Ghost Ship Page 15

  “Why do you even need pilots?” she asked, gripping the arm of the pilot’s chair, and staring up into what was maybe a vent.

  “The Captain will naturally wish to familiarize herself with the ship’s documentation when she has recovered her health.”

  Worried, right.

  “I’m going,” Theo said, and took a step forward, glancing at the screens by habit—and throwing herself back into the pilot’s chair, whimpering as she jarred her broken arm; her good hand tangled in the webbing.

  The ship that was on an intercept with them—she’d seen that ship, or its sister, before. On a tape—a training tape? She groped after the memory, even as the other vessel moved into proximity.

  “Freighter, stand by for boarding,” came the order over the tight band, and Theo had it then—exactly where she had seen this ship’s like.

  The corsair that Father had killed, leaving nothing so much as a potted plant alive.

  “Freighter, you are under our weapons. Stand by for boarding.”

  Theo touched the stud. “By whose orders?”

  “Pilot Waitley,” the voice sounded satisfied. “By the orders of the Department of the Interior. I will enforce those orders, Pilot. Stand to, and prepare to turn the command comm over to me.”

  “Bechimo, go, now,” Theo whispered.

  “Captain, translation will be difficult with this ship in our field.”

  “She’ll—” The dead bodies in the alley; the barrage that had destroyed the courier ship in Ride the Luck’s tape.

  “She’ll kill us,” she said. “If we stand to, if they board, she’ll take me, then disable or subvert you.”

  “That is not acceptable. Live fire on the shields, Captain.”

  The screen flared; stats came live, showing the bolt as it struck—not a warning shot, but an attempted instant disable, right over the main engine. The shields flared, taking the energy without a flutter. Previously quiescent readouts on other boards showed ranging information, and a yellow No-Jump warning.

  Theo took a deep breath, tasting menthol and lemon.

  “No,” she said, leaning to the board, “it isn’t acceptable. Weapons, please?”

  A panel slid open under her fingers. She armed her first missile and brought up the targeting comp, saw Bechimo already ahead of her with weapons choices and mixes, ranging from warn-away to full fight.

  “Bechimo,” she said quietly, “blanket that ship’s retreat vectors. Best punch first, fire at will.”

  NINETEEN

  Number Twelve Leafydale Place

  Greensward-by-Efraim

  Delgado

  “So, what will you do now, Sam Tim?” his grandmother asked. “Will you go to the Delm of Korval?”

  Sam Tim took a breath, and got up on his feet. He looked down at the mug and the spilled tea. He looked up to his grandmother’s smile.

  “No,” he said. He picked up the mug. “I can solve this for myself!”

  There was a picture on the opposite page, the blues and yellows faded and slightly grubby, of Sam Tim bending to pick up his fallen mug, his grandmother looking on with a smile so fond it brought tears to a mother’s eyes.

  Although, Kamele thought, there hardly needed to be an excuse, lately, to bring tears to her eyes. She closed the book, being careful of the mended spine, and sat for a moment, fingers absently caressing the worn cover, staring into the depths of the floor.

  When Theo had been in occupancy, the floor had displayed an aquarium rich with fish of all colors. Since she had left Delgado in pursuit of her own life’s purpose, the room had been turned off. It had been years since Kamele had been inside, the last time to free the ever-inventive Coyster, who had devised a method for opening the door, but not for keeping it on the latch so that he might exit again without human assistance.

  She had been annoyed with the cat’s antics; Jen Sar had been diverted. Between it all, the faulty lock gasket was replaced, Theo’s room resealed, and Coyster extravagantly praised as a champion of household industry and awarded a piece of cheese.

  Well.

  Kamele shook herself, and rose, slowly, from the desk chair. She began to return the book to its place on the shelf, then thought better of it and took it with her as she crossed the joyless floor, sock-footed and quiet.

  In her office, fresh cup of coffee to hand, she tapped the desktop screen and deliberately settled back in her chair as Theo’s message came to the fore.

  Twenty-four words was the sum of it—her daughter was nothing if not thrifty—and each one raised more questions than it answered.

  Father with Delm Korval. He is safe, well, within parameters of active duty pilot. No plans for Delgado return.

  I love you, Mother.

  Theo

  Kamele sighed and sipped her coffee, compiling a list of those questions.

  Firstly, how did Theo know Jen Sar was with the Delm of Korval? Had she spoken to him? Received a letter? Made Sam Tim’s mythical journey and met him there?

  No, Kamele thought, Theo had been properly brought up. She would not state something as fact unless she knew it to be so. Therefore—the fact. The how of its reaping was a side issue.

  The fact under consideration was that Jen Sar was safe and well, within those limits known and accepted by an active duty pilot.

  Kamele rubbed her forehead.

  Jen Sar was—had been—a pilot, in the life he had led before he came to Delgado to continue his true work from the considerable height of the Gallowglass Chair. It had, however, been many years since he had flown. Kamele had learned a few things about pilots since Theo had gone away to Anlingdin Academy. She had, for instance learned that, in order to maintain one’s license in proper order, and be allowed to continue within the profession, a ranked pilot needed to clock a certain amount of flight time each Standard. Surely, Jen Sar Kiladi’s license to fly must have long ago expired.

  She gasped in sudden pain, her eyes filling once more with tears.

  What, after all, did she know about Jen Sar Kiladi, his habits and his keepings? She might as well have shared her life with a shadow for all she had grasped of the man. He could have piloted freighters during every one of his free-study days, and Kamele Waitley none the wiser, inadvertent and easily duped as she had shown herself to be.

  Will you take it to Delm Korval?

  She heard his voice in memory, teasing Theo out of a black mood with the old game—she’d always thought it was a game. Theo had thought that it was a game, too—of that, Kamele was certain.

  . . . and now Theo didn’t think it was a game.

  Kamele looked to the corner of her desk, where she had dropped the old picture book. Sam Tim’s lesson was that one did not disturb the Delm of Korval for minor matters, for problems that one might solve for oneself.

  If Jen Sar—and possibly Theo—had gone to the Delm of Korval . . .

  In her chair, in her office, in her home on safe Delgado, Kamele Waitley shivered.

  If Jen Sar Kiladi—easily the most facile and creative mind Kamele had ever encountered—had cause to seek the Delm of Korval, stipulating for the present argument that such a person existed . . .

  . . . that meant he had a problem that he had been unable to solve for himself. That was the Sam Tim’s Rule.

  And—again, stipulating that a person with supernatural powers of problem-solving did exist—what sort of trouble might routinely fall to the Delm of Korval’s honor?

  Kamele swallowed, for it was distressing to form the thought. Life with Jen Sar had toughened her mind, however, and stretched it in unlikely directions. And really, it was plain from the text.

  The Delm of Korval solved problems of life and death.

  Therefore, Jen Sar was or had felt himself to be, by the rules of the working theory, in active, physical danger.

  For a moment, she thought she would laugh, for what sort of active, physical danger might threaten a mature and well-regarded Scholar Expert?

  The impulse to laughter die
d.

  Jen Sar had been a pilot.

  And the lives of pilots, so she had come to learn, were sometimes enlivened by violence and the threat of physical danger.

  Courier pilots—had Jen Sar been a courier pilot? Such pilots might be supposed to carry . . . secrets. Even, perhaps, dangerous secrets. And Jen Sar Kiladi was a man with a gift for discovering secrets.

  Kamele leaned forward, gave Theo’s letter one more hard stare, and called up a working screen.

  Korval, Delm, she typed, pilots.

  - - - - -

  “Sleet!” Sandi Jakeb stared out over the ruin of what’d been a nice level road bed last night at quittin’ time. She pushed her hardhat up off her forehead and looked over to her mate. “If I didn’t know better, I’d start thinkin’ somebody stood against this road going in.”

  “Least they din’t take out no machinery this time,” Ken said sourly, just a tick ahead of his belt radio giving out a buzz. He snatched it to his ear. “Earnlee!” he snapped, and then stood there, listening, until—

  “I’ll be over. You stick there, but send the rest of the crew over to my position. Got some cleanup to do. Yeah. Out.”

  He slammed the unit back into its loop and glared up at Sandi.

  “Roller lost tread,” he said. “I’ll go over see how bad.”

  Sandi nodded.

  “I’m going to call McFarland. I think we’d better hire us some night eyes.”

  - - - - -

  The first search string returned so many results as to be meaningless.

  The results from the second, refined search were scarcely more manageable.

  Kamele sipped cold coffee, idly running down the list, opening this file and that one at scholar’s random, which was not random at all, reading a few sentences before passing on to another article.

  Historically, it would appear that Korval—which her browsing quickly taught her meant both a particular Liaden clan-family, and the person within that family who stood as delm, or chair—Korval had been historically very busy with the concerns of pilots and vagaries of piloting. Indeed, it would seem that the core concerns of Korval had, historically, been piloting and trade.

  Abruptly, Kamele put her cup aside.

  Historically. She snorted a soft laugh.

  Neither Jen Sar nor Theo had gone to an historic Korval. She had allowed her scholar’s bias to betray her.

  The house base provided access to Jen Sar’s preferred news service, accompanied by a warning note—the subscription had only another Standard Month to run. That was easily taken care of—later. For now . . .

  Fiddling the parameters of her search was the work of a moment. She tapped the screen, set the search string loose, and stood, stretching with her arms over her head.

  She’d make another pot of coffee, she thought. It was shaping up to be a long night of research.

  TWENTY

  Bechimo

  A warm wind that smelled like green growing things brushed her face. Coyster stirred in her lap, and sighed. Theo sighed, too, and snuggled into the blanket, seeking a deeper sleep. Unfortunately, she only drifted closer to wakefulness—a wakefulness shadowed by an . . . ugly dream. She pushed her face into the blanket, screwing her eyes shut, denying it, but the shadow would not be put off by such childish stratagems.

  The dream: Father standing, braced and ready, in his study, staring into the swirling galaxy beneath his floor, striking downward with the Gallowglass cane—his mark of honor. With every strike, a ship died among the stars. She ran forward, meaning to stop him, but he thrust the cane into her hand, and there was a black corsair on course for—for them—missiles launched, and there wasn’t any choice. No choice at all.

  She struck. The ship exploded. She cried out, spinning, meaning to throw the cane away—but there were more black ships zeroing in on her through the starry floor, and she used the cane, again. And again, Father’s hand on her shoulder . . .

  A bell sounded. Theo opened her eyes, gasping with the effort of shaking off the dream, and frowned at the pale blue dome too close to her nose.

  The bell sounded again; the dome rose. She sat up, saddened to find that Coyster and the blanket had also been illusions, and swung her legs over the side of the ’doc—for of course it was an autodoc. In fact, she remembered, it was Bechimo’s autodoc, to which she had . . . been guided, reeling, crying, her mouth tasting nastily of lemon; her stomach churning.

  Wounded—she’d been wounded when she came on board, but there had been something else—the Toss, right. And then an impossible transition to orbit and—

  There was a black corsair on course for—for them—missiles launched, live fire on the screens, the weapons panel sliding open under her fingers . . .

  Theo swallowed, and jammed a fist against her mouth.

  I killed a ship.

  She closed her eyes.

  I killed a pilot.

  A pilot, and whatever crew had been on board when Bechimo’s missiles—when her missiles—had shredded the corsair into so much lacework—dead by her hand, by her will and her orders.

  Tears pricked her eyelids, and her stomach cramped.

  Yes, she had been taught how to kill people—and how to kill ships; it was part of what a pilot had to know, in order to fulfill her duties to her passengers—and to her ship. She’d even hurt people, deliberately, efficiently.

  But, she’d never . . .

  She’d never thought . . .

  No, she had thought. She’d only thought that the duty would never fall to her.

  She took a deep breath, of air that held no taint of lemon—and another, trying to settle her stomach.

  Theo opened her eyes.

  The room was only slightly larger than the ’doc she perched on, feet swinging above a rectangular cream-and-blue rug. A utility chair was bolted to the decking at the ’doc’s head, her jacket drooping untidily across its back. Her boots lay haphazardly against the wall, her sweater and work pants were tangled together nearby, underclothes strewn over all.

  Theo blinked, raised her hand to rub her face—and paused, staring.

  Her arm had been broken; her primary hand—she stared at her fingertips, but the blisters from the key’s destruction were gone, so were the bruises and cuts from her various adventures on Tokeoport.

  She raised her hand and fingered her scalp, finding not even a scar.

  “Top-flight autodoc,” she said, frowning down at the mess of her clothes. How had she gotten them off? The arm alone . . .

  Wait, she remembered! There had been—appendages; servo-hands, behind panels. All she’d done was lean against the wall and concentrate on not falling down while she’d been undressed, then stagger less than half a dozen steps to the ’doc unit, and fall inside.

  Theo slid to her feet, the little rug comfortable beneath bare toes. From what she could see, her clothes hadn’t fared too well in yesterday’s adventures. She thought about putting them on again, and wrinkled her nose—not that she’d come out any better. If her sweater was muddy, bloody and torn, she was all of that, adding in sweaty. What she really wanted was a shower—and clean clothes.

  “Bechimo,” she said, quietly.

  “Captain?”

  “Is there a ’fresher? I’d like to clean up, get some clothes on.” Trouble being that her clothes were on Arin’s Toss.

  “There is a utility ’fresher behind the door immediately across from you,” Bechimo said. “All-duty coveralls are in that room also.”

  They would do.

  “Thanks,” she said, scanning the opposite wall for a pressure plate, which would mark the door—and finding it all at once: a kickplate, set near the floor. She pressed her foot against it, and the door slid open, revealing a tiny but perfectly adequate ’fresher.

  “Captain, there are items demanding your attention,” Bechimo began as Theo touched the ’fresher’s “on” switch. She frowned, turned around, and looked at the far right-hand corner of the ceiling, from which the voice seeme
d to emanate.

  “My attention is all yours after I get cleaned up,” she said, “a process that I’d prefer to undertake alone.”

  “There is no crew on board, Captain. You are alone.”

  Theo sighed. “Am I talking to myself?”

  “No, Captain.”

  “Then I’m not alone.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Theo sighed again.

  “Can you withdraw your attention from this room while I’m getting cleaned up?” she asked. After Anlingdin, and especially after Culture Club, she didn’t have much body shyness left, but she needed to think, and she didn’t want to be startled out of her thoughts by a sudden announcement or question from the ship.

  “Can you withdraw your attention from your left foot?” Bechimo countered.

  Theo opened her mouth, closed it, and nodded.

  “Sure I can. I know it’s there and most times I don’t need to know anything else. If the footing gets rough, and I need to pay closer attention, or if I take a misstep and break my ankle—those alerts will get to me. In the meantime, I can pretty safely ignore it.”

  There was a pause, then a subdued sounding, “I understand. When will it please the Captain to accept a status report?”

  “We can meet on the bridge when I’m done here. I have a couple things I think we need to talk about, too. Will that satisfy?”

  “Captain, it will. I am withdrawing my attention.”

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  The all-dutyalls were big enough to take her and Kara, too. Theo considered not wearing them, but one look at her clothes as they emerged from the cleaner in the ’fresher room changed her mind. Both the sweater and the pants would have to be recycled. Her boots were all right, and her jacket, absent some additional scars. Theo ran her thumb over a new gouge along the mid-right shoulder—that one could’ve been bad, if she hadn’t been wearing space leather.