The Navy men walked into a shop, closing the heavy door behind them. The interior was dim and cool and, as their eyes adjusted from the sunlit glare of the marketplace, they could see that the shop was much larger than it looked from the outside, extending far back from the street and widening into what had probably once been the back spaces of the adjoining establishments. The merchandise appeared to consist of glassware. Exquisite glassware. Hand-blown, brilliantly tinted, intricately shaped glassware that even the rudest eye could see exemplified the highest order of artistry and could be purchased only by those whose resources allowed them to gratify the most discerning tastes.
The doctor’s attention was held by one piece in particular: a vase, standing by itself on a simple Doric pedestal of the purest alabaster. Nearly a meter tall and ten or twelve centimeters wide, its living lines flowed with no trace of symmetry, yet with the seductive, sinuous shapeliness of cascading waters or a desirable woman. It called to the doctor’s mind a succubus, an enticing female demon that insinuated itself into a man’s dreams to tempt him to dark acts of sinful, sensuous abandon. He stared at it, thinking it the most beautiful creation ever made by the mind and hands of mortal beings. Just as Sahin thought he could not be more captivated, Rashid IV’s slow rotation moved a sunbeam from a skylight high above into contact with the edge of one of the object’s impossibly graceful curves. In an instant, the vase burst into heart-stopping glory as it bent the light to its will, making every perfect sweep radiant with swirling, glowing currents of luminescence painted from a palette such as God Himself would wield—cool ceruleans evoking the crisp sparkling afternoon skies of autumn, the infinite blues of the fathomless ocean depths, the shimmering turquoise of a shallow coral sea on Midsummer’s Day, purples to make the richest emperor’s robes look like rude rags, and violets to cast clear midwinter’s star-birthing twilight as a poor, pale imitation.
Sahin had to remind himself to breathe. Some inner sense told him that the work of art in front of him was not merely expensive. It was priceless.
“I have never seen its like.” A cultured voice, carrying just a trace of what would, centuries ago, have been called an Oxford accent, gently but irresistibly returned Dr. Sahin to the world of mundane light and ordinary colors.
“It is the work of a Pfelung Vitreusist named Farnim-Shee 121. He worked on it full-time, night and day, for nearly a year, to the near exclusion of sleep, nourishment, social contact. His wife was so desperate to regain his attention that she laid a clutch of eggs, which he refused to fertilize. He nearly died twice from lack of, shall we say, ‘congress’ with his mate. I could stand here contemplating it for hours on end. We have other works of his around the shop, of course, even some with the same color set, but nothing quite like this one. It is called Birth of the Waters and is considered the greatest work of its kind ever created in Known Space. It is, without exception, the most beautiful art object I have ever seen. And it can be yours. Good day to you. My name is Wortham-Biggs—Ellington Wortham-Biggs, at your service.”
The man was dressed like a stereotype of a British art dealer whose clients came from the upper nobility: perfectly tailored dark wool suit, vest complete with pocket watch, and silk tie with matching handkerchief in the pocket of his suit coat. He even smelled of pipe tobacco. His skin and hair, though, were anything but British.
He seemed to be descended from blended Middle Eastern and East Indian stock, with skin nearly dark enough to be African, black hair, nearly black eyes, and finely chiseled features dominated by an almost hawk-like nose. He appeared to be just on the far side of middle age, but had not begun to gray or wrinkle or add weight to his lean, athletic frame. He came to a sort of loose attention, brought his heels together not quite briskly enough to click, and bowed slightly, a salutation used widely on Avalon, Woolcombe, Victoria Regina, and other British-influenced worlds.
Sahin returned the bow in the same manner. “Ibrahim Sahin at yours, good sir. May I introduce my associate, Muhara Fahad?” The able spacer perfectly, and with no prior practice, copied the bow he had just seen performed.
“Ah, yes, Dr. Sahin, I have been told to expect you by certain mutual acquaintances.” He reached into his vest pocket, apparently activating some discrete device. Within five seconds, another man dressed similarly to Wortham-Biggs appeared through a door, which, if not hidden, was certainly not obvious.
“Giles, I will be taking tea with these gentlemen. If you would…”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Please come with me, if you would.” He led them through the shop, through a carved wooden door marked “Private” in three languages, and into a room that resembled nothing more than a gentleman’s study from a nineteenth-century English manor house, complete with leather-bound books, a large desk of dark and deeply oiled wood, paintings in muted colors of various scenes drawn from English country life, and an enormous apricot-colored mastiff sleeping (and snoring loudly) in front of the currently fireless fireplace. The dog raised his head from the floor, regarded the two newcomers placidly, quickly and accurately assessed that they posed no threat to his master, and promptly went back to his noisy sleep.
“I invited you for tea, to which you are certainly welcome, but I prefer coffee. What would you gentlemen prefer?”
It was coffee, of course, which was promptly and expertly served by a young lady, wearing a simple white silk blouse and a dark, knee-length skirt. She had dark skin and features that echoed those of their host, but with less severity. Her long, glossy black hair hung loose, just below her shoulder blades. A belt made of engraved gold and silver links glittered in the room’s subdued light, accentuating her narrow waist and the womanly curves that flowed from it in both directions. Exquisite knees led to perfectly sculpted dancer’s calves that narrowed sublimely to shapely ankles.
The woman smiled as she poured the coffee, parting her full lips to reveal teeth as white as piano keys. She was the most beautiful creature the doctor had ever seen. She looked up at him and he spent a breathless eternity, lasting for less than two seconds, gazing into the warm, liquid depths of her dark eyes before she blushed, blinked, and turned away.
When she finished pouring the coffee, she stood attentively facing the host, as if awaiting further orders. Wortham-Biggs said gently, “Thank you, Elisa. That will be all.”
The doctor and Fahad exerted a laudable effort to keep from staring at Elisa as she floated out of the room with the unconscious grace of a virtuoso ballerina.
“My daughter, Elisa. If I may say so, a brilliant girl, splendid eye for art. She assists me.”
All three men sipped their coffee appreciatively. It was a fine, rich, dark brew, full of complex aroma and robust flavor, but without any trace of bitterness. “Your coffee is excellent. I have never tasted better,” said Sahin.
“Thank you. Coffee is one of the commodities in which I trade. What you are drinking is a blend that I compound myself for my own use and that of certain privileged others—personally selected beans, purchased without regard for expense from the finest coffee estates in four different worlds, carefully roasted at minutely controlled temperatures, freshly ground precisely to the correct grind for the roast, and brewed to perfection. It is—no doubt—far superior to that to which you are accustomed in the Union Space Navy.”
When the doctor started to speak, he waved his hand dismissively. “No need to deny it, Doctor, my business, being somewhat more sensitive than that of the gentlemen with whom you have been drinking tea the last few days, requires that I be extremely well informed at all times. And I must admit, my connections are rather better. So, I would very much prefer that our relationship not be soiled with falsehoods, even the pro forma denials required by your patriotism and your duty as an officer.” He smiled briefly, as if to signal that he took no offense.
“I know that you, Doctor, are Lieutenant Ibrahim Sahin, Union Space Navy, Chief Medical Officer of the USS Cumberland, and I believe or surmise that your vessel is at this
moment deeply stealthed and quietly nestled up against one of the more run-of-the-mill icy bodies in this system’s Kuiper belt, all the better to conceal its mass signature and waste heat. I further know that you have been making some not entirely indiscrete inquiries into some business dealings that the parties involved would prefer not to be widely known. You need neither confirm nor deny the accuracy of these statements as, aside from my speculation about the location of your ship, I am quite certain of their correctness. Again, my sources are excellent.”
Something told the doctor that, in order to obtain the information he sought, he would have to be forthcoming himself, at least to some degree. “I will simply say that you are better informed that I expected.”
“I thank you. Now, to the more interesting and ultimately, I believe, more important subject: What I do not know. At least, what I do not know for certain. First, I should like to turn to what I believe or have surmised but cannot confirm. The pattern of your inquiries is strongly suggestive that you wish to learn more about the activities of certain parties who are the ultimate purchasers in a series of transactions to which I have been a party. The pattern also indicates, not quite so strongly, that, unlike me, you do know the identity of these purchasers, Doctor.”
“For the purposes of our discussion, you may assume that your analysis is correct.”
“Very good. That moves things along quite nicely. Now, shall we turn to that which I do not know and which I am not prepared even to guess?”
The doctor nodded.
“So we shall. I do not know why you would seek this information or what precise use you would make of it, except that it is a matter of military intelligence. I further do not know the identities of my ultimate purchasers. I do strongly suspect, however, that if I were to know the answer to the second question, the answer to the first would be quite apparent. As you might expect, I am quite eager to learn the answers to both questions and would be willing to offer consideration of quite substantial value to obtain them.”
Aha. The man is ready to deal. “If you can provide me with detailed information about the movement of the cargo you are selling, or provide me with access to the cargo so that I can place tracking devices in it, I would consider your actions more than adequate payment for my telling you what I know about your purchasers. I assure you, my knowledge is very precise, and you will find it quite valuable.”
“I believe that a trade of the kind you propose would be equitable. I do, however, have one concern. We are both men of honor, and you will understand that honor is an important component of my business dealings. I must be satisfied, as I already suspect to be true, that you are not making these inquiries as part of some scheme to obtain greater profits or some business advantage over a competitor. The information I have, limited as it is, is considered commercial intelligence, and I could not in good conscience divulge it if it were to be put to commercial use. Given your naval connection, as I said, I am surmising that you are seeking this information as military intelligence, to gain some sort of strategic advantage for your people in their war against the Krag, in which—by the way—they have my entire sympathy and support.”
“That is correct.”
“Would you be willing to swear an oath to me to that effect?”
“Gladly.”
Wortham-Biggs stood and removed a long, beautifully curved sword from a pair mounted above the mantelpiece. The doctor could see that it was not merely decorative: its handle was darkened with the oils it had absorbed in many hours of use, and his experienced eye caught the gleam of a keen edge. He stood and drew his own blade from beneath his robes.
The two men stood facing each other, about a meter and a half apart, and brought their swords together, flat to flat, touching about a third of the way from the tips.
“I, Ibrahim Sahin, swear before Allah the Merciful and the Just, Creator of all things, whose name stirred the blood of my fathers and who is the holy source of my honor as a man, that I seek the information for which I came today for no purpose of wealth or lucre and that I will use this information neither for personal gain nor to obtain advantage over any business competitor. Should this oath be broken, may He cause these blades to swiftly avenge my perfidy.… Is the oath satisfactory?”
“Perfectly.”
“Admirable weapon, you have there, sir,” said Sahin.
“Thank you. Yours appears to be quite deadly as well. Have you drawn blood with it?”
“Touched, but not drawn.”
“So, a man of restraint. An admirable quality. But not unexpected. It can be very difficult to show your enemy your edge but not cut him with it,” said Wortham-Biggs.
“Quite. Now, shall we return to your excellent coffee? I should like another cup before we conclude our business.”
“Capital notion.” Each man returned his sword to its former place, and Wortham-Biggs poured more coffee for all three men.
“Now, as the one who did not swear the oath, it is incumbent upon me to show my good faith by making the first offer of information.”
He walked over to his desk with his coffee, sat down, and pressed an unobtrusive switch. A keyboard in a hidden tray slid out, and a wafer-thin screen rose from a concealed slot in the desktop. He typed rapidly for a few moments.
“There. Doctor, if you will instruct your flipcom to access data channel 113, and input the password ‘mastiff,’ you will have in your hands the complete cargo manifests and shipping schedules for all of my transactions with the party in whom you are interested, including the future shipment dates along with the names and transponder ID codes of the freighters on which the goods will be placed. Of course, the shipments are always transferred to other freighters in deep space, but the coordinates of those transfers are in the file I am sending you. From those freighters, the cargo is transferred again at least once, perhaps more times after that. I presume you have a set of tracking devices.”
“Yes.” The doctor nodded to Fahad, who produced from deep within his robes a small flat case, similar to the kind in which a gentleman carries his cigars.
“Here are six devices of the standard kind. Kindly hide one in each shipment. They are the standard metaspacial transponders, but coming from Union Naval Intelligence are more sophisticated than most. The tracking signals are impossible to distinguish from background noise unless you know the five-hundred-character encrypt sequence. Before you implant them, simply remove the tip to activate.”
“Very well.” He took the case.
Fahad had pulled out his flipcom, accessed the designated file, downloaded it, and looked quickly at his screen to see if it was data of the kind promised. He nodded to the doctor.
“And now,” Dr. Sahin said, “we come to the answer to your questions. What if I were to tell you that your ultimate purchasers were the worst kind of infidel?”
“They are not People of the Book?” Meaning not Muslim, Jewish, or Christian.
“Indeed not. They are not even, strictly speaking, people at all.”
“Biologically absurd. What aliens would have use for human foodstuffs and would be able to use equipment designed for eyes that see the same frequency range as ours?”
“Aliens whose distant ancestors are from Earth.”
After a short pause, the shop owner’s face hardened, his lips a thin line of fury. “You cannot mean,” he said in a voice the temperature of liquid helium, “that I have been selling to the treacherous Demon-Rats.” He used the local name for the Krag. “I would require evidence of such a startling conclusion.”
“I can provide you with an intelligence report tracing palettes of frozen meat, machine tools with manufacturers’ serial numbers, ore still in shipping containers, and even small arms still in the maker’s crates, all captured from Krag ships in Krag space or from Krag industrial installations, and all traceable to your warehouses.
“In addition, the ion drive on a captured Krag surveillance drone was found to have mercury propellant with an isotope profi
le showing it as having been mined here on Rashid IV. It is a small mine and you are the only seller of its output in interstellar commerce. Of course, we hold you entirely innocent. The Krag went to great and highly sophisticated lengths to hide their identity from you, knowing you were too honorable to sell to them, no matter what the price.”
“Have you personally reviewed these reports?”
The doctor knew what the man wanted. Or needed. “Yes. And on my honor, I regard their findings as conclusive.”
Wortham-Biggs sighed with resignation. “Then that is the only proof that I need.” Under Rashidian custom, if a man’s honor were sufficient basis for a Sword Oath, it was sufficient for all purposes. “I presume that the items already purchased must be delivered to these… vermin.”
“Yes. They must. But I promise you I will do everything within my power to see that not so much as one grain of corn or one gram of ore ever reaches the Krag. And afterward, you will never again suffer the dishonor of having any dealings with them. It is my sad duty to tell you, however, that the matériel thus far purchased from you have been of substantial aid to their war effort.”
“I can understand how that would be so, and it grieves me greatly. Do not be misled by this London shopkeeper exterior—it is a necessity when one deals in the kind of art in which I specialize. Although my ancestry is mixed, my fathers were Bedouin. My heart is Bedouin. These dealings with the rat-faced infidels are a matter of grave dishonor to me and my family. The Krag have killed many of my people, laid waste to whole worlds, massacred innocents, desecrated holy places of many faiths. They are a stain upon Allah’s holy creation. Having aided them is almost more than I can bear. It is a great dishonor. I fear I shall never be free of its disgrace.” He was genuinely and profoundly upset, deep emotion cracking the veneer of British reserve.
“Their rich, warm blood will wash away your dishonor and your family’s.”
To Honor You Call Us (Man of War Book 1) Page 29
