by Sharon Lee
They stuffed themselves into booths barely wider than their seats, with risers overhead or behind proclaiming names or specialities or preferences; some even had small bowls of trust-me smoke, or gave away candy, or free-look vids for the senses, just stop and say hello . . .
Hard to know what might be found, hard to figure which booth to call the start. Some of the brokers were pay-box pretty, some just plain sloppy. Some looked liked what they were: Rich and bored and bored by getting richer—
And then there were the ones who paid attention to passersby, so the room was near as noisy as a livestock market.
“Pilot, what can we . . .”
“If you have three cans empty I can . . .”
“Only sixteen cubes and you ought to triple your money . . .”
“Go ahead, pass by! Pass up cash, pass by . . .”
“Sector fifteen or sixteen, I’ll pay you, quick trans-ship . . .”
“Guaranteed to . . .”
She slowed, ran the sounds back through her head and turned. The skinny, bearded, bejeweled man smiled and repeated the magic words, “Guarantee, Trader? We can . . .”
She hand-signed him off, watching the hope fade on his face even as his hands jumped between keyboards, and he muttered into a mike tangled in his beard—
“That’s a sell to you, and theft it is. Forty percent . . .”
Cantra drifted back a couple paces, glanced up for an ID—which was an overhead banner with a blue light flashing first around a circle, then through, then back around.
Interesting design.
“I can pay you before lift,” the broker was saying to a couple of traders who had come up and paused, maybe also lured by the promise of a “guarantee.”
“Credits,” the broker crooned, “gems, fuel rights . . .”
He wore a head-ring with a short visor, and she guessed he was reading info from that even as he appeared fully interested in the traders before him.
Interesting design, that.
The elder of the two traders said something Cantra couldn’t pick out of the general ruckus. The day-broker whipped out a card and handed it over extravagantly. Ah, a fumble there—too many cards. The younger trader had his hand out, though, and neatly caught the extra as it fluttered away. He returned it; the other card disappeared into big hands. A nod, smiles all around, and the traders moved on, the broker carefully tucking the extra card away . . .
The day-broker looked at her now, even as he mumbled into his mike, “Live, seventeen, drop orders five-five and five-six, pay the penalty and get it off my dock.”
“Now, Trader,” he said pleasantly. “A profit before you start interest you? I have goods that need moving. I’ll pay you up-front to load, and you’ll get a delivery bonus from the consignee as well. I have . . .” He paused, squinting slightly as he apparently read the info off his visor—
“Double can loads transhipping to most Inward sectors, I have three one-can loads needing to transit the Arm, I have fifteen half-can loads going regionally including some transships, I have three half-can loads going Inward, one going to the Mid-Rim. I have one-quarter can transshipping to Borgen, I have . . .”
“Pay up-front can always sound good,” she admitted, while trying to place the man, his accent, or his type. It wasn’t that he looked familiar, but that he didn’t look familiar at all.
“Indeed, it can. Are you a rep for another, or do your own trades?”
“Indy,” she nodded, “with a partial can needs filling. You got a hardcopy list of what-and-where I can peer at so I . . .”
“The trades move so quickly—but, I hardly need tell you, do I?—there is no hardcopy list, but if you can merely give me an idea of your direction I’m sure we can . . .”
A flash of something odd went across the man’s face, his voice stumbled, and she felt rather than saw Jela at her side.
“Pardon, Broker,” he said, over loud even in this loud place, “I’m afraid the trader’s attention is needed elsewhere immediately.”
She turned, sudden, and felt the pressure of Jela’s knee on her leg. While not offensive of itself, the sheer audacity of it surprised her, as did the near fawning line of nonsense that came out of his mouth.
“Trader, I swear, this isn’t just jitters this time. There’s a problem, and you’re needed! Quickly, before—”
Her gut tightened, thinking it might be real and there was active danger to her ship—but there was Dulsey on-board and watching, and the talkie in her belt hadn’t beeped. And Jela looked serious, damn him. Which meant nothing at all.
“Broker,” she called, holding out hand, “your card? As soon as I—”
“Now, Trader!” Jela cried, and she caught the quick flutter of fingers at belt level, read touch not jettison flee just before he dared to take her arm . . .
“I return!” she called to the broker, over Jela’s continued babble. “Trader, I’m sorry. Broker, my pardons. Trader . . .” and followed his insistent tug.
JELA’S BACK WAS not what Cantra wanted to see right now, nor did she intend to watch him walk in those damned tight leathers he preferred for his dock-side rambles. Since she wasn’t going to run to catch him, the best thing she could do was try to cut him off when they turned the corner—
But that quick he spun about, fingers fluttering low like he thought someone might have a microphone or a camera pointed in their direction.
Next right quick time. Left and left. Safe corner door.
She snapped a two-finger assent and he took off again like there was an emergency at the end of the walk.
They made the door right quick at the pace he set, and then out into the wide common hall that acted like a street in this section of port, and she did have to stretch her legs a bit to keep up. How he made it look easy to move quite so fast without drawing attention to himself was—
He signaled that he was slowing, and she caught up to walk at his side.
“I was about to finish settling the cargo for that last quarter-can,” she said, letting it sound as irritated as she felt. “This better be a quick answer . . .”
“Is. That’s a really bad place to be getting involved with.”
“What, you think picking up an extra bit of cash is going to hurt us? You must have more credit than I know about.”
Jela looked her full in the face as he strode on, and the look was so full of genuine concern that it shocked her.
“What I can tell you is, best analysis, that man’s operation runs at a loss, and he’s been running it for the better part of a long-term lease. It’s a loss,” he added quietly, “that would keep you in wine and boys for the rest of your life.”
She thought about that through the next six steps, then brought her hand up, fingers forming repeat?
Jela sighed and slowed his pace again.
“About what I can say is he’s on a really quiet watch list. Looks like he must be selling IDs, shipping info out to—somewhere. Part of the reason there’s no hardcopy is that he’ll send something wherever it is you say you’re going. There’s a pattern—ships he deals with have some problems. Some pilots or traders end up in legal hassles a port or two down link. Some have cargo problems. Some . . . just don’t show up.”
“Legal hassles?” She frowned. “What could he do—”
“Forges contracts. Fakes tape. Fakes DNA seals—or breaks them . . .”
Cantra played the day-broker’s actions over in her head. He’d looked straight—nothing had smelled wrong to her, with her highly developed nose for trouble. And those two traders who—
“Damn.” She shot a glance at Jela. “Breaks DNA seals? How, do you know?”
He finger-waggled something that might have been captain’s knowledge, and gave a short and barely audible laugh before waving his hands meaninglessly, and chanting lightly, “Lore of the troop, Pilot. Lore of the troop.”
She harumphed at that, then had to do a quick half-step to get back onto his pace.
“So, why’re w
e in a hurry?”
“Can’t tell if he sent a runner after us or not, yet.”
“Runner? For what? And if he’s so bad, why’s he still in business?”
“Second son of the second spouse of the ruling house.”
He almost sang it—she wondered if this was another one of his seemingly endless store of song-bits.
“For real?” she asked.
“Close enough for our purposes. I expect the locals think he’s spying for them.”
“If he is, he’s good and I hope they pay him what he’s worth. Look, I didn’t sign nothing, but I saw him stash a card a trader handled . . .”
“Right. Doesn’t take much if you’re not careful. But, I think all we need to do is act like you solved the problem your idiot junior couldn’t, and then got busy. So, let’s get busy. Buy you a drink?”
Some days, she wondered what Jela’s head was stuffed with. Other days, she was pretty certain it was ore.
“What about that quarter-can that needs filling?” she asked him. “Besides, the last time we ate together in public, we had a bit of trouble.”
“Nope. We had a good meal, and nice wine. I still think about that.”
She shot him a glance, but he was busily scanning the storefronts they were passing, so she didn’t know how she should take that. Hard to figure him, anyway.
She glanced over at him again, and saw his face brighten like he’d spotted a treasure.
He looked at her, grinning. “Really—are you up for a big helping of brew and a quiet lift-off in the morning? If worse comes to worse, that pod ought to be able to suck in some air . . .”
That was a point she hadn’t considered, and it was true. The next step out was a station where they could probably sell excess air, and they could run up the pressure in the can pretty good without hurting a thing.
“You think like a trader, for all you got soldier writ all over you.”
He gave a short laugh.
“Call me a soldier if you like, but tell me if you want a brew before we walk by the place!”
“Sure,” she said, thinking that a beer would taste good, and if there was trouble at the ship, Dulsey would call.
“Wait . . .” she said, blinking at the bar they were on approach for.
“It’s here,” said Jela, and there was an under note of something excited in his voice, “or buy a ride back to the ship, I think. This is the last place on port they’ll send a runner, if they’ve got any sense at all.”
If the day-broker sent a runner at all, which wasn’t proven, or in Cantra’s opinion, likely.
She stopped on the walk, looking carefully at the doubtful exterior of the place Jela proposed for a quiet brew and a wait-out. It was decorated in antique weapons in improbable colors, the names of famous battles scrawled in half-a-dozen different scripts and languages across what looked to be blast-glass windows.
One Day’s Battle was written a little larger than the rest, in red lumenpaint . . .
“You want me to go into a soldier’s bar? One Day’s Battle sounds kinda rough for a friendly drink . . .”
He grinned. “Too rough for you, Pilot?” he asked, and then, before she could decide if she wanted to get peeved or laugh, he continued.
“It’s the title of a drinking song long honored by several corps. I’m sure you can hold your own, Pilot—don’t you think?”
Well, yeah, she did think, and she’d done it a few times in her wilder youth, but those days were some years back.
“Safest place on port, ship aside,” Jela said, earnestly.
Damn, but the man could be insistent.
She looked down at him, which meant he was that close to her, which he usually kept his distance, and closed her eyes in something like exasperation and something like concentration.
It wasn’t always easy being candid with herself, training or no training, but the boy was starting to get tempting.
Well, she’d not let him hear her sigh about it, but the truth was, she didn’t want him quite that close. Oughtn’t to have him as close as he was, acting like co-pilot and trade partner. She of all people ought to know about acting. Might be a little distance could be got inside, where there’d be noise and distractions for them both.
So she pointed toward the door with a flourish and laid down the rules.
“We split. Any round you buy, I buy the next. Don’t buy a round if you think you can’t walk back to the ship from the next.”
His grin only got wider. Which, Cantra thought resignedly, she might’ve known.
“Wohoa!” he cried, shoving an exuberant fist upward. “Yes—a challenge from my pilot! I’m for it!”
“Sure you are. You break trail.”
He stepped forward with a will—and then stepped back as a pair of tall drunks wandered out, each leaning on the other, which complimentary form of locomotion was suddenly imperilled when the taller of the two tried to stand up straight and bow to Cantra.
“Pretty lady,” he slurred with drunken dignity, “take me home!”
Cantra shot a glance to Jela, but he only laughed, and led the way in.
* * *
DESPITE HER INITIAL misgivings, One Day’s Battle was—on the surface—a fine looking establishment, with a good number of people at tables, not as much noise as one might suppose, and lots of space to relax in. That the overwhelming number of patrons were military was a little unsettling, but nobody seemed to mind the entrance of an obvious civilian.
The place was laid out in three levels. They came in on the top level, and at the far end was a long bar manned by two assistants and a boss. A quick glance showed one of the reasons for the noise level being quite so low—there were a dozen or so noise-cancel speakers set about between levels.
To get to the next level they went down a ramp on the left, with a glass wall about thigh high on Cantra and a good bit higher on Jela; at the end of that ramp was a fan-shaped area with a bar at the wide end, and more empty tables than full. Two additional ramps led still lower, where a crowd was gathered around a big octagonal table.
That big table seemed to be where the action was—from a quick glance between the players, Cantra thought it looked like some kind of gambling sim . . .
Jela, however, was headed for the other side of the room, where he claimed an empty table overlooking the lower levels—including a view of the octagonal table and its denizens.
Cantra followed him more slowly, noting that the seats were more luxurious than those in the bar upstairs, and that the tables were topped with some rich-looking shiny substance. The slight sounds of her footsteps was silenced by springy, noise-absorbing carpet. The lighting, too, was more subdued on this level.
“Officers’ section?” she guessed. “We up to that?”
“Officers’ mess, of sorts,” Jela agreed, “but off-duty, and thus not official. It’ll be just a bit quieter, though, and easier for us to note someone who doesn’t necessarily belong.”
He handed her into a seat, which surprised—then she realized it was proper. Co-pilot sees to the pilot’s comfort first, after all. Too, by slipping her into the seat he chose for her, Jela got the chair with the best view of the entrance ramp, which was a habit she’d noted in him before—and couldn’t much fault. A lot of his habits were like that—couldn’t be faulted if you were a pilot who sometimes walked the wrong side of a line.
Cantra leaned into the seat, realized it was a bit oversized for her. Jela’s legs threatened to dangle, except that he sat forward, leaning his elbows on the table. Cantra could see him reflected in the dark surface; he was staring into it, perhaps looking at her reflection in turn.
Then the table top shimmered, and Jela’s reflection disappeared within the image of a battle sim.
He looked up, grinning wryly.
“Sorry; looks like it’s autostart. This’ll be the battle of the day, is my guess.”
Cantra glanced into the table, recognizing some of the icons, but not all. Frowning, she bent c
loser—and then looked up as a tall group of soldiers walked by, talking between themselves as they headed for the bar. Their voices was easily audible, despite all the sound-proofing, and she frowned even more. It wasn’t what they were saying that bothered her as much as the fact that she couldn’t pick words out of the sentence flow—and that the sentence flow itself was—off-rhythm for any of the many languages, dialects, and cants she spoke . . .
Losing your edge, she told herself and tapped the top of the table, drawing Jela’s attention.
“Why is this here?” she asked.
“Ah. Anyone who wants to—and who has credit enough—can play against the sim. Most prefer, as you see, to use the large table downstairs, but some of us like our comfort, and some prefer only to watch.
“This particular sim is of a battle fought some time back, so there’s always a chance that someone in the crowd may have studied—and come up with something better. Of course someone else who has studied may be sitting at another panel . . . and thus learning may take place—and wagers.”
“Great.” She sat back. “Not sure I’m up to trying to outfight history . . .”
“Sometimes,” he said, his voice sounding oddly distant as some change on the screen caught his attention, “there are battles which ought be re-fought a time or two—mistakes unmade. And some mistakes not made.”
He pointed at the screen, touched some table side control and turned it toward her.
“You see in action exactly such a case. In this battle, a new weapon was all the rage on the side of the blues; and in the actual battle brought the other side to a nearly untenable position very early on. But you see, someone down there—” he pointed to the deepest pit— “who happens to know one of the now-proven weaknesses of this weapon, has attempted an early turning of the lines here and—” he swept his hand to the other edge of the board— “over here.”
He sighed. “This is an easily refutable attempt to win the battle by guile rather than by true force of arms. The sim, if no one else will jump in, will take quite awhile to react, since it is required to work from the actual situation and toward the original goal . . .”
