Actually, Jirik was experiencing mixed emotions at the requirement. On one hand, they would have an excuse for buttoning tip the ship and challenging anyone who approached. On the other hand, they would be isolated from the comforting crowding of the bustling port. They would be more vulnerable to open attack, and farther from help should such an attack materialize. They arranged docking for the Lass' boat, and the Deputy Port Captain departed after giving them a shuttle schedule to the surface.
Chapter 15
It was several hours before a harassed-looking Customs agent appeared at the Lass' passenger lock. In a singsong tone that implied a canned speech delivered hundreds of times, he explained that the customs inspection would be conducted during offloading, and that clearance to ship their cargo down to the planet would be given at the bonded warehouse area. He reminded them that no one, not even the crew, would be able to enter the bonded area once their cargo had been cleared. Jirik nodded, but the man wouldn't leave until Jirik had acknowledged the instructions in writing.
As the Customs man left, the longshore crew appeared, and offloading began immediately and efficiently. Jirik was impressed. Many larger Alliance and Empire centers of trade could learn something from these rimworlders. A clerk in a Customs Service tunic examined each pallet of bookchips closely, and checked it off the bill of lading.
Within hours the offloading was complete, and the longshoremen and Customs clerk walked rapidly off. Within minutes, Traffic Control hailed them, wanting to know-how soon they could vacate the offloading berth. Somewhat taken aback by the hectic pace of commerce on Wayoff, Jirik indicated their readiness, and was given orbital data for the orbit that they were to assume. Traffic Control had hardly stopped speaking when the docking Clamps clunked, releasing the Lass to assume her assigned orbit.
Jirik felt somewhat harassed himself, as a small tug shoved the Lass from the docking berth. He hurriedly plotted the orbital data, barely finishing as the tug disengaged. If he'd been any slower, he thought, the Lass would be drifting away from the station out of control. He decided that efficiency had its limits!
He nudged the Lass into her assigned orbit, and then called a final crew meeting before setting off for the planet.
"I'm afraid that I wasn't expecting this!" he admitted ruefully. "I guess that I had assumed that Wayoff would just be another rim world, like the others."
The others nodded agreement. "This thing about putting us into orbit," Valt asked, "Does it make things better or worse?"
"I'm not sure," Jirik replied honestly. "On the whole, probably better. At least we aren't grounded, where someone on foot could get to us undetected. Here, as long as we keep our sensors active, no one can sneak up on us!"
"True," Bran put in, "But we're a lot farther from help, too! If I were Cony, and I wanted to seize the Lass, I'd get her orbital data from Traffic Control, then arrange an attack when we were on the other side of the planet from the station. If it were done well, they could be maneuvering for jump before any help could arrive!"
Jirik nodded. "That was what I was worried about, too. That why I called this meeting. We need some contingency planning. The plans we had were based upon us being grounded planetside. Bran, what else would you do if you were Cony?"
Bran looked thoughtful. "Well, I haven't had a lot of time to think about it, but I suspect that I'd get a boat like ours, fill it with thugs, and pretend to be you coming back from the planet. They could mount a pretty good attack on the bridge from the lifeboat bay, especially since the bay and the bridge are so close together. We'd barely have time to get a distress call out, at all. They could even waylay you on the planet, and use our own boat; or kidnap you and make you bring them aboard."
Jirik shrugged. "That's easy enough. We'll just keep the lifeboat bay closed. If any boat approaches, ours or not, you don't open it unless you receive a code word that lets you know it's me, and that everything's all right."
Bran nodded. "That could work. Just don't forget the code! I know that I wouldn't open up just because I recognized your voice; they could have a good mimic!"
"Right," Jirik replied. "How about 'slingshot'? It's a kind of ancient weapon. The weapon hasn't been used for thousands of years, and no one but a weapons expert is likely to even know it. Anyway, It'll make a good code word."
"Now," he continued, "If any boat, including ours, starts toward the Lass, you hail them. If I'm not the one that replies, or if I don't use the word 'slingshot', you keep the old bitch buttoned up, and start yelling for help on all frequencies!"
The others nodded. "You can't go planetside alone, Captain," Valt said, "Who're you going to take with you?" There was an anticipatory gleam in his eyes, and his expression was hard.
"Sorry, Valt," Jirik replied, "But it'll have to be Bran. That damned Cony's not going to talk in front of witnesses, and that means that we may be split up. Bran's the only one of us that I'd trust to be able to handle any assassin single-handed.
Valt was obviously disappointed, but he grudgingly admitted that Jirik was right in his assessment of the crewmen. Tor looked crushed. He had obviously been hoping to be selected to accompany his captain.
Since the two left aboard had no need for subtlety, Jirik unlocked the weapons locker, and armed both Valt and Tor with Flechetters. The huge 5 centimeter bores of the weapons formed the launcher for nearly fifty miniature rockets, complete with stabilizing fins, which were slightly canted to induce a spinning motion to the small projectiles. One blast would clear the entire passageway, but the tiny rockets did not attain sufficient velocity to penetrate bulkheads or the hull. Valt, with his new appreciation of weapons, commented admiringly that with these they could defend the bridge against a small army.
The crew split up, Jirik and Bran to the lifeboat bay, and Valt and Tor to the bridge. "Now, remember," Jirik called to the others' retreating backs, "The word is 'slingshot'. And, Tor, Valt is in charge!"
The trip to the station, and the shuttle ride to the planet, were routine, if somewhat uncomfortable. As the passengers disembarked from the shuttle, Jirik and Bran stood and stretched, but hung back, and went out cautiously last, side by side. Neither of them particularly expected trouble at this early point, but both felt that their caution was justified.
They were unmolested as they made their way to the Ministry of Trade to arrange final delivery of their cargo and payment. They spent several hours with the ministry representative, as every bookchip and every expense was scrutinized and haggled over. Finally, the ministry representative pronounced, himself satisfied, and reluctantly handed over a letter of credit on the Bank of Wayoff for 1,250,000 credits. The man looked slightly disconcerted when Jirik merely glanced at it, folded it, and stuffed it into his tunic pocket. He offered to provide the spacers with a pair of bodyguards to accompany them to the bank, but Jirik politely declined, and he and Bran were ushered out.
Once on the street, Jirik's casualness vanished. The two hurried down the street to the Spacers Guild office, where they arranged to have the letter of credit changed into Alliance ten-thousand-credit notes, and stored in the Guild vaults until Jirik called for it. They knew that they were heading for a meeting with at least one, and probably more, terrorists, and wanted to take no chances. They had taken the precaution of bringing the entire crew's retinal prints, so that even if only one of them survived, that one would be able to withdraw their capital.
Jirik sighed with relief as they left the Guild office, but he knew that they still had at least one, and possibly several hurdles in their path. As they exited the building, a man who had been lounging against a ground car approached them as if on cue, asking if they had the time. As Bran explained that their ring watches hadn't been adjusted to local time yet, the man brushed Jirik, pressing a note into his hand, then nodded and walked off. Jirik and Bran walked casually to the wall of the building, where Bran shielded Jirik as he read the note that he had received.
If it were the terrorists, Jirik thought, then they were getting better. The n
ote contained only the name of what Jirik assumed was a local club or restaurant, and the word "NOW!" in sprawling capital letters. They strolled unconcernedly down the street for two blocks, then hailed a groundcab that was just discharging a passenger, and gave the driver the name of the club, or restaurant, or whatever the hell it was. Jirik was edgy and irritable.
It turned out to be a restaurant, and a fairly high-class one, at that. Jirik's estimate of the quality of the terrorists went up another notch.
The actual contact and delivery were anticlimactic. Jirik and Bran went in the restaurant, selecting a table against the wall, facing the door. A few minutes after their meal was served, a stranger walked boldly up to their table, greeting them heartily by name, as though they were old friends. The man was nondescript, wearing a conservative business tunic, and carrying a notecase. After glancing around, the man sat down, and said, "I think that you have something for me; and I have the rest of your payment."
Jirik shrugged. "I have something for someone, but how do I know that it's you?"
The man looked irritated and sighed. "Let's not get into a trivid-spy act. Just give me the damned software and specs, I'll give you the case, and we'll be on our ways. All right?"
"It's fine with me, as long as some other guy doesn't walk up here in a few minutes looking for the same thing. And as long as the case contains what we agreed upon." Jirik added.
The man looked pained. "I'm the guy. I can't believe that they didn't give us a recognition code word, or something. Amateurs!" He shook his head. "Now, let's get this over with. Give me the damned stuff, and I'll be on my way!"
Jirik produced the memory crystals, and the man nudged the case toward Jirik with his foot. The case was full of Alliance credits. Jirik nodded, and the man walked off without another word.
Jirik and Bran were startled by the abrupt departure of the terrorist agent. They also felt an odd mixture of relief and apprehension; relief at the apparent ease with which the transfer had been accomplished, and apprehension, a feeling that it had been too easy. Resigning themselves to the fact that there was nothing that they could do, and that the next move was up to others, they finished what turned out to be a delicious meal. Then, with the glum air of men on their way to a gallows, they left the restaurant and stepped into Wayoff's bright afternoon sunlight.
As they stood blinking, their eyes adjusting to the brightness, a ground cab swung out of traffic, stopping within mere centimeters of them. "Cab, Messires?" The cabbie shouted, "Best on Wayoff!"
Jirik was about to refuse, and wave a dismissal, when the cabbie continued, "Mr. Tomys highly recommends our service!"
Muttering obscene comments about "spook crap," Jirik ushered Bran into the cab, then joined him. As the door hissed closed, the cabbie grinned into his rear view mirror and said, "Welcome to Wayoff, Captain!"
Jirik eyed the man's reflection sourly, then stared. "You!" he shouted. "You bastard! I didn't recognize you without your glasses, or your damned dress. I think you like this masquerade crap!"
Tomys grin grew even wider. "Well," he replied, "I always did enjoy 'dress up' when I was a kid." He yanked the cab into the stream of traffic, leaving a trail of squealing brakes and curses in his wake.
"Where're we going?" the ever-pragmatic Bran demanded.
"First, to the Guild Office, so that you can get rid of that case," Tomys replied, "Then we lose the tail you've been leading around. No, don't look around." he continued, forestalling Jirik in the middle of a frantic jerk of his head. "Then we go somewhere that we can talk.'
The cab waited while Jirik deposited the terrorists' credits. Then he rejoined the others. As he settled into the seat, the cab surged from the curb and sped up, weaving in and out of traffic and scaring Jirik badly. Suddenly, Tomys jerked the cab across two lanes of traffic and into a narrow alley. They roared through the deserted passage, and swung squealing into the stream of traffic on the next street, headed in the opposite direction from their previous path.
Two blocks down the street, they turned left then two blocks later, right, before Jirik lost track of of their twists and turns. Abruptly, they were out of the business district, and in a lower-class residential district. After several more changes of course, Tomys turned into a littered alley, then wheeled the cab into a narrow, dilapidated garage.
Tomys shut down the cab's power, then turned to his passengers with a large grin. "All out!" he said enthusiastically.
Bran wasn't grinning. "Where the hell are we?" he demanded suspiciously.
Tomys shrugged. "Safe house. Belongs to the Alliance, through our resident agent. It's the only place in town that I can guarantee is free of spy-eyes. It was checked less than an hour ago."
As the three exited the cab, Tomys touched a control on the instrument panel, and a portion of the dilapidated garage's littered floor rose to reveal stairs leading to a tunnel.
"I apologize for the cloak and dagger equipment, Captain," Tomys said, "but we don't want spacers being seen entering or leaving. This safe house cost the Alliance a lot of credits, and we can't afford to have it blown, especially now!"
Jirik's voice was surly with suspicion. "Then, why bring us here? Couldn't we have talked somewhere else? Somewhere more, ah, public?"
Tomys shook his head as he led them down the tunnel. "No. We've learned a lot since we last talked. Wayoff is a hotbed of terrorist activity. We still think that Cony is the head of the terrorists, but most of their funding and organization is on Wayoff." He paused as they exited the tunnel through a door disguised as a shelving unit in the kitchen of the safe house. He escorted them into a comfortable, though shabby, living area, snagging a bottle and some glasses on the way.
Bran was shaking his head. "I don't buy it. Why would the head of an outfit like that live on another planet, in a whole different system, from his headquarters? It doesn't make sense!"
Cony smiled gently. "It makes more than you might think. I suspect that Cony figures that any Alliance agent that infiltrates the organization will feel the same way. He'd trace the leadership, but would stop at the highest level on Wayoff
He shrugged. "Actually, he's not really out of touch. Boondock is only one jump from Wayoff, and at least one, and sometimes more, rim tramps are running back and forth daily. I suspect that his chief deputy, the supposed head of the terrorists here on Wayoff, is in daily contact. Besides, we think that Cony's on Wayoff, now. We think that he came as a crewman on one of the rim tramps that arrived yesterday. Unfortunately," Tomys admitted embarrassedly, "We lost him. My men are trying to trace him as we speak, but the terrorists are getting more careful."
Jirik groaned. "I was afraid of that! If that sonuvabitch is here, we're in trouble!'
"I'm afraid that you're right," Tomys replied seriously. "What precautions have you taken?"
Jirik's tone was grim. "Valt and Tor are forted up on the Lass with all locks sealed, and carrying flechetters. They'll only open up to a code word in my voice. Bran and I are carrying needlers."
Tomys nodded briskly. "Good. I suspect that at this moment, Cony is having his experts go over the software and specs that you passed. You're probably pretty safe until they finish, but that will only be a few hours. Then, he'll either try to recruit you or kill you.
"Then you haven't changed your mind about that?" Bran asked.
Tomys shrugged. "No. It still looks like his most likely move. Even if he tries to recruit you, he'll be planning to kill you if you refuse. I would suggest this: if some underling tries to recruit you, you might have some chance of leaving Wayoff alive. But, if it's Cony that talks to you, you can assume that it's 'join or die'. He couldn't afford to let you live if you knew that he was one of the terrorists."
"You're always so full of cheerful news," Jirik replied with grim sarcasm. "Are you going to have us covered?"
Tomys shook his head. "No," he said with equal grimness. "I can't afford to cover you. As of now, Cony suspects that Alliance agents may be tracking him, but he can'
t be sure. I can't take a chance on letting him be sure. Oh, we'll be following you, but we can't help you. There's too much at stake."
"Wonderful!" Jirik's voice was dripping with sarcasm. "These bastards are going to try to kill us and seize our ship, and you're just going to stand by and watch it happen. Great. I should've kicked your ass out of my office as soon as you flashed that ID!"
Tomys nodded seriously. "Hell, if it would prevent an interstellar civil war, I'd help them! I won't try to fool you, Captain. Right now, you're our best chance of stopping that civil war, but if it goes wrong, we have to be able to fall back on more conventional tactics."
"But," he continued earnestly, "It wouldn't have helped to have kicked me out of your office. I didn't lure you to the rim; Cony did. But, maybe I can help you survive the experience. That is, if you help me.
"If you turn Cony down, you're dead; and your men forted up on the Lass won't last much longer. They can't stay forted up forever, and there aren't enough of them to leave. Sooner or later, they'd have to come out and try to recruit crew to help them; and then they'd be dead, too."
"We could just hop back up to the Lass and jump out, right now," Bran suggested.
Tomys shook his head. "I doubt it. Oh, you might make it to the Shuttle Port, and might even manage to hop up to the station. But I guarantee that you'd never make it to your boat. After all his investment of time, trouble and money, Cony's not about to let you get away. I'm afraid that I'm the only game in town, gentlemen."
Jirik glanced at Bran, whose nod was all but imperceptible, and sighed deeply. "Okay, dammit, I guess you've got some unwilling volunteers. So, what's the plan?"
Tomys shrugged. "Same as before. By now, Cony's experts have nearly finished checking the battle comp software and weapon specs that you brought back. They'll be convinced that they're good. Having demonstrated what an immoral and money-grubbing fellow you are, I figure that he'll decide to try buying you."
"If so, I suggest that you sell out. Sell out high, but sell out. If you don't try to run the price up as high as you can, he'll suspect you immediately."
The Rim Rebels Page 26