“So,” Martin went on, “he might be guessing about Osman having children; he may’ve assumed anyone that age would. It would make things easier for him if you were Osman’s daughter and not your father’s.”
Again that tickle of fear. Could she be Osman’s daughter, adopted into the family, raised as Gerard’s?
“I can’t believe that a child of Osman’s would look exactly like me,” Ky said. “And he saw me—onscreen, at least—back at Sabine.”
“That’s the other possibility, certainly,” Martin said. “He knows perfectly well who you are, but he’s trying to pull a bluff, hoping that you have no way to prove absolutely that he’s lying. Stella showing up must be another complication for him.”
“She’s turned out to be a complication for me,” Ky said. She would like to have vented her frustrations to Martin, but Stella was, after all, a family member, quite possibly the closest relative she had left.
_______
Her next call came not from Stella but from planetside, from the canid reproductive specialists.
“This is Mellowyn Davin of the Eglin Veterinary Clinic…We hadn’t heard back from you about your dog. Are you still interested in a semen harvest?” It was not the same voice she’d heard before, and the woman’s appearance—she had paid for a full video link—was that of a middle-aged professional.
“Are you interested in purchasing semen?” Ky asked, struggling to pull her mind back from Furman’s accusations to this trade and profit possibility. “I understood from the person I spoke with before that you have concerns about whether our dog is a descendant of dogs stolen from your planet.”
“I’m so sorry,” Davin said. “That was our front-office assistant, and she should not have hinted at any such thing. Some people do believe spacers stole our dogs long ago, but I assure you the government is now well aware that it’s not true. I apologize for her rudeness; she should have transferred your call to one of the partners right away.”
“I see,” Ky said. “Suppose you tell me what would be involved in the process.”
“I imagine you would not want to transport the animal to the surface,” Davin said. “We would send a team up to Cascadia Station—by the way, do you know if this animal has ever bred successfully?”
“No,” Ky said. “He was still quite young—estimated by the vet on Lastway to be no more than a hundred twenty days old, a third of a standard year. He would be close to three-quarters of a standard year by now.”
“We would need to test the dog for known communicable diseases, run a genetic scan for genetic problems, do a semen test for sperm quality, and then, if the dog checked out, collect semen. The tests would take some hours—aside from the blood test, nothing painful to the dog. I’m presuming he’s had standard immunizations?”
“Yes, on Lastway. I do have that paperwork.”
“And the breed?”
“That I don’t know. The dog had been dumped in a waste container, from which my crewmen rescued it.”
“Dumped! For disposal?”
“Yes. In fact, we were encouraged to allow the vet to euthanize the dog—”
“Barbaric!”
“—and instead chose to adopt it, at some considerable cost to ourselves.”
“That was a good deed, Captain,” Davin said. “So you do not know what kind of dog?”
“The vet at Lastway told us it was a small terrier breed, possibly something called a Jack Russell, but whether it was pure in breed or not, he was unable to determine.”
“Ah. Small breeds do mature faster than large breeds…tell me, has the dog exhibited any sexual behaviors? You don’t have a female dog as well, do you?”
“No, we don’t have a female…does grabbing people’s legs with his forepaws count as sexual behavior?”
“Indeed it does. Your dog may well be mature enough for sperm collection, and since all our terrier lines are very inbred and require constant genetic tinkering, we can hope this one’s different enough for a good outcross line.” Davin cleared her throat. “About cost…as we do not know yet if the dog is healthy, with good genetic material and viable sperm, we would expect to be reimbursed for our costs in bringing a team to the station. Counting all costs—transportation for the team of three, materials for the tests and lab time, all that—it’s in the range of twelve to fourteen thousand. I can assure you that if the dog is suitable, that this cost would be quickly recovered from sales of his sperm, but that’s a chance you would have to take. Alternatively, with a young dog that has never been exposed to breeding, we would be prepared to assume those costs ourselves for an equal share in the profits. You would risk nothing, but your profit would be lower.”
“I understand,” Ky said. “Are you prepared to suggest what the sperm might be worth?”
“I prefer not to,” Davin said, almost primly. “However, there are entries in the database that you can look up. May we expect to hear from you soon?”
“Yes,” Ky said. “If you’d transmit the site locations you mentioned.”
“Certainly.” Across the bottom of the screen flowed a list of search terms and sites both.
“Thank you,” Ky said.
“Thank you for saving the dog,” Davin said.
_______
Ky set Toby the task of looking up the going rate for canine sperm, per insemination. “Rascal’s your dog,” she said. “You should do the research.”
“I don’t want him hurt,” Toby said. “Will they have to hurt him?”
“They want a blood sample,” Ky said. “Check for parasites, disease, that kind of thing. But it’s just a needle-stick, and he’s had those.”
Toby nodded. He worked his way down the list; Ky left him to it and called up the remote visuals Martin had planted. Furman had docked; Furman’s crew had begun offloading cargo. The cargo she could see all looked ordinary: standard bins with standard markings on the side, consignors’ labels neatly placed. She hadn’t seen Furman yet; she wondered if he would call or attempt to contact her directly.
“I don’t believe it!” Toby said, breaking her concentration.
“What?”
“Five thousand credits for a single insemination? Rascal’s a little gold mine.” He grinned at her; Rascal, in his lap, seemed to be grinning as well.
“It would take three to cover the cost of bringing the team up here,” Ky said. “After that, it’s gravy. But how many can a dog that age do?”
“I don’t know yet,” Toby said. “I’ll keep looking.”
Ky turned back to her screen. She wasn’t worried that Furman’s crew would notice the visual pickups; all docks were monitored and ship crews expected that. Cascadia had lax regulations for such things; if people wanted to add their own surveillance gadgets in public places, they were free to do so, as long as they obtained a permit and certified that the gadgets didn’t interfere with the official ones, and the owners granted Cascadia the right to the recordings if a criminal act occurred. She had sent Martin to the permits office the day before, hardly believing that he would actually get a permit to bug dockside space, but the permits had been granted without question.
Unloading looked more complicated than she’d expected, but Katrine Lamont was a larger ship and carried more cargo than she’d ever dealt with.
On the stationside of the dock area, consignors’ representatives were already lined up, ready to check bills of lading and certify delivery. Furman’s cargomaster, a tall bald man with the Vatta logo on the back of his shipsuit, directed the placement of bins as they came off the ship. Finally he halted the offloading and walked over to the gate where the consignors’ reps waited.
“Messinam Imports?” The audio pickup, perfectly placed, relayed his voice to Ky’s ear.
“Here.”
“Come on, then.” The cargomaster led the rep over to the bins; the rep checked bin ID, labels, routing numbers, then nodded, thumb-marked the cargomaster’s hardcopy, and went back to the gate. The cargomaster peeled off a laye
r of hardcopy for the Cascadia Customs officer, and a Cascadia Station work crew loaded the bins onto a moving belt that took them through an opening in the bulkhead. From there, Ky knew, they would move to the Customs inspection bay, where both the consignors’ representatives and Cascadia Customs would open and inspect the containers.
When the first lot of bins was off the dockside, the cargomaster told his crew to bring out the next.
“Isn’t that the captain?” Martin asked. Ky zoomed back out—she’d been trying to read the consignor’s name off one bin—and caught a glimpse of someone in a captain’s uniform and cape angling across the dockside to a different exit. Martin already had him centered on that screen; Ky moved to look over his shoulder.
“Yes, that’s Furman,” she said.
“Looks in a temper,” Martin said.
“He usually does,” Ky said. “But where’s he going?”
“I put a pickup in the next compartment,” Martin said. “We’ll see him choose a direction, at least.”
Furman had gone through the opening labeled CREW EXIT ONLY. On the far side, a Customs and Immigration desk blocked his progress; they watched as he handed over an ID kit and submitted to a thumbprint and retinal scan. Martin used that brief time to imprint Furman’s image and ID data into his own security AI; the system would now recognize Furman wherever Martin had pickups.
Furman left the Customs desk with a final nod to the clerk, then paused to pick up a leader-tag. They could not tell what destination he’d asked for.
“Bank or here, on a bet,” Ky said.
“Bank,” Rafe said from behind her. She jumped; she hadn’t heard him come in, and no one had said anything.
“And you were where?” Ky said, trying for icy composure.
“Here and there. It’s interesting: the man has lockouts very similar to those Osman had on this ship.”
“Learn anything yet?”
Rafe grinned. “I have a nice full data cube ready to untangle…haven’t done that yet.” He opened his hand in front of her; the glossy cube lay there, full of mystery and promise.
“Don’t let me stop you,” Ky said.
“Want to know if he’s really going to the bank?” Rafe asked, tossing the cube from hand to hand.
“What did you do, bug the entire station?” Martin asked.
“No. I did, however, bug him as he strolled along following the tagger’s directions. He ran right into me; he wasn’t looking.”
Martin’s mouth quirked upward. “I think there’s a story in that, right?”
“A story?” Rafe cocked his head. “Well, I suppose. Someone happened to be carrying a large container of liquid in the passage, from a pub interior to one of the tables overlooking the walkway. None too steadily; I suspect the fellow was a new hire. Our good captain didn’t want to be splashed; between watching the man with the pitcher of ale and five glasses on a tray, and trying to keep up with his tagger’s direction, he didn’t notice the person squatting down to look at a walkside display of plaster figurines—”
“You,” said Ky.
“No,” Rafe said, with a lift of his eyebrows. “I was the person just inside the door who rushed out and helped him up. Suspicious brute, our captain. He was sure someone had stolen something from him, but no one had. We’re all honest here in Cascadia. He had to pat all his pockets and pouches, though, to be sure. If I had wanted any of his valuables, it would have been easy—” He shot a look suddenly at Ky. “You do realize I haven’t done anything illegal.”
“Yet,” Martin said, echoing Ky’s thought.
“It did happen that in the course of brushing the dust off his cape—and for a man of such long experience, Captain, he certainly does have a fine, unmarked cape. Yours, I’ve noticed, is already showing some wear—in the course of brushing off his cape for him, I did just happen to lose a burtag.”
“You lost it,” Ky said, struggling not to laugh.
“Lost it. It stuck to his clothes, I imagine. At least, when I queried it, it was moving along at about his speed. According to my implant, he’s now on the same corridor as the bank. Yes…yes. He’s heading for the bank.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t plant an audio tag on him as well,” Ky said. She couldn’t keep the amusement out of her voice.
“That would be illegal,” Rafe said. “I prefer not to break the laws, wherever I am.”
“Really.” Martin looked him up and down; Rafe didn’t respond, except to raise an eyebrow.
“It’s not illegal to tag someone to follow their movements,” Rafe said. “I checked. Audio is illegal, but visual isn’t.”
“You have a permit?” Martin asked.
“I obtained my own permits,” Rafe said. “That way there’s no confusion about who had permits for what.”
“I see,” Martin said.
“As Captain Furman is not a citizen of the Moscoe Confederation, local law says that I am under no obligation to notify him with due courtesy of my intent to track his movements…”
“Technically, that is correct. However, arranging for him to fall down is a direct injury, and in public. For that you should have notified him,” Martin said. “I hope no one on the scene figured it out.”
“Why would you think I arranged for him to fall down?” Rafe asked.
“Because you said—”
“I described a series of events,” Rafe said with perfect calm. “That does not mean I caused those events.”
“No, but—”
Ky intervened. “Stop it, both of you,” she said. His bow to her was a model of grace.
“Captain—” That was Toby. “I have a cost analysis ready.”
Ky dragged her attention away from Rafe and Martin, and said, “Yes, Toby?”
“It all hinges on how many collections they can do while we’re here: I don’t know how long we’re staying, or how often Rascal can be collected. I did research the market, and we could easily sell enough for one hundred inseminations. The crossover point is eight collections: below that, the sharing with the vet clinic would be more profitable, but if we can do more than eight, we’ll be better off paying them and taking the whole profit. Of course, that assumes we can do the collection, or we can make the customer pay for the collection. Some might.”
“So—what do you think is best, Toby, from a trading standpoint?”
He scowled in thought. “I was wondering. If we just hire them to do the test, they don’t have much incentive to support Rascal’s suitability. If we go in with them, it’s in their best interest to make sure he works out.”
“There’s the public relations side, too,” Ky said. “If it turns out that we want to trade here again, and perhaps ask Rascal for another contribution, we will need a good relationship with a vet clinic. Our profit’s lower, but I’m inclined to work with the clinic on this. How about you?”
“Me?”
“He’s your dog, Toby. I don’t think the company has any precedent for this particular situation, so I’m going to assess ten percent of the profit to the ship, but the rest of it’s your money. You’re going to want to finish your education, and we don’t know how things are back home for you.”
Toby’s eyes were wide. “But Captain—that’s too much. Twenty-two hundred per collection?”
“You can always invest it in company stock when we have some again,” Ky said. “But for now, that’s what I’m suggesting.”
“Yes…yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll call the clinic back, then,” Ky said. This time she was put through immediately.
“Captain Vatta—you have made your decision?”
“Yes, thank you. We want to take you up on your offer of cooperation, splitting the profits of sale of the dog’s semen. Do you have a standard contract for that?”
“Thank you! That’s wonderful. Yes, we do have a standard contract, which I’ll forward to you at once. Er…what is the animal’s name?”
“Rascal,” Ky said, very glad now that Toby had insi
sted on changing it from Puddles.
“Rascal? Is that all? I mean…most animals used for stud service have…er…”
“Fancy names?” Ky said.
“Yes. Perhaps we could use a breeding name, something more…er…impressive?”
Ky turned away. “Toby, your pup needs a fancier name. Make something up.”
“Vatta’s Ridiculous Rescue,” Rafe suggested with a sardonic grin.
“Vatta’s Nipping Nuisance,” Lee said.
“Star Rover’s Rascal,” Toby said, glaring at the older men.
Ky turned back to the screen. “How about Star Rover’s Rascal?”
“That’s better. We’ll put the name in the contract. I’ll assemble a team and we’ll be on our way…probably tomorrow.”
“Excellent,” Ky said and closed that connection. She glanced at Rafe, who was staring at scrolling figures on a cube reader screen. “What’s that?”
“That, my dear Captain, is the contents of Captain Furman’s secure files.” His tone denied the reality of secure. “Very interesting man, our captain. He’s been double-dealing Vatta for years.”
“Furman? He’s so upright you could use him for a flagpole.”
“Hardly.” Rafe squinted at the dataflow, entered a command, and the screen froze, full of figures Ky didn’t recognize. Rafe apparently did. “This is the sum of his various accounts, the ones he holds as sole owner, both in his own and other names.”
“Other names?”
“Yes. He has a half dozen aliases. And one in particular will interest you. Olene Vatta.”
“There isn’t any such person,” Ky said after a moment’s query of her implant.
“You may not think so, but there’s a bank account on New Jamaica in the name of Olene Vatta, and the money sloshing about in it came from two sources: Furman and another Vatta with the initial O.”
“Osman?” Ky’s voice almost squeaked. She took a deep breath and consciously steadied her tone. “Are you suggesting that Furman was actually dealing with Osman?”
“I’m not ‘suggesting’ it. I’m saying it’s true: Furman was working some kind of scam with Osman. From what I’ve found so far, money flowed both ways, but most of it flowed from Furman to Osman Vatta. At first I thought Osman was blackmailing Furman, but now I think Furman was fronting for him, selling something Osman sent him, and sending money back.”
Engaging the Enemy Page 30
