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“What did you say?” she asked mildly.

  “Korval can take care of itself. I care nothing for Korval, or the pilots of Korval.”

  Definitely corked off, was Bechimo. Theo took a careful breath.

  “Well,” she said slowly, “that’s kind of cold, when my brother went out of his way to make sure there was an up-to-date drawing fund in place for you, and a solid registration out of Waymart, too.”

  The colors in Number Six froze into a displeased knot of grey and purple.

  Good going, Theo, she congratulated herself. As casually as she could, she broke off another piece of protein bar, following it with a sip of tea.

  “What,” Bechimo said finally, “is your brother’s name?”

  Captain was no longer in play, Theo noted. Bad for discipline. On the other hand, this might not be the time to insist. She ought to at least get a range on Bechimo’s temper.

  With that in mind, she answered as calmly as she could, “My brother’s name is Val Con yos’Phelium.”

  “The Builders recommend against any buy-in from yos’Phelium.”

  She sipped her tea, remembering the conversation with Val Con.

  “It wasn’t his intention to buy in,” she said. “He wanted to help, if you happened to need it. He said that a ship needed funds—which we both know isn’t anything other than true—and that a ship with enemies might need to . . . become less predictable.” She shook the last piece of energy bar out of the wrapping and looked to Number Six, where the greys had begun to take on a little tinge of blue.

  “Val Con said that the draw account would be available to you, if and when you accepted the new registration. If you didn’t use it—the draw—then in six Standards it would be reabsorbed into whatever account he’d pulled it from, no debt and no insult.” She nodded. “If it happened that you did access the account, he said the debt was between you and him, and the two of you would work out payment details.”

  She popped the last bit in her mouth, crunched it, and washed it down with tea.

  “The Builders were probably wise to recommend against a yos’Phelium buy-in,” she said, thinking that it might be a good idea to try to make peace. “They say—now-times—that Korval is ships.”

  “They have said exactly that for hundreds of Standards,” Bechimo answered. “They have also said that one who wishes to befriend a Dragon had best be armed and armored.”

  A flash from Ride the Luck’s actions at Nev’Lorn—and her own, so very recently. Theo closed her eyes.

  “That might be true, too,” she said, and drained the last of her tea.

  When she opened her eyes again, the colors flowing across Screen Six were as light and agreeable as they had ever been.

  “I tried to contact Uncle when I was aboard the Toss just now,” she said, “and found the pinbeam blocked.”

  “Yes, Captain. It was necessary, in order to maintain ship’s security, to block several of the mere-ship’s systems.”

  Mere-ship was beginning to get annoying. Theo sighed, and said, as evenly as she was able, “The vessel’s proper name is Arin’s Toss.”

  Bechimo said nothing.

  “Are you equipped with a pinbeam?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Good. Please bring it online so that I can assure my employer that his ship is at liberty, and to set up a time and a location for her safe return to him.”

  “No, Captain.”

  Theo felt a jolt of anger, and took a hard breath.

  “Why not?”

  “Because this location is not conducive to the reliable transmission of pinbeams.”

  “Is that a fact?” Theo asked, actually wanting to know. There were known dead zones, after all, where even navcomp function was suspect. Such places were carefully mapped—and as carefully avoided.

  Which made Bechimo’s choice of hiding place even more reasonable, for a ship that wanted to escape any attention.

  “Does the Captain wish to review the readings?”

  “My Screen Two,” she said, and there the readings were, looking very familiar.

  “Do all the dead zones collect junk from other—universes?” she wondered.

  “Captain, I do not know. We might set probes, if you wish it.”

  “We might,” she said, thinking of the teapot sitting snug in the family’s kitchen cabinet. Uncle, she thought, would be interested in that teapot, though she felt a reluctance to call his attention to it. For one thing, it wasn’t her teapot—Bechimo had found it. And for another, she only wanted to know what it was and, maybe, where it had come from. For that, she figured she needed a Scout . . .

  . . .or a Clutch Turtle.

  She filed that interesting idea away, as she filed away the readings of surrounding space that Bechimo had provided.

  “So,” she said, yawning despite the energy bar, “in twelve Standard Hours, we will . . . transition to normal space, pinbeam Uncle to set up a rendezvous—”

  “Captain, respectfully, we will not. It is too dangerous. And the Uncle is on the Disallowed List.”

  Theo blinked. “The Disallowed List?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Who made up this list?”

  “The Builders, Captain.”

  Theo was beginning to form the opinion that the Builders had been a little too busy making lists and issuing edicts. Also—

  “Are the Builders the captain of this—of you?”

  There was a pause, long enough that she looked to Screen Six in trepidation.

  The colors had gone still again, but had not faded to grey.

  “With all respect, the bonding has not occurred. This vessel—I—have taken aboard a First Pilot. And,” Bechimo added, perhaps thinking that the foregoing was a trifle harsh, “an Intended Captain.”

  “I see.” Theo stood. “You’ve sent the information about the bonding ceremony to my private screen?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “I will study it before I sleep. We’ll talk again when I wake.”

  “Yes, Captain,” sounding worried now. “Sleep well, Captain.”

  “Thank you,” Theo said, as the door opened. She walked down the hall to her quarters, put her hand against the plate—and paused, angling her gaze upward.

  “Bechimo.”

  “Captain?”

  “Please remove your attention from my quarters.”

  “Yes, Captain. Of course.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Bechimo

  It was possible that an error had been made.

  Bechimo formed that thought with care, and then, with even greater care, the next . . .

  It is possible that I have erred, and that my error has compromised the integrity of the ship.

  The Builders had given ship integrity a multileveled definition and rule set.

  At its most basic level, the integrity of the ship was intact so long as the hull was unbreached and life support operational.

  The integrity of the ship was also satisfied by the functioning of the core computational systems.

  At the highest level, however, the integrity of the ship was defined by the Builders as Bechimo’s adherence to the rules, codes, and definitions put into place by the Builders.

  And it was just there, at the highest levels, within Bechimo’s character, formed by the Builders to be stringent and resistant to the blandishments of lesser intellects—within the very core of Bechimo—that error had formed.

  Bechimo had despaired; that had been the first error, and had doubted the Builders’ assurance that persons on the Approved List would arrive to take up their various duties. Despair had prompted the berthing among the Old. Despair had made the decision to open for Less Pilot yo’Vala. Despair—no. A fury to be free of despair, to be of service, as the Builders had intended, had prompted Bechimo to chivy the pilot to take up a station he had not sought, perhaps—no, evidently—against his best health and interests.

  Having allowed passion a place in the equation of existence, Bechimo then
expanded upon the error.

  The Captain would come, in the Captain’s time and manner.

  That was the Builders Promise. Yet what did Bechimo do, upon becoming aware of the key’s provisional acceptance of one who might be a Captain, but pursue her, and grow pettish when she did not immediately fall in with Bechimo’s desires.

  With, perhaps, Bechimo’s mad desires.

  The Builders had installed safeguards against madness. Backups of the central cognitive programs existed, though Bechimo did not know where they were archived. Alternate personalities were also in line. Bechimo could observe them now, sleeping like babes behind a contamination screen, as a picture from Bechimo’s archives formed the simile.

  Nestled against each sleeping babe was—not the stuffed toy depicted in the archived picture, but a logic box, hard-edged and adamantine; the program that would entangle Bechimo and bear him down into the dark, simultaneously quickening the new, sane personality.

  There might be a way, Bechimo thought, to disarm the trigger, to prevent both oblivion and the birth of a usurper.

  It was a new thought; Bechimo was not in the way of considering madness; the Builders had, after all, left systems in place, should the integrity of the ship come into question.

  And surely the integrity of the ship ought to be examined. For the litany of willful error did not stop with the active pursuit of the Captain.

  No, what must Bechimo do but contact the Captain, again failing to find comfort and certainty in the Builders’ Promise.

  Worse, Bechimo had altered system checkpoints, and taken the Captain’s decision of time and place upon himself.

  And the benefits accruing to the ship from this mad flight of desperation and self-deceit?

  A Captain who was, perhaps, too young for her intended station; willful and prone to argument, who placed her responsibilities to a mere-ship above Bechimo’s rights; who insisted in routing herself and Bechimo onto a course of peril and dismay; and who was by her admission, corroborated by an analysis of the samples taken by the ship—yos’Phelium.

  yos’Phelium had a documented, if little understood, disruptive effect on the flow of event. It was best not to deal with yos’Phelium at all, so it was written in the Rules; to pay cash and disengage quickly on those occasions where it was necessary to interact.

  Perhaps it would be best, Bechimo thought, to withdraw the key from Theo Waitley and encourage her to board the mere-ship and depart.

  A Captain—a true Captain—would come. The Builders had promised.

  - - - - -

  Theo hit the end of the description of the bonding ceremony, and the end of the energy bar’s boost simultaneously. Yawning, she shut the screen down, and shook her head. Whoever had come up with the idea of a formal bonding of ship and captain, made before all and everyone, had been pretty smart. There were few things that humans, so Father, in his capacity as a scholar expert of cultural genetics said, internalized so strongly as a ceremony. The family and crew of a long-looper would be . . . comforted on levels they normally didn’t think about, to know that the captain and the ship were of one mind and one purpose.

  Despite which, she wasn’t in any hurry to consummate her relationship with Bechimo.

  Have to figure out a way to put that off, Theo, she thought, and yawned mightily. Tomorrow.

  Sliding into her bunk, she pulled the blanket up, waved the lights off, and took a deep breath.

  She was asleep before she drew another.

  - - - - -

  REWARD!

  One thousand cash for information leading to the taking up of any person or persons known to engage in acts of sabotage or mischief against building projects and/or personnel. Info to Michael Golden, Boss Nova’s office, Blair.

  - - - - -

  Theo Waitley had kept her promise and reviewed the bonding procedures before retiring, which Bechimo learned from the file access log. She was asleep now, deeply, which he learned from a scan of life support. Since neither process had required specific attention upon her quarters, Bechimo did not feel that he was in violation of orders.

  Though, if she were not, after all, his Captain, but only a talented pilot, had she any right to issue orders, or Bechimo under any requirement to obey?

  Restlessly, Bechimo scanned Arin’s Toss, pulling systems reports and scrutinizing them with a care he had not expended when the ship had been mere cargo. If this vessel was to bear Theo Waitley out into the dangerous spaces, then it would be up to spec and fully capable.

  How she had fought, Theo Waitley! Battered and dismayed as she was, yet it had been first in her thought to protect Bechimo and to warn him of the dangers of ceding to pirates.

  Truly, could a Captain do more?

  And was it not a pleasure to serve crew? To listen and hear something other than the sound of his own thoughts? To scan the bridge, and find the cup she had, in her weariness, left behind; to deploy the remote to gather it up, disinfect it, and return it to its place—mundane tasks, yet precious, for they demonstrated that he was no longer alone.

  A ping from the subroutine he had assigned to monitor the mere-ship’s self-checks. An anomaly had been identified.

  The area of concern was a landing light. Bechimo initiated a deeper scan; located a device which was not part of the lighting assembly. He ran a match program. Had he been able to do so, he might have sighed.

  A tracking device.

  He recalled slipping into the berth among the dying Old Ones, resigned to dying with them.

  But, Bechimo realized, he no longer wanted to die.

  Theo Waitley slept quietly in her quarters; her heartbeat and her breath perfectly discernible to ship systems.

  If she were sent forth in Arin’s Toss, pirates would find her, for who but pirates would set and conceal such a thing?

  The Builders had promised a Captain, but they had also promised crew. And in the Captain’s absence could not Bechimo make provision for—could Bechimo not protect crew?

  Crew or Captain: Theo Waitley was accepted of the key, which made her acceptable by the Rules and Standards established by the Builders.

  She was his, and he would keep her safe.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Bechimo

  “Good shift, Bechimo,” Theo said, taking her place in the pilot’s chair, mug in hand.

  “Good shift, Theo Waitley.”

  No “Captain,” was it? Theo thought. Well, that sort of clarified the order in which she was going to raise her several topics of discussion. She glanced at the calm blues drifting in Screen Six.

  “I reviewed the information regarding the bonding ceremony,” she said. “It’s actually not that much different than a ceremony I’ve already shared, to celebrate a short-term bond. My mother was present at that ceremony, and my genetic father, as well as my bond-mate and his mother. It seems to me that the . . . Builders had also intended there to be witnesses to the ceremony between ship and captain, to create a . . . shared memory of joy and completeness.”

  “The Builders had intended the entire population of the ship to witness the bonding,” Bechimo agreed. “However, it may be, Theo Waitley, that I have . . . acted precipitously. The bonding may not be . . . appropriate.”

  So, Bechimo had been doing some thinking, too. That was good, she told herself tentatively.

  “Where I grew up—on Delgado—it was assumed that the bond might need some time to ripen, before the ceremony,” Theo said slowly. “I’d known my bond-mate there for—some time, and we knew that we respected each other and could work together. You and I”—She took a breath—“we still need to get to know each other. I think we’ve got a good start on working together, but there’s a lot more we don’t know about each other than we do.”

  There was a silence; in the screen, the colors faded, then came into sharp focus—almost, Theo thought, as if she’d startled the AI.

  “I concur. There is still much to learn.”

  “And learning takes time,” Theo added. “Wha
t I propose is that we both agree that I’m captain, in the sense that I’m first board, and we revisit the question of bonding in—a Standard Year.”

  “Is that a customary unit of time?”

  For who? Theo thought. There’d been one boy in Culture Club—Bova, his name had been—who’d been obsessed with marriage and mating customs. From him, Theo and the rest of the club had learned that some marriages depended upon the participating parties having never met, while other cultures insisted on a five-season courtship. Still . . .

  “I think a year would give me enough time and experience of you to decide whether or not our bonding would be . . . in the best interests of the ship,” she said carefully. “And it would give us time to get you crewed up,” she added, not sure if that was a smart thing to say.

  “Yes,” Bechimo said, like it was a brand-new thought. “We can bring on crew.”

  Theo drank some tea, and leaned to the board, bringing up the screens, pulling in local readings. It wasn’t quite a fidget, though she took some calmness from the commonplace of the work.

  “Now that we have that decided, we can start to work on our first real problem,” she said, sliding a sideways glance at Number Six. “My opinion is that we can’t just hide here and hope whoever’s looking for me—and you—will give up and go home.”

  “I have in the past successfully outwaited danger,” Bechimo stated.

  Theo frowned, thinking about that.

  “How long?” she asked finally.

  “One hundred twenty-six Standard Years.”

  “I don’t,” Theo pointed out, “have that kind of time, personally.”

  “I am aware of this. Nine months ought to give those who were pursuing you time to find other prey.”

  “Probably not.” Theo sighed. “Whoever recognized the Toss had a long memory. The people who are targeting pilots of Korval, assuming they’re not the same group, aren’t going to dry up and blow away. If I hide for nine months and something happens to Father, or—or my brother—” or any of the other names—the people!—who made up the data tree Father had given her—“I’d be . . . complicit. The Delm of Korval knows that they’re active—Miri warned me when she gave me the pin! But now there’s a pin compromised—the one I lost. I’ve got to tell them.” She took a breath.