Saltation (21 page)

Theo nodded, but then held hand to face.

"But suppose they offer me a cook's job?"

"Don't apply to the cook program, my friend. I'm applying to maintenance first, field crew second, flight support third . . . And honestly, to be out of here for a change, I'd take cook duty if it wasn't one of their reserved for executives specialties. At least try it, Theo, there's free lunch and dinner at the Howsenda."

Theo laughed, hand fluttering
assent, assent, assent.

"Excellent. Very good. So you have to go right after class to sign up for the job fair. Bova's on desk or maybe Ristof. If Bova is on deck, I ask you to resist the counting of flowers until you have studied your botany and your necessity!"

Theo laughed, rising and pulling on her pack.

"No flowers with Bova, you say. First, I have a class. Then to DCCT, then papers to write. Then letters. Flowers . . . I have no time for flowers."

Kara smiled, and bowed, seated as she was. "We'll get you work. Your busyness will give you distance, my friend."

The job fair's promise had been, "Real work for real pay!" and while that had sounded good in theory Theo was surprised at how good it felt in practice now that the term was over. Getting up in the morning seemed easier than at school—though how much of that had to do with having Kara as a roommate instead of Asu, she wasn't sure.

Still, getting paid for something besides good grades was a feeling easily as good as a to-the-second touchdown after a three-hour flight. Kara's consternation at discovering Theo's "secret" and her fervid promise to keep it close was still enough to make Theo smile in private.

"First job? You've
never
worked before? How can that be?"

There'd followed a near all-night discussion of how silly Delgado could be, what with the only real work being scholarly work, and how having a job that wasn't with the University was something you hid from your records.

Today, Theo's chores were commonplace. The early morning schedule called for inspecting tie-downs and parking clearances on the civil aviation side, with Derryman opting to drive the cart and update the logs while she spotted the gear and attached tension meters to the ties. The craft in this section were a mixed bag of private and corporate with one thing in common: they all paid extra for the twice daily, premium status checks instead of depending on luck and inertia to keep their wings safe.

Derryman did this every workday, and he was a good teacher, in part because he'd been a teacher before he retired. He had not, as she'd first supposed, taught piloting or anything like it—instead he first sold and then taught insurance sales.

"Outside work is good for the soul," he told her, "and a lot better for health, too. With all the steps I get in a day here . . ."

She looked over her shoulder as he lounged back in the cart and flipped a quick
walk walk walk when query
in his direction before moving to the next tie-down. Derryman laughed.

"You can say that today, but I do this every day, and a lot of the year I don't have no hotshot apprentice pilots to mollycoddle."

She laughed outright this time. For the first five days of the break-shift, Derryman drove the dozen students assigned to him like he was trying to make day laborers out of them. They'd carried cable, rope, tie-twine, twists, pins, and disposable snap readers from one end of the field to the other. They replaced aged and shredded cable tying down display craft, they'd learned the value of gloves—and of choosing the
right
glove—and they learned to respect the gauge color of the temp strips laid in quiet mosaic on the live strips and launch zones.

Her blisters had healed quickly, but by then two of the students had recalled urgent necessity elsewhere, forfeiting the free meals, camaraderie, and income to return to the academy or to make sudden trips home. The afternoon they left, Derryman had turned up with a bowli ball and a round of flavored ice-gel and declared the rest of the day free and clear.

Once the first week's mollycoddling was done the crews had been given split-shift days, with the mornings given over to outside duties and the afternoons to tasks that varied by the day for everyone—except for Kara, who kept getting assigned to the machine shop, doing what she liked to call "belowdecks stuff."

For all that she enjoyed keeping busy and learning new things, Theo was starting to miss the forward motion of school: here every day was clearly the same for most of the staff and workers.

Derryman, who liked being around pilots and flying things, didn't mind the sameness—in fact denying it, claiming each day brought new wonders and different challenges.

Other than having different fingers jabbed by cable fringe, not much seemed to change, but Theo guessed that being out on the tarmac with a breeze in the face and the smell of the water coming off the nearby lake might have something appealing to it year-round, something like watching the sun come up over the bushes and trees at Father's house on Leafydale Place . . . maybe there
was
something idyllic in it, after all. It was surprising how, among all the noise and motion of the port, one could stand out in a corner of it and feel basically alone and free, even with craft overhead and taxiing nearby.

She bent under the nose of one of the three Indigo Speedsters on the route, admiring it at the same time the voice in the back of her head told her that it was a toy. Derryman had it right: he'd told her the very first time she checked one that, "The thing only has room for a pilot and her lunch, so it's a good thing it can't fly all that long!"

She knew there was a problem with the tie-strap even before the meter's complaining
yeep yeep yeep
broke the relative quiet. The strap looked
soft
, yielded easily to her push . . . and it shouldn't. The meteorologists were calling for more of the seasonal lake-effect storms late in the day and it wouldn't do for something this light to lift and flip in a downpour, or worse, go sliding out into a taxiway to endanger traffic.

Derryman sighed noisily, calling out, "Do the right wing gear and I'll do the left. That's
Batzer's Bat
and I guarantee they'll all be forty percent light and using last year's recycled cable!"

"Should I call it in?"

"Call it when we have the double check in place."

Right. There'd been some classroom time on these things—always do a double check before disturbing one of the Howsenda's regulars.

Derryman ducked under his wing, a little slowly, heard the expected
yeep
and then a chuckle.

"Guess I was wrong. This one here, it's only thirty-nine-point-nine-seven-seven percent low on the tension! And look out there—we gotta get someone out soon!"

From Theo's vantage the tarmac and flight lines led to the bright line of the horizon, where blue sky glinted behind boiling clouds going from white to grey.

"That'll be a gozwalla of a front when it gets here, Theo. Call this in—then catch me downline."

_{* * *}

It
was
a gozwalla of a front, and it arrived far earlier than the usual evening rains, from a vector slightly off from them as well. Wind and precocious raindrops buffeted Theo and Derryman as they finished the run—luckily only the one tie-down had needed attention—and Derryman rushed off, one of his rare pilot signs indicating
open windows fragile things home
.

The day locker room was crowded with regular staff and the break crew; ordinary activity of the port slowed as local traffic backed up with the storm's approach, and a call came from the Howsenda offering choice chow seating to crew members since several tour craft were rerouting, despite meal prep in progress.

Kara, Theo, and a crowd of regulars, all wearing staff ID of one sort or another, took the underways beneath tarmac and buildings to arrive at the staff lift to the Howsenda, one wag counting the packed crowd and announcing, "We're one shy of the load limit on this ship—should we wait for someone?"

Theo and Kara managed to duck in, Kara hauling Theo to a supposed spot on the left corner, a spot made by the willing shift of other bodies, and the question was answered by someone close to the door.

She didn't know everyone in the lift, though she recognized most of them by sight and placed a few more from the colors or shapes of their badges. The "outside crew," like her and Kara, wore the blue-rimmed large image badges of maintenance staff; others wore the striped orange of mid-level admin, or the brown of back-house restaurant crew.

"Food before limit tests, Jermy!"

The lift shot to the back corridors of the Howsenda's wait-staff area, laughter still echoing.

Kara grabbed Theo's hand again and they rushed out as the lift door swished open, pointing to a side corridor and—

Directly before them stood the waiter who'd served Theo on her first visits to the Howsenda, both hands held high, instantly quieting the raucousness.

"Folks, I suggest you all stay on board. The Skyliner banquet room is open and there's seating for all of you. We've got a delicious meal just moments from being served, and since it's a non-cancel event, we might as well all enjoy it!"

He smiled generically, then did a double-take as people pushed themselves back into the confines of the lift.

"Ah, Pilot," he said, a sweeping hand gesture picking out Theo and Kara and directing the pair of them back into the car. He nodded to Theo, "I'm so glad you could join us." His badge flashed orange as he waved them into the lift's interior lighting.

The door closed summarily, and Theo grimaced as Kara elbowed her.

"He's something to look at, isn't he? He's . . ."

Theo lifted a glance to the car top, managing to say, "He might be something to look at, but he always wears too much
vya
!" just before the car reached the banquet room.

Theo could have had cream crackers and soy sprouts and called it a banquet, if only because of the setting. The tables were immaculately laid out, with flowers between guests. The room was composed of three long arms, each with stunning views through transparent walls of the field and city to one side, and the lakes to the other; the ceiling itself was a transparent green. The room lighting was subdued, and the tablecloth itself glowed gently.

The storm walking across the lake threw lightning to the ground carelessly, and the cloud-to-cloud strikes built sudden pink blossoms within the great mass of roiling darkness.

The meal, however, was far beyond cream crackers and soy sprouts; the viands included imported fishes and cheeses, fruit compotes made from berries that blossomed once every five Standards, delicate tendrils of between serving desserts . . . and no wine or other such beverages. She had tea, as did Kara, though more than one pitcher of near beer made its way to the tables.

When the front hit, the smattering of raindrops on the window-walls were sheeted away instantly, the rain alternately coating and abandoning the wind-driven surface. Lightning strikes nearby brought thunder that shook the port. Most of the diners paused at one point or another in the proceedings to stare into the darkness.

"You're not saying much," Kara chided.

Theo's free hand flickered
watching watching.

"It is a good storm," Kara agreed.

"We don't much get to see storms like this in the Wall, and even at outside, they aren't often like this."

On the horizon, toward the lake, was a glow hinting at bright sky beyond. The sheeting rains were palpably lessening. Conversation rose; someone from the grounds crew passionately bemoaned the expected fate of a recent planting.

Theo craned her head to look toward the departing storm, only to hear Kara say, "The very definition of wet!"

She turned and saw a bedraggled man, in what might once have been business clothes, moving from table to table hurriedly. His hair was dark and glistening. Droplets rained from his jacket as he stalked across the room. A vague helpful hand at another table pointed toward their part of the room's arm, and the man rushed forward, quelling conversation as he passed.

He was angry, Theo saw, and purposeful. She put her utensils down and placed her hands flat on the table.

"Which one of you is Waitley?" he demanded. "You owe me a dinner and suit!"

Theo was on her feet, standing between Kara and the man. There was commotion around but she was focused on his face and posture, not quite sure how she'd gotten there.

"I'm Batzer," the man snarled, pushing closer. "You called me from my dinner and look at this! Look at this! How did you dare? Why didn't you check them earlier? They were fine!"

The Indigo Speedster! Theo thought, remembering the warning sounds yeeping toward the clouds. No, those ties had hardly been fine.

He shook his arms, splashing Theo and probably soaking half of the room.

He pressed forward. Theo willed herself to relax, fought to change her stance from
prepared
to
aware,
marshaling her thoughts to speak. If he noticed the stance change he didn't react properly, now leaning toward her, crowding her. It should have calmed him, that move, she thought.

She gave ground a half step; aware of the touch on the elbow that was Kara.

"Answer me! I'm Brine Batzer," he yelled, "and
you
owe me a . . ."

Theo raised both hands slightly, settled her feet flat, prepared to speak or defend.

"Batzer, you are intruding on a private function. Stand down and leave."

The waiter. He came up loudly behind Theo, backing her at first, then standing at her side.

"I'm Batzer. This day laborer of yours called me to tie down my plane and she owes me . . ."

A rumble of thunder drifted over the proceedings as the waiter took a quarter step forward, insinuating his arm between Theo and the angry man, a surprising twitch of hand fluently suggesting
mine now
.

"I repeat. You are interrupting a private function. This person is an employee and we will not brook this behavior from anyone."