Sharon Lee: Adventures in the Liaden Universe

The fiddler finished her tune as Cheever McFarland and Miri Robertson stepped up before the rest of them, mercifully blocking Pat Rin’s view of his mother’s face. From behind, the ‘chora began to whisper a faint line of a tantalizingly familiar song. Pat Rin strained his ears, trying to identify the music—then forgot about it as Cheever began to speak.

“I’m going to impose on your patience once more, here, if Ms. Audrey’ll let me,” he said.

In the first row, Audrey laughed, and called out, “It don’t strain my eyes any looking at you, Mr. McFarland! Speak on!”

“Thank you, ma’am.” The big man bent a little at the waist— a bow, Pat Rin thought, Cheever McFarland style—then raised his voice so that it carried to the far corners of the room—and likely the rooms abovestairs, as well.

“Now, I know you all heard me say that pilots is competitive, and you might’ve thought that just meant that them who missed their steps had to drop outta the dance. But there was a little more to it than that. We was also looking to judge who among the pilots dancing had danced best, according to their level, their flight time, and their training. Miri here—you all know Miri’s partnered with the Boss’ brother, right? And when there’s a question comes before either of them, they got this arrangement where both are understood to answer? Makes the family business run smoother. Anyhow, Miri here’s gonna announce the winner.”

Whistles, hoots, and stamping filled the room. The drum tried to bring order, without success, until—

“PIPE. DOWN!” Miri ordered, loud enough to make Pat Rin’s ears ring—and silence fell like a knife.

“That’s better,” she said, m a more conversational tone. “I won’t take long. Just want to say that it’s the judgment of the master pilots we assembled here to watch that the winner of tonight’s competition is—Boss Conrad!”

More noise erupted, shaking the rugs hung against the walls, and he walked forward to stand between Miri and Cheever. Smiling hugely; Villy danced forward with a bouquet of dried leaves tied with bright ribbons and presented it with a bow.

Pat Rin inclined his head, received the offering, and stood while the cheering went on, his eye inexorably drawn to the place where his mother stood, silent and bland-faced.

She met his eyes, her own as hard as stones—and turned her face away.

Pat Rin took a breath — sighed it out, and looked up with a smile as his lady came to his side.

“Shall we go home, love?” she asked, slipping her arm through his.

He looked into her face, and then around the room, heard the drummer begin his count—and looked back to her.

“I believe,” he said, smiling. “That I would like to dance with my lifemate. There are still some hours until dawn.”

The turtles had canceled, the tidy kill-fee deposited to ship’s funds before the message had hit her in box.

Just as well, thought Midj Rolanni, wearily. She sagged back into the pilot’s chair and reached for the cup nestled in the armrest holder. She’d hadn’t really wanted to reconfigure the flight deck for two turtles, anyway.

The ‘toot wasn’t exactly prime grade and being cold didn’t improve it. She drank it anyway, her eyes on the screen, but seeing through it, into the past, and not much liking what she saw.

She finished the cold ‘toot in a swallow, shuddered and threw the cup at the recycler. It hit the unit’s rim, shimmied for a heartbeat, undecided, and fell in, for a wonder. Midj sighed and leaned to the board, saving the turtles’ cancellation with a finger-tap, and accessing the stored message queue.

There wasn’t much there besides the turtles’ message—the transmittal, listing the cargo she’d paid Teyope to carry for her; the credit letter from the bank, guaranteeing the funds, half on cargo transmittal, half on delivery.

And the letter from Kore. Pretty thin letter, really, just a couple lines. Not what you’d call reason for off-shipping a perfectly profitable cargo onto a trader just a little gray—”...just a little gray,” she repeated the thought under her breath—and Teyope did owe her, which even he acknowledged, damn his black heart, so the cargo was in a fine way to arriving as ordered, where ordered, and not a line of the guarantees found in violation.

She hoped.

Her hand moved on its own, fingers tapping the access, though she could have told the whole of Kore’s note out from heart. Still, her eyes tracked the sentences, few as they were, as if she’d never read them before.

Or as if she hoped they’d say something different this time.

Her bad luck, the words formed the same sentences they had since the first, the sentences making up one spare paragraph, the message of which was—trouble.

Midj. You said, if I ever changed my mind, you’d come. Cessilee Port, Shaltren, on, Saint Belamie’s Day. I’ll meet you. Kore.

“And for this,” she said out loud, hearing her voice vibrate against the metal skin of her ship. “For this, you shed cargo and take your ship—your home and your livelihood—onto Juntavas headquarters?”

It wasn’t the first time she’d asked the question since the letter’s receipt. Sometimes, she’d whispered it, sometimes shouted. Skeedaddle, now. Her ship didn’t tell her nothing, but that she needed to go. She’d promised, hadn’t she?

And so she had—promised. Half her lifetime ago, and the hardest thing she’d done before or since was closing the hatch on him, knowing where he was going. She’d replayed their last conversation until her head ached and her eyes blurred, wondering what she could have said instead, that would have made him understand...

But he had understood. He’d chosen, eyes open, knowing her, knowing how she felt. He’d said as much, and say what you would about Korelan Zar, he was no liar, nor ever had been.

“You go, then.” The memory of her voice, shaking, filled her ears. “If this Job is so important you gotta take up the Juntavas, too—then go. I ain’t gonna stop you. And I ain’t gonna know you, either. Walk down that ramp, Korelan, and you’re as good as dead to me, you hear?”

She remembered his face: troubled, but not anything like rethinking the plan. He’d thought it through—he’d told her so, and she believed him. He’d always been the thinker of the two of them.

“Midj,” he said, and she remembered that his voice hadn’t been precisely steady, either. “I’ve got to. I told you—”

“You told me,” she’d interrupted, harsher maybe in memory than in truth. She remembered she’d been crying by then, with her hand against the open hatch, and the ramp run down to blastcrete, a car waiting, its windows opaqued and patient, a few yards beyond.

“You told me,” she’d said again, and she remembered that it had been hard to breathe. “And I told you. I ain’t comin’ with you. I ain’t putting Skeedaddle into Juntavas service. You want to sell yourself, I guess you got the right. But this ship belongs to me.”

His face had closed then, and he nodded, just once, slung his kit over his shoulder and headed down the ramp. Chest on fire, she’d watched him go, heard her own voice, barely above a whisper.

“Kore...”

He turned and looked up to where she stood, fists braced against her ship.

“You change your mind,” she said, “you send. I’ll come for you.”

He smiled then, so slight she might’ve missed it, if she hadn’t known him so well.

“Thanks, Midj. I’ll remember that.”

In the present, Midj Rolanni, captain-owner of the independent tradeship Skeedaddle, one of a dozen free traders elected as liaison to TerraTrade—respectable and respected—Midj Rolanni drew a hard breath.