Selling Out: A Galactic Empire Space Opera Series (Mercenary Warfare Book 1)

by Zen DiPietro

  “If you consider a couple hours’ worth of introductory ceremonies expedient.” Briveen rituals were not for the faint of heart. They required exacting pronunciation of their words, said at precisely the right time, accompanied by specific gestures and postures. Even eye contact mattered.

  Being one of the few non-Briveen traders who knew how to engage in such exchanges had been highly profitable for Cabot.

  Fallon continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I believe the Barony Coalition is targeting Briv. The planet’s location would be a highly strategic foothold for them. PAC officials believe they’re trying to put logistics in place before beginning something major. In the meantime, they’re trespassing into Briveen airspace, apparently trying to provoke an engagement.”

  “Have they had any success in that?” Cabot had heard scattered reports.

  “A few half-hearted exchanges of potshots. No fatalities or significant injuries. But you’ve no doubt heard that already. We haven’t kept Barony’s actions out of the public eye, though we’re not broadcasting how we think this could go. That would provoke panic and economic collapse. But we want the public to be aware of Barony’s increasing hostility. It will soften the blow when we announce they’re no longer a trade member of the PAC. It should also encourage patriots to refuse to work with them.”

  “It’s tough to break business ties,” Cabot mused. “Many won’t do so without a powerful reason.”

  “We’re not looking to curtail free trade,” Fallon said. “Allies have sovereignty in their own economics, even in regard to business with non-allies, so long as they continue to meet the requirements of PAC membership. We don’t want to get in the way of planets’ livelihoods, which is exactly why we’re handling things the way we are. On the other hand, we do hope they’ve started to at least think about not dealing with a trade coalition that’s griefing a PAC planet. Barony is about a millimeter from pushing too far.”

  Cabot rubbed the plain metal band he wore on his right hand as he thought about how precarious a situation they were in. “So what is it you want from Briv, and what am I to offer them?”

  “Simple. We’re offering protection. Barony has been incurring on their space and staging some minor attacks against their ships. The Briveen are angry and nervous. PAC command has deployed scout ships, but so far, what Barony has done doesn’t require a military response.”

  Cabot didn’t need her to put the pieces together for him. “So Briv is nervous, and since they are a somewhat xenophobic lot who don’t care for leaving home, they don’t have enough ships to ward off a concentrated attack from Barony.”

  “Right. We believe that any day, Barony is going to cross the line that does, by virtue of PAC accords, require PAC command to intervene. Based on that belief, we are prepared to offer that intervention now, rather than later. That means a constant military presence around Briv, along with a contingent on the planet’s surface to coordinate efforts between the Briveen and the PAC militaries.”

  Cabot clasped his hands together and tented his index fingers as he thought it over. “That’s a big offer. So what is it you want in return?”

  “We want Briv to cancel or postpone all of its existing manufacturing contracts, and provide all current and future goods to the PAC, at market price, until further notice.”

  In the silence that ensued, Cabot arched an eyebrow. “That’s quite an ask.”

  “It’s quite an offer,” she countered. “Yes, we’re asking a lot, but we’re providing more. Briv will suffer no short-term economic losses from making the PAC government their sole customer.”

  “They’ll suffer long-term ones. What happens when the PAC pulls out and their prior customer base has gone to new suppliers?”

  Fallon dipped her chin slightly. “That’s their disadvantage and the price they’ll pay for our help. It may cause some future disturbance in their economy. If so, the PAC is prepared to assist. But the Briveen are the premiere manufacturer of heavy-duty combat ships and their components, and we need what they can provide. We’re improving the weapons and propulsion systems of every ship we have in the fleet that’s more than three years old. We’ve even pulled outmoded ships from the stockyards for upgrades.”

  She let her worry show on her face. “Things are going to get bad, Cabot. There’s nothing we can do about that except prepare. Barony is looking to reshape the PAC zone. They want to take charge and make this sector of space into a business, driven only by profit. If they have their way, they’ll put this galaxy back where it was five hundred years ago. And I’m not going to lie to you—they’re strong. They have money and a formidable fleet. They also control a large portion of the food supply. They’re going to starve us, Cabot. They’ll starve anyone who doesn’t ally themselves with Barony.”

  “You want to choke them out before they choke out everyone else.” Cabot felt numb in the face of the idea of entire solar systems starving. He’d known that PAC was at a tipping point, but he hadn’t realized how steep or swift the fall might be.

  “We’re rallying all the agricultural planets and providing them with free equipment, plants, and seeds. We’re starting as many crops on as many planets as we can to shore up the food supply. We’ve put the synthetic food and vitamin manufacturers into round-the-clock production to create a surplus we can rely on. We’re even working on trade negotiations outside the PAC zone, but Barony’s doing the same thing.”

  “And there’s no loyalty among mercenaries,” Cabot murmured. It wasn’t strictly true, as even mercenaries had their networks of friends and colleagues. But it was the mantra and the ideal they liked to advertise.

  One by one, the pieces fell together in Cabot’s mind, forming the picture Fallon and other members of the PAC leadership must have been looking at for months.

  But who was he to have a part in such pivotal negotiations? “I’m still no ambassador. These are huge stakes. You’re better off with a diplomat.”

  “I’m better off with you.” Fallon stared at him, unblinking. She was kind of scary that way, though he didn’t feel endangered. Just impressed. “You know their ways, and how they think, better than anyone I know. I’m not looking for diplomatic schmoozing and flattery. I’m looking to make a deal, and you know how to broker a deal.”

  “And if I fail?” he asked.

  Her eyes narrowed, and he saw the calculation in her eyes. Deciding how much truth to give him. Truth was a commodity like everything else, and should be held close until given a valuable enough reason to offer it.

  In this particular situation, the less truth he warranted, the better his outlook was.

  “Even if you fail, PAC command will protect Briv. We can’t afford to let Barony have it or destroy it. We need the Briveen’s factories, their tech, and their expertise. If we don’t have Briv’s support, it could mean a longer war with more casualties, or it might mean losing the war and becoming subjects of the Barony empire.”

  Cabot was not pleased with the amount of truth he had warranted. His expression must have revealed his dismay to her, even though he felt he’d been entirely inscrutable.

  Her expression softened with sympathy. “It sucks. I know. This isn’t the life I signed up for, either. It all comes down to this: are you too small to be a pivot point in history, or are you the kind of man people will someday tell stories about?”

  In case the appeal to his hubris didn’t work, she added, “Imagine the status points you’ll get for brokering a deal like this. I’d expect that to open some very large doors for you in the business world.”

  He didn’t hide his smile. Fallon would have made a good trader. Instead, she’d wasted her talents on the sort of work that no one ever heard about.

  She was a hero. And if there was one thing Cabot knew he was not, it was a hero.

  “Why don’t you go? You know all the relevant facts and, as I understand it, are as versed in Briveen ritual as I am.”

  “I’m involved in other tactical plans. Besides, like I said, I’
d be viewed as a diplomat and the process would be much more complicated. I need a trader. I need you.”

  “Can I have some time to think about all this?” he asked.

  “Yes. But remember, the longer you wait, the less our advantage. Everything is time dependent.”

  “I understand.” He stood and bowed. Normally, he’d engage in some chitchat, steering the topic to apparently random subjects that might reveal tidbits that related to his business interests. Or listening for clues to the goings-on aboard Dragonfire, or the PAC headquarters at Jamestown, or the entire Planetary Alliance Cooperative. But he already had more information than he wanted, so he took his leave.

  She walked him to the door and, as it opened, surprised him by putting her hand on his forearm. “I know this isn’t your sort of thing. I’ve had to do things recently that I never expected to do, either. I know you’re the one person who can do this.”

  He gave her a small nod and walked briskly down the corridor, putting her and the entire bizarre situation behind him. But only for the moment.

  ***

  “ARE you sure you can arrange the transfer of that much grain?” Cabot’s new client seemed the nervous sort. He kept fidgeting, his eyes darting to the left of the voicecom to look at something Cabot couldn’t see.

  He, on the other hand, sat still—relaxed, but politely upright, seated in his quarters in front of the voicecom display. That’s what many people in the business didn’t understand: trading was more than just prices and products. It was an art of a million different cues, all coming together in perfect harmony to make a sale. Subtle things, such as posture, mattered. Perhaps that was why he appreciated the Briveen and their own unique means of communication.

  “Of course,” Cabot assured the man. “My contacts transport perishables to Earth every day. The grain will arrive in the correct quantity, on time and in perfect condition. I don’t deal with anyone who uses substandard storage procedures. I only work with the best professionals who operate under PAC standards.”

  The human tried to mask his relief, but the man had no chill. Clearly, the minister of something-or-other did not normally handle this kind of thing. But desperate times had a tendency of shaking up everything that used to be normal. “That’s good to hear. Your reputation precedes you—you came highly recommended.”

  Cabot mentally cracked his knuckles. Time for the upsell.

  “I’m flattered.” He wasn’t. The minister had said nothing but the truth. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that you could add a metric ton of cargo for the shipping price you’re already paying. Is there anything additional you need?”

  The man frowned. “It would be foolish not to maximize the shipping capacity, now that costs are so high. Do you have any suppliers who could furnish the kind of fruit and vegetables that do well in long-term storage? On Earth, our apples and potatoes do well in cold storage, but some variety would be good.”

  Of course it would. Clearly, certain members of the Earth government knew about current goings-on that might just reshape the entire galaxy, and were looking to fortify themselves.

  But Cabot said only, “As luck would have it, I know someone who has a large quantity of tango fruit to move. Would that interest you?”

  “If the price was right.”

  “I’ll lean on the guy for the best price, and get back to you within the hour.”

  “Excellent. I look forward to hearing from you.”

  Cabot cut the voicecom channel and his display went dark. He opened a channel to Doony Kirk. He’d been doing business with the old guy for many years and was all but certain he could work out a deal for the fruit.

  Doony’s weathered face appeared on the voicecom in seconds. “Good to hear from you, Cabot. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve got a potential buyer for that tango fruit. What’s your best price?”

  Doony frowned and Cabot could practically see the numbers flashing in his head. “I was going to get two thousand cubics from a Barony planet, but they’re cancelling a lot of their orders. How eager is your buyer?”

  Cabot could get right to the point with Doony. “Pretty eager, I’d say. He has dead space on his transport if he doesn’t make a deal.”

  “Try for the two thousand, then. If he balks, get the best you can get for me, with five percent of it yours.”

  Few traders would show such trust, but any amount was better than a cargohold full of rotting fruit.

  “I’ll have an answer for you shortly.” Cabot broke the connection.

  Savvy people with a hint of the truth were stocking up, just in case.

  Though he kept himself on the right side of PAC laws, he was an expert in forays into the gray areas the laws and regulations didn’t specifically address. Some traders focused on perishables, while others preferred tech goods. Cabot considered himself a businessperson of all profitable markets, with a specialty in exploiting details and loopholes.

  He also had a knack for emerging markets, and, by Prelin, a time of change and emergence drew near. And here he was, long-established on Dragonfire Station, a pivotal location in whatever events unfolded.

  Not too shabby for a mere shopkeep.

  He relayed the offer of the tango fruit to the beleaguered minister, who didn’t bargain half as well as he should have. Cabot started high with an initial offer of twenty-five hundred, and allowed the minister to get a ‘deal’ of only two thousand.

  Amateur.

  Cabot switched over to the open marketplace and scanned the list of new acquisition requests. He skipped over commodities like medical supplies. He wasn’t a ripper, taking advantage of people just trying to survive. Because of them, people assumed everyone from Rescissitan was a sleazy cheat who would sell his own mother for a quick few cubics of profit. When in fact, only a select minority of Rescans had a real nose for business, and there were as many human or Trallian rippers as there were Rescan ones. Every species had that tiny minority of people who’d do anything to get ahead.

  Nonetheless, it was Rescans who had a reputation among the other species for being stone-cold cheats with hearts full of nothing but larceny. Since that misconception benefited Cabot more often than not, he did little to disabuse people of this notion. Never mind that if he tried, he wouldn’t change their minds anyway.

  There was no profit in fighting a hopeless battle.

  Profit should be his only worry. His whole life was about his business. Yet now, a foreign sense of unease plagued him, like a bug chewing on his bones.

  He’d made mistakes in recent months. Mistakes he’d never made before. Fallon and Nix both really saw him as a person rather than as a fixture in a store. Normally, people viewed him as nearly an automaton, delivering services and goods, engaging in commerce, just as a Rescan trader should.

  When he’d first come to Dragonfire Station, he’d established himself as a bland, ingratiating shopkeep. Friendly, but not a friend. He’d been accepted into that role, and he found it comfortable. He liked his life as it was.

  He sank to the couch with a long sigh. He wanted no part of political negotiations. He wanted no part of people relying on him. But how could he say no?

  A bottle of Alturian brandy still sat in the cabinet of his kitchenette. He considered having some of it, but decided not to. Brandy would dull his senses, and he wanted all of his faculties intact to mull over his problem.

  The door chime sounded, and he took his comport from his belt to check the time. It had to be Nix. No one else would come to his quarters. She liked to stop by on her way home, but Cabot hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. He hadn’t even reopened his shop after his meeting with Fallon.

  This thing was already affecting his life. Better to call Fallon now and tell her no before things got further out of whack. He wasn’t the kind of person who made a difference. He was the kind of person who sold things.

  First the door, though. Before opening it, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, pulling himself togethe
r. No reason for the child to be upset by his distress.

  “Hello, Nix.” He gave her his patented benign smile, and she bounced in.

  Apparently she’d forgotten her purposeful stride again. He was glad. The girl was a breath of fresh air.

  “Hi, Mr. Layne. I brought you something.” She reached into the bag slung over her shoulder and pulled out a flat disk and a small fob.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I’ll show you.” She set the disk on the table, handed him the fob, and walked to the furthest point from it. She pointed to the table. “Tap it.”

  Dutifully, he tapped the disk, and Nix stepped toward the device. After three steps the fob in his hand vibrated.

  “Do you feel it?” she asked, her eyes glowing. “It’s a proximity detector!”

  “I see that.” He was confused as to why she’d bring him such a thing, but didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “Very nice.”

  “I made it! As my science project. I figured if I have to do a science project, why not make it relate to my security internship? I keep trying to impress Arin, but he’s kind of tough.”

  That made Cabot smile. “It’s his job to be tough. If he was easy, you wouldn’t learn as much.”

  “I know. But I think I finally impressed him with the proximity detector.”

  “Indeed.” Cabot doubted too many people would be keen to have a teenager dabbling in covert surveillance, but he kept that thought to himself. “What did your teacher say?”

  “He said he never wanted to see something like that in his classroom again, and that I got the top mark in the class. So I freaked him out and aced the project.” She vibrated with pride.

  Cabot laughed. “You are something else, Nix. PAC intelligence had better watch out. In a few years, you’ll have them on their toes, for sure.”

  She beamed at him. “I thought you could use the detector in your store. You know, when you’re not there. To make sure no one sneaks in.”