He had spent a hundred years seeking the woman called Silver; he still didn’t know if he was going to kill her.
It was an idle thought, floating through a haze of weariness to the front of his mind. Garth slowed, his eyes focusing on the gaudy calendar filling the display window to his left. Tiny white lights framed the safety glass, clustered like wild grapes at the tops and sides where the curve was pronounced, trickling off like fireflies through the blazing dates. Had he lost track?... No — there was the Axis year, in the corner. It was the last month of 2389, and his parents had died in 2288. A hundred years of searching, and the prize was as elusive as ever.
Damn Hobbs and his penchant for gambling! Damn the Caesarean port authorities for discovering his smuggling operation and demanding reciprocity when they did. A few hours, I only needed a few hours.... But the port authorities at Norwood had sealed off the ship, seizing the cargo. No money for the crew, no money for fuel — no way off Norwood Station, or even onto Norwood, as in Garth’s case. Bundled back into Sleep and returned to Caesarea Station for questioning. Damn, damn, damn! How many years lost?
No one had seen any of Silver’s recent partners since a trip made to Norwood, so the people to question would be on Norwood. No sense in asking other free-traders. No one in “the business” talked about anyone else... it was a marvel they got any work done at all.
Without really noticing Garth had started moving again. If he had thought about it, he would have simply said the area in front of that display window was stuffy. In truth the vacuum beneath the alloy grills below his feet had been defective; the lack of air movement around his legs had made him nervous. It was only a sectional breakdown — the familiar sucking motion now pulling at his soles soothed the uneasiness within. A spacer reaction, an instinctive reaction... the type of knowledge that could save a life. Only those who learned it in their bones lasted more than a few years at this trade.
“Garth! Garth Kristinsson!” The voice was low and almost furry; Garth turned his head in response. A dark, slender man appeared to his right, his personal gear still stored in his bakit. “They sprung you?”
“No reason not to,” Garth replied, fixing the speaker with a steely eye. Jamar could be very good company, but his tongue tended to wander too freely when he was among friends. A dangerous habit on a wheel....
“Of course.” Jamar flinched back into his shoulder pack as he took the hint. “Now what?”
Garth knew that he meant work. Idiot. “I’m hungry,” he answered. “What’s good right now?”
Since Jamar had been on Caesarea Station before transferring to Hobb’s ship at Norwood, the deportation had given him a quick round trip. “Blue Diamond and Lowe’s are still good, and Rest has been good lately, I heard.”
Studying reflections in the polished aluminum walls, Garth said: “Let’s try Lowe’s.” Was that the same man he had seen outside the Protectorate offices? Undistinguished, the type Caesarea preferred as police....
“Turn here,” Jamar prompted, nudging Garth slightly to the left. Using his long years of experience, the wiry little man led the way into the maze of the wheel.
How did they keep it so clean? Most geosynchronous wheels quickly acquired the grimy, beaten look of the stations circling Gavriel and Emerson, but Caesarea was different. It must have something to do with their image, Garth decided, keeping one eye focused on the deep green pack strapped to Jamar’s back and the other on the man following them. “Commerce” was every Caesarean’s middle name, and “gold” was their lifeblood. The face presented to potential clients and customers must be immaculate.
A sharp left turn took them off the rim and onto a spoke of the wheel. Sweet Jesu, he hated spokes — the soundproofing wasn’t as good as the rim, and the echoes of voices made his head ache. Why a wheel entirely of steel, aluminum, and chrome? Norwood System’s discovery of petroleum meant plastic was cheap again. They could replace a few interior panels for variety.... Although what glass there was faced away from the star, it was still darkened, and lent little relief to the scenery. In this row glass was almost non-existent. Most of the free-trader bars were along this strip, as well as a few eating places popular with Axis Forces. Free-traders were much pickier than military or pirates; food and liquor had to be good, and the establishment had to have a few quiet, private areas. Entertainment, be it hologram, interaction, or even live, was of no account with free-traders. Word of mouth kept these places going, much to Caesarea’s chagrin. Military served a purpose, and pirates could be boarded, their cargo confiscated — but free-traders usually managed to slip through cracks in the floor. Their favorite haunts were much as they were — destructive in their own way, like rats, for instance, but not dangerous unless approached.
Lowe’s was a perfect example of why authorities disliked free-trader hangouts. It looked like a dive from the outside; walls and dark glass smudged and dirty, the metallic paint over the door flaking, making the place “I owe” to the uninitiated. If Lowe still owned it, Garth imagined it was purposely left in poor condition; it would be Lowe’s idea of a joke. To Caesareans either outbound or meeting for business on the wheel, the facade was a clear warning: This place is not for you. Stay out.
Inside was another story. Lowe’s was licensed for food, liquor, and gambling — the sex outlet was upstairs, and regulars considered it to be separate from the main operation. A cousin of Lowe’s handled that end... Garth suspected Lowe didn’t like the cousin. Lowe himself was in the “passive entertainment business,” as he called it. Good food, strong drinks, and a pleasant place to hide out; it was clean, but not fancy. If you wanted music, or something else, you went elsewhere. At Lowe’s, you were getting the extended family treatment. It was a good enough combination that he actually made profits Caesarea knew about. If the police knew Lowe also sold information, they couldn’t do anything about it.
Slipping in the front door, Garth followed Jamar’s lead, hoping Lowe was out on business. Lowe was one of the few who remembered his father, Kristin Arnason, and therefore was certain to remember Garth. After six hours of questioning, Garth was in no mood for the old man’s subtle prying.
Someone was cooking fresh pea pods and tofu, and the smell was heavenly. Jamar found a small table to his liking and placed his bakit on a chair. While he went to the bar — liquor service was from the bar only, or had been the last time Garth was on wheel — Garth settled in the chair facing the door. As he had hoped, the undistinguished man had disappeared. Or had he? Garth glanced up at the screens lining the top of the aisle wall. Only one was an omni, broadcasting news; a few showed the gambling activities in back, or the formal dining room behind the bar, but most showed current scenes from the wheel. The central arboretum, the landing bays, the administrative sector... the spoke outside the door. Framing screens on opposite sides of the wall showed both sides of the aisle. And there was his pursuer, loitering at a push vendor hooked a meter or so down the way. Dumb. All push vendors were assumed to be administrative spies. Definitely not a free-trader, then. Probably police.
“Wheel activity fascinating tonight?” came a soft voice. Growing still, Garth mentally cursed Jamar. True, the authorities would not dare follow him in here — legally they might enter, but whether someone followed them back out and cut their throat was anyone’s guess — but Garth really did not want to talk to Lowe. He had the lecture memorized. Besides, he was angry with the old man. One of Kristin Arnason’s best friends, and he kept saying he knew nothing about a woman called Silver. Horseshit on that — there was nothing worth knowing about free-trading that Lowe didn’t know. If it was nothing else, Silver’s elusive career was the stuff of which legends were made.
“Just one spoke,” he decided to answer, keeping his voice casual. A drink appeared in front of him. Lowe must have brought it himself; the waits did not truck liquor around. Knowing it was safe, Garth nodded his thanks and sipped the sweet drink. It would have been rude to refuse, even though it implied a slight debt to accept it. If Jamar would just —
Damn. He’d spotted a woman he’d obviously known his previous jump here, and was trying to turn their recent problems into a humorous story. Not funny to the police, who had received an entire shipload of workers ignorant of the smuggling... and obviously didn’t believe in their innocence.
“Will you dine with me in back?”
This required facing the old man. Lord, what had he done to deserve this? All he wanted to do was relax, fill his stomach, and get a line on cargo ships going to Norwood. Now he’d be tied up an entire evening. Slowly Garth angled his body toward Lowe.
This time Lowe actually looked older; the FOY treatments must have reached their limit. That bothered Garth. Lowe might have been a pain the last few times they’d spoken, but the man was one of the pillars of the station. Too bad there wasn’t really a Fountain Of Youth, despite the company’s claims. Only Sleep gave extended life, and even it had its price. Lowe’s hair was still dark, but lines were beginning to show in his face. He’s lost weight, Garth thought. He looks tired, not like Lowe. Thoughts of using Jamar as an excuse withered. This might be the last time; Garth could stand the lecture if only Lowe would spare him any questions.
“I’ll have to make my excuses to Jamar,” Garth started, his fingers entwining around the delicate, fluted glass.
“I’ve already spoken to Jamar. It’s better that Hobbs’ crew see very little of each other in the next few days... and take separate ships out, if possible.” Slowly turning, the man moved with stately grace toward the stairs and the casino. What with a noticeable weight drop — Garth estimated he’d lost at least fifty kilos — Lowe more than ever looked like his establishment. The silvery suit and dark, high-collared shirt made him resemble his own front door. But then Lowe was taller than most men, and could draw attention accordingly. Pushing two meters, Lowe was hard to miss in a crowd. Yet he had been a famous free-trader... it took many different links to form the chain.
Finally the words sunk in, and Garth stood to follow. Better they not see each other? Damn! Worse than he’d thought. All this shit and only standard wage? He was tempted to tell Lowe he wanted storm pay, and let him negotiate it with Hobbs for his usual fee. First the dinner; it was an honor to be asked to dine in the club area, one Garth had never had without his father present. There had to be a reason. If he was patient, Lowe would tell it to him.
Dinner was impressive; fresh chopped salad made of vegetables native to three worlds, followed by real meat, delicately roasted and seasoned, a crumbly white cheese melted on top. Fine brandy and whipped chocolate finished the meal, filling the few remaining empty spaces in Garth’s stomach. Not wishing to borrow trouble, Garth neither calculated the value of such a spread nor tried to guess what Lowe wanted in return for such generosity. Instead he politely inquired about current wheel gossip, and listened as the secrets of half a dozen worlds strolled across his ears.
At last Lowe gestured for the wait to leave the brandy. In the stillness that followed, the old man slowly turned his glass stem between a strong finger and thumb, watching the reflections thrown by the fluid within. “And what of you, Garth?” he said finally. “It has been a while since you graced my establishment.”
“Here and there,” Garth replied, hazarding a grin. “Norwood most recently.”
“A very quick trip. You intend to find another ship heading that way?” Keen grey eyes angled to meet a gaze of icy blue innocence. “I can save you some looking. A transport left a few days back — there won’t be another until next month, at least.”
Probably true... it was too easy to check the story. Was Lowe actually going to hire him for something? But the old man preferred experienced free-traders — Garth knew his own training was still too meager to satisfy Lowe.
“Let us dispense with fencing. I take it you are still searching for Hank Edmonton and Silver Meath?” Lowe’s voice was very quiet; Garth did not remember it as so quiet.
“Silver Meath. Hank Edmonton is dead.” He tried to keep the reply simple as he concentrated on the heady vapor of the brandy.
“People die,” Lowe said conversationally, almost as if agreeing with something.
Garth acknowledged the unasked question. “Natural causes, apparently. He pushed FOY as far as it would go, and his heart finally gave out. I think he left free-trading not long after dad died.” Tell only the truth; Lowe had a nose for ragged tales, and it was said he could smell a lie at ten paces.
“I noticed during your absence that a century had passed since the unfortunate demise of your parents. A hundred years is a long time to follow someone merely to ascertain your father’s last emotions before death claimed him.” Lowe’s gaze had not swerved from his face.
That was essentially what Garth had told Lowe. No one knew the entire story — good luck and a glib tongue had kept all secrets safe. But an uneasy feeling traced his spine; Garth had a feeling his luck with secrets was about to run out.
“Rumors still surface about that job... about the aftermath. Almost five hundred bars of gold vanished from that vault. Must have been, oh, 150, 160 a piece for them. You certainly don’t need to work. Is your only goal in life to find this woman?”
“Yes.”
Lowe’s eyebrows lifted slightly at his emphatic tone of voice. “A hundred years, and only a few months for you.... Any chance you might tell me the entire story this time?”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Very soft; Garth felt muscles starting to bunch and fought it.
Lowe’s expression softened. “No, you’re not lying. You’re simply not telling me all you know or suspect — it’s quite a different thing.” His gaze dropped to his brandy snifter. “I can’t help you unless you tell me what is going on. And this is probably my last chance to help you. Information is my lifeblood, Garth — why have you never used the best source at your disposal?”
“Because you always tell me to give it up!” The return to normal volume sounded like shouting, but Garth couldn’t help it. Old resentment mingled with new pain, as the old man obliquely confirmed earlier guesses. Time was running out for Lowe...there would be a new pillar of information on Caesarea Station the next time Garth passed through. “I’m going to find this woman if it takes a thousand years! All your meddling to keep me on false trails has only made it harder — it hasn’t changed my mind.”
“You think I’ve tried to stop you?” Lowe looked up once again. His face was intent — then Garth thought he saw a trace of humor. “I haven’t done anything more than keep a vague eye on your travels.” Lowe reached absently for a piece of the cheese the wait had slipped onto the table. “Do you really think someone has muddied the waters? Beyond what Hank, Silver, and your father did after the job,” he added.
Garth remained silent. He had been so sure Lowe was trying to stop him.... So. Was there someone else planting false clues, or was he merely paranoid about the whole thing?
“Are you going to kill her, Garth?” Lowe asked pleasantly.
Like a conversation about the latest live band, or interactive show... Garth thought deeply. “What makes you think that?” he said finally.
“I can’t think of any other reason why you wouldn’t question me about that job,” Lowe answered.
“Why would you know anything?”
“It’s my business to know things. I know what the Prime Minister of Caesarea has for breakfast before it’s digested. I have heard every rumor ever attached to any free-trader, any job. Yet you have never questioned me. It seems I will have to question you.”
Garth felt his thin face tighten. Before he could speak, however, Lowe added: “I know where Silver is.”
As his fingers curled, Garth released the snifter in his hand for fear of fracturing it. “Now?”
Lowe smiled. It was odd, seeing that smile... Lowe hardly ever smiled. “If she still lives, right this moment. And if you tell me what I wish to know, I will tell you where she is. You are... twenty-five years behind her, what with this added delay? I can put you one trip behind her.”
“Why?” What he really wanted to ask was: What do you want in return? But Garth knew Lowe would get around to that eventually.
“I was very fond of your parents. They did me many... services. I feel I owe them what little I can do for their only son.” Lowe refilled the brandy snifters. “Now. Your father was involved in his latest scam. It was with two other people, neither of them your mother....”
Sweet saints, guide me. Garth picked up the tale at that point. “I still don’t know exactly what the scam was, but I think you’re right — the goal was that big gold shipment going to Kiel. Did you ever hear what was taken?”
“480 bars of gold,” Lowe told him.
“Well, 160 bars of gold were deposited in my parents’ account at Traders the day after my father died.” Lowe nodded at this statement. Traders’ Trust was the bank used by almost all free-traders, and was considered one of the few institutions off-limits to scams. Traders handled only precious metals — the currencies of six planets were mere promissory notes to Traders, and were redeemed with high penalties. It was also the only existing reserve which never surrendered accounts to heirs without instructions left by the depositor. A trip of a hundred years was nothing to Traders — when a free-trader returned, his or her metal wealth would be waiting. It had survived recession, war, and political upheaval; Traders was more solvent than many countries.
“Possibly one-third of the take, then. No one demanded a planning fee?” Lowe asked.
Garth shrugged. “He didn’t tell mother much, when they talked. From the little she said, I think the group planned it together. At any rate, we knew how things would finish. His partners would leave in a hurry, drawing off any pursuit, while dad deposited the money in Traders.”
“What went wrong?”
After a long pause filled by the taste of brandy on his tongue, Garth said: “I don’t know. So much was going on then... Lise had just married, and was shipping out to Gavriel the day after Dad was due back. She already had new citizenship papers. We were watching, and waiting... and then the police arrived, to say that Dad’s body had been found in an abandoned transpo tunnel.”
“No one saw anything?”
“No one admitted to seeing anything. No one spoke.” This was harsh; the memories rising to the surface were recent in Garth’s timeframe. “Lise was frantic, and Mom was in shock. After pacing the floor all night, Mom insisted that Lise take ship as scheduled. Insisted on it — said it was what Dad would have wanted. I went with Lise up to Caesarea Station to see her on board her ship. By the... by the time I returned, Mom had slashed her wrists.”
“You have no idea why?” Lowe’s voice seemed to come from far away.
“No. Unless it was grief... but I can’t accept that. Mom adored him, but she didn’t live for him, if you know what I mean.” Garth realized he was drawing patterns in the air with his fingers, and gripped his hands tightly together. “There was no message, except — except she had given one of her favorite holos of the family to Lise, before Lise left. I found the copy sitting on my pillow when I got back, along with 250 cubiz Caesarean. Everything after that is fuzzy... was fuzzy for a long time. I didn’t find out about the gold deposit and withdrawal until several days later.”
“Withdrawal?” Lowe said suddenly.
“Yes.” Garth finally looked up, catching the glint of Lowe’s eyes with his own gaze. “The deposit was made that afternoon, probably while Mom was killing herself — certainly while I was returning from station. I don’t know if she saw it or not, it didn’t occur to me then to check whether anyone had accessed the file from our home. The account was emptied that evening — everything, the new gold and everything else my family had as assets.”
“But... how? Traders is inviolate if anything is....” Lowe had tilted his head to one side and was staring hard at Garth.
From Lowe’s expression, Garth knew he was going to have to supply the final puzzle piece. “Oh, whoever cleaned us out had the proper codes. They even left a message: ‘Aesir considers the debt to be paid.’” He kept his gaze on Lowe’s face as he spoke.
There was no flicker of change. Lowe repeated the last words, his tone almost a whisper: “Aesir considers the debt to be paid.” Then a sip of brandy, and silence.
Instinct told Garth to remain silent; minutes passed. Abruptly, Lowe demanded: “Tell me everything your mother said, from when your father died until she took her life.”
Puzzled, Garth did his best to reconstruct the last clear day within memory. Lowe asked questions; he wanted nuance, tone of voice, any messages or mail received. “Is this leading anywhere except into your private mental vault?” Garth asked abruptly.
“Will you never learn patience?” Almost testy. Garth was surprised; it was as close to losing his temper as he had ever seen Lowe approach. “Do you want certainties or supposition? Very well — did the police investigate the possibility of murder? In your mother’s case,” he added, as Garth’s eyes narrowed in irritation.
It struck him dumb. Never, even for a moment, had he considered that possibility. “But — the coroner said —”
“They knew your mother was in the business?”
A pause. “I think so. They didn’t seem to think it odd that she’d done it right after dad was killed... or that I knew nothing about it.” He did not add that they’d wired him, just to be sure. He held no anger over it — it was all part of the business.
“They are trained to see anomalies — I know, you children have only contempt for them, but trust me, the Caesarean Forces are among the best. They find out what is needful without trampling everyone’s rights underfoot. A great skill. On another world, they would have locked up Hobbs’ crew just to be certain they’d covered all exits. Here, they merely watch and wait — a blessing you obviously do not appreciate.” Lowe shrugged in dismissal. “If they saw nothing to make them suspicious, it was either suicide, or done on such a level that they could have proved nothing even if they’d suspected.” Lowe fixed Garth with a hard stare. “Your mother would not have killed herself unless there was something to be gained by it.”
“What could possibly be gained by it?”
“There are things,” he said vaguely. “But that doesn’t matter, now. I have heard of Aesir, but I can no more tell you what it means than I can change the rotation of this station. Secret and deadly, that is what it means. I don’t know if Silver can tell you any more, but it would not hurt to ask. If you ask politely, you might be amazed what she’d tell you. A generous woman.” He sipped at his brandy.
“You’ll tell me where she is?” Garth finally said.
“I can tell you where she went, last time she was here, ten years ago Terran. She was finishing up a job, and about to start something with her old mentor, Halsey.”
That name caused Garth to straighten. He had heard of Halsey. Probably the richest free-trader still living, he was older than memory. Most people in the business could trace their line of learning back to him. So Silver was one of his own students... no wonder she left such a sketchy trail.
“They were heading to Nuala.” Lowe’s voice was ridiculously calm, considering what he’d just said.
For a moment Garth was blank — Nuala? A country on Emerson? Then the name gathered meaning. Nuala? Holy Virgin, was he cursed? She’d gone to that radioactive slag heap? “Why?” he heard himself whisper.
Lowe allowed amusement to slide across his face. “Because she’s a free-trader, Garth. Nuala is the wealthiest planet in the Axis Republic. Between the myths surrounding it and the dangers threading it, it’s the biggest challenge imaginable short of charting a new star yourself.” Lowe reached for the plate again, and nibbled at another piece of cheese. “She’s a gypsy, the best of our breed. The scam is half the fun.”
You call this fun? Garth kept the words to himself, wondering if his face gave him away. He began to despair of learning this game. What could be worth going to Nuala?
An unreadable expression crossed Lowe’s face. “I do remember one thing about Aesir... but it may not apply in this case. Weren’t the Aesir the warrior gods of ancient Norse mythology?”
This thought gave Garth pause. “Maybe,” he said at last. “My people remember them only in story and song — their worship was dust long before we left Mother Earth.”
“I don’t see a connection — not a direct one. But Silver was born on Gavriel... perhaps she can find a link. Surely it cannot be coincidence.” Lowe pushed his empty glass to one side. “The ship you seek is one of the Tiger fleet, called Crowned Tiger. It leaves for Nuala in about three days. They need crew, and pay profit-sharing as an incentive. I’ll send word to the captain that you’re interested. It’s a safe ship; no need to have someone timelock your Freeze tube.”
The last words were brisk, but well-meant — they would save him inadvertently offending the captain of the long-hauler. In them Garth also sensed dismissal, and realized it was time for good-byes.
“Thank you,” he said aloud, unable to comprehend that he finally had what he wanted — Silver’s direction. Lowe had turned out to be a better friend than he had hoped.
“You may pass in transit, you know.”
“But I’ll only be a trip behind, and that’s worth anything.” A strange combination of excitement and dread began to knot beneath his sternum.
“Almost anything,” Lowe said gently.
Garth found his response puzzling, and knew his own expression had changed.
Lowe was watching his face. Something he saw there did not comfort him. Shaking his head slightly, Lowe said: “Be careful out there. And always think through your actions to their ultimate conclusion. You’ll live longer.” Pausing, he finally added: “I hope I have done the right thing.”
There was nothing to say to such fatherly concern, so Garth gravely extended his hand. Lowe touched his wrist lightly in farewell and remained at the table as Garth moved off into shadows, heading into the bowels of the restaurant.
Hesitating at the elbow of the corridor, Garth turned back toward Lowe, prompted by a moment of unease. He saw the man pull a small device out of his pocket and point it at the blank wall beyond the table. A huge screen flared into life, flickering in communique mode.
“2618ABD,” Lowe said quietly. In moments the line was connected, and Lowe said: “Yes, this is Lowe for Captain Morse of Crowned Tiger. Tell him I’ve found him crew.”
Even an introduction... Garth considered waiting, but decided to move on; it was not courteous to eavesdrop on a friend, and Lowe was merely doing as he had promised, insuring Garth a smooth transition onto Crowned Tiger. Long strides carrying him through the bar, Garth headed out toward the bag drop to retrieve his bakit. This time he could feel it, the closeness, the rightness. Lowe had finally told him the truth, and he was going to find Silver. Any thoughts about the mysterious planet Nuala were kept firmly in the back of his mind.
His people called it wergild, the price owed to blood kin upon the death of a valued relative. Garth suspected Silver owed him wergild, a large one — now there would be a reckoning.
In the meantime, Captain Morse had finally answered Lowe’s call. “Morse, I’m not the only one who needs to get to Nuala — I found you that last hold man I promised you.” Lowe was not smiling... but then, he rarely did.