Pol hadn’t waited.
“No cattle ships,” Roystan said.
“They stole the memory stick.” She started toward the lifeboat.
“Let them go.” Roystan grabbed her leg and tripped her up. The sparker arced across the metal floor, up the walls, and into the roof. “And turn that thing off before you short everything on ship.”
Josune switched off the sparker.
She heard the blaring klaxon that signaled the opening of the lifeboat hatch. The breach doors slid shut. She couldn’t get to them now, not without a suit. They were too late to do anything.
“Why should they get the Hassim’s memory?” It was hers, by right, if it was anyone’s. Not that she needed most of it. She had her own records, but the one set of information Captain Feyodor never shared was information about Goberling. And there was the information about the attack.
“Nothing’s worth dying for,” Roystan said.
No. Especially not when Josune remembered one important thing. They didn’t need the Hassim’s memory. They had a copy of it on The Road to the Goberlings’s memory.
5
JOSUNE ARRIOLA
The calibrator was cracked.
“Probably the sparker,” Carlos said. “You should have known better than to bring a weapon like that on board.”
Sad to admit, he was most likely right. Fixing that took priority over installing the cannon, because if they had the calibrator they could at least nullspace if they needed to.
A ship controlled the direction of its movement through space by firing thrusters to create a force to move against. The pilot applied the thrust, but the direction and force of the thrust was controlled by the calibrator. Outside nullspace, a good pilot could control the direction of the ship by small, manual corrections. But you couldn’t do that when nullspacing, for even a tiny mistake was magnified over such vast distances. Not only that, the force at which you entered nullspace made a difference to where you came out. If you entered at twice the speed you planned to, you traveled twice the distance.
So it was important to have absolute control—via the calibrator—and to be spot on with direction and force when you entered nullspace.
“You’ll get one jump out of it,” Josune told Roystan. “After which you’ll need to buy a new one.”
Roystan was pale under his dressing. “But we get one jump?”
“Yes. The shorter the safer.”
Roystan nodded. “We’ll wait till Brown Combine collects the Hassim, and then we’ll go to Lesser Sirius and get ourselves patched up. Meantime, I need a coffee.”
Josune watched him walk out. “What part of short trip doesn’t he understand? Lesser Sirius is halfway across the galaxy.”
“We always go to Lesser Sirius when we need medical attention,” Carlos said.
* * *
• • •
The CEO from Brown Combine arrived with his aide, the captain, and a cargo master. Plus three accompanying ships, which Josune knew would be armed. They were an hour early.
Josune and Carlos went down to the shuttle bay with Roystan to meet them. Josune came along, because, as Roystan said, “You’re the only one who can fight. But if you use that sparker again I might kill you myself.”
Josune ignored that. She wasn’t going to meet their visitors visibly armed, but she wanted a weapon close enough to use if she had to.
Jerome Brown raised an eyebrow at Roystan’s bandages. “I’d heard the Hassim could protect itself. I’m surprised you tried it, let alone managed to defeat them. Especially so far inside the legal zone.”
Roystan shook his head. “The Hassim nullspaced in front of us. A company had attempted to take it over. The two parties had mostly wiped each other out.”
If the company trying to take the Hassim had been Brown Combine, then this was where they all died, and there wasn’t a thing Josune could do about it.
“And your injuries came from fighting off the remaining staff of the company? Or the remaining crew of the Hassim?”
“Neither actually. A little internal disagreement. Which is why we only have the ship to sell, and not the memory.”
Brown’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. Josune would bet he didn’t show that much expression often. It was unexpected, but a clever thing to do, for now that he knew they didn’t have the memory they were suddenly much safer.
“We’re also down a few crew, unfortunately.”
Except Roystan had just undone all his good work. Couldn’t he have left it at no memory?
Brown’s captain gave a faint, derisive smile as she clasped her hands behind her back and followed her boss and Roystan. The aide didn’t hide his sneer.
“Which crew are you down? I could have them detained for you.”
Roystan laughed. “Much as I don’t like them right now, I don’t plan on setting the companies on them. I’m sure you can work out who they are yourself.”
“Naturally.” Brown frowned at them all impartially. “I want to go aboard the Hassim.”
“Of course you do. But let’s settle the payment first. That way, the minute you step on the ship she’s yours.”
That was standard. Once the buyers were on the ship they could kill whoever was with them and take off with the prize. But Josune hadn’t expected Roystan to bargain with such experience. He ran cargo and had done so for as far back as her research went. He kept surprising her.
Roystan gestured toward the crew room. “We can discuss it over coffee?”
Coffee was served with cinnamon buns and tiny wafer biscuits, with Jacques and his bandaged foot, hovering.
Brown glanced at the second injury, but he didn’t comment. Not on the injury, anyway. He savored the bun with visible enjoyment. “Last time I ate such delightful buns was fifteen months ago, on New France. A little café in the Brest arrondissement.”
Jacques stiffened, and for a moment Josune thought he’d go back into the galley.
“It was attached to the most feted restaurant on New France. You had to book three months in advance to dine there. I always ate there when I was on New France.”
“Not sure I’d like to wait that long for a meal,” Roystan said.
“Oh, it was worth it.” Brown picked up a napkin Jacques had provided.
Josune was sure they were the only ship in the galaxy that had cloth napkins served with every meal. And with snacks.
“The chef went crazy one night. Attacked the restaurant with a meat cleaver. Totally destroyed it.”
“Imagine that,” Roystan said. “At least we don’t have to worry about restaurant dining. We eat too well on The Road.”
“So, Jacques. It is Jacques, isn’t it?” Brown wiped the sticky filling off his fingers with fastidious care. “I have a job for you. Cooking for me. Ten times whatever Roystan is paying you.”
Josune saw the look that passed between Roystan and Jacques and the slight shake of Jacques’s head.
Roystan’s pat to his arm was reassuring, and unobtrusive. “Aren’t you afraid he’ll take a cleaver to your kitchen?”
“I’ll assign security guards.”
Jacques turned his back on them and limped into the galley.
“I don’t know what game you’re playing, Brown.” Roystan still looked the gentle, relaxed man Josune knew, but the unfamiliar timbre in his voice made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “Hassle my chef again and I’ll suggest he cook up a batch of arsenide buns for you.”
Josune couldn’t stop her hand from moving to her inside pocket. Did Roystan have a death wish? People had been killed for less.
Brown’s cargo master and the captain both shifted stance. Their hands moved to where Josune was sure they had concealed weapons, too. The aide wasn’t a fighting man, but his eyes took in everything, with an avarice that kept Josune on edge. The Hassim c
rew were familiar with being a prize.
Brown frowned at Roystan, but Josune thought he wasn’t frowning at the threat. It was as if the words had triggered a memory, and he gazed at Roystan as if, by looking at him, he’d remember the rest of it.
He shook his head and finally seemed to notice the tense staff around him. “Let’s keep this civilized. Rest easy. You too,” he said to Josune, and he held his hands out in front of him. “I’ll overlook your comment, Roystan. Your reputation precedes you. I’m sure nothing will happen.”
“Thank you.” Roystan’s tone was dry, with none of the gratitude of a man reprieved. In fact, it almost dripped with the arsenide he’d promised a moment ago. “I’m glad we’re in agreement.” Josune shivered at the tone. She’d never thought of him as a hard man before, but that voice, with its steady calmness, was more frightening than Brown’s implied threats of earlier. His confidence was intimidating.
Where had that come from? Why did Roystan hide it? Why hadn’t he used that tone on Pol?
“Now, if you’ve finished threatening my crew and trying to poach them, perhaps we can talk about what you’re here for. The Hassim.”
Executive Brown looked at Roystan, at his bandaged arm, and toward Jacques, now in the galley. She relaxed only when he nodded acquiescence. “What’s left on the ship for me to buy?”
“The memory is gone. We took some supplies and personal valuables, but the rest of the ship is intact and in good working order.”
“We took cannons.” Josune didn’t try to match Roystan’s tone, but the threat was clear enough. “Ammunition.” A direct warning to Brown and his captain. They were armed. They would fight.
They didn’t need to know how many cannons they’d taken. Or that the cannon wasn’t working yet.
“She was fitted out for a long trip,” Roystan said. “Full of supplies. Holds empty, fuel full.”
“And the company that attacked them?”
“No idea, although they came from Pisces III.”
The purchase went through quickly after that, and then Roystan and Carlos took the Brown people over to the Hassim.
Josune wanted to go over with them. She didn’t trust Brown, or his watchful aide. Or his smiling captain. Or his silent cargo master. Who ever heard of a cargo master who didn’t talk?
She helped herself to the last cinnamon bun, savored it. “Did you really take a meat cleaver to the restaurant, Jacques?”
“It was my restaurant. I could do what I liked with it. That cleaver.” Jacques smiled in fond reminiscence. “Big mother. Like an ax. And the edge. I could chop anything with it.”
“How many people did you kill?” An axman running berserk in a full restaurant—and it must have been full if you had to book three months in advance—would have done a lot of damage.
Jacques picked up the empty plate. “You’re the only one around here who kills people, Josune. I pick my times. Like before opening hours.”
“Would you ever want to open another restaurant?”
“I have enough challenges here.” Jacques collected the rest of the empty coffee cups. “Roystan has a weak stomach. Lots of things set it off. If I weren’t around he’d starve.”
6
NIKA RIK TERRI
Despite demanding not to be put out, Nika slept through most of her healing. Her body had been awake fifty hours.
Midafternoon, she woke to Snow unclipping the apparatus.
“I didn’t put you to sleep,” he said, when he saw she was awake.
Eleven days before Tamati came out of his own machine. Or was that ten?
What if she couldn’t escape him?
Reaction set in as she tried to stand. She almost fell off the table.
Snow grabbed her arm. “Easy.” He sounded worried. “I didn’t put anything in there. You shouldn’t be unstable.”
His after-work manner needed improvement.
She checked her hands and her legs. They were clean and professionally done. As good as she would have done herself. She’d have liked to change her appearance, but not here, not now.
Nika looked over to where Banjo, now cleaned up and his face a flat mask of stabilizing gel, was still out. Snow hadn’t tried to move him, which was smart. Just covered him with a blanket. By the looks of it, he’d lost most of his nose to the acid. His mouth was an open O from the breathing ring.
“We’d better get him onto the table.”
“I need to clean it down first.”
“Of course.” She moved aside and pulled on the coveralls she’d bought at the vending machine. She should have bought two pairs. For some of Alejandro’s friends she’d put their clothes through the cleaner. A pity Snow hadn’t thought to do that for hers.
She yawned as she watched him work. “Did you design a new face for him?”
He indicated the machine. She looked critically at his design. He’d pulled a basic stock face from the archives. One of the models they used at the training schools.
Snow came over to stand behind her, wiping his hands. “I didn’t want to waste any talent giving him a custom face.”
Which was more than Banjo deserved, but she said, “If he comes after you, how will you recognize him from the hundreds of others with the same face?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” He looked around the shop. “I suppose he will. Come after us, I mean.”
He’d got it.
“Thugs like Banjo don’t like to lose. People might think they can fight back. He’d end up losing everyone along this street. So not only does he lose face”—literally and figuratively—“but you’ve hit his credit as well. Next time he comes back he’ll bring a few friends. They’ll trash your shop.” If Snow was in it at the time, he’d be lucky to get out of it alive. They wouldn’t kill him, not directly, but they’d beat him badly enough that he could die from the injuries. She pushed down the memory of Detective Sanray. Unfortunately, she knew lots of people like Banjo.
Although after Tamati, Banjo was almost tame. He would only beat her. Alejandro had done that, too, at the end. A machine fixed most things—except the memory. Tamati was another matter altogether. He would kill her.
Snow chewed his bottom lip. “I sank all my credits into this shop.”
Better to get out alive and broke than dead from making a stand. “You’ve heard of starting again.”
“I can’t start again. I don’t have—” He broke off, and looked away from her.
Maybe she shouldn’t have interfered. “Then don’t. Stay and take whatever he dishes out. Me, I’m going off-world.” She looked back at Banjo. “Just give him a distinguishable face before I go. If he comes after me, I want to know what he looks like.”
Snow opened his mouth to argue.
“Please, just do it. It’s been a long day and I’m fast losing patience.”
He closed his mouth again, looked at Banjo himself, then said meekly, “Do you want to do it?”
The about-face was suspicious, but she wanted to be gone. “Sure.”
Snow tapped some codes into his computer. “Go ahead.”
But she didn’t design immediately. Instead, she wandered around the shelves, checking what raw ingredients he had.
There wasn’t much, given that half his mutrient supply and all his naolic acid had been thrown away. Arrat crystals, five different sodium salts, four aluminum salts, all the basic metals but nothing higher. The seventeen basic plasmas, plus Nu-preon, which was an interesting choice for a beginner.
After that, she looked at the machine. The Netanyu 3501 had six inlet tubes, plus life support.
Had Snow chosen the student template because he didn’t want to waste time designing a face for Banjo? Or because he was limited in materials to make a face with? She looked over at him.
His smile was almost condescending.
It was a test, a
nd he expected her to fail.
“How old are you?” He was a cocky young thing, that was for sure.
“What’s that got to do with this?”
Everything. She wasn’t going to be bested by a kid. She was an artist. One of the best. Even a thug like Banjo was raw material.
There was another place you could get raw materials. From the body you were resculpting. Unfortunately for Banjo, it meant he’d lose a lot of muscle tone—which no doubt he found invaluable in his current job—but that was probably all to the good. “Help me put him on the table.”
“So you’re going to use my design.”
“Of course not. I want to weigh him.”
“What?” But he came over to help lift him onto the machine table. Unfortunately, Banjo was a big man. The two of them couldn’t lift him.
“What do you use to lift your heavier vats?”
“A hand-lift, but you can’t—”
She could, and did. The hand-lift was twelve hundred by six hundred millimeters. It went down flat, which Nika was pleased about. It would have been hard to lift him even a short height. She placed the lift so Banjo’s shoulders and stomach would be supported at least, then rolled him onto it. Face down, to make it easier to roll him off on his back.
“I’ll hold his legs while you raise him and move him over to the table.”
The shop bell chimed as they were in the middle of raising him. They both froze, midlift.
“Be with you in a moment,” Nika said. Snow looked as if he’d lost all capacity to speak. “We just need to get this man settled.”
“Here, let me help you with that.” Their new customer was a rangy male with a deep voice and the burned-ozone smell that Nika always associated with spacers. He came over and helped roll Banjo onto the table. Up close she could see a long burn mark down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his ship jacket. His hand was bandaged. All the way down his arm, at a guess. His clothes hung on him.
“He is a mess,” the spacer said.
He didn’t ask the questions a normal civilian might, like what was the person doing on the floor in the first place? Why wasn’t he on a stretcher? Shouldn’t he be in a hospital?
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