"HOW MANY TIMES you figure on firing me?"
Pat Rin yos'Phelium sighed. "Refresh my memory, Mr. McFarland. How many times have I succeeded in firing you thus far?"
The big man grinned. "OK, that's fair. But, see, I thought we had an understanding. I ain't only your pilot; I'm your backup. This idea of yours—to cash up and go to ground—not a thing wrong with it. In fact, it's a great idea, even considering how much you bothered to tell me, which I really ain't dumb enough to think is the whole story. Only thing wrong with it is you're planning on going in without backup, and that just ain't bright. How you go to ground—you go easy and smooth, making just as few ripples as you can. But you go with the certain knowledge that no matter how smart you are, or how low you keep your head, something's gonna happen—most likely having to do with blind stupid luck—and you're gonna be needing back up.
"You gotta suppose they're gonna find you, and be ready for it. You go in thinking anything different and you might as well take a pistol right now and blow your own brains out. Save everybody some trouble."
Such eloquence. Pat Rin raised an eyebrow. "You intrigue me, Mr. McFarland. I wonder how you became such an expert in going to ground."
"Someday I might tell you," the big man said, shortly.
It occurred to Pat Rin that he had annoyed his pilot quite as much as his pilot had annoyed him. He took a fresh hold on his temper and inclined his head.
"Forgive me, Pilot. I did not intend to cause you pain."
"You didn't," Cheever said, still tending toward short. "Unless you count a headache." He sighed, gustily. "Look, we been through this. Covering you is part of the deal between me and Shan. Do me the favor of believing I ain't dumb enough to go back on my word to a Liaden, OK? You got a problem with the arrangements, take it up with him next time you two are in the same room together."
"Ah." Pat Rin considered that. Such solicitude was . . . unusual; his cousins every one being younger than he, and accustomed all their lives to seeing him set his own course. What had persuaded Shan this time that Pat Rin might meet with difficulties large enough to warrant a Cheever McFarland? Unless . . .
Shan was a Healer, not a prognosticator. However, Shan's youngest sister, Pat Rin's cousin Anthora, was a dramliza of some note—including among her talents the ability to foretell event. Pat Rin had once witnessed Anthora in the throes of her gift, and did not doubt that the ability was genuine. Perhaps she had foreseen the cold shadow of the clan's danger even as he was preparing to leave planet, and whispered a word in her brother's ear?
And, in the end, what matter? Pilot McFarland was correct. It lay well outside the scope of Pat Rin yos'Phelium's melant'i to disturb an arrangement between Shan and another.
He sighed, and favored the pilot with a straight look.
"I am counted quite a good shot," he said, with what mildness he could muster. "I offer this as a point of information."
"Yessir, I don't doubt it. But you gotta sleep sometime."
And that, thought Pat Rin, would appear to be that. He inclined his head, granting the point as much to Shan as to Cheever McFarland.
"Very well," he said. "Since you insist upon remaining in my employ, I will tell you that I require a dawn departure."
The big man favored him with a stare. "You do."
"Yes, I do," Pat Rin said, rather sharply. "Have I made a demand which is impossible for you to meet?"
"No. Would've made things a easier on us both, though, if you'd've thought to call the tower and have us moved to a hotpad."
It was Pat Rin's turn to stare. "In order to accept a hotpad hook-up, I would have had to file my license number with the tower," he said, wondering if the pilot had returned from his leave just a little drunk, after all.
Cheever nodded. "Yeah, but my card's already on-line. You could've filed the request manually, direct into the queue, an' nobody'd known it wasn't me on the board."
"Pilot McFarland—"
"cause you know the protocol for accepting the hook-up, right? Just like you know the rest of the board? I tell you what, it beats hell outta me why you won't sit second. I don't think I ever seen anybody as hungry for the boards as you are—and I sure could use the help. Back-up, get it?"
"Mr. McFarland, I am not a pilot. Placing my hands upon that board—"
"What's the protocol for accepting a hotpad hook-up?" Cheever demanded.
Pat Rin glared, goaded. "The keys to accept the hotpad hook-up are twelve-green-right and the appropriate ship axis is north-south-east-west—that assumes one has a matching power-source, which we do else the power light would indicate blue-blue-red rather than the blue-blue-blue presently showing, and we would be using converters, at a cost of an additional half-cantra the Standard—pro-rated to the Terran minute—for the service." He drew a hard breath, and attempted once more to leash his temper. That a mere hireling should challenge him on so basic a drill! Did he look like a fool?
The Terran nodded. "Right. So you coulda done it, though they woulda likely hit you up for a higher charge unless you remembered to tell 'em to orient from ventral instead of dorsal, since this is a pre-1350 ship and they'd've mistook your protocol 'cause the lines look so new." He nodded again, possibly to himself.
"If you got that much, you can move us around when we're locked on to an outside bay in orbit somewhere. I'd right appreciate it if you'll sit second for me, 'case we might need an extra pair of hands or eyes somewhere down the road. Boss."
Pat Rin sighed, chilly in the sudden absence of his anger.
"Mr. McFarland, I am not a pilot, and my hands on the board would be sufficient to frighten any honest ship-handler into an early retirement. Yes, I know the protocols. Nearly all my kin are pilots. I was myself tested for pilot. And I failed. Repeatedly. I am at a loss as to how I might make this circumstance any plainer to you."
"Done just fine," Cheever assured him. "You're wanting me to understand that you know what to do, you just don't do it fast enough. That it?"
"Yes."
"OK. But there's stuff you could be helping me out with—to both our benefits. You know your equations, don't you?"
Gods, but didn't he. When he was a child, he had thought it a game—Uncle Daav, Cousin Er Thom—even Luken!—would throw out a partial piloting sentence and applaud lavishly when he completed it properly. On those occasions when he missed his line—often, at first—they would gently recite the correct response, and applaud again when he told it back without error.
He had done the same with his own child; teaching him the nursery rhymes of pilots . . .
Pat Rin looked up at the bulk of Cheever McFarland. Master Pilot, he reminded himself, and sighed. "I know my equations, Mr. McFarland. Yes."
"Good. I can't force you to do it, but I think it'd be best for the ship—my judgment as Master Pilot, while we're being clear on stuff—if you'd sit second for me."
The best interest of the ship must carry all before it. Pilot or no, the care and keeping of ships was bred into his bones. Korval, after all, was ships.
Pat Rin bowed, novice to master.
"Very well, Mr. McFarland, as you feel it is a matter of ship's safety, I will sit in the second seat."
"Great," Cheever said, and stretched, arms over his head, hands brushing the ceiling of the ship. "I'm gonna go get a shower and some caffeine. Meanwhile, you call the tower and get us moved to a hotpad, OK? Don't forget to tell 'em about that orientation to ventral."
So saying he turned and exited the bridge, leaving Pat Rin glaring at nothing.
After a time, he sighed, and moved over to the board to input the request to the tower.