| |
Every planet, station, platform, or flotsam island in EA space has a Spacertown. That's all they're ever called. The management wants to ensure that when we skinny, gravity-sensitive, hairless—from the depilatories we use to keep our hair from clogging our ship filters—Human misfits swarm out of our ships, we can find the place as quickly as possible. It's always on the worst piece of property available, usually along the edge of the station ring out near where the ships nose in and the racket of loading and unloading never stops, or, onworld, where ships landing and taking off roar endlessly and their drives light up everything day and night. The places are crime riddled, rundown, cold or boiling hot, with the utilities—and the security—intermittent to non-existent.
In the locations where the law does get actively involved, Spacertowns get an additional name added to the front for clarity in the court system. They become Mandragala Spacertown, or Pele' Spacertown. They are no different from Zephyr Isles Spacertown or Vacca Spacertown except, maybe, for size. The nightlife, bars, sex trade, drugs, crime, and general lowlifes are conveniently located near their patrons, and the patrons are conveniently isolated from the decent citizens who have permanent addresses, though sometimes those decent folks want to cross over the line—get a little dirty for the thrill of it—before they slip back inside their secured zones. There's a lot of dirty in Spacertown. It makes money.
You would never know that from the appearance of the place.
I hate Spacertown. It twines through my dreams. The memory of it grips me with cold, creeping panic. It's a personal thing; something I don't choose to discuss. Saura knows why. So do my foster parents and my superiors in the EA Space Marines. It's need-to-know only.
Now desperation drove me to its outer edge.
Nausea tugged my guts as I checked the address Scriver had dropped in my personal feed. The storefront looked as if the only things holding it up were the spacer bar leaning into it on one side and the tattoo parlor on the other. Sort of like they were putting the squeeze on it.
The place was a quaffa bar. In military terms, an EYOR, or "enter at your own risk."
The EA military has a zero tolerance policy on the quaffa; its use is grounds for immediate dismissal from service. Stations also ban their personnel from frequenting the joints. But there's always a quaffa bar somewhere in Spacertown, and it always has plenty of glassy-eyed, blissful patrons.
The bar's door, a cloth banner painted with the Whooex Basic symbol for Elegant Air, rippled in the breeze from two fans strategically positioned to keep the fumes of the place from escaping into the concourse. It wasn't that the owner felt any concern over the danger addictive smoke presented to passersby; he simply wanted to make sure every bit of the stuff recirculated back to the people who were paying for it. No free sniffs here.
Thank the stars for the owner's greed.
Desperate as things were, Saura and I did not need a connection to anyone hanging out in this place. I turned away.
"Zant?"
I glanced around. None of the people moving past reacted with any interest toward me, and the buildings were too tightly squeezed together to allow a shady figure to beckon from a dark alleyway.
"Zant." Something brushed my wrist.
I looked down and a flash of white fury rushed over me. What was a kid doing on the concourse in this hellhole?
"Are you Zant or not?" The question carried a gravelly, sardonic tone I'd missed before. The image of the child-face resolved into a porcine snout, small, beady eyes, and heavy jowls. A hand with short, stubby fingers lifted a cigar to a toothy mouth.
The Frairy stared up at me impatiently.
"I'm Zant," I growled, fighting back the adrenalin charge of horror that had slammed me when I thought a kid had approached me in this goddess-forsaken area of the station. "What do you want?"
The short, stocky alien grunted, causing a large puff of blue smoke to float up from the cigar. It caught in my throat.
"His Frilliness wants to speak to you." He jerked his head toward the Elegant Air.
One of the few things I knew about Frairies, other than their bad attitude and notoriously awful taste in clothing, was that they were frequently found doing business in and around quaffa bars out on the rim. Rumor said the fumes did not affect them.
What was one doing standing in the middle of an inner system station, where EA law supposedly banned aliens? And why wasn't anyone reacting to his presence? The crowd moved around us without even a downward glance at what I could only describe as an upright pig dressed in a purple suit, orange plaid shirt, green bowler hat, and tiny silver ankle boots.
His Frilliness? "What?" I asked brilliantly.
"You want somethin'. He wants somethin'. Unless your wealthy uncle died and left you a fortune in the last few seconds."
So, it was about money.
Yeah. It was about saving the Thief's Hand. And me. And Saurubi.
In spite of my better instincts, I nodded. "All right."
"This way." The creature struck off through the milling press of Human bodies towering around it. It moved fast. The only way I kept up was by watching for the bouncing curve of the bowler hat, an effect caused by a gait reminiscent of an upright, walking mouse.
It passed under the banner of the Elegant Air and disappeared inside.
Swearing, I paused outside the range of the fans. Despite the stringent position of the military and stations against the drug, people did not necessarily become addicted to quaffa the first time they experienced it, or, for that matter, ever. However, a wise Human did not enter a quaffa den without the companionship of several close friends who could be depended upon to make sure everyone in their group also left the premises, no matter how resistant one of their number became.
Note that I said wise, not desperate. Besides, you can go in without indulging; but you pay, either way.
"Give me a mask," I told the skinny, unkempt girl at the door.
"One federal." She pulled a packet from beneath the counter but did not offer it to me.
"That's more than the cost of going in bare," I protested. "Shouldn't I get a discount for not indulging?"
She shrugged. "Quaffa costs money whether you breathe it or not."
"Oh, right," I snapped as I passed my wrist over her payment reader. Chalk up another expense to this quarantine business. I could have used the filter stowed in the cuff of my shipskins, but the elaborate, compression-packaged item would cost a lot more than a federal to replace.
She slid the packet across the grubby surface to me.
I tore off the protective cover and fitted the square of blue filter material over my nose and mouth, pressing the edges securely to my skin before I brushed aside the painted banner and stepped inside.
Apparently, this bar believed in giving its patrons their money's worth: the air was murky with brown smoke. I'd be really pissed if I lost the damn Frairy in all the gloom. I'd be doubly pissed if breathing this air rendered it beyond communicating with me. I'd be triply pissed if the mask I had just paid a small fortune for was made of cheap paper and I ended up lying on the floor of this dump until someone dragged me out.
Which reminded me, belatedly, that Saura had no idea what foolishness I was engaged in.
I spotted the Frairy headed deeper into the bar toward some high-backed booths individually isolated by heavy privacy curtains. He stopped at the rearmost one to wait for me.
"We want to do this sometime today if you don't mind," he growled when I got within hearing distance.
Oh, I had a sarcastic, illegal alien on my hands. I glared down at him. "How the hell are you even on this station?"
Ignoring me, he whisked the drapery aside with his stubby hand. "Sit down and mind your manners, Flygirl."
I took a step forward and stopped, too stunned to move. The Frairy gave me a shove and I plunked down in the booth to keep from falling across the table.
Stepping in behind me, he dropped the drape.
***
THE ALIEN SITTING—OR, rather, floating—across the table from me looked similar to a fancy Earth jellyfish, with multiple tendrils, some wide and ruffled, some nearly as fine as hair, trailing from a meter-wide, semi-transparent, pinkish dome.
It was an Oulunsk.
Rumor had it most members of the Whooex Union view the Oulunsk—or MoMo, as the creatures prefer to call themselves—as brilliant but lawless pests. The EA takes a more circumspect approach to the one-meter tall levitating jellyfish who are one of the three founding members of the Whooex Union and supposedly the oldest civilized species in our known galactic space.
MoMo are acknowledged geniuses in the field of invention. They created and own sole rights to the language translation hardware and chips in my, and everyone else in the Whooex Union's, head. They also created the fold drive that most Whooex members use for space travel. They know what the rest of us want or need, which is no surprise, since the little buggers seem to show up, uninvited, everywhere. Not just in Human space, but across the entire expanse of Union member Star Associations. While the Whooex Union Charter clearly states that no member species can enter another Star Association's recognized space without mutual agreement, the MoMo do not honor boundaries, real or imagined, in their insatiable curiosity about their fellow members.
No doubt, there are many things we do not know about this most ancient of races. There is probably very little they do not know about us. And, whatever they don't know, they are actively intent on discovering, right down to military and political secrets. The Earth Alliance has diplomatically followed the lead of other Union members and classified them as active historians—since no one is capable of keeping them out of any place they want to be anyway. They sort of show up and float around without bothering anyone or anything, then mysteriously disappear. They never reveal what they learn.
I once heard a story about one of Earth Alliance's planetary banks opening its vault to discover several of the creatures floating around inside. The owners didn't find anything missing, but, supposedly, even items inside the lock boxes had MoMo mitochondria on them.
The incident inspired an interesting question that made some people very nervous. Every species has a few skeletons they want left in the back of their closet. Are the little buggers capable of accessing those skeletons and using them against us?
We do know they list their planet of origin as a place called Rhom, which does not show up on any star map, but they now claim another world, unnamed and also hidden, as home. And we know that the Endarans hate them, which isn't a big surprise since they hate Humans and Tabisee, too. The Endar Primacy is the main obstacle to the Earth Alliance's full membership in the Whooex Union and our access to the Moneyworld. They're the guys that advocated for our complete annihilation on first Whooex contact. Such a disagreeable, confrontational species certainly would not appreciate anyone who had the ability to get inside its most secure areas.
At least Endarans stay in their own space.
The MoMo across the table floated a few centimeters upward, rippled a frilly blue bit of its trailing under-section, and settled back in position above the bench.
"You guys aren't allowed this deep in EA space!" I exclaimed when I finally found my voice. "Is security aware you're here?" Space Marine security training does not vanish with decommissioning.
The Frairy gave me a 'yeah, right' look. "This is a quaffa bar. Nobody's payin' attention to the other patrons. Now, shut up and settle in for a listen. His Frilliness wants to talk to you."
"I have enough trouble without getting picked up for associating with illegal aliens. Let me out of here." The Frairy standing at the end of the bench firmly blocked my way unless I wanted to go under the table. I looked down at the nasty carpet and debated whether I wanted to make my exit that way. "Can't these people see you?"
"Of course they see us." The Frairy shrugged.
"You paid them off!"
"We improved the economic status of a few. Others, no. Your race has a marked predilection for curiosity, but some of your species are willing to overlook anything that doesn't relate to them personally."
I felt icy tingles run down the back of my neck. "That's how sabotage and invasions happen."
The MoMo's uppermost frills ruffled with pink.
"What?" I glared between the MoMo and the Frairy. Diplomacy was one thing; these two were violating EA law by being here!
"We do not seek to invade Earth Alliance space," the Frairy said with icy formality.
Some people obviously wouldn't stop them if they did.
Another part of my marine training finally kicked in. I didn't want to start a diplomatic incident in a Spacertown dump. "I didn't mean you were intent on invasion," I said stiffly. "It was an observation on how things happen if people turn their backs and let it."
"Oh," the Frairy gave me a mocking look of relief. "Thank goodness we're not suspects. Meanwhile, His Frilliness wants a word with you."
"I don't think my translator covers Oulunsk." Some language packages were unavailable in Marine software, mostly for species on the far side of the Union, where we had never made contact—and, of course, Arpi, the Endaran language.
When the EA military first began to implant Whooex language chips in Human personnel, it wanted the option to remove all the enhanced parts at termination of service. That policy quickly changed. Space is vast, and sometimes the government must rely on the assets it has in place. The Space Force came to the realization that leaving language translation hardware active in exiting personnel gave it the advantage of having trained, security-minded individuals available for immediate recall throughout Earth Alliance space, especially on the Outer Rim. The benefit of better communications skills when we interacted with our fellow aliens enhanced security.
Space Marines were never considered completely decommissioned for that reason.
"There is no MoMo to Human translation." He twitched the end of his flat, pink nose and made several chuffing sounds I took as laughter.
"So, how do I know he's saying anything? How do I know you're not making things up?"
"You'll have to trust me."
Not likely. "He signs you with his tentacles?"
"No." The chuffing came again.
"It's telepathy."
The chuffing ended abruptly. "Enough socializing. We'll proceed with the discussion now."
Had I hit a sensitive spot? Did Frairies and MoMo share a mind link? Was it natural or mechanical? It could make for some interesting security discussions in the future.
"Look, you have a problem," the Frairy began. "Your cargo is red-tagged. We have a solution. We can arrange for you to move it forward, bypassing the quarantine."
What? A miracle from out of the deep dark? I didn't think so. "Sounds great, except I've already asked the man who holds the contract on the load and he said no."
"As the owner of your cargo, His Frilliness can contract out its transportation to whomever he chooses. Hann Brothers refused to transport the shipment to the destination he requested, nullifying their contract."
"Wait! You own our cargo?" I twisted to stare at the MoMo, unsure whether to react with relief or fury. "Since when?"
In an amazing display, the MoMo slowly blushed a stunning hue of rose from the top of the dome to tentacle tip.
"Since before you took possession at Galray." Waving his cigar airily, the Frairy added the ash off the end to the crust on the floor.
I pulled my attention away from the MoMo to glare at him. "You can prove that?"
"The Haruth Conglomerates. Check with Jakub Scriver."
As if Scriver actually knew who backed any company he dealt with. Yet, he had been sweating heavily when he steered me to this joint. Maybe a conversation with these two had worked him up. To me, the pair looked more a comedic team than a threat, yet here they sat, in the heart of EA space, trying to strike a deal with me. I wasn't laughing. Who knew what power over Human trade and transportation they wielded? "He'd say anything you two told him to say."
"He told you to come here."
Exactly. I glared at him. "Who's the consignee?"
"All you need to know is where it's going." The Frairy clamped his teeth around his cigar and dug into a thick pack belted halfway down his cylindrical torso. He drew out a flat black box seven centimeters on each side.
My breath caught in my throat when I saw the elaborate symbol etched into the top. It was a 3-D star chart. EA ships used them—unless they happen to be lucky enough to have a Tabisee astrogator serving onboard—but ours took up an area on the ship bridge the size of a large travel trunk. The technology he held would be worth the price of a settled world to the EA.
He set the box in the center of the table and the MoMo extended a tentacle tip to brush across the symbol.
A starmap bloomed in the air between us, hundreds of tiny lights pricking the smoky air.
Several fist-sized smudges of colored light—nebulae, I recognized them by their distinct shapes—told me the map was set on a vast scale. An intense pinpoint of red light five centimeters off the surface of the table on my right indicated the location of Mandragala Station. I had to search a few moments before I found the tiny bright blue dot marking the cargo destination. It was far across the tabletop and up in the air to my left. It looked a long way from home.
In truth, it looked a long way from anything.
"Where is that?" I asked cautiously.
"It's a raw-material processing facility in the Scylla Quadrant."
The nonexistent hair on the back of my neck stirred. "That's not EA territory."
"It sits on the Proambu frontier near the outer edge of the galactic arm." He stared me straight in the eyes, as if daring me to react.
I dared. "Are you crazy? There's a territorial boundary between the Proambu and the Endarans out there!"
"Endar," he corrected me. "For them, all things are Endar. One, twelve, twelve thousand, they are Endar. There is only the Endar Primacy. And that is Proambu space. A decommissioned facility. We have their permission to use it for this cargo exchange."
"What about the Endar? Do you have permission from any of their war-class ships patrolling the area?" One thing I did know: Endarans—or Endar—had a reputation for pushing into systems bordering their own to intimidate and harass their neighbors.
The area of space we were discussing happened to be a widely known point of aggression.
Did these two even care?
"Don't need it. It's Proambu space."
The Endar obviously didn't consider that detail important. "We're done here. Find yourselves another sucker." I had wasted fifteen valuable minutes with these clowns.
"You'd rather lose your ship?"
"I'd rather be alive." I said, my resolve weakening.
"Alive and station-bound."
Shit. He'd hit on my greatest personal fear, being station-bound, my labor rented out to pay for the expenses I incurred. The bastard!
Big H's threat flashed fresh in my mind. It ground my outright rejection of his offer to a halt. "You're not on this station legally. How can you make a deal happen?"
"Good question. Not important." He waved his cigar dismissively.
"So, what are my papers going to say: a Frairy and a MoMo contracted me for this job? And then EA Security picks me up?"
"Nah. They wouldn't believe that."
"Exactly."
"Just make the deal, Flygirl. Say yes and leave it to us to work out the details. And stop worrying. You know the EA's hands are plenty dirty when it comes to getting things done, right?"
Yeah, I did. That argument wouldn't help me if I came down on the wrong side of things.
If I let us lose the Hand, however, I'd open the door for the Tabisee to take Saurubi back home to whatever punishment they decided to mete out. The Tabi Empire took great pride in their space fleet; they would not deal kindly with a deserter.
We didn't have any options left, but taking the Thief's Hand into a distant area of disputed space was insanely reckless.
"Look," the Frairy said, "We don't take risks with our cargo, either. This is a simple exchange. A drop-off and pick-up, then back into EA space to deliver the new load. Fast in; fast out. The Proambu shut Idwal Platform down because the system was mined out, not because of problems with the neighbors."
"I can verify that information."
He shrugged. "Check it out. We're not asking you to put you or your partner's fuzzy blue skin at risk."
A chill ran over me. The Hand's registry listed two names: Vivi Zant and Saura Cerros, with Saurubi's name chopped to disguise her identity and her race not checked—a legal option left over from early Earth history.
Was he making a subtle move toward blackmail? I decided to ignore it, hoping he missed the slight hesitation in my response. "What's the new cargo?"
"Nothing you can't handle. The paperwork and destination information for bringing the cargo back into EA space will come with the material when you pick it up. This is all legal, I assure you. When you see the return destination you'll be fine with it."
"And you won't give us the details now."
"Nope."
"Why didn't you do this through Scriver?"
"What? You think he'd officially make a deal with a Frairy and MoMo?" He chuffed.
Bastard.
"No, seriously. He insisted we transfer the cargo manifest so he could keep his association with the Hanns clean."
That rang true.
I stared at the blue dot of light. Although everything sounded borderline legit, I wasn't jumping into this deal without consulting Saura first.
It wouldn't hurt to hear the details, though. For Saurubi. "What's the pay?"
He settled on the end of the bench beside me. "The amount currently owed you by Scriver, the same for delivery of the ingots to Idwal. The same again for delivery of the new cargo, destination to be disclosed upon your taking possession of said cargo. We'll take care of supplies and fuel required for both legs of the trip, loading here on Mandragala since there'll be no source on the Proambu facility."
Desperate as we were, the offer was too low for the risk the operation entailed. I let it hang for the moment.
"How do you know what supplies I need?" Saura had some particular tastes.
"We accessed records of your past purchases."
Much as that annoyed me, anyone with enough curiosity and the perseverance to search could find that information. The food preferences had probably betrayed Saura's presence on the Hand.
"You're asking me," I stayed with the singular, "to risk my life and ship to enter disputed territory inside another Whooex member's space." I emphasized every word that could be associated with danger. "That's hazard pay. Quadruple the offer and we'll talk."
No one ever approached the bargaining table with their best offer on the first pass.
The Frairy looked properly outraged and offended. "Impossible."
"Then let me out of here." I moved to push him off the end of the bench but his fanny stayed firmly in place. We both looked at the MoMo.
No lovely blush color this time. The jellyfish's under-frills rippled white and blue with more activity than at any time since I'd been there. Agitation? Anger? Telepathic communication?
If His Frilliness didn't act fast, I was climbing over the glammed-up runt blocking my way out of here.
"One and a half times the first offer. It's the best we'll do," the runt said.
"Double the original offer for every leg."
The Frairy puffed on his cigar, making the air of the booth even hazier. "If it were my decision, Flygirl, I'd let you walk, but His Frilliness agrees: two times the original offer on both legs of the new contract. We hold with the original agreed on payment for your initial delivery to Mandragala, however."
Not a bad deal.
"I want to think it over." I planted my feet on the floor and shoved sideways, forcing him off the bench this time.
The Frairy stood up and glared at me. He thumped his cigar ashes on the floor, just missing my foot. "You don't have a lot of time left, Flygirl."
True, but I wasn't taking this sort of risk without consulting my partner first. "How do I contact you?" I asked him
"The name's Thok. It's in your contact list."
Of course. Why wouldn't it be?
Fighting down an abject fear that I was making a disastrous mistake by walking away without sealing the deal, I nodded. "I'll let you know." I wanted to talk to Scriver, to corroborate their story before I took it to Saura. "Soon," I added before he asked.
"Ya got two hours. We don't hear a no from you, we'll figure you accept the deal."
What? Default agreement must be a Frairy thing. "I'll let you know." Two hours. Shit! I was wasting precious time.
"When?"
"I'll let you know," I repeated. "Soon."