by Sharon Lee
There was pair of bouncer-types checking ID at the door, which was a good thing by her way of thinking, ‘cause it meant the local lowlifes weren’t allowed in—just them with proper Port clearance or genuine pilot-class credentials.
Cantra showed her ship’s key, and was gratified to see the hand motion from the sharp-eyed man requesting just a bit more . . . and so she flashed the flat-pic with numbers and such on it. He didn’t bother to run-scan on it, though the machine was live—just gave her a half-salute and waved her into the dense noise and rowdy dance-and-brew scent.
Apparently, Jela was in the same boat as far as looking legit on visual, which was a shame, ‘cause all she saw was him slipping his card into a semi-public pocket, the woman on that side signing out with a respectful, “Thank you, Pilot!”—and still not a polite way to find out exactly what he was a pilot of. But some information you just didn’t ask if it didn’t come voluntary.
They pushed on, just like they were together. The crowd motion stopped them for a moment, ‘til she could point out to Jela the direction of the bar from her greater height, which information he acknowledged with equanimity.
Now they were further in, she could see a couple almost-nakeds on a raised platform on the opposite side of the room from the bar, dancing, they might’ve been. Looked interesting, whatever.
She let Jela break trail, which wasn’t any problem at all for those shoulders, and directly joined him at the bar proper, one foot on the rail, waiting for the notice of the bartender.
“There’s a man here I need to talk to,” Jela said to her, his voice pitched to carry under the general hubbub. “It’s probable he’ll have news, maybe make some sense of our friend’s concern, if you’d want to wait?”
She gave him a smile. “I’ll wait,” she murmured, for his ears only. “Why not?”
“Good. Back soon.” He was gone, moving quick and light through the crowd and she watched him go, considering the wide shoulders and the slim hips with a sort of absent-minded admiration. Not her usual sort, Pilot Jela, but a well-made man, regardless.
“What’ll it be, Pilot?” The bartender’s prosaic question brought her back to the now and here.
“Ale,” she said, knowing better than to ask for wine in a pilot’s bar this far in to the shipyards.
“Coming up,” the ‘tender promised, and up it came in a timely manner. She smiled for the quick service and slid a couple carolis across the bar.
“Keep the change,” she said. He gave her a grin and went away to tend to other customers.
Having ale didn’t mean having to drink it. Cantra kept the glass to hand, which was respectful of the house and the ‘tender, and turned her back against the bar, surveying the room for possibles.
Problem was, the room was a little too full, a little too loud. She wasn’t jumpy, not that, but say that the Batcher’s warning had sharpened her edge. In the general way of things, Batchers kept strictly to this-humble-person. There was good reason for that, Batchers on most worlds in the Arm being not only “biologic constructs” but property, bought and sold. What there wasn’t any good reason for was a Batcher to give clear warning to a couple o’strange pilots, or even to say more than the standard humble gratitude.
Unless, she thought, and it wasn’t a thought that made her feel any smoother, the Batcher’s owner had ordered her to say what she had. And if that was so—
If that was so, there were ‘way too many unknowns in the equation. Anyway, she thought, what’s it matter, warned trouble or unexpected? The usual rules applied.
She had to admit that, after the quiet time at The Alcoves, she was inclined to be a bit more aware of things; and if even so small a break from routine had energized her, that was a sign she needed to get a real break soon. Like maybe right now. She’d come off the ship looking for action, and it looked like action might be all about, if she put her mind to it, and took a lead from the dancers . . .
The couple on the platform was slow-dancing now, hip to hip and thigh to thigh. As she watched, they separated and went to opposite edges, calling for volunteers from the crowd to come up and join them.
This proposition was greeted with such enthusiasm that at first it seemed the bar’s entire pilot population would be up on the platform. The dancers, though, they were pros, and managed to keep their company down to two each—one to an arm. A couple of the chosen had drunk a bit too much ale, and the dancers had their work scheduled, keeping their dainty bare toes out from under boots.
Watching them, she felt some heat building in her belly and recalled herself to the proposed task list.
It’d be a shame to let the lodgings stand empty, she thought, and tried to bring herself into a concentration on the available options.
Jela hadn’t reappeared. It might, after all, be best if he didn’t reappear, shoulders or no. He’d been a not-entirely-comfortable, if welcome, meal-mate, but she wanted something a little less—controlled—for the bed-sport side of the evening. That little redhead, for instance. Cute, quick, and not drunk yet, dancing all by himself in a vacant square of floor.
She watched him, feeling her blood warm agreeably, and just about cussed when the music ended.
The redhead stopped dancing, and looked around like maybe he didn’t know what to do now.
Cantra pushed away from the bar and went over to introduce herself.
“He was here, sure,” Ragil said. Most of his attention was on the stim-stick he was rolling. Command frowned on soldiers using non-regulation stimulants. Not that Ragil had cared much for that particular reg when he was regular troop. Now that he was on the underside, he claimed the stim habit gave him “verisimilitude” in his role as bar owner. For all Jela knew, he was right.
“So he was here,” he said now, working on holding his temper. “Where is he now?”
Ragil finished the stick and brought it to his lips, drawing on it to start the thing burning. He looked up, broad face worried.
“How do I know? I gave him your last, that you’d be at the prime spot an extra day, same time, same code.” He drew on the stick, sighed out smoke. “You’re asking because he didn’t connect?”
“Why else?” Jela sighed. “Somebody else did connect, though. Scan the floor?”
“Sure.” He left the stick hanging out of the side of his mouth, tapped a code into the top of his desk. “Center screen,” he said.
Jela sat carefully back in his chair—no upscale lounger here—and watched the slow pan of the barroom. The stage was empty, the dancers down on the floor, circulating, collecting tips, no doubt, and offers of companionship, after hours. The room was crowded and he sharpened his focus, in case he missed her in the crowd.
“Busy,” he commented.
“Damn place is always busy,” Ragil returned. “And it’s not ‘cause the drinks are cheap. Owe you one, by the way. Your idea of getting a couple dancers in here paid off.”
“Getting anything useful?” Jela asked absently, eyes on the screen.
“Who knows what’s useful?” Ragil countered. “Rumor, hearsay, and speculation, most of it. What they do with it at the next level—how do I know? Heard one pilot the other day give as his opinion that there’s no enemy now, nor hasn’t been for longer than you or me’s been fighting. Command, see, needed a reason to increase the production of soldiers, so they sorta invented an enemy.”
“I’ve heard that one,” Jela said. “What they never explain is why Command wants soldiers, if there’s no enemy.”
“Take over the Arm?” Ragil asked.
“And hold it how?” He was beginning to think that Pilot Cantra had left the bar without—
“There!” he said. “Grab and grow the tall woman there next to the redhead.”
Ragil obligingly did this, and Pilot Cantra’s strong-boned face filled the center screen.
“Know her?” Jela asked.
The other took a deep drag on his stick while he considered the image. “No,” he said finally. “Don’t think
I want to, either. What’s your interest?”
“She came to the primary, asked for a meal-mate, if there was a pilot available.”
Ragil whistled, soft and tuneless. “So—what? She’s Muran’s replacement?”
“Didn’t say so,” Jela said, slowly. “Didn’t act anything but like a pilot half-crazy from running solo and looking to have a voice that wasn’t her own to listen to. Didn’t make any play to stay close; I invited her along. In case.” He paused, thinking, among other things, of the Batch-grown’s warning, which had shocked Pilot Cantra—but for what reason? “She’s a hard one to peg, and I won’t say she’s not fully capable.”
“So she might be a beacon?”
“Might,” he said, still not liking the idea—not that it made any difference what he liked, or ever had. “Might not.”
Ragil pitched the end of his stim-stick into the recycler, leaned forward and tapped a command into his console. The grow-frame vanished as the camera went real-time, keeping its eye on Pilot Cantra and her friend.
“What’re you going to do?” he asked.
Jela sighed. “Don’t know.”
THE RED-HAIRED PILOT’S name was Danby and he wasn’t disagreeable to letting her buy him an ale. She got the ‘tender’s attention and settled that, then they leaned on the bar, arm against arm, and did the preliminaries.
His ship was nice and legit—belonged to the Parcil Trade Clan, from which there was nothing more legit—and him fairly new-come to first chair. They were on-port for three local days, of which this was the evening of the second day. Trouble was, they ran watch-shifts on-board, instead of shutting down and letting all crew loose at once, and he was due to take his turn at watching inside the next couple hours.
“There’s a ‘jack down the road, here,” he said with a bit of hope in his voice, tipping his head toward the door.
Cantra considered it—he was that cute, funny, too, in a by-the-law sorta way—then shook her head.
“Got lodgings rented up-port,” she said, apologetic, since there wasn’t no use hurting his feelings. “Just in from a long run. Figured on a long, slow night to make it seem worthwhile.”
He looked wise and nodded. “Sometimes quick won’t do it,” he agreed, not noticeably cast down by her refusal. “Too bad we didn’t meet up earlier.”
Across the room, the dancers came back on stage, and the music started up again, almost overwhelmed by the hollering and whistles from the pilots on the floor. Danby put his hand on her arm and she looked over to him, slow and careful, wondering if she’d misjudged—
“Let’s dance,” he said.
She blinked, and—hesitated, not having been much in the way of dancing lately.
“It’ll work out some of the kinks, anyway,” he urged.
She remembered, back when she’d been younger than Danby looked to be, dancing whole leaves away. Back when, dancing had in fact worked out some of the kinks. She tried to remember when she’d stopped—and why—then figured it didn’t matter.
“Sure,” she said, with a smile for his wanting to help. “It’s been a long time, though—fair warning.”
Floor space being at premium, closer in toward the platform, they hung back along the edge of the crowd and claimed themselves a rectangle of floor by the simple process of facing off and starting in.
Dancing came back pretty easy, once her muscles got over the shock. Danby jigged and high-stepped and she copied him, letting her body get reacquainted with the notion.
“Doin’ pretty good for somebody who doesn’t remember how!” he yelled in her ear—yelling being the only way he could make himself heard in the general exuberance. “Try this!”
Hands on hips, he executed an intricate and rapid triple crossover, legs scissoring and boots hardly seeming to touch the floor. He finished with a jump and a spin, and threw her a grin that was pure dare-you.
She grinned back and put her hands on her hips, swaying with the music for a few bars, letting the movement pattern seep through the pilot brain and down into the shoulders, arms, hips—
Her legs moved, boots beating out the count, then she was up and spinning, the room circling ‘round her—the high-stepping dancers; pilots, stamping; pilots jigging in place; pilots leaning against the bar; the ‘tender pouring a glass; two not-pilots in armored ‘skins walking in from the street—
She saw what looked like some resistance from the doorman who’d ushered her through, but that was guessing, since she kept moving, had to, with the momentum and—
She touched floor, twisting back toward the door before her feet were properly set. Her height gave her an advantage—she could see the door, just, over the heads of the combined pilots. The armored pair were inside, now, hesitating—no. Scanning the room.
Bounty hunters, she thought, or charity agents. Amounted to the same thing: Trouble.
She reached out and grabbed Danby’s arm, hard. He blinked at her, pretty blue eyes going wary and sharp. Likely he was a bit pinched, though he kept it to himself if he was.
“Trouble in the door,” she growled into his ear, and felt him tense under her hand.
“What kind of trouble?” he asked, and she let him go, moving her shoulders in frustration.
“Can’t tell,” she muttered. “Might be bounty. Might be—” She stopped then because the two had decided to make it easy on themselves.
The first pulled her gun, aimed at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. It was an explosive charge and made a bit of noise. Enough to put all the rest of the noise in the room into remission. On the platform, the two dancers sank to their knees, arms around each other, faces hidden against shoulders.
Into the sudden silence, the second woman shouted, “We’re looking for two people. We know who they are, and we know they’re here. Everybody just stay peaceful while we do a walk-through and collect them, then you can go back to having fun.”
Bounty hunters, then. Cantra stifled a sigh. It didn’t advance commerce or do anything else useful, but she hated bounty hunters. Always had.
There was muttering, but nobody went for a weapon—wasn’t any sense to it, being what the second ‘hunter had said was true. Unimpeded, they’d sort through the crowd, round up their prey and be gone. All very efficient and no trouble for anybody, except the ones they’d been paid to collect.
The first ‘hunter started on the bar side of the room, the second on the dance platform side. The dancers visibly cringed when she walked past, but she never gave them a glance.
The first had finished with the bar sitters and was wading into the crowd of sullen pilots, her eyes moving rapidly, her face intent—a woman who had a pattern in mind and whose only thought was a match. She worked her way along, dismissing everybody she passed—then her eyes lit on Danby and got wider.
Cantra tensed, remembering her weapon, riding quiet and accessible, and reminding herself forcibly there was no profit to be had from putting herself between a ‘hunter and her bounty. She didn’t know Danby, she didn’t owe him. But—
The ‘hunter lunged, Cantra felt her fingers twitch toward her gun and killed the move—just as the ‘hunter’s hand came around her wrist, snapping the bracelet tight.
Too late, she jerked back, swinging with her free fist—stupid, she snarled at herself—impeded by the press of people. The hunter grabbed the fist as it skinned past her cheek, snapped a bracelet on it, too, twisted the two lead wires into a single, and clipped the tail end into her belt. Then she reached out and pulled Cantra’s gun from its quiet pocket.
She snarled, caught movement out of the corner of her eye, which was Danby coming in, and made herself go limp.
“What the hell’s this?” he yelled at the ‘hunter. “She’s as legit as I am!”
Not quite, though it did warm her to hear him say it. She moved her head; caught his eyes on hers.
“Easy, Pilot. Don’t want to be late to your watch.”
“Listen to her,” the ‘hunter advised. “No difference to me if I
get somebody on aid-and-abet, too.”
He stepped back, bright lad, and threw Cantra a look. She made her face into something representing calm, and nodded to him.
The crowd around had started to come back, and that could get dangerous on its own, if she wasn’t careful. Wouldn’t do to have him call in a friend or two and start a riot on her account.
“It was fun—the dancing,” she said, letting him see that she was calm about it, and then the ‘hunter jerked on the wire and she was moving, trying to keep her arms from being dislocated.
The second ‘hunter came up, empty-handed. They exchanged a glance and wordlessly turned toward the door, Cantra in tow like a wreck bound for salvage.
“Next time you pull a gun in here somebody’ll shoot you!” promised the woman who’d scanned Jela in. The man was off to the side, a small callphone to his ear, talking earnestly.
Outside, the ‘hunters kept walking—and by necessity, Cantra, too—down the street proper, then into a smaller one—a service alley, maybe. Something was definitely out of true, Cantra thought. Leaving aside the question of whether or not she deserved to be arrested, any bounty hunter worth her license would not be dawdling in alleyways when she had a prize on the leash and payment due.
On the other hand, an alleyway was going to suit her purposes admirably. The fact that they hadn’t searched her was interesting, but not particularly useful, with her hands bound like they were.
What was both interesting and useful was the fact that they’d used smartwire to bind and seal her. Made sense for them, o’course. Besides being industry standard, smartwire was—call it impossible—to break, which was close enough to true, given the usual conditions under which bounty arrests were made. The other thing about smartwire was that it was—call it virtually impossible—to escape. It only rated a “virtually” because a frequency existed which interfered with its process, briefly, allowing the alert captive to slip free. The window of freedom was small, smartwire being able to repair and reroute itself, but it was there.
