by Alex Stewart
“I should tell the skipper,” I said. “This is going to make a real mess of the paperwork. Though he’ll probably blame me.”
“Of course he will,” Plubek agreed, taking another swig. This was going even better than I’d hoped. “You’re the newbie. That’s your job.” Then, to my horror, he recorked the bottle, and replaced it in the crate. “That’s enough. Against regulations to be drinking on duty.” He smiled at me, in a manner almost entirely devoid of good humor. “You’re not trying to get me so drunk I miss whatever you’re really smuggling, are you?”
“No,” I said, with perhaps a little too much vehemence.
“Shame. It never works, but I don’t mind people trying.” He shrugged. “Transgene, see; I stop metabolizing the alcohol as soon as there’s just enough in my system to enjoy.”
“How very nice for you,” I said.
“Perk of the job.” A calculating look entered his eye. “But I wouldn’t want you getting in trouble with your skipper. Maybe this crate better just disappear.”
“Maybe it should,” I said. “Stop anyone spotting the discrepancy.”
Then my own words struck me like a bucket of ice water. He’d already downloaded a copy of the unmodified manifest to the handheld. If I couldn’t find a way in there to make the same adjustment, my meddling would be immediately obvious. Remington would turf me off the ship, and I’d probably find myself on the wrong side of a ton of Numarkut laws and customs regulations to boot.
“Just what I was thinking.” He sent a brief signal, and within a couple of minutes a drone emblazoned with the crest of the Numarkut Excise was hoisting the crate and buzzing out of the hold with it. “Now, what else have you got down here?”
As our tour of the holds progressed, I began to understand how the system worked; and, how, gallingly, I’d got myself into potentially serious trouble for no good reason. Anything, it seemed, which caught his fancy, Plubek would decide had been improperly packed, or contravened some local regulation, and impound. And anything impounded would immediately be scooped up by the drone, to be conveyed to the hold of his customs cutter. Which, fortunately, was small enough to have docked comfortably inside only one of ours, or, I suspected, our cargo would simply have been gutted. (A suspicion I was later to discover was entirely unfounded: an elaborate informal, but nonetheless rigidly adhered to, protocol existed between the Guild and the Numarkut Excise, governing precisely how much they could confiscate, and which items that, though technically prohibited, they would regrettably fail to notice.)
At the time, though, I was barely aware of what was going on around me, being completely preoccupied with the problem of cracking Plubek’s handheld. Going in through his ‘sphere was clearly not going to be an option. However, if it was supposed to interface with old-fashioned technologies, as he’d intimated, there was bound to be a port for that. Not ideal, but if it was my only way in, I’d just have to find a way. In the meantime, I spun things out as long as I could, with a stream of the kind of content-free conversation I’d been perfecting since my first cotillion.
Once again, my gift for improvised data manipulation came to my rescue. Every time the drone removed an item from the hold it sent an update to Plubek’s handheld, and once I’d noticed that, I recorded the next exchange. Sure enough, there was an identifiable key at the start of the datablurt, and as soon as I’d got into that, I could set to work. Stripping out the datanomes I needed, and carefully walling off the area of my ‘sphere I was working in from the connection Plubek was maintaining, I swapped them into my sneakware and poked cautiously at the handheld’s access port.
To my relief, and, I must confess, some degree of surprise, it worked first time. There wasn’t any leisure for self-congratulation, though; Plubek could mesh directly with the device again at any moment, and I had to be in and out again before he did.
My first surprise was how little information there was in there. Personal ‘spheres tended to be linked to a nearby node most of the time, conferring almost limitless access and storage; but the relatively primitive handheld was constrained by its architecture, unable to spill over into the wider datasphere. Unless that was a deliberate security feature, of course: as that thought occurred to me, I resolved to be even more circumspect.
Fortunately, the Stacked Deck’s manifest was the first thing I came across, and repeating my modification to the inventory the work of a nano. After that, I couldn’t hang about for long enough to see what else the handheld contained, so I simply grabbed copies of everything and fled. My own ‘sphere was too small to contain it all, but I’d been allocated a bit of personal space on the ship’s node (with further threats from Remington of dire consequences if I ever misused it), so I simply diverted my digital spoils there, and hoped for the best. I’d walled off the area with some basic privacy protocols (nothing like as sophisticated as I could have done, but I didn’t want to advertise just how skilled I was at this sort of thing—which would probably have made my shipmates a little nervous), and I was under no illusions that they’d hold for long if anyone was serious about taking a peek—which was why I hadn’t stored anything sensitive there up until now. I briefly considered upgrading the security on the fly, but decided against it, on the grounds that doing so would only draw attention to the fact that there was something worth looking at there now; better just to let sleeping dogs lie.
As the data took a subjectively eternal two or three seconds to copy across I found myself holding my breath in an agony of suspense, convinced that Plubek would notice the transfer; but he remained focused on the cargo, no doubt looking for something else worth filching. As the last few shreds of data slipped out of my ‘sphere he straightened up, a bottle of Silverwine in each hand.
“Improperly stamped,” he said, shaking his head sorrowfully, although the vintner’s impression in the wax seal below the cork seemed clear enough to me. “I’ll have to impound it.”
“Better safe than sorry,” I agreed, colluding in the game. “Where to next?”
“I think we’re done,” the Inspector said, which came as no surprise. He’d already been through all the other holds by this point, and I had no doubt that his own was so full there wasn’t room for any more “contraband” anyway. “Where’s Captain Remington?”
“I’m not sure, exactly,” I said, truthfully enough, although I was pretty sure I could narrow it down to one of two possible locations. As it was, though, I was spared the potential embarrassment of interrupting his consultation with the chief engineer by the clatter of boot soles on the metal stairway, followed almost at once by the skipper himself. To my pleased surprise Clio was at his elbow, and favored me with a slightly perfunctory nod of greeting.
“All done, are we?” Remington asked cheerfully, and Plubek nodded.
“I believe so, Captain. Everything seems to be in order, although some items in your manifest appear to be unaccounted for. I suggest you adjust it accordingly.” The manifest appeared in the datasphere, the items he’d pilfered highlighted.
“Bloody shipping clerks.” Remington shook his head ruefully, pretending to believe the bare-faced lie, and not fooling anyone for a second. “Thank you for your diligence.”
“And you for your co-operation.” The formal words were delivered politely by both, but I’d heard enough superficially civil conversations in Avalonian society to pick up on the mutual antipathy at once.
“Miss Rennau will see you back to the airlock,” Remington said.
Clio stepped forward on cue, and nodded to Plubek. “This way.”
She turned, and began to lead the way up the stairs without a backward glance, although I had no doubt that the Inspector had seen the inside of enough standard freighters to be able to find his own way back without any trouble at all. The real reason for the apparent courtesy was that Remington didn’t trust the man anywhere out of the eyeline of at least one of his crew, and with good reason so far as I could see.
“That went well,” Remington said, with
out much detectable sarcasm, as Plubek disappeared from view. Then he turned to me, his face stern. “Remember what I said about you playing silly buggers with the node on my ship?”
“Yes, skipper.” The words forced themselves past a sudden constriction in my throat. It seemed whatever Remington had been up to with Sowerby, clearly not the conclusion I’d jumped to, it hadn’t taken his attention off the Stacked Deck’s datanode. The sudden inrush of data I’d purloined would have been instantly noticeable to anyone meshing in at an oversight level—which, it belatedly occurred to me, would be precisely what a captain and his chief engineer would have been doing if they were plotting vectors and power consumption for our optimum approach to Numarkut.
Remington nodded soberly. “Good. I have to tell you I’ve been thinking very hard since you came aboard about whether or not to offer you that apprenticeship, or just dump you as soon as we hit dirtside. But it looks as though you’ve just made the decision for me.”
“Guess it does,” I said, feeling all my hopes curdle yet again. Another chance squandered by Simon the screw-up. At least I was consistent, although that was scant consolation at the moment.
Remington slapped me on the back. “God alone knows how you got away with it, but that stuff you siphoned off is pure gold. Can you do it again?”
“I guess so,” I said. Now I’d got the trick of it, I should be able to access pretty much any handheld I came across, if the owner wasn’t paying sufficient attention. “But if you’re putting me off the ship—”
“Off the ship?” Remington was looking at me as though I’d just announced I was taking holy orders and looking forward to a lifetime of celibacy. “Why the hell would I throw away an edge like that? I know what’s moving in and out system, how much Plubek’s skimming from his supervisor’s cut, and which brokers are most desperate for liquidity. All thanks to you.” He drew a guild patch, with its hand and galaxy emblem, from his pocket, and handed it to me; I must confess I was so surprised I took it automatically, without any conscious volition. “Get that sewn on when you have a moment.”
“Right. Yes. I will.” Part of my mind warned me I was beginning to babble, but the rest of it didn’t care. “Thanks, skipper. Really. You won’t regret this, I promise.”
“If I do, you’ll regret it a damn sight more than me. I promise.” Remington grinned, with what looked like honest amusement. “Now go and find something useful to do.”
“Useful. Right. I had a broom somewhere . . .” I started up the staircase, feeling his eyes on my back the whole way.
I was an apprentice. Officially a member of the Commerce Guild, at least from the moment Remington logged my induction. But I was under no illusion as to why. He thought I’d be useful, but he’d never really trust me—men like Remington have secrets of their own, and keeping someone close who excelled at uncovering other people’s would feel like carrying an unsheathed blade around in his pocket, never quite sure when it would cut his own hand. He’d be watching my every move from now on, and that was going to make my commission from Aunt Jenny even more difficult than it already was.
CHAPTER TWELVE
In which Clio and I decline the offer of a lift.
“How are you planning to celebrate?” Clio asked, as we passed through one of the cargo hatches, and I felt drizzle on my face for the first time in what seemed like forever. Numarkut didn’t have much of an orbital infrastructure, which I found slightly odd for such a major trade hub—but apparently the locals didn’t like the idea of cargoes being transshipped without hitting dirt first, in case any enterprising merchant crews (in other words, all of them) started cutting private deals instead of going through the local brokers.
“I thought we already had.” I pulled my hat a little further down over my face, and raised a farewell hand to Rennau, who was lounging just inside the open cargo hatch, scowling at the low-lying clouds wreathing the aptly-named Dullingham Downs. As far as the eye could see, landing cradles rose from barren heathland and gently rolling hills, interspersed with soggy scrub and bracken. Almost unconsciously, my hand rose to brush a few droplets of moisture from the crisp new Guild patch on my jacket.
“That was just welcoming you aboard,” Clio said, narrowing her eyes against the drizzle. The news of my freshly minted apprenticeship had got round the crew as rapidly as you might expect, and one drink had led to another, to the point where I’d started to envy Plubek his tweak; especially if it conferred immunity to hangovers. “Let’s find a bar and celebrate properly.”
“Just the two of us?” I asked. That didn’t sound like much of a party to me, but at least it would be quieter.
“If you like,” Clio said, in a casual tone that sounded faintly forced. fIf I'd heard it in Carenza's voice, or any Avalonian gentlewoman's for that matter, I'd have jumped to the conclusion that she had a lot more than just a quiet drink in mind. But Clio was a Guilder, and played by a different set of rules. Better to remain non-committal, at least for now; if she hadn't been making a pass after all, responding as though she had could lead to all kinds of problems. She raised a hand to her father. "See you later, Dad. I’m just going to show Simon the sights.”
And that was another thing. The second most senior man aboard wasn't that keen on me either - a situation offending, or starting a relationship with, his daughter wouldn't exactly help to improve.
“Right.” Rennau transferred his scowl from the weather to me. “Mind you watch your step.”
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him. “I’ve got Clio with me.”
“Exactly.” For some reason that failed to reassure him, although I was sure I’d be perfectly all right with her as a guide. He nodded to Rolf and Lena, who were heading out arm in arm; both grimaced as the damp air met their faces, and Rolf emitted something which, in a higher register, might have been a squeal of disconcerted surprise.
“How do dirtwalkers manage to live in an environment you can’t heat up and dry out?” he asked, with a glance in my direction.
Unsure whether the question was rhetorical or not, I just shrugged. “You get used to it.”
“I’ll take your word for that.” He sounded unconvinced, and looked on the point of turning back, until his wife tugged gently on his upper arm, with enough force to bend a girder.
“It’s called ‘weather.’ If you ever left the ship, you’d find out about it.” She steered him firmly onto the rain-slick metal platform surrounding the equator of the Stacked Deck, and it suddenly occured to me that I could see the exterior of our ship for the first time. With a parting nod to Rennau, I hurried after the couple, Clio trotting at my heels.
“They do that every time we hit dirt,” Clio said, bumping into me as I stopped suddenly, looking up at the vast, curving bulk of the Stacked Deck. She glanced at me, and shrugged. “I guess that sort of thing’s bound to happen when shipborns and dirtwalkers hook up. But it works for them.”
“They seem very well suited,” I agreed absently, my attention still on the exterior of the ship. It was as featureless as I’d expected, the bare metalwork as smooth and unblemished as it had been the day it came out of the shipyard moulds in a system somewhere I’d never even heard of. The equatorial hatches were all level with the platform which surrounded the docking cradle, although the only one open was the one we’d just left by, and which Rennau seemed determined to guard until Remington returned. Not that I could see the point myself—no one was likely to come calling now the formalities were over, and Sowerby’s engineering crew weren’t going anywhere until all the systems were powered down, checked thoroughly, and walloped with the right sized wrench, so it wasn’t as if the ship was exactly being left unattended.
Anyhow, with the skipper away dealing with the Harbormaster, and arranging for the cargo to be discharged, the rest of us had nothing much to do; which meant everyone who could was heading into the town I’d been reliably informed was lurking somewhere in the distance, where the moorland met the lowering sky.
“Do y
ou want a ride?” Lena asked, from the back of an open cargo sled hovering by the edge of the loading platform, the only vehicle for hire which could possibly have accommodated her and her husband. I considered it for a moment, then shook my head. Clio and I would have been jammed in to whatever space the two of them had left, which would hardly be comfortable at the best of times, and the light rain showed no sign of easing off.
“Already called a cab, thanks,” I lied, pinging in a request as I spoke. With a cheerful wave, the couple peeled away, and joined the steady stream of sleds and cargo haulers weaving between the forest of cradles like vast metallic insects in search of ferrous nectar.
“Good call,” Clio said, apparently sanguine about the prospect of having to wait a few minutes in the wet for our ride to arrive. “Much more fun drinking when your ribs haven’t been cracked.”
I indicated the open hatch behind us, from which Rennau continued to glower. “We can go back inside, if you like.”
“I’m okay.” She tilted her head slightly, to let the rain fall full on her face, as if taking a shower. The thought sparked some mental images I pushed firmly to the corner of my mind, for later appreciation, feeling faintly uncomfortable as I did so. I'd already decided my position was precarious enough without adding any further complications to it, and nibbling away at that resolve wasn't exactly going to help. Besides, I couldn't be entirely sure I wasn't misreading the signals I thought she was giving off. “I like the way the weather just does what it wants.” She smiled. “The first time I ever felt wind, I was about nine months old. I thought there was a hull breach, and screamed the place down.”
“You can remember that?” I asked, faintly surprised.
“No, of course not.” She directed the smile at me. “But it’s one of Dad’s favorite ‘embarrass your daughter’ stories. Especially if he’s talking to a boy I like.”