She took a deep breath, then gave him a condensed version of her meeting with Nate Watford, the deciphering of the computer wafer, and her instructions from Maricic. He listened intently, nodding occasionally.
“Watford’s files were maddeningly incomplete,” she finished. “He intimated that the Gara’nesh were constructing a new and devastating weapon. But he didn’t say what or where.”
“Inconsiderate of him.”
“Let me rephrase that. He may have said, but that part of the file was damaged or, as Emmers believes, made to appear as if it had been removed.”
“Either way, a gaping hole. That still doesn’t answer my question about Southern Cross.”
“Southern Cross is mentioned. Watford encountered a BlackHoler—a smuggler—who apparently put him on the track.”
“A cross-border smuggler?”
Jade nodded. Troy was beginning to impress her. He obviously knew more of the underside of the Hegemony than she’d suspected.
“So we’re going to find this guy,” Kuchera said.
“Girl. Named Trevarra.”
Kuchera steepled his hands. “What makes you think she’s still on Southern Cross? Seems to me it would be the last place to look.”
“Not necessarily, and she may not be,” Jade confessed. “I’ve placed NI agents all across the Hegemony on alert for her ship, so hopefully we’ll get a lead on her soon. But I got the impression that Southern Cross was her base. Free traders have their turf; the marginal worlds are hers. It’s a start.”
Kuchera put his arms behind his neck. “Even if she’s there, she’s not going to step forward and volunteer the info. Certainly not to Naval Intelligence.”
“No.” An idea had been forming in Jade’s mind. “That’s why I’ll be posing as a procurer of rare and illegal items, namely Gara’nesh art work. You, Troy, are the buyer. Think you can imitate a filthy rich snob?”
Kuchera stuck up his nose. “My dear. Fetch the Dom Perignon from the cooler, there’s a good girl,” he squeaked.
“I said rich, not dissolute,” Jade sniggered.
“I’ll practice. But where will you get that kind of money? Gara’nesh artwork costs a fortune.”
Jade gestured. “Member Maricic’s account, of course.”
Kuchera laughed. “I like your style.”
Political and Ideological Major Blair Iverson stared into his screen at a scoutship lieutenant.
“Did you get a vector?”
“We tracked Starwind right up to the moment of transition, sir.”
“Destination?”
“Several possibilities, sir—”
“Give me the most likely.”
“Uh, Heliopolis, Johnston’s Triad, and Southern Cross, sir.”
Iverson relaxed. “Thank you, Lieutenant. You’ve been most helpful. I shall remember your assistance.”
“Thank you, sir,” the lieutenant replied in a doubtful tone of voice.
Iverson blanked the screen. It never hurt to double-check your assumptions.
“Southern Cross,” he said to himself. “How predictable. I hope you appreciate your welcome, Commander Lafrey.”
He stretched and yawned. “One less lukewarm citizen of the Hegemony.”
SEVEN
Thanks to her drive upgrade, Starwind covered the light-years to Sander’s Star faster than Jade anticipated, a matter of five days. Although remote from the overwhelming majority of Hegemony worlds—hence its marginal status and single viable trade route from Earth: Southern Cross to Pritchard to Walton’s Corner to Heliopolis to Earth, a matter of some six to seven weeks for a cargo freighter—Southern Cross lay remarkably close to Covenant in the complicated labyrinth of Roessler-space.
Conveniently close? Jade wondered in a suspicious moment.
After receiving clearance from Southern Cross System Control, Starwind settled into a parking orbit above the planet’s major continent.
Jade shed her Naval uniform and changed into local attire.
“How do I look?” she asked as, arms extended, she pirouetted in the center of Starwind’s lounge.
“Beautiful as always,” Kuchera admired.
“Not a bad fit at all, ma’am,” Neilson remarked.
“Very diplomatic,” Jade replied. “But talk about garish! I feel like a second-rate pirate.”
She fondled the soft fabric of the peach-colored blouse that clashed with cerise slacks and olive-green scarf. A French twist tugged her tawny hair to the nape of her neck. A broad scarlet sash was wrapped twice around her waist; the loose end dangled at her right side.
Large, purple-on-bronze enameled disks swung from her earlobes and matched a trio of cheap finger-rings. She’d highlighted her cheekbones and eyebrows with far more make-up than she usually applied. Shiny black calf-high boots completed the ensemble.
“Is it good enough to fool a BlackHoler?” Jade asked.
“Either that or get you propositioned by a local,” Neilson said.
“Trevarra won’t suspect a thing,” Kuchera commented.
“BlackHolers—good ones—suspect everything. And everyone.” Jade smoothed a wrinkle out of the blouse and pulled the scarf tighter. “I’d best be going.” She turned to Troy and pointed to a heap of clothes she’d extracted from her closet. “Find yourself something to wear in that lot.”
He wrinkled his nose. “It’ll make me look like a girl.”
“You should have brought more of your own clothes. Besides, if you dress differently from usual, you may think and act differently. Dress like Troy Kuchera, think like Troy Kuchera. Dress like a rich eccentric…you get the point. The impression is what counts. An effeminate appearance may not be a bad idea—it gives character. Trevarra, if I can find her, probably doesn’t care what you look like, as long as money is forthcoming.”
“All right. But no makeup.”
“Agreed. I’ll turn my transmitter on so you’ll be able to follow what I’m doing. Maybe you’ll have to, maybe not, but be ready to play along.”
Kuchera peered at her. “Where have you hidden a transmitter in that get-up?”
Jade fingered the fringe of the blouse. “Here. Microfibers and a power storage circuit that will last several days. No pictures, but at least you’ll have audio.”
Neilson said, “I’ll keep Starwind in a synchronous orbit so we’ll remain within reception range.”
“Good. Now listen, particularly you, Troy. If anything happens to me, get your tail out of here and head back to Covenant. No playing games.”
“Would you rather I accompanied you groundside, ma’am?” Neilson asked.
“No, Lieutenant. I’ll need you to take Starwind back.”
“Shoot, ma’am. Just tell her what to do and Starwind can fly herself.”
“I’m sure she can. But I’m not relying on an A.I. The answer’s still no.”
“Aye, ma’am.” Neilson departed for the bridge.
“I’m beginning to enjoy this,” Kuchera enthused.
“It’s not a game!” Jade exclaimed. “Don’t make me regret—”
“Oh, come on,” Kuchera interrupted. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t enjoy it even a little bit?”
“It’s a job," she said with forced calmness.
“Sure,” Kuchera scoffed. “So’s being an onion picker on Greatmount.”
“You can be incredibly irritating, Troy. I’ll admit to a touch of wanderlust—”
Kuchera smiled. “That’ll do.”
Jade gave him a mock smile in return. She poked his shoulder. “Hold up your end.”
She left the lounge and walked down the access tunnel to the Sunfire 2 in Starwind’s bay, strapped herself in the pilot’s seat, and brought the shuttle systems on line.
“All green,” she reported to Neilson. “Ready to drop.”
“Bay doors open, ma’am,” came the reply from Starwind’s bridge.
“Shuttle free.”
The Sunfire’s attitude jets nudged the smaller ship clear of S
tarwind.
Jade engaged the navigational program, powered up the main drive, and watched on the Sunfire’s rearview screens as Starwind dwindled to a point of light high above.
Below, the green and mud-brown globe of Southern Cross grew larger.
Jade mused briefly that a Naval model Sunfire 2 was hardly the most appropriate vessel for a tourist to be piloting, then shrugged the thought away. She had no other options. Most likely, Southern Cross’ port authorities would neither notice nor care. She ran through her mental checklist. Kuchera had his bogus name, and she’d concocted a fake registry for Starwind. She’d debated about carrying her Linar, but decided against it. Even though as a Naval officer she was authorized to be armed, appearances could be everything; and while Southern Cross was likely lax in its approach to visitors carrying concealed weapons, most tourists didn’t do so—and especially not the latest issue military version. Better not to risk raising any suspicions.
Twenty minutes later, she left the grounded Sunfire and made her way to the spaceport entry.
“Welcome to Southern Cross,” greeted the entry scanner at New Adelaide’s spaceport in a dry mechanical voice that lacked any semblance of welcome. “Have a nice day.”
Jade ignored the machine greeting and passed through, joining a trickle of other people who had successfully completed their scans. Judging from the age of the equipment and the lack of visible security, Jade guessed that Southern Cross wasn’t too particular about visitors. A world such as this, as far from the front lines of the war in one direction as it was from the Central Worlds in the other, typically didn’t care about a lot of things.
The feeling was mutual. The Hegemony didn’t spare much thought for backwater worlds like Southern Cross, Last Chance, Holbrooke, and a score of others. Even though Southern Cross lay in her sector, Jade couldn’t remember a report ever crossing her desk that mentioned the planet. Thinly populated and lacking strategic value, Southern Cross held no interest for Intelligence.
Criminal elements such as smugglers weren’t her concern or jurisdiction.
She smiled to herself. As far as the government of Southern Cross was concerned, Jade Lafrey didn’t exist. LaMona Freyland, special companion to a spoiled eccentric from Finzi’s Landing, did.
She followed the winking glow-strips on the wall towards ‘City Transportation’ and found herself at the back of a line waiting to board a commercial flyer. She folded her hands at the small of her back and shuffled forward as the line crept ahead. By the time Jade climbed on board, she had a choice of seats beside a harassed-looking woman with a screaming baby, or a fat man whose arms and waistline overflowed onto her side.
She chose the fat man.
She was grateful he seemed disinclined to speak.
After a perfunctory warning, the flyer lumbered into the air.
Jade craned her neck to peer around the man to the narrow window and was rewarded with a view of thick, green vegetation. Trees, vines and mosses intertwined into an impenetrable carpet. The flyer skimmed the forest just a few meters above the treetops. In the distance, Jade caught sight of a tan-colored expanse—one of the shallow seas that surrounded Southern Cross’s low continents. On Southern Cross, a few meters of elevation constituted a mountain.
The flyer lurched towards the ground.
“New Adelaide North,” proclaimed a tired voice. “All passengers disembark. Additional transportation is available at the station. We hope you enjoy your stay—”
The voice cut off as Jade emerged onto the platform into stifling heat and humidity. The air stank with the pungent odor of decaying vegetation.
New Adelaide dredged itself from the mire of the omnipresent swamps with the apathy of one of its famed torpid lizards. A swath of jungle had been felled to make way for the city, which rose clump-like from the debris. Too new to have acquired class and too old to look new, New Adelaide occupied the unfortunate—dare she say wasteland?—in-between. The buildings reflected an architectural monotony rarely encountered outside military establishments.
As Southern Cross grew and expanded, that would probably change, and new, environmentally conscious architecture replace the growing pains of colonization. At the moment, New Adelaide hardly seemed a promising place to hold clues to the safety of interstellar peace. But then, treaties were signed in conference centers and onboard ships, but peace was forged—or broken—in places like this.
Jade acquired a guide to the city from a dispenser and uploaded it into her personal files. She scanned the few screens of relevant text quickly.
She took a surface level transport tube to what the guide exuberantly proclaimed to be one of New Adelaide’s finer hotels—the Sea View—and registered, using Georgia Maricic’s credits.
Her room turned out to be pleasantly better than she’d expected—clean and airy with a benign decor, though hardly luxurious. She slung a carryall containing a change of clothes on the bed and disopaqued the window.
“Sea View,” she sniffed, studying the expanse of dirty brown muck that sloshed against the hotel’s outer walls. No wonder people used to the sparkling blue oceans of Earth turned their noses up at Southern Cross. No advertising writer in the galaxy could make Southern Cross into a vacation paradise.
She abandoned the window, booted the minuscule computer, and accessed city files.
Reports received en-route from her NI agents had revealed little about Trevarra other than the basics. Of her ship, there’d been no report—undoubtedly running an unfiled flight plan. She wouldn’t have expected otherwise.
City files found no listing for Trevarra. Using a sophisticated access override she bypassed the rudimentary safeguards and entered Shipping Registry. She skimmed through the list of registered freighters. For a small, underpopulated world, she located scores of listings, ranging from Aardvark—Jade grimaced, trying to imagine what that ship would look like; who in their right mind would call a ship Aardvark?—to Zephyr, not as repulsive, perhaps, but inane.
Did Southern Cross have zephyrs, or only humidity-laden sludge?
She discovered no listing under the ‘T’s’ that appeared hopeful. She sighed, and prepared to log off.
First, out of habit, she skimmed the list a second time.
Varra’s Venture.
This time, the name jumped out at her.
She studied the listing.
Varra’s Venture: Port of Registry—New Adelaide. Registration Number IVR-888-899-767; Type: class-6 freighter. Owner: Varra Importing and Transport, New Adelaide and Aurora, Southern Cross.
Jade fingered the side of her nose. Nate Watford hadn’t mentioned Trevarra’s ship’s name, but the resemblance seemed too close to be mere coincidence.
Jade shrugged. She might as well follow the obvious leads first. Trevarra probably did some legitimate business as a front, so her freighter ought to be listed.
Jade opened a comm channel and accessed the number for Varra Importing and Transport.
A message flashed on the screen.
Thank you for calling Varra Importing and Transport. Our offices are closed, but if you leave your name and access code we will return your call as soon as possible. We look forward to serving your shipping needs.
Jade hesitated, then exited. The message could be legitimate, and if Trevarra—or whomever—did legal business, probably was. On the other hand, it could mean that the owners of Varra Importing performed background checks first, to screen potential clients. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself just yet.
Instead, she entered Varra’s Venture’s access code into the shipping registry commlink.
Confirmed. In orbit.
That was a break. Class 6 freighters were usually tramps, with no set itinerary or destination. They wandered the minor trade routes, scraping up the dregs of business that larger firms ignored, trying to turn a profit from marginal or illegal ventures. Chasing down a tramp could be a long and tedious process.
Or was it a break? If something seemed too goo
d to be true, it usually was. Coincidences happened, but she always mistrusted them. And she mistrusted this.
After an extended pause, the commscreen cleared. Against a background of grey ship-walls, a gruff-faced, bilious man stared unsmiling into his pickup. The sparse stubble on his cheeks bristled uninvitingly into a white beard perched on his chin.
“What is it?”
“I’m trying to reach Trevarra—” Jade began.
“Never heard the name.” The man made as if to cut the connection.
“It’s about business—”
“Call our office.”
“Nate Watford.” Jade held her breath.
The man stopped. He fingered his beard with a gnarled digit. “Wait.” The screen showed a snow hold pattern.
Jade waited patiently until he returned.
“What’s your name?”
“LaMona Freyland.”
“Staying?”
“Adelaide Sea-View.”
“Business?”
“Personal.”
“Not good enough.”
“I wish to make a purchase.”
“There are stores.”
“They don’t carry what I’m looking for.”
The man appeared to come to some sort of decision. He glanced at somebody out of pickup range for confirmation. “You’ll be contacted.”
The screen blanked.
Jade leaned back in the uncomfortable hotel chair.
Gold on the first shot. Perhaps she could figure this out quickly and get back before Troy encountered anything dangerous.
She set about familiarizing herself with every square inch of the hotel suite.
Then all she had to do was wait.
Jade left the room once, to wander in a desultory manner through the hotel complex. If anybody wanted to observe her, she thought this would give them as good an opportunity as any. Contact might be made today, tomorrow, or never.
Wreaths of Empire Page 16
