Freedom's Ransom

by Anne McCaffrey

  “I didn’t at their ages,” Brone admitted candidly.

  “I had no option,” Zainal remarked.

  “I heard that you were unable to answer your Eosi call.”

  That was a polite way of putting the matter, Zainal thought. And it also indicated that Brone had done some discreet questioning about him as a possible employer.

  “I had been dropped on Botany at that point,” Zainal replied with equal candor, holding the young man’s steady gaze, though not telling the whole truth of the affair, which was no one’s business. Zainal still had no clue as to who had included a Catteni in that hapless load of unwilling colonists.

  “Which appears to have been felicitous,” Brone replied diplomatically.

  Zainal found that he liked the candidate’s appearance, attitude, and answers. He saw Natchi coming in the back of the stall and nodding encouragingly. He saw Kris looking over at the close conversation they were having and decided on one last test of the candidate and beckoned her to join them.

  “This is my mate, Kris Bjornsen, Emassi Brone,” he said, and the young man acknowledged the introduction with a respectful bow.

  “Lady Emassi Kris, it is my pleasure to meet you.”

  “Oh?” Kris drawled, slightly amused that he knew her by rank.

  Brone bowed again. “I knew one of the families you sheltered on Botany. They spoke highly of you and were delighted with your rank award.”

  “Did they?” Kris replied, astonished, for the Catteni ladies had not been at all appreciative of her efforts during their stay on Botany.

  “Come, Brone, I shall introduce you to my sons. Then, if you have no objection, we can quarter you on the BASS-1. They can help you bring your belongings.”

  “What text and study books do you have on the ship, Emassi?”

  “Few, and no more than is usually carried on a KDM.” Zainal scooped up what Catteni coins were in the coffee bowl and pressed them on Brone. “Find what you want to use from the secondhand bookstall. Spend as you see fit. You will be the one teaching. I shall reimburse you for any extra you spend. This evening we can discuss study subjects and hours at our leisure.”

  Brone agreed and went off with the boys.

  “You know, Chuck, it’s odd. There wasn’t the usual brawl last night,” Kris said as she watched the two boys walk away with their new tutor.

  Chuck gave a snort. “No, because Natchi tells me Kapash really does keep order in the market. Of course, I wouldn’t like to be caught.”

  “Oh?” Kris prompted.

  “I don’t approve of his methods.”

  “Which are? I wouldn’t think Catteni would be impressed by his punishment triangle.”

  “‘Tisn’t that. He locks brawlers up and sells them to the next slaver in. Gotta keep those mines supplied, you know”

  “Oh!” She almost tripped she was so surprised. “That would be quite a deterrent, wouldn’t it?”

  That was not as much reassurance as she thought a fight-free Barevi would be. However, there were customers awaiting their cups of coffee and queries about what could be traded for the beans. As Kris finished serving a new customer with the last cup of the current urn, Zainal decided it was time to close, and they packed up the things to be taken back to the BASS-1.

  At dinner, Brone talked just enough to impress his new shipmates as well as his tutees with his basic understanding of current affairs on both Barevi and Catten. Natchi had the street gossip, but Brone had an overview. As Zainal had suspected, Kamiton had had trouble with his new government. No one had expected it to be easy. The Eosi were, as Kris might say, a hard act to follow since they had exerted such a strict, fear-based control over their underlings and total authority over their doings.

  The loss of any new planets, rich with mineral assets, bit hard into the Catteni economy. Nothing ran as smoothly without the threat of Eosi disfavor. There were shortages at the existing mining planets and colonies. Catteni mines had not been producing their expected quotas since the Eosi, who had employed subtle ways of ensuring that quotas were met, were dispatched. No new products in the markets meant fewer buyers. Kapash’s management of the market had indeed reduced the destruction caused by drunken spacemen, but they, in turn, found little to buy in the markets with their accumulated wages. Coffee, therefore, had an unusual popularity with those for whom it was a novelty and with those who had tasted it while occupying Earth.

  While there was no place on this planet where coffee beans could be cultivated, there were jungle highlands on Botany. Kris had mentioned that this was a labor-intensive crop, since the beans had to be handpicked when ripe, but Zainal thought there would be plenty of hands to pick for assured supplies of the beverage. And if the Catteni addiction remained strong, they would have a solid market for export of Botany-grown beans. The very idea of exporting to the Catten amused him. They could hold out for any price they cared to put on the commodity. “Black gold,” Kris said they had once called coffee beans. Earth, of course, could export to Barevi, but first they needed cargo ships, which Botany happened to have several of for cargo runs. But first things first: like the spare parts that were needed. It might be decades before Earth could gear up its production lines.

  o~O~o

  The next morning started very well indeed, with an impatient clutch of people waiting for them to start serving the coffee. There were even some wanting to trade, and Zainal managed to obtain a carton of Nokia cell phones, a real prize.

  “And most of them will do anything to secure a supply of the drink,” Zainal replied, pointing to the ever-increasing diversity of cartons that were piling up as fruits of his labors to trade coffee for spare parts. “Gold and dentistry are doing well enough but take time.” He waved to Eric’s stall and the rat-tat- tat of his hammer on the gold he was pounding into the proper thickness for the crowns that had already been ordered: half payment on signing the contract and half on completion.

  “Ah, another customer,” Zainal said as a tall uniformed Catteni walked up to Eric’s office, looking about for whoever manned it. He gestured to Clune to tell Eric that he had an interested party. There was a brief silence from the hammer, then Eric emerged and evidently Clune took over the flattening, though his blows weren’t spaced as evenly as Eric’s were and the rhythm of the rat-tat-tat was uneven.

  “May I be of service?” Eric asked with the deference of a professional to any uniform.

  “I have heard of your services and wish to avail myself of them.”

  As the man spoke, Zainal could see the empty spaces in his teeth—the four central ones. That seemed to characterize the usual applicant for Eric’s skills. Three out of four, or so Eric had once remarked, adding, “Don’t your people ever duck?”

  “Now, sir, what may I do for you?” “I am Emassi Ladade.”

  “I am Emassi Doctor Sachs,” Eric responded, courteously proud. “If you would step this way where I may conduct a quick private examination.” Eric ushered him into his “office.” Much better for potential patients.

  Ferris was proving extremely useful in sussing out genuine leads and had already saved Zainal from spending time with sellers who had nothing he wanted and were only there for the free coffee. But Zainal recalled an earlier conversation he’d had with Kris.

  “We must watch him, Zainal,” she had said, her anxiety getting the better of common sense.

  “Why?”

  “He’s a magpie. A klepto,” she said, trying to burrow into his shoulder.

  “A what?”

  “A magpie is a Terran bird who will grab anything that sparkles and take it off to its nest to play with.”

  “And the other word? Klepto?”

  Zainal had excellent aural memory so she wasn’t surprised that he queried an unfamiliar word. “That is a human who keeps taking things that do not belong to him or her, for a variety of reasons: sometimes it’s merely envy of someone else possessing a pretty or valuable thing; other times it’s just a psychological compulsion, the
acquisition of the object as a one-sided game, played against the legitimate owners of the item. Or a denial of other people’s rights to possession. It is considered a minor crime but a genuine obsession. The kleptomaniac often steals for the fun, not the need of the object stolen. Ferris is the second type, stealing for the fun of it and to win pleasure by giving it to someone.”

  “And he does not understand that stealing is wrong?”

  “He understands that, but doesn’t stop doing it. He became very deft, and I fear he was encouraged by his circumstances during the invasion to acquire things without paying the legitimate owners.”

  “The Catteni?” Zainal asked with remarkable charity.

  “Not just the Catteni. He really is a Human sort of magpie, thieving because he likes the look of something or to outwit the owner.”

  “And you worry that he might start using his craft here?”

  “I don’t think Commander Kapash would turn a blind eye if Ferris were caught in the act.”

  “Is he often caught?”

  “Now, only by those who know he has acquired without payment. Ferris has a grave character flaw. He really cannot understand buying and selling when he likes something or knows it’s needed.”

  “Knowing it’s needed might cause us more harm than good. I am glad you advised me about Ferris.”

  Even with that earlier conversation in mind, Zainal couldn’t help thinking that the boy had been extremely useful on this mission. Ferris had supplied the numbers and names of store shed holders with whom Zainal could most profitably invest time and effort. However, Zainal dealt from a stronger position if the sellers came to him first. If he made known too publicly what he wanted, prices would be driven up. To date, Barevi merchants had found buyers thin on the ground so many had scrutinized him.

  He had dealt as shrewdly as he could with those who had approached him, with beans and more carefully with what materials they had brought with them.

  o~O~o

  The morning when Eric started up his dental unit for the first time a new whirring sound broke through the usual noise of the marketplace. Zainal swiveled around, toward the sound made by Eric Sachs’s equipment, and saw a huge Catteni sitting in the dental chair, his mouth wide open and the broken stubs of his upper teeth visible. There were also more merchants waiting to receive a cup of coffee and more coins in the little dish Kathy had put out.

  There were three other very burly Catteni, guards from the look of their gear and clothing, watching as Eric attended to the man in his chair. The man did not dare flinch or squirm, and shortly Eric told him he could sit up. Then he began to tell him his options, with pictures he had provided himself for just such demonstrations, while Ninety Doyle did what translations he could with the technical terms involved.

  “I can provide you with new gold teeth,” Eric said. “It will take several days as well as quite a few visits to me to prepare and fit the crowns. And the work is not cheap.”

  “I have plenty of money,” the Catteni said with a shrug, fascinated by the photographs of the step-by-step process he was about to undertake. From the textbooks he had removed from his office, Eric had, with Gail’s help, organized some illustrative examples of treatment on yet another set of flip cards. “I am told you take cartons of things. I have cartons. I was a Catteni cargo captain. I took much from storehouses.”

  Eric snapped his fingers and Ferris, who had been hovering at his elbow, immediately produced copies of the lists. The man glanced down the columns of alphanumerically listed items and shook his head. Ditsy then produced the various logos for the companies that manufactured the spare parts wanted. The man tapped a finger on several, including, Zainal noticed, the NASA and Boeing logos.

  “Have some cartons with these on them. You want?”

  “First,” Zainal said, stepping closer, “we will have to check the cartons to see if they are what we require.”

  The man grunted. “I am told you will buy anything.”

  “Not anything,” Zainal said with a dignified contempt for such an assumption. “We have specific needs, and the services you require—as well as the gold for the teeth—will be expensive.”

  “I have gold,” the man said with typical Catteni arrogance.

  “It must be of a certain weight and purity,” Zainal said, and Eric grinned at him—as much because Zainal had been relatively certain they would be required to supply the metal as because of his patient’s attitude. Eric rummaged around in his supplies and brought up the gold-testing equipment.

  “However, if you will show us your gold, we will see if it is of the quality that can be used for this unusual purpose.”

  “Gold is gold!” the Catteni protested.

  “No, it is not,” Eric replied, for he understood that much Catteni and the spirit of the remark. “For proper work, we need a certain quality of gold.” He reached for his testing equipment, which their erstwhile customer recognized.

  The man rose from the chair, signaled brusquely to one of his friends to stay and observe, then removed a nugget of gold from his pouch and handed it to Eric, as if certain of its intrinsic value and suitability.

  “You come with me, then, and see what I have.”

  “Ditsy, if you will accompany me,” Zainal said as he had no intention of wasting his time checking inventories.

  “My pleasure, Emassi,” Ditsy said with just the right touch of deference due a superior officer.

  The man, who gave Zainal his name as Luxel, led them into the very depths of the marketplace, down rows of storage places, most with heavy metal doors and locks with complicated knobs and spikes.

  “The kind you lose hands from trying to open,” Zainal murmured in an aside to Ditsy, who then kept his hands close to his sides.

  Luxel finally halted at an intersection of corridors.

  “Stay, until I call,” he said, pausing only long enough to be certain they stopped before he turned right.

  They could clearly hear the snick of metal, a rasp of hinges, and then Luxel called to them to come.

  Ditsy ran on a little ahead of Zainal, but when he stopped by Luxel’s side he gave a whistle that Zainal had heard, expressing surprise or amazement.

  “Opensezme,” Ditsy murmured. “Ali Baba!” He was clearly impressed. And so was Zainal when he joined him.

  Hughes and Lockheed logos dominated the mess of cartons in Luxel’s little shed. Ditsy had his list out and was delving into its depths when Luxel suddenly yanked Zainal across the entry, himself assuming a blocking pose as three Catteni appeared in the alley. Zainal was quite willing to drape himself across the doorway, obscuring its contents from the passersby, who fortunately did no more than glance in their direction and quickly away, visibly picking up their pace to make speed past them. Luxel glared at Zainal as if he were to blame for their unexpected passage. Zainal returned his angry glance with an indifferent shrug. What did it matter if anyone saw what he had stored there? No one but Terrans could use it, much less buy it.

  Clearly stenciled on the boxes were numbers and contents, and Ditsy had no trouble picking out items on the wish list. Solar Panel Array Assembled, HG- SP-88373-BO5, Expandable dish antenna: HG-MW-7712-d15-2-5. High on the list were circuit boards #A.05, but all Ditsy could find were A.01 and A.02. But that was a start.

  “Jeez, Zainal, it’s all the solar panel stuff,” Ditsy said, shielding his jubilant remark from Luxel’s hearing.

  “Calm down, lad, calm down. Just check them all off as if they were quite ordinary.”

  “Oops, sorry, boss. Shouldn’t have given myself away like that.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have. Rule number one in bargaining: pretend you don’t really want the items.”

  “I know, sir.” Ditsy was most chagrined. “I’m sorry, Zainal, but most of the items are on here.” He flicked the list as if it were annoying him. As they were speaking English, Luxel was unlikely to have understood. He then crammed the list in his pocket as if he were discarding it but could not pre
sume to litter the slab floor with his trash. He went to the doorway and lounged negligently against the frame.

  “There are some items here that might interest me,” Zainal said, ignoring the disbelief in Luxel’s expression. “But these are crates”—he mimicked their shape “and the dentist man requires payment worthy of his skill, practice, and hard work, which is not as easily quantified as a mere crate.”

  “It is what the crate contains, Emassi,” replied Luxel, still feeling he had the upper hand.

  “You say you are a ship captain?”

  Luxel nodded.

  “How much are you paid by the day?”

  “It cannot take a full day’s captaincy to pay to replace a tooth when I have provided the necessary gold metal,” was his protest.

  “And how long was it before you were allowed to dock a ship at Barevi port?”

  “I had to serve only the minimum time before I got my full ticket,” Luxel replied stoutly, expecting Zainal to be impressed.

  “How long was that?” Zainal insisted.

  “In my fourth year.” He still felt Zainal should be impressed.

  “It was in his seventh year in the practice of his profession that Eric Doctor was allowed to contrive gold crowns.”

  “Seven years?” Luxel was impressed. “It can’t be that hard to do.”

  “Watch and see how cleverly he will shape the metal.” Zainal ticked off points on his fingers. “Then, how carefully he prepares your tooth, which will take several days’ work, how he makes a mold to fit exactly in your face.” Zainal’s expression suggested that this “face” was not worth so much effort. “And then fits the tooth. That is not as easy as parking a ship at Barevi port and takes much more skill and training.” Zainal gave a nonchalant shrug and, jerking his chin at Ditsy to follow him, walked out into the alleyway, paying no further attention to Luxel. They did hear the click and snick as the captain secured his shed and his footsteps as he hurried after them. As much, Zainal thought, to be sure they were going to quit the sheds as to catch up with them.

  On their return, Zainal was instantly disquieted when he saw the gaggle of folk, some in the tunics of the market police, clustered in front of their stall. Ferris had been anxiously awaiting their return for he darted toward Zainal, pointing out Kapash, who was speaking to Bazil and Peran with menace. “Questions, questions, and your sons have been answering in the negative. Which, of course, is only correct. You, Captain, must inform the merchants that you are the owner of that piece of gold and where you came by it.” Ferris looked very worried and indeed, Zainal thought, had good reason to be.