As is their nature, the megacorps and their fleets of highly cost effective merchant ships and liners monopolized the most lucrative trade routes. The Indies competed fiercely with one another for the marginal and frontier markets. They provided a vital service to thousands of worlds that otherwise would rarely merit a stop from the giant merchant carriers. When the three races arrived and made their public request for assistance, many Indie traders saw another opportunity as well. Here was a totally untapped market where there would be no competition from the megacorps. Once the star maps were released, many of the more adventurous stocked up on trade goods and began their long journey to Star Central two years before the battlestation was completed. The presence of these Indies who had preceded them provided valuable information, and numerous complications, for the Fleet station when it did arrive.
TRADING UP
by Mike Resnick and Barbara Delaplace
“They’ll ruin everything!” Salimander Smith shouted at the group gathered at the bar. “Can’t anyone but me see it?” He glared at his companions. “You call yourselves traders? Hah! You couldn’t sell umbrellas in a rainstorm!” He picked up his mug of Arskellian beer—provided to him gratis by the management of The Lonesome Tavern, since he was the one who’d imported it for them—and drained it.
“You’re out of your mind,” said one woman. “The Stephen Hawking is one big enormous ripe market waiting for us Indies.” She paused. “I hear it’s got more than ten thousand personnel aboard. That’s ten thousand reasons business is going to boom.”
Smith looked at her with pity. “Delilah, my dear, you’re as hopelessly ill-informed as you are beautiful.” She glared at him, but made no reply. “I regret to inform you that a depressingly large proportion of that ten thousand consists of Independent traders like ourselves. This ain’t exactly the virgin market you think it is.”
“But even if there are a lot of Indies on board the Hawking, so what?” protested a tall man with a luxuriant beard and long, waxed mustaches. “We have the advantage of already knowing the territory. We’ve already got our contacts on the different worlds.”
“If they’re anything like your contacts, Davies,” retorted Smith contemptuously, “I’d say the new competition hasn’t got a thing to worry about. Made back your losses yet on that deal for Zanther goldfish skins? I’ll bet Manderxx the Nimble laughed all the way to what passes for a bank on his world.” The bearded man looked uncomfortable as the others hooted with laughter.
“We can always act as middlemen and contacts ourselves to the new traders, though. There’s enough business here for everyone,” said another woman, who sported a massive ear broach inlaid with rare Sirel fire-rubies.
“Not with those damned insects ruining every planet they set foot on,” said a third man. “They’ve wiped out two worlds that I had good trade deals with. I’ve lost markets worth millions. And don’t tell me you can cut deals with Ichtons, Salimander old lizard. I tried, and just barely got out with my skin intact.”
Smith surveyed the speaker with some distaste. “That’s what I like about you, Harry. Your humanitarian attitude and deep concern for other living beings.”
Harry eyed him truculently. “The bugs are bad for business. That’s all I care about. Now that the Hawking’s arrived, the Fleet will wipe ’em out, and we can get back to trading for a decent profit margin.”
“Not a chance,” said the woman wearing the ear broach. “Those Ichtons are tough bastards. I think the Fleet’s going to be around for a while.”
“I agree,” said Smith. “I’ve been checking with some of my contacts. It looks like we’re in for a long war. Unfortunately.”
“ ‘Unfortunately’?” repeated the woman. “Smith, you’ve been in space too long. The Fleet’ll need raw materials. They’ll need R-and-R. They’ll need fresh air and the great outdoors. The on-board merchants will want to trade. We’ll clean up.”
There was a general nodding of heads along the bar.
Smith scanned the faces. “You still can’t see it, can you? Now that the Fleet’s in the Core, things aren’t going to be like they were. The Fleet means law and order. No more unrestricted trade. That’s what’s bad for business.” He paused. “I’ve been an Independent trader—”
“—all my life,” the others finished for him.
Undaunted, Smith continued. “I’ve seen it happen before. The Fleet moves in, the Alliance starts breathing down everyone’s necks, and next thing you know, you need a permit just to lift off. I’ve been working the Core for—”
“—fifteen years!” they chorused.
Amid general laughter Davies said, “Oh, come off it! A few regulations won’t get in our way.”
“You think it’ll stop at a few regulations?” demanded Smith. “You’re a bigger fool than I thought! No organization stops after making just a few rules. And with the Fleet here, the Alliance is here. That means tariffs and duties and customs regulations. Do you really think they’re going to let us keep trading rights to the worlds we’ve opened up when they’re carrying five thousand traders of their own on that damned ship?” He stood up. “Well, I’m not going to just stand by and let it happen.”
“What’re you going to do—stop the Hawking single handed?” sneered Delilah. The other traders laughed.
“Not stop it. But I sure as hell plan to make it swerve a bit.” Smith picked up his vivid cloak and shrugged into it amid a general atmosphere of disbelief. “Good night, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve spent enough time with fools and losers.”
He went out into the darkness.
Back on his ship, Smith propped his embroidered boots onto a hassock and settled back in an antique leather armchair (obtained in a complicated four-cornered deal involving a Hong Kong merchant anxious to clear her warehouse, a Fleet services-and-supplies officer with an unlawful addiction to an illicit liquor, and an alien species known as the Nest Makers). A freshly poured beer at his elbow, he contemplated the projected fire in the holographic fireplace.
The habitues of The Lonesome Tavern were fools. Well, he’d warned them; if they couldn’t see the handwriting on the wall, it was hardly his problem. A trader always watched out for his own interests first.
And his interests were the trading deals he’d so painstakingly worked out with six alien worlds in the Core. It had taken years for him to build up his contacts and markets—fifteen years, just as they’d jeered in the bar. Well, perhaps he did have a habit of repeating himself; probably came as a result of spending so much time away from people, traveling his trading circuit. After all that work, he’d be damned if he’d just stand by and let the diplomats and paper pushers and regulation makers move in and take over.
But how to stop it? The Fleet wouldn’t step aside just for one man. . . . unless that man was somehow indispensable to them. Indispensable. To a trader, that meant supplying them something no one else could supply. Now the problem was couched in terms that he could deal with, deal-making terms. Stroking the old scar on his cheek, Salimander Smith stared into the cold flames of the hologram and pondered. . . .
Brad Omera, his face haggard, his back stiff and sore, glanced up from what was still known as “paperwork” even though paper had been out of use for centuries. I wonder if the ancient Egyptians called it papyrus-work? he thought. Whatever it was called, it seemed to follow administrators no matter what the era was.
“There’s a Salimander Smith who wants to talk to you, sir,” said his assistant, her face shimmering in the holotank at the corner of his desk. “He says it’s vital.”
“Don’t they all?” muttered Omera.
“He claims to have detailed knowledge about several alien cultures we’re unfamiliar with.”
Omera became slightly more interested. “He does, eh? Well, I suppose he could be useful. Lord knows, we never seem to have enough alien specialists.” He paused for a moment. Odds were that this was probably just another scam artist. On the other hand, they couldn’t afford to overlook
anyone who might enable them to establish contact with any of the races at the Core. They needed to unite against the Ichtons. “Set up an appointment,” he said at last. “You never know who might turn out to be useful.”
“Yes, sir. You never know.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Omera, a real pleasure.” Salimander Smith held out his hand, virtually forcing Omera to return the handshake. “I know what a busy man you are, and I appreciate the effort you made to find time to see me. I guarantee you won’t regret it.”
Omera surveyed Smith’s gaudy clothes with distaste as he released the trader’s hand and sat down again. Smith noted this—for a trader, missing the smallest detail might mean the difference between showing a profit or a loss for a year’s worth of negotiating. Omera was obviously resolved not to let what he regarded as Smith’s too-hearty manner and overdone clothing put him off. “My pleasure, Mr. Smith.”
Bullshit. You don’t like me and you didn’t want to see me, but you don’t want to ignore me in case I can be useful. “Let me tell you a little about myself. Can’t expect a man to do business with someone he’s never met before. I’m an Independent—”
“Mr. Smith, I’m a busy man, and I don’t have a lot of time to spare. Let’s get down to brass tacks. You’re an Independent trader who’s been working the Core for the past fifteen years. You’ve established trade relations with six alien races. Your contracts with them have been only moderately rapacious, and as a result you’ve made a very handsome living for yourself.”
“I’m not sure I like the term ‘rapacious,’ Mr. Omera.”
“I did qualify it, Mr. Smith. Compared to some of the Independent traders I’ve seen in action, you’ve been reasonably restrained.”
Smith shrugged. “It’s good for business. Alien races aren’t stupid, and some of them have very unpleasant ways of dealing with traders they feel have cheated them.” He paused. “I prefer a long-term, mutually beneficial trading arrangement with my alien partners. Then both sides prosper. In fact, that’s why I’m here.”
“To see if the two of us can come to a mutually beneficial trading agreement?” Omera’s voice was cynical.
“Perhaps not a trading agreement, but some sort of understanding.”
“Mr. Smith, I’ve dealt with a lot of Indies. Usually when they start using words like ‘understanding,’ they want me to bend the rules. And they generally offer a sliding scale of incentives proportional to the amount of bending they want done.”
Smith’s expression spoke volumes. “Amateurs, every one of them,” he said contemptuously. “I have no intention of offering you a bribe.”
“Well, that’s a novel approach,” said Omera. “What exactly are you offering?”
“Mr. Omera, as you’ve already noted, I’ve spent a long time building up trade with those alien races. I’ve had a good deal of experience with their customs. I know their languages and their politics. I’m prepared to offer my expertise in those areas to you.”
“In return for what, as if I couldn’t guess?’
“In return for recognition of what already exists,” answered Smith, unperturbed. “I want exclusive trading rights on those worlds.”
Omera replied flatly, “Impossible.”
“You disappoint me, Mr. Omera,” replied Smith easily. “When dealing with the man at the top, there’s no such word as ‘impossible.’ ”
“We’re in a state of war. I’m not empowered to, nor am I interested in, working out trade deals with any Indie who comes along.”
“I’m not just ‘any Indie,’ ” said Smith, radiating self-confidence. “No other trader has my knowledge of those worlds—you yourself admitted that I was the one who established relations with them.” He stared into Omera’s eyes. “I’d be a valuable addition to your staff of experts.”
“Somehow I don’t think you’d fit in very well on the Stephen Hawking, Mr. Smith, valuable though you might be. And as you point out, we do have experts already, experts who are experienced in dealing with newly contacted alien races.”
“Of course you do. But as you say, you’re in a state of war—and time is a valuable commodity in war. How long will it take those experts of yours to become familiar with the political situation on Meloth? Politics is a passion there, and they hold elections once a month. Make an alliance with the wrong splinter faction, and you could wind up alienating eighty percent of the power brokers on the planet. You’d lose a potential ally.”
“If the situation is as delicate there as you say, we’d definitely want our own experts studying it firsthand.”
“If they go there without me, they might be in for a hostile reception. Melothians prefer dealing with those they know.”
“A threat, Mr. Smith?”
“Not at all, Mr. Omera. Simply a statement of fact. I myself nearly got killed when I first made contact. Of course,” Smith added, studying the ceiling reflectively, “Meloth’s not the only planet that’s hostile to newcomers.”
“It’s certainly beginning to sound like a threat. A planet that hostile should probably be placed on the interdict list. We can’t have a fellow citizen”—and here Omera paused meaningfully before continuing—“landing on such a dangerous world.”
Smith studied the man on the other side of the desk carefully. The administrator’s face was impassive. Yes, he probably was capable of doing just that, if he felt it was necessary to further the cause of the Alliance. Omera had countered every suggestion Smith made, and had just subtly pointed out that Smith was not playing from a position of strength. I must be losing my touch, he thought ruefully. Now there was only one option left.
“Not even if that citizen knew of an even more dangerous world? A world of strategic importance?” Smith watched Omera closely.
“What sort of strategic importance?” Omera’s tone suggested he’d heard this sort of thing before, but Smith’s years of practice in observation suddenly paid off. The administrator had a superb poker face, but the clenching of one hand gave him away. Gotcha, you cold sonofabitch!
Smith leaned back in his chair. “Of such importance that it might help bring victory to the Alliance.”
“And just what might that be?”
“I know the location of an Ichton base.”
Omera’s eyes were suddenly intent. “Keep talking, Mr. Smith.”
“There’s nothing further to say,” replied Smith. “I can pinpoint the world on any map you care to show me. For a price, of course.”
“How much money do you want?”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Let me guess—trading rights to those half-dozen worlds, correct?”
“Correct,” answered Smith. “But consider what you get in return: prisoners to interrogate, captives to study, a potential bargaining chip with the Ichtons. And it won’t cost you a single credit.” He paused. “I’d say you’re getting a bargain.”
Omera studied Smith for a long moment. Smith lounged easily in his chair. At last Omera said, “I have to consult with Commander Brand.”
“Consult all you like,” said Smith with a casual wave of his hand. “I have nothing but time.”
“Excuse me.” Omera stood up abruptly and left the room.
Five minutes later Omera returned. “Agreed. Tell me the name of the planet where the Ichton base is, and I guarantee you exclusive trading rights to the six worlds you opened up.”
“I have your promise on record? Exclusive rights on Meloth, Sarn, Tellikan, Arskell, Merring, and Zel?” Smith’s expression had turned calculating.
“Mr. Smith, let’s not become coy, shall we? You spotted my holocorder the minute you sat down. Of course it’s on record.”
Salimander Smith always knew when it was time to give in gracefully, particularly when he’d gotten what he wanted. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Omera, I did. Please forgive my lack of manners.”
“And the location of the Ichton base?”
“Looden III. That’s a system about
—”
“I know where it is. All right, Mr. Smith, you have your deal. Thank you for doing your patriotic duty. And now, if you don’t mind, I have other matters pressing me. . . .” Omera’s face was wearier than it had been a few minutes ago.
“Of course, Mr. Omera. A pleasure doing business with you.” Smith stood up, thought the better of offering to shake hands again, and left the office.
There was a man waiting for him outside, a man wearing an air of command and the uniform of a senior officer of the Fleet. “Salimander Smith?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Commander Brand.”
“An honor to meet you, sir.”
“I understand you know the location of an Ichton colony.”
“Yes, I do. As I just told Mr. Omera, it’s on Looden III.”
“Do you think you can pinpoint the colony’s location? Lead a landing party directly to it?”
“Lead a landing party to it? Well now, you must understand that I’m not a military man,” answered Smith. “Still, for the right price, and a hell of a big invasion force to protect me, I suppose we could work something out.”
“The price is 173 credits a month,” said Brand.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve just been drafted as an alien contact expert. Welcome to the Fleet, Specialist Smith.”
“What?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, Mr. Smith.” Brad Omera appeared in the office doorway. “As you’ve admitted yourself, you’d be a valuable addition to our staff. We’ve decided to take you up on that suggestion.”
“But you said I wouldn’t fit in very well on the Hawking! I’d be a disruptive influence!”
“Then how fortunate it is for us that you won’t be aboard the Hawking for more than twelve hours before you are transferred to one of our gunboats bound for Looden III.”
Battlestations Page 4
