"Hello, Bran," Jirik greeted his Exec, "How's it coming?" Bran's pale face flushed, and Jirik knew that he had asked the wrong question.
"'How's it coming?'" Bran mimicked, "These incompetents couldn't install their asses in an easy chair! Look at the scratch they put in my deck!" He pointed a long finger at a small scratch in the otherwise spotlessly painted deck. "And those simians pretending that they know which end of a plasma torch to grab! Look how they've blackened the whole damned bulkhead!" Jirik looked closely, and saw a small smudge on the gray wall. "They should have to replace that deckplate and paint that whole bulkhead," Bran continued, looking askance at Jirik.
Jirik grinned. "Forget it, Bran. I'll make the work crew polish out the scratch, and you can paint the bulkhead once we're in space again. C'mon," he added, "I have to talk to you. It's important."
"Important!" Bran yelled, "This is important! I can't leave these ham-fisted cretins alone; they'll bring the old bitch down around our ears!"
Jirik saw the work crew foreman's hand tighten convulsively on his wrench, caught the unfortunate man's eye, and winked. "Calm down, Bran," he soothed. "I really do have to talk to you, and it really is important."
Bran's red face faded somewhat as his anger began to subside. "It had better be," he muttered. "All right, let's go into the Engineering Office." As Bran stomped off, still fuming, Jirik saw the tension leave the hunched forms of the work crew and suppressed a smile as he followed the big man.
The 'Engineering Office' was a tiny cubby that Bran had walled off in the engine room. Crammed with tech manuals, engineering drawings and specification sheets, its chaos was a clashing contrast to the sanitary, obsessive cleanliness of the engine room itself. Brushing a pile of blueprints from the only chair in the tiny cubical, Bran flounced into it, and turned to face Jirik.
"All right, Captain," He said, "What's so damned urgent that I had to leave a generator to the mercies of thumb-fingered idiots?"
"I had a visitor this morning," Jirik replied in a carefully casual tone. "A Class I Alliance Agent."
Bran's remaining anger faded instantly as he straightened abruptly in his chair. He whistled. "Class I, eh?" he said thoughtfully. "We aren't about to get into something nasty, are we?"
Jirik sighed. "I sure as hell hope not," he said fervently. "But we sure can't afford to brass off the Alliance, either. The guy says that he just wants us to keep our ears open, but I think he's holding something back, and that scares me."
"If it scares you, it scares me, and I don't even know what the hell it is, yet," Bran replied. "Can you tell me about it? Or will that get you shot or something?"
Jirik grunted. "Hell, yes I'm, going to tell you. I need your help on this in the worst way. Did you learn anything about this Atmos guy last night?"
"Atmos, huh? I thought it might involve him. I did some reading last night, of course," Jirik nodded. Bran was a voracious, almost compulsive reader. Jirik rarely stumbled across something that Bran hadn't "done some reading" about. It had saved their lives more than once. His attention returned as Bran continued, "I read that pop-level biography, and started skimming his major work. Of course, I haven't had a chance to do any serious research. Is he involved in this?"
"Up to his eyeballs," Jirik replied, "According to that spook, he's almost a religious figure out here. He says that these people think that it's their destiny to save civilization when the Empire falls in 200 years or so. Evidently, most of them are content to wait for that to happen, but some of them think that they ought to get a head start on it by taking over the Alliance first." Jirik said it in a light tone, surprised when Bran nodded seriously.
"It could happen. Atmos seemed to have his head on straight to me. And now, with 75 years' of extra information, I've seen more evidence that he was right. Just before we left Avon, did you read in the newsfax that the Empire Council has decided to grant greater 'autonomy' to Sector Viceroys? We may even begin having customs problems when we get back!"
Jirik slammed his hand down on the edge of Bran's small desk, sending books and papers flying. "I don't give a Damn!" He yelled. "I don't give a damn about the Empire falling in 200 years. I won't be here to see it. I care about here and now; about walking a tightrope between an Alley spy and nine whole planets full of fanatics; about getting us off this bloody mudball with our asses and our ship intact. And with that damned spy holding out on us, I'm not so sure that's going to be easy!"
"Calm down, Captain." It was Bran's turn to soothe his captain's flaring temper. "What does he want us to do? We're none of us spies. We don't know anything about it."
Jirik, regaining control of his temper, sighed deeply. "He says that all he wants us to do is to keep our ears, as well as our mouths, open. He just wants us to record anything that anyone says that might be useful to him. I gather," He continued wryly "That the groundhogs have been friendly."
Bran snorted. "That's an understatement of epic proportions. I've been pretty busy keeping those fool work crews from destroying the whole damned ship, but when I get out into town, it's like I'm some sort of celebrity. It's flattering as hell, Captain, but I haven't been able to have one quiet liberty. I've never seen groundhogs so interested in spacers. Usually, they want no part of us, or just want our money.
"What about Valt and the Jankys kid?" Jirik asked, "Have you talked to them at all?"
Bran shrugged. "Same thing. The kid's as excited as a pup at all the attention. I think he's been retelling every spacer yarn he ever heard. He's having a ball. It isn't often that a kid his age becomes a celebrity, and Tor's eating it up. Hell, Captain," He continued, amusement creeping into his voice, "We may have to shanghai him to get him back aboard when we leave!"
"I wouldn't be surprised," replied Jirik. "A teenager would find this hero treatment hard to resist. What about Valt?"
Amusement vied with contempt in Bran's voice as he replied. "Valt isn't quite so happy. You know that he doesn't seem to care about anything except sex and booze. Talking bores him. But we'd better get back to the spy stuff. We don't want to get caught in a crossfire between Alliance agents and hostile fanatics!"
Jirik's face clouded up again. "Yeah. I guess I was avoiding the subject. All right," he continued briskly, "This spook says that all he wants us to do is keep our ears open when we're talking to these Boondockers, and pass along anything that might interest him. The trouble is, I know he's holding something back. There's a kicker in here somewhere, and I'd rather not wait for it to come up and bite us! Do you have any suggestions for ways to placate the guy without getting our asses in a sling? I can't depend on Valt and Tor not to spill the beans if I tell them about the spook, but we'll need their help to get the information. Obviously, I'm not worried about you; you know when and how to keep your mouth shut. As for me, I'll just have to make time to get into town. I thought maybe we could wear bugs, and let that damned spy sort out the tapes. but, that won't work with Valt or the kid." He slammed the edge of the miniscule desk again, precipitating another cascade of papers onto the deck. "I hate this. I can't tell Valt or the kid; but it grates on me to hold out on my own crew!"
"Calmly, Captain," Bran put in quietly. "Anger won't help. You're right, though. We can't confide in Tor; and I wouldn't recommend confiding in Valt, either. I think that we'd better keep the details between us. They've already been asked to keep their ears open for cargo information; How about telling them that we want to compile information in anticipation of perhaps making a return voyage? We could say that we have a lead on a very high-profit cargo. We could tell them to gather any information that we might be able to use to decide whether a return trip would be worth it. It would also be a reason for learning all we could about the people. We could have crew meetings every night to compare notes, and we could record the meetings. Between that and our tapes, maybe we can keep that agent off our backs without endangering ourselves."
Jirik had grown increasingly excited as he listened to Bran. When Bran finished, Jirik interject
ed, "Yes! Not only could it work, but when I was talking to that damned spook, he even suggested that if we wanted to make some big money, we should go to the Empire and bring back a load of bookchips. I didn't pay a lot of attention, because he was trying to make a point about these peoples' hunger for learning. But now, we may have something we can use!"
If he was expecting Bran to share his excitement, Jirik was disappointed. Bran was looking thoughtful, riot excited. "The agent suggested it, eh?" He remarked, "Doesn't that seem an interesting coincidence, Captain?"
Jirik's excitement evaporated. "Damn! I hadn't thought of that." He looked puzzled. "But, what the hell does it mean? I mean, was he trying to push us into something? And if so, what? Aaaah, hell. Now you see why I hate spooks? Nothing ever means what it seems to with those creeps!"
"I don't know, Captain," Bran replied, "Maybe it was just a passing remark. Maybe we're just being paranoid. Or maybe he was indirectly suggesting it as a cover story." Bran shrugged. "At any rate, it seems to me to be our best way to get Valt and Tor's cooperation."
"You're probably right," Jirik admitted reluctantly, "But I hate the thought that we might be doing just what that damned spook wants us to do!"
"We'll just have to be careful, Captain," replied Bran. "As long as we keep in mind that we may be playing the agent's game we can watch our backs. And who knows? Just because that agent suggested it doesn't mean that it isn't true. We may really end up wanting to come back with a load of bookchips."
"Yeah, well, I guess we don't have a lot of choices." Jirik's face was clouding up again. "I hate this! I hate lying to my own crew, I hate being backed into a corner, and I hate being manipulated. Oh, you're right, I don't have any better ideas; I guess we'll have to go along for now. But we'd better keep a close eye on each other's backs."
Jirik assembled his crew on the mess deck, and broached the bookchip idea. He explained the idea about the bookchips, and the need for market information. He also mentioned that he wanted Tor to make an appointment with the head of the Library department of the University for himself and Jirik. Tor was excited about the idea, but Valt seemed bored by the whole thing, and doubtful that useful information could be gained. Jirik imposed a curfew of local midnight on all hands, after which a crew meeting would permit them to compare notes, and supposedly facilitate a decision: Jirik hoped that the recorded meetings would give Tomys the information that he wanted, and that he'd leave the Lass' crew alone thereafter.
Jirik took Bran with him on his first trip into Boondock City. The "City" had a population of about 20,000, making it the largest population center on Boondock. To Jirik, accustomed to the densely populated inner worlds, it seemed more a village than a city. Boondockers tended to build strong but low. The tallest building in town was the University's Library, only two stories high. All the buildings were marked by thick walls and small windows. Jirik had heard of Boondock's violent weather, but hadn't yet experienced it. The sturdy architecture showed that the violence was not simply guidebook rumor. The sturdiness was offset a bit by the cheerful colors the Boondockers chose for their dwellings. On nearly every street corner, a shop offering books and holovids stood. Jirik was amazed that a town of that size could support so many book-and-vid stores. Interspersed among the book stores were the usual sights of a port city: Ship's Chandlers, Shipping agents, hotels, restaurants, and bars. Lots of bars. Now, that was more like it, Jirik thought. He and Bran turned into one from which music was blaring, stopping inside the door to get the feel of the place. Judging by the clientele, this particular bar served working-class Boondockers. Bran nudged Jirik, indicating that they should try another. Jirik resisted. "Let's stay here," he yelled over the loud music, "What better place to get a feel for this planet?"
"What better place for a brawl, you mean!" Bran replied sourly. Jirik grinned broadly and pulled Bran to an empty table in the corner, where the noise was less deafening. The opposite corner was filled with a huge stereovid, on whose screen colorful ornithoid Reethians gyrated madly to the accompanying music. The high, fluting sounds of the nonhuman band, much of which was just within normal human hearing range, made the spacers' hair rise.
"Are you sure you want to stay here, Jirik?," Bran complained, "I'm not sure how much of this Reethian 'music' I can stand!"
"Relax, Bran," Jirik replied loudly. "Tell you what, though, Stick it out through this song, and if the next one is Reethian, too, we'll leave. All.right?"
Bran nodded unhappily. This sort of night life was not Bran's style. He was aware of Jirik's taste for it, however, and was uncomfortably aware of how often Jirik's evenings ended in brawls.
Mercifully, the Reethian song came to its squeaky conclusion, and was replaced with an instrumental human number better suited to human hearing.
Jirik flagged down a waiter in a stained apron, and ordered a Swalian Malt whiskey, telling the waiter to leave the bottle. Bran ordered Soldian brandy, which made Jirik snort in disgust. To Jirik, one drank to get drunk; he couldn't understand someone like Bran, who rarely drank at all, and preferred low-alcoholic drinks when he did. Jirik threw back his first drink, grimacing as the fiery stuff went down, then scowling as he watched Bran sip at his brandy.
"I don't know how you can drink that crap," Jirik grumped. "Why in hell don't you have a man's drink?" He proffered the whiskey bottle, which Bran waved off.
"No, thank you," Bran responded, "I prefer my brandy. You know that I hate getting drunk." Bran had made it quite clear years ago that drunkenness held no attraction for him. "I hope," he continued, "that we'll be able to get through the night without one of your famous brawls. After all, if we both get arrested, I won't be able to bail you out!"
Jirik sputtered as he tried to drink and chuckle at the same time, and then grinned broadly. "Well, Hell! Then I guess we'll just have to fight our way out before the Blues come, Huh?"
Chapter 3
Bran threw up his hands in despair. It was obvious that Jirik was building up to a major booze-and-brawl liberty. Unless Bran could find an excuse to separate, he was afraid that he would become involved; and Bran hated fighting, which made him a vicious and dangerous fighter. Brawlers like Jirik fought with fists, feet and the occasional bottle, prolonging the "fun".
Bran, on the other hand, felt that the purpose of a fight was to disable his opponent before he, himself could be disabled, and to do so with as little damage to himself as possible. This meant that Bran would use any weapon that came to hand, in any way necessary, to end a fight as quickly as possible. He didn't fight as a berserker, but with machine-like efficiency. Bran had come dangerously close to killing opponents in the past. He was fearfully aware that someday he could end up on the wrong end of a manslaughter charge if he didn't restrain himself; but restraint could mean serious injury to himself. He had no desire to tempt fate again, simply because of Jirik's love of brawling.
"Jirik, I knew it was a mistake to come with you. If you don't slow down on the booze, and stay sober, I'm leaving. Have you forgotten that we're here on business?"
Jirik's grin faded. "No, Bran, I hadn't forgotten. Damned spook. Look, Bran. The fastest way I know to make friends and get people talking is a good, old fashioned bar brawl."
Bran snorted. "Dreck! Damn it Jirik, if that's what you intended, you should have warned me! You know me better than that." He stood up. "I'm leaving. You pursue your theory. Maybe it works for you. I have other ideas, though, and I'm going to try them."
"Sit Down, Bran!" The unmistakable note of command in Jirik's voice made the surprised Bran slide back down into his chair with a thump reinforced by 1.4G.
"Look, Bran," Jirik continued in a more reasonable tune, "I don't want you involved in another brawl; you take them too seriously, and somebody could get hurt. All I want you to do is help me get into an argument with one of these bozos, then do a quick fade while we're still making faces at one another. Got it?"
Bran shook his head wonderingly. "I don't believe it. Jirik, you're incredi
ble." He sighed deeply. "All right, I guess we might as well get on with it."
Jirik's sloppy grin was back. As the stereovid fell silent, he said in a voice loud in the ensuing silence, "Okay, so tell me about this crackpot Atmos, or whatever his name is." He was slouching in his chair, his manner, and the slurring of his words giving every evidence that he was completely flashed.
A chair at a neighboring table went over with a crash as its occupant lurched to his feet. Obviously flashed, the man weaved across to their table. He was a typical Boondocker, squat and powerfully built. The bulging muscles straining his tunic's sleeves betrayed his heavy-world origins, and his rough hands indicated that he was a miner. The man leaned over the table, both hands resting on it to maintain his balance. He stared at Jirik with bleary eyes. "I'll tell you about DoctorAtmos," he yelled, making one word of the title and name, "He was a goddamned saint. He c'd see the future, he c'd!"
Jirik raised apparently bleary eyes to his visitor. "Izzat Right? I heard that he was crazier'n an Albionian Flit, and got run clear out of the Empire!"
"The Empire!" The Boondocker said with exaggerated distaste. "The guv'mint was scared of 'im. Sent spies to make him look crazy, so they c'd run 'im off. We know, here. He lived here. He was the smartest man ever lived. He c'd see the future, he c'd!" the man repeated.
Bran, his job as sounding board completed, stood and made his way toward the men's 'fresher, veering at the last moment out the door. Once outside, he permitted himself an admiring grin for Jirik's acting ability before setting off in the direction of nearest bookchip store.
Meanwhile, Jirik continued to bait the Boondocker, whose temper continued to rise. Finally, responding to another of Jirik's jeering comments, he swung a clumsy haymaker. Jirik did not avoid the blow. Instead, he reinforced its momentum with a push of his feet to send his chair crashing over backwards.
Meanwhile the Boondocker continued to shout Dr. Atmos' sterling qualities at the top of his lungs. Jirik continued to play his drunken role while he carefully sized up his opponent and checked for other nearby threats. After a moment, he rolled over and clambered clumsily to his feet. He staggered toward the burly Boondocker, swinging a haymaker of his own, which intentionally missed. The bar's other patrons began to gather. As the two staggered about, ineptly swinging at each other, more customers were drawn into the fracas. Jirik threw a bottle, which smashed on the bar and splashed liquor all over one fairly well dressed patron's clothing. The patron started toward Jirik, but was intercepted by another patron acting as peacemaker. The man swung at the peacemaker, who swung back.
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