Vyyda Book 1: The Haver Problem (10 page)

“Noted.  Move on.”

“I heard about miners on Breen-Boffette, and the low-end food they’re stuck with.  It’s so bad…they don’t even joke about it.  They traded me a load of Tresanium ore for our ten-ton parcel.”

“
Our
?” Sklar asked, somewhat incredulous.

             
“Right.  A lot of unauthorized construction projects can’t get the Tresanium they need because anyone selling to them could lose their mining and distribution licenses.”

“Yes, but about the promise of the food.”

“I know.  I’m getting there.  The people behind these projects are being sold Tresanium at ridiculous prices by unscrupulous suppliers. I couldn’t believe how high over market value.  And since I don’t have a mining or distribution license to lose, I was happy to trade with them.”

Sklar started to speak, but Vardon beat him to it.

“I traded the tresanium for the remaining eleven months on the contracts of fourteen very highly regarded hostesses.  I know some people don’t approve of hostessing, but I’m an open-minded type and the school seems like it’s -- "

“Please don’t characterize the school’s position on hostesses, Mr. Vardon.”

“Okay.  Sure,” conceded Vardon.

Dorsey stifled a smile.  Vardon’s appraisal of the concept of hostessing was both calculated and naïve.  What used to be called prostitution in the days of Earth (and even early colonization) continued to have a stigma, depending on whose point of view you were seeking.  Sykes, as a respectable institution,
had
to look down on it. 

It struck Dorsey that Sklar's irritation with Dole Vardon was, in part, of his own making.  One of the first decision
s of Sklar's tenure (occurring before Dorsey arrived) was to open a program for students seeking to acquire a trading broker's license.  Sklar also claimed that Sykes would need to have "greater understanding" regarding qualifications for these students.

"The sort of person interested
in getting their license...won't be so traditional," Sklar warned highly skeptical faculty members at his first address following installation as director.  "But they'll pay tuition while they're here...and be in better position to demonstrate generosity with donations in the years ahead."

Sklar either didn't notice the eye-rolling by faculty members or didn't care.  Anyone coming to Sykes to secure a broker's license was predisposed to be a
“dealer”, a “
bounce”
– the sort to serve self and then serve self some more.  The word "give" didn't frequently exist in the vocabulary of that type.

Pietro Sklar was the first non-academic to hold the posit
ion as administrative head – an appointment made in the face of declining revenues at Sykes.  Too many deserving students couldn't afford to pay tuition.  Selling rights to the planet and paying an annual fee to the new owners for hosting the school was the only way to keep it running.  And yet, to consternation of those who cared most about Sykes, that only kept the danger of closure at bay for a short time.

Consequently
, as Pietro Sklar's primary task was to turn losses back to profits, broker's license-seeking students were admitted.  Among them, Dole Vardon.

“The promise of the food.  The promise of the food as part of your bargain.  Food that wasn't yours to barter. 
Please
address that.”  Sklar tried valiantly to get things back on track.

“Right.  There wouldn’t have been any problem if it hadn’t been for a little misunderstanding.  I was in position to trade the hostesses’
contracts to Scuuva.  That’s the new getaway,
magna-plusse
opening in the L22 cluster,” he said, holding his thumb and first two fingers together to emphasize the prestige of such a place.

“I’ve heard,” Sklar said.

“They were going to send one ten-ton food parcel comparable to the one I offered the miners.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“A ten-ton parcel of food…along with
what
?”

“.02%
ownership in Scuuva.”

“And to whom would that ownership go?”

“Well, since nobody else at this school ever expressed interest in such a thing to me...I thought I’d hold onto it.”

The apparent nonchalance of Vardon’s reasoning drew a sneer from Burgess and a surprised, almost amused look from Roote.

"But, turns out the resort didn't actually have any food parcels to trade.  They acted in bad faith," Vardon explained.

“Wonderful,” Sklar said dryly, “Thanks to your trading
skills, Mr. Vardon, we have – within the last several hours – turned over one of our food parcels to your miners to settle the account with them.  Your use of the proper registration number from the parcel made it absolutely binding.”

“I know.  That’s the only way I could get any trade started in the first place,” Vardon said without a hint of irony.

“Incidentally,"  Sklar announced, "the reason this institution buys food in such bulk is that potential disruptions in commerce and shipping require taking preventive measures to avoid starvation.”

Vardon scanned the faces staring back at him.  Nodding thoughtfully, he said:  “That makes sense."

V
              V              V              V

Dorsey knew he’d be the deciding vote.  Burgess saw things as black and white, in or out.  He never appeared to have a moment of indecision and would doubtlessly vote for Vardon to go.  Roote, on the other hand, liked to believe in things and people.  She had a soft spot for “good causes” and challenged Tomas Witt for most popular faculty member.  Dorsey was fairly sure that Roote would want to give Vardon another chance.  As they voted in descending order of seniority, with Burgess going first, Dorsey would be asked to split the tie.

Vardon probably didn’t belong at Sykes.  B
ut Dorsey did not relish being identified with “hardliners” like Burgess – which is what would come of a vote for expulsion.  Burgess and his sort were respected, but not liked, by many other faculty members at the institution.  The hardliners didn’t even like each other.

Tomas Witt
had told Dorsey repeatedly that things were much different at Sykes – even as recently as four or five years before.  The frustration on the part of longtime faculty at the school’s “makeover” and repurposing had created rifts.  There was little of the unity and spirit that once distinguished Sykes any longer.

“It was our
best time.  The years spent developing into something unique and worthwhile had paid off,” Witt would say, wistfully, sometimes with a distant look.  “You have no idea the number of people who came here from all kinds of settlements and institutions, wanting access to the brainpower, the expertise.  Even the HSPB came for help.  Ladd Bankenshoff – the HSPB came to him, I don’t know, maybe a dozen times over the years.”

“HSPB?  What, they crossed into uncontrolled space and all?” Dorsey asked.

“They got his input on piracy problems, smuggling and the like.  There was so much they didn’t know about settlements beyond their own territory.  When they absolutely had to know something to protect their interests, they came here.”

T
he notion of Ladd Bankenshoff , someone Dorsey admired before ever coming to Sykes, working with the HSPB was disappointing.  The
HezPebs
(as people of U-Space often called them) were, after all, the gatekeepers, tasked with protecting the region of space that contained Earth and all that the home planet wanted for itself .

“He helped them?  The HezPebs?  That didn’t make anybody angry?”

“Nobody outside of faculty knew anything about it.  Kept very quiet.  And try not to use such epithets here.  It's coarse.”

Dorsey nodded sheepishly, somewhat embarrassed.  He was brand new at the time.  He'd have to learn his surroundings better before coming forth with such language.  Witt smiled and patted him on the should
er.

“Dorsey, you have to remember that these weren’t freedom fighters that Bankenshoff helped the HSPB find.  They were criminals in
everyone’s
eyes.  You know what Dirty Water and Slowe Staine have meant to U-Space.”

Dorsey, at that moment, avoided Witt’s gaze, throwing his eyes to the ground and tightening his jaw.

“Listen to me,” Witt said, waiting until Dorsey looked at him once more.  “If the HSPB could put a stop to that, what’s wrong with pointing them in right direction?  Of course, most people wouldn’t understand that distinction.  The letters H-S-P-B trigger a reaction that can be…irrational.”

"Why should Earth have cared in the first place?"

Witt shrugged before conceding the point.  "The criminals in question were crossing the C-Space line and poaching."

Of course,
Dorsey thought.

"HezPebs," he
replied softly, under his breath.

Dorsey found it difficult to shake his uneasiness at the secret association with the HSPB, but even at that early stage of their relationship, he trusted Tomas Witt.
  So the school was a fraction of what it had once been and students like Dole Vardon were examples of the decline.  Such was life.  But did it need to be that way?

Just as Dorsey knew they would, Burgess and Roote split the vote.  Sklar turned to Dorsey.

“That leaves you, Professor Jefferson.”

Dorsey glanced at Vardon who looked remarkably unconcerned
, as if it were someone else whose fate rested on his decision.  Dorsey thought of his own deceptions through years of bouncing around and trying to improve his lot in life.  Was he
really
that different from Dole Vardon?  People did what was in their nature to survive.  He took a deep breath and replied:

             
“Expulsion.”

V              V              V              V

             
Once it was official, Vardon was escorted to his quarters and made to stand by as his things were packed up by Sykes security men.  There were, it turned out, only a small handful of things that belonged to the school hidden in a recessed area behind Vardon’s bunk:  a pair of fleks reported missing by faculty members months earlier and since deactivated and replaced.  They were no good to Vardon (although given his resourcefulness, who could say what Dole Vardon might make out of them).  There was also a metal container filled with several different brands of currency – none of which were transferable on Sykes.

             
Allowing him only the clothes in his possession and a few other meaningless odds and ends, Dole Vardon was placed in a locked room not far from the administrative offices that overlooked the landing platform, a stone’s throw from one end of the promenade.  He’d remain there until transportation could be arranged to the nearest relocation center that would have him.

             
At the very same time, Dorsey had left the Crimson Room, content to put the episode behind him.  He hadn’t eaten most of the day and was ready for a meal.  The rank smell of the spoiled syntho-cheese had long since left his nostrils and he was primed for a meal at Flood’s – an indulgence he figured he’d earned by doing his duty all day long.  Before he got halfway there, however, he was paged and directed to report back to Pietro Sklar.

             
Any time Dorsey was called to the director’s office, it raised a touch of anxiety in him – particularly if he had no idea as to the reason.  The curse of having secrets was a never-ending obstacle to true peace of mind.  As it turned out, in this case, Sklar only had a request:  Speak with Vardon for a moment.

             
“You’re not under any obligation,” Sklar said to Dorsey, minutes later as they began the short walk from the director’s office to the fully furnished room serving as Vardon’s de facto prison cell.

             
“It’s fine,” Dorsey said, not really meaning it.

             
“Vardon’s asking for all sorts of things.  I agreed to grant him this one in exchange for silence.”

             
“Okay.”

             
“Have you heard about the transient labor layover?” Sklar asked.

             
“Tomas mentioned it.”

             
Sklar flexed his jaw muscles, slightly irritated.

             
“The students don’t know yet.  Keep it quiet, will you?”

             
“Of course,” Dorsey said.

             
“We’ll need all hands, as usual, for the sweep.”

             
It was Dorsey’s turn to grimace.  “The sweep” was the only part of transient labor visits that he found unpleasant.  It consisted of faculty and staff walking every last meter of Sykes to make sure students were locked away.

             
The best part of the layover, in Dorsey’s eyes, was that virtually everyone would be confined to quarters for the duration of the transfer of the transient workers – the transfer of
the Rollos
– to their billet.  Nothing to do but idle away the hours with no demands.  He’d read, sleep or anything else that he wished.