Sharon Lee - - Prologue

"Do you have that analysis?" Peltzer's voice was dulcet, while his fingers said soon soon quick soon .

"You're right of course," Slayn admitted. "I hadn't thought it through. Almost all of these contracts are on-delivery or on-event automatics; the funds transfer as things occur and the relationships are short-terms. No one is responsible for a breath longer than they have to be!"

"Codrescu's Council won't move on this: they've seen the records and feel like there's just a matter of drunk-boat behavior. I think that since they pulled a gun it might be more than that, but since they didn't actually gain control of you or maintain control of their weapons, the port's willing, and even eager, to let slide."

Peltzer handed a printout to Theo, who looked it over, seeing large tracts of fine print and not much sense to it.

Theo's so-called admirer, Qaichi Bringo, had joined them and sat beside Slayn on the broad cushions, slowly inventorying the contents of the bag Gazo had dropped with a scan-camera; he looked up at Theo and waved, vaguely shaping what looked like confused unconfirmable paths , other hand still shuffling through the bag. He was a greying and tidy man in an old uniform; the sleeve cuffs and collar were shiny with wear and his serviceable shoes were marked with the indents of guide pedals used frequently.

He'd arrived without fanfare, nodded as much at Hevelin as at Theo, after giving her one hard stare, as if storing her in memory, and had gotten right to work. He talked without looking at her.

"Pilots working the close-in stuff, I like to know who they are, Waitley. You was new, and not Guild yet, so I needed to ask, not being rude. I'm Chief Tugwhomper, see—"

"Tugwhomper?"

He smiled. "Local usage, Pilot. I'm overseeing the yard on all but three shift; and since you drew the hardest attach slot we got right now, thought I ought to know how close to run and if I ought to notch up the safety alert. Din't, on account of you was running with a good second and aside that, the Out-Lady had your record and was giving a thumbs-up."

He sorted rapidly, mostly one-handed, the other hand always slightly away from his body like he was used to moving in g lower even than station normal.

"But how can they get away with this?" Theo waved the flimsy, scowling. "I mean, what happens if they try this somewhere else? Can't the Guild act?"

Bringo looked up, a ghost of a smile on his face as he finished a scan and threw something back into the bag. He got serious, his free hand scratching at the side of his ear where his shipcomm would usually perch.

"Because none of them are Pilots Guild members, and none citizens, and none have ever been here before, nor likely to show face again, that's how they can get away with it. Come in with a two-can transfer and they're out. Filed no plans beyond Eylot's Jump, and then they hardly followed line on that, like to make it hard to trace. The pilots are rated, but not Guild. The crew: low port or worse, I'd say."

His sorting hand found something else that made him smile as he sorted, and then he looked hard at Theo. "You really wanna cure 'em, you can: but you'll have to post bond on the cost of rousing a three-ship intercept, and then you'll need a lawyer willing to take your money for the rest of your natural life and then some. Given the situation, you'd end up dealing with Brine Batzer if you did that."

Peltzer harrumphed. "Pilot Waitley may be required to deal with Brine Batzer. Drunk-boat or not, there will be an incident report. Batzer was agent of record so the port will be sending him a—let's call it a note —on this incident. This isn't the first time one of his contracts has acted up, and Codrescu will have to tell him Drosselmare and all her crew are banned, just so he doesn't get to thinking they're a fine and upstanding group of laddies, hey ho. In the meantime, we'll add them to the not-approved cloud for the next infoshare."

Peltzer stopped, peered at the projection, muttered into his shoulder, nodded, and looked up. "Batzer's within his rights to follow up on the actions of his contracted ships until they leave Eylot space, if he gets a warning. He may do that. He may be too busy.

"So, Pilot, since I'm informed you have an assignment which requires your immediate return to Eylot, and since we're not one of us related to you, bound to you, under contract to you, or contracted by you, we three can act as witness, in that Codrescu has approved of your claim to salvage. In the event that something untoward or illegal is here, we will witness that it was salvage and turn it over to the appropriate authorities, if any such exist."

"Salvage?" Theo turned to Slayn, who was now sitting with a gun in his lap, looking like a child with a new toy.

"I told you," he said. "You're dangerous, but you ought to have a gun, anyway. You get salvage rights on account of being the subject of unruly behavior that is otherwise unresolved." He tapped the gun. "This, for example, appears to be a perfectly serviceable handarm for close work. You'll want to have an armorer do a refurbish for you, as a matter of course. Mark that it's a little more than a dozen years old, the holster could use some work, and you'll want to check your charges before you depend on it."

He snapped it open, showing her that it was unloaded before flipping it toward her. Surprisingly, Hevelin's tiny paw was on it as fast as she snagged it; he looked it over, sniffed it, peered into her face, then comfortably shrugged back into her lap.

She held the gun, absently catching the charges Arndy tossed to her. It was compact, it was, and not cold at all.

Pilot Bringo spread the rest of the bag and contents before her on a side table.

"Not a pilot's kit, but that's the pity. Got some clothes, won't likely fit you good, but can wear well enough. The station's Refitya Shop can use them; that bag, too. Got a couple names on it. Somebody just starting ought to not drag other names along and confuse things. Deep space isn't where you want people guessing who you are."

She looked at the remaining items: small metal clips and a personal knife, airtight containers of—

"Is any of this worth anything, really?"

Slayn took over, pointing.

"This seems to be vya , a commercial container, unopened. Always a friend of a pilot, for use or trade, this is a modest amount in moderate grade—but still, like the gun, having it will be worth more than sending it to consignment. This," he said, solemnly, unrolling a fancy tooled-leather packet, "is a set of matched firegems."

The three older pilots burst into laughter as one; inside Theo's head, Hevelin's amusement echoed theirs.

"Firegems?"

Arndy manipulated the packet. Light exploded from the gems, like a rainbow running loose. The colors sparkled and—there were seven of them; they seemed not only matched, but identical.

"They're very pretty, but I don't wear jewelry!"

This inspired another round of mirth.

"Pilot, of all the jewels and geegaws in the universe, a pilot should never be seen wearing firegems!"

Arndy Slayn was not laughing as hard as he might, Theo saw; in fact, he was blushing.

"I should apologize, Pilot," he said with a nod. "We all forget. Firegems are pretty and even attractive, but you could probably buy a double handful of these for the price of the cheapest ale on the station."

He held one out to her and the light played about so much that Hevelin leaned to look at it, too.

"But why the pouch—how did you know before you opened them?"

"Lotta crew members carry these," Bringo broke in, "and some pilots, sorry to say. They're trade, or more like bait, good for back worlds where travelers are news. And so someone in trouble or looking for some, might open a pouch like this and offer a gem in return for favors, or explain that they were going to get rich, soon, and borrow money on the contents. These things, pouches and all, sometimes with certificates of authenticity too, you find them in the cheap shops some spacers visit."