by Sharon Lee
He smiled. Semimodo paled, his eyes seeking the screens.
He looked back to Clarence and, credit where it was due, made a credible effort to get the glare back in place.
Clarence tempered his smile with sympathy.
“That really is your best deal,” he said.
* * * * *
Veep Semimodo’s bluster evaporated completely as the sound of many voices and feet approaching their position grew louder. He took the lesser payment, and an in-hand bribe, and even marked the printout “paid” and signed it with his official chop.
Then, he folded his math-stick, his wallet and his papers, and moved hastily around the counter.
“Let me through!” he snapped at Win Ton’s back.
Win Ton, a thing of grace and beauty, swung lightly out of his way; Stost pivoted on one heel.
One bullyboy had already hit the door out to the hallway, the other brought up the rear, Veep Semimodo bracketed between them.
Clarence grabbed Tranza by the elbow.
“Time to go, laddie,” he said and set off after Semimodo. Stost and Win Ton fell in behind.
Ahead, the veep and his men had reached the intersection with the main hall and ducked to the left, opposite to all the noise, scuttling down a hand-railed side hall.
Short of the side hall, Clarence turned, one hand still holding Tranza, and signed with his free hand, a simple point at the deck coupled with here hold short, and flicked his fingers from palm to full hand four times.
Behind them, Win Ton heard the door to the transient lounge close.
He nodded, turned about, not surprised, but pleased, to find Stost with him still, as the elder pilots disappeared down the side hall, in the wake of Veep Semimodo.
“We hold,” Win Ton said in Trade, and the big man looked down at him with a smile, eyes bright.
“No problem,” he said in Terran.
Win Ton recognized Clarence in the phrase, but did not laugh. No problem indeed; Stost’s business, far more than his own, was force.
The crowd was approaching quickly. Win Ton sighed and centered himself.
“Tever owes me, owes all of us!”
“Money’s gotta get paid afore that ship leaves!”
“Cut m’brother, stole his watch!”
Echoes and anger herded splinters of conversation ahead of the approaching stationers.
“Five,” Stost said conversationally in Trade. Win Ton frowned—then realized that his companion was counting seconds.
And here they came, rounding the corner in disordered haste—a compressed mob of docksiders, some in uniform, riding the gravity shifts along the hallway without trouble, without notice. Several were armed with pipes; some others with hammers. Win Ton fervently hoped that no one would try to deploy their weapon; their ranks were so tight that they would surely harm each other before ever they touched Stost or him.
Finding the hall blocked, the crowd slowed, casting puzzled glances at each other.
Win Ton stood, centered and calm, hands crossed on his belt, waiting.
“It’s another star-froze Liaden! What’re we? Invaded?”
Then they saw Stost, standing calmly, his pose mirroring, Win Ton realized, his own. It was a moment before the crowd comprehended him, a head taller than any present, nearly too large to be seen.
“Don’t block us, we’re going in there!”
“Ten,” said Stost, sotto voce.
One of the leading edge of docksiders pointed past Stost to the closed door.
“We got cause, and we got the right. We’re gonna—”
Win Ton raised one hand, palm out, in the age-old sign for stop. The other hand, he extended, fingers flashing a sign well-known to space workers and stationers: cut jets!
That brought their eyes to his face.
He kept his palm extended, lowering the other hand. He met the eyes of a square-built individual in mechanic overalls who stood a little ahead of the rest, the head of a mallet resting against one broad shoulder.
“You have arrived too late, if I understand your intent. Veep Semimodo and others of his party have returned to his office. Likely you will find him there, if you wish to speak with him.”
There were nine of them; far too many to reason with, but perhaps bored indifference would turn the trick. Briefly, Win Ton wished that he had Theo’s skill in dealing with crowds.
“You’re blocking the door,” said the woman with the mallet. “We know who’s in there, an’ he ain’t flying outta here ’til we get—”
In the distance Win Ton heard the sound of the mistuned lift rising to dockside. Under it was another sound, rapid steps descending the stair system. They slowed, then after an exchange of hushed and undecipherable murmurs, regained pace.
“Fifteen,” Stost said, very nearly cheerful.
The leader had stepped forward, her mallet held cross-body now, one hand gripping the stock just below the head. She stopped a short arm’s reach in front of Stost, which was not well judged, for she had to crane dangerously, sacrificing her balance in order to see his face.
“Outta the way, Long Drink. Make room!”
Looking down at her, Stost extended one hand, palm out. The leader frowned, words stopped for a moment—and a moment was all that Win Ton required.
“I repeat—you will find no one beyond that door. If you wish to speak to Veep Semimodo, seek him in his office.”
“Let us through!” shouted someone from the back of the crowd. The front of the crowd moved uneasily forward.
Stost said, “Twenty.”
Win Ton dropped his warning hand, though he did not take his eyes off of the knot of angry people before them.
“Troop, stand aside,” he said in Old Yxtrang. “We two shall move on to duty elsewhere.”
Stost took one large step back, and another to the left.
Win Ton likewise stepped to the left—and the crowd surged past them, rushing toward the lounge door.
Win Ton caught Stost’s eye and pointed to the side hall whence Semimodo, Clarence, and Tranza had vanished.
Stost waved him ahead, and the two of them began to hurry.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Bechimo
Bridge
“We’re now in process, Bechimo. Confirm triple blue strobes are our pod target!”
“Confirmed, dockside. Triple blue.”
Kara’s concentration on her boards was very nearly trancelike. This sort of maneuver—when an ill-timed delivery could hole a hull—this was when engineers and cargo masters earned their pay.
Minot Station was operating the transfer drone, with Kara standing by; the push of a single button would take the operation to manual should anything go awry.
So far, everything was proceeding smoothly. Theo’s work had been done well: the pod announced itself live, set itself to release-ready, and finally releasing to the transport lock. No hesitation, no glitches.
Dockside also did well, for all that the transfer was across no more than three of Bechimo’s lengths. Working close-in like this was nerve-wracking, as she knew from her own experience. Minot Station displayed nothing but calm competence.
Once released from Primadonna, the mini-pod happily chatted with the drone’s systems, and with Bechimo’s; the temp link registered properly on Kara’s board and that of the drone pilot, the low-speed rotations syncing easily in the shared orbit.
“We have an approach and are ready to commit when you say the word,” Minot Station said.
“Everything looks good here,” Kara answered. “We use a shorter commit range for the mini-pods. Can you tighten it up a tenth?”
The closing drone responded immediately.
“Oh, aye,” the drone’s pilot said, possibly to herself or to her second. “That’s a Waymart ship. We’ll bring it in.”
Kara frowned as irritation briefly disturbed her concentration. As if there was something wrong—something suspect—about ships registered at Waymart!
She took a breat
h, focusing on the task in hand.
“Please do bring it in, Pilot; we will be fine.”
And there! The pod was in position, just shy of physically touching Bechimo’s mount points. Kara’s lead docking screen was in 3D mode in case she needed to take over, but everything, including the close-ups of the regular and the Jump clamps, was orderly.
“All good,” she told the drone pilot. “Commit when ready. Automatics will accept.”
She saw the pod slide gently onto the mount points; half a dozen status lights lit on her board, verifying the connection—yet she never felt the linkup.
“Mass and dimensions analyzed and adjusted,” Joyita said.
“Sharp job, gang,” Kara said to the drone pilot, pulling from Clarence’s dockside vocabulary. “Everything here is right and tight. You may clear the area. We’ll test the pod’s shield integrity.”
As soon as the drone cleared the bounce zone, she did just that, to the limit possible while still attached to the station. All by the book and everything binjali.
She leaned back in her chair, letting the work trance go. Theo should be back aboard soon now; as well as Clarence, Win Ton, Stost, and their passenger. Then, they would leave this dreadful place for—
“Kara,” Joyita’s voice cut through this pleasant train of thought, “there are multiple security issues of which you must be made aware, as the ranking crew member aboard.”
Kara sat up, dread replacing the warm glow of accomplishment and anticipation. She met Joyita’s eyes.
“I’m listening,” she told him.
* * * * *
They had been forced to vary, not once but twice, by the advent of angry stationers. It was then that Win Ton learned that Stost had studied the station maps as closely, or perhaps even more closely than he had.
The corridor they were presently traversing showed signs of being a less-favored route. However, the station map had it ending at a gate in not many more steps, and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY had been writ large and red. They had met no one since they had ducked out of the sight of three persons running noisily toward the lift on the level above, and they passed down this corridor as silently as a brace of ghosts, the pathfinder walking as silently as the Scout.
“We go down a level there,” Stost said, pointing ahead. “There is a utility corridor and a stair at the south end.”
Win Ton remembered the utility corridor hazily. He had not, truth told, been thinking in terms of descending into the belly of the station when he had made his study. Stost was apparently possessed of a more suspicious nature.
“A good plan,” Win Ton approved. “If we cannot go through them, we will go under them.”
The stairway Stost had indicated was steps away, and Win Ton swung into it, finding the way…rather thin.
Stost’s shoulders would be rubbing the walls, he thought, but heard nothing behind him. A glance back showed the pathfinder descending sideways, speed and balance unimpaired. Win Ton nodded and increased his own pace downward.
* * * * *
Chernak had been watching the man outside the main hatch for some while now. Joyita had asked her to lend her eyes to the task and she was pleased to do so, though the man and his actions puzzled her.
Ambassador Hevelin had joined her in the galley, climbing companionably onto her knee. He, too, watched the security feed, and with an intensity that suggested not only understanding, but concern.
“I think that, himself, he is not a danger,” she murmured in Trade, as he offered no commentary of his own. “As you see, he is a civilian, neither pilot nor soldier. Young, but soft. There is a weight in each jacket pocket, but not the same weight. Weapons? We assume so, and we remember that this is what the captain styles a rough port. It may be prudent here to go armed. He has not placed anything against the hull. He has not announced himself. Yet he occupies our dock. He waits, but for what event? Can he know that the captain is off-ship? Does he have business with the abandoned pilot, soon to arrive? That is likeliest, I think.”
She stirred.
“Friend Joyita.”
“Chernak?” came the reply.
“The returning pilots have Stost as escort and need fear nothing from this one at our door. The captain, I think, has no escort. I do not say that she is vulnerable, but it might be wise for her to acquire a guard before she returns.”
She paused.
“I might go out now, and roust him before any returns. I can be very firm.”
There was a small sound and Chernak looked to Joyita in wonder. He was chuckling.
“You learn, and learn again,” she commented, trading him one of her true smiles.
“I am taught by masters,” Joyita said gravely. “As for your offer, I believe that you can be very firm. In this instance, Kara must make the decision, as ranking crew aboard.”
That was the correct chain. Chernak bowed her head.
“Tell Kara, please, that I stand ready to receive her orders.”
* * * * *
“Call Station Security and have him removed,” Kara said, staring at the image of their dock and their loiterer. She was angry. How dare he remain there, before their hatch, after she had denied him? Obstinate fool.
“I called Minot Station Security when it became obvious that he wasn’t going to leave, despite your firm refusal to see him.” Joyita sounded nearly abashed. “I was informed that all Security personnel are involved in containing and dispersing a riot that started near, or in, the transient crew cabins.”
Kara stared at him, suddenly cold.
“Clarence and Win Ton, Stost and Pilot Tranza—they are on their way back to the ship?”
“We have received word from Clarence. He and Pilot Tranza are en route and should arrive soon. However, the party became separated. Win Ton and Stost are using another route, and their return may be delayed.”
Kara glared at the image of Intern Eidalec, shivering with anger.
“Also,” Joyita said.
She transferred the glare to him. “There’s more?”
“A potential security issue,” Joyita said apologetically. “Bechimo reports that Chandra Marudas has docked at Minot South, and six of her crew are on-station.”
It took her a moment to recall the ship name.
“The Old Tech hunters. Do they hunt us—Bechimo and…you?”
“Insufficient data,” Joyita said, his voice flat and machinelike. “We are monitoring.”
“And in the meantime, that fool of an intern sits outside our lock,” Kara said, welcoming the warmth of her increased anger.
“Chernak wishes you to know that she stands by to receive your orders to remove him. She states that she can be very firm.”
Kara hiccuped a half-laugh against her anger.
“I don’t doubt that. But, no. He wishes to see me, and apparently he is prepared to remain until he does. I will go, with Chernak as backup. Please ask her to meet me in the hall.”
“Yes, Kara,” Joyita said.
* * * * *
Their progress had for the last quarter hour been down utility corridors and up a series of ever-more-disreputable ladders. Now, however, they had achieved the second level, and the back ways would no longer serve them. Accordingly, they had climbed one last ladder, this ending in a hatch above their heads and secured by a simple mechanical lock.
Win Ton sighed, caught between frustration at such a ramshackle arrangement and relief that the matter was not more complicated. Had he been wearing a full Scout belt-kit, he might have managed any number of complex locking mechanisms, but he no longer seemed to have a belt-kit. Perhaps it was stored with the rest of his effects at headquarters.
Less than a minute later, he quietly raised the hatch enough so that he could peer out into the hallway and listen.
“I see no one,” he murmured.
“I hear nothing,” said Stost, who, so he had learned, possessed a pair of very fine ears.
“Then let us seize the moment.”
He pushed the hatch fully open and pulled himself up into the corridor, Stost following.
* * * * *
Kara set a brisk pace to the hatch, fists clenching and unclenching.
She was angry, then, Chernak deduced, following. The soft youth before the door offended her. To allow him to remain when the captain was soon to return—it reflected poorly on her ability to keep the ship, no matter the possibility of danger to the captain herself.
Chernak moved carefully, not only because she did not wish to overrun Kara, but because Hevelin had climbed to her shoulder, insisting that he be made a part of the upcoming action. He was making soft sounds, not the usual cheerful murbles and purrs, but something closer to a growl, as Grakow might growl when stalking the Great Enemy in his sleep.
He was also sharing images, quietly, overlain with a sense of concern. Chernak saw people hurrying purposefully down a hall, and perhaps a room being barricaded for defense.
They had reached the vestibule, and here Kara paused to open a locker. Inside, hung in neat array, like with like, were hammers, pry-bars, wrench-kits, cutters and other useful dockside tools.
“I do not think this matter will require force—he is stupid, not violent,” Kara said. “There are regulations concerning the use of firearms on-station and fines for ignoring the rules. However, there are no rules against using a star hammer or a pry-bar to calm someone who has become agitated, or so far forgets himself as to threaten violence against the ship or the captain. Do you understand me?”
Hevelin murbled.
Chernak smiled, showing just a hint of tooth, as one might with a comrade before battle.
“Kara, I do.”
The answering smile was every bit as fierce, then Kara nodded at the open locker.
“Best you stand before this; watch and hold yourself ready. If he is stupid enough to try, you will not allow this person into our ship. I don’t think that he’s that stupid.
“I will go out and dismiss him.”
She triggered the hatch.