Ghost Ship Read online

  While the Builders had indeed stipulated that the ship might place itself between the Captain and the Captain’s danger, Rules stipulated that “Captain” indicated a fully bonded state.

  Logic indicated that a pilot—even an Over Pilot accepted of the key—was not Captain—but crew.

  Morality therefore was offended, that the ship took up a decision that was properly the Captain’s—the safety and disposition of crew.

  Bechimo knew chagrin. It was no small thing, to take the Captain’s decision. The ship was not the Captain. That was an Imperative, locked into the very kernel of Bechimo’s being.

  And, yet . . . the ship might act on the Captain’s behalf, for the good of Captain and crew. And Rules allowed of Intent.

  Intent was mostwise applied to crew. However, if an Over Pilot was not Captain but crew, then Intent applied.

  Bechimo reviewed the latest—indeed, the only!—communication with the Captain. It was clear: Addressed as Captain, the Over Pilot had not denied it. Desired to name a time of boarding, she had stated, “Soon.”

  The Over Pilot therefore expressed her Intent to stand as Captain.

  Logic accepted the premise, warily. Rules allowed proper application of terms.

  Morality’s blush . . . faded, and a query was filed.

  It was enough. Bechimo was free to act as required, on the Captain’s behalf.

  Soon. Soon, she would board.

  The key reported that the Captain rested and took liquid. That was well. The key could not accept much energy, and Bechimo dared not risk the key. Still, another tithe of energy, gently, and oh so carefully—something at least to keep her.

  Until soon.

  - - - - -

  Against all odds, the coffee seemed to have done her some good. Theo was feeling stronger, more alert, her vision as clear as it had ever been.

  Which meant that, when the door opened with just the faintest whisper of sound, she saw the look of surprise on the face of the woman who stepped inside, two men at her back, the same configuration they’d held outside the wayroom. Their jackets were glossy with water; water plastered hair to three heads, and beaded in droplets on three faces that eerily bore an identical expression of bland attention.

  “Osa pel’Naria,” Theo said. “I thought you were going to take me to my ship.”

  The woman inclined her head, gravely. “And so we shall, Pilot. You might have saved us all exposure to the weather this evening.”

  She moved a hand and the man at her right stepped out of formation. He reached inside his jacket and put a pouch on the desk before the portmaster.

  “Finder’s fee,” he murmured, and came another, fast step forward, to grab Theo’s arm, holding it hard enough to bruise.

  “Stand,” he said.

  “All you had to do was ask,” she said, with a mildness she was a long way from feeling. She came to her feet, and he yanked the gun from her belt. “You will come with us, Pilot, and you will not cause us any more trouble.” Osa pel’Naria glanced to her henchman.

  “Keep her close. It is dark, and the rain confuses the sight.”

  She turned to the man behind the desk.

  “Our business here is done, Portmaster McKlellan. We will clear your port soon.”

  He nodded, sitting just like he had been, gun out, the pouch unopened on the desk in front of him.

  “Be good to see you go,” he said.

  * * *

  There is a phrase in menfri’at, the dance on which all other defense dances are built—a phrase that Phobai had called “baby’s sleeping.” It served two purposes, as she had taught Theo: it was a genuine resting state, and also, it might misdirect an opponent. It was a phrase that Theo rarely danced, having learned long ago that her size meant she should end any confrontation as quickly as possible.

  And because she had never before been a captive.

  Now, though, she danced “baby’s sleeping” with every bit of her skill, muscles loose, balance milky, walking where her captor’s hand steered her, feet barely lifting above the tarmac.

  Overhead, thunder roared, and lightning did a manic dance of its own. Three steps from the Tower door, Theo was soaked through. She blinked, finding that Osa pel’Naria had been truthful about one thing: the rain did make it hard to see.

  She saw the Toss, though, when they came up on it, and felt the slight change in the grip on her arm.

  “We require the key, Pilot,” Osa pel’Naria said, stepping to her unencumbered side.

  The key? So they didn’t know that the key had been destroyed! Theo almost smiled.

  Your opponent’s ignorance is opportunity. She heard Father’s voice as clearly as if he were standing next to her. And in counterpoint, Kamele: A scholar must be free to pursue every possibility.

  “Key?” she said, muzzily. “Just a . . . I’ve got it right . . .”

  She reached inside her jacket, groping. There was a folding knife in the slip pocket on the right, but she didn’t want to get into a hand-to-hand with these three, who were trained, whatever else they were. All she wanted to do was—

  “Come, Pilot! If you cannot find it, I will!”

  Osa pel’Naria stepped closer, and that was good. The grip on her arm loosened again, just a little. Just enough.

  Theo raised her foot and slammed the heel down on the other woman’s instep. She twisted out of her captor’s grip, felt bone go, screamed, and finished the move. Free, she dove to the tarmac, rolling under the Toss, the pain sheeting the night white—or maybe it was only lightning. Then she was on her feet and running, careless of direction.

  She heard feet pounding behind her. She heard a cough, felt a bite along her scalp, dodged and kept running, broken arm cradled against her chest.

  Another cough and she dove, rolling into the shadows and beneath a ship, fetched up against the tubes, and huddled there, listening.

  The steps ran past, circled back. A woman’s voice shouted something—in Liaden, Theo thought, though she couldn’t make out the words.

  There was a sound at the ship’s edge, and the flare of a small light. Theo moved as quickly as she could, and as quietly, easing her way out the opposite side.

  On the tarmac again, she kept to the edges of ships, flinching in the storm’s blare. She was dizzy, disoriented, her vision dancing with more than flashes of lightning.

  Ahead, she saw them in an especially lurid display of lightning—there were trees ahead. She could lose herself there, rest.

  Think.

  - - - - -

  The Captain had taken more damage, but she had, for the moment, eluded her captors. Readied for action, Bechimo slipped between, and again, between. Into a gravity well—it could be done. Had upon occasion been done. To acquire the surface of a planet by slipping between the layers of space? Theoretically, it was possible.

  Testing the theory had, until very recently, been considered too dangerous for Bechimo to undertake.

  The safety of the Captain, however, was paramount.

  Bechimo slipped nearer still—and paused, until the key reported that the Captain had stumbled, fallen.

  And did not rise.

  - - - - -

  She was hurt, Theo knew. Worse, she was hurt and she was hunted and she had run without prudence or plan. Father would . . . Kamele would . . . Win Ton—

  That made her laugh; the laugh turned to a gasp of pain. If Win Ton had the smallest bit of prudence, he would not be at this very moment imprisoned in an autodoc which was trying to keep his own cells from killing him.

  If Win Ton had any prudence, there wouldn’t be a ghost ship haunting her routes and knowing her name . . .

  The night . . . shifted.

  The rain parted.

  The trees directly before her soggy nest of brush . . . shimmered, re-forming around a—a vessel, immediately recognizable.

  It was, of course, impossible that it be here, on-planet, without any fuss or fanfare. She had a head injury; she was imagining things.
/>   Despite which, she stood. Her legs seemed like they were attached to something else, and she was operating them by remote, clumsily. Still, she managed two steps . . . three . . . toward the ship that could not, possibly, be there.

  “Bechimo?” she whispered, as lightning silvered the leaves around it, flaring along lines like the lines of no ship ever seen.

  Soundlessly, the hatch rose.

  EIGHTEEN

  Blair Road

  Surebleak

  Footsteps sounded in the hall. Forceful footsteps, though Nova yos’Galan had no doubt that the author of them was trying to walk quietly, lest she be disturbed.

  “Yes, Mr. Golden?” she called, folding her hands atop the report she had been reviewing.

  Michael Golden . . . wasn’t. He was short, though taller than she, and dark—hair, skin, and eyes a pleasant composition of black, toast, and brown. His shoulders were broad, his legs bowed, and his understanding quick. Not only Surebleak, but Blair Road was his home, and the home of his family back unto “Double-Gran.” He thus possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of the local folk, their customs, alliances, and turf history. An exemplary aide, he had been hired to stand as her bodyguard—what was called here a ’hand—a task to which he also brought not inconsiderable skill.

  “Ears like a rabbit,” he said now, coming rueful into her office. “Got some news from the crew working on the consolidated school building.”

  Nova sighed to herself, foreknowing what she was about to hear. Uncle Daav would have it that the persons responsible were merely frightened at the volume and immediacy of the changes being forced upon them. That might, Nova conceded, well be true.

  She only wished that they would seek the Healers, instead of—

  “How bad this time?” she asked.

  “Hacked into the power-shovel and drove it through the outside wall,” he said apologetically. “Watchman says he didn’t hear a thing.”

  Were all the hired watchers on Surebleak deaf? Nova wondered, but kept the question behind her teeth.

  “Thank you, Mr. Golden, for bringing me the news. Is there anything else?”

  “Hope not,” he said and gave her a grin.

  Nova smiled faintly, to indicate that she had understood that this was humor. “Yes, let us by all means hope not,” she said.

  - - - - -

  Theo fell into the pilot’s chair, awkwardly fumbled the chain over her head one-handed, and slotted the key.

  “Theo Waitley,” she said, her voice a cracked whisper, “pilot.”

  The screen immediately before her lit, words forming.

  Bechimo welcomes Pilot Theo Waitley. Registry in progress.

  She shivered, then, remembering Win Ton’s tale of sitting—well, right over there, in the empty copilot’s chair, seating a key at random, and so starting this whole chain of events, this waking of a ship that might have better been left sleeping.

  And what of you then, Theo Waitley, she asked herself, hunching over her broken arm. Who would have given you aid, just now?

  The forward screen was filling, line by line, a deliberate list of systems and their status.

  “Captain.” The voice she’d heard only once before, genderless, but—worried. Definitely worried. “Captain, you are wounded. Medical facilities are available. I will guide you . . .”

  “No—not yet,” she whispered. “My ship—Arin’s Toss. I’m not leaving her for them—those—to break!”

  It seemed to her that the status lines faltered in their deliberate dance down the screen, though that might have been her eyesight, which was jumping, giving her greyish snapshots of the bridge interspersed with flares of color, like static.

  “Captain,” Bechimo said—carefully, Theo thought—“you are aboard your ship.”

  “The Toss—my responsibility. I left her alone, without crew to guard her.”

  She didn’t imagine the pause this time. At least, she thought not.

  “Captain. It may be possible to onload Arin’s Toss. Does it please you to order your ship to lift and survey the situation?”

  What? Theo swallowed hard in a dry throat, and forced herself to think. Orders. Bechimo wanted orders.

  “If it’s possible to . . . survey without exposing yourself—yes.” She hesitated, then realized she’d better fill in some more, just in case she—if she lost consciousness.

  “If you can retrieve the Toss without danger to yourself, do that. If not . . . if not . . .” she sagged back in the pilot’s chair, thoughts fragmenting. “Do not endanger yourself,” she repeated, just in case she hadn’t been clear.

  “Understood, Captain. Will you take medical aid? You are wounded.”

  “As soon as we find out if we can onload the Toss. I’ll just . . . rest, here. Keep me informed.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Carefully, Theo relaxed, letting the chair take her weight until she was boneless against the cushions, eyes closed, hugging her broken arm against her. Bechimo had an autodoc, and was right to suggest it to her. Broken arm, head injury—what a mess she’d made.

  Should’ve hired a copilot, she thought, muzzily. Except she hadn’t wanted the bother; the weight of another person always around. Besides, lots of couriers ran solo.

  Of course, not a lot of them worked for Uncle.

  Her thoughts wandered down the path she’d started on outside the wayroom. Had Uncle set her up? Why? Why would he deliberately put his ship in danger? He must’ve known that the FTC had the Toss on its lists; why was he flying her at all? Deliberate provocation? It would’ve been nice, if he’d told his pilot-for-hire that—

  “Captain, Arin’s Toss is under remote surveillance. Scans find no active threats or other deterrents to an immediate pickup.”

  Theo sat up, hissing as her arm protested.

  “Can we make the pickup?”

  “We can. The large cargo bay is available and the podlift operational,” Bechimo said. “It would be a matter of moments. Standing by for the Captain’s order.”

  She took a hard breath, staring at the screens, at the lightning playing along the Toss’s hull. The remote surveillance site was marked out in orange.

  “No weapons?” she asked, though on-port—even Tokeoport—who would dare?

  “None detected, Captain.”

  She nodded, once.

  “Do it.”

  - - - - -

  The Scouts had captured the hub at Sinfreed. Staff on-site had destroyed the data and the comms, along with themselves—all honor to them—but yet, the Department could scarce afford the loss. Sinfreed had been relatively intact, and had been central to the recovery of other, more fragmented systems.

  Which had doubtless been what had brought it to the attention of the Scouts.

  The damned Scouts.

  Commander of Agents recognized anger and closed her eyes, invoking a series of mental exercises to restore dispassion. Anger was a liability—a costly and dangerous luxury. The Department’s virtues were dispassion, control, and calculation, the proper application of which guaranteed success.

  The Scouts would be answered, and fully. As Korval would be answered. And, it would seem, the Juntavas, profit-driven no longer, and allied to Korval through marriage.

  Commander of Agents opened her eyes, touched the screen and accessed the next summary.

  The backtracing of Val Con yos’Phelium, once an agent of the Department, now a traitor to the Plan, was going well. Reports from Agent of Change sig’Alda, dispatched to the interdicted world of Vandar to capture rogue agent yos’Phelium had been recovered from backup systems, and analyzed.

  Analysis revealed that yos’Phelium’s intention had been to build a base upon Vandar. He had formed a core cell of natives before the opportunity afforded by Agent sig’Alda’s arrival allowed him to lift out. As Korval wasted nothing, it was therefore given that yos’Phelium had intended a quick return to complete his work, and had been—as had the Department, on other fronts—delayed by circumstance.
/>   It was, the Commander believed, worth the deployment of a field team or two, in order to surey Vandar and ascertain what yos’Phelium had wrought. Interdicted Worlds received minimal scrutiny from the Scouts at the best of times. In such times as these, it would be wonderful, indeed, if Vandar received oversight at all.

  Commander of Agents allowed herself a smile.

  When Val Con yos’Phelium returned to Vandar, he would find matters . . . not as he had left them. Very much so. A quiet base, on an Interdicted World, would serve the Department well, indeed.

  Commander of Agents allowed herself to bask in pleasure for another few moments, then, recognizing in complacency an enemy to the Plan as potent as anger, again reviewed her stablizing exercises.

  Dispassion achieved, she accessed the next summary screen.

  The team sent to Moonstruck reported itself on-site and beginning operations.

  Excellent.

  - - - - -

  Theo stared at the screens, watching Arin’s Toss rise into Bechimo’s main hold; watched the hatch slide shut, saw the report on the status screen: sealed and secure. She took a shaky breath, meaning to say, Let’s get out of here.

  But she didn’t have to.

  Number One screen, which only a moment before had displayed the rain sheeting down on the sleeping ships at Tokeoport, now displayed a starfield, while Number Two elucidated their precise position in planetary mid-orbit.

  That just . . . wasn’t possible.

  “Captain, honor is served,” Bechimo stated. “You and the ship for which you accepted responsibility are aboard, and your enemies have been confounded. Please make use of the medical facilities. Your readings are erratic.” There was a pause. “Please, Theo Waitley.”

  And how would you feel, Theo asked herself, hearing what sounded like naked pleading in that voice, if you’d waited this long to meet a person who was going to be really important in your life and received them broken, beat-up and maybe not making very good decisions?

  “All right,” she said, releasing the webbing and pushing herself to her feet. Her copilot would handle what needed handling, while the pilot rested. Except, well, Bechimo wasn’t her copilot. Win Ton, at least according to his theory, was her copilot. Bechimo was her own person, and she’d been taking care of herself—protecting herself very ably—for hundreds of Standards.