Dinner arrived about an hour later, on a tray carried in by Chief Levin, who slipped it through a rectangular opening in the door. By coincidence, it was roast chicken. Nowhere near as tasty as the mental impression I'd received just a little while earlier, but I was in no position to complain. Besides, I was starving. So I wolfed it down, cleaning the plate of the green beans and sweet potatoes that came with it. A small surprise to find that I'd been given a knife and fork; apparently no one seriously believed that I might try to make use of them as weapons. But the chief wasn't dumb; when he came for my tray, he made sure the utensils were in plain sight before he took it back from me.
Once again, I wondered why I hadn't yet seen the magistrates, let alone been charged with anything. I'd arrived late in the day, of course, but surely the legal system must have some means of processing those who'd just been arrested. Perhaps the magistrates were trying to find a lawyer who would represent me pro bono. Come to think of it, did they even have lawyers on Coyote? A few days ago, I would've hoped not—at least not by the standards of the Western Hemisphere Union, where one is guilty until proven innocent—but now that I was cooling my heels in a jail cell, I found myself praying for someone who had a better grasp of colonial law than I did.
I was still trying to figure out whether or not to plead guilty to whatever I would be charged with when I heard the cell-block door swing open. Two pairs of footsteps came down the corridor, and I sat up on my bunk. Okay, this would be my solicitor. I hoped that his sheepskin hadn't been mail-ordered from Earth.
Then the chief stopped in front of my cell. With him was a short, rather pudgy middle-aged man with a shaved head. He looked familiar, yet I couldn't quite place him.
“Here he is, Mr. Goldstein.” Chief Levin nodded in my direction. “Sorry, but I can't let you in. Rules..."
“Quite all right, Chris. So long as we can talk.” Goldstein looked around. “Of course, if I could have a place to sit..."
He cast a look at the chief, and Levin turned and walked away. Goldstein waited patiently, the fingers of his left hand absently playing with the crease of his tailored trousers. Wearing a tan linen suit, a red silk scarf hanging loose around his thick neck, he was easily the best-dressed man I had yet seen on Coyote. Which wasn't saying much, because everyone I'd met so far was a blueshirt, but nonetheless this person practically smelled like money. Had to be a lawyer ... and yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had seen him before.
Chief Levin returned with a straight-back wood chair that he'd found somewhere. “You're too kind,” Goldstein said as the proctor placed it in front of my cell. “That will be all for now, thanks.” He raised his right hand to the blueshirt, and I caught a brief glimpse of green paper neatly folded within his middle and ring fingers. The chief shook Goldstein's hand, deftly causing the Colonial to disappear, and then he vanished as well.
Goldstein waited until the cell block door slammed shut, then he turned to look at me. “Ensign Truffaut,” he said, favoring me with a broad smile. “So good to see you again."
“I'm sorry, but..."
“Of course we have.” Smoothing the back of his trousers with his hand, he sat down in the chair the Chief had brought him. “Can't blame you if you don't remember me, being rather preoccupied at the time. Mr. Heflin is very efficient in his duties, don't you think?” A sly grin. “But perhaps that lump you delivered to the back of his head will teach him not to mistake efficiency for attention to detail."
It was then that I recognized him. The passenger who'd emerged from his first-class cabin aboard the Lee just in time to see the chief petty officer escort me to the bridge. Goldstein nodded, his grin growing wider as I gaped at him.
“Ah, so ... now you know.” Goldstein reached into a pocket of his jacket, produced a pair of thick brown cigars. He offered one to me; when I shook my head, he shrugged and put it away. “If you hadn't been exposed,” he continued, “I might have come over to ask if you wanted a poker game to pass the time.” He used a pocket guillotine to clip the end of his stogie. “Then again, if I'd done that, I might have taken your cover story at face value ... that you were a gentleman by the name of Geoffrey Carr, and nothing more interesting than that."
“Sorry to disappoint you."
“Disappoint me?” An eyebrow was raised as a gold-plated lighter was produced. “Far from it. In fact, you may be the answer to a problem I have. And I may be the answer to yours."
* * * *
XVI
I didn't know quite what to say to that, so I simply waited as he flicked his lighter and used it to gently char the end of his cigar. Blue-grey fumes rose toward the ceiling; I don't smoke, but it was fragrant enough that I almost regretted not accepting the one he'd offered.
“Name's Goldstein. Morgan Goldstein.” He settled back and stretched out his legs, so self-assured that you could have sworn he owned the stockade. “Ever heard of me?"
“No, I...” Then I stopped myself. “There's a Morgan Goldstein who's in charge of Janus, but..."
“But what?” He rolled his cigar between his fingertips, not quite looking at me. “Please. Speak your mind."
What was on my mind was the improbability of a billionaire sitting in a cell block, having a smoke and a chat with someone about to be convicted on felony charges. Sure, I knew who Morgan Goldstein was. Founder and CEO of Janus, Ltd., the largest private space firm in the solar system. Earth's, that is, or at least until just a few years ago, when he'd abruptly uprooted his corporation from the Western Hemisphere Union and relocated it to Coyote. There, he re-established it as the richest company in the new world, with himself as its wealthiest citizen. Although most of Janus's shipping interests still remained forty-six light-years away, the corporate headquarters were now located in Albion, not far from the New Brighton spaceport where, if things had worked out better, Geoffrey Carr would have peacefully disembarked.
“Yeah ... sure, you're that same guy.” I waved my hand back and forth to clear the air in front of my face. “And I'm Dorothy Gale, from Kansas."
His face darkened for a moment, as if nonplussed to find someone who wouldn't instantly take him at his word. Then he relaxed, and tilted back his head to exhale smoke at the ceiling. “Then I'd have to ask where you left your little dog, and why you couldn't have found a better place to park your farmhouse.” He shook his head. “I'm not normally accustomed to proving my identity, but if you insist..."
Reaching into a coat pocket, he produced a data pad. I couldn't help but notice it was a SonAp Executive: state of the art, top of the line, in what appeared to be a platinum casing. He pressed his thumb against the ID plate, then raised the pad to his face so that the retinal scanner could check his eyes. A soft click and the pad opened. He tapped a couple of commands into the keypad, waited a moment, entered yet another set, then leaned forward to pass the unit through the cell bars.
“I'd prefer that you keep this information to yourself,” he said quietly. “I'd rather not have it become common knowledge."
I took the pad from him and read the screen. Displayed at the top was the logo of Lloyd's of London. Beneath it was an account statement for Mr. Morgan Goldstein, along with a routing number that had been carefully blacked out. And under that was a figure in Euros that stretched into ten figures. Ten high figures.
“That's my net holdings in this one particular establishment,” Goldstein said, his voice low. “At least as of yesterday morning, the last time I was able to update my portfolio via hyperlink. Sorry, but I'd rather not reveal my holdings in Zurich or the Bank of Coyote. They're considerably larger."
The data pad trembled in my hand. I wasn't completely convinced, though, so I used my fingertip to move the cursor to the BIO tab within the menu bar. Goldstein waited patiently while the screen changed again ... and suddenly, I saw a portrait photo of the man seated on the other side of the bars. About ten years younger, with nearly as many hairs remaining on top of his head, but unmistakably the same individual.
“It's okay to breathe,” Goldstein said after a moment. “I do it all the time. Good for the lungs."
I managed to give the pad back to him without dropping it. He was grinning like a fox as he closed it. “Now then, Dorothy ... or may I call you Ensign Truffaut?"
“Ensign Truffaut is fine.” I swallowed, tried to get us back to the informal level. “Jules is good, too."
“Jules, then ... and you may call me Mr. Goldstein.” The grin faded as he slipped the pad back into his pocket. “So you know who I am, and what I represent. Now I'll tell you why I need you, and what I can do for you in return.” Another languid drag from his cigar. “You've heard of the hjadd, of course."
Who hadn't? An alien race, their home world located in the Rho Coronae Borealis system, they'd made contact with humankind about three years ago, when they'd permitted the survivors of the EASS Galileo to return to Coyote after their ship had been destroyed fifty-six years earlier. The Galileo had been sent out from Earth to investigate a deep-space object called Spindrift; a foolish mistake by the captain led to a lethal encounter with a hjadd starship, but the three surviving members of the expedition managed to convince the aliens that our race meant them no harm. This in turn led to the hjadd dispatching an emissary to Coyote, with a small delegation sent not long thereafter.
First contact, in other words. “Sure,” I said. “I was hoping I'd get a chance to see one of them while I was here."
“Yes, well ... you and me both, kid.” Goldstein knocked an ash to the floor. “They've had an embassy here nearly a year, by local reckoning. A compound on the other side of town, not far from the Colonial University. But it's off-limits to everyone except a few people who they've accepted as go-betweens, and only rarely do any of them come out ... and only then in environment suits so we can't see them."
“But we know what they look like.” I'd seen the same photos everyone else on Earth had: creatures that resembled giant tortoises, only without shells, who stood upright on stubby legs and wore toga-like garments that seemed to shimmer with a light of their own. “Pretty weird, but..."
“Ah, yes ... and it's the ‘but’ that's the crux of the matter, isn't it?” Goldstein studied the glowing end of his cigar. “A year on this world, and we still know little more about them than we did before they arrived. Although they know a lot about us ... even Anglo, which their emissaries speak with the assistance of translation devices ... they're very protective of what we learn about them. Believe me, I've had my people working at this for some time now. The best insight that I've been given is that they're probably descended from a ‘prey species’ ... a lesser form of life on their native world ... that was subject to attack by predators until they learned how to compete. So they're cautious by nature, not given to opening up to others."
“So you're afraid of them?"
Goldstein gave me a cold look. “No. Not at all. The Dominionists consider them a threat to their doctrine, but me...?” He shook his head. “If I really wanted, I could have their embassy nuked from orbit."
“I think someone tried that already.” I remembered what happened to the Galileo.
“True, and I have no desire to repeat that mistake. Besides, it would be contrary to my interests.” He took another drag from his cigar. “The hjadd want to pursue trade relations with humankind. Not with Earth, mind you ... they don't trust that place, not after what happened with the Galileo ... but with us, here, on Coyote. We have something they want, and they're willing to bargain for it."
“And that is...?"
“Patience. We'll get to that.” I shut up and he went on. “I'm not a diplomat, nor am I a scientist.” Dropping his voice, Goldstein gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Fact is, I'm not that much of a spacer, even though I own a fleet of commercial spacecraft. The reason why I was aboard your ship in the first place was because I had to tend to business interests back on Earth, and the accommodations aboard the Lee are more comfortable than the ones aboard my own vessels."
“I was wondering about that."
“Keep it to yourself.” Another puff from his cigar. “At any rate ... I'm an entrepreneur, Jules. A businessman, and a damn good one if I say so myself. Started out by buying a second-hand lunar freighter that was about to be decommissioned and went from there.” He patted the coat pocket in which he'd put his pad. “The trick to striking it rich is spotting opportunities when they come up and seizing them before anyone else does. And the hjadd..."
“Are an opportunity."
“Kid, I'm beginning to like you even more. Yes, the hjadd are an opportunity. Better yet, they're an opportunity no one else ... particularly not my competitors ... have managed to get their hands on. If Janus can reliably deliver what they want, then I stand to gain a monopoly upon whatever they have to trade in return. Not only that, but I'll have access to any other races with whom they have contact. When that happens, my company will become the sole freight carrier between us and the rest of the galaxy."
“Uh-huh. And what does the Coyote government have to say about that?"
“Oh, don't worry.” Goldstein grinned. “They're in on it, too. The Federation Navy only has one ship big enough to handle that amount of cargo, and the Lee is already committed to the Earth run. After that, they have nothing but shuttles. And since I have the ships they need, they're just as willing to subcontract my company ... for a generous share of the profits, of course."
“Sounds like you've got everything lined up."
“I've been working on this deal for the last six months, Coyote time. If all goes well, within the next two or three weeks we'll be sending the first commercial freighter to Hjarr ... their home world, that is. There's just one last detail that needs to be taken care of ... and that's where you come in."
Goldstein glanced at the cell block door, making sure that we were alone, then he shifted forward in his chair, leaning closer until his face was only a few inches from the bars. “One problem I had with this is putting together a crew,” he went on, his voice lowered once more. “I've got a lot of good people, but I know damn well some of them are spies for my competitors ... just as I've placed my own informants within their outfits. That's the way business is. Everyone wants to know what the other guy is doing, and tries to use that info to their advantage. But with something like this ... well, the fewer risks I have to accept, the happier I'll be."
He toyed with the cigar in his hand. “So instead of bringing in a crew from Earth or Mars, I've decided to build a new team from scratch.” He stopped himself. “Well, almost entirely a new team. Out of necessity, my chief engineer comes with his ship. But he's been working for me for a long time now, and I trust him like I would my own brother. For all other positions, though, I've had to recruit local talent."
I could see where this was leading ... and yet, I couldn't quite believe it. “You want me?” I asked, and he nodded. “Why?"
“Because you impressed me.” Goldstein exhaled a lungful of smoke, then looked me straight in the eye. “It took a lot of guts to steal that lifeboat the way you did, and it took even more to bring it safely to the ground. I know those lifeboats, kid ... I've got the same type installed on my own ships ... and they're a bitch to handle. And you managed to land one on your own, with no help from either the Lee or local traffic control. Like I said, I was impressed."
“Thank you.” Yet I remained skeptical. “How do you know I'm not just lucky, though?"
“Once I found out who you were, I had my people check you out. You're a rather interesting fellow, Jules. Graduated fourth in your class at the Academia del Espacio. Served as a junior officer aboard the ... what was the name of that ship?"
“The WHSS Victory of Social Collectivism on Mars."
“Oh, yes. Right.” He rolled his eyes in distaste. “Never could understand the Union Astronautica's penchant for propagandizing ship names.” He frowned. “You might have eventually earned your captain's bars, if it hadn't been for that business with your brother.” A pause. “You
realize, of course, you could've saved your career if..."
“You're not saying anything I haven't heard before.” I didn't like to talk about Jim, particularly not with strangers. And so far as I was concerned, Morgan Goldstein was still little more than a rich guy who'd come to visit me in jail. “So what is it you want me to do? Be your commanding officer?"
Goldstein stared at me for a couple of seconds, then laughed out loud. “You certainly do have balls, don't you?” Leaning back in his chair, he shook his head in obvious amusement. “I already have a CO, son, along with a capable first officer. What I need now is someone qualified to fly a shuttle, or just about any other small craft we may have aboard.” His smile reappeared. “I had one or two other people in mind, but when I saw you'd worked as a longshoreman on Highgate ... well, I knew I had my man."
If he meant to knock me down a peg or two, he did a good job of doing so. So I wasn't being recruited for the big chair, or even for the little one, but for a task that notoriously falls to Academy washouts, with my former employment as a pod jockey being the final selling point. If this was a job interview, I might have been tempted to walk out of the room ... if I'd been able to, that is.
“Thanks for considering me,” I murmured, trying to keep my temper in check. “So happy to hear that I'm suitable for your needs."
“More than suitable. You're the very man I've been looking for.” Goldstein became more somber. “That is, of course, unless you want to go home. Then all I have to do is leave, and let my friends among the magistrates know that you're not interested. In that case, they'll call you in first thing tomorrow morning. The legal system here on Coyote may not be very merciful, but it is quick. You'll get a fair and speedy trial, and I have little doubt that you'll be deported. After that...” He shrugged.
“And if I sign up with you?"
“Then I put in a good word for you with the maggies, informing them I'm willing to post bail for you if you plead nolo contendere. You get one year probation, the government takes into consideration your petition for political amnesty, and in the meantime you go to work for me.” Another smile. “I'll even throw in salary commensurate with that of a first-class spacer ... non-union, of course ... and see what I can do about finding you a room at an inn here in town. So what do you say?"
Asimov's SF, October-November 2007 Page 33