Misfits (4 page)

He raised his hand, concerned she'd feel
ashamed.

"School came not easy to me, either," he
offered, "for my clan also often felt the money spent better
elsewhere." He sighed, and brought his focus back to the
necessities of training.

"If I am able, I will send to you
information explaining why you are seeing what you are seeing. The
equipment can be used that way. The important point, for here and
now, is that most weather texts, most weather information we have
for habitable worlds, assumes some tectonic activity, some
long-term patterns even on worlds mostly ocean, for the ocean has
predictable currents."

He pulled a chart and placed it on the table
so Robertson's gaze fell upon it easily.

"This is key. For Klamath is perhaps not
really a habitable world as we would like to see one. It has not
enough core definition; it has not formed--… say that it has not
formed dependable solid plates to top the mantle. Instead, all the
land is on--rafts! Some, like plates, are stuck to each other--in
time, for all we know now, they may become plates. Others merely
glance off each other like a transient crowd in a space station at
boarding time, moving generally in the same direction but with
independent velocity and goals."

"You are experienced at swimming?" he asked
suddenly, concerned that this, too might have been denied her by
"folks" who had better use for their money than educating their
youth.

"Yep. Gotta be able to swim to be a Lunatic.
Why?"

"Because on Klamath it is as if the plates
are swimming. On most mature worlds the plates remain in close
proximity to each other, they are bordered and ordered. They may be
said to ‘stick' on a volcanic vent, or quake when subsurface forces
collide. Most short-term motion--that is, motion over a dozen--or a
dozen dozen--Standards--that motion is limited to modest amounts
caused by the grinding of plates against themselves, or plates
slowly being submerged or becoming emergent.… But on Klamath the
motion can be--and often is--more considerable. This motion may
include ‘waves' beneath the lands, making the surface bob up and
down, far less stable than one would like, and altering atmospheric
and ocean currents in the process."

"Sounds complicated!" The soldier stared
intently at the charts, but he despaired of her comprehension.

He sighed, perhaps too loudly, and found her
gaze, faintly ironic, on him.

"So what's this mean for what I gotta do,
beside not get motion sick?"

He smiled, as her comment was clearly a
joke. "Yes, this is good. You cannot fix the world or make the
people not colonize it: they are there. So for you, to stabilize
the populace, for the commander to succeed in her mission, you need
weather warnings and weather information. For me--for the
station--what you can do is to help us by reporting in as often as
possible. Understand that on Klamath everything is changeable. You
may camp at night at one altitude and awake in the morning, still
comfortable, at another. Each report assists us all!"

She nodded. "Guess you'll want to put that
in writing to the commander. I'll do what I can, but she's gonna
have to decide a lot of it."

"Yes. That is well thought. I will make some
notes for the commander. But for you, there is also this--another
key. This one is--… a manager's key. It will permit you to leave
the Stubbs on auto-function if need be, and return for it later.
You might, with sufficient information, also be able to reprogram
the unit for specific local necessities. This is unlikely, but you
should be aware of the ranges of possibility open to you. Also,
this key permits the setting of the DRAPIN, which I mentioned
earlier."

Robertson shook her head lightly, as if
denying the need.

"Are you sure this thing can send a pinbeam?
That'd take a lot of power!"

"Indeed," he agreed. "It does require much
power. So much so that it is an option we mention rather than
demonstrate. This key, however, permits that." He showed it to her,
a small thing, made of slightly phosphorescent blue metal.

"This must not be lost. It must be kept safe
and returned to me at the end of your mission. The other keys may
be replaced or circumvented, if need be. This one cannot."

He handed it to her. She held it up for
frowning study.

"So it's important?" she murmured, perhaps
speaking to herself. "Like treasure?"

"Like treasure," he agreed, astounded anew
that this valuable and rare equipment was going to war with so
volatile and naive a halfling.

"Gotcha!" She slid a finger under the top
seal of her uniform, and the second, as if, Brunner thought,
panicked, she were disrobing!

She saw him start and laughed.

"You're safe, Tech!"

Quick, beringed fingers reached behind her
neck, pulling from beneath her collar a flesh-colored cord.
Following the sinuous flow of cord came a small pouch, sliding up
between the open shirt-top.

"Treasures!" she said as she pulled pouch
and cord over her head. She gave him a friendly grin.

"See, all mercs gotta have someplace to keep
their important stuff. Some use belts, some use secret pockets, you
know, for their cash and gems and cards and stuff. Me, I'm kinda
skinny, and I don't own much cash but that's all right, 'cause I
don't have that many treasures, either."

She casually dropped the pouch on the table,
and flipped it open. Within were several small metallic containers
and a cloth-wrapped something--…

"How 'bout I tuck it inside here?" she said,
flipping the cloth open and casually exposing--Brunner stared. A
clan badge? But she had denied any knowledge of Liaden! She asked
for coffee, and--but the child was speaking.

"This is my best treasure, see?" she said,
while Brunner strained to recognize the half-shrouded device. "Got
it from my mother. I'll keep your key just as safe, if you
understand me."

He looked into her face, aware that she was
already folding the cloth over badge and key, returning the pouch
to its hiding place while he gathered words.

"Galandaria," he said in low tones, and
inclined his head.

"What's that?" She showed no faintest hint
of comprehension as she resealed her shirt, her rough Terran at
odds with the artwork she'd called her treasure, at odds with her
quick bright eyes, at odds with the moment.

Brunner looked away, let his mind run for a
moment, cataloging possibility. This was not, as he had supposed,
only an ignorant Terran halfling, but a woman acknowledging both
her legacy and her isolation. Trusting him with her secret. With
her treasure.

He had a moment to wonder why--but, there,
the answer was plain. She was about to descend into danger, with
her commander and her troop. Whatever necessity required her to
act--to be--merely a Terran halfling, yet she could not allow him,
a Liaden like herself, to be deceived.

"Yes," he said in soft Terran, accepting the
burden of her secret. "I see that you will keep the key as safe as
your best treasure, as I would myself."

"Right," she said. "Got that. Tell you what,
if all this works out good for you, you owe me a cup of coffee,
how's that? Tea's all right with these cakes, but coffee would be
perfect."

He smiled at her apparent reversion to
simplicity.

"I agree to owe you a cup of coffee,
Robertson, and to pay promptly when we meet again."

She nodded happily. "So, you need me to
memorize any frequencies or stuff? I got a real good memory."

"Let us first review the basics again," he
said. "This unit can function as a communicator if need be. I am,
as you know, Ichliad Brunner. You will ask for me if there is
need."

* * *

Brunner was working alone in the meteorology
lab when the first transmission from the Stubbs came through. This
was not necessarily by happenstance. As soon as Commander Lizardi
and Corporal Robertson had departed the station for their posting,
he had volunteered to take what Jack called "night shift" and what
the crew in general just called Slot C. There were fewer people
about then and there was often work to be caught up on from the
preferred "day-shifts," of Slots A and B.

Coincidentally, Slot C was most concurrent
with Miri Robertson's expected working hours of daylight.

It took several station-days for the request
to go up and down the short command chain; in the interim Brunner
managed to stay at work beyond his assigned shift and to arrive
before, in case there should be a problem, though what he might do,
if there were--

But, as it turned out, both his care and his
worry were unnecessary.

The Stubbs came online flawlessly,
registering locality and altitude, barometric pressure, wind speed,
humidity. Allergens were noted, as were pollutants. Cloud cover was
ranged and categorized. The somewhat variable mix of atmospheric
gases was logged every ten ticks, the air temperature every ten
ticks, alternating with the gases. Piggyback on the databursts was
a quick recording in her soft drawl: "The manuals say I should do a
base test. Here it is. If there's a problem, the manuals say you
can reset remotely or have me recalibrate."

The readings continued for a short time, and
ceased in an orderly shutdown, and Brunner breathed a sigh of
relief, tinged with anticipation. Now, perhaps they could get
accurate--and uninterrupted!--data to work with!

Less than a quarter day later a new report
came in, and that, too was an orderly report, sans voice, which
Brunner regretted. He found Robertson's willing approach to the
manuals both thoughtful and interesting. Perhaps her appointment to
the weather machine was not after all mere whim on the commander's
part.

Days passed, overfull of work; data came in,
perhaps half the time accompanied by a recorded message from the
operator. Brunner continued on Slot C, and no one complained, save
the company's accountant, who felt that he should not receive a
bonus for working a shift he clearly preferred. He signed a paper,
waiving his right to the Slot C differential, and was left alone to
do his work.

To hear the news source tell it, the
introduction of "professional warriors" had taken the heart out of
the enemy or enemies. All fronts were quiet; even the reports of
atrocities decreased. The enemy-or-enemies had, the news source
reported, withdrawn, to pray and to take counsel of such wise ones
and elders as they had. The government in Chilonga Center, in the
province where Lizardi's Lunatics had been stationed, audibly held
its breath.

Brunner watched the weather, made
predictions, noted his errors; he collaborated with Dr. Boylan, the
planetologist, on a study of the likelihood that there was a
long-term subsurface flow echoing the jet stream. The Stubbs
continued to report, so whoever had been targeting the stationary
weather machines seemed not to have the interest--or the means to
destroy--a roving unit.

Betting pools were formed--days until the
end of the war; where the next cyclone would form; which government
would fall to a coup.

As always, Brunner declined to bet, but
found himself importuned anyway, as those who had formed a pool on
the probable length of survival of the various mercenary units
inquired after the supposed "inside information" he was gaining
from his contact on the surface.

In retrospect, it was a time of peaceful
repose such as Brunner had rarely experienced during his tour of
duty.

* * *

The first hint that things might be
returning to normal came, not from Brunner's intense study of
Klamath's erratic weather systems, nor from his rather less intense
study of the news reports, but from his contact on the planet's
surface.

"Okay." Robertson's recorded voice sounded
breathless. "Just wanted to let you know that we got through it
fine, and the machine's good. Some of us got messed up and we had
to send a few off to the hospital in Chilonga Center. We had real
good luck, though, 'cause I read the manuals, and when I can I have
the local prediction mode up. Caught a march on the Bluebies that
way. Anyhow, we're gonna be moving fast so don't expect too many
updates for awhile."

What "it" had been he did not know, though
he was heartened to hear that she had survived it in good health
and with the Stubbs intact.

Automated reports flowed up from the
surface, though there was no communication from the operator for
nearly a Standard week. Brunner chose to view the arrival of the
data as proof of her continued good health--after all, she had said
she would be out of contact.

He went back to his work. The pressure
systems had undergone a subtle and not-entirely comprehensible
change. Brunner pulled archives, did overlays, ran projections,
sorted and resorted the data, stretching his work shift well into
Slot A.

Ten days after assuring him of her survival
of "it," Robertson sent another message, short and barely
intelligible over a sound like ship's engine cycling.

"Wow! Lotta wind!"

And indeed there had been a lot of wind as a
high and a low had fought their own battle over a quarter of the
planet, starting at the pole and spiraling down across the equator
where they'd formed battle lines over the tortured isthmus
connecting Chilonga's embattled territories with those of their
bitter invaders.

He had taken heart from that message as
well; whatever fighting that may have taken place since her last
contact was far from her mind at that moment.

The winds continued to grow; the shift in
the pressure systems suddenly painting an all-too-cogent picture.
Brunner worked longer hours still, pushing himself and the
station's resources, combing the literature.

Something--… Terran would have it that
something "bad" was hovering on the horizon. One hesitated to
ascribe such values to the outcome of systemic interactions. And
yet--something--… at least different was bearing down upon them.
Hints whispered to him from the altered pressure systems, from the
increasing erratic winds, if only he had wit enough to
understand--…