Stars in the Sand

by Richard Tongue

   In the background, a cheer seemed to sound, and the voice replied, “My crew are eagerly anticipating your arrival; I think I can provide you with a good price for your wares. Come up to my office when you have docked. Is there anything else you need?”

   “A dimensional compensator?”

   A low, lumbering laugh echoed from the loudspeaker, and he replied, “I fear such items are not permitted in our stores. You’ll have to make do with what you have for a little longer. Sinbad out.”

   “It could be a trick,” Nelyubov said. “A lure to draw us into the station.”

   “Well executed if it was,” Orlova replied. “I’d still recommend caution.”

   “That’s a good policy for any situation,” Marshall said as he tapped another button, “Deadeye, Cooper, report to the main airlock on the double. Wear sidearms, and make them obvious.” He gently rose to his feet, uncertain in the variable acceleration. “Take her in, Maggie. I’m going to get dressed. And watch for any trouble.”

   “Want me to go?” Orlova replied as she swung into the command couch.

   “I’ve already given my RSVP. Besides, it would be expected for the Captain to handle the trading negotiations. I’ll be careful.”

   She turned to him, then said, “Keep a channel open on your communicator. If you run into trouble I’ll bring a team in to come get you, and I guarantee that station will never be the same again.”

   “Maggie…”

   “This is what happens when you put her in command,” Nelyubov said. “Goes to her head.”

   “Don’t let him rip you off, sir,” she said, throwing a stare at the helmsman. “We need to get everything we can for that cargo. And…”

   Shaking his head with a smile, Marshall replied, “I’ve looked over the econ-charts. Don’t worry, I think I know what I’m doing. And if it goes wrong, we’ve got a few tin cups knocking around in the mess somewhere.”

   He walked down the corridor, carefully watching his steps, and turned into his cabin. A folding bed with a loose strap dangling by the door, a desk bolted to the floor with a few Cabal datapads velcroed to it, and a holster lying on the floor, the gun half-out of it. Picking it up, he carefully strapped it to his leg underneath his flight jacket, tugging at it until it was easily visible.  He reached down, checking that he could get at it easily; he’d been a big enough Western fan when he was a kid to know that he was hopeless at a quick draw, but looking potentially dangerous was key.

   Caine stood at the doorway, smiling, and said, “Danny the Kid strikes again.”

   “Remember what Price said. This is standard out here. The lawless, wild frontier.”

   “With Cabal surveillance everywhere, most likely.”

   “Which is why we have firearms licenses along with everything else.”

   “Come on,” she said, “Cooper’s down at the airlock.”

   Abruptly, Marshall began to float; Ouroboros was coasting now, drifting into its position by the station. Aside from a trace of thrusters, the acceleration was over for a while. He pushed off down the corridor, making sure to stay close to the floor, and headed for the nearest shaft, Caine behind him. Two decks down a dusty passage, a maze of odd smells and worrying patches of slime, and he dropped out at the primary airlock.

   Cooper was waiting, wearing a carefully-battered jumpsuit that looked a little strange; Marshall made a note to have everyone pick up new-old clothes from the local market. At least his pistol looked convincing, down by his side, and Marshall suspect that he was good at a quick draw.

   “Docking in thirty seconds,” Orlova’s voice reported over the speakers. “Stand by for refueling, stand by at primary airlock.”

   “You’ve rubbed off on her too much,” Caine said. “She sounds too military.”

   “We’ll have to practice our informality a bit.”

   With a loud crash, the freighter slammed against the side of the station, a series of heavy clicks heralding the sealing of the docking latches. They were bolted to Sinbad Outpost now, and effectively trapped; only someone in Station Operations could release them. Of course, they could fire their engines anyway, but that would likely just kill them all. A last resort at best.

  The airlock slid open, and a tall, well-built man walked out, wearing a suit at least two sizes too small for him, flanked by a tall, thuggish looking Neander. He didn’t wear a gun, but one look at him suggested that he simply didn’t need to.

   “Trent?” the man said, glancing up at his bodyguard.

   “Call me Danny,” Marshall replied. “You must be Karim.”

   “I am. These are your guards?”

   Nodding, he said, “Caine and Cooper.”

   Karim looked at Cooper, then smirked, “Should change your name to Abel. I could make money putting you two in one of the arenas. People like the odd stuff.” Gesturing to the side, he said, “My people are connecting the fueling hoses; I’ll see that the ship’s account is updated before you leave. I do not extend credit even to people I consider friends, so…”

   “We will pay our debts,” Marshall said. “I don’t like leaving bad feelings behind me. Doesn’t help repeat business, and I’m thinking about setting up a trading route.”

   With a low chuckle, Karim said, “Others than you have tried, but though you can make a little money on those spices, demand isn’t that great.”

   “What about tourism?” Caine said.

   “I’ve been to that dump, shot my beast, and it wasn’t worth the effort. Planets are dirty places, full of odd smells and danger. Sinbad is my world, and I know every inch of it – and what I do not own, I control.” He broke out into a smile, then said, “I know nothing, of course. Perhaps you will find some bloodthirsty epicureans out among the stars who will pay well for the service you are proposing. I would find such traffic valuable, so I will not oppose you.”

   Glancing at Caine, Marshall said, “How long have you been here?”

   “Oh, since my father was born. He built this station, at least, financed it, though I could show you the areas he pulled together with his bare hands. He was a legend, that one. Men such as that appear once per generation.” He slapped his stomach, then said with a barking laugh, “Now, of course, it is my turn!” He gestured up to a hatch, “Let us adjourn to my office, Danny, and break bread together in private. Our attendants can wait below as mutual guarantors to our goodwill.”

   “By all means,” he said, following Karim into the room. His office was a comprehensive mess, every wall festooned with checklists, pin-ups and prints, his desk covered in print-outs, datapads, and the other debris of office life. He slid up into a chair, reached into an alcove and took out a pair of bulbs, containing an amber liquid.

   “You wish to toast our business?” he said. “The nectar of the gods themselves; Whisky from New Caledonia.”

   Marshall accepted the bulb and took a sip; it tasted like engine oil, but he initially put on a good face of it before he finally lost his composure, spitting some back into the bottle.

   “What is this stuff?”

   Karim chuckled, and smiled, “One of our local brews, and not a good one. I am perhaps more inclined to trust you now; I measure a man by his knowledge of good drink. Certainly a smuggler.”

   “I don’t know what you mean.”

   “Of course you don’t,” he said, leaning back with a smile. “Your predecessor and I had an arrangement on these matters; I don’t know what exactly it is you are smuggling, and I care still less, but I will collect my usual cut.”

   Frowning, Marshall replied, “He didn’t tell me anything about that.”

   “Ah, Allah has his jests. No ships come through here unless they are bringing something in from Sol, just the bulk freighters every year or so. I had heard that the situation had deteriorated back there, that Spitfire Station was no longer a place that was open for business. A pity, if so.”

   “
What is your cut?”

   “Simple,” he said, folding his hands together. “My crew hunger for their food to taste of something other than paste; for their sake, and for my own, I will take the spices and herbs you have on board, and exchange them for a load of euxenite. It is a reasonable transaction; you will be able to offload that cargo for almost as much money, and it will allow you to proceed undisturbed with your real cargo.”

   “And if I was to tell you that I was carrying nothing other than the spices?”

   His smile beamed still further, “Then I would warn you that among my many duties is that of Customs Inspector, and I would be forced to subject your ship to a very thorough, and prolonged, investigation.”

   “Tell me,” Marshall said. “What if those supply lines could open up again?”

   “I would be eager for such trade, as, I venture, would many in the core systems. There are so many things that we cannot produce ourselves, notably the luxuries of life. Out here,” he said, sighing, “the good things in life are few and far between, I fear. A pity that I was born into this sparse and Spartan existence.”

   “I will not be the only one coming this way.”

   Raising an eyebrow, Karim said, “Is this a not-so-subtle hint that you have backers and supporters? It would be hard for a man to raise such funds without assistance, certainly at such short notice.”

   Shaking his head, Marshall said, “You are interpreting what I am saying; I will not tell you whether you are correct or not.”

   “Certainly not; where would be the fun, the sport, in that. Though you do interest me. I will make an undertaking with you. Half your cargo I will permit you to retain, if there is some reason you wish it, but I will not provide you with euxenite.”

   “All of my cargo.”

   His face beamed, and he said, “Half, and I will not charge you for fuel, spares, or new documents that might actually fool someone. I have known Basil since he was a boy; he would no more sell his ship than I would sell my right arm.”

   Marshall’s face dropped, and he said, “Those documents are not forged.”

   “Of course not. Fortunately, my people are experts at the art of...shall we say, data interpretation. I also have an eager interest in the possibilities of increased trade in this region; you might tell your superiors that.”

   Frowning, Marshall replied, “My superiors?”

   With a deep sigh, Karim said, “I was not born yesterday, Captain. I presume you have a rank of some sort. I have sources of my own, and I know that a Triplanetary ship has been in this region.” He raised a hand, and said, “Your business is no concern of mine; my business is my profit margin, and it would be most lucrative for this station to be on a trade route.”

   “I work for myself, not for any fleet,” Marshall said, but locking eyes with Karim, he knew that he had been found out.

   “Of course you don’t. I was simply speculating. Here,” he said, pushing a datapad to him. “I took the liberty of providing you with full specifications of my facilities, in the event that you – or a friend of yours – chooses to visit the station in the future.”

   “Thank you,” Marshall said, placing the datapad in his pocket. “I know my people will be glad of some shore leave.”

   “You will instruct your crew that deep pockets are the most favored here, but also that they should pay close attention to them. I would have your people give me their money, not see it distributed among the criminal classes. Now, I think we have little more to discuss; you will arrange for the transfer of your cargo, and I will arrange for the return of your documents.”

   Nodding, Marshall dropped back down into the corridor, Caine and Cooper in a stand-off with the guard. He gestured for them to head back to the ship, and they turned back into the airlock. As soon as the door closed, Caine shook her head, sighing.

   “I can’t believe we pulled that off.”

   “Neither do I,” Marshall said. “We didn’t. I just got offered a trading pact.”

   “What?” she said.

   “It seems that the Cabal’s hold on its outposts is not as strong as it would like to think. Go and arrange some shore leave for the crew,” he said, “and be sure to tell them to have deep pockets.”

   He left the two puzzled people behind him, and drifted back up to his cabin, a smile on his face. The smile dropped away, and he shook his head. They’d almost been caught at the first hurdle, at a small pioneer outpost. What chance were they going to have at Denebola?

  Chapter 12

   Cooper walked into the unromantically named ‘Commerce Module’ of Sinbad Outpost, underneath a technicolor banner labeled ‘Bazaar’ in about a dozen languages; that seemed a lot more appropriate given the look of the place. The aroma of incense filled the air, and the corridor was swarming with people wearing all manner of costumes and dress, most of them seemingly down on their luck. There were definitely two classes of establishment; one for those who had completed successful prospecting runs, the other for those who had come back with a hold full of granite.

   He felt a hand reaching close to his pocket, and acting on instinct, slapped it away; a yell came from a small boy behind him, who looked ruefully up at him with doleful eyes, hoping that pity could reap the rewards that his dexterity had failed to provide. Cooper glanced down at his shoes, noting that either he came from a wealthy family or he had recently visited a cobbler’s shop with his loose fingers.

   “Plenty of drunks up ahead, lad,” he said. “You’ll find them an easier mark.”

   “Where’s the challenge in that?” the boy replied with a cheeky grin.

   Shaking his head, Cooper walked on down the corridor, past a stand that seemed to be selling old antiques from the early days of spaceflight – no doubt all manner of knowledge about the history of the Cabal was waiting for him in there, but he had neither the training nor the finances to explore them. Of somewhat more interest was a vendor selling burgers; he reached over to the stall, the woman behind it speaking what he thought was Arabic at what seemed to be a hundred syllables a second. Even if he had a translator, he’d never keep up.

   He pointed at a burger, and she nodded, reaching for his credi-card. He shook his head, and slipped it into a proffered slot; all the writing was in Arabic as well, though, and he couldn’t understand a word. She passed him a burger, loaded with cheese and tomato sauce, and he took a bite; it tasted delicious, and he flashed her a thumbs-up as he walked away, enjoying his meal. For all he knew, he’d just spent ten thousand credits on a burger, but it wasn’t his money.

   Wiping his hands on his trousers, he carried on around the concourse, soaking in the atmosphere. A trio of musicians were playing on a stage near the middle, and he lingered for a moment before noting the return of his friend from before, this time reaching into the pocket of one of the crowd. Probably the musicians would claim a cut of his winnings, but they were providing a rather pleasant distraction.

   “Forget the cares of the world,” a soft, feminine voice said from behind him. He turned, keeping a hand close to his wallet, and saw a stunning, dusky woman who was looking him over; her costume was cut to encourage closer examination of her figure, and for a brief second he was almost tempted. Then he spotted Barbara over in the corner, making her way towards him with a bag in her hands, and he shook her head.

   “Some other time,” he replied, walking over to meet her.

   “I see you are enjoying the view,” she said with a smirk.

   Shrugging, he replied, “I can hardly help the effect I have on women, can I?”

   “Showering a little more often might solve that problem.” She waved the bag, gesturing with her hand, “You been to any of the stalls yet?”

   “Just to have a burger. I would never have thought I would miss a carniculture vat.”

   “Are you feeling well?” She said, shaking her head. “I managed to pick up some incense on the cheap.”
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br />    “Won’t that cause problems with the air circulators?”

   “I’m rather hoping it masks their musk. You want a drink?”

   “Music to my ears,” he replied. “Any idea where is good?”

   “That depends whether we are being prosperous or frugal, I think.”

   “The Captain told us to have deep pockets.”

   Gesturing behind her, she said, “I think a few of the others are gathering at the Rusty Rocket back there. I seem to remember a saying about safety in numbers.”

   “The Rusty Rocket?”

   “Hell, I don’t care what it’s called as long as the beer is good. There’s a sign up there saying that they brew it on the premises.”

   “Well, that could be good, or it could be bad, but it’s definitely worth further investigation.”

  Arm in arm, they walked through the concourse, each keeping an eye on the other’s wallet. Along they way, they picked up a selection of knick-knacks of various forms, a bottle of aftershave for Cooper, a box of music crystals for Barbara, a bottle of something purple and alcoholic for both of them on the flight to their next port of call.

   Their destination proved to be a rocketpunk bar, decorated with a selection of old mission badges from the 20th century, images of rockets launching from Earth on every wall, a huge model of the first International Space Station hanging from the ceiling. Grogan and Manning waved at them from their table, a group of empty glasses indicating that they had already been here a while.

   “Come on, sit down,” Grogan said. “I’ll get a round in.”

   Cooper looked at Grogan, frowning, and quietly said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to get too drunk out here, Kate.”

   “We’re having a night off, Gabe,” she replied. “Let your hair down a little.”

   Barbara looked at him and shrugged, “If you want to stay sober tonight…”

   “I didn’t say that, exactly.” A waiter came over with four drinks in tall glasses, placing them down in the middle of the table and collecting the empties. She tapped a sequence of buttons on the table, and a hologram flashed up with the menu.