Accepting the lance, p.23
Accepting the Lance, page 23
part #22 of Liaden Universe Series
Theo took a careful breath. She knew the answer to this; every child on Delgado knew the correct way to rectify differences of thought and philosophy.
“The protocol for resolving differences is for the group to meet, and talk, until consensus is reached.”
Jelaza Kazone
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Gear and necessities were quickly in hand. They did one more sweep of their quarters—and Stost cried out, “Grakow!”
Chernak spun. Stost was holding the battered travel cage up in one hand.
“Hevelin especially requests Grakow be given the captain’s offer,” he said. “If he wishes to remain, then he may, but we must ask. Also, we must say our farewells, if he chooses to stay here.”
“Where—”
“Comrades!” Diglon Rifle strode into the room, holding a covered basket. “Jeeves sends me to help carry. Mrs. ana’Tak sends travel food.”
He hefted the basket. “Are you leaving us?”
Chernak turned to him, face eager. “Our captain requires us!”
Diglon tipped his head. “Do you say it so—your captain?”
“What else should we say?” Stost asked and motioned at the cage.
“Grakow, Comrade. Will you know where to find him? We must put the question.”
“Jeeves,” Diglon said. “The Pathfinders wish to speak with Grakow.”
“Understood,” Jeeves answered from above. “Grakow will be at the door.”
“Then we are ready,” said Chernak. “Do you come with us?”
“Only so far as the ship, to help as needed,” Diglon answered. “My captain is here, and my wife as well. If a comrade may say it…Go to your captain. Duty calls and glory awaits!”
“With such a captain and such a ship, it could not be otherwise,” Chernak answered.
“Then let us make haste!”
* * *
A jitney waited on the drive when they burst through the side door, Diglon in the lead. Jeeves was at one side, headball brilliant, as if with laughter. Sitting primly on the drive by his rollers were Grakow and his friend Paizel.
Stost went down to one knee in front of their comrade and extended a finger. Grakow touched it lightly with his nose.
“The captain calls; Hevelin invites. Do you come with us to further glory, Comrade, or will you rest on your achievements here?”
“There is no shame,” Chernak said from behind his shoulder, “in either choice.”
Grakow blinked, slow and deliberate, turned his head to look at Paizel. Communication may have happened, for Grakow rose onto four feet, stretching until his back was arched high.
He strolled toward the jitney. After a moment, Paizel also stretched high and followed him.
Stost looked after them both worriedly, and came to his feet, glancing at Jeeves.
“There was no mention of a…passenger.”
“I think you will find Paizel to have worth,” said Jeeves. “Was there an order forbidding a fourth?”
Stost grinned. “There was not.”
“Then, please board, Pathfinders. Diglon will take you to your vessel.” The headball flashed—orange-blue-green. “Until we meet again, glory and conquest be yours.”
* * *
The ship was familiar. They had last seen it attached as cargo to one of Bechimo’s pod mounts, but they knew the lines and the look of her, and the name.
Spiral Dance.
Beside her, a small slender figure, whom they might have discounted as a mere civilian had they not served under this man’s sister and learned what small could do.
“Scout,” Diglon jumped out of the jitney. “I bring four. Paizel will travel with Grakow, and Jeeves allows this.”
“Who am I to gainsay Jeeves, when it comes to the welfare of cats?” the man said lightly and came toward the jitney.
“Pathfinders, we have a lift scheduled with the port. Time is short. Please—inspect your vessel. Diglon and I will stow your gear and tend to your partners.”
* * *
Spiral Dance had been meticulously maintained and, to their eyes and judgment, was ready to fly. There was here and there some surface marring, and the hull was not so bright as it might be, but there was sense to that. It had come down to the military appropriating any ship they might, for the war effort, but it was true that shabby ships tended to be appropriated less often than those which proudly proclaimed their colors.
Stost took second chair; Chernak took first.
“Board check,” she said, in their own language.
“Board check,” he repeated in Trade, for the benefit of the captain’s brother, who stood behind them.
All boards checked. There were, Chernak noted, military grade weapons available to first board. She said so, in Trade, following Stost’s example, so there would be no misunderstandings.
“Yes,” said the captain’s brother. “For defense only, of course.”
Stost glanced over his shoulder.
“Are we likely to meet an enemy worthy of these weapons?”
“Let us say that anything is possible, and with Captain Waitley, even more so.”
Stost grinned and returned to his board.
“We check,” Chernak said. “There is a course locked in.”
“It is the best I could plot,” said the captain’s brother, “given the peculiar location. Joyita promises a full file download of the current situation, once you are on course.”
This time, Chernak grinned. “We are ready to lift.”
“Not quite.” The small man stepped forward. “May I see your licenses, please?”
They came out of inner pockets, stamped, sealed, and certified in another universe. Stost produced as well his security ID.
The captain’s brother gave all serious study, then glanced to Stost, tapping the ID.
“Joyita’s work?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Have him produce pilot licenses in a similar vein, when he has a free moment. He will take as his text your licenses issued in the Old Universe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, if you will open the comm to the tower, we will speed you on your way.”
Stost, second board, opened the requested line, and motioned that the other should speak.
“This is Scout Pilot Val Con yos’Phelium, aboard Spiral Dance, at Korval’s remote temporary yard. Assisting me are Pilots Chernak Strongline and Stost Strongline. We are cleared by the portmaster and ready to lift.”
“Cleared to lift per portmaster,” came the reply. “On my mark—ten…”
Captain Waitley’s brother bowed.
“Pilots, I leave you to your boards. Pray convey my affection and respect to my sister, your captain, when you join her.”
He left the bridge then, moving quick and light. Stost looked to his screens, saw him clear the hatch, and sealed the ship.
“…five,” said the tower, “…four…three…two…one.”
Chernak reached to her board, and Spiral Dance threw herself into lift.
Surebleak Port
Portmaster’s Office
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
“Miri Robertson to see you, Portmaster.” Carla sounded positively perky.
Portmaster Liu frowned. Miri Robertson, was it? Not Road Boss or Delm Korval, or the whole jawbreaker of Miri Robertson Tiazan Clan Korval. Just…Miri Robertson.
When dealing regular with Liadens, one paid attention to what name somebody chose to use for taking care of which piece of business…because, with Liadens, that sort of thing mattered.
Miri Robertson, now…Portmaster Liu snorted lightly in self-derision. Far’s she could tell, she had two choices: sit all the rest of the day and wonder what it meant, or just give in with what little grace she happened to have left on the day.
“Send Ms. Robertson in, Carla,” she said and leaned back in her chair, waiting.
Miri Robertson’d been born on Surebleak. She’d gotten off pretty much like anybody who got off Surebleak did—joined a merc unit. To hear her tell it, she’d taken a solemn oath never to come back, and she would’ve stood by it, too, except by then she’d met and married Val Con yos’Phelium, widely held to be Boss Conrad’s little brother, and she didn’t quite have it in her to leave him on his own.
She swung into the Portmaster’s Office, walking tall, which she wasn’t, her face easy and her grey eyes showing some amusement.
“Afternoon, Portmaster,” she said. “’Preciate you seeing me on no notice.”
“Haven’t had a meeting for nearly an hour,” Portmaster Liu told her. “I was starting to get lonely.”
Miri Robertson grinned and sat down in the visitor’s chair.
“Lucky I happened by, then,” she said.
The grin faded then, leaving the grey eyes serious.
“Speaking for Clan Korval,” she said, “I wanted to thank you for authorizing that back field lift-off.”
“The pilot went through channels, all right and tight. The lanes were clear. No reason not to let you fly.”
“Still, with the survey team bein’ as twitchy as they are, you could’ve gotten sticky.” She raised a hand as if to forestall the answer the portmaster hadn’t been about to give.
“I’m here to let you know that there’s a…situation out at Benoo Three. Captain Waitley and Bechimo are on the spot and handling it so far. That lift you authorized will get two experts in Old Tech to ’em in a hurry, and we’re…hoping the situation resolves soon.”
Portmaster Liu eyed her.
“Do I want to know what this situation is?” she asked.
“Prolly not,” Miri Robertson said candidly, “but you better hear it anyway.”
The portmaster waved her hand, giving permission to proceed.
“Right. The short and simple is that there’s a mob of Old Tech gathering at Benoo Three, and their goal is Surebleak.”
“I take it they’re not tourists?”
“No; they seem to have been pointed at Surebleak, with orders to apprehend and destroy.”
Portmaster Liu caught her breath hard.
Miri Robertson nodded. “The lucky part of this is that there’s a procedural problem. Some of the devices think they were issued irregular orders. So, they’ve stopped advancing to debate the question. Bechimo and Captain Waitley are assisting in the discussion.”
Portmaster Liu remembered Captain Waitley, sitting in the very chair now occupied by Miri Robertson, her black eyes stormy and her mouth set straight and firm. Assisting the discussion with a renegade army set on invading Surebleak. The blood ran cold, that was what.
“Sounds dire, don’t it?” Miri Robertson said sympathetically. “Felt the same way myself when I first heard, Theo not being the coolest head on the port. But then I came ’round to realizing that it’s not just Theo. Bechimo—that’s her ship—you talked with him, I think?”
Portmaster Liu nodded silently.
“Well, he’s not exactly a cool head, but he’s got cred where it counts with the Old Tech. He’s got age and experience close to theirs. He’ll be able to lend a ship’s viewpoint, which I think’ll count.
“There’s also her crew—which among them are a Scout and a retired Juntavas Boss. And those two specialists I was just telling you about. Between all of ’em, I think they’ve got a good chance of turning the mob back.”
“And if the mob doesn’t turn back?” Portmaster Liu asked quietly, thinking about the planetary defenses Surebleak could bring to bear and trying not to wince.
“The Scouts are on alert. Jeeves, Clan Korval’s head of security, has a master-class collection of command lines and stop codes. Worst comes, I hear there’s some tricks we can do with the satellite population. We don’t want it to get to that. Best case is that Theo, Bechimo, and crew talk the whole buncha them outta Surebleak, and they go home.”
“When will we know?” Portmaster Liu asked carefully.
“Not too many days, I’m thinking. We’re in close touch with Theo, so we’ll know if it goes bad—or good.”
Portmaster Liu nodded, took a breath and looked Miri Robertson in the eye.
“Why here?” she asked. “What do they want on Surebleak?”
“Well…”
Miri Robertson sighed, but she didn’t break eye contact.
“In a word—us.”
Six of Us
Jenarian Station
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Jenarian Station was unprepossessing at the very least. One might call it shabby. Another might call it the most beautiful sight in the universe. Viewpoint, as always, was dependent upon circumstance.
Claidyne considered it an opportunity.
The coords for the station, and a high-level passcode, had been provided by the Sixth of Them, who had proved to have some very odd and interesting things indeed tucked into his pockets. Possibly the urge to save any bit of shiny data, regardless of whether it pertained to a known mission, was a characteristic of a Scout. She had heard it said that Scouts were generalists, and that the higher up the ranks one went, the more any one particular Scout might resemble a magpie. Or a junkyard.
In any case…the coords, the passcode, and the ship. Besides his own life, the Sixth of Them had given three ships to the venture, a not inconsiderable investment. However, it must be admitted that defeating the Department, even a vastly depleted Department, was no small enterprise.
She and Rys Lin had spent time and thoughtfulness in making themselves ready for Jenarian Station. Claidyne flattered herself that they had produced a compelling effect.
The ship the station would see in its screens—a battered courier, scarred by beams and crusted with dust—was not the ship the Sixth of Them had given to their shared purpose. It had been a rare piece of legerdemain that had brought this vessel into their hands, but they surely could not present a well-maintained ship and call upon the Department for repairs. No, they must be convincing; they must actually need repairs.
Jenarian was, after all, a repair hub; there was no reason for a ship to call here, except in extremity. There was a crew of mechanics and technicians on-station, a Healer, a medic, a brace of autodocs, a comm room, and a library.
As good a place to begin as any other, Claidyne thought, and improbably better than some.
* * *
“Jenarian Station.”
The voice on comm was just as crisp and as sharp as the station was not.
“State your business.”
“Courier Naught in need of repair, Station,” Rys Lin said from the copilot’s chair, his voice dragging with what might be understood to be weariness or pain. “Two pilots, in need of recuperation.”
There was a pause, rather long…very nearly too long. Claidyne drew a breath, in preparation for bringing the commander to the fore should the pause grow much longer.
Rys Lin glanced at her, half-smiling, his natural hand rising to form the pilot’s sign for hold steady.
“Passcode?” Station said then, and Rys Lin touched a switch.
“Transmitting,” he said.
Claidyne glanced to the board, thinking of the shields, but this vessel could scarcely generate shields. If the code provided by the Sixth of Them was old or discovered to have fallen into suspect hands, then they were done before they had begun. If…
“Come ahead, Courier Naught,” Station said.
* * *
The automatics had taken the ship in charge, bringing it into Repair Bay One. There, they were ordered to debark, which they did with relief, if not pleasure.
Being salvage, as it was, Courier Naught had not been provisioned beyond those emergency rations that had been left behind by her former crew. Fine provisioning had not been necessary to their mission, and there were more than enough ration bars to see them through. That the ship held air, and could achieve Jump—those were the necessities. That every other system was rickety and like to fail at any instant…well, when one steals a derelict, one takes certain risks.
As a result of those risks, and the rations, the pilots arrived also in a convincing state of disrepair. They were greeted, dockside, by the inspection crew, who set them on their way to the living space and forgot about them, so one hoped.
The bay doors accepted their code, and once they were in the resident halls, Rys Lin moved right sprightly to the comm center, breaching security with dizzying speed, his fingers flashing golden along the keypad.
In an improbably short time, he sat back in his chair with a nod.
“The station is ours,” he said.
“Excellent. We will not, of course, broadcast this fact.”
“By no means,” he assured her. “There is no need to disrupt the work of the station or the lives of the crew. We may need to be frank with the stationmaster, but even that may be avoided if we are—”
A chime sounded, absurdly loud.
Rys Lin flipped a toggle.
“Who comes?” he asked.
“It is Caz Dor vin’Athen, station Healer, Pilots. I come to offer aid.”
They had hoped to avoid the Healer until they had the station commander in hand. The abilities and acuities of Healers came in a wide range. They could not risk meeting a Healer near the top level of functionality. Not quite yet.
“Pilots?” came the voice again, concern plain. “Are you well? You had represented yourselves in need of recuperation. I may assist you. A bare moment of your time, only—”
Claidyne moved to the right side of the door. Newcome to the station as they were, they ought not be anywhere near the command station, and yet—the Healer had found them here instantly.
Healer or security, they could not allow this to escalate further.
Rys Lin came out of his chair and ducked against the wall to the left of the door; Claidyne triggered the latch.
A man swung into the room in a low crouch, pellet gun out and ready.
Rys Lin moved, his arm glittering as he struck.
Port Road
Surebleak
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
“How did she take it?” Val Con asked, as Miri slid into the seat next to him.
