He called a video onto the display screen. It showed a group of eight runners lined up in starting blocks. At the electronic signal one woman burst off the mark well ahead of the others. She increased her lead all the way to the finish line and won by more than ten yards.
"That's a Chill competitor," Connery said. "Trudi Snorresen, from Cap City. There's no way she should have won. According to Daddy-O's records, before she ran in these games her best time for one hundred meters was about nine point seven. You've just seen her running eight point eight. Rumors from the southern ice cap say that Snorresen was holding herself back all the way in that race—in training, she is supposed to run the distance in just over five seconds."
Connery flicked off the display. "Those berries are something special. Apparently the alkaloid we discovered in them totally changes synapse speed and reaction times. The Chills call the active component 'Velocil,' and that's not a bad name. When a human being gets ten milligrams or so into the system, the only limit on speed of movement seems to be simple tissue-tearing stresses. We've heard reports from the Great Republic of a Yankee woman catching swallows out of the air with her bare hands, and a man grasping a rattlesnake safely by the head while it was striking at him. The Ten Tribes have a movie of a hunter running down an antelope in full flight, and from up in orbit there's a rumor of a Chipponese woman picking a bullet out of the air—though we're still skeptical about that one. But the rest are quite enough. Those berries are a unique new resource."
"But who wants them?" Mike had been dazzled by the speed and grace of the runner, but it was hard to see why improved reaction time was so valuable. "Isn't everything that needs really fast speed computer-controlled anyway?"
Connery smiled. "Most of the serious things are. But the Unified Empire would like to see Velocil completely under their control. Think what unlimited use of it would do to their businesses. It could screw up horse races, athletic contests, card games—everything that the visitors to the Unified Empire bet on. With a dose of Velocil, a card player could change a jack to a king so fast that no one would see anything happen. Cockfights and bullfights and horse racing would be completely unpredictable. I suppose the Greasers could drug-test everything and everyone, but that would be a terrific hassle. Far better to control it at the source."
"But why not let them buy the rights from us?"
"Two reasons. First, we don't have the rights—though we haven't told anyone that. The other regions assume they can deal with us. Second, the Yankeeland farmers are also interested in the berries, as a Great Republic agricultural crop. Remove the alkaloid, and in what's left you have the highest vegetable protein per gram anyone has ever seen."
"Then why not just negotiate with the Great Republic and the Unified Empire—and the Chills and Chipponese, too, for that matter. I assume they're all interested."
"They are." Connery sighed. "And we can't. We have to work with the Strines—because someone else is at least as smart as we are. Those berries have seeds in them, but they are sterile. They were exposed to a big dose of radiation before we got our hands on them. Someone has to go to the Strine Interior and confirm the source of the Velocil berries. We need solid facts on their growth and production. That's your mission, and that's what they're expecting from you. After that we will have to strike some kind of deal for a guaranteed supply, but we're not asking you to do that. You don't have the experience for it. All clear to you?"
Mike nodded. "Information, not final negotiation. I'll remember."
"Good. One other thing before you go. Rule Four."
Mike cleared his throat. Rule Four was the kicker that could kill a Trader. "Sure. 'Anyone who isn't working two agendas at once should give up being a Trader.' "
"Right. We don't apply that to trainees, so there's no official second item. But here's something unofficial. A few weeks ago we had a rumor of something else in the Strineland Interior—something that might be a lot more important than Velocil. Did you ever hear of the Dulcinel Protocol?"
Mike stared at Lyle Connery and racked his brains. The Dulcinel Protocol. Something that had been a passing reference, near the beginning of Trader training. Where did it fit? Back at the very beginning of the Lostlands War, before the Chipponese went to space.
"Wasn't that a Strine development, too?" he said at last. "A long time ago. Something to do with the abo teams?"
"Not bad." Lyle Connery nodded approval. "It's nice to know that some of the lessons stick. The original Dulcinel Protocol was used with the first haploid abo killing teams, forty years ago. It's a lymphocyte change to permit rapid self-healing after wounds—part of the reason the abos were so effective against the Chipponese. We thought we knew the whole story on it. But now we hear reports of a major new development. This time the Protocol is more general. It can be applied to anyone, not just haploid abos. And it does many more things: rapid healing, resistance to disease, shrinking of malignant growths, tissue restoration, lessened need for sleep, and greater endurance. But there's a problem: the Strines are telling us that the new Dulcinel Protocol doesn't exist, so there's nothing to discuss. And it's not the usual situation, where they keep something close to their chests just to get a better deal. This time they don't want anyone to have it—period. We hear they'll kill anyone who tries to get it."
Mike swallowed. "And you want me to get—to try to—"
"No." Connery smiled. "It's fifteen years too soon for you. The final trainee test may be unreasonable, but it's not that unreasonable. We wonder if the new Dulcinel Protocol and Velocil are related. All we want you to do is keep your eyes and ears open. If you notice anything strange, make sure that Jack Lester gets a look at it, too. He's sometimes crazy, but he has the experience you're missing. If you get communication blackout with him, put it on the recording disk. And remember, dead heroes make bad Traders. The modified Protocol is a job for a very experienced operator. You concentrate on the Velocil berries as your priority. Anything you pick up on the Protocol will be a nice bonus, but you're not to let it distract you."
"Yessir."
Mike had wondered, with a little bemusement, why Lyle Connery would tell him all about the Dulcinel Protocol, then instruct him not to think about it. Connery's instructions absolutely guaranteed that Mike would be distracted by thoughts of the Protocol. Now, lying on his bunk heading for a landing at BigSyd, he thought he understood. Connery was telling him to explore the Protocol as a private sideline. If he succeeded, the Traders would benefit; if he fell on his face, they could tell the Strines that it was all his idea—because he had been specifically told not to meddle.
What was Jack Lester supposed to do if Mike began to explore the Protocol? Assist him, or stop him?
Mike opened his eyes, all ready to tongue in a circuit to Lester. Then he became suddenly aware of two factors. First, his conditioning had at last come into operation. He could feel the ship's motion, and it was much greater than before. But now it was no longer unpleasant. That was good.
Less good was the fact that someone was standing at the end of the bunk, quietly watching him. And in the gloom he could see that the stranger was holding a long and wicked-looking blade of glittering steel. It was lined up on his unprotected abdomen.
* * *
Mike lifted his head slowly and carefully to face the intruder. He found he was looking at a woman of about thirty, a short-haired, strongly built blonde with tanned arms and legs. She wore a blue sleeveless blouse, tight pants cut off at knee level, and thick-soled sandals. Mike completed the tongue movement that should bring Jack Lester back into communication, then nodded at the woman.
"Hello," he said softly.
She lowered the blade so that it almost touched his belly. Mike felt the muscles there tighten up, independently of any conscious act on his part. He had a flash of memory of a descending knife, and of the ritual castration planned for him back in the Hives.
"You're a Trader, ain'tcher?" she said conversationally. "Where you come from, I hear men an
d women are equal. But not here. You know I could carve your guts out this minute, and no Strine would give a damn?" Her voice was husky and low-pitched, and it somehow matched the sun-tanned body and open-air look of her.
"I know that." Mike kept his voice as casual as hers had been. "But I'm not sure why you'd want to. Seems to me that my guts don't have much value to anybody—except me, of course. I value them highly."
As Mike spoke he heard a little hiss in his left ear. Jack Lester was back. The woman in front of him chuckled and lowered the blade.
"Maybe you'll do." She came forward along the bunk and stood just a foot from Mike. "Not like the lily-livered Yankee I had to deal with back in Orklan. All he did was scream and sob and beg me not to cut his balls off." She sheathed the blade and held out her hand. "My name is Lavengro. Fathom Five Lavengro."
"Don't touch her hand!" Lester said urgently in Mike's head. "Let her take yours, if she wants to. Men don't touch women here first."
"I know that." Mike subvocalized an impatient response. "I have been briefed, you know." He held his hand out where Fathom Lavengro could take it if she wished.
"I guess you're the captain of the ship," he said aloud. "I'm Mike Asparian. And you're quite right, I'm a Trader." Or I will be, if I can just pass this test—so I hope you're going to help me, ma'am.
Fathom grabbed Mike's hands and helped him to swing to an upright position. She smiled at him, and he had his first good look at her face. She was a gray-eyed blonde, with a wide, pale mouth and two strange parallel vertical incisions between that and her chin.
"See the marks?" Lester hissed. "She's a bigmomma—from the Interior! Better be careful, the Interior mommas are holy terrors; they control all the abo killing teams. Only way to get their respect is to beat 'em and fool 'em. Then you'll do a deal. But she's two thousand miles from home. What's she doing in Orklan?"
Mike had been asking himself the same question, while the woman gave him a leisurely and careful inspection. "Lordy. Bit young, ain'tcher?"
Mike flushed and pulled his hands out of her grasp. "I'm twenty-one years old."
"Thought so. Twenty-one. Don't know what's coming to you Traders, you get younger all the time. I like that. Did Daddy-O pick out a honey mouse, just for me?"
"She likes you!" Lester said. "Great. Remember now, let her make the moves—and if it gets exciting, don't you dare cut me out of the circuit. I'm getting full sensory inputs back here. It's been a long time!"
"For God's sake—calm down, Lester. This is business! How does she know about Daddy-O?" Mike took a step closer to the blond woman. "Lavengro is a Strine Interior name, isn't it? Tommy Lavengro used to be chief of the Interior."
That earned him a respectful nod. "Long time ago. I see you've done some homework. My Pops, old Tommy was. I don't know his reputation with the Traders, but he was a man who made a deal as easy as breathing. I'm his daughter, and I make deals, too. Try me."
"Tommy Lavengro," Lester whispered to Mike. "The only man who could hold his own with the bigmommas. I knew him. Biggest liar in Strineland. Far as I know, he never told the truth in his whole life. Two children: Jessica, better known as Fathom Five—this one; and Jinjer, the mystery one that nobody knows much about. Usually called Cinder-feller—had some terrible deforming accident in a fire a few years ago. Got the name there, but I don't have any details. Both big bosses in the Strine Interior. Wonder if they take after their daddy."
"We might find out if you'd just shut up for a minute." Mike nodded at Fathom. "If you'll make deals, so will I. For a start, how would you like to trade some information?"
Fathom looked at him shrewdly. "Could be—if you have any. What makes you think you know anything I'd give a kangy's cooch about?"
"I'm sure I do. But I don't want to talk down here." Traders' Rule: Try to see your opponent's home environment; it may tell you what they need. "I haven't eaten in fourteen hours, and I need some fresh air. There's no food here. Can we go forward to your quarters to eat and talk?"
She shrugged, turned without speaking, and led the way up to the deck.
"Remember, don't trust her an inch," Jack Lester said urgently. "She'll act all sweet and kind, then when you're no more use to her she'll turn on you in a second. Make a pass at her that she doesn't want, and she'll cut your throat. Coo-ee. Might be worth it, though. Take a look at the wiggle on that rear end! Makes you want to reach out and grab a handful."
Mike sighed. Trader's luck. Of all the Mentors available, he had been assigned the only disembodied lunatic would-be rapist in the whole organization. "Get your mind off sex for a minute. Jack. Take a look in Daddy-O's data banks, and find something we can use to trade for information. We need to know a lot more about the Interior."
Mike ignored his Mentor's protests and lagged behind on the steep stairway, so that Fathom's posterior undulations were less intimately revealed to them. He was finally beginning to understand the reason for Jack Lester's nickname.
* * *
When Mike came on deck he had to bend almost double to make his way forward. The ship was scudding along fast into a howling west wind. It was very cold and nearly dark. Invisible salt spindrift broke over the bow with a roaring hiss and drenched everything on deck with a freezing spray.
Fathom Lavengro, sure of her sea legs, had darted on ahead of him. He saw her disappear suddenly from view. He followed slowly after and descended another dark hatchway. The door at the bottom had closed automatically, and the companionway was unlit. Mike groped his way down, hand on the rail, until the door at the bottom sensed his presence and swung open. He found himself in a suite of rooms that contrasted sharply with his own quarters. Underfoot was the vivid blue-green of euclypt carpet, growing from wall to wall. The end of the room was one long serving area and autochef. As he stepped inside and looked around him, Fathom came through the low door on his left. She had removed blouse, pants, and sandals, and was naked except for a curious bracelet of linked metal tablets. She was toweling vigorously at her damp hair.
As he stared at her she nodded casually. "Damp out there, eh? Take your clothes off, grab a towel, and make yourself comfortable. I'll order us a couple of beers and some food."
Mike gaped at her, then went through the door she was pointing at. He came to a bedroom with a bathroom at one end and half the remaining space taken up by a broad floor mattress.
"I said she liked the look of you," Jack said triumphantly in his ear. "Starkers! Stripped bare before you even come in the door."
Mike picked up a big towel and thoughtfully began to remove his clothes. "Nobody told me people went around naked in the middle of Strineland."
"Some of 'em do, mostly the abos. It's not unusual here—but she sure as hell knows that Traders don't go around bare assed. That's why I'm sure she has a letch for you."
Mike shook his head, dried himself, and stood motionless for a moment. "What's the Strine penalty if a man makes a pass at a momma—one she didn't invite?"
"Anything she wants—chopped to bits, staked out in the sun, skinned alive." The Mentor sounded remarkably pleased by the thought. "But there's no risk of that now—get in there."
"Quite right. There isn't." Mike headed for the door, still naked and carrying the towel with him. He was leaving the recording disk behind him, on his shirt, but suddenly he felt very comfortable. He knew what Fathom was doing. It had been drilled in on Day One, as Lyle Connery covered the basic principles. "Basic negotiation techniques: get a psychological advantage. Throw the opposition off balance. If they expect you to be angry, stay calm. If they negotiate only by moonlight, try to get them to do it at midday, in the full sun. If they hate to fly, hold the talks on board a plane. If nudity shocks them, take your pants off. And never forget: they'll be trying to do the same thing to you. 'Rule Twelve: Anything can be a negotiation technique.' "
Mike went back into the other room, walked across to the autochef, and took the flask of beer that waited there. He looked Fathom calmly over from sun-bleache
d hair to sinewy bare feet, aware of the fact that she was giving him the same objective scrutiny, then nodded toward the table. "If you'd care to sit down, I'll be happy to bring the food over as soon as we get the signal."
He was pleased to see her frown in surprise before she nodded and went across to sit on a high stool at the table.
"You're cooler than I thought, sweetheart. All right, over to you. What do you know that you think I want?"
End of Round One, Mike thought. He sat down opposite her. He could feel a tingly sense of excitement in his stomach. This was the real thing, something he had been rehearsing for years: the first shot at negotiation. He tongued Jack Lester to low volume, so the Mentor could distract him only in an emergency. And he tried to ignore Fathom's suntanned breasts, a couple of feet away from him.
"We have to feel our way into this," he said. "Otherwise whoever speaks first will be afraid of giving too much away. I suggest we tell each other initially only what we think we know. Then each of us can make corrections. That way you won't really be telling me something I don't already know, and it will be the same for me."
She looked at him for a moment, her head on one side. "Why shouldn't I just wait until we get to the mainland, and then have whatever you know beaten out of you?"
Mike said nothing. If she was here, she needed him as much as he needed her. After a second she shrugged. "Oh, all right. Let's try it. But you go first."
"Careful what you tell her!" Lester's voice was a distant screech in his ear. Mike frowned and wondered if he was about to go too far. The information was Trader Confidential—but the chance that Fathom Lavengro already knew most of it was good. Why else would she travel to Orklan and have first contact with him, if she didn't have an idea of his mission?
Trader's World Page 9
