Sharon Lee - - Prologue

There was a stunned silence, spreading over several adjacent tables.

"Mendoza's captain?" someone asked, somberly. "Where's Shan?"

"That's right," the loud woman said, not so loud, now. "yos'Galan was master—for how many years? Damn! They had all that fighting. You don't think—?"

There was a rustle two tables away and a plump man lurched to his feet. "I gotta get me a message out . . ."

"Queue's long on that," the sad-voiced person said, but the guy was already gone. She pulled the screen to her and threw in her own request. "Now look, Vitale, here's the news archive for when the Caylon got killed—"

The third occupant of the table laughed. "Won't take true for an answer," he said, as the conversations around started to pick up again.

The large woman shook her head.

"Hey, that's Korval-kin you're talking about. Korval is the most Liaden you can get, and if the registry says Aelliana Caylon's parked her ship at Binjali's, well I believe it, cause that's where she always flew from. You know better'n to trust news archives, Tervot!"

Theo sighed. Maybe she should go back to Primadonna , if the comm lines were that long. Or she could ask Tranza to authorize use of ship's comm; she trusted him not to snoop in her private messages.

Unfortunately, she didn't precisely trust Mayko to do the same.

Thinking of Mayko brought to mind that list of destinations, Delgado among them. Maybe she could get some crew rest herself—visit Father and Kamele. Coyster—Coyster was an elder cat now, looking like dignity itself in the last pics from—

"Vitale, shut your face!" came a vehement whisper from the table on her right.

She looked up in time to see the large woman blush, then push purposefully to her feet.

She nodded to Theo, hands asking permission to approach.

Theo granted it, warily sitting a little straighter though without resorting to dance.

The woman stepped closer, and attempted a bow.

"I'd like to let you know, Pilot, I wasn't talking personal. I'm just so glad to see The Caylon back that—well, I betcha most Liadens are glad that she's back, isn't that so? And if they managed to keep her hid so she could come back, why that's fine. I wasn't trying to, you know, impugn your melant'i or—"

Hold course hold course Theo signed, aware that everyone at the woman's table was watching with trepidation.

"I'm not a Liaden, Pilot. Please relax. I'm fine."

"Pilot, your tea, and handwich." The advertised items landed on the table before Theo, and the waiter was gone that quickly. The big woman nodded, glancing particularly at the tea.

"Yah, First, I see," she said, almost whispering. "Lots of folks are traveling quiet. Look, I'm Casey Vitale. Fly with Chenowith and Gladder. Right now I've got Aldershot on a coldpad until they get me new orders."

She handed over a card, and bowed again. "At your service. I get a little het up sometimes when I'm grounded, and right now, what with all the sudden traffic through here, I'm waiting for a beam."

Theo inclined her head, which was the proper answer to the bow—and exactly what a Liaden would have done. She sighed, reached into her pocket and returned the favor.

"Theo Waitley," she said.

Her card simply said: Primadonna , Theo Waitley, Hugglelans Galactic.

Casey Vitale grinned. "Hey, that's a good outfit. Good outfit. I—"

"Scouts!" came the call from somewhere near the door. "Crew of 'em! Weapons on display!"

That was enough to startle Theo, who looked away from Casey Vitale, trying to imagine a crew of Scouts so bold as to . . .

There was a crew of them, uniformed, and weapons in plain sight on their belts, a taller one in front pointing toward the single free table in the back corner, one with a view of the exit.

Hands fluttered all around, and nods, and murmurs as the café patrons took in the sight, and the silent march of the Scouts, as one wearing a half-plex goggle over his eyes and upper face made a large, shapeless motion with his hand. His wrists were encumbered with wraparound healing bracelets or supports, and his face mottled with fresh-grown skin still not toned. His signal, sloppy as it had been, halted the rest in mid-march.

The goggled one said something deep and quiet in Liaden, and threaded carefully through the close-set tables. Her attention on the approaching Scout, Theo felt, rather than saw, Casey Vitale step back to her own table.

He paused at her table, removed the goggle and bowed, deep and wondrously slow, almost, Theo thought, as if it pained him to move.

"Pilot Waitley," he said in a hoarse, strained voice. He bowed again, not as deep, and corrected himself: "First Class Jump Pilot Waitley. Sweet Mystery. Words fail."

His eyes were brown, and strained, with wrinkles that stopped abruptly at the new skin; his upper lip had strange color where it, too, had been resurfaced. She searched his face and found him, behind the strain, and the patchwork.

Rising, she resisted the urge to throw herself on him, to touch him.

"Win Ton! Win Ton, what has happened?"

His grin was fleeting, and his voice even more of a croak.

"What has not happened?" he replied, and for that instant, he was Win Ton as she had first met him. Then he bowed, for yet a third time.

"Theo, I overstepped."

He glanced down at his wrists, and added, seriously. "I took damage. May I sit?"

Without waiting for permission—in fact, as if he must sit—he nearly fell into the chair beside her. She sank into her own chair, and put her hand over his, where it lay on the table.

He leaned toward her conspiratorially, his voice weaker even than his grin.

"We need to talk, pilot and friend. We need to talk."

Thirty-Seven

Conrad Café

Pilots Guild Hall

Volmer

" Primadonna isn't exactly neutral territory," Win Ton allowed. "Nor would our Scout rooms be, I gather," he said cautiously, glancing down-room to the table his companions had commandeered. "Certainly it is too public, here."

There was a dance or a game going on, beneath his words. Theo sensed it without understanding the rules. She agreed, though, that if she was going to be with him for the first time in, well, years, she'd rather it be somewhere other than a crowded café.

"Are we in competition?" she asked blandly, taking her hand off of his.

Win Ton, this apparition of a Win Ton, sighed lightly, eye wrinkles tightening as he leaned toward her, speaking as low as might be heard in the cramped room.

"We are not in competition." His shoulders moved in what might be a shrug as he weighed his words with care. "We are, however, working on multiple balances and necessities, which might put us at odds, and so should not be dealt with in a place as distracting as this one, nor in a place—"

" First , you said you wanted some place quieter."

He didn't argue, his left hand making an exaggerated and unformed attempt at acknowledged .

"We can use a comm booth then, or a conference room." The thought that had been niggling at her back brain surfaced and spoke itself: "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Speaking with one of my favorite people."

Theo frowned.

"This is complex." He pursed his lips. "I am willing to have you choose a location, Theo, but really, no more, here, if I may be so bold. I'll order another tray of tea and—"

Theo motioned, not at Win Ton but at the waiter.

"Guild conference room? Is one available?"

The waiter looked at Win Ton, in uniform, and at the other Scouts, again at Theo in her leather, and hitched his neck in an odd motion, using his head to point.