The car was roundly considered a young person’s car. While fast, it was neither shiny nor new; an import that required expensive replacements and a regimen of constant repairs. Its passenger section had room enough for him, occasionally for his mistress, or for his fishing equipment and light camping gear. Not even the board of trustees doubted his ability to drive it, for he ran in the top class of the local moto-cross club and indulged now and then in time-and-place road rallies, where he held an enviable record, indeed.
The local gendarmes liked him: He was both polite and sharp, and had several times assisted in collecting drunk drivers before they could harm someone.
His mistress was smiling from her window. He looked up and waved merrily, precisely as always, then sighed as he opened the car door.
For a moment he sat, absorbing the commonplaces of the day. He adjusted the mirrors, which needed no adjustment, and by habit pushed the trimester. The sun’s first rays slanted through the windshield, endowing his single ring with an instant of silvery fire. He rubbed the worn silver knot absently.
Then, he ran through the Rainbow pattern, for alertness.
The car rumbled to life at a touch of the switch, startling the birds napping in the tree across the street. He pulled out slowly, nodded to the beat cop he passed on the side street, then chose the back road, unmonitored at this hour on an off-week.
He accelerated, exceeding the speed limit in the first few seconds, and checked his mental map. Not long. Not long at all.
* * * *
He grimaced as he got out of the car—he’d forgotten to break the drive and now his back ached, just a bit. He’d driven past his favorite fishing ground, perhaps faster there than elsewhere, for there was a lure to doing nothing at all, to huddling inside the carefully constructed persona, to forgetting, well, truly, and for all time, exactly who he was.
The airfield was filled to capacity; mostly local craft—fan-powered—along with a few of the flashy commuter jets the high-born brought in for their fishing trips.
On the far side of the tarmac was a handful of space faring ships, including seven or eight that seemed under constant repair. Among them, painted a motley green-brown, half-hidden with sham repair-plates and external piping, was a ship displaying the garish nameplate L’il Orbit. The professor went to the control room to check in, carrying his cane, which he very nearly needed after the run in the cramped car.
“Might actually lift today!” he told the bleary-eyed counterman with entirely false good cheer.
As always, the man smiled and wished him luck. L’il Orbit hadn’t flown in the ten years he’d been on the morning shift, though the little man came by pretty regular to work and rework the ship’s insides. But, who knew? The ship might actually lift one day; stranger things had happened. And given that, today was as good a day as any other.
Outside the office, the professor paused, a man no longer young, shorter than the usual run of Terran, with soft, scholar’s hands and level shoulders beneath his holiday jacket, staring across the field to where the starships huddled. A teacher with a hobby, that was all.
An equation rose from his back brain, pure as crystal, irrevocable as blood. Another rose, another—and yet another.
He knew the names of stars and planets and way stations light years away from this place. His hands knew key combinations not to be found on university computers; his eyes knew patterns that ground-huggers might only dream of.
“Pilot.” He heard her whisper plainly; felt her breath against his ear. He knew better than to turn his head.
“Pilot,” Aelliana said again, and half-against his own will he smiled and murmured, “Pilot.”
As a pilot must, he crossed the field to tend his ship. He barely paused during the walk-around, carefully detaching the fake pipe fittings and connections that had marred the beauty of the lines and hidden features best not noticed by prying eyes. The hardest thing was schooling himself to do a proper pilot’s walk-around after so many years of cursory play-acting.
L’il Orbit was a Class A Jumpship, tidy and comfortable, with room for the pilot and co-pilot, if any, plus cargo, or a paying passenger. He dropped automatically into the co-pilot’s chair, slid the ship key into its slot in the dark board, and watched the screen glow to life.
“Huh?” Blue letters formed Terran words against the white ground. “Who’s there?”
He reached to the keyboard. “Get to work!”
“Nothing to do,” the ship protested.
“You’re just lazy,” the man replied.
“Oh, am I?” L’il Orbit returned hotly. “I suppose you know all about lazy!”
Despite having written and sealed this very script long years ago, the man grinned at the ship’s audacity.
“Tell me your name,” he typed.
“First, tell me yours.”
“Professor Jen Sar Kiladi.”
“Oho, the schoolteacher! You don’t happen to know the name of a reliable pilot, do you, professor?”
For an instant, he sat frozen, hands poised over the keyboard. Then, slowly, letter by letter, he typed, “Daav yos’Phelium.”
The ship seemed to sigh then; a fan or two came on, a relay clicked loudly.
The screen cleared; the irreverent chatter replaced by an image of Tree-and-Dragon, which faded to a black screen, against which the Liaden letters stood stark.
“Ride the Luck, Solcintra, Liad. Aelliana Caylon, pilot-owner. Daav yos’Phelium co-pilot, co-owner. There are messages in queue.”
There were? Daav frowned. Er Thom? his heart whispered, and he caught his breath. Dozens of years since he had heard his brother’s voice! The hand he extended to the play button was not entirely steady.
It wasn’t Er Thom, after all.
It was Clonak ter’Meulen, his oldest friend, and most trusted, who’d been part of his team when he had been Scout Captain and in command such things. The date of receipt was recent, well within the Standard year, in fact within the Standard Month…
“I’m sending this message to the quiet places and the bounce points, on the silent band,” Clonak said, his voice unwontedly serious. I’m betting it’s Aelliana’s ship you’re with, but I never could predict you with certainty…
“Bad times, old friend. First, you must know that Er Thom and Anne are both gone. Nova’s Korval-pernard’i…” Daav thumbed the pause button, staring at the board in blank disbelief.
Er Thom and Anne were gone? His brother, his second self, was dead? Anne—joyful, intelligent, gracious Anne—dead? It wasn’t possible. They were safe on Liad—where his own lifemate had been shot, killed in Solcintra Main Port, deliberately placing herself between the fragging pellet and himself… Daav squeezed his eyes shut, banishing the horrific vision of Aelliana dying, then reached out and cued the recording.
“…Korval-pernard’i. The name of the problem is the Department the Interior; their purpose is to eat the Scouts. Among other things. One of those it swallowed is your heir, and I don’t hide from you that there was hope he’d give them indigestion. Which he seems to have done, actually, though not—but who can predict a Scout Commander? Short form is that he’s gone missing, and there’s been the very hell of a hue and cry—and another problem.
“Shadia Ne’Zame may have discovered his location—but the Department’s on the usual bands—monitoring us. Listen to Scout Net, but for the gods’ sweet love don’t attempt to use it!
“Shadia’s