Their footsteps echoed off the floor and reverberated in the corrugated metal walls of the service tunnel. Liz walked one step behind Nova yos'Galan, duffel slung over her right shoulder and service pistol on her belt, scanning over the little blonde's head into the metallic dimness ahead.
The corridor bent and straightened in a abrupt dogleg, showing Liz the end of the tunnel and the vapor glow of port lighting against the blue-black drop of night.
Nova yos'Galan continued her rapid, steady pace; stepped over the edge of the tunnel into the yard and turned to the left, Liz just behind.
There wasn't much doubt where they were headed; only one ship sat on a pad in this part of the yard—a sleek little scooter, the unfamiliar lines of which were lit by the honed brightness of a labor-spot, which also picked out several crimson coveralls.
"Thought you said you were ready to lift," Liz hissed. "Looks like the maintenance crew ain't done yet."
The Liaden woman flung one sharp glance over her shoulder. "Maintenance crew! That's a hotpad!"
And she was gone, running toward the spot and the three red-covered figures.
Liz blinked and swore and jumped after her. She'd figured the Liaden woman was in a hurry, but to go to the expense of a hotpad—a guaranteed short-order lift-off, anytime 'round the clock; and an assurance that no port maintenance crew would do anything but steer wide of the area—!
Ahead, Nova yos'Galan had checked; Liz came even with her. "Could be just a mistake," she muttered, but her gut didn't believe it, and her head was working the moves, given the three in sight; wondering how many were out of sight, around the other side; wondering if they were the fighting kind or the running kind. The Liaden woman didn't even spare her a glance.
One of the coveralls turned, started, yelled, hand snatching at belt. The shot sang past Liz's ear as the three of them bolted, fanning wide.
"I've got left," Nova snapped and Liz was spinning, target marked; gun out and up; spitting—once—and she kept moving, swinging back toward center, crouching, gun ready. A shot chewed gravel at her feet and her answer jerked the man's head up and back before he slammed flat and stopped moving at all.
The third coverall was down, Liz saw, straightening slowly: a huddle of blurred red in the leakage from the spot. Nova was running toward the ship.
The fourth one broke from behind the ship just as she came level with the spot.
Small, slim—Liaden, most likely; Liz thought, holding her fire—sprinting for the tunnel, no weapon out, no backward look.
Liz straightened. Scared stupid, she judged; might as well let her go.
By the spotlight, Nova yos'Galan spun, knees flexed, gun up and steady in a two-hand grip, picture-book perfect.
The slim runner was halfway to the tunnel, arms pumping.
A pellet pistol spat, once, and the runner stumbled, staggered another step forward.
The pistol spoke again—and the runner fell, arms flailing. Liz swallowed her yell; took a breath against the bile rising in her throat and walked, slowly, toward the spot.
Strapped into the co-pilot's seat, she stared at the perfect, golden profile; at the shapely hands, steady and certain over the unfamiliar board. Murder. Nothing but a senseless killing, no matter that Liadens rarely took prisoners. Wouldn't done any harm to let that kid go, Liz started to say, and forced the words back down her own gullet. Not her business.
Nova flipped a toggle. "Tower, this is KV5625, Solcintra. Lift initiates in five seconds. Out."
"Tower here, KV5625. I—umm—"
Liz kept the grin from reaching her face with an effort, trying to remember if she'd ever heard a pilot give the Tower clearance before.
"Is that a clear?" snapped Nova.
"I—yes," Tower managed, with belated decisiveness. "You're clear to lift, KV5625. Tower out."
"Recorded. KV5625 out." The toggle flicked off and quick golden fingers danced over the board, green go-lights glowing to life under the magic touch. Liz heard the teeth-aching screech as the magnetics kicked in; felt the pressure start—and was suddenly slammed back into her seat, shockstraps jerking tight.
"Ooof!"
Violet eyes flicked over her and the acceleration eased slightly. Liz took a hard breath against the pounding of her heart.
"You make that brother of yours look like a ray of sunshine," she snarled, and saw again the runner falling, shot in the back, and the woman next to her calmly holstering her gun and turning to inspect the hull for damage.
Nova yos'Galan barely smiled. "Only wait until you meet my elder brother," she said, hands flashing over the board. There was the barest shudder as the ship switched from magnetics to full power. "He takes an hour to say yes—and two to say no."
"Terrific," muttered Liz and tried to find a comfortable way to sit in the too-small chair. She gave it up about the time they achieved orbit and the power scaled down to maintenance; glanced over at the pilot's station and took a deep, careful breath.
Nova yos'Galan sat rigid in her chair, fists clenched on the armrests, eyes screwed shut, lips pinched to a thin, pale gash. She was shaking. Hard.
Liz cleared her throat. "You get hit?" she asked, knowing, knowing that there was no way—
Nova started, eyes opening and closing immediately, as if the sight of the pilot's board was too much for her to bear. She took a long, ragged breath and leaned woodenly back in the chair.
"I have never—killed—anyone before," she said, and tried another breath.
"Aah, hell. . ." Liz thought about that one, suddenly seeing the runner's death in a very different light. She unhooked the shockwebbing and pulled the flask out of her pouch; telescoped the lid to full extension and poured a healthy slug.
"Here you go."
Violet eyes slitted. Liz pushed the cup toward her, encouragingly. Nova closed her eyes.
Liz sighed. "When Redhead—Miri—had her first action," she said, keeping her voice conversational; "she had a slug outta here."
The eyes opened again; locked on the cup. "Did it help?"
"The shakes," said Liz, easily. "It helps with the shakes, girl. Ain't nothing except experience helps with the other."
One slim hand left the armrest, unclenched and took the cup. Liz nodded.
"You want to knock it back quick," she advised. "Don't go sipping at it like it's some fancy, hundred-year-old brandy. All it is is kynak. Go."
Obediently, Nova lifted the cup and threw it down her throat like medicine.
"Ah!" Tears started to her eyes, ran down her cheeks; she choked and Liz pounded her on the back, retrieving her cup in the process.
"Drunk like a merc!" she said cheerily and shook her head, abruptly more serious.
"Thing to remember is you don't have to kill everybody on the field," she said, keeping her voice easy, without judgement or condemnation. "Wasn't any real reason to kill that last one. She was just running to get away."
Nova shook her head, unlatched the webbing and sighed. "You do not understand."
"So explain it," Liz invited, still easy in the voice.
Nova sighed. "There is danger," she said. "I told you that there was danger. My brother—there are—persons—hunting him. These—they fired on the First Speaker. It is the First Speaker's duty to survive, to serve the clan."
Liz stared. "First Speaker? Girl, I'm no First Speaker—that was just what Redhead's Liaden—"
"I am First Speaker," Nova said, flatly; "of Clan Korval. I could not take the risk."
Liz thought about that one, too, as she unscrewed the flask and had herself a shot, and finally shook her head.
"I can see where you might think that. But you're saying this brother of yours has got trouble of his own—in addition to the trouble him and Redhead were trying to lose?"
Nova sighed again, and leaned forward to stare at the piloting readout. "Circumstances are not quite clear, Angela Lizardi." She glanced over, violet eyes bland and beautiful. "I have several matters to discuss with my brother, when I see him again."
"Yeah," said Liz, thoughtfully; "I can see that, too."