Once settled, Sind removed his lenses, pulled a kerchief from the pocket of his coveralls, wiped them, mopped his forehead, and replaced the lenses on the bridge of his nose. Returning the kerchief to its place, he fixed her with those too-large eyes. Pellis gave her that disarming smile, yet again revealing his perfect teeth before starting to speak. She imagined him winning the confidence of many with that smile.
"We have to apologise to you, Mahra, but once more my worthy partner here has corrected my impulsive ways. My friend Jayeer here is the restraint in our operation. The voice of caution and good sense. He tempers my head-strong nature with a little logic and a lot of common sense. It is my fault, you see. I tend to rush into things. From time to time to my cost, I must admit. But, enough of that. It is true that we — that is Mezzer Sind and myself — may had something to offer, but first we would like, or at least want to ask you to tell us a little about yourself. Who you are. What you are. You know, simply things like that." The last he said with a grin, obviously to put her at ease.
"Uh-huh," she replied, reaching up to scratch Chutzpah between the ears. "And what do I get in return?"
"Ah, surely, a fair question. For a start, we'll keep that mug full for as long as it might take, and in return we'll also tell you what we might be offering. That is, if it's worth telling. Does that sound fair?"
Mahra looked slowly from one to the other, pressed her lips together, and equally as slowly, nodded. She lifted her mug and took a long swallow to give herself breathing space in which to consider her options. What to tell? What not to tell? Taking a deep breath and licking her lips, she decided to start.
"As I said, I've done my share of militaire. Short hops usually, but there have been one or two long hauls in there. I even ran as a merc for a while. Won't tell you who for. You don't need to know that. Don't like the mercenary game though. Too much political ideology and I'm not too hot on that sort of factionalism. A few years ago now, I did some bodyguard work as well, but that was pretty boring. Basically, consisted of standing round all day looking tough. Left that one because the individual concerned finally ended up making unreasonable demands. Wanted me to do more with his body than just guard it, and quite frankly, I wasn't interested. Since then, well, my last four contracts have involved courier work. You know, sensitive stuff. There are a few others besides that, but that's about it. What more would you like to know?"
At this point the silent Sind decided to make his presence felt. His voice was soft, the words slightly accented in a manner that suggests Andaran origins.
"Your homeworld?" he asked, and she could feel the probe in his voice.
"Unimportant, Mezzer Sind. I'll tell you what you need to know and not a shred more."
"Family?" he fired back.
"No, at least not any more. And I don't want to speak about that either if that's okay with you?" she said pointedly. She took another swallow from her mug, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Any legal problems?"
"No, none to speak of."
"Attachments?"
"Two arms, two legs ... a zimonette."
"Attachments?" Sind repeated, stolidly ignoring her reply.
"No, if we don't count Chutz here. He's the only attachment I need." She scratched the underside of his chin to reinforce the point and just to make sure any negative feeling he was getting didn't upset him too much.
"All right then. Skills," Sind asked and sat back with his arms folded across his ample middle.
"Hmm, what would you like? ... Small arms. Hand to hand. Range weapons. Explosives if necessary. Some comp…" Sind snorted and Mahra ignored the sound and continued. "Tracking. Flying if I have to… do you want me to continue?" she asked.
"No, no. I think not," interrupted Pellis before Sind could reply. "I believe you've covered all the information we require, to now. Is that right, Jay?”
“References?” said the smaller man, unwilling to be distracted.
Mahra laughed out loud.
Timon gave an amused snort.
“Right you are,” he said. “And I suppose that it is only right and just that we fulfil our part of the agreement. Now ... what can we tell you?"
Pellis paused for a moment, framing his words as he sat back, cupped his hands behind his head, and stretched his legs out beneath the table.
"You see, Mahra, my partner Jayeer and myself we're in, well, a funny range of business. You might say we are in the import-export trade. We ran into a little bit of bother on our last haul, got a little banged-up. As a result of those, um, unfortunate circumstances we're short a member of our crew ... Now it's not only free trade that we're involved in, you see. A bit like yourself in that respect. So, because of our unplanned vacancy, we're looking for a bit of an all-rounder to temporarily fill the hole in our number. Someone to pick up the slack you might say. It sounds as if you've got the range of skills that we need. So, if you're interested in such a role, say so and we can discuss a few more details. If not, we might as well call a stop to the proceedings here and wish each other a very good night. Well ... what do you say?"
"Mm-hm. You have my attention." She tried not to sound too eager. "Please continue."
"All right then." He smiled, looking pleased with himself. "We have ourselves a ship. Our ship. Right now, she is in need of a little repair. We expect to have her back in a serviceable state in about ten days or so. As soon as she is ready, we'll be shipping out. It doesn't matter where at this stage, but it's neither a long haul, nor a short hop. We'll be running silent is was our habit. Generally, we're able to come and go as we please on New Helvetica."
Mahra involuntarily raised her eyebrows. Movement in and out of New Helvetica, as they pleased, and, with their own ship. Things were looking better and better.
"If you're still interested, you can join us on a trial contract basis. We'd pay you twelve hundred creds for the first haul. Subject to a satisfactory conclusion, we'd offer the possibility of a bonus and re-negotiation after that. The contract would be settled here on New Helvetica between ourselves, so, totally, and legitimately free of tax creds. Now, don't get me wrong. You'd be expected to pull your weight on board. We don't carry useless loads or unnecessary weight — if you get my meaning? No obligation on our part at all. If it turned out to be the case and there was a port handy ... well and good. If there wasn't ... no obligation. Is that very clear?"
"Yes, it's clear." She tried to appear as unfazed as possible and ignore the implied threat. "Um — what about equipment?"
"You would bring what you have. We also have a fully stocked armoury on board, so that is not a problem. All ship's property. Your pet ... sorry ... your companion, can bunk with you. Hygiene would be your responsibility though."
"What about a life-box for him? He is not exactly going to fit into a suit, is he?"
"No ... I take your point. We don't have one. Not part of our standard carriage you see. Fair question. I suppose we can buy one," said Pellis, shrugged, then turned and scowled at Sind as he received a kick under the table for his efforts. "There you go again, Jay. Having a go at my generous nature. Well, too bad. I've said it. It stands."
Sind merely humphed in reply and crossed his arms tighter across his chest.
"So, Mez Kaitan. How does it sound so far? Interested?"
"Well ... to be honest ... more than interested, Timon. More than interested. If you want to, you can count me in."
"All right, it's settled then. We can meet together again the day before we depart. Give you time to settle in."
"Um ... Timon, there's just one small matter ... " said Mahra with a little hesitation. "I'm running a little short and...."
"Oh, is that all that's bothering you. Look, I'll give you five up front if that's the case."
For this, Pellis received an elbow in the ribs. Sind shook his head and muttered to himself. Pellis ignored him, and continued speaking. "Give me your cred number and I'll have the transfer done first thing in the morning."
"Look, I really appreciate this, Timon. Have you got a comp to take down the number?"
"No, no. No need for that. Just tell it to Jayeer. I've never known the man to forget a number yet."
Mahra groped around and fished out her card. Painfully she read off the numbering etched into the surface. She tilted it from side to side to catch the light. Sind looked at her as she said it, merely blinked twice, then looked away without saying a word.
"Well then. We're agreed," said Pellis, and flashed her a smile. "Come on, Jay, we have things to do. We'll meet again in a ten-day."
Pellis and Sind slipped from the booth and turned to make their way to the door.
"But where…?" said Mahra as they turned, remembering that nothing had been said about the location.
"Oh yes. I nearly forgot. Dock D9. You'll recognise the ship," said Pellis as he walked toward the exit. Mahra raised her hand in farewell to the retreating backs.
Yes, she thought, We're in.
She might like this Timon Pellis. His easy charm and casual manner had won her over almost immediately. She was not so sure about the other one, Sind, but perhaps in time. Pellis was right. Sind certainly lent reserve and restraint to the proceedings — and more than a little. The two had been arguing again all the way to the door. Well, for what it was worth, it looked like she might be in work again. In many ways, it all sounded too good to be true. She could save her enthusiasm though. And if it all worked out in the morning, she'd have a ten-day to spend amusing herself with a cred balance, and not having to worry about whether the next meal might blow her limit.
She settled back into the corner and smiled. She could check if things were all on the level tomorrow. She'd know then if the cred transfer had been made. If it had, then things were going to work out. If it hadn't she'd lost nothing. Simple as that. Just then, she had a thought. This Timon Pellis had seemed pretty relaxed about accepting her say so. No tests, no verification. She wondered, briefly, what was up with that. A little too easy. But then she sat back, shaking her head. It didn’t serve to question good fortune too much.
"What was say we play at being tourists Chutz?" she said scratching him under the chin. "Would you like that for a change?"
Chapter Two
Valdor Carr stares out across the lights and cold through his own reflected image on the window pane. He really did love this cut and thrust. He smiles to himself. Just as well nobody else could see through him in the same way.
He takes a large mouthful of brandy, and runs his fingers through long, dark hair highlighted with grey. Valdor Carr is not exactly what people call good looking, but with his high cheek bones, hawkish nose, and dark brooding eyes, he is certainly striking — the sort of man who stands out in a crowded room without really trying. He could fix somebody with that stare without saying a word and make them question, make them doubt. And he uses it to good advantage, often.
He stands surveying for a few minutes longer, mulling over the day, as his breath condenses on the glass and gradually fogs his reflection. He had crucified Masterin in the boardroom that afternoon. It had taken the minimum of effort, and he’d taken immense pleasure doing it; undermining the bargaining position and manoeuvring the terms of surrender. He traces his finger over the cool granite sill, playing it over in his head, before taking a final swallow.
The long, black, fur-trimmed coat swirls around him as he spins and strides to the large wooden desk that dominates the room. His desk. His room. It was all his — won by hard work and subterfuge. Valdor has a knack for such things. Life was an arena of thrust and counter-thrust, never letting the guard down; or only enough to make the opponent over-commit. And Valdor is a key player. His current position was neither gained easily, nor rapidly, and he suffered the inevitable losses along the way, but it was a position worth taking the time to savour now. He loves what he does and if it won him few friends, so what? He spends a few more moments musing before taking his seat.
Valdor likes to own, but at the same time he doesn't like to be seen owning. Being obvious about such things makes you vulnerable. A good deal of the landscape that stretched out beyond his window bears his marks, but invisibly. He acts as a silent partner in a number of organisations, ostensibly allowing others to perform the dealings that are, in truth, his own. Neither does Valdor Carr play politics, at least not openly, but he is a master all the same. His minions are many and varied, and only a scant number knew that he owned them. They might suspect, but in the end, that is good enough.
It is a relatively easy thing to maintain that anonymity. To know that you can control and manipulate the lives of the faceless, and the not-so-faceless masses, and yet have them completely oblivious to it, makes it so much sweeter. He hates to think of ever losing it.
Carr Holdings is, on the face of it, a small operation, but, if any had ever mustered the nerve to follow the data trails they would have been in for a rude surprise. There had been a CoCee appointed corporate investigator once, who had done just that, but he developed a severe personal crisis at a crucial juncture. He was forced, unfortunately, to withdrew from his duties. At about the same time, several files and, strangely enough, all their backups had gone missing from CoCee archives. Such untimely coincidences.
Valdor smiles at the memory and traces his fingers over his desk surface.
There had also been that private investigator hired by a rival company. The man now worked for Valdor, full time. There was always a price. Not necessarily a price measured in monetary terms, but a price all the same. Valdor is aware of what his own personal price is, all the same; purely and simply it is power. But he doesn't really believe there are any with enough of the stuff to tempt him anymore.
He comes from a family firmly entrenched in the middle echelons of society, on a moderately well to do, but mainly agricultural world out toward the system rim. The world produces export goods; primarily system-wide exotica like kahveh. Ninety per cent of the system's populace start their day with the infusion and the Kalanian Black Mountains provide a leaf prized for both flavour and strength. The socially acceptable stimulant has become the major basis for virtually the entire world's economy. Kalany also produces other export products, such as the exotic spices suited to grow in the warm and humid climate, but kahveh is the mainstay.
Valdor hates Kalany.
His upbringing was usual enough for someone from that particular social stratum: a good family; a modest, but comfortably appointed home; parents who instilled in him all the good and worthwhile values, as they saw them. And the plantations, stretching out across the foothills — the leaves fading from deep red to burgundy in the wavering summer twilights. And there are two things Valdor really detests in life. One is a sedate rural lifestyle; the other is heat. He visits his family from time to time, but invariably within one or two days, he becomes so bored, and so uncomfortable, that he has to drag up some excuse about appointments, or work, and leave. Certainly, he feels some attachment for his parents, for all his family, but their world is just so different, so removed from his. Thoughts of Kalany bring back the memories of years of frustration and yearning; longing to get off world and away to somewhere with at least a touch of action and excitement. It was always hard to return to a place where you spent so much of your youth aching to get away. So, he would be dutiful later; he'd visit his parents in a month or so. There was plenty of time for that.
He places his glass down on his desk's broad surface. The empty glass would be picked up and cleared away sometime during the night by one of the faceless staff who quietly saw to his needs. Always without fuss, the way he liked it. He hasn't got time to be bothered with trivialities. It is time now to do some serious thinking.
He strides round the desk and settles himself in the large wing-backed chair that sits behind. The chair is an affectation he knew, but it serves many purposes. It enforces the subconscious power relationship with any who sit opposite, prompting the symbols of authority and position. Its wings envelop him w
hen he wishes to be alone with his thoughts. Sometimes, after a particularly long session, or even in the middle of one, he can sink back into the padded comfort to doze, but mainly he uses it to cut distractions. The wings block movements in the periphery of his vision, made by staff, or others, that otherwise drag at his attention and disrupt his chain of concentration. Right now, he needs to concentrate.
He's been caught up the last few days in his own machinations and has not had the time to play in the outside world — the real world. Internal power struggles all too often become the focus and they sap his attention, leaving him out of touch with the movements of things outside, and outside, things always occur rapidly. Sometimes too rapidly.
He places his palm on the recessed panel cut into the desktop's black expanse, and taps out the boot sequence with his fingers. The comp is keyed to both his palm and a precise pattern only he knew. Sometimes he thinks the level of precaution is a little paranoid, but he prefers to be sure. The screen irises into existence above the desk. Lightly, he taps the end of his middle finger into a faintly edged depression on the desk surface to initiate the update sequence. Colours, graphs, figures, and notes spring into existence, scrolling rapidly across the screen. His practised eye scans the sequences, skimming the surface of the information, finger poised, ready to hit pause if anything snags his attention.
The displays show the usual assorted details: power bases, shares, holdings, profit and loss, mergers, acquisitions. Nothing really there to excite his interest. He notes that one or two newer projects could do with a little bolstering. Patchy performance here and there. His lack of personal attention over the past few days shows. Things never work as well if you leave them in the hands of subordinates. There is nothing there that really requires personal intervention — nothing that can't wait. He's been doing well enough, he thinks, but it is all gloss, no real pressure. Perhaps it's time for a little bit of exploration, a little bit of diversification.
The Jump Point Page 3