Her papa hadn’t been stupid. Uncle Khym wasn’t stupid. Young men were stupid, while their hormones were raging and their bodies were going through a hellacious growth spurt that had them knocking into doorways and demolishing the china. Then was when young men left home, and went out and lived in the outback, and fought and bashed each other and collected the requisite scars and experience to come back formidable enough to win a place for themselves. Seven or so years and a gangling boy all elbows came back all shoulders and with muscle between his ears.
But Hallan Meras didn’t seem to have as much of that as, say, Harun Chanur. Light dose Meras had been given. Illusions he was a girl. Trying to act like one and use his head, at his age.
She angled the couch upright, straightened her mane and flicked her earrings into order with a snap of her ears. She punched in the lounge com and called Meras forward; so he came, diffidently, as far as the middle of the bridge, darting glances here and there about the crew less stations.
“Used to the environment, are you?”
“I’ve—seen the bridge, yes, captain.”
“Seen the bridge. You’re a licensed spacer and you’ve seen the bridge? That’s remarkable.”
“I mean I’ve seen the bridge on the Sun. “
“Not worked it?”
“I got my papers in cargo management, down in—“
“You’re a specialist, then. A real specialist. —What’s that station?”
“That’s scan, captain.”
“Congratulations. Ever read the screen?”
“Not actually.”
Figured. “Who in a mahen hell gave you your papers?”
Ears flagged. “The authorities at Touin.”
“Did they speak the Trade? Did you take a test? Did they interview you?”
“I think they took her Druan’s word.”
“Druan Sahern.”
“Hanurn, actually. Ker Druan Hanurn nef Sahern. She helped me. She showed me things.”
Aunt Pyanfar had had no patience. Under her captaincy, an apprentice sat every board on the bridge, somewhere before aunt Py signed any application for a license. Emergencies don’t wait for the experts, aunt Pyanfar had used to say. Gods-be right you learned every board, every button, and every readout. You could be the only one that could reach the seat. The whole ship could depend on you in a station you didn’t ordinarily work.
“I haven’t changed my mind. I’m still kicking you off this ship first chance I get. But I don’t think we’re apt to find a thing at Kita, it’s not a place I’d leave anybody, and, by the gods, nobody’s going off my ship and having the next crew say we didn’t teach him anything. You understand me?” Ears were up, eyes shining. “Thank you, captain.” “Thank me, hell. Keep me awake. We’ve got six hours to jump, my eyes are crossing, I’m sore down to my fingertips, I’m out of patience with fools and I want you to sit down over there at the scan station and read me off what you see happening on that board and on that screen.”
“Yes,captain!” He went and dropped into the seat, and started rattling it off, the numbers and the names and the lane designations. Not by the gods bad, actually. Most critical first and right along their laid course which was plotted there, for somebody who could read the symbols.
“Who taught you the codes?”
“I had this book.”
“You had this book. What book?”
“The general licensing manual. Ker Dru let me study it.”
“She let you study it. Nice of her. So you read up on more than cargo operations.”
“Everything. I read all of it.”
“You remember everything you read?”
“I read it a lot.”
Her pulse ticked up. It sounded familiar, sounded by the gods familiar; in the same way, she’d had the manual downworld, aunt Py had slipped her the copy, and she’d studied and studied and kept it out of her father’s sight, because he had gotten upset about her studying. He had wanted her to stay downworld and be papa’s favorite daughter; but she’d memorized every bit, every chart—memorized boards she’d never seen and operations she’d never watched.
Because she’d wanted it so much it was physical. And some gods-be hormone-hazed boy thought he could want something that much?