“Very nice, madam. Now, station regulations limit the permissible ammunition loads to frangibles and chemical immobilizers, no . . . er . . . spudders. Rounds with total delivery force small enough to avoid structural damage to the station, of course. For this model, we recommend the Rossi-approved PF for a frangible round, and the CPF, which encapsulates the latest legal release of an immobilizer–marker combination. Dispersal is limited by droplet size to within a meter of the impact point, so there is minimal collateral involvement.”
“Does the station management have a preference?”
“Some criminals do wear protective gear, which of course limits the utility of the frangible rounds—”
“Personal armor,” Ky said. “I meant to ask about that, too.”
“We carry protective gear, of course, in a range of sizes and price points.”
“I’d better take a look,” Ky said. “And yes, I’ll take this one.” How much trouble did she expect to have? “I’ll take another two clips to sight in with, and then five each of PF and CPF.”
“And perhaps a holster and concealed carry permit? The background check is, I assure madam, brief and discreet. If madam’s escort does not already have one, it would be advisable to obtain one for him, as well.”
She had not carried a weapon on her person except for forays into the woods back home, where a very obvious holster on the hip was fine. “I’m thinking,” she said with a smile, reaching for the next clip.
Her bill mounted up. Weapon, ammunition, carrying case, cleaning kit—“Alas, madam, no one has ever been able to make a firearm perfectly self-cleaning . . .”—permit to carry openly or concealed, and finally the wearable protection. Here the top-grade torso armor was so thin and flexible that she found it hard to believe it would do any good. Barris put it over a human form whose base wobbled when he nudged it, stood it up in one of the lanes, and fired at it. The torso model on its pole barely moved; the armor stiffened, changed color, and the light towel he hung down the back appeared scorched brown when he lifted it to show her.
“One-way heat radiation, madam. Substantially reduces impact effect, as well as protecting against penetration. Only recently licensed for civilian use, though supposedly it’s been available in the black market for several years. Not that I would trust my life to that version.” His expression reminded Ky of a cat that had accidentally stepped in something abhorrent.
She tried on one of the vests in her size. Not much heavier than a wool vest, and surprisingly comfortable. It fit invisibly under her business suit. “Serious assassins go for the head, of course,” Barris said apologetically. “We can’t armor that without being obvious, which I gather is not madam’s desire.”
“I would prefer to be inconspicuous, yes,” Ky said.
“We can offer basic torso protection to your security personnel at competitive prices.” After all, the profit on what you’re getting for yourself covers our cost of stocking it went unsaid. Merchant to merchant, Ky looked at him. He smiled. She smiled back. Well, if someone took a shot at her people while she was getting from here to Hub 4, she would feel guilty for leaving them unprotected.
“Economy is a factor,” she said.
“Of course, madam. I shall be glad to call up the current price points from the other onstation dealers . . .”
“Quite all right,” Ky said. No need to say she had already. He would assume she had.
Somewhat to her surprise, just one of Aunt Gracie’s diamonds covered the entire cost with credit left over.
Fitting Martin with a conventional vest took only a few minutes, but when Ky went to call Jim and Beeah inside, they were no longer near the door. Instead, Jim was crouched near the display window of the china shop with Beeah standing over him.
“What’s wrong?” Ky asked. “Are you all right?”
“I am, but look at this . . .” He turned and stood, cradling in his arms a small black-and-white animal with stiff, spiky fur. “Someone’s been messing it about—I found it in the rubbish bin, trying to get out.”
“What is that?” Ky asked. Bright black eyes, little black nose, and the moist pink tongue that suggested Old Earth origin. Hairy, so a mammal of some kind. She glanced around and saw that Jim had indeed dismantled a rubbish bin to get it out, leaving trash strewn about. “And you’d better clean up the mess you made before someone fines us for littering.”
Jim stared at her as if she’d said she didn’t know what two plus two was. “It’s a puppy,” he said. “A terrier puppy. Here—you can hold him while I pick this up.” He shoved the wriggling little animal into her arms and turned; the puppy promptly fastened onto Ky’s hand with sharp little teeth.
“Ow!” she said. Beeah came up beside her. “Here—I expect we’re now in trouble for harboring an unlicensed animal onstation, but at least we can contain it. And it bites,” Ky added, as the puppy fastened its teeth on Beeah’s thumb.
“I noticed,” Beeah said, but he was grinning, prying open the puppy’s jaws to retrieve his thumb. He offered the puppy the cuff of his suit, and the puppy worried it, growling.
“I hope it doesn’t piddle on you,” Ky said. Jim stuffed the last of the trash back into the container and set the lid on. “Come on,” she said to him. “Let’s get you fitted.”
“Some guard you are,” Martin muttered to Beeah, as Ky led Jim back to the shop. He had retrieved his weapon and followed her out. “What did you think you were doing?”
When she came back, trailed by Jim, Beeah had the puppy cradled along one arm, upside down, and was stroking its belly. He handed it to Jim, reluctantly it seemed, while Martin rolled his eyes. Fitting Beeah also took only a short time; Ky accepted her change in local currency, and excused herself. She arrived outside just in time to see an obvious station guard staring at the sight with disgust. The guard moved across the passage toward them.
“You there!” he said. “Do you have a license for that animal?”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
This had not been part of her plan. “It’s not our—” Ky said, but Jim blurted, “Not yet.” She glared at him.
“You’ll have to come along now,” the guard said, flicking open what Ky was sure was a combination comunit and data entry. “Exposing the station to an unlicensed animal . . . where are you people from, anyway?” His gaze roved over Jim’s unattractive rumpled Belinta tunic, which, Ky noticed, failed to completely conceal his brand-new armor. The guard’s gaze sharpened. “Wearing armor, eh? And you, you’re carrying a weapon . . .” Now he was glaring at Ky.
She tilted her head back to the doorway of Blade, Bullet, and Bow. “We’ve just come out—”
“And put the animal in the waste can while you were in there? Do you have any idea—?”
“I didn’t put it there,” Jim said. “It was in there, whimpering and scratching, poor thing, and I couldn’t leave it—”
“Is that true?” the guard asked Ky.
“I was inside,” Ky said. “I didn’t hear it. When I came out, he was holding it . . .”
“Uh-huh. Well, it’s in your possession now, and if this is your employee, you’re responsible for it, and for not having a proper license and health papers for it . . . and how about a license for that weapon?”
Ky fished her new license out of her pocket. “Here.”
He glanced at it. “All right then. Come along to the office and take care of this . . .” He glared at the puppy.
Never argue with law enforcement in the street, her father had told her. Go pleasantly along to the office, cooperate, and you’ll be done much faster. So probably it was only seeming to take an hour, Ky thought, to follow the guard along the passage, past stores that changed gradually from the upper margin of the upper crust to the solid commercial filling of any major space station that saw a lot of traffic. And there was the guard office for this arm of Hub Three, with its hull-quality door standing wide open.
“What’s this, Mally?” asked the man behind the desk.
“Unlicensed animal. Claim they found it in a trash bin, but it seems to know him.” The guard jerked a thumb at Jim, who still cradled the puppy along his forearm; it looked asleep.
“Fine’s two hundred credits a day, crate license fifty credits, out-of-crate license one hundred credits, both require health certificate available from any onstation veterinarian and you can look them up in the business directory using a public-access com line or if it’s not your animal or you wish it destroyed that will be two hundred credits fine, ten credits disposal fee, payable immediately by cash or approved credit line only . . .” The desk clerk rattled this off in a rapid monotone, then looked up. “Name, ship name, names of all persons who have contacted this . . . whatever it is . . . ?”
“Jim Hakusar, from Gary Tobai—I’m the one who found it in the trash container. He was crying and trying to get out—”
“And you are . . . ?” The clerk looked at Beeah.
“Beeah Chok, same ship.”
“Gordon Martin, same ship.”
“Captain Vatta, Gary Tobai,” Ky said.
“Ah—you’re armed, Mally says. Your permit number?” Ky handed the permit over. “Um. Not in the database—what’s the date on this? Oh, today. I guess you won’t have any trouble paying the fines for your pet, then, will you, shopping at Blades? Though if it’s really not yours, you’d be smart to let us get rid of it.”
“No,” Jim said. Ky looked at him. “You can’t let them kill a puppy,” he said.
“What do we need with a puppy?” Ky asked. Jim gave her a stricken look.
“Dogs can be useful,” Martin said. “Dockside, I mean. This one’s very small—”
“He’s a puppy,” Jim said. “He’ll grow. I’ll bet he’ll be fierce.”
“He won’t be much trouble,” Beeah murmured. Ky looked at him in surprise. She hadn’t known Beeah had any interest in animals.
“Up to you,” the clerk said. “There’s also the mandatory decontamination and observation period for personnel in contact with an unlicensed animal lacking health papers. You can locate the nearest clinic in the business directory using any public-access comlink . . .”
The puppy opened one limpid eye, squirmed, and piddled down Jim’s front.
An astonishing amount of money later, Ky looked at her protectors with less than favor. “You two made enough commotion that any enemy we might have now knows where we are, what we’re wearing, and that I’m armed. Next time just smash a window and start screaming obscenities, why don’t you?”
“All right . . . ,” Jim said, looking worried. “But how do I know when?”
Ky appealed to deities she’d heard of and didn’t believe in. The puppy, now listed as “Puddles” in the vet’s database, was being inspected, disinfected, and would be delivered the next day. The vet had informed her that it was almost certainly a purebred, a Jack Russell terrier. She privately thought of it as another kind of jack-something-terrier, but didn’t mention that. She and the others had been through a standard decontamination procedure, which had turned the damp patch on Jim’s tunic bright blue, though the technician insisted it would return to normal color later.
“It’s coming out of your salary,” she reminded Jim. He and Beeah had agreed to split the cost of the fines and vet care.
“He’ll be a help,” Jim said. “He can guard the dockside, like Martin said.”
“Not until it’s grown,” Ky said. “And puppies that size don’t grow into guard dogs.” She plugged into another link and called the ship on a secure line. Quincy answered. “We’re fine, Quincy. Just had to see a man about a dog—no, really. Jim found a stray puppy and had to rescue it.”
“I thought that was your strategy,” Quincy said, with a bite that Ky recognized as relief.
“Not this time,” Ky said. “We’re just now leaving Hub Three for Hub Four. I’ll check in when we get there.”
“Wait—you’ve messages. A sealed hardcopy from someone named MacRobert, originating at Slotter Key, and a call from that security firm, Baritom. They said call them back.”
MacRobert again? What did Master Sergeant MacRobert of the Slotter Key Spaceforce Academy want with her? “How big is the package?” Ky asked.
“Small. Not too heavy. You think it’s a trap or something?”
“No. Just put it in my cabin; I’ll get to it later.”
“Well, Baritom really wanted you to call back.”
Ky muttered, but took down the number and called them.
“Captain Vatta,” said the voice on the phone. “Our dockside staff reported that you left the secured area . . . did you not wish an escort?”
She was about to refuse, when she thought to ask Martin.
“You can send Jim back—tell him to buy some clothes on the way—and have the escort meet us,” he said. “I’d like a chance to assess their personnel.”
“Fine.” Ky turned back to the combooth. “I’m presently at Hub Three, second ring, green sector. I’m on my way to Hub Four. If your agent meets me at the tram station—”
“We prefer to have the operative meet the subject at a secure location.”
She was already behind schedule. She did not want to return to the Garda station to meet an escort. But surely MilMart counted as a secure location.
“MilMartExchange,” she said. “How’s that? Otherwise, it’ll be after I get back to the ship, some hours from now.”
“That will be adequate,” the voice said. “We supply our operatives with the usual identification kits. You are not at a secured com outlet now—”
“No,” Ky said. “I’m sure MilMart has one.”
“All right. We will provide you with the operative’s code there.”
Ky shook her head as she turned away.
“What?” Beeah asked.
“Just the day. Jim, you head back to the ship—you have your tram pass, right? I know Martin suggested you buy clothes on the way, but I’d rather have you safe on the ship. In fact—Martin, should Jim go back alone? Shouldn’t I send Beeah with him?”
“No, he should be fine for now,” Martin said. “You’re more likely to be attacked than he is; I’d rather have backup with us.”
Ky turned to Jim again. “Remember what Martin told you. Be careful, go straight back. No more puppies, kittens, lost children, or whatever else comes into your path. Martin, their agent will meet me at MilMart.”
“I’ll bet it’s a trick,” Jim said. Ky eyed him with disfavor.
“Nothing like your trick of getting us in trouble with the law,” she said. “Go on, now. I want you back on the ship by the time I call Quincy from Hub Four.”
The tram to the next hub was much the same, though this time their car held two women chatting, both with small children in tow, and a man in a shipsuit with a Navarre ship patch. With them in line was another woman with a small child, who greeted the first two cheerfully and sat down in the next row. From their greetings, Ky learned that they met every ten days, taking their children to a play area on Hub Five. She watched one of the children wipe a sticky red hand along the seat, leaving a smear.
“Now, Donal . . . what do you think wipes are for?” said one woman, cleaning up the smear and handing the child the wipe. He tried to stuff it into his mouth, and she took it away.
At Hub Four, Ky stepped out and spotted the next mother of the bunch, with a baby in arms and a pair of twins clinging to her legs. Behind her, the Hub Four station was even plainer than that in Station 2: gray industrial flooring, cream tile walls. When they came out into the passage, it had none of the amenities of Hub Three. Signs advertised ship stores—none, Ky was sure, with gold-eye raspberries or fancy sliced meats—hand and power tools, parts and fittings, navigation software, navigation hardware, tech modules for cranial implants, shipsuits and patches. Ky paused to call and let Quincy know they’d arrived, checked the directory display to be sure she was oriented correctly, and led the way down the passage. Here were the front offices of the yards that
performed major repairs and replaced spacecraft engines or entire environmental systems.
Ky had checked the locations she wanted before she left her own ship, and knew they had to work their way inward two rings and then left. Just behind the shops to their left were the warehouses of MilMart, but the access was somewhere else. She assumed it gave the MilMart surveillance ample time to collect good clear images before someone arrived on their doorstep, or whatever they had instead.
They had passed the first ring crossing and were almost to the next when Ky’s eye was caught by a familiar symbol. Here? She looked again. A narrow storefront bore the neat legend MACKENSEE MILITARY ASSISTANCE CORPORATION: YOUR PROBLEMS—OUR SOLUTION. She slowed. It was one of a row of storefronts, all of which appeared to be mercenary offices, between Barkley’s Best—GOT WAR? GET THE BEST! BARKLEYS!—and Answenia Military Advisers, EXPERIENCE COUNTS.
“Now that’s interesting,” Beeah said.
“What?” Martin said. He followed their gaze. “Oh . . . mercenaries. Which group was it you ran into, ma’am?”
“Mackensee,” Ky said. Martin nodded and said nothing more. She wondered if these Mackensees had heard about Sabine—about her. Surely they had. Surely if . . . if Vatta was completely destroyed, she could always join them, as they’d offered before. She pushed that thought away. Vatta would survive; she would ensure that Vatta survived. The nagging question of how, she ignored for the moment.
Around the corner to the left, large red letters announced the entrance to MilMartExchange in three languages. Armed guards—not the station Garda—stood outside. A steady stream of customers went in and out.
“There it is,” said Beeah. “What are you going to get, Captain?”
“What we can afford,” Ky said. “Which certainly won’t be all I want or all we need.”
Marque and Reprisal Page 11
