She held the gun, absently catching the charges Arndy tossed to her. It was compact, it was, and not cold at all.
Pilot Bringo spread the rest of the bag and contents before her on a side table.
"Not a pilot's kit, but that's the pity. Got some clothes, won't likely fit you good, but can wear well enough. The station's Refitya Shop can use them; that bag, too. Got a couple names on it. Somebody just starting ought to not drag other names along and confuse things. Deep space isn't where you want people guessing who you are."
She looked at the remaining items: small metal clips and a personal knife, airtight containers of—
"Is any of this worth anything, really?"
Slayn took over, pointing.
"This seems to be vya, a commercial container, unopened. Always a friend of a pilot, for use or trade, this is a modest amount in moderate grade—but still, like the gun, having it will be worth more than sending it to consignment. This," he said, solemnly, unrolling a fancy tooled-leather packet, "is a set of matched firegems."
The three older pilots burst into laughter as one; inside Theo's head, Hevelin's amusement echoed theirs.
"Firegems?"
Arndy manipulated the packet. Light exploded from the gems, like a rainbow running loose. The colors sparkled and—there were seven of them; they seemed not only matched, but identical.
"They're very pretty, but I don't wear jewelry!"
This inspired another round of mirth.
"Pilot, of all the jewels and geegaws in the universe, a pilot should never be seen wearing firegems!"
Arndy Slayn was not laughing as hard as he might, Theo saw; in fact, he was blushing.
"I should apologize, Pilot," he said with a nod. "We all forget. Firegems are pretty and even attractive, but you could probably buy a double handful of these for the price of the cheapest ale on the station."
He held one out to her and the light played about so much that Hevelin leaned to look at it, too.
"But why the pouch—how did you know before you opened them?"
"Lotta crew members carry these," Bringo broke in, "and some pilots, sorry to say. They're trade, or more like bait, good for back worlds where travelers are news. And so someone in trouble or looking for some, might open a pouch like this and offer a gem in return for favors, or explain that they were going to get rich, soon, and borrow money on the contents. These things, pouches and all, sometimes with certificates of authenticity too, you find them in the cheap shops some spacers visit."
With some effort Theo rolled and sealed the firegems away in their pouch. She was about to throw it into the bag when Peltzer said, "And like vya, maybe something that can be carried if you have room and are not sure of your destination. At times a pilot must act for the ship, after all."
Theo looked at Peltzer, heard Hevelin's deep thrum . . . and tossed it back in the bag.
"Knowing choice is a better choice," Bringo said, nodding toward her. "Some solutions are better to not have in hand."
Slayn reached behind the bag—
"And finally, there are a few odds and ends of coins, and this which I cannot identify. A mechanical thing, a—"
Theo caught the object, and it was as if she felt a buzz in her ear, and a sudden distraction of thought. It felt—dirty. Reflexively, she threw it back, and the nasty feeling was gone.
"Don't want it," she said succinctly, and reached for the signing tablet to witness she'd made her choices.
At that Hevelin chuffed for attention, and images of those people he'd shown her earlier—maybe Father and those others—rose before her. There were also brief flashes of the men she'd fought, and even of Brine Batzer, but they faded. Theo ruefully admitted he had a point: the uglies were gone. This pleased her as much as him.
Getting out of Codrescu was easier than getting in. For one thing the clipping out was just that: turn off the connections, release to the acknowledgment that Cherpa's port fees were now finalized, and twitch the merest touch of gyro. The ship spun the hand's breadth required to show clear and responded to the puff of gases released by the closed connections to begin a slow backing away.
yos'Senchul, Theo thought, was brooding. He'd all but hit his head on the deck bowing to her on her return, congratulating her both on her acceptance as a Guild member and her handling of the "unfortunate incident," the while indicating that she should sign in as soon as possible to maximize her ship time.
Theo cycled the scanner to local, overemphasized a touch and ended up with general—
As before, the screen showed incoming as blue and outgoing as green, and another touch brought up orbital elements and projected destination or outbound Jumps—and there in red was the incident report tagged Shadow Ship.
"Still here," Theo remarked.
"Yes, Pilot, it is. While the range seems to have changed in the interim, we're still improbably showing identical proper motion. Noted, and logged."
Theo heard an undercurrent in his voice and asked, "You're worried about it?"
His hands waffled, signing no-and-yes, balanced.
"Before you graduate, Pilot, we will have the discussion about the other possibilities a shadow ship might represent. Perhaps an Yxtrang surveillance device, or a leftover from the great wars, or a cloak for a smuggler. All of these and more, including a ship crewed by ghosts, which has been a tale of pilots for centuries.
"But now, we return to things more solid than ekly'teriva, Pilot. We have no need to make the full orbit from here—call ahead and we shall land in time for breakfast. And you will have time to visit the armorer before your first class."
Twenty-Eight
Armorer's Forge
Anlingdin Piloting Academy
Her anticipated target moved, shaking the dump lid, but staying out of sight. She wasn't going to trust a sound shot or try a ricochet; she needed a clear view, and time . . .
The dark one she'd thought she'd already taken care of moved, standing with a lurch, arm swinging toward her, wild shot singing somewhere else. Without compunction she took him down with a three-shot volley, twisting in time to get off a shot at the other one, aiming at the gun itself in desperation—
A flash of blue filled the alleyway; she jerked back, sighed—and stood down.
"Clear on the range," she said, carefully sliding the gun into the unfamiliar holster. "Clear on the range."
"Thank you, Pilot. Clear on the range." That voice spoke into her left ear.
She removed the light goggles, blinked into the room that was really there instead of the alley and warehouse that weren't. There was the sound of a door unsealing, and a light step.
Tiffy Hasan stood about where Theo's last shot must've missed her target.
The armorer offered her the tablet with her scores on-screen, but she still had sweat in her eyes and she was breathing kind of fast, so she paid it no attention. Her muscles didn't exactly hurt, but her left hand was cramped, and she was pleased to let the tablet rest on her forearm and steady it with the fingers of her right hand.
"Four on one," Hasan said, "and that with a grip you're not comfortable with. We'll fix that; take an impression and get you something custom. Not sure how custom—you seem to be able to shoot with either hand, which isn't a bad thing at all. 'Course you don't want to change hands in the middle of things unless you have to. That last shot was a wingdinger, by the way, and a little too tricky for real shooting, 'cept if you're really desperate. You was aiming at the gun, right?"