As I spoke he began to regain his composure, and a smirk blossomed on his face. “Assume whatever you like, Captain Wang.”
“Ah, good, you know me. That saves so much time.” I turned my head to Ms. Arellone without taking my eyes off the alleged Mr. Allen. “Do you see any uniformed security personnel in our vicinity, Ms. Arellone?”
I heard her step back a bit and presumed that she was looking port and starboard around the promenade. “No, Captain.”
I sighed. “Oh, well. Then can you point out the nearest security camera please.”
“It’s directly over your head, Skipper.”
“I thought as much, there should be one or two further down the promenade that capture this area. Would you wave at one of them please, Ms. Arellone?”
“Waving now, Captain.”
“Thank you, Ms. Arellone, and do you see the chronometer on the bulkhead above the chandlery?”
“I do, Captain.”
“The time?”
“0943, Captain.”
“Thank you, Ms. Arellone. We now have a date, a place, a time, and a security service track, along with a very close up and detailed image of our Mr. Allen. Would you say so, Ms. Arellone.”
“I would, Captain.”
“Thank you, Ms. Arellone.”
Meanwhile the man in question began looking around, perhaps for help, or a confederate. The self-assured smirk had been replaced with the look of a man who began to think he faced someone who might be missing a few rivets in the deck plating. I smiled slowly at him.
“One more thing, Ms. Arellone?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Would you recognize him again if you saw him?”
“I would, Captain.”
“When you see him again, please don’t kill him.”
His eyes went round, and he took an involuntary step backward, trying to decide if I was crazy.
“Are you certain, Captain?”
“Yes, Ms. Arellone, quite certain.”
“Okay, Skipper. I won’t.”
“Thank you, Ms. Arellone.”
I let my smile fade. “Now, Mister...Allen.” I paused and gave him a little nod. “You may or not be aware that impersonating uniformed Orbital Staff is a Class A felony.”
“But..”
I held up my hand. “I’m not accusing you of anything, Mister... Allen.” I held up the tablet. “I just mention it because, if you’re not actually Mr. Allen, and you can’t convince the authorities that you have a valid reason for wearing Mr. Allen’s uniform, it might be wise for you to find a shuttle.”
“Shuttle won’t work, Skipper.”
“Why is that, Ms. Arellone.”
“Extradition here. Confederated planet. He’d need to go to Breakall or Jett, maybe.”
“Thank you for that clarification, Ms. Arellone.”
“Very welcome, Skipper.”
I nodded to Mr. Allen. “Next time, be more careful.”
I turned and continued strolling down the promenade as Ms. Arellone strode along beside me. We walked on in silence for a while.
“Do you think you scared him, Skipper?”
I thought about it. “It was a pretty obvious play. We didn’t get a clean win, but he’ll think twice next time.” I glanced at her. “You will recognize him again?”
“Oh, yes, sar.”
As we rounded the curve to the lift we met two uniformed security guards coming the other way. One had a tablet out with a still photo on it. When they saw us, they changed course to intercept. I grinned.
“Officers. Good morning. Thank you for your prompt assistance.” I still had my tablet out, and held it up for them to see what I had before I made any sudden moves.
“What seems to be the problem, sir?” The shorter of the two seemed to be the spokesman for the team.
“I’m Captain Ishmael Wang. This is Able Spacer Stacy Arellone of my crew. We were leaving the chandlery when a man dressed in an Orbital Admin jumpsuit accosted us.”
“What did he do, Captain?”
“Nothing very serious. Took our picture, pretended he didn’t. Spent a goodly amount of time making a close inspection of a dent in the wall.”
They two officers looked at each other. “That doesn’t sound very threatening, Captain.”
I smiled. “It wasn’t, but his behavior was so suspicious that I began to doubt that he was really who he purported to be.”
I held up the digital. “He’s wearing the uniform of a person named Allen. I don’t think he’s Mr. Allen.”
The two looked startled and frowned.
“Why do you think that, Captain?”
“When I called him Mr. Allen, he didn’t respond.”
“Maybe he didn’t hear you?”
“It’s possible.” I turned to Ms. Arellone. “Did you think he acted like Allen was really his name?”
She shook her head. “I’m pretty sure that’s not his jumpsuit, Captain.”
The taller guard frowned at her. “Why do you say that, miss?”
“I think it’s a woman’s suit, with the darts under the arms? And cut wider in the seat.” She shrugged. “I could be wrong.”
I blinked at her.
She stared blandly back at me.
I turned back to the officers. “Maybe it’s nothing, but I thought I’d let somebody know, just in case.”
“Thank you, Captain.” The taller one spoke for the first time. “May we have a copy of that digital?”
“Of course.” I flashed a copy to his portable, and he nodded to his partner.
“If you need anything, I’m at the Lagrange Point, or you can contact me through DST’s office here.”
“Thanks, Captain.” They nodded to us, and moved on around the promenade, moving more quickly, and one already had his communicator out.
I resumed walking toward the lift. After about five steps, Ms. Arellone said, “You know, Skipper. I thought you were bluffing with the photo.”
I grinned. “I hope our Mr. Allen believed that as well.”
“Were you, sar?”
I looked over at her. “You mean, was I bluffing?”
“Yes, sar.”
“No, Ms. Arellone. I was pretty sure that, when you waved directly at that camera, the sharp eyes in orbital security would see it and send a patrol in our direction.”
She tsked. “What if they didn’t?”
The lift arrived and we stepped aboard. I keyed the button to take us to the hotel. “We’d have stopped on deck six, and filed a report at security.”
She laughed. “Really?”
I shrugged. “Of course. Why not?”
“What if his name really is Allen?”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you think that’s likely?”
She thought about it. “Not really.” She thought some more. “Or if it is, I bet he doesn’t work in Admin.”
“That’s a given, Ms. Arellone.”
“You sound pretty sure, Captain.”
“I am.”
We rode all the way to eight and stepped out of the lift before she asked, “Okay, why are you so sure?”
“Because he was examining a dent in the bulkhead.”
She gave me the hairy eyeball.
“Admin would never do Maintenance work.”
She laughed and shook her head.
“That was good work on the woman’s suit, though, Ms. Arellone. I didn’t catch that.”
She got an odd look on her face. “You never bluff do you, Skipper?”
I thought about it. “I’m a terrible liar, Ms. Arellone. I try not to do it at all, so perhaps never is too strong a word, but no, I hardly ever bluff.”
She grinned at me. “I do.”
We arrived at the hotel and found two messages waiting—one from Kirsten Kingsley and one from William Simpson.
“Fancy lunch with Kirsten, Ms. Arellone?”
She shrugged, “Sounds okay, Skipper.” She was focused on getting her new tablet fired up.
“She says she has a job for us.”
That got her attention. “Us, sar?”
I shrugged. “That’s what it says.”
“How does she know about me?” She looked at me with a stricken look on her face.
“She saw you on the promenade last night.”
“Oh. Her boy wasn’t all that subtle.”
“You two should have teamed up, would have been more believable.”
She flashed me an aggravated look, and went back to work on her tablet.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I announced to the room at large.
“Don’t leave unless you tell me, sar.” She didn’t look up.
I sighed, and headed for the sumptuously appointed shower—complete with three heads and a hand sprayer. By the time I got out, I saw the message light on my tablet was flashing. Surprised, I opened it up and saw a message from Ms. Arellone. It read, “Thank you, Captain. I promise not to mug you in the passageways again.”
I snickered and keyed a reply. “Thank you, Ms. Arellone. Much appreciated.” I clicked send and heard the tablet bip in the next room.
I sighed and surveyed the wreckage that was my wardrobe. I needed clothing. Something better than the civvies department in the chandlery could provide. I slipped my jeans and polo back on, and padded out to the common room.
“Ms. Arellone, who’s got the best men’s shop here in Diurnia?”
She was playing with her tablet, and frowned at me. “Skipper? How long have you been with DST? Ten stanyers?”
“Something more than that, Ms. Arellone.”
“Don’t you ever shop?” She eyed the polo and jeans. “No, I guess you don’t. Where’d you get those? The chandlery?”
I looked down at myself. “Um, probably, yeah.”
She gave a long suffering sigh. “You wanna dress to impress? Or just get by? Or what?”
I ran a hand over my scalp and sighed. “You know, I haven’t really thought much about clothes since I made Third Mate. I’ve been too busy. You wouldn’t know it now, but I used to really know how to dress at one time.”
She shook her head. “Well, you’re in a ritzy hotel. Ask the concierge. He’ll know. He takes care of rich people every day.”
“I’m not rich people, Ms. Arellone.”
She arched an eyebrow in my direction without actually turning her head. “Then why do the newsies have pictures of you with misleading captions?”
“Another one?”
She held up her tablet so I could see the picture. The headline read, “Trouble in Paradise?” It was a picture of Ms. Arellone and I outside of Over Easy, just at the point where she’d smacked me into the bulkhead. My head was turned so my face was clearly visible—if very grainy—and Ms. Arellone’s cheek was just in the frame.
“That didn’t take long.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t. Saves so much time when you don’t have to actually check facts or get photo releases or anything.”
“Concierge, huh?”
She nodded. “And dress your age, please. I’m not guarding some midlife crisis case with delusions of youth.”
“Ms. Arellone?”
She looked over at me. “Sar?”
“If you ever really believe that I’m a ‘midlife crisis case with delusions of youth’...?”
She had the grace to blush when she realized what she’d said. She swallowed before answering, “Yes, sar?”
“Kill me quickly.”
She laughed. “Deal, Skipper.”
I shook my head, and went back to my room to grab some boots. We had a stan or so before our luncheon with Kirsten. Perhaps it would suffice to get something decent to wear. In less than two ticks, Ms. Arellone and I had braced the Concierge about men’s wear, and he’d assured us that a shop with the unlikely name of “Chicks” would provide what we needed.
We took the lift down to deck seven and located the place without difficulty. A dummy in the display window wore a classic navy blazer and white slacks combo over a garishly patterned shirt with a henley collar. Ms. Arellone eyed it even more dubiously than I did, but we went in.
The shop wasn’t crowded but a number of patrons—men in their late twenties and early thirties mostly—kept the sales staff busy. I took the opportunity to do a survey stroll around the shop to get a feel for the kinds of clothing available, and even Ms. Arellone seemed satisfied. At least the looks she was giving some of the other patrons seemed quite predatory, which I took to be a good sign.
Eventually, a harried looking individual dressed in a polo and jeans that looked suspiciously like they’d come from the chandlery came to help us. He frowned me up and down, and cast a flirty smile at Ms. Arellone.
“Sir?” he asked.
“Call me Ishmael,” I told him with a grin.
“Okay...Ishmael. How can I help you?”
I sighed and focused. “I need some basics. A couple of jackets, some shirts, a couple pair of slacks, and a good pair of jeans.”
“Okie doke. Any preference on color and fabric?”
“Wool blends on the jackets, charcoal and navy. Chino or twill pants, flat front, khaki or off white. I need at least one white shirt and a couple of pastels.”
The two of them goggled at me. “One moment, sir…Ishmael. I’ll be right back.”
Ms. Arellone sidled up to me with the most confused expression on her face. “Sar? If you know how to dress, what are you doing wearing those?” Her eyes swept my outfit.
I shrugged. “I told you, Ms. Arellone. I used to dress up all the time, but since I’ve been an officer, I’ve just not had the time or the need.”
Our eager salesman returned with several items over his arms. In a matter of a few ticks, I’d selected the jackets and slacks, added a couple of shirts, and rejected every tie in the place. The shirts fit well enough off the rack, and the standard sized slacks only needed a quick run through a hemming machine in the back room. The jackets needed an extra couple of ticks but in less than half a stan I’d dropped over five hundred credits on clothing.
I chuckled as I thumbed the tab, and Ms. Arellone arched an eyebrow. “What’s so funny, sar?”
“I remember the first time I bought real clothes and thumbed the tab. Everybody was shocked that I’d spent that much money on one basic outfit with a couple of shirts.”
She frowned in disbelief. “What’d it cost? A hundred credits?”
“More like two kilocreds.”
“That must have been a long time ago,” she said.
“And miles away, Ms. Arellone.” I smiled at the memory. “But that was one outfit I never regretted buying.”
“Really?” she said dubiously.
“I still haven’t found a tailor like Roubaille.”
The clerk gasped. “Sir?”
I turned to him. “Yes?” I thought I’d forgotten something, like paying the bill.
“You knew Henri Roubaille?”
“Yes, but it was a long time ago.”
“Over in Dunsany Roads? Yes?” He seemed quite excited.
“Yes, that’s him. Funny little guy, but he knew how to dress people.” I sighed in admiration.
“You never...” Ms. Arellone said.
“What?” I looked at her in shock. “I most certainly did. Twice actually. The second time was only to get some fresh clothes for the academy if I remember correctly.”
“Is it true you needed an invitation, sir?” the clerk asked.
“Actually, no. He called it an introduction, I think.”
Ms. Arellone squinted her eyes at me, and then her face relaxed and she looked at me thoughtfully.
Turning back to the clerk I asked, “Shoes? Boots preferably. Where?”
The clerk shook his head. “Not here, sir.” He was regarding me with something akin to awe. It was beginning to make me nervous.
“Where would you suggest?”
“Lost Sole, about four doors to spinward.”
The sales clerk f
inished bundling the purchases. He started to hand them to me and I nodded at Ms. Arellone. She shot me a dirty look and refused the bags. “I’m a bodyguard—not a sherpa, sar.”
The clerk looked back and forth between us, seemingly at a loss as to what to do with the bundles. I took them off his hands, and we headed out the door.
The Lost Sole was on the way to the lift, and only two hundred credits later, we headed back to the room.
I glanced at the chrono and realized we had half a stan before we were supposed to meet Kirsten. I shooed Ms. Arellone away from the bags of clothing, and skinned into one of the outfits, slapped a pair of slip-ons on my feet, and hung the extra jacket in the closet. I found that my tablet dragged the jacket out of shape if I put it in the roomy side pocket, but discovered that it fit nicely inside the left breast.
Ms. Arellone met me at the door with an approving glance, and we sallied forth to find out what job Kirsten Kingsley had in mind.
Chapter Sixteen
Diurnia Orbital:
2372-December-21
We met Kirsten at the offices of Diurnia Salvage and Transport on the oh-five deck. She and her shadow waited in the lobby talking to the clerk behind the desk.
“Yes, I know, Jacques, but Ames is still a couple weeks out. Flash him the message traffic on the next cycle, but there’s really not much he can do until he gets here.”
“Yes, Ms. Kingsley.” Jacques did not look pleased, but he went back to his duty and Kirsten turned to me.
“Thanks for coming, Ishmael. Good to see you again, Ms. Arellone.” She shook hands all around.
Ms. Arellone seemed a little surprised by the contact, but nodded. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“This is Adrian. He’s my official shadow. Adrian, Captain Wang and Able Spacer Stacy Arellone.”
Adrian shot Kirsten the kind of glare that I recognized, but he smiled politely enough at me and shook my hand. He nodded briefly to Ms. Arellone who nodded back. I thought Kirsten suppressed a sigh but I couldn’t be sure.
Kirsten headed for the door, but Adrian beat her to it—going through first and blocking it briefly with his body before exiting and holding it open for her.
“Maybe we should order in,” Kirsten muttered with a frown but followed him out.
He led us around the promenade a few doors to a discrete doorway with just a simple sign which read “The Bakery.”
Owner's Share (Trader's Tales from the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper) Page 15
