by Zen DiPietro
The system worked, though Cerberon attracted the worst of the worst, and many people avoided it because they preferred not to find a knife between their ribs. There was no law on Cerberon, except what the founding fathers, known as the Cerberon Brothers, decreed. Basically, it was a lawless place, where the Brothers had the final say, so it was best to stay on your guard and not get involved in any disputes.
Cabot had been there briefly, twice, in his younger days. He’d avoided it like a plague ever since, and now here he was, about to dig in with some of the worst of the worst the trading profession had to offer.
Finally, when he was practically on top of the crude docking station, he received a signal and was able to open up a channel.
“Cerberon, this is Cabot Layne of the ship Layne, requesting docking.” He wouldn’t mention the ship’s real name, though he’d use whatever cred he could squeeze out of his own.
A squeal and a crackle came across the channel. “Looks like you’ve got a nice ship there, Layne. Be aware that docking costs a thousand cubics, nonrefundable, and payable immediately. You’ll be charged another thousand for every twelve hours you’re docked.”
“Understood. I have the transfer ready.”
“Transmitting the deposit account now,” the voice announced.
Cabot transferred the money, mentally chagrined by the cost. That kind of money would keep out any low-end busters. A person had to have some serious business on Cerberon to make the docking worth it.
“Transfer received, Layne. You can proceed to Docking Slip Four. Take note that management assumes no responsibility for theft, damage, assault, or murder. Proceed at your own risk.”
“Noted. Beginning docking sequence.” Cabot cut the channel, mildly annoyed by the agent’s dire warnings. He had the feeling the guy had been one of those kids who enjoyed putting on a scary mask and jumping out at other kids to make them scream. Well, at least he’d found his calling as an adult, then.
He opened a channel for a shipwide announcement. “Prepare for a rough docking. I recommend a seat with straps.” He’d already fastened his own safety harness.
As the ship lurched violently under the docking clamps, Cabot was reminded of how luxurious PAC stations were. When he was certain the ship had properly docked, he announced, “Docking complete. All hands proceed to the airlock.” On second thought, he added, “Everyone should be well-armed. Concealment is not necessary or recommended.” The firepower a person openly displayed, gave others an idea of how capable they were of defending themselves.
On the way, he stopped by his quarters to collect a large backpack. Before putting it on, he slung a cross-chest holster over his shoulder, tightened it, and put two compact, energy-discharge weapons in it. They were essentially souped-up stingers, and not legal in the PAC zone. He had Omar to thank for bringing them along.
He slid a knife into the holster right over his breastbone, then cinched a weapons belt at his waist. It held two larger energy-discharge weapons. Finally, he put on his backpack, which was a bit too heavy for his liking, but not so cumbersome it would impede him too much.
Omar and Nagali made it to the airlock before him. They stood waiting, looking grim but appropriately armed.
Peregrine arrived, and all Cabot could do was stare. She wore a weapons belt jam-packed with a variety of blades and discharge weapons, some of which Cabot couldn’t even identify—and he considered himself an expert at such. Like him, she wore a chest harness, and it was bedecked with both weapons, and gadgets that might be weapons. Cabot guessed that they were more akin to spy gear. The kind of thing that never showed up in sales channels.
He could also see the barrel of a rifle poking over her shoulder, but most impressively, she had a military-grade personal laser cannon on her shoulder. Cabot didn’t know how she’d even made it around the ship’s corners with that thing.
He shook off his surprise and looked to see Omar and Nagali’s reactions. Omar looked stunned, while Nagali had graduated to a certain look of calculation and, possibly, respect.
Interesting.
Peregrine took in their expressions and said, “What? “You said to come armed.”
“So I did,” Cabot agreed. “I just didn’t quite realize what that meant to you. That’s not a bad thing,” he added quickly. “Actually, here, this is good. Our story will be that you’re our security specialist.”
“Not my actual specialty, but I’m capable of it for this mission.” She continued to hold the cannon as if ready to use it at any minute.
So what was her actual specialty? Cabot realized how much he didn’t know about Peregrine.
“What?” she demanded again.
Cabot gave her a slight bow of courtesy. “I was just thinking, it might be better if you relax that thing, so the people here don’t think they’re under siege.”
Peregrine’s right arm released the cannon, which allowed it to slowly shift into an upright position, jutting a good meter above her shoulder. “I defer to your knowledge of this place. Is this better?”
“Perfect,” he assured her.
A green light blinked, indicating the airlock’s pressure had equalized.
“Here we go,” Omar muttered, stepping through first. Nagali followed, and Cabot went after her. Peregrine brought up the rear.
The Cerberon Brothers didn’t spend more than necessary on perks like lighting, and Cabot blinked repeatedly, hoping his eyes would hurry up and adjust to the dimness. The last thing he wanted was for them to get ambushed because their pupils hadn’t dilated yet.
Cold nipped at his nose, too. He followed on Nagali’s heels as they hustled through the station’s outer ring, moving inward toward the orbital elevator. Unlike planets with more atmosphere, Cerberon had a short elevator. Which was good, because Cabot remembered not caring much for the ride.
At least the docking station wasn’t large. They made it to the elevator within minutes, and without encountering any other people. Must have been a slow day on Cerberon.
Once they’d boarded and the doors had closed, Cabot let himself relax a little. Then the elevator shuddered and began a fast descent, and he tensed right back up.
He could see his companions’ faces now. Omar’s lip curled and his teeth were gritted. Peregrine looked more grim than usual. Even Nagali had lost her levity. Her hands clutched the armrests of her seat.
For a brief second, he lost his mind and considered putting his hand on her arm to comfort her. He immediately thought better of it. This was Nagali Freeborn. She made grown men cry just for fun. She didn’t need his comfort.
Her eye caught his though, and some of the strain around her mouth eased. She gave him a tight grimace that was probably meant to be a smile.
Fifteen bone-rattling minutes later, Cabot breathed a sigh of relief when they came to a stop.
Then the door opened. He stood and took a moment to get his balance under the guise of smoothing his shirt.
Nagali put her hand on his arm and leaned into him. “I feel like I’m still jiggling. Are my teeth all there?” She parted her lips in a toothy grin.
“All there,” he assured her.
“Good.” She let her hand drop and straightened.
He had a strange feeling she’d been covering for him by pretending to be off-balance.
Ridiculous. She wouldn’t do that.
“Okay. First thing we need is a rented room. We’ll all share. The more eyes, the better.” Cabot nodded to Omar, who was still leading, but Nagali had moved up adjacent to him, so they looked more natural walking together.
Peregrine walked next to Cabot, just a pace behind. “I brought equipment to secure our perimeter.”
“Will you teach me to talk like that?” Nagali called back. “It just sounds so cool.”
Whether she was sincere or merely needling Peregrine, Omar hissed at her to be quiet.
Normally, Cabot would have arranged quarters before arrival, but that had been impossible. Omar led them down a series o
f corridors and the space opened up to reveal a portly Trallian sitting on a tall stool behind the counter.
Cabot had never seen a portly Trallian. They were all naturally broad, but not in a pudgy way. This guy had a belly and a chubby face.
He looked cranky, too. “What?”
“A room.” Cabot dispensed with pleasantry. That kind of thing only made people suspicious on a place like this. “Needs to sleep four.”
The Trallian eyed each of them, scowling. “Big lot of big Rescans. You people take up too much space, if you ask me!” He punched some commands into his infoboard, muttering big people repeatedly.
“Fine!” he finally barked. His small, flute-like voice was at odds with his irritation. “Biggest room I have right now is two hundred cubics a night, non-negotiable. No pets or livestock, and no unstable explosives.” He practically flung the infoboard at Omar.
Omar said nothing, handing the board to Cabot. Cabot gave him a dirty look.
Cabot signed over the cubics, along with the agreement to pay for any damage done during their stay.
The Trallian watched him with unbridled hostility. What was wrong with him? Normally his people were charming with their small size, large eyes, and sweet smiles. Often disarmingly so, which made them excellent business partners. Either life had treated him badly, or he had become mentally unhinged. Or both.
“Agreed. Where is it?” Cabot set the board on the counter and fought the urge to wipe his hands on his pants. Everything in the place seemed greasy. Low-quality fuel left a residue behind.
The Trallian snarled. Actually snarled. Then he yelled, “Corridor on the right, first left turn, second right, third door on the left. Now get the hell out of here!”
Nagali burst out laughing. “I love it! He’s just so nasty! Now that’s someone I’d like to get to know.”
Cabot shoved her in front of him and hustled her down the corridor, following the Trallian’s directions. He ignored a startled human and kept going until he could push Nagali into their rented room.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Peregrine rummaged through her backpack and pulled out some interesting devices Cabot would have liked the chance to examine more closely. “Is she in need of mental help?”
“No,” Omar grumbled. “She’s only mildly deranged. It’s annoying, but nothing I could get her committed for.”
Nagali grinned at him, then turned her smile on Peregrine. “Don’t pout, Commander. You are a commander, right? Lieutenants don’t have quite the same level of arrogance.”
Cabot worried about Nagali’s long-term survival, but Peregrine’s eyes brightened in what he was learning to identify as her expression of humor. “Yes, I’m a commander. And arrogance is only one of the criteria for advancement. We also have to be prideful and obnoxious.” She waited a beat before adding, “If you were an officer, I’m sure you’d be an admiral by now.”
Nagali let out a belly laugh of delight. “Indeed. I just might.”
Still smiling, she walked around the room. “What a dump.”
The room had two sleeping mats on the floor and a couch that Cabot assumed was a pull-out that converted into a bed that would accommodate two. He calculated his odds of having to sleep on it, and tried to decide who would be the least offensive person to share with.
He found no acceptable alternative. He’d have to set his sights on one of the sleeping mats.
The room had only two chairs. A lack of kitchenette meant it would be a while before they had a hot meal.
“No eating anything we didn’t bring with us,” he announced. “Nothing. That includes water. Contaminated food is all but expected around here, even without someone deciding to poison you so they can rob you.”
Peregrine shrugged while Nagali and Omar merely frowned. No one wanted to eat ration packets for days on end, but it beat the alternative.
Hopefully, their stay on Cerberon would be short.
“Why don’t you all relax for a bit?” he suggested. “I’m going to get to work at the voicecom.”
A combination of shrugs and nods were good enough for him.
He had to stand at the far wall, where a voicecom terminal was built directly into it. The Cerberon Brothers didn’t take the risk of someone stealing a portable display.
Exhaling, he took a moment to collect himself, his thoughts, and the role he was about to play.
A few quick commands opened a channel to someone he knew only by reputation—bad reputation.
“Plinck here. What do you want?” The Rescan on the other side of the channel wasn’t bad-looking. Or, at least, he wouldn’t be if he were clean and didn’t have the appearance of someone who smelled like a rubbish composter.
“My name’s Cabot Layne. We haven’t done business before, but I believe you know my associate Arcy.”
Using Arcy’s name was a risk. Cabot didn’t know Plinck worked with Arcy, but it was a solid bet that either he did or he wished he could.
“Like I said, what do you want?” Plinck tried to look annoyed, but Cabot saw a flicker of interest.
Cabot sighed. “I was supposed to drop a shipment of power converters and orellium for Arcy, but I can’t find him. I should have been able to offload the cargo at the docking station and been on my way and here I am, planetside, looking for Arcy. I either need to find him, or forget the deal and find a new buyer. Do you know where I can find him?”
Plinck’s eyes narrowed. “He’s been scarce lately, but I could find him. It’s a matter of how much you’re willing to pay.”
He didn’t just mean money. He meant calling in favors and using his contacts. Which meant he’d want something in return. Something more than money.
“State your terms,” Cabot said.
Plinck swiped a hand over his greasy cheek. “Do you have a ship?”
“I do.”
“We might be able to work something out, then. I have some containers I need to send over to Terceron. Problem is, cargo ships are hard to come by. The few available ones around here have been going for too high a price. If you can deliver my cargo to Terceron, I can get a fix on Arcy for you.”
Cabot believed Plinck’s story. At least, most of it. Cerberon was surely feeling the pain of transportation scarcity, just as all traders were.
“What’s the cargo? Naturally, I’ll have to ensure that it poses no risk to my ship and crew.”
Plinck waved a dismissive hand. “Entirely inert. It’s delicate, actually, which has made it extra difficult to transport. And it’s costing me money to keep it here, just so that it can lose quality and become less valuable.”
This time, Plinck’s words rang true to Cabot. The guy was desperate, and in this situation, desperate was good.
“How much cargo? My ship is in good condition, but it’s not large.” If the guy expected Cabot to transport numerous tons of merchandise, they’d both be out of luck.
Plinck brightened. “It’s one external climate-controlled shipping container. Large, but not exceptionally heavy. Most any ship would work.”
“And if I transport this one container to the next planet over, you’ll get me the location of Arcy.”
“Maybe not his precise location. He values his privacy, as you know. But I can point you to where you need to go to track him down.” Plinck nodded slowly.
If he’d promised more than that, Cabot would have known he was lying. The deal was as good as Cabot could hope for. He hadn’t expected finding Arcy to be as simple as paying someone off with money.
“I’ll draw up a contract, then. Is your shipment ready to go?”
Plinck’s eyes unfocused for a moment. “You put together the contract and I’ll get it ready. By the time we agree to the terms and sign, it should be fully prepared.”
The shipping container wasn’t ready yet, then. Interesting, since such a container must be already docked at the docking station. Where was this gradually declining cargo, then? In some sort of cold storage? Why not in the climate-controlled contain
er?
Cabot hardly expected any deals he made here to be on the up-and-up. He just had to exercise due diligence to keep himself and his colleagues safe.
“I’ll get right on that contract, then. You can expect the first draft in an hour.”
“Perfect. Until then.” Plinck’s hand went to the right and out of view, and the screen went blank.
SIXTY MINUTES LATER, Cabot reconnected the channel to Plinck. After an elongated wait, the man’s face appeared.
“Very precise, Mr. Layne. I like that.”
Cabot didn’t care for flattery, but he maintained his bland expression. “I’ve transmitted the contract to you. How long will you need to review it?”
Plinck’s eyes had focused slightly right of Cabot, indicating he was looking over the contract at that moment. “This seems straightforward. I’ll finish looking it over now and send you no more than a couple of minor revisions.”
Such was to be expected, but Cabot wanted to push for expediency. “Of course,” he agreed. “Take your time. My associates and I were thinking we might visit the red-light district. I’ll check back in the morning.”
The tips of Plinck’s ears turned slightly pink. “No need to take up more of your time. I’ll have this right back to you. Ten minutes, no later.”
Cabot pretended to consider. “I suppose it makes more sense to wait, then.”
Plinck’s color eased. “I’ll get right back to you.”
Nine minutes and thirty-eight seconds later, Cabot received a revised contract. The only changes were to put responsibility for any unexpected astronomical phenomena or acts of piracy on Cabot. Which was reasonable and entirely expected. But he’d long been in the habit of building in such terms for the other party to change, because only a sucker accepted a contract as offered.
Just like that, Cabot signed the contract and they were in business.
“We won’t even have to figure out who has to share the sleeper couch,” he commented as they gathered their things to leave.
Taking the room hadn’t been a waste, even though they wouldn’t sleep there. It was the safest thing to do. Cabot wouldn’t have admitted it to his colleagues, but he was glad not to have to dig deeper into the bowels of Cerberon. Early in his career, it had been a necessary evil to do business in such places, but he’d long since given up such risky ways.
