by Kathryn Hoff
Bloodstone
Sparrowhawk Book 1
Kathryn Hoff
Copyright © 2019 by Kathryn Hoff.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Cover Design by JD&D Design. © 2019 by Kathryn Hoff.
Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com
Bloodstone/ Kathryn Hoff. —1st ed.
For Ari
CHAPTER 1
The lure of
brandy and a beautiful woman
The Selkid colonists on Santerro made a brandy that, according to the traders’ database, was famed throughout the outer sectors as an exhilarating, carefree immersion in silken texture and enticing flavor.
Or as my half-brother Kojo said: “Quick high, tastes good, headache manageable.”
We ordered enough to fill the cargo holds of our little space hauler Sparrowhawk.
Judging by the level of inebriation on Santerro’s streets, the brandy lived up to its reputation. Selkids the size and shape of walruses lolled happily next to tipsy Terrans, flippers and hands alike in their grip on their precious bottles.
“You know, Patch,” Kojo said as we dodged boisterous tipplers, “maybe we should stay here another night. We could see the sights, enjoy the famous Santerro hospitality.” He pushed his black curls from his face, flashing his cocky grin.
I’d learned to distrust that smile a long time ago.
“You mean enjoy the hospitality of the casinos.” I shoved him toward the spaceport. “Forget it. We leave tonight, as planned. Go oversee loading while I buy the rest of the provisions.”
With a regretful look toward the glittering lights promising food, drink, and other delights, Kojo strolled toward the docks. I shook my head as he left, wishing the ancestors had endowed my half-brother with more caution. He was twenty-eight—eight years older than me—but sometimes I felt like Kojo’s scolding auntie instead of his younger sister.
Recharged power modules, jump cells, food staples, air and water filters, engine lubricant—I’d almost fulfilled my list when my datacon buzzed with a message from Kojo: Delays in loading—new inspection procedures. Found some passengers.
Damn. New inspections, just what we didn’t need. And passengers? Zub blast him, we’d said no passengers this trip.
By the time I got to the spaceport, the gates to the docks were mobbed. Queues snaked out into the street with luggage-toting Selkids vying for position with Terran traders and their crates of merchandise and freighter crews staggering back from shore leave with bellies full of brandy and pockets crammed with extra bottles. And among the screeches, howls, and grumbles, one topic prevailed: complaints about the new inspectors.
Even with my height, I had to climb onto a crate to peer over the crowd. I spotted Kojo in queue, halfway to one of the five inspection stations. He was chatting up a pretty woman. Of course. With his handsome brown face and winning smile, Kojo never failed to find someone to flirt with.
Looking beyond Kojo, my stomach sank. No wonder there were delays. The inspection stations weren’t staffed with easy-going, bribable Selkids, but by Gavoran Corridor Patrol officers. The Patrol employed only Gavs: Terrans’ Neanderthal cousins, sober and dedicated to enforcing the Settlement Authority’s tech restrictions. They were stopping everyone going to the docks, scanning identity implants and scrutinizing baggage, searching for items on the Settlement Authority’s lengthy list of regulated technology.
And somewhere among the docks beyond the inspectors, past the grand passenger ships and freighters, lost among the independent haulers and ragged shuttles, berthed in one of the cheap slips with low-capacity lifters, was Sparrowhawk.
“Burzing Neanderthals,” said the bleary Terran to my left. “They don’t give a damn about holding everyone up. I don’t mind Selkids—flippers out all the time for a little sweetener, sure, but at least they keep the traffic moving. But Gavs—they won’t even take a decent bribe.”
I shot him a glare. Apparently, he was too drunk to notice my own half-Gav features.
At least I had the advantage of Gavoran size. I’d just begun to push my way toward Kojo when shouts came from behind.
“Runaway slave! Halt!”
I froze, craning my neck to see what was going on.
A young Gav girl, furred forearm bearing a slave brand, dodged between torsos in a desperate dash toward the docks.
“Stop her!” Two burly Gavs in the black vests of Clan Enforcers pounded after her. Massive shoulders and long arms, forward-thrusting heads covered with sleek pelts instead of hair, they shoved the waiting crowds aside with the bluster born of centuries of Gavs’ technological domination.
A bystander snatched at the girl, but she darted behind a trio of mountainous Selkids. Terrans sympathetic to the plight of Gav slaves clucked their tongues at the enforcers or cheered the runaway, but none risked breaking the Selkid laws of non-interference between races.
My heart ached for her. With the Corridor Patrol at the gate, she’d need a miracle to make it onto a ship willing to take her to a Terran world where she could claim asylum. And if she were caught, her future would be grim.
Maybe I could improve her chances.
I turned my back on the pursuit and stepped to the right, leaving a clear path on my left for the girl to dash through. As soon as she passed, I stepped left and quick-turned.
The foremost enforcer barreled into me. Swinging my bag of ration packs and Prestoseal into his knees, I shrieked in Terran, “Watch where you’re going!”
We fell in a tangle. As the second enforcer stumbled over us, I caught his ankle. He was on his feet in a moment, but by then the girl was out of sight, lost in the crowd.
The enforcer grabbed my arm, pulling me to my feet. “Filthy Terran! Interfering with Gavoran clan matters is a violation.”
“What are you talking about?” I snatched my arm away. “Burzing gorillas. You ran into me! Go harass one of your own kind.”
The enforcer paused, staring at my mismatched features. Terran father and Gavoran mother—my face fit nowhere. To Terrans, my heavy brow ridge—not quite hidden by my yellow beret—and receding chin suggested brutish stupidity. To Gavorans, I was embarrassingly ugly: prominent Terran nose, ears too big, and bushy orange hair instead of a neat Gav pelt.
For a moment, my heart beat fast. Would he arrest me out of sheer anger? Out of suspicion? Did I face hours in a detention cell while a Selkid official considered the size of the bribe he’d need to confirm my identity as a free Terran?
With a snarl, the enforcer pushed past me to comb through the crowds at the next queue.
I breathed again. Ancestors, grant her courage.
It was only then, after the excitement was over, that I noticed blood dripping onto my left wrist. Damn! The collision had torn the graft that hid my old slave brand.
I snatched the scarf from my neck and stuffed it into my sleeve to hide the blood. Somehow, I’d have to get past the Gav inspectors without them noticing.
At the inspection station at the head of Kojo’s queue, the Selkid keeping order shrieked like a clash of tin pots. His translator plug barked out, “Next in line!”
The line shuffled forward.
“Excuse me, sorry, pardon me.” I threaded my way through the scores of people, crates, boxes, and cases, earning more than a few Terran and Selkid curses. Reaching Kojo, I inserted myself into line, sparking more grumbles from the people behind.
After a single glance, Kojo’s newest
friend turned away to fuss with her many pieces of luggage. I could almost read her thought: whatever I was to Kojo, I was not competition.
“Patch. About time you showed up,” Kojo said. “Most of the cargo’s loaded, there’s just the special-handling bits to go through inspection.”
“What passengers? We agreed we’d just haul cargo this trip.”
“I had a bit of luck,” he said. “Wrangled a charter, a couple of Terrans in a hurry to leave tonight. They won’t be any trouble. I already settled the terms.”
There was that smile again, the one that beguiled the ladies and the gamblers in all the ports in the outer sectors.
“You settled terms without me?” Blast him. Papa’s will had named Kojo Sparrowhawk’s captain but Papa had made me the business partner. Kojo might have inherited Papa’s good looks, swagger, and charm, but not Papa’s business savvy.
“Next in line!” The people in the queue jostled and shifted. The pretty woman shoved her six suitcases ahead one pace.
I pulled out my datacon and opened the contract file—there was no telling what Kojo might have agreed to. Destination: Palermo. Charter party: Miranda Tai, Terran. Fare: 3200 standard credits.
I raised my brow at Kojo. Thirty-two hundred was a good price—maybe too good?
The duration clause made me pause. “Seven standard days? It’s only four days to Palermo…Oh.” Destination subject to amendment by charter party.
The damn fool. Thirty-two hundred credits were not enough to take Sparrow into a war zone or some pirate’s lair—not to mention the other complications a snooping passenger might pose.
“Absolutely not,” I hissed. “No side trips. We’re up to our retros in debt—we need to get home and sell the cargo.”
Kojo put on his most innocent, let’s-be-reasonable face. “She’s not going anywhere dangerous, just a Terran ag planet. Someplace called Oakdale, sector 204.”
“Ridiculous. Who’d charter a whole ship for an ag planet on the back side of nowhere?”
“Next in line!” The queue scuffed forward.
Kojo leaned closer. “Mzee Tai overheard Hiram yarning in the saloon about knowing the currents and backways. She’s willing to pay for privacy: leave tonight, no other passengers, and no checkpoints.”
A smuggler. Ancestors, give me strength. “Kojo, that’s the last thing we need!”
“Hush, Patch. It’s not what you’re thinking. She’s not asking for cargo space, just a couple of cabins. She only wants to get away without leaving a trail. Nothing that will interfere with our other business. And look.”
He opened his hand to give me a glimpse of a finger-sized rhollium ingot, the Selkid emperor’s glyph imprinted on the top. “She paid an extra five thousand sovereigns. We need the money, don’t we?”
Every dracham, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it out loud.
“Next in line!” Waiting travelers shuffled and grumbled.
It was tempting. Thirty-two hundred standard credits, plus five thousand sovereigns. The risk seemed small, but who knew why the lady needed to travel on the sly?
Kojo nudged me, nodding at the blood spots on my left sleeve. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I stuffed the scarf more tightly against the oozing wound. “This passenger. Is she pretty?”
Kojo ran his fingers through his curls. “Not bad. Why?”
“Because you only brought us to Santerro because the brandy trader was Terran, female, and pretty.”
“So? We got a good deal on the brandy, didn’t we? I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you, Patch. I’ve got a feel for people—”
“You mean women.”
“—and trust me, Miranda’s all right. The best thing we can do for the next few weeks is take on business as usual. This is a good job. Simple.”
Simple? I hadn’t missed the fact that Kojo was already calling Mzee Tai by her first name.
“Next in line!” We were getting closer now, only three parties between us and the inspectors.
I shook my head. “You’ll have to give back her money, I’m not going to sign the contract. We should stick to the plan. Go home, sell the brandy, get ready for the next job.”
Kojo took a breath. “We can’t. I told you, I already agreed the terms.”
“But the contract isn’t final without my imprint.”
He smiled his lopsided grin and pointed at my datacon.
I scrolled to the end of the charter, only to find—unbelievably—my own imprint as business manager. “You stole my access codes?”
“She was in a hurry.”
“Next in line!”
Damn! If we hadn’t been standing right in front of a brace of Selkid port officials and a Corridor Patrol squad, I would have knocked him on his backside—then broken all his fingers and knocked him on his backside again.
“You burzing idiot! Zub’s pitchfork, this is too much.”
But Kojo wasn’t listening. His gaze paused on someone in line behind us. He caught my eye and rubbed the side of his nose, our private signal for be ready.
Stifling my anger, I glanced around.
A few places behind us in the queue, an aging Terran was nearly swallowed up among a group of Selkid merchants. The man peered around with the vacant smile of a nervous traveler, asking the people near him, Am I in the right line? Why’s it taking so long?
I faced front again. Ahead on the docks, just beyond the inspection point, our engineer Archer bobbed and bounced, checking crates of supplies against a manifest. He was easy to pick out. As tall as me and reed-thin, his brown hair was even bushier than mine—birds could nest in it.
“Next in line!”
Reckoning with Kojo would have to wait.
The pretty Terran ahead of us struggled to heft her luggage to the inspection counter. Kojo obligingly stepped up to lend her a hand, earning a bright smile.
Behind us, there was a kerfuffle. Selkid squawks mixed with Terran cries. “Help! We need some help here!”
The old man had fallen.
A Selkid official waddled over, shoving people aside as his translator plug shrieked questions. The dazed old man struggled to get up.
Sharp words and Selkid howls were exchanged as the people in the queue jostled to protect—or improve—their place in line. The old man looked in danger of being trampled.
Abandoning Kojo, I pushed my way to the fallen man’s side. “Mzee, are you hurt?”
The old man blinked rheumy eyes at me. “Thank you, missy. I’m all right, I think. Just a little shook, is all. Standing so long made my bum leg give out.” His skin was the color of cheap whiskey and as worn and weathered as leather. He waved a half-empty bottle of brandy.
The Selkids helped him up, brushing him off and honking at his tipsiness. I offered my blood-blotted left arm for support, and he folded it under his, his fingers clutching mine.
“Much obliged, missy.” The top of his head barely reached my shoulder. He leaned heavily on me as he limped forward, wheezing thanks as the official waved us to the head of the queue.
Kojo was already beyond the inspection station, chatting with the pretty woman and carrying a heavy gray duffel down the dock.
More important, Archer was far down the dock, pushing a handcart of crates that wouldn’t appear on our manifest.
The Corridor Patrol inspector turned to us. “Identification?”
The old man and I turned our right shoulders so the Gav could pass his scanner over the implants. I kept my left arm linked with the old man. As long as the Gav officer didn’t see the grafted-over slave brand on my injured left arm, I’d be all right—my shoulder implant listing me as Terran wasn’t some black market override, but a genuine replacement, granted when Papa had smuggled me into Terran sectors and claimed asylum for me.
The Gavoran stumbled over our names. “Hiram Willows, Terran. Pachita Babatunji, Terran. Any luggage?”
The Patrol officer rooted through my bag, pawing through my purchase
s. After checking the tariff stamp on the old man’s bottle, he passed us through.
I walked onto the docks arm in arm with Hiram, who’d been Sparrowhawk’s pilot since before I was born.
Hiram patted my hand and whispered, “All clear, missy. The lad’s got the goods.”
CHAPTER 2
Cargo and contraband
Hiram and I paused at the top of Sparrowhawk’s gangway to enjoy the view. The cargo hold was nearly filled with crates of brandy, neatly stacked and lashed to the battens, inspection seals and tariff stamps all properly on display.
Hiram sighed. “Ah! Now that’s a lovely sight.”
I quickly counted crates. One hundred fifty-four. “Archer? What about the other crates?”
Archer popped out from behind a rack with a sheepish smile and even more twitches and jitters than usual. “Hey, Patch. Kojo put some in the small holds above, to balance the load.” We’d hired Archer two months before, when Papa’s worsening health forced Kojo to move from engineer to captain. At twenty-two, Archer was a couple of years older than me and just as tall, but he had the eager-to-please smile of a puppy begging for a good boy and a pat on the head.
Ancestors, give me patience. “Archer, I meant the other crates.”
“Oh, those! They’re in the vault.” He grinned. “The razzle-dazzle worked.”
I skirted the walls of brandy and peered into the vault. Crammed within were eight crates of premium Santerro brandy that had slipped past the tariff assessor—worth more on their own than the twelve score crates of middling stuff that had been duly declared and stamped.
I pasted a kiss on Archer’s cheek, making his pale skin blush pink. “That’s for hustling the extra cases in.”
I kissed Hiram’s bald spot, too. “And that’s for the fancy acting.”
“Aw, missy. It’s nothing like the old days. Your pa and I had some rare old times when we was no older than you are now.” Hiram was a second father to us, Papa’s longtime bunkmate as well as crewmate. He never intruded, but was always ready to offer a word of comfort or advice, and an inexhaustible supply of yarns.