by David Drake
I traded my soft cap for the saucer hat. “Thank you, Sun,” I said. “I’m too new to this business to keep everything straight.”
There were rails the length of the quay. On them ran a truck with a boarding extension which could align with the ramp of a ship regardless of where it lay within the slip. We crossed it to the quay and walked down to the street proper. It was a sunny day but brisk.
Woetjans kneaded her pectoral muscles with her fingers and looked sideways at me. “Sorry,” she muttered in apparent embarrassment. “I took some slugs a couple years ago and they tighten up when they get cold.”
I said, “I’d been thinking that a jacket might have been a good plan. We could go back?”
“Bloody hell, no,” the bosun said.
The chandleries along Water Boulevard were separated from one another by bars and brothels. We’d left the ship long enough behind the main liberty group that the prostitutes were back out on the sidewalk in strength.
Woetjans moved slightly ahead of me and cleared a path—less brutally than I’d feared, but thoroughly nonetheless. “Move along, girls,” she said, though none that I saw were girls and not all were even female. “We’re on business now, maybe later.”
She paused in front of the next chandlery where the walk was clear and said, “Unless you’d like to stop in, sir? I didn’t mean to—”
“Good heavens, no,” I said, genuinely shocked at the notion. The whores here were the equivalent of the air above the slip when we’d just landed: real beyond question, but with no other virtues that I could see.
“I think Apex is the next one,” I said and moved up beside Woetjans again. We entered the business together.
I felt at home. Dad had worked his way up through chandleries; some of my earliest memories were of riding on my dad’s shoulder through places like Apex Outfitters.
The clerk behind the counter was reading an illustrated paper. He looked up, eyed us, and went back to his paper. He was about my age, but possibly younger.
“Good afternoon,” I said. No one else was in the store that I could see, though someone could be walking among the racks of goods. “We need to speak with the person in charge.”
“That’s me,” said the youth. He put his paper down but eyed us without enthusiasm. “What d’ye need?”
I thought for a moment, then said, “Come along, Woetjans. If this person is in charge, we need to go elsewhere. Blakesley Brothers was the next firm on my list.”
I wasn’t shouting, but I pitched my voice to be heard in the office to the right behind the counter. Its door was ajar and a light was on inside.
Woetjans turned to go, but I put a hand on her shoulder. As I expected, the office door opened and a man of fifty-odd came out. His hairline was receding, making him look older than he was.
“Sir?” he called to me. “Can I help you?” To the clerk he added, “I’ll handle this, Amos.”
“But you said…” the youth whined.
Both the older man and I ignored him. I said, “I have a list of purchases to bring our ship up to RCN spec. I’d like to discuss quantities and pricing with you.”
“I’m Artur Ferrante,” the older man said, opening a gate in the counter. “If you’ll come this way, we can discuss it in my office.”
There were two straight chairs before the cluttered desk. One had a caddie of electronic files on it, but I lifted them off and put them on the floor behind me. That left the other chair open for Woetjans, but she stood by a file cabinet instead.
Ferrante latched the door firmly and sat down behind the desk. “My wife’s nephew,” he said in a low voice. “I was hoping that he’d come along a little faster than he has.”
“He won’t unless he changes his attitude,” I said, “but that’s not my problem. We’re here to outfit the Sunray properly. We’re an RCN crew carrying a Cinnabar trade delegation to Saguntum in a chartered vessel. This is the first leg, and there are significant deficiencies to correct.”
Ferrante brought up the workstation at his desk. “What in particular are you looking for?” he said. “I think we’ll be able to handle your requests.”
I know you will, I thought. But you may not like the price I’m offering.
I read off the items on the list which the Chief of Rig and Chief of Ship—Woetjans and Pasternak—had prepared. Ferrante entered the items and quantities.
When I got to the end of the list, I said, “I mentioned that we were on a trade mission. If it’s as successful as I expect it to be, there will be much more commercial traffic between Cinnabar and Saguntum than there is at present. There will also be increased RCN traffic, though of course that depends on many factors.”
Ferrante smiled and nodded. “Apex Outfitters will be delighted to serve their needs with high-quality merchandise,” he said.
He cleared his throat and looked down at his display. “I find the total of your current order to be—”
He paused and looked up. “Would you like the figure in florins or would you prefer another currency?”
“Florins are fine,” I said. “If I may ask you a question, Master Ferrante? Are you the owner or the manager of Apex?”
“I’m the sole owner,” Ferrante said. His eyes had narrowed slightly. “I married the founder’s daughter, but I’ve built the business up considerably since then.”
“Excellent,” I said. “Go on.”
“As I was saying,” Ferrante said, “in florins, the total is eight-seven hundred and I’ll knock off a hundred for the new relationship.”
I nodded and said, “I’m offering sixty-one hundred.”
“What!”
“Incidentally, this will be in the form of a draft of the Shippers’ and Merchants’ Treasury”—I’d checked while I was putting together the proposal—“rather than RCN scrip. It allows you a fair profit on every item, and I’ve included the ten percent surcharge that I would have paid to a manager as an expediter’s fee.”
“You were planning to bribe me?” Ferrante said.
“I was prepared to bribe a manager,” I said. “I’m glad I didn’t have to. And I point out, not only is the price fair, it really will lead to increased business for you when I make my report in Cinnabar.”
“I’ll decide if the price is fair,” Ferrante muttered as he went over the figures on his display. I glanced at Woetjans, who looked stunned. She didn’t even meet my eyes.
After a moment Ferrante looked up. “Maybe that’s what they call fair on Cinnabar,” he growled. “But I suppose I can live with it.”
He suddenly laughed. “Say, you wouldn’t like to jump ship and come work for me, would you?”
I smiled back as I got to my feet. “Thank you, sir, but no,” I said. “There’ll be a credit chip in the full amount waiting at the Sunray when the order is delivered.”
The sun was low as Woetjans and I returned to the boulevard. I was feeling extremely good for the first time in a long while.
The first time since Dad shot himself.
CHAPTER 10
By the time Woetjans and I got back to the Sunray, Captain Leary and the senior personnel who’d served with him on the Princess Cecile—the former Sissies—had gone off to dinner. Woetjans went to her cabin to change before joining them.
Lieutenant Enery was the duty officer. When I entered the bridge, she asked, “Were you able to get most of what we needed?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “All of it.”
I checked for incoming messages on Officer Mundy’s station since it was the one I’d used in the past. The minute of agreement from Apex Outfitters had arrived, along with a delivery schedule beginning at 0900 hours and concluding at 1800 when the last items arrived from a warehouse west of Breckinridge proper.
I forwarded the file to the command console, addressed to All Personnel, though the common spacers didn’t have access to it except for the stations on the bridge, stern, and Power Room. “They had everything and in the quantities we needed.”
> “And quality?” Enery said as she brought up the file.
“See you at 0600!” Woetjans called from the corridor as she entered the down companionway. Her boots crashed on the metal treads as she jumped down the helical stairway.
“Well, we won’t be able to tell that till the lots are delivered,” I said. “They can be rejected for quality, of course; we won’t pay until you accept the goods. The samples in the showroom were satisfactory to Chief Woetjans.”
Enery rotated her couch and looked at me. “Olfetrie, these prices are very good. Very good,” she said.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “I, well, my father was a chandler before his business expanded. And the other things that I’m sure you heard about. But he really was a good businessman.”
Enery smiled at me. The stiffness of the right side of her face distorted the expression, but I’m pretty sure it was meant to be wry regardless.
“Captain Leary has the devil’s own luck,” she said. “No two ways about that. And it looks like he’s been lucky again when he signed you on, Olfetrie.”
“Ah, thank you, ma’am,” I said. Glad of an excuse to change the subject, I said, “Lieutenant, do you know what restaurant Captain Leary is going to? I didn’t think to ask Woetjans.”
“He’s at Rustermann’s,” Enery said. “I know in case there’s an emergency.” After a pause, she said, “You’re joining them, Olfetrie?”
“Good heavens, no!” I said, more forcefully than I would’ve spoken if I hadn’t just understood why her tone had suddenly frozen. “I just figured that where he is, there’ll be other decent restaurants around. I didn’t want to eat on the Strip if there’s a reasonable choice in walking distance.”
“Ah,” said Enery. “Yes, I see. I believe Rustermann’s might be on the pricey side; but yes, the district should be far enough away from the harbor to have restaurants that don’t cater to spacers.”
“I don’t have a lot to spend my pay on,” I said, smiling. “I just thought I’d treat myself to a decent meal.”
The first one since Dad’s death.
I went back to my cabin and changed into a set of the civilian clothes that I’d gotten out of pawn: tailored slacks and a jacket of hard fabric with a patterned weave. I’d kept them because they’d be proper office wear if I were ever promoted to an office job at Petersburg Chandlery. They weren’t fancy, but they were too good for the scut work I’d been doing there, though.
As I dressed, I thought about Ferrante’s offer. He’d been joking, of course, but it wouldn’t have been a joke if I’d showed interest. If he’d offered the opening on the afternoon before Captain Leary knocked on my door, I’d have taken him up like a shot.
“Good night, Lieutenant,” I called to Enery through the bridge hatch.
“Good luck to you finding dinner, Olfetrie,” she said.
I thought I heard something wistful in her voice, so I paused at the head of the companionway, looking toward her. The ship was nearly deserted. Besides us, there were guards in the boarding hold, and a few personnel in the stern and the Power Room.
“I don’t grudge Captain Leary his good luck,” Enery said musingly. “It’s what he’s done with it that made his career, not the luck itself. But”—She gave me her awful smile again—“sometimes I wonder if there’s just so much luck in the universe, and he’s gotten all of my share too.”
“I hope not, sir,” I said and escaped down the companionway.
In the boarding hold, Jablonsky—playing cards with Merritt, his fellow guard—said, “You’re getting a late start, sir. Want to catch up with some spirits?”
He offered a clear flask. It appeared to be working fluid cut—slightly—with grape juice.
“You’re confusing me with my brother, Josip,” I said. “He was the drinker of the family.”
I walked to the quay and up it, thinking about Junior. Everybody’d liked him. He was always the life of the party and went off, not necessarily home, with the prettiest girl. He’d had a brilliant career ahead, if the partying hadn’t caught up with him in a few years.
And of course, if a missile hadn’t gutted the Heidegger when she was a hundred feet in the air. I thought about what Enery had said about luck.
Rustermann’s was on Third Street, but the first of the two blocks was a long one because Harbor Street followed the shoreline. I had the chance to buy pretty much anything the locals thought a spacer might want, including some that I hoped to heaven no spacer on any ship I was aboard did want.
Third Street straight back from the water was apartments, shops and bars that catered to locals. It wasn’t fancy, but I didn’t see any dives as bad as the one I’d lived above in Xenos. I turned left and found, as I’d hoped, that the neighborhood was becoming increasingly respectable.
I saw Rustermann’s just ahead across the street and signs for other restaurants on both sides beyond. Rustermann’s had a narrow patio in front, set off from the right-of-way by a low stone wall.
To my surprise, Woetjans was on the sidewalk, arguing with the two waiters who were barring her from the patio. Another waiter and a busboy came out of the restaurant proper, moving fast. They didn’t jump in immediately, but they were obviously ready to lend a hand if required.
I started over. As I approached I heard a waiter snarling, “Look! I don’t care if the Admiral of Known Space asked you to dinner, you don’t eat here. Rustermann’s doesn’t serve spacers!”
Woetjans was wearing her Liberty Suit: a set of utilities tailored to fit her perfectly and decorated with ribbons with the names of every ship she’d served on, and the fabric embroidered with patches from every planet she’d landed on. Liberty Suits were both labors of love—spacers generally did all the tailoring themselves—and proof of their seniority.
They were also flamboyant proof that the wearer was a spacer.
Instead of getting involved at the entrance, I slipped past Woetjans and the first two waiters. The late-coming staff noted my civilian garments—a very high-quality suit, though I’m not sure their taste was that refined—and let me enter the restaurant without hesitation.
I’d intended to find Captain Leary, but at a good table near the staircase leading to the upper level Artur Ferrante sat with a woman of his own age—or possibly a few years more. That was even better.
“Master Ferrante!” I shouted. Diners had turned toward the voices raised outside the restaurant; I drew their attention to me.
“Will you please find Captain Leary and inform him that the proprietors here feel that his Chief of Rig is an unfit customer for their establishment? He’s probably in a private room.”
A man in dress clothes at the head of the staircase started down. I heard motion at the door, but before I could turn, men seized both my arms from behind. Diners were getting up, and I saw several duck under their tables, or as nearly as their dress clothes would allow.
“Let him go!” somebody shouted. I thought I’d been loud, but Woetjans was in a different league altogether. The waiter released my left arm instantly. The busboy gaped in indecision, but I could turn now.
Woetjans stood with her back to the wall beside the door. She’d gathered up two chairs by the backs on her way through the patio. She held one out in front of her like a shield—or a four-shafted lance, depending on what she decided to do with it. The other was vertical in her right hand, the feet jabbing the ceiling.
I’d known she was big. Now, though, she looked like an avenging goddess. Diners scuttled away like roaches when the pantry light goes on.
The manager reached the bottom of the stairs, but he didn’t seem sure what to do. I detached the busboy’s hand finger by finger; he seemed unwilling to move even that much on his own.
From the head of the stairs Captain Leary called, “Come on up, Woetjans! We’ve saved some of the liquor for you.”
I could see Barnes, Dasi and Sun behind the captain, but to my surprise Hogg and Tovera were shoulder to shoulder with him. Hogg had his hands
in his tunic pockets, and the clerk held an attaché case half-open in front of her.
“Yes, of course,” the manager said. “Mistress, allow me to escort you to your party.”
It was a moment before Woetjans lowered the chairs and allowed the manager to take her arm. Her face was as white as chipped stone when she passed me.
I took a deep breath and bowed to Ferrante. “Thank you for your help, Master Ferrante,” I said. “I’m glad no more than your presence was needed.”
Everybody kept out of my way as I left Rustermann’s. I walked across the street to Gino’s, which turned out to be steak house.
* * *
I was most of the way through a rare rib eye and contemplating a second glass of the red wine the waiter had recommended. It was strong flavored, but it complemented the meat—from real Earth cows—perfectly.
I was beginning to relax. It’d been a hell of a day.
A tubby man came over to the table where I sat alone. He wore an open-necked shirt and loose trousers, but he didn’t need dress clothes or a uniform to project authority.
“The meal has been to your taste, sir?” he asked.
“Perfectly,” I said. “I’m never sure what I’m going to get when I order ‘rare,’ but here it’s rare.”
“If I may ask, sir?”
I nodded, wondering what was going to come next. I took the last sip from my glass, holding the man’s eyes.
“My head waiter tells me that you were ejected from Rustermann’s,” the man said. “Was that the case?”
I put my glass down. “Not exactly,” I said. “I had no intention of eating there, but I saw some flunkies barring a shipmate whom I knew to have been invited to a dinner there with our captain. It was a dress-code violation.”
I felt my lips purse as I wondered how to put the next part. I said, “I intervened to bring the matter to the manager’s attention. It, ah, got heated for a moment at the end. If that’s a problem, I’ll pay and leave immediately.”
“Is no problem,” the man said. He set my bill on the table—a trifle early, I thought, but nobody wants brawlers in his business.
