A Princess of the Aerie (38 page)

Jak popped inside and belted in as the canopy irised over him; then there were several minutes of violent jerks and sudden
accelerations as the purse and Pongo’s own nav equipment found the fastest possible way through all the available Pertrans
track. Lights from the ports in the tunnel walls flashed by, forming mad hyphens and streaks; grav must have hit three g’s
a couple of times; but with just over two minutes to spare, since Pongo had outdone itself, Jak was dumped out at the receiving
area for the big docks, deep down in the Hive, where warships came in and locked down for maintenance and repair.

The
Hope of Peace,
on which Dujuv was a CUPV, was just docking; Jak intended to be standing in the receiving area when his old tove got off
it. “Message from Shadow on the Frost,” Jak’s purse said.

“Display on the palm screen.” He held it up to his face. The tiny image of Shadow whistled a greeting. “Jak, my tove, I can
think of no way in which I can help matters by being there, and several ways that, through ignorance of your customs, I might
damage things. And I am afraid that on a project as honorable as repairing a friendship, and as important, it is best for
you to act alone. But the moment you can, please call me and tell me how it went! Your oath-friend—and Dujuv’s—cares very
much. I hope we will again be able to watch him, together, as he stuffs an entire plate of beefrats into his face.”

“Thank you, Shadow,” Jak said, “I’ll try.”

“Honor reclaimed is the finest kind,” Shadow said. “Good luck, tove and tove-of-my-tove.”

When Jak looked up from his purse, they had already connected the flextunnel to the
Hope of Peace,
and the crew were just coming down the ramp into the receiving area. Jak moved forward toward them.

Dujuv came through the door, saw him, vaulted the side of the walkway, and bounded to Jak in three big leaps, like a mad kangaroo.
As he landed in front of Jak in a deep crouch, he said, “You came down to meet me. Thank you. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
He was grinning already.

Jak grabbed Dujuv’s outstretched forearm, felt the panth’s big powerful hand close like a vise around his own slender arm,
and said, “Welcome back. I’ve missed the hell out of you, pizo, and we’ve got to go have some fun.” Jak hoped to Nakasen and
all the gods that Duj could tell that he meant it.

As always, there are people besides me whose effort and intelligence was important to the completion of this book. These include:
Betsy Mitchell, who guided me through the process of creating this series with a very large number of suggestions that proved
invaluable, and whose work on the first book,
The Duke of Uranium
helped me find out what I wanted to do; also, whose sure eye was invaluable in developing this world and these characters:
Jaime Levine, my editor, for support and extraordinary patience; Dave Cole, for a very thorough and intelligent copy-edit;
and Ashley and Carolyn Grayson, my agents, for encouragement, support, patience, and keeping the business side under control
while I dealt with that art thing.

There’s also one special acknowledgment. This book is dedicated to Jessica (Jes) Tate, who I sometimes describe as the other
half of my brain—the half that works. Some years ago, Jes showed up at an audition for
Oh Dad, Poor Dad, Mamma’s Hung You in the Closet and I’m Feelin’ So Sad,
which I was directing at the small college where I taught, and took on the job of being the puppeteer who operated Rosalinda
the Fish, squatting under a fish tank for two hours, in a role in which the only visible part of her was a large piranha-shaped
mitten and her only lines were “gloop” and “gleep.”

She turned out to be capable of more.

Later, when she transferred to a bigger university with a much better library, Jes began doing part-time research work for
me, at which she excelled, at first for academic projects (she deserves a sizable share in the credit for my fifty-three articles
in
The Oxford Encyclopedia of Theatre and Performance)
, and later in assembling the background research for novels.

Jes has always delivered more and better work than the contract called for. In the past couple of years, as I have returned
to full-time writing, she has made herself absolutely indispensable, not only as a research assistant, but as a thoughtful
critic and listener, and a loyal supportive friend.

Unfortunately for me, but fortunately for the world, bright students do graduate, sooner or later, and get jobs for which
they are paid real money. There are still some projects ahead of me for which I have Jes’s characteristic neatly stacked and
categorized piles of complete and thorough research ready to go, but those are the last such piles there will be, at least
until I train some mere mortal to take Jes’s place. As I write these words Jes is finishing her last major research project
for me, and will be done in less than a month. Shortly after, she will be turned loose on the world. If she has any effect
on the world like she has had on my office, it is about to become a considerably better place. For its own good, I advise
the world not to argue.

Having done most of my theatre work backstage, I have always enjoyed that moment in the curtain call when the follow-spot
swings around to give the invisible people their well-deserved acknowledgment. So before you go, Jes, this time, climb out
of the fish tank, wave at the people, come all the way to downstage center, collect your roses, and take a bow. Applause,
people. This is someone special.

John Barnes
lives in downtown Denver and writes full time. At various times he has worked full time as a gardener, systems analyst, statistician,
theatrical lighting designer, and college professor. More than fifty entries by John Barnes appear in the 4th edition of
The Oxford Encyclopedia of Theatre and Performance.
His most recent books include
The Sky So Big and Black, The Merchants of Souls, The Return
(with Buzz Aldrin),
Candle,
and
The Duke of Uranium.

THE PHENOMENAL ADVENTURES OF JAK JINNAKA, 36
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