Drifter (5 page)

Wendy pushed her plate away and took another sip of tea. "What soil we have tends to be dry and sterile. We want to bring in Earth-type plants, but that requires chemicals, and bacteria."

"Which brings us back to the fertilizer," Lando said thoughtfully. "You need fertilizer to grow crops. So what's the problem? Since when does fertilizer qualify as a 'controlled substance'? And why hire me? A tramp freighter would cost a lot less."

Troon cleared his throat. Lando noticed that his salad was still untouched.

"First you must understand that the settlers own fifty percent of Angel. The rest belongs to a corporation called Mega-Metals."

"That's right," Wendy put in. "The elders couldn't afford to purchase the entire planet. So when Angel came on the market, they bought half of it, hoping to raise the rest of the money before another buyer came along."

Troon shrugged. "But time went by, the colonists were unable to raise the money, and Mega-Metals bought the other half. Angel has some good iron and nickel deposits, which when combined with mineral-rich asteroidal debris, makes the planet well worth mining."

"Not just
any
mines," Wendy said heatedly, "but
open pit
mines, huge ugly things that look like skin ulcers."

"Yes," Troon agreed evenly. "And because those mines are rather profitable… the company offered to buy the rest of the planet from the colonists."

"An offer that we refused," Wendy said indignantly. "It's
our
world and we plan to stay."

"Unless they're forced out," Troon continued smoothly. "In which case Mega-Metals could acquire the rest of the planet at a bargain basement price.

"And, given the fact that the Emperor has seen fit to grant the corporation quasi-governmental powers where Angel's concerned, they have the means to make things quite uncomfortable. Like placing enormous duties on fertilizer for example. A substance the colonists need in order to be self-sufficient.

"The company claims the duties are 'just compensation for the expense of protecting and administering the planet,' but that's little more than a legal fiction. Mega-Metals doesn't do anything on and around Angel that it wouldn't do anyway."

"And there's something else," Wendy added, fingering the pin at her throat. "Have you heard of the Church of Free Choice?"

Now Lando remembered where he'd seen Wendy's brooch. It was a symbol used by The Chosen, much like the Christian cross, or the Star of David.

Like some other controversial religious groups, The Chosen had been featured on countless vid casts, and gradually acquired a reputation for quiet intransigence.

On Lando's home planet of Ithro, The Chosen had refused to pay that portion of their taxes which went to defense, and many had been jailed as a result.

Lando's father had referred to the situation as "damned foolishness," and Lando had been inclined to agree. As long as there were pirate raids, and the possibility of war with the alien Il Ronn, weapons were a necessary evil.

But like most smugglers, Lando was anti-authoritarian to the core, and not very fond of the Establishment. Strange though The Chosen might be, Lando found that his sympathies lay with them rather than the corporation. He smiled.

"Yes, of course. Your Church gets a good deal of publicity."

Wendy's laugh was a pleasant surprise. "We get publicity all right… especially when our membership refuses to pay taxes. So you can imagine what sort of hearing we'd get at the Imperial Court on Terra. I can see the headlines now: 'The Chosen refuse taxes, but demand justice.'"

There was silence for a moment as Lando sipped his coffee. "Okay, I think I've got the picture. But you failed to mention the most important thing."

"What's that?" Wendy asked innocently.

"Money," Troon answered smoothly. "Pik wants to know how you plan to pay him."

"Oh that," Wendy said, as if money were nothing more than an unimportant detail. "Well, our supply of cash is somewhat limited, but we wondered if you'd considered a trade."

Lando groaned internally. What could The Chosen possibly have that would interest him? He tried to look intrigued. "Oh? And what did you have in mind?"

Wendy fumbled with an inside pocket and withdrew a holo cube. She handed it over. "This is what we have in mind— well, not the cube, but what it shows."

Lando gave it a squeeze and the holo cube came to life. It showed a large industrial-type scale with something sitting on it. A rock or a boulder.

Lando squeezed again. The previous shot dissolved to a close-up. The color was unmistakable. Gold… and a lot of it. He looked at Wendy. "Is that thing real?"

Wendy nodded. "All sixty-nine pounds of it. Elder Perez found it while clearing his fields."

Lando opened his mouth to ask a question but Wendy held up her hand. "No, we looked, and didn't find any more. But Lord help us if Mega-Metals finds out. They'll peel Angel like an orange."

Lando did some mental arithmetic. At 650 Imperials per ounce, or 10,400 Imperials to the pound, the gigantic nugget would net around 717,600 Imperials. Assume some impurities, plus the costs involved in refining the stuff, and add normal overhead.

He'd still clear a cool half million, and maybe more. Enough to buy a better ship with change left over. Assuming the nugget was real.

Lando handed the cube to Wendy. "I'm tempted, but how do I know the nugget's real?"

It was Troon who answered. "It's real, but I don't blame you for being cautious. I think this will put your fears at rest."

So saying, the shipping agent handed Lando a notarized permadoc. It was a surety bond in the amount of 700,000 Imperials. If Lando delivered an unspecified cargo and The Chosen were unable to pay, Troon would make it good.

Lando looked at the cyborg's face and wondered what went on behind the smiling plastic. Why was Troon willing to risk 700,000 Imperials of his own money on The Chosen? He wasn't a member himself. The blaster proved that. So why?

Judging from the expression on Wendy's face, she was wondering the same thing. Sensing their unasked questions, Troon shrugged. "It's good for business. I'll get a percentage of everything that goes off-planet if the colony succeeds."

Troon was smooth, and quick enough to be credible, but Lando didn't believe it. The colony wasn't even self-sufficient. A percentage of nothing is nothing. But, so what? The cyborg's motives were none of his business. Lando stood and held out his hand. "Doctor, you've got a deal. Weller's World to Angel orbit. When do we lift?"

Wendy shook the smuggler's hand, careful to withdraw this time. "Say 0900 tomorrow?"

Lando nodded and held out his hand to Troon. The cyborg's hand was cool but firm. "Thanks, Jonathan. I enjoyed meeting you."

"Likewise," the cyborg replied warmly. "The concentrate has been paid for. Wendy has the necessary documents. Please give your father my best."

Lando smiled. "I certainly will. Jonathan, good night, and Wendy, I'll see you in the morning."

Wendy watched the smuggler wind his way towards the main entrance, then turned her attention to Troon. The cyborg was retrieving a credit card from a slot in the tabletop. "Well, he
seems
trustworthy."

The cyborg nodded. "Yes, unusually so. A man of honor in his own way. Come… I'll take you home."

Wendy shook her head. "No, Jonathan, you've been far too kind already. I'll catch an autocab."

"As you wish," Troon replied. "But I'll see you to the cab."

A single eye followed the two of them out of the bar. The other one had been destroyed on a planet half an empire away, and replaced with an electro-implant. The woman looked better now. Healthier, stronger, and very well-dressed. So well-dressed that Wendy would not have recognized her.

The woman said something to one of her male companions, and the three of them headed towards the rear of the bar.

It took three minutes for Troon and Wendy to make their way outside the bar and hail an autocab. It whirred to the curb and Wendy got in. She waved through the open window. "Take care, Jonathan. And thanks."

Troon waved in reply and watched until the autocab had passed from sight. He liked Wendy and hoped that she would have a safe trip.

Turning, the cyborg walked around the side of the bar and towards the parking lot. He felt the cool night air flow over his plastic skin. Row after row of vehicles gleamed under the widely spaced lights. Troon made his way down the second row and approached his ground car. He'd just pulled the electro-key from his pocket, when something hard poked him in the side.

"Hold it, borg… put your hands on top of your head." The voice was male and sounded mean. Troon did as he was told. A hand reached to grab his blaster.

"What the hell?" It was another male voice this time, deeper, and sort of hoarse. "Look at this… the blaster's a fake… a goddamned toy!"

Troon felt an emptiness where his stomach should be. For more than twenty years the bluff had worked. The cyborg prepared himself.

A woman stepped into the space between Troon and his car. She was nicely dressed and had one good eye. The other was an implant and glittered with reflected light. "How cute! A toy blaster. You know what I think, borg? I think you're one of them. I think you're an arrogant, self-important, religious zealot."

Troon remained silent.

Hard shadows played across the woman's face. "I want the Wendeen woman. Where is she?"

Troon said nothing.

The woman nodded. "Have it your way. Okay, boys, make him hurt."

The blows came hard and fast, some connecting with plastic, some with flesh. Things snapped and broke. Troon grunted and fell.

The woman bent over and grabbed his plastic nose. She used it to turn his head. One of Troon's eyes was broken and the other had begun to fade. "The Wendeen bitch, and the spacer you had dinner with, tell me where they're headed. Tell me and live."

The cyborg started to pray. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…"

The woman spat disgustedly and turned to a man in beat-up space armor. "The cyborg wants to die. Grant his wish."

4

The sun was well over the distant mountains and still climbing when Lando left the ship's lock. His boots clanged on the metal steps. The spaceport was relatively quiet, with only an occasional ship landing or taking off, and the cool morning air felt good against his skin.

Though not a trained engineer, Lando was more knowledgeable about his ship's systems than most pilots were, and liked to perform his own preflight maintenance checks. It was one of the many lessons his father had drummed into him from an early age.

"Son, there are three things you should never do.
Never
allow someone else to tend your money, your woman, or your ship."

Lando smiled at the memory, and started his maintenance check. He began at the bow and worked his way towards the stern. He examined the landing jacks, sensor housings, weapons blisters, access panels, repulsor jets, and hull plates, looking for signs of damage or excessive wear.

And, outside of the intentional lube leak, and the tricked-up landing jack, everything was fine. As well it
should
be, given the number of credits Lando had poured into
The Tink
over the last year.

Which raised an interesting question. Once Lando had delivered the fertilizer, and sold the gold, should he keep
The Tink
? Or put everything into a new speedster? The more successful smugglers owned a variety of ships, using each according to need, or hiring people to make runs for them.

His father opposed this practice, pointing out that "the bigger you get the more you feel the heat," but Lando wasn't so sure. Why settle for second- or third-best, when you could be top dog?

Lando's thoughts were interrupted as a robo-jitney squealed to a stop near the bow of the ship, discharged a single passenger, and rolled away. It was Dr. Wendy Wendeen.

She looked even better than she had the night before. Although her clothes were extremely practical, Lando couldn't help but notice how well she filled the khaki-colored T-shirt and matching utility pants. He smiled. Dad was right. Work
can
be fun.

Lando wiped his hands on an oily rag as he walked over to greet her. "Good morning. Here, let me take that case."

Wendy smiled bleakly as she looked up at the ship. She pointed at the port wing where it slumped towards the ground. "How long will the repairs take?"

Lando looked at where she was pointing. "Repairs? Oh, that. Don't worry about it. A little hydraulic problem, that's all. We'll lift on schedule."

Wendy looked doubtful but forced a smile. "If you say so."

"I certainly do," Lando replied confidently, as he took Wendy's med kit and led her towards the lock.
"The Tink's
a good old bird. You'll love her."

Lando continued his cheerful babble until they were inside the ship. Wendy stopped to look around. She was appalled by the filth and apparent lack of maintenance.