Shooting the Rift - eARC (14 page)

Finding a vacant table to sit at, I slipped the small hard object out of my pocket and looked at it, with my eyes, and through my datasphere: a small, single-use memory cache, pulsing with pent-up information.

There was only one way it could have got there: clearly there had been more to my encounter with the would-be pickpocket than had at first met the eye. But whether he’d left the cache there on purpose, or dropped it by accident when I interrupted him, I had no idea. If it was the former, then why? Chances were it had something to do with my clandestine commission from Aunt Jenny: she’d told me that her local asset would get in touch with me, and perhaps this was his way of doing it. On the other hand, furboy might be an enemy, not an ally, and the tempting payload glittering in the corner of my ‘sphere a malign piece of sucker bait, intended to do anything from strip-mining whatever it could from my own ‘ware, to pureeing my frontal lobes.

I probed the packet cautiously, but none of the antibodies I’d stacked around it activated, so, somewhat reassured, I slit it open.

Good morning, Simon
. My aunt’s virtual image hovered on the fringes of my ‘sphere, fragmenting and spluttering in the manner of most riftcom transmissions.
If it really is morning when you get this. I’ve asked Peter to record it and pass it on to you, but he has his own way of going about things.
At the mention of the name I received a brief image of my furry friend from the street, along with a datablurt, listing his surname (Mallow), where he could be contacted (Farland Freight Forwarding, a brokerage which, to my quiet satisfaction, had been close to the top of my self-generated list of possible fronts for her covert communications post), and rather more than I felt I needed to know about his genetweaks, sexual preferences, and taste in fast food. Which just went to show how green I was—only later did I realize that, if I read between the lines, I’d been given all the information required to track him down in a hurry if I needed to.

He
’s
the contact I told you about
, Aunt Jenny went on.
If you find anything of interest, channel it back through him.
There was a short pause while I waited for the message to end, then her businesslike demeanor fell away, revealing the woman I’d always thought I knew.
I hope playing spies is as much fun as you thought it would be.

Its job done, the cache discharged the remaining power in its battery through the circuits in a single electromagnetic pulse, frying its synapses, and making any attempt to reconstruct the message it had carried completely futile.

“What have you got there?” Clio asked, joining me at the table, and placing the tankards between us.

“Piece of junk,” I told her truthfully. “Just found it.” I dropped it on the tabletop, among the litter of snack wrappers and discarded glasses left by its previous occupants. Like the counter, the furniture was made of lightweight plastic failing to masquerade as wood, which seemed somehow appropriate for my new life. I wasn’t quite sure who or what I was any more, or even what I was doing here; I’d followed the couple from the
Eddie Fitz
more or less on impulse, but now I came to think about it, I couldn’t see any good reason to have done so. They were drinking, and holding hands, and acting pretty much like everyone else in the place, even Clio and me (apart from the hand-holding). All right, their ship was a little unusual, but it was hardly the first fleet auxiliary to end up in private hands, and they definitely didn’t look as though they were planning to invade Rockhall. In fact, if the kiss they were sharing was anything to go by, right about now they probably wouldn’t notice if someone invaded Numarkut.

“Congratulations.” Clio raised her mug in an exaggerated toast. “You’re now an honorary Guilder. Long may you remain one of us.”

“Amen.” I clinked my mug against hers, and took an appreciative swallow. Then the exact meaning of her words made its way through the fog of confusion still clouding my synapses. “Honorary? How does that work?”

“You’re a full member when you finish your apprenticeship,” Clio said, as though explaining to a kindergartner that the sky was blue. “Unless you’re Guild born, like me. But you’re a dirtwalker. You have to earn it.”

“Fair enough,” I said, savoring another mouthful of the ale. It seemed we had at least one taste in common. “So that means . . .”

Clio shrugged. “It’s academic, really. You’re a Guilder for as long as you stick to the rules, but if you screw up badly enough before you finish the apprenticeship, John can turf you out again. Or one of the Guild Masters can.”

Great. Given my track record so far, it seemed my days as a Guilder were numbered.

Clio spluttered into her drink. “Don’t look like that. It hardly ever happens.”

“Glad to hear it.” I tried to push the thought to the back of my head, but it bounced straight back to the front again. I shrugged, with a fine show of the nonchalance I couldn’t really make myself feel. “I suppose I could always see if the Freebooters were hiring.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I’d put my foot in it again. Clio took a slow, deliberate swallow from her tankard, and placed it carefully on the tabletop.

“Don’t even joke about it.” The tightness of her voice belied the lightness of her words. “Their ships are fatal accidents waiting to happen, and the only Freebooters not in jail are the ones who haven’t been caught yet. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

“Just kidding,” I said carefully, feeling as though I was cutting the red wire in a thriller virt. “Anyhow, it’s not going to happen.” Not if I could help it, anyway. I’d already had more than my share of second chances, and I wasn’t about to squander this one, however my errand for Aunt Jenny turned out. I drained my tankard. “Same again?”

“Why not?” Clio seemed happy to accept a liquid olive branch, so I made my way back to the bar, pulling the leather bag of coins out of my pocket.

The barman smiled at me, the easy professional grin of a man to whom all the faces on the other side of the counter look the same after a while, and made momentary eye contact: just long enough to let me know that he’d registered my presence, and would deal with me as soon as he could. “Be right with you.” Then he returned his attention to the customer he was serving.

It was the blond crewman from the
Eddie Fitz
.

“Hi.” The word slipped out before I even realized I was speaking. The man turned and looked at me, with an expression of polite curiosity, probably wondering where I knew him from, or if was about to try and borrow money. “We’re docked a couple of cradles away from you. Saw your ship on the way in.”

“Did you?” The words were politely neutral, but the intonation said “Piss off.” I nodded, pretending to miss the subtext, and deployed the ingenuous expression I’d used at soirees on Avalon to let dull women think they were cleverer than me.

“Unusual design,” I said.

“I wouldn’t know. I just load the cargo.” Then a belated concession to my apparent guilelessness, and a blatant lie, neatly rolled into one. “Nice to have met you.”

“You too.” I watched him return to his girlfriend, and say something I didn’t catch; whatever it was, it made her glance in my direction, and laugh. I began to wonder if gathering intelligence was really my forte.

“What’ll it be?” the barman asked, and I dumped the empty mugs on the counter top.

“Two more of these.”

“Coming right up.” The first mug began to fill. “Been down long?”

“Couple of hours,” I said, wondering why he was bothering to repeat the conversation he’d just had with Clio only a few minutes ago, practically verbatim. Perhaps he never listened to the replies. “Just got into town.”

“Hope you’re having a good time.” He placed the second drink on the counter, next to the first. “Anything else?”

Snack to go with it?
I sent.

Clio glanced up, and nodded.
Nuts. Roasted.

“Roasted nuts,” I said, craning my neck to get a look at the rest of the selection. “And a packet of beet chips.”

“Don’t sell many of those,” the barman said, dropping the selection next to the drinks. “Not all that popular.” There seemed to be faint edge of hostility in his voice now, held carefully in check, and for the first time I remembered Plubek’s warning about the locals picking sides. “Except with Commonwealthers.”

“That’ll be because it’s a popular snack there,” I said neutrally, locking eyes with him. “How much?”

“Four talents eighty-five.” He broke eye contact first, and busied himself with the till.

I pulled out a handful of change, and sorted through it, a couple of coins dropping to the counter, where they rolled and fell sideways in a pool of something sticky. One was a piece of local currency, a five talent piece, the other a Commonwealth guinea, which the barman picked up between finger and thumb, and regarded as if he’d just found a mouse dropping on the counter. I nodded to the five talent piece, and held my hand out for the guinea. “There’s five. Keep the change.”

“Keep the lot.” He picked up the local coin too, and dropped them both into my outstretched palm. “We don’t serve your kind in here.”

“My kind?” I messaged Clio.
I think we’re leaving.

Why?
Then she looked across at us, reading the hostile body language.

“You’re Commonwealth. I can smell it on you.”

“We’ve just arrived from Avalon,” I said levelly. “Guild ships get around.” I pointed, in a slightly exaggerated manner at the Guild patch on my jacket.

“You expect me to believe that? It’s just been sewn on.”

“Trouble, Dev?” A couple of burly men in Toniden Line livery materialized at my elbow, addressing the barman in friendly tones, which hinted heavily that they were hoping for an affirmative answer.

“Commonwealther stinking the place up.” The barman’s scowl intensified, as something else belatedly occurred to him. “And he was asking Jaq questions. About his ship.”

“Was he?” The burlier of the two digested this, and turned to me, in what he probably imagined was an intimidating manner. “Now why would you do that?”

“We’re in an adjacent berth. Just being neighborly.” I shifted my weight as unobtrusively as possible, redistributing it, ready for a rapid sidestep. This clown would be the first to swing, while the other tried to get behind me and grab my arms. With the counter impeding them, they could only move one way—if I was quick enough I’d get out from between them, and away while they were still entangled. If I wasn’t, on the other hand . . .

“Problem?” Clio asked, in tones of polite enquiry. Preoccupied, I hadn’t noticed her approach, or taken much notice of the flicker of message traffic in her datasphere.

“Apparently my money isn’t good enough,” I said, relieved to have her support, but concerned for her safety. None of the other Guilders in the place seemed inclined to get involved, which didn’t surprise me, as there wasn’t anything immediately apparent in it for them, and the Leaguers outnumbered them by at least two to one.

“Guilders’ money’s good everywhere,” Clio said, in a brittle tone.

“If he really is one.” The barman wasn’t about to let it go. “He talks like a Commonwealther.”

“I just told you he’s a Guilder. Where he was from before that doesn’t count.”

“So you say.” The tone was still skeptical. Clio’s jaw clenched, and her face flushed; I wasn’t entirely sure, but I thought I heard a collective, sharp inhalation from the other Guilders scattered around the bar.

Before Clio could formulate a reply, the tavern door shivered on its hinges, admitting a blast of cool, damp air. Rolf ducked through, followed by his wife, who nodded an affable greeting to the room in general as she straightened up.

“Sorry we’re late.” The two of them strolled to the bar, affecting not to notice the little drama going on there, although I had no doubt that Clio had already let them know precisely what was happening. Lena smiled down at Clio and I. “The sidewalks were a little crowded.”

“Did we miss much?” Rolf added. The two men flanking me were suddenly a great deal further away.

“Just the first round,” I said. “And a debate about snacks.”

“And this piece of sewage calling me a liar,” Clio added, with a venomous glare at the barman. Rolf and Lena narrowed their eyes, and loomed forward.

“I never said that.” The words began to tumble over one another. “Wouldn’t doubt a Guilder’s word, no one would. Just a small misunderstanding.”

“Which I’m sure you’re eager to make amends for,” Rolf prompted.

“Absolutely.” The fellow wilted even more, if that were possible. He turned to Clio. “Profound apologies, milady.”

It was probably the honorific that did it—the frown left her face, and she nodded judiciously, biting her lower lip to suppress a smile. “No harm done.”

“Your drinks.” The barman pushed them across the counter. “And something for your friends. No charge.”

“That’s very decent of you,” I said, exaggerating my Commonwealth accent just enough to rub it in. I raised my voice, so it carried to the corners of the room. “Guilders drink free tonight.”

“I didn’t mean—” The barman looked horrified, no doubt calculating the financial loss he was about to incur.

“I know,” I said quietly, with a meaningful nod at Rolf and Lena. “But you’re not about to make a Guilder break his word in front of his friends, are you? That never ends well.”

“Of course not.” Idiot as he was, he wasn’t that much of one.

Clio took my arm. With her free hand she indicated our shipmates, the rest of the Guilders closing on the bar counter, and a handful of others hurrying onto the premises as the word spread. “Looks like you got your party after all,” she said.

“Looks like I did,” I agreed, although neither of us seemed all that happy about it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

In which I receive some unsolicited advice.

I can’t honestly remember much about the rest of that evening, although I’m pretty sure the bar was still crowded with Guilders when Clio and I staggered out of a cab onto the
Stacked Deck
’s cradle platform a couple of hours before dawn. Needless to say I’d not been tempted to start playing with this one’s guidance system—with my reaction time seriously impeded, the automated systems had been welcome to do all the hard work. I’d half expected Rennau to still be lurking in the hatchway, but there was no sign of him—which probably meant he was asleep. At least I hoped so, after keeping his daughter out most of the night.

“That’s what I call a welcoming drink.” Clio stumbled against the cab’s door sill as she disembarked, and I grabbed her by reflex, fearful of the vertiginous plunge into the darkness only a few feet away. Certain it was now unoccupied, the sled rose, turned, and dropped away into the depths, to become a blinking mote among the innumerable other metallic fireflies streaming around the cradles.

“Careful.” I half steered, half carried her a few paces back from the abyss, our progress illuminated by the floodlights spaced around the platform. Drones were still buzzing around the
Eddie Fitz
, a few hundred yards away, disgorging crate after crate into her holds, and I found myself wondering idly what they contained before dismissing the thought. No point in becoming fixated with the wretched barge.

“Um, you can put me down now. If you like.” I suddenly became aware that Clio was still pressed to my chest, and loosened my hold. Even so, she seemed to take a few seconds to peel away.

“I’m sorry. I just thought you might . . .”

“Fall. Yes.” She looked at me appraisingly. “And we wouldn’t want that. Would we?”

“God no.” I pictured the ground so far below. “That would be . . .”

“Messy.”

“Very.”

“Night, then.” Clio waved a slightly unsteady hand in farewell, and made her way to the open hatch in a moderately straight line.

“Quite an evening you two seem to have had.” Remington strolled out of the shadows, his hands in his pockets. I started, feeling unaccountably guilty, as though I’d been caught sneaking home after visiting a girl Mother thought was “unsuitable.” (Not something that had happened very often, and I’d usually been able to lie my way out of it, citing a training session: which hadn’t been so far from the truth, come to think of it, since vigorous physical exercise had almost certainly featured somewhere among the evening’s diversions.)

“You heard about that,” I said, trying to gauge just how much trouble I was in, if any. I certainly didn’t recall any mention of a curfew, although I suppose in the excitement of setting off for my first bout of shore leave, I might have missed something.

“Me, and every other Guilder in the hemisphere. Word gets around fast when there are free drinks involved.” He leaned against a nearby stanchion. “Besides, Rolf and Lena got back a short while ago. I got the details from them.”

“Oh,” I said. “But there weren’t any, really. Details, I mean.”

“Sounds like you handled it well,” Remington said, to my complete surprise. “It’ll be a long time before any dirtwalker dregs talk back to a Guilder round here. Hitting a Numarkuteer in the pocket’s the best way to get his attention, believe me.”

“He deserved it,” I said, letting a little of my suppressed anger seep out. “Mouthing off to Clio like that.”

“Clio, was it?” Remington said, with a wry half smile. “Way I heard it, he was having a go at you.”

“I can take care of myself,” I said.

"So can she." The skipper pulled a hip flask from his pocket, and took a swallow. "And if she does, you'd better make sure you're on the same side." He proffered the flask. "Nightcap? Helps keep the cold out.

I shrugged, and took it. Why not? I thought. I’d already drunk so much another mouthful or two wouldn’t make a lot of difference. “Thanks.” I took a tentative swallow, and found it full of a mellow local spirit I hadn’t quite caught the name of earlier in the evening. Lena had tried to tell me, but by that point the bar had become so crowded that it had been almost impossible to make out anything being said to me, even without the alcohol in my system adding its own contribution to the fog.

“Better get some sleep,” Remington advised, retrieving the flask. “It’s going to be a busy morning.”

“Is it?” I followed him inside the ship, our footsteps echoing as we entered the packed hold, weaving our way in between the towering crates towards the central stairwell. “Are we starting to unload the cargo?”

“Most of us.” Remington turned, apparently trying to gauge my reaction. “But I’m off to meet one of the local brokers, and find a new one. You’re coming too.”

“Am I?” I was too surprised to say any more.

Remington nodded. “In the light of this evening’s escapade, it’s probably best I keep an eye on you, at least until you look more like an old hand. Besides, it’ll be useful experience.”

“Right,” I said. “Thanks.”

The skipper grinned. “Thank me in the morning, when the hangover cuts in.” He sent a clock reading to my ‘sphere, the local time adjusted to the one we kept aboard ship. “You’ve got about five hours to sleep it off.”