Dark Secrets
An anthology editor came to us with a request for a “Liaden and really Liaden-style” story. After some consideration, we went out to a far corner of the universe, and happened upon the star-crossed partners Kilsymthe and yo’Dira, who were about to be in oh-so-very-much trouble.
They came into Venzi Station trailing pirates—and riding the redline on a guaranteed delivery, which was far worse.
They were known at Venzi—a scant blessing, so Simon thought, but then, given the current situation, he’d take every small positive thrown their way. At least they’d be allowed to rig to station and maybe even dock, if they could get there.
Caerli was first board, and flying like a madwoman. You’d think it was a gift she’d been given—at least to the point of the pursuit, there being nothing the ex-Scout loved better than to push her own personal piloting envelope.
The nearness of the deadline—neither one of them appreciated that, and it definitely added an extra bit of derring-do to Caerli’s flying. His partner had a fond relationship with money. She’d felt the loss of the early delivery bonus keen as if she’d lost a finger. If it came round that they lost the whole fee, it would be a strike to her heart.
Come to it, he wasn’t certain in his own mind how they were going to get on, if they lost the payout for this job. Might squeak themselfs into some local work to build the ship’s ’count back up to safe levels. That was if there wasn’t a fine to pay. Which . . . given Venzi Senior Station Master Tey, there was bound to be a fine to pay.
If they got a fine on top of a loss, Simon thought grimly, they were grounded—plain fact. Despite the station master, Venzi wasn’t the worst ring to be grounded on, first reason being there wasn’t no actual ground . . . but not being cleared to fly—that’d put Caerli ’round the hard bend in local space before a station-day was done, and himself running to keep up.
’Course, he told himself, there wasn’t no sense looking so far ahead. Things might work out on their side, yet.
Pirate had range on ’em, after all. Even granting that Caerli could wring miracles from the board, they still might get hull-shredded with no backup to hand.
And wasn’t that a cheering thought.
“We are not,” snapped Caerli yo’Dira, “going to be hull-shredded.”
“Dash every hope I got all at once, why not?” Simon answered, glancing at the screens.
“I’m seeing two missiles with our names on ’em, heading dead on,” he said, just giving her the info.
She didn’t bother to answer. Thin fingers flew over the board; the screens grayed. Simon’s gut insisted that the ship had twisted around them, even as the screens showed real space all about. The instruments reported that they’d Jumped out and in again between one breath and the next.
The pursuing missiles were seventeen seconds further behind them, that being what Caerli’s playing of the Ace had bought them, but it was still going to be close—too close, and if—
The universe twisted again, and this time when the screens came back, they were crossing Venzi’s shield perimeter. Not the way Jump engines were supposed to be treated, nor the way physics was supposed to be dared. Station warnaways blared across all channels. The missiles, being dumber even than the crack team of Kilsymthe and yo’Dira, didn’t answer, and a few heartbeats later the defense system defended the station, just like it was made to do, and there weren’t any missiles, anymore.
The pirates, no surprise, were gone like they’d never been.
“GelVoken,” came blaring across all-band. “You will be guided into a Section Eight dock. Lock in and await escort to the station master’s office.”
The comm light snapped off without waiting for a reply—well. Wasn’t any reason to wait for a confirm, was there?
“We were not,” Caerli stated, her voice raspy and not quite steady, “hull-shredded.”
“That’s right,” he said, soothing her, ’cause the rush of dancing between life and death pretty often left her shaky. “We didn’t get hull-shredded. Good work. I’m thinking Master Tey’s gonna give us a citation for that, don’t you?”
Caerli all at once collapsed back into her chair.
“Of course,” she said. “Whyever else would she send an escort?”
***
“You two.” The station master glared from Simon to Caerli and closed her eyes.
“You two, again.”
There was that to be said for being known at a particular port or station, Simon admitted to himself: no need to waste a lot of time bringing somebody new up to speed. Station Master Tey, now, she knew exactly who they were.
And she didn’t much like them, individually or as a team. Didn’t like them being a team, for that matter, which happened in more ports than it ought, Terrans and Liadens flying together not always a popular choice with admins.
“I guess you had a good and compelling reason for endangering Venzi Station?” Tey asked, sarcasm heavy.
Like they’d deliberately gone looking for a pirate to lead into station, thought Simon with a flicker of irritation. It was understood that a station master had a natural partiality for her station, but that didn’t mean the rest of the universe considered it at all interesting.
“We have a commission to Venzi Station,” Caerli said softly, reasonably. “We came out of Jump at the Kelestone Light boundary. They were waiting for us, thus we immediately Jumped for Estero—”
That was the story, but she’d short-Jumped there, dropping out well before charted Jump-end to take advantage of one of those asterisked endnotes in the ven’Tura Tables, which always creeped him, and one day Caerli was gonna miss her number and they’d fall outta Jump-space into the maw of a sun, or the center of a planet. Not that he worried about such things, much.
“We were clear when we came out,” Caerli continued, glossing the abort. “Thus, we Jumped for Venzi.”
The aborted Jump—that’s what’d cost them the early delivery. Still, can’t come into a station trailing pirates. Surest way known to pilot-kind to make the station master mad at you.
Case in point.
“You’re telling me they were waiting for you at Venzi entry?”
The station master frowned, not liking that notion at all. Which proved she was a good station master, despite the personal lapse of taste that failed to find Kilsymthe and yo’Dira adorable.
Caerli shook her head.
“Station Master, the Jump-point was clear. They came in on our tail when we committed to an approach.”
Tey liked that even less. Pirates lurking along the station approaches was way past serious. Most pirates weren’t organized—or numerous—enough to hold a station hostage, though it’d been tried and done. Astrid Verity’s Freebooters had held the lanes at Squalme Station for three Standards before TerraTrade hired Canter’s Corpsmen to eradicate the problem. Which they’d done, at the cost of near-eradication their ownselves. Mostly, though, your garden-variety pirate didn’t have the skill set—or the attention span—for that kind of long-term commitment.
And, in their particular case, there was an easier culprit, right handy.
“So, your package is interesting to somebody, is it?” asked Station Master Tey. “Real interesting, looks like to me.”
Simon’s stomach fell straight into his boots. He opened his mouth, though their ongoing agreement was that Caerli talked to Tey, whenever they could manage it. The gods of lost stars knew what he might’ve been about to say, but it came moot as Caerli tilted slightly forward, her whole body conveying respect.
“We have guaranteed delivery, Station Master, and the hour fast approaches.”
“More fools you, then,” snapped Tey.
“Station Master.” Caerli adjusted her posture slightly, mixing a smidgen of humble in with the respect. “With all respect, Station Master, if we do not receive the delivery fee, we will be reduced to a cold-pad on station’s budget until we may get a rescue from guild or clan.”
Simon blinked. It wasn’t what either of ’em did, normally, sharing out Kilsymthe and yo’Dira personal bidness with station masters and that sort of person. Nor was Caerli in the habit of admitting she was low on funds.
Then, he saw the calculatation behind that startling bit of candor. Station Master Tey saw it, too, and her mouth pursed up like her beer was sour.
Delay the delivery and she’d have Kilsymthe and yo’Dira on her station to deal with every shift until they got lucky—say, forever—or somebody—could be even Tey herself—came to the snapping point and did something maybe, a little, regrettable. Let the delivery meet the deadline, and Kilsymthe and yo’Dira would go away and leave her and her station in peace. More or less.
“All right,” she snarled. “Get outta my sight.”
Caerli bowed gently, which only made Station Master Tey look more sour.
“Spit it out,” she snapped.
“Yes. One only wonders, Station Master, if we are free to pursue our own business. We had hoped for a speedy departure.”
The station master looked at her hard, and Simon could almost see her measuring how much trouble she could still cause them, without being stuck with them forever.
“Make your delivery.” There was a pause while she searched the office ceiling with her eyes, and then included them together with a wave of the hand.
“You’re on probation and locked to station,” she said finally. A glance at both of them, made with a grimace. “It’ll be a hot-pad, never fear, but locked to my orders. Admin’ll move as fast as practicable, but I want the pair of you where I can find you, in the likely circumstance that questions arise.”
Questions about what, she didn’t say, and neither of them sought clarity. Instead, in the interest of getting paid, they bowed—and left the station master’s office.
***
They made the delivery venue—Aberman’s Drinkery, which sounded considerably more upscale than it was—before the wire fell on the deadline, and only that. Caerli went first, with Simon lagging a step behind. His hands, trained for detail and fine work, worried the pay tab.
One long step and he was beside her at the table’s edge, packet extended on the palms of his hands, so the man sitting there, scowling, could see it plain.
The resevio snorted.
“Took your time,” he said, making no move to take possession.
“Yessir,” Simon said, “scenic route.”
The other man snorted again, and snatched the packet down to the table. He put a hand on it, and glared from Simon to Caerli.
“Will there be a return packet?” Simon asked politely.
“If there is, I can hire me a courier who respects a deadline, an’ neither don’t take the tab off like it was his to do.”
Simon’s face heated, but he said nothing.
Caerli bowed slightly.
“If there is nothing more, we depart,” she said, and turned on a heel. Simon followed her out into the station hall, and kept to her side as she crossed to a clumsy corner, where two storefronts didn’t quite match up, leaving a thin, triangular cubby. At her nod, he slipped into the slim cover first—that was standard operations, him being taller’n her. Caerli snugged in against him, tight and maybe even distracting, save he had a burning question at the front of his mind.
“What’re we doing here?”
“Waiting,” she answered.
He sighed, and for lack of anything else to do, being squished flat into the corner like he was, he scanned the bit of hall in his line of sight, which included the entrance to Aberman’s Drinkery.
It was a back hall, so there wasn’t a lot of traffic, though the Drinkery clearly had its adherents. A couple security types strolled in, arm-in-arm, like they was reg’lars, followed pretty soon by a man in mechanic’s coveralls, and two women in librarian’s robes.
A repair gurney lumbered noisily down the track laid in the center of the hall; three mercs in uniform swung ’round it, walking fast, vanishing before he could read their colors.
The repair rig crawled out of sight, and the hall was empty so far as he could see for the space of four heartbeats.
Three people—two wearing formal jumpsuits, one carrying a lock-case—hove into view. The two formals entered the bar, the third, in full station security rig, shock-stick on her belt, took up position outside the door in one of the classic poses.
“They’re never after the resevio?” Simon whispered.
“Wait,” Caerli said again, which was fine for her, being in front and her backbone not like to meld with a girder.
He hadn’t quite become an integral part of the station’s structure before the Drinkery’s door opened from within, and here came one of the security team who’d gone in prior to the jumpsuits, their own cheery resevio walking between him and his partner, one hand cuffed to each. The jumpsuits followed, one still carrying the lock-case. They turned right, the officer who had been guarding the hall falling in behind, passing quite near to the uncomfortable little angle where Kilsymthe and yo’Dira stood concealed. The resevio’s expression was slack, which was probably due to the pacifier collar lying flat ’round his collarbone.
The little procession passed out of Simon’s range, and he sighed out a breath. Caerli stayed where she was, pressing him even tighter into the corner, which he didn’t think was possible. He didn’t argue her instincts, though, having seen Caerli’s instincts at work on numerous occasions in the past.
Finally, she moved, and he did, slowly separating his backbone from the wall. He joined her in the open hallway, and turned with her toward Section Eight Docking, GelVoken, and some small certain amount of safety.
***
Simon went to the bridge, pulling out the pay tab and feeding it to the reader. There was a hesitation long enough for him to suspect that Admin was monitoring their comm, then the green light lit. Accepted and paid. He sighed in pure relief, then headed for the galley.
Caerli’d already drawn two mugs of ’mite and set them on the table. Simon slid into the chair across from her.
“Resevio’s gonna think we led Admin to him,” he said, after he’d had a swallow from his mug. “That’s gonna be good for bidness.”
“No,” said Caerli, and: “The tab?”
“Accepted and paid,” he assured her. “’Course, speaking of bidness, we pretty much got zero chance to pick up a commission to see us off Venzi. I’d hoped to bolster the treasury a bit.”
“No,” Caerli said again. “Master Tey wants us off her station. It would also please her if we never returned to her station.”
“Ain’t her station,” Simon objected, but his heart wasn’t really in it. “Unnerstan, I’m inclined to her mind in this. If I never set foot on Venzi Station again in this lifetime, that’ll be fine by me. Oughta at least give it an avoid for the next couple Standards. Let her have time to cool her jets.” He swallowed ’mite. “Or retire.”
“That is well so far as it goes—but you are correct that it would be far better if the ship was not forced to fly empty.”
Simon shook his head, stood up and carried his empty mug and hers to the washer.
He turned and leaned a hip against the edge of the counter, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Be inneresting to know what we was carrying that pirates was so eager to liberate.”
“By now, Station Master Tey will surely have the contents of the packet on her desk. Perhaps she will take your call.”
“I’ll wait an’ read about it in the newsfeed. ’Less she calls us in on account of questions having arose.”
“That is of course possible,” Caerli said politely, her gaze fixed on a point in Jump-space just beyond the edge of the table.
“You don’t think they were after the packet,” Simon said, with one of the flares of surety that never failed to get him into trouble.
She sighed, and shook her head at that little spot in the void.
“If it was the packet they were after, they would have attempted to board. They fired upon us with earnest intent. Had we not been managed to cross into Venzi’s space, we risked destruction, and the packet with us.”
“They didn’t fire ’til last prayers,” Simon pointed out. “Coulda been a case o’being certain the packet didn’t get to our man at the Drinkery. They’d’ve rather had the packet off of us, but it’d come down to hard choices.”
Caerli moved her shoulders in a fluid Liaden shrug—yes/no/maybe, that meant.
Simon shifted against the counter. Caerli uncertain wasn’t what he liked best to see.
“It is . . . too complicated,” she said slowly. “If the client needed the packet lost, and herself clearly blameless for its disappearance, there were still less expensive means of arranging the loss. Piracy is a chancy venture with far more risk of failure than success. After all . . . ”
Her voice drifted off.
Simon waited until he had counted to one hundred forty-four, then prompted, “After all?”
She started, and looked up at him, her abstraction melting into one of her occasional droll looks.
“After all, we might have won through, and the packet reach the resevio’s hands.”
Simon sighed.
“Screwed up again, have we?”
Caerli shook her head, Terran-wise.
“Had they given us the script, we might have done better for them.”
Simon grinned.
“True enough.”
His grin faded.
“Caerli.”
“Yes.”
“They knew where we was going, the pirates.”
She sighed.
“So it seems.”
“They were after us, then, and if not the packet, then—what?” he asked. “GelVoken?”
Caerli said nothing, and Simon felt another flicker of surety.
“Us?” he said quietly, which wasn’t so much of a joke as could be. They’d done some things—not necessarily wrong, but not exactly right, neither. For the ship, they said, citing spacer laws of survival, and it’d been true enough. Still, exception could’ve been took. Revenge might seem to be in order. It was . . . possible—just possible—that one of their victims had sworn an Affidavit ’gainst them, and offered a bounty.
Bounty hunters, though . . . Simon considered. Bounty hunters were straightforward creatures, who disliked complications just as much as Caerli did. An operation that had them chase a courier through Jump-space—they hadn’t, so Simon sincerely believed, ticked off anybody with the means to set a bounty that high.
Before they’d become a team—well, he’d traded grey; it was how he’d almost lost GelVoken at Tybalt. Would’ve lost ’er, if one Caerli yo’Dira hadn’t come by and taken an interest in what was none o’her affair . . .
Caerli . . . Well, he didn’t know all Caerli’s history, but, after all this time, he knew her. She wasn’t utterly straight—she loved money too much for that—but she was conservative in the matter of adding new enemies to her string. By listening to what she hadn’t said in addition to what she had, he’d arrived at the understanding that her leaving of the Scouts hadn’t been her idea, had maybe been in the way of discipline. Still, that’d been close on to ten Standards back, Kilsymthe and yo’Dira having been formed all of seven Standards ago.
“We must do a search of bounties declared and Affidavits sworn,” Caerli said. “After we have rested.”
There was nothing but good sense to that. They were both worn out with adrenaline and long hours at the board.
“Right,” he said. “Captain declares all crew on double-downtime, starting immediately.”
“Yes,” said Caerli, rising. “And if the station master calls?”
Simon looked black.
“Station master calls, she can leave a message.”
***
Simon’s door was still closed when Caerli ghosted down the hall to the galley, some few hours later. She, who had training that Simon did not, had accessed the so-called Rainbow technique to ensure a deep, healing sleep, rising refreshed and focused in under a quarter of a shift. Simon would sleep yet for several hours. Adrenaline burned through his reserves quickly; the strain of the pursuit had already exhausted him, before they came to the necessity of coping with Station Master Tey and her little intrigues.
Caerli carried a cup of tea and a protein cookie with her onto the bridge, and settled into the co-pilot’s chair, as was proper. GelVoken was Simon’s ship, after all, however much he might credit her with returning it to him. They were operating partners, but not co-owners.
Perhaps she ought not to have accepted his offer of a partnership, but she determined that she was going to reform, to leave her previous life, and start afresh. It had seemed she was owed that, were Balance the natural state of the universe—the ideal on which the whole of Liaden civilization was predicated.
She had been desperate, she thought; certainly, she had not been naive. Even then, she had known that the natural state of the universe was chaos.
Even then, she had known that one could not outrun the past, no matter how able a pilot one was.
She slowly ate her cookie, considering how best to proceed.
Easiest for all, if An Dol contacted her. Sadly, An Dol had liked to play games, and if she was tempted to think that had changed over the years, she had only to remember two missiles in the screens, dead on and gaining. It was barely possible they were live with no warhead, to prove a point. Exactly what he might have done, before, except the last time they’d met, he had sworn he was through playing games.
The last of the protein cookie went in a crunch as she considered the likelihood of that.
No, An Dol still played games.
That being so, he would expect her to find him.
Caerli sighed and drank her tea. Truly, she was in no mood for games, nor in being forced back into An Dol’s service—which, belatedly, made her wonder what it was he wanted her for. He had ruined her as a Scout, seen her discharged without honor, so she was no use to him in the old way. She had rebelled when he would use her as a drudge—and for years, he had . . . one might say allowed her . . . to remain at liberty.
That he came looking for her now . . . there must be something new afoot; something for which her skill set was uniquely fitted.
Well. There was an unsettling thought.
She closed her eyes and partook of the benefits of another calming exercise.
Whatever An Dol wanted, it was imperative that he be kept away from Simon.
Simon possessed a varied set of skills and strengths, peculiar to a man who had split his young life between space and bronk-herding. His grey-trading had root in the habits of his planetside father and uncle. Simon could track a bronk on hard high plains, kill a witchbird with his bare hands, and skin a chardog with his belt knife—or so he claimed. Whether or not these particular claims were true—and she did not see why they should not be—Simon’s abilities were impressive, and occasionally startling. What he did not have was a true appreciation of the subtlety a highborn rogue Liaden might employ to grasp power, or to expand it.
Which meant that her counter was inside An Dol’s orbit. Little as she relished it, she would need to go onto Venzi Station, and play seek-and-be-stealthy with An Dol.
Before she allowed misdeeds and melant’i of the past to claim her, however, she would embrace one more opportunity to act with honor.
She leaned to the board. A series of quick finger-taps on the board opened her personal files. Another hundred faultless keystrokes and she had done all that was needful. She purged the files, sat back in her chair, and reviewed her options.
Truth, she thought; she had none.
Best, then, to get on with it.
She rose, placed her ship key on the board where Simon would be certain to see it, and left the bridge, mug in hand.
The mug, she left in the washer in the galley, before proceeding down the hall to her quarters, where she armed herself, and shrugged into her Jump-pilot’s jacket.
Thus armored against An Dol’s sense of play, she left GelVoken by the service hatch, and made certain it sealed behind her.
***
Caerli was up before him, which neither exceeded his expectations, nor hurt his feelings. Simon stopped in the galley to draw a mug o’mite, and moved down to the bridge, which was where he’d find her, certain enough. A thought had come to him while he’d been drifting up toward wakefulness. Might be they could check for small cargo on the salvage and surplus side. GelVoken could take a mini-pod; didn’t often ’cause neither him nor Caerli was a born trader, but the option was there. An’ if they were just hauling to another yard of like character, there wasn’t no trading involved. Flat fee and not likely to be much of it, but ship’s bank was low enough he’d—
The bridge was empty.
Simon blinked, and for no reason at all his stomach clenched. So, Caerli was still resting—or resting again. No reg against that, was—
It was then that he saw the ship key in the share tray between the two boards, and the message light blinking yellow.
He stepped up to the board, accepted the message with a touch, and stood looking down at a short list of files and account codes, balances appended, which was Caerli’s private money, every one of ’em bearing his name as ’counts holder. At the end of that list was a note, cold as if they’d been strangers, traveling together by chance.
Captain Kilsymthe. I resign my berth, effective immediately. Caerli yo’Dira, Pilot.
He was shivering. He noted the fact like he was reading it off the screens. His fingers moved, bringing up the call log, finding it empty.
Just gone for a ramble out on the station, then. She did that. Done it many times.
Hadn’t ever before found it necessary to leave her ship key behind her, or roll every single bit of her private money over to him. Not to mention leaving resignation letters just a little bit colder’n deep space.
Simon closed his eyes.
Something bad was happening, that was what. And before it got any worse, he had to find Caerli.
***
It was . . . unsettling, how easily the rules of An Dol’s play came back to her. He had cast her as the supplicant, the seeker—the lesser, to whom he would reveal himself in the fullness of time and grant her succor—it would be succor, for An Dol played with live weapons. Had she not successfully eluded his missiles, An Dol would have seen that her abilities had atrophied, and that it would have been an error to trust any longer in her survival skills.
That she had played her second Ace, ensuring the survival of GelVoken, Simon, and herself proved that she was still worthy of him—and now the game went to a higher level. She could expect ambushes and assassins before An Dol revealed himself to her.
Best, if she found him before he was ready to step forward. It would annoy him, and An Dol made mistakes when he was annoyed.
She paused in the shadow of a cargo hauler, surveying the dockside and considering where he might be.
One might think he could be anywhere, and Venzi Station large enough for a man who wished it, to stay hidden for years.
Only, An Dol did not wish to be hidden; he merely wished not to be found until he had made his point and had his fill of fun.
So, then, he would be near GelVoken’s docking, but not in Section Eight itself. Not that An Dol wasn’t bold enough to hide himself on the station master’s own dockside, merely that, for this game, it would not suit his purpose.
For it must be assumed that his purpose, in part, was to remind her, forcibly, that she was his inferior. He would see her hurt before he stepped forward to rescue her from worse.
Dockside would certainly suit him, much more than the civilized, and patrolled, core rings. A certain sort of dockside, certainly; the station’s equivalent of a lawless zone—a low port—The Ballast, so it was referred to on Venzi Station.
Assuredly, An Dol would bide his time, awaiting her in The Ballast.
***
Simon paused at the edge of their docking area, looking around, for a hint, a clue—for Caerli walking down-dock toward him, arms ’round the waists of a brace o’port dollies.
Woman didn’t leave her life’s blood to her partner because she was gonna surprise him with a party, he told himself, and looked around some more.
Caerli was cautious; she was stealthy, and if she didn’t wanna be found, well—there was a one in a million chance that the likes of Simon Kilsymthe would find her. On the other hand, one in a million was still odds. He wasn’t beat yet.
He found the place where she’d paused for a bit, thinking out her next move, maybe. And he found that one heel—her left—had rested in a bit of drink-smudge, so that when she took her first step onto the public way, a sticky little crescent was pressed to the decking, and there, just at the proper length for Caerli’s short, determined stride, was another, and beyond that one, a third . . .
The crescents faded finally, but by then, he had a direction, sensing rather than seeing where her feet had tread, and he hurried on.
Damn it, if Caerli had it in mind to take on The Ballast by way of letting off a little steam, he surely wanted to be in on the fun.
***
She’d nullified two attackers on her way across The Ballast, and frightened off a third. It was unfortunate that the second of her two attackers had some skill as a knife-fighter. He had touched her, and though she had wrapped it, she became aware of shadows gathering in her wake as she moved toward her goal; the honest citizens of The Ballast, that was who followed her now, scenting blood, and easy prey.
She kept her attention forward, seemingly oblivious, until one of her hangers-on took the bait, and darted forward, making a feint toward her pocket.
She spun, knife out. The would-be pickpocket raised her hands and backed away.
“Peace, now, Pilot. Cain’t lay blame for a fair attempt.”
“Your next attempt will be your last,” Caerli said, matter-of-fact, and making sure her voice carried to the others, waiting at some distance. “I’m on business and I will not be interrupted.”
“Certain, Pilot; certain. Ana fine shift to ya.”
The pickpocket faded back into the pack of watchers; the watchers thinned away and were, to eyes less sharp than Caerli’s, gone . . .
She turned and continued on her way. Not long now, by her estimation.
***
The Ballast occupied a trapezoid section of less than premium space between the backup power coils and the emergency gyros. The door you wanted from Section Eight Docking was near the narrow end of the section, which was mostly transfer slots, and grab-a-bites, and fun houses. Simon did a quick tour of the possibles, put a couple of questions, and found Caerli not at all.
Onward, then, he thought, into the deep and dangerous side. He sighed. He wished he’d known Caerli’d been in this tone o’mind; hadn’t seemed to be the case when they’d parted company, each to get their own rest. ’Course, Caerli was private—and there was still the question of her putting all her most valuables under his name. Sure, The Ballast was rough, but it wasn’t anything like Caerli to consider she wouldn’t survive a little bit o’exercise ’mong the station-bound.
***
It was nothing more than a hunch that turned her steps toward the repair hall. At the last, it always came down to hunches, with An Dol. If she was right, she’d soon enough have confirmation.
She was right.
They came boiling out of the dark storefronts ahead of her, and more, from the cross-corridor she had just passed. Others came out of the deep shadows at the side walls. A melding, Caerli saw, as she spun lazily on one heel, taking in the fullness of them. A dozen—fifteen, perhaps—the five in spacer’s motley putting themselves forward, letting her see their faces. Of them, she thought she recognized the woman whose bald head was tattooed with a world’s wonder of flowers, and possibly the man with the silver sash round his ample middle; the other three spacers were strangers: the rest of the mob were Ballasters, hugging the shadows, holding weapons that at other times were slot-drivers, span-hammers, and punch-blades.
Fifteen, five trained in An Dol’s particular school of survival.
It occurred to her that An Dol wanted her dead, after all; that he had drawn her to him so that he might witness her ending in person.
Well. Fifteen against one, was it? From An Dol’s perspective, it might be a compliment.
The least she could do was to show her appreciation.
She kicked, diving for the floor, hitting with her left shoulder and rolling.
One of her throwing knives found a nesting place in the breast of the tattooed woman; the second in the eye of a Ballaster who had darted in, hammer raised. Her gun was in her hand, and she managed three quick shots into the crowd before she was engulfed and it was fists, and feet, and knives.
***
It was the shouting that drew him into a run. One sight of the melee and he knew it could only be Caerli in the middle of it all. There were bodies on the decking here and there—dead, or nearly so, silent acks to his notion that this was no ordinary rumble, but Caerli fighting for her life, no regard for grace.
And expecting to lose.
Never in all the long years they’d been together had he known Caerli yo’Dira fighting to lose. Woman fought the odds like they was personal, and he’d long ago lost count of the times she won over them, by willpower and cussedness.
Simon paused on the edge of the bidness, taking stock, testing the angles, wondering if it were better to start shooting, hoping they’d scatter, or—
“Why, what have we here?” A voice murmured in his ear. “This is most unexpected.”
Simon spun, gun out and right in the face of a Liaden man dressed neatly in leathers, and a wide, Terran-style grin on his face.
“It is the partner, is it not?” he said, paying so little attention to Simon’s gun that he had a moment’s belief that there was no gun in his hand at all.
“Simon Kilsymthe,” he growled, and jerked his head toward the melee. “If you can call that off, do it.”
“I can,” the Liaden said, his brows pulling slightly together. “The question, I believe, is—will I? And, do you know, I think I might. For considerations.”
“What considerations?”
“Surrender your gun and yourself to me, now.”
“And I’d do that—why?”
“Because if you do not, Jezzi, who stands behind you, will take your gun, and I will allow nature to take its course with respect to your partner, and my former associate.”
He risked a glance to the side, catching a glimpse of Caerli. She looked bad, and if she got out of this mess alive, she’d flay him for doing what he was about to do. He looked forward to that, but in the meantime, this being a Liaden he was dealing with, he had to secure both sides of the promise.
“I give you my gun, you’ll call off the fight,” he said.
“I will call off the fight, if you give me your gun. That is correct.”
Simon reversed the gun and extended it, butt front.
A hand snaked over his shoulder and took possession. The Liaden stepped away from Simon. Simon turned to face the riot.
From his belt, the Liaden withdrew a flare gun. He pointed it to the girders above, and fired.
Sparks filled the hallway, riding an ear-punishing boom.
“Freeze or fall!” a voice shouted, over the echoes. “Freeze or fall!”
The sound of safeties being snapped off numerous pellet guns was almost as loud as the boom.
In the center hallway, the melee sorted itself into some kind of order. Those who could rose, some leaning on the nearest shoulder. As if obeying some unheard command, they pulled away from the battered figure, bent and kneeling. She was panting, and there was blood on her face, her left arm hanging bad.
Slowly, she raised her head, and Simon saw her recognize the Liaden with a grim resignation he’d never before seen on Caerli’s face.
“So, An Dol,” she called, her voice hoarse. “Will you finish it yourself?”
“That had been the original plan,” the Liaden—An Dol—said, cheerfully matter-of-fact. “But someone has entered a side bet, and thus made the game more diverting. You have a reprieve, Captain yo’Dira. Your partner stakes his life for yours.”
Simon saw her blink; she moved her head carefully, and her eyes met his.
“Simon,” she said. “You idiot.”
***
“You will scarcely credit it, I know, Captain Kilsymthe,” the Liaden named An Dol said chattily, “but our so-dear Captain yo’Dira had been an associate of mine.”
He wanted Simon to ask him for details, but Simon was smarter than that, at least. He said nothing, and hoped he managed to look a little bored.
Before the silence stretched too long, An Dol continued, not seeming to mind Simon’s lack of curiosity.
“She was a Scout, you know, working for the Archivist’s office. Her duty was to gather Old Tech and either destroy it, or tag it for retrieval and destruction. Sadly, she found herself in want of cash, so she sold a piece—quite an insignificant piece—to one of my agents. Well, you know how it is with honor, do you not, Captain Kilsymthe? Once broken, never mended. It was easier the second time, and even easier the third. By the fourth sale, I don’t believe she even needed the money, and by the time the Scouts discovered her breach and discharged her, finding Old Tech for me was second nature to her. She was for a time among my crew; she really is very skilled at finding the caches of old machines, and is an able technician, besides. Matters proceeded in an orderly fashion, satisfactory to all for a number of Standards.
“Then, there was a mishap—perhaps a Scout was killed. It may, in fact, have been a team of Scouts. Regrettable, but it seems Captain yo’Dira knew them, and did not agree with my necessity. She left me soon after, and I—I let her go, because I knew I could find her again, should I ever want to do so.”
Caerli was sitting on a stool next to Simon. She’d been patched up, rough, with a first aid kit. She hadn’t said a word since greeting her partner. If he didn’t know better, he’d’ve said she was asleep.
Now, she raised her head.
“What do you want, An Dol? If you’ve decided to kill me, do it, and let Pilot Kilsymthe return to his life.”
An Dol laughed.
“You have undoubtedly taken several blows to the head, so I will not berate you for stupidity. How shall I let Pilot Kilsymthe go, when he has seen me, and will shortly know of my workings? Indeed, the more I consider this new situation, the more I like it. The two of you are known on Venzi as troublemakers. It will make the scenario more believable, if both of you are in it together.”
“What scenario?” asked Simon, to save Caerli the trouble.
“Why, the scenario where Captain yo’Dira smuggled a disrupter onto Venzi Station, and she and her partner, after contacting the station master with demands, and being, as I imagine they will be, rebuffed, decide to demonstrate the strength of their position. Which they will do—sadly forgetting to take themselves to a place of safety beforehand.”
He paused, frowning slightly.
“What is the Terran phrase? Ah. Screwups to the last.”
Simon was opening his mouth to ask what a disrupter was, but Caerli’s raw voice cut him off.
“You’re going to disrupt a section of this ring? Which section?”
An Dol smiled, and it came to Simon right about then that the man wasn’t sane.
“Why, I think The Ballast will do nicely, don’t you? We shall demonstrate, and rid Venzi of a trouble spot, all in one throw. Balance shall be maintained.”
“And then?” demanded Caerli.
“Then? Why, we shall perhaps need to stage a second demonstration; we are prepared to do so. I am determined to have this station. We need a base from which to operate, and there are several like-minded teams who would join us here.”
Simon’s stomach was not happy. Crazy or not, An Dol had ambition. This pirate wasn’t just going to occupy station space, he was going to occupy the station.
He looked at Caerli, hoping to see some sign that she thought An Dol’s little scheme was doomed to fail.
He saw the exact opposite.
***
It was an elegant little machine, Simon thought, hardly any bigger than his head, and at that seeming too small to catastrophically shut down all systems in The Ballast.
Be a bad death, too, which Simon wasn’t looking forward to.
“Now,” said An Dol. “Captain yo’Dira, you will call the station master and deliver your lines. In the event that you should consider an ad lib, I offer you this.”
The gun was buried nose-deep in Simon’s side, and An Dol was behind him. If Caerli deviated, he’d be gut-shot, which would, Simon couldn’t help noting, be a quicker, cleaner death than the rest of The Ballast was going to get. Caerli being Caerli, she might well think herself entitled to make that choice for him. Which, being honest, and their places switched, he might think the same.
Caerli gave him a long, unreadable stare, then turned to the comm screen and fed in the station master’s call-code.
“You!” Station Master Tey growled. “Where are you? I been trying to find you the last half-shift.”
“I have been busy, Station Master. Forgive me if we have presented an inconvenience to you.”
“An inconvenience? You might say that. Do you know what was in that packet you brought onto my station?”
Caerli tipped her head slightly to the left.
“An Old Tech tile rack,” she said.
Tey took a hard breath.
“You knew that, and you still brought it here?”
“I did not know when we accepted the commission. I have only belatedly deduced what it must have been.”
“And you’re calling me because of your powers of deduction?”
“No, Station Master.” Caerli took a deep breath, and Simon sighed out the one he’d been holding. “I am calling to report an emergency situation.”
The phrasing, that’s what gave An Dol a distraction, a hesitation in his eyes—just the smallest possible hesitation, but that was all Simon needed. He sidestepped, ducked, and swung, knocking the gun arm high, belt knife leaping to his other hand.
One strike, straight to the heart, just like he was putting down a rogue bronk.
The dying fingers tightened on the trigger; the gun discharged; and Caerli leaned into the screen, speaking rapidly.
“Station Master, Venzi has been invaded by pirates, and is in mortal danger. You must immediately dispatch security teams to all sensitive controls. You are looking for devices—possibly Old Tech, possibly of modern make—set to disrupt critical station systems. We are in The Ballast with one such Old Tech machine. I am going to attempt to defuse it. If I fail, Venzi will lose this section.”
Station Master Tey was staring.
“What ship?” she asked.
“Chandivel, out of Liad. Station Master, time is possibly short.”
“Yes. Get to work, Pilot.”
The screen went blank, and Caerli spun toward the device, stepping over An Dol’s dead body.
“Well done, Simon,” she said briskly. “Please access The Ballast’s internal comm and announce an evacuation.”
***
Well, there was bounty money, which came to them, and left over a tidy sum, even after the fines had been deducted—the fine for bringing Old Tech onto Venzi, and the other one, for bringing pirates.
There was salvage, too, one twelfth of the value of Chandivel, which plumped up the ship’s account to levels last seen by Simon when he was a boy and his ma GelVoken’s captain.
Simon had reversed Caerli’s gifts, of course, and made her a third-part owner of GelVoken, even before all the funds were in. Someone that invested in him and his deserved a little for herself, too.
Also, they was free to go, with an invite from Station Master Tey not to visit again soon, which they promised, best they could.
“Comes to me,” Simon said, when they was on their way to Venzi Jump-point. “I never did thank you for nearly getting me gut-shot.”
“Co-pilot’s duty,” Caerli said, which was true enough.
“You got any other dark secrets in your past likely to come ’round and make us into targets?” he asked.
There was a small silence, and he looked over to find Caerli watching her screens with a fair degree of concentration.
“In fact, I am made clanless for my indiscretions,” she said, quietly. “That need not concern you. There is nothing else, except—you know, Simon, the usual sort of thing.”
Right.
“Well,” said Simon, “just so long as that’s clear.”