by Jason Fry
If Suud was worried, though, he didn’t show it. He stepped in front of the table and turned to the courtroom with a wide smile, as if nothing would make him happier than to discuss diplomatic credentialing with those attending a session of the Ceres Admiralty Court.
“Your Honor, Earth desires close, cordial relationships with all its former colonies, whatever the current regrettable state of affairs between them,” Suud said. “Achieving that outcome is the principal goal of all members of the diplomatic corps.”
“I wasn’t looking for an appreciation of Earth’s diplomats, fine people though they surely are,” Judge Quence said. “What I’d like to know is why they’re increasingly turning up on old scows.”
Tycho’s eyes widened. He leaned over to say something to Diocletia. She waved him away, but he shook his head insistently.
“What?” Diocletia demanded in a whisper.
Judge Quence gave Diocletia a warning glance but decided her offense wasn’t grave enough for the gavel.
“Your Honor, in pursuing the goal of interplanetary friendship, occasionally the fastest way for diplomats to travel is aboard merchant ships registered with Earth,” Suud told the judge. “The diplomatic corps has struck arrangements . . .”
As Suud droned on, Tycho hurriedly told his mother what Countess Tiamat had said back at the party above Ganymede, about Earth registering hundreds of new diplomats.
Diocletia frowned at Tycho.
“You’re sure that’s what she said?” she asked.
Tycho nodded.
Judge Quence gave the gavel a short, sharp rap.
“Captain Hashoone, is this really the most appropriate time to be instructing one of your children?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon, Your Honor,” Diocletia said. “Tycho and I required a brief consultation. May I ask Secretary Suud a question?”
“That would obviously be inappropriate,” Suud snapped.
“By all means, Captain Hashoone,” Judge Quence said with a smile.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Diocletia said. “Secretary Suud, how many Earth diplomats are traveling aboard merchant ships at the moment?”
“Your interest in the work of His Majesty’s diplomatic corps is commendable, Captain Hashoone,” Suud said. “It would be most appropriate for an answer to such inquiries to come from—”
BAM! went the gavel.
“Answer the question, Secretary Suud,” Judge Quence barked.
Suud frowned and crouched in the aisle, speaking briefly to a female aide with a mediapad. He nodded and sat in his chair, looking down at his hands for a moment.
“Well?” Judge Quence asked.
“Currently there are four hundred and twelve,” Suud said.
Judge Quence’s eyebrows shot upward. Carlo, Yana, and Tycho looked at one another. The Jovians behind them muttered in astonishment until Judge Quence gaveled the courtroom into silence.
“And how many merchant ships flying the flag of Earth are currently carrying cargoes in the solar system?” Diocletia asked.
“There is absolutely no way I am sharing such sensitive information with a known pirate!” Suud sputtered.
Diocletia just smiled.
“Never mind. I’ve got a pretty good guess,” she said. “It’s four hundred and twelve, isn’t it?”
Suud didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to—his grimace was answer enough.
“I think it’s obvious what’s going on here, Your Honor,” Diocletia said. “Earth is labeling regular crewers or passengers as diplomats, to prevent the lawful practice of privateering.”
Suud leaped to his feet.
“Your Honor, calling privateering lawful is a miscarriage of justice, one that Earth has suffered for far too long,” he said.
Suud turned to glare at the Hashoones and the Jovian Union officials seated behind them. He was no longer making the slightest effort to appear friendly.
“Let me remind the court that Earth has never resorted to the illegal practice of privateering, despite the fact that technically we remain at war,” Suud said. “Given our far greater population and economic power, I’d ask my Jovian friends to consider the effect on their trade if His Majesty were to change his mind about that policy.”
Yana poked Tycho in the shoulder. He glanced over at Suud’s side of the room and saw that the mustachioed man they’d followed was smiling nastily to himself.
“Your Honor, is privateering now on trial?” Diocletia demanded.
“No, it is not,” Judge Quence said, gavel raised threateningly. “As Secretary Suud knows perfectly well. We shall stick to the subject at hand.”
“Very well,” Suud said. “Captain Hashoone’s accusations are dramatic, but beside the point. As I’m sure Your Honor is aware, nothing in space law restricts who can or cannot be a diplomat.”
“What about basic fairness?” burst out Tycho. “I don’t know anything about laws, Your Honor, but isn’t it wrong to twist them up so they mean something they’re not supposed to?”
“Aye to that,” growled Huff. “Well said, Tyke.”
BAM! went Judge Quence’s gavel.
“That will do, Master Hashoone,” he said.
“Your Honor, I must insist—” said Suud.
BAM!
Suud contented himself with glaring at Diocletia, who glared back.
“Your Honor, I request that a registry of diplomats currently serving aboard Earth’s merchant ships be entered into the record,” Diocletia said.
That sent Suud to his feet again, face flushed.
“This is outrageous!” he sputtered. “Surely Your Honor will not allow this court to aid and abet future acts of piracy by Captain Hashoone and her brood!”
“Come now, Secretary Suud,” Diocletia said. “I’m not asking you for what ships your diplomats are traveling on—just their names and backgrounds. I believe that’s public information, is it not? And since you yourself have just told us there are no restrictions on who gets to be a diplomat, why the objection?”
Judge Quence raised his eyebrows under his wig. Threece Suud, Tycho noticed, was turning an alarming shade of purple. But then he pressed his hands together and bent his head down so that his chin was practically touching his breastbone. When he lifted his head, he was smiling serenely once more.
“Very well,” Suud said, turning to gesture to a female aide. “We shall file it within the hour, Your Honor, if only to put an end to Captain Hashoone’s theatrical sideshow and demonstrate that Earth has nothing to hide in this matter.”
“Thank you, Secretary Suud,” Judge Quence said, then steepled his fingers and frowned.
“I dislike cases that get further and further from resolution,” he said after a moment, “but this seems to be one of them. I need to think about it more. Until I reach some conclusion, this court stands adjourned.”
12
MR. RED
Yana had already told Diocletia that she and Tycho were going to follow Suud’s aide again, and their mother hadn’t argued, only insisted that they be careful. The two youngest Hashoones huddled against the wall of the corridor outside the admiralty court, watching and waiting for their quarry as officials, privateers, and bureaucrats made their way out of the crowded courtroom.
“Did you see the way Suud’s aide was smiling?” Yana demanded. “It’s obvious he’s up to something, the low-bred Earth snake!”
“You’ve been hanging around Grandfather too much—you’re starting to talk like him,” Tycho said with a grin. “Shh, here comes Suud.”
Suud’s scarlet outfit looked even more ridiculous surrounded by the drab coveralls and jumpsuits of the spacers, workers, and merchants in the crowded tunnels. Suud, still looking furious, spoke briefly with a couple of his aides—including the man with the mustache—before heading left as Tycho and Yana bent their heads together, trying not to be noticed.
The man with the mustache headed right. Yana and Tycho followed, careful to keep at least five or six people
between themselves and their quarry. They stayed with him through the corridors and pressure domes, passing the chandler’s depot where Yana had spotted him last time and the point where they’d had to turn back. A couple of minutes later, he stopped outside a scuzzy-looking spacer bar and talked briefly into his headset, while Yana and Tycho peeked out at him from beside a grimy air-filtration pump. Then he walked into the bar.
“Let’s go inside,” Yana said.
“He’ll see us,” Tycho said.
“No, he won’t,” Yana said. “It’s lunchtime—it’ll be crowded. Come on, Tyke!”
“All right,” Tycho said. “Take it easy.”
The door to the bar was plain and gray, like nearly every other one on Ceres, but the owner had surrounded it with loops of flexible lighting and flashing signs for various intoxicants. About half of the signs were damaged or dark.
Yana reached for the button to open the door, but a meaty hand grabbed her wrist before her finger could get there. The hand belonged to a huge, rough-looking man in a dirty jumpsuit, an unlit cheroot clenched in his yellow teeth.
“No kids,” the man grunted. Annoyed, Yana yanked her arm out of his grip.
“We just want some jump-pop,” Yana said. “They have orange. That’s the best flavor, don’t you think?”
“No kids,” the man said again.
“But our parents told us to meet them here,” Yana said. “They’re navigators on the Tiamat’s Pride, out of Ganymede. You know the ship, right?”
“Never heard of it,” the bouncer said. “No kids. Wait outside.”
“But they told us to meet them inside,” Yana said. “We’ll get in trouble!”
“You got communicators,” the bouncer pointed out.
“But—”
The bouncer crossed his arms and set his feet wide apart.
“No kids,” he grunted. “I ain’t gonna say it again, missy.”
“Come on,” Tycho said, and yanked on his sister’s sleeve. She resisted momentarily, and he wondered if he’d have to drag her off.
“The business end of a blaster cannon would do wonders for your manners,” Yana told the bouncer, who shrugged. She shot him a last furious look and retreated down the passageway, stopping on the far side of the air-filtration pump.
“What do we do now?” Tycho asked.
“We wait,” Yana said firmly. “It’s not like he lives there—he has to come out eventually.”
“All right,” Tycho said, settling himself against the wall of the passage, separated from the bar’s bouncer—now puffing contently on his cheroot—by Ceres’s endless parade of passing spacers, miners, and workers. Within a few minutes Yana was sighing and fidgeting and Tycho’s stomach was growling.
Something pinged inside Yana’s bag. She pulled out her mediapad and nodded.
“What is it?” Tycho asked.
“Suud filed his list of diplomats serving aboard merchant ships,” Yana said, finger flicking across the screen.
“Is Soughton on it?” Tycho asked, leaning over to take a look.
“I’ll check. You keep your eye on the door,” Yana said. “Hmm, no Soughton. That’s weird.”
“No, it isn’t,” Tycho realized. “He’s probably not aboard a ship—I bet Suud told him to cool his heels here on Ceres until Judge Quence reaches his decision.”
“There are other diplomats who also work for Carnegie-Frick Ventures, though,” Yana said. “Here’s one. And another. And another. They’re all recently accredited diplomats, just like him.”
Tycho peered over her shoulder.
“But look at all these other companies who have diplomats working for them,” he said. “What’s Englert and Brout Consultants? Look, the guy who used to work there has been in the service for only six weeks. Same with these two from Franklin-Bundy Space Services, whatever that is.”
“Tyke, look!” Yana said.
Tycho glanced up and saw Suud’s aide come out of the bar, along with a skinny man with red hair buzzed close to his skull and a barrel-chested bald man. The bald man had fingers studded with rings, and glowing tattoos spiraled up his arms, winking on and off according to some internal clock.
The bouncer, Tycho noticed, moved several steps away, taking a sudden interest in the glowing tip of his cheroot.
Yana’s hand closed hard around her brother’s wrist.
“The red-haired man,” she whispered, eyes wide. “He’s the other one from my photo! He was the guy with Suud’s aide and Mox’s crewer!”
Tycho peered at the red-haired man.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I was right last time, wasn’t I?” Yana said, fumbling with her mediapad. “We have to figure out who he is. Let me get another photo.”
“Don’t!” Tycho said. “If one of them sees you, we’re cooked!”
Yana started to argue, but just then the bouncer’s eyes flicked over to them. Tycho and Yana held their breath as the man studied them for a moment, then dismissed them and continued studying the passersby.
Suud’s aide shook the bald man’s hand and nodded to the red-haired man, who dug in his pocket and handed the bald man a currency chip. The bald man flipped it in the air and caught it, grinning to show a mouthful of silver teeth filed into points. Suud’s aide went back inside the bar while the bald man turned and walked in the Hashoones’ direction, swaying slightly.
Tycho turned his back and stepped in front of his sister, hoping the bald man wouldn’t notice them. People pushed past them, muttering complaints. A moment later, Yana was striding down the corridor in the other direction.
“He didn’t see us,” she said over her shoulder. “Hurry up, Tyke, Mr. Red’s getting away!”
Tycho rushed after his sister, offering hasty apologies to the gangs of spacers she had just pushed past. The corridor led into a pressure dome filled with secondhand equipment shops, broken up by ramshackle eateries and a bank of public communications booths. They caught sight of the red-haired man on the other side of the dome, beyond a gaggle of prospectors.
“We should have split up,” Yana said. “You could have followed the bald pirate while I went after Mr. Red.”
“If the bald guy’s a pirate,” Tycho muttered. “Maybe the red-haired man just owed him money. Maybe they were settling a bet.”
“Now you sound like Carlo,” Yana snorted. “The last time we saw Mr. Red and Suud’s aide walking around Ceres, one of their buddies turned up on the quarterdeck of a pirate ship. And that bald guy sure looked like he belongs on one.”
Tycho and Yana followed the red-haired man down another corridor, through another dome, and into yet another passageway. Halfway down that corridor, he stopped in front of a door, taking an identification card out of his pocket. He ran it through a reader beside the door, which slid aside to let him in.
“Yana, wait a minute!” Tycho said, catching up with his sister as she hurried down the corridor. “We don’t know what’s in there. What if we run right into him on the other side?”
Yana frowned and kicked at the molded rock of the corridor wall.
“See if you can get a map view of where we are,” Tycho said. “And if there’s any listing for the address.”
Yana nodded and got out her mediapad, tapping at its surface.
“Here’s the map view,” Yana said, tilting the mediapad so Tycho could see it. The corridor they were in was a spoke connecting the hubs of pressure domes. On the other side of the mysterious door, they could see, was a cluster of smaller domes.
Yana’s fingers danced over the mediapad’s keys.
“The address is listed, but there’s no information about what’s there,” she said.
“That’s no surprise. Plenty of organizations on Ceres don’t want people looking into their business,” Tycho said.
“So there’s no way to find out,” Yana grumbled.
“Well, there’s one way,” Tycho said, looking down the passageway. “Be ready to look like dumb kids who are lost.”
>
“Isn’t that pretty much what we are?” Yana asked.
“I hope not,” Tycho said. “Come on.”
The door was unmarked, with a glowing white button, a card reader, a speaker grille beside it, and a security camera above.
“I’ve got an idea,” Tycho said, pulling a currency chip out of one of his pockets. “Follow my lead, okay?”
He pushed the button beside the door. They heard a low buzz and the door slid into the wall. Tycho and Yana found themselves in a waiting room lit by dim, flickering overhead lights. A few plastic chairs faced a desk, behind which sat a pinch-faced woman with suspicious eyes and a grimace that looked permanent.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her tone making it clear that there were few things she’d like to do less.
“You sure can, thanks,” Tycho said brightly. “What’s the name of this office?”
“A number of companies have offices here,” the woman said.
“I see,” Tycho said. “The man who just came in, the one with the red hair—we have something for him.”
“And what would that be?” the woman asked.
“I’m sorry, that’s personal,” Tycho said, taking a marking stylus from his pocket. “Say, could I borrow an envelope?”
“Not unless I know what this is regarding,” the woman said.
“Well, he dropped this,” Tycho said, holding up the currency chip. “We don’t know how much is on it.”
The woman behind the desk looked from the chip to Tycho and Yana, then smiled. Somehow it made her seem even less friendly.
“I’ll make sure it gets to him,” she said, sticking out her hand.
“We’d prefer to give it to him personally,” Tycho said.
“Are you saying you don’t trust me?” the woman asked.
Yana stepped forward, her face contorted in a sneer borrowed from a Ceres dome urchin.
“We found the chip, so we get the reward!” she said, then shook her fist.
Tycho thought that last bit bordered on overacting, but he played his part, holding up a hand to stop his sister.
“C’mon, sis, that’s not fair,” he said. “Grandpa always said we should assume the best of people. Remember?”