man with scarlet and gold collar tabs. Sass recalled the rank—senior pilot—from a far-distant shipping consortium. He looked her over, then shook his head.
"Another beginner. Bright stars, you'd think they'd realize I need something more than a pilot apprentice. And a dumb naked girl who probably doesn't even speak the same language." He turned away and poked the bulkhead. With a click and hiss, a locker opened; he rummaged inside and pulled out rumpled tunic and pants, much-mended. "Here. Clothes. You understand?" He mimed dressing, and Sass took the garments, putting them on as he watched. Then he led her along one corridor, then into a pop-tube that shot them to the pilot's "house"—a small cramped compartment lined with vidscreens and control panels. To Sass's relief, her training made sense of the chaos of buttons and toggles and flicking lights. That must be the Insystem computer, and that the FTL toggle, with its own shielded computer flickering, now, in not-quite-normal space. The ship had two Insystem drives, one suitable for atmospheric landings. The pilot tweaked her thong and grinned when she looked at him.
"I can tell you recognize most of this. Have you ever been off-station?" He seemed to have forgotten that she might not speak his language. Luckily, she could.
"No . . . not since I came."
"Your ratings are high—let's see how you do with this . . ." He pointed to one of the three seats, and Sass settled down in front of a terminal much like that in training—even the same manufacturer's logo on the rim. He leaned over her, his breath warm on her ear, and entered a problem she remembered working.
"I've done that one before," she said.
"Well, then, do it again." Her fingers flew over the board: codes for origin and destination, equations to calculate the most efficient combination of travel time, fuel cost of Insystem drive, probability flux of FTL . . . and, finally, the transform equations that set up the FTL path. He nodded when she was done.
"Good enough. Now maximize for travel time, using the maximum allowable FTL flux."
She did that, and glanced back. He was scowling.
"You'd travel a .35 flux path? Where'd you get that max from?" Sass blushed; she'd misplaced a decimal. She placed the errant zero, and accepted the cuff on her head with equanimity. "That's better, girl," he said. "You youngers haven't seen what a high flux means—be careful, or you'll have us spread halfway across some solar system, and you won't be nothin' but a smear of random noise in somebody's radio system. Now—what's your name?"
She blinked at him. Only Abe had used her name. But he stared back, impudent and insistent, and ready to give her a clout. "Sass," she said. He grinned again, and shrugged.
"Suits you," he said. Then he swung into one of the other seats, and cleared her screen. "Now, girl, we go to work."
Life as an indentured apprentice pilot—the senior pilot made it clear they didn't like the word "slave"—was considerably more lax than her training had been. She wore the same collar, but the thong was gone. No one would tell her what the ship's allegiance was—if any—or any more than its immediate next destination, but aside from that she was treated as a crew member, if a junior one. Besides senior pilot Krewe, two junior pilots were aboard: a heavy-set woman named Fersi, and a long, angular man named Zoras. Three at a time worked in the pilothouse when maneuvering from one drive system to another, or when using Insystem drives. Sass worked a standard six hour shift as third pilot under the others. When they were off, one or the other of the pilots gave her instruction daily—ship's day, that is. Aside from that, she had only to keep her own tiny cubicle tidy, and run such minor errands as they found for her. The rest of the time she listened and watched as they talked, argued, and gambled.
"Pilots don't mingle," Fersi warned her, when she would have sought more
"Another beginner. Bright stars, you'd think they'd realize I need something more than a pilot apprentice. And a dumb naked girl who probably doesn't even speak the same language." He turned away and poked the bulkhead. With a click and hiss, a locker opened; he rummaged inside and pulled out rumpled tunic and pants, much-mended. "Here. Clothes. You understand?" He mimed dressing, and Sass took the garments, putting them on as he watched. Then he led her along one corridor, then into a pop-tube that shot them to the pilot's "house"—a small cramped compartment lined with vidscreens and control panels. To Sass's relief, her training made sense of the chaos of buttons and toggles and flicking lights. That must be the Insystem computer, and that the FTL toggle, with its own shielded computer flickering, now, in not-quite-normal space. The ship had two Insystem drives, one suitable for atmospheric landings. The pilot tweaked her thong and grinned when she looked at him.
"I can tell you recognize most of this. Have you ever been off-station?" He seemed to have forgotten that she might not speak his language. Luckily, she could.
"No . . . not since I came."
"Your ratings are high—let's see how you do with this . . ." He pointed to one of the three seats, and Sass settled down in front of a terminal much like that in training—even the same manufacturer's logo on the rim. He leaned over her, his breath warm on her ear, and entered a problem she remembered working.
"I've done that one before," she said.
"Well, then, do it again." Her fingers flew over the board: codes for origin and destination, equations to calculate the most efficient combination of travel time, fuel cost of Insystem drive, probability flux of FTL . . . and, finally, the transform equations that set up the FTL path. He nodded when she was done.
"Good enough. Now maximize for travel time, using the maximum allowable FTL flux."
She did that, and glanced back. He was scowling.
"You'd travel a .35 flux path? Where'd you get that max from?" Sass blushed; she'd misplaced a decimal. She placed the errant zero, and accepted the cuff on her head with equanimity. "That's better, girl," he said. "You youngers haven't seen what a high flux means—be careful, or you'll have us spread halfway across some solar system, and you won't be nothin' but a smear of random noise in somebody's radio system. Now—what's your name?"
She blinked at him. Only Abe had used her name. But he stared back, impudent and insistent, and ready to give her a clout. "Sass," she said. He grinned again, and shrugged.
"Suits you," he said. Then he swung into one of the other seats, and cleared her screen. "Now, girl, we go to work."
Life as an indentured apprentice pilot—the senior pilot made it clear they didn't like the word "slave"—was considerably more lax than her training had been. She wore the same collar, but the thong was gone. No one would tell her what the ship's allegiance was—if any—or any more than its immediate next destination, but aside from that she was treated as a crew member, if a junior one. Besides senior pilot Krewe, two junior pilots were aboard: a heavy-set woman named Fersi, and a long, angular man named Zoras. Three at a time worked in the pilothouse when maneuvering from one drive system to another, or when using Insystem drives. Sass worked a standard six hour shift as third pilot under the others. When they were off, one or the other of the pilots gave her instruction daily—ship's day, that is. Aside from that, she had only to keep her own tiny cubicle tidy, and run such minor errands as they found for her. The rest of the time she listened and watched as they talked, argued, and gambled.
"Pilots don't mingle," Fersi warned her, when she would have sought more
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