A Matter of Oaths Read online

  Rallya frowned suddenly. Once Vidar had installed the new mass sensors, the only obstacle to Bhattya’s departure was their lack of a First, and the "expedite" flash made it a matter of urgency to find one. By the look on Joshim’s face, he was having the same thought.

  “I’ll be off-ship most of the morning,” she announced hurriedly.

  “When are we going to talk about our First?” Joshim asked, refusing to be put off.

  “Vidar will be busy most of the morning, and so will you,” Rallya temporized. “You may as well take the opportunity to supervise Rafe’s web-time. Save checking him out later if we do decide to consider him.” As she had intended, the suggestion disarmed Joshim. “Then we can talk about it after my workout.”

  “You’re up to something,” Joshim said suspiciously.

  “Nothing you could possibly object to,” Rallya promised. “Why don’t you call Rafe and make sure he’s coming?”

  * * *

  Amsur was right, Joshim decided as he finished the last flimsy of the printout: Rafe’s record was excellent. Only one ship in the ten years since he came across the Disputed Zone, and that was a first-class surveyship, Avannya. Promoted to Third after four years as a junior, to Second three years ago and last year a brevet promotion to First, now lapsed. Rapid progress by anybody’s standards, and probably deserved: like patrolships, surveyships could not afford to carry dead mass at any level in the web-room. Nor could they afford to discard obvious talent because of a single line in his record—082/5033: Identity-wiped to enforce the Member’s Oath. Even Rallya would have to admit that, Joshim thought hopefully.

  Or had she admitted it already, by offering Rafe web-time? No, if she had changed her mind about him, she would have said so openly. Without an explanation, of course. Rallya never saw any need to explain herself, or to apologize for her actions. If she wanted to invite somebody into Bhattya’s web, she would, conveniently forgetting that only Joshim, as Webmaster, had that right.

  Joshim sighed. He had not made that point at breakfast, as he had not made hundreds of similar points in the eight years since he joined Bhattya, because it was rarely worth the effort to argue with Rallya. Especially not when her hip was troubling her. The surgeons talked about the inevitable effects of age, suggested drugs that would keep her out of the web, and were surprised when she would not listen to them. Rallya refused to acknowledge the pain that drove her out of bed in the mornings, would have raised blue hell if Joshim dared mention that her performance in the web was not what it had been eight years ago, and continued to behave as if she owned Bhattya and would do so forever.

  Blue hell would be a tame description for what would happen if she found out what Joshim was looking for in their new First. Yes, Bhattya without Rallya was unthinkable, but it was going to happen. In five years time, by the rate at which her web-reflexes were deteriorating, and the Emperors only knew if she realized it was happening. Joshim dreaded the day when he had to tell her that he could not allow her in the web, but he intended to have a First ready to step into the Commander’s place when it happened. A First trained by Rallya; there was nothing wrong with her devious, unprincipled, knife-sharp brain. Her tactical skill had brought Bhattya safely through forty years of action; Joshim was going to ensure that she left a fitting legacy, a successor who would make it easier for her to leave, somebody she liked and was prepared to trust with the ship that had been her life.

  Chennya’s Lina would be ready for command rank too soon. She would move on again within two years; she had a record of ship hopping. Somebody like Rafe would be ideal, newly promoted to First but with obvious potential. The trick would be to get Rallya to take him as her protégé. Without being seen to have anything to do with it. Joshim smiled ruefully. At least not until Rallya had too much invested in Rafe to be prepared to waste it.

  All this was assuming that Rafe wanted to be a patrolship Commander; that was one thing that remained to be established. His record showed no specialization in ship systems or the web, which suggested that he had no inclination towards Captaincy or Webmastery, but he had no patrolship experience, which was a pity, and he was too young to have gained any in the New Empire before he came across. He could hardly have had his web for a year when he was captured. Could anybody so young have such entrenched loyalties that they would refuse to switch their allegiance from the New Emperor to the Old? Joshim dismissed the question with an impatient shake of his head: obviously they could.

  His audio-messager beeped in his ear; Fadir’s voice came through as soon as he acknowledged the call.

  “Second Officer Rafell is here, sir.”

  “Bring him up to the web-room, please.”

  Joshim smiled indulgently at the excitement in Fadir’s voice. The Senior Apprentice had his own ideas about the reason for Rafe’s presence: if he was here for web-time, he must be the new First; Bhattya’s web was so finely tuned that no stranger would be allowed in. For Fadir’s sake, Joshim hoped he kept his ideas to himself while Rallya was about or she would chew him up and spit him out in extremely small pieces.

  “In here, sir.” Fadir opened the web-room door and stepped aside deferentially for his companion.

  “Thank you, Fadir.” Rafe’s face twitched into a tired grin as Fadir bowed his way out. “I hadn’t the heart to tell him he was wasting his time trying to impress me,” he commented as he made his own belated bow.

  Or the energy, Joshim judged as Rafe straightened up. Curse it, all the classic signs of web-cramp had been there last night: the rigid control of voice and movement, the unnatural tension masquerading as alertness, the dark circles of sleepless nights under the eyes, the untouched drink. How had he not recognized them?

  “Which ship brought you from Jeram?” he asked angrily.

  “Does it matter?” Rafe made a gesture of dismissal. “They’re hardly unique in the way they feel about me.”

  “Which ship?” Joshim insisted.

  “Deretya,” Rafe said wearily.

  “Have you registered a complaint with the Guildhall?”

  “No, sir. It would attract too much attention.”

  Joshim nodded understanding, not liking it. Rafe’s position was too precarious to risk claiming the rights that other webbers could take for granted. However, that need not prevent Joshim from having a few sharp words with Deretya’s Webmaster.

  “We’ll go straight up to the web,” he said briskly, unlocking the door to the riser with his palm.

  Relief showed in Rafe’s eyes, as if he had expected Joshim to change his mind, even so late. He covered it quickly with long grey lashes, made a visible effort to steady his breathing and followed Joshim into the riser.

  “Did you particularly want to wet-web?” Joshim asked as he stepped out at the top.

  “Whatever is most convenient for you, sir.”

  Rafe was looking around hungrily as he answered. Bhattya’s web was big, even for a patrolship: twenty wet-web places and another four dry, all of them currently idle. Joshim never managed to view it without a pleasing rush of pride. To Rafe, it must look like heaven, after forty days of enforced abstinence; he was twitching in anticipation.

  “We’ll use these.” Joshim indicated the nearest pair of dry places. Wet-webbing was more satisfying, allowing total immersion in the web without the requirement for a core of body control, but it took longer to prepare for and Rafe needed to be in the web without delay.

  “What size web did Avannya have?” Joshim asked curiously, starting to prepare his place.

  “Ten wet, two dry. We ran with eight in the web normally, ten when jumping into a strange system for the first time.” Rafe rubbed at his wrists unconsciously and moved to prepare the other place.

  “Bhattya runs with twelve in the web. Eighteen in an alert, including six on filtered standby,” Joshim told him. “We’re thirty-six in the web-room, plus the apprentices.”

  “Avannya wasn’t rigged for filtered standby. There’d never been the need. You don’t expe
ct EMP-mines in abandoned systems,” Rafe said bitterly. “Especially not in the jump point.” He laid the bunch of web-contacts down on the couch in front of him and hesitated. “I have to warn you, sir,” he said nervously. “I haven’t had any web-time in forty days. I’m going to be clumsy. There’s a risk that I’ll unbalance your web.” The words came out as if it was the last thing he wanted to say. It probably was, Joshim thought approvingly: all the more credit for saying it.

  “I appreciate the warning, but you can’t be any clumsier than a junior in their first berth,” he said easily. “This web has coped with hundreds of those.”

  “My extension is greater than any junior in their first berth,” Rafe insisted. “It might be safer if I waited for station time.”

  “If I need to, I won’t have any problems limiting you.” Joshim finished his preparations. “If I thought there was any danger to my web, you wouldn’t be here.” He walked round to Rafe’s side and picked up the neglected bunch of web-contacts. “Happy with these?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then hook in.” He made it an order.

  Rafe unfastened his wrist-bands and removed them, putting them in easy reach on the ledge at the head of his couch. Predictably, the contacts underneath were dull from disuse. He took cleaner from the ledge and swabbed them gently. His hands were shaking.

  “My neck-contact will need cleaning,” he apologized.

  Joshim took the bottle of cleaner from him. Rafe unfastened the band at his throat and put that with the others. He tipped his head forward and pulled the curly strands of grey and brown hair out of the way.

  “Nice contact,” Joshim commented. “You didn’t have many problems growing your web in.”

  “I don’t remember, sir,” Rafe said, sharp with embarrassment. It was one thing to ask a web-mate to clean your neck-contact for you, another to ask a strange Webmaster. He flinched as Joshim applied the cleaner and pulled away after a few seconds.

  “Yes, that should be clean enough.” Joshim closed the bottle and replaced it on the ledge. “What system of signals are you happiest with? Bhattya uses extended tens, but that’s peculiar to patrolships.”

  Rafe frowned, then shook his head decisively. “The condition I’m in, standard fives may be beyond me, sir.” He grinned, but it was obviously forced.

  “Standard fives, then.” Joshim gestured for Rafe to lie down on the couch. “Hook in, and I’ll run a calibration sequence for you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Rafe strapped the signal-contacts into place on his wrists, face-to-face with his own contacts. He adjusted them slightly to get the position right and checked his judgement by the readout on the monitor screen beside the couch. Lying down, he twisted comfortably onto his side before strapping the control-contact into place at the back of his neck. The accurate positioning of that was more critical and took longer, but eventually he was satisfied.

  “Ready, sir.”

  Joshim triggered the standard calibration sequence and watched the readouts with interest. Reflex speed and extension at the top end of the spectrum; range and control less good, but that would be the result of the web-cramp. Nodding his satisfaction, he made a few adjustments to the settings of Rafe’s links.

  “We have two hours before anybody else needs the web,” he remarked. “I’ll signal when your time’s up.”

  As Joshim hooked himself into the web, the configuration displayed on the monitor beside his couch changed to show the new key-position and his links activated automatically, the contacts warming invitingly. He opened the paths from the web to his brain and closed the non-essential paths from brain to body, leaving himself a view of the monitor and his speech and hearing.

  “Ready for activation, Rafe?” he called, when he had reached his compromise between the demands of caution and the space that Rafe would need to stretch away his cramp, and imposed the corresponding limits on the web.

  “Ready, sir.”

  Rafe had obviously been alert for the moment that his contacts became active. He surged into the web eagerly, extending until he reached the edges of the space available and holding himself there for long seconds of clear relief before pulling back and moderating his strength. The monitor showed that there had been more overlap between body control and web control during that surge than was wise, but less than Joshim had anticipated. He relaxed into passivity, content that any danger to Rafe and to the web was over in those initial uncontrolled moments, and settled himself more comfortably on his couch to observe.

  Rafe was already working each of his circuits individually, methodically stretching the cramps out of his nerves. After thirty minutes of precise level and range control exercises, he moved onto pairs and higher combinations, working up to the complete sequence of Senior qualifiers. He ran through those twice, once with his eyes open to monitor his performance.

  [Good] Joshim signalled as Rafe finished. [Time up.]

  There were ten minutes left of the time that he had promised but Rafe had already pushed himself further than he ought. Without any apparent ill-effects, it was true, but web-cramp was unpredictable. Joshim wished he had thought to say that Bhattya had enough spare capacity for Rafe to return every day if he wished. It was an omission he would correct as soon as this session was over.

  [Acknowledged. Disengaging.] Rafe made the switch from web to body almost as soon as he signalled, a smooth switch this time, without unnecessary overlap. “Disengaged, sir,” he confirmed.

  Joshim deactivated Rafe’s links and disengaged from the web himself, stretching pleasurably as he returned to full body control. Rafe had moved while he was in the web, sprawling on his stomach with his hands trailing over the edge of the couch. He looked more amused than embarrassed by his lapse, sitting up slowly and crossing his legs in front of him while he verified on the monitor screen that his links were inactive.

  “Let me check your contacts before you put your bands on,” Joshim requested, detaching his own links and slipping the web-contacts into their housing. Nobody could work so hard after so long out of the web and not suffer web-burn.

  “No need, sir,” Rafe protested confidently, unstrapping the control-contact from his neck and spoiling the effect by wincing. He removed the signal-contacts from his wrists more carefully and waited obediently for Joshim to inspect the damage.

  “Not too bad, considering you were determined to cram six hours work into two,” Joshim reproved him, rummaging on the ledge for some salve. “Wrists.” Rafe held them out meekly and he anointed the over-hot skin around the contacts. “Tip your head forward.” He brushed the curls out of the way and treated the larger burn on the neck. “Tomorrow, you do exactly what I tell you. No more and no less,” he said sternly as he applied the ointment. Rafe started to turn his head. “Keep still. You skipped breakfast, I assume?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then we’ll go and find out what the apprentices have concocted for lunch.” He patted the curls gently back into place, put the salve away and handed Rafe his bands one at a time. “After two years, Fadir shows signs of mastering the cook-unit.”

  “Do I have to listen to the rest of his life-story?” Rafe asked plaintively, uncrossing his legs and slipping down from the couch.

  “Not in company,” Joshim promised. “He’ll just worship you from afar.”

  Rafe snorted cynically. “Not for long,” he predicted. “Not if Commander Rallya is there.”

  “What did she say to you last night?” Joshim asked sharply.

  Rafe shook his head. “Nothing,” he claimed, tugging at his tunic to straighten it. “Just the offer of web-time, for which I’m grateful.” He tilted his head and grinned impishly, stripping another five years from his apparent age. “Shall we go and make Fadir happy?”

  * * *

  Rallya glared at Rafe as he stepped out of the riser behind Joshim. His web-time had been well-spent; he was relaxed and smiling at something Joshim had said on the way down from the web. Joshim too l
ooked pleased with his morning, which was more than Rallya could say about hers. Yes, there were ships in dock that needed a Second, but no one she cared to approach with details of Rafe’s history. No, she had not explicitly promised to find him a berth, but she had implied that she could and he had openly doubted it.

  And while she had been wasting her time, Rafe had been impressing Joshim. Not deliberately—she would grant him that—but it was obvious from the light in Joshim’s eyes that he had been impressed. Obvious to every webber in the web-room, by the speculative looks that were flying about. And as for Fadir, mooning around over a pretty face and a well-turned backside…

  “Fadir, if you don’t remember to breathe soon, you’ll faint,” she told him sharply.

  “There speaks the voice of experience,” Rafe commented.

  Even Fadir forgot to blush in the stunned silence that followed. Rallya opened her mouth and closed it again. “I never actually fainted,” she said eventually. “But only because somebody else reminded me to breathe.” She looked Rafe up and down slowly. “Of course, the provocation wasn’t quite as intense,” she added.

  “Of course, ma’am,” Rafe agreed seriously, taking the mug of alcad that Joshim handed him and raising it in salute.

  Rallya returned the salute with a single eyebrow. “Did you enjoy your introduction to Bhattya’s web?” she asked sweetly.

  “Thank you, ma’am, yes. I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

  “Good. Good.” She turned to Vidar, who had finally stopped choking silently. “Is Jualla going to be free for my tactics workout, or do you need her to finish installing the mass sensors?” she inquired.