Saltation (15 page)

"I understand your dismay, Pilot," yos'Senchul murmured. "Would you be kind enough to fly us to dinner? The flight will do us all good, I'm sure, and your choice at this point falls to deciding if you'd like to partake of local fried-and-spiced night snacks or a quiet dinner at an A-class restaurant?"

She laughed.

"You're serious? Fly us to dinner? I'm always hungry after."

"Indeed. We all have had our routines disturbed by Wilsmyth's antics. Dinner will help. But what kind of meal?"

"I'm not good for real fancy, I think."

"Excellent. If you will step this way, there's a Star King VI to which I hold the keys." He pointed. A shiny, very new craft occupied the tie-down he indicated, "Also, if we choose carefully, we shall more than make up the 'split difference' between the account hours you've earned and those as recorded by Wilsmyth. In the bargain, we shall certify night hours."

Theo almost stumbled, suddenly seeing what had happened—not only
seeing it
, but
recognizing it
. How many times had she seen Father bow his head, and seem to cede an argument—to her or to Kamele or to a visiting colleague—only to later deftly turn his defeat into victory?

"Thank you," Theo said, fervently. "I should have known! Liadens know how to manage around red tape! Thank you for being on my side! I—"

"Silence!"

They all three stopped, the glare of the runway lights making them a tableau of dark cutouts across the access paths.

Instructor yos'Senchul's jauntiness was gone, and before Theo stood a dangerous man. She felt some of the dance roused in her, and went back a step, wariness answering the set of his shoulders, the warning in his pose.

Carefully, she raised her hands, fingers spread in the sign for
no danger here
.

"Ah." Threat melted away; he inclined his head, hand-sketching an emphatic
attend
!

"Student Waitley, this confrontation with Wilsmyth should teach us all much, but what it should not teach
you
, what you should
never
learn, is to trust and rely on someone simply because they are Liaden."

Theo lowered her hands, slowly. "Yes, sir."

"In this situation," yos'Senchul continued, "our goals align. As an instructor, I wish that a promising student is given the opportunity to prove herself without falling victim to petty politics and power struggles. You have acquitted yourself well this day, and I approve.

"Always know where you stand with a Liaden, student. Do they deal with you as friend, then that is a rare gift—and one to be examined, closely. If they deal with you in business, deal carefully and accurately, and promise nothing you cannot perform. When dealing with pilots, treat as a pilot and you will be treated so. Assume
nothing
, however, about someone simply because they are Liaden. If you are not affiliated with a clan, a Liaden will treat you as disposable, if that is convenient. If you display
melant'i
, as you do, expect to be treated with respect. Do not expect
benefits
from Liadens. As with anyone, expect what you are given, assuming neither hostility nor grace—and be on guard for either."

It left her breathless, his quiet vehemence. Theo did the only thing she felt able to do; she inclined her head.

"Well put, my friend," Veradantha said, moving slowly but smoothly down the field. They followed, her voice trailing behind her like a silken scarf.

"There is something in pilot lore which speaks to this, in fact. As a pilot, the usual rules of behavior on duty are assumed to include a number of things. Let us see—you may number them later if you like, and I will miss some." She raised a long forefinger in emphasis.

"Always know where your ship is and in what state. Always carry an extra weapon—this assuming one always carries two weapons to begin with—your extra is preferably one you are willing to use for a last stand. Be prepared to fight—we know you know this one!—but be prepared also to run and to be small, for a dead, jailed or administratively restricted pilot flies no ship. When you walk in strange places be aware of those who may follow you, and though sitting with your back to the wall is useful, it is not always sufficient. Always know more than you tell, and share all of your secrets, even on your deathbed, only with those who will properly treasure them."

They were close to the plane now, which shone with a flawless beauty.

"And," said yos'Senchul, "except under extreme duress, always perform a pre-flight. Here is the key, Pilot; you will wish to do the walk, and then you will let us in to observe while you are PIC for this flight. I suggest either DurzAnn's, with the guaranteed grittiest Gar-grilled, or Hugglelans, where you may have anything, as long as you eat it under red sauce."

"I doubt I've managed to cross all four of those lakes on one flight before, Pilot. Well plotted!"

Theo had filed a flight plan with those crossing points in it, recalling the Ts, as they were called:
Turn Time Twist Throttle Talk
of her early training; it gave her an excuse to see, if there
was
anything to see, and to practice timing the turns, adjusting the throttle, talking to air control . . . 

"Thank you, sir," she managed, wondering if she'd overstepped somewhere, but by then she was on the landing leg and had less time to be concerned than during the middle of the flight, when she was essentially flying on instruments above the dense blackness of a lake.

The "King Six," as yos'Senchul had it, could have flown itself from campus to Portcalay if necessary. Theo daren't waste flight time, though, and she hugged every second to herself like a precious thing. The night challenge was not as daunting as she'd expected, though no doubt the fine weather helped that. If either of her mentors noticed that she took the sightseers' route, crossing the mountain as well as three rivers and four lakes, they chose not to mention it, beyond yos'Senchul's remark.

The instruments were familiar enough, as were the flight controls, and from her vantage in the pilot's seat she couldn't see the handspan difference in rated wing length, though she certainly felt the more powerful engines from the instant she touched the throttle.

The details though: remembering the right way to sync with the local and regional traffic control, remembering to use the correct aircraft designation, remembering to use a social rate of climb in general airspace, making sure she covered everything in the pre-flight check. Theo sighed. The King Six sure was pretty!

The flight instructor took the radio briefly, calling ahead to reserve a table, using her flight plan numbers without hesitation and without consultation, declaring himself, "yos'Senchul, sitting second."

That was both a thrill
and
a chill—surely she had a lot to learn before she rated a copilot!

The plane was so well-behaved that Theo did get to sightsee, both over the mountains and the lakes, and now across plain and lake, looking north to the nearly edge-on lights of the planet's largest spaceport and manufacturing center, and south across the sudden divide into the crisscross of the commercial farm belt. The radar kept her company, and ground control; several times she sighted the beacon lights of aircraft in the distance, and identified them by the scan.

Ahead was the Conglomeration of Portcalay; within it were several millions of people, and the air strip center she was on course for.

The maps and positioning were fine so far; what she hadn't expected was that the place would be so bright. The runways themselves were lit, of course; Theo read the various beacons as they came to view—
this
was the emergency strip,
that
was backup for regional commutes, the pair of general strips were at right angles, one north-south to the east of the vague square that was Portcalay and the other well to the south of center, running to the west for her.

Conversation in the cockpit had been quiet, then nonexistent after Veradantha fell asleep; yos'Senchul sat the copilot's seat as observer only and several times appeared to be drowsing himself.

The excitement of the flight itself kept Theo awake, though she managed not to comment on it to herself, out of respect for Veradantha's rest. She did, though, need to give air control a verbal ack for touchdown on Portcalay G East.

Quiet as it was, her confirmation woke both her passenger and her copilot. Both were chattering away about sauces of choice, and the taste benefits between whole grain and spelt, when Theo guided the King Six into the final turn for landing.

Well before her, the white line became thicker; Theo unlocked and touched the landing gear switch, felt the drop and lock, and now the thick line was a runway, gleaming in the night, marks of myriad previous landings approximating her landing zone, the lights guiding her true. She backed the throttles slightly, looked at a sudden wind speed change, confirmed that with the ground, and sighed. Almost over. The headwind bobbled the nose, and she trimmed out the elevators with a touch.

The King Six smoothed into the final seconds, the wind allowing her just a hint of flare at the very last moment and . . . 

They were down.

Chaos, did this plane have great suspension! She couldn't feel the gear bottom out, instead there was simple, smooth settle. Soft as a pillow.

She glanced to the screen then, and wrinkled her nose.

"And there is a problem worth a grimace?" Pilot yos'Senchul sounded interested, but unconcerned.

She felt her face warm, but the instrument lighting wouldn't betray her blush.

Theo reduced throttle, letting the craft slow, watched for the runway ahead to take on a green stripe, to the left, and she followed the green stripe, toward those bright lights.

"According to the chronometer, I was seventeen seconds late on touchdown," she admitted.

From the back came a sneeze that might have really been a strangled laugh, while the flight instructor peered into the night, his reply bouncing off the windscreen.

"By so much, Pilot Waitley? Where do you think your error lies?"

She pondered that while steering the plane through a sudden maze of lights and lines, the beacons and strobes of a dozen or more craft in her sight.

The arrows guided her left once more, around the large hangar and maintenance areas she'd spotted from on high, into a kind of courtyard. The lead lights flashed, steadied—

"The Howsenda Hugglelans," yos'Senchul intoned, entirely unnecessarily, since the name was emblazoned in intricately flashing purple signs taller than the control tower.

The parking slot for the King Six was there: Number Eleven. There were picnic tables just ten or twelve plane lengths ahead, and beyond that a bulky building that was all balconies and torches, with smoky fire pits and . . . motion.

People. Dozens. Hundreds! Some were waving at her plane, some were seated at benches, some were moving in a strange line, right hands on the hips of the people in front of them, some . . . 

Theo checked clearance carefully, and used the correct brake to slide the plane into position, trying not to gawk at the same time.

"Part of it was the head wind," she said, in answer to yos'Senchul's question. "Maybe a second or two, there."

"
Part
of it, no doubt," he said dryly, reminding her of Father's tone when something obvious escaped her, "is that the flight plan did not extend to switching runways. The default is north, but that would have been a nasty little crosswind, indeed, and traffic didn't warrant making you fight it on manual. In any case, late or not, we are here and I, at least, am hungry. Let us eat!"

Theo looked at the menu painted above the reservation desk, knowing none of the names of things, and shrugged at her mentors, who asked, almost in unison, "Today's special?" One nodded, and the other bowed—to each other and to the desk manager, who whistled sharply into the din, producing someone to guide them.

Theo didn't mind following the guide—he was dressed in a tight sleeveless vest over a smooth, muscled chest, and moved quite well for a non-pilot, his bell-bottomed slacks encasing what was probably a dancer's body. His stride was forthright, his eyes, when he looked behind to see that they were still with him, compelling. He carried a bundle in each hand, and Theo was finding it hard to remember that the evening had started out with a fight and an administrative hearing.

Everyone they passed seemed to be having a good time; everyone was eating—well, not everyone. At the smaller and less well-lit tables sat shadowy couples, sipping together with straws from tall, glowing cylinders. Some of the couples were awfully close together, and perhaps getting closer.

Their own table was at terrace edge, with a view of the airport, and a fire pit right there, with a small tabletop leaning against it. Veradantha chose her seat, and perforce, Theo found herself between her hosts while their guide bent in front of them and busied himself with the fire pit.

Surprisingly close came Veradantha's whisper.

"Admirable, is he not? It is a shame we can do no more than admire, Theo Waitley. I, for not having the energy beyond my eyes and nose, and you, you for being Pilot tonight, and thus too tightly scheduled to wrestle three falls with someone who wears
vya
so extravagantly."

She opened her mouth—and closed it. Yes, she knew what
vya
was, and obviously so did Veradantha.

As if oblivious, yos'Senchul turned to them, hand waving wide toward their guide. "And now, the show!"

As if he had been waiting for the announcement, their guide deftly picked the tabletop up from its lean against the pit. A small spindle depending from it was placed precisely into a matching notch, leaving about three quarters of the thing over the fire zone.

Wait, now she saw it! Their guide was their cook, too!

The cook spun the "table" hard with his hand and it continued to rotate. With a practiced air he wiped it with a small paper cloth, gave the table an extra spin, and waved at the pit, which dutifully roared into flame, as he proceeded to carefully portion stuff onto the cook surface.