by Cary Caffrey
"Steal?" Sigrid asked. She found it hard to believe the captain would advocate such a plan.
The captain favored her with a knowing look. "Anything they have to sell is already stolen. Besides, when one considers the sums they will demand of us… Now that is thievery."
Sigrid wondered at the older man. She rather liked Captain Trybuszkiewicz, even if pronouncing his name left her tongue twisted and numb. He hadn't always been a freighter captain. In fact, he'd been a commodore in the Kimuran Naval Forces, commanded an entire cruiser division of his own. But all that had changed when the Council had orchestrated the coup against Lady Hitomi. They had intervened in her affairs, taken her company, her world. Captain Trybuszkiewicz had been one of the first to defect and join with her. It had taken little effort to convince his own crews to follow. These same men and women now crewed the four aging transport ships in service to New Alcyone. Their devotion and dedication to Lady Hitomi amazed Sigrid. Only their professionalism and attention to duty impressed her more.
"You don't like them," Sigrid said. "These Merchantmen."
"At my age there are few people I like. Fewer that I trust. I trust only that these people are not worth the spit I use to polish my boots. You must be mindful of them and always keep your hands on your purse."
"I don't have a purse." It was true. Sigrid had never carried a purse or a handbag.
The captain smiled.
"We're approaching the transfer station," the helmsman reported.
Captain Trybuszkiewicz nodded. "Slow to 42,000 kph. Signal the dockmaster. And don't let me hear any nonsense about traffic delays. I want priority docking."
"Aye, sir."
Sigrid moved toward the forward view port, eager to catch her first view of Konoe Station. The transfer station was much smaller than Vincenze, much simpler in its design. It didn't appear much larger than the orbital lift platforms in Panama. Few ships were in orbit. The small outpost appeared a cold and friendless place, a dull metallic disc drifting alone in the barren wastes of deep space.
"What on Earth are those?" Sigrid asked. She spied several vehicles moving quickly amongst the sparse traffic. Too small and too fast to be pilot ships or tugs, they danced in and around the waiting ships, the flares from their thrusters making them look like fireflies in the dark.
"Are they service vehicles?"
The captain laughed, his broad shoulders shaking, causing him to wheeze and then cough. "You'll find no service vehicles at Konoe Station, Ms. Novak. These things—they are the toys of children, boys."
"Joy riders," Andrzej Topa explained; he was the ship’s chief engineer. "Troublemakers and layabouts. They take old maneuvering thrusters—engines, anything—strap seats on them, blast themselves to oblivion… Menace to navigation, if you ask me."
Sigrid looked closer, her eyes wide in disbelief. "You have got to be kidding me."
But he wasn't. Sigrid zoomed in with her optical module and scanned the speeding vehicles more closely. The chief was correct. She couldn't believe it; she'd never seen anything like it. These joy riders were insane. The vehicles appeared as nothing more than acceleration couches strapped to rocket motors. The pilots wore only pressure suits with no other protection against the elements. They seemed to be racing, performing laps around the station, using ships as turning markers. It looked insanely dangerous.
Sigrid was desperate to give it a try. "They look marvelous."
"Death traps," the captain said.
"I don't know," Sigrid said wistfully, twirling a lock of hair about her fingers. "I think they look like fun. They remind me of those old rockets men would ride on back in the olden days. Those weren't much more involved than these."
Sigrid remembered reading about such things: huge, hulking rockets packed with unstable propellant; engines welded together with bits of tubing and piping; the pilots riding on top with little more than a tin-plated fairing between them and the cold realities of space.
"Exactly," the captain reiterated. "Death traps."
The chief nudged Sigrid, directing her attention to another ship moving into a berth off their port beam. She was a freighter, but far grander than the likes of the Ōmi Maru or her sister ships. She looked close to one hundred and fifty meters long, roughly the same size and tonnage as their ship. But she had a stately flair to her, her thrusters painted in bright green and gold, her long hull featuring distinctive red piping. She sported several cannon mounts along her starboard side; Sigrid knew they would be of little use in a real firefight—probably more for show as a deterrent, never intended to be used in actual fighting. Sigrid scanned her markings; she registered as the Merchantman.
"Our contact," the chief engineer said. "Right on time."
"Dockmaster says we're cleared for approach."
The captain leaned back, pulling his cap down over his eyes. "Good. Wake me when we arrive."
*
"Are you sure about this?" Sigrid said.
She was standing in the airlock with the captain, the chief and the ship's three crew—the entire crew complement of the Ōmi Maru. The Kimuran officers had changed from their usual uniforms and now wore the rough workmen's clothes familiar to tramp freighter crews. Sigrid had done likewise. She sported a heavy wool skirt and a sweater with a high collar rolled over and down. It was hot and itched, and the knitting was already unfurling in several spots.
"You look perfect, Ms. Novak," the captain said. "I fear our normal accoutrements might attract the wrong kind of attention, but you look like a true mariner."
"Don't worry," the chief said. "No one will look at you twice here."
The captain scratched his beard; Sigrid caught his eyes on her as he scrutinized her attire. They had taken great effort to dress her as them. Her long blond hair was braided and tucked beneath a too-large knitted cap. The bulky sweater did a reasonable job at disguising her small but powerful figure, making her appear shorter than her five foot one-point-five inches, if that were possible. But there was no getting around the fact that Sigrid would always stand out in a crowd. The exact nature of the alterations to her physiology was a closely guarded secret; her array of bionic enhancements even more of a mystery. Whether Sigrid would ever realize it or not, she was special and she would never pass as normal.
The chief lifted his cap and scratched his forehead. "Well, the other freighter crews might want to buy you a round, but I don't think you'll raise any suspicions. Maybe try not to stand so straight. Slouch your shoulders a bit. There that's it. Maybe if we take your hair…"
"Enough!" Captain Trybuszkiewicz shouted. "We go."
Without further discussion, the captain hit the switch opening the airlock.
Unlike Vincenze, there was no security on the docking platform waiting to greet them. In fact, there was no one in sight at all. Trash and debris littered the docking ring. Someone had left a series of incoherent scrawlings painted on the walls and ceiling, and the overhead lighting flickered in an annoying fashion, blinking out its need for repair.
"What happened here?" Sigrid asked.
"Independents," the captain said; it was clear he did not approve. "They wrested control of this station from the CTF years ago. Claimed the space for their own."
"They took over?"
The captain made a sniffing noise. "Before abandoning it. Revolutionaries seldom consider what will happen after their battles are over. They had no plan to govern this place. Don't misunderstand, I have no love of the Council, but at least they know how to change a light fixture. With the Independents… well, you can see the result."
Sigrid took care stepping over a collapsed support beam. "Who governs the station, then? Who's in charge?"
"In charge? If you mean the law…? Well, we must be cautious."
The docking ring led out into a holding area. This seemed to be a warehouse of some sort, the entire length filled with what appeared to be abandoned intermodal shipping containers, some stacked, some overturned, rusting and covered with even more of
the graffiti. Several of the containers had been cut open, turned into makeshift residences and storefronts. Sigrid spied several vendors emerging from the shelters as they approached, eager to showcase their wares to the newcomers.
Captain Trybuszkiewicz waved them all away, his officers manhandling some of the more persistent peddlers.
"They don't get many customers on this level. Come. The place we want is just up ahead."
The lift was out, leaving their group to climb three stories up a winding staircase to the station's main level. Sigrid reasoned the station's environmental systems must have been malfunctioning here. The narrow stairwell was damp, puddled, and rank with mold. And worse. Sigrid was glad to have the ability to ramp down her olfactory sensors. She didn't envy the crew of the Ōmi Maru having to endure the stench.
When they emerged on the main concourse, it was to the relief of all. Much brighter and busier than the lower levels, the main concourse practically bustled with activity—if she could call the slow shuffling of Konoe's residents 'bustling.'
Passersby kept their faces lowered, heads down, too interested in staring at their own bootlaces to take notice of Sigrid or her companions. She saw the reason for this. Groups of armed youths occupied each of the corners; young men and younger boys brandished assault weapons and rifles, patrolled, and kept watch on the crowds. Sigrid scanned the weapons—mostly antiques and not well cared for. Criminal. One pedestrian who strayed too close to one of the groups got a boot to the backside and ordered to move along. The boys seemed disappointed when the man obeyed. She could see they were looking for an excuse, any reason to demonstrate their dominance, their power.
"Local militia," the captain explained.
"Gangs," Chief Topa elaborated. "After the CTF pushed the Independents out, they didn't think to leave anyone in charge. Now these thugs control everything—if one can call it control."
A scattering of brightly lit signs added minimal color to the depressing surroundings. Electronic placards and storefronts announced a variety of services: asteroid prospecting, claims services, weaponsmiths, and of course, the flesh traders were everywhere. Their destination was up ahead. Neon flashed like a beacon in the gloom. Sigrid heard the low throb of music sounding from deep inside the structure.
"A gentlemen's club?" Sigrid asked skeptically.
Captain Trybuszkiewicz held the door and ushered them inside. "The location is of our contact's choosing—though I'd hardly call these men gentlemen."
Sigrid had seen such places before and thought she was prepared, but this place was nothing like the Paradise on Gliese. It was neither raucous nor festive, and no host rushed to greet them. The girls and boys that worked the room were younger than she: weary, battered, drained of life and hope. It sickened her to think that men thought to profit from their misery. Perhaps she would have words with the management…
The captain must have sensed her anger and put a reassuring hand on her arm. "We're here for a purpose, Ms. Novak."
Sigrid forced herself to unclench her fists. "Of course, sir."
He was right. Their mission was of vital importance. Her friends were relying on her.
Sigrid scanned the room. The man they sought was here, this trader, leader of the Merchantmen. He occupied a table on a raised platform to the rear overlooking the club. He was fat; rolls of pudgy flesh billowed out between the folds of his trousers and his shirt. The vile cologne he wore threatened to overwhelm her sensors from across the room. Worse odors lingered. Two girls sat to either side of him, barely aware of their surroundings. Drugged, Sigrid knew. The morphgesic cocktail in their blood stream registered heavily in her PCM. It was a miracle the girls were conscious. Tired eyes looked up at her as she approached, suspicious, leery, their thin hands clinging to the fat man at their side and the coin he promised.
Sigrid was far more interested in the four men who stood close by. They wore their sidearms in full view, their fingers never far from the triggers.
"Corbin Price," the captain said, approaching the table.
The fat man gestured to the open seats and signaled for his men to stand down. "Captain Trybuszkiewicz, I presume. You're more punctual than most."
The captain spread his hands wide in greeting. "We are eager to conduct our business. Our client expects us to return without delay."
"Not in so much a hurry to share a drink, I trust."
Corbin Price snapped two pudgy fingers, signaling over a server. The rail-thin girl, no older than fifteen, leaned over, her flimsy garment giving the trader a generous view of her wan flesh, much to his delight. Sigrid felt her fists clenching, her nails digging into the palms of her hands.
Corbin Price retrieved one of the little glasses. "A little lubricant to smooth negotiations?"
"Negotiations?" Sigrid blurted. "We have already agreed to your fees, Mr. Price. Do you wish to sell to us or not?"
Corbin Price chuckled, raising his glass to her. "Of course. I did not mean to imply any retractions on my part. I simply thought I may have other things you might find of interest. We have both journeyed far to get here. Might as well make the most of our meeting."
Captain Trybuszkiewicz took one of the offered glasses from the tray, downing the amber liquid in one gulp. With all eyes on her, Sigrid realized she was to take one too, perhaps part of some social ritual. The contents registered as tequila; the black worm seemed an odd thing, but her database confirmed that this was done. After a cautious sniff, she downed the shot, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. Her eyes never wavered from the fat trader across the table.
"You'll have to forgive my grandniece, Mr. Price," the captain said with a firm look to Sigrid. "She is new to the life of a tramp trader. This is her first journey with us. I thought this meeting might prove educational."
"Of course. Then, Ms.…"
"Peters," Sigrid said.
"Ah, Ms. Peters," Corbin Price said graciously. "Your uncle must have informed you, trade is a fluid matter. Many new opportunities have arisen since our last communication. New items have come into my possession. One never knows what one might find unless one asks."
"I have been given certain leeway to negotiate any item of interest," Captain Trybuszkiewicz said. "Perhaps if you show me…"
Corbin Price reached down, retrieved a data-pad from the folds of his coat, and tossed it across the table. Sigrid saw the screen and nearly gasped. The manifest advertised two industrial manufacturing platforms. These absolutely massive orbital facilities were self-contained factories on a grand scale. Capable of processing raw ore and minerals, they could be programmed to manufacture any number of things: building materials, engine parts, even ship components—parts enough to build an entire fleet. One of the platforms alone was worth twelve times the price of all the goods they were scheduled to pick up. Two would be worth more than Sigrid's life contract had been to Kimura Corp.
Machines like this were the heart of any terraforming effort. Acquiring even one of the platforms could mean all the difference for their struggling colony. Yet the captain seemed unimpressed by the offering.
Sigrid felt the elbow in her side and closed her mouth.
"I'm not sure what you think we can do with these…"
Corbin Price spread his fat hands wide. "Why, any number of things, I should imagine."
Any number of things, indeed, Sigrid thought.
"Even if my client was interested," the captain said. "I would have to contact them. This is well beyond my realm to negotiate."
Sigrid knew this was true. As vast as Lady Hitomi's wealth had been, it had taken nearly all her holdings, all her favors and negotiating skills to get them this far. There was little left in her mistress's accounts for such extravagances.
Corbin Price bowed his head, conceding the expense. "Perhaps there are other things you can offer. We Merchantmen trade in all goods and services."
The captain helped himself to another of the offered tequilas. "Goods? Our holds are empty, Mr. Price, awaiting delivery
from you. As for services, I'm not sure what you mean."
"There is no need to be coy, Captain. It serves neither of us. Not when I have something you so desperately need, and you have something that would be of tremendous value to me. I see no reason why we cannot come to an arrangement."
The trader's demeanor changed in an instant. He sat up, the easy, jovial expression gone as his eyes fixed firmly on Sigrid.
"I did not get to this position by being ignorant, Captain. And I wouldn't be much of a trader if I did not anticipate my clients' needs. You are not simple merchant sailors. You are Kimura. Now—don't be alarmed—I am not here to make threats. I'm simply pointing out what needs to be said. You are Kimura—ex-Kimura. I know your client well, and I know your needs. And I know you could very much use these. Let’s not pretend otherwise. Instead, let us figure out how we both might prosper from this situation."
He was right, and Sigrid knew it. Their attempt at ruse had been foolish. The trader knew exactly who they were and what she was. Strangely, she felt relieved. And she desperately wanted those platforms.
"And what do we have to trade?" Sigrid asked.
"Your services, for one, Ms. Peters. Yes, I know what you are. It's quite all right. I am very familiar with Lady Hitomi's work in genetics. Although, I must admit I did assume you would be…well, taller." The trader shifted his bulk, sitting forward. "Now, you must tell me. Is it true? Everything they say about you and your kind—the things you can do?"
Sigrid crossed her arms over her chest. "I couldn't possibly answer since I have no idea what they might have said."
"They say you destroyed the Lift Complex at Panama."
"Independents did that, Mr. Price. Not me."
"What about what occurred on Scorpii? I hear you took out an entire company of CTF Marines."
"It was a battalion. But no, they were too busy fighting the Independents to worry about me."
Corbin Price laughed heartily, giving his knee a good slap. "Well said, Ms. Peters. But you were there, all the same. And you did blow up the Relay. They say you can't be killed."