FOURTEEN
Spiral Dance
Transition
THE HIGH-CAL BAR was gone. Cantra checked her numbers for transition, found nothing to adjust and sat back in her chair, sipping what was left of the tea.
She considered opening the intercom into the guest quarters, and decided not. Jela and Dulsey’d already had plenty of time alone to talk and go over plans, if plans they had. If they were smart—and she allowed both of them to be smart—they’d catch the naps she’d recommended, maybe after taking a little mutual comfort.
Her stomach clenched at the thought of mutual comfort and an unwelcome memory of Pilot Jela’s wide shoulders and slim hips flickered, which she was having none of.
“Three armor,” she reminded herself loudly, and had another sip of tea, putting her attention wholly on the screens and the scans.
It seemed that they’d gotten away clean, leaving aside the questions of who, how and why they were being pursued. If the pursuers were outworld, like Dulsey thought, then there was the possibility of a welcoming party at Taliofi. She didn’t much like the idea of that, but she liked less the idea of missing the delivery deadline. An agreeable amount of hard coin came with meeting that deadline, and a deal of grief she neither wanted nor would likely survive came with a late delivery.
So, they went to Taliofi, exercising due caution. The vulnerable moment would be at the end of transition, when it would take the screens full seconds to come back online, and weapons only as fast as the pilot understood the situation.
It wasn’t possible to translate with the shields up, but it was possible, though risky, to go in with weapons live—and emerge with those same weapons still live and eager to answer the pilot’s touch.
Prudence, as Garen would say, plots the course. Not that Garen had ever in her life acted with what anybody sane’d call “prudence.” Of course, Garen hadn’t necessarily been sane.
Cantra finished her tea, slotted the empty cup and leaned to the board, accessing the weapons comp and inserting the appropriate commands. The timer at the bottom of her forward screen revealed that they would reach the translation point in a quarter clock, which gave her time to stretch, fetch more tea, and—
A green flutter tickled the corner of her eye. She turned and looked down-board at Pilot Jela’s veg—tree, its leaves moving in a pattern approximating the Dance of a Dozen Scarves, inspired no doubt by the flow of air from the duct under which it sat.
Sighing, she came out of the chair, closed her eyes and did her stretches, the while seeing shadows of leaves dancing on the inside of her eyelids. Talk about prudence. Last thing she needed was for that pot to leave its moorings, if the translation happened to be a rough one, which, going in with the weapons live, it was likely to be.
Stretches done, she moved down-board, and stood before the plant in question.
It wasn’t much to look at, now that she had the leisure. It was considerably shorter than she was, and its main trunk wasn’t any thicker than a dueling stick. Straight like a dueling stick, too, until near the top, where four slender twigs branched off on their own. The branches held a goodly number of green leaves, and, nestled among them, what looked to be three fruits, encased in a green rind. The whole thing smelled—pleasing, moist and minty.
None of which changed the fact that it was a stupid thing to have in a piloting room.
She shook herself and bent to the restraints, finding in short order that Dulsey had done a job which couldn’t be improved upon, short of rigging up a restraining field or spacing the thing. Not that she had time to do either.
Good enough would have to do, she thought, straightening and giving the tree one more hard look before she went back to her chair, glaring at the screens as she unslotted the cup.
Clear all around, for a wonder. She carried the cup with her to the galley, filled it from the carafe, snapped the lid down, and gave the little room a fast once over, looking for things left loose.
More credit to Dulsey—everything was where it belonged, the latches engaged on all cabinets and doors. She touched the carafe, making certain it was secured, and left the galley. In the hall, she flicked a glance to the door of the guest room. Red and yellow lights glowed steady, signaling that not one, but two, locks were engaged, Pilot Jela having impressed her as a man handy with a toolkit and inventive besides.
‘Course, the room hadn’t been locked that couldn’t be escaped, but Jela had also impressed her as cool-headed, not to say sensible. There wasn’t any use to him in irritating her right at present. Much more productive to just take a nap and bide his time, being sure that they’d outrun whoever wasn’t after him. No, the vulnerable moment with Jela would be when Dancer was on Taliofi Port. She’d have to be slick in her ditching, which she was confident she could be. What wasn’t known, of course, is if she could be slick enough.
Well, that was a worry for later. She turned and went back to the piloting chamber, slipping into her seat and making the straps secure just as the timer in the forward screen went to zero.
The weapons came up, the shields went down, the screens went gray, the timer reset itself and began counting down from twelve.
. . . eleven . . . ten . . .
Spiral Dance shivered.
. . . nine . . .
. . . calmed . . .
. . . eight . . . seven . . .
. . . twisted like a Sendali contortionist. The straps tightened across Cantra’s torso; at the far side of the board Jela’s little tree snapped a bow, its leaves in disarray.
. . . six . . . five . . .
. . . calm again, but Cantra wasn’t believing it . . .
. . . four . . . three . . .
Dancer twisted again, with feeling. The pot containing Jela’s tree thumped hard against the bulkhead, despite the restraints. Cantra gasped as the straps pressed her into the chair . . .
. . . two . . . one . . .
Normal space.
Her hands moved, one for the weapons board, one for the scans and shields, ready, ready—
The screens showed stars, all around; the scans showed clear, likewise. The image unfolding in the navigation screen showed her course overlaying the pattern of stars, with an estimated time of arrival at Taliofi just under twelve ship-hours. Ahead of schedule, thanks to the early lift. Still, she didn’t feel like taking the scenic route. The quicker she got down—even at Taliofi—the better she’d feel.
She sighed, notched the weapons back to stand-by and scanned again, just being sure.
If there were any ships with hostile intent inside the considerable range of her eyes and ears, they were both cloaked and cool—which made them watchers, dangerous in their own ways, but not needful of her immediate attention.
A blue light lit on the edge of the navigation screen. She touched it, and info flowed down the screen, the short form of it all being that one and one-quarter ship hour’s could be shaved off real-space transit to Taliofi, if she was willing to fly like a Rimmer.
She grinned, fingers already feeding in the amended course.
THE HAMMOCK SWUNG hard and Jela woke, felt the ship steady, and took a breath, expanding his chest so the webbing wouldn’t grab too tight on the next bounce.
“All right down there, Dulsey?” he asked.
“The pilot is kind to inquire,” her voice came, breathlessly. “This humble person is well.”
“Good. Stay put, hear me? I don’t think we’re done dancing ye-”
The ship bounced again, gratifyingly on cue. The straps snapped taut, and the hammock swung out and back, smacking Jela’s hip against the metal wall hard enough to sting though padding and ‘skins. He scarcely noticed it, himself, but his cabin-mate didnhave his advantages.
“Dulsey?”
“What transpires?” An edge was added to the breathlessness; Jela figured she’d taken a pretty good bump herself.
“My guess is we’re translating with weapons on-line,” he said. “With a ship this size, that’s bound to introduce a bobble or two.”
“Bob—” she began, and stopped as the ship settled around them once more. “We are out.”
He considered it, listening with his whole body in a hammock that hung calm from its gimbals.
“I think you’re right,” he said at last.
“The door is still locked.”
He was sorry to hear that, but the info didn’t surprise him.
“I figure the pilot has other things on her mind,” he told Dulsey, keeping his voice easy despite his own dislike of the situation. “Even given that we lifted out early and should be ahead of whatever delivery schedule she might have, she doesn’t know who might be coming after. If I was in the pilot’s chair, I’d want to minimize my exposure. It might be Pilot Cantra’s going to do some flying—” That was what they had said in his training wing, when a pilot needed to produce the impossible. “I’d expect us to be in here until the ship’s on port.”
Grim silence for a count of five.
“What shall we do?” Dulsey asked finally.
Jela sighed, quietly; trying not to remember how very much he disliked doing nothing; and did not wish for a computer, a database, or a stack of reports to read.
“Sleep?” he suggested.
She didn’t answer, and grimness lingered for a bit. Then he heard her breathing smooth out and knew she’d taken his advice.
Now, if only he could take his advice, he thought crankily, and moved his head against the hammock’s pad.
Well. Enough of sleep and dreaming memories. What was needed was analysis and a plan. It was not to Pilot Cantra’s benefit to keep him with her, so she would think and she was quite possibly correct to think it.
However, Pilot Cantra’s benefit was secondary to his own. His departure from Faldaiza had been strategic retreat—remaining would not only have been foolhardy but would have endangered himself and his mission, those two elements being inseparable, and Pilot Cantra and her ship had been available. The question now became: What was best for him to do in order to recover the ground he had lost?
It was a knotty question, he thought with some satisfaction, as he began to assign decision priorities.
He hoped he had an answer by the time Pilot Cantra unlocked the door.