The City and the Ship

by Anne McCaffrey

  "Where are Alvec and Joseph?" Rand asked.

  "Looking for me, most likely," she said "Tell them . . . Tell them I need time to regain my composure, that's true enough. Tell them I'll be in touch shortly. Tell them to relax and take advantage of CenSec's generosity. But don't tell them where I am!" She turned to glare at it "You got that?"

  "It's done, Joat. Joseph says to tell you that you and he need to talk."

  "Did he ask where I was?"

  "Yes, I told him that you hadn't said," Rand's voice sounded strained. "I don't understand how you humans can do that so casually. I find it very disorienting to make statements that are contrary to the facts."

  Joat smiled gently at it. "Thank you for lying for me, Rand. I know you don't like it. What did Al say?"

  "Alvec says he'll bring you home some take-out."

  Joat smiled wanly at that.

  "I belted Nomik Ciety in the chops," she said. Then she smiled faintly in satisfaction. "I knocked him right on his ass."

  After a moment, Rand asked, "Was that wise?"

  She sighed, "Certainly not. But I really needed to do it."

  Rand's lights glowed yellow in puzzlement.

  "I believe I have insufficient information," it concluded. "Because based on what you've just told me, I would be forced to agree that you have, indeed, lost your mind."

  "Oh, I did," she assured it. "But it's back now and we have work to do. What have you found out so far?"

  "The Kolnari have apparently never actually visited Rohan," it told her.

  Joat waved a hand dismissively.

  "Not surprising, they're uncomfortable off their ships, they like to have a ceiling over their heads and walls around them. Looking up through that dome would just about drive them crazy. Besides, they don't exactly enjoy socializing with other races." She shook her head "They'd use go-betweens or tight beam communications. My bet is the latter. See if you can find anything unusual in ship to port messages. Meanwhile, I'll try'n get into Ciety's cyber-house through a back door."

  The two worked intently for a while and the quiet soothed Joat's jangled nerves. There's nothing like working out a technical problem to get yourself centered, she thought.

  "I'm in!" Joat called.

  "Congratulations," Rand said. Then, "Or perhaps not."

  Her head snapped up.

  "What?"

  "Something's wrong. Something's gotten in."

  "What is it?" she demanded.

  "I don't know. But it's eating me."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "Sal?"

  "Yeah?" he looked up from The Anvil's accounts at his secretary.

  "That fine that Mr. va Riguez wanted paid?"

  "Yeah?" he said again, with exaggerated patience. This particular employee seemed incapable of just saying what was on his mind.

  "Can't do it. Mr. va Riguez's account says insufficient funds."

  Sal grunted and reached for the note-screen in his secretary's hand. He skimmed through the bankers' jargon until he reached the amount of the fine.

  "Oi vey!" he exclaimed. "That can't be right."

  "I double checked it, Sal. That's the right amount."

  "A hundred and twenty thousand credits! You gotta be kiddin' me. What the hell did Simeon-Hap do for a fine that size?"

  "I couldn't find out." The secretary shrugged. "It's confidential." Sal just looked at him from under lowered brows.

  "Get me Dyson," he said at last. "Now."

  * * *

  Graf Dyson shrugged. "She had to be fined, Sal. She entered the station illegally."

  Sal gave him a look. "A hundred and twenty thousand?" he said.

  Dyson threw up his hands and leaned forward. "Look," he said, "Clal va Riguez says to me, make it a big fine. Use your discretion. And she ticked me off." He leaned back and shrugged. "So I did what he said."

  Sal rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, he told me to pay it. But his account says insufficient funds. I don't think he expected it to be this much." He gave Dyson a hard look. "He didn't set a ceiling?"

  Graf didn't like Sal's attitude. This wasn't even his affair and he was getting really pushy. Besides, Graf's dealings were supposed to be confidential. And this conversation was lasting way too long.

  "Look, maybe you're right, maybe there's been a misunderstanding. Have va Riguez call me. We'll straighten it out."

  "He's not here," Sal grumbled, still looking like he was waiting for a concession.

  "What is this?" Dyson snapped, suddenly angry. People were supposed to come to him hat in hand and to say thanks when they left. He'd had dealings with Sal before and hadn't gotten the respect he thought he deserved. "I don't discuss your business with other people. I won't discuss va Riguez's business with you. He has a problem, have him get back to me. I don't hear from him, I figure he wants this fine to stick. You," he snapped a finger towards Sal, "I don't wanta hear from." And he disconnected.

  He leaned back thoughtfully. Maybe I should reduce it, he thought. Mr. va Riguez had told him no more than twenty thousand. Yeah, but if I lower it now, Sal will think he's scored one off me. Dyson grimaced.

  Then again, if va Riguez has gone missing then maybe he never intended to take care of this. And Dyson was experienced enough to know that to an operation like Joat's twenty thousand might as well be a hundred and twenty thousand. So. I'll leave it. If he contacts me, I'll say I misunderstood. If he doesn't, New Destinies gets a little richer. He grinned. And Sal gets a message. Don't mess with Graf Dyson.

  * * *

  Sal leaned back in his chair. He wasn't happy about not being able to follow va Riguez's orders. The man was a good customer, and he represented another, more shadowy, good customer that Sal had been doing business with for years.

  Besides, he'd learned early in life who was safe to cross and who wasn't. Dyson, it depended on the circumstances, but basically he was a lightweight. But Clal va Riguez . . . that was a dangerous man.

  I better put a message in the pipe, he thought unhappily. That way I'm covered. If it was important, Clal, or one of his associates would get back to him. If he heard nothing, Then I'll assume no action is called for.

  * * *

  The Chadragupta Rao's hull gave a shudder as the dockside connectors went home and Rohan's gravity took over. Metal and composites crackled and sighed in reaction as weight and pressure altered. Fresher air poured in; the Rao had problems with life-support, redline maintenance no Company ship or chartered freelancer would tolerate.

  Bros Sperin stood easily on her command deck, adjusting to the lighter gravity with automatic ease, equally easy with the hostile glare of the Rao's Captain. For that matter, the only eyes on the wedge-shaped deck that weren't hostile were the four Sondee orbs right behind him. They were probably bright and shiny . . .

  "Far as I'm concerned, Sperin, you cease to exist when you walk off my deck. You got that?"

  The spacer was a pale, flaccid little man. He smelled like a locker full of sweaty clothes. But then, so did his whole ship. The bridge went darker as screens powered-down, only the monitors and standby readouts still active.

  Bros nodded, his eyes cool. The little needler in his cuff was ready, but he didn't think he'd need it.

  "All debts are paid," he said evenly. "And in the event that you find it necessary to alert the Family to my presence . . ."

  The little man stiffened.

  "You can tell them I'm here to find a friend in trouble. It's a personal thing."

  The spacer's pale brow furrowed in confusion.

  "But of course," Bros said gently, "I'd be very disappointed if you did tell them I'm here."

  The spacer jerked his head in a negative. "All debts are paid," he said sourly.

  They were in the shadowy reaches where organized crime brushed and merged with the fringes of Intelligence work. It was the only way to keep things functioning at all—the old lex talonis, eye for an eye.

  "Thanks," Bros said with a smile and a slap on the back tha
t staggered the little spacer. "I knew I could count on you."

  He hefted his duffel to his shoulder and walked out, deck gratings ringing under his magnetic boots, each stride a little sticky. Seg !T'sel trotted after him.

  "I still say we should be disguised," he whispered.

  Bros smiled for the monitors and put an arm around the alien's bony shoulders; they felt warm under his hand, hotter than a human metabolism, and the pattern of bones was more like a lattice than a framework.

  "Think of it this way, Seg," he said, between clenched teeth—natural, and it also activated his scrambler. That was a system sophisticated enough to feed a false conversation to the audio pickups. "How many Sondee do you see around here?"

  They were out of the docking bay and into a concourse, full of crowds skipping on and off slideways or calling for little robotic shuttlecars, heavy with the scent of ozone. Most of the crowd were humans of various types, the odd Ursinoid, a scattering of other species . . .

  "One or two," Seg said.

  "And how many of them are wearing eyepatches, or wigs, or walking with canes?"

  Seg opened his mouth, then shut it with a snap. The bony plates within went tok.

  "Nine humans out of ten can't tell one Sondee from another, unless there's something unusual about the Sondee. On your homeworld, you get seen as you. Here you get seen as a Sondee. Grasp the principle?"

  A wordless grunt. "But you should be wearing a disguise."

  Damned if I'm going to wear a rubber nose, either, Bros thought. He shrugged. "Disguises are more trouble than they're worth unless you absolutely need one."

  "But they'll recognize you."

  "Who is they?" Bros asked.

  "Well," Seg temporized, "who are we looking for?"

  "At the moment, Joat Simeon-Hap. Ultimately, the Kolnari. Joat's on our side . . . mostly, so we want her to recognize me. The Kolnari will kill you whoever you look like. But the Family will want to know what you're trying to hide. So they'll take you aside and ask you questions until they're satisfied. And Seg . . . they're very hard to satisfy. So our best disguise is to look like ordinary spacers."

  Seg nodded solemnly, and then nearly fell flat as they stepped onto a slideway. Bros clenched his teeth again and put a hand under the Sondee's not-quite-an-elbow.

  They'd left the docking area behind. The tunnels and arcades beneath the crater floor engulfed them, two more anonymous spacers in worn coveralls, carrying the record of their lives in their duffels through the jostling crowds. They passed innumerable cheap hostels burrowed back into the rock, CHEAP ROOMS and CLEAN BEDS blinking in holographic colors outside their barred doors. The drab hostels gave way to chandlers' offices, advertising electronics, software, graving docks, power systems.

  "It's not quite what I imagined a pirate haven would be like," Seg whispered.

  "Piracy's a business," Bros said. "Ships are ships. They need fuel and parts and maintenance. A lot of other business goes through here, too—some of it even legitimate."

  "But I thought it would be something more like—"

  The slideway divided around a dropshaft. Bros took them off and into the open darkness. They drifted downward, and images played before their eyes.

  "—any species, any combination for—"

  It was hard for a member of another species to be shocked by human tastes in erotic entertainment, but Seg managed it. All four eyes bulged slightly, then blinked in unison, a disconcerting sight.

  "—come one, come all, contestants welcome—"

  This time the naked shapes were muscular and lithe, sheened with sweat and blood, long curved knives in their hands.

  "—nothing too exotic at the Torture Pit—"

  Bros closed his own eyes, wincing slightly. "This is the entertainment level," he said. "Want to stop and see the sights?"

  "Ah . . . no."

  "Good. Let's get some business done, then."

  Seg cocked his ears at a cacophony of voices, human and alien, clashing music from various bars and an assortment of street sounds from air-scrubbers to ground cars.

  "Still, what energy there is in that sound!" Seg exclaimed as they stepped out of the shaft into a more placid level. He turned to Bros his eyes shining. "I'm working on an opera in my spare time," he confessed.

  What Sondee isn't? Sperin wondered.

  "One day I will work this—" he gestured with both hands towards the street before them "—into my overture."

  Sperin smiled and nodded. Not bad kid, Seg. And how I wish he wasn't here.

  "We better get moving," he murmured in Seg's ear whorl. "We look like a couple of rubes standing here."

  "I thought you said Rohan was fairly safe?" Seg protested.

  "Safe is a relative term," Bros said. "If we were in a Sondee swamp, for example, we'd probably be safe from wild animals, since they're generally shy around people. But even there, smearing yourself all over with beef gravy might be considered putting too much temptation in their way. If you get my drift?"

  Seg's ear whorls colored slightly and he nodded.

  "Which way?" he asked.

  "We'll check the bars along here," Bros said. "I've no idea where Joat might be, but my information is that her crew has a fondness for dockside bars."

  * * *

  "These entertainments do not seem too raucous," Seg said.

  Well, the one with the two girls and the Nuruzian lizard was a little much, Bros thought, scanning the crowd. On the other hand, the really unpleasant places were unlikely to attract Joat's crewfolk, which was a relief. You had to wade through sewage often enough in this business . . .

  Seg made a grand gesture. "Garçon!" he called. "Madder music and stronger wine!" He blinked diagonally when Bros looked sharply at him. "Classical reference," the Sondee said.

  "I read Dobson too," Sperin said dryly, and Seg's ear whorls flushed a deeper blue.

  The waiter brought a bottle of surprisingly good port from Ceres—the planet, not the asteroid—and Bros gave a realistic wince as the display on the tray showed the deduction from his account. In actuality, the expense account was one of the few real perks of the trade; he sipped at the smooth nutty flavor. The best of everything ended up in Rohan—at a price. A bowl of raisins, pecans, and dried gunung went down beside it.

  "This tastes much better. Sweeter." Seg threw back his glass and poured another.

  Great fardling voids, as Joat is wont to say, Bros thought; this time his wince was genuine. For one thing, that was a lousy way to treat a fine wine; for another . . . Sondee metabolized alcohol faster than humans, but not that fast.

  For a moment he thought that Seg had burst into song, but the voice was deeper and more gravelly. A human voice, one he recognized, singing La vie en Rose . . .

  Alvec had his head together with a brawny blond wearing a shy, enraptured smile as he crooned.

  Things can't be too bad if Alvec's out picking roses, Bros thought. He motioned Seg to remain seated and moved up behind Joat's crew.

  "Al!" he said and slapped the man on the shoulder.

  Al looked up questioningly, his eyes blank.

  "Alvec Dia," Bros insisted.

  "Yeah," Alvec agreed slowly. "Who're you?"

  "I'm Joat's friend from New Destinies. I'm the guy who told her to check this place out. Hey, listen buddy," Bros pulled out a chair and sat down, leaning towards Alvec confidentially, "I'm looking for a berth. You think maybe Joat can help me out?"

  The woman was looking at him and scowling. Bros saw recognition flicker in the other man's eyes, but the face remained mildly friendly, if you could say that about something that looked like it had been pounded out of rough wrought iron.

  "I dunno," Alvec said. "We're kinda full up right now."

  Bros kept smiling, and ground his foot into the reinforced toe of one of Alvec's boots under the table. Come on, you imbecile, there's no time for let-the-spook-twist-in-the-wind games here!

  "Well, why don't we let the Captain decide?" Bros asked r
easonably. "I'm good at what I do. You can always use a good hand, right? What's the Wyal's berth number? I'll go ask her."

  Alvec's smile grew wider, and he let his hand drop to the blond woman's.

  "Why doncha tell me where you're stayin'?" he asked. "I'll have her get in touch . . . later. I'm sort of busy. Not that you're not welcome or anything, old pal, but . . ."

  "Aw, c'mon, buddy. I can get the number from central registry. I just wanted to save the credits." And keep the Family watchprograms from getting tripped.

  The blond shifted nervously, aware of the undercurrents and not sure she wanted to be around them. Bros thought that decided Alvec.

  "SJ 467-Y," he said. "But the Captain isn't there right now."

  Bros grinned.

  "I'll take my chances. Maybe she'll be back by the time I get there. Thanks buddy." And he slapped Alvec's shoulder one more time.

  Alvec watched him leave, his eyes speculative.

  "Who's that?" Rose asked.

  "Oh, friend of the Captain's," Alvec said and gently took her hand. "You were telling me something about yourself," he said and kissed her fingertips. "I think that's much more interesting."

  * * *

  Bros withdrew his credit chip from the meter and dragged Seg out of the ground-car by his sleeve. Then he leaned the young Sondee up against the docking mechanism while he activated the Wyal's com to announce their presence.

  Seg began to sing snatches of his opera-in-progress in a light and very pleasant baritone; much to the amusement of passing spacers.

  Wonderful, Bros thought in exasperation. Nothing obvious about you is there, Mr. Wannabe? On the other had, it could be worse—he could be in disguise. Nobody was really surprised when a drunk started singing, and a Sondee just couldn't sing badly.

  There'd been no answer to their hail. Not even from Joat's elaborate AI. That had to mean something was wrong. After all, it wasn't as if the thing could go on shore leave.

  He moved to the lock, and shielding his movements as best he could with his body, placed a small and very illegal device above the lock mechanism. In seconds he was able to enter the Wyal, drawing Seg in after him.