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yos’Phelium and Jen Sar Kiladi together.”
    He sighed, reached for his mug and drank while Theo recruited herself to wait.
    Placing the mug back in the holder, he threw her a knowing black glance. “I will contrive to make more haste, and thank you for your patience. So!
    “In due time, Val Con was born. My lady and I continued as delm, taking work as couriers when other duties allowed. Kiladi taught the odd seminar, while turning most of his energies to research.”
    Father closed his eyes.
    “When Aelliana was murdered, our link was not—quite—robust enough to ensure that I also died of her wounds. I . . . survived. And thus it was left to me to Balance her death.”
    He opened his eyes, but Theo didn’t think he was seeing her.
    “Say for today that ignorance killed her and that Jen Sar Kiladi was uniquely placed to sow the seeds of enlightened thought. In a passion of grief, Daav yos’Phelium Jumped his lifemate’s ship into a star, leaving his small son and his clan in the hands of his brother and his brother’s lifemate.
    “At about that time, in a different location, Jen Sar Kiladi decided to reenter the classroom and spread the truth of cultural genetics. He eventually came to Delgado as the Gallowglass Chair. There he met and came to love Kamele Waitley, with whom he had a daughter, now a pilot in her own right, and of whom he is rather unbecomingly proud.”
    He spread his hands; the silver ring flashed.
    “The rest is quickly told—Clan Korval fell into desperate trouble, which you know from the news feeds, and I—I received information which led me to fear that Delgado might not be safe for either of my personas. Worse, by continuing as I had been, I might actively endanger Kamele Waitley, who surely deserved far better of me.”
    He inclined his head.
    “There you have the truth.”
    Yes, it is complicated, Theo Waitley. Val Con’s voice echoed in her head. Congratulations. Truly, you are of the Line . Theo hiccuped, not sure if she was going to laugh, cry, or yell when she opened her mouth.
    “Theo?”
    She shook her head. “I can’t tell Kamele that.”
    Father sighed. “Nor can I.”
    “For one thing, I’m not sure I believe it.”
    “Certainly, it is not believable, unless one has the direct experience,” he said, overpolitely.
    He rose then, fingers dancing out the signs for duty calls; ship must lift.
    Theo stood; Father reached into an inner jacket pocket and withdrew a data key, which he put on the lip of the copilot’s board.
    “The tale of your genes,” he murmured, “as well as other information which you might find of interest.”
    “Thank you,” she said, feeling the weight of his story on her, torn between the habit of believing him and the sheer . . . improbability of what he had said.
    She walked with him to the hatch, and triggered the lock. He stepped out onto the gantry, and turned to face her.
    “Theo, I hope—” he paused, as if he were at a loss for words, but Father was never at a loss for words.
    “I hope that you will come to us, on Surebleak,” he said after a moment, “when you are able. And I hope that you will . . . find it possible to forgive me.” He bowed, the brief, affectionate bow she remembered from her childhood.
    “Good lift, Pilot,” he said.
    “Safe landing.” She gave the proper response mechanically, but Father was already gone, moving silent as a shadow down the ramp.
    Theo triggered the hatch, locked it, and leaned her head against the cold metal.
    When she was certain that she wasn’t going to cry, she straightened, and went back to the bridge to begin the process of waking up her ship.
    * * *
    Bringing the Toss online, running the checks, negotiating with Tower for the quickest lift out—the routine soothed her. There was no room for anger or confusion, or that faint, frightening sense of loss. She was a pilot, and her ship needed her.
    The bottom left-hand screen showed traffic moving at an unprecedented rate. The sky, if