Ivan Cat - The Burning Heart of Night

The Gattler's business end continued to waver over Karr's forehead. Karr decided he had better do something before the girl accidentally vaporized his head. But what? Pilot-flatlander encounters were Karr's least competent, and least liked, area of expertise. He wracked his brain for an appropriate section of Academy procedure. In hostile situations seek to keep discourse calm. Endeavor to diffuse volatile encounters by placating individuals armed with life-threatening devices.

Karr attempted to follow that procedure.

"I'm sorry, young lady. Please understand, a pack of these things just tried to kill me? "

"Don't call me young lady!" the girl said angrily. "Nobody calls me that, not even an outworlder!"

Karr realized that his first impression of the female was incorrect. Although she had appeared quite young from a distance, up close was a different, contradictory story. She couldn't weigh more than one hundred pounds soaking wet, her build being sprightly and only just beginning to flesh out, as if she were fourteen or fifteen, but there was a mature ease to her movements and her icy blue eyes burned into his with none of the shyness of puberty.

"I'm twenty-three standard years old," she said indignantly. "How old are you?"

Karr thought it a strange question, but her response to his answer, "Thirty-four," was even stranger.

She gave Karr a once over, as if seeing him for the first time, abruptly lowered the Gattler and backed off.

She slapped the creature on its flank. "Arrou, get off him. Get off."

Arrou got off. The alien's great weight eased up and Karr felt needles of circulation returning to his extremities. He stood up, flexing his hands and stomping his feet, but then the young-looking woman's face went pink and a cool breeze reminded Karr about his lack of clothing. Slapping hands over modest regions, he splashed across the deck to the limited cover of the cockpit.

Krunch! The lifter glanced off the island yet again. Karr took a moment to adjust the throttles. The hull veered out to sea. Then, looking back, he pointed at the crash couch and asked, tentatively, "Would you pass me that uniform, please?"

Jenette picked up the garment, her cheeks flushing hotly. The outworlder was so different from New

Ascension men? and certainly not a gelding, that was for sure.

"Could you just throw it from there?" he requested as she neared the cockpit.

Jenette obliged, mesmerized. The outworlder was not a pimply-faced adolescent or a weather-wrinkled geriatric, but thirty-four. Thirty-four! That was middle-aged by New Ascension standards. Jenette had read about that condition in books, but had never seen it first hand.

The still-curing uniform stuck together, resisting the outworlder's attempts to put it on. Jenette knew she should look away, but her eyes were tempted as he squirmed into it. Arms slipped into sleeves. Pant legs stretched as long limbs pressed into them.

The fabric slid over a nicely toned butt.

Technician's hands sealed a fiberweld-strip up the front and pulled on boots, which Jenette also tossed upon request. Finally, he climbed out of the cockpit? killing the engines as he did so? and stood, looking quite ill at ease, but also quite dashing in the white uniform.

Nobody moved. Nobody said anything.

He tried, ineffectually, to smooth a shock of unruly hair. "Sorry about the misunderstanding," he ventured, eyes darting at Arrou.

"Rrrrr," Arrou growled, sniffing him. "Smell like flowers."

Jenette drew a sharp breath? jasmine!? and abruptly remembered the significance of the smell of jasmine and a white uniform. She took a step closer. There were gold shooting stars on the outworlder's collar and gold bars at his cuffs.

"You're a Pilot!"

"Yes," the outworlder said nervously, adding, "I crashed here yesterday."

The word "Pilot" hit Jenette like a tidal wave. It was a word steeped in Enclave history, spoken with reverence verging on the religious. She unconsciously stacked her fists over her heart. "If you're a Pilot,"

she said as the implications caught up with her, "then you came in a fugueship. You can take us off this planet!" For a brief instant Jenette imagined a wonderful new future on a different world, without Sacrament and Scourge: no more fear of growing old, no more slavery, no more war....

But the Pilot held up a hand. "I crashed," he repeated.

Jenette looked around the wrecked vessel, suddenly realizing that it was not a boat, but the remains of a spacecraft of some kind. "Can't you call another one down from orbit?" she asked.

The Pilot's face, already grave, became graver. "You don't understand. I'm not talking about this heap." He stole a look to the southwest. "I crashed my fugueship."

Those words caused him pain, Jenette saw.

But she barely knew what to think, never mind say. The hope of evacuation had been euphoric, and short, which was disappointing, but the reality of a Pilot on New Ascension, that changed everything. Her father's plans. The Body's plans. Her plans.... A Pilot was a wild card. Jenette quickly decided that until she knew how he fit unto the grand scheme of things, she must be careful of what she said. Still, she could not help sympathizing with the strange man. He knew nothing of the maelstrom that he had fallen

into, nothing of Sacrament and Scourge and, like her, he was stranded in a hostile environment not of his own choosing.

She extended her hand. "I'm Subconsul? er, Consul? Jenette Tesla, and that's Arrou."

The Pilot stared at her outstretched hand, his own hovering undecidedly between the two of them.

" I don't bite," Jenette joked.

Slowly, tentatively, his fingertips drew closer to hers. She shivered involuntarily as their palms touched, then slipped together, and Jenette was pleasantly surprised by a firm clasp. He did not flinch like a gelding.

"Fugueship Pilot Lindal Karr," he said.

"Welcome to New Ascension."

Karr rolled the words over his tongue. "New Ascension." He pulled his hand back.

Jenette couldn't read his expression. Was the dour set of the Pilot's mouth a wry grin or a grimace?

Was he relieved, distressed, happy? She couldn't tell.

"Is your colony near?" Karr asked.

"No," Jenette said quickly.

"Yes," Arrou blurted at the same time.

Karr frowned.

"No and yes," Jenette hurried to find an explanation that served her purposes, without outright lying.

"But we can't go there. Our crawler is broken."

Unconsciously, she glanced northeast, back toward the Enclave.

Karr caught the look. His frown deepened. "It seems we are at cross purposes."

Jenette cursed herself for such a stupid mistake. Now the Pilot would demand to be taken to the Enclave. "Not cross purposes," she said, trying to smooth things over, "no, a miscommunication ... that's all."

Karr stiffened. "No miscommunication. Your attempt to deceive is clear. I am trained to spot such flatlander behavior patterns."

"No," Jenette protested, "that's not? "

Karr cut her off. Clearly uncomfortable with how their dialogue was unfolding, his words came out stiffly and formally. "Let us be direct with one another. My objective lies in the direction opposite your colony. I cannot transport you there. If you wish I will deposit you on a nearby island, but considering the violent nature of indigenous species, that does not seem wise. You may accompany me, if you desist in attempts to manipulate, and I will attempt to return you to your colony after my objectives are complete.

But I warn you, that may be some time from now. I regret speaking so harshly, but that is the situation."

Karr stood defiant, expecting protest.

Jenette could hardly restrain her joy. She forced herself to look suitably chastised. "I'm sorry. Of course we will be glad to go with you and help you any way we can."