Scornful Stars

by Richard Baker

  6

  Mersin, Dahar II

  “Marid Pasha certainly knows how to throw a party,” Omar Morillo observed. The handsome Bolívaran wore a striking plum-colored dinner jacket and a rich yellow bow tie with tight-fitting gray pants; his wavy russet hair was swept up in a spectacular pompadour that had earned the admiration of more than a few of the unattached women attending the governor’s Founding Day banquet. “Now, if only he’d be so good as to serve a nice malbec or perhaps a tempranillo with the buffet spread, I might almost consider it worth attending.”

  “We’re in Caliphate territory,” Elena Pavon replied to her executive assistant. “What did you expect?” Most Zerzurans looked the other way when it came to serving alcohol in private, but not even Marid Pasha could ignore the social convention for such a high-profile public occasion. Omar would have to content himself with sparkling cider or fruit punch—and so would she, for that matter. Just as well, she decided. She wasn’t at the Founding Day gala to celebrate; she was here to work, to make connections and see and be seen, and she didn’t need the temptation of a glass or two of wine to get in the way of business. Likewise, she’d brought Omar along as her date for the evening to deflect the attentions of any handsome Zerzurans who might otherwise have been drawn by her daring gold evening gown and beautifully coiffed hair, so dark it was almost blue-black. Men who knew nothing about her family’s wealth often found her looks sufficient to try their luck, and while that could be flattering in its own way—and perhaps a very interesting diversion, in the right time and place—Elena wanted to avoid that sort of complication for the evening. Keeping Omar close at hand would deter most of the would-be lovers. Best of all, Omar’s romantic interests ran toward men, not women. He was quite immune to her charms and wouldn’t mistake her intentions. Sorry, ladies, she silently told the women stealing glances in Omar’s direction. He’s just not that into you.

  “Oh, I’m not surprised,” Omar said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not a little disappointed. When the boss is picking up dinner, I feel obligated to run up the tab.”

  “You’d better not let her find out.” Elena put on a dazzling smile and slipped her arm through Omar’s as they descended the wide, sweeping staircase to the lovely open-air terrace that served as the banquet venue. The cliff-edge gardens of Mersin’s swankiest hotel offered a sweeping view of the city, crowned by the pasha’s spectacular mountaintop palace only a kilometer away. Hundreds of beautifully dressed women and men in a mix of elegant evening wear and splendid uniforms chattered and laughed below as a string quartet played softly in the dusk. Most of the women in attendance wore gowns cut slightly more conservatively than hers, and many added sheer headscarves for modesty. Only the most stringent Caliphate worlds insisted on the traditional hijab, but even in a culturally mixed frontier such as Zerzura the old fashions lingered on. No one was on the dance floor yet, not that there would be much dancing for couples anyway; in Elena’s experience with similar occasions on other Caliphate worlds, there might be some sex-segregated traditional dances later on, or possibly some chaste line dances if people really decided to let their hair down.

  She and Omar paused at a few steps above the floor, and she handed her invitation to the majordomo who stood ready to announce her arrival. “Ms. Elena Trinu Rhodanthe Pavon of Meliya and Nuevo León,” the attendant read loudly. Elena noticed that at least a few heads turned in her direction; she might not be particularly well known in Dahar, but the Pavon name certainly was. She lingered a moment longer on the steps, and then she and Omar ventured down into the party.

  She found herself engaged in the familiar routine of the receiving line, meeting a dozen or more of Dahar’s prominent citizens in a quick swirl of activity. Governor Marid al-Zahabi did not seem to be in attendance—not unusual, since the pasha rarely attended his own parties—but many other high-ranking planetary and sector officials were. In rapid succession she met the mayor of Mersin and his wife, a tea magnate who was helping to sponsor the event and the locally famous vid starlet who was his companion, the regent of the planetary university and her husband, and the stern-looking woman who served as the financial secretary of Zerzura Sector. Then the line brought her face-to-face with a plump middle-aged businessman in an expensive jacket, a Caliphate admiral in dinner-dress uniform with loops of gold braid at the shoulder, and a younger man in civilian clothing who eyed Elena with a small smile.

  “Admiral Torgut al-Kassar, commander-in-chief of the Zerzura Sector Fleet,” the hotel’s automated info assistant whispered in her native Español through the hidden comm device behind Elena’s ear. “Mr. Hidir al-Kassar, president of Suvar United Shipping. Mr. Gadi al-Kassar, his assistant.” At the same time, the automated system provided Elena’s own name and position to the al-Kassars. Elena didn’t need the introduction to see that the three men were closely related. The admiral was a little taller and in better shape than the older businessman, but they had the same receding hairline and the same frown lines, although Hidir tried to conceal his with a generous mustache. Gadi, on the other hand, was a leaner, thirtyish version of the older al-Kassars who wore a neatly trimmed beard.

  “Ms. Pavon, a pleasure,” Hidir al-Kassar said in Jadeed-Arabi; Elena spoke it well, since it served as the language of government and business in the worlds of the Terran Caliphate and many of the neighboring systems. He extended his hand. “It’s good to meet a colleague, so to speak.”

  “Or a competitor, Mr. al-Kassar.” Elena shook his hand. Pegasus-Pavon was an international shipping line spanning thirty systems, but Suvar United did quite well for itself in Zerzura’s five major worlds. “I understand that you’ve just ordered two new container ships—business must be good. My congratulations.”

  Hidir al-Kassar gave a small shrug. “Ah, well, we have been lucky. Zerzura’s economy is expanding; there are many opportunities for growth in this sector, as I am sure you know.”

  “I agree—there’s plenty of room in this sector for a number of carriers. We hope to expand our own capacity in this region, too … just as soon as the security conditions improve.” Elena gave a shrug of her bare shoulders and sighed, but she kept her eyes fixed on the Suvar executive. It hadn’t escaped her attention that Suvar United’s business in Zerzura seemed to be thriving while Pegasus-Pavon was targeted every few months by cargo hijackings or ransom demands. “In fact, we now have a ship overdue at Bursa and presumed lost: Carmela Día, a bulk freighter. It seems like another act of piracy.”

  “Not again!” Hidir grimaced in sympathy. “Some days it seems that Zerzura takes two steps back for every step forward. Suvar United has lost ships to piracy, too, although none as large as Carmela Día.”

  “Another one?” said Gadi, although he seemed more interested in Elena’s bold evening gown than in expressing his condolences. “That is awful. Have you notified my uncle’s department about the situation?”

  “Yes, Gadi, she has,” Torgut al-Kassar answered for Elena. The admiral offered his hand to her; she hesitated a moment before she took it. “Ms. Pavon, a pleasure to see you in a social setting. Let me take this opportunity to reassure you that the fleet is doing everything in its power to locate your missing freighter.”

  “Then you’ve dispatched additional search assets to Bursa?” Elena asked. “And Tunis? She might have been attacked before she began her transit.”

  “We will as soon as those assets become available,” the admiral said easily. “You must understand, Ms. Pavon, that planetary systems are unimaginably vast areas, and thorough searches take a great deal of time. I am afraid that you will have to be patient—I promise you that we are doing all that we can.”

  Elena took a long and deliberate look around the Founding Day celebration, making a show of studying the handsome uniforms and lavish setting. “I am sure that you are, Admiral,” she said, smiling sweetly to twist the dagger. “I would never want to suggest that you are doing less than your very best.”

  Torgut al-Kassar’s smile froz
e on his face. Oh, so you noticed that, did you? Elena told herself. Good, maybe you’ll turn some of that anger on your subordinates and do something for once. She tilted her head in the slightest of nods, and allowed the arriving guests behind her and Omar to move the two of them on down the receiving line. Gadi al-Kassar stared after her in a rather predatory manner; Elena pretended not to notice, and refused to look back at him.

  “You know, you’re not going to make many friends that way,” Omar murmured as they moved to the next official in line. “Admirals aren’t used to that sort of treatment.”

  “Then he shouldn’t have patted me on the head and told me to be patient,” Elena replied. “I am through with being patient. We’ve lost two ships now in Zerzura within the last two years. That’s a couple of hundred million credits in hulls, let alone the lost cargo and the lives of our employees. And how many times have we lost partial cargoes or been forced to pay ransoms?”

  “Six, if you count that New Kibris kidnapping.”

  “I do.” Technically it wasn’t piracy, since Safira Vega’s master had been abducted while the ship was in port, but Elena had signed the ransom check, and the payment arrangements had been the same as in other incidents. “Our insurance rates are astronomical already—and if we have to write off one more cargo or make one more ransom payment, Orion Starways will drop us for sure. Exactly how much more patient are we supposed to be?”

  “You don’t have to convince me. I see the same P&L statements you do.” Omar steered her past the end of the receiving line and out onto the terrace. The night was warm, despite Mersin’s elevation; the faint cinnamon scent of Dahar’s atmosphere grew stronger as they moved closer to the balustrade.

  “I know.” Elena drifted over to the rail and gazed out at the cityscape. She wasn’t proud of taking out her frustration on her executive assistant, but Omar understood the pressures she faced. While many people in Elena’s social circle imagined that someone with her wealth and pedigree wouldn’t trouble herself with something as mundane as watching a bottom line, the Pavon family believed in hands-on management of their business empire. Not only was Elena the heiress to the Pavon fortune, she was the director of the Meliyan-Zerzuran region for the Pegasus-Pavon line, responsible for the company’s business operations from its headquarters at Nuevo León in the Principality of Bolívar to its bridgehead at Meliya in the Velar Electorate. The shipping routes Elena oversaw in Zerzura accounted for nearly a third of the company’s total revenue, but if Pegasus-Pavon couldn’t get affordable insurance rates for its operations, her father would have to shut down the company’s Meliyan-Zerzuran region altogether. Tadeo Pavon might not hold Elena responsible for the necessity of closing down her part of the shipping empire, but she’d certainly hold herself responsible. And I’ll be damned if I give up my region without a fight, she silently fumed.

  She turned back to the banquet. “I don’t even know why I’m here,” she said to Omar. “This is a waste of time. Maybe we’ll have better luck with the system authorities in Bursa. Shit, maybe we’ll be able to pay them to go find our ship.”

  “Bursa is the one place we know our ship isn’t, since it never made port. Most likely, the pirates took Carmela Día to some empty star system and stripped her in the middle of nowhere. But if someone stumbles across her wreck, the news will eventually make its way to Dahar, and Dahar is where you need to be to apply some pressure—some subtle pressure, mind you—on Marid Pasha to invest in more antipiracy measures.” Omar gave her a stern look. “Then again, keep on embarrassing Caliphate officials by reminding them they’re weaker than they’d like to think, and they’ll ignore you wherever you decide to go.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Elena admitted. Doing something, anything, seemed like it would be better than waiting around in Dahar for news that might never come and pestering the Zerzuran authorities to do jobs they should have been doing without any prodding from her, but Omar was ten times the diplomat that she was. Her natural inclination was to demand results, but he generally managed to channel her impatience into constructive action. It made them a very effective team: Elena had energy and drive in abundance, while Omar provided the tact and perspective she rarely had the patience to practice.

  “Do you want to leave?” Omar asked. “If the pasha isn’t likely to make an appearance, then there’s no particular reason to extend the evening.”

  “No, we need to stay a little longer. There are a couple of people I’d like to run into. And I’m actually a little hungry—that spread did look good.”

  “Then let’s get something to eat,” Omar said.

  They made their way to the buffet table and helped themselves to a fine selection of delicacies from half a dozen different worlds. Elena decided that Omar was right; a glass of wine would have gone down well with the meal. After they ate, she turned her attention to the party, searching for familiar faces. Dozens of Dahar’s business leaders and government officials were in attendance, and of course Pegasus-Pavon wanted to be seen as a good corporate citizen in the region. Many of the party guests did quite a lot of business with her family, and it was important for Elena to visit with each and exchange a few pleasantries—personal connections went a long way toward smoothing the road when it came time to discuss carrying contracts worth millions or persuading officials to streamline regulations. Likewise, more than a few guests had come to the gala with the idea of meeting her, and sought out the opportunity to introduce themselves. Some offered potentially valuable proposals for her to consider, some hoped to secure Pavon patronage for various charitable projects, and some were frankly nuisances that Omar Morillo smoothly interrupted and directed away from Elena when he had to. Once or twice she met interesting people that she didn’t need anything from and who didn’t need anything from her; she found the Dremish special envoy Hanne Vogt to be a powerfully confident and attractive woman whose gown was even more daring than Elena’s, and later on she chatted with Dahar’s Aquilan consul, too. But throughout the socializing, the problem of Carmela Día’s disappearance and the powerlessness of the Zerzuran authorities never strayed far from her mind.

  Later in the evening, Elena disentangled herself from a Caliphate general named Karacan—who seemed to think he could impress her by loudly telling stories of his own adventures—and retreated to the edge of the terrace again, enjoying a few moments of comparative solitude. Her eye fell on a woman standing a few meters away, wearing the burgundy dress uniform of the Velar Electorate Navy with gold sunbursts on her silver shoulder boards. Captain Szas of that Velaran cruiser, she reminded herself. She’d seen the woman on a newscast earlier in the week. Beside the Velaran captain stood a Paom’ii in the kilt and jeweled harness his people preferred to human-style clothing; the tawny fur of their pelts was all the covering they really needed, but Paom’ii took great pride in their personal appearance and required some amount of clothing to properly display the lavish ornamentation they favored.

  Perhaps I’ve been talking to the wrong navy, Elena realized. If the Caliphate was stretched thin in Zerzura, one of the neighboring powers might be able to provide some more assistance. She made her way over to the Velarans, who stood chatting with a mixed group of humans and Paom’ii at the far end of the terrace. Elena waited for a break in the conversation before she stepped forward and extended her hand to the woman in uniform. “Captain? I’m Elena Pavon. Might I have a few minutes of your time?”

  “Ms. Pavon, how do you do?” Szas replied. Her Jadeed-Arabi was almost as good as Elena’s, which was impressive considering that it was probably her third or fourth language. She was tall and sturdy, with a broad face and a practical bob haircut. “Dame Hedi Szas, at your service. Would that be the Pavons of Pegasus-Pavon line?”

  “Yes, in fact. Tadeo Pavon is my father; I serve as the company’s regional director in Meliya.”

  “I see your freighters all the time.” Szas nodded to the Paom’ii who stood beside her; Elena noticed that the alien’s kilt and harness matc
hed the burgundy of Szas’s uniform, and had a distinctly martial look. “This is my second-in-command, Meritor Pokk Skirriseh.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Ms. Pavon,” the Paom’ii said, extending his three-fingered hand. He spoke in a buzzing, resonant voice in his native tongue, which included elements that were simply outside the normal range of human hearing; a translator device on his collar repeated his speech in formal-sounding Jadeed-Arabi. Close up, the alien towered over Elena, standing almost two full meters in height despite the naturally hunched posture of his species. She’d heard Paom’ii described as something between an orangutan, a lion, and an owl, and while she had only the vaguest idea of what an orangutan must have been like, she’d always found the description apt: Meritor Pokk had a long, thin torso covered in fine golden fur, short legs with wide three-toed feet, long arms, and a face with large, dark, close-set eyes above a stiff beak-like mouth. Like most of his kind, he wore his dark mane in carefully arranged curls, and dyed the natural stipple patterns of his fur to make them stand out more. Elena found his huge hand warm and rough, but he was careful not to squeeze too hard.

  “Likewise, Meritor,” Elena told him. She was no stranger to Paom’ii; the demands of her family’s business meant that she spent close to half her time on Meliya, an Electorate world jointly ruled by humans and aliens. They could be trying at times, since they missed many human social cues and generally didn’t care about business matters, but Paom’ii in positions that required them to work closely with humans—say, serving aboard a warship with a mixed-species crew—generally adapted well to human interactions and socialization.

  “What can we do for you, Ms. Pavon?” Szas asked.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for bringing up work, but one of our ships on the Nuevo León–Meliya route has gone missing near Bursa. Carmela Día is now nearly a month overdue. I reported the disappearance to the Zerzuran authorities, but they tell me they don’t have the resources to conduct a search. I was hoping that you could look into the situation as long as Vashaoth Teh is visiting in Zerzura.”