Jewels of the Dragon

by Allen Wold

  He was still worrying over the problem half an hour later when someone knocked on his door. It was a young man, dressed in leather but without a gun, carrying a white plastic box.

  "You Braeth?" the young man asked.

  "Yes, what is it?"

  "Your supper." He handed Rikard the box. "That'll cost you eight bills."

  "I already paid the clerk at the registration desk."

  "I don't know about that."

  Rikard stared down at him for a second or two. "Shall we go out and talk to him?"

  "Ah, no, never mind." The young man grimaced, then walked rapidly away.

  Rikard closed the door and took the box into his kitchen. He didn't know whether it was his size or his attitude that had won that little contest, but he felt good about it anyway.

  Everything he'd ordered was there in the box, but it was cold. He loaded it all, except the beer, into the kitchen console and turned it on.

  Even assuming he could get off Kohltri, he had to decide what he would do then. If his father had made his last score and there was any money left, there would be no problem. Rikard would just demand his share, take what he could, and then leave his father to whatever kind of life he'd made for himself here.

  But if the money was gone, or if his father hadn't made his score, or had died trying, Rikard wouldn't have enough money to buy passage all the way home. He'd have to get a job somewhere, probably as a teacher at some university. That was what Historians usually did.

  And once he was home, then what?

  He opened his first beer and drank half of it. The kitchen console pinged. He took out his dinner, set it on the table, and started eating.

  He didn't want to be a teacher. Not any more. Though his two-year search for his father had been frustrating, Rikard had come to enjoy being on his own, completely independent, with no one but himself to answer to.

  Maybe he could use his degrees as a Local Historian to set himself up in some kind of private research business. But even that didn't seem very appealing right now. It could hardly provide the same kind of excitement as the hunt for his father had so far. He didn't really have any idea what he wanted to do with himself.

  Ever since his mother died, his life had been guided by the desire to be just the opposite of his father, both as he knew him and as he had imagined him to be. He had tried his best to deny everything his father had taught him, to ignore the meaning of the useless operation that had scarred his hand.

  Only after he finished at the university had he realized that his revenge was no revenge after all if his father wasn't there to see it. That was when he'd decided to find his father and show him that he was his own person. And take his share of whatever his father had found.

  And his father was here on Kohltri somewhere. Rikard wasn't about to let some toughs who had wanted to mess him up a little frighten him away. His father would have laughed.

  He finished his meal and opened another beer. He had to make up his mind what he was going to do next. If he stayed here and continued his search, he'd have to accept the fact that he was his father's son after-all. That was what his experience of the last two years was building up to.

  Now was a turning point. He could give up now, having come this far, try to go home, and just be another normal citizen. Or he could face the challenge, finish the search, and become something like the kind of man his father had once been. He would have to, in order to survive here. Did he want to face his father that badly?

  His father... But how had his father started out? Just another citizen of the Federation, as far as Rikard knew. He'd become an adventurer; he'd not been born one.

  If Rikard left Kohltri now, the last two years of his life would be wasted. He would have to reassess his whole attitude about himself. But at least he'd be alive—assuming he could get off Kohltri in the first place.

  He fingered the scar on the palm of his right hand. When the impression of concentric circles appeared in front of his eyes, he tried vainly, as he always did, to make them come clear. They flickered and faded.

  He cleaned up after his meal, finished a third beer, then went out to the registration desk. Another patron, an off-worlder by his dress, was talking to the night clerk. Rikard waited until their business was finished, then went up to the desk.

  "The guy who brought me supper wanted eight bills" he said.

  "Did you pay him?"

  "No. I suggested we come out and talk to you about it."

  "That was smart. Cherep'll take you for anything you've got, if you let him. Otherwise he's trustworthy."

  Rikard leaned on the counter and tried to organize his thoughts. "I think I mentioned," he said slowly, "that I have no return ticket to the station."

  The clerk just looked at him, but with something in his expression that made Rikard think a return ticket could be had—for the right price.

  "I was wondering," Rikard went on, "if it might be possible to book passage from here to Higgins, or Kylesplanet, even so."

  "Surely," the clerk said softly, "and nobody up at the station need know about it. Cost extra, of course."

  "How much?"

  The clerk told him. Not quite double the regular fare. Rikard had that much, but only enough more to live on for about five days after he got there. He'd have to find a job quickly, but he could leave tomorrow.

  "Just curious," he said. He left the surprised clerk and went back to his room.

  Part Three

  1

  He got to the records office early the next morning, prepared to spend the whole day searching. He found the credit information he wanted almost at once. His father had established an account and had drawn from it for two-thirds of a year. There were no further deposits or withdrawals for the next eleven years, right up to today. There was still credit in the account.

  There was an address associated with the account, but it was only a postal drop. That was not uncommon in this city, and was the kind of thing his father probably would have arranged anyway.

  The last place to check was the records of deaths. Rikard had been putting that off for as long as possible, hoping he wouldn't have to look there. And besides, there was no sense searching that file until he had a better idea of the probable dates.

  The death records were in another room. He found the right year and combed the files. The records were incredibly incomplete. Some entries for multiple deaths—accident? mayhem?—didn't bother to list all the names. Pages were missing or out of order. If his father had died eleven years ago, it could easily have not been recorded. In any event, there was no certificate of death or burial.

  There was no more information for him here, but there was still more he could do elsewhere. His father was sure to have made an impression on people over a period of two-thirds of a year. Now all Rikard had to do was find somebody who had known his father back then.

  He had no idea how a police investigator or private de­tective would go about that kind of search, but he felt it couldn't be much different from historical research. One sim­ply questioned people instead of documents. He just hoped the people would be willing to talk to him.

  He went back to the main office and found the old woman who had directed him to room 4B the first time he'd come. She still bore the appearance of incredible fatigue, but he had since learned that it was appearance only. He stood in front of the desk where she was working.

  "Is there any other source of documents and records?" he asked when she looked up at him at last.

  "None that I've ever seen. Run dry?"

  "As of eleven years ago."

  "End of the line, huh?"

  "This part of it anyway. I'm hoping I can find some people here who knew him back then."

  "Lots of luck."

  "Thanks, I'll need it." He hesitated a moment. "This is only my second day here, and I'd never even heard of Kohltri until about ten days ago. The only thing I know about this place is mat my ignorance could be fatal."

  "You've hit it," th
e woman said dryly, but with good hu­mor.

  "So I figure before I go on with my research, I'd better learn something about how to survive here."

  "You're already beginning to pick it up. What do you want to know?" She held out her hand as if she were feeling a piece of fabric. With only the slightest hesitation, Rikard took out his wallet and handed her a small bill. She smiled, the money disappeared, and she put down the document case she'd been holding.

  "Just what do you know about Kohltri?" she asked.

  "Nothing but what I've seen since I got here—the port zone, my hostel, these offices. Except, of course, that mining has a lot to do with the economy."

  "Mining is the economy, but I'm not the one to talk to about that. Ask around and you'll fmd talkers readily enough, even if you are an offworlder."

  "I've gathered that laws and regulations are less stringently enforced here than in the rest of the Federation," he went on in obvious understatement

  "You really don't know anything about Kohltri, do you? Sonny, whatever law and order exists here does so by virtue of somebody's gun. You've no doubt noticed that every citizen of Kohltri wears a gun." She reached down and brought up a needier. "Everybody—unless they've established a reputation for being both harmless and not worth the effort." She put her weapon away.

  "Do you know who the citizens of Kohltri are?" she went on. "We're criminals, all of us, one way or another. We managed to get here one step ahead of the law. You might not believe me, but look around you. Everybody here, with the exception of a few Gesta, exploiters, and the offworlders who come here for sport, everybody is here because anywhere else they'd be arrested and sent to prison. At best."

  "Even you?"

  "Even me. Kohltri is a refuge, kid. It's a place tolerated by the Federation because if we're here, we're not out there causing trouble. It's a prison of our own choosing. We can leave anytime we want, but nobody ever does. So what you have here is a society of rampant individualists. Everybody is a leader, nobody is a follower, and nobody is used to taking orders from anyone unless those orders are backed up with the threat of instant reprisals. Beginning to get the picture?"

  "Ah, yeah. But if what you say is true, then I guess I'm surprised anybody bothers to maintain these records or handle any of the other business necessary for the survival of a community."

  "Survival is the reason. We have to eat, even here. We hold jobs here just like the ones we held out there. I've always been a record keeper. The fact that I killed my husband fifty years ago doesn't alter that. I'm probably one of the nicest people you're likely to meet here." She started laughing softly.

  Rikard felt out of place and defenseless. For a moment he wished he'd bought the ticket the clerk had tacitly offered him last night.

  "I don't think I belong here," he said, "but I didn't have any choice in the matter, and it's not likely that I'm going to be able to get away very soon."

  "Then you'd better learn how to survive."

  "What's the best way I can do that?"

  "The only way I know is to go out on the streets, watch what everybody else does, and do the same. You get a few knocks that way, but if you're observant and bright—and lucky—you'll make it. That's what I did."

  She lost interest in him all at once, turned away, and went back to her work.

  Rikard left the records office and walked back to his hostel. He felt as though all the citizens were watching him, just waiting their chance to cheat him or mug him. He watched them in return, hoping to learn something, but they did nothing interesting. Except for their clothes, their guns, and their expressions of disdain when they saw an offworlder, they behaved just like pedestrians anywhere.

  He watched the offworlders too. Now he knew why they had that frightened, cautious look. He felt frightened himself and did his best not to look that way.

  The night clerk had been friendly and helpful, in his own fashion. Rikard hoped the man would give him some ad­vice—for a price, of course. He had to learn a lot more about Kohltri if he was going to go among the citizens and stay in one piece. And he wouldn't be able to find his father if he just hid out in his room.

  As he turned into the courtyard of the hostel, he noticed a woman standing across the street, as if waiting for some­body. He stared at her openly for a few moments before her identity sunk in. She was wearing the typical leathers of a citizen, and a machine pistol was holstered on her hip.

  The last time he'd seen her, she'd been dressed as any resident of Kohltri Station. She'd worn a jolter then at the small of her back. It was Emeth Zakroyan.

  2

  He was not prepared to confront her. He entered the courtyard, crossed it quickly, went up to the registration desk, and asked the day clerk if there was a back way out. The woman did not seem at all surprised. She showed him a corridor that exited around the corner from the hostel. Rikard thanked her with a small bill and followed her directions.

  He didn't know why Zakroyan was here, but he was sure she wanted to see him. He had no intention of letting her find him in his rooms, or anywhere else if he could help it.

  Especially not if she was wearing a machine pistol. That was a much more effective man-slayer than the needier the woman at the records office had shown him. He doubted Zakroyan was wearing it just for prestige.

  Out on the street he went back toward the front of the hostel and peered cautiously around the corner. He felt conspicuous, being so openly sneaky, but none of the citizens paid him any attention.

  Zakroyan was not where he'd seen her. Maybe her being there had just been a coincidence after all. Or had she seen him and followed him into the hostel? He hoped she'd just left, but he suspected she was in his rooms. He wondered if the day clerk would tell her how he'd left the building. She could be coming out that back entrance right behind him.

  He didn't wait to find out. He started walking away from the hostel as quickly as he could, and turned at the first corner. After about five blocks, he turned another corner and stopped. He was still in the central district, but he didn't know exactly where. He checked the street sign against his map.

  He wanted to give Zakroyan time to finish her business and time to get bored and go away, so now was as good a time as any to observe the citizens some more and try to learn how to behave in the city. He walked on, keeping away from the hostel, changing directions frequently but never straying from the well-mapped central district.

  He watched everybody, both citizen and visitor. There were far fewer offworlders than he had at first thought; their varied clothing just made them more noticeable. They almost invariably had the look of tourists. Rikard couldn't imagine why anyone who didn't have to would come here.

  Maybe they were seeking thrills, he thought, though some, like him, might have more legitimate business. And perhaps some of them were newly arrived criminals, almost as ig­norant as he.

  The more he saw of the offworlders, the more he under­stood the looks of contempt the citizens gave them. They were a sorry-looking bunch of intruders, ignorant of the ways of this world.

  As he walked along, he wondered what kind of life the citizens must lead. Free in their refuge, like primitives on a reservation, they could do what they pleased within their own boundaries. But they were prisoners, nonetheless. Everyone a leader and not a follower among them, the woman at the records office had said. That they were able to cooperate at all and keep their society running was something of a miracle.

  He began to take more notice of the buildings he was passing. The modern section near the port looked like anything he'd seen elsewhere, except for being so small. But the rest of the central zone was different.

  It was a kind of interface between the civilization of the outside represented by the port itself, and the wilderness of the rest of the city. There were few citizens in the port area; most of the pedestrians were offworlders. The farther from the port he got, the fewer offworlders he saw. At some distance from the center, there would be no offworlders at all.<
br />
  At first he saw the buildings outside of the modern section as just anonymous blanks. The outer walls which enclosed the courtyards were featureless. After a while he began to notice the subtly executed signs set flush to the walls above the central doors. He entered one door on impulse.

  The courtyard, as with the others he'd been in, was filled with plants. Most of them, he guessed, were imported from other worlds. But unlike the hostel and the records office, this courtyard had display windows on the three inside walls, and doors for eight shops. None of the merchandise displayed was of any interest to him. They were just typical stores, like ones he might find anywhere. He left that courtyard and entered another. It was much the same.

  The thought struck him that if he were dressed in leather he might be able to pass as a citizen and visit some of the remoter parts of the city. He didn't know how far he could trust the merchants but felt they would be more honest closer to the port.

  He went back to the modern section of the city, where the shops and stores opened onto the street instead of into court­yards. There he found what looked like a more or less normal clothing store. The styles and fashions displayed inside were eclectic and, as usual on other worlds, were only samples.

  There was an alcove with a selection of leathers as well. These were not display samples but the actual clothing to be bought and worn. Rikard examined the merchandise while the clerk, dressed like an offworlder, was attending to another customer.

  The "leather" wasn't made from animal skins, of course, though certain accessories were advertised to be so and accordingly were very expensive. Instead it was a hydrocarbon polymer which looked, felt, and weighed like leather but was far more flexible, rather elastic, and considerably stronger than the real thing. The sales tag also claimed that the pseudo-leather was impervious to normal knife cuts, defended well against needlers, and was nonflammable. That gave him something more to think about.

  At last the clerk finished with her other customer and came over to ask if he needed some help.