- Prologue Page 10

  For luck, she touched her key, plugged into the board and counting her PIC—Pilot in Command time that was—in one-second increments. The hand-talk shorthand go good was sufficient, really, even if not as satisfying as saying the words, but she was learning not to talk to herself so much, and this time she managed not to say anything at all, except what was business. The PIC timer showed 35.5. Not so long to go, after all.

  She sighed noisily, communicator button off. No need to share that, either. For a while, after she'd gotten pushed into the Advanced Power, she'd hear mock-cloned, "Not good, Theo," half-whispered or louder when she walked anywhere around the airfield.

  More than once she'd also heard "Prissy little attitude case" or worse from students she'd passed in the flight lists.

  Still, there were good days when she could smile and wave, or even chat and play bowli ball with Kara, Vin, and the rest of the crew from Belgraid.

  The cross-breeze was minimal and she let the little jet drift a hair left of the centerline before applying a modest correction. The altimeter on the Star King was off by at least a short hop, she was sure, and the stick had a click in it—but what could you expect from one of the planes anyone air-rated had to fly for fifty hours in person and another fifty on sim before they could move on? It rarely got a good cleaning or airing out, or even a proper interior wipe-down.

  The problem with touch-and-go for her was that after a while the sheer sameness was boring—no new scenery, and not much of a new challenge. It probably didn't help that the catch-up schedule Veradantha had pushed through meant she was in the plane or in sim every day, no break. And this plane, nearly surplus, was the one she'd been saddled with most times because she was the push-through. Serviceable yes; comfortable, not exactly.

  On the other hand, next week she was scheduled for a run over the mountain and up the coast for a landing at an airstrip she'd never seen, and a run-back the same day. That would be good . . . whatever plane she was in.

  Now, the field zoomed up at her; on the instrument panel the altitude ticked down and she backed the throttle just a hair more. The altitude annoyingly read zero while she flew on another moment, and before the touch of the rear gear, and the front. The craft decelerated and she saw disinterested crew working strip-side and heard the confirming "Touch AP44," from a bored voice just as she began to really kick the power up.

  That quickly she pulled back, felt the rotation and rise, chinged the gear up, reveling in the pressure on her back, and saw blue—

  If there'd been a camera on her face instead of a recorder logging the instruments it would have caught a wide wicked grin. This was her last go-round today and she meant to break her personal best time to altitude yet again. The ship might be an old one, but it was willing to press her hard into the seat and climb out into the clouds.

  It was good to get a thrill just before another run at math for dummies.

  * * *

  Theo was peeved. As good as things were going in the air, that was how bad they were on the ground today.

  This was the second time in six days AP44 was stuck in a holding while some student controller bobbled the patterns, and then when things were fixed she'd been last in line for landing, with her math class a forced-march across campus if she missed the jitney.

  The final landing, like the touch-and-go series, was quiet and fine, and then they'd backed a shuttle food cart out into the taxi strip where it stalled, and then—

  There was only so much hurry-up she could do. Her taxi run finally came to a halt at slot 5 . . .

  "AP44, can you pull that on down to maintenance bay while you're at it and save the crew a hike?"

  AP44 was not a road racer on the ground and she hardly saved anyone a hike since they had to bring by a student ground-guide with his paddles to direct her. She tried not to frown at him—she'd done ground-guide for the first time not long before and knew it to be one of the more anxiety-producing chores at the school. Having all those wings at the ends of things made even small turns potentially dangerous.

  Regs being regs, she didn't pop the canopy until the engine was winding down. The key read 36.1 as she palmed it, and she was in such a hurry she kept the helmet on until feet touched ground.

  The ground-guide nodded, smiled and said, "Good landings, Pilot, good go!"

  She smiled back and waved, hurling, "Thanks," into the air behind her and ran up the ramp toward the Ops office to sign out.

  Wilsmyth, her chief tormentor from the Vestrin, stood at ramp-top, wearing the blue cap and armband of the shift boss, waiting for her, the official shift book in hand.

  "Well there, Waitley, looks like you're doing real good in the air. Real good. Better than a lot of us that's been through on regular time, looks like, even in the old ship. Shame they still got you stuck in backwards math, don't you think?"

  When he said "old ship" he waved the book in her direction.

  Way being blocked, Theo stopped, hand-sign saying, next class, can't talk.

  "Yeah, well, we all got classes sometimes, don't we? Look, I was thinking it's a shame you keep getting stuck with the old lady out there, you know? I mean, you got the luck of the draw, I guess. But look, you're doing better than some of us figured you would, and I wonder if you'd like to stop up to Castlin Quad later. Seniors are looking for a couple quick hands to back us up for the bowli-ball challenge at—"

  "I have class, Wil. Really. And I've been working out with Belgraid, anyway."

  He waved the shift book at her again, not gently, but said her name.

  "Theo. Really. Listen, see, come on up to the quad, get some high class bowli ball in, maybe stop in after, for some refreshments—and we can get you set. Chelly said you had a rough upbringing, and don't know how to act any better. He thinks you'll finish the course here, if you get a break. Let Belgraid see who the good hands belong to, see? Get that break, you know? Might even be able to get you into the new Star King. It's type-certified a Mark II, but brand new—practially a Mark III in disguise."

  Theo heard what Wil was saying almost as through a filter: no matter what nonsense he was offering, she needed to get moving. But she had to get by him.

  "Thanks, no. I'll stick with Belgraid,"

  "Just no?" He frowned, and his voice was louder than it needed to be. "You think no is the right answer?"

  This, Theo thought, was not good. She'd managed to make him mad, somehow, even though she'd been polite. He was waving the shift book with energy: she could feel the breeze against her neck.

  Theo tensed, fighting the instinct to drop into the ready stance, trying to look peaceful—or at least reasonable.

  "I've got to go to class," she said, as calmly as she could. "Let me by."

  "Right," Wil said, a note of finality in his voice. "I hear what you're saying. But this isn't all social, you know. I'm shift boss. Click your key in here, so we can sync the records—you know the drill!"

  From the Ops room beyond him, someone yelled, "New shift coming in!"

  "Right with you, Bell, right with you," Wil yelled back without even a glance over his shoulder. He yanked the plug out of the book and thrust it at her face. "You're on my shift," he snapped. "Key!"

  At last! Maybe she'd only miss half of math.

  Theo snatched the key from her public pocket, but Wil was holding the plug at an awkward angle. She jimmied her key, pushed—the accept light lit orange, then he almost dropped the instrument, forcing her to let go of the key or risk twisting the connection. He grabbed the book more firmly, peering down at it, and muttering loudly as he manipulated some keys.

  "You really think you're something, don't you? Can't figure why it is you got no official math but fly like a vet. Your father was a pilot, hey? Can't nobody find any current pilot time for Jen Sar Kiladi."

  "Key," she said around the growing coldness in her stomach, and added: "You can't find current flight time because my father is a retired pilot."

  Wil snarfed a laugh and waved the shift book, with
her key still attached.

  "Retired? Or is that 'decertified'?"

  He's trying to make you lose your temper, Theo told herself. Problem being, that he was succeeding.

  "Key," she said again, between gritted teeth.

  "Not going to talk about Daddy?"

  "I want my key. Now."

  "There you go again, always pushing for a fight. You act more like a smuggler's get than anybody civilized."

  "Key," she said, closing in slowly.

  "Well, your choice. Play with Belgraid and live down a decert dad if you can. We coulda made it easy for you."

  Her key clicked out and he tossed it, nearly beyond her, chuckling as she scrambled.

  Key in hand, she was on her way around him, thinking about math and how fast she was going to have to run—

  "Close to thirty-three hours on there," Wil said, like he was talking to himself. "Who'd've thought somebody who can't add could've got that far?"

  Theo froze, then turned, carefully, key gripped in her right hand, helmet in her left.

  "Say again," she said softly. "How much time?"

  Wil grinned and glanced down, too casually, to consult the face of the instrument again.

  "You really can't count, can you? Three two point nine hours. Says so right here."

  He turned the display for her, his grin even less certain.

  "Fix it," she said. "I have more time than that."

  "No," he answered, "you don't. This is the official shift-read."

  "I had more time than that when I started today."

  "The key count's official," he insisted. "This is your official time, which will be entered into your log."

  "Fix it."

  "You're really pushing it, Waitley. You can't expect everything to go your way if you don't work with seniors . . ."

  The shift bell sounded, yanking Theo's attention back to the rest of the world.

  Math!

  "You'll fix this when I come back," she said, turning back toward Ops, but he used the shift book like a shepherd's crook, blocking her way.

  "Thumbprint, Waitley. Validate it."

  "It's in dispute," she snapped.

  She started for Ops again, ducking under the shift book.

  "Waitley, validate this record or lose it all!" he yelled, following her into the room, where Bell was lounging against the desk, an interested expression on his face.

  "Thumbprint!" Wil shouted. He shoved the book at her face, almost striking her, but she fended the thing off with an elbow. He waved it again, catching her a stinging blow flat on the cheek and ear, and before she realized it, Theo was moving.

  She swung her helmet into his gut, but he danced partly out of the way, now using the book to prod at her face. She knew the counter for that, though. She ducked, twisted—and she was half behind him, fending off his elbow with her forearm as he tried to strike, rather than dance.

  He swung hard, cussing and yelling; there was blood dripping from somewhere, but this move she'd seen on the ship when the other pilots were playing and all you needed to do really was that duck, right into the pelvis and—

  Wil was flat out on the floor, dazed, his breath coming in large gasps. The shift book lay against the desk at Bell's feet. Bell, eyes wide, was standing with hands low, nonthreatening, looking between Wil and Theo in wonderment, and then directly at Theo.

  "One-handed! I can't believe it, you took him one-handed!" His face changed, ruddy cheeks going white. He reached to the desk, slapping a button.

  The security gong rang about the time Theo realized that the blood was coming from the stinging area on the side of her face. She held her hand there, to stop the blood, but the gong kept ringing.

  Fourteen

  Sturtevan Hall Dispensary

  Anlingdin Piloting Academy

  Floor tile can be very interesting, especially when it's a floor carefully, nay, perfectly set with borders of local stones from local artisans, and then sealed and bonded with a transparent, diamond-hard finish. The subtle blues and greys, combined with a flash of silver and the rare but welcome reds and oranges created a free-form flowing image of waterfall and fish, or stream and birds, depending on the focus of the eye, and the angle of the light.

  Theo sat, staring at the beautiful work, thinking, When you have a school or college and someone gives you money to name a hall after their particular heroic family member, you can do that kind of stuff, like make a med clinic into a work of art.

  Here, the floor did not merely meet the walls, it curved up and seamlessly became the wall. No errant dirt allowed, no buildup of dust, no collection point for contagion, no dimming of the beautiful floor of Sturtevan Hall's dispensary.

  Theo sat in a chair, sorb-pad held to the side of her face, tension singing from her shoulders, studying the pattern of the tile, doing her best not to think too much about how she'd managed to get into a fight. She never got into fights. Well, not that often . . . and that made the tile much more interesting until the attendant came back with the med techs.

  They'd shaved her hair on the left and a patch a little higher to get at the cut, the slender med tech with his grad-student tags soothing her with his quiet voice and gentle fingers as the other wielded the shave wand with dexterity.

  "We have permission then, to heal these problems?"

  When he said that he pulled back so she could see his startling grey eyes and serious gold-toned face. He drew his hand down the side of her face in front of her ear, perhaps illustrating these problems.

  She nodded, her fingers repeating yes.

  He sighed, the corners of his mouth quirking.

  "Were you speechless, I would accept, but you are not speechless and we must both hear you say so; it is in the nature of being witness to each other, you understand." Again he gently touched her face. "So, I may heal these problems?"

  "Yes," she managed, "you may heal this problem."

  "That is well said, Theo Waitley. No concussion for you, and none I hear for the gentleman in the next room. You may relax, please."

  She tried, thinking of a dance Bek had taught her, all languid circles and limpid ovals, but the sleepy patterns kept morphing into the sharper moves of defense dance.

  "It is adrenaline," the tech murmured lightly. "You are well served. Here, let me look again."

  He bent close; she could hear his breathing. He spoke several syllables she didn't understand, to which the other tech made a quick reply. She heard the rustle of a lab coat, and from the corner of her eye saw a small object trade hands.

  "Please, then, sit back, and be comfortable. Two steps here, if you will pull your patience together."

  She smiled and managed a weak laugh, nodding. He bent forward again, his voice so low it almost put her to sleep.

  "This is fine, this is fine, ah, in a twelve-day your boyfriend will kiss it and all will be well. A clean cut after all, which the blood has cleansed, as it should. This, this stings, in a moment, but it will be well."

  Theo shivered then, the sudden thought of having Win Ton being close enough to touch her face reminding her somehow that now she had a lot of explaining to do, to Father, Win Ton, to Cho. To Kamele!

  She heard the other med tech giggle something about Theo "needing a boyfriend with quick moves" and then there came the zzzizzizit of a cool spray, which, after a moment, did sting. When her concentration came back the med tech with the spray said said, "A moment, Theo Waitley, let me check the scalp here; your muscles are quite tense."

  His fingers touched her scalp above and then behind her ear, traced a curve down toward her shoulder.

  "Dancer," he said, so soft he was probably talking to himself. Theo relaxed under his touch.

  "You will wish to dance gently tomorrow and the next day—call it a prescription: you must dance gently. You should dance every day. This will be good practice, for as a courier pilot you will need to stand as ready as you did today. A moment more, if you please, Theo Waitley; you will relax, we will together permit
these muscles to relax even more . . ."

  He did something with his hands, touching one close to the affected area and one to the other side of her head, spreading warmth—

  "One additional therapy," he said gently, "and your skin will find itself and we shall soothe it together and cover with just a slight tape . . . she who flies gliders, these muscles we need to relax, we need them to relax so that the parts of you go together properly. You need not always be on the verge of fight, which is wearing and tenses muscles. So, accepting the capability to act, that is good. What is needed, now, is for you to let these muscles relax, to let the skin be natural. This is how we refuse scars the opportunity to form. Let you dance a moment in your head, with your eyes closed, the move that most powers you, then the move that most relaxes you."

  With eyes closed she saw Win Ton, dancing beside her, his eyes glinting mischief; felt her own move in response to his joy and the pattern—and sighed.

  "Yes, that is fine, that is fine. Ah, excellent, let those emotions work for you. And now the coolmister . . ."

  There came another zzzizzizit of spray, like fog on her face, and the touch of fingers and a flower smell that reminded her of bluebells and Coyster and home.

  When she opened her eyes, the grey eyes of the med tech were surprisingly close, as if he were watching her whole face and person.

  He gave a half bow, and reached about to pull a touch pad to her.

  "If I may have your thumbprint, Theo Waitley, there will be two pills for pain, which you will not need tonight, but which I am required to issue. The skin cover will come off in the shower in three days; it is best if you not touch it before."

  "Thank you," she managed, and stood. She felt . . . light, and . . . calm. Comfortable in her own skin.

  "Thank you," she said again, and bowed.

  Fifteen

  Adminstrative Hearing Room Three

  Anlingdin Piloting Academy