Ghost Ship (17 page)

“I bear a token of your House,” the woman said. “Will you not open to me now?”

Wait. A token? Of her House? And—what had she said, just there at first? Pilot of Korval?

The galaxy spun and came to rest about forty-five degrees off true.

Theo caught her breath, remembering Miri holding the Tree-and-Dragon pin out to her, “Take it, and keep it by. Never know when it might be handy.”

She’d taken it and put it—put it in the pocket with her easy money, and then forgot about it.

The two footpads . . . she flinched away from the memory of their crumpled bodies, their eyes staring into—into Galaxy Nowhere, wasn’t that it?—they’d taken her easy money; she didn’t need to touch the pocket to know that it was empty. They’d taken her easy money, the pin mixed in with the coins . . .

Think, Theo
. There was no proof that these—that Osa pel’Naria had stolen the pin from the people who had stolen it from Theo. She might’ve gotten her pin from the Delm of Korval, just like Theo’d gotten hers. It might be a legitimate offer of help. If there was a pass-phrase or a ready-sign, Miri hadn’t told her
that
, only, “I’d tell you to wear it wherever you go, but right now being under Korval’s protection is what you’d call double-edged—just as likely to make you a target as get you some help.”

A burst of wind sent a cold, damp eddy into Theo’s huddling place. The storm she’d seen massing behind the Tower was apparently going to deliver some rain, after all.

One of Osa pel’Naria’s backups glanced up at the dark sky, and murmured something. The woman moved her free hand, out of range of the camera, fingers spelling out a quick
search, bring, all means necessary
.

The two moved at once, one going left, the other going right. In her watching place, Theo bent her head, hiding her pale face from the person who strode by with quiet, purposeful steps.

All means necessary,
was it? Theo took a deep breath. If these were potential allies, she’d rather be on her own. Another breath.

Time to get walking,
she told herself. Soon they were going to figure out that the wayroom was empty, and then they’d widen their search.

The problem was, where she was going to walk
to
.

Portmaster,
she thought. In the absence of a Guild office, safeties, or any other ordered enforcement structure, the portmaster was her single hope for getting a message out to Uncle.

She should have done that first off, she realized now, but she’d been worried about making the Ploster deadline—way beyond blown, now—and then she hadn’t thought at all, just run, and found herself in front of the wayroom before she realized its potential as a trap.

Using the card and locking the door on an empty room, had been a pretty good decoy, but she should have run again instead of staying in harm’s way.

Well, at least she had a name to give to Uncle, after she got his ship loose and put serious space between it and Tokeoport.

She got her feet under her, and eased toward the disposal’s mouth. The wind whooshed again, throwing grit into her face. She shook her head, took a step . . .

“Pilot of Korval,” Osa pel’Naria said again. “Do us the honor of allowing us to aid you.”

It was said so sincerely that Theo wavered, one step into escape; then she remembered the two dead people in the alley and moved, out of her hiding place and into the wind-laced dark.

* * *

Sheet lightning dyed the sky gold and orange by the time Theo hit the Tower. She shook the rain from her jacket and approached the counter.

“Theo Waitley, Pilot First Class,” she said to the man seated there. “I’d like to see the portmaster.”

“On what business?” he asked, more bored than interested.

Best to keep it simple for the front desk, she’d decided, so she gave him the most pressing problem.

“I’ve been wrongly denied access to my ship.”

He looked even less interested. “What ship?”

“
Arin’s Toss
.”

“Oh,” he said, “
that
ship.” He touched a key on his console, and glanced over his shoulder to the woman stepping out of the alcove.

“Pilot Waitley of
Arin’s Toss
to see the portmaster,” he said.

The woman nodded, and moved a hand in a broad “come on” motion. “Follow me.”

SEVENTEEN

Portmaster’s Office

Tokeoport

Portmaster McKlellan had a square face softened by a fringe of grey beard; his eyes were pale brown and very round.

“Waitley, is it?” he asked, extending a hand as square as his face. “Ticket.”

Theo put her license in his hand, not without a pang, and watched him slot the thing into the reader.

He looked up, frowning.

“This’ll take a couple minutes, Pilot. Coffee’s over there if you want some. Even if you don’t, sit down. Hate people hovering over me.”

“Yes, sir,” Theo said. She moved down the room to the pot, poured burnt-smelling brew into a disposable cup and went back to sit in the red plastic chair at the corner of the portmaster’s desk.

She sipped the coffee carefully, finding it just as bad as she’d feared, and took stock.

She’d stopped shivering, by which she supposed that the adrenaline had run its course. Her vision was still blurred with random color, bruises were rising on her primary hand and her fingertips were blistered where the key had burned her. She figured she’d find other bruises and minor scrapes, but mostly she’d been lucky.

Luckier than the pair in the alleyway, anyway.

There was a squeak as Portmaster McKlellan shifted in his chair. Theo looked up into frowning tan eyes.

“Ticket’s clean, much good it’ll do you, Waitley.” He pulled it out of the reader and tossed it in her general direction.

Theo twisted in the chair, snatched, and managed to catch the license before it landed in her cup.

“The problem,” she said, “is my ship . . .”

“You’re right there—the problem is your ship,” he said, leaning back in his chair and folding his big hands over his belt buckle. He shook his head. “I got a warrant on file from the FTC, says that ship is in violation of standards. Suspicion of variant and illegal tech. It’s not local talent got it cordoned for toll, is what I’m telling you, Pilot. If that was all, you an’ me would have a little chat about how much your ship means to you, arrive at a fee, and we’d take care of the problem for you. Or not, depending on whether your credit was good. This here”—he waved at the screen—“this here’s galactic, and legit. That ship ain’t goin’ nowhere on your say-so or mine. Which brings us to your next problem—and this is what’d be worryin’ me, if I was sitting there, turning my nose up at a perfectly good cup o’ coffee.”

“I prefer tea,” Theo said, raising the cup and making a show of sipping coffee. The Federated Trade Commission? If they impounded
Arin’s Toss
—which it looked like they’d done, in the most assertive way possible—they were bound to ask questions about what she was carrying. She didn’t know, and a truth test would prove that. But—Theo suppressed a shudder—truth tests weren’t necessarily enjoyable.

She looked back to the portmaster.

“What’s my next problem, then?”

“Being stranded on Tokeo ain’t something most pilots look on with favor,” the portmaster said, “but in your case, that’s not the problem.” He shifted slightly in his chair and suddenly there was a gun in his hand. Theo froze.

The portmaster nodded.

“Your problem,” he continued, in exactly the same off-hand tone, just like he wasn’t holding a gun on her. “Your problem is that you, as pilot of that very wanted ship out there, are
also
‘of interest’ to the FTC, who’ve offered a nice reward for anybody who nails you down long enough for them to take you into custody.” He settled into his chair, gun steady.

“They’ll be here shortly. Might as well finish your coffee.”

- - - - -

The key reported injury to the Captain. The key reported that it had instituted first aid procedures. The key advised that these measures were at best temporary, and that the Captain would soon require care, else she would fall. Perhaps, she would fail.

Carefully,
Bechimo
diverted energy to the key, which used it to support the Captain. It was a half measure. Less. Had there been a proper bonding . . . but no. To entertain regret at this juncture was to endanger the Captain. The Captain’s well-being and liberty were paramount, so the Builders had stipulated and so
Bechimo
would—

Logic lit yellow; Rules blared orange; the Morality module blushed a rosy, warning, pink.

Brought up short,
Bechimo
accessed the problem areas.

While the Builders had indeed stipulated that the ship might place itself between the Captain and the Captain’s danger, Rules stipulated that “Captain” indicated a fully bonded state.

Logic indicated that a pilot—even an Over Pilot accepted of the key—was not Captain—but crew.

Morality therefore was offended, that the ship took up a decision that was properly the Captain’s—the safety and disposition of crew.

Bechimo
knew chagrin. It was no small thing, to take the Captain’s decision. The ship was not the Captain.
That
was an Imperative, locked into the very kernel of
Bechimo
’s being.

And, yet . . . the ship
might
act on the Captain’s behalf, for the good of Captain and crew. And Rules allowed of Intent.

Intent was mostwise applied to crew. However, if an Over Pilot was not Captain but crew, then Intent applied.

Bechimo
reviewed the latest—indeed, the only!—communication with the Captain. It was clear: Addressed as Captain, the Over Pilot had not denied it. Desired to name a time of boarding, she had stated, “Soon.”

The Over Pilot therefore expressed her Intent to stand as Captain.

Logic accepted the premise, warily. Rules allowed proper application of terms.

Morality’s blush . . . faded, and a query was filed.

It was enough.
Bechimo
was free to act as required, on the Captain’s behalf.

Soon. Soon, she would board.

The key reported that the Captain rested and took liquid. That was well. The key could not accept much energy, and
Bechimo
dared not risk the key. Still, another tithe of energy, gently, and oh so carefully—something at least to keep her.

Until soon.

- - - - -

Against all odds, the coffee seemed to have done her some good. Theo was feeling stronger, more alert, her vision as clear as it had ever been.

Which meant that, when the door opened with just the faintest whisper of sound, she saw the look of surprise on the face of the woman who stepped inside, two men at her back, the same configuration they’d held outside the wayroom. Their jackets were glossy with water; water plastered hair to three heads, and beaded in droplets on three faces that eerily bore an identical expression of bland attention.

“Osa pel’Naria,” Theo said. “I thought you were going to take me to my ship.”

The woman inclined her head, gravely. “And so we shall, Pilot. You might have saved us all exposure to the weather this evening.”

She moved a hand and the man at her right stepped out of formation. He reached inside his jacket and put a pouch on the desk before the portmaster.

“Finder’s fee,” he murmured, and came another, fast step forward, to grab Theo’s arm, holding it hard enough to bruise.

“Stand,” he said.

“All you had to do was ask,” she said, with a mildness she was a long way from feeling. She came to her feet, and he yanked the gun from her belt. “You will come with us, Pilot, and you will not cause us any more trouble.” Osa pel’Naria glanced to her henchman.

“Keep her close. It is dark, and the rain confuses the sight.”

She turned to the man behind the desk.

“Our business here is done, Portmaster McKlellan. We will clear your port soon.”

He nodded, sitting just like he had been, gun out, the pouch unopened on the desk in front of him.

“Be good to see you go,” he said.

* * *

There is a phrase in
menfri’at
, the dance on which all other defense dances are built—a phrase that Phobai had called “baby’s sleeping.” It served two purposes, as she had taught Theo: it was a genuine resting state, and also, it might misdirect an opponent. It was a phrase that Theo rarely danced, having learned long ago that her size meant she should end any confrontation as quickly as possible.

And because she had never before been a captive.

Now, though, she danced “baby’s sleeping” with every bit of her skill, muscles loose, balance milky, walking where her captor’s hand steered her, feet barely lifting above the tarmac.

Overhead, thunder roared, and lightning did a manic dance of its own. Three steps from the Tower door, Theo was soaked through. She blinked, finding that Osa pel’Naria had been truthful about one thing: the rain did make it hard to see.

She saw the
Toss
, though, when they came up on it, and felt the slight change in the grip on her arm.

“We require the key, Pilot,” Osa pel’Naria said, stepping to her unencumbered side.

The key? So they
didn’t
know that the key had been destroyed! Theo almost smiled.

Your opponent’s ignorance is opportunity
. She heard Father’s voice as clearly as if he were standing next to her. And in counterpoint, Kamele:
A scholar must be free to pursue every possibility
.

“Key?” she said, muzzily. “Just a . . . I’ve got it right . . .”

She reached inside her jacket, groping. There was a folding knife in the slip pocket on the right, but she didn’t want to get into a hand-to-hand with these three, who were trained, whatever else they were. All she wanted to do was—

“Come, Pilot! If you cannot find it, I will!”

Osa pel’Naria stepped closer, and that was good. The grip on her arm loosened again, just a little. Just enough.

Theo raised her foot and slammed the heel down on the other woman’s instep. She twisted out of her captor’s grip, felt bone go, screamed, and finished the move. Free, she dove to the tarmac, rolling under the
Toss
, the pain sheeting the night white—or maybe it was only lightning. Then she was on her feet and running, careless of direction.