by Zen DiPietro
“Anything I should look at over here?” he asked her, purely for the benefit of the little man standing nearby, pretending not to be listening eagerly.
“Nah. Nothing for you. I’m wondering if that catalytic injector would be good for fiddling with. You know how I like to try to resurrect useless parts on long trips.”
As much as Arlen loved her ship, Cabot doubted she had the mechanical skills to refurbish something like the rusted hunk of metal she was looking at. But she was smart to pretend to know more about it than she did. The increasingly eager little man probably knew even less.
Cabot loved the opportunity to play bad cop. “That thing? Waste of time. Let’s look for something you’d have a hope of restoring to working order.”
The man hurried forward before they could leave. “Are you interested in the injector?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard everything they’d said. “It’s PAC grade. A high-quality part.”
“Maybe fifty years ago.” Arlen smirked. “Looks like someone needed to get somewhere fast.” She turned it over and it made a dull, rock-like sound against the other items in the crate.
She pointed. “See that edge right there? That’s part of the shaft it fused to. Some mechanic laser-torched the entire assembly out of the ship. Then someone else cut the components apart to make them look like they were just old. But that little edge gives it away.”
The man bent close, looking. “I barely see anything.”
“Exactly.” Arlen nodded. She spoke to Cabot. “You’re right. I need to stop trying to repair these lost causes. I’ve wasted too much time that way.”
Cabot chuckled and put an arm around her shoulders. “That’s my daughter. The patron saint of busted mechanics.” He gave the man a rueful smile. “Thanks for your time.”
“Wait!” the man said as they walked away. “I’ll let you take it for twenty cubics. At least it’s something to do on those weeks spent out in space, right?”
Arlen paused a moment too long before refusing. “No thanks.”
“Before you go, could you show me the ridge thing, so I don’t buy something like this again?” The man picked the injector up and held it toward her, keeping her from moving on.
Cabot hid his smile. He knew where this was going.
The man handed the part to her. Clearly, he knew about Cabot’s Rule of Sales Number 2.
Arlen held the heavy hunk of metal at an angle. “See right there? It’s tiny, so you have to know what to look for.”
“I see, thank you.” But when she extended the item for him to take, he kept his hands at his sides. “Fifteen cubics,” he offered.
Arlen sighed. She looked down at it, turning it in one way, then the other. “I guess it would give me a chance to try out my pneumatic wrench. I could practice on this so I don’t damage a valuable component.”
“Excellent idea. You’re a go-getter, I can tell.” The man gave her an approving look.
“I’ll give you five. No more.”
“Since I like your industriousness, and appreciate the tip on identifying a damaged injector, five it is.” He whipped an infoboard out of nowhere and presented it to her.
Arlen shifted the component to lay across her right forearm so she could transfer the cubics to him. When the deal was complete, she shrugged a bag off her shoulder and carefully set the heavy injector inside.
“Nicely done,” Cabot murmured when they got out of earshot. “How much can you get for it?”
She let out a low laugh. “Five hundred. It will take a lot of work, though. I wasn’t lying about it being fused. I’m going to have to give it a very long chemical bath and dismantle it slowly as I give it more chemical baths. It’ll take three months at least.”
“That’s a long time. Is the return worth it?”
“Yep. Most of it is just waiting. I’m willing to be patient and put the time in to get it done. That’s how I make most of my profit. It’s a niche that few people want any part of.”
“I’m impressed. I didn’t realize you had such a knowledge of mechanical parts.” Now that he thought about it, he recognized a trend in Arlen’s business—picking up items that others deemed not worth the time. Funny how he hadn’t noticed that before. She was industrious and observant.
“Good. A trader needs her secrets.” She grinned at him.
He laughed. She was good for him. She made him think about things in a way he normally wouldn’t. He admired her energy and ambition. Truth be told, he’d left all that behind years ago. He’d already earned a level of success he could maintain while still enjoying his life.
“What now?” he asked as they reached the end of the bazaar. Having found nothing worth buying, he felt a rising concern about finding a presentation gift for the Briveen. If he didn’t dig up something appropriate while on Dauntless, he’d have to get creative. Negotiations on Briv couldn’t begin until an appropriate item had been offered and accepted.
“Let’s check out the shops,” she suggested. “Any idea which ones are the best?”
They headed down a corridor, away from the bazaar. Even on a mercenary station, shopkeeps didn’t appreciate sharing space with transients. The established shops offered a more professional experience, along with a much higher price tag. Anything taking up valuable space in a store on Dauntless had to be worth the shop owner’s investment.
Cabot would be more likely to find something special there, but if he did, he’d pay handsomely for it.
“It’s been too long since I was here. Shops on a station like this have a high turnover. The rent cost ensures that only the most profitable of stores last.”
She cast him a sly look. “How would your shop fare here, instead of on Dragonfire?”
He raised a supercilious eyebrow. “My shop would do well on any station. Though I’d have to adjust my practices to fit in here.”
“What would you change?” she persisted.
“That’s the kind of information that doesn’t come free.” He smiled to soften his refusal to answer.
She laughed.
She probably hadn’t expected him to answer, but it never hurt to ask. It showed his esteem for her, though, for him to imply he was concerned she might steal some of his business away.
The truth was, he was less concerned about his trade secrets than he was about showing his soft side—the one he pretended not to have.
After a good turn at true mercenary trading, he’d lucked into something on Dragonfire that people like him rarely find: a home. A community. Dragonfire, and the people on it, mattered to him. He paid attention to the items the people in his community needed, and what would make them happy. He quietly delivered these things with the impression that he did so purely for profit.
Even if he’d gone a little soft in his advancing years, he didn’t want people to know that. Not even Arlen.
Especially not Arlen.
He wondered if she suspected. If so, she didn’t let on.
“So, what is it you’d like to find here?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“These shops aren’t for resale value. The shopkeeps know what they have and exactly what it’s worth. So it’s not about trade goods. It’s about you. What I’m wondering is, what would Arlen buy for herself?”
She rarely showed a great deal of who she was underneath her trader persona. It made him wonder again about her past, and why she revealed so little about herself. Did it have anything to do with her knee-jerk hatred of rippers?
She ran a finger over some textured purple crystals. “I don’t need much.”
“No, but imagine that on the other side of this store, there’s some trinket or treasure, something that speaks to you, that you want to own. Not a part for your ship, not a fancy anti-grav cart for moving cargo. Something for you.” He gave her a calculated look, of approximately forty percent curiosity, thirty percent challenge, and thirty percent skepticism. It was a well-practiced look and rarely failed.
It didn’t fail today,
either.
An answer flickered behind Arlen’s eyes. She hesitated to speak, but he knew, in her head, she had a crystal-clear picture of what she wanted.
“It’s stupid,” she said.
“I’m certain it isn’t,” he countered. He stood there, looking at her, smiling encouragingly.
“It is.” she sighed. “I had a music box once. You know the kind with an embedded music chip that you couldn’t change out? Old-fashioned. Anyway, it played a song. I don’t know what the song was. Something human, I think, because I found similar decoration patterns on other music boxes from Earth made about a hundred years ago.”
“Did someone special give it to you?”
“Yes. A friend.” The depth of sadness in those three words suggested that the person either no longer lived, or was otherwise lost to Arlen.
“What happened to your music box?”
The flicker of pain he saw surprised him. She contained it almost immediately, but the brief rawness of it made him wonder.
“It was stolen. I always hope I’ll find it again, or at least one like it.” She forced a bright smile. “So far, no luck.”
“I see. Sentiment can lend value.”
She turned away, looking at a stack of antique infoboards. “Yeah. Sometimes.” Her back straightened. “It’s nothing, really.”
It was, though. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter, but it did.
“It could turn up someday. You never know.” Knowing she did not want to talk about it any further, he focused his attention on an ornately engraved Go game. “What do you think of this?”
She edged closer for a better look. “It’s a reproduction, about ten years old. Excellent quality.” She picked up a playing piece and looked closely at both sides. “The pieces aren’t original to the board. They’re older, and worth more than the board itself. Altogether, it’s slightly overpriced.”
He agreed on every count. “I’m sure there’s room for negotiation. I’d think about buying it if I ever played Go.”
“Do you know how?”
“Of course. But I can’t remember the last time I played a board game.” The game of business had much higher stakes and therefore greater rewards.
“I always liked them.” She sidled past the rest of the displays, apparently finding nothing worth closer inspection.
“Shall we move on?” He saw nothing he needed here.
The remaining stores were much of the same—quality goods whose values were well-known by their owners. Arlen found no old music boxes, and Cabot found nothing noteworthy.
He didn’t expect to find anything when they strolled into the last store, but his eye immediately snagged on an ancient scythe hanging high on the wall, above the display shelves. Judging by its layer of dust, it had been there a long time.
He quickly moved on, scanning the other walls and perusing the display tables and shelves as methodically as he had in all the other stores.
His thoughts remained on that scythe, even as he and Arlen pointed out this item or that to one another. The Rescan woman in the back no doubt watched their every move and heard their every word, even as she polished a silver tray.
When they drew near her, he said a pleasant hello, as trader custom suggested.
“They don’t make them like that anymore, do they?” he asked, looking at the silver tray.
The woman smiled. “They sure don’t. And there’s a good reason: they’re terrible upkeep with all the polishing. Between you and me, I’ll take inexpensive, modern materials any day.”
Cabot chuckled. “You and me both. I’m afraid I just don’t have the patience for all that. But for collectors, it’s the care and attention needed that’s precisely what makes such an item desirable.”
The woman made a sound of agreement. “Collectors,” she said with an indulgent shake of her head. “Thank goodness for their foolishness, eh?”
They laughed in perfect understanding. Two steps away, Arlen chuckled as she examined some tiny decorative vases.
“Rinna,” the woman said, offering her arm in greeting. Although Cabot appreciated the PAC custom of bowing that allowed people to convey a great deal with small gestures, this was a greeting that represented his own culture. A trader-to-trader gesture of understanding that reinforced a respectful suspicion of each other. He grasped her elbow, as she did his.
It felt wonderful after all his time operating within a PAC station.
“Cabot,” he answered. Neither offered a last name. The less others knew about you, the better. Neither of them had any reason to believe they were even exchanging their real names.
It was comforting to be with someone who thought the way he did. Arlen was a good trader, but she was a solid PAC citizen too. A little too good, a little too starched.
Too good for Cabot. Deep down, he still had larceny in his soul. That would always be the difference between him and Arlen. He put it aside now, in his advancing years, because he could afford to, and his lifestyle warranted it. But that didn’t mean greed didn’t well up inside him sometimes to bare its teeth when an opportunity presented itself.
Rinna gave him a knowing look. “Spending a lot of time in the PAC these days?”
“How did you know?” Had she sensed his pleasure at their greeting? If so, she was good. And if so, he had to keep a tighter lid on his thoughts.
“I can always tell. The posture’s a tiny bit straighter, and there’s this hint of a smell. PAC-grade stations and outposts smell different, and it clings to the clothes and hair.” She gave him that knowing look again. “And with ones like you, there’s a sense of being glad to be home.”
Scrap, she was good. He’d revealed far too much about himself already.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, waving dismissively. “It’s not something others notice.”
Cabot rarely found himself on the defensive, but he felt that way now. “I’ll attempt to slouch more.” He rounded his shoulders.
She laughed, showing even, well-maintained teeth and what appeared to be genuine good humor.
“That’s an unusual item up there. Is it a weapon?” Cabot pointed to the scythe and let the burden of conversation fall on her.
Her gaze flicked to it, then back to Cabot. “Ancient Briveen farming tool, for harvesting grain.”
Cabot made a tsk sound. “Amazing. Can’t imagine doing all that manually. But why would Briveen harvest grain?”
“To feed the animals they ate. That was before synthmeat changed everything.”
“Incredible. They did so much work to grow grain so they could then grow animals. So inefficient.” He gazed at the scythe, impressed with the hard work ancient people had to do just so they could eat.
Rinna nodded. “That’s why I’m not sad that scythe hasn’t sold yet. I’m kind of fond of it, truth be told.”
It could be the truth. More likely, she was making the first move in negotiating a price for it since he’d shown an interest.
“It’s a fascinating piece. I might know someone who would like it, but if you’re so fond of it, I wouldn’t want to deprive you.” He gave her his trademark benign smile.
“Oh, I’m just a temporary caretaker, before it finds its owner,” she answered. “I’m sure we could settle on a price that would satisfy us both.”
And there it was. The opening salvo to a negotiation. It was familiar, like a lover, and just as welcome. Cabot felt the bargaining lust rise in him, just as it was surely rising in her.
It was a dance. A fight. A love affair. All rolled into words and prices and non-negotiable terms.
He squinted at the scythe. “It’s awfully big. It would take a lot of space in my cargo hold.”
“It’s long, but its overall per-cubic-unit shipping size is quite reasonable.” She whipped an infoboard from her belt, quickly tapped on it, then turned it for Cabot to view. “See?”
“Hm, not bad,” he allowed. Then he moved past the foreplay and into the main event. “How much?”
Rule of Sales Number 7: An item is only worth as much as someone will pay for it.
“Ah, a collector’s item, then.” Cabot shook his head. “My friend would only use it as a curiosity in his home. A conversation starter.”
The right buyer might pay her asking price. That was the funny thing about such an item. It was useless. It provided nothing but the joy of ownership. Therefore, it was both worthless and priceless. The right collector was out there in the universe somewhere. But it may take a long time for that collector to cross paths with this item. Or it may never happen. Cabot and Rinna both knew that.
“Make me an offer, then,” Rinna suggested.
Cabot stared at the scythe. Squinted. Sighed. Finally, he said, “My friend may not even want it, and then I’ll have saddled myself with a long, awkward item I have no use for.”
“So, make an offer.” Rinna’s lips twitched in a smile that said she knew he wanted it.
He chuckled. Glancing at Arlen, who stood nearby, quietly watching, he shrugged and said, “I guess I could lose five hundred. If he doesn’t like it, I might be able to get that much back out of it.”
“I should toss you out right now for making such a lowball offer.” Instead of looking outraged, though, Rinna grinned at him.
“So make me a counteroffer,” Cabot challenged, grinning back. He was having a fantastic time.
“Fifteen hundred.”
“Impossible,” he declared. “For fifteen hundred, I’d buy other cargo I could more than double my money on back in the PAC zone. You and I both know I’m not making a single cubic if I have to resell this thing.” He peered upward at it. “It’s covered in dust.”
Rinna pursed her lips. She let out a sigh. “I could sacrifice it for a thousand.”
“Seven fifty. We both know that no one else is coming in here this month offering to pay that much for it.”
She scowled at him. “Fine. Seven fifty. But no delivery service. You carry it out of here yourself.”
Then she grinned, clearly pleased with the idea of him walking through Dauntless carrying a huge scythe.