Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures (liaden) Page 6

  “Well,” said Shan, “at least we’ve managed to get everyone out of Kareen’s way today. Is she checkmated, do you think, brother? Or will she pull rank on you?”

  “She has none to pull.”

  Shan opened his mouth—closed it, as memory rose:

  The boy Shan, entering the house by a side door and almost falling over his small cousin Val Con, unexpectedly sitting on the cool stone floor, clutching a martyred orange cat in his arms.

  Shan sat on the floor next to the child, extended a hand and ruffled the dark hair.

  ‘Hello, denubia, what’re you doing here?’

  A long pause curing which Val Con studied him out of solemn green eyes. Then, with the terrible succinctness of the very young: ‘Aunt Kareen doesn’t want me.’

  “Shan.” Val Con’s voice, here and now.

  “Yes?” But even as he asked, he saw them; the Lady leaning on the arm of her elegant escort. “Aaaah, damn. Have they seen us?”

  “Hello, kinsmen!” called Pat Rin across the Festival’s babble.

  “Why must he always remind me of that?”

  “Gently, brother,” murmured Val Con. “Only think of the expense; weigh it against satisfaction gained…”

  “You make it sound so simple…” he began; then Lady Kareen and her son were with them and he chopped it off to make his bow.

  Val Con also bowed, graceful and brief. “Aunt. Cousin.”

  “Nephew,” she said icily and paused to draw a deep breath. Into this slight gap—unexpectedly—stepped Pat Rin.

  “What an extraordinary cloak, young cousin. And worn at such an odd hour. Unless you wish to establish a—point—of some kind?”

  Val Con considered him, eyebrow askance. “I wish to establish a new fashion in cloaks, kinsman. What better place to introduce it than the Little Festival, where hours are for a time banished?”

  “Oh, very good!” said Pat Rin admiringly. “You have the touch of a poet, cousin.” He gently disengaged his mother’s hand and ignored her glare as he circled Val Con thoughtfully.

  After a few circuits, he shrugged. “There is a grain of something there, I allow. It might be possible to adapt it quite successfully. What do you call it?”

  “A skimmer,” sand Val Con gently.

  “Indeed? Don’t you find that perhaps a bit—vulgar?”

  “Ah, but you see, I find myself to be a vulgar person. Which I believe is the topic my aunt wishes to address. Let us allow her room, kinsman.” He turned his eyes to the outraged Lady. “Aunt? You have something to say?”

  It took her a moment to find her voice. “I will speak with you in private, sir.”

  Val Con inclined his head. “Lady, I regret. I am here. If you wish to speak—and since you came in search of me—you must perforce speak here.”

  Pat Rin’s eyes sharpened with speculation and he stepped back to his mother’s side.

  The Right Noble stared at her nephew. A moment stretched to two… neared three…

  She moved her eyes first.

  “very well, sir. if you wish all the world to hear it…”

  “If your topic causes you shame, madam, pray do not speak, but wait. Call on me at home and we will discuss the matter privately.” Val Con’s voice was unremittingly gentle. Shan winced and swept a quick glance around the gathering crowd.

  Lady Kareen moistened her lips. “That Lord yos’Galan is so lost to propriety as to continue to race skimmers in the face of defeat and ridicule, I can readily believe. That you, of the Line and blood of one of the oldest and most respected of the Clans, should, after receiving the instruction of the eldest of your Line, persist in this scandal is insupportable. Why should you race skimmers, sir? In all the generations since the Clans came to Liad no one of Korval has ever raced skimmers!”

  “And before Cantra yos’Phelium and Tor An yos’Galan landed the colony ship on this world, no one of Korval had done that, either,” Val Con said. Suddenly, his eyes were sharp; his voice ice-edged.

  “Your argument, Lady, falls short.”

  The Right Noble pulled herself up. Pat Rin gasped. Shan bit his tongue.

  “As the eldest of Line yos’Phelium,” Lady Kareen stated formally, “I forbid you to race—this evening, tomorrow, or at any time in the future. Do I make myself plain, sir?"

  A pause, very brief. Then, in the highest possible dialect; that used to address strangers or those barely acknowledged as kin: “You long ago declined the right to so command.” And added, in a voice so cold Shan barely recognized it as Val Con’s, “Madam, I repeat: Your argument falls short. You are of the Line by name and blood, but never by authority.”

  Incredibly, she opened her mouth to speak further—or perhaps she only gasped with shock. Whatever she intended, it was forestalled as Pat Rin stepped forward, sweeping a bow just this side of too deep toward them both.

  “indeed,” he murmured quickly, “we are grateful for this valuable instruction.” He backed gracefully to his mother’s side; placed her hand upon his arm.

  “A good evening to you both, kinsmen. My kindest regards to your sisters.”

  Gently, he turned the Right Noble and guided her through the scattering onlookers.

  Shan looked at his younger brother, standing stiff and hard-faced in his absurd cloak.

  “Are you Balanced now, Val Con?” he asked softly.

  Some of the stiffness fled and he turned, mouth wry.

  “I think so,” he murmured; and added, “yes.”

  * * *

  THE STANDS WERE packed and Nova stretched her legs carefully.

  Next to her, Anthora and her fairlove were engaged in picking out acquaintances in the crowd—against all Festival propriety, of course. Nova sighed and leaned over.

  “May I offer either of you wine?”

  “Both,” said Anthora gaily, she smiled at her companion, who was clearly besotted already. “I’ll have red, please.”

  “And I, canary, Lady. Thanking you…”

  Anthora gripped Nova’s hand. “Two more,” she whispered urgently. “is it red and red? Pat Rin and Lady Kareen are here.”

  “What?” Nova turned, immediately locating the exquisite Pat Rin, painstakingly conducting his mother across the tiers.

  “Damn,” Nova muttered and Anthora laughed.

  Pat Rin’s bow, delivered moments later, was an intriguing concoction of restraint, kinship and tentative coolness.

  “cousins,” he said formally. “A good day to you both. My honored mother wishes to view the race and wonders if she might presume to the extent of begging two seats.”

  What was this? Nova smiled graciously and inclined her head.

  “Please do sit, both. There is wine. You prefer red, I think, kinsman? Cousin?”

  This was acknowledged with cool thanks; seats were taken. Lady Kareen leaned to Nova.

  “Will you have the goodness, Cousin, to point out Korval’s craft when it appears? One wishes to keep it in one’s eye.”

  “Yes, certainly.” Nova sipped wine to cover her confusion. “You know, of course, Cousin, that there is no possibility of halting the race—or of withdrawing Korval’s entry, assuming it has qualified?”

  “Of course,” said Lady Kareen placidly. “I have seen my nephew and his brother. My error has been shown me,” her lips twitched, “with meticulous correctness, one seeks to behave with propriety.” She sipped. “What is the name of the craft, please, Cousin?”

  “Araceli. It should be quite easy to mark. My youngest brother wears his cloak.”

  “Most proper,” said Lady Kareen and turned to say a word to her son.

  * * *

  VAL CON PULLED on gloves as he surveyed the competition. Each craft hovered over its assigned colored oval; from the stands it looked as if eighteen frictionless pucks sat upon eighteen glass disks. The slightest gust of breeze could push a craft off-center, as might the careless lean of a copilot, though once underway the powerful force of the airblasts would nullify all but the strong
est wind.

  The razzing from the other crews subsided into grumbling and catcalls, though Val con had had a bad few minutes just as Araceli took its place. Tolanda’s Terran pilot gave vent to an exquisite wolfwhistle while her Liaden partner called out reprovingly.

  “Come now, Captain, you needn’t give up as easily as that! You’ve paid the entrance fee; why not try to race?”

  Kelti had taken up the assault then: “That orange could blind somebody!”

  And so on.

  Through it all Shan sat silent in the pilot’s slot; and Araceli alone of the eighteen craft stayed precisely centered above her disk of color.

  The starting cannon boomed, masking the whir and whine of the skimmers’ starting blasts, wind whipped Val Con’s face as he leaned back into his niche, clinging to the molded handgrips. At Shan’s nod, he shifted left and Araceli veered sharply: now they were in the second row and building speed.

  Across the course, skimmers were setting up for the first sickle-shaped curve, and Araceli’s position on the outside was bad. Unexpectedly, speed helped them through the first bunch-up at the base of the turn; they slid away half-a-second before the craft to their left lost control and broadsided the skimmer immediately behind.

  A short straight and then—the hill.

  Most of the field was slowing; pilots gauging the approach, waiting for the exact moment to gun the jets.

  Out on the far side, running at a completely absurd angle, Araceli charged forward, upward—halfway up, in fact—and began to rotate.

  Shan hit the jets; Araceli climbed; rotation unchecked. Val Con, ducking to give the pilot a clear view as they proceeded backwards, grinned at the confusion behind.

  Several pilots, misreading Araceli’s rotation as unwanted spin in their own craft, corrected disastrously, slipping sideways—and downward.

  Araceli gained ground, rotating gently to face forward again as the hill was crested—four places up in the running; only seven craft ahead.

  But on the short straight the superior speed of the newer skimmers showed and Araceli dropped to tenth.

  “Amateurs!” howled Scant’s pilot as that craft passed them. “Get off the course if you can’t drive!”

  Shan waved politely and threw a quick grin at Val Con, motionless in the copilot’s seat, cloak tucked carefully around him.

  Shan nodded a heartbeat later and Val Con threw his weight to the right as the craft spun sideways to descend the hill, setting up for the second curve. There was a bunch-up at the bottom and several skimmers overshot into a field of grain, releasing a storm of silvery pollen.

  Val Con shifted to the left and Araceli skidded around, taking the corner raggedly, but in the running as they came into the second longest straight.

  “Now!” yelled Shan.

  Val Con knocked twice on the thin metal skin and curled himself into a tight ball behind his larger brother; ducking his head inside the silk of the cloak to create a smooth-backed fairing.

  They neither gained nor lost on the straight and Val Con stayed hunched over. A gone feeling in his stomach warned him and he was instantly up, sitting far back; trying not to look at the ramp ahead, or at the gap they must jump.

  The ramp edge was crossed and he lunged forward, grabbing for the kink at the base of the rollbar—

  They went up with a craft slightly to their right and in front; another just behind. Val Con caught a glimpse of that one and winced: they’d entered the ramp wrong and the sharp front of the skimmer was too high. Not only did they lose time as the air flow caught the broad base, but almost flipped as the back sank.

  Shan gunned the jets as Araceli made the receiving ramp. The shock of it, rather than conscious thought, brought Val Con back into running position.

  Araceli was the second of three skimmers approaching together, making a bid to take the next corner sharply and enter the weaving tree-lined “tunnel”.

  Shan nearly missed the proper moment for reversal of the jets; kicked them and leaned to fight rotation as Val Con jerked hard to the right, sending them into the tunnel between the two challengers.

  Out of the trees and into the longest straight, with the start/finish line at its center; and the advantage of the other craft showed again, as three caught Araceli before the line and one after, until the frantic braking for the corner broke the flow and reshuffled the field.

  By the fifth lap several skimmers were out of the race. One flipped at the ramp, both crew members still strapped in. Shan had the measure of the course, but Araceli was losing precious seconds each lap. Tolanda, in bright blue, was running a conservative third behind the two contenders for the lead.

  Araceli was a steady eighth and there was no hope of catching the leaders on speed.

  Out of the tunnel, they managed to pass a careless Kelti and got a good start on the long straightaway. Shan’s voice carried back over the rush of air.

  “Now, Val Con!”

  * * *

  PAT RIN WAS annoyed. Worse, he was bored. Races were not among his favorite amusements and to be forced to sit and watch such a race when one might be ribbonfasted or—Well, and here they came again.

  He dutifully kept his eyes on the black skimmer with the bright-orange copilot as it rushed past the stands, seventh in the field—gaining perhaps half-a-length on the number six position. Val Con was hunched down in back, using his cloak as a fairing—not too bad a notion, Pat Rin admitted, grudgingly.

  Araceli passed number six and was gaining on the leaders, who were starting to bunch up into the braking zone for the curve. Pat Rin tensed. Korval’s entry was hurtling on—deeper and deeper into the braking zone! Madness to take the corner at that speed—He came to his feet, Nova beside him, Anthora hanging on her arm, as a burst of orange exploded from the back of Araceli, which could only be Val Con, jumping—

  The crowd’s groan turned to a cheer, under which Pat Rin heard Anthora’s voice, repeating urgently, “He’s all right, sister. They’re both all right. Sit down.

  They’re—”

  Pat Rin sat slowly, staring at Val Con, who was standing like an orange balloon in the back of the skimmer, his astonishing cloak hauling the craft’s speed down from the absurd to the reasonable.

  And entering the sickle-curve Korval was fourth, approaching third.

  * * *

  TOLANDA’S PILOT glanced back, disbelief on her face; shouted to her teammate and fishtailed for the nerf—the intentional glancing collision which would push the upstarts off the course.

  Val Con snapped half-erect, cloak billowing over one arm, air-braking and tipping Araceli and Tolanda was fourth, fighting rotation. Shan was laughing.

  The hill loomed. Val Con ducked into his cocoon to preserve speed; snapped out at the crest, catching an over-the-shoulder grin from Shan. They charged downhill neck-and-neck with Tolanda; and left them in the dust as the Terran began braking for the corner.

  Again Val Con stood, gripping the rollbar tightly; again the cloak went from a bright orange stream to an inflated airfoil.

  Again Araceli picked up ground on the leaders.

  Cries of “Foul! Foul!” hit them as they whipped past the pits.

  Their opponents, faced with a common enemy, charged harder down the long straights, took more risks, tried—with some success—to emulate Korval’s airbrake, using shirts and vests. But Araceli was a clear second, Tolanda third and the former second, fourth.

  The lead changed hands several times on the tenth lap.

  “Two more laps to win it!” Shan yelled.

  Val Con nearly groaned. His arms ached; he was sweaty; his hands within the gloves were raw; his legs throbbed with strain. Two laps—an eternity!

  They crossed the start/finish line, lapping several slower racers, and came even with the first place craft just before the braking zone.

  Val Con leapt for the bar and blinked: the other skimmer was still even with them, trying to take the coming corner at exactly the proper angle.

  Execution
fell short. The other craft shivered; started to spin—Araceli was past, taking the lead by two skimmer-lengths.

  They held that minor lead through the eleventh lap, but the second place craft was showing its speed and inching closer.

  Korval threw everything into the turns, dove a little further into the corners, waited a little longer on the straights. Val Con concentrated on the pattern of his movements, grooved in after this hard hour, and ignored the ache in his arms and legs.

  They skidded into the tree tunnel nearly two full lengths ahead—Shan yelled, but the words were ripped away by the rushing wind, and Val Con saw the green skimmer charging them from inside the corner, a would-be human airbrake frantically trying to regain control.

  Shan choked the jets, trying to throw Araceli clear of the charge, fighting spin and time was too short—

  Val Con leapt to the bar, arms wide: “Left, Shan! Left!”

  Araceli snapped left as Val Con’s cloak ballooned and the green skimmer missed them by a hair, the pilot struggling with the stick, trying to avoid the second place craft, just coming into the curve…

  They were through; out into the straight, and Val Con folded himself into a fairing for the last time. Araceli roared as Shan opened the throttle for the long run and Val con sweated inside the cloak, hearing sounds—sounds of many people, shouting; and, closer, the sound of another skimmer, gaining; a shout from Shan as they slewed sideways and—

  “We won! Brother, we won!” Shan was pulling the cloak back from Val Con’s head, grinning hugely. “It worked!”

  “Of course it worked,” said Val Con, somewhat crossly, as they began the victory lap, and sighed. Shan was steering one handed and waving at the crowd as wildly as they waved at Araceli. Val Con’s arms felt too heavy to wave at anyone.

  “Shan?” He called above the roar.

  “Yes, my blueblood?”

  “We’re not going to make a habit of this, are we?”

  Shan laughed. “No, denubia. Why push the luck?”

  * * *

  THE WINNER’S CIRCLE was crowded. Val Con and Shan managed to squeeze to their sisters’ side; each accepting a glass of wine and a kiss.