Korval's Game (86 page)

“Where we’re gonna get in trouble—soon—is cash,” Cheever was saying. “Labor’s cheap enough, but materials is high—and a lot of the equipment’s just gotta be made, ground up.” Another bite, another swallow.

“Where we’re gonna get in trouble later—assuming we can get the rest of the job funded and online—is pilots, supplies and derelicts.”

“The derelicts,” Pat Rin murmured, “are, as we discussed, possible.”

“Yah, OK, you got a line on the spaceship graveyard,” Cheever said, grudgingly. “If it ain’t watched. If it’s still there. If the codes’re still good. If, if if.”

“There is a risk, but not, I think, a major one.”

“So you said. All right, we assume you can deliver the ships,” he grinned, wolfish. “Next problem’s pilots.”

“We are at work on that problem,” Pat Rin told him. “Only today have we received from the hand of Surebleak Portmaster the book listing all public piloting and trade frequencies. Our plan is to advertise Surebleak’s charms, and thus beguile pilots to us.”

“Yeah?” Cheever said interestedly. “That’s an assist. But, then you’re gonna need a hiring hall on the port.”

Pat Rin inclined his head. “I thank you—I had not thought of that.”

“Would’ve, though. Think too damn’ much, if you want my opinion—which you don’t.” He finished his sandwich and leaned back, nursing what was left of his beer.

“Keep in mind you’ll have to pay risk money, for anybody bringing in a ship from the graveyard.”

“Well.” Pat Rin finished his cider, set the mug down, and sat gazing into its empty depths.

“Well,” he said again. “It appears we are at a stand, Mr. McFarland. In addition to the necessity of . . . Korval’s yard, there is upstairs a notice from the HealthNet, informing me of the current membership rates and citing a substantial sum due in penalties, as Surebleak’s previous departure from the ’Net was in violation of several conditions of contract.”

“The other bosses are s’posed to give us a percentage,” Cheever commented after a few moments had passed in silence.

Pat Rin looked up. “So they are. And the funds thus far received have immediately gone into increasing the numbers of clinics and schools, and training for the medical personnel.”

“So called.” Cheever sighed gustily before quaffing the dregs of his beer.

“We’re gonna need cash, or the gold-plated promise of cash within the next—fifteen, twenty days, or it’s gonna get ugly. An’ if we lose ’em because we ain’t paid ’em, they’ll never come back, if we was paying hard cantra. Better to shut down now, while we can settle everybody and tell ’em we’ll do a recall in a month or so.”

Pat Rin frowned. Of course, one did not solicit labor and then fail to pay. But it was hard, very hard, to contemplate halting the project so recently and so well begun . . .

“Let us delay decision until tomorrow,” he said to Cheever. “Will you be with us, or must you return at once?”

“Figured on going back tomorrow afternoon. Wanted to check in with you. Should oughta talk to Natesa and Gwince; maybe do an inspect of house security, just to throw the fear of cold space into ’em and make sure they stay honest.”

“Ah.” He smiled. “Your vigilance is appreciated.”

“Sure it is.” Cheever thumped the empty mug to the table and stood. “I’m for a nap. You look like you could use the same, if you don’t mind my saying so. Or even if you do.”

“Yes.” Weariness suddenly weighed upon him, waking the ghost of an ache in the arm that had been wounded. He rose, and put his mug in the sink to be washed. “Good-night, Mr. McFarland. We will talk tomorrow.”

“We sure will. ’Night, sir.”

Pat Rin climbed the stairs, and slipped as silently as he was able into the bedroom.

“Good morning, denubia,” her voice was soft, barely blurred with sleep.

“There, I had not meant to wake you,” he murmured. “I shall need to learn to walk like a scout.”

“Only like Silk—who has appropriated your pillow.”

He smiled in the dark, and undressed quickly, slipping into the bed beside her. Silk put up a brief defense of the pillow—for honor’s sake—before stomping down to the foot of the bed.

“Victory is yours,” she whispered, and moved near, entwining him in warm silken limbs, and nestling her head on his shoulder.

“Only until the morrow,” he said, feeling muzzier by the moment; the ill news of the evening fading into a warm glow of contentment.

Sighing gently, he lay his cheek against her hair and slid, seamlessly, into sleep.

DAY 32
Standard Year 1393
Blair Road
Surebleak

NATESA
lay the HealthNet report on the desk and picked up her teacup.

“Three cantra in penalties. Three cantra earnest money, based on previous violations. Two cantra to rejoin.” She sipped and shook her head. “The penalties are two cantra too high, and we can certainly force the earnest money down by a cantra. Yet, in our current state of budget, five cantra is as difficult as eight.”

“Add Mr. McFarland’s little matter,” Pat Rin murmured, from his perch on the corner of the desk, “and we discover ourselves run entirely off our legs, with no hope of a quick recover.” He moved his shoulders, irritated.

“And all the while, there are more than enough cantra to do the work, if I could but dare access them!”

Natesa stared at him, teacup arrested. “Is that so?”

Pat Rin met her eyes, frowning at her astonishment. “Is what so? That there are cantra sufficient to the task—and more—held on my accounts? Did you think you had joined with a pauper, lady?”

“It was not a consideration,” she said composedly. “But, Pat Rin, this other—why do you not dare access your funds?”

He bit back a sharp retort. It was rare enough, after all, to find Natesa at half wit.

“You will see that I am not clever,” he said mildly. “When I was about arranging the details of my former life, it never occurred to me that, some day in my future, I might very much wish for hidden funds. All of my accounts are woefully in sight, and the Department of the Interior will be watching every one. They will trace any transfer immediately, and follow it to us.”

She sipped her tea, then put the cup down on the desk.

“Here is where the Juntavas is uniquely placed to serve you,” she said. “Merely hire a courier.”

“Yes, certainly!” he cried, descending into sarcasm. “Tell someone else where we are, so that they may sell the information to the Department!”

“Not so,” she contradicted. “If we broke our contracts, who would deal with us?”

He sighed. “In fact, breaking contracts is bad for business.”

“Precisely.” She frowned, staring off into the middle air. Pat Rin reached for his cup and sipped, awaiting the outcome of her thought.

“It will be,” she said eventually, “expensive. More so, for I cannot waive my fee in the matter. You will, however, retain between seventy and seventy-five percent of the total deliverable funds.”

“The Juntavas takes one-quarter?” He raised a hand, signifying peace. “I make no quibble, if we have guarantee of anonymity.”

“The fees cover several things—anonymity of the client is one. Discretion, timely delivery, real costs. My fee—is insurance. The Juntavas guarantees delivery, from our own accounts. Once the money is identified, and the transfer made to our various accounts, why, we do nothing but deliver the funds from our own nearest bank. No need to have couriers bounding to and fro like grasshoppers. If our courier is robbed of your funds, still we will deliver to you the agreed amount upon the specified date. So, you see why my fee must be taken.”

“I do.” He took his own turn at thought, weighing danger against necessity.

“Guaranteed anonymity,” he said again. “The Department of the Interior, if we are to believe its agents—and I have predicated the subjugation of an entire world upon that belief—is no dismissible opponent.”

“Allow us to know our business,” Natesa murmured, retrieving her teacup. She sipped, black eyes considering him over the rim.

“There is no guaranteed safety,” she said eventually. “However—if you will accept my advice—I think this course offers us more safety than any other; and gains us access to needed funding.”

“My funds are in cantra,” he said. “No more than twelve per cent of the delivery should be in cantra—the rest must be in Terran bits or regional currencies.”

She shrugged. “A detail only. For such affairs, where the client pays a percentage, we calculate the conversion using the daily exchange tables published by the Bank of Solcintra.” She inclined her head, ironic. “Unless the client requires another source be used.”

“The Bank of Solcintra conversions are adequate, I thank you.”

“Ah. You should also know that the flex in the fee structure has to do with the degree of difficulty in accessing the funds.”

“I can provide pass-codes and ID numbers,” he said.

“Good. Assume the deliverable will be closer to seventy-five percent; though there may be a hazard surcharge.” A subtle smile. “Thus, the Department of the Interior is accorded the respect that it deserves.”

“That is well.” He finished his tea while considering other details. “So. I will take delivery at the Port . . .”

“I beg to disagree. Mr. McFarland will take delivery at the Port, with Gwince and myself as his back-up. You, my love, will remain well-guarded in your house, or perhaps you will visit Melina Sherton.”

“Surely you and Mr. McFarland are of more value—” he began and stopped when she held up her hand.

“There will be no contract,” she said, with an austerity one rarely had from Natesa, “unless this is done as I say.”

He looked at her. “What shall I do if you are slain?”

“Avenge me.” She lowered her hand. “Will it be as I have said?”

He slid to his feet. “Since the plan now involves Mr. McFarland risking his life, we will ask for his assessment. If he agrees, then we go forward.”

Natesa smiled. “That is acceptable.”

DAY 38
Standard Year 1393
Liad Department of Interior
Command Headquarters

THE RADIO MUTTERED
in the background, whispering of ships, of trade goods, and of scheduling changes. Commander of Agents paid it no heed; his attention squarely on the file before him.

The campaign against the Juntavas, which had unwisely involved itself in Departmental business, was well under way. Given the opportunity to choose his battle, the Commander would not have attempted the Juntavas. Not yet. Alas, the Juntavas itself had forced the matter by interfering with the Department’s attempt to attach Pat Rin yos’Phelium.

That Pat Rin yos’Phelium had grasped the opportunity created by confusion to slip through the Department’s net—that he remained unrecovered to this day—was both unfortunate and unexpected.

The search continued, of course. Pat Rin yos’Phelium—a creature of self-indulgence, a slave to play and pleasure—was certain to err, soon or late. And when he did, the Department would move.

In the meanwhile, the Juntavas was being dealt—

“ . . . Surebleak Port!” The radio chirped.

Commander of Agents froze, and turned to stare at the tiny device. “Our duty free shop boasts a variety of local fresh fruit ciders and jams; made-by-hand rugs; pigup sticks made from local woods, and much more! And while you’re on port, don’t forget to visit the Emerald Casino. It’s all here at pilot-friendly Surebleak Port!”

Surebleak, the supposed homeworld of Tiazan’s so-called Miri Robertson.
Pilot-friendly
Surebleak Port.

Commander of Agents allowed himself a smile.

DAY 53
Standard Year 1393
Dutiful Passage
Lytaxin Orbit

RUNNING,
he cut the corner into the main hall close, skidded and threw himself into a somersault in order to avoid the collision.

He landed on his feet by the opposite wall, and only then saw who he had very nearly run down.

“Captain.” He bowed deeply, feeling his face heat.

“Alas, no longer,” Shan yos’Galan said calmly. “But don’t, I beg you, be cast into despondency on my account! The truth is that I am perfectly well-satisfied to retire to the rank of master trader and laze through every shift while Priscilla and yourself accomplish the hard work between you.”

This was a pleasantry, as Ren Zel well knew, and felt relief, that the cap—that Master Trader yos’Galan’s experience of war had not altered him out of recognition.

“But tell me, do! Wherever were you rushing off to at such a pace?”

He bit his lip. “I am late to my shift on the bridge.”

“A grievous thing, I agree.” The silver eyes considered him, and there was something—someone . . .

“I wonder,” Shan said, interrupting his line of thought, “not that it’s any business of mine, of course! But, still, I do wonder what has happened to your jacket?”

“My—” He looked down at his arm, blinking. Why in the names of the gods had he been sleeping in his jacket? “I—” he began again and tentatively, unbelievingly, ran his hand down the unmarred leather sleeve. Memory stirred and he saw her again in the starlight, taking his jacket—
All honor to it
—and shaking it, shaking it
out
. . .

He looked up and met Shan yos’Galan’s silver eyes and it came to him all at once where he had seen the like.

Ren Zel took a deep breath. “I had—a dream,” he said, knowing that it explained nothing.

“I would say that you had quite a marvelous dream,” Shan said, straightening from his lean against the wall. He beckoned, the master trader’s ring blazing purple fires.

“Come along, child. We’d best sort this out.”

***

“WILL YOU HAVE
wine, friend?” Shan yos’Galan asked, some few moments later in the captain’s private office.

Ren Zel hesitated, thinking of wine on an empty stomach after an evening, or so his memory insisted, rich in exercise.

“I think,” he said carefully, “that I would rather—tea.”

“And something with which to break your fast,” Shan said, leaning to the comm unit. Priscilla was standing near the sofa, Ren Zel’s mysteriously healed jacket held in her two hands, her eyes intent and her face peculiarly unfocussed.

“Thank you, BillyJo,” Shan said into the comm. “It’s good to hear your voice again, too.”