The City and the Ship

by Anne McCaffrey

  "Just someone who got lost," he said. "Some vapor-brain from a miner family-ship, probably, can't find her way around anything bigger than a thousand cubic meters. Proceeding."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bros Sperin sat quietly at his table, a drink in his hand, and watched the patrons of The Anvil enjoying themselves. Extremely respectable place, he thought. Perfect for a dropshop. Criminals and spies only haunted known dens of vice in bad fiction, or in places much farther from the right side of the law than New Destinies.

  "No, thank you, gentlebeing," he said for the seventh time that night.

  The tall—possibly human, probably female, but you couldn't tell sometimes without a xenology program—bobbed her/its/his crest and swayed gracefully off to the sunken dance floor that hung in the center of The Anvil's main room. It was surrounded by tables of spectators, diners, and tourists. Bros Sperin himself wasn't out of place, a man a little above medium height and densely athletic of build, brown of skin and eye, with short black hair cut to resemble a sable cap. His jacket was brown as well, loosely woven raw silk, belted with silver above black tights and low boots. A soft hat lay on the table beside his long-fingered hands, covering a belt data-unit.

  He looked relaxed, which was as much a lie as the appearance of a well-to-do merchant out for a peaceful night on the town in this costly, pleasant nightclub.

  Given the number of serious deals that went down here it was in the regular patrons' best interests to see to it that no one got too rowdy, and the management was very solicitous of their guests' interests. Those who insisted on getting out of hand mysteriously and permanently lost their taste for dancing at The Anvil. So did people who annoyed the regular patrons.

  If they only knew who I really was, they'd probably be very annoyed indeed, the Central Worlds agent thought. Annoyed enough that he'd disappear with a quiet finality.

  Bros raised his glass to his lips and checked his watch. Then glanced at the door. There she was, right on time. Odd, how she looked so little like the scarred, scared child he'd met when he was a lieutenant in Naval Intelligence, assigned to SSS-900-C in the aftermath of the Kolnari raid. And yet what she was now was what he'd seen in potentia then, hidden beneath the claws-and-teeth defensiveness her short life had left.

  Those straight women who noticed her looked askance at her drab spacer overalls, the gay women observed her over their glasses with mild curiosity. Various aliens had reactions less comprehensible, but they shared a certain caution. The men never looked at her at all.

  Their loss, Bros thought. She was beautiful, though she played it down and attitude did the rest.

  Joat reached the bar and fixed her gaze on the busy bartender. He'd already noticed her and had caught Bros Sperin's eye. Sperin gave him the high sign to give her a drink as arranged, and to tell her it was from him.

  When the bartender placed the drink in front of her, Joat looked at it as if it were a Sondee mudpuppy. The bartender pointed and said a few words to her and Joat turned to look at Bros.

  Their eyes met and she raised one brow, suspicious and unsmiling. He grinned and waved her over. After a moment she nodded, picked up the drink and sauntered to his table. He rose to meet her and she smiled and lifted the brow again over his courtesy.

  She raised the drink in a little salute.

  "Thank you," she said and looked him over, then frowned slightly. "We've never met before, have we?"

  "No, I've seen you at a distance, but we've never met."

  "Then . . . how do you know what I like to drink?" she asked, curious, suspicious.

  Bros grinned down at her.

  "It's a game I play, matching drinks to faces. I usually guess right. So . . . do I have you pegged?"

  She nodded with a little smile. At least that far, Joat thought.

  "Please, sit down." He indicated a seat.

  "Thanks," she said, and looked around. "But I can't. I'm here to meet someone."

  "I know. Me."

  Oh, Ghu, Joat thought. I may lose my lunch. How could such a neat looking guy have such a macho-maniacal attitude. Pity.

  To Bros she looked both weary and disappointed at the apparent pick-up line; but smiled as she turned to go. I don't blame her. That one was probably a cliche when bearskins were the latest fashion.

  "The names Sperin. Bros Sperin."

  Her eyes went wide. The spy?

  "I thought you were dead!" she blurted.

  He laughed. "A rumor I've carefully spread. It's useful. Actually, I only felt like I was dead. They put me back together looking different, and they've had me behind a desk the last few years."

  They looked at each other for a few moments.

  "Shall we sit down or," he indicated the dance floor, "shall we dance?"

  Joat sat. I don't think so. I don't want to get any closer to you than arm's length, thanks. Something about him made her wary on a personal level. She wondered what the heck was going on.

  "I usually deal with Sal," she said uneasily. And I wish I were now. Not that Sal was such a great guy or anything. But something's up, my antennae are tingling.

  "He's around somewhere. I understand you have an unbirthday present for him."

  She nodded, frowning again. An unbirthday present. She sneered mentally. That's cute. "Actually, it's more of a parting gift. Something that might go well with a broken arm."

  "In that case he'll be sorry to have missed you. I'll be sure to pass along your good wishes." Bros picked up his glass and looked at her over the rim. "But I needed to talk to you."

  "About what?" Joat kept her face and voice as carefully neutral as his.

  Bros felt the package placed in his lap; she'd done it so smoothly he hadn't noticed her hand going under the table. Whoa! he thought, startled. What am I doing out by myself if I can't even keep an eye on the girl's hands?

  He didn't show his surprise and dismay however. His face was dead calm when he said, "There's something we need you to do, someone we want you to talk to. We thought the Wyal would make a good place for a meeting."

  Joat put her untasted drink on the table and gave it a little shove away from herself. Glad I didn't touch that, she thought. Who knows what kind of go-along syrup they put in it. She didn't like the way this meeting was going. Of course the drink could be intended as a bribe. CenSec's cheap enough, Ghu knows. But there was a heavy-duty hook in here somewhere and one lousy drink was insufficient bait to hide it.

  "I've been told before—with heavy regret—that I'd be terrible at your kind of work. As if I'd asked. Y'know? As if I'd want it." She crossed her legs. That stuff's for adrenaline addicted university students. Me, I've got a life. "Now, all of a sudden, I get this clammy feeling that I'm being recruited. I mean, Bros Sperin comes out from behind his desk to meet little me. And reels off quite an interesting wish list, by the way; something needs doing, someone needs talking to and how about my place for a meeting. Oooh! It's so exciting." Joat began a slow burn. This is just a little presumptuous. Don't you think, Bros? "What makes you think I'd be interested?"

  "You've done things for us before."

  "An occasional passenger, or a package delivery, that's it." Her voice was sharper than she'd intended, and she saw that he was taken aback. But then, she'd come here with the intention of cutting her ties to CenSec, not strengthening them. And in any case Wyal is off-limits to these people. I can't just let them get away with deciding to use my ship like it's their property.

  "And got cash on the barrel head," he reminded her grimly. Her attitude was a surprise and it was beginning to annoy him.

  "Of course."

  "So what's your problem?"

  From long practice, Joat froze her reaction, which was to flare up and twist his nose for him. "Well," she said sweetly, "so far as a meeting goes, my ship is under surveillance. Not very clandestine, wouldn't you agree?"

  Bros grinned.

  "That was Sal's idea. He thought it would confer status on me." He cocked his head at her. "Pretty o
bvious, was it?"

  "He might as well have been in uniform. I thought he might be after . . . Sal's present." She glared at him. I don't believe this! she thought, outraged. I could have been arrested and fined, just for trying to keep this package a secret. Meanwhile he's hiring the cops as escorts! "You couldn't have advised me, of course."

  He shrugged.

  "Need to know. Sal thought it would make things easier. I don't see why it's a problem."

  "It makes me look like trouble. My reputation is for doing things well and discreetly; it's how I make my living. This does not help."

  He rubbed his upper lip to hide his smile. She was going to love this.

  "I didn't request a guard for your ship in my CenSec capacity. In fact, they'd be quite startled to learn I was with CenSec, here. Bros Sperin is an extremely respectable smuggler, with an hilariously inappropriate name. At least as far as New Destinies is concerned—I deal in arms, mostly, and fencing loot—and the local police give excellent value for money."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Oh. Lovely. Do you realize how much higher on the bribe schedule my ship will be, now that they think I'm running with the big boys? What are you trying to do to me?"

  "It's S.O.P., Joat. To be frank, my cover is more important than your budget." He shrugged. "It's all part of building the right picture in the minds of certain people. I assure you, when you learn exactly who this meeting is with, you'll take a personal interest." He smiled. "Trust me."

  She snorted an unspoken not likely, but he was sure he'd caught a sparkle of curiosity in her eyes.

  Good, he thought. Aloud he said, "I'll call off the cop, since he was ineffective anyway. Will that help?"

  "Sure." She rose and left.

  I may have overplayed that a little, he thought dryly as he watched her walk away. He rubbed his face vigorously. I'm badly out of practice. I used to know better than to make assumptions about the players. Still, they were reasonable assumptions based on knowledge she didn't have at the moment. She'd probably come around.

  Joat Simeon-Hap was a righteous woman.

  In her way.

  * * *

  Joat grinned with a cold anger. Master Spy isn't as subtle as he thinks. Five years ago she might have jumped at the chance to get on the CenSec payroll. Not now. Wyal was hers; yes, Simeon and Channa—and Joseph—had helped bankroll her, but she'd paid them all off. The ship was hers, and she was meeting payroll and running expenses and putting something by. Meanwhile she was seeing the universe. On her terms, and nobody else's. Which is just the way I like things, thank you very much, Bros Sperin!

  A passerby jumped back in alarm from the glare she gave as she shouldered by him.

  She hoped Alvec was back from sniffing the Roses, or rather, letting them sniff him. Joat grinned at the thought of Bros Sperin's dark face when he walked up to an empty berth.

  The docking area was nearly deserted as she pulled herself into the zero-g section and walked towards her berth, skimming her feet along the deck to keep their sticktights on the metal. Nobody was around except a couple of Ursinoids, crewfolk off one of their lumbering freighters, hairy creatures with blunt muzzles standing nearly two meters tall and strapped around with various knives, energy weapons and slug-throwers. She chatted with them for a few minutes, using their shaggy bulks to disguise her slow scan of the area. That was no strain; she liked Ursinoids, even if they did always try to sell you a collection of lethal ironmongery. They were good types on the whole, extremely independent, but not very subtle.

  Bros had been as good as his word. The cop was gone. She wondered if she was under more covert surveillance.

  Well, how would she know? Electronics she might detect, but Sperin should be able to call upon better talent than the local security forces.

  As she passed a row of containers stacked head high, a hand flashed out and grabbed her arm.

  * * *

  Joat spun into the direction of the grip, stripping her arm out with leverage against the thumb. The same motion flung her backwards half a dozen paces and flipped the vibroknife into her right hand, held low with the keening drone of the slender rod-blade wailing a warning of how easily it would slide through flesh and bone. She filled her lungs to shout—the Ursinoids would be at her side in seconds, loaded for . . . well, loaded like bears. Heavily armed bears.

  Joseph ben Said held up both hands palms out and grinned at her. The sleeves of his loose robe fell away from thick, corded forearms where the scars lay white against the olive skin. He raised one blond eyebrow.

  "So fierce, little one? Perhaps I should not have taught you so well, eh?"

  "Joe!" she said, moving forward to slap his arm lightly. "If I was still on your training protocols, you'd be dead right now."

  She looked him up and down. The Bethelite never seemed to change; still as fit and muscular as when she'd met him ten years ago, his blue eyes mild and calm between the squint-wrinkles of a man who spent much time in the desert. Perhaps a few strands of silver hair among the gold. He had been born in Keriss before the Kolnari came, a child of the dock-side slums, and right-hand man to Amos ben Sierra Nueva when the future Prophet had been a radical and half an outcast.

  Now he was Deacon of the Right Hand—head of the Bethelite police and counter-espionage forces.

  "What are you doing here? Is Amos here too?"

  He shook his head.

  "No, I am here alone." He cast a meaningful glance back and forth. "Look, I have a gift."

  He reached into the hand-luggage at his feet and tossed a heavy bottle of green ceramic in her direction. Joat caught it with a yelp of protest at the risk; she recognized the brand. The surface was pebbled and cool, the fastener held in with twisted copper wire and sealed with wax. Despite herself she felt her eyes mist a little. Joe was always a good osco, she thought. And he'd taught her a great deal, some of it things that Simeon and Channa never suspected.

  "Bethel-brewed Arrack," he said and kissed the tips of his ringers, dropping into the singsong of a bazari merchant for a moment. "From the Prophet's private store. Blessed with the heat of Saffron's golden sun."

  She grinned.

  "C'mon aboard, I've got someone I want you to meet."

  Joat led the way up into Wyal's berth and spoke:

  "Knock, knock?"

  "Who's there?" The cybernetic voice sounded as if it would wince if it could.

  "Jo."

  "Jo who?"

  "Jo'at the door."

  Joseph did wince, in sympathy. "Among Simeon's many crimes, not the least was teaching you his depraved sense of humor."

  "Tell me the news from Bethel, tell me about Rachel," Joat said. She cycled the lock closed and stood while the sensor field swept them for unauthorized sticktights. "And tell me what's wrong."

  "Rachel is well, the children are well . . . and what should be wrong, my young friend?" The blue eyes blinked guilelessly at her.

  "Joe, unlike Amos, you're no great traveler. If you've left Bethel and Rachel and it wasn't with Amos, there's a reason. What is it?"

  "All in good time," he said.

  Joat smiled wryly, restraining an impulse to grind her teeth. From Joseph she could take the odd mystery.

  * * *

  "Joat, I am most impressed by the quality of this AI, but it is a machine, nothing more." He looked at her with a frown of worry. "You know the difference, between a person and a machine?"

  Joat sipped her Arrack. The liquid slid down her throat like a living fire with velvet fur, leaving a ghost-taste of ripe dates.

  "Joe, I'm a programming expert. If I don't know the difference, who does? And if you say, Joat you are alone too much, I'll punch you in the nose, I swear I will."

  "I taught you better than that," he said, mock-offended.

  "If you are naked and your feet are nailed to the floor, you may hit an enemy in the face with your fist. Short of that, use something more effective," Joat quoted in a sing-song voice. "I remember."

  She leaned forwa
rd: "Look, if Simeon can turn his AI into his dog—to be precise, an Irish Setter—why can't I go a step further and turn mine into a friend?" She lowered her voice confidentially. "We're not romantically involved if that's your worry."

  He laughed and shook his head at her.

  "You, little rebel, should be married, with a husband to fix your wayward thoughts upon. Look at how my Rachel has prospered by my side."

  Joat pulled a judicious expression and nodded solemnly.

  "You're right, Joe, she's quite a gal."

  Yup, she's not a demented, murderous, traitorous bitch any more.

  Now she was Joseph's executive assistant in the Bethelite Security Forces, handling the technical end of things. She also ran their rancho, a sun drenched spread at Twin Springs, and was a devoted mother to their two children, Simeon Amos and Channa Joat.

  "Marriage would make a new woman of you, you should try it. I know!" He flung his hands up as if struck by inspiration—but did not, she noted, spill a single drop of the Arrack.

  "Marry me, Joat! Become my second wife and you can live on the rancho and ride to your heart's content. You can take care of the children. Think how restful your life would be! And I swear that I would be as faithful to you as to my beloved Rachel."

  "Joe! How can you claim to be faithful to Rachel while you're asking another woman to marry you?"

  "Because I am asking you to marry me. If I were asking you to be my mistress, then I would be unfaithful. There is a tremendous difference, you must agree."

  Joat blinked. He was joking—but to a Bethelite, that made perfect sense. There were times when she forgot Joseph was from the deep backwoods of the universe.

  "Hunh! If I ever do hitch up with someone, I'm not gonna be anyone's second anything." She took a sip of Arrack. "I want a virgin, myself."

  A discreet cough from behind brought her to her feet, spinning around, knife in her hand again, ready for throwing.

  Her eyes widened at the sight of Bros Sperin, arms crossed over his broad chest, leaning casually against the hatchway.