Her little smile disappeared when she saw the look on my face. “Do you know what?” I said, carefully taking the gun with the tips of my thumb and forefinger as if I were picking it out of a patch of stinging nettles. “I don’t agree.”
Chapter 29
“Ritsuko City Spaceport welcomes visitors to Luna, the cradle of human spacegoing,” droned the loudspeaker. “All visitors are reminded that they are under no obligation to charter unemployed star pilots.”
The words were surprisingly clear, and becoming more so every day. The lines of star pilots at either side of the concourse had thinned out to the point that their combined voices could no longer match the loudspeaker’s maximum volume. There was even enough room for everyone to have something to sit on, other than each other.
Most of the star pilots who were still here were getting old. They were stubborn, more set in their ways, or perhaps just resigned to having done all they needed to do in the universe. Most of the younger ones had gone to Salvation.
The pilot I was specifically keeping an eye on was an aging man with a goatee that had probably looked much cooler before his hair had receded to the top of his crown. He wore a weather-beaten flight jacket adorned with a large patch on the back depicting a red cylinder with a sparking fuse. Richard Deneuve, a.k.a. Dick Dynamite. He’d named himself unironically, as far as I knew; the Golden Age had been a more innocent time.
I cringed a little at his choice of location—right next to the potted plant, where he couldn’t be seen from the gate—but not all of us had adjusted well to the new age. Dick certainly looked undernourished, but I was more concerned about whether or not the kid I’d temporarily employed was actually going to complete the task.
To my relief, I saw him then, moving across the concourse at right angles to the rest of the crowd. He was one of the Jacques McKeown fanboys that hung around the bookstore, so the hope that illuminated Dick’s eyes when he saw someone approaching died the moment he took in the distressed flight jacket and self-conscious swagger.
But that disappointment shifted quickly to confusion as the kid held out a thick padded envelope. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but presumably the kid’s words were something along the lines of “Some guy told me to give this to you.”
Dick asked the kid something—probably something like “Are you sure you have the right man?”—and the kid pointed to the envelope, which was very clearly printed with the words “Richard ‘Dick Dynamite’ Deneuve, Star Pilot.” Then Dick asked who this was from, and if the kid could follow instructions properly, he’d reply, “Some guy. I didn’t see his face.”
Finally, Dick opened the envelope, and as he perused the contents, the kid melted back into the crowd, in full accordance with my instructions. I breathed a sigh of relief. This was the first time I’d used this method. Last time I’d left the envelope on the recipient’s docking steps, and the time before that, snuck it into a load of freshly tumble-dried laundry at Frobisher’s. I didn’t want to start getting predictable.
Dick pulled out the topmost item in the envelope and stared at it, baffled. It was a copy of Jacques McKeown and the Judgment of Juvon.
Juvon was a planet on the direct opposite end of the Black to Cantrabargid, divided between two distinct cultures. The more bellicose one was constantly attempting to subjugate the other, and ground was being gained and lost on a daily basis. The conquest had come closest to succeeding in the last major war, but the aggressors had been foiled at the last moment by the intervention of a star pilot.
Dick was very familiar with the place, because he had been the star pilot in question, and his story had been ineptly fictionalized in the book that he now held. I could only imagine what he thought the intended message was, until he saw what else was in the envelope. His hands clenched tightly, scrunching the envelope closed, and he bit his lip so hard I thought he might draw blood.
Judgment of Juvon had been of middling popularity for a McKeown book, meaning that most publishers would have considered it a success worthy of immediate and lengthy retirement to their own personal cocaine farm. It had earned McKeown himself about eight hundred thousand euroyen, determined from the book sales figures on record, his contractual profit share, and one or two educated guesses. But the book itself was only there in the envelope to explain the rest of the contents.
Eight hundred thousand euroyen. In tightly bound stacks of untraceable cash.
Dick held his prize close to his chest, looking left and right to see if anyone else had seen. That was a fairly typical reaction. As was his next: he speed walked away, forgetting to take his cardboard sign with him.
“And what do you think he’s going to do with that?”
I’d been watching Dick so intently that I hadn’t noticed Warden arrive and sit opposite me. She was wearing a new suit, something with a slightly more daring dull-brown color scheme to reflect her new position as corporate adviser to the frontiers. I leaned back, sighed, and took a long sip on my coffee before I replied. “I don’t know. Never work again?”
Warden leaned back as well, checking her nails for a moment, determined not to look less relaxed. “Or drink it away,” she said. “Or get cheated out of it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Or blow it on pimping out his ship. Or throw it straight in the bin. Lofty Doc did that; he was always one for the prideful gesture. I don’t care what they do with it. The point is, the choice is in their hands.”
“And more than one of them made the ‘choice’ to donate it all back to Salvation Station. It might have been quicker and more efficient just to leave it all with Blaze.”
I wrinkled my nose. “What are you doing here, anyway? Ritsuko City is Henderson’s turf. He’s been building his power base since the moment he got back.”
“I only just Quantunneled in and I’ll be Quantunneled out by the time he hears about it.” The corner of Warden’s mouth curled up very slightly in her usual poor imitation of a smile. “Besides, he has shown me too many of his weaknesses. And we have eyes and ears wherever there are star pilots.”
I exhaled angrily, through bared teeth. “I thought you were Henderson’s victim. Not one of his protégés. I didn’t help you get away from him so you could turn Salvation into some kind of rival crime family.”
“Blaze is the one in charge, McKeown.”
I showed her my scarred hand, where she’d implanted the bootleg ID chip. “It’s Dashford Pierce now, remember? And Blaze is an old man. In a dangerous part of the galaxy. Don’t think I haven’t realized that you realize that.”
Bit by bit, her expression changed. Just a millimeter’s movement here and there to turn her smugness down half a notch and put a few emotional walls back up. “I take it there’s no point in offering you a position again, then.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
She stared out at the concourse to where Dick Dynamite had stood. “Blaze asked me. Well, officially, he believes in your project and just wants to know how it’s going and if you need anything. But I can tell what he really wants. We have also been contacted by the United Republic, wanting to set up a meeting to discuss what they can do to help ‘the effort,’ but they specifically want to talk to one Captain Handsome.”
I gave a little smirk, which I unsuccessfully tried to remove before she saw it.
“You know, if you do have concerns about my intentions for Salvation Station,” said Warden, meeting my gaze again, “your best course of action would be to join, and keep me under supervision.”
I returned the look with tired, half-lidded eyes. “Cross the Black? Help create a place for star pilots in the universe? Hunt Zoobs and battle pirates?”
“It’s a little Golden Age all over again. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
I deflated in my seat. “I thought it was. When Quantunneling started, seemed like all I could think about was wanting things to go back to how they used to be. And back there, for a little while, it was. Just for a moment. And then a monster nearly bit
my head off.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Surely you don’t expect me to believe that you’re traumatized now.”
“No,” I said automatically. “But it brought back a few things. I came pretty close to getting my head bitten off a few times back in the war on Cantrabargid, too. And a hundred other places. What Blaze was trying with the new Cantrabargid, that might be fake, but no one’s getting their head bitten off, either.”
She nodded. “You’ve outgrown it.”
“Maybe. Maybe there never was a Golden Age. Maybe some glorious delusion of one is the best we can hope for. Do you see what I mean?”
“Frankly, all I see is a thug who may finally have realized what he was all along.”
I coughed. “Thug?”
“Maybe a little more than that,” she said, glancing away in thought. “A mercenary. A thief. A con man, at best. But if it helps, being a thug is an improvement over being a delusional thug.”
I glared at her over my new sunglasses. “If you’re still trying to talk me into something, you’re going the wrong way about it.”
She sniffed. “So what will you do now?”
I produced my new datapad and called up the document that was on near-permanent display. I drew a little tick next to Dick Dynamite’s name with my finger. “Keep going down the list. Keep sharing out the money.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t plan ahead, remember?” I glanced at the spaceport’s Quantunnel gate as it opened again, disgorging a new horde of tourists that sent the star pilots into a fresh frenzy. “It’s like Blaze said. A hero’s only job is to make himself unnecessary.”
She thought about that for a good five seconds. “An unnecessary man is also a man that nobody will miss.”
I half smiled with incredulity. “Was that a threat? Are you serious?”
“No. I am merely pointing out that a threat exists.”
“Henderson?”
She rolled her eyes and clasped her hands together in front of her, then spoke with a slow, condescending tone. “The money. That you are giving away. Belongs to someone.”
“McKeown,” I identified. “Funny, I came pretty close to forgetting that I’m not actually him. Why would he be a threat? He’s never revealed himself before, not even to collect his plying pay. Why should he now?”
“Perhaps because he is believed to have died in the destruction of the Jemima.”
“So why would he want to let anyone think otherwise? Everyone knows star pilots would crucify him.”
That merest hint of a smile again. She’d definitely cranked the smugness back up. “You may be surprised. The beneficiaries of your campaign—I’ve heard a couple of them talking at Salvation. They have assumed that they have McKeown to thank for the gifts. They think it may be someone executing his will.”
I felt pangs of disappointment. “I can see . . . why they would think that,” I realized painfully.
“So if we are assuming that his reclusiveness was due to fear of reprisal from star pilots, you may be making it easier and easier for him to take action. As you mend his reputation in their eyes.”
I considered the thought for a moment, biting my thumbnail, until a new thought sent it rocketing to the back of my mind. I met her gaze again. “You know who he is?”
“Blaze might have mentioned something.”
I kept staring. In that moment, I thought my heart might have stopped. “So?”
“You’ve met him. McKeown, I mean. At least, I’m fairly certain you have. Any more, I see no reason to reveal.”
My hands were at my brow. “Why would you plying tell me something like that and then leave me hanging?!”
She started gathering up her things. “That was merely a courtesy. I am not going to fully share such a valuable piece of intelligence with an unaffiliated party.” She glanced up briefly to see if I’d caught the emphasis. “Well then, I think there’s nothing more to discuss for now. You have my number if you ever change your mind.”
I think she must have expected me to call her back, or at least throw out some kind of parting shot, because she slowed dramatically when she was a few steps away, but she didn’t turn. I let her amble slowly across the café area until she sped her pace up again to join the outgoing spaceport crowd.
“Div,” I called, a split second before she left earshot.
The old docking bay at Ritsuko spaceport was also becoming less and less crowded these days, to the point that the authorities were throwing around the idea of scrapping the booking system, but for the time being, I still had my own bay. I made my way toward it, passing by the ship of one of my beneficiaries. I took a moment to marvel at its new chrome-plated fins and spray artwork, depicting a wizard fighting a gorilla in a bra.
I could understand the thought behind it, to an extent. Since I’d gotten back to her, I’d been showering the Neverdie with affection like a cheating spouse trying to make amends. Nothing as flashy—just a new paint job and enough maintenance to put a comfortable distance between it and failing a rigorous safety check. Also, since Jacques McKeown and the Malmind Menace had been no slouch, saleswise, I’d treated her to a thorough inside-and-out seeing-to by the Lightspeed Cleaning Service (a Frobisher side venture).
Now, when I entered and saw her on the far side of the bay, she looked like a bride at the end of the church aisle. Not a young, virginal one, but maybe closer to the midthirties, one that had filled out nicely, who could challenge and surprise you in all the interesting ways. She stood proud and patient on her landing legs, as if standing with one hand on hip, her hull shining in the light and bearing its dents without shame.
I thought about Warden’s warning as I crossed the docking bay’s expansive floor, hands buried in jacket pockets. Maybe she was right. I was mending the reputation of the great betrayer Jacques McKeown in such a way that I remained the only person who still knew that he was a betrayer. Thus ensuring I would have no backup if he did come after me.
He’d have to find me first, and that was the point of the whole “anonymous drops of untraceable cash” thing. But even if he did, what could he do? Have me arrested for stealing his money, perhaps, but that would mean simultaneously revealing himself publicly and tanking his reputation with the pilots again. He could break my kneecaps with a crowbar, but then so could anyone else. I suppose he could always passive-aggressively base a character on me.
The point was, he didn’t have any kind of power, because he didn’t have any money. I’d taken it all. All that he made from the books, anyway. And that thought made me slow for a moment, because it occurred to me that there was one explanation for that. That he hadn’t collected the money because he already had enough . . .
By then, I was at my ship’s airlock, ready to get some shut-eye before making a plan for the next name on my list. But as I lowered the docking steps, a voice called out from nearby. It made me freeze, because it was calling out a name that I didn’t go by anymore.
Two individuals stepped out from behind the cargo loader parked near my ship. On the left was someone I recognized from the spaceport’s internal security staff, with whom I had a passing acquaintance. His mouth was tight and serious, although his eyes were apologetic. On the right was an older man in a shirt and tie, who seemed to have one eyebrow permanently raised in disbelief. He was wearing a shoulder holster with a gun, which the security officer didn’t seem to have a problem with.
“Are you the registered owner of this vessel?” asked the second man.
My gaze flicked from one man to the other as I digested that. The gun and the official language pointed to him being a policeman. Or someone very convincingly disguised as a policeman trying to get close enough to knife me in the gut. “Yes?” I said, deciding there was no immediate danger in that, at least.
The cop produced an official document and a pair of handcuffs. “I have a warrant for your arrest.”
“For what?” I attempted to sound incredulous.
“Contempt of
court.”
I leaned forward and inspected the text of the document without stepping any closer, but I’d already recalled the jabbering voices of that little doint Ronald and his horrible parents. That felt like years ago. I had a confusing sensation that came from wanting to cry with despair and laugh out loud at the same time.
He frowned, apparently picking up on my internal turmoil. “Are you the person named on this warrant or aren’t you?”
I could already feel words assembling in my throat. Oh, that name? No, as you’ll see from my chip ID, I am Mr. Dashford Pierce, man about town. The registered owner of this ship, you say? Well, I only bought it a week ago. I did think the guy seemed a bit eager to get rid of it. But at the time I was distracted by how uncannily he resembled me . . .
Maybe I could buy time. Just enough to pack up, get out, and get the Neverdie set up with a new paint job and registration number. Maybe a sex change and one of those cosmetic skin-tinting procedures for me. All I had to do was keep moving.
“Sir?” asked the security officer.
I could feel the imaginary finger resting on the imaginary switch in my head, ready to flip it. But as the moment drew on, all the words I’d prepared dried up and drifted away like autumn leaves.
I held out my wrists. “Let’s go,” I sighed.
All tension immediately left the two officials, and the policeman slapped the cuffs on. “Why’d you miss a court appearance, then?” asked the security guard conversationally. “Did you just forget?”
“No,” I said, pulling my hands apart to test the strength of the chain. “But I stopped remembering.”
I was escorted from the docking bay, walking ahead of the policeman, and the universe continued to turn.
Will Save the Galaxy for Food Page 32
