by Sharon
Shipyear 32
Tripday 152
Third Shift
19.45 Hours
Priscilla rubbed dry eyes and sat back, frowning at the screen. She was right. At first, she had mistrusted her equations and so rechecked everything a second time, and a third. There was no doubt. She wondered what she was going to do now. Contraband drugs were certainly nothing she wanted to be involved with—and as cargo master, she had signed for them!
Shaking her head, she leaned over the keyboard again.
First, she told herself, you're going to seal this data under the cargo master's "Confidential" code. Then you're going to take a cold needle shower and hope it'll make up for a sleepless night—you're on duty in an hour! She rose and stretched.
She would make no decisions until she had had at least a shift's sleep. It was important not to make a mistake.
"The following personnel," blared the speaker over the door, "will report to Shuttlebay Two at 20.00 hours: Second Mate Dagmar Collier, Pilot Bern dea'Maan, Cargo Master Priscilla Mendoza, Cargo-hand Tailly Zeld, Cargo-hand Nik Laz Galradin."
"What?" Priscilla demanded, spinning to stare at the speaker. Bay 2 at 20.00 hours? That was less than ten minutes from now!
She spun back to the desk and cleared the screen, then spun again to rake her gaze around the closet-sized room, tallying her meager possessions. There was nothing she would need on Jankalim here. Smoothing her hands over her hair, she left the room.
It was only as she was striding toward Bay 2 that it occurred to her to wonder why she was needed at all. Jankalim was a drop-only, the sort of thing most commonly handled by the first or second and a couple of hands.
Maybe there had been a mistake? There had been no trip worldside listed on her schedule last shift, of that she was certain. Come to think of it, it was silly to send the cargo master on a trip like this one. Almost as silly as sending the Trader.
She rounded the corner into the bay corridor at a spanking pace and brought herself up sharply to avoid walking over the small man just ahead.
Trader Olanek turned his head and inclined it in unsmiling recognition. "Mendoza. Punctual, as always." The words were in Trade and heavily accented.
"Thank you, sir," she said, politely shortening her stride to match his. Somehow, she had never managed to inform the Trader that she had limited fluency in his language. She glanced at his profile and shrugged mentally. The Trader's temper was legend on Daxflan, but he seemed to be in as amiable mood as she had ever seen him.
"Are you going worldside, sir?" she ventured respectfully.
"Of course I am going worldside, Mendoza. Why else should I be here?"
Priscilla ignored the irritation in his voice and plunged on. "Has there been a change in schedule, then? My last information was that Jankalim is only a drop point. If we're going to take cargo on—"
"I must therefore assume, Mendoza," the Trader cut in, clearly irritated, "that your information is not complete."
Priscilla bit her lip. It was folly to goad him further. She inclined her head and dropped back to allow him to precede her into the shuttle. Then, sighing, she slipped into the first unoccupied seat, eyelids dropping. Half an hour, ship to world. At least she would get a nap.
"Hi there, Prissy," an unwelcome voice said in her ear. "You're not asleep, are you?" A hand was placed high on her thigh.
Gritting her teeth, Priscilla opened her eyes and sat up straight.
* * *
Jankalim possessed one spaceport, situated on the easternmost tip of the southernmost continent, within a stone's throw of the planetary sea and the edge of the world's second city.
As spaceports went, this one was subaverage, Priscilla decided, watching Tailly and Nik Laz unload the few containers and pallets that represented their reason for stopping here at all. The spaceport boasted three hot-pads for in-system ships, four shuttle cradles, and a double-dozen steel warehouses. All the pads were empty, though there was a surprisingly well-kept shuttle in the end cradle.
She glanced at the corrugated metal building to her right. A lopsided sign proclaimed it to be the port master's office. Trader Olanek had disappeared within it immediately upon setdown, Dagmar trailing behind like a double-sized shadow.
As if summoned by the thought, the second appeared in the doorway, jerking her head as she crossed the yard. "Gimme a hand, willya, Prissy? Trader wants a couple boxes from that end house. Ought to be able to get 'em fine between us."
Raising her eyebrows, Priscilla looked back at burly Tailly and miniature Nik Laz, who were just setting the last pallet in place.
"Aah, give 'em a break, Prissy," Dagmar growled. "They worked plenty hard already."
Kindness was uncharacteristic of the second mate. Probably the woman wanted a little privacy to press her suit further. Trapped without a reasonable excuse, Priscilla nodded and fell into step beside her, keeping a cautious distance between them.
The lights came up as they entered the first warehouse. Dagmar turned confidently to the right; Priscilla, a few steps behind, let her lead the way. Several more turns led them to a musty-smelling hall, somewhat dimmer than the previous corridors, flanked with blank metal doors.
Priscilla wondered what the Trader could possibly want from a section of warehouse that was clearly abandoned, then she shrugged. She was cargo master. It was her job to stow what the Trader contracted for.
It just would have been nice, she stormed to herself, if the Trader had seen fit to inform his cargo master that he expected to take on goods at Jankalim.
Dagmar moved slowly down the hallway—counting doors, Priscilla thought—then stopped and slid a card into a doorslot.
The light in the frame lit, but nothing else happened. Dagmar grunted. "You're real good with computers. You try it."
The tone of voice made Priscilla uneasy. She took the card, inserted it, and was rewarded with both a light and a clicking noise from within.
Dagmar pushed at the door, then grunted again. "Damn thing's stuck. Come 'round here, Prissy—that's right. Now, I'm gonna pull back on the door an' get it started in the track. When it starts to slide, you get yourself between an' push, okay?"
"Okay."
Dagmar laid her hands against the door and exerted force. For a moment it looked as if the mechanism would resist. Then Priscilla saw a crack appear. She slipped her fingers into the slender opening as the crack began to widen, adding her own pressure to the enterprise. The gap widened farther. She slid her body into the opening and shoved.
As she pushed, there was a shadowy movement behind her, and she heard Dagmar say, "Can't be all that smart now, can ya, Prissy?" Then something clipped her behind the ear, and she crumpled sideways, tasting salt.
Jankalim Spaceport
Local Year 209
There was a window high in the sidewall, and that was good. The door was locked from the outside, and that was bad. Her head ached, and that, she decided, was worst of all. Neither the soreness of her face nor the pain in her shoulder came near it, though the throb of her ribs ran a close second.
Moving with extreme care, Priscilla went to the window and stood on tiptoe, craning. No way out there: the pane was solid blast-glass, and even had she the means to break it, the opening itself was too small even for her lanky frame.
Outside, the well-kept shuttle was still in its ratty cradle.
Daxflan's shuttle was gone.
Left me, she thought through the fog of dizziness and pain. And then, with a gasp that sent knifing fire down her side, the reality hit her. Left me! Here, with the door locked and no way out and how could they have left me? Surely the Trader would have missed me . . . or if not me—but how could they not have missed me! Tailly, Nik Laz, Bern . . . how could they have left. . .
She took a deep, deliberate breath, ignoring the pain.
"I will not," she informed the room austerely, "sanction hysterics."
Her voice came back to her from the empty walls, deep and oddly comfortin
g. Priscilla closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing until the panic stilled.
I have to get out, she told herself, forming the thought carefully.
She surveyed her prison. Empty. Dustless. Dim. What light there was came from the window. She would have to do whatever she did before day failed.
Leaning against the wall, she went through her pockets: stylus, pad of paper, ID, strapping tape, comb, two Terran wholebits, magnetic ruler, penknife, calculator—nothing heavy enough to break a triple-thick window or strong enough to jimmy the door.
She took another look outside. The yard was as empty as the room she stood in. She settled her shoulders against the wall and considered her resources.
Stylus. Not too likely. It went back into her pocket. Likewise the paper; also comb, ID, and money.
Tape? She kept it out for the time being. Penknife? Why not? Ruler? No— Yes. Yes, wait a minute—magnets . . . lock . . . jimmy the lock!
She knelt at the door to get the cardslot at eye level, then peered cautiously within. It just might be possible . . . .
Sitting back on her heels, she unrolled the ruler and tried unsuccessfully to pry the thin rectangular magnets off with her fingers. The penknife did the trick—fifteen minutes later she had four flat magnets, each with its own long tail of tape, lined up on the door next to the cardslot.
With the tip of the knife she inserted them, one at a time, thanking the Goddess that there were only four contacts within the mechanism and that no one had expected the place to be used as a jail.
The last magnet was affixed. She withdrew the knife, holding her breath . . . but nothing happened.
Wrong combination, she told herself, and patiently inserted the knife point again, reversing the polarity of the magnet on the extreme left.
She had worked through twelve combinations, and multicolored spots were shimmering before her eyes, when there was a soft click. Hardly daring to breathe, she looked up.
The light over the door frame was lit.
She scrambled to her feet, folding the knife automatically and dropping it into her pocket. Leaning forward, she put her hands against the panel and prepared to push—but suddenly the door slid open.
Priscilla twisted, gasping, and regained her balance before the man on the other side extended a hand to grab her.
"Hold there, now." The grip on her arm changed. "Who by hell are you?"
"Priscilla Mendoza—cargo master on Daxflan."
"That's so, is it?" He eyed her. "Bit beyond yer territory, would say?"
"Without a doubt." She gritted her teeth against the pain and fought to keep the edge out of her voice. "There's been a—misunderstanding. I'm sure Trader Olanek will vouch for me. He was with the port master . . . ."
"That be so," the man agreed. "Then he an' his went off. Nothin' was said about a missin' mate. Happen a Trader would notice his cargo master wasn't to hand, would say?"
She sighed. "I don't really think I'm prepared to say any such thing. Are you going to let me out of here, or aren't you?"
"Now there, mistress, don't be chivin' me. Happen you'll have a better tale for Master Farley." He stepped back, keeping a firm hold on her arm. "We'll be walking this way now."
Priscilla clamped her jaw and matched his stride firmly.
The glare of sunshine made her gasp with quadrupled pain. She was abruptly thankful for the man's bruising hold—without his support she would have fallen.
Sunlight gave way to shadow. Her captor paused and laid his hand against a plate, and a door slid open. Obedient to his tug, Priscilla stepped into an echoing cavern of a room. Four dark terminals sat at intervals on the empty counter; the ship-board suspended above displayed one row of tired amber letters, brilliant in the gloom: DUTIFUL PASSAGE SOLCINTRA LIAD.
She stopped, staring at the board. A Liaden ship, surely, but . . . dear Goddess, they had gone! They had left orbit, left the sector, without her. She had been abandoned deliberately on this quarter-bit world!
"Come along, mistress, we've not got all the day." The man jerked hard on her arm, and Priscilla went with him, blankly.
She should be angry, she knew, but the various pains and shocks seemed to cancel emotion. Her overwhelming desire was for sleep—but no. There was the port master to see, and an explanation to be made. She would need money—a job. Two Terran wholebits was hardly a fortune, no matter how backward the world.
"In here, mistress." He gave another tug. Priscilla ground her teeth against a snapped retort and obeyed.
Port Master Farley was a plump man with a dejected yellow mustache and apologetic blue eyes. He blinked at Priscilla and turned toward her captor. "Well, now, Liam. What have you here?"
The man holding her renewed his grip and straightened, giving the impression of having brought his heels smartly together. "Computer reported some tamperin' with the lock on door triple-ay, corridor seven, house one—one o' the empty sections, Master Farley."
The port master nodded.
"Went to check things out—thinkin' it'll be a malfunction, you understand." He yanked Priscilla forward. "Found this one on the inside. Tells the tale o' bein' Priscilla Mendoza, cargo master on Daxflan as just left us."
The port master blinked again. "But what were you doing in the warehouse, lass? Especially along that way—it's been empty for years."
Priscilla took a deep breath. The pain in her side was less, she noted, down to a persistent dull ache.
"Trader Olanek and Second Mate Collier came into this building to speak with you, sir," she said. "I was outside, supervising the unloading. After a time, the second mate came out and asked me to go with her to the warehouse. She said the Trader wanted something out of one of the rooms. When we arrived, she put a card in the lock and asked me to help her push the door open, since it was stuck—"
"Like as not," Liam muttered. "Damn thing hasn't been opened this tenyear."
"And then," Priscilla concluded, "she hit me over the head and left me there. When I came to, I tried to gimmick the lock with a couple magnets off my ruler."
Master Farley was staring. "Hit you over the head and left you? And you her mate? Why would she do such a thing?"
"How do I know?" Priscilla snapped, then dredged up a painful smile. "Look, do you mind if I sit down? My head does hurt."
"Surely, surely." He looked a little flustered. "Liam . . . ."
The warehouseman loosed her with reluctance and placed the chair close to the desk before taking up a position directly behind it. She sat carefully, hands curled around the plastic armrests.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome." Master Farley sighed, drummed his fingers on the rubbed steel top of his desk, screwed his eyes shut, and opened them again. "You'll be having some ID on you, of course."
She nodded, earning a flash of pain and a renewed flurry of dots. The hand that held her identification out trembled, she noted, and she was aware of a flicker of anger.
Master Farley took the packet and fed the cards one by one into the unit beside his desk. He studied the screen carefully, sighed, and turned back to her.
"Well, your papers are in order. Cargo master for Daxflan, out of Chonselta City, Liad—plain as rain." He shook his head. "I'll be right out with you, lass. I can't see the why of leaving you like this. A cargo master is an important part of a trade vessel. All this about being hit on the head and left—it don't add up. And I'll tell you what else: Trader Olanek was here, and we had a very pleasant chat. But I never saw this second mate you be speaking of. Nor I never saw you."
"You don't believe me, in fact."
He waved his hands soothingly. "Now, lass. Admit it don't seem so likely."
"I do admit it," Priscilla told him. "I don't know why it was done any more than you do. Perhaps the second felt she had a grudge—but nothing to warrant cracking my skull." Which means the Trader ordered it, she thought suddenly, crystally. Dagmar wouldn't have mugged her and left her—not without orders. It was more in her style to tr
y rape, if she had thought Priscilla had insulted her. And if the Trader had ordered it, that meant. . .
Master Farley's chair creaked as he changed position. "Well, then, lass, I'm just bound to say that done's done. There doesn't seem to be any harm you've done—is that so, Liam?"
"Yessir," the warehouseman said regretfully. "Happens that's so."
The port master nodded. "Then the wisest thing to do is give you back your ID and send you on your way." He pushed her cards across the desk.
Priscilla stared at him. "Send me on my way," she repeated blankly. "I'm stranded. I don't have any money. I don't know anybody here." The Trader had ordered it. Which meant that her deduction was correct: Daxflan had been carrying illegal drugs in enormous quantity. Never mind how he had gotten at her data, locked under her personal code. He had found it, given her credit for being able to make the deduction—and acted to remove a known danger.
"Best you go to the embassy," Master Farley was saying with apologetic kindness. "Likely they'll send you home."
Home? "No," she said, suddenly breathless. "I want to go—I must get to Arsdred." That was Daxflan's next port of call. And then? she asked herself, wondering at her own urgency. She shoved the question away for the present. She would take one thing at a time.
"Arsdred," she repeated firmly.
He looked doubtful. "Well, if you must, lass, you must. But I'm not the one to know how you'll go about it. You said you'd no money . . . ."
"The ship in orbit now—Dutiful Passage? Is she a trader?"
He nodded, blinking in confusion.
"Good." She took a deep breath and forced her aching head to work. "Master Farley, you owe me no favors, I know. But I want to apply for work on Dutiful Passage. Will you help me?"
"It's not me you need to speak to about that, lass. It'll be Mr. Saunderson, who's the agent." He puffed his chest out a little. "Dutiful Passage stops here every three years, regular."
