by Timothy Zahn
“Just remember, there’s a lot more where that came from,” Jennifer said, using her seductive voice again as she rose leisurely to her feet. Clearly, she was feeling very pleased with herself. “If you spot the Icarus, call the Morsh Pon StarrComm exchange and leave a message for Jennifer at Shick Place.” With one last smile all around, plus a smirk for Tera, she sauntered away.
The others were all looking at me, varying degrees of expectation on their faces. “Well, don’t just sit there,” I said. To my perhaps hypersensitive ears my voice sounded a little slurred. “Drink up, and let’s get out of here.”
They did so without comment. I let my own cola sit where it was, keeping a surreptitious eye on Jennifer as I sorted out the proper number of small-denomination coins. She returned to her table and spoke briefly with her friend there; but as the four of us stood up she left that table and wandered off again, this time heading in the general direction of the three Lumpies. “Let’s go,” I told the others, putting a hand on Tera’s back to encourage her forward, a friendly gesture I instantly abandoned at the glare she flashed me.
We headed to the door; and as I ushered the others through, I took one final look behind us. The pirates were looking back at us, with the universal suspicious expressions of men permanently on the run. Nurptric the barkeep was busily puttering around the bar, his eyebrow crest fairly glowing with the eager anticipation of customers on their way in. Jennifer’s friend had a small mirror out and was checking her makeup, with much the same air of anticipation.
And Jennifer herself was at the back table leaning over one of the Lumpies, speaking solicitously to him as if trying to wake him up, her ring again catching the light as she patted him soothingly on the back of his neck. Her eyes caught mine; and though she didn’t smile, I knew we understood each other.
The trip back was very quiet. After what had happened back at the taverno, no one seemed interested in talking to me, and I certainly wasn’t going to start any conversations myself.
We reached the Icarus to find Ixil in the process of paying off the fuelers. I ordered everyone to their stations, then waited in the wraparound until Ixil was finished so that I could personally retract the ladder and seal the hatch. Heading up the now deserted mid-deck corridor to the bridge, I sealed the door behind me and sat down in the command chair.
And only then, with no one around to see, I pulled from its resting place between my gum and cheek the poker-chip-sized object that Jennifer had transferred from her mouth to mine during our kiss. Unscrewing the top, I carefully extracted the folded microprint document nestled inside, and the six small borandis tablets that had been packed tightly together beneath it.
Uncle Arthur had come through.
The document, annoyingly but not surprisingly, was written in Kalixiri.
“I hate it when he does that,” I sighed, handing the reader over to Ixil and flopping onto my back on my bunk. “Here, you do it. I’m not up to deciphering Kalixiri right now.”
“Certainly,” Ixil said, resettling himself comfortably against the door of my cabin and showing the good sense not to lecture me yet again as to why Uncle Arthur did things this way. Kalixiri was probably one of the least-known languages in the Spiral, which made for automatic security if the wrong person happened across one of his missives, though it was surprisingly easy for non-Kalixiri to learn. Furthermore, the way the alphabet was laid out, the words themselves were generally much shorter than the English equivalents, which meant he could cram in more text per square centimeter.
And from what I’d seen of this one, he had those square centimeters very well crammed indeed.
“We start with Almont Nicabar,” Ixil said. “We have a photo. Slightly out-of-date … but yes, it does appear to be him. Certificate in starship drive and unofficial training in mechanics—the dates and details are here; you’ll want to look them over later. Ten years in the EarthGuard Marines, just as he said, achieving rank of master sergeant … Interesting. Had you ever heard of an attempt six years ago by EarthGuard to get hold of a Patth Talariac Drive?”
“I hadn’t until Uncle Arthur mentioned it,” I told him, wondering why the mention of six years sounded familiar. “Was Nicabar involved with that?”
“I would say so,” Ixil said dryly. “He was on the commando team that penetrated the Patthaaunutth Star Transport Industries plant on Oigren.”
I turned my head to look at him. “You’re kidding. Our Almont Nicabar?”
“So it says,” Ixil assured me. “Furthermore, from the listed dates, it appears he resigned from the service barely three months after the mission’s failure.”
A funny sensation began to dig into my stomach. That was when I remembered six years being mentioned: Nicabar had said that was how long ago he’d resigned from the Marines. “Is there any mention of why the mission failed?”
Ixil gave me an odd look. “As a matter of fact, there’s a note that suggests inside information might have been leaked to the Patth. Are you seeing a connection?”
“Could be,” I said grimly. “Three months is just the right length for a private confidential court-martial.”
“You sure?”
“Trust me,” I assured him. “I went through one, remember? One other thing. I told you about seeing three more of the Lumpy Clan back in that taverno. What I didn’t tell you was that Nicabar reacted rather strongly when we got our first glimpse of one of them. Strongly for Nicabar, anyway.”
For a moment Ixil digested that in silence. “Still, there must not have been a real case against him, or he wouldn’t have been allowed to resign and leave gracefully.”
“But there must have been enough of one for them to hold him for court-martial in the first place,” I pointed out.
“Unless there was no court-martial involved,” Ixil also pointed out. “It might have just been three months of general debriefing.”
“And he then picked up and left a promising ten-year career just for the hell of it?” I shrugged. “Well, maybe. Still, bad feelings might explain why he jumped his last ship just because they were mask-shilling for the Patth. Is there anything else?”
“Various details of his life,” Ixil said, scanning down the text. “Nothing all that interesting, though again you’ll want to look them over when you’re up to deciphering Kalixiri again. Mostly public and official-record material—Uncle Arthur must not have had time to have anyone dig deeper than that.”
“I’m sure he’ll have the really juicy details later,” I said. Uncle Arthur’s knack for getting his hands on supposedly confidential information was legendary. “The trick will be how we get hold of it. Who’s next?”
“Hayden Everett,” he said. “He was indeed a professional throw-boxer for two years, leaving the ring twenty-two years ago.”
“Was he any good?”
Ixil shrugged. “His win/loss record would say no. Still, he did last two years on the circuit, so he must at least have had stamina.”
“Or was just a glutton for punishment,” I said. “I wonder if the circuit back then went into Patth space.”
“I don’t know,” Ixil said. “However, you might be interested in knowing that his last fight was a contested loss to Donson DiHammer. That name sound familiar?”
“It certainly does,” I said, frowning. Twenty years ago DiHammer had been at the epicenter of one of the biggest scandals ever to hit organized throw-boxing. “He was wholly owned and operated by one of the partners in the Tr’darmish Spiracia shipping conglomerate, wasn’t he?”
“You have a good memory,” Ixil confirmed. “We have the highlights listed here. Plus the interesting fact that Tr’darmish Spiracia was one of the first companies to go bankrupt when the Talariac came onto the scene.”
“Interesting,” I murmured. “You sure it wasn’t just a case of bad management or overextension?”
“Not sure at all,” Ixil said. “Spiracia’s directors certainly had a reputation for corporate edge-walking. Don’t forget, too, that the
Talariac didn’t even appear until a good six years after that fight and four years after the DiHammer scandal broke. If Everett was partially owned by the Patth, and if they took his defeat that personally, it would imply a long grudge on their part.”
“As grudges go, six years wouldn’t even be a regional record,” I told him. “Another question to put on our next wish list for Uncle Arthur. Who’s next?”
“Chort,” Ixil said, peering at the reader. “Full name … never mind, it’s unpronounceable. He’s been in the spacewalking business only four years, which puts him barely into journeyman status. That might explain why he was available for Cameron to hire on Meima.”
“Not to me it doesn’t,” I said. “Crooea are still the cream of the spacewalking crop; and just because Chort hasn’t got twenty years’ experience is no reason why he should have been free in the middle of nowhere like that.”
“Have you asked him about that?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Come to think of it, I never got around to getting Tera’s story, either. I’ll have to remedy that soon. Anything else on him?”
“No indication of any direct ties between him and the Patth, if that’s what you mean.” Ixil frowned suddenly. “Hmm. Interesting. Did you know that the Craean economy has been expanding at an annual rate of nearly sixteen percent over the past twelve years?”
“No, I didn’t,” I said. Considering the Spiral average, that kind of sustained growth was practically unheard-of. “Does it say what it was pre-Talariac?”
“Yes,” he said after a brief search. “Between one and two percent. And that was in their better years.”
I shook my head. “The stuff Uncle Arthur comes up with. Does he include an explanation for this remarkable economic boom?”
“Apparently, the Crooea grow and export a considerable range of perishable food delicacies that can’t handle normal preservation methods,” Ixil said. “The greater speed of the Talariac has vastly increased their potential market.”
I grimaced. “Which puts them right at the top of the list of governments ripe for Patth pressure.”
“Yes,” Ixil said. “Fortunately, I doubt they know a Craea is aboard the Icarus.”
“Unless they’ve gotten to Cameron and made him talk,” I said. “He’s presumably the only one who knows the whole crew list.”
Ixil frowned again. “I thought your current theory was that Cameron was in a shallow grave somewhere back on Meima.”
“I have no current theories,” I told him sourly. “All I have are useless, outdated ones that couldn’t hold glue with both hands.”
Ixil didn’t say there, there, but from the expression on his face he might just as well have. “Next on the list is Geoff Shawn,” he said instead. “For someone only twenty-three years old, he’s compiled a remarkable record: a long string of academic awards and honors, plus an almost equally long list of legal troubles.”
“Serious ones?”
“Not particularly. Traffic citations, semivandalistic pranks, some petty theft of university electronics property—that sort of thing.”
I grunted. “Typical hotshot student genius. Brilliant and knows it, and figures none of the usual rules apply to him. Does it mention anything about his jaunt out to Ephis?”
“Not a word,” Ixil said. “Of course, he did say no one knew about that, didn’t he?”
“That’s what he implied,” I agreed doubtfully. “But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if he and his buddies could really have pulled it off without at least being noticed.”
Ixil pondered that a moment. “In which case,” he said slowly, “it would raise the question of whether his borandis dependence is really a medical matter at all.”
“It would indeed,” I agreed. “Of course, Everett did confirm that was the diagnosis. But then, Everett apparently also didn’t recognize the symptoms of either the drug dependency or the Cole’s disease until Shawn really started getting twitchy. Is there anything there about Everett’s medical training?”
Ixil adjusted the document in the reader. “Looks like just the basic Mercantile course and certification.”
“How long ago?”
“Two years.”
“Which leaves a twenty-year gap between his throw-boxing and medical careers,” I said. “What was he doing to fill the idle workday hours?”
“A variety of different jobs,” Ixil said, scanning down the text. “Let me see. He did five years of throw-boxing instruction, two as a judge/referee, and six as a casino security officer. Then there was one year each as bartender on a liner, mechanics’ apprentice, and tour packager/guide on the throw-boxing circuit. After that he went in for his medical certificate.”
“By my count, that leaves us two years short.”
“That’s taken up by the instruction regimens for the various career changes,” Ixil explained. “One to eight months each.”
“I wonder what he wants to be when he grows up,” I murmured. Though to be fair, it didn’t sound a whole lot worse than my own employment résumé. “All right, back to Shawn. Anything in there that might suggest he’d dabbled with any other drugs besides borandis?”
“Nothing,” Ixil said. “Though nothing that would preclude it, either. Something else for our wish list?”
“Right,” I agreed, making yet another mental note. “Okay. That just leaves Tera.”
“Tera,” Ixil echoed, peering at the reader. “We start with a negative: Preliminary checks of appropriate religious-group listings fail to find anyone by that name with the description you gave. After that …”
He paused, his face going suddenly rigid. “Jordan,” he said, his voice studiously conversational, “would you say that Uncle Arthur has a tendency toward the dramatic?”
“Is moss slimy?” I countered, feeling the hairs tingling on the back of my neck as I swung my legs over the side of my cot and sat up. “How dramatic is he being this time?”
Wordlessly, he handed me the reader. I took it, glanced at the indistinct photo that might or might not have been our Tera, and with a feeling of nameless but impending doom plowed my way into the final section of the Kalixiri text.
It was as if I’d been slapped across the face with a wet rag. I read it twice, sure I must have gotten it wrong. But I hadn’t. “Where’s Tera now?” I asked, looking up at Ixil.
“Probably in her cabin,” he said. “She’s off-duty, and she hasn’t shown much tendency to sit around the dayroom.”
“Let’s go find her,” I said, making sure my plasmic was riding snugly in its holster.
I got up and headed for the door. Ixil was faster, hopping up from his place on the floor and blocking my way. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. “But I want to find out for sure, and I want to find out now. Confronting her straight-out seems to me the best way to do it.”
“Yes, but she’ll want to know how we found out,” he warned. “That could be awkward.”
“It won’t,” I said, shaking my head. “She already knows we run cargoes for Antoniewicz, and she knows he’s got his slimy fingers into everything. We can lay this at his feet, no problem.”
He still didn’t look convinced, but he nevertheless stepped aside. I tapped the release pad, confirmed there was no one loitering outside in the corridor, and headed for the aft ladder. Ixil stayed behind long enough to collect his ferrets from the floor, then followed.
We reached the top deck without seeing anyone; clearly, the Icarus’s antisocial atmosphere was still unsullied by anything resembling genuine camaraderie. Tera’s door was closed. Bracing myself, I tapped the release pad; and as the door slid open I dodged inside.
From my previous clandestine visit to Tera’s room I knew she used the lower of the three bunks, and that supposed knowledge nearly got me killed. Even as I aimed my charge toward the lower bunk, I belatedly saw in the light filtering in from the corridor that that particular bunk was in fact empty. My eyes tracked upwa
rd, caught sight of the body and sudden movement on the top bunk—clearly, she alternated bunks, probably for exactly this purpose.
I altered course in mid-charge, nearly wrenching my back in the process, reaching for her mouth to keep her from screaming. There was a faint glint of something metallic in her hand, and I shifted the direction of my hands toward the object as she tried to bring it around to bear on me. I won by a thin-sliced fraction of a second, and with a twist of my wrist wrenched it out of her hand. With my other hand I reached again for her mouth; but even as I could see her taking a deep breath Ixil’s left hand closed almost delicately across it, his right taking up a supporting position behind her head.
“It’s all right, Tera,” I assured her quickly. “We just want to talk.”
She ignored me, grabbing Ixil’s hand and trying to pry it away—considering Kalixiri musculature, a complete waste of effort. From the movements of her head I guessed she was also trying to bite him, another waste of effort. Behind us, the door slid shut, plunging the silent struggle into darkness. “Really, that’s all we want,” I said, stepping across the darkened room and switching on the light. “We thought it would be better if what we had to say was kept quiet from the others for the moment.”
Tera grunted something unintelligible but undoubtedly quite rude from behind Ixil’s hand, her eyes doing their best to skewer me. “Nice to see you’re armed, too,” I added, looking at the gun I’d taken from her. It was a short-barreled shotgun-style pepperbox pistol, capable of making a considerable mess of an assailant at the close range inherent in shipboard combat without the danger of accidentally rupturing the hull in the process. My earlier search of her room hadn’t turned it up; clearly, she made a habit of carrying it around with her. “Of course, this thing’s loud enough to have brought the whole ship down on us. Good thing you didn’t get a chance to fire. If Ixil takes his hand away, will you promise not to make a fuss until you hear what we have to say?”