Chapter Nine
Frenzel
Chaliceworks Aggregations
“Offworld within a day?”
Theo repeated it in disbelief, but the Sexton was gone, retreated in three quick steps to a side door, already sealing behind her.
“Offworld in a day!” Anger impelled Theo to her feet.
Offworld—and Chaliceworks would inform the port? Put a black mark against Bechimo for no reason other than a…distrust of luck—of lucky people?
Something flashed in the side of Theo’s vision; she spun, pilot-fast. Ricia fell back a step, the silver rings on her upraised hands catching the light; a faint and pretty blue fog wafting from her fingertips.
Theo was shorter than Ricia, but the young woman shrank before her; indeed, Theo felt herself looking down at the robed figure very much as if she out-massed her and held the high ground.
Phasrt, she did have the high ground! She’d done nothing—nothing to have her ship banished from port like a pirate! She’d come bearing an invitation to do business from a respected Master Trader! Who happened to come from a lucky family! And how lucky was it, to get thrown off of the world that had been your family’s base for hundreds of years, to have to burn down your own house, to—
Ricia moved her hands again; the blue fog got bluer.
“Please, Pilot,” she said, soothingly, “if you will come this way…”
The soothing voice only made Theo angrier—treat her like a pirate and then like a child?—and the blue fog, thickening even more and acquiring a distinct sparkle—
“Is that…blue stuff supposed to calm me down?” she snapped. Ricia’s shoulders twitched, but she met Theo’s eyes firmly.
“Pilot, the…blue stuff…sequesters violent emotion. I mean no disrespect. However, we have here those who are sensitive to such emotion, and who must be protected. You are very clear, and somewhat…loud, at the moment.”
“Loud? I haven’t raised my voice, and you know it!”
“Pilot, it is not your voice that is loud, but your…self. Your will has been crossed and you have raised energy. As you have not directed the energy, or contained it, it spills everywhere, creating interference and distress for those who hear you.”
Well, and in fact, she was angry. Justly angry. Reasonably angry. And as for spilling everywhere, they were lucky she didn’t have a target!
Lucky.
And as if the thought, or her anger had brought the memory forward, she remembered her new cousin Anthora, good-natured and air-witted, chattering—
The luck runs roughly around us. Around all of us. And most especially, it would seem, around you…the brilliant unlikely tangle of you, Theo Waitley!
So…corroboration. Maybe there was some reason for the Sexton’s dismissal. But that still didn’t mean that she, and her co-pilot and her ship should be treated like—
Anger sparked, and before her was another bank of blue fog. Theo slashed a hand through it. “Please get that out of my face!”
The blue coalesced; formed into a bubble—and blew out like a candle flame before a determined breath.
Ricia stood very straight, arms stiff, hands held waist high, fingers spread as if her weight was distributed on them.
“Pilot,” she said carefully, “might I respectfully request…Might I…” Here, she actually went to one knee briefly, as if in supplication, “might I beg the boon of your calm? We shall leave immediately; we shall walk much the way we came, and I will myself summon a vehicle, the white car. You will be conveyed to your ship. Safely to your ship, protected by our blessings.”
Theo jammed her hand into her pockets, and came out with her lace work, which she stared at, seeing the location Bechimo had indicated as a place where teapots and ship parts appeared of their own will. The lace briefly took on stars and comets and waves of gas, the numbers and shapes of the lace being as real to her as the woman who’d turned her back on her.
They wanted calm, did they?
Right.
Theo folded the lace into her left hand, closed her eyes, and reached for calm. Perhaps the calm of waking up to Kara…no, more than that. Perhaps the calm of a norbear—no, better: The calm of her cat Coyster kneading her shoulder while purring low and long enough to put them both to sleep.
Theo pulled that calm over herself, and thought of the walk she’d taught herself, only yesterday. Father’s walk. That wanted her to be gone, to be invisible?
She could work with that.
Ricia visibly relaxed, and lowered her hands slowly.
“Thank you, Pilot,” she whispered. “Please follow me.”
* * *
Years ago, Kamele Waitley had watched her onagrata, a challenging scholar, stimulating companion, surprising lover, and affectionate role-male for her daughter, demonstrate to that same daughter how a pilot packed for travel.
It had involved one modestly-sized suitcase, and the pockets of a jacket. She had watched, astonished, as first he weeded out those things that could be easily replaced—books, entertainment cubes, favorite teas—before adroitly packing many more than she would have thought possible of those things which were more difficult to replace into that one small bag.
He had then shaken out Theo’s jacket, and placed into the inside pockets the acceptance letter from Anlingdin Piloting Academy, her identification, a flat-folder of pictures, and most of her money, leaving enough to buy sundries in an easy-to-reach outside pocket.
“A pilot will also have her license, and a weapon,” he had said, handing Theo the jacket with a smile in his dark eyes. “A pilot ought to always be ready to lift. That means that her essentials are in her jacket, and her jacket is always with her. The contents of the case—even those things that we have just agreed are essential—can be, and sometimes must be, left behind.”
Kamele was no pilot, yet, in packing for this journey, she had recalled Jen Sar’s lesson to Theo, and done her best to emulate it. In the end, it meant that she took with her from Delgado one large case on a tether, and a smaller one that went over her shoulder. The interior pockets of her jacket contained those things of importance—items that it would be difficult-to-impossible to replace: identification, tickets, credit cards, and a data-key containing her research and notes regarding the delm, and the clan, of Korval.
While she had, according to Jen Sar’s definition, overpacked for this journey, by comparison with her fellow travelers, she was as unencumbered as a bird in flight. Her cases came with her to her tiny cabin, and stowed easily in the under-bunk storage. When it came time, as now, to debark, it was a matter of complete simplicity to put on her jacket, shoulder the small bag, pick up the leash of the large bag, and exit. No need to go half-way across the station to claim checked baggage; no need to rent a wagon, or a porter; no need to research the necessary and proper local bribes.
No, all she need do was verify the location of the ship she was transferring to, walk leisurely down-station until she came to the appropriate boarding room, and check herself in.
The boarding room for Hoselteen was small, and a little shabby. It was also very nearly empty. On the left side of the room, two men sat on a sofa facing the entertainment screen, one with his head on the other’s shoulder. On the right side of the room, a woman in an orange-and-white jumpsuit released the security curtain covering the front of the snack counter.
“Toot ’n tea up in five ticks,” she called over her shoulder. “Make yourself comfy.”
“Thank you.”
Kamele found herself a chair with an adjustable arm desk in a bright corner of the room, and settled in with a smile.
Jen Sar had taught her so much during their years together; she would be glad—no. She would be happy to see him again.
Her smile faded.
If she was allowed to see him again. If her research was correct; if Jen Sar was held…prisoner, the delm of Korval might deny her that pleasure.
She straightened where she sat. The delm of Korval might try to deny her. If she dared. But she, Kamele Waitley, full professor and junior administrator—she had made a vow. If Jen Sar were held against his will, she would parole him.
And that vow she would keep.
* * *
Theo had spent the trip back in the white car musing on the concept—on the problem—of luck. As an exercise, she tried to view her whole life as a series of lucky or unlucky incidents.
On the lucky side, there was Father’s position as Kamele’s onagrata—
Or was that unlucky?
Jen Sar Kiladi had been a Gallowglass scholar; students from planets almost as obscure as Surebleak competed for places in his seminars. Because of that—and because he was Father—he could afford, and had chosen, to live in a house in town, rather than in the apartments that were his by right, inside the Wall. And Kamele had opted to move in with her onagrata, rather than insisting that he allow her to provide for him, a situation which had made them…odd.
But was odd lucky, unlucky, or null?
Theo stared out the window, blind to the ugly landscape the car passed through.
Odd—she’d been odd. Physically challenged and a danger to others—that’s how odd the Safety Office had thought she was. Kamele and Father had fought for years, which she learned later, to prevent the Safeties from drugging her into conformity. And, then, when it seemed like the Safeties would take the decision into their own hands, for the good of the greater number—then Kamele suddenly had to travel off-world—and she took Theo with her.
Off-world, she met Cho sig’Radia, the Scout who had sponsored her to Anlingdon, when she had hardly even known what a “pilot” was—and she’d met Win Ton, too, who had woken Bechimo and gotten her involved with a ghost ship—was any of that luck, or just…life?
And if she, whose life it was, couldn’t point at any one event and say, There! That was lucky!—then it just seemed plain that the Sexton…was superstitious.
Except that Anthora, and Father, too, had talked to her about luck, and how she—just the fact of her moving down her life—made it run rough, whatever that meant. Father had seemed to think it meant, in part, that she needed back-up, which is how she happened to have one Clarence O’Berin sitting second board.
She wondered if Clarence believed in luck.
She wondered if her loud, bright, rough luck was…dangerous.
Theo sighed sharply and blew her bangs out of her eyes.
Then, she reached into her pocket, and pulled out her needle and lace.
* * *
“Bechimo, this is Frenzel Control. You are cleared to lift in six hours local, starting with my mark. Mark.”
Clarence erupted from the galley, where he’d been enjoying a solitary lunch, and slapped the switch.
“Bechimo here, Control. We’ve filed no request.” He glanced at Number Six as he said it. The screen was filled with a foggy grey fizz, like static.
“Bechimo, lift request filed through Chaliceworks Aggregations, Frenzel Main Office.”
Chaliceworks had been Theo’s target, right enough, but if the lassie had wanted them in for a rush lift, why hadn’t she called and had him file all right and proper like a copilot ought to do?
Clarence touched the switch.
“Control, we have a delivery scheduled—necessary supplies.”
“Fradle’s has been notified of your departure schedule, and will expedite delivery,” Control said.
Bad and worse, thought Clarence, but he kept his voice easy.
“’preciate the assist.”
“Scheduling is tight, Bechimo; we had to do some fancy work to accommodate a lift so soon. You will keep the schedule.”
“We will, yes.”
“Frenzel Control out.”
“Bechimo out,” Clarence said, but the line was already cold.
“Did you trace that?” he asked.
“The call originated at Frenzel Tower,” Bechimo said. “It appears legitimate. I have attempted to contact Pilot Waitley via the comm unit she carries.”
Clarence felt a kind of cold, gone feeling in his gut. Daav’s daughter. No telling what the lassie had got herself sideways of.
“And?” he asked, though he thought he knew the answer.
“I cannot reach her. The comm is shielded.” There was a pause, and in Screen Six, behind the static, the shadow of a head, shoulders, arms…
“It is possible that I can track Theo Waitley through her pilot’s key.”
“Is that a fact?” Clarence thought about that. “’less it’s something with no chance of disturbing a security screen, hold that in reserve. Port Control ain’t likely to be colluding in murder.”
“The Over Pilot may be in danger. Harm could befall her.”
There was an edge of what might be true and real panic in Bechimo’s voice. Clarence smoothed the air with one hand: hold course…
“That’s right. And what I’m sayin’ is, let’s just wait a minute or two, and see if that call don’t come in, or herself does. In the meanwhile, you—”
“A white car has stopped in front of the trade entrance,” Bechimo interrupted.
His Screen Seven flickered, showed the view, and the car, the back door rising, and Theo stepping out onto the dingy tarmac.
Clarence closed his eyes briefly.
The door lowered, and the car had pulled away before Theo gained the hatch, striding like she had a good head o’steam going.
“Less Pilot, the Over Pilot has returned,” Bechimo said, sounding breathless, and here came the lass herself, black eyes snapping and pale hair looking like she’d been running her fingers through it for the last hour.
“Welcome home,” he said, giving her as easy a smile as deceit could fashion. “Frenzel Control gives us six hours to get ourselves gone.”
Theo glared; sighed.
“Chaliceworks wants us offworld within the day,” she said. “They said they’d make arrangements with the port.” She shook her head. “I should’ve warned you. I apologize.”
“Pilot Theo, have you been harmed?”
There was a note of genuine panic in Bechimo’s voice. The laddie was becoming accomplished, thought Clarence.
“My temper’s sprained, but otherwise, I’m fine. They were very courteous. Master Trader yos’Galan’s proposal…didn’t meet their needs.” She sighed and look straight into Clarence’s eyes. “Also, they don’t trust luck.”
He nodded. “That would be a matter they’d need to overcome, if they wanted to partner with Korval.”
Theo sighed.
“Problem is, I’m not sure I even believe in luck.”
“Give yourself time,” Clarence counseled, eying her. The lass looked wrung out, but he saw no sign of temper, which he was inclined to think a good thing.
“Cup o’tea, Pilot?”
“Actually,” she said, “lunch. You eat?”
“In process when Tower called to chat.”
“Let’s hit the galley, then,” she said. “We can catch each other up.”
* * *
It was an hour to lift, and counting. Fradle’s had delivered, and supplies had been stowed.
Theo walked back into Bechimo’s Heart with Clarence, calmer now, and with a headache beginning, which could’ve been the aftermath of anger, or the effects of breathing too much world-dust, or an allergic reaction to Ricia’s blue fog.
Whichever, she dropped into her chair, glancing by habit to Screen Six—and froze.
A man looked at her from out of Bechimo’s screen. A beardless man with tight trimmed dark hair, thin lips, wide mouth, and a brown, hard-used face, as if this younger man had all of Clarence’s experience and none of his smiles.
The image sharpened, and she saw touch of stubbled beard below the growing sideburns, a hint that perhaps a mustache could grace the upper lip, the shadow of what might be a scar on the bridge of the broad nose.
He moved a shoulder, as if to ease a tight muscle, and raised a hand that showed two rings of some silvery brown metal—one on the thumb, and another, on the second finger. A wide bracelet of the same metal was clasped tight ’round his wrist.
The pilot, for surely he was at a board, leaned back slightly. His jacket, of antique cut and color, a buff not much used in today’s fashion, bore unmistakable signs of scuffs and wear, some so familiar that Theo understood them to be transposed from her own jacket, inherited from Rig Tranza.
Theo heard a soft sigh, and looked away from the apparition in the screen. Clarence stood entranced, his hands resting lightly on the back of his chair. His eyebrows lifted slightly, and she looked back to the screen.
An ID box had formed at the bottom of the screen, bearing the legend: B. Joyita, Bechimo Communications Officer.
“Who is Joyita, Bechimo?” Theo asked, keeping her voice soft and even.
“A detail, Pilot. The Less Pilot’s point—and your own—is taken. We need more personnel. If we seem too few, we become endangered. Joyita allows both pilots to be about other duties, knowing that they leave a senior crew member behind, for ship’s security.”
“So,” Clarence sighed. “A treat for the eyes, ain’t you just, Chimmy-lad.”
In the screen, Joyita’s lips tightened—Theo couldn’t say if it was an attempted smile, or a grimace of distate…or just a random animation.
“Thank you, Clarence,” the image said, mouth moving in perfect sync with the words. “You are a treat for the eyes, too.”