Sharon Lee - Sreve Miller - Adventures in the Liaden Universe

VIP免费
2024-12-20 0 0 685.86KB 283 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
Adventures in the Liaden Universe
Adventures in the Liaden Universe, #1-#8
Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
You can buy these stories as eBooks at embiid.com. Unfortunately, they come in a form that can
only be read by the Embiid reader. After you have bought a story, you can escape from Embiid’s
wretched typography by reading the version here. Please don’t read stories that you don’t own.
This text was created from the Embiid version. It has been spell-checked and proofread, but not
carefully. Some errors doubtless remain.
Contents
Two Tales of Korval
To Cut An Edge
A Day at the Races
Fellow Travelers
Where the Goddess Sends
A Spell for the Lost
Moonphase
About This Book
Duty Bound
Pilot of Korval
Breath’s Duty
Certain Symmetry
The Wine of Memory
Certain Symmetry
Trading In Futures
Balance of Trade
A Choice Of Weapons
Changeling
Loose Cannon
A Matter of Dreams
Phoenix
Shadows And Shades
Naratha’s Shadow
Heirloom
Appendixes
A Partial Liaden Dictionary
The Updated But Partial Liaden Universe Time Line
About the Authors
About the Liaden Universe
Two Tales of Korval
Adventures in the Liaden Universe #1
Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
To Cut An Edge
AS AGREED, he was lost.
He was, in fact, a good deal more lost than he wanted to be. It took him several seconds to realize that
the continent overhead was not the one he’d secretly studied for—followed quickly by the realization that
it was not even the world he’d expected.
He’d crammed for oceanic Talanar, a planet quite close to the studies he’d been urged to make by his
elders. This world was ...?
What world was it, after all?
Determining fall-rate overrode curiosity for this present. He located a magnetic pole and arranged to have
the ship orient thus, then began a preliminary scan of—well, of wherever it was—as he slowed rotation
smoothly and watched the screens.
Air good. Water probably drinkable. Gravity a bit heavier than the training planet: within ten percent of
Liaden gravity. Preliminary scan established that this could be any of three or four hundred worlds.
His ship was moving in, as it must. It had been dropped by an orbiting mothership, a carefully timed burst
of retros killing its orbital speed. If he worked very hard and was very careful, he could keep the tiny
craft in orbit, but that meant immediate expulsion, no appeal, unless he could demonstrate equipment
failure...
Instead, he nursed the strictly limited fuel supply by using only attitude jets, and hurried the computer a
little to give him potential range.
Three hours before he hit serious atmosphere. after that, depending on his piloting skills and local weather
conditions, he might be in the air for an hour. The world below would turn one and a half times before he
landed. He wondered what Daria would have thought—
And quashed the thought immediately. Daria was dead, killed in the drop from the mothership, victim of a
freakish solar storm. It had been stupid of them to be so involved, of course. Stupid and beautiful.
Daria was months dead now, and Val Con yos’Phelium would be a scout. Not partnered, as they’d
promised so hastily, protected against all unnamed and unbelieved disasters by the strength of each
other’s arms. Not partnered. But a Scout, nonetheless.
After he passed the test.
He considered the readouts. There were cities down there, yet not so closely huddled that there weren’t
plenty of places to land a quick, slender craft. His instructions: achieve planetfall; learn the language,
customs, life-forms; survive for six standard months and sound Recall. This was not the final test, after all,
merely the preliminary. Pass this, then the true Solo and, behold! Scout. Simplicity itself.
He shook his head and began the second scan. Optimism, he chided himself half-seriously, is not a
survival trait.
* * *
HE SET DOWN in the foothills above an amber valley where fields and possible houses lined a placid
river.
Grounded, he initiated the final pre-scan, whistling indifferently. His instrument of choice was the
omnichora. A portable—gift from his fostermother on the recent occasion of his seventeenth Name
Day—was packed away with the rest of his gear.
It was remarkable the ’chora was there at all. Test tradition was that a cadet carried no tech-gear during
prelims, except for that equipment found in a standard kit. However, those who had him under their eyes
understood that to deprive Val Con yos’Phelium of the means of making his music for a period of six
months, Standard, would be an act of wanton inhumanity. It had been debated hotly within the council of
instructors, had he but known it. He knew only the end—that the ’chora was aboard the test ship; and
that his immediate superior took care to comment that music was communication, too.
Sighing, Val Con studied the results of the scan: air a bit light on oxygen, but not enough to present
problems. Microbes—nothing to worry him there. Scout inoculations are thorough. Soil samples showed
levels of copper, iron; a shade too much sulfur. Ho harmful radiations. In fact, it was going to be rather
dim outside.
Hull temp read orange: too hot for exit.
He stretched in the pilot’s chair and released the web of shock straps. Asking the rationboard for a cup
of hot tea, he stood sipping, trying to damp the surge of excitement that threatened, now he was really
here.
Wherever it was.
He grinned suddenly. What did it matter? It was a Scout’s task to discover such things, after all! This
was what he had been trained for. More fool he, cramming for a world lightyears distant, when he could
have been—could have been sleeping.
Resisting the urge to tell the temperature display precisely what he thought of its arbitrary limitations, he
bent down, opened the crew locker and brought out two bundles.
The first was his ’chora, wrapped in oiled yellow silk. His fingers caressed it through the fabric as he set it
aside.
The second bundle was wrapped in black leather and clanked when he hefted it. He settled back on the
floor and twisted the clasps, pulling out a broad belt, also of black leather, hung about with objects.
A Scout must wear a complete belt kit at all times.
He looked at the heavy thing with deep resentment. Complete? If he came to require local currency, he
need only open a hardware concession. Oh, some of them made sense: pellet gun, machete, rope. But a
flaregun? Pitons? Surely, if there were mountains to climb, one would know in sufficient time to prepare
oneself?
Ah well, regulations are regulations. And if any of the several things he judged useless were not on his
belt, should a proctor turn up, he would flunk on the instant.
Sighing, he began the kit-check.
Pellet gun: OK.
Flaregun: OK.
Machete: what can go wrong with a machete? OK.
Stick-knife... He smiled and flipped it open to reveal the strong, dainty blade. The stick-knife was
pleasing. He found knives in general pleasing, and had studied their construction during his so-called
spare time, even attempting to craft a few. The most successful of these was a plain steel throwing blade,
which, of course, was not with him at the moment. The stick-knife was not for throwing, but for surprise
and efficiency in close, desperate situations. He flicked his wrist, vanishing blade into hilt.
Stick-knife: OK.
A Scout’s belt-kit is comprehensive. By the time Val Con finished his check the orange temperature light
had gone out.
* * *
DAY SEVEN.
He rose and tidied the ship while drinking a mug of tea; checked the monitors; buckled on his kit and
went out.
It was dim, like a day threatening downpours on his own bright world, and sultry. A breeze blowing from
the south brought a medley of unfamiliar odors with it. He sniffed appreciatively and paused to pick an
old reed from the side of the path.
Six days had seen many accomplishments. His eyes had adjusted to the lower light level, even as his
body rhythms had reached an acceptable compromise with the overriding song of the world. Sensors had
been set out and calibration programs begun. The log was up-to-date.
His failure lay in contacting the people.
Hot that there weren’t people. On the contrary, there were at least two hundred individuals living in the
valley at the end of this path, though the count was necessarily approximate. He found it difficult to
differentiate at distance between one large-shelled person and another. Given variation in shell size,
person size, decoration and harness, individuality would eventually come through; but it would be a slow
process. Worse, he had yet to find one single person who would speak with him—or even acknowledge
his presence.
He’d tried all the approaches he’d been taught—and several he’d invented on the spur of the
moment—angling for any response at all.
And had been roundly ignored.
Yesterday, he had boldly stepped in front of a group of three, bowed low, as he had seen those
small-shelled or shell-less bow when addressing those more magnificent than themselves.
The group split and detoured around him, unhurriedly, but with determination.
The path wound around an outcropping of rock and sloped toward the caves and valley floor. Val Con
stopped to survey his prospects, idly twirling the reed.
Across the valley, people were about what he now perceived as their daily business. Four individuals
were in the fields along the river, working among the growing things with long-handled tools vaguely
reminiscent of hoes. Toward the center, a cluster of eight? ten? large persons were engaged in a certain
choreographed activity, which could have been dancing, game-playing or military drill, across the river,
large greenish shapes moved among the hulking rounded stones—dwelling places, so he thought: The
town itself.
Just downhill from him now, though somewhat distant from the caverns and convenient to a nice flat rock,
was a very large individual with sapphire glinting randomly from the tilework of its shell. With it were four
small people, shell-less, and bumbling in a way that shouted children to him. The largest was scarcely
taller than he was.
It is dangerous to approach the young of an isolate and perhaps xenophobic people—or, indeed, of any
people. But Val Con’s observations indicated that he could easily outrun the adult, should it attempt an
attack, and children are often curious...
So thinking, he walked down into the valley and sat atop the flat rock.
The guardian glanced his way, but turned its back, making no move to herd the smaller ones away.
Encouraged, he crossed his legs and settled in to watch.
They were definitely children. They played tag, fell on each other, crowed loudly and shouted shrill,
unintelligible taunts. Entertaining, but not particularly productive. The guardian still ignored him, and he
nurtured a small flame of optimism as he felt in the belt for the stick-knife.
Best to put waiting to work, he thought, quoting one of his uncle’s favorite phrases. Slowly, attention
mostly on the schoolroom party, he began to fashion the reed into a flute.
It was the first time he’d attempted such a thing, though he had read how it might be done, and he did not
give it primary concentration. This may have accounted for the woefully off-key sound that emerged
when he finally brought the flute to his lips and blew.
He winced, and blew again; moving his fingers over the holes to produce a ripple of ragged sound. His
fourth attempt yielded something that could charitably have been called a tune, and he glanced up to see
how the nursery was taking the diversion.
The guardian stood yet with its back to him, watching as three of the babies enjoyed a rough-and-tumble
of wonderful ineptitude.
The fourth was looking at him.
Val Con brought the reed up and blew again, trying for the simple line of a rhyming game from his own
childhood. The child took a step forward, away from its quarreling kin, toward the rock. Val Con
repeated the rhyming song and began a hopeless rendition of the first ballad he had learned on the ’chora.
Fortunately, the baby was not critical. Val Con abandoned the attempt to wring structured music from his
instrument and instead created ripples of notes, interlocking them as it occurred to him; playing with the
sound.
The baby was right in front of him.
He let the music fade slowly; raised his head and looked into enormous golden eyes, pupils cat-slit black;
let his lips curve into the slightest of smiles, and waited.
“D’neschopita,” announced the child, extending a three-fingered hand.
“D’neschopita,” repeated the Scout, copying inflection and pitch. He extended his own hand,
many-fingered as it was.
A hand larger than either swooped out of nowhere, snatching the child from imminent contact, sparing for
his abductor one withering glare from eyes the size of dinner plates. It dragged the protesting infant away,
holding forth in a loud and extremely displeased voice.
Nurse, Val Con decided, shoulders drooping. Don’t touch that, he translated freely, giving his
imagination rein, you don’t know where it’s been! It could be sick! Whatever it is. And look how
SOFT it is! Probably slimy, too. Yuck.
He raised the flute and blew a bleat of raucous wet sound.
The big one spun, moving rather more rapidly observed in others of her race, dropping the baby’s hand
and raising her arms.
Val Con grinned at her. “D’neschopita,” he said.
She hesitated; lowered her arms slowly—and spun again, reclaiming her charge roughly and driving the
other three before, toward the safety of the center valley.
“TO CONCLUDE,” intoned the Speaker for the Trader Clan, “White Marsh feels that the Knife Clan of
Middle River owes in the form of information regarding routes of star-trade. This, because the Knife Clan
neglected to locate the being known as Silver Mark Sweeney and deliver the knife he commissioned,
thereby denying the Trader Clan its fee of information, for sending this business hither.”
There was silence as the T’car digested the whole of the Trader Clan’s message. Out of the silence,
Eldest Speaker’s dead-leaf voice: “Will you make answer, T’carais?”
The person so addressed stood away from the bench and inclined his head to the Elders in respect.
“It grieves me,” he began, “that the Trader clan of White Marsh would come before the T’car entire,
citing wrongs, before they came to the Knife Clan and requested facts. However, it is done, and answer
shall be made.
“It is fact that the Trader Clan brought Silver Mark Sweeney to the Knife Clan, from which he
commissioned a blade appropriate to his size, We accepted the task, seeded the cavern and encouraged
not one, but many knives of a size and shape that would be fitting to beings of Silver Mark Sweeney’s
order. In the fullness of time, the blades were ready and the Knife Clan caused a message to be sent as
instructed by Silver Mark Sweeney, stating this.
“He did not come to claim his knife.”
“It was the responsibility of the Knife Clan to search—” began the Trader Clan’s Speaker, with
lamentable haste.
The T’carais raised a hand, reminding that it was his time now to speak, and continued in the midst of the
new silence.
“The Knife Clan searched. And, when it was found that our manner of search is not efficient among the
stars, we employed a skilled tracker of the clans of Men to perform this task for us.” He paused to
consider how best to proceed. The Elders, wise beyond saying, were old. They did not always recall that
to those yet mobile, change was ...
“You must remember,” he said diplomatically, “how short-lived are the members of the Clans of Men.
Where I engaged one to search, his heir reported failure to me, as his father had grown too feeble to
travel. It was the belief of these trackers—and also myself—that while we encouraged and refined the
blade, Silver Mark Sweeney achieved s’essellata and died.
“Thus, I commanded that the family of Silver Mark Sweeney be found, that the blade might be placed
into the hands of his kin. Time passed, and when the first tracker’s heir came to me again, he leaned
heavily upon his own heir...”
The T’carais sighed gustily.
“It seems that Silver Mark Sweeney was both kinless and clanless, as is not uncommon among that
family of the Clans of Men named ‘Terran’.” He paused; signed summation.
“And so the knife is undelivered and the Trader Clan is bereft of its fee. It is to be considered that the
Knife clan had also considerable investment in this venture. There is an entire room filled with blades
refined, awaiting only handles and sheathes, all too small for our use.”
He inclined his head to the Elders. “Thus does the Knife Clan answer.”
There was a large quiet while the Elders conferred silently, after the manner of the very old. in time,
Eldest Speaker’s voice was heard.
“It is seen that the Trader clan has come before the full T’car to state its concerns and to give notice of
intention to make formal complaint, should there be no balance forthcoming from the Knife Clan.
“It is seen further that the Knife Clan erred in failing to teach the Trader Clan its attempt at solution.
“Thus, it is the decision and will of the T’car that the T’carais of the Knife Clan go to the T’carais of the
Trader Clan and speak as egg-kin, seeking to resolve all equitably. If this is not done, then shall the T’car
make disposal.” She paused, and all awaited her further words.
“It puzzles the T’car that the Knife Clan so hastily encouraged an entire cavern of blades fit only for those
of the Clans of Men. However, there has been no complaint made of this, and no judgment is made.
“The matter in this phase is ended. All may go.”
* * *
HE WOKE SOBBING, the echo of his cry still shuddering the metal walls.
“Daria! Daria, untrue!”
But it was true.
Painfully, he pulled air into laboring lungs, stilled the sobs and straightened from his cramped coil of grief.
Local midnight, by the chronometer on the board. He slid out of bed; dressed deliberately; buckled the
kit on and moved to the door. At the threshold, he bethought himself, turned back to the rationboard and
withdrew several bars of concentrated food, which he stuffed into his pouch. His eye fell on the flute he’d
made that afternoon and he picked that up, too, thrusting it into his belt as he went out into the night.
There were people abroad in the valley: farming, drilling and in general about their business under the wan
light of the two pinkish moons as if it were full daylight.
Val Con paused to stare out over all this activity and finally proceeded, shrugging.
The path deserted him at the base of the hill and he paused once more, this time because he heard the
sound of large persons approaching, talking among themselves.
He hid in the shadow of a sundered boulder and let them go by: a group of three, well-shelled and
carrying large objects—containers of some sort, he thought.
They entered the caverns purposefully, the boom of their voices echoing back.
After a moment, Val Con followed.
THE BROODMOTHER STOOD away from the bench in the waiting chamber and inclined her head as
he approached. “T’carais. A word with you?” Not now, he thought, still rankling from Eldest speaker’s
criticism. Hasty, am I? when all with eyes must see that the Clans of Men will give us profit,
perspective—He became aware of the Broodmother still standing, head bent in respect; and put irritation
aside. “Of course. Come within.” He sat upon the bench of office and indicated that she should sit, as
well.
At least—” She paused, marshalling words. “It is that—thing, T’carais. The Reports of this one had
reached him from other sources, all annoyed.
But this, in her agitation, she did not do, merely standing and gazing mutely up at him. “What concerns
you?” he asked in some puzzlement. Whatever failings she possessed, nervousness was not counted
among them, “Are the egglings unwell?”
“They are well, T’carais. Little, black—soft—thing...”
He signed understanding.
“It—the T’carais’amp...”
This could not continue. “Please tell the tale clearly, Broodmother. Do you say that the T’carais’amp is
endangered?”
“I do!” she cried, knotting her fingers together. “It—the soft thing—came out of the hills today and sat
upon the stone at the base of the L’apeleka field, a short distance from the egglings and I, and seemed
busy with something or another in its—its hands.” She paused to collect herself.
“Then, it began to make noises—horrible noises, T’carais, high-pitched and whining—just as the three
youngest began a fight among themselves, which I of course had to attend to ...”
“Of course, “ he agreed, since this seemed required.
“When I looked around, the T’carais’amp was—was at the rock, holding out his little hand. And
that—thing held out its hand and was going to—going to touch him!” Again she took a time to return to
composure.
“I snatched him away, T’carais, and was hurrying back to the others when—it hissed at me, T’carais!”
This was new. “Hissed at you? By all descriptions, this is but a member of the Clans of Men. I do not
recall having heard one of this family hiss...”
“Well, perhaps it was not itself that hissed. It was—holding a reed, T’carais, and I believe that it
somehow caused the reed to hiss at me. When I turned to protect the T’carais’amp, it bared its teeth and
said ‘D’neschopita!’”
This was apparently the awful whole, for she unknotted her fingers and stood with head bowed, awaiting
his judgment.
It bared its teeth and cried ‘Pretty’? Odd and odder.
The T’carais had traveled much and judged most of the members of the Clans of Men harmless, if hasty.
Their music had a certain charm, their actions a touch of madness bordering on art. Certainly there
seemed to be no lasting harm in this one.
“I judge,” he said, using the formal intonation, “this individual to be rude and inconsiderate, yet not
dangerous. If it frequents the area on the edge of the L’apeleka field, then take the egglings elsewhere for
their outings. I will investigate it myself, to ensure it is not of that family called Yxtrang, though its behavior
has not been consistent with the nature of that line. If it is not, then we must merely tolerate it for a shell or
two. It will soon be gone.”
He gentled his voice, “It is not worth troubling yourself over, Broodmother, I promise you,” and signed
dismissal.
With this she had to be content. She had asked and the T’carais had judged. Better she had slain the soft
thing this daylight and endured words of reprisal than this—this empty assurance that something so
repulsive was no danger to the children.
Unconvinced, she made obeisance and left the hearing chamber.
HE DID NOT understand how he came to be lost. The cavern was dark; but his ears were as sharp as
his sense of direction. Those he followed made no pretense of stealth. There should have been no
difficulty.
And yet there had. His guides were a little distance ahead, rounding a corner. Moments later, he rounded
the same corner—or, as he thought now, not the same corner—and found himself alone in a dark his
eyes were unequipped to penetrate.
He stopped, eyes half-closed in the blackness, listening.
Silence, in which his breath rasped.
His nose reported the dry, musky scent characteristic of shelled people, but not with an immediacy that
encouraged him to believe any stood near.
Well and good. He pulled the lantern from his belt and thumbed the beam to low, careful of any
dark-seeing eyes that might, in spite of his certainty, be watching.
He stood in a pocket of stone, high-roofed and smooth. It was well that he had stopped where he had:
another half-dozen of his short strides would have run him nose-first into the endwall.
The wrong corner, indeed. He pivoted on a heel, playing the beam over the floor, but the dustless stone
showed no tracks.
Well, there at least was the bend in the corridor. Best turnabout and walk out...
HE WALKED FOR twenty minutes by his inner clock, fully twice the time he had walked in behind his
guides. Stopping, he played his light around the room in which he stood. It was so vast a place that the
mid-beam did not even nibble at the dark along what he imagined must be the walls. The floor was
littered with boulders and smitten columns of stone.
He spun slowly in place, running the beam about the room. This is absurd, he thought. I don’t get lost.
Still, he had to admit that he did seem to be lost. It was clear that he would succeed only in becoming
more lost if he continued on his guideless way.
It is possible, he told himself kindly, that you have done something just a bit foolish.
He sighed and pushed the hair off his forehead.
People did come into the caverns, though it was true that he did not know the schedule of these
visitations. Food and water he had—even fresh water, he amended, ears catching a silvering cascade in
the dark to his right—and the torch would provide light for months. The wait would no doubt be tedious,
but hardly life-threatening, and if he got bored he could use his fishline and markers to map the caverns.
Shrugging philosophically, Val Con sat down and waited to be found.
* * *
THE DUTIES OF a T’carais are myriad; the duties of the senior-most Edger many. Happily, several
overlapped, so that a visit to the caverns was both present joy and remembered bliss.
He crossed the threshold into First Upper Way, noting that three of his kin—Handler, Selector and
Lader—had passed this way but recently.
Around their scents, and as recent, was the odor of something vaguely spicy and somewhat—furry? The
T’carais puzzled as he went on. It was like and yet unlike a scent he knew, though not one usually found
within the caverns.
摘要:

AdventuresintheLiadenUniverseAdventuresintheLiadenUniverse,#1-#8SharonLeeandSteveMiller YoucanbuythesestoriesaseBooksatembiid.com.Unfortunately,theycomeinaformthatcanonlybereadbytheEmbiidreader.Afteryouhaveboughtastory,youcanescapefromEmbiid’swretchedtypographybyreadingtheversionhere.Pleasedon’tread...

展开>> 收起<<
Sharon Lee - Sreve Miller - Adventures in the Liaden Universe.pdf

共283页,预览57页

还剩页未读, 继续阅读

声明:本站为文档C2C交易模式,即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载,本站只是中间服务平台,本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间,仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理,对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私,请立即通知玖贝云文库,我们立即给予删除!
分类:外语学习 价格:5.9玖币 属性:283 页 大小:685.86KB 格式:PDF 时间:2024-12-20

开通VIP享超值会员特权

  • 多端同步记录
  • 高速下载文档
  • 免费文档工具
  • 分享文档赚钱
  • 每日登录抽奖
  • 优质衍生服务
/ 283
客服
关注