The City and the Ship

by Anne McCaffrey

  When they'd completed the transaction, Silken studied Joat slyly for a moment and then shook her head.

  "So, you're an honest woman, are you?"

  "I hope so," Joat said. "It's what I aim for."

  Silken chuckled.

  "Would you consider starting fresh with me?" she asked. "I'd hate to leave you with the impression that I'm not. Honest, that is." With a mischievous smile, Silken cocked her head, inviting Joat to share her amusement.

  "What did you have in mind?" Joat asked cautiously.

  "Something difficult. Something for which we need that someone who couldn't be cheated and can be trusted." She stretched. "Shall we send your man for it? The short, blond, yummy one, not the gorilla."

  * * *

  The box that Joseph brought to the bridge had a simple elegance. Made of some dark wood, polished to a satin smoothness, it was the size and shape of an ordinary jewelry box, the type that women had kept on their dressers for centuries.

  Silken keyed open its lock with a series of deft touches, her hand hiding the combination. Then she turned the box around to face Joat before she opened it. Her eyes sparkled teasingly.

  As the lid slowly came up, Joat gasped. It was full almost to overflowing with Sainian crown rubies. The jewels glowed blood red and deep within each of them flared the glint of gold that marked them of first quality. Irregular and flat sided, each one was as large as Silken's small fist.

  Sainian crown rubies came from nowhere near the crown of the Sainians who produced them. Originally they'd been called mouth-rubies, a more honest appellation—and one that jewelry makers felt might interfere with sales.

  Crown rubies were an organic jewel produced as a result of what was, to a Sainian, a socially embarrassing gastric disorder. The gentle, sophisticated Sainians were both amused and repelled that humans could so prize what was essentially . . . drool. Solidified spittle. Absolutely nothing would induce them to produce the rubies if it could be avoided and of course, they were almost always of modest size.

  The ones in Silken's box were enormous compared to the general run.

  "Wow!" Joat whispered hoarsely. She looked up. "Are they real?"

  Silken raised a brow, "Of course." She took one and held it up to the light. "Look at it, see the gold flashes deep within? They can't duplicate that yet. And smell." She held the stone out to Joat, who sniffed. Responsive to the heat of Silken's skin it smelled delicately musky. "They can't even begin to duplicate that."

  "It's just . . . they're so big," Joat said with wonder.

  Silken smiled and the muscles in Joat's back seized up at the sight.

  "Everything has its price," Silken purred.

  Joat refused to let herself wonder what would cause a Sainian to produce such stones. But she knew at that moment that she should never turn her back on this woman. This kitten had a tiger's claws.

  "I need these beauties shipped to Rohan." Silken replaced the stone reluctantly, as if she hated to give up the feeling of the jewel beneath her fingers. "Ever heard of it?"

  "It's a moon," Joat said. "With a freeport Station, over a gas-giant named Eglund. I've never been there, but I've heard about it."

  "I'm sure you have," Silken said smugly. "It's the destination for most of the quality stuff we . . . freetraders ship. Consider yourself lucky to have won this consignment. Especially under the circumstances." She held up the now descrambled datahedron. "Once you're on Rohan, and it becomes known that you've worked for me you'll have no difficulty finding lucrative cargo, I promise you. Consider it a bonus for the inconvenience my agents have caused you."

  Joat chuckled appreciatively. "Sounds great," she said. "Now, let's discuss price."

  "What we need to discuss," Silken said emphatically, all trace of good humor gone, "is what will happen if you get too enterprising with my jewels."

  "I've already told you my thoughts about dishonest dealing," Joat said, her eyes unflinching. "I don't have anything to add. Now. What are you paying me to ship these?"

  A short, sharp exchange of offer and counteroffer ensued. Joat achieved a price slightly higher than what she'd have settled for, with half to be paid immediately. Best of all she knew that she had achieved a degree of respect in Silken's tiger green eyes.

  Joat offered a celebratory cup of coffee from her stores and Silken accepted.

  "I'd prefer, say, a nice Chablis," Silken remarked.

  Joat grinned and tossed her a sealed container she plucked from a storage cabinet.

  "Sorry," she said. "But this is Mocha Java. You'll like it, I promise. Now, is there anything else I should know?" Joat asked, sipping the hot, fragrant brew.

  Silken raised a brow. "Such as?"

  "Is Central Worlds after your box of goodies?"

  "Mmmm," Silken murmured. "Good question. They don't know about it, no. But . . . I'm always watched and they like to . . . discuss me with anyone I've spent time with." She sipped delicately. "You may be sure they'll talk to you. Where, when and in what fashion I really couldn't say. But I'd advise you to hide my beauties carefully. I shouldn't like to have them fall into Central Worlds' hands."

  Gah! Joat thought, this woman could say "I love you," and make it sound ominous. I wonder if she could go ten minutes without making a dire threat. It was all done very elegantly, but she suspected that after a couple of days in Silken's company the impulse to smack her one would become overwhelming.

  "This consignment is to be delivered to Nomik Ciety," Silken was saying. "His is a very important name on Rohan, so you should have no trouble finding him. I must insist that delivery be made within the next eight days. That is possible?"

  "No problem," Joat assured her.

  "Then I'll leave you to your preparations," Silken said and rose. She held out her hand and Joat rose to take it. "It's been a pleasure, and most interesting, doing business with you," she said, her sweet mouth lifted in a genuine smile. "I'll look forward to seeing you on Rohan."

  * * *

  "In the deserts west of the Deathangel Mountains," Joseph said thoughtfully, looking at the hatch, "there are serpents of great beauty. The patterns of their scales are like living jewels. They also have," he went on, "venom of surpassing deadliness—a man they bite will be dead before his body strikes the ground."

  Alvec nodded. "Yup. And if one of 'em bit her, the snake would die."

  "The combination is as follows," Rand broke in.

  Joat put the box down on the mess table and touched the sensitized plate in the order the AI indicated.

  Nothing. "You sure you got that?"

  "I have a sensor directly behind the position Ms. Silken occupied," Rand said.

  Did I write a subroutine with sulky in it? Joat wondered. She tried the combination again.

  "Subtle," Joseph said.

  "It must be a bio-lock," Rand explained. "Responding only to her touch." It paused for a moment. "Some of the more sophisticated models will record whether anyone has attempted to open them."

  "Oh, well," Joat said. "There's subtle, and then there's whatever works."

  She stood, braced the box down on the table with her left hand, and twitched her right. The vibroknife keened, then screeched in a high electronic wail as she jammed it into the lock. Fire and sparks spurted out of the box, mixed with the scents of scorched metal, synthetic, and wood. Joat twitched her hand again, and the handle of the knife slid back into the sleeve of her overall.

  "There," she said.

  Joseph whispered softly in his own language. Alvec swore.

  "Why would she trust you with this? Especially after what happened with the datahedron. It don't make sense." He rubbed his jaw and thick stubble grated. "Smugglers, excuse me, freetraders are cautious to the point of paranoia. And she gives you this."

  "The thing is," Joat said, shaking out a piece of cloth and carefully placing the rubies on it, "I don't think Silken, Ciery and Co. think of us as regular smugglers. We're not in that network, we don't know people who are, and we don't
have any friends among 'em." She took out an optical intensifier from her kit and clenched it in one eye, holding up a ruby and studying it.

  Joseph leaned back and made his joined hands disappear inside the sleeves of his robe, a Bethelite gesture. "Joat, you describe to perfection someone who may be killed with impunity."

  "Yup, once their brief usefulness is past."

  * * *

  "Cleared for takeoff."

  "Launch," Joat said.

  "Execute," Rand replied.

  "And so as our ship sinks slowly in the west and the sun pulls away from the dock, we bid farewell to Schwartztarr, exotic land of smugglers, fences, weapons factories, and big furry animals with long, sharp teeth," Joat intoned.

  The Wyal flung itself at the sky. Alvec leaned back and cracked his knuckles; Joat winced. He knows I hate it when he does that.

  "Boss," he said after a moment. "How the hell did you manage to sell laser tubes on Schwartztarr?"

  Joat grinned. "Well, to a laser manufacturer who'd just gotten a big export order. Spared him the time it would take subcontractors to deliver the components, and it was a pre-tested shipment. Then I bought some electronic components and laser crystals."

  Joseph frowned and worked out what he was going to say carefully. "Are laser crystals better than laser tubes?" he said slowly.

  "Trust me," Joat said smugly. "In fact—"

  "I'm detecting an approaching ship," Rand said. "Its just entered Wyal's sensor range."

  "Any special reason you mention it?" Joat asked.

  "It's a Central Worlds Navy ship," Rand said apologetically. "A customs corvette."

  "Oh no," Alvec said and covered his eyes with one square hand. "Just what we needed. We've got a cargo of knocked-down weapons and we're heading for Rohan and a customs gunboat stops us."

  "Don't be so guilty, Al," Joat said with a confident smile. She suppressed an impulse to rub her stomach, where lunch had turned to a cold, congealing lump. Schwartztarr food, she told herself. It tended to the heavy, meat and potatoes and dumplings.

  Joseph came in looking sleepy.

  "Rand woke me," he explained. "It says we are being approached by a customs corvette."

  "Which hasn't even hailed us, for cryin' out loud!" Joat snapped, "Rand!" in exasperation.

  "Attention Merchanter Wyal, registry number 776445X. This is Central Worlds Customs ship Charger. Commander Chang-Yarimizu speaking. Please stand by to be boarded."

  "Until now," she said, and sighed. "Oh, well, I guess I should be thankful it's not a brainship anyway. Can you imagine what Simeon would say?"

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bros Sperin sat hunched over his screen in the hidden security office of The Anvil.

  "Police archive," he said to the machine. "Crossref, Ciety, Nomik, crossref, alias—"

  There was always a hope of finding something useful on his quarry. He had a fairly complete dossier on Nomik Ciety, including the supposedly sealed files on his dreamdust detox with its sensitive psych counseling.

  "Amazing how everything just happened to get wiped when Ciety was released," he muttered to himself.

  The psych file really had been sealed; physically disconnected from the system. Even the best worm program would have problems with that—although there was something still lurking in the far reaches of the net, waiting to pounce on any mention of Ciety's name.

  Sperin smiled. He liked an agile opponent; it made the game more interesting. Ciety seemed to be agile enough to fool a prison shrink, certainly. He might have kicked the dust, but that just made him more efficient at his sociopathic games.

  Outstanding warrants:

  The screen blinked live and began scrolling. Sperin's eyebrows stretched skyward. This was just the new stuff, the offenses since his release, supposedly "reformed." It was his first concentrated effort to gain a true picture of Nomik Ciety, the man and his methods, not just the haphazard files of those trying to catch the man.

  From behind him one of the agents manning a security terminal made a strangled sound.

  "Good grief!"

  Bros turned: "What is it?'

  The man gestured at the screen, speechless. Bros walked to the agent's station and leaned over his shoulder to look into the monitor.

  An extremely elderly Sondee had entered the bar.

  To other species male and female Sondee looked exactly alike, so it was impossible to guess the oldster's gender. Though in the ultraviolet range the sex difference between male and female Sondee was glaringly obvious.

  The fact that most other species couldn't appreciate this was unfortunate, the Sondee agreed, but they still found it appalling, embarrassing, and gauche that anyone would ask such a personal and irrelevant question as What gender are you? Which they interpreted as being asked—essentially—What is the shape, color, and texture of your genitals?

  To accommodate their androgynous appearance linguistically, individual Sondee were "et," the term having been coined because "it" was deemed derogatory. The problem with that was that in most Sondee languages not specifying an addressee's gender was a gross insult.

  Fortunately for everyone else's peace of mind Sondee who dealt with other species on a regular basis were gracious enough to make an admission of gender part of their introduction.

  The ancient Sondee standing just inside the doorway of The Anvil cupped ets withered hands protectively over the delicate whorled ridges that served as ears, and looked slowly around as though seeking someone. Ets two main eyes, though bright and golden, seemed sunken in pale, loose flesh. The upper eyes, which saw into the ultraviolet ranges, were actually closed, as though their owner was too weary to deal with the extra layer of information they would provide. The small, suckerlike mouth was pinched closed, as though in disapproval. It would suddenly expand to gasp in air, then pinch closed again.

  The Sondee slowly blinked. Then, with tottering steps, et began to struggle across the club towards the bar.

  Clearly, no one in The Anvil had ever seen a Sondee of such antiquity. Conversations stopped and even the band faltered for a beat as everyone watched et pass.

  Using the backs of chairs and the edges of tables to keep etself upright on the journey, the old Sondee nodded politely to the owner of the occasional shoulder et leaned on.

  When at last et reached ets destination, the bartender was waiting to take the Sondee's order. An unusual event in itself.

  "Sakurian," the Sondee ordered in a voice like a creaking hinge.

  Jaws dropped all around.

  The Sondee were held to have the most beautiful voices in Central Worlds. Every one of them might have been a professional opera singer if it pleased them, and musically they'd easily overshadow most humans, however talented.

  I don't believe it, Sperin thought. I don't believe that sound came from a Sondee throat-sac. Nobody who saw this was ever likely to forget it.

  "You were . . . expecting a Sondee?" the security op asked Bros tentatively. "Right?"

  "Yes," Bros growled. "A male. But I thought they were sending a live one."

  * * *

  When the Sondee at last tottered in on the arm of the young woman Bros had sent to fetch et, et instantly reverted to bouncing youth. And before their fascinated eyes began peeling off wattles, warts, and ridges until, with a dramatic gesture, et stood before them, glue-splotched but handsome.

  For a Sondee . . .

  "Seg !T'sel," et announced in a rich and vibrant voice. "Male, of the Clenst Defense Group. At your service!"

  Bros stood looking at Seg with his arms crossed, hands clutching his arms. I will not try to strangle him, he thought, mastering his emotions with a wrenching effort. I will not.

  "Mr. !T'sel," he said. "This was supposed to be a confidential meeting. Would you care to explain yourself?"

  "Ah. Well," somewhat crestfallen, the young Sondee shrugged. "My, ah, my hobby . . ." He colored gently: first the ear whorls and then, slowly, the rest of his face flushed a delicate blue. "My hobb
y is disguise," Seg murmured. "I couldn't resist the opportunity."

  "Well," Bros said with a bright, toothy smile. "As long as no one happens to be looking for a Sondee behaving in an unusual manner, there shouldn't be a problem."

  Bros indicated a conference room and with a gesture invited Seg to precede him into it.

  "But now that you've removed your makeup," he said, "how are we going to explain your present appearance? I'll tell you this, Mr. !T'sel, if I were sitting out there and watched you come in old and go out young, I'd be beating down the door, demanding some of whatever we gave you."

  Seg chuckled nervously and sat down, folding his long, four-fingered hands before him on the table.

  "Shall we proceed to the purpose of this meeting?" the young Sondee asked, somewhat desperately.

  "One moment," Bros murmured, settling his long muscular form in the chair opposite. He reached into his belt pouch and withdrew a small oval antieavesdropping device. He pushed a red button to activate it and placed it on the table before him. "Proceed," he said.

  In his element, !T'sel launched into lecture mode and seemed immediately older and more confident.

  "As you know, Mr. Sperin, The Clenst Defense Group works closely with the Central Worlds Navy research divisions. Recently, the Navy presented us with a range of biological weapons developed by a rogue group of Phelobites for the illegal arms market."

  "Rogue Phelobite is a little redundant, isn't it Mr. !T'sel?" Bros murmured.

  "Ah . . . ," Seg shrugged and looked uncomfortable.

  The Clenst Defense Group by its very nature was called upon to work closely with weapons manufacturers. Phelobites were unquestionably the premier arms manufacturers for Central Worlds. Officially, they adhered to all of the regulations and accords that being a member of Central Worlds called for, including those that banned the manufacture and sale of certain classes of armament. Unofficially, they would make and sell anything to anybody for the right price if they thought there was a good chance of getting away with it.

  In most Phelobite languages, the word for altruism translated roughly as "sucker."