by Zen DiPietro
But it was always a good day to be a trader. He always had the ultimate ability to adapt and survive.
Hopefully he’d be able to help his friends do the same.
***
WHEN CABOT and Arlen undocked the Outlaw from Dragonfire, he had a strange sensation. He’d never felt anything like it. He’d expected to feel resigned. Chagrined. Maybe a little disappointed in himself and his until-now spotless record of non-partisan business.
But here he was, in a ship owned by a member of PAC intelligence, scheduled to broker a deal between the PAC and an allied planet. He was as entrenched in the political and the partisan as he could be. And he felt…well, he wasn’t sure what he felt. He didn’t feel bad, yet he was fully aware that he should definitely feel less than good.
His failure to accurately anticipate his feelings left him irritated. Foresight and anticipation were his forte. His thing. What he prided himself on.
He hid his aggravation beneath his patented veneer of geniality. It wasn’t rational for him to find Arlen’s standard procedural announcements and occasional small talk annoying. But when he found himself struggling not to snap at her, he stood.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said smoothly, “I’m going to lie down for a little while, so I can be fresh to start making plans.”
“Sure, take as long as you need. We’re two weeks out, even at this speed. The one thing we have right now is time. But don’t we already have a plan?” Arlen looked away from the navigation controls to give him a curious look.
He clamped down on a flare of irritation. His emotional disarray had nothing to do with her. “Going to Dauntless is a where, not a what. But mercenary stations are not as predictable as PAC stations. They change fast.”
He would have left off there, but this was an opportunity for her to learn about their business. “I need to do some digging. See who’s there now, or who’s going to be in its vicinity. Find out who has influence and who doesn’t. The entire culture of a place like Dauntless can change in days. We need to know everything before we get there, so we can handle business and get back on our way to Briv.”
“Right.” Arlen nodded. “Let me know what I can do to help.”
Cabot edged out of the bridge, or cockpit, or whatever Fallon called this thing. The space was smallish for two Rescans who had larger frames compared to most species and preferred more personal space. Or maybe it was only his mood that took up too much space at the moment.
From the doorway, he said, “Just keep flying and keep an eye out. The last thing we need is for pirates to decide we’re worth trying to acquire.”
“Don’t worry about it. I always avoid the typical trade route vectors, just to be on the safe side.”
The edge of his irritation smoothed. He’d brought her along for a reason. She was a good kid, and a good trader. She spent a great deal of her time on cargo runs, and knew what she was doing. “Call me if anything comes up. Otherwise, I’ll check in after I’ve gotten some rest.”
“Sure.”
On his way back to his small quarters, Cabot thought of what he hadn’t yet told her about what they would do on Dauntless Station. She deserved to know. But knowing wouldn’t change anything, and she was better off not having to think about it for the next two weeks.
She’d find out soon enough
***
Arlen made a perfect traveling companion. They split their waking hours so that one of them always sat at Outlaw’s helm. The ship could self-navigate, but Cabot felt better knowing that someone always had their eye out. He didn’t fancy the idea of explaining to Fallon that he had not only botched his mission, but also damaged her ship. Though he didn’t think he had any reason to worry about Fallon ever visiting him in the middle of the night, he was a man who knew the value of being risk averse.
Although the days ticked by pleasantly enough, it felt odd not tending his store each day. He hoped the people on Dragonfire were getting the items they needed. He had a single employee who was fantastic with numbers, but hadn’t quite learned the art of salesmanship. Lim was a recent addition to Dragonfire. He was a few years younger than Arlen, and an apparent refugee of a rough situation that had stripped him of his past.
Lim didn’t talk about all that, though, and had devoted himself to living in the present. Cabot doubted Lim would remain in his employ for long, but he’d been fascinated by Lim’s ability to capture disparate groups of data and sculpt them into a startlingly accurate vision of galactic commerce.
What Lim lacked in sales skills, he more than made up for in market projections. Cabot would miss him when he moved on. In the meantime, at least someone was opening his shop each day.
He let out a long sigh, holding a cup of herbal tea between his hands. The next day, he and Arlen would arrive at Dauntless Station and begin equipping themselves for the negotiations on Briv. His two weeks of quiet and near-solitude were about to come to an abrupt end.
He’d put off telling Arlen his intentions, but the time had come. He finished his tea, cleaned and secured the cup, and left the small mess hall.
He entered the cockpit and took a seat.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely forthcoming about the cargo we need to procure for our dealings with the Briveen,” he told her.
Arlen half-turned in her seat, looking at him with her blank, ready-for-business expression. He’d have thought she’d be more relaxed with him by now, but so far, he hadn’t seen her lose her wariness with anyone. Before this trip, he hadn’t realized she had a chip on her shoulder about something or other, but clearly she did.
“Oh?” was all she said.
“We need a variety of ritual equipment and offerings. I have to find something the Briveen will accept as the gift that opens up business negotiations. Nothing I had in my inventory seemed quite right. Also, they’ll provide most of the bells and incense and whatnot, but we each need to have custom cloaks that the merchant caste on Briv wears when conducting negotiations.”
“We have to wear their clothes?”
He tilted his head, deciding how best to explain. “Not all of them. Just the cloaks. The Briveen are sticklers for proper caste behavior, as well as their rituals. To do business with them on their planet, we must behave as those of the merchant caste would.”
“Why haven’t you been teaching me how to do that? I could have spent the past weeks studying.”
Here was the sticky bit.
“Because merchants must attend negotiations with a same-sex attendant in tow. We need to hire those attendants on Dauntless, then train them on our way to Briv. I didn’t see the point of beginning the lessons until we have everyone on board.”
Arlen’s posture became more rigid. “You never mentioned we’d bring mercenaries on board.”
Having contained the truth up to this point, Cabot now changed tactics and went with a tell-all approach. “I didn’t think you’d come along if you knew.”
“I wouldn’t have. I don’t do business with people who don’t abide by PAC law. But now that we’re only a day from Dauntless, I have no choice.” Her eyes were cold.
Cabot regretted the need for subterfuge, but not his actions. He’d been hired to do a job, and he’d do what he must to complete it.
Arlen was a professional. She’d recognize the necessity of doing things the way he had, once she got over her annoyance.
“Tell me everything I need to know.” Her flat tone gave no insight into her current opinion of him.
He appreciated that.
“Omar Freeborn. A longtime associate. He’s going to act the part of male attendant, though he doesn’t know that yet. He just knows I have a job for him. I sent him a message asking him to find a female associate of his that could handle a highly discreet transaction that requires a lot of in-person contact. He’s working on it.”
“What’s Omar’s story?”
Cabot had to think about what details she’d find relevant. He knew a great deal about Omar, having worked
with him for decades. Much of that history had no bearing on current events. What was important was that Omar was probably his most trusted friend.
“He’s hybrid. Works in the PAC under regulations sometimes. Works outside the PAC in the free market sometimes. He specializes in doing in-person negotiations, so he’s often brokering deals for other people and taking a cut of the profit. It’s a good business. His overhead his low, and he has no hard ties, so he can go wherever he needs to.”
“Is he a ripper?” Her tone hardened on the word.
She could have focused on more practical details, but her interest in Omar’s business practices gave Cabot an insight into Arlen. She’d had dealings with rippers—something personal and bad. Whatever happened was the reason she had such a strong moral compass. Damn. He wished he’d realized that about her sooner. At least it had little bearing on their current situation.
“No. He’s not a killer or a pirate. He’ll lie or cheat when he needs to, but he’s not a bad guy.” Cabot wished he could tell what Arlen was thinking. Her stony face gave nothing away.
“Fine.” She stood and stepped a little too close, looking at him hard in the eyes.
He didn’t move a millimeter, returning her look. She was displeased, but they worked a hard business, and he’d been at it a lot longer than she had. A trader half his age would not intimidate him.
Her top lip curled and she leaned even further into his space. “No more surprises.”
“No more surprises,” he agreed, holding her gaze.
She turned abruptly and stalked off.
He watched her go. As much as he liked and respected her, he had a job to do. He wouldn’t let friendship get in the way of that.
***
Boarding Dauntless Station was a frosty affair. Cabot felt torn between respecting Arlen’s space and giving her the appropriate warnings about a mercenary station. Her keen eyes took in the sleek surfaces and hard people who openly wore weapons as they strutted through.
Dauntless wasn’t the dank and greasy place people thought of when they mentioned mercenary stations. It was as clean and pretty a station Cabot had ever seen. People didn’t want to do high-dollar transactions in a shithole, so keeping the place shiny and pleasant-looking meant ensuring profitability.
Plus, mercenary stations weren’t plagued with regulations like PAC stations were. No minimum required height for second-floor guardrails or clumsy accessibility platforms. On Dauntless, you looked out for yourself, because no one else would.
Whatever questions or comments Arlen had, she kept them to herself. She nodded tightly when they arrived at their side-by-side rooms and he cautioned her about going out alone.
“Every now and then, a person will disappear from a merc station, and that’s just that.” He gave her a pointed look.
She pushed into her room and closed the door.
He sighed, wondering how long she’d be annoyed with him. She still had some things to learn about the business.
He entered his room. He’d selected identical quarters for them that were neither austere nor luxurious. They represented the exact median price of the quarters offered for rent on a nightly basis. This ensured that he didn’t come across as either a pauper or a spendthrift. Appearances were important.
Besides, from what Fallon had said, now was not the time to pamper himself with PAC money.
The difficulties that lay ahead for the PAC weighed on him. At forty-five, he was no old man, but of a mature, established age for a Rescan. His concerns lay mainly with the younger people of the alliance. People like Arlen and Nix, as well as billions of children whose sunny futures had suddenly plunged into dangerous uncertainty.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Civilized societies didn’t behave like this. He’d always appreciated that Barony’s government was run more like a business than any other government he’d ever seen—even that of Rescissitan. He’d admired the Barony Coalition. Sure, he’d seen hints of ruthlessness here and there, but he’d thought those hints were the unavoidable outliers. Now he knew they’d been glimpses of the truth, and he just hadn’t realized it.
His lack of foresight galled him. He prided himself on his nose for business. As a man with no family besides his parents and some extended family on the homeworld, he’d made his work his entire life. He was happy with that. He had a knack for predicting emerging markets years before they happened.
But a major organization within the PAC destroying everything for profit…well, that would have been too much even for Cabot to take seriously.
As he sat alone on the couch of his rented quarters, he knew this was the real reason he’d taken on this mission, whether he’d admitted it to himself before this point or not. It wasn’t because the job promised a good profit. It wasn’t that negotiating on behalf of the PAC would be excellent for his reputation. It wasn’t even that he was pretty sure Fallon knew twenty-three ways to kill him with her pinky. Nor was it even entirely because of his fondness for Nix and his desire to keep her safe.
All those things were true. But if he was being honest with himself—and, as long as he was telling the truth, he avoided that whenever possible—his reason was pride. He’d failed to anticipate this move by Barony, and his failure ate at him. Making a success of this negotiation with Briv was his attempt to make amends for it. To avoid being complicit in their success, he had to negate their success.
He leaned back, letting his head rest on the couch. The band of his ponytail dug into a bone and he impatiently tugged it out, letting his light brown hair hang loose.
His life shouldn’t be so complicated. His life was about buying things, selling things, and all the delightful details in making those two things happen. He wasn’t supposed to be consequential, and people weren’t supposed to rely on him.
Where had it all gone wrong?
***
Cabot woke to the sound of the door chime. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep leaning back on the couch. Groaning, he sat up and rubbed the back of his neck, which felt like an oxbeast had sat on it. He checked his comport and estimated he’d only dozed for a half hour.
As he got to his feet, the door chimed again. He didn’t hurry. He owed the chime, and the person behind it, nothing. In fact, they owed him for waking him up.
“Who is it?” he asked, his voice rough. Only an idiot opened the door to a stranger on a mercenary station.
“Your past, come back to haunt you.”
The voice went through Cabot like a knife. He thought about not opening the door. He had a sudden, unbidden fantasy about decompressing all the station’s corridors.
“You have to open the door. Omar sent me.”
He continued to think about not opening the door. If there was one person in the galaxy he did not want to see, it was Nagali Freeborn.
Her voice came through again. “Come on. This involves your business, not mine, and you have to talk to me if you want the job done.”
He hated her voice. Hated how deep and smoky it was, and how it managed to be smooth like velvet and rough like broken glass at the same time. Hated her peculiar manner of speech, accenting every third syllable in a way that made her words undulate. Hated that he had no choice but to open the doors and look at her face.
As much as he disliked her voice, he detested her face.
He drew in a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and plastered on his trademark benignly pleasant expression. The surest way to annoy her was to treat her as he would any other person.
Ambivalence would also be the easiest way for him to get through this encounter. He’d been playing the role of ingratiating shopkeep for so long that it was as comfortable as his own skin.
Still, he hesitated before pushing the button to unlock the doors. He felt like a man walking to his doom.
The challenging glint in Nagali’s eyes hadn’t dimmed over the past eight years. He was further irked to note she looked no older than she had when last they’d met. He’d been hoping that ti
me had been unkind to her.
“Still holding a grudge, I see.” She strode in, not caring that he hadn’t invited her in, or even stepped back to make room for her. She shouldered her way right in. Just like she always did.
She would enjoy knowing she could still inspire such strong feelings, so Cabot lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. “You woke me. I was merely trying to shake off the haze.”
She eyed him with a small frown. “Well, you do have your hair down, so maybe you were sleeping.” The frown smoothed and her full, red lips curled into a little smile. “I always liked how you look with your hair loose. You should wear it like that more often. Makes you look roguish.”
“Customers don’t like roguish. They like polished and polite.”
She made herself at home on the couch. “That’s right, you’re running a shop now. On a PAC station, right? Blackthorn or something like that?”
She knew exactly where he’d been for the past seven years, but he answered as pleasantly as he would have spoken to a potential customer. “Close. Dragonfire.”
“Right. How are things out in that sector of space?” She crossed her ankle over the opposite knee and stretched her arms full-length across the back of the couch. Taking up space to convey comfort. An obvious bid for dominance.
Rather than sit, he went to the kitchenette and mixed himself a drink. Normally, he drank water. In the rare event he needed something stronger, straight brandy did the trick. But he wanted something that took time and precision, so he used the standard items stocked in the room to create a fruity cocktail. Just the sort of thing Nagali hated.
“Things are good. Jamestown is better than new. The repairs brought a good deal of business my way. Not that I needed it. Dragonfire’s already a hotbed of commerce. But who minds an increase?” He smiled benignly and used an old-fashioned glass stirrer to mix the cocktail.
“Not I,” agreed Nagali. “But then, I could never be tied down to a shop. So pedestrian. How do you bear it?”
Cabot could almost admire how blithely offensive she could be.
