"Scholar Caylon." The door to the cubicle slid back with a rush, revealing Examination Officer Jarl. He bowed.
"I am pleased to report that you have flawlessly completed the initial testing. If you will accompany me to the simulation room, you may commence the second segment of the examination."
ONCE AGAIN SCENE AND task were familiar, clear and comforting. Indeed, Aelliana found the sim sluggish, less sprightly than the board she still worked from time to time in the piloting lab.
The slow response threw her off-balance during the systems check and clearance operations. By the time it became necessary to engage the gyros and lift, she had largely adjusted to the slower pace, though the sluggard navcomp irritated. In the end, she simply ran the equations herself, feeding the numbers into the board and executing required maneuvers without bothering to wait for the comp's tardy verification.
She attained the prescribed orbit and, as before, the screen went abruptly blank. A chime sounded, the webbing retracted and the hood lifted. Aelliana stepped out into the larger room.
Examination Officer Jarl, who had been monitoring her progress in the master-sim, cleared his throat.
"Very quick—ah—Scholar. I note you were routinely ahead of the navcomp."
"The comp was slow," Aelliana said, hanging her head. "It was much more efficient to simply do the calculations myself and feed them in manually." She paused, gnawing her lip. "Shall I be penalized, sir?"
"Eh?" He coughed. "Oh, no. No, I don't believe so, Scholar. Though I must remind you that Port regs insist a ship's navcomp be engaged and online during lift and orbiting."
"Yes, sir," Aelliana whispered. "I will remember."
"Good," he said, rising and rubbing his hands together. He looked at her askance, as if she had suddenly grown a second head, then made his bow.
"As before, Scholar, a flawless—if slightly irregular—performance. I believe it is time for you and I to walk out to the field and see what you might make of the test-ship."
"Yes," Aelliana said and followed him out of the sim-room, head down and stomach churning.
AELLIANA INITIATED THE system checks and webbed into the pilot's chair, nervously double-checking the calibrations in her head. She brought the navcomp online and ran a test sequence, comparing the computer's results against her own.
Satisfied to six decimal places, and relieved to find this board more lightsome than the sim, she glanced over to the examination officer, who was webbed into the co-pilot's station.
"I am here as an observer, Scholar," he said, folding his hands deliberately onto his knee. "If difficulties ensue, or if it becomes obvious that ship's control is not firm, I shall override your board. If that should occur, it will be understood that you have failed the third phase of testing and may retest in twelve days. In the meanwhile, I am barred from answering any questions you may ask, or from offering any aid save override and return to berth. Is this clear?"
"Sir, it is."
"Good. Then I will tell you that I expect to arrive in Protocol Orbit Thirteen within the next local hour. Once stable orbit has been achieved, you will receive instruction for return to planet surface. You are cleared to proceed."
Aelliana took a deep breath, shook her hair back and opened a line to Chonselta Tower.
STABLE P-13 ORBIT WAS achieved in just under one local hour. The lift was without incident. Aelliana paid scrupulous attention to her navcomp and charted a course remarkable for its dignity.
It must be said that several times during this stately and undemanding progress Aelliana found herself computing quicker, less grandmotherly approaches. Once, indeed, her hand crept several finger-lengths in the direction of the communications toggle, while her mind was busy formulating the change of course she would file with the Tower.
She pulled back with a gasp and continued the course as filed.
"Protocol Orbit Thirteen achieved, Master Pilot," she murmured, tapping in the last sequence and relaxing against the webbing. "Locked and stable."
"So I see." Examination Officer Jarl spun his chair to face her. "You disappoint me, Scholar. After such a run at the simulation, I had expected a lift like no other."
She swallowed, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "This navcomp is more able, sir."
"That would account for it, naturally," he said with a certain dryness. He glanced at his board, then sent a sharp gaze into her face. "Tell me, Scholar, how much time could have been saved, had you filed that change of course mid-lift?"
"I—As much as five-point-five minutes, sir. Perhaps six, depending upon precise orientation with regard to orbit approach."
"I see," he said again. "Yet you chose to continue the course first filed, despite significant time variation. I wonder why."
Aelliana inclined her head. "The safety factor was slightly higher," she murmured, "as well as the chance of absolute success. It is—important—that I gain my license, sir. I dared risk nothing that might endanger a positive outcome."
"Dared not put your license on the line, eh? Forgive me, Scholar, but this is not promising news. Surely you know that a pilot's first concern is for passengers and for ship. If he loses his license preserving either, that is regrettable, but necessary."
Aelliana bit her lip, feeling sweat between her breasts, where
The Luck's
keys hung. Surely—surely he would not fail her because she had chosen a less-chancy approach. The regulations—
"I shall give you an opportunity to redeem yourself, Scholar, and to show me your mettle."
She caught her breath, hardly believing she heard the words.
"Sir?"
He inclined his head, lips curved slightly upward.
"I wish you to return us to our original location. I expect you to halve your lift time—or better."
IT WAS FRIGHTENING, exhilarating. It demanded every bit of her attention, so that she forgot to sweat or worry or take precious seconds to calculate some alternate, less rambunctious descent.
She abandoned the navcomp early on, letting it babble gently to itself while she ran and modified the necessary equations and plugged them into the board.
Local traffic presented no difficulty, though she caught an edge of chatter from a slow-moving barge: At least one pilot thought she was pushing the luck. She forgot it as soon as she heard it.
Numbers flickered, equations balanced, altered, formed and re-balanced; Aelliana dropped the test-ship through eleven protocols, skimmed along the twelfth and fell like a stone into atmosphere.
Lys had taught her to extend the wings and wait on the jets. It was a Scout trick, designed to conserve fuel in circumstances where fuel might very well be scarce.
"Fly her as long as you can," the Scout had told her. "You don't have to kick in those retros until you can see the street where you live."
Flying was somewhat more difficult than mere lifting or jet-aided descent. Flying meant manual defeat of local weather conditions. Local weather conditions had been milk-mild on Aelliana's three previous ventures.
They were not so today.
The ship bucked and twisted, nose going down despite her efforts at stabilization. Scan reported precipitation, turbulent winds. Maincomp reported hazard.
Aelliana hit the jets.
One short blast, as Lys would have done it—just enough to get the nose up and calm the bucking. They flew smoothly for a minute, two.
Aelliana hit the jets again.
And again.
And one more time, as she took up the approach to the Guild's field. This time she kept them on, letting them eat the remaining velocity, until the ship hesitated and touched down, light as a mote of dust, on the designated pad.
The jets killed themselves. Aelliana drew in the wings, ran the mandated systems check, reported her safe condition to Tower and began the shutdown. Beside her, Examination Officer Jarl was silent.
Check completed, Aelliana shut down the board, retracted the webbing and spun her chair, lifting her head and meeting the man's eyes.
"Arrived, sir. I believe the time is somewhat less than half the ascent time."
"Yes." He closed his eyes, sighed deeply, opened his eyes and retracted the webbing. "I apprehend you have trained with a Scout." He stood and looked down at her, his face damp with sweat.
"Such an approach is very effective—and entirely acceptable, should you be carrying Scouts or—inanimate cargo. For your general run of passenger, however, you will wish to go more gently."
Aelliana inclined her head. "Yes, Master Pilot."
Once again, he closed his eyes and sighed, somewhat less deeply. Apparently recovered by this exercise, he bowed as to a fellow Guild-member.
"If you will accompany me to the registry office, Pilot, I shall be pleased to issue a provisional second class license in your name."
Aelliana stared at him, gulped air and managed to stand on legs suddenly gone to rubber. She returned the bow, augmenting it with a hand-gesture conveying gratitude to the instructor.
"Yes, well." He cleared his throat. "You are required to complete certain hours of flight-time in order to gain regular status. Flight-time requirements must be met within a relumma of this date and certified by a master pilot. I note you are acquainted with Jon dea'Cort. He or any of his crew are qualified—I would say, peculiarly qualified—to assist you and in providing any further training you may wish to undertake."
Aelliana bowed her head. "Yes, Master Pilot. Thank you, sir."
"I believe there are no thanks due, Pilot. You have earned this prize with your own hands. Follow me, if you please."
Shivering with reaction, heart pounding in terror—or jubilation—Aelliana followed.
I have today received Korval's Ring from the hand of Petrella, Thodelm yos'Galan, who had it from the hand of Korval Herself as she lay dying.
My first duty as Korval must be Balance with those who have deprived the clan of Chi yos'Phelium, beloved parent and delm; as well as Sae Zar yos'Galan, gentle cousin, a'thodelm, master trader. There is also Petrella yos'Galan, who I fear has taken her death-wound.
Sae Zar fell defending his delm. All honor to him.
Chi yos'Phelium died of a second treachery and in dying gave nourishment to her sister, my aunt, who alone of the three was able to win back to home.
The name of the world which has fashioned these losses for Korval is Ganjir, RP-7026-541-773, Tipra Sector, First Quadrant.
This shall be Korval's Balance: As of this hour, the ships of Korval and of Korval's allies do not stop at Ganjir. Korval goods do not go there; Korval cantra finds no investment there. And these conditions shall remain in force, though Ganjir starves for want of us.
. . .I note that my mother is still dead.—Daav yos'Phelium
Eighty-Fifth Delm of Korval
Entry in the Delm's Diary for
Finyal Eighthday in the First Relumma of the Year Named Saro
DAAV FINGER-TIGHTENED THE last screw, reached over and swung the powertorque into position.
The repair had been tedious, badly located and generally ill-wished. His back ached from bending, his wrists tingled from the torque's vibration, his left leg had gone numb some minutes ago and sensation was now returning in a flood tide of needles.
He aligned the torque with the first screw, steadied it with his left hand and hit the go-stud with his right. Vibration rattled his hands, screamed through his head. He welcomed these minor pains as he had welcomed the others.
He hit the second, third and fourth screws, killed the power and allowed the torque rise to the height of its tether. Cautiously, he straightened.
Abused back muscles sued urgently for their guild rep. Daav raised his arms shoulder-high, then over his head, stretching high on his toes, pulling his entire body taut.
At the height of the stretch, muscles quivering and tense, he closed his eyes and ran a mental sequence he'd been taught as a Scout cadet. Colors whirled before his mind's eye, there was an abrupt
click
, loud in the inner ears. Daav brought his arms down to shoulder-height, then the rest of the way, tension and minor aches receding in a wave of delicious warmth.
By the time he had settled flat on his feet, he felt as if he'd had, if not quite an entire night's sleep, a very substantial nap.
"Well," he said to himself, or possibly to Patch, Binjali's resident cat, who had watched the repair from atop the tool cart. "That would seem to be that."
Patch yawned.
"Yes, very good. Denigrate my efforts. It won't do for me to go above myself. I do remind you, however, that I am merely casual labor, which must account for my clumsiness and ill-use of time. I make no doubt that Master dea'Cort—or, indeed, yourself!—would have managed the thing in high style and half the time. Perhaps someday very soon now I shall be privileged to see Master dea'Cort work."
That he had not lately been so privileged was not Jon's fault, but Daav's, as he would have been first to admit. Indeed, after pleading so urgently for access to Binjali's particular grace, he found the necessities of Clan Korval conspired to keep him away for four days together. He had returned only this morning, to be greeted with precious off-handedness by Jon, who had set him to the repair of the back-up jitney.
An hour or so later, Jon called that he was going over to Apel's for a glass, which Daav knew to be an undertaking of some hours. Trilla was due in the afternoon, Clonak, Syri, Al Bred and perhaps a few others would appear when they were seen. If trouble arose which Daav couldn't handle, Jon desired to be called from his wine so that he might marvel at it.
Now, the repair at last done, there was no sign of Trilla, Clonak or the other possibles. Daav moved Patch from the cart to his shoulder and stowed the tools. The cat arranged himself, stole-like, about the man's shoulders and stuck his nose into a vulnerable ear, purring.
"I suppose it's nothing to you that your nose is cold and damp? I thought not. Contrive to leave my hair rooted to my head, if you please. And if I detect so much as a paw-flick toward that earring, you, my fine sir, are mouse meat."