Starship

by Michael D. Resnick

  Briggs saluted, and then his image vanished.

  “Why didn't we get a visual from the spaceport, I wonder?” said Pampas.

  “That's easy enough. If we can see them, they can see us—and a lot of Copperfield's visitors doubtless prefer not to be seen or identified. Our crimes, such as they are, were against the Republic, which might actually make us very popular with certain elements on the Inner Frontier; but their crimes were committed right here, and people might be more inclined to betray them to bounty hunters or whoever else is enforcing the law out here.”

  They touched down in another five minutes, and soon were approaching a trio of Customs and Immigration kiosks. There were short lines at each, mostly composed of Men, but they were being processed very quickly.

  “You'd better give that case to me now,” Cole told Pampas.

  “It's pretty heavy, sir.”

  “That's okay. If they ask any questions, I want to answer them myself. I'll give it back to you once we've cleared Customs.”

  Pampas handed over the case, and Cole walked up to the Customs robot, which was actually a part of the kiosk.

  “Name?” asked the robot.

  Cole shoved his passport disk across the counter. “It's all there,” he said. “My companions and I have applied for eight-hour visas. Please add them to our passports and let us through.”

  The robot's eyes extended on long metal stalks and an intense beam of light shot out of them as it read Cole's passport disk. The color of the light changed very slightly as it added the visa.

  “This visa will disappear from your passport in exactly eight hours. If you are still on Riverwind at that time, you must report back to Customs and Immigration, Mr.—”

  “Thank you,” said Cole, interrupting the robot before it could say his name aloud.

  “What is in the case you are carrying?”

  “Check your regulations and see if someone who is here on an eight-hour visa is required to answer that question.”

  “No, sir, you are not required to answer it unless you will be here one full day or more.”

  “And you know I will not be here one full day, because I only have an eight-hour visa,” said Cole.

  “That is correct, sir,” said the robot. “You are free to enter the public areas of the spaceport.”

  He passed through Customs, idly wondering how the hell Copperfield ever got the regulations changed. He waited until his crew also cleared, returned the case to Pampas, and began walking toward the door.

  “That was your real passport, wasn't it, sir?” asked Pampas.

  “Yes.”

  “Shouldn't you have used a phony?”

  Cole shook his head. “Sharon couldn't fix one that could pass muster in the short period of time we had after dispatching the Achilles. Besides, this is the Inner Frontier, not the Republic. I'm not wanted here, so there's no reason for the robot to report my presence to any authority. I just didn't want it saying my name aloud in front of any bystanders, who might want to sell it, and our location, to interested parties.”

  They reached the exit. Cole was about to ask where he could hire some transport, but before he could seek out an information kiosk, a large, burly man who dwarfed even Pampas approached them.

  “Mr. Smith?” he said, stopping in front of Cole. “Mr. Copperfield sends his felicitations, and requests that you follow me.”

  “Fine,” said Cole. As they began walking, he turned to the man. “How did you know my name was Smith?”

  “I call all visitors Mr. Smith,” he said.

  “I approve,” said Cole. “And have you a name?”

  “Mr. Jones,” replied the man. He stopped in front of a large, luxurious aircar. “Please get in.”

  The four of them joined Copperfield's representative. A robot, which was also a component of the vehicle, began driving and the aircar skimmed along, perhaps a foot above the ground. It didn't go far, less than a mile, and they were still inside the city limits when it stopped and all the doors irised to let them out.

  It wasn't the warehouse Cole had anticipated, or the grubby underworld hideout. They found themselves in front of an elegant mansion, built to resemble a country home from a bygone England that still possessed a vast, world-encircling empire. Two footmen in livery—but with burners clearly visible in shoulder holsters—stood at either side of the front entrance.

  “Is this the same place?” whispered Cole.

  “Yeah,” said Morales. “But I never even got this far. The Captain had his own aircar, and we weren't allowed to leave it.”

  “Please come in, sir,” said one of the footmen as the other opened the large wooden door.

  Cole and his party entered, and found that the inside of the house fulfilled the exterior's promise. The furnishings were of a piece, all reproductions from the nineteenth century A.D., some three thousand years ago. They were ushered down a long corridor, past drawing rooms and libraries, and while Cole couldn't spot anyone he got the uneasy feeling that his every step was being observed. At last they came to a chamber that was hidden from them by a magnificent set of double doors.

  The footman who had opened the doors and then brought up the rear of their little procession now moved up to the double doors.

  “Only Mr. Smith is allowed beyond this point,” he announced. “The rest of you are welcome to relax in the first lounge we passed. This gentleman”—a new footman bowed—“will show you to it, or you can return to the aircar and wait for Mr. Smith there.” He walked over to Pampas. “I'll take this burden from you, sir. You can trust me to be exceedingly gentle with it.”

  Pampas and Domak looked questioningly at Cole, who nodded his assent. “Do as the gentleman says. I'll rejoin you shortly.”

  Pampas and Morales followed the footman to the lounge, while Morales retraced his steps and went back outside to the vehicle.

  “If you will follow me, sir,” said Mr. Jones, opening one of the doors.

  Cole walked into a large library, filled with more books than he had ever seen in his life, most of them bound in leather, all resting on dark hardwood bookshelves. There was a matching hardwood desk in the middle of the room, and leather chairs in comfortable groupings. Behind the desk sat a creature of vaguely human proportions, from a race Cole had never before encountered. He wore the clothing of a Victorian dandy, but his eyes were set at the sides of his elongated head, his large triangular ears were capable of independent movement, his mouth was absolutely circular and had no lips at all, his neck was long and incredibly flexible, his torso was broad and half again as long as a man's, and his legs, short, stubby, and broad, had an extra joint in them. Cole couldn't tell anything about his feet, because they were inside a pair of highly polished leather shoes.

  “Greetings and felicitations!” he said with no trace of an accent. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am David Copperfield. And to whom do I have the honor of speaking?”

  “Call me Steerforth,” replied Cole.

  The alien called Copperfield threw his head back and laughed. “So you're a reader too! I can tell we're going to become great friends as well as business partners. And between us, perhaps we can get Mr. Jones to change his name to Barkus—that is, if he's willin'.” He laughed again at his own joke, then suddenly became serious. “So what treasures have you brought me, Steerforth?”

  Mr. Jones carried the case over to the desk and opened it. Copperfield reached in—Cole saw that his hands were seven-fingered—and pulled out a handful of uncut diamonds.

  “Very nice,” he said softly. “Very nice indeed.” Suddenly his left eye seemed to double in size and bulge out, as he held a diamond up to it. “Excellent!” he said, putting the diamond back into the case as his eye resumed its original shape. “And how many have you brought me, my friend Steerforth?”

  “Four hundred and sixteen,” said Cole. “I assume you'll want to count them.”

  “You cut me to the quick!” said Copperfield in mock hurt tones. “I thought we we
re friends. Of course I trust you.” He paused. “But they are diamonds. Yes, I'll have them counted, just as a matter of form. Mr. Jones will do it before you leave. A gentleman like myself doesn't sully himself with such mundane tasks.” He leaned over the case. “What else is in the bag?”

  “Jewelry,” said Cole. “Mostly gold, with a lot of inlaid stones. Some rubies, too.”

  “I love gold!” enthused Copperfield, pulling out the tiara. “Ah, but this is exquisite! I'll wager there's not another like it in all the galaxy!”

  “How much will you wager?” asked Cole.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You've seen the quality of my goods,” said Cole. “What kind of offer are you prepared to make?”

  “Why, the best of any resale specialist—I abhor the word ‘fence,' don't you?—the best of any resale specialist on the Inner Frontier.”

  “That's encouraging,” said Cole. “Name a figure and we can conclude our transaction or at least have a basis for negotiating.”

  “How very civilized of you,” said Copperfield. “You, sir, are a man after my own heart. Let me see…four hundred sixteen diamonds…well, why haggle? I'll give you my top offer.”

  “Don't forget the jewelry.”

  “I'll make a separate offer for it. I assume it's all unique, so I'll have to examine each piece. But for the diamonds…” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if computing figures. “For the diamonds, my dear Steerforth, I will offer you six hundred and twenty-five thousand credits.”

  “What?” yelled Cole, so startling the alien that he almost lost his composure.

  “Six hundred and twenty-five thousand credits,” repeated Copperfield. “Trust me, that's the best offer you're going to get anywhere.”

  “Just a minute,” said Cole. “How much do you think one of these diamonds is worth?”

  “They're really quite exquisite, as I said,” replied Copperfield. “I should think thirty thousand would not be an unfair estimate.”

  “We've had higher, we've had lower,” continued Cole. “But let's say, okay, thirty thousand. When I multiply thirty thousand by four hundred—”

  “It's four hundred sixteen,” noted Copperfield.

  “I'm making the math easy,” answered Cole. “When I multiply thirty thousand by four hundred, I get a market value of twelve million.”

  “That is correct,” said Copperfield. “Give or take. There may be a few truly exceptional stones, but there may be a few inferior ones.”

  “Now, I know you're not going to pay market value. I can't prove ownership, nor would you expect me to, and you have to make a profit too. But I was figuring any fence would offer between a quarter and a third of market value. You offered…”

  “Five percent,” said Copperfield promptly. “It's the best offer you're going to get anywhere. If you can find a better one, I'll match it.”

  “No wonder you're living in a mansion, if all you pay is five percent,” said Cole angrily.

  “That is a generous offer, my dear Steerforth,” said Copperfield. “Would I be correct in assuming you're new to this business?”

  Cole made no answer.

  “I thought so. Please understand, Steerforth, not all my offers are at five percent. Show me provenance, show me certificates of authenticity, and I would happily offer thirty percent. But these diamonds come from the mining world of Blantyre IV. The blue-green tint at the heart of each of them makes it certain—and it happens that seven miners were killed on Blantyre when a pirate ship robbed their outpost and made off with approximately four hundred diamonds. That is common knowledge to every jeweler and collector on the Frontier and in the Republic, as well as to every law-enforcement bureau. I cannot sell these diamonds in quantity, and I shall probably have to sit on them for at least five years before I begin selling them at all.

  “Or,” he continued, “let us take the jewelry. I didn't have to look beyond the tiara. It was taken from the dead, shattered head of the diva Frederica Orloff when she was robbed and killed at a charity ball on Binder X. The insurance company has sent holographs of that tiara, and the ruby earrings, and all her other missing possessions, to every jeweler, every trader, every buyer, every collector, and every police department from the Rim to the Core. For the risk I would be taking by selling it, five percent is actually far too much to pay. I consider that I'm offering three percent to you and two percent to the memory of Charles Dickens.” He suddenly smiled. “You really should be a little more careful who you kill. Had you merely stolen the diamonds and the jewelry, there would not be quite so many vengeful people looking for them.”

  Cole was silent for a long moment. “It sounds reasonable,” he said at last. “I don't know if you're bullshitting or not, but it makes sense.”

  “Then have we got a deal?”

  Cole shook his head. “No. I have a feeling you've known all along who I am—I've made no attempt to disguise my face, and my passport was probably transmitted here the instant I produced it at the spaceport—and if so, then you know that I've got a crew to pay and feed, and a ship to power, munitions to keep in stock, and a lot of enemies to avoid. I can't do that on five percent of market value, now or in the future.”

  “I happen to know the gentleman you appropriated these from, though I have no idea how you did so or whether he is still alive, nor am I asking,” said Copperfield. “But I must point out that he lived most handsomely on his percentage.”

  “His ship didn't cost a tenth of what mine costs to run, he had a far smaller crew, he didn't begin to have the armaments or the cost of their upkeep, he had less concern for human life—and he wasn't being pursued by two navies.”

  “Two?”

  “The Teroni Federation is the enemy of all Men. The Republic is the enemy of this man.”

  “I am going to do a remarkable thing,” said Copperfield after a moment. “I am going to let you take your goods and leave. I could stop you, you know. Even as we speak, more that twenty weapons are trained on you and your companions. But any man who knows enough to call himself Steerforth to my Copperfield deserves one free pass. Go in peace and friendship, and remember that my offer still stands: if you get a bona fide bid of more than five percent, I'll match it. But I tell you truthfully, you never will.”

  “The young man with me used to serve under Captain Windsail,” said Cole. “He told me that Windsail liked you. I can understand why.”

  “I hope we shall meet again, my dear Steerforth,” said Copperfield as Cole closed the box, locked it, picked it up, and headed to the double doors. “Mr. Jones, please escort Steerforth and his party back to the spaceport.”

  All the way back to the Theodore Roosevelt Cole considered his options, rejecting one after another. When he arrived he was still wondering how Blackbeard and Captain Kidd ever made ends meet.

  Cole was sitting in his rarely used office, speaking with Sharon Blacksmith, Christine Mboya, and Forrice.

  “It's something I hadn't considered,” he said. “In this era, with the whole damned galaxy interconnected, steal a necklace on the Inner Frontier and an hour later every dealer and every cop on the Rim, on the Spiral Arm, in the Quinellus Cluster, and in the Republic has already got a description and probably a holograph of it. Five percent probably is the best offer we're going to get.”

  “Can we survive on that?” asked Sharon.

  “We don't have much of a choice,” answered Cole. “It's not as if the Navy will welcome us back with open arms. Hell, they're more likely to welcome us back with open prison cells, and that's only if they're feeling friendlier toward us than they were when we left.”

  “There must be other alternatives,” said Christine.

  “Like what?” shot back Cole. “We're not in the cruise-ship business.” He sighed deeply. “There's got to be a way to make a decent return on those diamonds. I mean, hell, all our lives we've watched dramas and read thrillers about jewel thieves. It can't be as hard as it seems.”

  “It's starting to ap
pear that the only easy part was acquiring our illicit goods in the first place,” complained Forrice.

  “Captain Windsail wasn't starving,” noted Sharon. “How did he pay his crew and fuel his ship?”

  “Once we figure that out, we'll know what to do,” said Cole irritably. “It's the damned technology, like I said. You steal something today, and everyone's got all the data on it by tomorrow morning.”

  “How?” asked Sharon. “I don't have any holographs of my necklace or bracelet. How would I get them once the jewelry was gone?”

  “Not to be insulting, but your necklace and bracelet aren't worth stealing,” said Cole.

  “Get back to the question,” said Forrice. “How do they get the information so quickly and thoroughly?”

  “If the stuff's any good, I suppose the insurance company passes it on,” said Cole.

  “What if it's not insured?” persisted the Molarian.

  “If it's any good, it will be,” said Cole.

  “So you think it's the insurance companies that spread all the information?”

  “Wouldn't you?” asked Sharon. “They're on the hook for it if it's not returned.”

  “I suppose so,” said Forrice. “Well, that's another dead end.”

  “No, it's not,” replied Cole suddenly.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Sharon.

  “I've got the solution. At least, I think I do.”

  “Can we help?” asked Christine.

  “Yeah, let's try a little Socratic dialogue here,” said Cole.

  “Whatever that may be,” retorted Forrice.

  “Let's hypothesize that I just inherited a very valuable necklace, made of pearls from the freshwater ocean on Bareimus VII. I say it's worth fifty thousand credits. You say it's worth forty-two thousand. Sharon says it's worth forty-five thousand. Who's right?”

  “How should I know?” asked Forrice.

  “You shouldn't,” agreed Cole. “So how do we find out?”

  “We hold an auction, and the sales price is what it's worth,” answered the Molarian.