Part of what makes buffalo dogs so valuable is that they fart oxygen. Another is their ability to consume anything. For the last day and a half I’d been feeding Reggie the disassembled pieces of a tenor saxophone I’d acquired from another courier in a poker game a week before. He ate the keys and the levers and particularly liked the pads.
The trip from Gibrahl, the Arcon world where all buffalo dogs came from, ran about three weeks. I’d started trying to teach Reggie some tricks, but the buffalito wasn’t holding up his end of the bargain. I’d dangle spare nuts and bolts treats to get him to beg or roll over or play dead, but it was pointless. The only trick he learned was to shake, and he wouldn’t even do that on command. Sometimes he’d just wake up from a nap, race over and haul up short. Then he’d extend one tiny front hoof for me to shake. There you have it; Reggie was just incredibly cute.
The same could not be said for the second buffalo dog in my care. With a little self-hypnotic misdirection I had accomplished the impossible and smuggled a second buffalito off Gibrahl. The Wada Consortium owned Reggie, my lawfully acquired courier package, but according to the registration papers I’d forged, I was the sole owner of Carla Espinoza. I had named her after a security guard, and like her namesake she was mean. Where Reggie cavorted and yipped with delight, Carla sulked and stewed. Reggie would delicately accept saxophone bits from my fingertips, but after almost losing several fingers, I fed Carla from a dish. Sweet tempered Reggie slept with me in my bunk each night, happily curling up in the crook of my arm, his soft fur smelly faintly like burning leaves and lazy afternoons. Vicious Carla stayed in the sonic-walled pen that came standard in all couriers’ cabins. That suited her fine, and she snapped at me if I even hinted at trespassing into her space.
Reggie would net me half a million credits. If Carla had been sterile, as her papers stated, she would have been worth twenty times that. But the papers lied. On more than one occasion, when returning from the mess or an evening card game, I’d found Reggie had breached the sonic barrier and gotten into Carla’s pen. The attention didn’t improve her disposition any, but it did prove she wasn’t sterile. Days before theBucephalus entered the solar system, Carla Espinoza, my smuggled buffalo dog, the one I was sole owner of, was very pregnant. Did I mention that the Arconi maintained their monopoly of buffalo dogs by sterilizing all female buffalitos before allowing any off Gibrahl?
My fellow couriers had instructed me on the particulars of clearing customs. The only reason anyone ever went to Gibrahl was for the buffalo dog trade, and the Bucephalus and everyone onboard it worked for the Wada Consortium. All I had to do was walk through a security arch, hand over my buffalito, and collect my payment chit. I intended to carry Reggie tucked under one arm, but that wouldn’t work for Carla. Instead, with great care I stuffed the wooly mommy-to-be in my carpet bag, nestling her amidst my meager possessions. Carla did not approve. Once inside the bag she immediately began taking bites out of everything, beginning with a bottle of alien whisky I’d picked up in the duty free shop. An aroma of minty bourbon drenched my spare clothes and wafted from the bag. But the vapors seemed to calm Carla, and she snuggled up and went to sleep. Closing up the carpet bag I grabbed Reggie and left the ship.
As the newest of the couriers I stood dead last in the line to clear customs. We waited patiently, each with luggage in one hand and a doggie squirming under the other arm, bleating and panting (the doggies, not the couriers). Every now and then my carpet bag would jerk as Carla Espinoza shifted in her sleep, but no one seemed to notice.
I’d been watching the other couriers, and the procedure seemed pretty routine. One by one each set his doggie in a wheeled, ceramo crate marked ‘biological sample’ that automatically weighed and measured the animal. A customs official then checked the encrypted ID tags against the paperwork. Any personal possessions were set on a belt and run through a scanner, while the courier walked through a security arch.
Beyond the arch I could see an armored car bearing the logo of the Wada Consortium, accompanied by half a dozen security guards. A licensed surrogate stood nearby, a meter and a half of gleaming metal and ceramo shaped like a headless ballet dancer with a display panel embedded in its chest. The drone was a stand-in for some Wada executive, linking in via satellite because he was too important to show up in the flesh. Alongside the drone, and only slightly taller than it, stood a young, Asian woman in an impeccable business suit. She seemed to be checking off each courier on a clipboard and, at a signal from the drone, handing out credit chits.
It had been about eight o’clock, local time, when I’d awoken from my dream visit with Gregor. I’d gotten in line with the other couriers about nine, and when my turn finally came the morning was well on its way to noon. If I wanted to keep my arms neatly attached to my shoulders, I had only twenty-four hours to get hold of more than two million credits. Time for the first hurdle.
I stepped up to the custom’s agent with a big smile on my face. I winked, and handed her Reggie’s paperwork, then set the little fellow in a waiting crate. He whined when I let go, and his big liquid eyes locked on mine, imploring. I did my best to ignore his expression of heartbreak, even as I flashed back to feeding him saxophone bits and waking up to his tiny blue tongue licking my face. I looked away as the agent sealed the lid. He didn’t belong to me, and I didn’t have time for pets. Carla Espinoza was a different matter; she was an investment, not a pet.
I put Reggie out of my mind and my luggage on the belt. Then, humming a little ditty, I walked through security, clearing the arch without a hitch. My carpet bag didn’t fare as well. As it passed through the scanner a dozen different alarms started up all around us. The other buffalitos, their crates already loaded on the armored car, began bleating in terror. The surrogate scampered in place with apparent indecision while the woman accompanying it, and the few couriers that hadn’t already exited through the main terminal, all showed good sense and dropped to the ground. I spent several seconds standing there in confusion. That’s about how long it took for six security guards and two customs agents to surround me with their weapons drawn.
“Put your hands on your head and lie flat on the ground.”
A boot in the middle of my back gave me further encouragement, and I was cheek to floor in less time than it takes to tell. Overhead I heard bits of a whispered exchange between one of the guards and the customs agent.
“. . . you think it’s a bomb?”
“. . . too small for that...”
“. . . ever it is, it’s blocking all the scans...”
“. . . don’t touch it...”
“Excuse me,” I said, trying my best to sound helpful. “Can I explain?”
Hands yanked me by my collar and pulled me to my feet. I stood face to face with a guard wearing the Wada Consortium insignia on his uniform. A mirrored helmet hid his face, but when I looked toward the customs agents I could see real fear.
“No,” said the guard as he shifted his hand to my upper arm with a grip that left no doubt who was in charge. “Just tell me what’s in the bag?”
I started to reach for the inner pocket of my coat. The muzzles of two other guards’ weapons pressed against my head. Right. I smiled and managed to say “Papers. In the pocket.”
A different guard yanked my hands behind my back, and then she slapped a polymer band around my wrists. The first guard kept one hand on my arm and used his other to reach into my coat. As he glanced at the papers I’d forged for Carla, I could see yet another guard walking towards us from the terminal building. He pushed past the other couriers and the Wada surrogate that was just now getting to its feet. When he was close enough to get a good look at my face he stopped in his tracks, swore, laughed out loud, and then swore again. Something about the voice sounded familiar.
“I saw your name on the list, but I didn’t think it could be the same man. The Conroy I knew could never handle a job as dull and honest as courier work.”
My jaw dropped and despite a lifetime
of glib repartee, I was completely nonplussed. Before I could think of anything to say the guard with Carla’s papers waved them and said, “Chief, you’re going to want to see this.”
He read through them, and turned back to me, whipping off his mirrored helmet and giving me a good look at a tanned face complete with a high forehead, bright green eyes, a nose that had been broken and reset poorly, and a sandy red van dyke. I knew that face. Several years back, during a series of performances in eastern Pennsylvania, we’d briefly been drinking buddies, both of us tossing back our preferred nonalcoholic beverages while sitting at the bar. “Mandelbrot,” I said, refreshing my professional smile, “how about taking these cuffs off me?”
He grinned back at me in a predatory rather than a pleasant way. It was the same expression he’d worn the time he’d thrown me into the county lock-up over a misunderstanding involving a nightclub, the drunken friend of a volunteer, and a small amount of property damage. “Now this is more what I expected from you,” he said, gesturing with the papers. He waved for the guard to bring me along, and then walked to one of the customs agents and handed over the papers.
“What are you doing riding herd on a security detail?” I said. “Last time I saw you, you were a county sheriff.”
He snorted but didn’t look back. “The last time I saw you, you were trying to convince a judge that you’d nearly destroyed a nightclub as a form of self defense.”
“I didn’t start that fight. And besides, the club owner dropped all charges.”
He laughed. “Before or after you blackmailed him?”
“I didn’t—”
“His mistress said otherwise.”
“Oh. It wasn’t blackmail,” I said. “It was more. . . an exchange of favors.”
“Yeah? Well, don’t do me any favors.” Mandelbrot cut the bands on my wrists and turned back around to speak to the customs agents. “Mr. Conroy has documentation for another buffalo dog,” he said.
As I rubbed my wrists, from the corner of my eye I was encouraged to see the surrogate’s pectoral display brighten.
“A second dog?” said the first customs agent. “That would explain the alarms. A buffalo dog is impenetrable to scan.”
“Impenetrable?” I said, even as I mentally kicked myself. I should have read up on just such details during the trip.
Mandelbrot’s hand replaced the guard’s on my arm. He hauled me forward, and along with both customs agents we all stepped to where my carpet bag had emerged from the scanner housing. The bag sat, stinking of alien booze, began to quiver and shake. A muffled bark came from within. The alarms had clearly awakened Carla Espinoza. With his free hand, Mandelbrot reached to look inside.
“Don’t!” I shouted. “She bites.”
Mandelbrot’s hand pulled back just in time. The small brass latch, and a good portion of the surrounding leather and fabric vanished in Carla Espinoza’s suddenly visible, rapidly snapping mouth. All around us I heard gasps as the annoyed buffalo dog thrust her head up, stuck out her tongue, and loudly barked her protest.
“Mr. Conroy...” said the first customs agent.
“...you have a second buffalo dog?” finished the second customs agent.
Mandelbrot shook his head, and muttered my name several times, sounding almost as disappointed in me as my own parents had.
The Wada surrogate trundled towards us, ignoring the guards. “Mandelbrot, you fool,” it said, “let go of the man. He’s our courier.”
Mandelbrot didn’t relax his grip. Without taking his eyes off Carla he sighed and said, “I can’t do that, Mr. Andrews. Arcon law prohibits the possession of more than one buffalo dog by a courier at any given time.”
“You’re hired to provide security, not legal opinions,” said the face on the surrogate’s chest. “Now let him go.”
“Sir, I know this man, and much as it pains me, I have no choice but to consider both him, and his second buffalo dog as a security risk.”
“I’m not a security risk, Mr. Andrews,” I said, putting on my best innocent expression and facing the Wada surrogate. The man looking back at me looked to be in his late 30’s, and generally about as nondescript as you’d expect an industry executive to be. And I hoped, just as greedy.
Mandelbrot sighed. “I know you, Conroy. You’re a rogue. I don’t know how you did it, but I know a scam when I see one being run.”
“This is highly irregular,” said the second customs agent.
“The Arconi are supposed to resolve any potential problems before any vessels leave Gibrahl,” said the first customs agent.
They looked at one another and seemed to come to a decision. “The consulate,” they both said.
“What consulate?!” said Andrews.
“The Arcon consulate,” said the first customs agent as she reached for her phone. “Let them sort this out.”
The Wada surrogate turned to his associate, the young woman with the clipboard. “Penrose, solve this. Now!”
She stepped up and addressed the customs agents. “Mr. Andrews is a duly licensed representative of the Wada Consortium. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania recognizes and upholds the sovereign rights of such individuals when represented by real-time surrogate or similar communication hardware. This other gentleman,” she barely paused as she consulted her clipboard, “Mr. Conroy, is likewise an employee of the Wada Consortium. If his documentation for the second animal is in order, then there is no cause to involve the Arconi. His bona fides are already established by the delivery of his first buffalo dog.” She turned her head and acknowledged Mandelbrot with a nod. “Nor can he be considered a security risk.”
Mandelbrot shook his head. “The Arconi don’t permit anyone to transport two buffalitos. Ever. I don’t know how he managed it, but it can’t be legal. Your company hired me to provide security, and that includes ensuring it isn’t implicated as the recipient of stolen goods. I’m sorry, Mr. Andrews, this is my jurisdiction, and I have to insist.”
“Well, that’s easily fixed,” said Andrews, turning the surrogate to face Mandelbrot. “I’ll just fire you.”
“What?”
“I’m Glenn Andrews Andrews, vice president in charge of resource acquisitions, and I’m not going to let an incompetent security chief rob me of an extra buffalo dog. You’re five seconds from being unemployed, Mr. Mandelbrot. Now, would you like to reconsider and keep your position with the consortium? There are no stolen goods here.”
Five seconds passed, and then another five. Mandelbrot’s grip on my arm didn’t relax. Andrews scowled.
“Have it your way,” Andrews said. “You’re history.” The surrogate pointed to one of the other guards. “You, you’re in charge. Show your former boss where the exit is.”
Mandelbrot let go of me. He looked deflated, and in other circumstances I’d have felt sorry for him, but I still had my own problems. I nodded to the customs agents. “Are the papers in order?” I asked.
The first agent sorted through them. “Yes, she appears to be fully documented...” Her voice trailed off as she studied the paperwork.
The surrogate stood with its delicate arms akimbo, surveying the situation like a lord of creation. “Excellent, you’ve done a fine job, Mr. Conroy, a fine job.”
Mandelbrot looked over the custom agent’s shoulder at some portion of the document that had caught her eye, and he brightened. He turned back to me, a question on his lips. I nodded slowly and watched as his wicked smile broke out again, but this time it wasn’t for me.
“Clear out, Mr. Mandelbrot. You’ve been fired,” said Andrews through the surrogate. “Penrose! Pay Mr. Conroy, and then take possession of his animals. We’re leaving.”
I didn’t want to appear too eager, but the truth is I probably snatched that plastic credit chit with the same zeal with which Reggie lunged for handfed treats. The chit, emblazoned with the Wada Consortium logo, had a balance of five hundred thousand credits. I put it in my pocket.
The other customs agent wheeled the
crate with Reggie over to Andrews. Penrose took possession, rolled it to the armored car, and loaded it onboard. The nearer customs agent lifted Carla out of the remains of my carpet bag, ignored her squirming and complaining, and placed her into a second crate and brought it to me.
“What are you doing?” said Andrews. “That second buffalo dog belongs to the Wada Consortium as well.”
“Oh?” said Mandelbrot. “Mr. Conroy, did the amount of your payment cover two buffalo dogs?”
“No,” I said. “The payment was for just a single buffalito.”
“I’ll swear out a voucher for another payment,” said Andrews. “It’s completely legal with you as witnesses. I can take possession of the additional buffalo dog and Mr. Conroy can come with me to redeem the voucher.”
“I’m no lawyer,” said Mandelbrot, “but I know theft when I see it.”
“Theft? You’ve already acknowledged that Mr. Conroy is a courier for the Wada Consortium. His cargo is our property.”
“No, sir,” said the first customs agent. “Only the paperwork for the first buffalito specifies Wada as final owner. The second batch identifies Mr. Conroy as both courier and recipient.”
Mandelbrot’s smirk expanded toward infinity. “Well, Mr. Andrews, I’ve lost my job, but you’ve just lost a buffalo dog worth ten million credits to your consortium.”
Andrews began to sputter. Penrose stared at Mandelbrot, stunned. The customs agents were conspicuously not looking at the former security chief, and the remaining guards didn’t seem to know where to look. I took hold of the crate containing Carla Espinoza and began walking toward the main terminal building. Mandelbrot fell into step alongside me.
“You’ve cost me my job, Conroy.”
I bit my lip. Even if he was right, so what? This was the same guy who had tossed me into a jail cell a few years earlier. I didn’t owe him anything. He’d only complicated the situation. And yet. . . He’d been doing his job, then and now, and when he wasn’t arresting me, I remembered him as a better than decent guy.
Buffalito Bundle Page 4
