A Passage of Stars Page 3

  She coded the computer to turn on at its lowest level and left Bach to monitor it. Checked and fueled a truck, stowing her gear in the well-armored driving compartment. It took three tries before the engine steadied and stayed alive. Its roar echoed in the hanger, drowning out Bach’s melodic lines. She eased it forward, coming to rest with only a slight sputtering one foot from the lift doors, and swung down from the seat.

  At the computer, the lance of light from her hard hat illuminated the keyboard. Bach was playing chess on half the screen, while the other half still monitored the lift and hangar doors. As Lily passed behind him, he checkmated the computer. Lily covered her eyes. With a few sheepish chords he exited the program and sat ready for her command.

  We go, she whistled. Bach typed in an elaborate sequence. Lily jogged back to the truck and climbed in. Three bell-like tones chimed above the swell of the engine, and the lift doors began to slide aside.

  The intercom snapped on, “Contact. Contact. Please identify. No clearance has been given.”

  Lily put the truck into gear. It lurched forward into the lift, sand gritting under the tires.

  “Please identify. We have storm warning. Close the lift doors.”

  Lily whistled a quick half-phrase. Bach detached himself from the computer and floated toward her. They got inside the lock at the same time. The com-panel in the wall of the lift came to furious life before Bach reached it, flashing warnings and prohibitions. Behind, the doors were shutting, but beyond them Lily saw the hangar door panel blinking and the first stirring as the lock into the warehouse began to open.

  “Come on,” she said under her breath. The lift doors came together with a metallic thud. One of the warning lights on the panel immediately snapped off, but another took its place. Someone behind was keying in the “open door” sequence for the lift. The roar of the engine echoed around her, deafening.

  Bach keyed in the lift sequence. Several things happened at once. Someone pounded on the lift doors, A flurry of messages lit up the panel’s screen in a palette of colors. The intercom crackled and a high voice shouted, “What, by All, do you think you’re doing?”

  And the lift began to move, slow, shuddering at first, then smoothing into the long rise toward the surface.

  “Who is this?” shouted the voice over the intercom. An alarm, high-pitched and strident, began to wail, piercing in the closed lift. It shut off abruptly.

  “Lilyaka,” said her father’s voice suddenly over the intercom. “Stop this at once.”

  Lily shoved her duffel bag a little deeper under the instrument board and adjusted the safety belt for the extra seat so that it would fit over Bach.

  “Answer me.” For the first time in her life, she knew he was angry. “Very well. We will go into the central computer.” The intercom clicked off. The lift shuddered once and stopped.

  “Bach,” Lily shouted. The lift began to descend. “Override it! Override!” Her hands clenched the steering wheel, white-tipped at the knuckles. Bach had been typing; now he pushed forward a second appendage and plugged directly into the panel. There was a furious riot of color on the screen. The intercom sputtered with voices and failed. The lift shuddered. Bach was not singing at all.

  A violent jolt threw Lily into the wheel, winding her. The lift halted. The alarm began to shriek. Yelling came over the intercom, suddenly cut off. The lift began to rise. The screen went black except for a single column of white rising like the level of water in a slim tube. The alarm ceased, as if it too had been cut off. The white column rose, rose, rose, and they were there.

  Air rushed past her face as she leaned out. Bach detached himself from the com-panel and sped to her. She felt the air pressure thicken around her, as if the doors and walls were bracing. Bach slid onto the seat beside her and she belted him in and shut the metal cage around them. A loud crash cut above the noise of the engine. The doors creaked and moved and, with the sudden movement of something released from restraint, popped open.

  The wind screamed in at them. Lily was blinded by its force. With both hands she pulled the safety goggles down from her hard hat She could see scarcely ten meters in front of her. But she merely tightened her grip on the wheel and eased the truck forward. As they came out completely from the lock, into the full fury of the storm, a hard gust picked the left side of the vehicle fully a meter off the ground, then let it free to come crashing down. Lily’s head struck the metal mesh above her as she was flung up, but the hard hat absorbed most of the shock.

  Bach, held hard in place by the cross-strapping of belts, began somewhat shakily to sing.

  Befiehl du deine Wege

  Und was dein Herze kränkt

  Der allertreusten Pflege

  Des, der den Himmel lenkt.

  Der Wolken, Luft und Winden

  Gibt Wege, Lauf und Bahn

  Der wird auch Wege finden,

  Da dein Fuss gehen kann.

  “Commend your way,

  and whatever troubles your heart,

  to the trustiest care of him,

  who controls the heavens;

  he who gives clouds, air and winds

  their paths, course and track,

  he will also find ways

  where your feet can walk.”

  Lily hung grimly on to the wheel, and they went forward.

  3 A Bird in the Hand

  THE HARD HAT SAVED her. Her head and the metal mesh ceiling of the cage met more times than she could count, until her back and neck ached with the shock. Bach sang obscure hymns with strange and inexplicable lyrics for almost half the trip. But, coming around a nondescript corner of rock, a sudden blast of wind picked the front end of the truck up until they were vertical, then slammed it down so hard that the engine died, and Bach’s singing ceased. A lower, ominous tone rumbled down from above: avalanche. Lily fought the engine, but it coughed and started only to die again as a massive fall of rock thundered down directly on top of them. A huge boulder hit square on top of the cage, shattering into pebbles and debris that, showering down through the mesh, scored a tear through the right sleeve of Lily’s coat and scratched a long, ugly line into the impeccable surface of Bach’s exterior. With her reflexive jerk, ducking, she jolted the engine into a strong surge, and the truck lurched forward over the new heap of sliding, unstable debris. When Bach began to sing again—for the third time—the one beginning “A mighty fortress is my truck,” Lily told him to shut up.

  He remained silent, except for the occasional dissonant chord surprised from him by some close encounter with imminent destruction, until Lily brought the battered vehicle to a halt in the wind shadow of Apron Rock, the huge, stable monolith of rock that demarcated the western edge of Apron Port. Here he ventured a brief thanksgiving chorus, very softly.

  Lily had to uncurl each finger separately to get her hands ungripped from the steering wheel. Massaging each hand in turn, she gazed down at the scattered lights below.

  Apron Port lay in a gorge. Broad enough that competent pilots could land between the high walls, the gorge sheltered the town from the worst of the winds. A foundation of stable rock prevented avalanches, so much of the port was built above ground, better to serve the ships, which came in great numbers to carry away the products of the three House mines of the region: Chan, Ooalata, and, of course, Ran-some.

  Red and blue warning lights blinked in wild patterns across the landing fields to the south of the town. In the town itself, the streetlights glowed amber. The sighing clatter of the wind generators hummed in the air, almost drowned out by the swelling tear of the wind. The flash of their whirling faces lit most of the heights around the gorge. Here and there orange lights marked maintenance shafts.

  Lily rubbed the screen of dirt off her face with the palm of one glove. The buckles of the safety belts around her and Bach took several moments to unfasten because they were clogged with debris. Bach, listing slightly to one side, followed her as she climbed down. They stood in a shallow cave. On three sides the rock ro
se over them; on the fourth the wind whipped past. Lily stamped her feet, and a faint shower of dust drifted from her to the ground.

  “Hoy,” she said. Bach, his shine dulled by dust, was still rolling slightly to one side as he rose two meters. All his lights came on, blinking in a maze of colors, and he sang an unfamiliar phrase and righted himself.

  “Right ho,” said Lily, watching him, and she whistled, Let us go.

  They hiked against a rising wind to the nearest lift shaft. Inside it was blissfully silent except for the low hum of the machinery. Lily leaned back against the cold smoothness of the metal walls and shut her eyes. Bach hovered a hands-breadth above the floor as if he was examining himself in its brilliant sheen and was not, perhaps, entirely happy with what he saw. A sound like an indrawn sigh signaled their halt, and the doors opened into an underground tunnel.

  “Hoy,” she repeated, picking up her duffel bag. “What a ride that was.”

  Bach’s reply was very brief.

  Stairs led to Mineral Avenue; there they turned up Gourmet Street. Shielded boutiques lit in gaudy colors as the light faded. Beside her, Bach hugged the ground like an oversized soccer ball, but the dusk protected them from stares.

  At Handfast Boulevard they turned right toward the Harbormaster’s offices. It was closed, but not locked.

  “Please the Void let him be on duty,” breathed Lily as she and Bach coded in to enter. The door swept aside to admit them to the outer offices, plastic desks and dark terminals and the long “permits counter” lying in dim stillness under the glow of two auxiliary light tubes. A short hallway in back, barred by a waist-high gate, which Lily hopped and Bach floated over, led to three doors. Lily punched into the central door’s panel, heard a click, a beep, and finally a voice.

  “Who is it?”

  “Finch,” she said, “let me in.”

  “How’d you get here?” asked the voice, but the door slid open. Lily and Bach went through, and it huffed shut behind them. “And what by the Seven Hells is that?” finished the voice, thoroughly startled now.

  Lily had to pause while her eyes adjusted. The only light in the room came from ten lit screens on the curved console. A dark figure rose, hands moving on the console, and all the room lights flashed on. Lily covered her eyes with one palm, slowly lowered it.

  Heneage Finch Caenna stared first at her, then his eyes slid to gaze astonished at her spherical companion.

  “Never mind,” said Lily firmly, recollecting herself and starting forward, “I need your help.” She walked around the console to stand beside him, examining each screen in turn. Besides the console and its three chairs, the room was empty. Three walls had a blank, metallic cast; the fourth was sprayed with the telltale pinprick of lights that marked it as a wall screen. A low rumble of music came from one of the console’s speakers.

  “How did you get here?” He extended one hand to touch Lily’s coat. “There’s no Ransome cargo runs due for eight revs.”

  Lily leaned forward to peer intently at the screen marked “Departures.” “I drove.”

  He laughed. “No.”

  “I need a listing of ships that have just left or have just gotten clearance to leave.”

  Finch sat down. “You did. Lily! You could have killed yourself! You may not care, but some of us still cherish ideas about you—”

  “Finch,” she interrupted, almost harsh, “not now. I need those listings.”

  He looked again to the door, where Bach hovered patiently, lights blinking. An appendage snaked out from his interior and began to polish his surface. “Hoy,” said the young man. His eyes, deep-set and brown in an olive-toned face, shifted back to Lily. “Don’t tell me I can’t care,” he finished, “not after everything we’ve done together,” but he reached past her to bring up a series of numbers and a log on one of the screens. “Station window is not at optimum. There’s a code two storm. You’re not going to get any lifts for the next two revs.”

  “Come on, Finch. Just check.”

  “Okay. Okay. Move back,” She stepped back, trailing a mist of dust. “You’re as filthy as a tattoo. Maybe you should go take a shower while I check.” He brushed dirt off one sleeve of her tunic, let one hand settle there.

  She pulled away from him and set down her bag. “I’ll wait.”

  He made a face at her, but began typing. A few screens scrolled past, two tones sounded, and new numbers flashed on the screen. “By the Void. Unauthorized lift at dock seven, thirty-two minutes ago. That hasn’t happened for years.”

  “Good watch you keep.” She moved forward to inspect the figures on the screen.

  “Don’t be a push, Lil,” he said, angry now. “Why monitor that close when no one ever lifts without going through us?”

  “Don’t call me that. And what about bootleggers?”

  “Much you know about booters,” he retorted. “What do you know about this ship?”

  “What classification?”

  He checked, came up only with “no match.” The ship had no name or home port listing, just an ID number, and gave only a Station clearance and a captain’s name, Cha. “Never seen them before,” Finch said. “Never heard of them. I wasn’t on shift when they landed and Mom didn’t say anything to me, to watch them close or anything. Berth tax is paid up.”

  Lily whistled.

  “What?” Finch turned. “Hey!”

  Bach was moving, singing a brief answer.

  “Move aside a blink, Finch,” said Lily. “This is Bach.”

  Finch merely stared, mouth slightly open, at the approach of the robot. Bach settled in beside him and reached out to plug into the console.

  “Hey!” cried Finch, starting up.

  Lily put out a hand and pushed him back into his chair. “It’s safe.”

  A few more figures flashed on the screen, winked off, and Bach began to sing. Finch ran one hand through his dark hair, pulling it back behind his ears. When Bach finished, the screen reverting to what Finch had originally brought up, the young man turned his eyes up to look at Lily, his hand still in his hair as if caught there.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” said Lily.

  Bach sang a short phrase.

  “I’ll say.” Finch lowered his hand. “Lily! What is that thing?”

  “He’s a very old, very smart robot,” replied Lily, “and he just told me that that ship is, and I quote, ‘a Kapellan class oh-one-oh-oh-one-oh schooner, late Imperial ID vested class with special powers clearance,’ and ‘Cha’ is not a name but a title. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “None of this makes any sense to me.”

  “Damn. Damn. Damn.” Lily walked to the door and back. “It’s got to be.” She turned abruptly on Pinch, who slowly lowered his hand to the console. “When’s the soonest jump window out of system from Station?”

  “Absolutely none for six revs,” he said straightaway.

  “Then I’ve still got a chance.”

  “Although—” He tapped out a command and watched the reply flash onto a screen. “They could be hanging out at Tagalong. They’ve got a window at two point five revs.”

  “No one’s got that much energy to waste—” She stopped, remembering the aircar. “Maybe they do.” She whirled away again, pacing.

  “Likely chance, Lil.”

  She spun back, reached to grab his tunic, and pulled him to his feet. “If you call me that again I’ll smash your face in.”

  Finch grinned in his lazy, half-sensual way. “You have such a way with words, Saressa. I remember the first time you propositioned me—”

  “Heneage!” She let him go like he was fire and flushed as if the heat had caught her.

  He threw up his hands, palms up. “You win. What a horrible name. I’ll never forgive my mother for giving it to me.”

  “And anyway,” continued Lily with a smug grin, “my first proposition to you was to climb Apron Rock.”

  “Then it must have been the second one.”

  “Finch.” She
laid her hands on his shoulders. “Master Heredes was kidnapped this afternoon.”

  He put his hands on hers. “I’d heard he had some trouble in town. I heard it was bounties.”

  “No.” She drew back from him, explained about the aircar and the aliens. When she finished he sat down and stared morosely at Bach for some time. Bach had resumed polishing, hovering about a meter above the floor. Part of his exterior now gleamed with a brilliant sheen, in stark contrast to those areas that still had a pall of dust on them.

  “What can I do?” asked Finch finally. “After all, I used to take classes from him, too.”

  Lily sat in the chair beside him. All her energy and purpose seemed suddenly dissipated. If Heredes was taken out of system, she would lose him completely. She sighed, resting her chin on one hand. The hard hat shadowed her eyes. “No one is lifting off in the next rev?”

  There was a slight pause, pregnant with unspoken information.

  Lily lifted her head to look at Finch. He cleared his throat, rubbed one ear, and drummed his fingers on the console. The muted music swelled infinitesimally in volume, a melancholy voice singing about being trapped in a chain gang of tattoos sent to mine in the asteroids.

  “Finch?”

  “Not officially.”

  “Finch.”

  This office is not allowed to—”

  She threw herself at him, landing mostly in his lap, her hands on either side of his face. “Finch!”

  “You are filthy.” He put his arms around her and settled her firmly into his embrace. “Now listen here, my unclean one, this is serious. Harbormaster is a position appointed by Central, and it’s a good one.”

  “Then how do you know about unofficial lifts?”

  He regarded her thoughtfully, but seemed to be thinking of something else. “I don’t mind the berth taxes,” he said. “Or the old cargo taxes, based on percentage of profits and so on and so forth. But it’s the new cargo taxes and the destination taxes, not to mention the clearances, that are pushing the independents out of the good contracts. And the forced routes. And now Central is assigning what cargoes people can carry. It’s just not fair.”