The Kindly Ones

by Melissa Scott

  "It isn't proper," Tirey muttered, "to pay for information."

  "Oh, be quiet," the Matriarch snapped. "Coronis is kin; she'll have whatever she needs. What matters is to arrange weapons of our own. God knows, there's nothing on Orestes to match the things they're buying."

  I could feel everyone looking at me, and said quickly, "What are they buying, ama?"

  Herself waved her hand impatiently. "Guns, explosives, ammunition."

  Lenor leaned forward quietly, a sheet of paper in her hand. "Small arms, with incendiary and normal ammunition," she clarified. "Artillery from five-kilo mortars up to a pair of sonic field-pieces. Nothing larger than that, however."

  I drew a rather shaky breath, trying to take it all in. If this were true—and there didn't seem to be much reason to doubt it—then it looked like we were in for a very bad time indeed. And my own duty was less than clear. As a Conglomerate Mediator, I was supposed to keep things from reaching this point, but Orestes' crazy social system had made that impossible from the beginning. On the other hand, I could hardly refuse to help my employers protect themselves, even if it meant that more fighting was inevitable. It was inevitable anyway, I told myself, feeling new chill settle in my bones. "How long has this been going on?"

  Herself looked suddenly tired. "We don't know."

  "Eyre found out two weeks ago," Coronis said, quietly. "And it had been arranged some time ago then. He tried to find out the delivery date, but he couldn't—they didn't trust him. Then he told me, and died."

  "We thought about taking this to the Ship's Council," Magan said, "a breach of code, but Tirey says it's no different from our bringing in outside contractors. We can't protest."

  I shook my head. There was no telling what the Brandr had planned, when the arms would land, how much trouble we were in. "What do you want me to do?"

  "You're a Mediator, as well as our Medium," Herself answered. "And an off-worlder. We need arms to stop whatever it is they're planning. I want you to advise Magan in the negotiations."

  "There's another possibility, ama," I said. "I'm duty-bound to mention it." That wasn't strictly true, but it would get a hearing for something she wouldn't like. "As a Conglomerate Mediator—" I stressed the words. "—I have certain powers. With your sanction, I can appeal to the Commercial Board, and possibly stop the importation of these weapons."

  The Matriarch didn't say anything, watching me through narrowed eyes. Magan asked, "On what grounds?"

  That was the tricky part. I chose my words very carefully indeed. "On two grounds. First, and least good, that the technology is too advanced." Magan raised an eyebrow, and I hurried on. "Second, that its import causes economic hardship."

  "No." That was the Matriarch. "We won't plead charity."

  "Hardship for the Brandr," I said.

  "No," the Matriarch said again.

  Tirey said, gently, "This is a feud; we can't consider them."

  This isn't real consideration, I wanted to say, it's a weapon you can use against them, but I knew what Tirey would say to that. The code only deals with appearances—what else can a law judge, after all?—and the appearance of kindness toward the Brandr would be enough to damn Herself and her kin. I said instead, knowing I was beaten, "Buying weapons will be expensive, especially for immediate delivery."

  "If Brandr can scrape together the money, so can I," the Matriarch said. "He will have mortgaged everything for this, but we can pay."

  I took a deep breath, and held it for a moment, wishing I'd never taken this job. Still, I was bound by my contract, and a part of me, the actor, long suppressed, couldn't help enjoying the inevitability of it all. "Very well, ama, as you wish."

  "Thank you," Magan said. The Matriarch nodded calmly: she had never considered the possibility I might refuse.

  "Get on with it, then," she said. "There's no time to waste."

  Magan and I spent the next few days trying to arrange a purchase. The Kinship's Master-at-arms, a grey-baked, taciturn man called Ferril Halex, acted as advisor, and drew up a list of the things he thought the Kinship needed. There are any number of reputable arms dealers in the Conglomerate, though the Halex were too poor to afford, say, the n' Thaieona or the Hephaistians. We took Ferril's list, and went shopping among them. Prices were high, counting in the charges for delivery to such an out-of-the-way world as Orestes, and there was very little I could do to talk the prices down again, especially since we needed the weapons immediately. The best price was from a company based on Fenris, which maintained a depot on nearby Pippa. It wouldn't give us a lot of choice, but at least the shipping costs would be lower. The Matriarch agreed, committing the last of her free capital and a good third of next year's income, and we submitted the order. Now there was nothing to do but wait, and hope that the Brandr's arms would arrive later than our own.

  Chapter 7

  Leith Moraghan

  Pipe Major landed just after local noon. It took two hours for crew and cargo to clear Customs, and Moraghan made her way across the field to the main administrative building, frowning thoughtfully to herself. Something was wrong; she had known that from the minute Pipe Major hit the system buoy and she'd made contact with the harbormaster Oslac, but she couldn't put a name to it. The pilot—not Guil, to Moraghan's profound regret, but a man who'd never flown Pipe Major before—had given careful non-answers to Moraghan's oblique questions, and his reticence kept her from asking anything directly. Had the hostility between Destiny and Madelgar flared up again? the captain wondered as she climbed the stairs to the main level. Oslac had given her a harder time than usual about the shipment she carried for Madelgar.

  At the final checkpoint, she swung her campaign bag onto the counter one-handed, and waited while the duty officer checked through it. The woman smiled down—she topped Moraghan by better than a head—and waved her through saying, "Enjoy your stay, Captain."

  "Thanks." Moraghan slipped her useless left hand into the belt of her coat, then slung the campaign bag back over her right shoulder. It felt very light in Orestes' low gravity, and she walked carefully, controlling her movements. Behind her, she could hear the cheerful chatter of her crew, Sabas's voice dominating the rest, but she didn't turn. A familiar figure was waiting on the far side of the barrier—a tall woman whose oval face was crowned with fine, white-blond hair.

  "Guil!" Moraghan felt her own face stretch into a grin, and pushed through the gate with reckless speed. "It's good to see you."

  "And you," the tug pilot answered warmly, but there was a shadow of—something—in her pale eyes. The two women embraced, awkwardly because of Moraghan's bag and the difference in their heights, and then Guil pulled away.

  "I need your help," she said.

  Irrationally, Moraghan felt a surge of disappointment. The two had spent the captain's last Oresteian leave together. Surely, Moraghan thought, it wasn't unreasonable to expect a warmer greeting? Then the rest of her crew swirled around them, Sabas with a knowing smirk, the engineer Askel as expressionless as ever, the juniors, Orino and Tham, still wide-eyed at the thought of exploring another new planet.

  "You be staying at your usual place, Captain?" Sabas asked, and winked his good eye.

  Moraghan gave him the look she'd perfected for subordinates of his type, the one intended to make him feel that she considered him an uninteresting species of insect. "I don't know yet," she said evenly. "I'll let Askel know; call him if you need me. You will be at the Asteria, right?"

  Askel touched his throat and nodded.

  "I'll call you in an hour," Moraghan said, dismissing them. Sabas, as usual, seemed inclined to linger, but Askel, with a mumbled phrase, got him moving. The juniors were only too eager to be gone. Moraghan watched them out of earshot, then turned back to the tug pilot.

  "What's the problem?"

  Guil grimaced, then shrugged one shoulder in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. "We can't talk here. Let's try the pilots' lounge."

  Almost no one used it, Moraghan knew, f
or all that it boasted a cheap robo-bar and heavily cushioned couches. The port was too close to Destiny and the Necropolis to make it attractive. She nodded, and let Guil lead her down the uncrowded corridors.

  The lounge was empty, as usual, the thermal blinds half closed against the sunlight. Moraghan shivered, and Guil, with an apologetic glance in her direction, crossed to the windows to open the blinds. The light that streamed in was more warming to the psyche than to the flesh, Moraghan knew, but the bright bands turned the dark carpet to rich crimson, gave the whole room new warmth. She chose a table in the sun.

  "What'll you drink?" Guil called, from the bar's order board.

  "Tsaak?" Moraghan called back. The local liquor had the advantages of being cheap and hot, and probably available. The para'an touched a button, waited, and returned to the table at last with a padded carafe and a pair of stone cups. She poured the drinks in ceremonious silence, and Moraghan took the first sip, savoring the sudden spicy warmth in the pit of her stomach.

  "So what can I do for you, Guil?" she said again.

  The para'an looked down at her half-empty cup, turning the polished stone from side to side. "Have you heard about the trouble?" she asked.

  "I knew it," Moraghan exclaimed, then waved aside the other's look of inquiry. "No, I don't know what's going on at all. I just knew something was up when we got here. What is it?"

  "The Halex and the Brandr are at feud. So are the Halex and the Fyfe."

  Moraghan shook her head. That meant nothing to her, except that the Halex were quarrelsome, but Destiny was in the Halex Mandate, and she kept the thought to herself. "What does that mean?"

  Guil gave her a rather odd look. "It gives them license to kill each other, that's what it means. And they've been doing just that."

  Moraghan felt a sudden sickness in her belly, all her Peacekeepers training rushing back. Private wars, planetary wars were bad—that had been the first lesson. Bad for trade, bad for civilians, and most of all bad for the Peacekeepers, who'd be called in sooner or later to settle things. She swallowed that reaction, reminding herself that things were different on Orestes, and that she, herself, was no longer a Peacekeeper. "So what do you want me to do about it?"

  Guil flushed, and Moraghan was belatedly aware of the harshness in her own voice. "I'm sorry, Guil, go on. Bad memories."

  The para'an nodded, mollified. "It's more than just the feud, that's nothing special. But, Leith, I think the Brandr are bringing in weapons from the Urban Worlds, stuff the Halex can't match, and—hell, it's not right. You've got connections, you used to be a Peacekeeper, so I thought—" She hesitated, then took a firm breath and went on, "I thought you might know somebody who could stop it, if they knew about it."

  There's more to this than meets the eye, Moraghan thought, watching the para'an's mobile face set into an angry frown, but I don't know Orestes well enough to know the key. It's not like Guil to worry about politics. Usually, she's pretty cynical. The captain hesitated, trying to frame a noncommittal answer, and Guil burst out, "I know it's not my place. Hell, they're not even my kin if I weren't para'an, but something needs to be done. What do you think they're going to do with those weapons, Leith—hold a football match?"

  Moraghan shook her head slowly, frightened in spite of herself. For Guil to step out of her place, things had to be pretty bad. "No. I'm thinking, Guil, I'm not sure who to contact."

  The para'an nodded, mollified, and Moraghan poured herself another cup of tsaak, grateful for its warmth. "How did you find out about this, anyway?"

  Guil shrugged. "I'm the substitute, remember? They needed a back-up pilot at Madelgar. They don't have much of a staff there, and of course, they couldn't hire any of the regular Destiny port workers. Because of the feud," she added, before the captain could ask. "Most of the Destiny people are Halex. Anyway, they weren't happy about getting me, but the off-world captain wouldn't make the run-in without knowing there was a back-up available, so the Madelgar harbormaster brought me in." She gave a humorless smile, just a flash of teeth in her tanned face. "They stuck me off in a little room, and kept me there, where they thought I wouldn't hear anything. And then to be doubly sure, they made me promise I wouldn't tell anybody about this." She stopped again, scowling, and Moraghan guessed it was that broken promise that galled her most. "But I'm para'an, I'm not expected to keep my word. And besides, I don't have proof, just that what I heard made me pretty sure that's what they're doing."

  "Why haven't you told the Halex?" Moraghan asked.

  Guil gave her a blank look. "They couldn't listen to me. I'm para'an and I'm breaking my given word."

  Damn that, Moraghan thought, but bit back the words in time. All right, if that's the way the system works, that's the way it works. Is there anything I can do? She chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip, not really feeling the pain. First, I can warn Maturin—it's a Medium's business to deal with para'anin, if I understand the system at all. Maturin can warn the Halex. As for off-world. . . . It takes a local complaint to bring in the Peacekeepers, but maybe a word at the Trade Bureau would do some good? Then she remembered Stephan Mojag, who'd been part of her drone squadron before he cracked up a free flyer. He'd picked a post in Trade rather than a mailship position; maybe he could help her now. She put the tsaak cup aside and reached into the pocket of her coat for her chronometer, drew it out on its short chain and laid it, miniboard up, on the table top. It was hard to manipulate the stylus one-handed, and Guil leaned across to steady the machine.

  "You've thought of something?"

  "Yes." Moraghan used the stylus to punch the tiny buttons, then waited for the result to appear on the finger-width screen. "An old—colleague, from the Peacekeepers. He's with the Trade Board on Ganesha; he might be able to do something." The numbers appeared at last, and Moraghan muttered a curse. "Trouble is, it's the middle of the night there, and I'd have to leave a message, with no guarantee he'd upload it in the morning. I think I'd better wait and call him then."

  Guil nodded. "All right. Look, would you stay with me again? It's the least I can do, after all this trouble."

  Moraghan smiled. "No trouble. And I'd like to stay, please, Guil."

  "Good." Guil's answering smile was rather diffident. "We can head on, then, unless—"

  Moraghan shook her head. "I'm done here." To prove it, she finished the last of her tsaak, then awkwardly, stuffed the chronometer and its chain back into her pocket.

  "Fine." Guil nodded. "Look, I have an errand to run, on Mill Street. You're welcome to come with me, of course, but if you'd rather go on to the flat, I'll gladly give you the key."

  "I'll come with you," Moraghan said. "I've never seen the mills."

  "I'm just going to one of the shops," Guil warned. "And you might not want to carry your bag all that way."

  "In this gravity, it hardly weighs a thing," Moraghan said, not quite truthfully. "No, I want to come with you, Guil. If you don't mind."

  The para'an shook her head. "Glad of the company," she said. "Come on."

  It was a cloudless day, the brilliant pinpoint of Atreus almost drowning the waxing blue-green crescent of Agamemnon. The wind was from the east, and cold. Moraghan was glad of her heavy spacer's coat, no matter how outlandish it made her look. Guil loosened the clasps of her outer jacket as they made their way to the tram stop, muttering something about the heat. The others waiting in the shelter, Moraghan noticed with wry amusement, had also loosened or discarded their outer layers of clothing. The captain guessed it might be as much as thirteen degrees without the cooling wind.

  The first tram that passed was a local, bound for the residential precincts just across the bridge. The second car through was the one they wanted, bound for the High Street and ultimately for the UHST terminus. Moraghan followed Guil aboard—this time, she let the tug pilot pay both fares, rather than fumble for it herself—and wedged herself with the pilot against the tram's rear wall. There were no seats available. Moraghan let her bag fall from her shoulder, dr
opping it between her feet, and wrapped her good arm around the nearest stanchion. Guil leaned close as the tram lurched into motion.

  "Sorry about this, but we've got a way to go."

  "No problem," Moraghan said, and meant it. She leaned forward a little as the tram slowed for the river barriers, trying to catch a glimpse of the city proper. It looked very different in daylight, the buildings no longer shadows picked out in strings of light, but solid, sober structures, local stone and wood shaped to local needs. There had never been much attempt to copy off-world styles, and Moraghan found herself approving that integrity. If, of course, she added silently, it was integrity and not poverty that kept the builders to this style—but Destiny had always been a wealthy city.

  The tram lurched as it came off the bridge, lurched again as it came up onto the turntable. With a whine of motors that sent a new vibration through the floor, the table swung slowly clockwise, until the nose of the tram was lined up along the tracks that led down a wide, shop-lined street. The sidewalks were filled with pedestrians, and there was a surprising amount of traffic, mostly sporty three-wheelers. Moraghan remembered Guil saying those were mostly used by the younger members of the rich mainline families, and leaned forward.

  "What street's this?"

  "This is the High Street," Guil answered, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the rattle of the tram. "It runs from the port all the way through Destiny, and then out to the Halex Tower proper." She ducked her head, trying to see out through the tram's scratched windows. "Come on, the next stop's ours."

  Moraghan followed obediently as the para'an worked her way through the crowd to the rear door. The tram slowed even as they went; by the time they'd reached the door, it was open, and the two women clattered down the steps to the minuscule platform. Guil gauged the passing traffic—six-wheeled cargo trucks and even an occasional Landcrawler, as well as the more common three-wheelers—with a practiced eye, and whistled, beckoning for Moraghan to follow. The captain did, expecting every instant to be struck down by a passing vehicle, and was more than a little surprised when they reached the sidewalk alive.