by Sharon Lee
Pat Rin had hopes of a restaurant in the future, as well as a gemstone and spice exchange. But, for the moment, progress was made. And it was good.
Side by side, they proceeded, slowed considerably by the numerous, “Morning, Boss.” “Mr. Conrad, sir. Ms. Natesa. Good to see you both.” One of the mechanics called out that the concordance books had arrived; and plastic cups of cider were pressed into their hands, with a smiling, “Just in from the farms this morning. Boss Sherton’s compliments, Mr. Conrad.”
“You are well-loved,” Natesa remarked as they went on.
“So well-loved that you yet insist upon tasting my drink ahead of me,” he said ironically. “When shall you give over security, Inas?”
Black eyebrows arched. “Why, I have done so. If my care now seems more particular, it is because I have a personal stake in your continued good health.”
He looked at her consideringly. “I see that I have done ill, then, in returning you your oath.”
“Not at all. I asked for its return because my interest had grown beyond mere business. You complied because the request was reasonable.” She inclined her head, formally. “Thus, we comported ourselves with honor. What lies before us is a different game entirely.”
“Which cannot be won,” he said, soberly. “Attend me, my lady. This is Surebleak; I may be murdered in the next hour—and you, at my side. And if that fails, there are always those other enemies of my clan, who may discover me at any moment, and likewise slay us both.”
“That is,” she said in her calm way, “acceptable.” She sipped from her own cup. “But not likely. The cider is good.”
“You amaze me,” he said, and sipped, finding it very good, indeed. So good, in fact, that it was quite gone by the time they reached the portmaster’s office, a scant stroll from the new juice stand.
“Good morning, Mr. Conrad—Ms. Natesa.” Claren Liu nodded easily as they entered.
“Portmaster. A pleasant day to you.”
“It has been so far.” She waved a hand at the main screen. “Never thought I’d see Surebleak Port so busy. If it keeps up like this, we’ll be in competition with Terraport!”
“Never so large as Terraport,” Pat Rin said softly. “Will you settle, I wonder, for a small, rustic jewel of a port?”
Portmaster Liu laughed. “Sure, I’ll take that.” She pushed out of her chair and went to her desk, pulling some few sheets of hardcopy from a file.
“’beam came through for you last night. I knew you were gonna be here today, or I’d’ve sent it in to you.”
“Thank you.” He glanced at the papers, saw the Health Net logo, and folded them into his pocket for later perusal.
“Other thing we’re gonna want,” she said abruptly, “is traffic. Fine as it is to have a small rustic gem of a port, if nobody lands, what we got is no better’n what we had.”
“True enough. My associates and I have been considering that. There are trade bands, are there not? And pilot frequencies, where the goods and services of this or that port may be advertised?”
She blinked. “Well . . . sure. You’re thinking about advertising Surebleak?”
“What harm can it do?” Pat Rin asked reasonably, feeling Natesa’s presence at his shoulder as a comfort. “A few small advertisements only—perhaps in praise of our ciders and—our handmade rugs. We are not so out of the way that ships may not stop, if given good cause. That they have not been stopping has been due to our . . . reputation as a dangerous and backward world, served by—forgive me—a port of the lower tier.”
“Nothing to forgive in the truth,” Claren Liu said, brusquely, and stared off over his head for a long moment, before coming to herself with a nod.
“Tell you what. The port’ll go in half with whatever the association comes up with for advertisement. We got a promo budget. Up ’til this second, I didn’t have the barest idea of what to do with it.” She grinned, self-mocking. “Add Surebleak to your pay-route! It’s cold and they’ll break your neck, too!”
At his shoulder, Natesa laughed.
“And now we may say—Stop at Surebleak, and enjoy the play.”
“Not bad,” Claren Liu told her, the grin somewhat less mocking. “Hold on a sec—I’ve got the rate book here.” She bent again to the desk, rummaged briefly and emerged triumphant, waving a tattered brown booklet.
“Here you are,” she said, handing it to Pat Rin. He glanced at the cover, found the rates in force until Day 96, Standard Year 1393, and slipped it away, too, for later study.
“Thank you,” he said, inclining his head. “As always, it has been a fruitful visit. One of my house will be on the port in two days’ time. If you have need of me before—”
“I’ll call,” she said, interrupting good-naturedly. “Those talkies were a good idea. Yeah, like you’ve had a bad one.” She attempted the formal nod—at which she was slowly gaining proficiency, Pat Rin allowed—and straightened.
“Good to see you, then, sir—ma’am. Hope to see you again soon.”
“Good-day, Portmaster,” Pat Rin murmured.
“Good-day,” Natesa echoed and the two of them departed, heading for the casino, a second training session, and an afternoon meeting in Elva Whitmore’s territory.
***
“STILL AWAKE, Boss?” Cheever McFarland’s big voice preceded him into the room.
Pat Rin glanced up from a frowning study of the Health Net papers.
“As you see, Mr. McFarland, I am not only awake, but irritable.”
“Long hours’ll do that,” Cheever said cheerfully. “I’ve got a report, if you want it.”
Pat Rin pushed the papers aside. “Indeed, I do.” He considered the man, noting the subtle signs of weariness. “However, I would not keep you from your bed. Tomorrow is soon enough, if you are in need of rest.”
Cheever shook his head. “Too wound up to sleep. What I’m after right now is a sandwich and a beer. What say we compromise and hit the kitchen?”
“Very well.” He rose, leaving the papers on his desk.
“It’s comin’ along fine,” Cheever said some minutes later, around a truly formidable sandwich constructed of cheese, greens, and onion between thick slices of the cook’s homemade bread. “Got the rubbish cleared out. Got a couple of the local techs through the sleep-learner and put ’em to work fabricating the equipment. Got a couple building squads throwing us up some bays and dorms. Talked to somebody just ’fore I left this morning—sharp one, name of Perl—anyhow, she’s been studying on the schematics for the cradle and thinks she’s got a line on the how-to. Ain’t gonna be pretty, right at first, but we’ll have us a working yard that ain’t dependent on the port.”
He took a bite of sandwich and washed it down with a mighty swallow of beer. Pat Rin sipped his fruit cider. The warehouse district they had taken over for Korval’s first ship yard on Surebleak had been burned out in some long-forgotten riot, and remained unclaimed by any current boss. Pat Rin had annexed it by the simple expedient of sending Cheever McFarland and a work crew to the area with the goal of cleaning it up.
“Where we’re gonna get in trouble—soon—is cash,” Cheever was saying. “Labor’s cheap enough, but materials is high—and a lot of the equipment’s just gotta be made, ground up.” Another bite, another swallow.
“Where we’re gonna get in trouble later—assuming we can get the rest of the job funded and online—is pilots, supplies and derelicts.”
“The derelicts,” Pat Rin murmured, “are, as we discussed, possible.”
“Yah, OK, you got a line on the spaceship graveyard,” Cheever said, grudgingly. “If it ain’t watched. If it’s still there. If the codes’re still good. If, if if.”
“There is a risk, but not, I think, a major one.”
“So you said. All right, we assume you can deliver the ships,” he grinned, wolfish. “Next problem’s pilots.”
“We are at work on that problem,” Pat Rin told him. “Only today have we received from the hand of Surebleak Portmaster
the book listing all public piloting and trade frequencies. Our plan is to advertise Surebleak’s charms, and thus beguile pilots to us.”
“Yeah?” Cheever said interestedly. “That’s an assist. But, then you’re gonna need a hiring hall on the port.”
Pat Rin inclined his head. “I thank you—I had not thought of that.”
“Would’ve, though. Think too damn’ much, if you want my opinion—which you don’t.” He finished his sandwich and leaned back, nursing what was left of his beer.
“Keep in mind you’ll have to pay risk money, for anybody bringing in a ship from the graveyard.”
“Well.” Pat Rin finished his cider, set the mug down, and sat gazing into its empty depths.
“Well,” he said again. “It appears we are at a stand, Mr. McFarland. In addition to the necessity of . . . Korval’s yard, there is upstairs a notice from the HealthNet, informing me of the current membership rates and citing a substantial sum due in penalties, as Surebleak’s previous departure from the ’Net was in violation of several conditions of contract.”
“The other bosses are s’posed to give us a percentage,” Cheever commented after a few moments had passed in silence.
Pat Rin looked up. “So they are. And the funds thus far received have immediately gone into increasing the numbers of clinics and schools, and training for the medical personnel.”
“So called.” Cheever sighed gustily before quaffing the dregs of his beer.
“We’re gonna need cash, or the gold-plated promise of cash within the next—fifteen, twenty days, or it’s gonna get ugly. An’ if we lose ’em because we ain’t paid ’em, they’ll never come back, if we was paying hard cantra. Better to shut down now, while we can settle everybody and tell ’em we’ll do a recall in a month or so.”
Pat Rin frowned. Of course, one did not solicit labor and then fail to pay. But it was hard, very hard, to contemplate halting the project so recently and so well begun . . .
“Let us delay decision until tomorrow,” he said to Cheever. “Will you be with us, or must you return at once?”
“Figured on going back tomorrow afternoon. Wanted to check in with you. Should oughta talk to Natesa and Gwince; maybe do an inspect of house security, just to throw the fear of cold space into ’em and make sure they stay honest.”
“Ah.” He smiled. “Your vigilance is appreciated.”
“Sure it is.” Cheever thumped the empty mug to the table and stood. “I’m for a nap. You look like you could use the same, if you don’t mind my saying so. Or even if you do.”
“Yes.” Weariness suddenly weighed upon him, waking the ghost of an ache in the arm that had been wounded. He rose, and put his mug in the sink to be washed. “Good-night, Mr. McFarland. We will talk tomorrow.”
“We sure will. ’Night, sir.”
Pat Rin climbed the stairs, and slipped as silently as he was able into the bedroom.
“Good morning, denubia,” her voice was soft, barely blurred with sleep.
“There, I had not meant to wake you,” he murmured. “I shall need to learn to walk like a scout.”
“Only like Silk—who has appropriated your pillow.”
He smiled in the dark, and undressed quickly, slipping into the bed beside her. Silk put up a brief defense of the pillow—for honor’s sake—before stomping down to the foot of the bed.
“Victory is yours,” she whispered, and moved near, entwining him in warm silken limbs, and nestling her head on his shoulder.
“Only until the morrow,” he said, feeling muzzier by the moment; the ill news of the evening fading into a warm glow of contentment.
Sighing gently, he lay his cheek against her hair and slid, seamlessly, into sleep.
DAY 32
Standard Year 1393
Blair Road
Surebleak
NATESA lay the HealthNet report on the desk and picked up her teacup.
“Three cantra in penalties. Three cantra earnest money, based on previous violations. Two cantra to rejoin.” She sipped and shook her head. “The penalties are two cantra too high, and we can certainly force the earnest money down by a cantra. Yet, in our current state of budget, five cantra is as difficult as eight.”
“Add Mr. McFarland’s little matter,” Pat Rin murmured, from his perch on the corner of the desk, “and we discover ourselves run entirely off our legs, with no hope of a quick recover.” He moved his shoulders, irritated.
“And all the while, there are more than enough cantra to do the work, if I could but dare access them!”
Natesa stared at him, teacup arrested. “Is that so?”
Pat Rin met her eyes, frowning at her astonishment. “Is what so? That there are cantra sufficient to the task—and more—held on my accounts? Did you think you had joined with a pauper, lady?”
“It was not a consideration,” she said composedly. “But, Pat Rin, this other—why do you not dare access your funds?”
He bit back a sharp retort. It was rare enough, after all, to find Natesa at half wit.
“You will see that I am not clever,” he said mildly. “When I was about arranging the details of my former life, it never occurred to me that, some day in my future, I might very much wish for hidden funds. All of my accounts are woefully in sight, and the Department of the Interior will be watching every one. They will trace any transfer immediately, and follow it to us.”
She sipped her tea, then put the cup down on the desk.
“Here is where the Juntavas is uniquely placed to serve you,” she said. “Merely hire a courier.”
“Yes, certainly!” he cried, descending into sarcasm. “Tell someone else where we are, so that they may sell the information to the Department!”
“Not so,” she contradicted. “If we broke our contracts, who would deal with us?”
He sighed. “In fact, breaking contracts is bad for business.”
“Precisely.” She frowned, staring off into the middle air. Pat Rin reached for his cup and sipped, awaiting the outcome of her thought.
“It will be,” she said eventually, “expensive. More so, for I cannot waive my fee in the matter. You will, however, retain between seventy and seventy-five percent of the total deliverable funds.”
“The Juntavas takes one-quarter?” He raised a hand, signifying peace. “I make no quibble, if we have guarantee of anonymity.”
“The fees cover several things—anonymity of the client is one. Discretion, timely delivery, real costs. My fee—is insurance. The Juntavas guarantees delivery, from our own accounts. Once the money is identified, and the transfer made to our various accounts, why, we do nothing but deliver the funds from our own nearest bank. No need to have couriers bounding to and fro like grasshoppers. If our courier is robbed of your funds, still we will deliver to you the agreed amount upon the specified date. So, you see why my fee must be taken.”
“I do.” He took his own turn at thought, weighing danger against necessity.
“Guaranteed anonymity,” he said again. “The Department of the Interior, if we are to believe its agents—and I have predicated the subjugation of an entire world upon that belief—is no dismissible opponent.”
“Allow us to know our business,” Natesa murmured, retrieving her teacup. She sipped, black eyes considering him over the rim.
“There is no guaranteed safety,” she said eventually. “However—if you will accept my advice—I think this course offers us more safety than any other; and gains us access to needed funding.”
“My funds are in cantra,” he said. “No more than twelve per cent of the delivery should be in cantra—the rest must be in Terran bits or regional currencies.”
She shrugged. “A detail only. For such affairs, where the client pays a percentage, we calculate the conversion using the daily exchange tables published by the Bank of Solcintra.” She inclined her head, ironic. “Unless the client requires another source be used.”
“The Bank of Solcintra conversions are adequate, I thank
you.”
“Ah. You should also know that the flex in the fee structure has to do with the degree of difficulty in accessing the funds.”
“I can provide pass-codes and ID numbers,” he said.
“Good. Assume the deliverable will be closer to seventy-five percent; though there may be a hazard surcharge.” A subtle smile. “Thus, the Department of the Interior is accorded the respect that it deserves.”
“That is well.” He finished his tea while considering other details. “So. I will take delivery at the Port . . .”
“I beg to disagree. Mr. McFarland will take delivery at the Port, with Gwince and myself as his back-up. You, my love, will remain well-guarded in your house, or perhaps you will visit Melina Sherton.”
“Surely you and Mr. McFarland are of more value—” he began and stopped when she held up her hand.
“There will be no contract,” she said, with an austerity one rarely had from Natesa, “unless this is done as I say.”
He looked at her. “What shall I do if you are slain?”
“Avenge me.” She lowered her hand. “Will it be as I have said?”
He slid to his feet. “Since the plan now involves Mr. McFarland risking his life, we will ask for his assessment. If he agrees, then we go forward.”
Natesa smiled. “That is acceptable.”
DAY 38
Standard Year 1393
Liad Department of Interior
Command Headquarters
THE RADIO MUTTERED in the background, whispering of ships, of trade goods, and of scheduling changes. Commander of Agents paid it no heed; his attention squarely on the file before him.
The campaign against the Juntavas, which had unwisely involved itself in Departmental business, was well under way. Given the opportunity to choose his battle, the Commander would not have attempted the Juntavas. Not yet. Alas, the Juntavas itself had forced the matter by interfering with the Department’s attempt to attach Pat Rin yos’Phelium.
That Pat Rin yos’Phelium had grasped the opportunity created by confusion to slip through the Department’s net—that he remained unrecovered to this day—was both unfortunate and unexpected.