Liaden Universe [19] - Alliance of Equals - eARC (12 page)

Smelling like flowers was
certainly
better than smelling like Chesselport—or like fear. Padi had therefore carried one of the smaller soaps and a vial of shampoo into the ’fresher with her. The lather on her skin was creamy and sweet; the scent reminding her of home—of Trealla Fantrol, where there had been a planting of lavender directly below her window.

Yawning, still Padi took time to wash her hair twice, and to think grateful thoughts to Aunt Anthora.

Now, warm and sweet-smelling, she sat on the edge of her bunk, and reached out to pick up the bowl the artisan had given her at Andiree.

It rested lightly in her palms: the blue surfaces agreeably textured, the white surfaces as smooth as ice. Yet, for all of its lightness and beauty, it was not fragile; it was in no danger of being broken.

Like Uncle Val Con’s special knife, Padi thought, the crystal blade that was given to him by his Clutch Turtle brother.

And who would think of using weapons-grade crystal in a glaze to protect—art?

Art and weaponry would seem to stand on opposite hills, and yet here they were, each nature complementing the other.

If only
she
could turn that trick, she thought—and yawned, suddenly and widely.

Well, yes; she was tired. She had said as much to Father, and promised him that she would nap. The shower…but the shower had loosened muscles tight with the aftermath of fright, and the lingering scent of lavender lulled with memories of home.

She put the bowl gently back in its place on her bunkside table, and slid under the blanket. Settling her cheek against the pillow, she sighed, once, and slid into sleep.

—•—

It had been a quick skim in-and-out at Bieradine; clustering subsequent Jumps as close as was prudent, for human health. Pilot Tocohl was eager, now, to reach the site of their assignment, this Jemiatha Station, or, as it called itself, the Jumble Stop. It offered supply and repair, and kept an astonishingly large yard of out-of-service ships from which to draw parts.

“So far out from the more traveled routes,” Hazenthull had said to Tolly, “why do they have so many?”

“Prolly
because
they’re remote,” Tolly’d answered. “Out in back-space, a lot of the ships’re old—working a hundred Standards or more. Makes sense to keep parts for ships that’re the same age as your customer’s work-boat.”

It was fortunate, for Jemiatha Station and also for the being that Tolly and Pilot Tocohl hoped to…educate, that the location
was
so remote. One pilot and her ship had died, through what Hazenthull’s comrades deemed an error of ignorance. They were there to assure that another such error was not made.

Tolly had told her that education was key.

“Poor fella wakes up into himself without any parameters, except only that the station’s under attack and it’s his duty to protect the station. First thing he does, without even properly knowing the why of it, is kill a ship and all aboard. Next time he sees a problem, it’s no wonder he applies the same solution—it’s the only answer he’s got. It’s gonna be my job—mine and Pilot Tocohl’s—to teach him better, show him there’s a wide range of answers, and how to sort his problems down from Code Red.”

“What if,” Hazenthull had said then, for she was very curious regarding this process and what Tolly was about as a
mentor
. It had become apparent, in their talks at board together, and at meals, that he considered this work, above all others,
his
work, and she hoped that she would be privileged to see him at it.

“What if he does not learn?”

She was immediately sorry that she had asked, for Tolly’s face had turned grim, and he had seemed a soldier in that instant, duty lying heavy across his neck.

“If he can’t learn…won’t learn…then we’ll shut him down,” he said heavily.

“But you do not think that will be necessary.”

“Well—I
hope
it won’t be necessary,” Tolly said, his grin not quite sincere. “You know me, Haz—always looking for the good outcome.”

Tolly was resting now, and Pilot Tocohl was at study, leaving Hazenthull alone on the tidy bridge, sitting copilot’s duty, watching the countdown in the corner of the Jump-grey screens.

The last number cleared, the screen came live, and for the next while, her thoughts were those of a pilot newly reentered into normal space. Though the pilot’s chair was empty, she received the appropriate information from first board. Pilot Tocohl was, in a sense, always at her board, which, given her nature, was hardly a surprise. Still, it had taken several breaking-ins before Hazenthull was comfortable with what Tolly laughingly called the Ghost Pilot.

The door to the bridge opened as they came into range of the first beacon, and Pilot Tocohl soundlessly took her chair—or, rather, hovered above it—her delicate hands moving along the various switches and toggles.

“All’s well, Pilot,” Hazenthull said. The pilot surely knew so, but she’d found that she not only needed to state the obvious, but, on the two occasions when she had made an attempt
not
to do so, the pilot had prompted her for a status report.

“Excellent,” Pilot Tocohl answered. “Wake Pilot Tolly, please. I want him with us on the bridge when we approach the station.”

“Yes, Pilot.”

Hazenthull opened the line to Tolly’s quarters and relayed the message, receiving a sprightly, “I’m on my way!” in return.

Nodding, Hazenthull closed the line, just as the comm light snapped on.

An auto-voice came, a little too loudly, over broadband. Hazenthull adjusted the volume down, and felt a foolish tightening of her stomach.

“Jemiatha’s Jumble Stop. Please identify yourself, and your purpose: repairs, refuel, supply. Please supply standard ID compressed cross-load and active voice broadcast.”

There was other traffic in the system, which the ship noted, as did the pilot, and the beacon message repeated—an endless loop, if it received no answer.

Hazenthull raised her eyes to Tochol, to see who would answer the beacon, and by then Tolly arrived, still adjusting his shirt. His eyes were on the big screen, then—

“Those,” he said pointing to seven mismatched dots ranged well away from the busyness of the station’s core cloud. Dots that were somehow not the station’s stock-in-trade but something more.

“Those are the
Admiral
.”

Hazenthull allowed a slight smile to form on her lips. Tolly pretended to be an amateur in everything, yet it wanted the eyes of a well-seasoned pilot to pick out and understand those dots on the screen.

“Please announce us, Pilot Hazenthull,” Tocohl said gently. “Mentor, your attention here, if you will.”

Tolly moved to the pilot’s side, taking an earbud from her hand. Hazenthull keyed the comm. “
Tarigan
, out of Waymart. Copilot Hazenthull nor’Phelium. We seek long-term docking.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jemiatha’s Jumble Stop

Hazenthull and Tolly went together to the Repairs side of the station, him walking two of his short steps ahead on her left, so as not to impede her, should she have to pull her weapon. It was the configuration they had worked out as most efficient for them, as partners in Surebleak Port Security, and Hazenthull took comfort from it. Let those they passed in the narrow halls grin outright at the disparity in their heights—that had happened often enough on Surebleak Port. And they had soon enough learned that the “tall and small team” was effective. Possibly, they would learn so, here, though it was Tolly and Pilot Tocohl who would carry the honor of the team.

Pilot Tocohl, they had left aboard
Tarigan
, so that she might complete her studies. That was well enough, though Hazenthull wondered what sort of study might keep the pilot, with all of her advantages, so long.

She dared not ask Tolly, not here in the halls when anyone might hear. Perhaps she would ask Tocohl herself, when they were all three again aship.

In the meanwhile, here came the door to the Repairs section. The name of their contact was Stew, being the person with whom Pilot Waitley had lately dealt.

Pilot Waitley was the Scout’s blood-sister, as the matter had been explained to the House Troop. She was not herself either a Scout or a soldier, though she commanded her own vessel. Hazenthull had met the pilot when she had recently visited Surebleak, and had thought her young for command, even for one of the Scout’s kin. Certainly, she was not beyond error, even, as Tolly would have it, grievous error.

“It’s like leaving a newborn baby to fend for himself, what she did!” he had exclaimed during one of their team sessions. He was hot-voiced on this topic as on no other, even when speaking of those who would enslave his will to theirs.

“Like leaving an armed and mobile newborn,” Pilot Tocohl had said, in what Hazenthull was coming to understand as her humor, “who has Jump capability.”

“Not seven together, he ain’t Jumping,” Tolly had objected, more temperately, and squinted at the pilot. “You think?”

“Do you think the computation beyond his capabilities?”

Tolly had sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Well, that’s part of the problem. Seven old ships, with comps so cramped it takes all thirteen of ’em—including what looks to be a lunchroom comp!—to hold one live brain.
Old
ships—but, sure, say he does the math, and Jumps. If one comp blows, or one ship shreds—he’s gone. You know and I know he’s got no backup. Even if the ships had redundant systems when they came in, we gotta believe the yard’s pulled whatever was worth having…”

He shook his head, and fell silent.

“And if you—forgive me—were to be shot in the head, you would be gone,” Pilot Tocohl said, after it seemed that he had no more words. “All life is vulnerable. It’s the nature of the condition.”

“Heads up, Haz,” Tolly said now.

The door opened before them, and she saw that the warning had been more than a friendly reminder to focus. Tolly walked tall through the doorway. She, however, was required to cant forward from the waist in order not to crack her forehead against the frame.

Past the door was a room divided by a counter, with another door at the far end, behind the counter. Also behind the counter was a stocky Terran male, cap snugged down over hairless head, orange jacket with
Jemiatha Supply and Repair
stencilled on the breast, open over a dark sweater. He was in close conversation with a person considerably taller, pale hair caught in a careless knot at the back of the head, skin nearly as dark as the worn Jump pilot’s jacket.

“Might wanna make voice contact first,” the stocky man was saying. “But you’re the pro. Station priority—” He cut himself off as they entered, raising a hand toward the dark pilot, fingers shaping a fast
hold that
.

“Pilots,” he said, turning their way. He looked up at Hazenthull’s face, down to Tolly’s—and stayed there. “Something we can do for you?”

“Looking for Stew,” Tolly said in his easy way. “Cap’n Waitley sent us. Sorry it took longer than we wanted to get to you.”

The dark pilot had straightened, and was regarding them interestedly out of star-blue eyes. Stew blinked and shook his head, mouth going wry.

“Took long enough that I put out a call on m’own,” he said, nodding at the other. “Hope you had other bidness out this way, ’cause we got our problem covered.”

Tolly turned slightly to look up into the dark pilot’s face. He hesitated, minutely, assessing the other, Hazenthull thought, then put out his hand in the Terran manner.

“I’m Tolly Jones,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”

The dark pilot met his hand with a will, a grin reshaping the stern face into pleasantness.

“Inkirani Yo.” The voice was light and to Hazenthull’s ear bore no accent. “Mentor Berik-Jones, it is an honor.”

“That’s a leap,” Tolly said, suffering his hand to be held.

“Not so much of a leap, if we are here on the same business.” Pilot Yo released his hand, and turned back to Stew.

“You are given an unprecedented opportunity, Master Vannigof. The best among us has come to your aid. I cannot allow you to prefer me to Mentor Berik-Jones.”

Stew took his cap off and swiped a hand over his shiny head, resettled the cap, and sighed.

“The station’s necessity is to make certain that AI is stable, which I’m telling you it ain’t. We got a concern that the next misunderstanding is gonna end in us taking some damage—an’ that’s not unrealistic. Got some trigger-happy folk who’re thinking cannon is the answer. I’m not one of ’em, but it wouldn’t break my heart if the
Admiral
was gone tomorrow. In fact, that’d be my preference. In the general way of things, we ain’t got pirate trouble, and while we’re grateful for what he did to help us…”

His voice faded out, as if he had heard himself say that the best reward for duty done well was an end to all duty, and reeled under the blow he had dealt his own honor.

Tolly turned his hands palm up.

“Something that might help you decide between us,” he said. “My intention is to socialize the
Admiral
out there. I reviewed such information as Cap’n Waitley sent on, and I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what happened, and why it happened. Damn shame it came to that, but I’ll tell you straight out, it’s no wonder the
Admiral
’s confused. I think I can get him unconfused and on course.”

Stew sighed.

“An’ if you can’t?”

“Master Vannigof, please! You cannot think that Mentor Berik-Jones will fail!”

“Well, he can be excused for thinking it,” Tolly said, before the counterman could reply. “I’ve failed plenty in my life, and it’s a fair question—what’ll happen if I fail this time?” He nodded to Stew.

“If the
Admiral
’s resistant to socialization; if he’s gone too far down chancy lines of reasoning, then I’ll shut him down.
All the way down
, understand. It’s kindest.”

“That,” said Inkirani Yo, voice hushed, “is why he is great, Master Vannigof.”

“And you?” Tolly asked.

“I?” The other mentor swayed into a bow; a lock of pale hair escaped the messy knot and curled against the stern cheek. “Master Vannigof’s proposed commission to myself was that a rogue AI must be removed from its proximity to the station. Knowing that it is sometimes difficult for one who is—forgive me, Master Vannigof—not a trained mentor to see the line between rogue and obdurate, I left my options open. I do confess, though, Mentor, that I very much feared there would be a death in it, only because my understanding of the situation is that
Admiral Bunter
results from a download, rather than a physical installation. In my ignorance, it seemed that this circumstance considerably lessened the opportunity for a happy outcome.”

“I saw that, too,” Tolly said seriously. “I think we can work with it. The key’s going to be moving him into one installation. What he’s got now, with thirteen lobes and seven bodies—I’m betting he’s losing computational power, just keeping himself together.”

“Which could be why he hasn’t threatened the station yet,” Stew said.

Tolly shook his head. “No, it’s more likely you’re right in your original thinking, there. The station hasn’t violated anything that the
Admiral
takes for rules. I consider that the station’s safe as can be, because the
Admiral
’s imperative is to
protect
the station.”

“Doesn’t help the regulars,” Stew pointed out.

“Agreed. Which is why we’re gonna socialize, shift, stabilize. Once he’s settled in snug, with a good, clear rule-set, he’ll be in a better place to make his own decisions on where he wants to be, and what he wants to be doing. Right now, he’s guarding the station because Cap’n Waitley set the imperative. He doesn’t know he has a choice.”

There came a silence, during which Stew looked from one to the other, sighed, and shook his head.

“I’m thinking that the job ought to go to the one who got to the site soonest,” he said.

Tolly shifted—and stilled, as the other mentor turned.

“Master Vannigof, in all seriousness, you have better than I, standing before you, with his assistant at his side. If there can be a good result from this, Mentor Berik-Jones will produce it. If skill produces only sorrow, Master Berik-Jones will administer the last program with respect and dispatch. I cannot urge you too strongly to grasp the best tool to your hand.”

Mentor Yo turned to Tolly, then.

“If you would allow it, I would observe, and assist. It seems to me that the consolidation from seven to one may require more than a master and a ’prentice might easily accommodate. Forgive me if I am too forward.”

Tolly offered a small bow.

“There is a third member of our team, who I must consult before I can accept your generous offer,” he said formally. “What I must know, before I do that, is if my services, and our plan, will be acceptable to the station.”

Stew sighed again, and shook his head, throwing his hands up.

“All right, look! I don’t care who does what, or how. All I want is that—the
Admiral
—outta my hair and gone from Jemiatha’s. You sort it out between you all.”

“Yes,” said Inkirani Yo, and—

“Yes,” said Tolly.

He looked to the other mentor. “I will talk with my teammate, and contact you with our decision.”

“That is acceptable,” Inkirani Yo said, bowing. “My ship is
Ahab-Esais
. I look forward, if it is not presumptuous, to witnessing your pratice of our art, Mentor.”

—•—

Ren Zel dea’Judan felt the flicker of…something along the link he shared with his lifemate. Merely a flicker, rendered in what one might term watercolors, when one had been used to receiving oils. He reminded himself that it was in a good cause, this…tempering of his perception.

In fact, in the cause of keeping him sane and alive until he—until his peculiar, and addictive, gift—was needed for the task for which, so he now suspected, he had been born.

Muted or not, he
had
felt…something…and he glanced up from his book, to find Anthora had abandoned her reading entirely, head lifted, silver-blue eyes fixed on a corner of the ceiling.

On rather, Ren Zel corrected himself, on a point
beyond
the corner of the ceiling, though
how far
beyond it was not possible for him to ascertain.

“Who calls, Beloved?” he asked softly, in case it was something…serious.

She blinked, and lowered her gaze to his face, her own bearing a slightly crooked smile.

“No one calls,” she said, and lay her hand gently on his knee. “Padi has opened her Name Day gift, that’s all.”

—•—

Tocohl Lorlin was multitasking.

Part of her attention—a very small part of her attention—was monitoring station updates and the wideband chatter.

Another part of her attention—somewhat more than was necessary to monitor comm—was focused on the cluster of seven derelict ships, whose thirteen small and halting comps imperfectly contained the entity that knew itself as
Admiral Bunter
.

Admiral Bunter
talked to himself, his comm shielding as tattered as his hulls. He gave himself advice, did the
Admiral
, and scolded his various units into keeping formation. He worried, audibly, over the scant orders he had been given…and he kept watch. He watched the ships as they came into station. Presumably, he also watched ships departing. He had finagled an access into the station’s security cameras, which gave him humans to watch. He did so amid a running commentary, puzzling out the meaning of this action and that.

Jeeves had, to Tocohl’s certain knowledge, communicated with
Admiral Bunter
; had tried to instill a rudimentary code of ethics.

The difficulty being those same old computers, already filled to bursting with the essence of
Admiral Bunter
himself.

Jeeves could have—would have!—willingly sent libraries; offered moral instruction—but there was no room for
Admiral Bunter
to store such treasure.

Jeeves had then, as he had told her, his offspring, with frank truth…Jeeves had erred. He made the determination that
Admiral Bunter
, situated as he was, keeping station in a location both remote and low on traffic…that
Admiral Bunter
, who was diffident and eager to learn from another of his kind, could be left to learn by doing.

In that, Jeeves had failed to correctly reckon the strength of the
Admiral
’s imperative with regard to pirates. Whether
Bechimo
or Pilot Waitley—or both of them, acting in tandem—were to blame for this fixation, Tocohl could hardly say. She was, however, inclined to think harshly of the pilot
and
her ship, for having created this painful episode, and for plunging an innocent life into danger from the moment of his birth.

Tolly professed himself optimistic with regard to a curriculum of rehabilitation. Certainly, Jeeves had thought the
Admiral
could be educated. Tocohl had herself thought that the thing might be done, based on the files Jeeves had shared with her.