Misfits Read Online Free PDF

she said,
while Brunner strained to recognize the half-shrouded device. "Got
it from my mother. I'll keep your key just as safe, if you
understand me."
    He looked into her face, aware that she was
already folding the cloth over badge and key, returning the pouch
to its hiding place while he gathered words.
    "Galandaria," he said in low tones, and
inclined his head.
    "What's that?" She showed no faintest hint
of comprehension as she resealed her shirt, her rough Terran at
odds with the artwork she'd called her treasure, at odds with her
quick bright eyes, at odds with the moment.
    Brunner looked away, let his mind run for a
moment, cataloging possibility. This was not, as he had supposed,
only an ignorant Terran halfling, but a woman acknowledging both
her legacy and her isolation. Trusting him with her secret. With
her treasure.
    He had a moment to wonder why--but, there,
the answer was plain. She was about to descend into danger, with
her commander and her troop. Whatever necessity required her to
act--to be--merely a Terran halfling, yet she could not allow him,
a Liaden like herself, to be deceived.
    "Yes," he said in soft Terran, accepting the
burden of her secret. "I see that you will keep the key as safe as
your best treasure, as I would myself."
    "Right," she said. "Got that. Tell you what,
if all this works out good for you, you owe me a cup of coffee,
how's that? Tea's all right with these cakes, but coffee would be
perfect."
    He smiled at her apparent reversion to
simplicity.
    "I agree to owe you a cup of coffee,
Robertson, and to pay promptly when we meet again."
    She nodded happily. "So, you need me to
memorize any frequencies or stuff? I got a real good memory."
    "Let us first review the basics again," he
said. "This unit can function as a communicator if need be. I am,
as you know, Ichliad Brunner. You will ask for me if there is
need."
    * * *
    Brunner was working alone in the meteorology
lab when the first transmission from the Stubbs came through. This
was not necessarily by happenstance. As soon as Commander Lizardi
and Corporal Robertson had departed the station for their posting,
he had volunteered to take what Jack called "night shift" and what
the crew in general just called Slot C. There were fewer people
about then and there was often work to be caught up on from the
preferred "day-shifts," of Slots A and B.
    Coincidentally, Slot C was most concurrent
with Miri Robertson's expected working hours of daylight.
    It took several station-days for the request
to go up and down the short command chain; in the interim Brunner
managed to stay at work beyond his assigned shift and to arrive
before, in case there should be a problem, though what he might do,
if there were--
    But, as it turned out, both his care and his
worry were unnecessary.
    The Stubbs came online flawlessly,
registering locality and altitude, barometric pressure, wind speed,
humidity. Allergens were noted, as were pollutants. Cloud cover was
ranged and categorized. The somewhat variable mix of atmospheric
gases was logged every ten ticks, the air temperature every ten
ticks, alternating with the gases. Piggyback on the databursts was
a quick recording in her soft drawl: "The manuals say I should do a
base test. Here it is. If there's a problem, the manuals say you
can reset remotely or have me recalibrate."
    The readings continued for a short time, and
ceased in an orderly shutdown, and Brunner breathed a sigh of
relief, tinged with anticipation. Now, perhaps they could get
accurate--and uninterrupted!--data to work with!
    Less than a quarter day later a new report
came in, and that, too was an orderly report, sans voice, which
Brunner regretted. He found Robertson's willing approach to the
manuals both thoughtful and interesting. Perhaps her appointment to
the weather machine was not after all mere whim on the commander's
part.
    Days passed, overfull of work; data came in,
perhaps half the time accompanied by a recorded message from