Ghost Ship (12 page)

- - - - -

The fair-haired pilot walked like she owned the port. She was, therefore, admirably easy to follow, and follow Operative pin’Eport did.

Standard procedure.

Most of Smalltrader Bilinoda’s clients had some sense of . . . caution about them; some sensibility that what they had received was valuable, and therefore liable to be coveted by someone other than themselves. They took precautions; they followed circuitous routes; they stopped at taverns, left a coin on the bar with an unfinished drink, sought the back doors and alleyways.

The fair-haired pilot strode on as if she were limitless; as if there were no doubt that the contents of her pockets would remain precisely there, and that any back-alley unpleasantness would naturally resolve in her favor.

It was a pity, Operative pin’Eport thought, that such confidence should go unchecked, but it did not fall within his orders to school Smalltrader Bilinoda’s latest client. His objective was merely to follow, ascertain her ship, or her contact, and report those things to yos’Vinder, who, as senior, would pass the information up the line.

The pilot turned off Orange Main and onto Ship’s Way, taking the corner wide.

A moment later, pin’Eport turned the same corner, keeping rather closer to the storefronts and being careful not to dispute the walkway with any other pedestrian.

It was therefore something of a shock to find himself staring directly into the face of the fair-haired pilot.

A shop display hemmed him close on the right hand; the pilot herself cut off any movement either forward or to the left.

“What do you want?” she snapped in Trade.

For a moment he simply stood, incapable of framing an answer. She had been aware of him? She was—alone on a strange port and without backup—
challenging
him?

But
was
she without backup? Was there a reason he was challenged here—now?

He took rapid stock of the street, the busy pedestrians, the patrons loitering around tables at the curbside restaurant. Perhaps she was not . . . entirely alone. Best not to assume it. Only see what assumption had gained him already.

She held herself as one prepared to answer, should he push her or show any aggression—and it was not within his orders, to—

“I
said
,” the fair-haired pilot repeated, black eyes snapping, “what do you want? You’ve been following me for blocks.”

He must offer neither aggression, nor engagement; above all, she must not know herself for an object of the Department’s interest.

Operative pin’Eport bowed, deliberately modeless, affecting the kittenish grace that charmed a certain class of Terran pilot. He straightened and gave her a chagrined smile.

“Forgive me, Pilot. Indeed, I have been following you. How could I not? It only amazes me that the entire port is not following you, as strong and as certain as you walk. I confess all; I was taken. I hoped, perhaps, that you might consent to—but perhaps I presume?”

It would seem that he did presume; the ruse was not working as he had planned. The pale, pointed face retained its expression of irritation; the ready stance did not relax into flattered generosity.

“I’m not interested,” she said, with scant courtesy. “Find somewhere else to be. Now.”

She stepped back, clearing the way for him. Pedestrians altered their courses for her and swept on. She crossed her arms over her breast and stared at him.

pin’Eport bowed again,“Pilot,” and walked away, keeping his stride smooth and just hurried enough to convey embarrassment. He passed the tables at curbside, and swept into the duty-free shop, where there was an overview of the street on-screen.

For a moment, he thought he had lost her. Then he saw a wiry, fair-haired figure cross the street at a run, overlarge jacket flaring behind her, still on course for the shipyards.

Operative pin’Eport counted to twelve, then slipped out onto the street to once again take up the pursuit.

TWELVE

Jelaza Kazone

Surebleak

They sat down ten to dinner, in the dining hall; silver utensils, creamy plates, and gleaming wine cups reflected in the glossy dark wood of the table.

Miri’d privately thought a sit-down dinner was a lot of extra effort for staff. A buffet in the big parlor would’ve been good enough for a working meeting; they’d done fine with those when they were getting ready to shake Liad’s dust off Korval’s collective boots. But, no—

“A simple meal, please, Mr. pel’Kana,” Val Con had said, and the butler had bowed like he’d just been given a big red lollipop and bustled off to give the good news to Ms. ana’Tak, in the kitchen.

“A simple meal” translated into soup, fresh rolls, braised vegetables, broiled fish, and, for desert, a fruit tart, with wine, teas, and juices on offer.

But the food, Miri saw, when they were all gathered in the dining hall—the food wasn’t the point, at all. The dinner was a sign—a signal that things were now the way they should be; the emergency was over, and Clan Korval had prevailed.

It was subtle, that signal, and not entirely true. There wasn’t, she thought, one person at the table who thought their work was over, or that they could all settle down for a vacation. And there wasn’t one person—herself included—who didn’t feel a little more centered by the time the tart was retired, and Shan got to his feet.

“To the Dragon,” he said, tipping his glass jauntily at her and at Val Con.

This was ritual; she felt it resonate, even as Val Con rose and lifted his glass in turn. “To the Tree.”

There was a pause, then—right, waiting for her to finish it.

How
to finish it, that was the problem. She got up and grabbed her cup—lemon water, dammit—and looked ’round the table at them; her family by lend, that had staggeringly fast become her family by heart. Her gaze came onto Pat Rin’s tired face, and she smiled, suddenly knowing what to say.

“To coming home.”

- - - - -

Theo hit the pilot’s chair still buzzing with adrenaline.

What a nidj that guy had been! Dirt-grubber following her for blocks, and then trying to buy her off with a bogus bow and a—

But no. She took a breath, forcing her hands to move calmly, to tap the key to access queued messages, to sit back in her chair and wait for the display to come up.

“No,” she said aloud, “he wasn’t a dirt-grubber. He was a pilot.” She sniffed. Not
much
of a pilot, with his stiff face and his hard-edged movements. And that bow!

Theo took a hard breath against another jolt of annoyance.

The bow had
really
bothered her. Well, the whole situation was . . . off. Wrong. She’d had pilots on port offer to buy her a drink before; she even had some offer to share some fun. Once or twice, she’d made similar offers, herself. There was a way to do these things that wasn’t—that was polite!

Following somebody halfway across the port was just antisocial!

Antisocial and disturbing in a way she didn’t want to think about too closely, but that made her think she might want to take a shower, as soon as she pulled her messages.

Right on cue, here they came. An advertisement for night-overs, with up to three companions, “screened exclusively for compatibility with
you
”; the
Toss
’s initial docking fees, itemized, from Port Admin; a coupon good for a free book-chip of her choice with the purchase of any two history chips; and a sealed-message-opens-only-to-your-code.

Theo’s stomach, already uneasy, tightened, which was just silly. Her business here was done; she might as well lift.

She reached to the board, deleted the coupon and the advert, scanned the bill and filed it.

That left the coded message. She took a breath and tapped in the sequence she’d been given by her employer.

It was flight orders, all right. Someplace called Ploster—a delivery.

She frowned, wondering what it was she had to deliver, then laughed at herself.

“Just picked up a package or two, didn’t you, Theo?”

She looked at the screen again, this time paying attention to the particulars. Pulling up the comp program and the map, she did the math, rough, then refined it, to be sure.

Not a paid vacation, like the trip to Gondola, but not a screaming emergency, like her initial run to Liad. She’d have some solid Jump time for reviewing the books she’d bought.

She sent the request to Tower for a Lift Anytime, got the ack on the bounce for a slot three Standard Hours out. Good. Time for that shower, and a nice meal, here in-ship, before she got to work.

Three hours from now, she’d be lifting, leaving Gondola and its oddities behind her.

That was good, too.

Theo smiled, rose, danced a short, bright dance, and headed for the ’fresher.

- - - - -

During their last days on Liad, the so-called “informal parlor” had been the clan’s war room, and it was there that they gathered after dinner. Miri settled into the red leather chair that had become her favorite, Val Con perched on the arm at her right, waiting.

They were quiet-moving, the family, and gracefully deliberate—which Miri’d learned was pilot’s sign. In no time at all they were disposed on various sofas, hassocks, and chairs, their faces attentive.

Val Con inclined his head, by way of bringing the meeting to order, and started right in with the first order of business.

“Jeeves reports that the house defense systems are online and armed,” he said. “While we of course no longer have the additional benefit of the planetary defense net, we are reasonably secure. I therefore propose that we bring Korval’s treasures home.”

“Korval’s treasures.” Those were the children, sent away to a remote safeplace when first Plan B had gone into effect, guarded by the two eldest of the clan.

“I agree.” That was Pat Rin, who had the most at stake, since not only was his boy among those self-same treasurers, but the guardians were his mother and his foster-father.

“Better here than there,” Shan said, not exactly risk-free himself. Four treasures belonged to Line yos’Galan—two of them babes in arms. “With so many hunting.”

That was the problem. The Department of the Interior, the headquarters of which Korval had destroyed—which act of heroism had gotten them thrown off-world—wasn’t so much annihilated as headless. A far-flung net of operatives still sat their posts and held to their last-received orders. There were folks working on that—notably the Scouts, who felt that what happened at Nev’Lorn reason enough—but that didn’t change the fact that there were a good number of dangerous people out there in the wide galaxy who held a considerable grudge against Korval.

While there was a risk in giving them a big pile of Korval to come after, there was also safety in numbers—and a certain advantage to being on the ground.

“It is settled then,” Val Con said. “The children come home. Who goes?”

“I do,” Pat Rin said, and his lifemate not a syllable behind him, “I, too.”

That was putting two important eggs into one chancy basket, Miri thought, then thought again. Whoever went, it ought to be somebody familiar to elders and younglings—and the fact was, if it came to backup, Pat Rin had more than anyone else in the room.

Pat Rin met her eyes, as if he had heard her initial concern, and smiled.

“I wish to take my mother news of my lifemating as soon as may be,” he said. “All according to Code.”

That was an in-joke—Miri’d gathered Pat Rin’s mother was a stickler—and got a ripple of laughter from the room.

“Your call, Boss,” she said, and gave him his smile back.

“While the delm’s attention is on me,” Pat Rin continued, “I would like to make a request for assistance. My office is overwhelmingly busy, and while the arrival of Mr. pel’Tolian has improved matters a dozen times, I am in need of an assistant—someone who looks with a long eye, and is not subject to intimidation . . .”

“If the delm pleases,” Nova rose from her chair near the window, “I am able to assist.”

She could, too. Nova’d managed Clan Korval as temp delm for years; Surebleak would hardly be a challenge.

“Good idea,” Miri said, feeling Val Con’s accord. “Work out the details with Pat Rin. In the meantime, Boss, talk to Ms. dea’Gauss. Right before we left, she was telling me about a youngster of theirs who’s in need of a project to keep him out of trouble.”

“I will do that,” Pat Rin said, and bowed his head, going all formal to tweak her. “I thank the delm.”

“Any time,” Miri told him.

“Next order of business,” Val Con said. “The Road is in—let us say that the Road is in very great need of repair. As Korval’s contract requires us to keep it open, it is to our best benefit to bring it into—”

The parlor door opened.

“Your pardon.” Mr. pel’Kana bowed. “This gentleman offered a word of the House; old, yet—”

A shadow moved, walking light and easy, hands held specifically away from a tough trim body. Miri registered grey hair, leather, and ice blue eyes before Val Con was on his feet and between her and the old pilot.

Natesa was up, too, her hands flashing in pilot-talk—
truce
—even while she sang out, “I vouch!”

Another voice came in under hers, deep and calm.

“Clarence.”

Daav walked forward from his place at the back of the room. The stranger stopped, holding his hands out chest-high, fingers wide, showing himself no threat—which Miri thought he wasn’t, not here and now.

“I’m retired,” he said, like it was the next line in an old, old argument.

Daav smiled and extended his hands, palms up. “I was going to say—welcome.”

“Were ye now?” Clarence put his palms against Daav’s, fingers ’round his wrists. “You’re looking fine, laddie; and a sight for tired eyes.”

“Flatterer.” Daav’s voice was gentle. Dangerous he might be, but Daav valued this man. Val Con—didn’t. Matter of fact, Val Con was on the edge of pushing a point, if she was getting the signal clear—and that wasn’t going to do at all.

She stepped up to his side, and caught Daav’s eye.

“Ah.” He stepped back, letting go of his friend’s hands. “Clarence, have you met my children?”