Plan B Page 2

  "Tried it, have you?" She grinned briefly. "But didn't your brother tell you what kind of danger?"

  "Just that Plan B was in effect. . ."

  "Moontopple," Miri muttered and Val Con laughed even as he shook his head.

  "Things were rather confused at the time, recall. The Agent was hunting me, you and I were separated, Shan was talking inside my head—and very annoyed he was, too! We hardly had time to set up a rendezvous before contact was cut."

  "So you did set up a meeting!" Approval lightened her face. "Where?"

  He took a deep breath and looked her steadily in the eyes. "At the home of your family, Miri."

  "My fam—" She stared at him, dropped his hand and backed up, shock rattling the constancy of her song. The back of her knees hit the edge of the co-pilot's chair and she sat with a slight bump, eyes still wide on his face.

  "Look, boss," she said finally, "I ain't got a family. My mother's dead—died my second year in the merc. And if Robertson ain't dead he oughta be, an' I don't wanna be the one does the deed."

  "Ah." Sorrow touched him: Clan-and-kin, indeed. He perched on the arm of her chair. "The family I meant was Clan Erob."

  Her hand dropped to the pouch built into her wide belt. "Clan Erob," she said huskily, "don't know me from Old Dan Tucker. I told you that."

  "Indeed you did. And I told you that Erob would not shun you. You have—what? Twenty-eight Standards?"

  She nodded, wariness very apparent.

  "So," said Val Con briskly. "It is high time for you to be made known to your clan and to make your bow to your delm. Now that you are informed of your connection, you would be woefully rude to ignore these duties."

  "And besides, you told your brother to meet you there, so that ends that. Might just as well go there, first," Miri glared at him. "I just hope you know where it is, 'cause I sure don't."

  "I know exactly where it is," Val Con said, taking her hand and smiling at her.

  Miri sighed, though she did return the pressure of his fingers. "Why don't that surprise me?" she asked.

  "No," Miri said flatly, teacup clenched tight in a hand gone suddenly cold.

  "Cha'trez. . ."

  "I said no!" She glared at him over the cup-rim. "This is your idea, Liaden, not mine. You wanna visit a buncha strangers and claim favors, you take sleep-learning to find out how!"

  "I already know how," Val Con snapped. "And the case is, my lady, that you will be claiming not favor, but rightful place, based on kinship. Proof will be properly offered, in the form of—"

  Miri slammed the cup down. "A piece of enamel—work my grandma most likely swiped from some poor sot in an alleyway somewhere, along with everything else in his pockets!"

  ". . . a gene test." Val Con finished, as if she hadn't spoken.

  She took a hard breath against the upset in her stomach.

  "Don't need to talk to get a gene test done. Comes to that, I can talk, some. You taught me Low Liaden. No reason why you can't teach me enough High so I don't embarrass you."

  "Miri—" He sighed, raising a hand to stroke the errant lock of hair out of his eyes. Miri bit her lip, knowing as plain as if he'd spoken that he'd noticed her upset inside his head, just like she could see his frustration inside hers. And he'd figured out she was far more upset than she should be, given the request, given the partnership, given the love.

  "It is not a question," he said now, "of shaming me. We are lifemates, Miri: I am honored to stand at your side. But there is this other thing, when one is lifemated—would you send me into battle without insuring that I knew the field as well as you?"

  "Huh?" She shook her head. "Likely get you killed, holding back information. And I'd have to give you everything I had, 'cause you never know beforehand what's gonna be important."

  "Exactly." He leaned forward, holding her eyes with his. "We speak of the same situation, cha'trez. Liadens . . . Liadens are very formal. Very—structured. There are six ways to ask forgiveness—six different postures, six distinct phrases, and six separate bows—and none of the six is what a Terran would call an apology. Apologies are—very rare." He pushed at his hair again, leaning back.

  "You speak Low Liaden—adequately. You have some High Liaden from book-study—enough to get by, I think, if we merely work together on your accent. But language is such a small part of communication, Miri! It is as if I gave you pellets, but failed of giving you the gun."

  She closed her eyes; opened them. "You studied this Code-thing, right?"

  "Right." He was watching her, very wary. "I grew up in the culture; studied the Code through sleep-learning to correct my understanding of nuance; took what I had learned and shaped it in keeping with my own melant'i. Your melant'i is not mine, Miri. I cannot teach you how to present it. But your lifemate may counsel you on how best to guard it."

  "Is there a book?" She was conscious of her breath—shortened and half-desperate—of blood pounding in her ears and sweat on her palms. "Can I study it out of a book, and then you and me can work on the accent?" Does it have to, HAVE to be sleep-learning, gods?

  "The—book—is actually several volumes," Val Con said softly; "several large volumes. I used to stand on them to reach the top shelf in my uncle's study, when I was a child."

  "Must've been an easier way up than that," Miri said, half-grinning.

  "There was," he said repressively; "but I was forbidden to climb the bookshelves. My uncle was quite clear on the point."

  She laughed. "That uncle of yours had his share of trouble."

  "It is true that Shan and I tended to embrace—inappropriate—necessities," he murmured; "but Nova was quite well-behaved as a child." A ripple of the shoulders. "Mostly."

  Miri choked back another laugh. "What about the baby? Anthora? She as bad as the rest of you, or did your uncle get some sleep?"

  "Ah, well, Anthora has always been Anthora, you see. Her necessities are often on another plane altogether." He tipped his head, green eyes very bright. "What distresses you, Miri?"

  "I—" Hell, hell, HELL and damnation! Memory triggered and for an instant she was in the stifling cubicle in Surebleak Port, fourteen, brain-burned and reeling; and the tech was telling Liz, "I'm sorry, Commander. Doesn't look like she can take sleep-learning."

  "Miri?" The fingers brushing her cheek were warm; out of the present, not the past. "Cha'trez, please."

  "I can't." She swallowed; focused on his face. "Can't, boss, get it? Liz took me to a Learning Shop in Surebleak Port to tack on Trade before we left planet. Damn near killed me. Tech said—said I couldn't take it. Sleep-learning. Found out later that—defectives—can't take the—strain on their brains." She managed a wobbling grin. "I know I'm not supposed to tell you I'm stupid. . ."

  "Nor are you defective." He stroked her cheek, her forehead; lay his fingers lightly along her lips and then let them drop, eyes troubled. "Tell me, were you given a physical before you took the program?"

  She shook her head. "Just plugged in and left alone. It started to hurt—I remember screaming, trying to rip the wires out—"

  He frowned. "Why not use the dead-man switch?"

  "What dead-man switch?"

  Anger, jolting as an electric shock—his, not hers; then his voice, very calmly. "A dead-man switch is required in all sleep-learning modules. Lack of the switch would cost a Learning Shop its license to operate."

  Miri closed her eyes, suddenly very tired. "So, who checks licenses on Surebleak?"

  Silence; then a sigh and the warmth of his fingers closing around hers. "Let us go to the 'doc, cha'trez."

  She stood quietly at his shoulder while he made the inquiry, in Trade, so she could read it: MIRI ROBERTSON: PROGNOSIS FOR SLEEP LEARNING.

  The autodoc took its time answering, lights flickering while it consulted its data banks. MIRI ROBERTSON WILL INSERT HER HAND INTO THE UNIT, it directed, a small slot opening to the right of the keypad.

  Miri stuck her left hand in as far as it would go, felt the tingle; heard the
chime and saw the words. MIRI ROBERTSON WILL WITHDRAW HER HAND.

  The slot closed and the screen cleared. More lights flickered. Then: RECUPERATION NEARING COMPLETION. SLEEP-LEARNING ALLOWED FOR MAXIMUM THREE-HOUR SHIFTS, NOT EXCEEDING THREE SHIFTS PER DAY; MINIMUM BREAK SHIFTS TWO HOURS. SUPPLEMENTS SUGGESTED AFTER EACH LEARNING SHIFT TO INSURE RECUPERATION AT CURRENT SATISFACTORY RATE. DISPENSED BELOW.

  "I suggest," said Val Con softly, "that you are better nourished than you were at fourteen. I also suggest that this module is properly tuned and equipped." He slipped the supplement pack out of the dispensary and handed it to her. "An Agent is too valuable to lose to brain-burn; a failed mission far too high a price to pay for faulty machinery."

  She stared at him; turned to look at the module, complete with dead-man switch, open and ready to receive her.

  "Three hours?" It seemed like three centuries.

  "It is the most efficient block of time," Val Con said gravely, and stroked her hair. "Miri, I swear that you are in no danger."

  She looked at him, remembering the pain and the burning and the terror. "It's really that important?" But of course it was that important. He was her partner. It was his responsibility to see she had what she needed to survive; what she needed for them both survive.

  "OK," she said, and suddenly, desperately, reached up to kiss him. He hugged her tight.

  "I will be watching," he murmured. "Malfunction triggers an alarm on the pilot's board. Use the switch, if you feel any discomfort."

  "Right." She stepped back, stuck the vitamin pack in her pouch and went over to the module. She lay down and took a grip on the switch. Val Con lowered the lid.

  The connectors slid out of the mattress and out of the canopy, stinging a little as they pierced her. Miri closed her eyes against the starless black overhead, and let the program take her.

  A two-toned chime was going off insistently in her left ear, gradually gaining volume. Miri opened her eyes and sat up, blinking in bleared confusion at the nest-like unit, its black dome lid raised.

  Right. Learning module.

  She struggled out of the nest and took a couple of deep breaths, head clearing rapidly. Behind her the chiming changed from a two-note chiding to a one-note demand. Frowning, she turned, saw the slip of paper sticking out of the slot near the timer and yanked it free.

  The chiming stopped.

  Miri frowned at the paper. The words blurred out of focus; steadied: Absorption rate 98% overall. Feedback accurate 99.8%. Self test consistent 98.4%.

  Miri shook her head, remembered the packet of vitamins in her pouch and went to get something to wash them down with.

  Val Con was coming toward her as she entered the bridge and she froze, mind presenting a good dozen ways to address him; combinations of bows and salutations branching off into a veritable jungle of possibilities, none seeming more right than another. The combination for greeting a senior officer presented itself and she grabbed it, executing the bow in barely proper time.

  "Sir," she said, remembering to straighten before speaking, and to speak with the inflection of respectful attention, "I have completed my session with the Instructor."

  Both brows shot up before he returned her bow, briefly, and with subtle irony. Miri was dismayed; recalled that one might accept idiosyncrasies of style, so long as they did not cross the line of what one's own melant'i would tolerate.

  "Ma'am," Val Con said, senior to junior, though with an undefinable under-inflection, which seemed to echo the irony of his bow, "I am delighted to find your time with the Instructor so fruitfully spent. However, I believe that the length and—intimacy—of our relationship might allow you use of my name."

  "Yes, certainly. . ." But that combination did not arise and the more she scrambled to find a mode that would allow it, the more confusion rose. She lost the timing of the conversation, shattered cadence and art, was adrift in an echoing sea of inflection.

  "Miri."

  She looked up at him, helpless to choose from the endless and proliferating possibilities; unable to define herself, since she could find no way to define him.

  His hand closed over hers. "Miri. Stop worrying at it, cha'trez. Let it find its level and settle."

  The Terran words wrenched her out of confusion; she sagged against him, suddenly aware that she had been holding herself at full attention.

  "I don't guess I learned how to just use somebody's name," she muttered.

  He hugged her. "That's Low Liaden. 'Val Con-husband,' remember? Eh? And 'Val Con-love.' Much nicer to hear from you than 'sir.' I thought I was in black disgrace."

  She snorted a laugh. "Worried you, too."

  "Certainly."

  She laughed again and pulled away, shoving the piece of paper under his nose.

  "Came out of the machine. Any idea what it means?"

  "Ah." He slipped it from her fingers; read it with a nod. "On many worlds it would mean that you are a genius, Miri. The module is set up to test gain and chart the student's recall. A defective person, for instance, would have been expelled from the program after the first test demonstrated that no learning had taken place. Those scores," he handed the paper back, "will have triggered an accelerated program."

  "Genius?" She frowned at him, then at the paper.

  "Genius." Val Con sighed gently; reached to tap the paper. "On Liad, these scores would gain you admittance to Scout Academy. Since you have also demonstrated ability to operate—and prosper—in a low-tech culture, you would likely be admitted to the middle class."

  "I ain't a pilot," Miri protested, thinking that scouts were the best there was. Thinking that Val Con was a scout. Thinking that it had to be a glitch in the machine somewhere. Thinking. . .

  "It can be arranged," Val Con was saying, "to have groundwork laid for piloting lessons while you are sleep-learning—a matter of appending the program to your study of the Code. It is only a preparatory program, of course, but I can teach you the math and the board-drills."

  "Sure," Miri said, absently.

  "Good. Would you like some tea?"

  "Huh?" She shook out of her reverie, looked at the paper again—written in Liaden, she noticed, then, but was beyond being surprised. "Tea'd be fine, thanks. Gotta take my vitamins anyway."

  "Yes." He went to the menu board and she followed. "I suggest you use the Rainbow tonight, cha'trez, to anchor today's learning. Tomorrow you should be able to do all three sessions."

  "All three—!" She glared at his back and then sighed, recalling another bit of learning. "Guess if I'm gonna have this melant'i stuff to take care of, I'd better get the rules right." She took the cup out of his hand.

  "Genius, huh?" She shook her head. "Tell you what, though, boss—I don't feel the least bit smart."

  Delgado: Bjornson—Bellevale College of Art and Sciences

  ". . . coffee, flapjacks and YOO-oo-OO!" The voice wavered unmelodically, though with evident sincerity, from edge-orbit across the general beam and into the tiny professorial office. The man at the desk glanced over his shoulder at the beam-set, frown flickering into a smile as he recognized Number Three-Fifty-Eight singing his way into port, if not into the heart of Vail Runner's satiric mistress, as he did precisely at the professor's midnight, every night.

  "Speak to me, beautiful Captain!" The singer urged against the background chatter of half-a-hundred ships, from port to the fringe of the third world out; and in blithe disregard of the possibility that there might be any number of beautiful captains within hearing.

  "Sorry, Three-Five-Eight. Thought you were in the middle of breakfast." The woman's voice was cool, with an undercurrent of amusement, precisely as always. The professor smiled again and turned back to the screen and the thesis he was grading.

  A singularly disappointing document, truth told; even though the author had not been one from whom he had hoped great things. However, one liked to know that a little learning had taken place, even in the least promising of scholars. Ah, well, they were but at the mid-term. P
erhaps guidance might yet produce thought.

  So thinking, he brought his wandering attention more firmly back to the thesis, seeking the most profitable means of providing guidance. Behind him, Three-Fifty-Eight pled his case with the cool-voiced lady, one tile in a familiar, comforting mosaic of voices. The professor listened with half-an-ear, then with even less, as the key to guidance presented itself and he gave it his full attention.

  ATTENTION! ATTENTION!