by Jason Fry
“Arr, I don’t know. Yer mother wouldn’t like it.”
“Yana’s right—we can handle it,” Tycho said. “Besides, you might find some valuable intelligence for us to use aboard the Comet.”
“Good thinkin’,” Huff said with a grin. “But yeh two watch yer step in these parts. Don’t go beyond the Westwell—it ain’t safe. An’ here—yeh best take these.”
The old pirate opened his ancient leather jacket and extracted a pair of wicked-looking musketoons from his bandolier, handing one to each of his grandchildren—a gesture that instantly cleared a meter of space between the three of them and the rest of the crowd.
“Don’t draw on nobody ’less they need shootin’,” Huff rumbled, already clomping toward the ramp that led to the grog shop. “An’ if they do need shootin’, don’t miss.”
“This blaster’s heavy,” Tycho complained, tucking it into the pocket of his jacket.
“Glad to have it, though,” Yana said, putting hers in her parka. “I don’t like the look of folks around here.”
“Neither do I.”
The two of them poked through the marketplace, keeping a wary eye on the spacers around them.
“What do you think Mom will put in the Log about today?” Yana asked as they extricated themselves from an old woman who swore she’d give them a great price on leather boots from Earth—guaranteed as natural and not vat-grown.
“Nothing good,” Tycho said. “I bet Carlo wishes he’d come with us. Mom’s probably giving it to him with both barrels now—and in person, not just in the Log.”
“All of which is good for you, you know.”
Tycho shook his head.
“Who cares? We lost a dromond, Yana. It’s a disaster for the Jovian Union—and don’t think those Earth captains won’t be crowing about it tonight.”
“That’s right—I forgot about that stupid banquet,” Yana said, wrinkling her nose. “But what happened wasn’t our fault. It was Carlo’s. He just had to show off, trying to chase down Allamand.”
“So you knew he was doing the wrong thing? Because I didn’t.”
Yana shrugged. “I was just worried Mom would take command back before he made things worse for himself.”
Tycho stared at his sister in amazement.
“If she had, we might not have lost the Leviathan. Don’t you feel even a little sorry for Carlo?”
Yana snorted. “Would he feel sorry for us?”
Tycho knew she was right—Carlo would have found ways to bring up such a failure for months. And perhaps Yana was correct that Tycho’s recent run of luck had given him a new opportunity to win the captain’s chair—which was only what he’d wanted his entire life.
But Earth had seized an unfathomable amount of livres’ worth of Jovian cargo and a Jovian crew—one the Comet had been protecting. And he took no pleasure in remembering his brother’s misery. Carlo’s smug self-assurance had annoyed Tycho many times—but the sight of his older brother stunned and despondent had left Tycho feeling hollow and somehow ashamed.
Prices at the two depots in the Westwell proved no better than in the Southwell. As Tycho and Yana huddled to consider their options, a grizzled tout leaned into their conversation.
“Restockin’ a ship? You need to go to the Last Chance—all services and fair prices. All I ask is you tell the boss lady that Merle sent you.”
“And where’s the Last Chance?” Tycho asked.
Merle pointed a grimy finger at the rock wall leading deeper into Cybele’s maze of passages.
“In Bazaar—it’s the next dome over, just a few hundred meters that way.”
“Beyond the Westwell?” Tycho asked.
“Only a few hundred meters. Safe enough for two strapping young spacers such as yourselves.”
“I don’t know,” Tycho said when they’d freed themselves from Merle.
“Tyke, honestly—we’re carrying enough firepower to outfit a strike fighter,” Yana said, patting the blaster beneath her parka.
Tycho surrendered, and they passed through an open airlock that connected the Westwell with a dim, dank tunnel hacked out of the rock. The passageway reminded Tycho of the lower levels of Port Town on Callisto—a frigid dumping ground for the luckless and those who preyed on them.
But the tunnel was as short as Merle had promised. Tycho saw a bright square of light ahead, and then he and Yana emerged into a pressure dome that had been erected on the surface of Cybele and inflated over curved struts adorned with clusters of brilliant white lights. Multicolored flags and wind chimes made of scrap metal hung from the girders above, giving the dome an oddly festive atmosphere.
Bazaar was filled with shacks and stalls made out of metal and plastic, where fur-clad shoppers bickered and bargained. Tycho and Yana stepped over forlorn men, women, and children who sat cross-legged behind blankets covered with a miscellany of repaired machinery, or who mutely held up bowls in hopes that some passer-by would drop in a livre or two. In the center of the dome was a larger structure, a multilevel assemblage of old shipping containers and scrap metal that had been fused into a sprawling depot topped with a holographic sign that read “The Last Chance,” in neon colors bright enough to leave afterimages on Tycho’s vision.
Tycho looked around the riot of stalls, trying to get his bearings amid the astonishing profusion of goods for sale. Bazaar offered everything from common spacer gear scuffed and yellowed by solar radiation to diaphanous silks that would have passed muster at a Ganymedan fete. Yana stopped at one stall to examine a cowl that switched from yellow to deep green as it moved in the dealer’s hands.
A tout buttonholed Tycho to extol the virtues of an apprenticeship with a freight tender, then stopped in midsentence, looking anxiously over Tycho’s shoulder. He blanched, then hurried away from the twins. The silk merchant snatched the cowl out of Yana’s hands, causing the fabric to erupt in bursts of purple and rose, and reached for the metal shutter above his head.
Clangs and rumbles sounded all around them as the owners of stall after stall brought down their gates. The peddlers bundled up their merchandise and scampered away. A hard-eyed man slammed the last shutter at the Last Chance, transforming the depot into a blank fortress. Only the seekers of alms remained, faces grave yet expectant, their children peeking out from behind their shoulders.
A half dozen men swaggered into the deserted marketplace. The leader had a cybernetic eye and animated tattoos chasing themselves up and down his arms. A blaster pistol rode low on his hip, and he carried a constable’s staff over one shoulder, its tip flaring with white light. The others were armed as well—Tycho spotted guns, knives, and clubs in holsters, waistbands, and hands.
“Crimps,” Yana said. “I hate crimps.”
The leader saw the Hashoone twins and grinned.
“Hello, what have we here?” he asked. “Ever consider a career in space, kids?”
“Already got one,” Tycho said, willing his voice to be firm and deep. “We’re midshipmen on the privateer Shadow Comet, operating under a letter of marque from the Jovian Union.”
The man with the cybernetic eye grinned.
“Fancy that. And I suppose you have passes that testify to your gainful employment and prestigious occupation?”
“We do.”
“I’ll see them, then,” the leader said, as the gang moved forward.
“That’s close enough,” Yana said, reaching her hand into her parka and emerging with Huff’s pistol.
The crimps stopped. Their leader grinned, tapping his staff absentmindedly on the ground. Curlicues of energy chased each other around his feet before dissipating.
“Mighty big gun for a little girl,” the leader said. “Careful it doesn’t go off.”
“You take one more step and it will,” Yana said. “My brother will show you his pass. But just you—and you can look at it without that stick.”
The crimps laughed, but the merriment had an uncertain edge now. Their leader grinned again, but he also gave
the energy prod to the man next to him before striding over to stand in front of Tycho.
Tycho handed over the pass, which the crimp eyed suspiciously.
“Looks legit. Or perhaps Mommy and Daddy have enough livres to pay for a good fake.”
“It is legit and you know it,” Tycho said, reaching to reclaim his pass. The crimp held it away from him, baring a mouthful of yellowed teeth.
“Relax, kid,” he said, turning to regard Yana. “And where’s yours, missy?”
“Right here,” Yana said, inclining her head minutely toward the barrel of Huff’s pistol.
“She’s my sister,” Tycho said. “And a midshipman on our quarterdeck. Her pass is the same as mine.”
“Passes can get lost. And if two kids wake up belowdecks on a construction barge, it can take a while to sort things out.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Yana said. “Give my brother back his pass and go bother someone else.”
“Six against two ain’t great odds, girlie. What if we’d rather bother you?”
“Then this gun turns your head into steam. What happens after that won’t be your problem.”
“I hear there’s easy pickings in the next dome, boss,” one of the crimps said after a moment.
The leader narrowed his eyes, then nodded. He let go of Tycho’s pass, which fluttered to the ground. “Looks like it’s your lucky day, kids.”
“Uh-uh,” Yana said. “Pick up the pass and hand it to my brother. Right now.”
The crimps’ leader was no longer smiling.
“You that tough, kid?”
Yana said nothing. The lead crimp eyed her for a moment, then snatched the pass off the ground and thrust it against Tycho’s chest.
“You two caught me in a good mood—but if I see either of you here again, I won’t be so merciful,” he warned, then shot a last look at Yana. “Your sister’s a piece of work, kid,” he told Tycho.
Tycho tucked the pass back under his cloak and managed a small smile. “You should meet our mother.”
When the last of the crimps had departed, Yana exhaled and lowered Huff’s blaster.
“First thing I do when we get back is ask Mom for a gun that weighs less,” she said.
Shutters rattled upward around them, and within a minute Bazaar was nearly as crowded as it had been before the crimps’ interruption. The vendor held out the cowl Yana had been looking at.
“Synthetic chromatophores, miss,” he said. “The color changes in response to sound and movement. Just look at this workmanship—”
“I was looking before you left us to the crimps,” Yana said. “You’re giving me a discount for that.”
The merchant shrugged as Yana stretched out the silk and watched ripples of red and blue chase themselves across its length.
“Wouldn’t this be great for the banquet?” she asked Tycho, their encounter with the crimps apparently already forgotten.
“It’s coming out of your allowance, not the restocking fund. I’m going to check out the Last Chance.”
He left his sister to her haggling and entered the sprawling depot, which was piled high with everything one might need to outfit a starship: cargo containers were stacked next to pyramids of batteries and bins of high-intensity lamps, while signs promised the best rates on Cybele for water, air, and foodstuffs. A short flight of steps led to a small café where spacers were comparing notes on their mediapads, and a brightly lit video board was crammed with blinking and flashing starship logos, the calling cards of captains seeking to fill out their crew rosters. Clerks scurried about, and big, hard-eyed men with iron bars in their hands stood around the depot’s perimeter, ready to roll down the shutters or attend to other trouble.
Tycho’s mediapad beeped. He looked at the device and scowled—it was his mother.
“Where are you?” Diocletia asked when he answered.
Tycho hesitated.
“The chandler’s depot in a dome called Bazaar.”
Diocletia said nothing for a moment, and Tycho knew she was looking at a map of Cybele. He braced for impact.
“That’s beyond the Westwell.”
“Just a few hundred meters. We’d need a year’s worth of condemnations to meet any other depot’s prices.”
“I see. Stay there. I’m on my way.”
Tycho put the mediapad away, wondering what his mother wanted. He supposed they’d find out soon enough.
“Like I told you the last two times, Jenks, no goods on credit,” a woman said in an angry voice. “I can’t pay the rent with rumors about mineral deposits, you know. Which is all you ever have for payment.”
The woman stood behind a triangle of counters in the center of the Last Chance. She was tall and broad shouldered, with sharp features and black hair gone gray. She waited with her hands on her hips while the unfortunate Jenks’s pleas turned to imprecations. One of the men with bars took a step forward, prompting Jenks to scuttle out of the Last Chance with a final offended glance.
The woman turned and gave Tycho an appraising look. “If you’re cabin boy on some broken-down ore boat, I’ll save us both some time and trouble—the answer is no.”
Tycho shook his head as Yana joined him at the counter, a parcel of opaque plastic tucked under one arm.
“Merle sent us,” he said. “We’re restocking a frigate. Um, assuming you can service a ship that big . . .”
“I’ve outfitted prospector convoys trying their luck in the Kuiper Belt, kid—I can handle a frigate.”
Her eyes narrowed, then lingered on Yana.
“You and that girl are the ones who just faced down Jasper One Eye. Free advice—be careful of him. Whoever he’s working for, they’ve got plenty of livres—and they’re snatching up anyone who looks like they can figure out the right end of a power wrench. And Good Samaritans are in short supply around here.”
“I noticed that,” Tycho said.
“Well, don’t forget it. Now show me your shopping list and I’ll get you a price.”
Tycho specified the Comet’s needs and studied his surroundings while the woman entered numbers into her mediapad. A knot of bearded spacers were arguing over the merits of different models of air scrubbers while a young clerk hovered nearby, looking for a break in the dispute.
“Those spacers look Saturnian,” Tycho said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
“Are you asking me if they’re Ice Wolves?” the woman asked with a raised eyebrow.
Tycho shrugged.
“Don’t know and don’t care,” she said. “Saturnians, Jovians, asteroid dwellers, Martians, Earthfolk—we get them all in here. Their livres are legal tender, which is good enough for me. Anything beyond that is information, kid. And information isn’t free.”
“Hey, jump-pop,” Yana said, peeking at a cooler behind the counter. “I’ll take an orange—as long as it’s cold.”
The depot owner eyed Yana, then placed a jump-pop in front of her. The bottle was covered with frost.
“Could I get a lime one, please?” Tycho asked.
“That’s ten livres,” the woman said.
“Ten?” Yana asked in shock. “They’re two for seven in the Southwell.”
“They’re also warm and left over from last year’s imports. Up to you.”
“Fine,” Yana grumbled, passing over a coin and downing a long swallow of jump-pop.
“All right,” the woman said, turning her mediapad around so they could see it. “Water, air, consumables as specified.”
“I think you put a decimal point in the wrong place,” Yana said.
“This does seems awfully high,” Tycho said.
“It’s correct. And what I sell will weigh the same on the landing-field scale as it’s listed on the manifest. Which won’t be true if you buy in the Southwell.”
“It’s still outrageous,” Yana said.
The depot owner sighed.
“Did you see all the ships in orbit when you made port, kid? This little rock is booming rig
ht now. That’s the price. If you don’t want to pay it, within an hour I’ll have two captains who will.”
Tycho and Yana looked at each other uncertainly.
“Does that include delivery to the landing pad, at least?” Tycho asked.
“It does not. We’ll prepare a shipment for transport by your own people, but delivery is extra.”
“Last time we restocked on Ceres, it was half this price,” Yana said.
“So restock on Ceres,” the woman said, pointing. “It’s one hundred million kilometers that way.”
Tycho started to argue, but the woman was looking past him, a curious expression on her face.
“So it’s you,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”
Tycho turned and saw Diocletia standing behind Yana, arms folded across her chest.
“It has, hasn’t it?” Diocletia said. “Hello, Mother.”
13
TABLE MANNERS
Yana was the first to recover, peering curiously at the depot owner.
“You’re our grandmother? That means your name is . . . Elfrieda?”
The woman nodded. “Elfrieda Stehley. You must be Yana. I should have guessed—you’re the spitting image of Carina when she was your age. And this would be Tycho, then.”
Tycho started to say something, but Elfrieda’s attention had returned to Diocletia. The two women eyed each other in silence.
“Last I heard, you were running a hostel at the Hygiea roadstead,” Diocletia said at last.
“Gave that up years ago. So where’s Carlo?”
“Back in our quarters. Dad’s here too.” Diocletia’s eyes jumped to Tycho and Yana. “In fact, he was supposed to be with the two of you.”
“He’s at One-Legged Pete’s,” Tycho said. “Uh, gathering intelligence on shipping.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Elfrieda brightened for the first time. “Glad to hear the old pirate is still kicking. Send him by for a nip, will you?”
“I’ll tell him you’ve fetched up here,” Diocletia said, glancing down at the mediapad. “So is our business concluded?”
“We were discussing that when you arrived,” Elfrieda said, passing the mediapad over. “That price doesn’t include delivery.”