Prologue

Theo felt as if she'd shrunk, but the flight instructor's briefly fluttering hand was calm: fly the ship.

"Accounts vary somewhat," Chelly continued. "The witness suggests he became aware of an animated discussion in progress as the principals arrived, one which, I guess the word is 'escalated' because both parties were focused on different goals. The witness indicated that perhaps Pilot Waitley was refusing to thumbprint something and during the insistence, accidental contact occurred between the individuals and—"

Theo's twitch was calmed by Veradantha's smooth, not a problem hand-sign. Wil, meanwhile, jerked 'round to glare at Theo.

Chelly went on.

"The result was that both parties went to the infirmary. Pilot Waitley suffered a flesh wound to the scalp; Wilsmyth suffered contusions and a few moments of disorientation."

"First strike, Mr. Frosher?"

This from the Commander.

"The cameras might tell for sure, ma'am, but the sequence seems to have been an accidental . . . ummm . . . an accidental swipe of the notebook Wilsmyth carried, which caught Pilot Waitley by surprise. Pilot Waitley's response was, I gather, a move of the dance, a trained response."

"Thank you. Please continue."

"I ask the involved parties if the summary of events to this point is accurate."

Theo sat back, thinking hard, willing away her blush, willing away her anger. Inner calm.

"Yes, but—" Wilsmyth began, and stopped as a hand came to rest on his arm.

"I think yes," Theo managed. "That's what Bell would have seen. I mean, that's what happened, I guess. I got swiped upside the head and yeah, that dance move was right there. Automatic."

Chelly glanced around, then down at his cheat sheet, nodding as if he were mentally clicking off options as he read them.

"We have a situation that was not the result of an inherent fault in the physical plant of the academy, nor was it the direct result of catastrophic equipment failure, nor of procedure."

He paused, nodded once more with authority, and went on.

"Does any member of this fact-finding wish to go to formal process now? If so, please state your case."

Theo could see Wilsmyth staring at his pilot advisor, and saw a flurry of low to the table hand-talk she couldn't get much out of. For her part, her hands were still after acknowledging Veradantha's low-voiced, "Please wait."

Chelly looked about carefully and nodded. "Who will assert being a victim?"

The relocated administrator was whispering urgently into Wilsmyth's ear, while at Theo's table, yos'Senchul signed an unruffled: best stay course.

After a few moments Chelly tapped his cheat sheet, looking relieved.

"We now go to a short discussion of events prior to the witness account. As no charges have been brought to this point and neither party has indicated a claim of victim, precedence goes to the senior."

Theo vibrated with anger and tension, the phrase inner calm, inner calm bouncing around noisily in her head. Her advisors walked on either side of her, Veradantha professing a preference for something out of the ordinary, it being so late in the evening, while the flight instructor was saying something Theo wasn't quite catching about a simple snack from Toovil that could be had for a half-hour's flying.

They left the building, cool air and silence flowing over them. Lost behind were Wilsmyth and his companions, who'd gone right when they'd taken the left at the end of the hall. Wil had been laughing, though she didn't think he had anything more to laugh about than she did.

At that, she wiped her hand on her jacket sleeve again, She certainly hoped never to touch him again. Without a doubt laying him out on the floor was something he'd deserved, no matter how accidental, and shaking his hand may have satisfied custom in a way Father would have approved of, but it certainly hadn't satisfied her.

"Orn Ald, that's fine for you to say, but some of us have meetings and classes in the morning."

Hand-talk, compressed and sudden. Theo caught fix now quick and then realized they were heading at quite a pace toward the faculty airstrip.

"Why did we have to act like losing my hours was an accident?"

Theo tried not to whine but wasn't sure she'd succeeded.

Veradantha spoke, gently, but not in answer to either the question or the tone.

"Theo Waitley, my good friend Orn Ald and I wish, evidently, to speak with you outside the range of official ears."

yos'Senchul's flashed a general query yes?

"You are hungry, Theo?" he asked aloud.

"Still mad," she confessed. "I ought to be hungry, I guess." She walked on, glad of the brisk pace, tension in her shoulders and inner calm starting to sound like a bad joke.

"I understand your dismay, Pilot," yos'Senchul murmured. "Would you be kind enough to fly us to dinner? The flight will do us all good, I'm sure, and your choice at this point falls to deciding if you'd like to partake of local fried-and-spiced night snacks or a quiet dinner at an A-class restaurant?"

She laughed.

"You're serious? Fly us to dinner? I'm always hungry after."

"Indeed. We all have had our routines disturbed by Wilsmyth's antics. Dinner will help. But what kind of meal?"

"I'm not good for real fancy, I think."

"Excellent. If you will step this way, there's a Star King VI to which I hold the keys." He pointed. A shiny, very new craft occupied the tie-down he indicated, "Also, if we choose carefully, we shall more than make up the 'split difference' between the account hours you've earned and those as recorded by Wilsmyth. In the bargain, we shall certify night hours."

Theo almost stumbled, suddenly seeing what had happened—not only seeing it, but recognizing it. How many times had she seen Father bow his head, and seem to cede an argument—to her or to Kamele or to a visiting colleague—only to later deftly turn his defeat into victory?

"Thank you," Theo said, fervently. "I should have known! Liadens know how to manage around red tape! Thank you for being on my side! I—"

"Silence!"

They all three stopped, the glare of the runway lights making them a tableau of dark cutouts across the access paths.

Instructor yos'Senchul's jauntiness was gone, and before Theo stood a dangerous man. She felt some of the dance roused in her, and went back a step, wariness answering the set of his shoulders, the warning in his pose.

Carefully, she raised her hands, fingers spread in the sign for no danger here.

"Ah." Threat melted away; he inclined his head, hand-sketching an emphatic attend!

"Student Waitley, this confrontation with Wilsmyth should teach us all much, but what it should not teach you, what you should never learn, is to trust and rely on someone simply because they are Liaden."

Theo lowered her hands, slowly. "Yes, sir."

"In this situation," yos'Senchul continued, "our goals align. As an instructor, I wish that a promising student is given the opportunity to prove herself without falling victim to petty politics and power struggles. You have acquitted yourself well this day, and I approve.

"Always know where you stand with a Liaden, student. Do they deal with you as friend, then that is a rare gift—and one to be examined, closely. If they deal with you in business, deal carefully and accurately, and promise nothing you cannot perform. When dealing with pilots, treat as a pilot and you will be treated so. Assume nothing, however, about someone simply because they are Liaden. If you are not affiliated with a clan, a Liaden will treat you as disposable, if that is convenient. If you display melant'i, as you do, expect to be treated with respect. Do not expect benefits from Liadens. As with anyone, expect what you are given, assuming neither hostility nor grace—and be on guard for either."

It left her breathless, his quiet vehemence. Theo did the only thing she felt able to do; she inclined her head.

"Well put, my friend," Veradantha said, moving slowly but smoothly down the field. They followed, her voice trailing behind her like a silken scarf.

"There is something in pilot lore which speaks to this, in fact. As a pilot, the usual rules of behavior on duty are assumed to include a number of things. Let us see—you may number them later if you like, and I will miss some." She raised a long forefinger in emphasis.

"Always know where your ship is and in what state. Always carry an extra weapon—this assuming one always carries two weapons to begin with—your extra is preferably one you are willing to use for a last stand. Be prepared to fight—we know you know this one!—but be prepared also to run and to be small, for a dead, jailed or administratively restricted pilot flies no ship. When you walk in strange places be aware of those who may follow you, and though sitting with your back to the wall is useful, it is not always sufficient. Always know more than you tell, and share all of your secrets, even on your deathbed, only with those who will properly treasure them."

They were close to the plane now, which shone with a flawless beauty.

"And," said yos'Senchul, "except under extreme duress, always perform a pre-flight. Here is the key, Pilot; you will wish to do the walk, and then you will let us in to observe while you are PIC for this flight. I suggest either DurzAnn's, with the guaranteed grittiest Gar-grilled, or Hugglelans, where you may have anything, as long as you eat it under red sauce."

Sixteen

Conglomeration of Portcalay

Eylot

"I doubt I've managed to cross all four of those lakes on one flight before, Pilot. Well plotted!"

Theo had filed a flight plan with those crossing points in it, recalling the Ts, as they were called: Turn Time Twist Throttle Talk of her early training; it gave her an excuse to see, if there was anything to see, and to practice timing the turns, adjusting the throttle, talking to air control . . .

"Thank you, sir," she managed, wondering if she'd overstepped somewhere, but by then she was on the landing leg and had less time to be concerned than during the middle of the flight, when she was essentially flying on instruments above the dense blackness of a lake.

The "King Six," as yos'Senchul had it, could have flown itself from campus to Portcalay if necessary. Theo daren't waste flight time, though, and she hugged every second to herself like a precious thing. The night challenge was not as daunting as she'd expected, though no doubt the fine weather helped that. If either of her mentors noticed that she took the sightseers' route, crossing the mountain as well as three rivers and four lakes, they chose not to mention it, beyond yos'Senchul's remark.

The instruments were familiar enough, as were the flight controls, and from her vantage in the pilot's seat she couldn't see the handspan difference in rated wing length, though she certainly felt the more powerful engines from the instant she touched the throttle.

The details though: remembering the right way to sync with the local and regional traffic control, remembering to use the correct aircraft designation, remembering to use a social rate of climb in general airspace, making sure she covered everything in the pre-flight check. Theo sighed. The King Six sure was pretty!

The flight instructor took the radio briefly, calling ahead to reserve a table, using her flight plan numbers without hesitation and without consultation, declaring himself, "yos'Senchul, sitting second."

That was both a thrill and a chill—surely she had a lot to learn before she rated a copilot!

The plane was so well-behaved that Theo did get to sightsee, both over the mountains and the lakes, and now across plain and lake, looking north to the nearly edge-on lights of the planet's largest spaceport and manufacturing center, and south across the sudden divide into the crisscross of the commercial farm belt. The radar kept her company, and ground control; several times she sighted the beacon lights of aircraft in the distance, and identified them by the scan.

Ahead was the Conglomeration of Portcalay; within it were several millions of people, and the air strip center she was on course for.

The maps and positioning were fine so far; what she hadn't expected was that the place would be so bright. The runways themselves were lit, of course; Theo read the various beacons as they came to view—this was the emergency strip, that was backup for regional commutes, the pair of general strips were at right angles, one north-south to the east of the vague square that was Portcalay and the other well to the south of center, running to the west for her.

Conversation in the cockpit had been quiet, then nonexistent after Veradantha fell asleep; yos'Senchul sat the copilot's seat as observer only and several times appeared to be drowsing himself.

The excitement of the flight itself kept Theo awake, though she managed not to comment on it to herself, out of respect for Veradantha's rest. She did, though, need to give air control a verbal ack for touchdown on Portcalay G East.

Quiet as it was, her confirmation woke both her passenger and her copilot. Both were chattering away about sauces of choice, and the taste benefits between whole grain and spelt, when Theo guided the King Six into the final turn for landing.

Well before her, the white line became thicker; Theo unlocked and touched the landing gear switch, felt the drop and lock, and now the thick line was a runway, gleaming in the night, marks of myriad previous landings approximating her landing zone, the lights guiding her true. She backed the throttles slightly, looked at a sudden wind speed change, confirmed that with the ground, and sighed. Almost over. The headwind bobbled the nose, and she trimmed out the elevators with a touch.

The King Six smoothed into the final seconds, the wind allowing her just a hint of flare at the very last moment and . . .

They were down.

Chaos, did this plane have great suspension! She couldn't feel the gear bottom out, instead there was simple, smooth settle. Soft as a pillow.

She glanced to the screen then, and wrinkled her nose.

"And there is a problem worth a grimace?" Pilot yos'Senchul sounded interested, but unconcerned.

She felt her face warm, but the instrument lighting wouldn't betray her blush.

Theo reduced throttle, letting the craft slow, watched for the runway ahead to take on a green stripe, to the left, and she followed the green stripe, toward those bright lights.

"According to the chronometer, I was seventeen seconds late on touchdown," she admitted.

From the back came a sneeze that might have really been a strangled laugh, while the flight instructor peered into the night, his reply bouncing off the windscreen.

"By so much, Pilot Waitley? Where do you think your error lies?"

She pondered that while steering the plane through a sudden maze of lights and lines, the beacons and strobes of a dozen or more craft in her sight.

The arrows guided her left once more, around the large hangar and maintenance areas she'd spotted from on high, into a kind of courtyard. The lead lights flashed, steadied—

"The Howsenda Hugglelans," yos'Senchul intoned, entirely unnecessarily, since the name was emblazoned in intricately flashing purple signs taller than the control tower.

The parking slot for the King Six was there: Number Eleven. There were picnic tables just ten or twelve plane lengths ahead, and beyond that a bulky building that was all balconies and torches, with smoky fire pits and . . . motion.

People. Dozens. Hundreds! Some were waving at her plane, some were seated at benches, some were moving in a strange line, right hands on the hips of the people in front of them, some . . .

Theo checked clearance carefully, and used the correct brake to slide the plane into position, trying not to gawk at the same time.

"Part of it was the head wind," she said, in answer to yos'Senchul's question. "Maybe a second or two, there."

"Part of it, no doubt," he said dryly, reminding her of Father's tone when something obvious escaped her, "is that the flight plan did not extend to switching runways. The default is north, but that would have been a nasty little crosswind, indeed, and traffic didn't warrant making you fight it on manual. In any case, late or not, we are here and I, at least, am hungry. Let us eat!"

Theo looked at the menu painted above the reservation desk, knowing none of the names of things, and shrugged at her mentors, who asked, almost in unison, "Today's special?" One nodded, and the other bowed—to each other and to the desk manager, who whistled sharply into the din, producing someone to guide them.

Theo didn't mind following the guide—he was dressed in a tight sleeveless vest over a smooth, muscled chest, and moved quite well for a non-pilot, his bell-bottomed slacks encasing what was probably a dancer's body. His stride was forthright, his eyes, when he looked behind to see that they were still with him, compelling. He carried a bundle in each hand, and Theo was finding it hard to remember that the evening had started out with a fight and an administrative hearing.

Everyone they passed seemed to be having a good time; everyone was eating—well, not everyone. At the smaller and less well-lit tables sat shadowy couples, sipping together with straws from tall, glowing cylinders. Some of the couples were awfully close together, and perhaps getting closer.

Their own table was at terrace edge, with a view of the airport, and a fire pit right there, with a small tabletop leaning against it. Veradantha chose her seat, and perforce, Theo found herself between her hosts while their guide bent in front of them and busied himself with the fire pit.

Surprisingly close came Veradantha's whisper.

"Admirable, is he not? It is a shame we can do no more than admire, Theo Waitley. I, for not having the energy beyond my eyes and nose, and you, you for being Pilot tonight, and thus too tightly scheduled to wrestle three falls with someone who wears vya so extravagantly."

She opened her mouth—and closed it. Yes, she knew what vya was, and obviously so did Veradantha.

As if oblivious, yos'Senchul turned to them, hand waving wide toward their guide. "And now, the show!"

As if he had been waiting for the announcement, their guide deftly picked the tabletop up from its lean against the pit. A small spindle depending from it was placed precisely into a matching notch, leaving about three quarters of the thing over the fire zone.

Wait, now she saw it! Their guide was their cook, too!

The cook spun the "table" hard with his hand and it continued to rotate. With a practiced air he wiped it with a small paper cloth, gave the table an extra spin, and waved at the pit, which dutifully roared into flame, as he proceeded to carefully portion stuff onto the cook surface.

Theo did as she was told: she watched. His implements were wood and ceramic, his hands quick and sure.

"Thus we clearly see," Veradantha said, bringing their attention to herself, "that the universe encompasses more than the classrooms and grounds of Anlingdin Academy. The choices are varied, and the methods, as well. Some assume that a proper education instills particular beliefs and necessities as much as it instills knowledge; indeed, some would have it that the failure to assume these beliefs indicates a lack of knowledge."

Theo took the cue, offering, "The Simples are like that on Delgado—in fact Delgado is like that on Delgado!"

Her companions looked on, alert, interested, so she continued with, "I mean, the whole thing about the university is that they want to raise people to do what they do, the way they do it."

The flight instructor coughed lightly. "Yes, and after all, pilots wish there to be more proper pilots. This is the way of the universe, is it not?"

Theo paused as the cook flashed his knife rhythmically across something on the inner section of the whirling disk, heard it sizzle as a flash of vinegar was added . . .

She put her hand to the side of her head, where it itched, then drew it away suddenly, glancing at her hand to make sure she hadn't compromised the dressing on her wound.

"No," she said after a moment, "there's a difference. If an instructor tells me that I ought to use landing gear, and I don't, then I have probably made a mistake, a bad one. A demonstrably bad mistake! If someone tells me that I need to read a particular chapter of a book three times each year and repeat a sentence from that book every day else the universe will collapse on itself . . . that is not demonstrable."

Neither of the pilots spoke: still they watched with intent interest. Maybe she hadn't explained fully—

"We need pilots. We need people who know about rugs, and people to sell things, to cook, and . . . but they're all doing something. I want to do something. I don't want to go to a meeting and . . . I mean look, my mother and father have to go to meetings and spend time—waste time is more like it!—because they have all these silly levels of things to keep track of, all these holes to put people into.

"Adjunct," she said firmly, holding up her left hand, one finger up. Using her right to tap that hand she said, "Assistant adjunct. Associate adjunct. Associate assistant adjunct. Assistant associate adjunct."

She stopped, gathered herself. "I don't want to spend my life worrying about how many credit-months I've sat listening to someone tell me about something I know about already!"

She made a face, scrinching up her eyes, and when she opened them found a beverage cart.

So many choices . . . but, "Nothing with alcohol," she said austerely. "Not for me, I'm flying."

"Of course, Pilot. Something to increase attention? Soft drink, tea, water, coffee?"

"Do you have real tea? Liaden tea?"

The cart driver laughed.

"Yes, real tea, Pilot. It could be worth my life to offer anything else."

* * *

The meal was served with flourish, each plate filled first with a third of the food on the outer circle of the wheel, then with a third of the next orbit, and finally from the center, each expertly scooped, each precise.

The sauces were extravagant, and Theo too busy eating to speak. The cook stayed, using the now still disk over the warm pit to encourage a slowly rising bready dessert, which was covered in fruit and folded on itself before serving.

"And so," yos'Senchul offered as the cook was arranging their final dish, "what would you, Theo Waitley, if you had no need to sit in classrooms for a certain number of hours? If your flight time was counted and found adequate, what would you do? Would you hire yourself off to Tree-and-Dragon?"

Theo waited a moment, raised her hands from the table, palms up, in question, then flashed repeat query please.

The instructor sighed, very gently.

"Do you not sit with your classmates of an off-hour, pining for a ship—perhaps a cruise liner or a yacht? Don't you wish for a berth with a particular company, or have plans to own a freight line of your own?"

Theo shook her head, nibbling delicately at her dessert.

"This pilot, your father." Veradantha took up the questioning. "He did nothing to aim you to a company, a preferred ship? The Moon-and-Rabbit, perhaps, if not the Dragon?"

Theo put her fork down, suddenly finished with dessert. There were questions in back of the questions Veradantha was asking. She could feel them, but she didn't understand them. Sighing, she answered the surface, hoping the back questions would come clear. Sometimes, that happened.

"My father didn't even tell me he was a pilot until Captain Cho offered to sponsor me to Anlingdin. Then he warned me how dangerous it is!"

The instructor touched the empty left sleeve where his arm should be.

"Danger, yes. There can be danger, after all."

Theo nodded. "I'm learning that. On Delgado—on Delgado, danger isn't acceptable." She looked down at her plate. "My father did help me bring my math up, and he taught me how pilots pack. When I was ready to ship out, the last thing he told me was to remember that really big problems went to Delm Korval. I thought he was making a joke, to take my mind off—" She looked up at yos'Senchul's eyes. "But that might have been advice, too."

"So it might. As you say, Liadens place a certain value on subtlety—and a father would wish to care for his child."

She nodded again, fiddled with her fork, but didn't pick it up.

"I played bowli ball with some cruise liner pilots—there are like six on at a time, working as a team." She paused, then looked to Veradantha.

"I'm not sure I'm good with people, really. I'm not sure about being part of a six-team. I just want to . . . pilot, to fly. If I had everything Pilot yos'Senchul said, and all the choices were mine—that's what I'd want."

"To pilot, eh?" yos'Senchul waved across the terrace. "You'll have your chance to pilot on the way home, I assure you. Look!"

She'd been so busy eating and talking that she hadn't noticed what she should have: the breeze off the lake had filled the sky with fog.

"You have a morning class and I have an early meeting," Veradantha said conversationally, "and I intend to sleep through the return trip. Please, Pilot, do your duty."

Seventeen

Ops

Anlingdin Piloting Academy

The King Six sighed, or maybe it was Theo. Systems counted their fingers and toes one more time, reporting in to the pilot so she could shut them down or bank them as needed; the only oddity was waiting for her passengers to finish gathering themselves together. She'd never had passengers before this trip.

Her copilot had been awfully active. He'd watched without comment as Theo used the plane's credit to top off the tanks, heard her call in an amended flight plan to avoid a towering storm predicted for Lake Sawya, and carried on a running hand-talk conversation with Veradantha the entire time they were on the runway and lifting to cruise. For that matter, he'd periodically turn during the flight, chattering by hand for extended periods that seemed to have nothing to do with the progress of the flight. For all she'd vowed to sleep through the return trip, Veradantha's fingers were often active on her small keyboard, the tiny rhythmic clicks distinct in the plane's otherwise steady aural background. When the clicks stopped, that was when yos'Senchul would hold forth.

At one point, Theo had turned her head to pointedly look at him, since his level of discussion had gone from active to agitated, and the motion was distracting. She'd caught what might have been inadequate preparatory curriculum but, given the syntax and motion of the single hand doing the work of two, could just as well have been weakly unbaked circles.

To his credit he signed apologies to the ship, I rest now, which she'd also acknowledged with a quick one-handed yes thanks, but in only a few moments, after a spate of clicking from the back seat, he was again signing, albeit in a more subdued manner.

The amended flight plan the King Six followed put it over the continent's largest lake, where the venerated and light-spangled Thirty Islands could be paralleled but not directly flown over. The sky was clear enough that she could see lights below and stars above, and if she'd wished she could easily have flown entirely by eye, ignoring the track line on GPS as each island's distinctive shape showed clearly. This part was fun as she threaded the needle in several places, making sure the while she was both above minimum attitude and between the noisier flight modes, enjoying the comfortable g-forces of the banking turns.

Approaching the last of the islands, though, the plane gained altitude suddenly, and a column of cloud leapt out of the darkness, enveloping them, as the sigh of air passing around them changed timbre.

The King Six bounced. She brought it level and began descending very gradually, the while keeping the variometer a focus. The plane behaved itself really well when they hit a quick burst of rain and hail that clattered on the skin, startling her, then they were through, the ship on course but tending downward . . .

Veradantha spoke, gently, from her place: "We often forget, when we fly, that valleys and channels well below us are mirrored in the sky. You have flown through what some call 'the smoker.' You will look it up and send me your reaction in the morning, if you please."

The variometer telling tales, Theo nodded, and increased throttle, watching the crosswind which threatened to bring the ship uncomfortably close to the no-fly zone.

Advertency won out—just. Then it was time to run a check of the backup instruments, and the flight resumed the comfortable silence, enlivened until the end with near random bursts of hand-talk and the low clicks of Veradantha's fingers on her notepad.

They filed through the small terminal, yos'Senchul's, "Follow me if you will, Waitley," recognized as more of an order than a request.

Passing by the Ops desk, they went down a short hall. yos'Senchul used a swipe key and bowed Veradantha and Theo into a brightly lit conference room.

Theo shivered, belatedly recognizing that it was cool and damp outside, something she'd not noticed when leaving the plane. Maybe it was the hour, too, or concern about this sudden change of course.

Veradantha sat at the table, pulling out her ubiquitous timer. Without looking up, she patted the place next to her, so Theo sat, too.

yos'Senchul paced, his hand describing gestures that were not quite signs, his shoulders moving with a rhythm and beat—with a shock of recognition she realized that this was a calming routine, a tension reliever. Father sometimes—

"The thing is, Waitley, that you are dangerous." The words were spoken gently, which concerned her greatly.

Theo sat forward and steeled herself, admitting, "I don't understand."

He used his hand for emphasis and said again, "You are dangerous. We, between us, have seen you tonight to be an adequate and more than adequate pilot for one of your flight time, background, and training. At flying, you are precocious, as your flight in the sailplane showed. That isn't dangerous, that's good."

Theo sat back a little, unmollified.

"Precocity has pitfalls, Theo Waitley," said Veradantha from beside her, "which I know myself from myself, and which I have agreed with Orn Ald we know for you."

The old woman tapped the table twice and went on, speaking as much to the wall as to Theo or the flight instructor. Theo watched her face, drawn to the precise way Veradantha was moving, as if she were recalling and acting out something rather than merely talking.

"You see, when unfettered, you walk as a pilot of experience does. With confidence. With power. With, let us say, the air of one infinitely able to cope."

Theo sat straighter, trying to marshal her thoughts and words.

Crack!

She snapped to her feet, twisting up and out of the chair, turning toward the danger, hand up, muscles ready—

yos'Senchul slapped his hand flat against the table again, all the while watching her.

Veradantha continued as if nothing at all had happened.

"And you react so quickly, as if you are threatened. Part of this is because you are fast, and you are strong, and you are young. Part, I do not know. It may be that your genes are at work, or your hormones are balanced in such a way. Perhaps you are, pardon me, frightened. As calm as you are dealing with your flying, as alert and accurate, you are not quite calm among quite ordinary circumstances."

Her hand motion was barely perceptible, but yos'Senchul began speaking immediately.

"This is why you are dangerous, Theo Waitley, because your presentation is often one of being prepared at all times to escalate discussion to disagreement, disagreement to confrontation."

Theo stiffened. "But I don't mean to . . ."

He held up his hand, wait signed as well as intimated.

"Yes, that is a problem. You don't mean to be fast, but you do mean to walk as if you are infinite. This problem will need to be addressed quickly, because the course of your learning will put you on flight decks where people will misjudge you to be arrogant, to be pushing, to be trying to provoke. Why seem you to have this attitude . . . is something you will need to work on . . . have you an idea?"

Theo sat back, eyes glancing here and there around the room as she searched her mind for an answer, overturning mental bookcases and tables, allowing the instructor to perhaps be right before . . .

She sighed, eventually, and settled back into the chair, letting it support her back.

"Delgado," she said with an air of finality. "Delgado is a bully. And on Melchiza, at the Transit School, they wanted pilots to be—strong."

She sighed, and added, feeling the truth, "And that's how I think I should be."

There was silence and then the small sound of Veradantha, chuckling.

"Theo Waitley, I think perhaps you are correct. And so I agree, and say 'Delgado is a bully,' as is Melchiza. I ask you to know that so is Terra a bully to its children, and Liad, and Jankalim and Theopholis. And I will posit something more: the planets in their orbits are not the source of your discontent, but nonetheless you are correct. It is culture that is the bully, which is something many of the better pilots learn. As for Melchiza wanting you to be strong, that is, perhaps, an overstatement. But again you are precocious."

yos'Senchul hooked an ankle around a chair leg and pulled it to him. He sat down, fingers moving—something to start now, something for next time—and went to voice.

"What we can do, now, is to be sure you do not isolate yourself so much. People—are necessary; even enjoyable. Take the opportunity to be with others outside of class. Go to dance class, perhaps join the cultural diversity club."

Theo sighed. "I haven't done real well with clubs, historically. That Delgado bully thing again. I mean, people thought it was strange that we lived in Father's house, instead of in the Wall. They thought it was strange that Kamele didn't . . . switch her onagrata at all. And, and I knew all along he was my father, but it was like it was supposed to be some special adult secret. Then, I got put in the class for misfits . . . and so I didn't fit. I'm not . . ."

"Misfit?" said yos'Senchul experimentally. "Misfit. What a useful word."

Theo looked hard into his face, but he was apparently serious, as he tried to form the word with his fingers at the same time.

Veradantha tapped the table briefly for attention.

"What we would like you to consider, Theo Waitley, is this idea. This semester is well in progress, and your schedules should not be altered yet again. Go to classes, take time for these clubs and activities."

She paused, tapping on the desk quietly, nodding to herself before going on.

"It is not that you need to be popular, but that you need to watch others, to learn to be less, let us say, strident. To be easy with other people. Speak with me again soon—I will send an appointment to you—and then we will craft for you a schedule allowing a less general curriculum. You will be wishing to take these courses: advanced trade language, the cultural diversity cluster, and . . ."

Chaos, she was tired! Theo shook her head, and spoke before she meant to.

"I am not ignorant. My father teaches cultural genetics, and he hosts students; I've been—"

HOLD!

yos'Senchul rose, and bowed very slightly, signing day of many parts, this over soon.

He continued aloud, with a casual if I may signed toward Veradantha.

"What we seek is to be certain you will be adequately prepared for the sophonts who are not prepared for you. Dance will help, as will more language training, and something—we shall discuss and refine these points, all of us when we have a day less busy around us—something so that you do not present as quite so busy, quite so much on the verge of taking action, at all times."

Veradantha broke in then, with some energy.

"We wish to also remove you from petty local politics as much as we may. Now some, like the excellent Mr. Frosher, they have the way of it. He will be an adequate pilot, I am sure, but he has a path in mind, one that involves administration, one that is also likely to be local. It is not surprising he came so close to the edge of things, and it is not entirely surprising that he has survived this error, and grown from it. Eventually he may grow to be a functionary of some merit.

"But you—you—do not wish to study the tables of dead grandfathers, nor to be liable for not knowing them. This altercation with Wilsmyth is built partly of history you do not know, and assumptions he does not realize he carries. This is what we wish to minimize for you. And for the academy, too.

"With your consent we shall construct for you an independent study option. I suggest a goal as an outworlds pilot. We may fine-tune as we proceed and details become clarified. You will need to study ships, but start tomorrow and not tonight. You will need some more languages—start tomorrow and not this night. We shall also see what we might find on-world for your off-time between semesters, unless you will wish to return to Delgado . . ."

Theo saw the quirking of the mouth for what it was and managed a laugh and a quick sign abort that launch.

Despite herself, she yawned.

Preliminary accept, she signed. She stood and bowed to them both, the very best bow she could muster.

"We have started tonight," she suggested. "We will start more tomorrow."

SECOND LEAP

Eighteen

Diverse Cultures Celebration Team

Anlingdin Piloting Academy

DCCT was housed about as far away as it was possible to get from the rest of the campus and still be in the residential zone; that was her destination after her last scheduled class for the school week.

Theo walked instead of taking the shuttle, sure that some of her classmates were letting the ease of a quick ride stifle their need to move. How they could expect to keep reaction time up while being sluggards was beyond her.

She'd had defensive dance early, which was a good thing. She'd waked a moment before the timer went off, dreaming the ship-route math she'd studied the night before in prep for lab. That had been happening of late, the dreaming about classes, especially math, like she'd finally cleared some cobwebs and gotten to work. The independent study was a good motivator, and she felt almost like she owed Wilsmyth thanks for the now-healed gash on the side of her head.

Another reason she liked this particular walk, besides the fact that it was often deserted, was that it gave a good view of the planes on final approach to the airfield. A few days before she'd seen a really awkward turn-in and approach, while high and away between the field and the mountain a pair of soarplanes rode brilliant in the aqua sky. She had seen a couple of her landings on video and was really glad that none looked as nervous as that one, which had ended more in a series of bounces than a proper landing.

That was the problem, of course—lots of people around the field also saw that landing—and later in the day there was talk of yet another of the local students being sent home before school end. It was eerie the way the school population seemed to be thinning out as the final grading period approached.

Unexpectedly, she heard voices ahead of her where the path rounded a copse of lush red brambleberry. She stepped to the side of the path as a group of fast-moving DCCT members appeared, Kara in the lead.

"Theo, just in time! But you're going the wrong way!"

Kara stopped, bringing the whole team to a crowded halt, familiar faces and unfamiliar together.

Theo signed blankly none there, pointing toward the dorm parapet rising above the trees in the distance.

"Might be, but there's a ship coming in, and we're going to go down to see it."

"There's always a ship coming in . . ." Theo pointed out as a Star King IV obligingly dropping down through the clouds toward the main landing strip.

Theo's hand-sign was flip—overlooked obvious.

"I mean a spaceship." Kara's hand adding new info just in.

"The shuttle is still parked . . ."

A shake of heads, and from the back, a voice she didn't recognize—

"Spaceship. You know, interstellar. We got a call from the field, they thought we might want to see this."

"Here? Where will it fit? What is it?"

"Right. That's what we want to see . . . Come on down with us! DCCT is on the move!"

The Seriously Official Recognized Name of the organization was the Diverse Cultures Celebration Team. Like almost all the other clubs on campus they managed to do something sometime that earned points or competed with other groups or that got them all out at one time cooking and eating foods that they'd never faced at their milk tables, so they got to call themselves a team.

Some of the upperclassmen in the club were part of the DCCT dorm, which had odd floor names and was repainted every few weeks to celebrate this or that significant event in some culture somewhere. The club met there in a permanently assigned room which was certainly furnished in an amalgam one could call diverse, if not outright strange.

Most of the campus just called them the Culture Club, and Theo was feeling oddly comfortable as its newest member. Maybe it had to do with the feeling that no one was actually in charge, except, maybe, sometimes, Kara. It might have had something to do with the tea selection, which was downright amazing. Or it might simply be that compared to the local students, she was as diverse as anybody else.

Delgado, of course, was a world that celebrated education, cultural enlightenment, and diversity as could be. From experience, Theo knew that diversity stopped just outside Delgado's Wall, and if Anlingdin Academy was different she had little way of knowing.

Theo's first visit to DCCT had been the day after her flight with her mentors, and she'd been pleased then to discover the tea, and almost as pleased to be involved in a discussion, by agreement limited to hand-talk, of the best morning foods. Anlingdin's musch meal was widely regarded as the boringest breakfast food in the galaxy, and she had been surprised to find herself both missing some foods from home, and interested enough in those described by others to get hungry.

Theo'd seen a tall, underspoken fellow who was in her math class hand-wishing the school could make a decent maize button, and she burst out laughing.

Button quick easy she signed confidently, if time breaks clear could make some for both of us, good choice.

For some reason that launched the group into chuckles and ignited a flare of signs she wasn't clear on, and a few she was, but couldn't see how they'd got there . . .

In the midst, Bova Yenkoa, a very pretty young man with a small beard, signaled time out, and addressed Theo in Trade, laughing and shaking his head.

"Now see, that's a problem. On Finifter if an unmarried woman invites a man to breakfast at her house and doesn't mention that a mother or sister or someone else female is going to be there, that's an invitation for a bed-party."

Theo waved her hand—incomplete information here query.

"And similar on Grundig," Bova went on. "And on Grundig, once you make an offer, it stands until the next house-blessing. Got to be careful what you offer to whom there, I tell you!"

More laughter ensued and some maybe not-quite-true stories about friends who had problems with such things, and by the time the stories had worn out, it was late and Theo was surprised at how relaxed she felt.

The second time she'd visited, the ongoing argument in hand-talk was about ships, and about companies you didn't work for, and worlds that were too much trouble to visit so the pilots going there just stayed on ship for the duration. She'd been pleased and surprised to find Kara there—and then just pleased.

She'd gone again, gotten more of the names down. She missed Kara by a few moments that time, but found others to talk to.

It was at DCCT that she found the Book of Clans, supposedly a list of all the Liaden clans and their member Lines. A search on "Korval" had brought her the information that it was composed of two ascendant Lines—yos'Phelium and yos'Galan—and a subordinate Line—bel'Tarda. Clan business interests were given as shipbuilding, trade, piloting, and general commerce. The clan sigil, there at the top of the screen, was a dragon poised on half-furled wings above a tree in full leaf.

"Tree-and-Dragon," she muttered, and brought up the search box. She typed in Moon-and-Rabbit without much hope, but the database obligingly loaded a page for Clan Ixin, ascendent Line ven'Deelin. Clan business interests were trade, manufacturing, and general commerce.

Theo sat back. yos'Senchul had been testing her, then. She supposed it shouldn't surprise her—he was a teacher, after all. Theo, the child of two teachers, knew what that meant.

"There you are!" Kara called, her footsteps brisk across the floor. "We're trying to get up a round of bowli ball. Are you in?"

"Sure," Theo said, slowly.

"What's that you have—the Book of Clans? Research?"

"In a way." Theo turned in her chair and looked up into Kara's face. "I'm trying to figure out why my father would have wanted me to go to—the delm of a trade clan, if I was ever in really big trouble, and why there was a book about—"

"Trade clan?" Kara peered past her to the screen. "Ixin is High House, you know. They'd—"

"Not Ixin," Theo interrupted. "Korval."

Kara blinked.

"Korval?" she repeated. "Are you—of Korval?"

Theo shook her head. "I'm a Waitley of Delgado, from a long line of scholars," she said. "My father, though, said that I should go to the Delm of Korval for really big problems—but only for really big problems. I thought it was a joke for—for a lot of reasons, but apparently, he meant it."

"Well." Kara frowned slightly and hitched a hip up on the table holding the screen. "Korval is—beyond High House. It concerns itself with pilots and with ships, so its interests are . . . broader than the interests of, say, my clan. Most delms solve for the members of their clan. Korval is said to solve for pilotkind. Delm Korval—of course, you wouldn't want to take anything other than life or death to Delm Korval." She paused. "Your father was a scholar, you had said."

"He is. But before that, he was a pilot."

Kara's face cleared. "That explains it, then. He was passing pilotlore. Perfectly reasonable—and good advice, too, though of the kind you hope never to use."

"Oh." Theo thought about it, then shook her head. "There was a book—a book for littlies, Sam Tim's Ugly Day—and it was all about how you didn't take problems you could solve yourself to Delm Korval."

"And very good advice that is, as well!" Kara had said warmly. "There are all sorts of books written about Korval, Theo. Are you in on the bowli ball game, or not?"

The academy shuttle usually landed in a long, relatively flat trajectory from the north-northeast, with a one-hundred-sixty to one-hundred-eighty degree turn to do a final lineup for touchdown. Theo stared off in that direction while Kara, shoulder comfortably against hers, was on comm with someone who was observing from the control room.

Rather than being right down strip-side for the landing they stood on the slight bluff overlooking the field, not wanting to crowd the operations crew and knowing that the ship coming in would take a few minutes to cool down once landed, anyway. Of ordinary traffic—a couple of Sky Kings circled to the west among scattered clouds, and a soarplane was well to the east, bright amidst a clearing sky.

There was movement close by, and Kara leaned into her shoulder.

"Ops says we're all looking the wrong way. The ship is coming straight on in—it isn't orbiting first."

Theo turned, hands slinging straight run, power pilot double double. Kara grinned, sharing the news with the rest of the crew.

"Freck says we gotta watch toward south. Expect a—"

Karroom BOOM! The field shook, and Bova brought his long-glasses up to search the sky.

Kara laughed, and finished, ". . . sonic boom."

"Got em!" Bova yelled, pointing.

Theo shaded her eyes, staring upward—and there it was, a hard, glittering point with a pulsating beacon that looked larger than the craft itself. It palpably dropped, occasional contrails wisping behind it.

"This is a courier class ship, Team," said Bova. "Ought to be flashy, ought to be about the size of the shuttle or a smidge smaller, they say, closer to a packet boat for those of you from outworlds."

Theo heard chatter from the other team members—"Dropping quick; pilot's got an iron stomach" and "Not a sign of drift and we've got a hefty breeze here!"

Kara read more info from the comm. "Often run solo, the Torvin can carry a crew of three plus three passengers on need, built thirty-seven Standards ago at the Korval-Mugston Yards on the Yolanna platform . . ."

Now the ship was taking shape as a gleaming golden stripe angling rapidly above them, a stripe with shiny wing-tip stabilizers on each end and now the stripe showed a bulge above and behind the central nose, all gleaming gold, the beacon under its nose still bright but now echoed by underwing green and red.

"Still zooming!" Vin said, and Theo felt the landing tension in her arms and shoulder, the thing was too low, too fast, too short of the runway and—

"Ah!"

The relief was vocal across a dozen mouths as the glitter caught the light, the ship flaring out and riding the airwave in front of itself, touching down discreetly after passing over the blast pad and the threshold and somewhat ahead of the persistent dark marks occasioned by generations of student pilots.

Theo still had her mouth open as the sound of touchdown reached her, a barely distinguishable barrup as the ship actually settled, as the golden thing gleamed by at twice the rate a Star King landed at . . .

A sudden hissing reached them as a brief cloud obscured the bright beacons well down the airstrip . . .

"Retros," came knowledgeably from behind her. "Look at that thing slow down!"

The sound of the rocket hiss almost obscured another comment.

"Scouts!" said Bova, lowering his glasses and shaking his head. "You like 'em or you hate 'em, whichever, they sure can pilot!"

Theo stared at the ship, still slowing on the runway.

"Scouts?" she said to Kara quietly.

"Come on, Theo, let's go down!"

The Commander strode by the group, headed toward the Ops room, and so did yos'Senchul, who flashed excellent progress plans move forward to the lot of them before heading in.

"Ops must be crushed," Theo said to Kara. They and the rest of the team were waiting while the distant Torvin was attached to a small fleet of tractors and towed toward the shuttle's usual spot.

Now that the spaceship was down, craft were again circling and descending, while several on the flight line were moving slowly toward the live deck for takeoff.

Kara was muttering about dinnertime coming right up and she'd been hoping to get a chance to—

But Theo caught sight of yos'Senchul and the Commander, walking out toward the strip from Ops, carrying on a quick hand-talk.

Certified routing/newest off-limits/warning zones for graduates/direct and secure was the gist of yos'Senchul's communications while the Commander's were more like Noisy obvious unscheduled bad-form non-orbit show-off.

Theo looked away, feeling a bit as if she'd eavesdropped on one of Kamele and Father's private conversations. Likely if she hadn't spent so much time with yos'Senchul she wouldn't have been able to read . . .

"Theo, look, come on, they've got it settled. Let's go see!"

Kara grabbed her by the hand enthusiastically, tugging and not letting go until Theo picked up speed and together they outran most of the team to the orange-chained stanchions.

The ship gleamed in front and overhead, warmth still radiating into the cooling evening, several tiny beacon lights having taken over the duty of the flight lights. Theo could see herself in the fuselage where it bulged to become wings, she could see Kara too, and the Commander and yos'Senchul standing with a small group of seniors dressed with their formals and wings close behind.

"Look at the size of this thing," a pilot used to Star Kings said, and Theo blurted out, "This is so tiny! It could fit in a cruise ship ballroom!"

That started a heated discussion, and quotes of cubes and relative engine power and, "I've sat jump seat on something bigger than this . . ."

Theo basked in the glow of the ship. Yes, this is it. Something like this. She felt as if her pores absorbed the moment and her hands already knew the need to fly such a thing.

The Ops guy came out to the stanchions, comm in his hand, and then opened the gate for the Commander.

"Sorry," he said, "the tug crew forgot this is Liaden, so the ground hatch is on the other—"

yos'Senchul waved him away with a salute and hand-sign, leading the small contingent to the proper side of the ship, just as there came a hiss, then a whir that must have been the hatch opening.

The strip-side crowd quieted as the gangway slid almost all the way to the ground, and then there was hand-shaking and bows, all seen on the other side of the ship. Two of the seniors became honor guard to the ship, flanking the gangway. The others fell in behind the Commander and yos'Senchul and the pilot with his rakish hat, as they walked back toward the stanchions.

"Theo—what?" Kara whispered at her, then jammed an elbow into her side.

The man moved like a pilot, after all, that must be it—her stomach though, apparently had another theory.

"Theo?"

She stood very still, watching as the group came through the gate.

"He looks familiar. He kinda walks like a friend of mine," she managed.

Kara snickered. "Oh, he does?"

The pilot had been scanning as well as walking and talking with his hosts, she could see that. Suddenly his eyes met hers; he did a dance-step pause, a half-smile twitching at the corners of his lips as he looked at her fully face on.

"Pilot Waitley, my compliments." This was spoken in a formal measure as he bowed quickly. "I am extremely pleased to find you here, Theo," followed in a lower tone, for her ears only, then, loud enough to strike the ears of those crowding behind her, "I hope to be in touch."

"Hi, Win Ton!" she got out, waving as the procession swept on, the grin on her face not at all subdued.

The Commander also nodded at her, perhaps sternly, and yos'Senchul bowed an acknowledgment, his hand fluttering with a this pilot clarifies this pilot clarifies, and the honor guard looked at her perhaps in consternation as they got back into step.

Then they were gone and Kara was yelling in her ear, "Who was that? You know him? Who? Why didn't you say something?"

"I've never seen Win Ton in a hat before," Theo managed, realizing she was giggling.

"You do know him! How?" Kara was delighted and demanding at once. "That was a bow between equals!"

Theo laughed. "He's a friend, Kara. He gave me my bowli ball. We beat the dance machine together."

Some of the other DCCT people crowded in close to find out what was happening, but the gate was being drawn back and more waiting students surged past, and she didn't have to answer, "What dance machine?" right then.

"Rule is you can look but not touch!" yelled the Ops guy on guard as the official contingent moved into the building.

"The pilot will give tours as time permits," he went on. "Tomorrow."

Nineteen

Erkes Dormitory, Suite 302

Anlingdin Piloting Academy

She'd put on her best pair of black slacks, and was dithering between the black shirt and the cream-colored sweater when Asu came in and leaned a hip against the door.

"It is true!" she said, with such a note of finality in her voice that Theo blinked, trying to recall if she'd called the other girl on something at breakfast.

Well, only one way to find out, she thought, refolding the black shirt.

"What's true?" she asked over her shoulder.

"The Scout courier is your friend! The one who sends you jewelry!"

"The one who sent me a pair of wings, you mean?" Theo shook out the sweater.

Asu frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Getting dressed."

"You're going to wear that?" Asu asked, like the cream sweater was—gym clothes or something.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing's wrong with it," Asu said in her too-patient voice. "It's a nice, warm, serviceable sweater with a high neck and long sleeves."

"I'm not taking your point," Theo said, yanking the sweater over her head, as the hall door giggled. She emerged, and looked over her shoulder.

"Hey, Chelly!" she called, pulling the sweater straight.

"Chelly," Asu commanded, without turning her head, "come here and be of use!"

"What now?" he wondered, pausing beside her and giving Theo a nod.

Asu flung out a dramatic hand, encompassing Theo, their shared room, and quite possibly the entire Anlingdin campus. "Look at that sweater!"

Chelly blinked. "Looks okay to me."

"For a date with a star pilot?"

"Well, why not?" Chelly said reasonably, and shook his head. "Should've known you'd get that rumor," he added.

Asu looked at him over her shoulder. "It is not a rumor! He spoke to her in front of the Commander, yos'Senchul and all gathered! He called her by name and said he'd be in touch!"

"Said he hoped to be in touch," Theo corrected hastily. "Which doesn't mean he's going to be able to get in touch. He's here on business, after all. Nothing to say that the Commander won't be sending him off tonight. She might have—" She gulped, suddenly panicked.

"Easy, it's still on the field," Chelly told her lightly.

Theo sighed, and went over to the mirror to fix the wings to the sweater's collar.

"The way he flies we would have heard the boom when he lifted," Asu said, acidic. "Honestly, Theo, you might have told me he was coming!"

Theo stared at her. "I didn't know he was coming!" she protested. "Why would I?"

"You correspond," Asu said loftily. "He sends you gifts."

"One gift," Theo corrected. "And, in case you hadn't noticed, that is a courier ship. He might not've known himself that he was coming to Anlingdin until he got his flight orders."

"True enough," Chelly said, firmly. "Give it up, Asu." He gave Theo another look over the other girl's shoulder. "Sweater looks nice, Theo. Don't let her bully you."

"Bully!" Asu swung around, but Chelly was already back in the joint room, pulling open the shared coldbox.

"I will have you know," Asu said, following him, "that I do not bully Theo."

"Yeah?" Theo could imagine the look of skeptical interest on Chelly's face as she turned back to the mirror.

The sweater did look nice, she thought, and the wings, too. Her hair, of course, was a disaster area . . . She ran her fingers through it, trying to force it into seemliness. From the other room, Chelly and Asu's voices continued. In the mirror, her hair sprang back into wild disorder the second she took her hands away.

Sighing, she walked out to join her roommates.

"So, Chelly, what're you doing here?" she asked.

"Going to get the rest of my things out," he said, giving her a straight look. "I talked to the house father, Theo. You'll take my slot, Asu'll move up to First Bunk, and you'll be getting a new Second Bunk start of next term."

"Theo's not a senior," Asu objected.

Chelly gave her a bland look. "Don't gotta be a senior to be unit senior," he said.

Asu drew a breath.

And the doorbell rang.

"A pleasant evening to the house." He bowed slightly to Asu, who'd beat them both to the door. "I am Win Ton yo'Vala, come to call upon Theo Waitley, if she will see me."

"I see you," Theo said softly, feeling kind of fluttery and light in the chest. Win Ton, she noticed, had changed out of what must've been his dress uniform, into a dark sweater and pants—and his jacket. He looked at her over Asu's shoulder with a smile.

"I see you, also, Sweet Mystery. Is this everything that will be allowed us?"

She laughed. "Asu, you're not my aunt! Let him in."

"Certainly," the taller girl said. She took a fluid step back, and swept her arm out, head inclined very slightly. "I am Asu diamon Dayez. Be welcome, Pilot yo'Vala."

"My thanks." Win Ton stepped inside, brown eyes flicking to Chelly, who gave him a matter-of-fact nod.

"Chelly Frosher, Pilot Admin trainee." He paused, and added, thoughtfully. "Friend of Theo's."

"I am pleased to meet you, Admin Frosher," Win Ton assured him gravely.

He turned slightly, and Theo felt her stomach tighten, which was silly. This was Win Ton, not some stranger, or—

"Pilot yo'Vala!" Asu said, sharply.

Win Ton's eyebrows rose, and he turned, perhaps faster than he had intended. Asu went back a step, and he became very still, hands belt high, palms out, fingers spread in the sign for no threat.

"I was wondering," Asu said, sounding breathless, "if it is in fact yourself who taught Theo to play bowli ball." She tossed her head and smiled, nervously to Theo's eye. "She's coy with names, our Theo."

"Ah, is she?" He sent a quick look to Theo, the corner of his mouth tight with the effort of holding the laugh in. "Shall I reveal all?"

Theo felt her cheeks heat, but she met his eyes firmly. "All?"

He flung a hand up, as if in surrender. "No, you are correct! Word might yet reach my captain! But, to answer Pilot Trainee diamon Dayez—in fact, I was one of three pilots who introduced Theo to the joys of bowli ball. As you know, the best game can be had with a foursome, and the other pilots must need work around their shifts, so we did not play as often as any of us would have preferred."

There was a small silence, broken at last by Chelly. "Theo learned to play bowli ball from a Scout and two working pilots."

"Indeed." Win Ton turned, gently, to face him. "It would hardly have done to allow her to play with the passengers."

"Make that, a Scout and two cruise line pilots," Chelly added, and laughed softly. He shook his head at Theo. "No wonder you got an attitude problem, Waitley."

"I don't have an attitude problem," Theo told him, but Chelly only laughed again.

"Who here has not had their temper fail them?" Win Ton asked, possibly rhetorically. "Theo, are you hungry?"

"Yes," she said, though she wasn't, exactly.

"Then we are well-met, and well-matched! I am famished. As I am in receipt of the coords to a binjali restaurant, perhaps you will join me for dinner?"

Light spilled from the ship's at-rest lights, casting a circle that faded from ruby to pink along the tarmac. Walking at Win Ton's side, Theo crossed that magic circle and tried not to stare around while he spoke with the security team.

"This pilot and I will be lifting to coords provided by Master Pilot yos'Senchul very shortly. Thank you for your care of my ship."

"That's all right, Pilot," one of the two answered, both saluting with a snap. "Will you be returning?"

"This evening, yes. We will, of course, file with the Tower."

It was said gently enough, but the guards seemed to take it as a rebuke or setdown. Another pair of salutes and they were gone, marching briskly down toward Ops while Theo followed Win Ton up the ramp and into the ship.

The lights came up as they entered the piloting chamber, Theo walking as lightly as she could, as if she would bruise the ship if she set her feet too firmly. It seemed as if Win Ton had forgotten her; he walked to the board, leaned over and touched a rapid sequence of keys and toggles. The ship woke with a soft, welcoming chime. He turned and gave her a smile as bright as the one she remembered.

"Hovering at the door? But that will never do! Come, you must sit second for me!"

Theo stared at him, suspecting a joke at her expense. "I can't sit second on a spaceship," she stammered. "I don't have the hours, or—"

"Tut and tut, Sweet Mystery!" He came back and took her hand. His fingers were warm, patterned with callus.

"The pilot has asked you to sit second," he said, looking into her face with all of Win Ton's mischief. "It is, of course, a signal honor."

"Well, it is," she answered, defensively, but she let him lead her over to the second chair and show her how to adjust it, and where the webbing was. She tried to relax while he settled into the pilot's chair, her eyes drawn to the board, and something like . . . hunger in her middle . . .

"Now," Win Ton said calmly, his fingers dancing on a touchpad. "The pilot would take it kindly if Pilot Waitley would ride comm, and clear us with the tower. Coords—"

"Win Ton," Theo's voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again, watching the side of his face, seeing concentration and . . . something else. "Win Ton."

He glanced up, eyes soft with concentration. "Yes?"

"What are you doing?" she asked carefully, twisting her hands together on her lap so she wouldn't reach out and touch that tantalizing board, though she wanted to!

His gaze sharpened somewhat. "I am offering opportunity," he said, his tone precisely as careful as hers. "Will you grasp it? Or will you be shy and orderly?"

She knew better than to take a dare . . . well, mostly she did. But, that board . . . She swallowed and nodded, leaning forward.

"Comm is lit yellow," he said quietly. "The rest of the board is slaved to mine, so you may follow, if you like."

"Yeah . . ." she whispered, and raised a hand to finger the yellow toggles.

"Tower, this is Theo Waitley, sitting second on Torvin." She paused, glancing to the amused Scout, who signaled there now, and her screen lit with ship numbers and info in proper sequence for her to read out, which she did, adding, "Out of, Solcintra, Liad, local berth Number 9F. Torvin's pilot requests a tow to a launch pad at your earliest convenience."

There was a moment of perhaps shocked silence, then a voice she didn't know answered calmly in the affirmative. "Acknowledge, there, Torvin, we see ship systems coming live. We'll call out the horses and camels now, if you can wait that long."

Theo was grinning like a fool, and only part of that was the joke and Win Ton's resultant raised eyebrows.

"Where are we going? By way of where?"

"Very good, Second!" Win Ton said. The info flowed to her screen and she recognized the sequence out of class a few days before, catching her breath, and then laughing.

"Ballistic? That's some g-work, isn't it?" She must have whispered because Win Ton half-bowed, and whispered in reply, "Yes, it is."

He continued in a more normal voice, "Watch the screens: is that a camel or a horse? And what is funny, Sweet Mystery?"

They'd brought round the tractor that towed the shuttle, and as she watched, Win Ton enumerated the camera views, showing her how to change them. She paid scrupulous attention, saying, "That must be the camel, that's the one they only use on spacecraft. And what's funny is the ballistic routing. Asu told me, before you knocked, that everyone knew you were still on port because there hadn't been an outgoing sonic boom!"

She glanced at him, saw him manfully straighten the smile off his face.

"Ah, did she? Then her reputation is mine to save. Please note these amendments, and file the corrected figures when queried."

They felt the tow start as Win Ton went over radio and feed sequence with her, bailout sequence, and how to set vessel on autoland. With each quick lesson he looked at her, and it was hard not to keep looking at him, except she had to show that she'd heard by using the keys on her quiet board.

The tractor pulled free, and tower's voice was live:

"Torvin, your flight plan will be accepted by link, since we're getting good feed, please file, and we'll acknowledge."

Theo glanced at Win Ton.

"It is good form to strap in before liftoff," he said conversationally, "and please, file the plan."

Theo touched the send switch and yanked the strap. It was clear they were in the tower's eye, because the response was instant, and she couldn't hit the acknowledge switch right back, because she was tangled in lap strap.

"Be sure to file intentions with your destination, Torvin. You may lift at will after your launch signal. Enjoy dinner!"

"Send the duplicate routing on, Second, and we will . . ."

Theo did that as Win Ton seemed to go half quiet before saying, ". . . please Asu diamon Dayez, no doubt."

The klaxon sounded tinny through the ship's outside ears.

"Now," Win Ton said, and engaged lift.

By the time they'd set down at the field by Howsenda Hugglelans, with Theo riding comm, her head felt like it was in . . . some other place; like it wasn't directly attached to the rest of her body. She'd followed the board lights, listening to Win Ton's soft-voiced explanation of what he was doing, interrupting only once, with a question.

"How do I get to do this?"

"This? Become a Scout?"

"No—fly this."

"Ah!" He'd laughed, softly. "Much less difficult! Courier pilots need only be first class, with a demonstrated willingness to fly like a lunatic on any occasion." Her attention on the board, she'd felt, rather than seen him grin at her. "You would do well, I think."

"I think so, too," she'd answered, and lapsed again into rapt silence.

Hull cool, they exited Torvin.

Win Ton offered an arm and she leaned on that, grateful for the support as they approached the desk.

A familiar-looking man in a sleeveless vest met them, with a grin and a nod to Theo.

"You return!" said the waiter who wore too much vya. "And this time, you have forgotten your aunt! Very good, Pilot. A terrace table for you and your . . . friend?"

"Yes," Theo said, straightening, but keeping a firm grip on Win Ton's arm. "Please."

They followed him up the ramps and let him seat them together on a cushioned bench by a secluded table overlooking the field. Win Ton laughed softly as they were momentarily left alone.

"You are known everywhere, Theo Waitley! And rightly admired."

She shook her head at him. "I was here a while ago with Pilot yos'Senchul and Veradantha. Happens we had the same server—luck, is all."

"Indeed," Win Ton said with a grin. "Luck." He leaned forward and touched her hand. "Now that the fascination of lift has evaporated, tell me of yourself."

"There's not much to tell," she protested, "outside of what I've been writing to you."

"Ah. Then tell me this: Why does Admin Frosher claim you for an attitude problem?"

"Oh, that," Theo said, as their server came back with the requested tea.

"Service, Pilots?"

"Today's special," Theo and Win Ton said simultaneously—and laughed in the same heartbeat.

Their server smiled. "Today's special, it is. A moment while I gather what is needful."

"Now," Win Ton said, "tell me."

So, over tea and befores, she told him. Win Ton was a good listener, asking questions only when she'd gotten off track; willing to wait while she sorted out her narrative. When she got to the part about Wilsmyth jigging her flight time he said something sharp in what she guessed was Liaden, though it wasn't in the lexicon she was laboriously sleep-learning, with Veradantha's permission.

"Where did he strike you?" he asked.

Theo raised her hand to her head. "It's healed now."

"Let me see, if I may?" He smoothed her hair back from the place; she shivered at the touch of his fingers, even as she leaned into it.

"So soft, like sea mist . . ." His breath was warm against her temple; his lips were gentle against the place where the cut had been.

Theo closed her eyes, feeling a not-entirely-unpleasant roiling in her stomach.

"Yes," Win Ton murmured. "It has healed without a scar." He kissed the place again, and Theo reached—

"Will it please you to have dinner now, Pilots?" their server asked, amusement lacing his voice.

Win Ton eased back and considered him before looking to Theo. "Pilot?"

She sighed, and met the server's interested gaze. "Yes," she said levelly. "Dinner would be most welcome."

"So," she ventured, after they had been served. "Now that you've heard my boring news, don't I get to hear yours?"

"That would appear to be a fair trade," Win Ton agreed slowly, and from the depths of an apparent minute study of the table's centerpiece. His shoulders rose as if he had taken an especially deep breath, and he raised his head, meeting her eyes with a startling degree of seriousness.

"Alas," he said, and she could hear him making the effort to keep his voice light, as if he were telling a joke. "My news is even more tedious than your own." He extended his hand to touch hers where it lay on the table next to her teacup.

She didn't look down, but met his eyes, and tried to keep her voice light, too.

"A star pilot trumped by a student's tales out of school? Hard to believe."

He laughed, low in his throat. "Yes, but what could be more tedious than to learn that one's clan has finally found a use for one?"

She blinked. "They're calling you home?" But, she thought, he's a pilot! What would he do at home, if—

"For a short time only," Win Ton's voice interrupted these unsettling thoughts. His fingers tightened over hers. "My delm has decreed that I'm to wed, Theo. On Liad."

"Wed?" She blinked at him. "But you joined the Scouts so you didn't have to be on Liad."

He laughed, not happily. "No, I was given to the Scouts because I was more trouble to my honored kin than my then-current worth. But alliance is alliance, and unless I wish to stand eklykt'i—which I assure you that I do not!—I shall make my bow to duty." He looked at her earnestly. "You understand that it is merely a contract marriage, and after—" His face lost some of its tension and the grin he gave her was very nearly his usual mischievous expression. "After," he said, "I shall be free to do real work."

"Real work," Theo repeated. "Aren't you doing real work now?"

He lifted his hand from hers and made a short gesture of dismissal. "It is real, but—not preferred. My goal had always been to be part of a survey team. My duty to the clan done, I may embrace it—I hold the word of my delm on the matter! So . . ." He raised his teacup, as if he offered a toast. "Let us put that topic behind us, if you please, and speak of pleasanter things."

True to his word, he did just that, chattering away through the remainder of the meal until she was laughing, and matching him absurdity for absurdity. They were still laughing when they climbed the ramp hand in hand and Torvin let them in.

Theo looked to the second chair, took a step—and Win Ton's fingers tightened on hers. She paused and looked into his face, saw . . . something . . . and swayed back, as if it were part of a dance.

"Win Ton," she began, and—

"Theo," he started—

They both laughed again, somehow in the middle of it becoming tangled into a hug. His lips burned against her temple, and she hugged him tighter, wanting to, to melt into him, to—

She moved her head, and kissed him on the lips. He started, then pulled her closer, his arms so tight she could scarcely breathe, but that really didn't seem to matter. She slid her hands inside his jacket, feeling his back through the sweater. He dropped his head to her shoulder, nuzzling the side of her neck. His hand moved and she felt him touch the wings on her collar.

"You wear them," he murmured.

She laughed, shakily. "It's your gift to me. Of course, I wear them."

"Good," he breathed. "Excellent." His lips charted a lingering course up toward her ear.

"There's a bunk," he whispered, his voice not at all steady. "Theo—your choice. I—"

"Yes," she said, shaking, needing, wanting. "I'm not—Win Ton; I haven't had a lot of practice."

He choked—no, it was laughter, and the look he gave her was brilliant with delight.

"Well, then," he said unsteadily, "I stand ready. You may practice on me, if you wish."

"I do wish," she said, and reached up to kiss him again.

Twenty

Piloting Praxis

Anlingdin Piloting Academy

"Once you've sat first or second seat on orbit around an inhabited planet you'll see that being Pilot in Command of a space vessel makes being PIC on a two- or four-seat air-sucking cloud hopper an order of magnitude less dangerous to all concerned."

The casual dismissal of their progress to date shocked the room; the palpable intake of breath became a uniform over-the-shoulder glance in her direction from the front—and Theo imagined those behind her staring at the back of her head. As far as she knew there were exactly two people in the room who met that criteria: Instructor yos'Senchul and herself.

That she had exactly two-hundred-and-fifty-one minutes as orbital second board, certified C&C—Comm and Control—by a Scout was known across the campus, and as the instructor went on to explain, far beyond the campus.

"In many ways being on orbit in controlled space is safer than flying through the air. It takes far longer to hard-land a spacecraft than a Star King; and there are many more resources in place to ensure that you do not fall out of the sky.

"Make no miscalculation about it, Pilots, most of these resources are brought to bear not because you are personally more valuable, but because the damage you might do with even a minor lapse in judgment is exponentially greater with each step you take."

The instructor looked pensive for a moment, which Theo thought was a teacher's act since Liadens she knew rarely showed such emotions. Even Father needed to exaggerate his normal expressions to make them obvious to people who didn't know him.

The one-handed motion made next was also artful: a toss emphasizing the empty sleeve.

"Mistakes are expensive. A Slipper striking a home in a small subdivision of a dozen houses might kill the unlucky pilot and damage the home. A Star King doing the same could wipe out the pilot, family, and house, perhaps even two houses. The shuttle . . ."

He paused for effect then, allowing everyone to digest the thought.

"But no, we need not speculate on this, because we have available, courtesy of the Scout who recently visited, a virtual museum of recent pilot error accidents. Some are complete with tapes permitting you to fly the error right into the ground, or not, on your own time, in sim. All of the master-adjudicated errors we share today have occurred within the last two Standards. These are not pretty. They are, however, instructional."

Of the six errors yos'Senchul deemed most instructive, only one was by a trainee, and that trainee already licensed as a Second Class Provisional. Somehow that heartened Theo, when perhaps it was meant as a warning to all of them.

She took the long-way-around walk to lunch to think through not only what she'd seen, but also what she hadn't. Some of her classmates had simply not reacted at all to the vids, as far as she could see, as if they hadn't recognized the problem instantly. For her part, her hand still ached where she'd clenched the offending palm, trying to take it back from the motion that she hadn't made, that she knew better than to make, already.

She danced out that realization momentarily, feeling this move here and that move there and seeing that, of course, with the hands and body flowing properly, as compared with dance, even strapped in—especially strapped in—this move, this move that hurt her hand to think about, this move that had killed a pilot and a field boss and injured a dozen farmworkers, this motion went entirely against the warm-up exercises and the way you worked with a bowli ball. Well . . .

The dancing was combat. The dancing was prep for bowli ball which was prep for moving now. The dancing was board drills. The dancing was what had convinced Win Ton that she . . .

Chaos!

Yes, she missed him. Missed him. Not like she missed Father and Kamele, or the way she still sometimes missed Bek. Still, it was difficult not to look at everything she was doing now knowing that Win Ton also shared this information or moved this way, or would understand—

Well, maybe he'd even understand why it was she'd been spending quite so much time at sim-ship, and why it was she was busy, busy with extra dance, busy with a sudden interest in packet and courier ships, busy avoiding the sometimes just-too-stealthy questions and insinuations from Asu.

Really, what was it to Asu exactly what they'd done or hadn't, or when, or who started what? The first three days after her return from orbit she'd felt like Asu was peering at her neck, looking at her shoulders, for Simple Sake, checking out her feet and legs for marks and bruises!

Win Ton was Liaden, and thoughtful and gentle, and Liaden! That meant careful, in many senses.

And everybody's questions about, "How was it in orbit?" Pfui!

Yes, Win Ton was a Scout pilot . . . which meant a master class pilot, as it turned out, and so yes, not only could he certify her orbital time but he also should, because that's part of what master class pilots were supposed to do. He'd also been very clear that once they lifted, it was all about the ship.

She smiled to herself. Yes, when she'd rolled the Torvin through the sun-cooling routine, Win Ton's smile had been good. But she'd rolled it properly on axis, and then she'd offered her calculations to him and the board for the deorbit burn that would bring them down on the longest, flattest, slowest, quietest possible landing the ship could make, according to all the information the ship so willingly fed second board. And it was all about the ship, and about being a pilot.

Taking the long way to lunch meant a visit to DCCT was out of the question before afternoon class, but it also meant one more chance to avoid Asu, who needed to be in class at about the moment Theo reached for her last cheese muffin, counting teatime in her head. Now that math was falling into place for her she'd been getting in extra dance as well as extra bowli ball and those calories needed to be replaced, and she and Asu were suddenly out of the habit of companionable late night snacks. . . .

Theo continued the count in her back brain even as she thought about Asu. She was senior bunk, after all, and so she needed to be in some touch with Asu, just in case someone asked.

Count reached, she said, "One hundred thirty-two" out loud and gently sipped at her second cup.

Out of the side of her vision appeared a familiar hand with rings on it, fluttering query query before the rest of Kara appeared, bonelessly dropping into the chair opposite, tray carefully isolated from the flump of the body.

"What?" Theo felt her eyebrow rise and tried to suppress it, without luck. Genes!

"Counting flower petals odd and even?"

It was Theo's turn to flutter query with one hand as she sipped again. It was really hard to get the tea exact when the available hot water varied by so much, but . . .

"I distinctly heard you counting," Kara said, unzipping food from her tray. "Bova informs me that there's a well-known Terran custom of offering a potential night-friend the opportunity of counting flower petals together. I gather one actually pulls the flower apart in the process. Should both parties reach the last petal with a 'Yes, I will' . . . then the night is decided."

Theo thought a moment, scrunching up her face seriously, cup still in front of her lips.

"How many choices are there, I wonder? Or is it binary?"

Kara bowed, laughing.

"Yes, it is binary. I think you begin to see, O Pilot."

"And so if one knows the number of petals a particular flower generally has . . ." Theo sipped, put the cup down in favor of finishing the maize button.

The grin got wide.

"Thus speaks a pilot! It is, in fact, pilot's choice. If one is in need, as one may be, one picks the proper flower and starts with the proper count. If there is but one flower to hand, the same result might be obtained."

Theo chuckled around her swallow. "Fast head or fast hand, it's no gamble."

Kara sighed gently. "Temptation is always a gamble, my friend, even a temptation one welcomes!"

Theo theatrically took the last bite, looked toward her empty hand.

"None left to tempt me."

Kara sighed again, ending with a laugh.

"If it was all only so easy! But I digress. I saw you here and haven't caught you at DCCT lately." Her hands waggled busy busy busy. "Session ends become full with duty to school!"

"Not over," Theo said, "there's ummm . . ."

"Thirty class days," Kara said, "after today. Many of us will be wandering offworld very soon now. Are you going home to Delgado and kin?"

Theo sipped, shook her head. "The time, the money, the tickets!" Her free hand emphasized do not mesh. "I don't want to spend all my money and time in between, as much as I'd like the travel . . ."

"Hah. Will Win Ton your Scout friend be available to—"

Theo shook her head, hands saying, would do, more do not mesh.

"Don't mesh?"

Theo looked at the cup, seeing small particles in it.

"My Scout," she said carefully, "Win Ton. He's on his way to Liad, to be married."

Kara opened her mouth, her shoulders leveling after she managed not to spill her drink. After putting the drink down she gave a short head nod and a hand-fluttering repeat of don't mesh.

"Oh, Theo—this is an unexpected lack of luck! In an orderly universe delms would have something more to do than looking for ways to discommode those of the—well, no, the delm's job is the clan after all. Liadens! He could be tied to clan-strings for a year or more!"

Theo sighed, wishing there was more tea at hand.

"He told me. I mean, he was careful to explain all of how it works. And then after that marriage, he's put in for a survey assignment . . ."

"Survey! Theo, that's wonderful for him." Kara's face was bright. "A good assignment and a way to stay out of the delm's sight." She paused and, Terran-style, pointed a finger at Theo. "And he bowed equal to you. This is not an act, done so publicly. He meant it!"

Theo smiled wanly.

"I believe he does mean it," she said with a sigh, "but that still means no visit during break, right?"

"Indeed," Kara, said, suddenly sounding like yos'Senchul in her seriousness. "That would shatter the Code in so many places . . ."

Theo shrugged. It wasn't like the Code, whatever it was, had anything to do with her.

"So you are just staying at the academy?" Kara shook her hand into rethink plan. "The break dorms aren't much fun, you know. They crowd everyone into Plummer Hall, and have hard-set meal schedules, and . . ." She paused and gave a conspiratorial wink, "and they keep strict compliance hours. Check rooms even. I did it first time around. It is to avoid!"

"You're going home, too? Who will I talk to?"

"I am not going home. That is also to avoid! If luck is not mine I'll spend session break with an uncle who has a small repair shop at Portcalay. My best hope is to pick up something at the Hugglelans job fair."

"The what? Are you going to be a cook?"

Kara raised her eyes to the ceiling, and not finding the answer there, she opened her hands wide and gave Theo a stern look.

"Where have you been, Pilot Waitley? Do you think Hugglelans is just the Howsenda?"

Theo shrugged again.

"Well, I mean, they do have the restaurant . . ."

Kara covered her face in mock despair.

"Theo, Hugglelans is the largest fixed-base operator on the planet! They run the port—the landing zone, all the public spaces, the hotels and dayrooms, the maintenance shops, the cantinas, the whole thing! The Howsenda is . . . a sideline. No, I misspeak. It is a melant'i game, a show of strength, a brag . . . a hobby for the owners. Well." She paused.

"So, be as may," she went on, "they offer all members of DCCT a chance to come to the job fair. They'll send an aircraft, they'll feed us, we take some tests, meet some people—you should come!"

"Do they all wear too much vya over there? And besides, that's a long commute!"

"Theo, you've got to start getting the DCCT message-mail! They offer room and board plus a small stipend—and you end up with a work record in the industry . . . Of course, if you think they might not take you, I guess it makes sense not to apply."

Theo nodded, but then held hand to face.

"But suppose they offer me a cook's job?"

"Don't apply to the cook program, my friend. I'm applying to maintenance first, field crew second, flight support third . . . And honestly, to be out of here for a change, I'd take cook duty if it wasn't one of their reserved for executives specialties. At least try it, Theo, there's free lunch and dinner at the Howsenda."

Theo laughed, hand fluttering assent, assent, assent.

"Excellent. Very good. So you have to go right after class to sign up for the job fair. Bova's on desk or maybe Ristof. If Bova is on deck, I ask you to resist the counting of flowers until you have studied your botany and your necessity!"

Theo laughed, rising and pulling on her pack.

"No flowers with Bova, you say. First, I have a class. Then to DCCT, then papers to write. Then letters. Flowers . . . I have no time for flowers."

Kara smiled, and bowed, seated as she was. "We'll get you work. Your busyness will give you distance, my friend."

Twenty-One

Howsenda Hugglelans

Conglomeration of Portcalay

Eylot

The job fair's promise had been, "Real work for real pay!" and while that had sounded good in theory Theo was surprised at how good it felt in practice now that the term was over. Getting up in the morning seemed easier than at school—though how much of that had to do with having Kara as a roommate instead of Asu, she wasn't sure.

Still, getting paid for something besides good grades was a feeling easily as good as a to-the-second touchdown after a three-hour flight. Kara's consternation at discovering Theo's "secret" and her fervid promise to keep it close was still enough to make Theo smile in private.

"First job? You've never worked before? How can that be?"

There'd followed a near all-night discussion of how silly Delgado could be, what with the only real work being scholarly work, and how having a job that wasn't with the University was something you hid from your records.

Today, Theo's chores for the day were commonplace. The early morning schedule called for inspecting tie-downs and parking clearances on the civil aviation side, with Derryman opting to drive the cart and update the logs while she spotted the gear and attached tension meters to the ties. The craft in this section were a mixed bag of private and corporate with one thing in common: they all paid extra for the twice daily, premium status checks instead of depending on luck and inertia to keep their wings safe.

Derryman did this every workday, and he was a good teacher, in part because he'd been a teacher before he retired. He had not, as she'd first supposed, taught piloting or anything like it—instead he first sold and then taught insurance sales.

"Outside work is good for the soul," he told her, "and a lot better for health, too. With all the steps I get in a day here . . ."

She looked over her shoulder as he lounged back in the cart and flipped a quick walk walk walk when query in his direction before moving to the next tie-down. Derryman laughed.

"You can say that today, but I do this every day, and a lot of the year I don't have no hotshot apprentice pilots to mollycoddle."

She laughed outright this time. For the first five days of the break-shift, Derryman drove the dozen students assigned to him like he was trying to make day laborers out of them. They'd carried cable, rope, tie-twine, twists, pins, and disposable snap readers from one end of the field to the other. They replaced aged and shredded cable tying down display craft, they'd learned the value of gloves—and of choosing the right glove—and they learned to respect the gauge color of the temp strips laid in quiet mosaic on the live strips and launch zones.

Her blisters had healed quickly, but by then two of the students had recalled urgent necessity elsewhere, forfeiting the free meals, camaraderie, and income to return to the academy or to make sudden trips home. The afternoon they left, Derryman had turned up with a bowli ball and a round of flavored ice-gel and declared the rest of the day free and clear.

Once the first week's mollycoddling was done the crews had been given split-shift days, with the mornings given over to outside duties and the afternoons to tasks that varied by the day for everyone—except for Kara, who kept getting assigned to the machine shop, doing what she liked to call "belowdecks stuff."

For all that she enjoyed keeping busy and learning new things, Theo was starting to miss the forward motion of school: here every day was clearly the same for most of the staff and workers.

Derryman, who liked being around pilots and flying things, didn't mind the sameness—in fact denying it, claiming each day brought new wonders and different challenges.

Other than having different fingers jabbed by cable fringe, not much seemed to change, but Theo guessed that being out on the tarmac with a breeze in the face and the smell of the water coming off the nearby lake might have something appealing to it year-round, something like watching the sun come up over the bushes and trees at Father's house on Leafydale Place . . . maybe there was something idyllic in it, after all. It was surprising how, among all the noise and motion of the port, one could stand out in a corner of it and feel basically alone and free, even with craft overhead and taxiing nearby.

She bent under the nose of one of the three Indigo Speedsters on the route, admiring it at the same time the voice in the back of her head told her that it was a toy. Derryman had it right: he'd told her the very first time she checked one that, "The thing only has room for a pilot and her lunch, so it's a good thing it can't fly all that long!"

She knew there was a problem with the tie-strap even before the meter's complaining yeep yeep yeep broke the relative quiet. The strap looked soft, yielded easily to her push . . . and it shouldn't. The meteorologists were calling for more of the seasonal lake-effect storms late in the day and it wouldn't do for something this light to lift and flip in a downpour, or worse, go sliding out into a taxiway to endanger traffic.

Derryman sighed noisily, calling out, "Do the right wing gear and I'll do the left. That's Batzer's Bat and I guarantee they'll all be forty percent light and using last year's recycled cable!"

"Should I call it in?"

"Call it when we have the double check in place."

Right. There'd been some classroom time on these things—always do a double check before disturbing one of the Howsenda's regulars.

Derryman ducked under his wing, a little slowly, heard the expected yeep and then a chuckle.

"Guess I was wrong. This one here, it's only thirty-nine-point-nine-seven-seven percent low on the tension! And look out there—we gotta get someone out soon!"

From Theo's vantage the tarmac and flight lines led to the bright line of the horizon, where blue sky glinted behind boiling clouds going from white to grey.

"That'll be a gozwalla of a front when it gets here, Theo. Call this in—then catch me downline."

* * *

It was a gozwalla of a front, and it arrived far earlier than the usual evening rains, from a vector slightly off from them as well. Wind and precocious raindrops buffeted Theo and Derryman as they finished the run—luckily only the one tie-down had needed attention—and Derryman rushed off, one of his rare pilot signs indicating open windows fragile things home.

The day locker room was crowded with regular staff and the break crew; ordinary activity of the port slowed as local traffic backed up with the storm's approach, and a call came from the Howsenda offering choice chow seating to crew members since several tour craft were rerouting, despite meal prep in progress.

Kara, Theo, and a crowd of regulars, all wearing staff ID of one sort or another, took the underways beneath tarmac and buildings to arrive at the staff lift to the Howsenda, one wag counting the packed crowd and announcing, "We're one shy of the load limit on this ship—should we wait for someone?"

Theo and Kara managed to duck in, Kara hauling Theo to a supposed spot on the left corner, a spot made by the willing shift of other bodies, and the question was answered by someone close to the door.

She didn't know everyone in the lift, though she recognized most of them by sight and placed a few more from the colors or shapes of their badges. The "outside crew," like her and Kara, wore the blue-rimmed large image badges of maintenance staff; others wore the striped orange of mid-level admin, or the brown of back-house restaurant crew.

"Food before limit tests, Jermy!"

The lift shot to the back corridors of the Howsenda's wait-staff area, laughter still echoing.

Kara grabbed Theo's hand again and they rushed out as the lift door swished open, pointing to a side corridor and—

Directly before them stood the waiter who'd served Theo on her first visits to the Howsenda, both hands held high, instantly quieting the raucousness.

"Folks, I suggest you all stay on board. The Skyliner banquet room is open and there's seating for all of you. We've got a delicious meal just moments from being served, and since it's a non-cancel event, we might as well all enjoy it!"

He smiled generically, then did a double-take as people pushed themselves back into the confines of the lift.

"Ah, Pilot," he said, a sweeping hand gesture picking out Theo and Kara and directing the pair of them back into the car. He nodded to Theo, "I'm so glad you could join us." His badge flashed orange as he waved them into the lift's interior lighting.

The door closed summarily, and Theo grimaced as Kara elbowed her.

"He's something to look at, isn't he? He's . . ."

Theo lifted a glance to the car top, managing to say, "He might be something to look at, but he always wears too much vya!" just before the car reached the banquet room.

Theo could have had cream crackers and soy sprouts and called it a banquet, if only because of the setting. The tables were immaculately laid out, with flowers between guests. The room was composed of three long arms, each with stunning views through transparent walls of the field and city to one side, and the lakes to the other; the ceiling itself was a transparent green. The room lighting was subdued, and the tablecloth itself glowed gently.

The storm walking across the lake threw lightning to the ground carelessly, and the cloud-to-cloud strikes built sudden pink blossoms within the great mass of roiling darkness.

The meal, however, was far beyond cream crackers and soy sprouts; the viands included imported fishes and cheeses, fruit compotes made from berries that blossomed once every five Standards, delicate tendrils of between serving desserts . . . and no wine or other such beverages. She had tea, as did Kara, though more than one pitcher of near beer made its way to the tables.

When the front hit, the smattering of raindrops on the window-walls were sheeted away instantly, the rain alternately coating and abandoning the wind-driven surface. Lightning strikes nearby brought thunder that shook the port. Most of the diners paused at one point or another in the proceedings to stare into the darkness.

"You're not saying much," Kara chided.

Theo's free hand flickered watching watching.

"It is a good storm," Kara agreed.

"We don't much get to see storms like this in the Wall, and even at outside, they aren't often like this."

On the horizon, toward the lake, was a glow hinting at bright sky beyond. The sheeting rains were palpably lessening. Conversation rose; someone from the grounds crew passionately bemoaned the expected fate of a recent planting.

Theo craned her head to look toward the departing storm, only to hear Kara say, "The very definition of wet!"

She turned and saw a bedraggled man, in what might once have been business clothes, moving from table to table hurriedly. His hair was dark and glistening. Droplets rained from his jacket as he stalked across the room. A vague helpful hand at another table pointed toward their part of the room's arm, and the man rushed forward, quelling conversation as he passed.

He was angry, Theo saw, and purposeful. She put her utensils down and placed her hands flat on the table.

"Which one of you is Waitley?" he demanded. "You owe me a dinner and suit!"

Theo was on her feet, standing between Kara and the man. There was commotion around but she was focused on his face and posture, not quite sure how she'd gotten there.

"I'm Batzer," the man snarled, pushing closer. "You called me from my dinner and look at this! Look at this! How did you dare? Why didn't you check them earlier? They were fine!"

The Indigo Speedster! Theo thought, remembering the warning sounds yeeping toward the clouds. No, those ties had hardly been fine.

He shook his arms, splashing Theo and probably soaking half of the room.

He pressed forward. Theo willed herself to relax, fought to change her stance from prepared to aware, marshaling her thoughts to speak. If he noticed the stance change he didn't react properly, now leaning toward her, crowding her. It should have calmed him, that move, she thought.

She gave ground a half step; aware of the touch on the elbow that was Kara.

"Answer me! I'm Brine Batzer," he yelled, "and you owe me a . . ."

Theo raised both hands slightly, settled her feet flat, prepared to speak or defend.

"Batzer, you are intruding on a private function. Stand down and leave."

The waiter. He came up loudly behind Theo, backing her at first, then standing at her side.

"I'm Batzer. This day laborer of yours called me to tie down my plane and she owes me . . ."

A rumble of thunder drifted over the proceedings as the waiter took a quarter step forward, insinuating his arm between Theo and the angry man, a surprising twitch of hand fluently suggesting mine now.

"I repeat. You are interrupting a private function. This person is an employee and we will not brook this behavior from anyone."

Theo felt Kara's hand tug lightly on her shoulder and took another careful half step back.

"I keep five ships here and you aren't going to threaten me! I'll go right to Hugglelans and have them toss both of you. She's going to apologize, and pay for my dinner!"

The waiter looked across the room, and raised an unhurried hand. The irate figure before them looked, too, and wilted visibly as six uniformed security guards moved in slowly.

"Hugglelans Security will be pleased to escort you to a public area, Brine Batzer. You may leave a note with them and this problem will be looked into."

The man's face whitened and his hands shook.

"I'm Batzer, do you hear? I'll speak to a Hugglelans before I move."

The waiter gave a half nod and shifted the way a fighter or dancer might, tapping his badge, rimmed in solid orange. He looked larger now, and formidable rather than merely respectable.

"Yes, sir," he said, but his voice too, had changed slightly, as if he'd stepped in behind his badge and made it boom. "I am Third Son of the house. You may call me Aito. I will personally look into this matter, Brine Batzer, and take care of it appropriately. You may leave now, and let my people eat."

Twenty-Two

Erkes Dormitory, Suite 302

Anlingdin Piloting Academy

The light flashed on Theo's message queue.

If she ignored it, she could relax until her tutoring assignment.

It might, of course, be a message from Asu asking if they needed anything for the larder, or explaining that she might be late again tonight. Maybe it was that, finally, Asu topped the shuttle queue and would be orbiting until tomorrow. That would ease the tension in the room.

Stretching into a flat-footed centering pose she closed her eyes, trying to absorb the energy instead of sighing it away. Those inner calm routines worked really well for some people, but the idea that sighing wasted relaxation was one proposed by her latest martial arts partner, and she doubted it.

The light still blinked when she opened her eyes. She sighed anyway.

Asu's schedules and hers diverged more and more now, with Asu concentrating on the basic licensing course—and being a social whirlwind—while Theo's mirrored, according to Chelly, the hard-core tradeship course he'd audited while summering as the school's exchange student.

Maybe she should ignore the message. On the other hand, she hadn't ignored a message since break had morphed into school. While that had happened all too fast according to her workmates it had hardly been fast enough for Theo, who enjoyed the company and the stipends of break but missed the school constant of hands-on flying.

Break over, she'd looked toward the time she'd be a flight deckhand, and get her own chance to sit first seat on the shuttle. That staffing notice was one she'd waited for, fully aware that each flashing message light might signal her listing on that queue.

Theo did the hand stretch thing that was supposed to be a good antidote to muscle loss if you were in zero g for a long time.

Asu might make flight deckhand this year, half a Standard after Theo's first of three deckhand runs and first as PIC. Most recently she'd subbed for Freck the day he broke his thumb at bowli ball. The shuttle was all work and no fun, as far as she was concerned, in part because you had to watch the crew as much as the craft.

She stood down from the stretching, shaking her head. For all that Asu tried to rag her about her math, which was up to snuff, these days, Asu was clearly not looking toward being a professional.

The queue lit up as she touched it—mail call.

She danced another relaxation move—until she saw that it was not yet another one of Jondeer's extravagances for Asu.

Signature pilot post, T. Waitley, Erkes 302.

She felt a thrill of anticipation, and Win Ton's bright face shone in her memory, a quirky smile playing about his lips as—but suppose it was something else?

"Go, Theo!" she said.

Thanking the luck that her roommate was elsewhere, Theo cleared the light and sprinted for the door. Asu need never know!

Theo's walk back was more of a trot, the small packet tucked securely into Theo's day bag. The whole proceeding had taken but a moment: Theo entered and there was no line in front of her, the student on desk recognized her on sight, and the packet was produced with a simple "Sign here, Pilot" request.

Lieutenant Win Ton yo'Vala—she spotted it even before it was in her hands, and on signing, she almost fumbled her signature.

Silly Theo, she told herself, just a note, that's all! After all, he owes you a bit of mail . . .

The mailing labels had been printed and signed by Win Ton beneath their protective tapes and there were four additional signatures: a Scout captain, a pilot first class, the student shuttle pilot, and the student on desk, who was a pilot.

She cradled the packet, which was slightly flexible and thicker than a mere sheet or two of paper, but had very little weight.

Not a bowli ball, she thought, but there was . . . something in the packet. Another pair of wings?

It took great control for her not to tear the thing open then and there, but she wanted privacy—suppose he'd sent her a flatpic of him at the beach or something?

Back in quarters, with the door closed and locked, Theo used her boot knife to open the packet, finding paper, folded in half, like a proper letter, and more paper, sealed around a solid lump. She thought for a moment before putting the lump back in the envelope and unfolding the letter.

The paper was so fine it was almost cloth. The fibers glowed with a creamy warmth, and it released a scent that was subtle and charming, with undertones not unlike vya, but not nearly so challenging to the comfortable nose. Just holding it was a sensuous experience.

Sweetest of Mysteries, the missive began, in Win Ton's angular Terran script.

Well you may wonder that I still recall your face and address after such a time. In the way of things I calculate that you've experienced perhaps eighty percent of your school life since you last were kind enough to touch my hand. Count me pleased beyond measure that your days, at least, have been spent among pilots and the striving for knowledge. Mine, I admit, have been full of the tasting of the three hundred teas most suited to polite society, and to the drinking of wine from a cellar whose best days were perhaps some time before the coalescence of the first black hole.

I discover, now that I am again free to access my mail drop, several letters of yours, long held for me; I thank you for writing of the commonplace as well as the adventures and wish there had been some way for me, with decorum and according to the Code, to have done the same for you. I can, with no great damage to the Code, choose now a random day from my recent past and let you imagine that most days were much like it, once in fact my most major duty was done, which alas required both more time and effort than I would have expected.

In any case, we would share a lakefront vista from the deep-porch opening onto the joint chambers; tapping a bell would summon several teas and a grudging morning wine, and each day I might request as much or as little of a breakfast as I wished. Alas, the Scout in me made an unusual request or two over time, but my hosts fed me all with aplomb, from full-dinner pasta to crackers and fish paste, always with a complement of juices, marmalades, jellies, and breads enough to have brought the whole of one of our dinner tables on Vashtara to full-belly belching.

This came at the page turn and Theo laughed, admitting to herself that far too many of the cruise passengers they had traveled with had indeed overfed. But here before her, she had the account of his adventure, which was far less boring than he pretended.

This delightful repast is to consume near the whole of the morning, though I was able to carve out for myself time for proper exercise both morning and afternoon by assuming the practice of surf-swimming, as my running was seen as a provocation to the good nature of the small but always elegant community where we resided. Only once did I make the mistake of returning from my swim with a finned creature I thought suitable for dinner, for the cook surely has a better eye than mine for what is finest in a fresh fish.

The company most mornings included the two of us and a smattering of available house kin; on a few memorable days we also shared time with various medicos and consultants, but the less of that, the better.

Of the afternoons, when not whiling away the time identifying craft from their contrails and altitude, I sometimes read of the popular literature so that of the evening I might discourse properly. While the fact that I am a pilot weighed heavily in my choosing, the larger clan wished to know next to nothing about what it is that pilots do, and the fact that I am a Scout was shared most quietly indeed.

Afternoons were often social affairs; here it was that the Lady shone in her knowledge of teas, and I met the very heart of the insipid community which I had already fled to become a pilot.

I warn you, Sweetness, the society of pilots is loud, boisterous, bawdy, challenging, and dangerous. While the High Houses of Liad may be no less dangerous and challenging, they lack the social graces of loud, boisterous, and bawdy; most of them assume competencies never aspired to and lack an understanding of what the word "survive" means unless it involves a multi-year multi-clan Balance. While one should never underestimate a Liaden—or anyone!—the assumption that survival is implicit in position is surely difficult to maintain over time.

This on the page turn; she was momentarily distracted by some curious marginal marks; almost it seemed hand-talk brought down to paper, as if Win Ton had paused in his narrative to argue briefly with himself.

The evening discussions were mixed events. If I have not mentioned it before, I will now: we, the hopeful couple, were situated in a summer cottage large enough to house my clan entire, and perhaps yours, too, had you one. It shared a bay with a few similar houses, and a truly wondrous view of ocean. The lady's clan sent various of her kin to us from time to time, and from discussion not well hid from me I discovered the lady's need for a child was becoming urgent and the choice of myself, younger than she by a dozen Standards, was seen as means to incite success in one with little hope.

Thus some evenings were full of busy clan members, and others to clinical attempts to achieve mood, or will. Later, once intent, at least, was successful, the waiting was in many ways harder, for the lady had little need of my company other than in polite gatherings; I sometimes swam in the surf late as well as early, and there were times I would walk on the beach and think of mysteries such as yourself while naming stars, observing the weather and tides, and cataloging shells on the wave fringe.

In all of this, the lady was quiet, respectful, and not so much willing or even interestingly submissive, but ultimately level-headed. She was not one to play games of chance, she was not competent at games of physical skill, nor was she, aside from her tea, a lady of passions. Memory of her pales and fades far more rapidly than that of our times together, which I treasure.

I now turn to matters more of concern to we two as pilots. You have mentioned several pilots who have come to your attention and names are always good to share. I appreciate the depth of your reports and your wit as well. Having said that, I must come the Scout at this point about the pilot Brine Batzer.

As you have sat second for me and have dealt well with pilots I trust, I was compelled to research this Batzer. His license, which was current some few moments ago, is of first class, though the unfortunate treatment of ship and staff you detailed seems hardly that of such a pilot! Though there, it is said on Liad that many of us have mothers with their own kitchens, meaning that habits are both born and trained, so who knows where this man may have become who he is, eh? Obviously he was not trained at my school or yours!

Batzer very rarely comes to Liaden ports. Though scant, his record has not been good; it shows fines for minor cargo violations, fines for shipyard arguments, actions for refusal to pay standard fees, he has . . . Well, I make him sound the criminal in all of this, and you must not say to anyone that he is a criminal, for all of these infractions are at levels below that.

He is, in a way I do not understand, well placed on certain planets of Terran extraction: at least once he was "bailed out" of an issue by appealing to a traveling Terran official. One must assume him highborn or well placed for I see him listed as pilot of several ships, all of them as owner.

Having traversed history, and traded pilot lore, I speak now of my current estate.

My delm has again released me to the Scouts, as I am no longer of immediate use to the clan. You may imagine with what speed I presented myself to Headquarters and requested an assignment.

I was gifted with a garbage run, and sweet it was to be alone inside my own ship, concerned only with the simplicities of my assignment. More, having finished transporting a Torvin-class vessel to a Scout base from whence this is delivered into the hands of a pilot heading your way, I now assist in preparations for a working investigation. And such a one! I am made third in the command chain despite my admitted youth, this because the mission to hand is one I myself proposed!

But there, I go on about myself. It pleases me to hear of your continued success at school, of your third class rating provisional and your plans for the second, and your willingness to take on tutoring—

Tutoring!

Chaos!

Theo looked to the chrono. If she ran now she'd be on time for Claudy's refresher on the Star King. After the lecture she'd given the kid last time on precision and punctuality, she'd better not be late!

Locking the letter and envelope into her drawer safe, Theo fled for the airfield.

Twenty-Three

Erkes Dormitory, Suite 302

Anlingdin Piloting Academy

The letter was still precious when Theo came back to it, later that afternoon. Claudy's refresh was an ugly memory: you'd have suspected the kid had spent the semester flying kites instead of studying navigation. Rocky as she was, Claudy did pass, though Theo'd drawn black looks and a suppressed curse for requiring a mandatory review before semester end. Really, if the kid wanted to stay current, she shouldn't play it, she should do it!

And so Win Ton's letter—she started again with the first word, luxuriating again in the feel of the paper and the subtle, oh-so-subtle touch of scent. Theo was becoming fond of subtlety, having recently become aware of how fine a sense of timing and nuance Win Ton possessed, of how careful even his passionate words were. That his sense of smell, his understanding of color, and his advertent approach to the universe was superior to many who considered themselves pilots was without doubt.

That made her sigh, and miss Win Ton in a way she hadn't for a long time.

She came again to the point where she'd rushed off to deal with immediate concerns. Indeed, she felt some guilt, because she hadn't updated him entirely over these last semesters. Her third class was now firm and it would take time in grade, and a couple more trips as PIC for her to up the second class from trainee to provisional operator.

Theo had retrieved the sealed packet from the envelope, and tumbled it in her hand as she read. It was soothing in a curious way, almost like stroking a cat.

There were the other things she hadn't filled him in on, just as he'd not been particularly explicit about his duties as a husband—surely he would have been able to bring some joy to the pairing! Now she read on hoping for something more about his travels, his route, or when they . . .

Alas, I am not able to convince any of the mapping computers, nor my superiors, of any route wherein Anlingdin Academy is a way point for my journey to the assembly site. As your own location is still based on the needs of tuition, and as I am not at liberty to disclose my tour destinations, immediate, intermediate, or final, there seems little likelihood that we shall see each other in the near term, as dear as that thought has been to me since we last parted.

For a moment she felt like she'd hit free fall; but her stomach settled, and Theo sighed, closed her eyes briefly and opened them.

If you have not already opened the packet sealed with wax from my dinner candle, I pray that you will do so now. I consider it a great favor you do me, if you will.

Though only partway down the lovely page the letter continued on the next sheet, as Win Tin meant her not to read beyond until she had complied—or not.

With growing curiosity she put the letter aside, broke the waxed seam, and smoothed the paper away from an inner wrapping of metal foil, the whole coated thinly in wax that verged on the liquid.

It took a moment to find the seam. She peeled it back carefully, discovering within a coil—not a coil! A chain, like a necklace, chill against her fingers as she raised it. Pendant from the chain was a cerametal chunk that was not simply raw metal but formed and shaped with notches and ridges around a small central cylinder.

She let the foil drop and took the cylinder between her fingers, rolled it, felt the crisp edges of the metal. It felt good, like it should do something, rather than just be . . . interesting to look at. More, it felt old, much older than the chain. It wasn't pretty, exactly, but she liked it, if one could like a thing.

Still, thinking advertently, she held it in her hand rather than putting it on immediately, and returned to Win Ton's letter.

Theo, it would be both a favor and honor to me if you will hold this, and perhaps wear it and keep it with you. I discovered it during my brief garbage run, and it is to all appearances twin to one I wear about my own neck. Let us say that, as soon as I held it in my hand, I thought of you. Indeed, I can think of none other that I would see hold it. As the pair is to my knowledge unique, and found in an out-of-the-way place rarely visited by tourists or ordinary travelers, I hope it does not offend you to share such a thing with me.

We need not speak of these again until we are together, but I feel they are a bond we can share, one that has already helped me focus on the necessities of my immediate plans, and of my plans beyond. Call it celebration, plan, or sympathetic magic, I vow I will not be separated from mine and I hope you will keep yours by you at all times.

Though she wasn't talking, Theo felt speechless. Unique, and something Win Ton treasured, something very special.

She sighed and felt stupid as tears fell down her face, onto her hands, onto the necklace. Happy tears, yes, but it felt so good to be—cherished.

She brought the necklace close, peered at it, smiled, and had the silliest feeling that it returned her regard, or that Win Ton had infused it with his own.

Shaking her head to settle her hair as best as could be done, Theo spread the chain between her two hands and put it over her head. The cylinder fell comfortably between her breasts, not cold at all, or warm, but exactly the temperature of her own body. She regretted that Win Ton hadn't been there to help her put it on—but that thought should probably wait, at least until she had finished reading his letter.

Meanwhile, it is my hope and wish that you continue to stay in touch with me at this address; only understand that my mission may make it difficult for me to reply for dozens or perhaps hundreds of days at a time. That I cannot immediately answer, or perhaps even receive, your messages in timely fashion makes no difference to my regard for you, nor my desire to hear from you.

Clan, mission, and duty permitting, as well as your agreement, of course, I shall again someday be by your side for a quiet breakfast.

Yours in many ways,

Win Ton

* * *

She thought of calling the hopeful proto-pilots with whom she'd recently shared bed-time—first thought of one, then the other.

Then, she thought of Win Ton, and shook her head. Her friends would only be an annoyance to her, in this state of mind. And, since they were friends, she didn't call.

Which didn't change the fact that her mind was unsettled, and her body too, as if she'd spent the morning ingesting caffeine and sugar treats. She wanted to move, to dance, to not be right here with the letter, which she'd unfolded and read yet again, and refolded, hands caressing the lines that Win Ton had inked.

Kara. Kara might provide some comfort, or at least a willing ear—and it was obvious that her deep sky navigation problem was not happening right now!

It was work of a moment to slip the letter back into the lock-drawer. She pulled the chain up until Win Ton's gift was spinning before her eyes. Frowning, she tried to see through the patina of age and mysterious origin to whatever it was that he thought was there, or meant to be there. She thought of writing back immediately—but what was the use in that? He was already on the way to his assembly point.

She stood, and danced a few steps, which didn't calm her, exactly.

Air, she thought. Air would be good; air and color and the sight of craft overhead.

She closed the quietly behind her.

As she walked Theo felt like her shoes picked up extra energy from the ground, and when she stood still it felt like her blood vessels and muscles were full of energy. The calming steps she danced became attack variations as soon as she moved, the quieting motions of pretest relaxation flowed into dance which flowed back into power moves, which flowed into kicks and stunts.

Finally she admitted defeat and walked fast, striding toward the Culture Club at a ground-eating pace, forcing the energy in her arms and legs into the pace of her march. She was going the long way, hoping to calm herself before she encountered anyone else.

She heard the sounds long before she saw it: the quick steps, the laughter and crowing, the grunts and curses, the silences of waiting. She rounded the shrubbery that defined the big side lawn, where a crowd surrounded the action.

Bowli ball! And by the tenor of things, a match well in progress. Or maybe a match well out of hand.

Kara was the first she saw; the only one of the standing players she knew by name. Sprawled around the grass were seven other DCCT members in various states of disarray ranging from bloody nose to ripped shirts to grass-and-mud-stained pants. One, Yberna, was curled on her side, like she might have taken a shot in the gut.

There were three standees in the playing zone; two of them, both guys she didn't know, were playing a back and forth together that meant they were teaming it against Kara, trying to make it as hard as possible for her to know when the ball was hers. Sweat streamed down her face, and if she saw Theo, she was too busy to show it.

Suddenly, the ball was in play, heading for Kara; too fast and too wobbly to deal with cleanly. It struck her high on the shoulders, knocking her off-center and rebounded straight above her. Theo yelled, Kara looked up and managed a one-handed slap that sent the ball back to the originial thrower with considerable energy. It wasn't elegant, but it was enough to "keep bowli," as Kara found center again, and the crowd cheered.

"Kara's still in!"

"Clean clothes," yelled the taller of the two guys, showing his teeth in what he might've thought was a grin. "Play if you dare!"

The ball was on the way before the tall player finished yelling, and Theo charged, recognizing at the last moment that the spin was not quite what she'd expected.

"Kara," she called, and saw the fleeting nod and hand flash as Theo fed the ball to her as lightly as she could, allowing her a moment's respite; Kara returned the favor soundlessly and this time Theo flung the ball to the short guy.

Even as it left her hand Theo felt the odd pull, as if the normal permutations of spin and power of a bowli ball were off somehow. Maybe the ball wasn't true; maybe . . .

That fast it was back, and thrown not to her, but at her. These guys were playing bloodball; no wonder the usually happy crew from the Club was scattered—

"Take him, Theo!" The crowd was surely partisan, the encouragement was Bova at full voice.

The ball danced; she grabbed it, felt the thing slip even after the catch; her toss was meant to go toward Kara but the ball was beyond, meaning it was up for grabs and the tall guy did just that, charging and faking toward Theo while slamming it at Kara.

"Grah!" was about what Kara managed, taking the ball with her left hand and barely getting it along toward Theo.

The spin went wonky, and the bowli ball shot off with an unexpected burst of energy. Which was just—wrong.

Theo lunged, snatched, and spun, meaning to return to Kara—but Kara was down, struggling to get her feet under her, to get back into play.

The ball in Theo's hands twisted and growled, like it was fighting her. She tried to gentle it, almost lost it, and danced in a quick circle, barely containing it inside her own motion, her mind suddenly considering board drills. In particular, the bad gravity board drill; the equation for near-limit Jumps—and suddenly she had it! It was like the ball had two drivers!

Her mind flung itself around the ball's absurd motion, as her body reacted, took the ball and spun it against the spin it demanded, nearly catching the tall guy in the head, his touch more a pass than a catch, so the short guy could take it, and Theo was charging for the point where the ball had to go, when—

"Full halt!"

Theo went down on one knee, obeying that order. She shook her hair out of her face, and looked up, not at the short guy, but at Pilot yos'Senchul—but no, it wasn't.

In one hand, the pilot held the bowli ball, hard and steady, though Theo knew it was kicking to get free. In the other hand, the pilot held a data transport bag.

Theo took a breath and climbed to her feet. It was yos'Senchul, but—two hands?

He shook the ball at the assembly. "No one leaves until I have some answers. First. This ball—it has an owner? Someone who should claim it?"

The question was penetrating and serious.

The tall guy cleared his throat. "That girl there, sir, she threw the toss and should get the return."

yos'Senchul looked to Theo, grim.

"Pilot Waitley, do you own this object?"

Theo shook her head.

"Sir, no. I just got in the game. It is my catch and toss, and I've got it figured now so—"

"Yes, Pilot, I could see that you have it figured." yos'Senchul turned, holding the ball out like a weapon.

"Pilot ven'Arith, does this bowli ball belong to you?"

Kara was on her feet, breathing hard, her face wet with sweat. She bowed, some special thing with hand motions, and knee tucks, performed without a stutter, though an instant before she'd been shaking.

"Master Pilot, it was brought to the game by someone else."

yos'Senchul turned to the tall guy.

"You, sir, who wished the ball returned to Pilot Waitley?"

He gulped. "I brought the ball, but I don't own it, I mean I got it from—"

"I see," yos'Senchul interrupted. He looked to the shorter player, who was staring at the ground. "And you?"

"I've had the ball awhile," the guy muttered. "I mean, you know, a guy needs an edge."

"Ah. Tell me, how long have you had a death wish?"

The short guy looked up, eyes wide. "Death wish, sir?"

"Surely, a death wish. It is one thing to play a clean, high stakes game among pilots; for surely pilots delight in such things. It is another thing to bring into play between uninformed pilots an amateurishly modified gladiator ball. I have saved your life, not because I am your friend, but because Pilot Waitley would have blamed herself for your suicide or that of your comrade."

The man went pale but said nothing.

"Did you not hear Pilot Waitley say she had figured the ball out? Look!"

yos'Senchul put the data case down against his knee, and pulled back his other sleeve, revealing a metal and ceramic arm adorned with a plethora of readouts.

"As I hold this ball, it contains enough stored energy to launch itself to the nearest town. Pilot Waitley says, and I trust her enough to have her pilot my own craft, that she has figured the ball out."

The instructor bowed toward Theo, gently.

"Tell us, Pilot: what do you see?"

Theo returned the bow.

"There's something extra in the ball, like a resonance. It takes the ordinary changes and, I sort of plotted it, I think. The more often the ball is thrown quickly, the more energy it takes from the spin and every so often the energy comes out in a throw. I can see the timing of that release."

"Enough. Close enough. And your strategy?"

He looked at her expectantly, and Theo raised both hands, weighing the phrasing.

"I was going to take the pass from the shorter player, dive, roll, and give the ball to the taller, chest high. He keeps his hands too far on the fringe, and he's not quick—"

Enough, yos'Senchul signed. He bowed again.

"Pilot, thank you. An able strategy, indeed, and more than sufficient to have told the tale."

Turning to the two men, now standing well isolated from the DCCT players, yos'Senchul waved them casually before him with the admonition, "Sirs, you may thank me for saving your lives, while we walk together to the Commander's office. A discussion of the source of the modification kit will not be out of order."

Twenty-Four

Diverse Cultures Celebration Team

Anlingdin Piloting Academy

Yberna was more than just tired, she was ill. Theo didn't think she'd ever seen anyone that exact shade of yellow, especially considering how pale the girl usually was, and the color didn't go well at all with scrapes and bruises. With yos'Senchul gone DCCT was acting like a team, indeed—someone had broken out extra oxygen and there were a couple first aid kits circulating among the combatants.

"I'll be fine," Yberna said, her hands trembling and her lips going blue, "I just need a little oxygen."

But oxygen didn't help, nor did the simple remedy of keeping calm that some were loudly advocating. Even before yos'Senchul and his wards were out of sight, Kara was on the comm with the infirmary, demanding an emergency pickup at DCCT.

"Yes, we have first aid providers," her voice rose, shutting down adjacent conversations, "but none of us has prenatal training and Yberna is pregnant."

The words struck Theo's ears like a sonic boom, and she wasn't the only one whose near-squeaked "pregnant?" broke the air. She managed not to ask "how" as a follow-up, but surely Yberna wouldn't have planned a pregnancy for this late in her school career!

"It isn't silly to rest, Yberna," Kara was saying, "and we're not going to carry you down the hill over our backs like a day pack! Here, use this for a pillow, and try the relaxation exercises for concentration. They've got a crew out the door already."

"Thank you, Pilot Waitley, you have done well for your friend, and you, Kara ven'Arith, you have great empathy!"

Theo nodded to the crew chief's bow, pleased to see him, surprised to be recalled.

"Theo? Theo, please? Did you really know? Were you going to knock him down?"

Yberna was being tucked into the stretcher, monitors squinching closed on her wrists as she peered around the medical staff, trying to move against the pressure pads that held her still. The one who had bowed to them—Theo saw a name tag reading "Healer el'Kemin"—fluttered a vague hand-sign, perhaps meant to be say please in truth.

Theo nodded vigorously. "On the next throw, Yberna. He had it coming to him."

Yberna attempted a smile.

"Good! We can't let them win, you know!"

The stretcher was locked to the pallet attach points and the hoverlift smoothly rose.

The med tech—Healer el'Kemin—and one of the other staffers got up behind the driver; the other two ran outrigger and Yberna was away, weakly trying to wave. Healer el'Kemin, reached down to touch her head, likely adjusting a medication, because the girl went quiet, as if she'd suddenly fallen asleep. "Make way, clear, make way, clear!"

The sled was gone, moving briskly down the hill toward the dispensary.

Kara took a step after them. "I should—" she began, and was intercepted by Vin, wielding a med kit.

"Kara, hold still; you're bleeding."

DCCT's common room was alive with swirling conversations, the galaxy-portrait end walls giving back echoes and the knots of noise moving and coagulating. Theo'd never seen the group so animated. It was almost as if they'd won something, despite Yberna's difficulties.

Freck was almost bouncing.

"Did you see that? Theo was going to take them out big time. Think they can run up here from their silly club and take all of DCCT with one trick? I think this planet loyalty stuff is way overrated for pilots!"

Theo hadn't recognized them but enough of the crew had: two of the Young Pilots of Eylot, membership restricted to those born on Eylot of Terran descent.

The sudden holiday mood was helped by Bova and assorted helpers rushing around with sweet rolls, served with creamy topping and an accompanying hit of oxygen.

Theo took the roll, and spurned the oxy, frustrated that so many conversations were going on at once that she couldn't get more than the gist of things. She gathered that the Young Pilots had a complaint—DCCT got first shot at the break jobs at Hugglelans. That, they claimed, was a right of the planet-born.

Trying to follow the discussion got more frustrating as Bova played wrong-side advocate and took up the Young Pilots' argument, which felt a lot like a Simple sermon to Theo.

"I should have gone with her! I got in the game to let her drop out!"

Theo turned and touched her friend's shoulder.

"Two problems: no room for a copilot on the sled—and she was already asleep. You'd have slowed the ship."

Kara closed her eyes, and maybe she did a dance move in her head, because Theo saw some of the tension flow out of her. Eyes open, she moved her hands: truth.

"How did you figure out what was wrong with the ball? I saw—and felt!—that it was moving strangely, but I couldn't understand it. You just grabbed it and went, like you knew exactly what was going to happen!"

Theo shrugged.

"I didn't know, exactly; I was just reacting to what the ball was really doing, and not what it should have been doing. It's like dance competition stuff—at some point something's got to vary, so you have to be patient, and alert, and when the vary comes, deal with it. I did know that we were getting acceleration in there, and I'm afraid I was already running with a lot of energy when I came looking for you, so I was primed to run the numbers, and that's the course I saw. I didn't have time to calculate all of the variables, just that I could return it to him with spin and velocity he couldn't handle. Mostly I wanted to stop the game long enough to be sure you were just winded."

"Just winded? I wish I could say that. I was going to half measures, to just keep the ball in play. You were right on top of it compared to the rest of us."

Theo sighed, held out a hand. It was absolutely steady. Kara held out her hand, holding it still, and laughed as she rippled those fingers into some kind of nonsense rhyme about pilot's choice copilot's bad dream.

Kara lifted her hand toward her face, then made a fist and forced it down to her side.

"Guess they didn't give me a full numb on this thing. Is it awful?"

Theo leaned in closer, shook her head.

"Looks raw, but not drippy or anything. It ought to hurt, I'd say."

"Itches." She chewed her lip, then took a deep, deliberate breath, like she was putting something aside to worry about later.

"You said you were coming to see me?"

"I was," Theo admitted. "I had to get out of the dorm, and I wanted to . . . check custom. You're looking pretty shook, though. Maybe you should lie down."

"No," Kara said definitively. "I should not lie down. Come on, let's find someplace where we can hear each other speak."

The language room was vacant. They shut the door and sat on one of the tables, Theo cross-legged, and Kara swinging her feet, like she still had excess energy to burn.

Kara listened, her face far more serious than usual, quite in what Theo thought of now as Liaden face: bland and careful. It reminded her of Father's face when he was being particularly himself: almost a mask without a hint of what he was thinking. She'd always thought of it as something personal, belonging only to him; discovering that he shared it, not only with Kara, but with yos'Senchul, and apparently the whole race of Liadens had been . . . strange, at first. Also familiar, and obscurely comforting, was the slight tilt of Kara's head, indicating attention to Theo's concern.

Theo finished in a rush.

"But this gift—is it too much? What do I promise by accepting it?"

Kara moved her shoulders, her gaze focused maybe on her alternating boot tips, maybe on lessons so deep-learned it took effort to pull them out where they could be explained.

"The Code," she said slowly. "The Code lists many occasions upon which the giving of a gift is either appropriate or required. There is another list, matching gift to occasion, so that one neither presumes by too much generosity, nor insults by too little. The occasions: an evening visit, to seal a contract marriage, to end an affair of pleasure—there are, as I say, many such." She paused, and looked to Theo.

"Your Win Ton being a Scout, it is perhaps wrong of us to expect him to hold entirely by Code, especially in matters concerning one who is outside of Liaden custom. He would, being a Scout, wish to deal rightly with you according to your own custom. So I ask—is there a custom of Delgado that might make sense of this gift?"

Theo nodded. "A keepsake; sort of a reminder—like keeping pics of family and favored friends."

"So there is custom." Theo got the feeling that Kara was relieved, though her friend was still in Liaden face. "This letter—does it seem that he assumes obligation of you?"

Theo felt her ears heat.

"Obligation—no. He specifically said that it was my choice whether or not to wear the gift. He was also clear that he had an interest in us being together to . . . enjoy each other again—and I'm interested in that, too."

"Your courses align, then. I would say, in that case, that the gift is neither too much nor too little, but well given as a promise of desire and intent. But—" Kara stopped.

Theo considered her. "But?"

Kara sighed. "At the risk of telling you something you already know—remember that we—that Liadens—belong to our clans. This means that your Win Ton, Scout though he be, is bound by the order of his delm. Everything—promises, partnerships and plans—must be set aside, should the clan call one to duty. Remember that, about Liadens, Theo. It's just—it might help. Later."

"I—"

A quick rap on the door was immediately followed by the entrance of Pilot yos'Senchul, two-armed still, data carrier in hand.

He bowed to the pair of them, his free hand describing the Liaden bow-sign for necessity.

"Pilots, you will forgive the intrusion. Pilot Waitley, I assume you have not been to your room, and thus have not seen my request. I am in need of someone to pilot me to Codrescu, leaving yesterday, if not sooner. Your class schedule being clear for forty-three hours, I wonder if you might do the honors?"

Twenty-Five

Codrescu Station

Eylot Nearspace

They got to orbit in a sprightly fashion, Cherpa's spot on a hotpad meaning Theo slotted the ship into a launch window quickly, even if that window wasn't optimum from a fuel viewpoint.

yos'Senchul gave her initial lift plan a vague glance, praising it as textbook perfect. Then he'd gone on:

"This is not an exercise for finding fuel efficient launches, Pilot. Consider your necessity as a PIC to be conserve time, rather than energy. Once lifted, please find us the fastest way to docking. Consider me your client and your payload for an express delivery."

Pilot Waitley had followed those instructions implicitly, allowing the routing to include what was, as she considered it, an expensive burn from what would have been a higher elliptical orbit to arrive at the proper orbit more quickly.

Cherpa's boards felt more familiar than the shuttle's had last time she'd flown it—all the sim time she'd put in recently meant she expected a ship scan to include more than nearby space; expected it to have warning for Jump, expected what was in front of her. What she hadn't quite expected was how much of her scan was blocked by Eylot's presence, nor the sudden change in comm traffic when their destination rose above the horizon.

Theo spent some small time studying the scans to see if she could figure which ships were actually going somewhere in system and which were transiting to Jump points. Cherpa's navsystem was immensely helpful in this; she could, with the touch of a button, plot a dozen ships likely outbound and a few more than that likely inbound from Jump. As she watched the scan fill in, a ship seemed to fuzz into existence outside local space but—according to the scan grid—well inside regular Jump space. Experimentally she ran the scan back—yes. There was the place where the new ship wasn't—and, suddenly, without glare, flare, or warning, there it was.

"Second," she said to yos'Senchul, "is there a reason the ship that just showed up without Jump glare isn't tagged with a name or ID number?"

"Pilot, I will explore this. It does happen, from time to time, that what appears on screen is a 'ghost ship.' "

She glanced from her screen to him quizzically,

The instructor gave her a wry grin. "It is a bad name, I admit. I believe this term was coined by a Terran, many Standards ago."

He adjusted something on his board, frowned momentarily.

"The Liaden phrase is ekly'teriva, which would translate as the ship unseen, perhaps, or shadow ship. Still, there are times—the math is intricate well beyond simple piloting equations, as I understand it. Basically, there are conditions that may occur in Jump that can cast an image of a ship ahead or behind itself; though it is very rare."

Theo sighed, considering her threaded webwork, and wondering if that might enable her to conceivably get a handle on . . .

"Another, more likely, possibility is that there is a scan error, Pilot. A misplaced bit or byte in the computer memory, a flaw in the scan head, a tracking overlay retained. I have created an incident report and am scheduling the scanner for maintenance on our return."

Theo looked at the screen with the numerous objects and projected courses . . .

"That one has no course? The ghost ship?" Her hands said explain explain.

"As I say, scanner error, Pilot. The object in question seems to have the same proper motion Cherpa enjoys. For this to be true of a ship just out of Jump would be . . . extremely unlikely."

"Tag it," she said finally, "it annoys me."

"Local scan will not show it," yos'Senchul told her the obvious, politely.

"Good. Tag it Shadow Ship, then go to local scan."

"Pilot," the instructor acknowledged.

Eylot nearspace zoomed in, Codrescu grew larger, and the shadow ship dutifully dropped out of scan so she could concentrate on the mission to hand.

The place that was Codrescu wasn't pretty, and the approach wasn't neat and tidy, like bringing the shuttle into one of the three shuttle-only bays at the so-called "big orbit" a full planetary diameter higher.

While the basics of matching orbits were the same, the fact was that this was crowded space: ships and satellites, work crews, stockpiled supplies netted with warn-aways, and then more of the same, all of it in vague joint revolution around Eylot with the amalgamation that was Codrescu Station proper. Theo was glad of something concrete to do, and something to think about other than the security walk-around, the silly politics . . . and too, the pilot's card she'd have soon enough along with her degree, if the stupid planet didn't close the academy down first.

"Bringo wants to know who is that First Board on Cherpa?"

From the corner of her eye Theo saw finger flicks from yos'Senchul; glanced aside to see the confirming not required, chatter and tucked her affirm, yes into a reaching touch for the close-up of the red-and-blue-lighted swarm that was someone's unpressurized warehouse in orbit. That close-up brought with it fine detail of the thing's local motions: as long as Theo moved the ship along smartly there'd be no problem from that quarter. In a moment or two she'd killed off more of the overspeed and was on a slow drift toward a pattern of green and white lights, with flashing red at the corners. That would be Cherpa's immediate goal.

It didn't matter that she hadn't answered Bringo; in a moment a cascade of replies came at mixed volumes:

"Says here T. Waitley, Provisional Two, out of Anlingdin . . ." That voice, strong, professional, and likely male, from somewhere close; and "Thet'd be a tray-nee fline a awful cutesey line inter Berty Saixteen . . ." which was a lot weaker signal and harder to decipher—both probable gender and probable meaning—and then a "Welcome to Eylot's back pocket, Pilot. If you've lost sumpon it's prolly here and if you hain't lost anythin you darndy well will."

Over it all, crisp, clear, and unconcerned, came Station Ops: "Cherpa, your alignment is good and you've got the choice of manual or automatic clip-on. You're in Berth Sixteen space, we confirm. I suggest manual if you need points or automatic if you're getting hungry. Slot billing has started."

"Thank you on the confirm. I'm on manual in twenty-two ticks."

Cherpa was small and quick to answer the board, but Theo felt like the controls were a bit slow here in close orbit. The feeling grew as the clock ticked down and she made her approach to Berth Sixteen.

"No clip, Pilot," said her second; and she sighed. They'd jostled the bumpers ever so slightly and rather than trying to force things she backed away to try again.

"Thet-away, pert close, pert close," came the chatter and Theo wagged fingers in the direction of volume, heard yos'Senchul's "Yes, Pilot, confirm volume down," as she located her ship within the beacon field and, after a count to ten, tried again.

This time was worse rather than better, worse in that she could see even before the final moment of closing that the alignment was off, high.

"Does the station bounce?"

She looked directly at her second, whose hands were poised over, but not on, the board.

"Very good question," he said carefully. He scanned his instruments, observed her hands well away from the controls and sat back, flexing his new hand. The new hand was why she was Pilot In Command: yos'Senchul had been called to travel while the nerve meld was yet healing, and while his strength and base control were good, he lacked yet the hundred hours of adjustment and training that must be certified for flight.

"It seems to depend on the time of the day as well as location in orbit. Bounce, wiggle, vibrate, shake, shimmy, what you will call it, there is sometimes but not always motion on these loading arms. The locals attribute the problem to ghosts, to not having had enough to drink, or to the result of buying local goods for construction."

"Pharsts!" she muttered, then bit her lip, remembering company, then forgetting it again as she thought about the problem.

Finally, she sighed, motioned her copilot back to the board, promising good insert next. She stretched briefly, and looked back to her own board.

Theo brought the front screen into close-up mode and ratcheted the controls down to their finest levels, permitting the thrust gauge to fluster itself as she moved Cherpa very gently forward, eyes on her readouts.

Yes! There it was: sensors reacting to velocity—and there, the radar showing odd pauses as something, somewhere, flexed a minute amount ahead of them.

The ship's distance was perhaps a hand's breadth and closing, a finger width and closing . . .

Theo reached a hand out to the board and held it there as she watched tight-lipped. The vaguest tingle touched the tip of her finger and she gently tapped a single side jet.

Lights flashed and changed color. Local comm flickered to life, displaying offers for dockside air and power, and . . .

"We lock now," she announced triumphantly.

With that she palm-slapped the proper control, watching another set of lights, feeling the light chunk through the hand on the board.

"Cherpa, we have solid connects all around. Station billing has started. Welcome to Codrescu."

Low in the background someone was cackling, "Bringo, you gottsa pay attention. Owe my lungs a week's air you do! Right there in the records, Waitley, T. done her shuttles twicet and more, and aside that, she sat second on Torvin a couple orbits."

"You and your lists, like you the only one with a database! Anyhow, don't you owe me a week still, anyhow? I got that wrote down somewhere . . ."

Theo looked to yos'Senchul, who gave a wry grin.

"Everything that is not emergency is entertainment for a yard pilot, Pilot. Everything."

yos'Senchul was off to conclude his business, whatever it was. Theo sat with eyes half-closed, having counted hours and duties. She could add those to her skill count immediately, which made her very happy . . . and she thought back over the last few hours, getting them firm in her memory.

When yos'Senchul had offered her the chance to pilot for him, she'd assumed the Star King until he said Codrescu.

"Shall we meet at the field after you change," he'd asked, "and get your cards and—"

Theo shook her head, "I'm fine now, as long as we're not going to fancy dinner or something."

He laughed, "But you have with you—"

"Father didn't tell me a lot about piloting, but he did say that a pilot should always be able to lift immediately."

She patted the pockets of her vest and slacks, "My cards, up to date, here. I have a couple ration bars, I have the emergency transceiver under the lining of the vest, the nearspace chart in flimsy and the updated stick, with the comm freqs for the system, too, the . . ."

"Ah. Then your father was a courier pilot. It can be good to follow a clan's . . ."

She'd flushed.

"I don't know," she admitted.

yos'Senchul had hesitated, as if he'd felt her discomfort, and bowed, gently, maybe meaning to soothe her.

"As the pilot is well prepared, we shall leave on the instant. There will be some introduction to the craft, of course."

The introduction to the craft had been scary in its sketchiness once they got past the security check. They did a manual walk-around first, with yos'Senchul clearly taking it seriously, down to inspecting the still-connected power and comm loops as well as the tie-downs.

Once on board he was as thorough, directing her to follow his lead. Not only did he review the ship's own records and images, which Theo thought was careful enough, but he downloaded the field's view of the ship back to his last exit, certifying that he'd been the last person on board. In all of this he was as businesslike as always, yet less calming than Theo usually found him. He seemed infused with a strange energy, as if he'd been playing bowli ball.

But of the Cherpa, the basics: how to recognize engine failure and abort limits, clarity on the locations of emergency equipment, a reminder of which air controllers she'd need to speak to, then systems check to launch-readiness once, with her call in as Pilot-in-Command, and systems check and security scan again as they lifted.

Theo had been busy enough for the lift and the first overboost; it was not until they'd passed into the "wings don't work here" of the mesosphere that yos'Senchul relaxed. Theo was certain that she'd made him nervous, that she'd missed some important procedure, but when he spoke to her it was as if to a comrade.

"Pilot," he said, "it always cheers me to have more of the atmosphere below me than above; and cheers me more to orbit. I'm told I share this weakness with other pilots, but truth told, some pilots are not like you and I, but are always looking down instead of up or out."

Theo'd been looking down right then, needing to confirm leaving controlled airspace behind, but she'd happily flashed an all agree all agree at him. A few moments later the ship began its slow throttle down, to the comfortable moment when it stopped as orbit was attained.

"This is good," Theo said then. "So far this is my favorite spot in a flight. The spot where weightless is normal."

She checked the boards one more time, recalled herself, and announced, "For the log, we are orbited and crew movement is now unrestricted."

She'd thought that was when the "hard work" of the trip would be over until landing, but yos'Senchul's elegant bow—he stood to deliver it!—and careful demeanor immediately chipped away at that feeling.

"It struck me, Pilot, that perhaps I have overstepped somehow, and that perhaps I will again. Forgive me, if you will, if my mention of your father was off-melant'i on Delgado; I had forgotten that the line of trace there was through Mother lines and not through clan. Yet your father, who did not teach you of hand-talk, nor of Liaden, but did teach of tea and gave excellent advice, did he not speak to you of other Liaden things, or of the news of clan that surely . . ."

Theo shook her head, suddenly missing Father immensely.

"He's never mentioned his clan. He helped me with the math, and convinced Kamele that Anlingdin was likely safe enough. He told me to keep the bowli ball hidden from civilians, to carry what I really needed on me at all times, and to always know where the back door is."

There was a moment of silence and a slow movement of the new hand.

"I see. The advice is good advice, I assure you."

He sat again, suddenly flipping his new hand through a series of hand-signs as if testing it as he watched. Caution Warning Alert Caution Warning Alert Caution Warning Alert Danger.

"In which case, not attached to clan as an offspring of Liad, and having given over the lifeworks of your mothers, there is information you will find useful and necessary, and which I, as a member of the Pilots Guild should share with you."

He looked at her seriously.

"This 'safe enough' you mentioned . . . it is not what I would call Eylot at the moment, though all at Anlingdin are not actively hostile. The display this day, a display of contempt, to bring such a device directly to the DCCT . . . ah . . . an attempt to produce random disruption among those most comfortable with . . . looking up and out. Not a welcome event, however well disguised as a mere prank."

"They were trying to hurt Kara? Or after Yberna?"

The instructor raised his hands. "Without a proper Healer to interpret, who can say? I think there was no single target, Pilot, but the group: who can know when which pilot will take up a bowli ball, eh?"

Theo nodded, but her hands were talking, suddenly echoing alert query, warning query, caution query, danger query.

"Yes," he allowed. "All of that. I can say, Pilot, that Eylot is becoming . . ." He paused, finger-talk describing the motion unstable, "Let us say disbalanced. Not physically, you understand," having seen her rapid glance at the board, "but the politics. Those of the Clans do not expand as rapidly, or as radically, as do some of the elements which desire to celebrate other genes.

"There are small efforts under way to do things which have heretofore been unnecessary. In some areas citizens wish to declare certain languages superior, in others to enact laws regarding access to schooling. And, given the rule of voting here, there are areas where the majority of the residents who may vote are of Terran extraction, and they are being given more opportunity to take advantage."

He looked at her carefully.

"You will note that in the past there may have been efforts by certain members of let us say, 'the other camp' to arrange things for their own benefit. It is what groups do. But, the focus of late has been on commerce, and on controlling commerce. And to control commerce . . ."

". . . you try to control pilots and ships," Theo finished the sentence, recalling the flaming debris of a small jet falling down a mountainside. "Will they stop—the guys with the bowli ball? I mean they're in such trouble!"

The instructor exhaled slowly.

"Yes, those two will likely stop. If the academy isn't able to remove them, surely their keepers will assure that they lie quiet, for a while. The major goal is to take control of pilots on planet, to require planetary registrations, to, in fact, require that all student slots at the academy go first to citizens of Eylot, and then to 'approved' groups."

Theo stared, considering Wilsmyth and his connections, and—

"This will take some time to happen, if it does happen. There will need to be votes, there will need to be legislation . . ." yos'Senchul paused as Theo took in the board for a moment. When she turned back, he signed, two-handed and elegant: objects moving keep moving.

"But it will happen, you're sure?" Theo leaned into the control chair, considering her own future.

"Soon. Soon enough that I have agreed to have the nerve implants made so that I will, if needed, be able to work as a yard pilot or such; since among the suggestions made is that Anlingdin should, of course, be staffed first with the best the planet itself can offer, and only then . . ."

Theo caught her breath.

"They'd rip the school apart!"

True course, he signed, attempting a simultaneous Terran shrug.

"The timetable is not perfect, and indeed, there are those who say the effort will fall short for years, and never succeed."

He was silent for a moment, and went on.

"I have told you before not to trust Liadens simply because they are Liadens. The same is true of those in DCCT, and those of Terra, and . . . in all cases, a pilot must—as your father suggested to you—have a contingency plan. I suggest, as an instructor who wishes to see an exceptional student prosper, and as a pilot who has an interest in knowing that there are worthy pilots in the skies, that you join the Pilots Guild. You have achieved third class, and there is a truth that time-as-member comes into play if time-in-grade is similar. Guild supports Guild, as best can."

The ship chirped, indicating the orbital approach was nearing.

"Pilot to pilot I say: have your contingency plan in place. Do not dawdle documenting any skill you may rightly claim."

Cherpa had really needed herding, then, and Theo had returned to the task at hand.

Twenty-Six

Codrescu Station

Eylot Nearspace

The so-called front hall of Codrescu Center was about the size of the few back halls Theo'd seen on the Vashtara and the back halls were wonders to behold, with crew signs in Terran, Trade, Liaden, and at least one she was unsure of as well as handholds and rungs on all the walls. There was gravity, but it was very light and somewhat spotty, with some quirkiness, perhaps because the halls actually had humps and ridges as well as numerous access ports. In fact, as she thought about it, she realized that the hall, or the deck, or the whole of the establishment, was subject to exactly the kind of tiny twitches the docking ring exhibited.

What she'd not expected were the sounds. Codrescu was smaller than Delgado Station, and the ports she'd been in traveling on Vashtara, but the sounds were more frequent, and less differentiated. From class and from her travels she could tell the warning sounds of ship counts, and it sounded like there were three different counts within hearing, and then the beep-beep-beep of a door-lock warning echoed from somewhere and she passed several busy people with voices seemingly speaking numbers to thin air and getting replies from their shoulders.

She, at least, carried no live radio, and the background speaker news for ship folks that "Thurstan, green, thirty-seven, five green go. Blueboy, fifteen five five five, hold. Drosselmare, line seven forty-four, clear thirty-two, straight count," meant little to her other than connectors were connected, arrivals and departures were happening and would happen . . . but then this wasn't her community.

There were access ports on the walls, too, some raised, and airlocks in what seemed to be the oddest places. There were lots of doors, some numbered, some lettered, some anonymous, some color-coded, and even guards—live people—on duty outside some of them, which was surprising, on a space station, where people were surely expensive.

One bright blue door—no numbers, and the only one of that color she'd seen—had two guards flanking it, one with her hand on a holstered weapon. Of course, that was the door Theo needed to go through to pick up the Pilots Guild application in person.

yos'Senchul had been clear on this: she was to go herself, with all her ID, just to pick up the application.

"Given the mood on Eylot, applications are traveling by trusted hand and are kept in trusted hands, Pilot; you may carry with you my letter of reference, which is already on file, since I have this day proposed you for membership, also in person."

"Does this mean that untrustworthy people have been applying for Guild membership?"

He'd paused, looking down as if examining his new hand. She realized that he may well have been examining his hand—it was new, after all.

"It means, Pilot," he said slowly, "that the usual rules apply. We spoke of this earlier: don't trust anyone just because they appear to belong to a particular group. Have a contingency plan. Know as many back ways as you can to your ship and to another ship you can call on if there is need. Don't tell anyone about all of your weapons, nor all of your plans. I might go on at length, but they expect you at the Guild office shortly.

"You will want this token; have it in hand at the door, this glowing side up or forward." yos'Senchul pulled something from inside his jacket.

This "token" was a stubby rod with a handgrip, barely longer than her palm, looking for all the world like the top of a hand-stick for an aircraft; yos'Senchul tapped it several times on the instrument panel and handed it to her hilt first.

She took it, and weighed it, finding it heavier than she'd expected. She might be able to use it to clunk someone on the head with it if she needed to—and wasn't that an antisocial thought! It immediately felt molded to her hand, with the supposed top glowing a dim green.

"Here's a map; as I say, they're expecting you, and the token."

He began to bow—stopping as Theo danced a kink out of her shoulder, and abruptly asked:

"How do I know the people there are who you say they are? Can I carry a key to the Cherpa with me? Will the Cherpa be here when I leave the office? Will they check me for weapons?"

He smiled, bowed fully this time, and held a key set out to her.

"Please, check that the hatch answers this key on the way out. I expect you will not be overlong, and as your copilot I will do everything in my power to have the Cherpa here and operable when you return. If it is not, I suggest that you yell for Bringo, who is boss of yard dogs this quarter moon. As to your other questions, the place I send you to is the most secure on Codrescu as far as I know. If they'll do a weapons check depends on how they view the threat level, both of yourself and of the universe."

The air pressure on Codrescu was space normal, which meant low but with a little more oxygen than she was used to on Eylot. The extra oxygen was a good thing, Theo thought, since her walk, even with the map, was more stressful than she had expected, especially when she'd turned the last corner and found the guards, one looking eager for an excuse to use her sparker.

Theo'd been using the token as if it was a piloting stick, holding it in front of her and zoommming down straight, banking into turns. She hadn't realized that the Guild office was quite so close to that last kink in the corridor.

The guard with the gun glanced at Theo's hands even before Theo could recover a properly serious aspect; and with that glance removed her hand from the weapon and nodded, perhaps toward the token, which now was clearly emitting a green glow.

"Pilot, first time in?"

"Yes, Pilot," Theo replied serenely as she glided to a stop in front of the door, "my first time to the Guild. I'm told I am expected; I'm Theo Waitley."

* * *

The guy at the front desk, like the guards outside, was a pilot. She hadn't noticed him at first, since she was overwhelmed by the sheer and unexpected luxuriousness of the room. It wasn't a big room, but the walls were paneled in what appeared to be wild-grown wood, and part of the floor was covered with carpets that made her own fine rug at home look shabby. There was artwork on the wall—like the wood, things that looked like they were real—intentional art and not simply office art meant to soothe or set a mood.

One wall display might be showing text of the messages she'd been hearing by speaker, but this place was quiet, overgrown and—a nice change from the stark halls.

The part of the floor that wasn't carpeted was covered in green plants, some showing flowers, some not. The room was filled with scents she associated with being outside, and something smelled like grass or bushes she might find at Leafydale Place. A small, carefully encased rock-lined waterfall with a tiny open pool with its own arm-thick mini-tree occupied that end of the room, and oh! A norbear!

The norbear was sitting quietly on a mat of vegetation beside the pool, gently chewing a long green plant with a bulb at the end. She looked shyly up at Theo and made a sort of chuckling noise, its thick brown-and-orange fur almost matching the rocks of the waterfall.

"Hello," Theo told the norbear, and the guy at the desk said, "Hello, Pilot, how may we assist you?"

She laughed, hand-flashing see you Pilot, and then said, "Excuse me, I—oh there's someone else! But I'm Theo Waitley. Here to apply . . ."

Tucked behind the tree in a very hard-to-see nest was a nearly colorless norbear, with wizened visage and slitted sleepy eyes. The color of her eyebrows—there was a touch of rust there, and the skin of her face showed clearly through the facial fur, as if the creature was so old it was—like Veradantha!

The old one stretched, slowly and thoroughly, as if it needed to recall exactly how it was done. Theo heard a low sound, more of a rasp than a burble, and the old norbear stood. She was skinny almost to the point of emaciation. Theo saw that this was no "hothouse norbear" as Win Ton had called the silky creatures on Vashtara, but someone who was looking at her as much as she was looking at him.

"Hevelin!" said the pilot behind the counter. "Hardly anybody sees him in there, and he hardly ever says anything. The hungry one's Podesta, Hevelin's great-granddaughter." He grinned and gave Theo a nod. "Please, sit where you will, and be comfortable."

"Here?" she asked, impulsively pointing to the matted plant beside the burbling water.

He shrugged, finger-spoke seat is seat, then laughed.

"But first I need your token and your cards, if you're here to apply. In fact, we ought to have enough to finish the application right now, if you like. Give me those, please, else if the old guy gets to talking to you, you may fall asleep waiting for his next sentence!"

Theo rapidly discovered that the "old guy" did have a lot to say, or maybe a lot of questions to ask. Unlike the Vashtara norbears, who were smaller and much less seemly, Hevelin was dignified in his movements, and grasped rather than grabbed as he adjusted himself on Theo's lap. The resonance in her head was calm and thoughtful, more like Father's cat, Mandrin, than young Coyster, and sincerely inquisitive, as if everything was not only interesting, but meant something.

Puzzlement reached her; and she found herself closely recalling the norbears she'd met and seen; especially Threesome, the white and spotted one from Vashtara who apparently never went alone to a visitor, but always shared. There was something more going on that she couldn't identify, as if she was seeing older, larger norbears than she'd seen before, like Hevelin was asking her for a catalog of friends they might both have met—except coming up disappointed that she'd never met anyone he'd known. . . .

But there was another catalog going on; even as her records were going to and fro in electronic pathways and being compared and cross-indexed by the Guild, Hevelin was seeking other acquaintances. She thought of yos'Senchul lecturing her, and felt as if there were an assent, and of Kara, who was not known as a game player but appreciated, and Win Ton, quite warmly, who was not known but gave off echoes of joy and something else, and then, since she was thinking Liadens at him, she thought of Father, carrying his cane and—

The norbear grabbed her hand and held it, and when she looked into those eyes she saw not Father, but a man who might have been Father, as if seen in a haze. Father with no sign of greying, spirited black hair in a tail falling over one shoulder. Father with a glow around him, and another face—female—sharing his space, peering down with amused green eyes, and more faces in the background. There was question in that, and she agreed that yes, Father may have been that person, there, moving lightly as a young pilot. The woman—she wasn't sure, not knowing all of Father's friends, after all.

There was more then: lots more norbears, and something that might have been a cat as seen through norbear understanding. More human faces—none familiar to her, and the sense of eager inquisitiveness fading into a ripple of raspy burbles . . .

"Pilot Waitley?"

The desk-pilot had already called her a couple times, the first to ask for a date check, the next to verify next of kin, Terran-style, not Delgado-style, and then in the midst of her dreamy listening to the norbear, to ask if she had plans for dinner. She'd managed to wake up enough to decline that, pointing out that she was on assignment, and got a slow finger-flash of work, work, work and a see you next trip alongside of, "I know the best bars and restaurants on Codrescu, Pilot. Just ask for Arndy Slayn."

She hadn't promised, but she hadn't outright rejected him, either, remembering that it was good for pilots to know people.

"Pilot Waitley, I think we're set."

The desk-pilot motioned her to come forward.

"The token gave us the palm print and fingerprints and some backup on the other ID readings, and of course we have yos'Senchul's vouchers and letters along with several other letters of support that have drifted in over the last few months waiting your application. Since you brought the token direct, and Hevelin passes you, I can give you your base Guild card, assuming you'll okay your dues payments."

Dues payments meant signatures and more ID verification, and after she managed to free her lap from Hevelin she had to extricate herself from the sudden attention of Podesta, who wanted to cling to her leg as she looked over the forms and explanations and signed away three percent of her base pay for the rest of her life.

With the signature came a card; an imbedded chip identifying her as a Guild member in good standing, certifying her record to date, and a code that he assured her was to a mailbox here on station—one good as long as she was a member, and any Guild office could forward to it or retrieve from it—and a key that would let her check available berths in almost any port in the known universe. Just showing her card ought to get her into the Guild Hall proper, which on Codrescu was down the other arm, since the Guild had some bunkrooms and a rec space there. There was also a slip guaranteeing her bail if she—

Theo laughed. "Guaranteeing my bail? Am I dangerous?"

He smiled. "Compared to most dirt-siders, you're dangerous. All pilots are. Not only that, you'll be a target sometimes, because some places think prices are high because pilots make so much money."

He laughed—he had a good laugh, Theo thought. "I've been a Guild member for seven years and they've never had to throw my bail. But knowing they will, that's good. Knowing they'll garnish my wages and come after me if I skip bail, that helps me stay honest."

He gave her a grin and a nod.

"You're good to go! Good lift!"

"Safe landing!"

She bent to unwrap Podesta again, bowed solemnly to Hevelin, who sat in his nest, watching her alertly, waved once more to Arndy Slayn, and left, a Guild member in good standing.

Among the info she had collected with her card was a complete map of Codrescu, which was both bigger and more complex than she'd realized. Arndy Slayn had pointed out several places as having decent launch food—that meant they specialized in not serving stimulants and sedatives along with their meals—in case she wanted to take something back to her ship.

A quick study of the map showed her a more straightforward route back to Berth Sixteen, and soon she was walking past shops displaying prices almost as bad as they were on Vashtara, and a couple of noisy bars. A small shop had maize buttons on offer, and she had to grab a dozen of those. Nibbling, she walked on, passing another noisy place, this one featuring music and dancing and other frivolities.

Behind the racket was the constant station talk, now letting her know that "Thurstan, eight clear clear green, Drosselmare four, clear clear yellow . . ." and more stuff she didn't need to know.

Cherpa's berth was down this way, the map illustrating a series of T-intersections as well as the semicircular way she'd gone to the office. There were north-south T's and east-west T's, each T offering berths at the ends of the T-arm. Cherpa was on the second east-west.

She sealed the rest of the maize buttons into their bag and turned into the first T-section, walking more briskly now, but still feeling mellow, which was probably Hevelin's influence.

From behind came the clattering of several people in a hurry. Theo glanced over her shoulder, seeing two uniformed men carrying gear and food. A two-minute gong sounded, and underneath it all she heard one man scolding the other:

"No girls for a billion miles where we're going and you gotta freak off the only one that even looked at us. We gonna be . . . look!"

"Drosselmare, two, clear clear yellow. Thurstan, six, clear clear clear."

The maize buttons felt heavy in her hands, and her back itched. Theo began moving a little faster, but they were hurrying for a ship and she really ought to give them right of way . . .

"Gazo, you think? We're away in a minute!" The sound of their footsteps increased.

"Hey, lady, you, girl! You need a new ride? Best thing that ever happened to you, a ship of eight—we'll make you a queen, we will . . ."

Theo glanced behind.

They were only a few steps away now, running, but not as steady as they might be. The second warning tick went off up one of the T-arms. The guy who might've been Gazo said, "Now!" and dropped his gear.

Theo swung to the side, her back against the wall. "You have right of way," she said, tensing, hoping the camera—but the other guy had his jacket over the camera, and—

The guy who'd dropped his gear was on her, now, arms wide, like he was going to get her in a hug, and it was already too late—she threw the maize buttons into his face and twitched to one side.

"Beecha da plaza!" he yelled, grabbing for her again, but even here in the low grav she felt the move coming, saw his fist as if it was some poorly thrown bowli ball, grabbed and threw him against the wall, danced the second motion, spinning, got a foot up in time to catch his arm there and—

Crack!

Somewhere, a gong chimed, and someone was yelling, "Gazo, you're dead if you don't make the tick!"

Gazo wailed, and went running; there was a bosun at the end of the T, waving at them as the next tick went off and . . .

The second man had a gun. Theo swung, faster than she expected in the lighter gravity, and slammed it out of his hand. He shouted; Theo grabbed his shoulders and threw him with all her might down the T-arm; her momentum taking her to the weapon. Instinct honed by dozens of bowli ball games scooped the thing up, and—

"Ferkistsake, don't shoot! We're gone!"

And they were gone, their backs disappearing into a hastily sealed airlock, the warning gong signaling closed and locked. Vibration ran down the hall and an odd clang sounded as the ship let go grapples, and then more noise nearby . . .

There was a noise behind her. She spun—

Arndy Slayn held up one hand, the other holding the twin of yos'Senchul's data case. He grinned.

"You are dangerous," he said approvingly. "And you really needed a gun."

Twenty-Seven

Codrescu Station

Eylot Nearspace

"Brine Batzer."

Theo's hands moved on their own say again repeat.

Arndy Slayn laughed.

"It is an Eylot-sounding name, isn't it? Brine Batzer; I can't say this behind the desk, but he's one of the most active of the cheap pod-breaking ship agents. It's a wonder that he'd move two whole pods at the same time, but I guess he got lucky. Anyway, that's who you'd have to start with if you wanted to pursue something against Drosslemare as a ship—well, look at that!"

Theo was not as buzzed up as she thought she'd be nor feeling any need to explain herself. The pilots were treating this as a serious but manageable event; so could she.

Since Slayn was witness, he sat at ease on a chair half camouflaged by the norbear's greenery, using a mobile set, while Guild Master Peltzer stood unmoving with hand on ear, listening to news from Codrescu's control rooms.

When he did move, his fingers ordered, back here, both, while out loud he said, "Mister Slayn, please be careful. Batzer and Peltzer, Flatzer, Mertzer are all well-known, even historic names on Eylot; please do not dismiss someone because of the name, no matter how local it may be!"

As he spoke he pushed against a section of wall, which slid open to reveal a short hall. There was a snort, and Theo felt a tug at her knee—not a muscle strain or knee injury, but Hevelin, politely tapping, and pressing with his gripping paw.

Peltzer laughed.

"Let him come along if you like; but not Podesta. The yoster still needs to learn manners!"

Theo carried Hevelin, who weighed less than the gun she'd taken from the guy in the corridor, down the short hall, following the Guild Master.

At the end of the hall was a workmanlike office with multiple screens and a three-dimensional projection showing what must be Codrescu nearspace—and the chronometer ticking away said it was in real time.

"Pilot Waitley, since one of your admirers is to hand, we'll add him to the discussion; he already requested attention and he's on his way. What wonder have you discovered, Mister Slayn?"

Slayn stood near a screen, shaking his head.

"Batzer's not listed as agent for Drosslemare any longer; looks the termination was effective immediately the last pod-connect was confirmed. Since the incident occurred after that confirmation . . ."

"Mister Slayn, I suggest you do a statistical analysis of the 'pod-breakers' and see if you don't find a connect/disconnect relationship on many of the ships they handle. Some of them do trade for the family ships, that's true—they don't count for this—but the real meteor-shreds are almost as leery of their agents as their agents are of them."

Theo found herself and Hevelin a seat with a view of the projection, curling into a repurposed lift chair. As soon as she sat, she regretted not being more advertent: Slayn had dragged the recovered bag in with him and sat on one of the broad-cushioned file sections that lined one wall.

Peltzer's perch was just that: a tall stool that looked like it was stolen from a port bar. He sat, turned about, quick eyes checking the real time, hand tapping at the spot on his shoulder that brought him, and him alone, information from somewhere.

"Do you have that analysis?" Peltzer's voice was dulcet, while his fingers said soon soon quick soon.

"You're right of course," Slayn admitted. "I hadn't thought it through. Almost all of these contracts are on-delivery or on-event automatics; the funds transfer as things occur and the relationships are short-terms. No one is responsible for a breath longer than they have to be!"

"Codrescu's Council won't move on this: they've seen the records and feel like there's just a matter of drunk-boat behavior. I think that since they pulled a gun it might be more than that, but since they didn't actually gain control of you or maintain control of their weapons, the port's willing, and even eager, to let slide."

Peltzer handed a printout to Theo, who looked it over, seeing large tracts of fine print and not much sense to it.

Theo's so-called admirer, Qaichi Bringo, had joined them and sat beside Slayn on the broad cushions, slowly inventorying the contents of the bag Gazo had dropped with a scan-camera; he looked up at Theo and waved, vaguely shaping what looked like confused unconfirmable paths, other hand still shuffling through the bag. He was a greying and tidy man in an old uniform; the sleeve cuffs and collar were shiny with wear and his serviceable shoes were marked with the indents of guide pedals used frequently.

He'd arrived without fanfare, nodded as much at Hevelin as at Theo, after giving her one hard stare, as if storing her in memory, and had gotten right to work. He talked without looking at her.

"Pilots working the close-in stuff, I like to know who they are, Waitley. You was new, and not Guild yet, so I needed to ask, not being rude. I'm Chief Tugwhomper, see—"

"Tugwhomper?"

He smiled. "Local usage, Pilot. I'm overseeing the yard on all but three shift; and since you drew the hardest attach slot we got right now, thought I ought to know how close to run and if I ought to notch up the safety alert. Din't, on account of you was running with a good second and aside that, the Out-Lady had your record and was giving a thumbs-up."

He sorted rapidly, mostly one-handed, the other hand always slightly away from his body like he was used to moving in g lower even than station normal.

"But how can they get away with this?" Theo waved the flimsy, scowling. "I mean, what happens if they try this somewhere else? Can't the Guild act?"

Bringo looked up, a ghost of a smile on his face as he finished a scan and threw something back into the bag. He got serious, his free hand scratching at the side of his ear where his shipcomm would usually perch.

"Because none of them are Pilots Guild members, and none citizens, and none have ever been here before, nor likely to show face again, that's how they can get away with it. Come in with a two-can transfer and they're out. Filed no plans beyond Eylot's Jump, and then they hardly followed line on that, like to make it hard to trace. The pilots are rated, but not Guild. The crew: low port or worse, I'd say."

His sorting hand found something else that made him smile as he sorted, and then he looked hard at Theo. "You really wanna cure 'em, you can: but you'll have to post bond on the cost of rousing a three-ship intercept, and then you'll need a lawyer willing to take your money for the rest of your natural life and then some. Given the situation, you'd end up dealing with Brine Batzer if you did that."

Peltzer harrumphed. "Pilot Waitley may be required to deal with Brine Batzer. Drunk-boat or not, there will be an incident report. Batzer was agent of record so the port will be sending him a—let's call it a note—on this incident. This isn't the first time one of his contracts has acted up, and Codrescu will have to tell him Drosselmare and all her crew are banned, just so he doesn't get to thinking they're a fine and upstanding group of laddies, hey ho. In the meantime, we'll add them to the not-approved cloud for the next infoshare."

Peltzer stopped, peered at the projection, muttered into his shoulder, nodded, and looked up. "Batzer's within his rights to follow up on the actions of his contracted ships until they leave Eylot space, if he gets a warning. He may do that. He may be too busy.

"So, Pilot, since I'm informed you have an assignment which requires your immediate return to Eylot, and since we're not one of us related to you, bound to you, under contract to you, or contracted by you, we three can act as witness, in that Codrescu has approved of your claim to salvage. In the event that something untoward or illegal is here, we will witness that it was salvage and turn it over to the appropriate authorities, if any such exist."

"Salvage?" Theo turned to Slayn, who was now sitting with a gun in his lap, looking like a child with a new toy.

"I told you," he said. "You're dangerous, but you ought to have a gun, anyway. You get salvage rights on account of being the subject of unruly behavior that is otherwise unresolved." He tapped the gun. "This, for example, appears to be a perfectly serviceable handarm for close work. You'll want to have an armorer do a refurbish for you, as a matter of course. Mark that it's a little more than a dozen years old, the holster could use some work, and you'll want to check your charges before you depend on it."

He snapped it open, showing her that it was unloaded before flipping it toward her. Surprisingly, Hevelin's tiny paw was on it as fast as she snagged it; he looked it over, sniffed it, peered into her face, then comfortably shrugged back into her lap.

She held the gun, absently catching the charges Arndy tossed to her. It was compact, it was, and not cold at all.

Pilot Bringo spread the rest of the bag and contents before her on a side table.

"Not a pilot's kit, but that's the pity. Got some clothes, won't likely fit you good, but can wear well enough. The station's Refitya Shop can use them; that bag, too. Got a couple names on it. Somebody just starting ought to not drag other names along and confuse things. Deep space isn't where you want people guessing who you are."

She looked at the remaining items: small metal clips and a personal knife, airtight containers of—

"Is any of this worth anything, really?"

Slayn took over, pointing.

"This seems to be vya, a commercial container, unopened. Always a friend of a pilot, for use or trade, this is a modest amount in moderate grade—but still, like the gun, having it will be worth more than sending it to consignment. This," he said, solemnly, unrolling a fancy tooled-leather packet, "is a set of matched firegems."

The three older pilots burst into laughter as one; inside Theo's head, Hevelin's amusement echoed theirs.

"Firegems?"

Arndy manipulated the packet. Light exploded from the gems, like a rainbow running loose. The colors sparkled and—there were seven of them; they seemed not only matched, but identical.