“Very well, then. I want to open a new account,” she said. “We’re selling cargo here and I’ll be making purchases.”
“It would have to be cash or hard goods,” the bank’s representative said.
“Of course,” Ky said. “I’ll courier over about four thousand credits’ worth—using as a rough guide the official appraisal from Immigration—”
The face in the screen smiled more naturally now. “That will be fine, Captain. Their assessments are often . . . less than we might give, shall we say. And you say you have cargo as well?”
“Yes. We’re unloading now; my cargomaster will be dealing shortly.”
“Excellent. Now—is this to be a Vatta Transport account, or a personal account?”
“Personal,” Ky said.
“Very well. We will await your courier and make funds available as soon as the valuation has cleared.”
Ky had just closed the connection when Martin called to her. “The Garda are here,” he said. “Their officer would like to speak with you.”
“I’ll be right out. Baritom Security is sending a couple of personnel to help guard dockside, and I’m going to need a courier to Crown & Spears to open an account. Would you say another Baritom agent, or a courier service?”
“Neither,” Martin said. “When Baritom takes over dockside coverage here, I’ll escort you or a crewmember.”
The Garda who met Ky held out a legal notification pad. “Make your mark here, madam. You’re being notified of your legal status on this station, your legal rights and obligations . . .” Ky read the notification and signed her name. She handed him a data cube with the recording of the man’s attack, and he nodded. “We’ll be in touch,” he said. One of his fellows took the cargo cords off the operator and put on their own restraints; then they hauled the man away.
“I’ve got a list of what we need to complete our own perimeter security,” Martin said.
“There’s a supplier on this hub, not that far away,” Ky said. “When I get the bank account set up—and by the way, I haven’t contacted the rental company yet. In the meantime, can we start unloading?”
“Yes, ma’am. Jim here has convinced me that he does indeed know how to handle one of these things—I had him move it around while we were waiting for the Garda to show up.” He paused, then said, “And here’s Baritom.”
Ky glanced toward the dockside entrance and saw two uniformed men waiting by the entrance. She started forward, but Martin stopped her.
“It’s my job,” he said. “If you’ll just get whatever you need for the bank run . . . and I’d recommend Mitt for your courier. He has an implant and he looks nothing like you.”
By the time Ky came back, Martin had assigned the two Baritom guards to the dockside entrance and told Alene to open up the nearside cargo hold. Beeah and Mehar were pacing around the dockside; Jim was backing away from the cargo hold with the first stack of containers. Mitt, his face sober, took the packet with two diamonds from Ky and put it in an inner pocket in his tunic.
Shortly thereafter, she had an account with a balance of 5,876 credits and a Crown & Spears credit chip, with authorization code. With that, Vic’s Precision Protection Supply was willing to send over 648 credits’ worth of surveillance gear. It arrived just as Martin and Mitt returned from the bank; Martin took charge of it and began installation at once.
Unloading proceeded; Ky looked at the tradehall listings and saw that the Leonoran pharmaceutical components should do very well, bringing much more than they would have on Leonora. Now that she had a bank account, she could list the cargo on the boards, and bids began to come in. She shunted those to Alene’s attention. Her own attention focused on what she needed most to make her ship and her crew safer while in port. Any port. The attack on Belinta had involved both firearms and contact poison; they would need their own weapons, personal armor, and antidotes to such poisons—if any existed.
The tricky part would be getting to the small-arms dealers before someone got to her. Martin would come with her, but would that be enough? If she didn’t wear Vatta colors, and carried her own weapons after she got them . . . who else in the crew knew how to use any? She paused to ask Martin.
Mehar, of course, was an expert with the pistol bow. It turned out that she had also handled needlers before. Jim, as Ky now began to expect, rather shamefacedly admitted to having handled a variety of weapons.
“There were sorta like pirates hanging out in the estuaries near where we farmed. So I kind of picked up some of it—and my father, he always hunted even though the landlords didn’t like it.”
“So what do you know enough about to be useful?”
“Slug throwers. We didn’t have stunners and needlers and all those spacer things. Make a big enough hole in it, my dad always said, and you’re sure it’s dead. There was this thing that lived out in the woods, big as a cow, and had these scales on it—”
“Slug throwers . . . handguns or long barrels?”
“Both, Captain. Now what I really liked, but only got to use once and he was really mad about it, was the mayor’s Schneider-Watson .44 automatic. Made a lot of noise, it did, but you could put holes in those bitty little pirate speedboats with it. Or give me a rifle like my dad had . . .”
“How about accuracy?” Ky said.
“I’m pretty good,” Jim said with unusual modesty for him. “My dad, now, he was a dead shot at any distance, but I qualified top in the marksmanship class for the local militia.”
“Militia? You were in the militia?”
He turned red. “Well . . . actually . . . not that long. See, they didn’t like my family that much, and when they found I’d shot a swamphog—well, three actually—with one of the militia weapons, they used that as an excuse to kick me out. I don’t see what’s so wrong about that. I was going to replace the ammunition, and I cleaned up the rifle before I put it back.”
Ky bit her lip. It would not do to laugh, but she was beginning to have a good idea what kind of family Jim had come from. They had a few like that on Corleigh—old George was one of them—who had not, as her father put it, ever moved into the city from the frontier, even after the frontier was settled. You want them on your side, her father had told her. Their virtues weren’t needed most of the time, but when they were, nothing else would do. So now she had what her father called a “bush rat” of her very own, and she’d better make proper use of him.
She called Martin in to look at the catalogs from the various shops. Martin’s face was eloquent; she didn’t need his verbal comments to second her opinion that Bernie’s Knives and Guns was out of the running, along with Arms4U. He thought the gun club might have serviceable weapons for the crew, but Ky noticed that the list of available weapons hadn’t been updated for several weeks. Blade, Bullet and Bow had top-quality weapons and prices to match, like Terrifield, back home on Slotter Key.
Her father’s personal weapons were all from Terrifield; she had gone there with him once, and remembered the quiet shop with its slightly faded green carpet and old-fashioned display cases where the weapons on display were all antiques, and customers and staff spoke to each other in strings of cryptic numbers. “I’m looking for a P1400 with the 21–37 adapter,” she’d heard one customer say. And the clerk had retired behind a curtain—a bulletproof curtain, her father mentioned later—and returned a moment later with something in a flat gray case. Her father tapped her shoulder—rude to stare, that meant—and made his own numerical request, which appeared on the counter in a few moments in a dull green case. It had been years before she understood what the numbers meant, and the difference in quality between the weapons there and the ones at Connery’s Sporting Goods in Corleigh Town, which all had names as well as numbers: Hotshot 2100, Blastem—which came in attractive colors—Matchmaker. She shook herself out of that memory, and the surge of fear that her father was dead. She had to hope he wasn’t.
Crash, as the obvious favorite shop for law enforcement and military, would ha
ve a wide selection and no trashy stuff, but Martin objected. “It’s got ties to law enforcement; they’ll have someone in there who talks to them. Until we know more about how things work here, that’s not a good idea. Blade’s a good choice for your weapons, if you can afford it. I’ve heard of them from people who’ve been here before.”
From their docking slot at Hub Two, Hub Four with its multitude of arms merchants could be reached by external shuttle or internal tram, with transfers. Blades, Bullets, and Bows, though in Hub Three, was reasonably close by tram, and on the way to Hub Four, where she planned to visit MilMartExchange. One trip would be safer than several. Martin recommended she take Jim along as well as himself and Beeah.
“The boy’s an obvious gawking tourist,” Martin said. “He’ll be a distraction to others, and anyway he’s got to get better shore clothes.”
Lastway Station was as bustling and colorful as Belinta had been quiet and dull. Despite the danger, Ky’s heart lifted at the sight of hurrying pedestrians, bright shop entrances, exotic smells, the dock entrances of other ships, familiar and unfamiliar logos. She wanted to take off and explore, like any giddy apprentice on a first visit to other worlds, but she schooled her pace to a steady walk and managed not to gawk and point the way Jim was.
They reached the interhub tram stop without incident. Martin pointed out to Jim the kind of shore suit he should buy as soon as possible: plain, dark, suitable for any of several occupations. Ky wondered if Jim was paying attention; his eyes were wide. The tram itself was much like those on any station; they bought five-day passes and boarded one of the pressurized cars. Only one other passenger was in their car, a young girl with an obvious schoolbag. She was slumped in a corner, staring at her hand reader.
The tram slid away from its stop, moving smoothly through the translucent transport tube between hubs. Ky craned her neck, trying to orient herself to the whole station, but it was impossible. Hubs two and three and their arms blocked most of her view. The planet below was beneath the car’s opaque floor. Her stomach lurched as the tram spanned between the artificial gravity of Hub Two and Hub Three, then they were pulling into the Hub Three tram stop as the usual voice synthesizer announced “Approaching Hub Three station. All Hub Three passengers transfer here to Hub Three radial trams. Approaching Hub Three station. All Hub Three passengers . . .” The schoolgirl didn’t look up as Ky and her crewmembers rose.
Hub Three, where passenger liners docked, had a fancier tram station. Sound-reducing tiles covered the floor and walls in an attractive blue, green, and beige pattern. Instead of ticket machines, there was an information booth with a live clerk behind the window. Ky had already looked up the location of the shop—less than a hundred meters from the tram station—so she turned right and found herself in a passage with obviously expensive shops on either side.
Past a haberdashery, a jeweler’s, a window display of fine china and crystal, a window with two lengths of velvet on which rested three silver salvers, she came to the windows of Blade, Bullet, and Bow: on the right, a pair of swords like something out of legend leaned against tall black boots and a cocked hat with a plume; on the left, a fan-shaped array of arrows around a recurved bow. The door had no handle, just a button. Ky pushed it.
The door opened; she faced a slender middle-aged man, clean-shaven, in a gray suit as plain as her own and as well tailored. Behind him, at a discreet distance, was another man whom Ky knew would be armed. “May I help you?” the man said. As he spoke, his gaze slid past her to Martin, Beeah, and Jim, then back to her face.
“I want to buy a personal weapon,” Ky said.
“Meaning no disrespect, madam, but if you are a stranger to this station, there are less expensive shops . . .”
“But not, I suppose, those carrying better quality,” Ky said, smiling.
“No, madam. Would madam care to step in? I am Andrew Barris.” He said that as if she should know the name.
“Thank you,” Ky said. “May my escort attend?”
He looked past her again. “Perhaps madam would feel secure with only one?”
“Of course,” Ky said. She turned. “Martin, two of you can wait outside.”
“Beeah, Jim, stay close to the shop,” Martin said.
Ky smiled again at the salesman. “You will of course wish to ensure that he is not armed.”
Now the smile widened. “Madam is perceptive. Ardin: you may proceed.”
Martin quirked an eyebrow. “Standard Arms 11 mm, shoulder holster. I presume you’d rather I didn’t reach for it?”
“Is that all?”
“The only firearm, yes.”
“Would you remove the holster harness?”
“Be glad to.” Martin removed his tunic and shrugged out of the harness. The store employee took it carefully, without touching Martin’s weapon, and placed it on the counter before running a hand scanner over Martin.
Then he nodded at his employer, who nodded at Ky.
“How may we serve you?” was the next question.
“I’m thinking a 10 or 11 millimeter Rossi-Smith, with whatever ammunition is legal for everyday carry on this station. Frangibles? Spudders?”
The man’s eyes widened just slightly. “Is this for yourself, madam, or your . . . um . . . escort?”
“This would be for me,” Ky said, smiling. “When I shoot someone, I expect them to stay down awhile.”
He looked at her as if he wanted to say more, but didn’t immediately speak. When he did, his voice was even softer. “We have a number of weapons of that caliber. We have three ten-millimeter Rossi-Smiths in the shop at present. Two are customized, one with rose-gold inlay and floral carving on the grip. I’m sure madam would like to see the one with rose-designed—”
“The plain one, please,” Ky said. For just an instant he stared.
“Wait one moment, please,” he said. “And if I could just have madam’s credit references?”
“Cash,” Ky said. She did not want some spy at the bank to know exactly what her weapons were. His eyebrows went up and his lips tensed. Ky went on. “Perhaps you would be good enough to switch on the excellent site security I’m sure you have. I would then be glad to explain.” His mouth was still tight, but he nodded, pressed a button, then brought out from beneath the desk one of the squat cylinders Ky recognized.
“The outer perimeter is now shielded to most scanners,” he said. “This completes the acoustic shielding, and the windows behind the display cases are one-way. Is madam satisfied?”
“Thank you,” Ky said. “My name is Kylara Vatta.” His lips twitched; she nodded. “Yes, that Vatta family. As you clearly are aware, my family is under attack. I was in transit when the trouble started and know no more than what’s in the newsfeeds. I have been informed that the local station considers Vatta corporate accounts unreliable and is demanding cash; I assumed that you would follow suit. If I have insulted your honor, please accept my apologies.”
His face softened. “My dear . . . madam . . . I understand completely. If the local financial institutions have frozen Vatta accounts, then you are right. I’m sorry to say that because of our location, so far from the center of humanspace, we are unable to offer credit if local accounts are frozen. However, we would be pleased to accept barter, if you do not, perhaps, have access to local supplies of cash.”
“My cargo’s selling,” Ky said. “And I’ve opened a separate account; I expect to have access to cash shortly. However, in addition to purchasing a weapon from you, I wanted to ask your advice on two things. First, I have some . . . er . . . family valuables that I could sell, but I have no idea who would give me an honest price. I have had to rely, so far, on assessors attached to Immigration.”
“I understand your concern, madam. As for the valuables . . . it depends on the type. Items of historical value, or precious materials?”
“Materials,” Ky said.
He glanced at her case. “With you, perhaps?”
“A portion,” Ky said. She s
lipped her fingers into the pouch and removed one diamond. “This, for instance.”
He nodded, showing no emotion. “Quite nice,” he said, as if customers laid diamonds on the counter every day. Perhaps they did. “We can arrange immediate appraisal; the firm we use is certified by interstellar convention and bonded. Is that satisfactory? I am already persuaded that your items are of sufficient value to cover any likely purchases.”
“Quite,” Ky said.
He opened a drawer and laid the Rossi-Smith on the pad in front of her. She picked up the weapon. Perfectly plain, the grip of some dark . . . “Wood?” she asked. It felt organic, but not quite like wood.
“No, madam. That’s bloodbeast tusk, from Xerion. It shares with Old Earth ivory the characteristic of remaining grippy even if one’s hands should sweat, but it has much better impact resistance. Madam will note that the action is the classic 1701 model, rather than the newer 1900—”
“Which tends to develop a stick with repeated rapid fire,” Ky said.
“Exactly,” he said, smiling. “Perhaps madam would like to try it out on our range?”
“Indeed yes,” Ky said. She followed him through a curtain, down a narrow passage, and then into a two-person gallery. Here he offered ear protectors, goggles, and discreet assistance; the rounds he gave her were clearly marked target rounds. She loaded, lined up, and fired; the trigger pull had just enough resistance, and the recoil, with the target round, was negligible. Her first three shots were in a line, left to right, across the middle of the target. “Drat,” she said mildly. “It’s been too long.”
“Not bad,” he said. “But you were rushing.”
She tried again, this time remembering all the tricks her father had taught her, and produced a tight cluster.
“Better,” he said, as if he were her instructor. He probably was. “You are aware, madam, of the difficulty of hitting targets in variable g?”
It was something they’d studied in the Academy; Ky remembered the frustration, on that trip to the Academy’s own orbiting training station. “Oh yes,” she said, perhaps a bit too fervently. “Luckily, I’m not going to be shooting at anyone who’s not shooting at me . . .” She took another clip of target rounds, loaded, and placed the group in half the area of the last one.
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