by Marque
“I’m not doin’ it here,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t do anything to this ship, Captain.”
“I’m glad to know it—and glad you’re on our side.” She looked at Alene. “First, I’m going to see if the legal firm I contacted has any final word on that Leonora cargo, then we’ll list our cargo on the Exchange boards. Martin will concentrate on security issues, so you’ll have to run Cargo on your own.”
“Prices are volatile, Captain,” Alene said. “How long d’you think it’ll be before we get clearance?”
“Less than an hour after we dock, I’m hoping. Certainly by end of shift. As soon as we start selling, we start resupply. Environmental, insystem fuel, general supplies. Now: can we offload to the secure dock area without outside help?”
Alene shook her head. “I don’t think so. The Leonora cargo’s all palleted, too heavy to shift without a loader. We could rent a loader, I suppose . . . I’ve handled one. But who else?”
“I can,” Jim said. “At least . . . I’ve used one once.” With Jim, Ky thought, that could mean he’d seen someone else use one once, or he’d driven one off a dock into the water, or—possibly—he had actually driven one without incident.
“How long will it take with one loader, to clear the holds?”
“If some of the others will help with shifting and positioning, we can have the Leonora pallets off in a shift. The rest . . . you know our difficulties, Captain. Several days.”
“Here’s what we’ll do, then. First Martin will supervise setting up our security net. Meanwhile I’ll arrange loader rental, and as soon as we’re cleared for it, we’ll start unloading those pallets. I’d like to minimize exposure of personnel to possible . . . problems. The fewer outsiders who come aboard, and the less time anyone spends onstation, the safer we’ll be.”
On final approach, Lastway Station looked like what it was: a vast and complicated construction that had grown far beyond its original design to accommodate the needs of its local and transient populations. Below it, the planet’s cloud-wrapped surface was invisible. Two centuries earlier, terraforming had begun on a moderately appropriate base; the information packet supplied by the station to all incoming ships described in detail the processes that continued, but Ky was far less interested in the details of biogeochemical processes than in the price of refreshment cultures for the environmental system and what she could hope to get for the cargo originally consigned to Leonora.
As Lee eased the ship nearer and nearer to the docking booms, Ky reviewed the current list of ships docked, their origins and destinations. Another had been waved off from Leonora, and she learned that the onstation legal services had already certified its cargo as undeliverable, available for resale. At least she didn’t have to fight that battle on her own. She called Martin and told him that he could scavenge freely in the Leonora cargo.
“Thanks, ma’am,” he said. “As it happens, those containers were right handy . . . won’t take much time at all . . .” The suspicion crossed her mind that he had already taken what he wanted from them, but there was no reason to push the issue. None of the ships on station now seemed like a pirate ready to blow her ship away, but she hadn’t spotted Paison as a problem until too late. She had to assume that danger lurked here, everywhere.
Her own ship’s needs ranged as usual from must-haves like refreshment cultures for the environmental tanks; to very desirable, like better longscan; to wishful thinking, like an insystem drive that would move them faster than a snail on a hot rock. At least she hadn’t spent all her money on Belinta.
Lee docked neatly, and the station crew hooked up the support umbilicals. Ky found several small chores to do until she realized she was anxious about opening the hatch, then made herself go down to cargo hold 1 and do it. Martin materialized from one of the cargo hatches, and stood in front of her as the hatch opened.
Lastway Immigration Control—one unarmed and six armed—were waiting at dockside, by their expressions none too patiently. The one without weapons had two forearms on one arm, and a wrist tentacle on the back of the other wrist. Ky managed not to blink in surprise; that was a humod form she hadn’t seen before. “Eight hundred, cash or trade goods to be valued by an independent assessor,” said the humod. The tentacle uncurled elegantly, and the input connectors glinted.
“Trade goods,” Ky said. She handed the tentacle one of Aunt Gracie’s diamonds.
“Submitted for assessment,” the humod said. The tentacle transferred the diamond to that hand, then removed a sealable pouch from a pocket, plucked up the diamond again, and inserted it, then sealed the pouch. “You will want a receipt.”
“I will want an assessor here, at dockside,” Ky said.
“You think Lastway Immigration Control is dishonest?” That with a ferocious scowl.
“I think diamonds are too easy to misplace or confuse with other diamonds,” Ky said.
“I will call.” Silent moments, as the humod communicated by interface; then it nodded sharply. “Yes. One expert in assessing crystals comes.”
“Are you from here?” Ky asked.
Again the humod scowled. “Why ask that?”
“No insult intended, but your accent is not the same as what I heard from Traffic Control—I merely wished to know which accent is native here, to adjust my interpretation to that norm.”
Its face cleared. “Ah. You have old tech implant, yes? Mine adjust by self.” On input maybe, but the output wasn’t. “From Vastig, I am, eight years agone taking ship away from sad family. You know Vastig?”
“No,” Ky admitted.
“But such ships come there, Vatta Transport. Many ships Vatta has—or had. Someone likes Vatta not.”
“True enough,” Ky said. “And I don’t know why—do you?”
“Not I. Others make guesses, only guesses. On Vastig we do not make guesses. We say the truth. But here comes one to assess . . .”
Ky looked around to see a man in a dressy business suit; as he came closer, she began to wonder if he, too, were a humod. One eye appeared to have a magnifier built into it, the rim sunken into the skin. When he opened his mouth to speak, his tongue was dark and heavily furred.
“Licensed assessor Grill, at your service,” he said clearly enough, bowing to both the Immigration Control officer and Ky. “A crystal for assessment, yes?”
The Immigration Control officer transferred it to Grill’s hand—a hand that appeared to be normal, to Ky’s fascinated gaze—and Grill put it into his mouth for a long moment, then spat it back to his hand. “Carbon,” he announced. “Impurities negligible to value.” Now the magnifier extended, lenses telescoping from his eye. “Cut . . . Melique-cut diamond, crystalline structure excellent, flaws . . . minimal. Value for official purposes 2,443 credits.” He handed it back to the Immigration Control officer, who tucked it into the sealed pouch again. “Good day,” Grill said to the space between them, turned on his heel, and walked away.
“Your receipt for a credit balance of 1,643 to be set against docking and service fees,” said the Immigration Control officer, handing Ky a hardcopy strip that had just extruded from his lower forearm. “Welcome to Lastway and enjoy your stay.” Then he and his escort marched off.
Ky shook her head and spoke to the ship’s intercom. “All clear now. I don’t see the loader that should be here; I’ll contact them and the security company again.”
“The captain should reenter the ship,” Martin said. “I’ll want to get the net set out. I’ll need Jim, Beeah, and Mehar.”
CHAPTER
SIX
Before Ky could contact the rental agency, Martin reported that the loader had arrived. He and his crew had already installed the first of the visual scans, so Ky could watch the loader grind across the dock toward the ship and listen in on the conversation with her crew.
“Sorry,” the operator said. “Had to get clearance from Immigration and check your financials.” The operator had a gray uniform withRENTALL EQUIPMENT in red on the front and back.
; Martin held up a hand. “We will need to scan your machine.”
“Fine. I get paid by the hour; don’t hurry.” The operator lounged in his seat.
Martin used a long-handled mirror and various other tools to check over, under, and around the loader. “Now you,” he said. “Get down.”
“Me? You’re only renting the loader; you don’t need to scan me.”
“Oh, I think we do,” Martin said. The man shrugged, started to climb down, and suddenly launched himself at Mehar, whipping a knife from his boot. She sidestepped neatly and thrust a short baton into his gut. He folded around it, dropping the knife. Mehar stepped back; Martin moved in, swung the man around, and clipped him smartly on the jaw. “Good job, Mehar,” he said. “You’re a natural at this.”
“I would rather not be,” Mehar said, hooking the baton back on her belt.
“Beeah, Jim—perimeter.” Martin’s reminder focused the other two on the dock access. Ky watched, fascinated, as Martin secured the man’s knife by scooping it into a plastic bag, then fastened his wrists and ankles with cargo cords, as he had done with Jim at first.
“Captain—”
“Yes,” Ky said. “I saw that.”
“You said station police didn’t want to give us protection. Think they’d be interested in taking in a perp?”
“I suppose we’d better ask,” Ky said. “And I’d better talk to the rental company, too.”
“Threaten them,” Martin advised. “They sent you a ringer or they were bent to start with.”
Ky looked up the emergency numbers and called the station police, here called the Garda. “You did what ?” was the response of the desk clerk. “You can’t just hit people and tie them up.”
“My crew was attacked with a knife,” Ky said.
“Witnesses? Other than your own crew?”
“Recorded in video,” Ky said.
“Oh. Well. We’ll send someone over.”
Who to call next? Getting more security on their dockside seemed more important than wrangling with the rental company. Lastway’s business directory listed five security services, but only three were bonded and insured: Baritom, Maxx, and Padilla Protection. She had no clue which to pick. The stationmaster, she knew, would not be allowed to give an opinion—who else could?
ISC. They had their own security, but they must use onsite firms for personal protection sometimes, and they would surely know who to contact for dockside surveillance. Ky contacted their Lastway office and asked for the station director.
“Who’s calling, please?”
To ISC, the Vatta name should still be gold-plated, Ky thought. “Captain Kylara Vatta,” she began, “of the—”
“Vatta!” Then, “Just a minute . . .”
Less than a minute, and a gruff male voice barked at her. “Who do you think you are, queen of the spaceways? Don’t you realize we have better things to do than baby-sit some rich trader’s brat?”
“I beg your pardon!”
“You Vattas are spoiled rotten,” the voice went on. “Can’t wait your turn like everyone else! Think you’re special. Well, out here, Captain Vatta, we’re all citizens and we don’t try to cut in line. You’ll take your place in the outgoing queue just like everyone else and that’s final.” The connection blanked.
Ky stared at the console as if it had grown actual teeth, and then called again.
“What?” said the angry voice she’d just heard.
“I wasn’t trying to cut in line,” Ky said. “I had a question.”
“I’m not a damned information desk,” he said, and cut the connection again.
Ky told herself that everyone at ISC must be under tremendous strain. She still found it hard to believe that the station manager of an obscure office like Lastway could have reason to be that angry with Vatta Transport, or any particular Vatta, but he was, and that was a fact to cope with.
Who else? She scanned the business directory, looking for familiar names. Somewhat to her surprise, Lastway Station had three branches of Hark!, the sectorwide pastry franchise: “The original Hark!, in business at this location for 17 years . . .” ; “Hark! #2, convenient to the financial district” ; and “Hark! Light: same flavor, less filling.” She doubted that they’d have much knowledge of security companies. The Captains’ Guild? She contacted them.
“I’m sorry but we consider the Vatta account closed at this time,” said the reception clerk as soon as she gave her name. “Any services would be on a cash basis only.”
“I’m not planning to stay there,” Ky said. “I just had a question.”
“A question?” He sounded as if he’d never heard of asking a question. “What about, then?”
“What private security companies onstation would you recommend?”
“The station business directory has a list.”
“I know that, but only three are bonded. What services have other captains found reliable?”
“I’m afraid, under the circumstances, that I can’t take the liability risk of recommending anything in that line. Now if you wanted a recommendation for a good restaurant—”
“Oh, fine,” Ky said. The clerk went on, completely missing her tone.
“Julian’s is very nice—they grow their own fresh vegetables, and they have a cultivar of synthibeef that’s extremely good. Or, if you prefer seafood, there’s Fish Heaven. All local produce—”
“Thank you,” Ky said. “That’s very nice. I don’t suppose you have any idea where I can purchase ordnance?”
“Ordnance?” The clerk’s voice squeaked. “You mean like . . . er . . . weapons?”
“Exactly,” Ky said. It was a forlorn hope, but scaring him looked like the only fun she was going to have.
“Well . . . there’s always the MilMartExchange, over on Hub Four.”
“Thank you,” Ky said again. “Are they in the business directory?”
“Yes, Captain. UnderHEAVY EQUIPMENT NEW AND USED .”
“You’ve been most helpful,” Ky said, her good humor restored. Heavy equipment new and used, huh? Was this why the Sabines had been so suspicious of her “farm equipment” on the manifest?
She looked at the directory again, shrugged, and called Baritom Security Services because it came first on the list. Baritom Security Services put her on hold long enough to be annoying; then a senior sales representative came on. “You can understand that we have concerns about any assignment with a Vatta family member at this time—with Vatta accounts frozen—”
“Hard goods,” Ky said. “Acceptable to Immigration Control.”
“Oh. Well . . . the liability risk—”
“I am willing to waive liability where no misconduct by your employees is involved,” Ky said. “We need dockside security as well as personal escort.”
“I’m afraid we would have to add a surcharge for the additional hazard.”
“If you add the surcharge, I’m less willing to waive liability,” Ky said.
“Surcharge. Dockside . . . that’s a minimum of six personnel, two on each shift. Escort charges vary with shift. When would you want them?”
“As soon as possible,” Ky said. “I’m uncertain of the duration at this point.”
“That’s all right. We can have a team at your dockside in . . . fifteen minutes. An escort will be dispatched when you request—were you needing one this shift?”
Ky looked at the chronometer, set now to Lastway Station’s standard time. The shift would end in a half hour, and the next shift was mainday or business. She wouldn’t get out of here before then. “No, not this shift,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”
The police still hadn’t arrived. Ky looked up MilMartExchange, and found that it occupied almost half of Hub Four’s extensive storage holds. “Surplus new and used military heavy equipment: no credit” was its subhead. No more details available without a personal visit, but she could apply for a customer ID that would, the site said, “facilitate entry to the facility for first-time customers. C
onfidentiality assured. Recommended procedure.” Ky hesitated, then decided to apply: anyone interested already knew she was docked here; the public-access ship listing would tell them that. To her surprise, the “application” consisted of asking for a number; she did not even have to give a name.
She took down the number she was given—fifteen digits—then looked upWEAPONS , where she found six gun shops listed, ranging from Bernie’s Knives and Guns, “cheap, reliable personal protection,” to Blade, Bullet, and Bow—” blades, firearms, and archery tackle for the discriminating.” She looked forORDNANCE and found “see heavy equipment,” plus a small boxed notice that Lastway was not responsible for the legal status of ships mounting heavy equipment—captains should check with their relevant political units.
Sabine’s concern now seemed more reasonable. And Lastway Station’s regulations on personal weaponry were clearly less stringent than those on many other stations. Ky looked at the available live shots of station activity and noticed that a number of the people walking past were obviously armed. Probably others carried concealed weapons.
The directory listed a number of sources for surveillance and security systems, including most of the weapons sources already shown. Vic’s Precision Protection Supply was closest, on the same sector of the same hub. She had Martin’s wish list of gadgets and software. No, the first thing was to arrange handling of funds.
All the major quadrant banks had branches here; Ky picked Crown & Spears. Their representative regretted any inconvenience that it might cause, but they had put a lock on Vatta corporate accounts until matters had been adjudicated. Ky had expected that. “Did you receive a transfer from Belinta a few weeks ago? It was in my personal account, not a company account.”
“I regret, madam, that I find no record of such a transfer. The last value we have for madam’s personal account, based on ansible data, is indeed healthy, but those funds are not presently available because of the ansible failure. In the present crisis, we cannot advance monies based on remote accounts.”
“Very well, then. I want to open a new account,” she said. “We’re selling cargo here and I’ll be making purchases.”