Dragon Ship Page 6

  “Can’t succeed if you don’t try.”

  Chapter Seven

  Jelaza Kazone

  Surebleak

  Miri Robertson Tiazan Clan Korval, mercenary captain, retired; personal bodyguard, retired; half-a-delm—and not the best half, either—hurried down the back stairs, pushing the sleeves of her sweater up on her arms. She was just a smidge late for meeting Val Con, her lifemate and the delm’s better half, in the morning parlor for breakfast. Not that she sensed any impatience from him. In fact, he was prolly having a doze in the window seat, and well-deserved too. Her, all she had for an excuse was that she’d let her exercise session go a little too long this morning. Felt good to push the exercise again.

  The door to the parlor was open. She slipped inside, and there was Val Con in the window seat all right, angled into the corner made by glass and wall.

  “Not napping,” he said, looking up at her with a smile in his green eyes.

  The reason for that was cuddled against his shoulder, and she was napping, eyes screwed tight with effort.

  “You’re gonna spoil that kid,” Miri told him.

  He glanced down at his passenger, then back up, brows pulled together. “Do you think so? She seems quite fresh.”

  “Just wait,” Miri said darkly.

  “You terrify me.”

  “Good thing if true. You want tea?”

  “If you please.”

  She went to the buffet, drew one cup of smoky morning tea, and another, of well-brewed coffee, and carried both to the window seat. Val Con had lain their daughter on the cushion next to him. Miri handed him his tea and settled with her back against the wall, one leg up to make a rolling baby barricade.

  “What I don’t get is why you ain’t out on your feet,” Miri said, after they had both sampled their beverages. “Do we still need to be on all-shift call for the Scouts?”

  Val Con sighed and settled his shoulders against his corner.

  “There are certain exercises known to pilots and Scouts which will keep one alert for quite some time,” he murmured. “As for receiving Scouts at all hours…I think that we must do so for some while longer. Even when, as this morning, is was decided to allow the situation to develop.” He sipped his tea. “Scouts are our eyes and ears, and our defense against the remnants of the Department of the Interior.”

  The Department of the Interior being the exact reason that Clan Korval had blown a hole in the homeworld, which had gotten them thrown out by the Council of Clans, which had chosen peevishness over gratitude; and their subsequent happy displacement to Surebleak, Miri’s birth-world, and not anyplace she’d ever planned on coming back to.

  “Exit,” she muttered, sipping her coffee, “pursued by demons.”

  “By hydras, I thought?”

  “Not seeing much difference between ’em, myself.”

  The Department of the Interior had taken a bad hit during the action that had gotten Korval banished from Liad, but the sorry truth was that it hadn’t been killed. There were still pieces and bits and functioning units, and Agents of Change with their missions where their hearts oughta be, all running around and making the galaxy more or less unsafe for everybody, but especially for anybody associated with Clan Korval.

  It was, Miri acknowledged with a sigh, a right mess. Clan Korval wasn’t about to hunker down and fortify, either. Clan Korval, in the persons of its strong-willed and stubborn adults, was picking up bidness as usual, and the DOI could meet ’em in hell.

  That being exactly the decision Miri would’ve made herself, for herself, it was still more than a little worrisome when it was other lives—lives she was responsible for—going on the line. Not to mention that Korval’s change of address sort of endangered the whole planet of Surebleak.

  “Surebleak stands to gain much,” Val Con murmured, like he’d heard her thinking—which he prolly had. “It need only stay in motion. And we…” He turned his head and smiled at her, a little sleepy now despite the tea. “Korval is pilots.”

  “And pilots like nothing better than being in danger,” Miri finished grumpily.

  Val Con laughed. “It is sometimes good to find a safe port and relax among kin. But not for too long, else one grows bored.” He sat up. “Shall I bring you a plate, cha’trez?”

  “That’d be good, thanks.”

  * * *

  Lizzie started fretting as they finished up breakfast. Miri put her empty plate down on the sill and carefully picked the small body up, cradling it against her shoulder like Val Con had taught her.

  “Such care,” he murmured. “Will she explode?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me in the least, given the lineage.”

  He gathered up her plate with his, carried them to the buffet—and turned, head cocked slightly to the left.

  Miri heard it, too, the subdued thunder of wheels along the wooden hallway—and so did Lizzie, who gave a sharp squeal and swung a fist out with enthusiasm, if not precision.

  The rumbling grew closer, and ceased altogether, as Korval’s butler turned into the morning parlor, stopping just inside the door.

  His escort, which was this morning only the cat known as Kiefer, continued onward, his eye on the buffet.

  “Jeeves, good morning to you,” said Val Con, giving a slight bow to the man-high cylinder topped by a opaque head-ball that was at the moment showing a pale orange.

  “Good morning, Master Val Con. Miri. Young Talizea.”

  “’mornin’, Jeeves,” Miri said politely. Lizzie gurgled.

  “I fear that I come bearing…distressful tidings,” the AI said, slowly—you might say, Miri thought, reluctantly.

  She took a deep breath, trying to ignore the sudden bite of double anticipation—hers and Val Con’s, too, and kept an easy and relaxed grip on her daughter.

  “Best we hear it quickly, then,” said Val Con, extending a casual hand and scooping Kiefer out of the air just before he landed among the breakfast dishes.

  “Yes.” The head ball flashed between dull and bright orange.

  “I had previously reported that Daav yos’Phelium had apparently been successful in decommissioning Pod 78. This had been deduced, as the artifact went off-grid, and the deadline for its self-destruction passed without incident.”

  Miri drew another breath, her stomach suddenly not too happy with having been fed breakfast. It had been her—acting as full delm, in Val Con’s absence—who had sent Val Con’s father, and, coincidentally, his mother, on a desperately chancy, mission to pull Pod 78 off-line before it exploded and caused the deaths of countless numbers of civilians. And yes, he was long coming home, and, no he hadn’t—

  “In the absence of a message from Pilot yos’Phelium,” Jeeves continued, “and the continued absence of himself, I attempted contact with Ride the Luck, only to find that Pilot yos’Phelium’s ship, like Pod 78, is off the grid.”

  There was a pause. Val Con stood so quietly that he was very nearly invisible, the offending Kiefer draped, forgotten, over one arm. Miri shivered—his fear, hers; no matter.

  “I very much fear that a mishap has occurred,” Jeeves said, very softly indeed. “And I must recommend that a ship be sent to the last known coordinates of Ride the Luck in order to ascertain what has occurred.”

  Chapter Eight

  Frenzel

  Chaliceworks Aggregations

  The view out of the light-rail’s window wasn’t much more interesting than the view of Frenzel Port from ground level. First, there were warehouses—the backside of warehouses, so the view wasn’t even informative—then the freight depot, with cranes settling pods on the backs of haulers; and then more scrub plain. The reddish brush seemed popular in the area.

  Theo had long since pulled needle and thread from her pocket, letting her fingers work the lace while she reviewed Shan’s instructions regarding Chaliceworks.

  “Captain Theo,” he’d said, which was true and somehow just like him and the rest of her newly discovered Surebleak family, to call
her something different each time he spoke to her, “Captain Theo, what you’ll want to do is wait until you’re down and settled, and finished with the nice customs officers. Get your coffee or tea, or have a glass of wine on me first, before you make contact. I’m told that Frenzel is a very busy place, where things might proceed rapidly, once motion has begun. The bulk of my comments and suggestions are on the key I’ve given you—do read them, Theo.

  “The broad outline is that you wish to speak to Zaneth Katrina. Do not, if it falls within your power, allow yourself to be foisted off on a secretary, or diverted to an outside trade officer. Use Korval in your request to see Zaneth Katrina. In fact, use Korval as often as you like! Politely, of course.”

  “Of course,” she said, beginning to feel a little uneasy about a project that had been initially presented as a simple business call.

  “Fear not, Cousin!” Shan said with a smile. “I’m not sending you into the lion’s den! Those you’re to call upon won’t bite, though they may growl. Only be resolute, keep your inner calm, and all will be well. Yes?”

  She took a breath and managed a smile of her own. “Yes.”

  “Bold heart. Now! Once you have your meeting with Zaneth Katrina, you will say to her that you received her name and her direction from Korval’s own Master Trader, whose emissary you are. This is courtesy, and will, we hope, put the lady at her ease. Say further that Master Trader yos’Galan is interested in dealing with their organization on the long-standing suggestion of Lead Trader Lomar Fasholt, of Fasholt and Daughters, Swunaket Port, whom he has dealt with personally and profitably in the past. Do say particularly interested in long-term arrangements because of Korval’s change of residence. If the lady has further questions, which I expect she will, answer as well as you are able. If she offers a test cargo, receive it with joy, and ’beam me the lading sheet as soon as you may.”

  Theo glanced up from her lace-work. The train was now passing through an agricultural zone; the city still some distance ahead.

  She had reviewed the additional information on the key Shan had given her—several times reviewed it. Though she was confident that she had the information cold, she was less confident that Shan had been quite wise to entrust her, personally, as his emissary.

  Sighing, she spread the lace between her fingers, seeing starfields and Jump-spaces in the weaving of the threads. Her fingers tightened on the needle, and she began working again.

  It was, she told herself carefully, perfectly natural to be nervous; this was her first contact as a—well, as a trader, actually, never mind that she didn’t have any training as a trader. She was the emissary of a Master Trader. And really, wasn’t it likely that a trade partner of Korval’s trade partner would leap at the opportunity of affiliation? There were forms to follow, that was all. Shan knew she wasn’t a trader, but he did expect that she could be polite and deliver a simple message. Which she could. More, her birth-culture traced lineage through the mother’s line. According to the information on Shan’s key, Swunaket was also a matrilineal culture. So maybe she was a good choice for an emissary, after all.

  And wouldn’t it be a good thing, she thought, half-smiling as she worked the thread, if Bechimo could lift from their first port o’call with actual cargo aboard? That would call for a celebration!

  That got her to wondering if Bechimo liked music—or if Clarence did—Rig Tranza’s idea of a celebration had always included some kind of musical “treat,” like he called it. And that got her to thinking about Tranza and Primadonna, and wondering how both were going on.

  Wondering took her mind off of any remaining qualms about the upcoming meeting with Zaneth Katrina. She worked the thread, thinking wistfully a little wistfully about people she missed—and jumped when the automated voice announced the train’s arrival at Central City Station—her stop!

  Hastily, she rolled her lace, stuck it and the needle into an inside jacket pocket, and headed for the nearest exit.

  * * *

  The catalogs kept them busy for the first hour, Clarence and Bechimo going over them together. Clarence had relocated to the conference room, where the big monoscreen displayed catalog pages crisp and clean.

  It seemed that Fradle’s Subscription Supply was going to be the lucky recipient of their custom, Clarence thought. Good selection and prices likewise on things like teas and tarts and bread mixes, with a broad offering of non-eatables that saw some good matches with the Target of Opportunity list.

  Bechimo’s find on the morning was a clearance offer on a pair of “old-style” starter hydroponics sets that were, in his estimation, the great-granddaughters of the sets that originally specified for his modules. According to the item details, the sets were “backward compatible with all RLMoore units.” It was that which made the deal worthwhile, if a slight gamble.

  “The specifications indicate a few minor changes over time, as might be expected, Pilot, but assuming remotes, handsets, or the assistance of off-duty crew-members, adjustments can be made if necessary.” Bechimo didn’t have a visual presence in the conference room, but his pleasure was plain in his voice.

  Clarence nodded. “Put ’em on the list, then, laddie. Pilot Theo was in agreement that fresh fruits and vegetables would be welcome, and the price is right.”

  “Yes, Pilot,” Bechimo said, and the item number for the clearance units appeared on the order form displayed in the bottom right hand corner of the big screen.

  It was quick work from there on, matching items on the TOO list to the Educators Mid-level Arts and Craft Supply Pack; Great Music of Seven Worlds resalable files pack, and Male Drug-and-Sundry Crew Pack, which Clarence welcomed particularly, since the beard-control cream in his ready-kit was trending rapidly toward non-existent, and he had no patience for growing and tending a set o’whiskers.

  “Well, then,” he said, sitting back with a feeling of rare accomplishment. “I think it’s a fine start we have there, laddie, and filed in time to take delivery this evening. Under budget, too. Pilot Theo will sing our praises, sure enough.”

  “Pilot Theo does not often sing,” Bechimo said, sounded thoughtful.

  Clarence cocked a sapient eye toward the ceiling. “Nor praise either, is what you’re not sayin’, I take it? Well, she’s young, and this her first command—by which I mean crew command. First Board can weigh heavy on the shoulders ’til you’ve had a few hours in the chair.”

  “Pilot Theo’s burden would be lighter, if there were a captain aboard.”

  Clarence felt a cool breeze massage the back of his neck.

  “That could be so,” he acknowledged. “Got somebody in mind for captain, do you?”

  “Yes,” Bechimo said, and there was the not-quite-illusion of a deep breath drawn quickly. “It comes to me that one who is Pilot Theo’s elder—in years, as well as in responsibility for crew. Someone who stands aside from risk, but who is firm in the face of necessary action. Someone such as…yourself.”

  “You’re proposing me for captain?” Clarence laughed and shook his head. “Better have Theo.”

  “Pilot Theo is, as you say, young. She is addicted to risk, and refuses to take reasonable precautions. This very morning…”

  “Took the portcomm, didn’t she? Didn’t hire a guard to go with her, but I don’t say that’s a bad decision, myself. Half o’them in the guard-for-hire trade will muscle something extra above their fee outta the customer. Theo’s capable, and Frenzel’s got a nice firm rating in the book. Nothing to worry for there. As for her being particularly addicted to risk, as you have it—the woman’s pilot! It’s risky to lift; it’s risky to land; it’s risky, as you mention, to go out among strangers on the port. Yet, we do it. All of it, over and again. Myself included. If you’re looking for a risk-free captain, laddie, you’d best be looking outside of pilot-kind. That’s my advice to you.” He paused, then nodded. While he was giving advice, he might as well give it all.

  “I’ll tell what I think, since you bring the topic up—taking on
a couple more crew members isn’t a bad notion. Theo and me, we’re capable, but we’re only two, and two’s a bit thin for a ship and a mission of these specific dimensions. Might want to think about that a little deeper, laddie.”

  There was a longish silence, like maybe he’d hurt the lad’s feelings, which was a shame, with them having done so good together on the shopping.

  “Thank you, Clarence,” Bechimo said. “I will think about what you’ve said.”

  * * *

  As it happened, Theo did have to say Korval several times—to the Outer Ring Receptionist, to the Inner Ring Receptionist, to the Merchanter Receptionist, to the Merchanter Secretary—each time politely, and always stating that her business was with Zaneth Katrina, who was, so she learned form the Inner Ring Receptionist, a Senior Sexton.

  Whatever that was.

  The Merchanter Secretary used the comm, and summoned an Assistant Senior Coordinating Secretary.

  “Pilot Waitley requests an audience with Senior Sexton Katrina,” she said to that woman when she arrived, slightly breathless. “Please assist her.”

  Now, Theo sat, green plants and extravagantly fragrant flowers all about her. There were also people, dozens—hundreds—of people, moving in directions obvious to them and not at all to her; people chatting with each other, talking on comms and handhelds, pushing things, riding things, striding, moving, all very busy with themselves and their duties. Theo had been in space station boarding rooms that were less busy.

  The problem was that, unlike the space station boarding rooms, or even the recent train station, she felt that every one of the people passing by looked at her, and looked at her hard, some slowing, some turning their heads to stare at her, some even lingering a moment to watch Theo sit and sip from a clear chalice filled with red fruit water.

  Many of the passersby were girls—schoolgirls, Theo guessed, by their uniforms and shy or brave glances—and all of them were female. All of them. Everybody in this whole echoing cavern of a place was female.

  There’d been some few places on Delgado where she’d known the presence of men was discouraged…or…well…not allowed…but Theo’d never seen an installation this size quite so monosex.