by Zen DiPietro
She went to the back of the groundcar, where she’d stored her backpack, and shrugged into a weapons harness. Cabot struggled to see what all she slid into it, but he was sure he saw at least two knives, two unidentifiable gadgets, and a projectile grappling hook with rappelling gear.
Cabot had slid across the seat to the side she had vacated, and she came around and slapped the window. When he lowered it, she leaned down.
“Like I said. You see anything happen, get out. I’ll find my own way back. Don’t even think about coming after me. If I get hung up, you’re my only connection to the outside, and you won’t do me any good if you’re caught up with me. Got it?” She glared at him.
“Got it,” Cabot assured her.
She paused. “You know how to drive, right?”
It was his turn to give her a supercilious look. “Of course I can drive.”
“Good.” She banged her fist on the top of the groundcar above his head. “Stay vigilant.”
Then she disappeared into the darkness.
“She likes to hit things, doesn’t she?” Romo asked.
“I suspect she really, really likes to hit things,” Cabot answered. He half-turned to look at Romo. “You want to move up here? It’s kind of strange this way.”
“Nah. I can watch out the back this way.”
It was a good point.
“So long as you don’t fall asleep.” Cabot raised an eyebrow at him.
“I won’t.”
“Better not.”
“I won’t,” Romo said, forcefully.
The minutes ticked by, going past a half hour and into an hour. Cabot decided he might as well get to know Romo a little better.
“I hear you’re in love with Nagali.”
Romo coughed. “Who said that?”
“Nagali.”
“Hm. Well, there’s something about her. I don’t know if I’d call it love, but…” he trailed off and didn’t finish the thought.
“Then why be here?” Cabot pressed. “This isn’t exactly a profitable venture.”
“Nagali’s a name in the business. So is her brother. And I’m looking to go out on my own soon. I’m sick of Arpalo. He pretends to be a PAC goody-goody but he’s as bad as any ripper. Worse, really, because a ripper doesn’t pretend he isn’t one.”
“So you’re here in a mercenary role, then,” Cabot said.
“Why can’t it be both? How often does business stay strictly business?”
Cabot frowned, preferring not to admit that he knew exactly what Romo meant.
“Uh, Cabot?”
“Yes?”
“I think it’s time to get out of here. Look.”
Cabot turned to see a small burst of flame in the distance far beyond the back window.
“Right.” He didn’t second-guess Peregrine’s instructions. She’d tasked him with being the one to get out with the location and information up to that point, and he wouldn’t get all precious thinking he could do anything that she wasn’t already doing.
He started the groundcar and maximized its acceleration and its headlamp brightness.
He hoped he didn’t run off the road in the darkness.
On the way, Romo climbed up into the front seat.
It took Cabot and hour and a half to make it back to the transit station. They had to wait fifteen minutes for an elevator to take them up.
He felt paranoid, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Finally, they made it to the docking bay where the Outlaw was.
A tall, stocky man with a deep tan stepped into their path. Cabot reached to his waist, where he’d concealed a stinger.
“Relax,” the man growled in a low voice. “I’m Arcy. I take it you’re looking for me.”
OMAR HELD HIMSELF TOGETHER WELL, considering how much internal turmoil he must be experiencing with both Nagali and Peregrine missing below on the planet.
“It’s a slick operation,” Arcy said, sitting with the two, plus Romo on the ship’s bridge. “They funnel the refugees here, because of its convenient location.”
“You mean being near Cerberon?” Romo asked.
“That,” Arcy agreed, “but also the lax transport standards. People can pretty much come and go as they please, which makes it easy to move groups of Atalans through with no one taking notice. This isn’t a rich planet. Most of their farming is self-sustaining. And while we’re in a nice little spot, there’s a whole lot of permafrost between this continent and the next habitable one. So the population is small and not very interconnected.”
“What do they do with the people? The refugees?” Omar asked.
“They sort of launder them. There’s the intake, where a group of them gets delivered. Local government assumes they’re just another group of refugees looking to land somewhere, probably sponsored by some group helping them out. Since they never register as a problem anywhere, it’s easy to assume they got to wherever they needed to go.”
“How can people be so blind?” Romo wondered.
Arcy shrugged. “They see what is convenient for them to see. They assume someone else is handling the problem. Anyway, if they’re serviceable as-is, they get sold and picked up at the docking station in pairs. Most of them don’t even suspect what’s happening. They think they’re being taken to loved ones on Barthon IV or some other refugee colony.”
“And the others?” Cabot asked.
“They need some health care or some fattening up before they can be useful. Or they lack useful skills. Most of those go into what they call ‘job training.’ It’s all done like they’re legit being prepared to be free citizens. It makes them cooperative. They don’t realize they’re prisoners and they’re so, so grateful.”
“What about Issam? He knew what the situation was.”
“Issam.” Arcy shook his head. “Too smart for his own good, maybe. He doubted the apparent generosity. He investigated and pieced it together. But instead of being able to get his family free, his captors realized he knew the truth, so they put him to work.”
“Is his family safe?” Omar asked.
“Yes. They’re training in clerical work, even the children. They’re smart like their father, and will fetch a good price when they’re ready.”
Omar’s teeth audibly ground together and his right eye squinted. “And what’s your role here?”
Cabot put his hand on Omar’s bicep. It wouldn’t help for him to blow up before they had all the facts.
Arcy stared at Omar hard. “A sort of concierge slaver. I connect the skills of the slaves on offer with the right buyers. Or so they think. In truth, I arrange safe transport for them to get somewhere else. Since I arrived here, none of them have gone into slavery.”
“Where’s the profit?” Cabot asked.
Arcy snarled. “No profit. I didn’t even plan to be on the surface, but I lost the ability to communicate with Terceron. Cerberon’s been dealing some major dirt lately, and has killed off most outside communication to keep it close.”
“So now you’re just here, saving refugees?” Cabot was dubious. Arcy had a name, and it wasn’t known for philanthropy. It was more associated with the illegal weapons trade or organized crime.
“Not on purpose. I’m kind of stuck. If I leave, the people will end up being bought by real slavers. I keep getting close to shutting down the operation, but each time I almost have things lined up, something shifts. It’s not a one-person operation.” He grinned. “But I understand Peregrine’s here. I’ve always wanted to meet her. From what Hawk says, she’s something else.”
Omar’s right eye narrowed to a slit. Cabot sent him a warning look.
“She’s formidable,” Cabot said carefully. “And she’s down there with Doony Kirk—not sure if you know him—and Nagali Freeborn. And they’re forces to be reckoned with, too.”
“Glad to hear it. Maybe we can finally get this taken care of so I can get off this rock and back to what I should be doing.”
“Which is?” Romo spoke up for the first tim
e.
Arcy ignored him. “Whatever firepower you have, get it together. We won’t have the luxury of surprising them, since it sounds like Peregrine has already gone full commando on them. Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll have finished the job before we even get there.”
Someone had to stay on the Outlaw to look out for it and the guests onboard. Cabot didn’t trust Romo that far and Omar would be better suited to a physical confrontation.
Sometimes, in business, the deal you must make isn’t always the deal you want to make. You can only work with what you have.
“I’ll stay with the ship,” he announced.
Omar looked relieved. His right eye opened.
Hurriedly, Cabot helped the others pull together the firepower they could, including Peregrine’s personal cannon. Sure, it had been locked inside her quarters, but Cabot would have had no respect for himself if he’d been unable to get around that little detail.
Then they were gone, leaving him with a ship and thirty-six refugees to look after. And time to kill. Waiting things out on the sidelines was a role he was accustomed to, but for once, he was dissatisfied with it.
MENTALLY, Cabot counted down the windows of time. First, the time to get down to the surface. Then the time to get to the farmhouse. Then the time for…whatever would happen after that.
He made himself useful by checking in with his Atalan guests, making sure their needs were met and their spirits were good. They remained unaware of what was going on. The official story was that the ship intended to transport them had experienced mechanical problems, and they were waiting for an appropriate vehicle to arrive.
They were self-sufficient people, though, and while they appreciated his concern and friendliness, they’d organized their days into taking care of themselves and the part of the ship they inhabited. Even the mess hall was spotless.
So where did that leave him? Superfluous, even as the main action was going on far below him on the planet.
And why should that even bother him? He should be relieved. Foolishly, he seemed to have acquired too many ideas of righting wrongs and making a difference.
He wasn’t that guy.
He was the guy who knew people and could arrange things, though. Maybe he could contribute that.
Time to roll up his sleeves and get to work.
7
Cabot programmed the voicecom to ping him every fifteen minutes, to keep him aware of the time that passed. Meanwhile, he sent out messages to everyone he knew who might be within a week’s travel distance. Or might know someone who was. A friend of a friend would do in a pinch like this.
He sent messages. He mentally logged each fifteen-minute increment of time, imagining what might be happening on the surface of Terceron. When he’d exhausted every possibility, he waited. If he’d had a god to pray to, he’d have been doing it. Most people only ever invoked the name of the Prelin, the first ship to achieve interstellar travel.
It had long amused him that a ship, a mere piece of technology—and one that had become obsolete centuries ago—received more reverence of invocation than any of the deities or forces still recognized by any modern peoples.
Was it a good thing or a bad thing that technology seemed to be what people most believed in? Cabot wasn’t qualified to decide. But he found it interesting to consider, and something to distract him while more minutes ticked by without word from the surface of Terceron.
He wondered about the Atalans camping out in the cargo hold, and whether they would put more faith in technology or some variety of deity or cosmic force.
The voicecom lit up, signaling an incoming call. For an instant, he hoped it was from the team below, but no. It came from coordinates in the dead of space. Not that far, actually.
Maybe this was a good thing.
“I hear you’re in trouble.” The face of the one and only, crime boss and business mastermind, giant of industry, Ditnya Caine herself, gazed at him with a bored expression.
He rechecked the coordinates of the signal. Yes. Ditnya Caine was a day’s travel from his location. Less, if she burned hard and sacrificed some ship’s components.
“I wouldn’t call it trouble,” Cabot answered smoothly. “I’d call it an opportunity.”
“Oh, Cabot.” Ditnya shook her head sadly. “I thought you’d grown up. That you’d given up foolish endeavors at the same time you gave up that foolish wife of yours.”
“I can’t say she’s not involved,” he admitted. It would be unwise to leave anything unrevealed to Ditnya. “But she’s here working for me, rather than the other way around.”
“Are you sure? I find that people can be sadly mistaken about reality when it comes to Nagali Freeborn.” Ditnya’s lined face had just a hint of haughtiness.
“Quite sure. To be completely honest, she’s been suspiciously forthright. It’s probably an angle, but for now, it’s working in my favor.”
She regarded him through narrow eyes, then sighed. “All right then, what is it you want?”
“I have a tricky situation here, and am hoping I can call in some favors to get your help.”
“I don’t owe you any favors.” She sat up straighter, and he sensed that she was about to dismiss him.
He knew she liked Omar. “Omar’s on the surface, going into a hostile situation. I have another long-term, trusted friend down there, too. Doony Kirk. You must know him.”
“I do.” Her face revealed nothing.
He had nothing to lose by putting all his cards on the table at this point. “Going for broke” as some gamblers called it. “Do you know of someone named Arcy?”
Her chin snapped up a degree. “Arcy’s down there? Explain. What’s the situation?”
Ahhh, he had her interest now. Whether she knew Arcy personally or was just curious to know what a major player was up to, she was willing to listen. That was good enough for him.
“He’s working on breaking up a slaving ring, and we’re helping him out.” It was a somewhat creative explanation, but entirely true.
“Really?” Ditnya didn’t look convinced.
“Yes. I was hired to track him down, and found he’d gone from Cerberon to Terceron because of communications issues. So he’s handling the situation himself, hands-on. And, ma’am, I’m not one to use coarse language that often, but right now, on the planet below, some rough shit is going down.”
Her mouth pressed into a line and he could practically see the pro and con lists forming in her mind, along with risk calculations. She needed no hand-holding. She knew Arcy had interests in a lot of dark places, and if she had something to hold over him, that could pay off big for her. But what would she need to do to make that happen?
He waited for her to ask the question.
“What do you need from me?”
Said the fly to the spider. Or was it the spider to the fly? Cabot felt like he was in the better position, but no doubt Ditnya felt the same.
“Simple. Send out a general call, on all channels, that all of your associates are to join you on Terceron immediately and to be prepared for a fight.”
Ditnya looked at him like he had the brain of a gnat. “Cerberon’s extraplanetary communications are down. Any ships operated by associates of mine are days, if not weeks, away. Even I can’t rally an army at a moment’s notice.”
Cabot smiled. “The people below don’t know that. They do know who you are and that you’re coming for them. If our associates below are as good as we think they are, they’ll be able to take advantage of that.”
A reluctant smile spread across her face, making her look slightly less foreboding. “It’s not bad.” Her eyes unfocused as she considered. “All I have to do is send a message. If it fails to help, it’s no loss to me. And if it succeeds, I am owed a debt by Arcy, Omar, Doony, and Nagali. Yes, I think that suits me fine. Stand by.”
The screen went blank.
Moments later, his voicecom indicated an open hail. “All known associates in the region, this is Ditnya
Caine. I require your immediate presence on the surface of Terceron. Details to be provided upon arrival, come prepared for action. Caine out.”
He wondered if she would call on him again, but she didn’t. She knew he’d get the message and that it would be self-explanatory.
From a distance, though, his sensors noted a large cargo ship on a direct course. It had to be the boss herself, Ditnya Caine.
He felt a moment of triumph, followed by a feeling of solitude. He’d just pulled off something major, and there was no one to tell the tale to. Sure, he had thirty-six people patiently waiting for their ride to their new start, but it wasn’t the same.
Still, just like before, he sat, anxiously awaiting word from the surface below.
Twenty-two minutes later, it came.
“Situation under control. Stand by.” Peregrine’s terse, uninformative message was enough, for the moment.
He wondered which of them had the better story to tell. Probably them, since it likely involved weapons and punching and such. But his wasn’t too shabby, either. He looked forward to hearing theirs, and telling his in return.
HE WAS AWAKENED in the morning by an incoming message on the voicecom. He’d rerouted all communications and notifications to his quarters so he could get some sleep.
Eager to hear from his friends below, he answered the call.
“The situation on the surface was a little hairier than I expected, but I’ve moved my people in and will handle things from here.” Ditnya looked as unruffled as usual.
Disappointment crashed over Cabot, though he tried not to let that show. He smoothed his hands over his hair, fastening it into his usual ponytail. “That’s good to hear,” he answered as smoothly as he could, with his voice rough around the edges from sleep. “What’s the status down there?”
She pursed her lips, as if trying to decide how much to tell him. Which was a little insulting. She was only there because of him.