Sharon Lee - - Prologue

Maybe she should ignore the message. On the other hand, she hadn't ignored a message since break had morphed into school. While that had happened all too fast according to her workmates it had hardly been fast enough for Theo, who enjoyed the company and the stipends of break but missed the school constant of hands-on flying.

Break over, she'd looked toward the time she'd be a flight deckhand, and get her own chance to sit first seat on the shuttle. That staffing notice was one she'd waited for, fully aware that each flashing message light might signal her listing on that queue.

Theo did the hand stretch thing that was supposed to be a good antidote to muscle loss if you were in zero g for a long time.

Asu might make flight deckhand this year, half a Standard after Theo's first of three deckhand runs and first as PIC. Most recently she'd subbed for Freck the day he broke his thumb at bowli ball. The shuttle was all work and no fun, as far as she was concerned, in part because you had to watch the crew as much as the craft.

She stood down from the stretching, shaking her head. For all that Asu tried to rag her about her math, which was up to snuff, these days, Asu was clearly not looking toward being a professional.

The queue lit up as she touched it—mail call.

She danced another relaxation move—until she saw that it was not yet another one of Jondeer's extravagances for Asu.

Signature pilot post, T. Waitley, Erkes 302.

She felt a thrill of anticipation, and Win Ton's bright face shone in her memory, a quirky smile playing about his lips as—but suppose it was something else?

"Go, Theo!" she said.

Thanking the luck that her roommate was elsewhere, Theo cleared the light and sprinted for the door. Asu need never know!

Theo's walk back was more of a trot, the small packet tucked securely into Theo's day bag. The whole proceeding had taken but a moment: Theo entered and there was no line in front of her, the student on desk recognized her on sight, and the packet was produced with a simple "Sign here, Pilot" request.

Lieutenant Win Ton yo'Vala—she spotted it even before it was in her hands, and on signing, she almost fumbled her signature.

Silly Theo, she told herself, just a note, that's all! After all, he owes you a bit of mail . . .

The mailing labels had been printed and signed by Win Ton beneath their protective tapes and there were four additional signatures: a Scout captain, a pilot first class, the student shuttle pilot, and the student on desk, who was a pilot.

She cradled the packet, which was slightly flexible and thicker than a mere sheet or two of paper, but had very little weight.

Not a bowli ball, she thought, but there was . . . something in the packet. Another pair of wings?

It took great control for her not to tear the thing open then and there, but she wanted privacy—suppose he'd sent her a flatpic of him at the beach or something?

Back in quarters, with the door closed and locked, Theo used her boot knife to open the packet, finding paper, folded in half, like a proper letter, and more paper, sealed around a solid lump. She thought for a moment before putting the lump back in the envelope and unfolding the letter.

The paper was so fine it was almost cloth. The fibers glowed with a creamy warmth, and it released a scent that was subtle and charming, with undertones not unlike vya , but not nearly so challenging to the comfortable nose. Just holding it was a sensuous experience.

Sweetest of Mysteries , the missive began, in Win Ton's angular Terran script.

Well you may wonder that I still recall your face and address after such a time. In the way of things I calculate that you've experienced perhaps eighty percent of your school life since you last were kind enough to touch my hand. Count me pleased beyond measure that your days, at least, have been spent among pilots and the striving for knowledge. Mine, I admit, have been full of the tasting of the three hundred teas most suited to polite society, and to the drinking of wine from a cellar whose best days were perhaps some time before the coalescence of the first black hole.

I discover, now that I am again free to access my mail drop, several letters of yours, long held for me; I thank you for writing of the commonplace as well as the adventures and wish there had been some way for me, with decorum and according to the Code, to have done the same for you. I can, with no great damage to the Code, choose now a random day from my recent past and let you imagine that most days were much like it, once in fact my most major duty was done, which alas required both more time and effort than I would have expected.

In any case, we would share a lakefront vista from the deep-porch opening onto the joint chambers; tapping a bell would summon several teas and a grudging morning wine, and each day I might request as much or as little of a breakfast as I wished. Alas, the Scout in me made an unusual request or two over time, but my hosts fed me all with aplomb, from full-dinner pasta to crackers and fish paste, always with a complement of juices, marmalades, jellies, and breads enough to have brought the whole of one of our dinner tables on Vashtara to full-belly belching .

This came at the page turn and Theo laughed, admitting to herself that far too many of the cruise passengers they had traveled with had indeed overfed. But here before her, she had the account of his adventure, which was far less boring than he pretended.

This delightful repast is to consume near the whole of the morning, though I was able to carve out for myself time for proper exercise both morning and afternoon by assuming the practice of surf-swimming, as my running was seen as a provocation to the good nature of the small but always elegant community where we resided. Only once did I make the mistake of returning from my swim with a finned creature I thought suitable for dinner, for the cook surely has a better eye than mine for what is finest in a fresh fish.

The company most mornings included the two of us and a smattering of available house kin; on a few memorable days we also shared time with various medicos and consultants, but the less of that, the better.

Of the afternoons, when not whiling away the time identifying craft from their contrails and altitude, I sometimes read of the popular literature so that of the evening I might discourse properly. While the fact that I am a pilot weighed heavily in my choosing, the larger clan wished to know next to nothing about what it is that pilots do, and the fact that I am a Scout was shared most quietly indeed.

Afternoons were often social affairs; here it was that the Lady shone in her knowledge of teas, and I met the very heart of the insipid community which I had already fled to become a pilot.

I warn you, Sweetness, the society of pilots is loud, boisterous, bawdy, challenging, and dangerous. While the High Houses of Liad may be no less dangerous and challenging, they lack the social graces of loud, boisterous, and bawdy; most of them assume competencies never aspired to and lack an understanding of what the word "survive" means unless it involves a multi-year multi-clan Balance. While one should never underestimate a Liaden—or anyone!—the assumption that survival is implicit in position is surely difficult to maintain over time.

This on the page turn; she was momentarily distracted by some curious marginal marks; almost it seemed hand-talk brought down to paper, as if Win Ton had paused in his narrative to argue briefly with himself.

The evening discussions were mixed events. If I have not mentioned it before, I will now: we, the hopeful couple, were situated in a summer cottage large enough to house my clan entire, and perhaps yours, too, had you one. It shared a bay with a few similar houses, and a truly wondrous view of ocean. The lady's clan sent various of her kin to us from time to time, and from discussion not well hid from me I discovered the lady's need for a child was becoming urgent and the choice of myself, younger than she by a dozen Standards, was seen as means to incite success in one with little hope.