“Then perhaps you could explain the disparities I noticed on this ‘show’.”
“Such as?”
“Well, for example, I watched an episode from the realm of Australia and they caught some maladroit with an incredibly invasive plant species in his possession. They fined him twenty dollars or some-such. Then, I saw a fellow caught by a different regime, Canada, I think it’s called, and he was attempting to smuggle a device called ‘beef jerky’. They fined him more than a thousand dollars.”
“That’s part of what makes it interesting,” Odin countered earnestly. “The differences – why do guards from a stereotypically rugged nation like Australia wear sweaters while the supposedly peaceable Canadians have their guards in armor and armed as though Ragnarok was just around the corner?”
“Can’t you just tell me?”
“You’re utterly hopeless, you know.”
Fenris smiled placidly. “Perhaps I’d need to spend a few centuries on Earth to properly appreciate it?”
“I’ll see what we can arrange for you,” Odin retorted as the elevator came to a halt. “Though there are no countries anymore, not after the plague. It’s more like a colony world now.”
They followed the two prisoners out into a large vault. The walls were lost in the darkness as the lighting only illuminated out to a radius of a hundred meters from the small group. The only thing visible, aside from the floor, ceiling and elevator core, was a single, dusty cube-pallet. The guard led the way over to it.
“Where are the rare minerals?” Odin demanded.
The guard jumped in alarm at being addressed but he retained enough wit to indicate the pallet.
“This little cube-pallet is your planetary reserve of rare minerals?” Fenris exclaimed.
“Now look here,” Odin said reasonably, stepping closer and putting a friendly hand on the guard’s shoulder, a gesture that did nothing to reassure him. “We’re looking for rare metals, not your bloody gold or silver, right? We’re talking about neodymium, promethium, gadolinium, that sort of thing.”
Fenris frowned. “Why would they keep their gold in blood?”
“What? Oh, that. I went to a place called England on a lark. It was back in the ninth century. Ended up settling there for a few centuries. I just picked up some of their idioms, I suppose.”
“That’s why you have that weird drawl?”
“It’s a mix from there and what they called the new world.” He shook his head at the question he saw forming on Fenris’ face. “Still the same planet, they just got really excited to find a new continent.
“Now then,” he turned back to the guard. “The rare minerals?”
The guard took a deep breath. “This is it.”
“It’s the standard colonial minimum, Lord,” the other, more senior prisoner spoke up. “It has probably been sitting here, untouched, since the founding of Casparia. We have no real need of such minerals here. We don’t have a license to manufacture electronics or weapons.”
“What do you have a license for?” Odin demanded.
“Pillows, Lord.”
Both Odin and Fenris stared at the Dactari for an uncomfortably long time.
“There’s no sense waiting for you to say ‘and’, is there?” Odin finally said rhetorically. “So that’s it, yes? Just pillows?”
“Well, that’s our main export but we make other things as well.”
“Now you’re talking!” Fenris encouraged him. “What else have you got?”
“Well, Lord, we do a thriving side-line in pillow-cases, vacuum sealable pillow storage bags…”
“So,” Fenris cut back in, “nothing useful?”
“I don’t know if I’d say that,” the Dactari objected. “Those vacuum bags really shrink your pillows down. If you have limited storage space in your home and…” He cut himself off. “You probably don’t care about that.” He gave Odin an appraising look. “You know, a warship is a crowded place. A good supply of those vacuum bags could make a real difference.”
“The cheek of this fellow!” Odin exclaimed. “His planet is under attack and he’s still got the nerve to push their products on us!”
“At least try them,” the Dactari urged. “If you like the results, tell your friends. We wouldn’t be the first fringe world in the Republic to set up a smuggling contract with the Alliance.”
“Enough of your blandishments!” Odin waved him off. “You there,” he turned on the guard. “I’ve assigned that as your temporary name, in case you were wondering. Get this pallet activated.”
The guard pulled open an access panel with a creak of corroded hinges. After a few failed attempts, a hum of energy grew and the cube lifted a few centimeters from the floor.
“Well done, You There! Now wait down here until you get bored, then go home early. Your employer doesn’t pay you well enough for this kind of aggravation.” With that, Odin gave the cube a nudge and it started drifting toward the elevator doors.
“Pillows,” he muttered, his voice dripping with irony. “At long last I’ve erased the infamy of getting my people marooned for thousands of years on Earth by filling my holds with an abundance of fornicating pillows…” He stopped walking and Fenris nearly bumped into him. The pallet kept drifting toward the elevator.
Odin turned to him, bringing his right hand up to stroke his own chin meditatively. “Fornicating… pillows…” He was nodding to himself. “You know, there was a market for that, back before the plague got loose on Earth.”
“They were fornicating with pillows?” Fenris asked in shock. “No amount of acculturation can make that sound sensible!”
“No, no,” Odin said impatiently. “The pillows were used to aid in different positions, or so I’ve been led to understand,” he added hastily. “Rather more rigid than what you use for sleep and the shape is different as well…”
“Or so you’ve been led to understand?” Fenris asked dryly.
“Yes,” he replied distantly. He looked back to the two Dactari. “Not ‘You There’ but the other fellow, come with us. I have a business proposition for you.”
Fighting for the Resistance
Xenopharia, Republic territory
Rick pretended not to notice as Tim Fletcher set the large mugs of ale on the table and, after a momentary hesitation, sat down next to him like he would if the man were just an old drinking buddy and not the Human-become-Midgaard-lord who’d transformed 3428. Tim’s dad, Barry, was Rick’s oldest friend but he still clearly felt out of place having a drink with him, even if it was part of their cover.
“You alright?” Rick asked. “Looks like you’re trying to turn coal into diamonds with your ass…”
Tim looked alarmed at such a comment from his commander, pretty much proving he was too uptight to have even caught it beforehand with his precog ability. He recovered quickly enough, though. “Yeah… well… you should talk. Looks like you’re trying to turn your face into an ass!”
Rick tried to pull off a look of smoldering anger at the riposte but he couldn’t help himself. He burst out laughing, much to the younger man’s obvious relief. “Oh, gods!” Rick said weakly. “You looked just like your old man for a second there. I mean, the comment was weak-sauce but you’ve definitely got your family’s fighting spirit!”
He was a little surprised at the effect his words had on young Tim. It looked as though he’d just handed him an arm-ring and given him his own moon to rule over. Then he remembered what it must be like for the youngster.
Tim came from a family that had held power on 3428 for generations because of an ignominious mutiny and a long history of lies. Even though Rick hadn’t held that over the Fletchers after taking control of the world, they still had their past hanging over them.
Barry Fletcher was a highly decorated Alliance officer and Rick’s best friend but his achievements shone mostly on his own character. His son clearly felt some of the baggage that went with his name and hearing it praised by Rick had made an impact on him.
Tim, lacking only a couple of seconds on Rick, started to frown but his features quickly took on a combative cast as he turned to look behind his commander.
Rick finished a long pull on the ale and swung the mug out of the way so he could lean his head forward and out of the arc of the bottle that missed him by a centimeter. Without missing a beat, he brought the mug back in from the right, turning his body to smash the container against the face of his would-be assailant.
“Let me guess,” he said to the stunned fool. “This is the punchline to a joke, right? A half-wit walks into a bar…”
Tim came in from the left with a chair, driving the attacker back into a puddle of ale on the floor where his foot slipped. He pulled the chair back and smashed it over his opponent as he fell, making sure he’d stay down.
Rick ducked under a bat swung by a skinny Ufangian who’d been playing at the poke-ball tables. He caught the fellow’s wrist and yanked him toward Tim who put him down with a well-aimed punch for such a fast moving target.
Tim moved back to stand next to his boss.
Rick grinned at the five Ufangians coming his way from the tables with poke-ball bats in their hands. The one in the middle was better dressed than his pals and he had an air of localized authority, a real big-fish-in-a-small-pond kind of guy.
“I didn’t care for the first joke,” he told them, “but I’ve got a new one for you! A psychopath takes a bat from this Ufangian… see… and shatters both his kneecaps.”
“And then the psychopath’s friend takes the eyeballs of the two who were thinking of rushing him before he can attack.” Tim added, having seen the same fight that Rick was previewing. He pointed, first to the one on the leader’s left and then to the one on his right.
“Did you know that you still see through the eye until I pull hard enough and the optic nerve is severed?” Tim edged closer to the Ufangians as though eager to continue fighting. “A guy survived once and a local court made me pay for his medical care. He told me he could see his own face, just before I yanked…” he said the last word a little louder and stepped forward.
The two middle guys turned and ran.
The one in the center looked less eager, now that the odds were closer to even, and his relief was evident when the bar’s security team finally put in an appearance.
Xenopharia wasn’t a terribly peaceful place. It had never gotten over the frontier mindset in the thousands of years since its founding by the Empire. The ruling cabal here encouraged the strife in order to facilitate their own criminal enterprises.
They still kept up a minimal level of enforcement, though, or nobody would be willing to stay. In order to bolster their under-funded law enforcement program, they’d developed a tendency to confiscate any property where violence was allowed to get out of hand on a regular basis.
Most pubs kept a few head-crackers on staff in order to avoid the loss of their business. This particular establishment’s security operators looked like a lackadaisical bunch. Rick figured they’d be happy enough if everyone settled down and went back to drinking.
“No need to get feisty, gents,” he said in Dheema, his hands raised in peace. “Just a little misunderstanding over who’s gonna help these fine fellas…,” he waggled a hand at the unconscious bodies on the floor, “…out to the slidewalk. I say it’s his responsibility, seeing as they’re his friends.”
The hint was subtle, almost too subtle for the type of person inclined to cracking skulls in a pub for a living but it seemed to sink in with this bunch fast enough. ‘We beat the shit out of these guys,’ Rick was hinting, ‘and we’ll do the same to you if you really want. Be a shame if the cops found you fighting with customers…’
“You,” a guard said, nodding at the well-dressed Ufangian, “collect your friends and clear out!”
“Gonna need another drink!” Rick clapped Tim on the shoulder. “That first fella took mine!”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Tim muttered.
They bought two more ales from a bartender who managed to pour both without ever taking his eyes off the two strangers. “Where’d you boys say you’re from?” he asked, sliding the drinks across the greasy scuffed wood.
“Can’t say I recall telling you anything about my upbringing,” Rick answered casually. “Why’d you say you wanted to know?”
The bartender grunted. “Why not do us all a favor and sit over there.” He nodded to a darker end of the lounge, behind a wooden grill carved to mimic the distinctive grain pattern of spice-wood.
“Mind your manners, though,” he warned. “Those Oaxians are likely to put a blade in your gullet if you look at them wrong.”
“They sound fun!” Rick told him. He looked over at Tim. “Don’t they sound fun?”
“Super fun,” Tim said around a massive yawn.
“C’mon!” Rick led the way into the recommended section of the bar. He walked up to the table where a group were playing Texas Hold ‘Em, a game that had spread across the Dactari Republic almost as fast as Human music.
He ignored the hostile looks and dropped a fistful of untraceable credit chips in front of an empty chair. “Deal me in on the next hand,” he said. Tim found a seat at an empty table nearby.
The one with the deck grunted and laid down two cards in front of Rick. A two of hearts and a six of spades. “Not too late for this hand. Small blind is two hundred,” he said.
Rick took two of his chips and stroked one of them on the other until he’d transferred three hundred off of it. He tossed it onto the table. “Three hundred,” he said.
The others rolled their eyes at the newcomer but they all stayed in the hand. The flop was a three of diamonds, a four of hearts and a two of diamonds.
Rick saw the chance of a straight. All he needed was a five. He tossed the chip in his hand to the table gel. “Nine hundred,” he said easily. The holo above the pot confirmed the number.
The other players frowned. The flop was sequential so he might be sitting on something hot but there was no guarantee he’d have a winner on his hands. Nine hundred was a pretty substantial bid, though.
Rick could afford nine hundred. He owned several planets, after all. He just wanted to move things along because he was pretty sure he’d found the right folks and he wanted to get back to the ship before he ended up having to eat in this pub.
Two players folded almost immediately. The next just sat there and looked at the two cards in his left hand, fiddling with a chip in his right.
“Seat’s not even warm,” he said to Rick, still looking at his own cards, “and you’re already in for twelve hundred… on a shitty flop. I think you’re trying to breeze in here and impress us with a bluff before we can get a proper read on you.”
He tossed two chips in. “Raise to fifteen.”
The next player gazed at Rick for a while. “I’m tempted to get a piece of that action,” he finally said, “but I think it’s more out of curiosity than greed.” He tossed his cards in. “I can satisfy my curiosity through my friend here, assuming he rides it out to the end.”
“Three hundred to call,” the dealer told Rick.
Rick made a show of thinking about it. He was the last player holding up the next card so he was easily able to see what it would be. “Call,” he said, tossing in a lower denomination chip.
It might look like poker, but this was war. He was here to meet a contact and this was just a means to an end. Using precog was less cheating and more operational necessity.
The dealer laid down the turn. A two of clubs.
The other player smirked. “Just a call, now, big man? What happened to the guy with the big bids?”
Rick could see the guy trash talking beyond his precog horizon, so he decided to hold off on making any decisive move. As
soon as he decided that, he almost grinned as he saw the response. “Hold,” he said.
“Not a chance,” the Oaxian told him. “You don’t come to my table, bidding like a buck-herder on a three-day bender, and then coast to the river.” He laid two chips on the table. “Raise another thousand!”
Now, of course, he could see the river. He still couldn’t see as far as the Oaxian’s hand, but he knew he’d go up against him with more than a lousy trio of twos. “Call,” he said easily. He wasn’t sure but he thought he saw a slight crack in his opponent’s façade for a brief instant.
The dealer laid down the six of diamonds and the Oaxian’s face regained its triumphant smirk. He’d clearly been dealt some kind of last second reprieve.
Rick picked up two chips and stroked one down to five hundred. “Raise.”
“Raising again?” his opponent smirked. “It’s going to cost you five hundred to see my cards.” He tossed in two chips.
“Call,” Rick said instantly, tossing in the chip he’d already adjusted.
The Oaxian frowned at this fast response. “You’re a gutsy bastard, I’ll give you that, but that’s all I’m giving you today.” He laid out his two cards, the ace and king of diamonds. “Maybe, one day, I’ll give you the chance to win your money back.”
“One day,” Rick said idly, looking at his opponent’s diamond flush. He could sense a tension at the table at what he’d repeated. It was a catch-phrase of Tauhentan independence; something brought to fruition by the Alliance. It was popular among those who tired of Dactari rule.
“One day soon,” he said, laying out his cards and completing the phrase. “Today, in fact.”
“A lousy two and a six,” his opponent said in disbelief. “And you made a full house of it!” Then Rick’s words registered and he forgot about the game. He looked at the Human, a new respect in his eyes.
“We were hoping to join a high-stakes table before we left,” Rick said, reaching out to rake in the chips. “Feel like raising the limit?”
“You see the skinny bastard in the corner, over my right shoulder?” the Oaxian asked. “You want a high-stakes game, you talk to him. Just keep your hands out where we can see ‘em.”
Asymmetry Page 6
