Elizabeth Moon: Against the Odds

The tram deposited them at the main terminal, where they cleared the first level of security and boarded the ’port tram, which took them to the private bays. Once they were in the Terakian compound, Goonar turned on Basil.

“Are we bringing them up on a family shuttle?”

“No, they’re taking a bigger shuttle—one of the duals—but we need to prepare, I thought.”

“Basil—”

“I know, I know.” Basil spread his hands and tried to look contrite, an expression that sat uneasily on his face. “Terakian and Sons does not carry fugitives, does not involve itself in local politics, does not interfere in legal actions—”

“So explain.” Goonar tapped out the code on the shuttle’s access hatch, and the pilot’s voice came over the intercom.

“Yes, sir?”

“Heading up early, Jas. Goonar and Basil—” He went on with the family codes.

“Opening up.” The pilot popped the hatch, and Goonar climbed in. Basil followed, but said nothing until they were both seated and strapped in. “Five to clearance,” the pilot said. “There’s a Benignity diplo shuttle coming in, and that bumps the departures back a bit.”

Goonar stared at Basil, who flushed.

“A Benignity diplomatic shuttle. Does this have any relation whatsoever to the fact that we’re running off with a troupe of singers and dancers from—where are they from?”

“Various places,” Basil said. “They’re talent, you know—they come from all over.”

“And?” Goonar said.

“Well . . . they aren’t fugitives. Exactly. It’s just that they don’t want to be. If they’re not at the theater, then . . . it won’t be an issue.”

“And if they are?”

“I don’t know,” Basil said. “None of them are citizens of the Benignity, and none of them have committed a crime. They’re just . . . maybe . . . people the Benignity would rather have stay there.”

“Captives?”

“Of a sort. Maybe. I don’t know. I just know they wanted to be out of here before the Benignity diplomatic mission arrived and got settled.”

“And they knew it was coming?” Goonar asked.

“Apparently,” Basil said. He still looked embarrassed, which Goonar knew from experience meant he hadn’t yet told all he knew. Goonar felt tired; dragging facts out of Basil had exhausted better men than he.

“Please, Basil,” he said. “I’m the captain now; I have to know. Are we going to be pursued by Benignity warships? By Familias warships? Are we transporting stolen property? State secrets?”

Basil glanced out the window as the shuttle rolled forward slowly and pursed his lips. “I don’t think we’ll be pursued by anyone—certainly not before we can make it into jump.” Goonar did not think that “not before we can make it into jump” was anything like “not pursued” but he waited for the rest of it. “As far as I know, there is no stolen property. I made that clear to her, and she said there was nothing,” Basil said. “State secrets—I didn’t ask about that, because if they are running with data, she wouldn’t tell me anyway.”

“So—do you think they’ll be out of the theater before the Benignity gets there?”

“I think so, yes.” Basil leaned forward. “If all went well, they weren’t that far behind us; she said they’d be packing as the play went on.”

“I assume by ‘she’ you mean Betharnya,” Goonar said. “Is she the . . . what, the owner of the troupe or something? I thought she was just the leading lady.”

“She’s the manager, yes. As well as the female lead. Something happened to the manager they had before.”

“When?” Goonar asked. “Where?”

“I think . . . on tour in Vorhoft.”

“Which just happens to be in the Benignity—Basil, if you weren’t my cousin and partner, I would cheerfully brain you.”

“I know—”

“Delay,” the pilot said, over the intercom. “That pigdung Benignity shuttle has asked Traffic Control for a hold for some reason.”

Basil made a noise that Goonar easily interpreted, and the same thought was running through his own mind. He flicked down the seat com screen, and patched into the pilot’s download of the local net. Ships at station, seven. Lucky number, seven—sometimes. But there’d been more than that when they docked four days ago. Ships insystem, incoming, three. He relaxed slightly. Ships outbound, eleven. He frowned, and checked the departure times.

“Did you notice this?” he said to Basil, pointing to the screen.

“What? No . . . wait . . . there should be more docked upstairs.”

“Right. And look at the departure times . . . compared to the first scan record of the Benignity diplomatic mission.”

“Ouch.” Basil leaned forward. “Chickens scattering before a hawk.”

“And you have us on the ground—away from the ship—a nice fat chicken, with the hawk already stooping.” Goonar knew who would be blamed if Terakian & Sons lost by it—he was the captain, after all, and he was supposed to be in control. But before his uncle reduced him to mincemeat—if he survived to be minced—he could take a few chunks out of Basil.

“Sorry,” Basil said, in an absent tone. “Did you know the Stationmaster up there is a Conselline agent?”

“No—and if you think that bit of information is going to distract me—”

“The ships that left—they’re all Conselline Sept flags.”

Goonar scolded himself for not seeing that first. “You’re right. So—does that mean the Consellines are playing some game with the Benignity, or what?”

“I don’t know, but Betharnya might. If we can get her safely away.”

“Fat chance now,” Goonar said. But at that moment, the pilot said, “Hold’s unlocked. They’ve moved us up past a scheduled shuttle—they’ve got a red light on something. Ready for immediate takeoff?”

“Yes,” Goonar said. The shuttle bumped over the guide strips in the taxiway, and swung onto another approach lane to the main runway. Far off to the right, he could see the main terminal, surrounded by the winking lights of other shuttles and long-haul aircraft. As they turned again, he saw something behind them. To the pilot, he said, “Something’s on our tail, Jas . . .”

“I know,” Jas said. Then, to Traffic Control, “Orbital shuttle outbound, Terakian and Sons, two passengers, ID 328Y. Auto shuttle outbound, Terakian and Sons, cleared cargo, manifest 235AX7.”

“Check, 328Y. Cleared.”

The cabin intercom clicked off. Goonar looked at Basil, who turned to look out the window.

“Basil . . . what do you know about an auto shuttle shadowing us?”

“I hope,” Basil said, now studying his nails, “that it’s a cargo shuttle.”

“Failure to declare passengers is an offense under local and Familias law, Basil,” Goonar said. Their own shuttle rolled forward, on the right-hand margin of the runway. He leaned to look out the left-hand windows. Sure enough, the other craft had come up beside them, the safest launch for an autopilot shadow. And far less visible from the main terminal.

“I know.”

“Are there passengers on that shuttle, Basil?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

No use arguing until they got to the Station. If they did. Goonar leaned back as acceleration shoved him into the seat. Jas pulled both ships up into a steep climb once they were off the ground, then directed the cargo shuttle—unlit and almost invisible—to a safe distance.

They cleared atmosphere without any problems that Goonar knew about—and he had patched in to the pilot’s communications. On approach to the Station, he heard Jas’s bland explanation to Traffic Control.

“The boss has us on the short list, so I thought I’d just autopilot the cargo shuttle up. Otherwise I’d have to ferry Reuben down to bring it . . .”