprise and efficiency in close, desperate situations. He flicked his wrist, vanishing blade into hilt.

  Stick-knife: OK.

  A Scout’s belt-kit is comprehensive. By the time Val Con finished his check the orange temperature light had gone out.

  DAY SEVEN.

  He rose and tidied the ship while drinking a mug of tea; checked the monitors; buckled on his kit and went out.

  It was dim, like a day threatening downpours on his own bright world, and sultry. A breeze blowing from the south brought a medley of unfamiliar odors with it. He sniffed appreciatively and paused to pick an old reed from the side of the path.

  Six days had seen many accomplishments. His eyes had adjusted to the lower light level, even as his body rhythms had reached an acceptable compromise with the overriding song of the world. Sensors had been set out and calibration pr
ograms begun. The log was up-to-date.

  His failure lay in contacting the people.

  Hot that there weren’t people. On the contrary, there were at least two hundred individuals living in the valley at the end of this path, though the count was necessarily approximate. He found it difficult to differentiate at distance between one large-shelled person and another. Given variation in shell size, person size, decoration and harness, individuality would eventually come through; but it would be a slow process. Worse, he had yet to find one single person who would speak with him—or even acknowledge his presence.

  He’d tried all the approaches he’d been taught—and several he’d invented on the spur of the moment—angling for any response at all.

  And had been roundly ignored.

  Yesterday, he had boldly stepped in front of a group of three, bowed low, as he had seen those small-shelled or shell-less bow when addressing those more magnificent than themselves.

  The group split and detoured around him, unhurriedly, but with determination.

  The path wound around an outcropping of rock and sloped toward the caves and valley floor. Val Con stopped to survey his prospects, idly twirling the reed.

  Across the valley, people were about what he now perceived as their daily business. Four individuals were in the fields along the river, working among the growing things with long-handled tools vaguely reminiscent of hoes. Toward the center, a cluster of eight? ten? large persons were engaged in a certain choreographed activity, which could have been dancing, game-playing or military drill, across the river, large greenish shapes moved among the hulking rounded stones—dwelling places, so he thought: The town itself.

  Just downhill from him now, though somewhat distant from the caverns and convenient to a nice flat rock, was a very large individual with sapphire glinting randomly from the tilework of its shell. With it were four small people, shell-less, and bumbling in a way that shouted children to him. The largest was scarcely taller than he was.

  It is dangerous to approach the young of an isolate and perhaps xenophobic people—or, indeed, of any people. But Val Con’s observations indicated that he could easily outrun the adult, should it attempt an attack, and children are often curious…

  So thinking, he walked down into the valley and sat atop the flat rock.

  The guardian glanced his way, but turned its back, making no move to herd the smaller ones away. Encouraged, he crossed his legs and settled in to watch.

  They were definitely children. They played tag, fell on each other, crowed loudly and shouted shrill, unintelligible taunts. Entertaining, but not particularly productive. The guardian still ignored him, and he nurtured a small flame of optimism as he felt in the belt for the stick-knife.

  Best to put waiting to work, he thought, quoting one of his uncle’s favorite phrases. Slowly, attention mostly on the schoolroom party, he began to fashion the reed into a flute.

  It was the first time he’d attempted such a thing, though he had read how it might be done, and he did not give it primary concentration. This may have accounted for the woefully off-key sound that emerged when he finally brought the flute to his lips and blew.

  He winced, and blew again; moving his fingers over the holes to produce a ripple of ragged sound. His fourth attempt yielded something that could charitably have been called a tune, and he glanced up to see how the nursery was taking the diversion.

  The guardian stood yet with its back to him, watching as three of the babies enjoyed a rough-and-tumble of wonderful ineptitude.

  The fourth was looking at him.

  Val Con brought the reed up and blew again, trying for the simple line of a rhyming game from his own childhood. The child took a step forward, away from its quarreling kin, toward the rock. Val Con repeated the rhyming song and began a hopeless rendition of the first ballad he had learned on the ’chora.

  Fortunately, the baby was not critical. Val Con abandoned the attempt to wring structured music from his instrument and instead created ripples of notes, interlocking them as it occurred to him; playing with the sound.

  The baby was right in front of him.

  He let the music fade slowly; raised his head and looked into enormous golden eyes, pupils cat-slit black; let his lips curve into the slightest of smiles, and waited.

  “D’neschopita,” announced the child, extending a three-fingered hand.

  “D’neschopita,” repeated the Scout, copying inflection and pitch. He extended his own hand, many-fingered as it was.

  A hand larger than either swooped out of nowhere, snatching the child from imminent contact, sparing for his abductor one withering glare from eyes the size of dinner plates. It dragged the protesting infant away, holding forth in a loud and extremely displeased voice.

  Nurse, Val Con decided, shoulders drooping. Don’t touch that, he translated freely, giving his imagination rein, you don’t know where it’s been! It could be sick! Whatever it is. And look how SOFT it is! Probably slimy, too. Yuck.

  He raised the flute and blew a bleat of raucous wet sound.

  The big one spun, moving rather more rapidly observed in others of her race, dropping the baby’s hand and raising her arms.

  Val Con grinned at her. “D’neschopita,” he said.

  She hesitated; lowered her arms slowly—and spun again, reclaiming her charge roughly and driving the other three before, toward the safety of the center valley.

  “TO CONCLUDE,” intoned the Speaker for the Trader Clan, “White Marsh feels that the Knife Clan of Middle River owes in the form of information regarding routes of star-trade. This, because the Knife Clan neglected to locate the being known as Silver Mark Sweeney and deliver the knife he commissioned, thereby denying the Trader Clan its fee of information, for sending this business hither.”

  There was silence as the T’car digested the whole of the Trader Clan’s message. Out of the silence, Eldest Speaker’s dead-leaf voice: “Will you make answer, T’carais?”

  The person so addressed stood away from the bench and inclined his head to the Elders in respect.

  “It grieves me,” he began, “that the Trader clan of White Marsh would come before the T’car entire, citing wrongs, before they came to the Knife Clan and requested facts. However, it is done, and answer shall be made.

  “It is fact that the Trader Clan brought Silver Mark Sweeney to the Knife Clan, from which he commissioned a blade appropriate to his size, We accepted the task, seeded the cavern and encouraged not one, but many knives of a size and shape that would be fitting to beings of Silver Mark Sweeney’s order. In the fullness of time, the blades were ready and the Knife Clan caused a message to be sent as instructed by Silver Mark Sweeney, stating this.

  “He did not come to claim his knife.”

  “It was the responsibility of the Knife Clan to search—” began the Trader Clan’s Speaker, with lamentable haste.

  The T’carais raised a hand, reminding that it was his time now to speak, and continued in the midst of the new silence.

  “The Knife Clan searched. And, when it was found that our manner of search is not efficient among the stars, we employed a skilled tracker of the clans of Men to perform this task for us.” He paused to consider how best to proceed. The Elders, wise beyond saying, were old. They did not always recall that to those yet mobile, change was…

  “You must remember,” he said diplomatically, “how short-lived are the members of the Clans of Men. Where I engaged one to search, his heir reported failure to me, as his father had grown too feeble to travel. It was the belief of these trackers—and also myself—that while we encouraged and refined the blade, Silver Mark Sweeney achieved s’essellata and died.

  “Thus, I commanded that the family of Silver Mark Sweeney be found, that the blade might be placed into the hands of his kin. Time passed, and when the first tracker’s heir came to me again, he leaned heavily upon his own heir…”

  The T’carais sighed gustily.

  “It seems that Silver Mark
Sweeney was both kinless and clanless, as is not uncommon among that family of the Clans of Men named ‘Terran’.” He paused; signed summation.

  “And so the knife is undelivered and the Trader Clan is bereft of its fee. It is to be considered that the Knife clan had also considerable investment in this venture. There is an entire room filled with blades refined, awaiting only handles and sheathes, all too small for our use.”

  He inclined his head to the Elders. “Thus does the Knife Clan answer.”

  There was a large quiet while the Elders conferred silently, after the manner of the very old. in time, Eldest Speaker’s voice was heard.

  “It is seen that the Trader clan has come before the full T’car to state its concerns and to give notice of intention to make formal complaint, should there be no balance forthcoming from the Knife Clan.

  “It is seen further that the Knife Clan erred in failing to teach the Trader Clan its attempt at solution.

  “Thus, it is the decision and will of the T’car that the T’carais of the Knife Clan go to the T’carais of the Trader Clan and speak as egg-kin, seeking to resolve all equitably. If this is not done, then shall the T’car make disposal.” She paused, and all awaited her further words.

  “It puzzles the T’car that the Knife Clan so hastily encouraged an entire cavern of blades fit only for those of the Clans of Men. However, there has been no complaint made of this, and no judgment is made.

  “The matter in this phase is ended. All may go.”

  * * *

  HE WOKE SOBBING, the echo of his cry still shuddering the metal walls.

  “Daria! Daria, untrue!”

  But it was true.

  Painfully, he pulled air into laboring lungs, stilled the sobs and straightened from his cramped coil of grief.

  Local midnight, by the chronometer on the board. He slid out of bed; dressed deliberately; buckled the kit on and moved to the door. At the threshold, he bethought himself, turned back to the rationboard and withdrew several bars of concentrated food, which he stuffed into his pouch. His eye fell on the flute he’d made that afternoon and he picked that up, too, thrusting it into his belt as he went out into the night.