Free Ghost Ship by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page A

we all dice. Until soon, Cousin—” He turned his head and smiled at Miri in the dark. “Cousin.”
    “Keep safe; give Natesa our hellos.” Miri said and raised her voice a little for the front seat. “Drive careful, hey? That thing you’re calling a road ain’t just a little rugged.”
    “Our first task,” Val Con said, popping the door on his side. “Tomorrow.”
    - - - - -
    There was a kind of flowering bush that glowed in the dark along the pathway—beacon-bloom, according to Daav, who was the last person Miri’d’ve taken for a gardener. Now that her eyes were adjusted, it seemed almost too bright, intruding on the garden’s peace.
    She went hand in hand with Val Con, brushing against the overgrowth, stepping lightly on the path, then off of it, crossing the grass at the garden’s dark center, to the greater blackness that was the Tree’s monumental bulk.
    Val Con put his free hand out, palm flat against the trunk, Miri following suit.
    She had expected—lethargy, maybe terror. Edger’d spent some time in communion with the Tree, describing what it might experience in flight. Even supposing that a Clutch Turtle’s perceptions found any agreement points with the experience of an ancient vegetation—what might space travel be like for something that knew rooted as a normal condition?
    What she felt was acute awareness, excitement, amazement. Memories washed over her—of being carried, roots cuddled tight inside a pot. Lashings held it oriented, space flowed, strange energies informed her leaves.
    “Whoa!”
    The sound of her own wild laughter brought her out of memories—the Tree’s memories. She snatched her hand away. Val Con was whooping, his body bowed backward, his hands pressed hard against the trunk. She grabbed him, hauling him back, breaking contact.
    He cut into silence, chest heaving, eyes dazzled when he looked down to her.
    “All right?” she gasped.
    He nodded tentatively, she thought.
    “All right,” he said then, voice firm, eyebrow quirking. “And so, I gather, is the Tree. I suggest, cha’trez , that we have fulfilled enough duty for this day. Let us go inside, seek our dinner and our bed.”
    And that, she thought, sounded beyond perfect, stipulating they could share the same patch of floor.
    - - - - -
    They let themselves in the kitchen door, finding it lit by night-dims, and a tray of cheeses, bread and fruit awaiting them on the counter, with a pitcher, glasses and a knife.
    Staff has arrived, then, Val Con thought. Excellent . He turned to Miri, who had stopped some steps prior.
    “Will this satisfy, cha’trez ? If not, we might see what else—”
    “I’d figured field rations, myself,” she said, and he could feel her seriousness. “So we already got ’way better’n I’d imagined for myself.” She moved a hand. “Who did this?”
    As if in answer, the door to the cook’s room opened, and Mr. pel’Kana—the young Mr. pel’Kana, following his Line’s tradition of service to Korval—emerged. His shirt sleeves were rolled and he was wearing a pair of heavy work pants—not his normal attire. Despite the hour, his eyes were sparkling and his color high; clearly, he was enjoying the current adventure nearly as much as the Tree.
    “Your lordship,” he said, “your ladyship. Welcome. It was not known precisely when you would arrive, and Lord Daav suggested that you might find a simple meal most welcome after the events of your day.”
    “Lord Daav is prescient,” Val Con murmured. “This is exactly what we require, Mr. pel’Kana, thank you. We will serve ourselves.”
    “Very good, sir.” The butler bowed.
    “Who else is to house,” Val Con asked, “aside from one’s father?”
    “He alone, sir; his ship is set down at the back field. We anticipate the arrival of the balance of the clan over the next two-day.” He paused, then added. “Your apartment is ready, as we knew to expect you this evening. Aside that, Ms. ana’Tak and I have bent our