Sharon Lee - - Prologue

With some effort Theo rolled and sealed the firegems away in their pouch. She was about to throw it into the bag when Peltzer said, "And like vya , maybe something that can be carried if you have room and are not sure of your destination. At times a pilot must act for the ship, after all."

Theo looked at Peltzer, heard Hevelin's deep thrum . . . and tossed it back in the bag.

"Knowing choice is a better choice," Bringo said, nodding toward her. "Some solutions are better to not have in hand."

Slayn reached behind the bag—

"And finally, there are a few odds and ends of coins, and this which I cannot identify. A mechanical thing, a—"

Theo caught the object, and it was as if she felt a buzz in her ear, and a sudden distraction of thought. It felt— dirty . Reflexively, she threw it back, and the nasty feeling was gone.

"Don't want it," she said succinctly, and reached for the signing tablet to witness she'd made her choices.

At that Hevelin chuffed for attention, and images of those people he'd shown her earlier—maybe Father and those others—rose before her. There were also brief flashes of the men she'd fought, and even of Brine Batzer, but they faded. Theo ruefully admitted he had a point: the uglies were gone. This pleased her as much as him.

Getting out of Codrescu was easier than getting in. For one thing the clipping out was just that: turn off the connections, release to the acknowledgment that Cherpa 's port fees were now finalized, and twitch the merest touch of gyro. The ship spun the hand's breadth required to show clear and responded to the puff of gases released by the closed connections to begin a slow backing away.

yos'Senchul, Theo thought, was brooding. He'd all but hit his head on the deck bowing to her on her return, congratulating her both on her acceptance as a Guild member and her handling of the "unfortunate incident," the while indicating that she should sign in as soon as possible to maximize her ship time.

Theo cycled the scanner to local, overemphasized a touch and ended up with general—

As before, the screen showed incoming as blue and outgoing as green, and another touch brought up orbital elements and projected destination or outbound Jumps—and there in red was the incident report tagged Shadow Ship .

"Still here," Theo remarked.

"Yes, Pilot, it is. While the range seems to have changed in the interim, we're still improbably showing identical proper motion. Noted, and logged."

Theo heard an undercurrent in his voice and asked, "You're worried about it?"

His hands waffled, signing no-and-yes , balanced.

"Before you graduate, Pilot, we will have the discussion about the other possibilities a shadow ship might represent. Perhaps an Yxtrang surveillance device, or a leftover from the great wars, or a cloak for a smuggler. All of these and more, including a ship crewed by ghosts, which has been a tale of pilots for centuries.

"But now, we return to things more solid than ekly'teriva , Pilot. We have no need to make the full orbit from here—call ahead and we shall land in time for breakfast. And you will have time to visit the armorer before your first class."

Twenty-Eight

Armorer's Forge

Anlingdin Piloting Academy

Her anticipated target moved, shaking the dump lid, but staying out of sight. She wasn't going to trust a sound shot or try a ricochet; she needed a clear view, and time . . .

The dark one she'd thought she'd already taken care of moved, standing with a lurch, arm swinging toward her, wild shot singing somewhere else. Without compunction she took him down with a three-shot volley, twisting in time to get off a shot at the other one, aiming at the gun itself in desperation—

A flash of blue filled the alleyway; she jerked back, sighed—and stood down.

"Clear on the range," she said, carefully sliding the gun into the unfamiliar holster. "Clear on the range."

"Thank you, Pilot. Clear on the range." That voice spoke into her left ear.

She removed the light goggles, blinked into the room that was really there instead of the alley and warehouse that weren't. There was the sound of a door unsealing, and a light step.

Tiffy Hasan stood about where Theo's last shot must've missed her target.

The armorer offered her the tablet with her scores on-screen, but she still had sweat in her eyes and she was breathing kind of fast, so she paid it no attention. Her muscles didn't exactly hurt, but her left hand was cramped, and she was pleased to let the tablet rest on her forearm and steady it with the fingers of her right hand.

"Four on one," Hasan said, "and that with a grip you're not comfortable with. We'll fix that; take an impression and get you something custom. Not sure how custom—you seem to be able to shoot with either hand, which isn't a bad thing at all. 'Course you don't want to change hands in the middle of things unless you have to. That last shot was a wingdinger, by the way, and a little too tricky for real shooting, 'cept if you're really desperate. You was aiming at the gun, right?"

"It was all I could see, Tiffy. Keep the head down, keep . . ."

"Yah, right. Did what you wanted; the comp counted it as a disable three since your shot would have gone through the hand and put something on the gun, too."

Theo realized she was still breathing hard, threw a hand-signed excuse this toward the woman, and danced about three breaths' worth of relaxation. Her shoulders and arms crackled with the first moves, but by the end of the sequence she was feeling a lot more sure of her footing.

"So, you don't think you want to be a gunfighter?"

Theo laughed. "Give me a ship to fly. I'll be happy if I never have to pull a gun again."

"Excellent. The ones that scare me are the ones who think doing a sim is enough like the real thing to go out looking for trouble."

"I'd go to merc school if I really wanted to be a fighter."

Tiffy grinned. "I been to merc school. Say no if you get the chance, that's what I say. But then, that's experience for you."

Before Theo could answer, the armorer held her hand out for the gun.

"So, while I was waiting for you to finish cleaning up Trantor's docks, I ran the report on your gun. What's good is that we don't have any links to it; no law enforcement or military looking for it. What's bad is the last owner of record died a dozen years ago. That don't really matter—this is a case of who has it now owns it now, and that's you. The thing is—you listen up, Theo Waitley!—is that this weapon is not going to make muster as a day-carry here on Eylot. Most places won't measure the difference, but here, this is a what they call a service weapon . See, it's derived from a LaDemeter mini, uses the same basic design, even if there's no doubt that Ianic built it. That design is why you got that shot off at the end of the sim. That design also makes it too much gun for carrying on walkabouts for fun. If you're on duty, going to duty, or coming from duty—on Eylot you can carry it. Else you gotta leave it at home. That's official, and you'll sign a paper saying that."

Tiffy sighed gently.

"Me, I'd carry it. Get yourself an on-call notation somewhere, and that ought to cover, 'cause that's a technical duty level. I hate to travel without something on me. You can't always depend on hitting someone upside the head with your hand." She nodded. "Tell you what, let's make that impression, now. If you trust to leave it, I'll have it ready for this evening."

As it turned out, between "after breakfast" and "this evening" encompassed a long day filled with petty annoyances. She had to get her class schedule filed for next year, and every required course looked to be arranged as inconveniently as possible for people who were actually trying to fill their credit-hours with real work. Both the kids she was tutoring were late for their sessions, and Kon could just as well have stayed in bed and slept it off, for all the headway he made on his board drills. In retrospect, she probably hadn't been as sharp as she should've been, either—the adrenaline taking its balance.