Burning Bright полностью

Burning Bright

Melissa Scott

Contents

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Copyright ©1993 by Melissa Scott

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genre: Science Fiction

Part One

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Day 30

High Spring: Parking Orbit,

Burning Bright

Quinn Lioe walked the galliot down the sky, using the shaped force fields of the sails as legs, balancing their draw against the depth of gravity here in the planet’s shadow. Stars glowed in the mirror display in front of her; spots of dark haze blocked the brilliance of sun and the limb of the planet, so that she could see and read the patterns that gravity made in the vacuum around her. The low-sail, under the keel of her ship, vibrated in its cup: the field calibration had slipped badly on the journey from Callixte to Burning Bright, would have to be adjusted before they left orbit. She sighed, automatically easing the field, and widened the cross-sails’ field to compensate. Numbers flickered across the base of the mirror as the ship’s system noted and approved the changes; she felt the left cross-sail tremble under her hand, as its draw approached the illusory “depth” of hyperspace, and shortened it even before the warning flashed orange and red across her screen. The galliot continued its easy progress as though there had been no chance of grounding.

“Beacon,” she said to the ship, to traffic control waiting somewhere ahead of her in the parking pattern, and a moment later a marker flared in the mirror’s display, ahead and slightly to the left of the galliot’s course. She sighed, wanting to hurry, wanting to be done and parked and free for the five days or more that it would take to recalibrate the fields, but disciplined herself to safe and steady progress. The galliot crept forward, sails beating slowly against the weak currents of hyperspace that were almost drowned by the local gravity. Her hands rested lightly on the controls; she felt the depth of space in the pressure of the sails, saw the same numbers reflected in the slow swirl of the currents overlaid on the mirror’s mimicking of reality.

At last she brought the galliot to a slow stop almost on top of the unreal marker, and shortened the sails until the system gravity took over, drawing the ship neatly into the designated space. She smiled, pleased with her precision, and kicked the lever that lit the anchor field. Lights flared along the mirror’s base—familiar, but nonetheless satisfying—and the ship said sweetly, “On target. Anchorage confirmed.”

“Nicely done,” a familiar voice said, and Lioe glanced over her shoulder in some surprise. She hadn’t heard Kerestel enter the pilot’s dome, had thought he was still back in cargo space sorting out what had and hadn’t gone on the drop. And, to be fair, cleaning up after the bungee-gars.

“Thanks,” she said aloud, and ran her hands across the main board, closing and snuffing the sail fields. She set the anchor field then, watched the telltales strengthen to green, and turned away from her station, working her shoulders to free them of the night’s— morning’s, she corrected silently, it was the beginning of the new day on Burning Bright—painstaking work. “How’s it look back there?”

“Bungee-gars,” Kerestel said. He leaned against the hatchway, folding his arms across his chest. His hands and bare arms were still reddened from the embrace of the servo gloves he used to move the canisters that held the cargo safe during the drop to the planet’s surface. “Gods, they’re a grubby lot.”

Looking at him, Lioe bit back a laugh. As usual, Kerestel was wearing a spacesuit liner, this one more battered even than usual, the long sleeves cut off at the shoulder to make it easier to work the servos. He had stopped shaving two days into the trip— also as usual—and the incipient beard had sprouted in goatish grey tufts. The hat that marked him as a union pilot—this one a beret of gold-shot grey brocade, pinned up on one side with a cluster of brightly faceted glass—perched, incongruously jaunty, on his balding head.

Kerestel had the grace to grin. “Well, you know what I mean. And Christ, the pair of them couldn’t make up their minds what was to go in the drop—if they had minds.”

Lioe nodded, and turned to the secondary board to begin shutting down the mirror. Bungee-gars, the hired hands who rode the drop capsules down out of orbit to help protect particularly valuable cargoes from hijacking after landing, were generally a difficult group to work with— you have to be pretty crazy to begin with, or desperate, to take a job like that—and the two who had come aboard on Demeter had been slightly more bizarre than usual. “What I don’t care for,” she said, “is running cargo that needs bungee-gars.”