methane-folk? Who knew? The stsho, maybe, knew, who had dealt more with the methane-breathers than anyone. And if the honorable Tlisi-tlas-tin had to go with the Preciousness and the honorable had to breathe oxygen, then maybe that answered that question in a very practical way.
Which left hani—since stsho traders refused to take their own ships beyond Hoas. Stupid hani. Credulous hani. Hani who hadn’t been in space until the mahendo’sat (with no one’s leave) landed on Anuurn and pitched them from wooden exploration ships into star-faring trade.
For mahen reasons, of course, some of which were sane and some of which were not.
She flipped switches to check working stations, heard Meetpoint’s thin voice in her right ear. “Coming up on jump,” she was able to declare at last, and opened channel 3 and said in stshoshi trade, “Your honor, kindly take position for jump. We trust you have your medical kit at hand.”
Silence.
“Your honor. Kindly advise us if you have done what we request for the preservation of yourself and the Preciousness.”
Fry that dimwit!
“Honorable captain?”
“Are you ready, honorable?”
“We are ready.,”
“Steady, cap’n.” From Tiar, at her right elbow. “Murder’s not in the contract.”
“Don’t say that word.”
“Hey, we’ll be free of it. Shove the Preciousness and gtst honor right out the chute and be damned to them.”
“Not allowed. Subclause 3.”
“They tell you about this Tlisi-tlas-tin character, cap’n?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
From Tarras: “Do I get to pitch gtst out the lock?”
“Negative. Negative. Subclause three point two. No pitching of the Preciousness.”
“What is this thing? Do you figure?”
“Not a bit. Religious or something. Who knows?”
“That’s a blip.” From Tarras at scan. “We got somebody away from station.”
“Ha’domaren. “
“How’d you know that?” Tarras asked.
“How could I not guess? I want a readout on every ship that’s left Meetpoint since we’ve been there.”
“No problem. I got it. You want it now or other-side?”
“Any kifish ship?”
“Two kif, one t’ca. All Hoas-bound, last few days.”
“That son’s going to move. Lay you odds.”
“After us?”
“Lay you any money you want that’s a mahen agent, for some gods-rotted personage we don’t know who, with an empty hold. It’s politics, it’s politics, it’s some one of Pyanfar’s rivals ...”
“Possible,” Tiar said.
“It’s going to come,” Hilfy said. “They’ll try. There’s never been a dearth of Personages. ...”
“Coming up on mark,” Tiar said.
“Advise our passengers.”
“Got that,” Fala said from belowdecks.
The numbers ticked down, everything automated, more so than The Pride. Progress. And more things to go wrong. She still watched the lines, and compared the numerical readout, scary large numbers. She’d done it on The Pride, with her aunt’s hand or Haral Araun’s on the controls. These days it was Tiar’s. She wasn’t a pilot, never would be. She could just ride it through.
“Here we go. Suppose we got that mass calc right?” Ship dropped. Everything went hazed.
You could dream in jump.
Sometimes you even knew you were dreaming, if it was an old dream, an often dream.
Dream of gold hair and a human face.
Waiting there. He always was. Even if he was on a ship fifty lights away. Hello, he said, most times, though he was always distant. He had been, since they had parted company at Anuurn. Clearly Pyanfar had talked to him. Told him the practicalities of things. Laid down conditions.
Hello, kid.
But she wasn’t the kid any more. Things had changed. She’d been married. And widowed. Thank the gods there were no offspring to promote permanent ties with Sfaura.
Give No’shto-shti-stlen the gods-be puzzle egg. And good luck to gtst with it.
Meanwhile there was a human face, a human presence, distant and shadowy, a comfort in her traveling.
You
Which left hani—since stsho traders refused to take their own ships beyond Hoas. Stupid hani. Credulous hani. Hani who hadn’t been in space until the mahendo’sat (with no one’s leave) landed on Anuurn and pitched them from wooden exploration ships into star-faring trade.
For mahen reasons, of course, some of which were sane and some of which were not.
She flipped switches to check working stations, heard Meetpoint’s thin voice in her right ear. “Coming up on jump,” she was able to declare at last, and opened channel 3 and said in stshoshi trade, “Your honor, kindly take position for jump. We trust you have your medical kit at hand.”
Silence.
“Your honor. Kindly advise us if you have done what we request for the preservation of yourself and the Preciousness.”
Fry that dimwit!
“Honorable captain?”
“Are you ready, honorable?”
“We are ready.,”
“Steady, cap’n.” From Tiar, at her right elbow. “Murder’s not in the contract.”
“Don’t say that word.”
“Hey, we’ll be free of it. Shove the Preciousness and gtst honor right out the chute and be damned to them.”
“Not allowed. Subclause 3.”
“They tell you about this Tlisi-tlas-tin character, cap’n?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
From Tarras: “Do I get to pitch gtst out the lock?”
“Negative. Negative. Subclause three point two. No pitching of the Preciousness.”
“What is this thing? Do you figure?”
“Not a bit. Religious or something. Who knows?”
“That’s a blip.” From Tarras at scan. “We got somebody away from station.”
“Ha’domaren. “
“How’d you know that?” Tarras asked.
“How could I not guess? I want a readout on every ship that’s left Meetpoint since we’ve been there.”
“No problem. I got it. You want it now or other-side?”
“Any kifish ship?”
“Two kif, one t’ca. All Hoas-bound, last few days.”
“That son’s going to move. Lay you odds.”
“After us?”
“Lay you any money you want that’s a mahen agent, for some gods-rotted personage we don’t know who, with an empty hold. It’s politics, it’s politics, it’s some one of Pyanfar’s rivals ...”
“Possible,” Tiar said.
“It’s going to come,” Hilfy said. “They’ll try. There’s never been a dearth of Personages. ...”
“Coming up on mark,” Tiar said.
“Advise our passengers.”
“Got that,” Fala said from belowdecks.
The numbers ticked down, everything automated, more so than The Pride. Progress. And more things to go wrong. She still watched the lines, and compared the numerical readout, scary large numbers. She’d done it on The Pride, with her aunt’s hand or Haral Araun’s on the controls. These days it was Tiar’s. She wasn’t a pilot, never would be. She could just ride it through.
“Here we go. Suppose we got that mass calc right?” Ship dropped. Everything went hazed.
You could dream in jump.
Sometimes you even knew you were dreaming, if it was an old dream, an often dream.
Dream of gold hair and a human face.
Waiting there. He always was. Even if he was on a ship fifty lights away. Hello, he said, most times, though he was always distant. He had been, since they had parted company at Anuurn. Clearly Pyanfar had talked to him. Told him the practicalities of things. Laid down conditions.
Hello, kid.
But she wasn’t the kid any more. Things had changed. She’d been married. And widowed. Thank the gods there were no offspring to promote permanent ties with Sfaura.
Give No’shto-shti-stlen the gods-be puzzle egg. And good luck to gtst with it.
Meanwhile there was a human face, a human presence, distant and shadowy, a comfort in her traveling.
You
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