Read Online Scout's Progress by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steve Miller, Sharon Lee
Tags: Science-Fiction
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the old man's voice. To know her as the revisor of one of the most important of a pilot's many tools—that was grace, though not entirely unexpected. Jon dea'Cort had undoubtedly been a Scout in former years and Aelliana strongly suspected his "master" derived from "master pilot."
"Please, sir," she said, hearing how breathless her voice sounded. "You do me overmuch honor. Indeed, it is not at all—" Here she hesitated, uncertain how she might proceed with her disclaimer, without calling the master's melant'i into question.
"Var Mon, are you here, you young rakehell?" the old man snarled over his shoulder.
"Aye, Master Jon!"
"Then jet, damn you—and mind you're on time for class!"
"Aye, Master Jon! Good-day to you, Scholar. Until Trilsday-noon!"
Var Mon was gone, running silently past Aelliana's shoulder. She heard nothing, then a whine and sigh as the crew door cycled.
"So." Jon dea'Cort smiled, waking wrinkles at eye-corners and mouth. "You were about to tell me that I do you too much honor. How much honor should I lay at the feet of the scholar responsible for preserving the lives of half-a-thousand pilots?"
"Half-a—oh, but that's averaged over the years since publication, of course." Aelliana looked down, tongue-tied and graceless as ever when dealing outside the familiar role of teacher-to-student.
"You must understand," she told her boot-toes. She cleared her throat. "The tables were in need of revision and I was able to undertake the project. To recall my name as the one who did the work—that is kind. But, you must understand, to offer such honor to one who merely—" She faltered, hands twisting about each other.
"I teach math," she finished, lamely.
There was a short silence, before Jon dea'Cort spoke, voice matter-of-fact in Comrade Mode.
"Well, nothing wrong with that, is there? I taught piloting, myself, and to such a thankless pack of puppies as I hope you'll never see!"
Aelliana glanced up, hair swinging around her face. "You are a master pilot."
"Right enough. Most of us are, hereabout." He tipped his balding head to one side, offering another smile. "What might I do for you, math teacher?"
She lowered her eyes, refusing the smile as she refused Comrade Mode.
"I had come to inspect Ride the Luck , of which I am owner."
"So my problem-child said," Jon dea'Cort said placidly. "I hadn't known Ride the Luck was for sale."
"I—it wasn't." She moved her shoulders. "I won it last evening from Lord Vin Sin chel'Mara—in a round of pikit."
"Beat him at his own game!" Jubilation was plain in Master dea'Cort's voice, from which Aelliana deduced that His Lordship was not a favored patron. "Well done, math teacher! Here, let me fetch the jitney and I'll take you out myself. Beat the chel'Mara at pikit, by gods! I won't be a moment. . ."
"SHE'S A SWEET SHIP," Jon dea'Cort was saying some minutes later, sending the jitney full-speed down the yard's central avenue. "She's seen some hard times of late, but she's sound. Show her kindness and she'll do very well . . . Here we are."
The jitney shivered to a stop; Master dea'Cort slid out of the driver's slot and walked toward the ramp.
In the passenger's seat, Aelliana sat and stared, her hands cold and slick with sweat.
"Scholar Caylon?" There was worry in the big voice.
With an effort, Aelliana moved her eyes from the ship—hers, hers —to the face of the man standing beside her.
"It's a Jumpship," she told him, as if such a vital point of information could have someway escaped a master pilot's expert notice.
He glanced over his shoulder and up the ramp, then returned his amber gaze to her face. "Class A," he agreed gravely, and held out a companionable hand. "Care to see inside?"
She could remember wanting nothing else so much.
"Yes," she said hungrily and slipped out of the jitney, deftly avoiding Jon dea'Cort's touch.
AELLIANA BROUGHT THE board up and watched, rapt, as the ship ran its
"Please, sir," she said, hearing how breathless her voice sounded. "You do me overmuch honor. Indeed, it is not at all—" Here she hesitated, uncertain how she might proceed with her disclaimer, without calling the master's melant'i into question.
"Var Mon, are you here, you young rakehell?" the old man snarled over his shoulder.
"Aye, Master Jon!"
"Then jet, damn you—and mind you're on time for class!"
"Aye, Master Jon! Good-day to you, Scholar. Until Trilsday-noon!"
Var Mon was gone, running silently past Aelliana's shoulder. She heard nothing, then a whine and sigh as the crew door cycled.
"So." Jon dea'Cort smiled, waking wrinkles at eye-corners and mouth. "You were about to tell me that I do you too much honor. How much honor should I lay at the feet of the scholar responsible for preserving the lives of half-a-thousand pilots?"
"Half-a—oh, but that's averaged over the years since publication, of course." Aelliana looked down, tongue-tied and graceless as ever when dealing outside the familiar role of teacher-to-student.
"You must understand," she told her boot-toes. She cleared her throat. "The tables were in need of revision and I was able to undertake the project. To recall my name as the one who did the work—that is kind. But, you must understand, to offer such honor to one who merely—" She faltered, hands twisting about each other.
"I teach math," she finished, lamely.
There was a short silence, before Jon dea'Cort spoke, voice matter-of-fact in Comrade Mode.
"Well, nothing wrong with that, is there? I taught piloting, myself, and to such a thankless pack of puppies as I hope you'll never see!"
Aelliana glanced up, hair swinging around her face. "You are a master pilot."
"Right enough. Most of us are, hereabout." He tipped his balding head to one side, offering another smile. "What might I do for you, math teacher?"
She lowered her eyes, refusing the smile as she refused Comrade Mode.
"I had come to inspect Ride the Luck , of which I am owner."
"So my problem-child said," Jon dea'Cort said placidly. "I hadn't known Ride the Luck was for sale."
"I—it wasn't." She moved her shoulders. "I won it last evening from Lord Vin Sin chel'Mara—in a round of pikit."
"Beat him at his own game!" Jubilation was plain in Master dea'Cort's voice, from which Aelliana deduced that His Lordship was not a favored patron. "Well done, math teacher! Here, let me fetch the jitney and I'll take you out myself. Beat the chel'Mara at pikit, by gods! I won't be a moment. . ."
"SHE'S A SWEET SHIP," Jon dea'Cort was saying some minutes later, sending the jitney full-speed down the yard's central avenue. "She's seen some hard times of late, but she's sound. Show her kindness and she'll do very well . . . Here we are."
The jitney shivered to a stop; Master dea'Cort slid out of the driver's slot and walked toward the ramp.
In the passenger's seat, Aelliana sat and stared, her hands cold and slick with sweat.
"Scholar Caylon?" There was worry in the big voice.
With an effort, Aelliana moved her eyes from the ship—hers, hers —to the face of the man standing beside her.
"It's a Jumpship," she told him, as if such a vital point of information could have someway escaped a master pilot's expert notice.
He glanced over his shoulder and up the ramp, then returned his amber gaze to her face. "Class A," he agreed gravely, and held out a companionable hand. "Care to see inside?"
She could remember wanting nothing else so much.
"Yes," she said hungrily and slipped out of the jitney, deftly avoiding Jon dea'Cort's touch.
AELLIANA BROUGHT THE board up and watched, rapt, as the ship ran its
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