"Theo Waitley," she said.
Her card simply said: Primadonna, Theo Waitley, Hugglelans Galactic.
Casey Vitale grinned. "Hey, that's a good outfit. Good outfit. I—"
"Scouts!" came the call from somewhere near the door. "Crew of 'em! Weapons on display!"
That was enough to startle Theo, who looked away from Casey Vitale, trying to imagine a crew of Scouts so bold as to . . .
There was a crew of them, uniformed, and weapons in plain sight on their belts, a taller one in front pointing toward the single free table in the back corner, one with a view of the exit.
Hands fluttered all around, and nods, and murmurs as the café patrons took in the sight, and the silent march of the Scouts, as one wearing a half-plex goggle over his eyes and upper face made a large, shapeless motion with his hand. His wrists were encumbered with wraparound healing bracelets or supports, and his face mottled with fresh-grown skin still not toned. His signal, sloppy as it had been, halted the rest in mid-march.
The goggled one said something deep and quiet in Liaden, and threaded carefully through the close-set tables. Her attention on the approaching Scout, Theo felt, rather than saw, Casey Vitale step back to her own table.
He paused at her table, removed the goggle and bowed, deep and wondrously slow, almost, Theo thought, as if it pained him to move.
"Pilot Waitley," he said in a hoarse, strained voice. He bowed again, not as deep, and corrected himself: "First Class Jump Pilot Waitley. Sweet Mystery. Words fail."
His eyes were brown, and strained, with wrinkles that stopped abruptly at the new skin; his upper lip had strange color where it, too, had been resurfaced. She searched his face and found him, behind the strain, and the patchwork.
Rising, she resisted the urge to throw herself on him, to touch him.
"Win Ton! Win Ton, what has happened?"
His grin was fleeting, and his voice even more of a croak.
"What has not happened?" he replied, and for that instant, he was Win Ton as she had first met him. Then he bowed, for yet a third time.
"Theo, I overstepped."
He glanced down at his wrists, and added, seriously. "I took damage. May I sit?"
Without waiting for permission—in fact, as if he must sit—he nearly fell into the chair beside her. She sank into her own chair, and put her hand over his, where it lay on the table.
He leaned toward her conspiratorially, his voice weaker even than his grin.
"We need to talk, pilot and friend. We need to talk."
Thirty-Seven
Conrad Café
Pilots Guild Hall
Volmer
"Primadonna isn't exactly neutral territory," Win Ton allowed. "Nor would our Scout rooms be, I gather," he said cautiously, glancing down-room to the table his companions had commandeered. "Certainly it is too public, here."
There was a dance or a game going on, beneath his words. Theo sensed it without understanding the rules. She agreed, though, that if she was going to be with him for the first time in, well, years, she'd rather it be somewhere other than a crowded café.
"Are we in competition?" she asked blandly, taking her hand off of his.
Win Ton, this apparition of a Win Ton, sighed lightly, eye wrinkles tightening as he leaned toward her, speaking as low as might be heard in the cramped room.
"We are not in competition." His shoulders moved in what might be a shrug as he weighed his words with care. "We are, however, working on multiple balances and necessities, which might put us at odds, and so should not be dealt with in a place as distracting as this one, nor in a place—"
"First, you said you wanted some place quieter."
He didn't argue, his left hand making an exaggerated and unformed attempt at acknowledged.
"We can use a comm booth then, or a conference room." The thought that had been niggling at her back brain surfaced and spoke itself: "What are you doing here, anyway?"
"Speaking with one of my favorite people."
Theo frowned.
"This is complex." He pursed his lips. "I am willing to have you choose a location, Theo, but really, no more, here, if I may be so bold. I'll order another tray of tea and—"
Theo motioned, not at Win Ton but at the waiter.
"Guild conference room? Is one available?"
The waiter looked at Win Ton, in uniform, and at the other Scouts, again at Theo in her leather, and hitched his neck in an odd motion, using his head to point.
"Upper left quad of the display. Looks like there's two available—the blue lights. One's clear until next shift, the other's got . . . a while, that's the numbers on the right column. Other four are solid. Show your card at the desk."
"So, yes, it is complex. I am at fault in some things, for which I will plead necessity and also admit that I have overstepped, and offer to hear your balance on the issues as time permits."
They were seated, just the two of them, across the table of the conference room. There'd been an awkward moment when the door closed, leaving the Scouts with their weapons and awareness behind, and Theo'd wanted to fling herself into his arms, a moment made more awkward by his apparent realization and careful half turn offering her the choice of seats, and the fact that she carried the tray with the tea and snacks.
"I, who, why . . ." she began, and sputtered out; the look of intense concentration on Win Ton's patched face silencing her.
"I honor you, Theo Waitley, I honor you immensely. You quite properly have many questions, and I will attempt to answer them as quickly as I may, in as clear a fashion as I may. I request your patience. Please believe me in all ways eager to explain a situation that is as complex as it is nearly inexplicable."
Theo danced in her mind, calling on the routine she called inner calm. She hadn't realized before how many cues about Win Ton she took from his hands and shoulders. Now, with his hands—not fully operational . . .
There on the chair, she centered herself, and looked to his face, with patience.
"Would you like some tea?" she asked.
He inclined his head. "I would very much like some tea. Thank you."
She poured for both of them, and sat back, cup held in one hand.
"I'm ready when you are," she said.