Trading in Danger (7 page)

In the dark of her cabin one sleep-shift, she stared at the steady telltales: green, amber, orange, red, blue. If only they would blink, or change their pattern, anything to distract her. But they glowed on, tiny colored eyes in the dark, staring at her… she reached out and switched on the bedside lamp.

She was not going to take another soporific. She was not going to worry her crew. She looked around her cabin for something to do and saw MacRobert’s present. She hadn’t opened the box yet. Model-building had never been her passion, but it was something to fill the hours between—she looked at the chronometer and shuddered—now and breakfast.

Inside the box she found the expected jumble of pieces, and a much-folded paper with directions in four languages. She unfolded it, and found that someone had underlined some of the words in Balsish—yellow—and Visnuan—green. She turned it over. A few underlinings in Franco—orange—and fewer yet in Angla—red. What—oh. MacRobert’s storied past in covert ops. It must be some kind of puzzle, a test of her ability or something. She wasn’t in the mood for any such test, or any secret pact with the Service. She ignored the underlined words and took out something that looked as if it should be the keel plate spine, and checked its stamped number against the list on the paper. It was the keel plate spine. She laid it aside, and stirred the pieces with her finger, trying to spot the six portal struts that should—on this model—fit into the keel plate spine. She found five, but the sixth eluded her until she noticed the off-color piece she’d assumed was an exterior member because it was cream-colored, not gray.

By breakfast, she had the keel plate spine and the portal struts assembled. The directions didn’t explain why one portal strut was cream-colored, so she shrugged and put it in the number one slot. Possibly parts from different but similar sets had been mixed at the factory. Unless it was another part of Mac’s test—but she wasn’t in school now, and she didn’t have to take any stupid test. After breakfast, she borrowed a magnifier and pair of needle-nose pincers from Quincy Robin’s engineering shop and spent an hour peeling tiny warning labels off a strip and laying them carefully—right side up for the position of that part when the model was fully assembled—on the pieces that would, in real life, have such warning signs. Even with the magnifier, the Space Service logo was too small to read. By lunch she had all the labels on. She made a quick tour of the ship and went back to work assembling the interior structural members.

She slept that night without medication or early waking. When the lights came on for mainshift, she stared at the model taking shape on her desk and decided to ration herself to one hour a day. She wanted it to last. She toyed with the idea of buying other models, keeping one always in reserve.

Ten days later, when
Glennys
wallowed uneasily into endim translation, Ky watched the strain gauges and wondered how the ship had passed its last inspection. She didn’t miss the tension inQuincy’s expression. Shipping out as a junior on one of the newer transports, she’d never had to worry about the ship’s fabric coming apart, but now… Maybe it was her chance at glory, and maybe it was her chance to die. Her crew seemed mostly calm about the noises and the vibration, though Lee had turned the color of bad cheese. Ky hoped she didn’t match him.

Once through translation,Quincyshrugged and shook her head. “I didn’t expect that much wobble,” she said. “Still, it ought to be good for the number of translations we have scheduled, plus a few more.”

Glennys
settled back to being an old but not unsound ship. The telltales that should be green were all green; the ambers were amber; the few reds—indicating emergency systems on live standby—were red.

Over the next few days she checked in with her crew every few hours, but spent the rest of the time running cost/benefit analyses. She wouldn’t actually do it, she told herself. She couldn’t do it. It was impossible in every way. But… it couldn’t possibly hurt to figure out what it would take, just as an exercise. Better than imagining herself in an office in Port, entertaining her classmates in uniform. Better than finishing the model too soon and having nothing to do with her hands.

Pharmaceutical components to Belinta, 31 percent of estimated cargo value. Time-limited, with a penalty for late delivery or nondelivery, and a bonus for—a time so short that
Glennys
couldn’t have done it in her youth. No bonus, then. Price prearranged, profit guaranteed and nonnegotiable. That wouldn’t do it, though it put them well on the way to the tickets home from Lastway. What then? The bales of fabric scraps—old clothes, actually—for Leonora? The raw zeer nuts, the crates of modular components for Lastway? Her own crate of luxury goods, the hand-blown crystal bowls and vases, the bolts of silk brocade?

The numbers didn’t add up. If they were very, very lucky, they might—possibly—make enough to equal what the ship would bring for scrap. They could not possibly make enough to equal that plus the cost of renovations to meet inspection standards.

Ky called up the inspection standards for the third time. Nobody cared if their holds were inconvenient, though some trade stations would charge a premium for space to ships that could not use automated freight handling systems. But the environmental system, drives, navigation and communications systems… those had to pass. While there were sections of space in which no one bothered with inspections—or rescuing those whose ships weren’t sound—she didn’t want to go there.

She doodled on a spare pad. What would it take, really? What was she willing to give up? Or—since she was now in the business of trade and profit—what was she willing to trade?

Customs at Belinta, their first port of call, should not have been a problem. Ky shifted from one foot to the other, and struggled not to point out that every single item on the delivery manifest—raw materials for pharmaceuticals—had been preordered. The Customs Inspector was an unmodified human, but she had seen a Mobie and a pair of Indas on the way to this office, and she wanted to see what other humods were in the system. Finally the Customs Inspector looked up from the readout and glared at her as if she had sprouted horns.

“The thing is, we see more than enough of you Slotter Key hotshots,” he said. “Always trying to convince us our tariffs aren’t reasonable—I’ll bet you wouldn’t like it if we did that.”

Ky refrained from pointing out that Belinta couldn’t reciprocate whatever injury they felt they suffered; they didn’t have the bottoms to haul their own freight anywhere outsystem. Vatta Transport didn’t need more enemies.

“We have only approved cargo,” she said, in what she hoped was a voice sufficiently pleasant to avoid offense. “Aside from what’s in personal stowage, which is all locked down.”

The Customs Inspector looked at the list again. “Preordered pharmaceutical precursors—that gives us value-added—and tik extract. All right. What about agricultural machinery?”

“Not on manifest,” Ky said promptly, wondering what they had against agricultural machinery. “Is that—do people try to smuggle in ag machinery?”

“No, no. We’re looking for it. It was supposed to arrive last year; we hoped you’d have it, since you’re from Slotter Key.”

“A Vatta ship?” Ky asked. Surely someone would have told her if a Vatta ship had gone missing on this run.

“No. Pavrati. They’re the blue-and-white ones, right?”

Pavrati did indeed have blue-and-white colors. They were based on Serinada, not Slotter Key, though they registered their ships in Slotter Key; they dominated the coreward trade. Vatta held an equal share in the outer ranges. “The ship didn’t arrive?” Ky asked.

“A Pavrati ship came, but no machinery. They said it had all been diverted.”

Sold off, more like. Pavrati Interstellar Shipping was the example held up to young Vatta trainees of how not to operate a shipping line. Rumor had it they survived by running contraband.

“We tried to contact the company—Pavrati headquarters and the shipping agent for the manufacturer—but we haven’t heard anything. And we’ve asked every ship that’s come by.” The man said, “We’ve heard nothing.” Belinta was a good hundred years behind Slotter Key in development; a missing shipment like this could cause them real trouble.

“I’m sorry,” Ky said. “But I don’t know anything about it. If it’s a Pavrati contract, I doubt the manufacturer would send a replacement by Vatta.”

“We told them next available,” the man said. “We really need it.” He looked at Ky as if she could create agricultural machinery out of thin air right in front of him.

“Who are you calling on this?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. I just know we’re looking for it—but the Economic Development Bureau can tell you more. If there’s any way, any way at all that we can get something—we’ve lost a year’s production already—”

She opened her mouth to deliver a standard apology—it was not her concern, she had a route to run, a mission to accomplish—but the words wouldn’t come. Possibility tickled her ambition. What if this turned into a lucrative contract, lucrative enough to repair the ship? She told herself it was impossible, but she asked the question anyway. “Does the Economic Development Bureau have an office onstation?”

“Oh, no, Captain. You’d have to go planetside. You’d have to have an appointment. You do have a consul here, of course.”

Of course. She had orders to visit the Slotter Key legation on every planet, to be polite and charming and give nothing away while gathering any useful information to be passed back to the family. A very boring duty, she’d thought, but an excuse to wear the scarlet-lined formal cape which she liked in spite of herself.

“But you’ll try?” the man said.

“I don’t know,” Ky said. “I’ll have to consider what it does to the rest of my schedule. I’ll think about it.” She was already thinking about it. She was already imagining a fat contract that would give Vatta Transport, Ltd., leverage in this system and herself a ship in which she had owner’s shares. A contract whose negotiation would excuse her spending a few more days downside, exploring her first alien world.

Before she left the station, Ky made her reservation at the Captains’ Guild—“an acceptable expense chargeable to the company.” She also placed a call to the escort service Vatta Transport used—“a captain never prowls about alone; if no senior crew accompanies, a captain will hire an escort from the usual service [list appended.]” Belinta was supposed to be a safe port, but this was her first voyage; she would take no chances. Executive Escort promised to have a suitable individual on call when she arrived. She chose to meet the escort at the Captains’ Guild.

On the down shuttle, she leafed through travel brochures she would never use, such as “Beautiful Belinta, Belle of the Hub Worlds.” Nobody but the residents would call this sector the Hub Worlds, unless they thought the rest of the wheel had fallen off. Belinta advertised “unparalleled cultural opportunities,” “scenic sights,” and “marvelous experiences for the value-conscious traveler.”

The “cultural opportunities” looked like a group of people in costume singing something; and the “scenic sights” looked like a cliff over an ocean. Ky wondered what kind of brochures Slotter Key handed out to tourists. She wondered if Slotter Key had any tourists.

She turned over some of the others. “Salzon’s Singing Sands,” far across the planet, looked like piles of gray dirt, but the “Singing Sands Luxury Resort” promised “unparalleled self-indulgence amid the shimmering dunes.”

“See the Sights of Mystic Valross Valley” showed a mountain valley, with a large red arrow pointing to the Mystic Valley Luxury Resort perched on a cliff on one side.MysticValley’s hostelry promised the same unparalleled self-indulgence as well as horseback tours toSpiritFalls. More interesting—at least in the brochures—was the “Sea Isle Reef Extravaganza Tour” with stays in the Sea Isle Luxury Resort promising the now-familiar unparalleled self-indulgence.

The brochures were archaic—plasfilm, with inert illustrations and no linkup codes. Ky put them aside for the next passenger to enjoy as the shuttle landed. Belinta had only one shuttleport, near its capital. She caught theCityCentertrain, using the coupon from the brochure. No humods on the train, a disappointment; aside from the dull clothing, everyone seemed normal. She came out of the grimy, strange-smelling station across a paved street from the Captains’ Guild, a dark brick building in a row of other dark brick buildings, with the starred flag of the Captains’ Guild waving in a gentle warm breeze over the entrance.

She had been to the Captains’ Guild with her father back on Slotter Key, where he—like all the Vatta senior captains—was personally known to all the service personnel. But this was her first time to enter a guildhouse in her own right. She half expected the doorman to ask for her ID, or suggest that she wait in the Visitors’ Lounge for her father. She resisted the impulse to flick her dress cape back from her sleeves to reveal the rings, and walked toward the door as if she owned it. The doorman at the Captains’ Guild opened the door for her at once, and the on-duty steward met her in the lobby.

“Captain Vatta, a pleasure. Right this way, please.” Of course: their implants would have picked up her ID before she arrived. Her overnight bag disappeared with a bellboy up a flight of stairs; the steward led her to the registration desk. “Just to check that everything’s in order—” It was. Ky looked automatically at the status board.
Princess Cory
, Captain R. Stennis, Ind., NR, LPoC Vauxsin;
Pir K.
, Captain J. Sing, Ind., R, LPoC Local System;
Glennys Jones
, Captain K. Vatta, Vatta Transport, Ltd., R, LPoC Slotter Key. She made herself quit looking at her own name on the status board—”Captain K. Vatta” right out there in public—and tried to extract from the simple list all the information she could. Two independents, one staying in the guildhouse and one not.
Pir K.
was probably an insystem rig; Ky wondered what she carried and to and from whom.

“Your room, Captain—number six, second floor. You require assistance?”

“No, thanks,” Ky said.

“Will you need us to arrange an escort?”

“No, thank you,” Ky said. “I have contacted a service already. I’ll call them again from my room and let them know I’ve arrived.”

“They should have met you at the ’port,” the desk clerk said. “Unless you requested that they not…”

“I said here would be fine,” Ky said. “But thank you.” She ignored the elevator and went up the carpeted stairs to the second floor where a single short cross-hall made it clear that the Captains’ Guild on Belinta didn’t expect much business. Her room overlooked the street and although it contained all the amenities the Captains’ Guild promised its members, it was smaller and plainer than the room her father had shown her back at Slotter Key’s Guild residence. Ky turned on the comconsole and uplinked to her ship, giving them her onplanet contact codes. Then she called Executive Escorts, where the same pleasant voice promised to send someone over immediately. She had just unpacked when the desk called to tell her that the escort had arrived.

Back on Slotter Key, Vatta had its own security personnel, wearing company colors; Ky had never dealt with outworld security firms before. The stocky young man in dark green tunic and brown pants looked nothing like the Vatta employees, but his ID patch fit the information she’d downloaded from the escort service. Conor Fadden, senior operative, certified and licensed to carry those firearms deemed appropriate for private hires on Belinta. He had the little bulge in the left temple that indicated an implanted skullphone, and the larger bulges under his tunic that must be his weaponry.

“Mr. Fadden,” Ky said, as she came into the lobby. He turned from the desk.

“Captain Vatta? You’re not the same Captain Vatta—?”

“No. It’s my first run here.” The
here
slipped out, implying more experience than she had, because of the way he’d looked at her. “Your credentials, please.” The Captains’ Guild staff would have checked already butGaryhad impressed on her the need to check everything herself.

“Of course, ma’am,” he said, handing over a datapak. Ky ran the hand scanner over it—clean—and then offered hers to his hand scanner. He took his ID pak back and straightened. “Where first, Captain?”

“The Slotter Key legation,” Ky said. “If it’s close enough, I’d like to walk.”

“Easy close enough,” he said. “Just across the street and down a ways.” He led the way to the door, and then out onto the street. According to the Captain’s Guide, escort services could provide a range of services, but the only one authorized on the company account at Belinta was “guide, basic protection.”

Ky felt a strange combination of young and important as she walked with her armed escort along the street of a city on a planet she’d never seen before. It smelled different. People dressed in different colors, different styles. Although Belinta was supposed to have “nominal normal” gravity, her feet didn’t seem to hit the ground with the same impact as on Slotter Key. Ky tried not to gape at the sights, keeping her eyes firmly on the Slotter Key flag which her escort had pointed out, a short walk away. When they got to the Slotter Key legation, she nodded to the guards at the gate and handed them her ID pak. They nodded back, ran a scanner over it, and opened the gates for her. Her escort paused; the guards checked his ID, and then allowed him into the gatehouse. Ky walked on up to the door; another uniformed guard opened it for her.

Inside, the legation’s reception area had tiled floors and cream-colored walls hung with tapestries representing the Six Colonies. Ky handed her ID pak to the desk clerk, a cheerful middle-aged woman, who ran it through a reader and returned it. “Need to see the consul, Captain Vatta?”

“Yes,” Ky said. “A matter of trade and profit.”

“It’s always nice to see a Vatta representative here. A tisane, perhaps? I will inform the consul that you wish to see him.”

“Thank you.” Ky sat in the comfortable chair the clerk pointed out, and looked through a window into a covered garden filled with Slotter Key natives. Not, of course, a tik tree. She sipped the tisane the clerk brought her.

“A new Vatta on this run?” The consul appeared quickly. He looked like a northerner and had a North-Coast accent. His ID patch provided a name, Parin Inosyeh, and a brief biography. Ky ignored it; her own wiring would store it for her. “Trade and profit, you say?”

Ky nodded. “A Pavrati shipment. Ag machinery that didn’t arrive on the last Pavrati ship. Customs say they asked for a next shipment priority. I want to bid on it.”

“Does Vatta approve?”

Ky blinked. How could he ask that when the main office was light years away… oh. She was Vatta here. So—did Vatta stand behind this venture or was it personal, a captain’s gambit? She could commit Vatta to a course of action that would not play out until after she returned shipless, the old hulk sold—or she could work this solo, and—if it came out as she hoped—use the profits to refit the ship. If it didn’t, she would be out of luck, but Vatta wouldn’t be harmed.

She had not thought that far. She felt stupid that she had not thought that far.

“I have not decided,” she said, hoping she sounded more capable than she felt. “There are advantages either way, for me, my family, and Slotter Key. More information would help, and that is why I have come here. I would like to know—” Her mind raced swiftly through the decision matrices, noting blank cells she most wanted filled. “I would like to know Pavrati’s trading history here, and where that could be found. The customs employee I spoke to, Inspector-junior Ama Dissi, directed me to the Economic Development Bureau, which he said had tried to find out where the shipment went astray, and obtain a replacement. I need an introduction to that Bureau.”