The City and the Ship

by Anne McCaffrey

  Or perhaps I was happier then. His lips quirked as he remembered a lord's son down slumming, and how he'd saved that young noble from the knives of a rival gang. Then turned and found a hand extended; taken it in his own, astonished. Met Amos ben Sierra Nueva's eyes, and been lost to his old life.

  That brought him back to the present; his face clenched like a fist, eyes narrowing. He sat behind the desk and keyed the screen.

  "Home," he said.

  It cleared, and his wife Rachel looked up in surprise from her own keyboard as his image replaced whatever she'd been working on. In the background he could hear children playing. His children . . . No. They are safe, and my duty is clear.

  "Joseph!" she said, concern in her dark eyes. "Is there any news of the Prophet?"

  He shook his head. "Nothing from SSS-900-C," he said. "Simeon reports no word. No trace of the Benisur's ship has been found; it is as if they had vanished from space-time."

  He took a deep breath, and saw her face change. Rachel had come to know him too well, in the years of their marriage. Joseph held up a hand.

  "Please," he said softly. "My heart, do not tear at me; this is hard enough to do. But Amos is more than my Prophet; he is the friend of my soul, my brother."

  "There are younger men to do this work!"

  Joseph smiled ruefully. "Are there any better trained to seek him offplanet?" he asked.

  Rachel met his eyes for a moment, then glanced aside. Hers shone with unshed tears.

  "Where will you go?"

  "I cannot say," he said. Must not, they both knew. There was a leak in Planetary Security. "But it must be soon." He willed strength into his voice. "Do not fear, my love. We have friends beyond Bethel, as well as enemies."

  * * *

  "Why the fardling void can't they just say give me a bribe?" Joat Simeon-Hap demanded.

  New Destinies hung in space four thousand kilometers away; much closer in the main bridge screen, of course. It wasn't very large as independent stations went, merely a cylinder ten kilometers long by one in diameter, spinning contentedly—smugly, her mind prompted—in orbit around an undistinguished orange-brown gas giant, which orbited a run-of-the-mill F-class star. That was a pinprick of violent light in the distance; closer in were a few barren rocks, none of them larger than Mars, and some asteroids.

  Junk system. Junk station. Barely worth visiting because it intersected a few transit routes. There weren't many fabricators in space nearby, either. One long latticework, a graving dock that looked capable of repairing fair-sized ships or building small ones. A couple of zero-g algae farms, huge soft-looking bubbles. Some in-system traffic, miners and passenger craft and wide-mouthed scoopships to skim and harvest the gas giant's outer atmosphere. Probably they didn't pick up the litter on the station, and charged you extra for the gravity.

  Joat chuckled sourly at the thought; it appealed to her sense of the ridiculous. It didn't make her less impatient. New Destinies had a reputation as one of those places that looked the other way. A fair number of the ships who docked here were in the smuggling trade, which, frankly, was what kept the station going. But a couple of generations of not noticing had an effect. Here, bribery and graft were just the way things were done. So Joat couldn't understand why none of her hints had been picked up on, or no overtures had been made in that direction.

  She loved the Wyal, and not just because the ship was hers. But there were times when you had to get off the ship or run starkers, raving and frothing.

  The jerk's on a power trip. She combed a hand through shoulder-length blond hair and spoke, altering her tone slightly:

  "Find out who this fardling bureaucratic nightmare is, wouldja Rand?"

  "You mean Dilton Tolof in Health and Immigration?"

  "Yeah."

  There was a confused pause.

  "Joat, he's Dilton Tolof in Health and Immigration."

  She rolled her eyes. "Do you have to be so literal?"

  "That's the way I'm made, Joat."

  "I mean find out about him."

  "Why?"

  "Just do it!"

  "You're upset," Rand sounded surprised. "Is it me, have I caused offense?"

  "No, but he has. I'd like to tailor-make a little lesson in the etiquette of negotiation for him."

  "You want to benefit him?" Rand sounded mildly astonished.

  She smiled slowly.

  "In a sense."

  "It's been my observation, Joat, that you're not inclined to return good for bad. Nor has there been any solicitation of bribery. Yet, you seem to believe that Mr. Tolof is somehow asking for one. I admit to being puzzled."

  "Logic, buddy. It isn't as though this little station is the most sought-after destination in Central Worlds' space, Rand, so sheer volume of work can't be the reason for this kind of delay."

  Joat frowned. Two things about her tended to make the overbearing and officious think they could push her around. One was her age. At twenty-three, Joat was extremely young to be the captain and owner-aboard of a starfaring freighter. The other was that she was the adopted daughter of Space Station Simeon-900-C and Channa Hap; the first child to be adopted by a Brain-Brawn pair. For some reason that Joat couldn't fathom, these facts were supposed to make her malleable and stupid. Or, worse, naive, which she couldn't even remember being.

  "It's just the way these little, out-of-the-way places operate. Now, I don't object to baksheesh, within reason," she said in a tone that would have alarmed anyone who knew her well. If you lay on the sweet talk thick as honey, make no demands, don't insult me and you sure as blazes don't throw obstacles in my path. Maybe then, she'd pay. Maybe.

  Joat spun her gimbaled pilot's chair around and fondly regarded the winking lights of her friend's "face." Technically it wasn't a person—perhaps even not really a personality, if you wanted to get philosophical—but definitely a friend.

  The rows of lights that formed its countenance served no purpose but to give Rand expression and to satisfy her low taste for ancient popular entertainments. Just now, they were predominantly yellow, signaling puzzlement.

  "Civil servants are like rugs—you have to whack them now and then to get the dirt out. I just want to give him a little goose to teach him not to mess with me," Joat told it.

  All the lights flickered yellow.

  "You want to give him a barnyard fowl?" Now Rand did sound astonished.

  Joat laughed. "In this instance, Rand, a goose means a pinch on the butt to get him going." No sense in shocking a machine. Sometimes she wondered who did the component blocks she'd bought for the basis of the AI.

  "Ah!" The lights flickered blue, signaling pleasure in this new understanding; then back to yellow. "But, the references I found to that use of the term referred to it as an expression of erotic interest."

  "Not in this case, I assure you," she said dryly.

  "Well that's why I thought you wanted to give him the bird."

  Joat choked back a laugh.

  "I've said something amusing," it accused.

  "No, it's me. I took it wrong."

  After a moment it said, "Joat, really! If I'm to avoid these verbal pitfalls it would save time if you'd simply tell me why you're laughing. Just because the information is in my files somewhere doesn't justify wasting my energy searching for it."

  "So you know why I laughed?"

  "You had a misspent youth."

  "And a largely misspent adulthood."

  "Not really. You've actually accomplished quite a lot for such a young woman. You've only been an adult legally for two years."

  Joat squirmed. Praise made her feel as if she was being set up; not least because she'd used it so often and so effectively that way herself.

  "Y'know, you sounded kinda exasperated there for a minute," she said lightly.

  "I was. And a particularly stupid reaction it is, if I may say so."

  "Hey," she shrugged, "you're the one who wanted to understand emotions."

  "Understand them, not have th
em."

  Joat raised an admonishing finger. "Knowledge is never wasted."

  "While time and energy too often are. Specifically by forcing me to apply this program."

  "Well, in general, emotional responses aren't voluntary," she said.

  It wasn't really fair to force emotion-analogues on the AI. On the one hand I feel guilty. On the other, it's fun. Such a grubby little emotion, guilt.

  "If you don't experience an unexpected reaction once in awhile, then how can you understand emotions? Or put up with 'em for that matter. Remember, understanding makes all things tolerable."

  "I had fewer problems with tolerance before I was capable of exasperation! Knowledge or lack of it isn't the problem; this program is the problem."

  Uh oh. Clearly Rand wanted that program gone, and was perfectly capable of erasing it.

  "Oh no you don't," she said. "I didn't sweat blood creating that program just so you could erase it the first time it runs. You leave it alone. Y'hear me?"

  A neatly clipped "Yes." Then: "I suppose I should be grateful that you haven't found a way to irritate me."

  "I'm getting close," Joat threatened with a grin. "Frustration and irritation are in the same family, so be prepared. After all, if you want to understand someone you have to walk a kilometer in their . . ."

  "Would you can the quotes, please? If I want to drown in cliches I have access to all four volumes of The Wit and Wisdom of the Known Universe. The unabridged version."

  Joat pursed her lips. "Sorry. Uh, have you got anything on Dilton yet?" she prompted.

  "According to station records Tolof has had numerous citations for unauthorized power-grabbing. He's exceeded his allotted limit of power seventeen times, but was fined for only the first three."

  "Interesting. And what's the name of the individual who waived his penalty charges?"

  "Graf Dyson. I'm searching for references to that name."

  After a full minute Joat raised a brow and prompted, "Anything?"

  "No. Nothing significant, anyway. He lives here and is employed by the Bureau of Fines and Levies, but he has never been recorded as being guilty of the most minor infractions. He leads an exceptionally ordered and modest life, and his credit balance reflects that. Puzzling."

  "For a citizen of New Destinies it's unbelievable." Another effect of catering to smugglers; their awareness of what constituted bad behavior was deeply impaired. "Do any of our friends or acquaintances show his name on any of their documents?'

  "Yes," Rand replied promptly. "Captain Yandit has received several citations for disturbing the peace, but was never fined. Records show that the fine was waived by Graf Dyson."

  "Well then, as Graf Dyson is a friend of a friend, I think we can safely claim acquaintance. Don't you?"

  "No."

  Joat linked her fingers and cracked her knuckles with a flourish. "Put me through to that mudpuppy in the health office, buddy, and watch me finesse this."

  Dilton Tolof's pinched face appeared on the screen.

  "New Destinies, Health and Immigration." Then he realized to whom he was speaking and smiled, a thin and somehow sour expression that fitted his pinched face. "Ms. Simeon, if you continue to pester me like this, I'm never going to be able to process your records."

  "Well, I was talking to Graf, Graf Dyson? He asked me what was taking me so long. I've got a little present for him, and you know how impatient he gets. We're real good friends." She simpered at the man on the screen in her best fluff-head imitation. "Anyway, he said mentioning his name might serve to, you know, expedite things. Like, as a favor to a friend?"

  Tolof's narrow face flushed and he glanced nervously around.

  "You know . . . G. D.?"

  "Sure do. Captain Yandit, you may have dealt with him, huge, Ursinoid fellow with a temper? He introduced us at a party one time, and we hit it off right away." Joat snapped her fingers, indicating the speed with which she and Dyson had become fast friends. "Graf said you guys were real close, mentioned that you'd done some deals?" She raised an inquiring brow and smiled knowingly.

  Dilton's sour smile turned slowly into the expression of a man who'd just opened a box of chocolates and found maggots.

  "Well," he said, "heh heh, your documentation appears to be in order, no need to be, uh, nitpicky."

  He punched a few keys and her comp received the "cleared" signal that would allow Joat and her crew the freedom of the station and permit docking robots to begin unloading the Wyal's cargo.

  "Thank you so much," she gushed and gave him a wink. "I'll be sure and tell G.D. what a pal you were."

  Joat punched off the connection and sneered, "No need to be nitpicky." She shivered. "Ghu, but I hate bureaucrats."

  The ship rumbled and there was a slight swaying sensation. Docking tractors attached blinked across the screen, and a grid swelled to fill the view. She kept her hands poised over the controls, but the AI and Stationside kept the Wyal steady as she slid towards the non-rotating docking ring at the north pole of New Destinies. About the running of the station and their docking procedures, the New Destinites were consummate professionals.

  "Especially you, Dilton," she added in the same tone. "You worm."

  "Whozzat?"

  The air scrubbers whirred into overdrive as a sudden, overwhelmingly sweet and spicy aroma invaded the control cabin, followed by Alvec Dia, one of her crew. In fact, he was her crew, with an Admiralty Grade artificial intelligence, a three thousand kiloton freighter didn't need more than two.

  "Gak!" Joat wheezed, waving her hand in front of her face. "Alvec, what is that stench?"

  "Stench, Boss?" Alvec seemed genuinely puzzled. "That's Senalgal Spice, the favorite cologne of the Rose of New Destinies."

  He put his hands on his hips and raised a brow, archly. Or as archly as a middle-aged man with scar tissue across the knuckles of both hands and a build like a freight carboy could. Joat couldn't help grinning at him, and an answering smile split the rough, lived-in face.

  "You have a lady-friend here?" she asked, trying to breathe shallowly. He had friends of that sort on a number of stations, all answering to the name of Rose.

  "Not yet." He winked. "But I aim to."

  "Do me a favor, Al, air out a little before you go a-hunting. I wouldn't want you arrested for assault this early in the day. I'd have to bail you out."

  "I'll be careful, Mother. We cleared?" He jerked a thumb dockside.

  At Joat's nod he waggled his fingers farewell and left with a jaunty step.

  She watched him leave. The monitors showed him dodging cargo robots trundling forward across the open space just inside the hull of the docking ring. Then, taking an experienced spacer's leap across to the entrance of the spindle, he grabbed the handholds, did a neat turn and went feet-first through the hatchway, ready for the transition to spin gravity in the core.

  There was a clanking through the hull as the robots boarded; she watched on screens slaved to the interior monitors as one busily rushed up to grab a pallet, loaded it onto the flatbed of its body, then hustled off to dockside to unload it onto a stack already piling up on a larger float that would take the shipment to a warehouse.

  Joat watched them idly for a few moments, then her interest was caught by their human supervisor.

  He was tall, with a soldier's posture but a soft gut. His eyes . . . they never stopped tracking. Back, forth, back; the eyes of someone expecting trouble, someone who'd been expecting it so long they couldn't stop. Scarred face, with the distinctive red splotch on one cheek. At some time in the not-too-distant past he'd been caught in an explosive decompression. Not an uncommon industrial accident off-planet, but . . . His uniform was just a little too . . . something. It fit him, it wasn't new, but somehow, it wasn't right.

  He wore it as though it wasn't completely familiar, Joat realized. It had been his hand fumbling for a pocket that wasn't there that had caught her eye. Joat sat up straight.

  Who? Nobody she could think of was gunning for her ri
ght now—angry with her, yes; ready to do her the dirty in any underhanded way they could, yes. But not killing mad, not enough to hire muscle to go after her. And this man was obviously muscle of some sort. His whole body screamed retired mercenary. But why would a retired mercenary accept a pick-up job on New Destinies?

  Not a merc, then. So, he was a cop. And he was watching the Wyal.

  But why were they watching her? Dilton hadn't had time to sic this guy on her, even if he'd the guts to do it. Neither had Dyson, whoever he was, because he couldn't possibly have reacted this fast to the little scam she'd just pulled on his buddy. He probably didn't even know about it, at least not yet.

  Her mind went to the small mysterious package she was carrying for Central Worlds Security. Did New Destinies know about it? Were they after it? Was it something that would incriminate her?

  Joat frowned. She wasn't about to risk her ship for some CenSec song and dance. The package was supposed to be dropped with the local operative at The Anvil, one of the bars around the rim of the station. She glanced at the time, she was due there in one and a half Earth standard hours.

  Joat gritted her teeth. So I owe them. That doesn't mean they own me. More to the point, it didn't mean they could endanger her ship. She'd drop it all right, and then she'd tell them what they could do with their special courier packages.

  "Rand, I gotta go."

  "Now? Before unloading is completed?"

  "You see that osco on monitor four?"

  "The unloading supervisor?"

  "Yeah. He's a cop."

  "He can't be, Joat, he's wearing a supervisor's uniform. The police uniform for this port is very different, I assure you."

  Rand put a holo snap of a local policeman on screen for her edification.

  "I know what a cop looks like, Rand, in or out of uniform. And that's a cop, and he's watching us."