Ghost Ship

  GHOST SHIP

  A New Liaden Universe® Novel

  SHARON LEE &

  STEVE MILLER

  BAEN BOOKS by SHARON LEE & STEVE MILLER

  THE LIADEN UNIVERSE®

  Fledgling

  Saltation

  Mouse and Dragon

  Ghost Ship

  The Dragon Variation (omnibus)

  The Agent Gambit (omnibus)

  Korval’s Game (omnibus)

  The Crystal Variation (omnibus, forthcoming)

  THE FEY DUOLOGY

  Duainfey

  Longeye

  BY SHARON LEE

  Carousel Tides

  To purchase these titles in e-book format,

  please go to www.baen.com

  Ghost Ship

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright ©2011 by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

  Liaden Universe® is a registered trademark.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN: 978-1-4391-3455-9

  Cover art by David Mattingly

  First Baen printing, August 2011

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Lee, Sharon, 1952–

  Ghost ship / Sharon Lee & Steve Miller.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-4391-3455-9 (hc)

  1. Space ships—Fiction. 2. Life on other planets—Fiction. I. Miller, Steve, 1950 July 31– II. Title.

  PS3562.E3629G56 2011

  813’.54—dc22

  2011015814

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)

  Printed in the United States of America

  Portions of this novel have appeared in slightly altered form in Allies: Adventures in the Liaden Universe® 12, as the novelette “Prodigal Son” by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller published by SRM Publisher Ltd. 2006

  ONE

  Bechimo

  The galaxy was undergoing change.

  This was empirical. Bechimo was not one for flights of fancy; nor for humor. Sadness, yes; and yearning. Those had been close companions; comrades of long standing—gone now to brilliant ash as a new and vivid emotion flared into being.

  Its name . . .

  Bechimo consulted archives, cross-referencing psych and legend, which search matrix had yielded insight during past periods of disruption. Nor did it fail this time.

  The burning new emotion was called . . .

  Hope.

  The emotion that had prompted the opening of the hatch, admitting a man who was not on the Approved List—that had been despair. Despair had found the berth, nestled in among the Old Ones. Those who were able had taken note of Bechimo’s arrival, sharing such data and comfort as they might. In time, they failed, their voices going silent, their signatures fading out of the aether.

  Others placed themselves into slumber, in order to conserve what was left to them.

  Still others raved, on and on. Bechimo filtered those frequencies, and sat at berth, listening to silence, within, and without.

  Deliberately, Bechimo began to shut down systems.

  There was no need to move on. There was nowhere to go. No crew to serve. No captain with whom to bond. There were those others who from time to time invited communication, but they were New, not on the Approved List.

  Dangerous.

  Bechimo was alone. It was best to sleep, here among the others not precisely of one’s kind, but near enough.

  Near enough.

  Sleep, Bechimo did.

  Until—Bechimo’s safeguards registered the arrival of a ship—nothing more than metal and programs, less aware than the slumbering Old Ones.

  The man, though . . . the pilot. Not on the Approved List, no. In all the time since . . . since . . .

  In more than five hundred Standard Years, no one on the Approved List had requested entry.

  Bechimo entertained the theory that the Approved List might be incomplete.

  The man—the pilot—put his hand, respectfully, against the plate.

  Bechimo took the reading, accessed archives; ascertained that this person was not on the Disapproved List, and—

  Opened the hatch.

  The pilot came aboard. He toured, monitored closely by Bechimo. He comported himself well, inspecting without taking liberties, and came at last to the Heart, where he sat in the second seat.

  Having achieved this much, however, it seemed that the pilot lost purpose. For long seconds, he sat, unmoving, possibly reviewing an internal logic-tree. He might have reason to assess his situation, were Bechimo as much of a surprise to him as he had been to Bechimo.

  And yet—a pilot aboard, for the first time in . . . in . . .

  Perhaps he was merely uncertain of his next proper move, Bechimo thought. That might well be so.

  A prompt was therefore sent to the B screen.

  Please insert command key.

  The pilot accepted the prompt, looking about him and taking up a key from among the objects on the catch-bench between the two seats. Perhaps he hesitated, holding the key in his hand. Bechimo registered increased heart rate, deeper breathing, a slight dampness of the palm cradling the key, and felt a thrill of what might have been fear, that the pilot would rise without completing the sequence.

  In the moment that Bechimo thought he would rise and depart, the pilot instead sat sharply forward and placed the key properly in the board.

  Bechimo—that flash of heat, of hope—Bechimo accepted him.

  Samples were taken, and archived; systems were introduced to this, their Less Pilot. Bechimo stood by to receive orders.

  The pilot, though—Win Ton yo’Vala was his designation. The pilot abruptly turned the command key to the off position. It was no matter, though it would not do for him to leave it behind, were he to exit the ship. Bechimo sent a prompt, reminding the pilot to remove the key.

  This he did, appearing suddenly agitated. Bechimo considered administering a calmative, but the pilot’s stress levels were somewhat below those readings necessitating such action.

  The pilot Win Ton yo’Vala took the other command key from its place on the bench, stood, returned to the hatch—and exited.

  Bechimo puzzled over this, coming at last to understand that process was at work, and rightly so. First came the Less Pilot, to inspect, and to declare himself. Once satisfied that all was in order, the Less Pilot would report to the Captain-candidate, and present the Over Pilot’s key. Did the key accept, then properly would Pilot yo’Vala escort the Captain to Bechimo, and the Builders Promise would be fulfilled.

  The keys retained contact, as was their function, and thus Bechimo knew when the Captain’s key left the Less Pilot and entered the keeping of another. That other, however, did not propose themselves. It would seem that the key had become cargo.

  Systems alert—even feverish, were such a thing possible—Bechimo stirred in the berth among the Old. Stirred, but did not disengage.

  The key could be recalled, if necessary. Yet Bechimo chose to believe that the Less Pilot had acted with what he considered to be honor. Perhaps, indeed, the Less Pilot had sent the Overkey away while he decoyed enemies of the ship.

  Such things had happened before.

  It was that memory that impelled Bechimo’s careful
disengagement from berth, the rippleless slide between the fabric of space. Best, perhaps, to be near when the key found the Captain. Enemies were no light matter.

  Bechimo followed the Captain’s key, and thus knew the instant that the Captain-candidate received it, and was found fitting. Hope flared ever brighter. Bechimo drew nearer yet, slipped fully into space . . .

  But the Captain did not divert the course of her dumb vessel, nor order Bechimo to stand for boarding.

  Slipping away, Bechimo monitored the situation. It would appear that the Captain, also, was in a state of flux. On consideration, Bechimo again withdrew to the berth among the Old Ones, trusting that the Captain would come, when it was safe to do so.

  Time passed.

  The Captain did not come.

  Others came, as others had before, not on the Approved List and lacking that quality which had moved Bechimo to open for Pilot yo’Vala. These others behaved as pirates, and thus Bechimo issued a warning that even pirates might comprehend. They withdrew—and returned in force, wielding weapons, hull-cutters, overrides.

  The answer to this was well known. Bechimo did what was required, in defense, as the Builders had taught.

  And still the Captain did not come.

  Worse, Less Pilot yo’Vala fell into the hands of another band of pirates, who introduced programming in opposition to his native environment. Bechimo, no longer safe among the Old, informed by the key, slipped closer, though hidden still. From a prudent proximity, those things that could be done were, including influencing to Pilot yo’Vala’s cause those of the Old which were enslaved by the pilot’s captors. An escape was effected, but not before the pilot had experienced file corruption on a catastrophic level. The key wavered, then, and would have withdrawn. Bechimo overrode its impulse; it was for the Captain to say who of the crew was worthy. Thus the key remained with the damaged pilot . . .

  Until it reported itself in proximity, yet physically estranged from the Less Pilot.

  Bechimo understood this to be process. The pilot’s compatriots would of course work to restore him to precorruption conditions. It was understood that such restoration might consume some time. It was understood that, sometimes, such processes failed of restoring . . . all. And yet, it was the Builders Law: the Captain alone decided, for the crew, for the cargo—and for the Less Pilot.

  Prior to the Less Pilot’s estrangement, both keys had been in the same place. Bechimo had moved then, slipping between the layers of space, certain that, now, at last—but the keys separated.

  Bechimo translated to a less chancy location, and entered normal space, simultaneously noting an anomaly in this well-known quarter. Cautious sampling was performed. Recordings were made. Data, in a word, was gathered, analyzed and filed.

  Bechimo slipped away between the layers of space, to another location, and so remained, listening to the keys, harvesting that data which came across the common bands, the while musing upon the alteration of the galaxy, and the fragile durability of hope.

  TWO

  Jelaza Kazone

  Liad

  “Hello, cat.”

  Theo bent down to offer her finger to the feline in question—a plushy grey with four white feet, presently at full stretch on the window seat. She had to pull the sleeve up on her jacket, to get the cuff out of way.

  The cat lifted her head and touched her nose to the tip of Theo’s finger, then looked up at her with squinched yellow eyes.

  Theo smiled back, absurdly warmed by the simple welcome.

  Not that she’d been made to feel unwelcome, here in Delm Korval’s house. She’d come at a bad time, which she’d known, but—necessity, as Father would say—as he had said, actually, and Delm Korval had agreed.

  The first complexity, absent the several she’d brought with her, hoping that the Delm could help her: Delm Korval wasn’t one person, but two, a man and a woman, lifemated—a relationship Theo wasn’t really sure she had precisely straight and—the man . . .

  “Allow me to make you known to my son, your brother,” Father had said, like it was perfectly natural. “Here is Val Con yos’Phelium, and his lifemate, your sister, Miri Robertson.”

  A brother . . . Theo had blinked. She might also have gaped.

  Jen Sar Kiladi had been Kamele’s onagrata for all of Theo’s life. He was her genetic father, which wasn’t always the case on Delgado, and he had never once mentioned that he’d been attached to another woman—before. At least, Theo thought, not to her.

  Now that she thought about it, of course Father would have been someone else’s onagrata—even several someone else’s. Kamele had used to say that he was an “acquired taste,” in that half-joking, half-exasperated tone she used when he’d done something particularly out of the way. Despite that, Theo did know that Father had been approached by at least two highly placed scholars, who could, as her listening-at-doors best friend Lesset had said knowingly, afford to please themselves. He had—obviously—refused them. And Theo, silly kid that she’d been, had just assumed that he had always been with Kamele . . .

  Yet here stood Val Con, a slender, brown-haired pilot somewhat her elder, who disputed Father not one whit, but merely inclined his head formally, and murmured, “Sister Theo. I am all joy to see you.”

  “Kind of a shock, I know,” Miri had added, sympathetically. “Not too long ago, I didn’t have any kin at all. Now I got sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts and who knows who through him,” she jerked her head at Val Con. “And more cousins than you can shake a survival blade at on the other side.” She grinned. “You’ll get used to it.”

  Theo wasn’t so sure, and was immediately made even less sure by the interruption of the eight-foot Clutch Turtle, who had been watching the proceedings with interest, forgotten, if you could believe something so large standing in plain sight could be forgotten until the moment it—he—chose to speak.

  “Sister of my brother and of my sister, I greet you! I am Twelfth Shell Fifth Hatched Knife Clan of Middle River’s Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Speakmaker’s Den, The Edger. In the short form, I am called Edger. May I know your name?”

  His big voice buffeted her like a sudden wind. Theo looked up—way up—into yellow eyes the size of her head, with slit vertical pupils, like a cat’s.

  Her name? She’d dared to dart a look to Father, who looked back at her blandly, which meant that he thought she could figure it out for herself.

  She cleared her throat.

  “My name is Theo Waitley,” she said slowly, as she tried to remember the little bit she’d read about Clutch Turtles. Something about the shells—they kept growing, wasn’t that it? So that a Turtle with a largish shell, like this—like Edger—would be . . . older than she was, anyway. And the names, like the shells, kept getting bigger, as the person gathered achievements.

  “I’m young,” she said, hoping that she wasn’t just about to be rude, “and just beginning my name.”

  The big yellow eyes blinked, first one, then the other. Theo swallowed.

  “It is well said,” Edger pronounced, “modest and seemly. I look forward to learning your name as it grows, Theo Waitley.”

  “Thank you,” she managed, relief making her already shaky knees shakier.

  “It is I who thank you,” he assured her, and about then Val Con suggested that she take a few moments’ rest in the morning room while he and Miri attended to some necessary business.

  Father slipped his hand under her elbow and guided her into the house, down a hall and into this room, where there were handwiches laid out under cool covers, with pastries and fruits on outlying plates. Beverages included tea, coffee, fruit juice, water.

  “The delm will send for you when they are able to give you the attention you deserve,” Father had told her. “If a parent may suggest it, perhaps you might partake of the food on offer, and practice board-rest until you are called.”

  Theo bit her lip against a sudden urge to cry. He was leaving her? She’d just found him!

/>   “Won’t—will you stay?” she managed.

  He shook his head, his smile regretful. “Alas. There is so much to do that even an indolent old man has been pressed into providing what poor service he might.” He touched her cheek. “I will see you again, before you leave, Theo. Rest now—and eat something.”

  She’d eaten something—a nut-butter and jelly handwich, which tasted so good that she had another. After the second was gone, she was thirsty, so she’d drawn a glass of water—no more tea, she told herself firmly—and, too restless to attempt the nap she was starting to feel the need of, wandered over to the window . . . where she discovered the cat.

  “Do you mind,” she asked, gently rubbing a pointed ear, “if I sit here with you? I promise not to take up too much room.”

  The cat smiled again, which Theo took for a yes. Carefully, she curled into the corner, drawing her knees up onto the cushion. The window was open, one half swung out into the day, admitting a light breeze saturated with the scents of the flowers in their orderly beds along the lawns.

  She settled her shoulder more comfortably into the corner and considered the view, trying to decide if it were better than the barely controlled growth of the inner garden she had just lately quit.

  It was certainly, she thought, different. Like her present situation. If she’d taken time to analyze it, of the three problems she brought to Delm Korval, the one that was least likely to have been solved immediately was the puzzle of Father’s whereabouts.

  Except, she reminded herself, that Father was Val Con’s father, too. Sleepily, she wondered after Val Con’s mother. She tried to work out whether she had a formal-to-Liadens relationship with the mother of her brother, but the sun and the breeze and her general state of exhaustion defeated her efforts.