Jewels of the Dragon

by Allen Wold

  He entered the darkened interior of the bar. It was fairly empty at this time of day, still too early for the after-work trade. He sat at the bar, and the tender came over.

  "Small whiskey," he told her. She punched the buttons, handed him the glass in exchange for a bill. He gulped half the drink.

  "Pretty far afield, aren't you?" she asked him.

  "I've just been trying to see Boss Bedik."

  "Did you really expect they'd let you in?"

  "I didn't know what to expect."

  "Boss Bedik's a busy man."

  "That's what I understand." He told her what had happened in the dome. "What's he do, anyway?"

  "He runs the mines. What do you think, we live on air? Kohltri's got nothing, it's just a refuge, but it does have deposits of balktapline, reserpine, and anthrace. That's the basis of our economy. If we didn't have that, we'd all starve."

  "I'm not familiar with those substances," Rikard said, though the name balktapline seemed familiar.

  "Artificial stuff, left over from earlier civilizations."

  "There were people here before humans?"

  "At least a couple. There were the Belshpaer, but they died out thousands of years ago. Balktapline is from whoever was here before the Belshpaer came."

  "Right, right." He remembered seeing the name in one of the station's files. "So there's a lot of this stuff here?"

  "That's it. You come to Kohltri, chances are you'll wind up working in the mines. If you're lucky, you'll find a place like this instead. Or if you're careful with your money, you can save up and buy one after a few years—or many."

  "Isn't balktapline what they use for star drives?"

  "Could be. I don't know that much about it."

  "But if that's what they're mining here, everybody should be rich."

  "You don't know the operation here." The tender served him another drink. "First of all, the mines are owned by a small group of stockholders. Everybody else works for wages."

  "That's insane."

  "Of course, but that's the way it is. And Boss Bedik runs the whole match. So you can see he'd not be likely to find the time to see the likes of you—or of me, for that matter."

  "He must be taking in quite a rake-off."

  "Not as much as he'd like. He can't sell the stuff on the market. It has to go through Director Solvay first."

  "So that's what he was afraid I was looking for." He told the tender how he'd been exiled to the surface.

  "Stupid of him," the tender said. "He's getting paranoid. If he suspected you, he should have just killed you. You can get off Kohltri in spite of him if you want to."

  "I found that out. But I think he may try to kill me yet. One of his agents has been following me around."

  "Not Emeth Zakroyan, I hope."

  "That very one."

  "You're a dead man. She's Solvay's private executioner. Even Bedik is afraid of her."

  "She's only been following me."

  "Sure, playing with you, waiting for the sporting moment. You'll know it when it comes, but nobody else will. And there'll be no connection with Solvay at all."

  "Then I'd better get on with my business while I have the chance. Except if Bedik's people won't let me in, I'd be wasting my time going back there."

  "Maybe you just didn't ask them the right way." She made the gesture of feeling cloth.

  "How much should I offer?" he asked her, handing her a bill.

  "About ten. But try the one you didn't talk to first. She hasn't refused you yet."

  "Thanks," Rikard said. He gulped the last of his drink and went back to Dome 14. He thought he must be getting the hang of things if the bartender's willingness to talk to him was any indication.

  8

  He reentered the lobby of Dome 14, remembering his father's easy way: calm, straightforward, unruffled. Rikard had never tried to bribe anybody before, and even though that might not be a criminal act on Kohltri, the thought of it still made him tense. He resisted scratching the scar on his palm and walked right up to the third receptionist, trying to imitate his father's manner as well as he could, and laid a ten on her desk.

  The woman looked at the bill, then up at Rikard.

  "I'm afraid Boss Bedik really is too busy to see you," she said.

  Rikard just smiled softly, as his father would have done, and laid a second bill beside the first.

  "Well," she said, "maybe five minutes." She stood, led him to a door, and let him through.

  He was at one end of a short corridor, with only one other door at the far end. The walls, floor, and ceiling of the corridor looked perfectly normal, but Rikard knew that he was in danger of his life. There would be detectors and weapons hidden behind those innocent panels.

  He hesitated for a moment. He was unarmed, without so much as a pocket knife. But if they just wanted to kill him, they would have done so by now.

  He walked up the corridor and reached the other door unharmed. He knocked once, opened the door, and stepped through into a comfortable office, with pictures on the windowless walls, bookcases in the corners, a small couch, two comfortable chairs, a bar on one side. There was a large cluttered desk, behind which sat an elderly gentleman, heavy-set but distinguished. The man looked up with mild curiosity.

  "Boss Bedik?" Rikard asked.

  "Yes, how can I help you?"

  Rikard told him what he'd told the first two receptionists.

  "I see," Bedik said. "And they let you in for that?"

  "No, they let me in for a couple of tens."

  Bedik's face split into a grin and he chuckled. "You were lucky. That doesn't always work. Okay, you're here. Who are you looking for?"

  "Arm Braeth. He lived in the city for two-thirds of a year and finally disappeared with no trace___"

  The humor had gone out of Bedik's eyes.

  "Sorry, kid, I never heard of Arin Braeth. I can't help you."

  "Uh, then could you refer me to someone else who might have known him, or who would be likely to have kept track of that kind of thing?"

  "Don't push. You've got no business asking me or anyone else questions like that. I'd suggest you head back to the port and book passage off Kohltri."

  "I don't mean him any harm." Rikard tried hard to sound harmless. "He's my father. I just want to see him again, or find his grave if he's dead."

  "Lots of sons kill their fathers. What's your name?"

  "Rikard Braeth."

  "Indeed. I'll tell you. If you're not out of here in thirty seconds, I'll have you thrown out, and I mean physically."

  Rikard hesitated for just a moment, then turned and hurried out of the office and down the corridor.

  Bedik's sudden change of manner at the mention of Arin Braeth indicated that the Boss knew something, was con­cealing something. But Rikard was in no position to get that something from him. It was unlikely that Rikard could bribe him, he had no way to threaten him, and Bedik was not interested in reason.

  He passed through the lobby. The receptionist who'd taken his money called after him, "Thanks for the twenty." She chuckled. The other two joined in. Rikard was thankful when the closing of the front door shut off the sound of their laugh­ter.

  9

  He walked half a block before he realized that the receptionists had known, before they'd let him in, that he would get nothing out of Bedik. The bartender had probably known it too. But Rikard, in spite of warnings, had just thrown away his money.

  That didn't bother him so much as the fact that he'd been made a fool of. He ground a knuckle into the scar on the palm of his right hand and watched as the image of concentric circles never quite formed in front of his eyes.

  He was tired. He'd walked a long way to get to the mining domes, and had as far to go again to get back to his hostel. He would have to hurry if he was going to get back before dark.

  He'd asked the day clerk about taxis, but the woman had just laughed. "What idiot," she'd said, "would want to take a chance with a job like that on a
world like this?" He'd then asked her about renting a car, but that would have cost as much as buying one, and cars were very expensive here. So he'd walked.

  Still, his day's effort hadn't been completely wasted. Bedik's change of manner from amused politeness to cold, hard distance could only mean that the name Arin Braeth had meant something to him, in spite of his denial. His father must have made a big impression to produce that strong a reaction even after eleven years. So other people should remember him too.

  If Arin Braeth had died eleven years ago, Bedik would have just said so and not have shut up as if he were concealing something, however he felt about Rikard or his father. And what could he conceal but the fact that Arin Braeth was still alive?

  The idea excited Rikard so much that he walked half a dozen blocks before he realized that he hadn't been keeping track of where he was going. He stopped at the next intersection and pulled out his map.

  As he was trying to locate himself on it, two men came up beside him, took his arms, and walked him quickly toward an alley. For just a few startled moments Rikard could do no more than let the two men carry him along. Then something clicked in his mind. His father would never have put up with this.

  He stopped so suddenly that the two men were swung around in front of him, their holds on his arms momentarily loosened. He jerked free and while his assailants were still off balance, hit one in the face with a right jab and backhanded the other across the side of the head with his left. Then he turned and sprinted away without waiting to see whether the men fell or not.

  He stopped when he was safely out of reach. The would-be muggers picked themselves up off the street. Their faces were angry and confused, but they said nothing. They turned and quickly walked away.

  Rikard's heart was pounding; his hands felt numb. He'd nearly been taken again, but once more he had reacted in just the right way. There was a lot more of his father in him than he'd given himself credit for. His experiences on Gorshom had misled him, compounded by his desire to deny his father's influence. For some reason, that made him feel good.

  He was, after all, his father's son, in more than just a biological sense. He had absorbed a lot from his father during his first thirteen years, if only from stories and by emulation of his manner. And except for Gorshom, when he'd been too young, he'd just never had an opportunity to put his father's teaching to use. Until now.

  Except for the fact that he was tired of running from trouble, the experience exhilarated him. This was what people felt when they went searching for thrills. If he had been back home, he would have been horrified at himself for finding that he enjoyed it. As it was, here on Kohltri, it might make the difference between living and dying. Predators always culled the weakest of their prey, and if he enjoyed danger, it would make him seem stronger to his enemies, and less vulnerable.

  Feeling more confident than perhaps he had a right to, he went back to the intersection. He seemed to be in one of those parts of the city that didn't correspond to his map. The only thing he could do was to head in the general direction of the port as quickly as his tired legs would take him and keep to the more heavily traveled streets. After all, it was one thing to enjoy an occasional thrill; it was another to stupidly put himself in danger, as he had done too many times already.

  By midafternoon he came to a street name that corre­sponded with one on his map. He was right on course but still several hours walk from the hostel. He put his map back in his pocket, looked up, and saw Emeth Zakroyan. She was standing right in front of him, hip cocked, arms crossed. She was dressed in leathers, and the 5mm fifty-shot machine pistol was still on her hip.

  "You just won't learn, will you?" she said.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Nonsense. You've been talking to Boss Bedik."

  "Yes, I have. The night clerk at my hostel thought he might have known my father."

  "Nobody knows your father. And nobody cares. But Sol-vay does care that you're still prying into his private busi­ness."

  "You go ask Bedik what I talked with him about." Rikard kept his anger under control.

  Now that he knew what that "private business" was, he understood Solvay's desire to keep it secret. If anybody in the rest of the Federation found out that Solvay was taking a big rake-off on the export of balktapline, he would be arrested at once. Fleeing to the surface of Kohltri wouldn't do Solvay any good. Kohltri was a refuge by convention only. If the Federal government really wanted him, they would just come down and get him.

  "I'm not going to waste my time with Bedik," Zakroyan was saying. "I'm not going to waste any more time at all. You were warned on the station, and you chose to ignore it. You were sent down here, and still you persist. Solvay has had enough of you, and it will be my pleasure to take you out."

  "Now wait, wait just a minute." He held his hands up defensively and backed off a step. "You've been following me. You must have talked to the same people I've been talking to. Doesn't what they say confirm my story?"

  "It only confirms that you're covering yourself with a false trail. It doesn't prove anything. Now come on. Do you want it right here in public, or shall we go somewhere in private?"

  "Why won't you listen to reason?"

  "Reason has nothing to do with it." She straightened and uncrossed her arms. Her right hand rested easily on the butt of her gun.

  Rikard sighed. The only thing he could do right now was to buy a little time. "Let's go."

  She pointed, he went, she fell in step beside him.

  They were still heading toward the port, but after a couple of blocks Zakroyan took Rikard's elbow and steered him into a courtyard. He had no plan of escape yet, but he wasn't going to let Zakroyan kill him without a fight, even if it was only a token.

  From the courtyard they went into a dim lobby, with stairs going up one side. They went past these, down a hallway toward the back of the building. At the far end Zakroyan opened a door and shoved Rikard out into a narrow alley. She pushed him along ahead of her until they came to a wide place with two other doors opening off it.

  If he was going to put up any resistance, now was probably the time. The only trouble was, Zakroyan was too alert and could drop him before he did more than take a step toward her. She shoved him roughly against a wall, drew her gun. Rikard tensed himself to spring, and one of the doors opened. Leonid Polski stepped out.

  The tableau froze for a moment. Zakroyan was startled, but her gun never wavered. Rikard suddenly lost track of what he had been half planning to do. Polski looked at them both with mild surprise.

  "A little backyard murder?" Polski asked blandly.

  "Nothing to do with you," Zakroyan said, her voice flat.

  "Of course not. How you doing, kid?"

  "I was doing just fine until a couple of minutes ago."

  "I guess she doesn't trust the city to do her work for her. Why don't you let it be, Zakroyan?"

  "I told you, it's none of your business."

  "It is now that I'm here. You want to shoot people, you do it while I'm not around."

  "If you'd go about your business, I could do that."

  Zakroyan's gun was aimed steadily at Rikard's chest. She'd have to turn ninety degrees to get a shot at Polski. He, on the other hand, dressed as an offworlder tourist, had no gun showing. If Zakroyan turned on him, he'd have to draw a weapon from somewhere.

  Zakroyan considered the situation just a moment longer, then slowly lowered her pistol and carefully put it back in its holster. Only then did she turn to face the policeman.

  "I've no quarrel with you," she said to him.

  "And I've none with you—unless you hurt the kid."

  "What's he to you?"

  "I've made his acquaintance. Purely personal. I don't like my friends blown away from me."

  "I'd advise you not to interfere."

  "If you shoot him, you won't find Kohltri a refuge—not if I choose to come after you."

  "You won't do that."

 
; "Want to take the chance?"

  "It might be interesting."

  "I'm sure you'd enjoy every minute of it. Now let the kid go."

  "You put me off this job, you'll have the Director on your neck."

  "You interfere with me, you'll have the Federation on your neck. And on the Director's. And you know they'll come here, refuge or no, if a Federal cop is killed."

  "Easy," Zakroyan said, holding her hands out from her sides. "Like I said, I've no quarrel with you."

  "Then let me explain what's going to happen. Either you're going to let Rikard and me go without further hassle, or you're going to try and keep him, in which case one of us will die, and if it's me, you will too, in just a matter of days."

  "They'll have to find you first."

  "Don't be stupid. I'm wired. This whole scene is on crystal. As long as you don't mess with me, it will be erased in one hundred standard days. But if I go down, a Goon Squad comes in, and there's nowhere you can hide."

  Zakroyan stared at him, her mouth hard. "All right, you win this round. But remember one thing. I'm not the only one who's trying to kill your friend. At least two other tries have been made on him already today."

  "Just don't let me see you do itr"

  Zakroyan turned and walked up the narrow alley. Polski looked at Rikard and visibly relaxed.

  "You travel in rough company," he said.

  "It wasn't my idea." Rikard could feel himself shaking with released tension. "Have you been following me too?" He drew a long, shuddering breath, then wiped the cold sweat off his forehead.

  "Pure coincidence," Polski said. "Are you all right?" He took hold of Rikard's shoulder.

  "I think so. Give me a minute so I can get used to the idea of living awhile longer."

  "Take all the time you need. Where were you going when Old Iron Jaws found you?"

  "Back to the hostel. I've just been to see Boss Bedik."

  "Like I said, rough company. What'd he have to say?"

  "Not much. It's what he didn't say that counts, though." Rikard told Polski what he thought Bedik's reaction to the mention of his father's name had meant.