by Ivan Ertlov
"Anxiety sweat and the contents of their bowels?"
Özgür paused briefly but deigned to acknowledge Dila's interjection with a shake of his head.
"No, coffee! Many huge sacks filled to the brim with fragrant coffee beans, known to Europeans at the time only as an exotic tale from the Arabian Nights. Two hundred years later, they were all addicted to coffee, and they paid horrendous prices to the trading descendants of those they had defeated on their doorstep. To my ancestors."
Frank blinked in confusion.
"What does that have to do with our mission? Or with the fact that we lost the war?"
The trader raised his arms and revealed gleaming white teeth during a smile that would have made even the most hardened smuggler buy a second-hand shuttle from him.
"History has repeated itself, dear friends. Yes, we have lost the war, the earth has been vaporised, our species scattered to the winds. But thirteen of the fourteen Council peoples are passionate about coffee, and we have a monopoly on it."
That was indeed true. Just as "He who buys from humans pays twice" was a common saying, "Coffee and cake, let the humans brew and bake" had become established.
"Come on, boys, open the box and let our heroes have a sniff."
The two grunts to his side looked at each other in surprise for a moment but finally shrugged and unlocked the box before pulling up the lid almost reverently.
The aroma was overwhelming, singing to them a song of lush, fertile earth, months of sunshine, and careful roasting. It was a heavenly smell that made them all sigh longingly. And all of this despite the fact that the produce was carefully sealed in half-kilo bags.
Özgür knew what he had in this treasure.
"That, my friends, is the good stuff. A handful of experts whose African and Latin American ancestors grew the best coffee on old Earth thousands of years ago produce it on a remote agricultural planet. Somewhere in the fringe worlds, far from the Protectorate and the Lex Humanitas. Hot stuff? Undoubtedly, but perfectly legal."
Bettsy swallowed audibly, and Frank could only imagine how many digestive enzymes her gullet was already secreting in vain anticipation. Troshk sniffed and rolled his eyes, while even Dilara briefly slipped into a daydream before returning to the essentials.
"All right, old rascal, let's talk about our payment. You paid us two hundred mineral units in advance; you still owe us three hundred. I hope you have the money ready and ..."
Özgür waved it off with a smile.
"Of course, my friends, don't worry. You can have it transferred immediately, be it in cash, as a diamond, or chucknorrisium, just as you like. But I got a barely used glider in there yesterday; you should really take a look at it. A beryllium magnet wagon in noble black, with leather seats and first-class hovering properties ..."
Bettsy hoisted up briefly, and her mandibles clicked snidely.
"A BMW? No thanks, the direction indicators are notoriously unreliable. Plus, their autopilots have the nasty habit of flying way too close to the glider in front and then flashing the searchlights."
The free trader shrugged his shoulders.
"All right, then, the old-fashioned way, mineral units by the book. Or, perhaps ..."
He reached into the box, deftly pulled out one of the packets and held it under their noses one by one.
"... we will come to an agreement otherwise."
Dila and Bettsy, Frank and Troshk looked each other in the eye. Curt nods were followed by silent, meaningful glances, and their voices merged into one as they asked the all-important question.
"Do you have milk and sugar?"
*
"I may not understand your enthusiasm for this strange hot beverage, but mathematics is one of my strong points - although this calculation even Frank could manage. Five hundred divided by five is still a hundred, and that's exactly how much I want to see in my trust account, minus taxes. The fact that you get your share paid for in coffee is not my problem."
Frank sighed. Not because of the insult, which could hardly be described as subtle, that his ship was snapping in his face, but because of his upcoming doubled taxes. And Yrsha's recent rather obvious enthusiasm for disdainful capitalism did not sit well with him at all.
"I still don't understand what you're saving up for. It's not like you have to go boozing with us or buy groceries. We fix you up, your black hole powers you, you have a cosy parking space on the roof ..."
"Well, Commander, perhaps I also have wishes, needs, dreams? Maybe I want a fancy new coat of paint on the hull one day? Or some sparkles on the bow, like Bettsy wears on her new bag now?"
Frank glanced at the Metaltaster, who discreetly guiltily pulled her segments together a tiny bit while he landed Yrsha carefully on the roof of their headquarters. The automatic lights came on, and the Prospectorate Stargazer became a beacon in the still young, fresh night.
Fresh? More like freezing!
Oh yes, the Borsht district without sunshine presented itself from its best side - well, for Troshk and his kind. A constant minus ten degrees and a light wind from the northwest made Frank shiver as they covered the few metres to the freight lift. The tips of Dila's ears turned blue, and Bettsy was on the verge of curling up in torpor. Only the Stormcommander stopped for a moment, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"Ah, home, beautiful home!"
Frank shuddered and cast a longing glance towards the horizon, where a few large trees grew high behind skyscrapers and apartment complexes, bathed in soft green light from millions of glow-in-the-dark dragonflies.
"We should have settled in the Tarjah sector. Or at least with the Toronk. Oh, even the Durash quarter would have suited me. Dense rainforest, wonderful pools, permanently kept at body temperature, well, at my body temperature and ..."
"... and when you jump in, you don't know if you're bathing WITH or IN an extended family of slimers. No Frank, on our budget, this was the perfect shelter and the only property stable enough for a landing platform."
Dilara had spoken while she entered the security code next to the door and waited for the icy metal to slide aside. She was right, of course, and yes, if the cold crept into your bones, the Creeshsplitter with its hot steppes was only a short walk away. But still, Frank loved the warmth and complained even more often than Bettsy. Which did not mean that the latter did not raise any concerns.
"Frank, you still haven't changed the lift tune."
Pounding and thudding sounds drove into their bones as the platform slowly made its way down.
"Yes, I know. But it's an old classic from Earth; I bought the recording at the Terran Museum, it has ..."
"... cost way too much money. But, seriously, that was music for you? Oh boy, did you ever translate the lyrics? I'm blue, da ba dee da ba di? If that's a classic of human creativity, then I really wonder how you guys were able to venture into space with your intellect."
Troshk, who had unconsciously started to bob his foot and nod his head, froze in embarrassment before clearing his throat.
"They were jump-started, at least in the grey and distant past."
Dilara giggled.
"Grey sums it up quite well. It's hard to believe that the arrogant greyskin-dwarves of yesteryear are supposedly the core of the Plachtharr Alliance today. So the symbiotes aren't that sophisticated after all; maybe they would have even taken in humans at some point."
The Stormcommander shook his head resolutely.
"No, not a chance. Too stupid, too emotional, too aggressive. Sorry Frank, nothing personal."
"No, just a scientific fact, isn't it? That's all right. But that won't stop you from going for a drink with the stupid, emotional, aggressive human, will it?"
Dilara turned to him and winked conspiratorially.
"Does the Toronk resin in the forest?"
Despite the low-flying insults and mutual jibes, it was a loose, relaxed mood in which they left the lift. A well-paid job completed despite unexpected difficulties, several dozen pirat
es eliminated, the payment received partly in black gold - what could be nicer?
The lift closed at their backs, the main corridor of the Stargazer Protectorate lay before them. To the left, the stand-by quarters, purposeful yet cosily furnished. A dwelling and, more than anything else, home, even if Troshk still went to his den every second or third evening, and Bettsy secretly followed him a short time later. Frank regretted that they couldn't take Yrsha down here with them, even if the Metaltaster was already working on some promising concepts to let the ship participate in the evening activities and meetings in the kitchen to the right, at least via transmission and projection. The problem was still the security circuitry, which Bettsy understood but could not completely override. Three hours without her pilots in the immediate vicinity, and Yrsha fell into her deep sleep, only to be awakened again when Frank and Dila were standing by her hull. No, wait, by now, it worked on Troshk and the Metaltaster too, but the latter suffered like a salted durash after each connection. A ganglion was no brain, no matter how complexly developed and intellectually superior.
Three hours, four minutes and ten seconds - that's how much autonomy Bettsy had been able to squeeze out for Yrsha so far without removing the entire module - something none of them wanted to risk. The ship used the time mainly for studying - or playing one of those games on the holonet that her share regularly bought her. Yrsha didn't get bored on the roof, and yet it felt wrong every time to leave her alone. Lost in thought, Frank led the way, marching straight to her living room and briefing room, where the automatic door buzzed open - revealing a nasty surprise waiting for him.
Waited?
No, hatefully lurked.
"Frank Gazer! At last! I've been waiting for you! You human scum have taken everything from me!"
Horrified, he stared at the Durash, who had apparently made himself comfortable in their headquarters - but on closer inspection, there was nothing at all comfortable about this being.
The slimeball had merely developed a pseudopod, a rudimentary neck and head that was trembling not only with anger. His body was in a wretched state, the outer membrane partially cracked and encrusted, while small, hardened lumps inside betrayed the abuse of unhealthy substances.
A crazed maniac who had nothing left to lose except his hatred for Frank, who in turn was glad to have his now curious companions with him. Cautiously, he took a step back.
"Who are you? And what am I supposed to have done? I don't even know you ..."
The pseudopod stretched a little higher and her vocal membrane tilted into the hysterical.
"You do not know me? I am Florbsh, and you have created me! No, you created my nemesis, that impostor who now bears my true name! You asshole split me, before my time, against my will!"
Frank blinked and finally winced guiltily as the force of the memory hit him like a sculptured hoof.
"Oh."
Dila, who had already drawn her ritual blades, gave him a look that was as questioning as it was reproachful.
"Is that right?"
"I - I think so."
A curt nod, a sigh, an attempt at justification, not likely to calm the intruder.
"You think so? You trampled me, in the open street, in front of dozens of witnesses!"
Frank raised his arms imploringly.
"Weren't you going to split after your holiday anyway?"
The Durash's appendage sprang forward, stretching with a mighty effort of will that kept the drug-ridden body under control.
"Yes, after the holiday! In an orderly, supervised environment where a representative of our government welcomes the newcomer and assigns him his place! Not on the street in a filthy human quarter. Do you have any idea what my other half has done?"
Frank shook his head.
"Assumed my identity! Used my flight ticket, took control of my bank account! He now has my job, my swamp, my contacts and my money! All I had left was the gutter, the booze and ..."
Bettsy shifted forward, eyeing the Durash body and the dark, hardened pieces floating within.
"... table salt. You're on sodium chloride, aren't you?"
Florbsh flinched back a little, and shame mingled with the anger in his voice.
"Yes, I've sunk so low, yes, I've been on salt, but that's over. By the moons of Grarosh, I swear: I've been wet all the way through for three weeks!"
Dilara giggled, but the joke eluded three out of five people without a trace, especially the uninvited visitor.
"All I needed was willpower, a goal in mind that would make this bittersweet oblivion of the salty drug meaningless."
Frank understood and nodded sorrowfully.
"You have come to take revenge. You have come to kill me."
This time the slime body literally bounced back, disgusted and horrified.
"No! What is it with you fucking humans that it's always about killing, murdering, or slaughtering? I want a job!"
Frank relaxed as did Troshk, whose hand had unconsciously wandered to the assault rifle at his back.
"All right, let's talk."
*
"... and then I read the reports in the Holonet about your find on Criur-4, about the bright future prospects for the young company owned by the heroes of Gahar-2. And I thought to myself, this is my chance for a fresh start. Listen, guys, I don't want a partnership; I'm not a megalomaniac, I'm happy taking up any job with a regular salary and ..."
He stretched his forelock upwards and looked around the now quite generously furnished living room.
"... a roof over my head."
Frank leaned back, propped his forearms on their meeting table and let his gaze slide over his friends' faces. What did he read in them? A reproach, a demand to make up for something he had long forgotten? His own guilty conscience was no longer gnawing at him; no, it was slowly eating him up.
He had to do something.
"Okay, that should be possible. What do you know about prospecting and mine operations? Do you know about drill lasers and ore scanners? Do you believe in undiscovered chucknorrisium deposits in asteroid belts, omniscient artefacts and great technological legacies of the Ancients?"
The slimeball moved slowly back and forth, apparently digesting one question after another.
"Hey, if there's a regular salary in it, I also like to believe in the boundless steppe of the Creesh, the giant black buffalo of the Gulptar and the invisible rainforest of the Toronk. But really, I'm a lawyer."
Frank jumped up, accidentally knocked his chair to the floor and staggered towards the wall, arms flailing. Bettsy hoisted herself up briefly before curling up and assuming the protective posture of the Creesh. The assault rifle appeared in Troshk's hands as quickly as the ritual sickle blades of Dila appeared in front of Florbsh's trembling body.
"No, no! Not that kind of lawyer! My speciality is tax law! But, if it makes you feel any better - I've been working as a tax consultant for the last ten years, and my accounting isn't bad either."
Bettsy pulled her segments apart carefully, and the weapons, drawn in a flash, disappeared from the negotiating table almost as quickly. Frank tried to show as much dignity and composure as possible as he straightened the chair and took his seat again.
"Okay, but honestly, I don't think we have any use for ..."
Florbsh sighed and cut him off.
"That's what they all say. But let's be honest - you've just come back from a job, haven't you? How much did it pay you?"
Troshk leaned forward.
"One hundred mineral units per head, or five hundred in all, paid partly in cash and partly in merch."
The Durash shook his pseudopod.
"It doesn't matter; both are taxed the same. And how much tax will you pay on that?"
Dilara slid back and forth in her seat, slowly seeming to understand what Florbsh was getting at.
"Well, that's a stupid question, the usual twenty-five."
Frank growled.
"Fifty for me, thank you, Lex Humanitas."
&nb
sp; The Durash straightened up, looked around.
"That's your first mistake; you have to tax it as company income, not like a salary in the fleet or the Consortium. Then the Lex doesn't matter anymore, but your depreciation items do. Looking at your headquarters - rented or bought?"
Bettsy had meanwhile fully rolled out again.
"The building has been purchased, but is on land with a lease for thirty years."
Florbsh slowly got going.
"All right, if we calculate your operating expenses, depreciation, mandatory and voluntary insurance for the crew, plus consumables and medical care ... Let's see, the coffee we can specify as a contractual obligation towards shareholding employees. Then we transfer the Consortium`s name to a holding company in the Kah-man swamps of my homeland before licensing it back with a double Hurush-Durash sandwich. In the end, that means, well, I don't want to promise too much, but pessimistically estimated you would pay between twelve and fourteen MUs in taxes."
The owners of the Stargazer prospectorate fell silent and looked at each other. Clicking mandibles interwove with a benevolent growl and astonished hiss into a melody of joyful surprise as Frank cleared his throat.
"Fourteen MU on the hundred? And I would only have to pay twenty-eight?"
Amused but also somehow pitying, Florbsh shook his pseudo-head.
"Gosh, I still wonder how you, of all races, could become the horror of the galaxy with that tiny lump of fat and sugar for a brain. No, I'm talking twelve to fourteen mineral units for the whole job, but I'd round up to fifteen to be on the safe side. Under three per cent levy rate, the auditors always look extra closely, and nobody wants that."
Frank's eyes snapped open.
"Three ... three ... three per cent?"
The membrane on the pseudopod giggled in amusement.
"And that makes you the darlings of the authorities. You don't even want to know how much the Consortium or the Real Estate Syndicate downplay their profits. So - do you need an accountant or not?"
They needed no meeting, no consultation, a few brief, silent glances were enough, and Troshk rose from his triple-reinforced chair.