Saltation (23 page)

Locking the letter and envelope into her drawer safe, Theo fled for the airfield.

The letter was still precious when Theo came back to it, later that afternoon. Claudy's refresh was an ugly memory: you'd have suspected the kid had spent the semester flying kites instead of studying navigation. Rocky as she was, Claudy did pass, though Theo'd drawn black looks and a suppressed curse for requiring a mandatory review before semester end. Really, if the kid wanted to stay current, she shouldn't
play
it, she should
do
it!

And so Win Ton's letter—she started again with the first word, luxuriating again in the feel of the paper and the subtle, oh-so-subtle touch of scent. Theo was becoming fond of subtlety, having recently become aware of how fine a sense of timing and nuance Win Ton possessed, of how careful even his passionate words were. That his sense of smell, his understanding of color, and his advertent approach to the universe was superior to many who considered themselves pilots was without doubt.

That made her sigh, and miss Win Ton in a way she hadn't for a long time.

She came again to the point where she'd rushed off to deal with immediate concerns. Indeed, she felt some guilt, because she hadn't updated him entirely over these last semesters. Her third class was now firm and it would take time in grade, and a couple more trips as PIC for her to up the second class from trainee to provisional operator.

Theo had retrieved the sealed packet from the envelope, and tumbled it in her hand as she read. It was soothing in a curious way, almost like stroking a cat.

There were the other things she hadn't filled him in on, just as he'd not been particularly explicit about his duties as a husband—surely he would have been able to bring some joy to the pairing! Now she read on hoping for something more about his travels, his route, or when they . . . 

Alas, I am not able to convince any of the mapping computers, nor my superiors, of any route wherein Anlingdin Academy is a way point for my journey to the assembly site. As your own location is still based on the needs of tuition, and as I am not at liberty to disclose my tour destinations, immediate, intermediate, or final, there seems little likelihood that we shall see each other in the near term, as dear as that thought has been to me since we last parted.

For a moment she felt like she'd hit free fall; but her stomach settled, and Theo sighed, closed her eyes briefly and opened them.

If you have not already opened the packet sealed with wax from my dinner candle, I pray that you will do so now. I consider it a great favor you do me, if you will.

Though only partway down the lovely page the letter continued on the next sheet, as Win Tin meant her not to read beyond until she had complied—or not.

With growing curiosity she put the letter aside, broke the waxed seam, and smoothed the paper away from an inner wrapping of metal foil, the whole coated thinly in wax that verged on the liquid.

It took a moment to find the seam. She peeled it back carefully, discovering within a coil—not a coil! A chain, like a necklace, chill against her fingers as she raised it. Pendant from the chain was a cerametal chunk that was not simply raw metal but formed and shaped with notches and ridges around a small central cylinder.

She let the foil drop and took the cylinder between her fingers, rolled it, felt the crisp edges of the metal. It felt good, like it should do something, rather than just be . . . interesting to look at. More, it felt
old
, much older than the chain. It wasn't pretty, exactly, but she liked it, if one could
like
a thing.

Still, thinking advertently, she held it in her hand rather than putting it on immediately, and returned to Win Ton's letter.

Theo, it would be both a favor and honor to me if you will hold this, and perhaps wear it and keep it with you. I discovered it during my brief garbage run, and it is to all appearances twin to one I wear about my own neck. Let us say that, as soon as I held it in my hand, I thought of you. Indeed, I can think of none other that I would see hold it. As the pair is to my knowledge unique, and found in an out-of-the-way place rarely visited by tourists or ordinary travelers, I hope it does not offend you to share such a thing with me
.

We need not speak of these again until we are together, but I feel they are a bond we can share, one that has already helped me focus on the necessities of my immediate plans, and of my plans beyond. Call it celebration, plan, or sympathetic magic, I vow I will not be separated from mine and I hope you will keep yours by you at all times.

Though she wasn't talking, Theo
felt
speechless. Unique, and something Win Ton treasured, something very special.

She sighed and felt stupid as tears fell down her face, onto her hands, onto the necklace. Happy tears, yes, but it felt so good to be—cherished.

She brought the necklace close, peered at it, smiled, and had the silliest feeling that it returned her regard, or that Win Ton had infused it with his own.

Shaking her head to settle her hair as best as could be done, Theo spread the chain between her two hands and put it over her head. The cylinder fell comfortably between her breasts, not cold at all, or warm, but exactly the temperature of her own body. She regretted that Win Ton hadn't been there to help her put it on—but that thought should probably wait, at least until she had finished reading his letter.

Meanwhile, it is my hope and wish that you continue to stay in touch with me at this address; only understand that my mission may make it difficult for me to reply for dozens or perhaps hundreds of days at a time. That I cannot immediately answer, or perhaps even receive, your messages in timely fashion makes no difference to my regard for you, nor my desire to hear from you.

Clan, mission, and duty permitting, as well as your agreement, of course, I shall again someday be by your side for a quiet breakfast.

Yours in many ways
,

Win Ton

_{* * *}

She thought of calling the hopeful proto-pilots with whom she'd recently shared bed-time—first thought of one, then the other.

Then, she thought of Win Ton, and shook her head. Her friends would only be an annoyance to her, in this state of mind. And, since they
were
friends, she didn't call.

Which didn't change the fact that her mind was unsettled, and her body too, as if she'd spent the morning ingesting caffeine and sugar treats. She wanted to move, to dance, to not be right here with the letter, which she'd unfolded and read yet again, and refolded, hands caressing the lines that Win Ton had inked.

Kara. Kara might provide some comfort, or at least a willing ear—and it was obvious that her deep sky navigation problem was not happening right now!

It was work of a moment to slip the letter back into the lock-drawer. She pulled the chain up until Win Ton's gift was spinning before her eyes. Frowning, she tried to see through the patina of age and mysterious origin to whatever it was that he thought was there, or meant to be there. She thought of writing back immediately—but what was the use in that? He was already on the way to his assembly point.

She stood, and danced a few steps, which didn't calm her, exactly.

Air, she thought. Air would be good; air and color and the sight of craft overhead.

She closed the quietly behind her.

As she walked Theo felt like her shoes picked up extra energy from the ground, and when she stood still it felt like her blood vessels and muscles were full of energy. The calming steps she danced became attack variations as soon as she moved, the quieting motions of pretest relaxation flowed into dance which flowed back into power moves, which flowed into kicks and stunts.

Finally she admitted defeat and walked fast, striding toward the Culture Club at a ground-eating pace, forcing the energy in her arms and legs into the pace of her march. She was going the long way, hoping to calm herself before she encountered anyone else.

She heard the sounds long before she saw it: the quick steps, the laughter and crowing, the grunts and curses, the silences of waiting. She rounded the shrubbery that defined the big side lawn, where a crowd surrounded the action.

Bowli ball! And by the tenor of things, a match well in progress. Or maybe a match well out of hand.

Kara was the first she saw; the only one of the standing players she knew by name. Sprawled around the grass were seven other DCCT members in various states of disarray ranging from bloody nose to ripped shirts to grass-and-mud-stained pants. One, Yberna, was curled on her side, like she might have taken a shot in the gut.

There were three standees in the playing zone; two of them, both guys she didn't know, were playing a back and forth together that meant they were teaming it against Kara, trying to make it as hard as possible for her to know when the ball was hers. Sweat streamed down her face, and if she saw Theo, she was too busy to show it.

Suddenly, the ball was in play, heading for Kara; too fast and too wobbly to deal with cleanly. It struck her high on the shoulders, knocking her off-center and rebounded straight above her. Theo yelled, Kara looked up and managed a one-handed slap that sent the ball back to the originial thrower with considerable energy. It wasn't elegant, but it was enough to "keep bowli," as Kara found center again, and the crowd cheered.

"Kara's still in!"

"Clean clothes," yelled the taller of the two guys, showing his teeth in what he might've thought was a grin. "Play if you dare!"

The ball was on the way before the tall player finished yelling, and Theo charged, recognizing at the last moment that the spin was not quite what she'd expected.

"Kara," she called, and saw the fleeting nod and hand flash as Theo fed the ball to her as lightly as she could, allowing her a moment's respite; Kara returned the favor soundlessly and this time Theo flung the ball to the short guy.

Even as it left her hand Theo felt the odd pull, as if the normal permutations of spin and power of a bowli ball were off somehow. Maybe the ball wasn't true; maybe . . . 

That fast it was back, and thrown not to her, but
at
her. These guys were playing bloodball; no wonder the usually happy crew from the Club was scattered—

"Take him, Theo!" The crowd was surely partisan, the encouragement was Bova at full voice.

The ball danced; she grabbed it, felt the thing slip even after the catch; her toss was meant to go toward Kara but the ball was beyond, meaning it was up for grabs and the tall guy did just that, charging and faking toward Theo while slamming it at Kara.

"Grah!" was about what Kara managed, taking the ball with her left hand and barely getting it along toward Theo.

The spin went wonky, and the bowli ball shot off with an unexpected burst of energy. Which was just—wrong.

Theo lunged, snatched, and spun, meaning to return to Kara—but Kara was down, struggling to get her feet under her, to get back into play.

The ball in Theo's hands twisted and growled, like it was fighting her. She tried to gentle it, almost lost it, and danced in a quick circle, barely containing it inside her own motion, her mind suddenly considering board drills. In particular, the bad gravity board drill; the equation for near-limit Jumps—and suddenly she had it! It was like the ball had two drivers!

Her mind flung itself around the ball's absurd motion, as her body reacted, took the ball and spun it against the spin it demanded, nearly catching the tall guy in the head, his touch more a pass than a catch, so the short guy could take it, and Theo was charging for the point where the ball had to go, when—

"Full halt!"

Theo went down on one knee, obeying that order. She shook her hair out of her face, and looked up, not at the short guy, but at Pilot yos'Senchul—but no, it wasn't.

In one hand, the pilot held the bowli ball, hard and steady, though Theo knew it was kicking to get free. In the other hand, the pilot held a data transport bag.

Theo took a breath and climbed to her feet. It
was
yos'Senchul, but—two hands?

He shook the ball at the assembly. "No one leaves until I have some answers. First. This ball—it has an owner? Someone who should claim it?"

The question was penetrating and serious.

The tall guy cleared his throat. "That girl there, sir, she threw the toss and should get the return."

yos'Senchul looked to Theo, grim.

"Pilot Waitley, do you own this object?"

Theo shook her head.

"Sir, no. I just got in the game. It
is
my catch and toss, and I've got it figured now so—"

"Yes, Pilot, I could see that you have it figured." yos'Senchul turned, holding the ball out like a weapon.

"Pilot ven'Arith, does this bowli ball belong to you?"

Kara was on her feet, breathing hard, her face wet with sweat. She bowed, some special thing with hand motions, and knee tucks, performed without a stutter, though an instant before she'd been shaking.

"Master Pilot, it was brought to the game by someone else."

yos'Senchul turned to the tall guy.

"You, sir, who wished the ball returned to Pilot Waitley?"

He gulped. "I brought the ball, but I don't own it, I mean I got it from—"

"I see," yos'Senchul interrupted. He looked to the shorter player, who was staring at the ground. "And you?"

"I've had the ball awhile," the guy muttered. "I mean, you know, a guy needs an edge."

"Ah. Tell me, how long have you had a death wish?"

The short guy looked up, eyes wide. "Death wish, sir?"

"Surely, a death wish. It is one thing to play a clean, high stakes game among pilots; for surely pilots delight in such things. It is another thing to bring into play between uninformed pilots an amateurishly modified gladiator ball. I have saved your life, not because I am your friend, but because Pilot Waitley would have blamed herself for your suicide or that of your comrade."