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."
Tools neatly hung away, Daav closed the cart and moved silently toward the front of the garage, stripping off his work gloves as he walked. The sight of his naked hands gave him a momentary shock, and he lifted a finger to touch the chain about his neck. Korval's Ring hung, secret and safe, hidden below the lacing of his shirt.
"Do you know," he said to the cat riding his shoulders, "I believe I shall see if I can repair the tea-maker. It's my belief Jon has recalibrated the brewing sensor in order to save money on leaf."
Patch yawned. This was an old line of chat, after all. Dozens of Scout fingers had been inside the tea-maker over the years, seeking to correct its tragic fault—all, thus far, in vain.
"I might just buy a new unit," Daav mused, rounding the ladder that led to the cat-walk. "And install it one day while he's out courting Mistress Apel."
That idea appealed. Daav ducked under a guy-rope and came out into the minor open space of the crew's lounge. Sitting before the tea-maker on the scarred counter—indeed, entirely concealing that rather bulky object—was a box. Attached to the box was a paper, 'scribed in garish orange ink. Daav plucked the paper free.
Leave my teapot alone, you assassin. Jon dea'Cort's perpendicular hand was unmistakable.
When you've done with that minor five-minute repair job up-bay, lift this to Outyard Eight. Gat expects delivery before Solcintra midnight.
Daav grinned. "Horrid old man," he said affectionately, reaching up to rub Patch's ear. The purring intensified, setting up a very pleasant vibration across his shoulders.
"So, my friend, shall you watch the shop until Trilla arrives? Or shall we go back to the office and see what sense can be made from the roster-sheet? There's a—" Patch shifted abruptly on his shoulder, claws skritching across the leather vest.
Daav turned as the crew door cycled, admitting a wedge of mid-morning sun and a bulky, hesitant shadow.
The shadow came two steps into the garage, walking with something near Scout silence, then paused, head moving from side to side while the door cycled closed behind.
Patch twisted to his feet and jumped from Daav's shoulder, landing noisily atop one of the ancient stools.
"Hello?" The voice was strong and even, an odd partner for that uncertain manner. She came forward, soft-footed on the hard floor.
"Master—oh." A tensing of her entire body, as if for a blow, and a jerky inclination of the head. "I—beg your pardon," she stammered in Adult-to-Adult. "I was—Is Master dea'Cort about?"
"Not just at the moment," Daav said, deliberately relaxing his muscles and letting his mouth curl slightly upward. "May I assist you? I am Daav—one of the crew here, you see." He used his chin to point at the black-and-white cat now perched, erect and dignified, atop a stool cushioned in dull green leather.
"Patch will vouch for me."
She turned her head, furtively, as if expecting a reprimand, and drifted forward another few steps, pausing with her hip against the farthest of the disordered semi-circle of stools.
"Patch?"
"Half-owner and resident cat," Daav returned, pitching his voice for foolery. "We've been known to each other any time these eight years. His word is quite as good as Jon's."
She turned back, head lifting sharply, giving him sight of a tense, fine-featured face dominated by a pair of shadowed green eyes.
"You—are—a Scout."
"Retired, alas," he replied, hoping serious gentleness might fare better than comradely joking. "Is there some way in which I might serve you?"
"I had come," she began, and then cut off with a gasp, not recoiling so much as freezing in place, head bent to stare—
At Patch, who was twisting this way and that, stropping himself against her hip and purring outrageously.
"What—" Her voice died as if breath had failed her. Daav stepped gently forward.
"He wants his chin rubbed, spoiled creature. Like this." He reached down, carefully unthreatening, and demonstrated. The purring reached an alarming level.
"I—see." She extended a thin hand adorned by an antique puzzle-ring and used two tentative fingers on the black-splotched chin.
"A bit more forcefully," Daav coached gently. "It's a hedonist, I fear."
Once again, that quick lift of the head and startled flash of eyes. Then her attention was back on the cat, her face hidden by a rippling fall of tawny hair.
Daav made himself restful, as Rockflower had labored to teach him, cleared his mind of judging thoughts and allowed the woman before him to elucidate herself.
Observed thus, she was not bulky, but desperately thin, disguised and armored in layers of overlarge clothing. Likewise, the feral tension and the quiet, uncertain movements were two wedges of the same shield, meant to hold the world away.
Look away,
her tense shoulders seem to say.
Look at anyone—at anything—else, but at me.
She was misused, whoever she was—a person urgently in need of the benediction of friendship.
One of Jon's stray kittens,
Daav thought, but the notion sat not entirely balanced. He watched her fingers on the cat, more certain now, having moved from chin to ear in response to Patch's explicit direction.
Comrades she might need, and someone to ensure she was fed, yet he felt she was not entirely a stray. About the rigid shoulders sat a mantle of purpose and from beneath the imperfect, ill-confining armor roiled such a potent brew of energy that Daav shivered.
The woman's thin body registered his movement, countered it with an abrupt cessation of her own motion. He received the impression that green eyes had read his face through the curtain of her hair.
"I had come," she said, and the burr of a Chonselta accent tickled his ear, "to find if my ship was ready to lift. Master dea'Cort had said—perhaps it might be—today. Depending upon the crew."
"Ah. I am able to assist you, then. If you will walk with me to the office, we may check the roster."
"I am grateful," she said formally, and kept a wary step behind him down to Jon's office at the back of the bay, Patch walking, high-tailed, at her side.
Daav tipped the screen up and tapped the on-switch.
"May I know the name of your ship?" he murmured as she came forward, stopping with the solid mass of the desk between them. Patch jumped nimbly to the cluttered surface and leaned companionably against her side.
"
Ride the Luck
."
In the act of calling up the roster, he froze, and shot a glance at her shrouded face. Daav knew Vin Sin chel'Mara, as well as mutual dislike allowed, and knew somewhat of His Lordship's habits. He cleared his throat.
"Ma'am . . ."
"It is not complete," she interrupted, shoulders sagging within her large, shabby shirt. "I had hoped—but of course there was a great deal of work to be done. Might—might the roster indicate, sir, when she will be ready to lift?"
"Well," Daav murmured, "let us see." He tapped in the required information, then stood, blinking like an idiot, reading the name on the work order, over and over.
"Up to spec and ready to lift," he said after a moment, eyes yet stuck to the screen. A moment more and he managed to move, transferring his stare to the person before him.
"Forgive me. You are Aelliana Caylon?"
Green eyes met his amid a silken ripple of hair. "Yes, I—Of course, you will want identification! I do beg—" Her head was bent once more. She produced a thin metal card from a sleeve pocket and held it out, face averted.
He took it, automatically, noting the blurry likeness, and the date—two days gone. Provisional Second Class.
"Thank you," he murmured and gave himself a sharp mental shake, trying to align this tentative individual with the extraordinary mind that had reconstructed the ven'Tura Piloting Tables, the brilliant scholar who taught Practical Mathematics, or, as it was called in Scout Academy, Math for Survival.
"You are the revisor of the—"
"Of the ven'Tura Tables," she said breathlessly, all but snatching her license back from his hand. "I am. Please do not bow. I—I have explained to Master dea'Cort."
"Which is certainly enough for both of us," Daav said, grabbing for equilibrium. He smiled. "Your ship is ready and able to lift. You have, as I see, the skills necessary to the task. Good lift, pilot."
"I—That is." She floundered to a halt, took a shuddering breath and raised her head to squarely meet his eyes. "The fact is, I am in need of flight time. I've never lifted—you understand, I've never actually
gone
anywhere. And the regs—I had thought Master dea'Cort . . ."
"I see." Daav tipped his head, considering. "It happens there is a small errand left me by Jon. If you like it, I can serve as your second, and you may actually go somewhere. Outyard Eight to be precise."
The misty eyes took fire. "I would like that—extremely, sir."
"Then that is what we shall do. However, I must insist upon a condition."
Wariness cooled the fire, leaching color from her eyes. "Condition?"
"It is relatively painless," he said, offering her a smile. "The custom at Binjali's is to speak in Comrade. No one demands it, it is merely custom. In no case, however, am I 'sir.' I prefer to be addressed as Daav. If you find that too intimate, then 'pilot' is acceptable." He tipped his head. "Are you able to meet this condition?"
She inclined her head, very solemn. "I am—Pilot."
"Good," he said, and shut down Jon's computer. "Let us see if Trilla has come on-shift."
The delm must be a smuggler-class pilot—take from yos'Galan if yos'Phelium fails, as it likely will. I'm a sport, child of a long line of random elements, and Jela—
Young Tor An's folk have been pilots since the first ships lifted beyond atmosphere, back among the dead Ringstars. yos'Galan will breed true.
The best pilot the clan possesses must be delm, regardless of bloodline. This will be taken as a clan law.
The delm's heir must be a pilot—of like class to the delm—and as many others of the clan as genes and the luck allow.
There must be ships, spaceworthy and ready to fly: As many ships as it is possible to acquire. Such a number will necessarily require funds for maintenance—whole yards devoted to their readiness. Therefore, Clan Korval must become wealthy as Jela and me only dreamed of wealth.
Serve the contract, as long as it's in force. The boy don't hold with oath-breaking.—Excerpted from Cantra yos'Phelium's Log Book
"LIFTING TO OUTEIGHT?"
Trilla grinned. "Convey my undying affection to Gat."
"Yes, very likely," Pilot Daav returned, shrugging into a worn leather jacket.
Aelliana looked at that battered item hungrily. "Pilot's jacket" most would say, because of the cut, and as if any third-class barge runner might have one. In truth, only those who mastered Jump held the right to wear a pilot's jacket.
Trilla laughed and winked at Aelliana. "Scholar, good day to you. What luck at Chonselta Guild Hall?"
"Second class provisional," she said, pulling her eyes away from Pilot Daav's jacket, and warily meeting the other woman's merry glance.
"Everything fulfilled but the flight time!
Ge'shada
, Pilot." Surprisingly, the Outworlder swept a bow of congratulation. When she straightened, her face was somewhat more serious.