Starship: Mercenary (Starship, Book 3)

by Resnick, Mike

  Four of the levels had what had come to be known as Standard gravity and atmosphere, though no one ever knew if that was Earth Standard or Deluros Standard—and since they were almost identical, no one really cared. There was a level for chlorine breathers, one for methane breathers, another for ammonia breathers, and one small level with no atmosphere at all, where space-suited men and spacesuited aliens could meet as uncomfortable equals. A middle level provided automatic transport for all.

  “That’s the biggest damned thing I ever saw!” said Vladimir Sokolov, staring at a viewscreen as Wxakgini maneuvered the ship on its final approach to the enormous docking facility, which provided visitors with a monorail taking them the final miles to the station itself.

  “There have got to be some friendly Molarian females in a place that big!” said Forrice. “As soon as we land, Lieutenant Braxite and I are going looking for them.”

  “I’m glad to see you’ve got your priorities in order,” said Cole sardonically.

  “You don’t understand, Wilson,” said Forrice.

  “Enlighten me.”

  “You say that our two races are so similar, because we’re the only two species that can laugh and have a sense of humor. But there is one major difference.”

  “Which I hear about every day.”

  “If Sharon Blacksmith was glad to see you for only three days every eight months, you’d know a little something about our priorities.”

  “Someday I really must give you a book on Zen Buddhism and self-denial as the spiritual road to enlightenment,” said Cole.

  But Forrice and Braxite were too busy studying maps of the station to pay him any further attention.

  As Cole had predicted, Christine volunteered to stay on the ship, and he selected four more to remain with her for two Standard days, at which point five crew members would return to the ship and Christine and the other four would be free to visit the various attractions of Singapore Station. Christine offered to stay on the ship the whole time it was docked and being repaired, but Cole insisted that she take her turn in the station, even if she did nothing but rent a room and take a fiction cube along.

  The ship docked, Cole had Mustapha Odom show the mechanics exactly what needed repairing or reinforcing, and then shore leave commenced. Cole remained on board until everyone but his senior officers had left.

  “I can’t imagine anything will go wrong,” he said to Christine, “but don’t hesitate to contact me if there’s any problem, no matter how slight.”

  “I won’t, sir,” she replied. “Have a good time, sir.”

  “I plan to,” said Cole. “And the first thing I’m going to do is eat a steak made of real meat, instead of these goddamned soya imitations I’ve been forcing down for the past few years.”

  “We’re off,” said Forrice as he and Braxite walked to the airlift. “Wish us luck.”

  “I think I’ll wish it to any lady Molarians who can’t duck fast enough,” said Cole.

  Both Molarians responded with hoots of alien laughter as they descended to the exit hatch.

  “Well, there’s just you and me left, Val,” he said to the tall redhead. “What do you plan to do there, or don’t I want to know?”

  “I plan to drink up a storm,” was her reply. “Then I plan to hunt up the grubbiest, dirtiest bar on the station and fight up a storm. And finally, if anyone’s left standing, I plan to fuck up a storm.”

  “Well, I like a sweet, innocent, refined young lady who knows her own mind,” said Cole. “Have fun.”

  “You’re coming with me,” said Val.

  “It’s thoughtful of you to ask, but I’m meeting Sharon for dinner.”

  “It’ll wait.”

  “I don’t know how to break this to you gently,” said Cole, “but drinking and fighting are not my idea of a good time.”

  “What about fucking?”

  “I’m very fond of it, but it sounds kind of indiscriminate the way you describe it.”

  “Of course it’s indiscriminate,” she replied. “I’m never going to see any of them again.”

  “Good luck to you and good luck to them, but I’m off to dinner.”

  She reached out and closed her hand over his biceps. “You really want to come with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you want to meet the man who runs Singapore Station.”

  “And you know him?”

  “Of course I do,” she replied. “I rode the Inner Frontier spaceways as a pirate for thirteen years, remember?” She paused. “Think about it. This is the guy who knows every deal that’s going down here.”

  “I’m sure that’s useful to a pirate,” began Cole without much enthusiasm. “But . . .”

  “Think, Wilson!” she said forcefully. “He’ll know everyone who needs protection, or soon will need it. He’ll know everyone who needs a little muscle to get a job done. He’ll know who will pay and who won’t, who you can trust and who you can’t turn your back on.”

  “And he’ll tell it all to a friend of the redheaded Pirate Queen?” suggested Cole.

  “You got it.”

  “I guess I’m coming with you,” said Cole.

  “Let’s go.” She led him to the airlift.

  “As soon as I let Sharon know I’ll be late,” said Cole. He left her a quick message, then joined Val as they stepped onto the cushion of air and began descending. “By the way,” he asked, “what’s the name of this pillar of the community?”

  “The Platinum Duke.”

  “What’s he got—a bunch of platinum rings on his fingers?”

  Val smiled in amusement. “You’ll see soon enough,” she promised him.

  4

  “It’s a world of its own,” said Cole as they wandered down the metal corridor that was as broad as any street, passing scores of metal-and-glass storefronts. “How do they light it?”

  “The metal on the ceiling has been chemically treated. It generates its own light.”

  “You mean it’s phosphorescent?”

  Val shook her head. “That just reflects light. This generates it.” She smiled. “It’s a twenty-four-hour-a-day city—or however many hours you’re used to in a day. It never sleeps, it never gets dark, it never slows down.”

  “How many permanent residents are there?” asked Cole.

  She shrugged. “Maybe sixty thousand, maybe more. If they’re permanent, they either work here or they’re hiding from the law, the Navy, or from someone on the Inner Frontier who’s after them. I’m told that on any given day there are about half a million Men and aliens here who aren’t permanent residents.”

  “I had no idea it was this big.”

  “No reason why you should have. You were fighting a war against the Teroni Federation, and they tell me you were stationed to hell and gone on the Rim. But your Fleet Admiral Susan Garcia knows it’s here.”

  “She’s been here?” said Cole, surprised.

  “Twice,” answered Val. “Both times to arrange prisoner exchanges with the Teronis.”

  “Is that hearsay, or did you actually see her here?”

  “I saw her once. Did you ever meet her?”

  “Yeah, we’ve met,” said Cole with an ironic smile. “We don’t get along very well.”

  “She’s the one who demoted you?”

  “Twice,” said Cole. “On the other hand, she also gave me three of my Medals of Courage. Begrudgingly.”

  “Too bad she won’t be here today,” said Val. “You could settle some old scores.”

  “She’s not the enemy,” said Cole. “She’s probably better qualified to run this war than anyone else. We just don’t see eye-to-eye on certain things.” He paused. “If you ever hear of a Polonoi officer named Podok coming here, that’s something I’d like to know about.”

  “Podok?” repeated Val. “I’ve heard the crew mention that name. Wasn’t he the captain when you mutinied?”

  “Yes . . . and Podok is a she.”

  “Everyone says she deser
ved it.”

  “She did,” replied Cole. “She was about to kill five million Men and destroy a planet rather than let the Teroni Fleet raid their fuel dump.”

  “That’s what I heard,” agreed Val. “She must have been a real piece of work.”

  “She was. But she’s still serving in the Navy, and I can never go back to the Republic.”

  Val smiled. “Did anyone ever tell you life was fair?”

  “Not lately,” he answered without smiling.

  They continued walking, passing all sorts of bars and restaurants.

  “Something’s wrong over there,” said Cole, indicating a somewhat narrower corridor that went off to their left.

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “Whatever they treated the ceiling with is wearing off,” he noted. “The lighting is half what it is here.”

  “That’s for atmosphere,” said Val. “The two biggest whorehouses on the station are down that corridor.”

  Cole peered into the dim light. “It sure doesn’t look like there’s anything that big down there.”

  “Trust me, they’re there.”

  “You’re a patron?”

  “Once in a while.”

  “You’re a gorgeous and exotic-looking woman,” said Cole. “I’m surprised you feel a need to pay for it.”

  “Oh, I’d never pay a man,” she said. “The house on the left has nothing but androids.” She grinned. “I like their staying power.”

  “Whatever makes you happy,” said Cole. Suddenly he tensed. “I think we’re being followed.”

  “Figures,” she said. “There’s just two of us, and if we’re in this section of the station we’ve obviously got money to spend.”

  Without warning she stopped and turned, and Cole followed suit. Three beings—one man and two Mollutei—were approaching them slowly, each armed with a dagger.

  “Watch this,” whispered Val. “Good evening, gentlebeings,” she said aloud. “If you’ll drop your weapons and hand over your money, no one will get hurt.”

  The man laughed instantly. It took a few seconds for the Mollutei’s T-packs to translate what she’d said, but then they croaked in amusement.

  “Well,” said Val, stepping forward, “you can’t say you weren’t warned.”

  It took Cole about five seconds to decide whether to step forward with her or draw his burner—and by then it was a moot point, because all three of their stalkers lay broken and moaning on the floor of the broad corridor, twitching in agony.

  “Should we take their money?” asked Val. “After all, they were going to take ours.”

  “No, we’re not thieves, at least not any longer. Let’s just tell the local police to round them up. I’ll fill out a statement later.”

  “I told you—there aren’t any police on Singapore Station.”

  “Then if we pass a hospital, we’ll tell them to come by and collect them.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  He shrugged. “That’s the risk you take when you become a thief.”

  She laughed aloud, and the two of them began walking again without another backward glance.

  “Let’s hope none of them shoots us in the back,” commented Cole.

  “If they’d had any burners or screechers, they’d have shown them,” said Val with certainty. “You’re a lot more likely to give your money to someone who can kill you from ten yards away than someone who has to get close enough to stab you.” She nodded, as if to herself. “I think I’ll come back this way to do my serious drinking.”

  They walked another fifty yards, then turned in to a small side corridor and came to a garish casino named Duke’s Place. Small furry aliens of a species that Cole had never seen before carried drink trays to the players, human and non-human alike, who crowded the tables.

  “They never learn,” said Val, shaking her head. “Look at that table.”

  “What’s the game?” asked Cole. “I don’t recognize it.”

  “Jabob,” she replied. “I think it originated on Lodin XI, or maybe Moritat. Huge break for the house. Your money’ll last longer if you burn it to keep warm, but aliens just love that game.”

  “I see a man at the table, too.”

  “He’s just running the game for the house.”

  “Fine,” said Cole. “I assume you didn’t take me here to gamble.”

  “No,” she said, signaling to one of the small alien servers. “Tell the Duke that Joan of Arc is here.”

  “Joan of Arc?” repeated Cole as the alien scurried off.

  “I had a lot of names before you gave me this one,” answered Val.

  The alien returned a moment later. “He will see you now,” it said through its T-pack.

  “Let’s go,” said Val, starting off across the casino. Cole fell into step behind her, and they soon reached a sparkling curtain of almost solid light. When she was within three feet of it she stopped so suddenly that he almost bumped into her.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked.

  She picked up an empty glass from a nearby table and tossed it through the curtain. It was instantly atomized.

  “Security system,” she explained.

  They waited about half a minute, and then a voice said, “Enter, Joan of Arc. Commander Cole—or is it Captain again?—may enter too.”

  Val stepped forward, and when she didn’t disappear Cole followed her into a large, lavishly furnished office. Colorful alien songbirds shared a golden cage that seemed to float in the air with no visible support. There were a pair of three-dimensional holographic scenes of distant worlds that were static until Cole turned to look at them, at which point the scenes became a flurry of motion, only to become static again when he looked elsewhere. The lush carpet yielded to their footsteps, then re-formed as they moved forward. Leather chairs that molded themselves to their occupants hovered a few inches above the floor, and there was a well-stocked bar along one wall. Two robots, even taller than Val, flanked a shining metal desk—but the most unusual thing in the room was the man who sat behind the desk.

  At first Cole thought he was a robot too, but upon closer observation he wasn’t so sure. Most of him—arms, legs, torso, hands, feet, skull—was a sleek, shining metal, probably platinum. But the mouth and lips were definitely human, and there was a totally incongruous handlebar mustache swirling down from his upper lip. The left eye glowed an unholy blue, but the right eye possessed both iris and pupil. He was wearing a pair of sleek black shorts, with a tuxedo stripe down each leg.

  “You didn’t prepare him, Joan,” said the man.

  “It’s more fun to watch them when they first meet you,” replied Val. “And my name’s Val this week.”

  “Cleopatra, Nefertiti, Joan of Arc . . . you just never tire of changing names. Who was Val?”

  “It’s short for Valkyrie,” she replied.

  “In that case I approve.” He turned to Cole. “And you are the man that the Republic is offering ten million credits for?”

  Cole stared at him and said nothing.

  “Do not worry, Wilson Cole,” he said. “I have no intention of selling you to the Republic. Singapore Station couldn’t stay in business if people stopped trusting our discretion. Allow me to properly introduce myself: I am the Platinum Duke.”

  “So I see,” said Cole.

  “Ah, but you only see the end result. There was a time, many years ago, when I was just like you. In fact, I served in the Navy. My captain was Susan Garcia, who has gone on to far greater things.”

  “What happened?” asked Cole, curious in spite of himself.

  “I lost my left leg in the Battle of Barbosa,” answered the Duke. “They gave me a prosthetic leg made, I believe, of a titanium alloy. The interesting thing is that it worked better than the original had: it never tired, it never felt pain, it could withstand extremes of cold and gravity.” He paused. “I was back on active duty four months later, just in time for the Battle of Tybor IV.”

  “I’ve heard about that one,
” said Cole. “I think we took eighty percent casualties.”

  “Eighty-two percent,” said the Duke. “I was one of them. Lost both my arms and my left eye. They kept me alive long enough to transport me to a field hospital, where I was fitted out with prosthetic arms and an eye—and, as before, they functioned better than the originals. I was mustered out of the service shortly thereafter—I guess they felt that three limbs and an eye were enough to give to the Republic—and I came to the Inner Frontier, and eventually to Singapore Station. Along the way I’d made my fortune, we needn’t discuss how, and I decided that platinum was more in keeping with my new status than titanium. I also decided that while I was undergoing these . . . improvements , I might as well go the whole route: another leg, eardrums, epidermis, all but a small handful of things. All that remains of the original me, Captain Cole, is my mouth and taste buds—I couldn’t live without the ability to taste my favorite foods and drink—and I kept my lips, because I am a vain man (if I weren’t why would I have converted to platinum?) and I was always proud of my mustache. My right eye remains for a practical reason: though my left eye sees farther and more clearly, and can even see into the infrared and ultraviolet spec trums, it does not adjust to changes in illumination as quickly as my real pupil does. All else—heart, lungs, you name it—is artificial.” Suddenly he smiled. “With one exception. I was assured that I could experience sexual pleasure with an artificial organ, but I was unwilling to trust them. I mean, if they were wrong, I couldn’t go back . . . so I have retained my own organ. That is why I am wearing these ridiculous shorts—out of consideration for poor innocents like Val here.”

  “That explains the Platinum,” said Cole. “What about the Duke?”

  “Simple. I run Singapore Station. It is my fiefdom; I am its duke.”

  “It’s a lot for one man to run,” commented Cole.

  “So is a starship,” responded the Duke. “We each have the power of life and death over our serfs.”