by F. M. Busby
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Real names — if they’re important to you, mine is Bran.”
“Yes — Bran.”
“That’s better. Let’s eat.”
She ate slowly — even soup contains ingredients that need chewing — but with enjoyment, shifting the occasional bits of meat or vegetable back to her molars. He finished long before her and sat waiting, saying nothing. Finally she said, “I have had enough. Will you remove the tray, please?” He lifted it back to the cart. “Thank you, Bran.”
He made a half smile. “Don’t work too hard at it; in a hurry, call me whatever comes to mind. For it’s certain I’ll do that sometimes; we can’t change our thinking all at once.”
“Only in private is it important. In public we use our public names automatically; why should this between us be difficult?”
“I don’t know — but it’s different somehow, isn’t it?”
She thought. “Yes, because publicly we use automatic defenses. By ourselves we must discard these or remain strangers. I am glad you have helped me see that difference.”
The intercom sounded; he answered on the hushset, then said, “It’s Liesel. Wants to know if you’re up to a family meeting tonight, or if tomorrow’s better.”
“Tomorrow — if she will not mind the delay.”
He spoke again; then faintly she heard, “. . . tomorrow all right?” and he said, “Maybe breakfast, but I doubt it — midmorning, probably. Yes — good.” He cut the circuit and looked to her.
She nodded. “As you put it, is suitable.”
“Good. Say — you look tired, and no wonder. You want me out of here?”
“Not unless you wish to go. I am in invalid status, of course, but if you would like merely to stay with me, this bed is large, and your presence would comfort me.”
“Yes. All right. Maybe yours will comfort me, too.”
He leaned toward her. “Not on the lips, Bran — they pain me too much. The forehead, perhaps?”
“Your nose looks all right, to me.”
Then, “Yes — but when you made me laugh, then — my ribs — Bran, I am a ruin!”
“You need sleep. I’ll darken the lights.”
“Yes.” But then she remembered. “There is something first,” and she told him what dal Nardo, panting as he strove to kill her, had said of UET — and of payment.
“A UET stringer, was he? I wonder how — but it doesn’t matter. Before they can get here, I’ll have — never mind, save that for later.” Then, after a moment’s silence, Tregare said, “Harnain, eh? Not Kerguelen. Simple enough — I haven’t entered the data into the computer network yet, but you’ll recall how poor Harnain died in a faulty freeze-chamber, on Inconnu. That’ll take care of anything dal Nardo has on file.”
“Yes, it should. Thank you, Bran — and good night.”
Rissa heard a noise and halfway woke. Seeing gray dimness at the window, she lay back and dozed again. Later she woke fully, alone in a room filled with daylight. Tentatively she stretched, and felt much soreness but little harsh pain. She lay relaxed, staring at the ceiling but not seeing it.
With no warning knock the door opened; Tregare carried a covered bed-tray. “Good. I thought you’d be awake by now. Here’s breakfast.” She smiled and thanked him. He said, “And I’ve done some computer-diddling. Didn’t have to use the fake death — Liesel gave me some access-codes, and I’ve nulled Harnain out of this planet’s network.”
“Written notes, Bran? Dal Nardo may have had those.”
“May have, sure. No more, though — not in his dossier file, anyway. On account of it’s melted down to slag.”
“What is this you say?”
“Lebeter don’t mind a little night work, and he’s good with thermite.”
“I — I see.” Tregare made to lift the food tray’s lid but Rissa said, sitting up, “Leave it covered, please, to keep hot until I am back.” She stood and went into the bathroom. A few minutes later, she returned. “Now, then — I am ready to breakfast with you. And with thanks for all you have done for me.”
“Sure.” He nodded. “How’s the eye this morning?”
“Better than it appears. I can see with it quite well.”
He arranged the tray for her convenience. “I already ate downstairs, but I brought myself an extra coffee cup.”
“Did I miss a vital conference?” And looking at the one bowl sitting between containers of juice and coffee, “What is this?”
“Conference? You’ll hear it all later. That in the bowl — it’s eggs and porridge.”
“Eggs and porridge? It looks as though a baby might have eaten it once already.”
He laughed. “Taste it first — then complain if you like. It’s your tender teeth I was looking out for.”
From the tip of her spoon she took a wary taste, then nodded. “You are right — despite its appearance, it is good. From what is the porridge made?”
“Upland grain, I’m told — from Liesel’s holdings across the Big Hills, quite a way south of here. She says there’s been a mutation that improved the flavor; she’s waiting to see if it breeds true on a commercial scale. Could be a profitable delicacy for the gourmet trade.”
“Yes.” Until she finished eating she said no more. Then; “Tell me what was said at your breakfast.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I said, you’ll hear it. Once is plenty.” He refilled her cup and his own.
“Is something wrong?”
“No. Repetition bores the ears off me — that’s all.”
She shrugged. “Of course — it is only that I was curious, but I will wait. Well, then — Tregare, there are questions I must ask.”
His brows raised. “Tregare, is it, this morning?”
“For these questions, yes.”
“Then fire away.”
“Tregare — I want to accept you. But some things I cannot accept.”
“Like what? Peace take you, stop orbiting a dead rock and say what you mean!”
“On Inconnu there was the girl Chira. Where is she now? She — ”
“Jealous, are you? Climb off it, Tari — Rissa, I mean. I’ve had others before, and so have you — and we will again, both of us, or I miss my sighting by a lot. What kind of smoke cloud you throwing, anyway?”
“None — as you would know by now, if you would stop interrupting. I am not jealous of Chira past, present or future — I am concerned for her, and for others.”
“Others? Who? And how are you concerned?”
“For the women on Inconnu, who were called property — and for Chira, that she might become one of them. Tregare — I do not condone slavery, of any kind. Under the guise of Total Welfare I have been a slave. I — ”
He laughed, and she saw his relief was real. “Oh — for the love of peace! All right — I admit I used that property thing to throw a fright into Chira when she needed one. She’s a barbarian — literally — I picked her up on a backslid colony planet and her tribe was the outcasts of the whole sorry lot.”
“Then why did you want her?”
“I bought her, if you have to know — for a packet of drug-sticks and a rusty knife — because she was next up for sacrifice to their tribal god, who seemed to be a pretty nasty bastard as such things go. So I washed her up and moved her in with me, since she didn’t fit anywhere else on the ship — and one thing and another led to where you might expect. But she’s a gutsy wench — threw tantrums for any reason or none — destructive as hell. I needed something to keep her in line.”
“Then the — property thing — it was all fiction?”
“No — not all.” He frowned and gestured to her. “Wait a minute — to make sense to you, I’ll have to go back a little.”
She sipped cool coffee. “Go back as far as you like.”
“All right. I was groundside — it doesn’t matter where — when a UET ship landed, and I got to drinking with its captain. Hoped to find a way to take the ship, but I didn’t have enough men an
d weapons to do it. And his ship was unarmed, so he couldn’t do anything about me, so we had a truce. Well, the man talked, and I got another idea.”
“As yet there are no women in this story.”
“Sure there are — nearly fifty of them, on that ship as cargo. And they were property — UET’s. Female Welfare clients, consigned to a UET mining world that’s twelve men to every woman — to be sold there and kept in cribs to service the miners. Like you said — slaves.”
“And your idea, Tregare?”
“You’re calling me that to needle me, right? Well, never mind, for now. All right — I bought those women, traded for them, while that skipper was drunk. Now, before you holler — some of the Hidden Worlds are short of women, too, and they’ll pay — but for free women, no slavery.” He paused. “Well, there was for a while, on one planet. But the Buona-tierra landed there and killed a few people that needed it, and the rest changed their ways.”
“This is more than I need to know about places that do not concern us. What of the women on Inconnu?”
“Yeah — well, they were just cargo, in a way. Rode cramped — but clean, and fed decently — best I could do. And nobody touched them — except my medics, in line of duty. You have to know, they came aboard filthy and stinking — raw sores that’d make you puke. Lots better shape they were in, when they got off.”
“Oh? They have disembarked? Where, may I ask?”
“Here! Where else could they?”
“And what has happened to them?”
“We all got lucky. You know the other ship at the port when I took off? Quinlan’s Red Dog — next port of call, Farmer’s Dell — a colony that needs women, can pay, and treats them right. It’s a long haul but Quinlan’s freeze-chambers work. I made expenses and a little better on the deal, and I don’t expect Quinlan will lose on it, either.”
“So instead of a slaver, Tregare, you are a great benefactor?” He glared at her. “I told you the truth; what more do you want?” “Where is the girl Chira?” “On her way, with the rest.”
“With or without her consent?”
“I told her how it was; she decided for herself. That’s truth. Fucked me a good one, too — insisted on it, in fact — before she got off. That suit you, or do you still think I lie to you?”
Rissa smiled. She shook her head. “Bran Tregare, you are too proud to lie — except, of course, in the line of business. No — “ She reached her hands toward him. “ — you are what my father used to say — a brass-plated sonofabitch who takes no crap from anyone. There is much to be said for that kind of person. So I accept you . . .
“No — not yet, you ravisher of cripples!” But she was laughing and his hands were gentle on her, and her lips did not pain greatly as she kissed him. Then he rose and sat again, grave-faced and watching her.
“Rissa — can you fit into the stretched-out life I must lead?”
“How could I know? But for now, while we are here, I think I can. Shall we try?”
He smiled, and she said, “Before facing your family, I need another soak, another hot tub. Help me?” He did, and when she lay with only eyes, nose and mouth above the steaming water, she said, “Bran Tregare — now I shall trust you.”
“If you do,” he said, “then except for my people on Inconnu, you’ll be the first.”
Later, dried and dressed, she looked in the mirror and shook her head — makeup would not hide the great plum-colored bruise of her eye and cheek. She brushed her still-damp hair back to hang straight, and joined Tregare in the bedroom. “I am ready.”
Starting down the stairs, soreness caught at her muscles, but the brief exercise soon eased them. They found Liesel in her office, frowning over a sheet of figures. She said, “Up and around, are you? That eye takes first prize, but you move well enough. How do you feel?”
“Stiff — sore — but nothing serious. Already my teeth are more solid and pain me less.” Liesel looked puzzled; Rissa pointed. “These in front — dal Nardo’s backhand nearly removed them. But they will be all right.”
“Good. Here — sit, you two. I’m trying to figure dal Nardo’s net personal worth — his estate’s, I mean — and the readout on his public records is peace’s own mess.”
Rissa frowned. “Dal Nardo’s estate? Why?”
“To figure your share. Didn’t you know about that? Having dueled him to death, all legal and proper, you get a third of it.”
“No one told me before. Will it be any great amount, do you think?”
Tregare laughed. “He’ll have most of it squirreled away in trusts and under dummies. The trick is to nose it out.”
“Which will cost you ten percent commission, Rissa. All right?”
“Of course, Liesel. I do not yet know enough about your especial legalities here, to do it myself. Perhaps I can sit with you and learn?”
“Sure. Or, better yet, why not wait until I’m done, and we can go over it together in summary?”
“Certainly,” Rissa paused. “Liesel, you are being very businesslike — and in my interests, to my benefit — but I am afraid I do not feel at all that way, myself. I — “ Tears began to come; she blinked them away.
Liesel rose and grasped her arm. “Girl — something’s wrong?” Rissa shook her head. “Good — there shouldn’t be. After all — you won your fight, saved your life and status with honor. And your share of dal Nardo’s holdings — not to mention the bet with Bleeker — you won’t be one of the smaller frogs in the oligarchal puddle. You — “ She looked closely at Rissa. “So why are your eyes leaking like a pair of cracked cups?”
“Because — none of that — it is not what is important to me now!” She gripped Tregare’s hand and put her other arm around Liesel’s neck, pulling the two close to her.
“Then in the name of peace,” said Liesel, “what is important?”
Face muffled against Liesel’s shoulder, she said, “When I was five years old, they killed my parents and put me into Welfare. I had forgotten what it was like to have a family, to be a part of it. Ever since I was a little girl — and now I see, that in some ways I still am one — I have been alone. But now — ”
As Tregare’s free hand stroked her hair and cheek, she heard Liesel say, “Well, of course you’ve got a family now! You’re a Hulzein by marriage, aren’t you? Nothing less — and you fought your way in, earned it!” As much as hearing Liesel’s laugh, against her face and body Rissa felt it.
“Little girl? No such thing.” In Liesel’s voice, for a moment Rissa heard Erika’s. “You’ve a way to go — we all have — but you’re growing up, young Rissa!”
Biography
F. M. Busby and his wife Elinor live in Seattle with their two cats: Jeoffrey the young black and white panther, and veteran calico Molly Dodd. Daughter Michele, her husband, and two of three topnotch grandchildren reside at feasible driving distance in a scenic area of central Oregon. Books, now. Buz’s eighteen published novels include eight in the universe of Rissa Kerguelen, three in that of Cage a Man, and another three in the Slow Freight grouping. Solo books are All These Earths, The Breeds of Man, The Singularity Project, and Islands of Tomorrow. Of more than forty shorter works, three have appeared in Best of Year anthologies; twenty are gathered into his collection Getting Home. Growing up in the "Palouse country" of eastern Washington, Buz attended and graduated from WSU, studying physics and electrical engineering which still help him keep his numbers straight. What with two vacations financed by the Army, the graduating part took nine years, after which he moved to Seattle to engineer communications for the Alaska Comm System, get married, and settle down. When the ACS was sold in 1970, he opted for early retirement and began writing SF. In the Army and later he spent considerable time in Alaska, including a year in the Aleutians, and swears his tales of Amchitka weather are simple truth. His interests include aerospace, unusual gadgetry of most any kind, dogs, cats and people, not necessarily in that order.
All rights reserved, including without limitat
ion the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1976 by F. M. Busby
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-1814-5
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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