- Prologue

'Pilot,' the instructor acknowledged.

Eylot nearspace zoomed in, Codrescu grew larger, and the shadow ship dutifully dropped out of scan so she could concentrate on the mission to hand.

The place that was Codrescu wasn't pretty, and the approach wasn't neat and tidy, like bringing the shuttle into one of the three shuttle-only bays at the so-called 'big orbit' a full planetary diameter higher.

While the basics of matching orbits were the same, the fact was that this was crowded space: ships and satellites, work crews, stockpiled supplies netted with warn-aways, and then more of the same, all of it in vague joint revolution around Eylot with the amalgamation that was Codrescu Station proper. Theo was glad of something concrete to do, and something to think about other than the security walk-around, the silly politics . . . and too, the pilot's card she'd have soon enough along with her degree, if the stupid planet didn't close the academy down first.

'Bringo wants to know who is that First Board on Cherpa?'

From the corner of her eye Theo saw finger flicks from yos'Senchul; glanced aside to see the confirming not required, chatter and tucked her affirm, yes into a reaching touch for the close-up of the red-and-blue-lighted swarm that was someone's unpressurized warehouse in orbit. That close-up brought with it fine detail of the thing's local motions: as long as Theo moved the ship along smartly there'd be no problem from that quarter. In a moment or two she'd killed off more of the overspeed and was on a slow drift toward a pattern of green and white lights, with flashing red at the corners. That would be Cherpa's immediate goal.

It didn't matter that she hadn't answered Bringo; in a moment a cascade of replies came at mixed volumes:

'Says here T. Waitley, Provisional Two, out of Anlingdin . . .' That voice, strong, professional, and likely male, from somewhere close; and 'Thet'd be a tray-nee fline a awful cutesey line inter Berty Saixteen . . .' which was a lot weaker signal and harder to decipher—both probable gender and probable meaning—and then a 'Welcome to Eylot's back pocket, Pilot. If you've lost sumpon it's prolly here and if you hain't lost anythin you darndy well will.'

Over it all, crisp, clear, and unconcerned, came Station Ops: 'Cherpa, your alignment is good and you've got the choice of manual or automatic clip-on. You're in Berth Sixteen space, we confirm. I suggest manual if you need points or automatic if you're getting hungry. Slot billing has started.'

'Thank you on the confirm. I'm on manual in twenty-two ticks.'

Cherpa was small and quick to answer the board, but Theo felt like the controls were a bit slow here in close orbit. The feeling grew as the clock ticked down and she made her approach to Berth Sixteen.

'No clip, Pilot,' said her second; and she sighed. They'd jostled the bumpers ever so slightly and rather than trying to force things she backed away to try again.

'Thet-away, pert close, pert close,' came the chatter and Theo wagged fingers in the direction of volume, heard yos'Senchul's 'Yes, Pilot, confirm volume down,' as she located her ship within the beacon field and, after a count to ten, tried again.

This time was worse rather than better, worse in that she could see even before the final moment of closing that the alignment was off, high.

'Does the station bounce?'

She looked directly at her second, whose hands were poised over, but not on, the board.

'Very good question,' he said carefully. He scanned his instruments, observed her hands well away from the controls and sat back, flexing his new hand. The new hand was why she was Pilot In Command: yos'Senchul had been called to travel while the nerve meld was yet healing, and while his strength and base control were good, he lacked yet the hundred hours of adjustment and training that must be certified for flight.

'It seems to depend on the time of the day as well as location in orbit. Bounce, wiggle, vibrate, shake, shimmy, what you will call it, there is sometimes but not always motion on these loading arms. The locals attribute the problem to ghosts, to not having had enough to drink, or to the result of buying local goods for construction.'

'Pharsts!' she muttered, then bit her lip, remembering company, then forgetting it again as she thought about the problem.

Finally, she sighed, motioned her copilot back to the board, promising good insert next. She stretched briefly, and looked back to her own board.

Theo brought the front screen into close-up mode and ratcheted the controls down to their finest levels, permitting the thrust gauge to fluster itself as she moved Cherpa very gently forward, eyes on her readouts.

Yes! There it was: sensors reacting to velocity—and there, the radar showing odd pauses as something, somewhere, flexed a minute amount ahead of them.

The ship's distance was perhaps a hand's breadth and closing, a finger width and closing . . .

Theo reached a hand out to the board and held it there as she watched tight-lipped. The vaguest tingle touched the tip of her finger and she gently tapped a single side jet.

Lights flashed and changed color. Local comm flickered to life, displaying offers for dockside air and power, and . . .

'We lock now,' she announced triumphantly.

With that she palm-slapped the proper control, watching another set of lights, feeling the light chunk through the hand on the board.

'Cherpa, we have solid connects all around. Station billing has started. Welcome to Codrescu.'

Low in the background someone was cackling, 'Bringo, you gottsa pay attention. Owe my lungs a week's air you do! Right there in the records, Waitley, T. done her shuttles twicet and more, and aside that, she sat second on Torvin a couple orbits.'