Crystal Heat

10

“Act IV scene 1,” Shadith chanted as the lock slid open. “Digby does it again. The spy enters the smuggler’s ship. Huh! Enough of that, it’s getting stupid now.” She moved cautiously inside and started for the bridge. “I do hope you were counting on concealment and your folks’ loathing for these waters… and planning for a hot jump if the Kliu were chasing you… after what happened at the Market, were I you, that’s how I’d leave things… mmmm.”

She settled herself in the pilot’s chair and inspected the controls. “Well, you’re old, but she keeps you up well. New kephalos, I see. Out of the Hegger Combine, looks like. Ah, yes. I know your kind. Let’s see what the sequencer gives us.” She whistled breathily through her teeth as she peeled the interface and clicked home the jacks. “You’re a clever child, Lylunda, but rather conventional, I think. This shouldn’t take long. Meantime, I’m going to have a look through your ship. Don’t expect you’ll be leaving notes to yourself in your writing desk like that idiot jock-pilot Autumn Rose told me about, but maybe there’s something you forgot.”

It was a compact little ship, swelling around the belly like a proper smuggler should, plenty of hold space with cells for handling tricky items and a mazy confusion of interior walls which was probably meant to conceal abditories used for really hot cargo. Nothing there that she could see, only the ghosts of old scents.

The single cabin was tidy and tucked up, clothing stowed in a narrow closet and a few shallow drawers, the foldaway cot made up with clean sheets. The only extravagance was a flake player with hundreds of selections ready to go at a touch. When she glanced through the index, Shadith was astonished and flattered to find her own recording there, something she’d made as the final exam for one of her courses. It’d gone into University’s library collection and had brought her a few small but much appreciated royalty payments. “Well, now, if I needed an incentive…” She laughed. “Anyone with such excellent taste should never be thrown to the execrable Kliu.” Still chuckling, she went back to the bridge to find that the sequencer had done its job, brought the controls alive, and gotten the kephalos ready for work.

She buttoned up the interface and settled into the pilot’s chair. “Read new ID code.” She watched the string flash across the screen. Smooth. Coming through clear and intact. “Read status of code.” Good. Show me control configurations.” And, here’s where it starts to be work. I’ve got to know your jigs and jags before I dare take you ’splitting… which reminds me, I don’t know your name yet. Well, that little frill comes later. Focus, Shadow, focus. You need to know this stuff…

The sea was, buzzing with flits when she took Lylunda’s Dragoi up through the camou cloth and went running for the line where the atmosphere officially ended, the point where dirt law supposedly ceased to rule. Of course, all that generally meant was that whoever was chasing you was free to nail you without going through the time-wasting formality of a trial.

Someone in the flits had acquired launchers and the missiles that fed them, but one of Dragoi’s neater tricks was an ability to shield herself while projecting an image off to one side, so the shooter blew a hole in the air but did the ship no damage at all, and by the time he discovered this, Shadith was long gone.

11. Bound on Bol Mutair

Lylunda blinked. The sudden brightness made her eyes wafer. She closed them again-and grew aware of the nearly intangible vibration humming through her bones. Cabin. Ship. In the insplit going who knew where. For a moment she didn’t question this; then the oddity of it struck her and she jerked upright on the cot, swiveling around as she came up, her legs sliding over the edge.

She knew it was a mistake before her feet hit the floor. She lunged across the narrow cabin, slapped blindly at the sensor node, and got her head into the fresher just in time to heave up a bitter yellow liquid, which was all she had in her stomach.

After wiping her face with a damp towelette, she stumbled back to the cot and sat with her eyes closed, trying to think around the knives that ground into her temples.

She hadn’t expected her father to use a stunner on her. She’d thought vaguely about confinement; maybe he’d send her off to one of his arranxes in the back country.

And it wasn’t just a stun. I’ve been out too long. Dear, dear Daddy. I wonder what he used on me?

She tried to convince herself that her father had meant it when he said that he wanted to take care of her, keep her safe, but she had a sick feeling that he was just flushing a problem down the drain. That she was a scandal he couldn’t afford when the Ezkop Garap was hunting sinners to fine and chastise and even the Duk would have to face symbolic whip cuts for the edification of the lesser Behilarr.

He was right about one thing, though. Him being who he was, it wouldn’t have been safe for her to go back to the warren. Grinder’d play with me a while, then dump me in the Jotun to poison the fish. I shouldn’t have gone back to Hutsarte. Home? What was I thinking of? I could wait to get away the first time, and I’m never going near the place again…

Her eyes burned, wet oozed from under her eyelids. She tried to swallow, but a lump closed up her throat. “I won’t,” she said aloud. She didn’t care who heard her. “I won’t…” The word ended on a sob and she was crying as she had not cried when her mother’s body trundled into the crematorium.

Before, there was the chance that her father would be proud of her and claim her. Not much of a chance, but not impossible.

Before, there was home as a refuge she could always return to if things go too complicated in the larger world she lived in now.

And before, there was always the dream of making it so big she could go home in a sun-class yacht, dressed in diamonds, with a train of servants so long the line would wrap round the outside of the Izar Wall. And the High would court her, even the Duk and the Dukana. And she would snub them and hand out largess to folk like Halfman Ike and Melia the Standup Whore.

A silly child’s dreams, but she’d never quite let go of them. She tasted the salt of her tears as they slid past her smile into her mouth-and with that, the crying fit was over.

She coughed to clear her throat, wiped her eyes. “I stink,” she said to the ambient air.

“Then drop those rags you’re wearing into the disposal and take a bath. If you’ll check the stowage, you’ll find we’ve put more suitable clothing in there for you.”

The voice came from the announcer grill, an inconspicuous circle of roughness above the door, a woman’s voice, speaking interlingue with an odd swing to the words Lylunda couldn’t place.

“And when you’re ready,” the voice continued, “come to the Bridge. The door’s not locked. You’re free to move about as you want.”