Dragon Ship Read online

  So, he was a test case—a test case for both the Scouts and the enemy who had done this thing to him. He was a living laboratory, a breathing battle zone; fortunes and empires could rise and fall in the blood of this one man.

  That the battle was engaged at all was an accident dependent on the goodwill of a man who ought to have been scattered dust long before Delgado had founded a university.

  “But, I can sense your concern rising, without need,” Joyita said, breaking into these thoughts. “His prognosis is good, as far as I see here. The waiting’s in order, Pilot Theo. Let the healing finish.”

  Theo looked at him, there in the screen, a man who didn’t exist, who gazed earnestly back at her, brown eyes wide.

  “I’m glad to hear the prognosis is good,” she said slowly. “I was worried. Do you know when he—when Win Ton—will be released?”

  Joyita shook his head slightly. “I’ll ask Bechimo.”

  Theo blinked; danced one step nearer the screens, not certain she’d heard that correctly or, having heard it, fully understood it.

  “Aren’t you Bechimo?” she asked.

  The image of a man in Screen Six looked embarrassed.

  “Not—I feel . . . no. Resend that: I’m not certain, Pilot Theo. I’ve been concentrating on taking on details, as we talked about. It seems that the more I concentrate on the way this body . . . would operate . . . I maintain a direct access to Bechimo, but I feel myself to be . . . Joyita.” He frowned, and repeated, softly. “Feel myself.”

  Theo held herself very still, thinking.

  “Bechimo wants a captain to bond with. Do you want that?” She threw up a hand as insight struck. “Are you that? The Bonded Captain?”

  “Not captain, no, not I. He’s right, though, Bechimo. The ship needs the bond; there’s a lot of info and ability tied up in rules, and thus out of the way of ordinary view. It makes me nervous, to tell you true, Pilot Theo. We’re not running to full capacity, which is risky, or as Clarence would say it, asking for trouble.”

  “I see.” She hesitated.

  “I was thinking earlier, when I took my tour—here we are on a station with a full-time, full-service office of the Pilots Guild. It might be that what we—you and Bechimo, I mean—ought to do is advertise for a captain. You’re right that we shouldn’t be running exposed.”

  There was a longish pause, while Joyita looked down at his board. When he looked up again, his face was noncommittal.

  “We’ll consult, Pilot Theo. Are you on off-schedule now?”

  She glanced to Screen Two.

  “I am,” she decided. “Your shift, Pilot.”

  “Thank you, Pilot.” Joyita smiled. “Sweet dreams.”

  * * *

  Theo stood by the Remastering Unit.

  It looked . . . something like an autodoc, with similar simple gauges on top display. The most important was the viability gauge, designed to permit emergency triage at a glance. If the unit was offered someone who was dead and who had no hope of revival, the gauge would show black.

  If the unit were offered someone who was dead, but who might provide spare parts for others through transplant or harvest, the gauge would so indicate. And, if the unit were offered someone who was, or could be alive; who could be repaired, the gauge would report that.

  However complex the mechanisms for determining those states, the display itself was simple to understand.

  When she’d originally brought Win Ton here to the cellar, he’d permitted her to squeeze his hand, gently, before laying down in the Remastering Unit. The hood closed over him, and she’d thought he’d be in the unit for a few days, or perhaps a few days and then repeat the treatment a few times, and then—done. Whole.

  Healed.

  The gauge on that first occasion had started out neutral, and as systems checked and fluid flowed, there was a quick and palpable change. The readout, for someone undergoing a minor repair—say a gunshot to the shoulder—would show blue all around, with tinges of orange to show pain suppression. The small mark two thirds of the way down would be nearly invisible in such case.

  But when the unit had worked for only a few moments, the colors had shifted and the blue fell rapidly, fell down to the first third, indicating that there was damage in multiple spots, that the patient was alive, but under considerable stress. The halfway mark met the red-blue demarcation point, and that was a sign that there was major damage, some potentially life-threatening. The one-half mark meant the patient might not live long, outside the unit. The one-third mark, with one-third blue and two-thirds red, that was the sign for organ harvesting.

  The unit hadn’t shown quite that low, not quite to nonviable, but there was the warning of a bright orange sliver, a sign that the organs themselves were not to be trusted. Call that gauge showing thirty-seven percent, and working.

  She’d stood there a long time, watching, and the only relief was that the shades of red and orange dulled, and the unit became quieter. When she left the room her hands hurt, her fingernails having been pressed so long and hard into her palms.

  The following day she’d rushed into the room, expecting . . . well, she hadn’t known what she was expecting. What she saw, though, was the Remastering Unit, the chair beside it still empty, Win Ton’s clothes folded into the transparent cubby above, and the gauge showing a purple sliver to replace the orange. On subsequent visits, the gauge might have shown a one percent improvement.

  Or maybe not.

  Now, though, encouraged by the news that Win Ton’s progress was good—now she looked at the gauge with an optimistic, if still largely uninformed, eye.

  The gauge was closing in on fifty percent green. Good. That was good. But the simple gauge only told one tale: percentage of death. What she needed to know—emboldened by Joyita’s assurance—was the percentage of Win Ton living.

  Theo pushed the button beside the display. It resisted, and it struck her that she might be the first person to ever use that button for aught but testing. The display flickered into depthless black, from which words began to form.

  Patient Win Ton yo’Vala

  Function Change Percentage Report: Treatment Location #13

  General Therapeutic Regime: cleanse to remaster

  Major issues: persistent induced mutational nanomycosis see notes

  Cardiovascular 72% see notes

  Dermal 45% persistent induced nanomycosis see notes

  Neurological / nervous 62% see notes

  Muscular 59% see notes

  Skeletal 83% see notes

  Lymphatic 55% see notes

  Endocrine 58% see notes

  Reproductive 17% see notes

  Urinary 37% see notes

  Digestive 66% see notes

  Senescence Quotient 64% see notes

  Retro-senescence Activity 52% see notes

  SIXTEEN

  Tradedesk

  In fact, Theo had not slept particularly well, at first.

  It was her own fault, really, but what daughter of scholars, brought up to pursue advertency, and regularly reminded of the importance of checking one’s facts, could have resisted the lure of that line of “see notes”?

  And so, she had gone deeper into the Remastering Unit’s screens, accessing the referenced notes, one by one, until she came to an end—and an understanding.

  The Remastering Unit wasn’t . . . healing Win Ton. It was . . . it was returning him to the templated state. Which meant that it was . . . killing him, cell by cell.

  And rebuilding him.

  Cell by cell.

  A cup of ginger tea had settled her stomach, but left her wide awake and full of thoughts too uncomfortable to admit sleep.

  Finally, she had gotten out of bed and danced a deep meditation, the sort of self-hypnosis she seldom used, because the trance induced was too profound for board-rest. So she did eventually sleep, and woke just before her alarm, full of both energy and resolve.

  She hit the ’fresher, dressed ship-casual with her favorite sl
ippers against Bechimo’s cool deck, had a small breakfast in the crew lounge, and went to the command deck where not much had changed, other than the advent of numerous messages for her, for Clarence, and for Exec.

  The crew list on the status screen showed that she was aboard and that Clarence was not. No surprise there, he had a half-shift to go on his date; the status board helpfully ticked off his due-by time, second by second.

  Screen Six displayed a lazy drift of white and blue clouds, as it had during the days before Bechimo made it Joyita’s window into the Heart. Theo guessed that meant the comm officer was off-duty, and set about sorting through the in-queue.

  Most of her mail was station adverts, which she deleted cheerfully. There was a reply from the third name on Shan’s list. She opened it with a certain amount of trepidation—which morphed into joy.

  “Ha!” she shouted, grinning.

  “Your pardon, Pilot?” Bechimo asked, from a position that seemed to be behind her and slightly over her head. “Is something wrong?”

  “Sorry, Bechimo,” she said. “I was expressing my . . . delight. I have an actual appointment with Pilot Denobli of the Carresens!” Her grin faded, and she sighed. “I hope it turns out better than the appointment at Chaliceworks.”

  “You think that Pilot Denobli will be . . . less cautious of an association with Korval—with Korval’s Luck?”

  Theo blew her hair out of her eyes.

  “Well, I hope so,” she said, placing the appointment into her day log, and returning to the scan of her email. “There’s a response from the relay to Vincza, too!” she said, as if Bechimo could possibly not know this. “Maybe I’m lucky twice.”

  But, as it happened, she wasn’t. The response from the code site was that Macker Marooney was out of business, proprietor Ornth Delabar deceased.

  Theo sighed. How old was Shan’s list, anyway? You’d think a Master Trader would be better informed.

  “Your pardon, Pilot,” Bechimo said again. “Station inspectors are approaching, on official business.”

  Theo frowned.

  “Official business?” she asked—and then remembered that Rutland had said they’d be sending their report along on the morrow. She hadn’t expected to have it hand-delivered! For that matter, why not just give Clarence a datakey?

  “Yes, Pilot. Investigator Rutland reports that Less Pilot O’Berin is in investigative custody. She would like to arrange a meeting on our deck to discuss the situation. She reports that us three are on our way. She further states that she is very sorry for this turn of events, and that she expects to be at the tube within moments. That communication ended approximately seventy seconds ago.”

  Custody? What in—had he gotten drunk and busted up the station? It didn’t seem like Clarence, though how did she know what he was like on leave? And, if he had, why would the people he’d been spending the night with have to investigate—

  “Show me the gate,” she demanded, and Bechimo obligingly projected the station’s own feed of the outside of the tube, with Rutland and Clarence walking side by side, and other feet walking behind.

  They paused, and the comm button lit.

  “Hello, Bechimo,” came Rutland’s sorrowful voice. “Official investigation under way, do we have permission to approach and board?”

  Theo wildly recalled that some relationships required public humiliation, or even . . . no, that couldn’t be it. Could it?

  Theo took a breath. She had to assume that this was serious; that Clarence was untrustworthy, and she had to insure the safety of her ship—and her passenger.

  “Bechimo, be prepared to release from the station on my word,” she said crisply. “Only on my word. Until I say otherwise we will regard Clarence O’Berin to be on leave. His board is not to go live until my command.”

  “Yes, Pilot.”

  “Bechimo,” Rutland said from the tube gate, “did we wake you? This is official station business. Please respond.”

  Theo looked down at her casual ship clothes and slipers—she looked close enough to being woke, she guessed. She hit reply as she stood to pull on her jacket, comforted only slightly by the hideaway there.

  “Awake now, Rutland,” she replied. “Clarence has a key, come on in . . .”

  “Had to take the slidekey, Pilot, at least until this is cleared up. We’ll need you to let us in, of your kindness.”

  Custody, Theo told herself, and swallowed.

  “Bechimo, let them in. Please observe; I’ll remain here. When they come through you will close the hatches behind them, and be sure of seals.”

  “Yes, Pilot.”

  Theo stood by her chair. She could track the progress of the group by the tiny vibrations as doors and seals cycled—and then the door to the Heart opened, and the security delegation arrived.

  Rutland stood next to a subdued Clarence, who was arm-manacled to . . . well, no, he wasn’t.

  “Let go, Clarence, ain’t nobody recording this now, or only people you trust, anyhow.”

  Clarence did let go, and Rutland reeled the manacle in. He’d been holding the thing to make it look like he was locked in.

  “Captain,” Rutland began, “this has been quite awkward for all three of us, and I guess now for you, too. But, allowing that timing wasn’t quite as bad as it could have been, this took us entirely by surprise. Clarence here has an Advisory on him, one that requires us to investigate. Now, if you’ll take official parole of him—that means he’s got to stay aboard ’til this is settled—and guarantee ship’ll pay fees and fines that might be accrued, we’ll turn him over to you and finish the investigation.”

  Clarence’s expression was somewhere between disgusted and thrice disgusted. Most of his jewelry was off display, and he looked like he could use a shower and a good glass of wine. He was actively not looking at Rutland, and he was barely glancing at Theo. Every so often he’d look at Grafton, who looked right back. No information there.

  Theo sighed and nodded.

  “Bechimo stands parole. You’ve got our contacts and permissions. Now will you explain this hospitality to me?”

  She hadn’t meant to be confrontational, and the blushes and look-aways all around made it clear that she hadn’t needed to be quite so strident.

  Grafton stepped forward then, and opened his handheld, and looking down, began to read:

  “First Class Pilot Clarence O’Berin, born Strabane and all that stuff including the proper pilot ID number, was on the seventy-ninth day of local year seven hundred and twelve named as an active antagonist, thief, scoundrel, and an agent of the Juntavas. This was sworn to by Hiramson O’Nandy O’dell, citizen of Strabane . . .”

  Clarence snorted, shaking his head and muttering, “Only if they never found out what a foul-scum rust-shaker he is! They’d bust him right back to moon-tiller, I tell you!”

  Grafton may have had this news before; he closed his eyes until Clarence quieted, then went on:

  “As said, Hiramson O’Nandy O’dell swore to this, paid the sum of one hundred bits in support and consequence to file the report, offered and affirmed his willingness to report for a hearing in the event Clarence O’Berin entered the precincts of Vincza.”

  Grafton looked up, nodded toward Clarence, then looked at Theo.

  “He’s here, Clarence is. The thing is, that down on Vincza there’s a rainy season, and they don’t do anything much at night anyway down there, so arrival reports and the like didn’t get run until late and then they didn’t much hurry because the report is seventeen years old and the person what swore it is no longer listed as an active trade-transient.”

  Clarence looked like he was going to spit.

  “What do we do now? This person—this O’dell—isn’t here, is that correct? Not in-system, even?” Theo mentally danced a relaxation routine, felt it kick in; felt her chest lose a measure of tightness.

  Rutland took over for a moment.

  “Well, we investigate. Since you took Clarence’s parole, we got to ask him q
uestions where you can hear his answers, too.”

  “Right.” Theo took a deep breath and nodded at them to continue.

  “Parolee Clarence O’Berin and Bechimo standing here with us,” Grafton said, “we are recording this investigation of . . .” He looked up at Theo as he fumbled with the handheld—“Hit me a macro, you know, else that’d take ’til lunch time . . .” After several more seconds he went on, “. . . in such regard to review and elucidate the facts of the allegations.”

  He looked at Clarence.

  “Clarence O’Berin, did you know or otherwise have a relationship with the filer?”

  Clarence snorted loudly, for the record.

  “I knew him, yes. He was an employee of mine and I fired him from his job for theft. He was stealing ID information and he was siphoning funds that were in his control into an outside account.”

  “I see. A state of antagony existed between you when you parted, then?”

  “Damn straight. He owed me money and a lot of lost trust. Caught me because of his citizenship, and taught me a lesson I’ve done well to remember.”

  “He named you a thief. You reply?”

  “I took back what I could of what was mine and what belonged to the business I worked for. He was the thief here.”

  Grafton murmured to the handheld, “See antagony above.”

  Grafton looked down . . . “You are accused of being a scoundrel. How do you answer?”

  Clarence put his face into his hand, and shook his head. Theo wondered if her mouth had really fallen open. What an investigation!

  “I am a working man who got fooled by someone who was too smart for himself in the long run,” Clarence said, with what Theo thought was noteworthy calm.

  “See antagony above.”

  Grafton looked to Theo, who was afraid she hadn’t quite gotten control of her face. He made a rolling motion with his hands . . .

  “The parole pilot makes a statement regarding the parolee’s character.”

  Theo looked at Clarence.