Theo caught her breath.
"They'd rip the school apart!"
True course, he signed, attempting a simultaneous Terran shrug.
"The timetable is not perfect, and indeed, there are those who say the effort will fall short for years, and never succeed."
He was silent for a moment, and went on.
"I have told you before not to trust Liadens simply because they are Liadens. The same is true of those in DCCT, and those of Terra, and . . . in all cases, a pilot must—as your father suggested to you—have a contingency plan. I suggest, as an instructor who wishes to see an exceptional student prosper, and as a pilot who has an interest in knowing that there are worthy pilots in the skies, that you join the Pilots Guild. You have achieved third class, and there is a truth that time-as-member comes into play if time-in-grade is similar. Guild supports Guild, as best can."
The ship chirped, indicating the orbital approach was nearing.
"Pilot to pilot I say: have your contingency plan in place. Do not dawdle documenting any skill you may rightly claim."
Cherpa had really needed herding, then, and Theo had returned to the task at hand.
Twenty-Six
Codrescu Station
Eylot Nearspace
The so-called front hall of Codrescu Center was about the size of the few back halls Theo'd seen on the Vashtara and the back halls were wonders to behold, with crew signs in Terran, Trade, Liaden, and at least one she was unsure of as well as handholds and rungs on all the walls. There was gravity, but it was very light and somewhat spotty, with some quirkiness, perhaps because the halls actually had humps and ridges as well as numerous access ports. In fact, as she thought about it, she realized that the hall, or the deck, or the whole of the establishment, was subject to exactly the kind of tiny twitches the docking ring exhibited.
What she'd not expected were the sounds. Codrescu was smaller than Delgado Station, and the ports she'd been in traveling on Vashtara, but the sounds were more frequent, and less differentiated. From class and from her travels she could tell the warning sounds of ship counts, and it sounded like there were three different counts within hearing, and then the beep-beep-beep of a door-lock warning echoed from somewhere and she passed several busy people with voices seemingly speaking numbers to thin air and getting replies from their shoulders.
She, at least, carried no live radio, and the background speaker news for ship folks that "Thurstan, green, thirty-seven, five green go. Blueboy, fifteen five five five, hold. Drosselmare, line seven forty-four, clear thirty-two, straight count," meant little to her other than connectors were connected, arrivals and departures were happening and would happen . . . but then this wasn't her community.
There were access ports on the walls, too, some raised, and airlocks in what seemed to be the oddest places. There were lots of doors, some numbered, some lettered, some anonymous, some color-coded, and even guards—live people—on duty outside some of them, which was surprising, on a space station, where people were surely expensive.
One bright blue door—no numbers, and the only one of that color she'd seen—had two guards flanking it, one with her hand on a holstered weapon. Of course, that was the door Theo needed to go through to pick up the Pilots Guild application in person.
yos'Senchul had been clear on this: she was to go herself, with all her ID, just to pick up the application.
"Given the mood on Eylot, applications are traveling by trusted hand and are kept in trusted hands, Pilot; you may carry with you my letter of reference, which is already on file, since I have this day proposed you for membership, also in person."
"Does this mean that untrustworthy people have been applying for Guild membership?"
He'd paused, looking down as if examining his new hand. She realized that he may well have been examining his hand—it was new, after all.
"It means, Pilot," he said slowly, "that the usual rules apply. We spoke of this earlier: don't trust anyone just because they appear to belong to a particular group. Have a contingency plan. Know as many back ways as you can to your ship and to another ship you can call on if there is need. Don't tell anyone about all of your weapons, nor all of your plans. I might go on at length, but they expect you at the Guild office shortly.
"You will want this token; have it in hand at the door, this glowing side up or forward." yos'Senchul pulled something from inside his jacket.
This "token" was a stubby rod with a handgrip, barely longer than her palm, looking for all the world like the top of a hand-stick for an aircraft; yos'Senchul tapped it several times on the instrument panel and handed it to her hilt first.
She took it, and weighed it, finding it heavier than she'd expected. She might be able to use it to clunk someone on the head with it if she needed to—and wasn't that an antisocial thought! It immediately felt molded to her hand, with the supposed top glowing a dim green.
"Here's a map; as I say, they're expecting you, and the token."
He began to bow—stopping as Theo danced a kink out of her shoulder, and abruptly asked:
"How do I know the people there are who you say they are? Can I carry a key to the Cherpa with me? Will the Cherpa be here when I leave the office? Will they check me for weapons?"
He smiled, bowed fully this time, and held a key set out to her.
"Please, check that the hatch answers this key on the way out. I expect you will not be overlong, and as your copilot I will do everything in my power to have the Cherpa here and operable when you return. If it is not, I suggest that you yell for Bringo, who is boss of yard dogs this quarter moon. As to your other questions, the place I send you to is the most secure on Codrescu as far as I know. If they'll do a weapons check depends on how they view the threat level, both of yourself and of the universe."
The air pressure on Codrescu was space normal, which meant low but with a little more oxygen than she was used to on Eylot. The extra oxygen was a good thing, Theo thought, since her walk, even with the map, was more stressful than she had expected, especially when she'd turned the last corner and found the guards, one looking eager for an excuse to use her sparker.
Theo'd been using the token as if it was a piloting stick, holding it in front of her and zoommming down straight, banking into turns. She hadn't realized that the Guild office was quite so close to that last kink in the corridor.
The guard with the gun glanced at Theo's hands even before Theo could recover a properly serious aspect; and with that glance removed her hand from the weapon and nodded, perhaps toward the token, which now was clearly emitting a green glow.
"Pilot, first time in?"
"Yes, Pilot," Theo replied serenely as she glided to a stop in front of the door, "my first time to the Guild. I'm told I am expected; I'm Theo Waitley."
* * *
The guy at the front desk, like the guards outside, was a pilot. She hadn't noticed him at first, since she was overwhelmed by the sheer and unexpected luxuriousness of the room. It wasn't a big room, but the walls were paneled in what appeared to be wild-grown wood, and part of the floor was covered with carpets that made her own fine rug at home look shabby. There was artwork on the wall—like the wood, things that looked like they were real—intentional art and not simply office art meant to soothe or set a mood.
One wall display might be showing text of the messages she'd been hearing by speaker, but this place was quiet, overgrown and—a nice change from the stark halls.
The part of the floor that wasn't carpeted was covered in green plants, some showing flowers, some not. The room was filled with scents she associated with being outside, and something smelled like grass or bushes she might find at Leafydale Place. A small, carefully encased rock-lined waterfall with a tiny open pool with its own arm-thick mini-tree occupied that end of the room, and oh! A norbear!
The norbear was sitting quietly on a mat of vegetation beside the pool, gently chewing a long green plant with a bulb at the end. She looked shyly up at Theo and made a sort of chuckling noise, its thick brown-and-orange fur almost matching the rocks of the waterfall.
"Hello," Theo told the norbear, and the guy at the desk said, "Hello, Pilot, how may we assist you?"
She laughed, hand-flashing see you Pilot, and then said, "Excuse me, I—oh there's someone else! But I'm Theo Waitley. Here to apply . . ."
Tucked behind the tree in a very hard-to-see nest was a nearly colorless norbear, with wizened visage and slitted sleepy eyes. The color of her eyebrows—there was a touch of rust there, and the skin of her face showed clearly through the facial fur, as if the creature was so old it was—like Veradantha!
The old one stretched, slowly and thoroughly, as if it needed to recall exactly how it was done. Theo heard a low sound, more of a rasp than a burble, and the old norbear stood. She was skinny almost to the point of emaciation. Theo saw that this was no "hothouse norbear" as Win Ton had called the silky creatures on Vashtara, but someone who was looking at her as much as she was looking at him.
"Hevelin!" said the pilot behind the counter. "Hardly anybody sees him in there, and he hardly ever says anything. The hungry one's Podesta, Hevelin's great-granddaughter." He grinned and gave Theo a nod. "Please, sit where you will, and be comfortable."
"Here?" she asked, impulsively pointing to the matted plant beside the burbling water.
He shrugged, finger-spoke seat is seat, then laughed.
"But first I need your token and your cards, if you're here to apply. In fact, we ought to have enough to finish the application right now, if you like. Give me those, please, else if the old guy gets to talking to you, you may fall asleep waiting for his next sentence!"
Theo rapidly discovered that the "old guy" did have a lot to say, or maybe a lot of questions to ask. Unlike the Vashtara norbears, who were smaller and much less seemly, Hevelin was dignified in his movements, and grasped rather than grabbed as he adjusted himself on Theo's lap. The resonance in her head was calm and thoughtful, more like Father's cat, Mandrin, than young Coyster, and sincerely inquisitive, as if everything was not only interesting, but meant something.