"Eventually someone at Scout Headquarters did read the report," he said, looking at her over the rim of his cup. "It had been misfiled . . . perhaps even purposefully hidden—altered. I refiled the complete report, at the direction of Headquarters."
He drank the last of the tea, sloppily, and lowered the cup to the table.
"Theo, there are people after what I carry—what we carry. They want the keys to that ship."
Theo took a very deep breath.
"If it belongs to them, then we should—"
Win Ton raised his voice, or tried to: "It does not belong to them."
He paused, his eyes downcast, then looked into her face.
"There are rogues, rogues working from Liad, and even from within the Scouts. They want that ship because it is a hybrid of Old Tech and more current technology, and because that ship has already cost them dozens of agents. Dozens."
"I don't understand this, Win Ton. You've lost me here."
He sighed, looking exhausted and frail behind his scars.
"Yes, because I have not told it all. Your pardon, Pilot." He took a moment to recruit himself, again daring to look into her face. "To continue, Headquarters is very concerned about that ship. Bechimo was built at a period when the Terran trading families were trying to reassert their trade routes; it used Old tech, stolen, perhaps dangerous tech. The ship owners and the ship builders hid it because they were under pressure and then they were . . . suppressed."
"Suppressed?" She shuddered, remembering some of the histories she'd read at the academy.
"The regional Terran trade cartels had them hounded, drove some into bankruptcy, them and their families, some perhaps were forcefully removed and blackmailed.
"This was several centuries ago, you see, and the Bechimo was never flown beyond proof flights; never in actual service. According to the stories, the crew meant for Bechimo was raided and arrested, and a lien put on the ship. Whereupon, the ship disappeared. Rumor said it could fly rings around other tradeships of like capacity. It was all that was better—and more dangerous because its builders dared to use some of the Old Tech that went into the original Terran fleets, that destroyed each other in the big war, and things even older and more dangerous.
"My research says that Bechimo has an onboard AI. More likely, it is an AI. Bechimo the ship—it can fly itself."
"Well, there are ships now that—"
"No. Well, yes. I can program a ship to take me somewhere, and if I fall over dead with poison it will still get there, in some case even over multiple Jumps. Lacking a pilot, Bechimo will itself decide where to go, and what to do when it arrives. With owners dead, perhaps it owns itself!"
"What was it doing at the Scout site?" Theo asked. "Looking for a party?"
He smiled, palely.
"Very close to that, I think. I gather that what it was doing there was that an agent from the Department—one of the rogues—had been last on the garbage run before me—several Standards before me, in fact. Given leave to look about, that agent investigated the cache of old equipment. They were testing and trying things, copying things, copying records. Inadvertently or not, they had activated the call signal, and did not know that it had finally been answered. I was first on the scene, after it had waited . . . and it imprinted on me."
Theo thought back to school, wagged her body from side to side in the chair and said, "Quack, quack, quack, gooselets on parade?"
Win Ton gave a bow so light it was barely a nod.
"Indeed. But then the rogues saw the report, hid it, shared the information among themselves, and went back for the ship."
"Which didn't acknowledge them?" Theo said helpfully.
"In a manner of speaking."
Win Ton paused, poured himself more tea from the pot, appearing somewhat steadier.
"Bechimo did not allow them aboard. When they attempted to force entry, it resisted, inflicting minor injuries as a warning. When they tried something more forceful, it wiped out the boarding party."
Theo blinked.
"Had you programmed the defenses?"
"Until now, recall, I have not had the study of antique Terran ships close to my heart."
"But how do you know this, about the landing party?"
"The survivors decided that what had worked once, would do so again. They came looking for me, Theo—and they found me."
Theo looked to the hall in horror. Win Ton raised his hands and signed heavily—not those, wincing as he did.
"I escaped, but they know that there were two keys. They believe that the second is still with the ship." He paused. "I believe I convinced them of that."
She sipped her tea, which was cold; sipped again and put the empty cup on the table.
"Thank you," she said, because she felt she had to acknowledge his last statement. She took a breath. "How do you have your key with you, if you were captured?"
He sighed. "It is Old Tech, and it is imprinted on me. It returned itself to me as it was able." He used his chin to point at it, there on the table between them. "There, take it up."
She picked it up, feeling a sense of relaxation, of welcome—and something more. Her key warmed agreeably between her breasts, and she heard a buzz, as if the captain's key was . . . acknowledging the copilot's.
"I feel it," she murmured, hardly aware that she spoke aloud.
"No difficulty?" Win Ton asked. "No headache?"
She shook her head, and put his key back on the table, not really wanting to. Her fingers moved gently—all fine better good.
He sighed, quite loudly. "May I hold yours?"
Reluctantly she drew the necklace, and handed to him.
He held it in his fist a moment, then returned it across his open palm, face gone Liaden bland.
"What's wrong?" she asked, holding the chain in her hand.
"Yes, Pilot, that is the question. The answer is like the birds you mentioned, Theo, the gooselets. That key, it has imprinted on you. I did not think—but there, that is given, is it not?" He moved his head, maybe he meant to shake it. "You not only hold the captain's key, Theo, but the key has also been imprinted. Bechimo accepts you as her captain."
Thirty-Eight
Conference Room Able
Pilots Guildhall
Volmer
"Theo?"
The chain was bright, the odd-shaped pendant familiar and comforting. In fact, so comforting that she was inclined to accept Win Ton's tale of Old Tech imprinting; the key almost radiated comfort . . . which was enough to set her teeth on edge when she thought about it. Theo glanced between her chain and his, seeing not much visible to set them apart. What would happen, she wondered, if they switched keys or got them mixed up by accident?
Win Ton's voice was more insistent this time, a little stronger. That was better—he almost sounded like his old self for a moment.
"Theo?"
She looked up into his face across the scarred table, feeling the smile trying to twitch at the corners of her mouth despite the annoyance that informed her shoulders.
"What am I supposed to do, Win Ton? You're not looking up to sitting a board and I—I don't know where this ship is, I haven't the first clue where to find it. You knew where it was, and now you don't; now you know who the pilot is but not where she can board it! What a pair of First and Second we'd make for Bechimo, eh? A pilot who wouldn't recognize her ship and a Second—well, if I'm the captain, what am I supposed to do with you?"
"Theo, I am a Scout. A Scout on duty . . ."