If anyone asked him later to describe his visitor, the hat would be the first thing to come to mind. His other features would likely be vague at best, since the hat always drew the eyes whenever he looked at the face.
“Ro’j,” Cal boomed. “Ro’j Yoyeco’s the name.” He jammed a thumb over his shoulder at his Ufangian companion. “This here’s McFreely – Elmer Fudd McFreely.”
The young man nodded absently, trying to work out what was happening to his quiet morning. He looked back up at Cal. “Wasn’t there a Ro’j Yoyeco that betrayed Tauhento to the Alliance long time ago?”
Most Tauhentans revered Yoyeco as part of the liberation effort but expats like G’Mal had to make a point of seeing it the other way. If you lived in the Republic and your home world was under Alliance dominion, you didn’t have much choice about things like that.
“No relation,” Cal breezed. “Speaking of relations, when’s the old man getting back? I’m anxious to finalize the details.”
“The, um…” His eyes darted from side to side. “What?”
One of the doors opened and the receptionist backed in with a tray in his hands. He slowly walked to the desk and set out the three drinks that Cal had ordered. He looked across to G’Mal, who looked pointedly down at the drinks before directing an incredulous look at him. The poor fellow shrugged helplessly, nodded at the two invaders and then scuttled out, closing the door quietly.
“The investment, sonny!” Cal exclaimed in perfect Oaxian. Though Dheema had been the official language on Oaxes and their colony, Tauhento, for over a thousand years, the smugglers of both worlds still used the old language to help obscure their activities.
“Investment?” he inquired in Oaxian.
“I’ll just take another look at the stockpile.” Cal headed for the side door, hoping it wasn’t just a closet or washroom.
The young man jumped out of his seat in alarm. “Wait, you can’t just walk in there! You might be dealing with my father but I have no clue who you are.” He caught Cal by the arm just as he reached the door.
He was so focused on Cal that he failed to notice ‘McFreely’ slipping behind his desk. The ‘sticky’ was a short-range data chip with a cloning program. If you could get close enough to your target’s data node, you could make a copy of everything he had.
If you could get close enough.
The Ufangian was leaning right up against it. The closer you got, the faster the data transferred.
“Hey!” G’Mal turned Cal from the door. “McFreely, what are you doing?”
“Nice picture,” Cal’s accomplice muttered, pretending to stare at the details of the image on the wall behind the desk. “Not the first Foxlight, is it?”
“Yes, it is the first,” he waved the Ufangian back out to the middle of the office. “Look, gentlemen, if you have a deal, it’s with my father. I don’t know anything about it so we’re not going to accomplish anything here today. Why don’t you come back in a few days when the old man returns?” He held out his hand, offering the old Imperial version of a handshake.
Cal was impressed with the young Tauhentan. He didn’t hide behind polite phrasing; he came right to the point, once he managed to regain his footing. ‘Ro’j’ looked at ‘McFreely’ who gave a barely perceptible nod. “Fair enough, lad.” He waved his hand over G’Mal’s. “We’ll be seeing you.”
Outside, Cal took the sticky and they split up. Cal headed for one of the connectors that linked the two sides of the city, tossing his hat over the railing as he activated his implant. There were literally thousands of convenient locations where he could view the files on the sticky but all of them were watched by a bank of quantum-core computers that sat brooding over all intra-city messages and data access.
His implant, however, was completely independent of the city systems and it was shielded from scans. Using it for short-range links, such as the sticky, was more-or-less safe, but a long-range message could be picked up by the random scanners.
He powered up the Hothmoen discriminator, developed by the Yo’Thage brothers on Weirfall a century and a half ago. The discriminator allowed perception at the quantum level. Linking it to a Midgaard implant allowed faster-than-light communication by tunneling a path through countless micro-wormholes.
Cal focused his attention on the device in his tunic pocket, picking up the ready signal almost immediately. He came to a stop at a semicircular rest area that jutted out into the main atrium of the city.
Leaning on the damp railing, he began to work his way through the files. The manifests for the Foxlight II were particularly illuminating. Each voyage resulted in a cargo transfer straight through the orbital counterweight platform and onto another freighter. There was always a sub-note indicating a large quantity of water coming down on the elevator each time the ship visited orbit.
It made sense. If G’Maj had found a new source of spicewood, he’d want to bring enough down here to generate local pocket currency and he’d want to keep folks from finding out. What better way than to declare it as water.
Technically, water was in permanent shortage but it was an artificial shortage – the city was sitting under several kilometers of it, after all. Still, if it was declared as water, it meant official involvement.
Cal reckoned that direct involvement went no farther up the chain than a customs official or two. A lot of ‘water’ got imported into the city every day but the company turned a blind eye, as long as the bribes flowed. G’Maj was paying an inspector, who then gave his own supervisor a share. That supervisor, in turn, paid a percent of his take to his manager and so, up the chain it went.
The unofficial system was so old, it wasn’t even considered illegal. It also had the benefit of allowing certain archaic laws to be circumvented without engaging the infamously costly re-legislation process. The old saying went that money flowed into Xo’Khov and fed the Consul’s pet black hole.
“Give an Ufangian a credit and he’ll make two more by day’s end,” Cal muttered the old adage as he mentally scrolled the data. “Give a credit to a Dactari and he’ll melt it down to sell for scrap, and then ask you for another credit so he can ship it to a recycler.”
Since the first Consul had replaced the Triumvirs fifteen decades ago, accountability had gone to the scuttlers. The Triumvirs had at least kept each other in check to some degree. The Consuls ruled without interference and so the great gears of Republic administration had grown increasingly dirty.
Small wonder there was so much undeclared cargo shifting around between the worlds.
Cal frowned. He closed the current file and went back to the expense account. G’Maj always bought the same amount of reactant every time he returned to Chaco Benthic. It was always the same amount, right down the the last tenth of a grain.
It was a simple matter for Cal to have his cranial processor crunch the numbers. He had everything he needed to calculate the radius represented by the reactant purchases. The specs on the Foxlight II were right there in the files and their engine performance was clearly stated in the sales brochure G’Maj had received from off world.
Cal projected a three-dimensional chart on his retinas and overlaid a sphere with the calculated radius. Only three worlds came anywhere close to the surface of the sphere. One was a carbon giant and he removed it from the projection. The next two seemed like good candidates. Both were G-class worlds.
The G class, or Goldilocks class of worlds were the ones that orbited their stars at just the right distance for liquid water to exist. Of the two G-class worlds, one sat just inside the sphere, and the other just beyond it.
Cal figured the smuggler wouldn’t take any risks on running out of fuel so the closer world was the most likely candidate. Both were outside of Republic control but he figured he could wait for G’Maj to return before attempting to contact the Alliance.
He toyed with the idea of sneaking aboard the Foxlight II when it returned but the crew would almost certainly purge the nav computer before the customs of
ficials came aboard.
He figured the best course of action would be a chance meeting with G’Maj at one of the smuggler’s regular watering holes. Just two Tauhentan expats reminiscing about a world that neither had set foot on. Once Cal got him talking, he should be able to pick up enough data to confirm his analysis.
He was hoping it would turn out to be planet 3428. If the Alliance decided to garrison that world, it would give them a strong position on the Dactari flank and it meant a greater enemy force would have to be stationed here, drawing off enemy troops from the core worlds. If they timed it right, he could start an insurrection here while Alliance forces took 3428.
The Dactari Consul ruling the Republic was also the titular head of the military but no Consul since the first one had any actual military experience. Chances were good he’d overreact, sending a massive force to keep this insignificant ball of water in his domain.
Cal closed the data and shut off his implants, finally hearing the growl of his stomach. He started walking. He could wait for a few more days before calling Flemming with the news.
Changing Trajectories
Breaking Point
Planet 3428
Rick looked down at the steel counter. Next to the springbuck he’d dropped were the wooden tokens the commissary clerk owed him for the kill. Most of them, anyway. The clerks always kept some of the tokens if you were a pariah like Rick.
Of course, the clerk wouldn’t simply hand the tokens over; he had to drop them on the bloody counter. Rick looked up at the arrogant young jerk. You could always find those who approved of class distinctions. Even a blood-soaked meat jockey could feel superior to someone.
Superior, even to an engineering officer. Rick at least had the grace to realize he was applying a different type of class structure with that thought. He had to admit he felt more useful than the clerk because he knew how to keep the Canal running while this jackass did nothing but put meat in storage and hand out tokens.
And the clerk was a lousy four. Rick’s precognitive abilities were more than three times stronger. He shook his head. He was quickly losing the moral high ground here. He turned and walked out, ignoring the startled protest. Let the little bastard have the tokens, but he’ll have to clean off the blood first.
He descended into a dark corridor beneath the hangar deck that led to the ventral Engineering nexus. He usually took this route so he could avoid his ‘betters’ and he was in no mood for any more provocation this morning.
As he approached an intersection, a shadowed form stepped out from the right branch and stood facing him. “Hello, Ricky-boy,” Ted’s nasal voice grated, oozing with menace. “We hear you’ve been harassing Nell again.”
It figured. Nell was angry at his defiance but she could hardly use the real story to enlist Ted in her vengeance. He was unlikely to ambush Rick over his refusal to show up at the abandoned shuttle and so he’d been fed some tale that would be more amenable to jealous ears.
Rick could easily handle Ted.
Four more shapes appeared from behind stanchions.
Even with his precognitive edge, five assailants might just have the advantage.
“You need to stop following her around when she’s out hunting,” Ted growled. “You really think she’s got any interest in a loser like you?”
There it was again. Despite Rick’s superior abilities, he was dirt under the feet of this quartermaster’s assistant because his ancestor hadn’t been a willing mutineer. A man can bottle rage for a long time but, sooner or later, that bottle will fill up. Sooner or later, that rage will need to find an outlet and Rick didn’t like to walk away from a fight.
The small group was starting to spread out, surrounding him, unaware of what they’d awakened. Rick knew he’d have to take the initiative if he wanted to maximize his advantages and so he launched himself to the left, aiming a punch at the closest assailant. The man adjusted his position, but few people had Rick’s lead-time and he adjusted the punch to where it would connect with the man’s nose.
Only a handful of people shared Rick’s obsessive need to spend his off-duty hours working off anger, and he was the only one who did it with a bow. Even compared to the other bow hunters, he was strong.
A sickening crunch and the man was on his knees, blood gushing around his fingers. It was a solid hit and Rick knew the man’s eyes would swell shut within seconds. He swung to the right, deflecting a punch from attacker number two and driving his left fist into the second man’s belly.
A blast of garlic-laced breath told Rick he had a moment’s respite from the second attacker and he turned, already knowing it was too late as Ted’s ample weight slammed into him, driving him down to the deck.
His assailants moved quickly to pinion his arms while Ted sat up and pulled out a knife. “Get his pants down, boys.” The pimple-faced teenager gave him an evil smirk. “I know how to end his interest in Nell once and for all.”
Rick knew Ted was serious. The beating they’d meant to give him was now outweighed in Ted’s mind by the damage Rick had dealt. It didn’t matter that he’d fought in self-defense, they felt entitled to beat him, and now they also felt they deserved to punish him for defending himself.
Evidently that justified castrating him.
The rage had just been leaking from the bottle, but now the glass shattered. As Ted came to his knees, giving his compatriots room to follow his instructions, Rick was able to move his legs. Without a thought for what price he might have to pay, Rick pulled out his right leg and kicked up at Ted’s right hand, driving the knife up into the crease where chin met neck.
The hands on his arms loosened as his horrified attackers focused on the blood spurting from Ted’s neck. A tiny part of his mind was urging him to stop but he knew things had already gone too far. Win or lose, this fight already meant Rick’s death. If it came to a trial, it would be the word of one pariah against five upstanding members of society.
Or four, depending on Ted’s next few minutes.
May as well get my skin’s worth, Rick thought grimly. The man holding his left arm was squatting over it, staring at Ted. His grip had gone loose and Rick reached up, grabbing the man’s belt and pulling him backwards enough to throw him off balance. Predictably, his arms flailed for balance, giving Rick the freedom to grab the shirt of the man holding his right arm and yank him forward, using the transfer of energy to pull himself up in the process.
The man tumbled to the floor between Rick and the fourth man – the designated pantser, who turned from Ted as his comrade hit the floor, only to take a punch to the throat. Rick was back on his feet and he turned to face the left-arm holder, catching him off balance with a kick to the solar plexus.
He turned back to the man from his right arm, finding him halfway back to standing and he drove a short, brutal punch against his left side. Rick had aimed for the liver and the pain on his opponent’s face told him he’d connected.
The fight was over.
The consequences began to settle in. Ted was stumbling down the corridor, looking for a stairway back to the hangar deck. He was still mobile so the carotid artery had been missed. He’d bled less than his friend with the broken nose.
A small miracle that still wouldn’t save Rick. He’d hang for this, just like his grandfather, eighteen years ago. His father might understand but he’d still be furious with him.
Without thinking about it, he turned and ran in the other direction, illuminated every thirty feet by the maintenance grilles that allowed the delivery of large parts to the hangar deck without adding to the clutter of combat. He stopped under the third grill where it remained dark. He gazed up at the underside of the smuggler’s shuttle that prevented the light from reaching the corridor.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he suddenly felt his whole life had been leading up to this moment. The events of the last ten minutes had removed any element of choice, and the shuttle was scheduled to leave at any minute.
He rea
ched up and released the latch on the grill, stepping out of the way as the hydraulic cylinders slowly swung it down and out of the way. The outer hatch of the shuttle’s escape pod was directly above him. It was a clever design, intended to double as an emergency airlock.
Rick hit a large red button and the grill began to swing back up. He pushed his fingers through the lattice-like framework and rode the panel as it rotated back into the closed position, leaving him lying on the grill underneath the smuggler’s shuttle.
He rolled over and looked at the access panel next to the hatch. It was in an unfamiliar script but he noticed a large red square in the upper right corner. He grinned. The important buttons were always blood-colored, no matter what species you were.
He knew the button would open the portal. The round hatch came open with a satisfying hiss. With a quick look around to ensure he hadn’t been spotted, he grabbed the handle on the inside of the hatch and hoisted himself into the cramped pod. As soon as his body cleared the opening, the automated door swung back up to close under him.
Rick let out a deep shuddering breath. Now that he’d gone to ground in this shuttle, he had time to assess his situation. He couldn’t stay with his people. For someone of his status to assault someone like Ted and his friends, a high price was usually paid. Ordinarily, it meant a flogging but the knife sticking out of Ted’s neck meant a worse punishment was in order.
And then there was Nell to consider. Whatever she had told Ted would undoubtedly be added to the record. She might even embellish it a bit.
No way would he survive the next few days if he stayed on 3428.
The smell registered in his brain. This pod had a lifeless odor, free of the sweat, dirt and dead skin cells of six generations. It smelled of metal, thermoplastics and hydraulic fluid – all scents common to the Canal, but they were always in concert with the smells of humanity.
Counterweight Page 5
