Drifter

by William C. Dietz

  Lando gave it a squeeze and the holo cube came to life. It showed a large industrial-type scale with something sitting on it. A rock or a boulder.

  Lando squeezed again. The previous shot dissolved to a close-up. The color was unmistakable. Gold… and a lot of it. He looked at Wendy. "Is that thing real?"

  Wendy nodded. "All sixty-nine pounds of it. Elder Perez found it while clearing his fields."

  Lando opened his mouth to ask a question but Wendy held up her hand. "No, we looked, and didn't find any more. But Lord help us if Mega-Metals finds out. They'll peel Angel like an orange."

  Lando did some mental arithmetic. At 650 Imperials per ounce, or 10,400 Imperials to the pound, the gigantic nugget would net around 717,600 Imperials. Assume some impurities, plus the costs involved in refining the stuff, and add normal overhead.

  He'd still clear a cool half million, and maybe more. Enough to buy a better ship with change left over. Assuming the nugget was real.

  Lando handed the cube to Wendy. "I'm tempted, but how do I know the nugget's real?"

  It was Troon who answered. "It's real, but I don't blame you for being cautious. I think this will put your fears at rest."

  So saying, the shipping agent handed Lando a notarized permadoc. It was a surety bond in the amount of 700,000 Imperials. If Lando delivered an unspecified cargo and The Chosen were unable to pay, Troon would make it good.

  Lando looked at the cyborg's face and wondered what went on behind the smiling plastic. Why was Troon willing to risk 700,000 Imperials of his own money on The Chosen? He wasn't a member himself. The blaster proved that. So why?

  Judging from the expression on Wendy's face, she was wondering the same thing. Sensing their unasked questions, Troon shrugged. "It's good for business. I'll get a percentage of everything that goes off-planet if the colony succeeds."

  Troon was smooth, and quick enough to be credible, but Lando didn't believe it. The colony wasn't even self-sufficient. A percentage of nothing is nothing. But, so what? The cyborg's motives were none of his business. Lando stood and held out his hand. "Doctor, you've got a deal. Weller's World to Angel orbit. When do we lift?"

  Wendy shook the smuggler's hand, careful to withdraw this time. "Say 0900 tomorrow?"

  Lando nodded and held out his hand to Troon. The cyborg's hand was cool but firm. "Thanks, Jonathan. I enjoyed meeting you."

  "Likewise," the cyborg replied warmly. "The concentrate has been paid for. Wendy has the necessary documents. Please give your father my best."

  Lando smiled. "I certainly will. Jonathan, good night, and Wendy, I'll see you in the morning."

  Wendy watched the smuggler wind his way towards the main entrance, then turned her attention to Troon. The cyborg was retrieving a credit card from a slot in the tabletop. "Well, he seems trustworthy."

  The cyborg nodded. "Yes, unusually so. A man of honor in his own way. Come… I'll take you home."

  Wendy shook her head. "No, Jonathan, you've been far too kind already. I'll catch an autocab."

  "As you wish," Troon replied. "But I'll see you to the cab."

  A single eye followed the two of them out of the bar. The other one had been destroyed on a planet half an empire away, and replaced with an electro-implant. The woman looked better now. Healthier, stronger, and very well-dressed. So well-dressed that Wendy would not have recognized her.

  The woman said something to one of her male companions, and the three of them headed towards the rear of the bar.

  It took three minutes for Troon and Wendy to make their way outside the bar and hail an autocab. It whirred to the curb and Wendy got in. She waved through the open window. "Take care, Jonathan. And thanks."

  Troon waved in reply and watched until the autocab had passed from sight. He liked Wendy and hoped that she would have a safe trip.

  Turning, the cyborg walked around the side of the bar and towards the parking lot. He felt the cool night air flow over his plastic skin. Row after row of vehicles gleamed under the widely spaced lights. Troon made his way down the second row and approached his ground car. He'd just pulled the electro-key from his pocket, when something hard poked him in the side.

  "Hold it, borg… put your hands on top of your head." The voice was male and sounded mean. Troon did as he was told. A hand reached to grab his blaster.

  "What the hell?" It was another male voice this time, deeper, and sort of hoarse. "Look at this… the blaster's a fake… a goddamned toy!"

  Troon felt an emptiness where his stomach should be. For more than twenty years the bluff had worked. The cyborg prepared himself.

  A woman stepped into the space between Troon and his car. She was nicely dressed and had one good eye. The other was an implant and glittered with reflected light. "How cute! A toy blaster. You know what I think, borg? I think you're one of them. I think you're an arrogant, self-important, religious zealot."

  Troon remained silent.

  Hard shadows played across the woman's face. "I want the Wendeen woman. Where is she?"

  Troon said nothing.

  The woman nodded. "Have it your way. Okay, boys, make him hurt."

  The blows came hard and fast, some connecting with plastic, some with flesh. Things snapped and broke. Troon grunted and fell.

  The woman bent over and grabbed his plastic nose. She used it to turn his head. One of Troon's eyes was broken and the other had begun to fade. "The Wendeen bitch, and the spacer you had dinner with, tell me where they're headed. Tell me and live."

  The cyborg started to pray. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…"

  The woman spat disgustedly and turned to a man in beat-up space armor. "The cyborg wants to die. Grant his wish."

  4

  The sun was well over the distant mountains and still climbing when Lando left the ship's lock. His boots clanged on the metal steps. The spaceport was relatively quiet, with only an occasional ship landing or taking off, and the cool morning air felt good against his skin.

  Though not a trained engineer, Lando was more knowledgeable about his ship's systems than most pilots were, and liked to perform his own preflight maintenance checks. It was one of the many lessons his father had drummed into him from an early age.

  "Son, there are three things you should never do. Never allow someone else to tend your money, your woman, or your ship."

  Lando smiled at the memory, and started his maintenance check. He began at the bow and worked his way towards the stern. He examined the landing jacks, sensor housings, weapons blisters, access panels, repulsor jets, and hull plates, looking for signs of damage or excessive wear.

  And, outside of the intentional lube leak, and the tricked-up landing jack, everything was fine. As well it should be, given the number of credits Lando had poured into The Tink over the last year.

  Which raised an interesting question. Once Lando had delivered the fertilizer, and sold the gold, should he keep The Tink? Or put everything into a new speedster? The more successful smugglers owned a variety of ships, using each according to need, or hiring people to make runs for them.

  His father opposed this practice, pointing out that "the bigger you get the more you feel the heat," but Lando wasn't so sure. Why settle for second- or third-best, when you could be top dog?

  Lando's thoughts were interrupted as a robo-jitney squealed to a stop near the bow of the ship, discharged a single passenger, and rolled away. It was Dr. Wendy Wendeen.

  She looked even better than she had the night before. Although her clothes were extremely practical, Lando couldn't help but notice how well she filled the khaki-colored T-shirt and matching utility pants. He smiled. Dad was right. Work can be fun.

  Lando wiped his hands on an oily rag as he walked over to greet her. "Good morning. Here, let me take that case."

  Wendy smiled bleakly as she looked up at the ship. She pointed at the port wing where it slumped towards the ground. "How long will the repairs take?"
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  Lando looked at where she was pointing. "Repairs? Oh, that. Don't worry about it. A little hydraulic problem, that's all. We'll lift on schedule."

  Wendy looked doubtful but forced a smile. "If you say so."

  "I certainly do," Lando replied confidently, as he took Wendy's med kit and led her towards the lock. "The Tink's a good old bird. You'll love her."

  Lando continued his cheerful babble until they were inside the ship. Wendy stopped to look around. She was appalled by the filth and apparent lack of maintenance.

  "No offense, Citizen Lando, but your ship has seen better days."

  Warned by the use of his last name, Lando looked around. Suddenly he saw the worn fittings, the stained bulkheads, and the trash underfoot. There was no doubt about it. The ship looked like a deathtrap. He rushed to explain.

  "Don't be fooled by appearances, Doc. The Tink's in tiptop shape. When you go through customs it pays to understate the condition of your ship."

  Wendy nodded slowly. Lando had confirmed her worst fears. The attraction she'd felt the night before had been physical in nature. The man was little more than a common criminal, and a boorish one at that. Wendy's voice was as cold as the void itself.

  "Well, you certainly succeeded. This is the most understated ship I've ever seen. And the name is Wendy, not Doc."

  More than a little chagrined, Lando showed Wendy to her tiny cabin, and spent the next half hour picking up the worst of the trash and wiping things down. The ship was filthy. Lord help him if the argrav failed during a run. The cabin would be full of floating trash. He made a note to clean up more often.

  At precisely 0930 The Tinker's Damn lifted for space. The ship was little more than a vapor trail by the time the black limo screeched to a stop on the still-warm pad.

  The woman with one eye stepped out into a pool of Number 3 lubricant. It stained her 500-credit boots. She swore and took a step forwards. "Damn." Just fifteen minutes earlier and she'd have had them. Unfortunately it had taken the rest of the night and part of the morning to find Troon's office, break in, locate his safe, blow it open, and scroll through the 167 data cubes stored inside.

  In the meantime, one of her assistants had been hard at work identifying the spacer and his ship.

  Finally, after hours of staring at boring junk, she'd hit pay dirt. It was just as her boss suspected. The Chosen were trying to import fertilizer. Fertilizer that would help them become self-sufficient, stay on Angel, and screw up the company's plans.

  The woman forced herself to remain calm. They were gone. No big deal. Weller's World was only days away, and the Wendeen bitch was traveling on a piece of clapped-out space junk. The woman would charter a speedster and get there first.

  She got in the limo and slammed the door. Her boots smeared oil on the expensive gray carpet. "The terminal and step on it," she ordered.

  Tires screeched as the driver stepped on the gas. The woman was pushed deep into the soft leather seat. She ground her teeth in frustration. All this trouble over a shitload of chemicals. It didn't seem right.

  Lando touched a key and watched data flood the screen. Destination, speed, ETA, a routine systems check, and so on. The NAVCOMP equivalent of "Hey, I've got things under control, go find something to do."

  Good advice, but do what?

  Lando took a sip of coffee. He'd done a lot cleaning during the last three days, performed maintenance checks on every system he could access, and started a dozen conversations with Wendy. Conversations that always seemed to end shortly after they began.

  Oh, she was friendly in a distant sort of way, and willing to share in the chores, but seemed to prefer an unending series of medical texts to his company. So much for the Lando charm.

  Lando decided to give it one last try. He left the cockpit, stopped off at his cabin, and grabbed a small box. He had it under his arm when he entered the lounge.

  The main aisle split the lounge in half like line through the center of a circle. Wendy sat to port, so Lando chose that side as well.

  Wendy looked up from her cube reader, nodded politely, and went back to her reading.

  Lando sat down and unwrapped the package. His slug gun and a cleaning kit were inside. The smuggler thumbed the magazine release, worked the action to make sure the weapon was empty, and began to take it apart.

  "Must you do that here?"

  Lando looked up. "Do what?"

  Wendy nodded towards the table. "Play around with that awful gun."

  There was the rasp of metal on metal as Lando released the trigger mechanism and pulled it free of the pistol's stainless steel frame. Her comment annoyed him.

  "I'm not playing. I'm cleaning a weapon. What's so awful about that?"

  Wendy frowned. "That's rather obvious, isn't it? Guns are used to kill people."

  Lando put a small drop of lubricant into the hole provided for that purpose.

  "Well, that's one way to put it, although guns are also used to protect people."

  "Only because guns are used to kill people," Wendy insisted stubbornly. "And I don't like them."

  Lando held the barrel up to the light. The bore was clean and the rifling was intact. "Well, I don't like them either. But what's the alternative? It's a violent universe. You have to protect yourself."

  "Not if it means taking a sentient life," Wendy replied. "Thou shalt not kill."

  "An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth," Lando answered, sliding the weapon's barrel into the receiver mechanism with a positive click. "Your pacifism is misguided."

  Wendy stood. "And you are hopeless."

  She left the lounge, stepped into her cabin, and closed the curtain with an angry jerk.

  Lando looked at the magazine, checked to make sure it was full up, and slid it home. The smuggler shook his head ruefully. "Smooth, Pik. Real smooth."

  The Tinker's Damn left hyperspace two days later and entered orbit a day after that. Weller's World was a blue marble surrounded by wispy white cotton. Blessed with broad temperate zones above and below its equator, it was an agricultural planet. Genetically modified Terran crops and animals had been crossed with native flora and fauna to produce a variety of hybrids. Some of the hybrids were quite valuable. Especially those that were used to make pharmaceuticals.

  But Weller's World had other assets as well, including some apatite deposits from which phosphate fertilizers were made. All they had to do was land, pick up the shipment, and lift. Or so Lando hoped.

  The trip down to the planet's surface was extremely smooth, which should have left Lando in a good mood, but didn't. The situation had gone from bad to worse after the discussion about guns. They barely spoke to each other now, and when they did, it was born of strict necessity.

  They left the ship together, having secured the lock behind them. Wendy made it a point to ignore Lando's slug gun, and he made sure the mini-launcher was hidden inside his sleeve. There was no point in giving her something more to complain about.

  Neither one of them noticed the weasel-faced boy at the spaceport, who slipped into a com booth, consulted a crumpled piece of paper, and keyed a number.

  A comset chimed in a hotel room on the other side of town. The woman with one eye was busy doing sit-ups. She swore at the interruption, bounced to her feet with the energy of a woman half her age, and grabbed the handset next to her bed.

  "Yeah?"

  "They just arrived. You want me to follow?"

  The woman wiped sweat from her forehead with a corner of the bedspread and looked at the resulting stain. "No, that won't be necessary."

  The woman with one eye dropped the handset into its cradle. She knew where they were going, if not this minute, then very, very soon. The Wendeen bitch had arrived a full rotation earlier than expected. Pretty fast for a ship that seemed to be on its last legs. Interesting.

  She lifted the handset and keyed a number. A male voice answered. "Dulo."

  "They just arrived," the woman said. "Is everything ready?"

  "Yes,
ma'am. Ready and waiting."

  "Good. I'll be there in fifteen or twenty minutes."

  "Fifteen or twenty minutes. Yes, ma'am."

  "And, Dulo…"

  "Yes ma'am?"

  "Don't screw this up." The phone made a hollow plastic sound as it hit the cradle.

  Wendy got out of the autocab and looked around. Although the establishment looked like a muddy lot filled fender-to-fender with used vehicles, the electronic billboard claimed it was RUDY'S MOTOR MECCA, "where you can rent, buy, or practically steal the vehicle of your dreams. Come on in."

  Wendy's boots made small sucking sounds as she followed Lando onto the lot. "Are you sure this is necessary? Couldn't we hire a freight company to move the fertilizer for us?"

  Lando paused to kick the rubberized skirt of a used but still serviceable hover truck. "We could, but I'd rather not. It's like my father says: 'He who controls the most variables wins.'"

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means," Lando replied patiently, "that transportation is a variable, and since we have the power to control it, we should do so."

  Wendy wondered if the transportation issue wasn't much ado about nothing, but decided to let it go. There was enough tension between the two of them already.

  After protracted negotiations with no less a personage than Rudy himself, Lando handed over a deposit of 200 Imperials,

  and received the ignition code for a decrepit ten-wheeled truck in return. The vehicle came equipped with a light-duty crane, a flatbed in back, and a world-class collection of dents. It would have little difficulty coping with a ten-ton cargo module.

  Lando climbed up and into the driver's side of the cab. Wendy entered from the opposite side. The seats sagged, the paint was worn, and the interior smelled of stale cigar smoke. Wendy tried to open a window. A motor hummed and nothing happened.

  Lando entered the ignition code, hit the START button, and listened to the turbine spin up. A little tired but okay. He smiled, touched another button, and felt the truck lift itself up on a cushion of air. So far, so good.