by S. J. Higbee
“Hugo was a peaking help. You should see what I’ve scooped up – alpha-prime quality tools! More’n I’d ever be able to afford, normally. They didn’t want hardly any creds for ʼem,” Words tumbled from him as he hauled the headdress off. “And as for these…” He snatched up a jagged lump of burned modcrete and stroked it, his face soft with longing as he turned it around in his hands. “They were all set to send this stuff away as trash on the ships bringing in supplies Can you imagine? So they gave ʼem away.”
“Would you like more?”
“There’s a whole pile of it – going air-free! I don’t see how I can take anymore. We gotta weight limit, haven’t we?” Seeing him so excited made my stomach skitter with pleasure. I didn’t want it to stop.
“Which we’re nowhere near. Those… chups you were talking about. They don’t travel light. They need their things around them. So between us – you and me – we could fill a crate with that stuff and take it with us. If you like.” I turned to Sarge for confirmation. “That’d be smooth, wouldn’t it?”
“Hm. He could have two crates if he takes some of my luggage allowance, as well.” Sarge shot Wynn a look. “Though I want a cut of the profits on the pieces you make, or it isn’t a deal.”
Wynn stilled. “Ten per cent for every piece I carve from Hawking modcrete? It’ll keep it simple, or I’ll pay twenty per cent for each piece carved from that one crate. But it’ll be harder keeping track of that.”
Sarge crossed his arms. “Make it fifteen per cent for every piece and I’ll probably be able to get a third crate filled and on board.”
“Especially if you wordwind some tale about the Brother wanting the modcrete to grind down as fertiliser for his crops on Earth. Grow living things out of the tragedy of Hawking. Like a real Gaiast would,” added Eileen.
“Done!” Wynn extended his hand to seal the deal.
“If me and Chris offered up some’ve our allowance, I don’t s’pose you’d cut us in on the same deal?” offered Eileen.
Typical merc. At this rate they’ll have the shirt off his back between the three of them.
“Yep!” His smile even had Eileen blushing as he shook hands with her.
“Right. I’ll go and organise that.” Sarge looked across at me. “We probably could do with some creds to lube the whole business. Make sure they hold onto another few crates that we can ship out later.”
You’re a cred-grabbing drosser, Hugo Gently! Why don’t you use your own funds to set up this operation? That thought didn’t stop me turning away and pulling a small handful of notes off the fat roll in the moneybelt I wore under my robe, though. It was worth it to see Wynn so happy.
“Who knows?” He pulled one of the chisels out of the bag, unwrapped it from its protective covering and stroked it. “Perhaps I can find a corner on the ship where I can start work.”
“Perhaps you can,” I agreed.
In the event, the voyage proved far too eventful for something so peaceful…
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I was under the impression that Gaiasts didn’t eat meat.” The dregging man waited till I’d swallowed a mouthful of steak before announcing this to the table.
At least I was used to eating in fancy surroundings, thanks to Norman’s love of formal banquets, which meant I was able to navigate through the thicket of crystal glassware and gleaming cutlery. Wynn couldn’t, so I’d told him to follow my lead, or if the whole business got too annoying, just to dig in anyhow.
I waited until my mouth was empty and took a sip of wine before replying, aware the rest of the table were waiting with pent attention. “It is left to each of us to decide such matters according to our own consciences.” I kept my Shinese slow, as Eileen advised, and felt proud of my effort.
Six days into the voyage on Home Turf and up to this point, we’d been just fine, minding our own business and eating in our suite, which had a perfectly adequate table and chairs. Room service was more than up to the task of producing hot, tasty meals when it suited us, though despite Wynn’s constant nagging, I was finding it increasingly difficult to tuck in because of my aching stomach, which objected to shipboard food. This morning our peace was shattered, when an over-decorated embossed invitation to dine with the Captain at the top table popped into my and Wynn’s com.
I’d stared at the thing in horror. “I can’t! I’m not nearly ready.”
“Don’t know where you get that notion from,” muttered Wynn, emerging from the bathroom. “Your Shinese gets any more up itself, we’ll be all tugging our forelocks every time you open your mouth.”
I’d bitten back a sharp retort and poured myself another coffee. Wynn wasn’t at his best first thing in the morning and was clearly irritated because I’d been applying myself more or less continuously to Eileen’s oh-so-long-list of correct Shinese phrases in the knowledge that sooner or later – probably sooner – I’d need to emerge from our set of rooms and face the other passengers.
Wynn had refused to upload it, announcing there was no way he’d start talking like some upswept chup, which was when Sarge had suggested that we should pass him off as my soil-stained, farmer-helpmate. So with that as his cover, he’d been out and about, accompanied by either Chris or Sarge to keep him safe.
Meanwhile here I was on my first sortie, sitting at the Captain’s table and feeling as comfy as a butterfly in a black hole, aggravated by my sore stomach – this steak in wine sauce was the first time I’d been really tempted to eat anything.
A woman in a gown a hectic shade of yellow leaned across the table towards me. “It’s extra-ordinary,” she drawled, “how you manage to eat through that helmet affair masking your face without getting a single drop on it.”
I inclined my head.
“Thank you so much for accepting my invitation.” The Captain’s warm smile was practised, as he continued, “I’ve always made a point of asking our Gaiast passengers to join me for a meal, yet you are the first couple to accept. Is there a reason for that?”
I ran a hand down the staff, tucked alongside me, all ready to be snatched up should I need it. Sure enough, my robe stopped rustling. I drew breath to speak.
When Wynn butted in. “T’were my doing. I wanted to come along. See what it’s like eating here with the high-ups. We’ve not been paired all that long, so Sister agreed.” He shrugged, as if to convey that I was a love-struck know-nothing and despite it being a bad idea, I’d gone ahead, anyway, to please him.
“How sweeet!” cooed Hectic Yellow. “How long have you two been together, then?”
“Four weeks,” lied Wynn, following the story we’d concocted, before he added, “We were destined for other paths, but the troubles hitting Sector Two…”
What! This was all I needed – Wynn getting creative with his wordwinding. Jessica battled to keep my robes from flying up around my waist while I gripped my staff, wondering if I could kick him under the table.
However, the sharp-eyed young man opposite was gazing at me. Had been watching my every move ever since I sat down at the table, in fact. “It’s unusual for Gaiasts to travel without a consignment of plants, isn’t it? Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? Grow plants in honour of our Earth heritage?” he asked, aiming his questions directly at me.
“And that’s what I’m saying,” Wynn continued, clearly under the impression that I was unable to utter a single syllable without lapsing into English. “Our plants – the whole lot – were lost. Destroyed…”
“My solid condolences,” the Captain’s deep voice cut through the drawling expressions of regret from around the table. “No wonder your behaviour has been out of the ordinary. If there’s anything we can do…”
I inclined my head, wondering if I could use my plant-fuelled grief as an excuse to thump Wynn in the solar plexus with the end of my staff and haul him back to our suite before he became even more disastrously inventive. “Thank you for your kind concern,” I managed.
“So you’re off to Earth to…” Sh
arp-Eyes hadn’t joined in the chorus of regret over our missing foliage, I noticed.
I bit my lip, willing Wynn to zip it shut. But – no – he fell right into the trap Sharp-Eyes had prepared for him. That pause had been deliberate. A classic tactic questioners use to winkle information out of the unwary, as people invariably rush to fill the sudden silence, often volunteering more than they’d originally intended. I’d used the tactic countless times.
“Get a new assignment. Pick up another batch of seedlings, maybe—ˮ
“No one wants to hear such boring details, Brother,” I interrupted. “Remember, these are non-believers. Plants do not hold the same sacred place in their hearts.” And Gaiasts don’t go babbling about their stuff to anyone who cares to listen!
Sharp-Eyes upset the carafe of red wine, then jumped up as it thumped over, scattering high-class apologies and in his flailing efforts to mop it up, managed to direct most of the wine into Wynn’s lap, while also spattering Hectic Yellow on the way.
“Oh! My dress – it’s ruined!” she squealed, also leaping to her feet and flapping at the mauve stain running down her skirts.
As Wynn got to his feet, I also stood up. The rest of the table was in uproar, either scrambling out of the way of the widening puddle, or clustering around a semi-hysterical Hectic Yellow. So when I sigged to Chris we were leaving, he wordlessly herded Wynn out of the restaurant at quickmarch pace, with me bringing up the rear.
We cut through the Observation Lounge, confident that during the evening meal most passengers would be in the Dining Room. We were halfway across the room, threading through the scattered chairs and tables, when the door hissed open behind us. Sharp-Eyes ran through it, closely followed by a young woman, clearly his personal guard.
We spun around.
Sharp-Eyes took in Wynn’s spotless robes and let out a sudden breath that sounded almost like a sob. “You’re the real deal, after all! What’s going on? You heading off to Mowgli?” his voice was urgent – almost pleading as he continued to close the distance between us.
“And why would we wish to go to Mowgli?” Something’s majorly off here. Mowgli is the Eaties’ home planet. Right in the middle of the Forbidden Sector. Even some dirtfoot would know that much.
Chris moved to block him as he crowded in too close, but I stopped him. Something here wasn’t making sense and I wanted to discover what it was.
I caught a blast of Sharp-Eye’s wine-sweet breath. “I’m on the inside track. With the whole deal. And I want you to take me with you. Please.”
“Don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Right. Fine. You want to play it that way, you go right ahead. Though, if you don’t let me come along, you’ll have cause to regret it…” he uttered a bunch of syllables that sounded like he was coughing up his lungs, “…is a fast family friend. And He won’t be happy when I tell Him of your unhelpfulness.”
He’s just some babbling fool, after all. “I think you must have drunk too much wine. I suggest you go and lie down—ˮ
In my peripheral vision, I saw his guard square up to Chris and turned to sweep Wynn behind me and out of harm’s way. Judging from the flit-witted stunts he’s pulled tonight, he’s liable to drift between these two, while Chris is dealing with the dregging girl.
Who was clearly spoiling for a fight.
Sharp-Eyes turned to her. “Ease it down, will you? These people aren’t our enemies.”
She flung her arms up. “Fine! When you get stabbed. Or your sorry head is yanked round so it’s facing your arse, don’t blame me.”
He turned back to us. “Though you need to tell me who you are. Cos I don’t know much about much, but I surely know what you aren’t. And you’re not the normal batch of Gaiasts.”
“And how’d you know a thing like that?” Wynn’s mouth was flapping. Again.
I rolled my eyes. His stupid question was a solid admission the bloke— man was right.
Sharp-Eyes edged closer. I tensed, then relaxed as his hands were in plain view and unless my judgement was way off, this man wasn’t used to lifting so much as a finger in any kind’ve work. His hands were smooth with buffed, shaped nails that told of manicures and soft living.
“My sister is Tarn Withers,” he whispered in fluent Trader. “My name – my real name is Cerk. Cerk Withers.” And then stepped back again. As if that solved everything.
My sudden longing for my info-aug was so intense, I could taste it. Even Jessica’s input right now would’ve been a help. But she was busy keeping my robes from thrashing about. Though seemed to be struggling a deal more than she had before Cerk’s dramatic reveal. It didn’t help that Wynn clearly was on the info-loop. His robes flared as he sucked in a sharp breath. “Chimp lovers!”
“Right now, it feels like I’m talking Trader and everyone else is babbling in Eatie-speak! Can we get back to some kind of reality I understand, please?” Which was when I realised that I, too, had lapsed into Trader, complete with my very English twang.
Chris then snapped, “Sneak cam!”
I hadn’t been paying attention and this oh-so-revealing conversation hadn’t been conducted behind the most rudimentary Privacy screening. Sarge will have my head on a stick. And now a roving sneak-cam had wandered in and been listening to far too much.
“Make and location?” I gripped my staff, rolling onto the balls of my feet.
Chris accessed his aug and the info flipped across to his com. “Liner fleet logo. There’s no kind’ve cloaking, so it’s probably routine surveillance.”
Cerk’s guard woke up. Unfortunately. “We don’t tolerate such invasions on our privacy,” she announced, as if playing to an audience who’d be impressed at her performance. Then pulled out a blaster.
We were all so locked with shock, it took far too long for any of us to react. It wasn’t until she actually lined up the sneak-cam in her sights that I brought my staff down across her wrist, knocking the weapon out’ve her hand. As it hit the floor, I kicked it across to Chris, who scooped it up and had it tucked away in one smooth movement.
She held her injured hand with the other, her dark skin mottled. “This isn’t over, you priest-freak! No one impugns the honour of Kallestrina Serafin Moondancer and gets away with it.”
I gave her my best Norman stare, forgetting in the heat of the moment she couldn’t see it through my veil. “I already did. And you’re just the hired muscle, making a fumble-fisted hash of it. Drawing a projectile weapon aboard a space vehicle! No better than some moss-brained dirtsider.”
She drew herself up to reply, until Chris smacked her across the back of the head. The sort of blow you deliver to a know-nothing making a thorough-going nuisance of herself. “Seal it shut, you! You’re lucky not to be tossed out’ve an airlock.”
Meantime, Cerk was tracking the sneak-cam, which was slowly processing around the room, clearly oblivious to nearly being blasted into vapour. When I caught sight of it, I shifted my grip on the staff, took a couple of breaths and readied myself, pulling the staff back—
Cerk was a blur. He’d launched himself across the room, jumping onto a table and leaping into the air before catching the sneak-cam in his hand.
Chris looked across at me. “Speed-aug’d to the gills, is my best guess.”
“Yeah. Makes sense. Him being Cerk Withers. S’pect he spends a fair amount of time running for his life.” Though judging from Wynn’s tone, he wasn’t brimful of sympathy for the man’s plight.
Just as well I was wearing my veil. My slack-jawed look wasn’t one to share with my companions. I’d put his skinniness down to too many stims and not enough food. After seeing his butter-smooth hands, I’d dismissed him as some lightweight effete. It seemed the way folks spoke wasn’t the only difference I was going to have to get used to. I was distantly glad that try as he might – he couldn’t crack the sneak-cam’s outer shell.
“Drop it,” I said, raising my staff, half expecting another argument.
He did.
<
br /> I brought my staff down on the dregging thing, which broke open. And promptly started emitting a high-pitched wail. Loud and piercing. I continued grinding the jellied mess inside the shell into the carpet, until that all that remained was a fishstink and a greenish black gooey stain.
“Hey! You! Sister! Stop right there! You destroyed the property of Terran Liners Corp.”
I looked up to see a phalanx of guards approaching, wearing a livery that matched the carpets and no sign of Cerk, anywhere. Though his flit-witted guard was still hanging around like a bad smell and chose this exact moment to start squaring up to the advancing security detail.
*
Those I spent in the Security suite weren’t the best forty minutes of my life. Neither were they the worst. However, throughout the sorry interlude, I was scaldingly aware that the main point of the evening – to circulate among the other passengers without attracting undue attention – had been a spectacular failure.
There was a lot of clench-jawed, non-shouting going on in the small, stuffy room.
“Are you aware that vandalising property belonging to the Terran Liner Corp is an offence, Sister?”
“And are you aware that your Company signed a document, undertaking to protect myself and my interests, both personal and professional, while I am being conveyed by your fleet?”
The Commander blinked. “Nonetheless, that doesn’t give you the right to wantonly destroy our equipment—ˮ
“Said equipment was expressly there for the purpose of eavesdropping on my private business—ˮ
“If you were at all concerned about confidentiality, may I remind you that we have Privacy Screening throughout the ship—ˮ
“So you’re admitting that unless I endure the expense and inconvenience of a Privacy Screen, none of my interactions are secure on this vessel?” I shook my head. “I cannot be the only passenger who finds this state of affairs absolutely unacceptable.” I stood up, allowing my robes to continue rustling around my legs, while standing statue-still.