A Passage of Stars (4 page)

Bach, held hard in place by the cross-strapping of belts, began somewhat shakily to sing.

Befiehl du deine Wege

Und was dein Herze kränkt

Der allertreusten Pflege

Des, der den Himmel lenkt.

Der Wolken, Luft und Winden

Gibt Wege, Lauf und Bahn

Der wird auch Wege finden,

Da dein Fuss gehen kann.

“Commend your way,

and whatever troubles your heart,

to the trustiest care of him,

who controls the heavens;

he who gives clouds, air and winds

their paths, course and track,

he will also find ways

where your feet can walk.”

Lily hung grimly on to the wheel, and they went forward.

T
HE HARD HAT SAVED
her. Her head and the metal mesh ceiling of the cage met more times than she could count, until her back and neck ached with the shock. Bach sang obscure hymns with strange and inexplicable lyrics for almost half the trip. But, coming around a nondescript corner of rock, a sudden blast of wind picked the front end of the truck up until they were vertical, then slammed it down so hard that the engine died, and Bach’s singing ceased. A lower, ominous tone rumbled down from above: avalanche. Lily fought the engine, but it coughed and started only to die again as a massive fall of rock thundered down directly on top of them. A huge boulder hit square on top of the cage, shattering into pebbles and debris that, showering down through the mesh, scored a tear through the right sleeve of Lily’s coat and scratched a long, ugly line into the impeccable surface of Bach’s exterior. With her reflexive jerk, ducking, she jolted the engine into a strong surge, and the truck lurched forward over the new heap of sliding, unstable debris. When Bach began to sing again—for the third time—the one beginning “A mighty fortress is my truck,” Lily told him to shut up.

He remained silent, except for the occasional dissonant chord surprised from him by some close encounter with imminent destruction, until Lily brought the battered vehicle to a halt in the wind shadow of Apron Rock, the huge, stable monolith of rock that demarcated the western edge of Apron Port. Here he ventured a brief thanksgiving chorus, very softly.

Lily had to uncurl each finger separately to get her hands ungripped from the steering wheel. Massaging each hand in turn, she gazed down at the scattered lights below.

Apron Port lay in a gorge. Broad enough that competent pilots could land between the high walls, the gorge sheltered the town from the worst of the winds. A foundation of stable rock prevented avalanches, so much of the port was built above ground, better to serve the ships, which came in great numbers to carry away the products of the three House mines of the region: Chan, Ooalata, and, of course, Ran-some.

Red and blue warning lights blinked in wild patterns across the landing fields to the south of the town. In the town itself, the streetlights glowed amber. The sighing clatter of the wind generators hummed in the air, almost drowned out by the swelling tear of the wind. The flash of their whirling faces lit most of the heights around the gorge. Here and there orange lights marked maintenance shafts.

Lily rubbed the screen of dirt off her face with the palm of one glove. The buckles of the safety belts around her and Bach took several moments to unfasten because they were clogged with debris. Bach, listing slightly to one side, followed her as she climbed down. They stood in a shallow cave. On three sides the rock rose over them; on the fourth the wind whipped past. Lily stamped her feet, and a faint shower of dust drifted from her to the ground.

“Hoy,” she said. Bach, his shine dulled by dust, was still rolling slightly to one side as he rose two meters. All his lights came on, blinking in a maze of colors, and he sang an unfamiliar phrase and righted himself.

“Right ho,” said Lily, watching him, and she whistled,
Let us go.

They hiked against a rising wind to the nearest lift shaft. Inside it was blissfully silent except for the low hum of the machinery. Lily leaned back against the cold smoothness of the metal walls and shut her eyes. Bach hovered a hands-breadth above the floor as if he was examining himself in its brilliant sheen and was not, perhaps, entirely happy with what he saw. A sound like an indrawn sigh signaled their halt, and the doors opened into an underground tunnel.

“Hoy,” she repeated, picking up her duffel bag. “What a ride that was.”

Bach’s reply was very brief.

Stairs led to Mineral Avenue; there they turned up Gourmet Street. Shielded boutiques lit in gaudy colors as the light faded. Beside her, Bach hugged the ground like an oversized soccer ball, but the dusk protected them from stares.

At Handfast Boulevard they turned right toward the Harbormaster’s offices. It was closed, but not locked.

“Please the Void let him be on duty,” breathed Lily as she and Bach coded in to enter. The door swept aside to admit them to the outer offices, plastic desks and dark terminals and the long “permits counter” lying in dim stillness under the glow of two auxiliary light tubes. A short hallway in back, barred by a waist-high gate, which Lily hopped and Bach floated over, led to three doors. Lily punched into the central door’s panel, heard a click, a beep, and finally a voice.

“Who is it?”

“Finch,” she said, “let me in.”

“How’d you get here?” asked the voice, but the door slid open. Lily and Bach went through, and it huffed shut behind them. “And what by the Seven Hells is that?” finished the voice, thoroughly startled now.

Lily had to pause while her eyes adjusted. The only light in the room came from ten lit screens on the curved console. A dark figure rose, hands moving on the console, and all the room lights flashed on. Lily covered her eyes with one palm, slowly lowered it.

Heneage Finch Caenna stared first at her, then his eyes slid to gaze astonished at her spherical companion.

“Never mind,” said Lily firmly, recollecting herself and starting forward, “I need your help.” She walked around the console to stand beside him, examining each screen in turn. Besides the console and its three chairs, the room was empty. Three walls had a blank, metallic cast; the fourth was sprayed with the telltale pinprick of lights that marked it as a wall screen. A low rumble of music came from one of the console’s speakers.

“How did you get here?” He extended one hand to touch Lily’s coat. “There’s no Ransome cargo runs due for eight revs.”

Lily leaned forward to peer intently at the screen marked “Departures.” “I drove.”

He laughed. “No.”

“I need a listing of ships that have just left or have just gotten clearance to leave.”

Finch sat down. “You did. Lily! You could have killed yourself! You may not care, but some of us still cherish ideas about you—”

“Finch,” she interrupted, almost harsh, “not now. I need those listings.”

He looked again to the door, where Bach hovered patiently, lights blinking. An appendage snaked out from his interior and began to polish his surface. “Hoy,” said the young man. His eyes, deep-set and brown in an olive-toned face, shifted back to Lily. “Don’t tell me
I
can’t care,” he finished, “not after everything we’ve done together,” but he reached past her to bring up a series of numbers and a log on one of the screens. “Station window is not at optimum. There’s a code two storm. You’re not going to get any lifts for the next two revs.”

“Come
on
, Finch. Just check.”

“Okay. Okay. Move back,” She stepped back, trailing a mist of dust. “You’re as filthy as a tattoo. Maybe you should go take a shower while I check.” He brushed dirt off one sleeve of her tunic, let one hand settle there.

She pulled away from him and set down her bag. “I’ll wait.”

He made a face at her, but began typing. A few screens scrolled past, two tones sounded, and new numbers flashed on the screen. “By the Void. Unauthorized lift at dock seven, thirty-two minutes ago. That hasn’t happened for years.”

“Good watch you keep.” She moved forward to inspect the figures on the screen.

“Don’t be a push, Lil,” he said, angry now. “Why monitor that close when no one ever lifts without going through us?”

“Don’t call me that. And what about bootleggers?”

“Much you know about booters,” he retorted. “What do you know about this ship?”

“What classification?”

He checked, came up only with “no match.” The ship had no name or home port listing, just an ID number, and gave only a Station clearance and a captain’s name, Cha. “Never seen them before,” Finch said. “Never heard of them. I wasn’t on shift when they landed and Mom didn’t say anything to me, to watch them close or anything. Berth tax is paid up.”

Lily whistled.

“What?” Finch turned. “Hey!”

Bach was moving, singing a brief answer.

“Move aside a blink, Finch,” said Lily. “This is Bach.”

Finch merely stared, mouth slightly open, at the approach of the robot. Bach settled in beside him and reached out to plug into the console.

“Hey!” cried Finch, starting up.

Lily put out a hand and pushed him back into his chair. “It’s safe.”

A few more figures flashed on the screen, winked off, and Bach began to sing. Finch ran one hand through his dark hair, pulling it back behind his ears. When Bach finished, the screen reverting to what Finch had originally brought up, the young man turned his eyes up to look at Lily, his hand still in his hair as if caught there.

“That doesn’t make sense,” said Lily.

Bach sang a short phrase.

“I’ll say.” Finch lowered his hand. “Lily! What is that thing?”

“He’s a very old, very smart robot,” replied Lily, “and he just told me that that ship is, and I quote, ‘a Kapellan class oh-one-oh-oh-one-oh schooner, late Imperial ID vested class with special powers clearance,’ and ‘Cha’ is not a name but a title. Does that make any sense to you?”

“None of this makes any sense to me.”

“Damn. Damn. Damn.” Lily walked to the door and back. “It’s got to be.” She turned abruptly on Pinch, who slowly lowered his hand to the console. “When’s the soonest jump window out of system from Station?”

“Absolutely none for six revs,” he said straightaway.

“Then I’ve still got a chance.”

“Although—” He tapped out a command and watched the reply flash onto a screen. “They could be hanging out at Tagalong. They’ve got a window at two point five revs.”

“No one’s got
that
much energy to waste—” She stopped, remembering the aircar. “Maybe they do.” She whirled away again, pacing.

“Likely chance, Lil.”

She spun back, reached to grab his tunic, and pulled him to his feet. “If you call me that again I’ll smash your face in.”

Finch grinned in his lazy, half-sensual way. “You have such a way with words, Saressa. I remember the first time you propositioned me—”

“Heneage!” She let him go like he was fire and flushed as if the heat had caught her.

He threw up his hands, palms up. “You win. What a horrible name. I’ll never forgive my mother for giving it to me.”

“And anyway,” continued Lily with a smug grin, “my first proposition to you was to climb Apron Rock.”

“Then it must have been the second one.”

“Finch.” She laid her hands on his shoulders. “Master Heredes was kidnapped this afternoon.”

He put his hands on hers. “I’d heard he had some trouble in town. I heard it was bounties.”

“No.” She drew back from him, explained about the aircar and the aliens. When she finished he sat down and stared morosely at Bach for some time. Bach had resumed polishing, hovering about a meter above the floor. Part of his exterior now gleamed with a brilliant sheen, in stark contrast to those areas that still had a pall of dust on them.

“What can I do?” asked Finch finally. “After all, I used to take classes from him, too.”

Lily sat in the chair beside him. All her energy and purpose seemed suddenly dissipated. If Heredes was taken out of system, she would lose him completely. She sighed, resting her chin on one hand. The hard hat shadowed her eyes. “
No
one is lifting off in the next rev?”

There was a slight pause, pregnant with unspoken information.

Lily lifted her head to look at Finch. He cleared his throat, rubbed one ear, and drummed his fingers on the console. The muted music swelled infinitesimally in volume, a melancholy voice singing about being trapped in a chain gang of tattoos sent to mine in the asteroids.

“Finch?”

“Not officially.”

“Finch.”

This office is not allowed to—”

She threw herself at him, landing mostly in his lap, her hands on either side of his face. “Finch!”

“You
are
filthy.” He put his arms around her and settled her firmly into his embrace. “Now listen here, my unclean one, this is serious. Harbormaster is a position appointed by Central, and it’s a good one.”

“Then how do you know about unofficial lifts?”

He regarded her thoughtfully, but seemed to be thinking of something else. “I don’t mind the berth taxes,” he said. “Or the old cargo taxes, based on percentage of profits and so on and so forth. But it’s the new cargo taxes and the destination taxes, not to mention the clearances, that are pushing the independents out of the good contracts. And the forced routes. And now Central is assigning what cargoes people can carry. It’s just not fair.”

“So you help the booters.”

“Never so noble,” he said with a slight grimace. “Bootleggers go up in the nonoptimum times. It’s more expensive for them, but they can’t be traced by Station or by Elly Port tracers, and for the same reason, we’re in no danger of being caught looking the other way, since at those times we’re their only monitor. But there’s never an authorized lift from Apron Port. Only unofficial ones. Even the booters go through us.”

“Do your parents know?”

He grinned again, that engaging blend of indolence and sensuality. “Mom and Grandmam Caenna set the whole system up. Dad doesn’t know—he’d feel duty-bound to turn them in.”