Prologue
They arrived amid chatter into a crowded orbit; the wide channels were full of good nature and optimism, overflowing into other bands situated at the edges of frequencies and power ranges which were not generally employed in more orderly, civilized systems.
Daiellen System was not orderly. The planet Surebleak was certainly not orderly, and only just recently elevated to a height from which civilization could be seen.
Never mind. She had not chosen Daiellen or Surebleak for high culture, nor technological prowess. To judge from the traffic and the chatter, she was not alone in seeing opportunity in disorder.
In such busy space, their ship was merely one of many, similarly unremarkable vessels. The pilot scanned the chat bands, while the automatics exchanged preliminaries with the port authority.
“Cortz Lattice,” came the hail on their frequency, “we see you. You’re in Surebleak Control Space, under Pilots Guild TE standards. Repeat, we use a base Terran/Trade/Liaden protocol and my Liaden’s still being learned. Speak up; it’s crowded at dinner time.”
She sat behind the pilot, being not a pilot herself. Her patience for even orderly and precise communication was scant, and thus the pilot sat comm as well.
The pilot, not in the least put out by the casual character of this contact from Surebleak Port’s central authority, only touched a switch, answering in Standard Terran which nonetheless bore a slight accent. That, of course, was subterfuge. Her pilot was capable of subtlety. Not for the first time she acknowledged her good fortune, that it had been this particular guard who had chosen to accompany her.
“Cortz Lattice confirming your signal acquisition, Surebleak Control,” said the pilot. “Cortz Lattice, out of Waymart, for Cortz Infotainment Enterprises, Emtraven Kvar PIC and sole pilot. We seek a midterm pad with modest access for a private traveler…”
“Lattice, hold while I get a visual.”
Behind the pilot, she briefly closed her eyes. On a well-run port, Control would have acquired a visual as soon as the automatic signal had been received. Here…Control had started blind, not knowing that they had incoming a small ship of middle years, and neither a multipod freighter or tradeship? How old was their equipment? How decrepit?
And how could it hope to continue—to succeed—this disorderly and distracted little port? But there, she reminded herself once more; in this case, disorder was to her benefit, and her pilot was proficient—or perhaps merely patient.
They were inside the field, now, surely so. Inside the field, with her goal before her. Having come so far, and risked so much, there could be no doubt that success was hers.
“Okay, I’m guessing a Class C by our terms,” Surebleak Control said. “So, if you got no need for pod-mounting, engineering, power, or major cargo deliveries, I got a couple tuck spots for cheap. Not blast pads, just old ’crete, with a cable to comm if you need it. It’d help if you got your own mobiles ’cause else you’ll be depending on cabs or feet. Can’t recommend feet if you’re not familiar with Surebleak. Things is crowded.”
“Speak to me of costs, payment method, and routing, customs, security,” said her pilot. “Being unfamiliar with Surebleak, daylight sky would be welcome.”
Almost instantly there was laughter. She cringed. Laughter as a general class of action was…difficult. Laughter from Control was near to insupportable. She closed her eyes, briefly, and mastered panic.
“The one custom you wanna keep at the front of your brain is don’t be stupid,” Control said, as if it were all a very fine joke. “Security? We got some. There’s the Watch in the city, and cops here in port. In case you get bidness with ’em, they like to be called Port Security. You want more than that, you provide your own. Daylight sky, now…”
The voice faded, then came back, gay and easy.
“Here’s what, Lattice. Transmitting an orbit to park in ’til tomorrow morning, local. That’s ’leven Standard Hours to loiter, an’ you’ll be down with seven, eight hours of daylight, an’ no snow called ’til end o’day. That work for you, Pilot Emtraven?”
“It works well,” her pilot said. “Thank you, Control.”
“Welcome. So. We’ll be puttin’ you into communication with Sherman’s Shoot-Out—owner of that pad you’ll be down on. You’ll ’range costs an’ payments direct. Nice location, if I didn’t say. Right on port edge, certified legal landing pad for ships of your class. Can I get a commit?”
“Orbit and descent instructions received,” her pilot said. “I commit.”
“Done, then. Welcome to Surebleak, Pilot. We hope you enjoy your stay. Control out.”
She sat back in her seat, and closed her eyes.
They were inside the field, she told herself, as one repeating a mantra, or a prayer. Already, she was more secure. Soon, they would be on-planet, and she would seek out her brother’s people.
One step at a time. That was how the race was won.