Elizabeth Moon: Against the Odds

“You knew!”

“I didn’t . . . but Uncle did hint that something nice was coming to you, and did I want to ride your coattails, or strike out on my own.”

“It’s the Fortune .” Old Fortune, one of the real prizes of the Terakian & Sons fleet, had close to the ideal blend of cargo capacity and maneuverability, including an ample shuttle bay and two drone cargo shuttles. Goonar went on reading. “It’s Miro—he’s developed some neurological condition, and they don’t want to rotate captains through the ships in this political crisis—they want to keep people with crews they know, and routes they know . . .”

“Miro . . .” Basil said. “Did he ever rejuv?”

“I haven’t a clue. Get off that, will you? People developed shakes and bad memory long before rejuvenation. But—what a plum! What a ship!” He went on reading. “We’re taking over Fortune ’s regular routes, but I have leave to expand or contract them as I see fit . . . report acceptance/refusal by fastest secure route . . . As if anyone in his right mind would refuse this—” He stopped and looked at Basil. “Finish up that manifest check for me, Bas, and I’ll go answer this.”

The Terakian Fortune was everything Goonar had hoped for, and more. Miro’s crew accepted him readily, the cargo couldn’t be better—he couldn’t lose money unless he flung it out the hatch—and the first two stops went so smoothly that he let Basil talk him into spending several days downside at the next, Falletta, meeting with Terakian’s agents, lunching with local bankers, inspecting merchandise before it was packed up. He found a suitable thank-you gift for the Fathers and a pendant for Basil’s wife. Basil came back from his own forays into the local markets to suggest an evening at the theater.

“I’m not going to sit through one of those acrobatic noise festivals,” Goonar said.

“It’s not that. It’s something you’ll like.”

“Really.”

“ Brides of the Mountains . It’s a really good company, too.”

“Out here in the sticks?”

“Come on, Goonar; it’s better than sitting in the hotel doing nothing.”

The curtains opened on a stage set for the traditional drama Brides of the Mountains . . . a peasant village, with peasant men lounging around pretending to hold agricultural implements as if they knew what to do with them. The backdrop was painted with purple mountains that looked like nothing on any of a hundred planets.

Goonar nudged his cousin. “Even I know more about a scythe than that fellow on the left.”

“Hssh.” Basil gave him a brief glare. “Just wait.”

The overture swelled, and the peasants drew breath. A flourish of pipes brought in the peasant women, brilliant shawls around their shoulders, and the men burst into song.

Goonar had to admit they could sing. Loudly, at least. He caught himself starting to hum along and stopped before Basil could poke him in the arm.

The women’s chorus responded as the music changed keys.

Then they opened out, and revealed the most beautiful woman Goonar had seen.

Rich red-brown hair—it might be a stage wig, of course, but it moved so naturally . . . lush figure, though of course it might be the costume. Her mellow voice filled the hall, and she seemed to be looking straight at Goonar. His breath shortened. He was too old to have this reaction—but his body paid no attention to his mind.

All through the first act, in which the men left on a dangerous quest, and the women of a neighboring village came to visit, Goonar argued with himself.

In the second act, as the women of the two villages changed places, to follow and test their respective suitors, Goonar thought he had himself in hand. Betharnya Vi Negaro—he had glanced at the program in the brief interval between acts—was a well-known actress and singer, and of course she wasn’t looking at him. Not him in particular. Probably every man there felt she was flirting with him alone. Maybe she was. During the dance sequence, he tried to fault her dancing. That blonde was more nimble . . . that brunette had a wider smile.

The long interval, between the second and third acts, found him silent. He could feel Basil’s gaze, but refused to meet his eyes.

“What did you think of her?”

“Who?”

Basil grabbed his elbow. “ Her , you idiot. Bethya. Isn’t she gorgeous?”

“She’s an actress,” Goonar said, pulling his arm away. “She’s got to be. Are you thirsty?”

Basil heaved a dramatic sigh; Goonar headed for the refreshment booths. When they both had drinks in hand, Basil backed him into a corner.

“She’s coming with us,” Basil said. “Actually, the whole troupe is. They’re worried about the borders.”

“An acting troupe?”

“They’d rather perform here than there,” Basil said, jerking his head to the side where, Goonar supposed, he’d already determined the Benignity to be.

“So—you pointed me out as a Terakian.” Which meant she had seen money and influence and maybe competence . . . those glances had been directed at his position, not at him.

“No. But she does know my face. Why—did you think she was looking at you?” Basil’s indulgent tone stung, as perhaps it was meant to.

“No,” Goonar said. And to himself, silently, I know .

In the third act, with the cross talk between faithful and unfaithful lovers and their various temptresses, Goonar tamed his wayward heart and put his mind to considering just how the troupe and its supplies could best be packed aboard the ship. He reached for his handcomp once, but caught himself before flipping it open. But the climax, when the mysterious stranger has won the heart of the village beauty, when her former suitor attacks the stranger, and is killed by him, and the girl must choose whether to go or stay . . . that held him fascinated by a story he had known since childhood. What would she choose? Again she seemed to be looking at him—at Basil, he reminded himself—and again he could not help responding. She was someone to fight for, to kill for if necessary.

After the show, on the street, Goonar strolled along savoring the memory of that look. He could always pretend it had been meant for him.

“Come on,” Basil said. “We have to hurry.”

“Why?” Goonar said. “We have two days before we lift.”

“Not any more,” Basil said. “I put us on the short list.”

Goonar stopped short, careless of the crowd. “What! You put? Who’s captain of this ship, anyway?”

“Goonar, please! Not here. I’ll explain, but there wasn’t time. Seriously.” Basil for once looked more worried than truculent.

Goonar walked on, lengthening his stride to keep up with Basil. “So, just how long do we have?”

“As soon as they’re loaded. I offered to help, but they said they’d rather . . . tear down, I think they said . . . themselves. Less obvious.”

Goonar managed not to stop again by an act of will; he wanted to shake Basil upside down. “In other words, we’re carrying fugitives.” Terakian & Sons did not carry fugitives; it was a rule made long ago for good reason.

“Not . . . officially.”

“Not officially carrying, or not officially fugitives?”

“Goonar . . . please, just let’s get off the street.”

That was beginning to sound like a really good idea. Goonar glanced up the street, at the status board for the city’s spaceport tram, and moved faster.