Engaging the Enemy (19 page)

“Small gene pool to start with,” Rafe suggested. “Amazing they aren't all idiots.”

“Not with half-decent medical facilities,” Ky said. “You know it's not that hard to select for specific characteristics. But why'd they pick this, I wonder. With their sun's spectrum, you'd think they'd have gone for higher skin melanin.”

“They're not ugly,” Rafe said.

“No…just wondering,” Ky said. “Maybe it's a hereditary position, running Traffic Control. Stranger things have been done.”

The screen lit again. “Hi, Captain,” said the current duty officer, who had told Ky to call her Terri. “You're right on course, thanks. Six hours to dock. Please confirm weapons lockdown.”

“Weapons locked down,” Ky said. “Here's the visual.” She had recorded a visual of the weapons racks with seals in place.

“Very good,” Terri said. “Now eight seconds of reverse on your insystem, please, on my mark…three, two, one, mark.”

Lee had complied with this, and Terri nodded as the numbers came up.

“That's great,” she said. Ky began to feel like a child whose teacher is trying to coax her past some childish fear. “I'll be calling for three more reverses—in about forty-five minutes, then in another several hours, then the final one to match our station for docking. In case you're wondering, these early ones are to clear other traffic.”

Ky wondered whether to say she knew that already; her own nearscan showed the other ships. But best let Traffic Control do its thing, she decided.

The six hours seemed to last twelve, but the planet grew steadily larger on scan, its readouts showing the usual human-habitable world with plenty of open water and an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere. Its continents were bigger than Slotter Key's; its oceans speckled with fewer island chains; its ice caps were substantially larger. At last they were close enough to see the main orbital station on external visuals. Ky blinked. Though many small orbital stations had unusual geometry, usually for some specific commercial purpose, most main stations, where interstellar trade came in, followed a standard design: they looked like giant wheels or disks rolling slowly through space. Large stations simply “stacked” the disks on their central axis.

“Ummm…Terri?” Ky said.

The woman laughed. “You saw it, did you? Know what it is?”

“Not really,” Ky said.

“It's a tree. An Old Earth conifer: our emblem. Old Mick, our founder, said now that everyone had artificial gravity generators, there was no reason why stations had to look like wheels. He got the design from a holiday ornament, he said.”

Ky looked again. Two isosceles triangles intersected at right angles, bisecting each other: the tree itself, she supposed. Their bases were toward the planet; the tip pointed away, toward deep space. A cylindrical section stuck out from the base of the triangles, and now that she looked closely, she could see that the cylinder continued at least partway to the apex of the triangles. Its axis lay across her flight path, the wider base gradually obscuring her view. As she neared it, she could see that the jagged “branches” were docking slots—this unlikely shape provided docking slots for a hundred ships, and they could access their slots without interference with other traffic.

“Pretty slick, isn't it?” Terri asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, she said, “Your tug's coming up on your starboard side. Split your screen and I'll introduce you.”

Ky did so, and the tug captain turned out to be a strikingly handsome brown-skinned man with black hair and green eyes. So much for limited genetic pool. “Hi, Captain Vatta,” he said. “I'm Tugmaster Stanish Madera. You're for North-third-four. Let's start getting you oriented to the Tree. The branches go out in four directions: we use north, south, east, west.”

“I'm used to that,” Ky said.

“Good. So you're on North, the third branch from the base, the fourth dock slot on North third. That's the outer slot. We assign dock slots on the basis of your reported mass, to balance the Tree, so if you have any doubt that your reported mass is correct, please let me know right away.”

“It's correct as far as I know,” Ky said.

“Good, then. Terri, we're ready for drive-cut.”

“Captain, please cut your insystem drive.”

“Drive shutdown confirmed,” Ky said.

“I'll be grappling in five,” Madera said. “Five, four, three, two, one, contact—”

“Confirm contact,” Ky said as the ship's skin sensors reported it.

“You shouldn't feel a thing,” Madera said. Ky watched the station loom closer and closer, until they appeared to be hanging motionless a meter away.

“Station grapples out,” Madera said.

“Contact,” said another voice. “Cascadia Station welcomes Captain Vatta and
Fair Kaleen.
Please remain as you are until we confirm docking complete.” A longish pause, then, “Docking complete, Captain Vatta. You may extend your life-support and power lines for connection, please. Our next communication will be over your secured lines.”

“Understood,” Ky said. The screen flickered and went off, only to light again moments later as the dockside crew connected
Fair Kaleen
's umbilicals to the station.

“Welcome again,” the voice said, this time from the face on the screen, a female version of the tug captain's. “We will need you to give our Immigration officers access, please, within an hour, to inspect your weapons and ascertain crew identity.”

K
y wondered if the Customs officers would also show a family resemblance, or be more what she thought of as normally varied. The officers who waited on the dockside were all red-haired, though she didn't notice that for a moment because the biggest had what looked like silver horns curling around his head from his brow to his ears. Ky blinked, then realized what they were. Enhanced implant plug-ins, probably mobile sensors.

“Captain Vatta? I'm Senior Inspector Vaughn.”

“Yes, I'm Captain Vatta.”

“May we come aboard?”

“Yes. Follow me, please.” She led the way toward the weapons bays. From the expressions of her crew, most of them had never seen that kind of implant plug-in, either. As she'd now expected, the tall man's “horns” uncurled to reveal a sensor tip, which he ran over the racks of missiles and then the visible surface of the missile tube backlocks.

“Very good, Captain Vatta,” he said. “We will now place our seals, which must remain intact while you are here; they will be inspected again prior to your departure. I understand you have cargo to deliver here?”

“Yes,” Ky said. “This way.” She led him to the containers bound for the rehabilitation center, and he opened them, extending one of the tendril-like plug-ins down into the container.

“Quite correct,” he said, retracting it. “Now I need to see the identification of your crewmembers, if they are going to leave the ship; we do not care about those who stay aboard. Oh, and if you have any livestock—”

“No livestock, but a dog,” Ky said. “We certainly won't allow him off the ship.”

“You have a dog?” His brows went up almost as high as his horns. “What type of dog?”

“We were told it was a terrier; I don't know much about dogs, myself.”

“Dogs are very popular here. If he is for sale—”

“No,” Ky said. “He belongs to a young relative of mine.”

“That's too bad. He would be worth as much as this—” He put his hand on the container of prostheses. “We have very limited genome material for dogs, and terriers, in particular, are both popular and in short supply. Your relative could make his fortune.”

Ky had known from childhood about the vagaries of trade—that something worthless in one place might be highly prized somewhere else. But she had never considered that the miserable pup Rascal was good for anything but keeping Toby busy and happy.

“I'll tell him,” she said, “but I'm sure he'll want to keep the dog.”

“Perhaps a DNA sample…that alone would bring a good price,” Vaughn said. “More if the dog is male and could produce a sperm sample.”

Ky didn't want to speculate on that. “I'll tell him,” she said again. “Now, about the crew. All but three might want to go offship; your station seems to have good facilities.”

“We do indeed,” Vaughn said. “Excellent shops, local craftwork, fine dining—”

“Then tell me what you need in terms of identification. I can assemble the crew for you.”

“Oh, I just need the paperwork. Scans are fine. Then you must agree to ensure that each has read and understood the local regulations. We take regulations very seriously, and enforce them rigorously. It is the only way to deal with outsiders.”

“I see.” Ky raised her voice slightly. “Jameel, will you bring down the crew ID dossiers, please?”

“Yes, Captain,” came the response from the ship's intercom. In a moment, the cargo clerk came in with a hardcopy stack; Vaughn took it, scanning it quickly with one of his plug-ins. Jameel's eyes widened as he watched, Ky noted with amusement. She was beginning to find it natural.

“Hand out the regulations,” Vaughn said to his companions, still scanning dossiers. They reached into the shoulder bags they carried and each handed Ky a small bundle of what looked like booklets with bright green-and-silver covers. “There is also a data cube, Captain Vatta, but this saves you printing out copies yourself. Each foreigner who comes onto the station must have a copy of the regulations in his or her possession while on the station, to ensure that there is no excuse for breaking rules.”

“I see,” Ky said. With her thumb, she opened the cover of the one on top. A table of contents, with headings that looked very organized, if a little odd. Buying. Selling. Eating. Excreting. Sleeping. Conversing (not in the course of buying, selling, eating, excreting). Helping. Fornicating. Obstructing. Damaging. She paged over to Damaging and found a definition of
damage,
and rules for damaging without incurring the death penalty. “It seems very…thorough…,” she said, running her gaze over the rules for damaging, for receiving damages, for adjudicating damaging.

“It is no more thorough than we found we needed,” Vaughn said. He retracted his plug-in and squared the pile of ID dossiers. “Are these copies I might take and file, or originals?”

“Copies,” Ky said. “You are welcome to take them.”

“You are most courteous, Captain Vatta. We do appreciate courtesy. You may notice that in our regulations.”

She had. One of the rules for damaging was that the person intending to damage someone or something was expected to give notice “in a quiet and courteous voice; it is an offense to speak too loudly or use foul language.”

“Do please inform your kinsman of the market value of his dog,” Vaughn said. “And please inform Customs when you are ready to certify that all your crew have read and understood the regulations.”

“I will do that,” Ky said. “Thank you.” She wasn't sure what she was thanking him for, but if he wanted courtesy she would give it to him.

“My pleasure, Captain,” Vaughn said, and led his team back out to the hatch and onto dockside.

Ky closed the inner hatch and went to the bridge. She wasn't sure how she was going to explain this one to her crew.

“For a society that started with a bunch of backwoods renegades, they certainly do have a thing about politeness,” Rafe commented when he was halfway through the booklet.

“And it's their own peculiar definition of politeness,” Martin said. “Have you gotten to fornication yet?”

“No,” Rafe said. “I've been here before.” Ky looked at him in surprise. “Notice the penalties,” he said. “They kill people for a lot of things. But politely. ‘The executioner will always give the condemned sufficient time to recover from any embarrassing exhibition of emotion; condemned need not fear that they will be exposed to public ridicule as a result of inability to control bodily functions.'”

“That's grotesque,” Lee said. “Providing clean pants for someone about to be killed?”

“They consider it minimal courtesy,” Rafe said.

“I wonder you survived a visit, then,” Martin said.

“I am always polite,” Rafe said. “It is one of my few virtues.”

Martin and Lee both started to speak; Ky quelled them with a glance.

“‘Fornication is legal among all classes of persons, foreign or citizen, provided that due notice has been given of all relevant diseases and conditions, and that no offer of payment is made by the pursuer, and all payment is made in advance if payment is requested by the pursued,'” Martin quoted. “So what does that mean—do they have prostitutes or not?”

“It means if your chosen partner wants to do it for money, you have to give them money,” Rafe said. “They have much the same system on Allray. Not the bit about due notice given, though, or the part about parental responsibility, or the use of objectionable language during the acts themselves.”

“Very direct, I'd say,” Ky said. She read on, fascinated.

Before Ky had finished exploring the peculiarities of Cascadia's legal system as it applied to transients, representatives of the West Cascadia Rehabilitation Centre called about the prostheses and bioelectronics.

“The expiration date is critical; the shipment is overdue. Can you confirm that the expiration date has not been exceeded? We have damages owing if it is—”

“I'm not the original shipper,” Ky said. “The materials were held up because of widespread interruption of trade; surely you knew that.”

“Yes, but you're in charge of them now—”

“I was on my way, in transit here, within twelve hours after picking up the shipment,” Ky said. “None of the delay is my fault.”

“But the expiration date—”

“Hasn't been exceeded yet, not if the date on the container is accurate. However, it will be in another five days.”

“We'll send for it right away. We have priority for cargo space in shuttles. How soon can you offload it?”

“When I'm paid,” Ky said. “Because this was an unscheduled transit, and the original consignor was not available by ansible, I agreed to take it as pay-on-delivery. Now given the nature of the cargo, and its humanitarian importance, the charges will be only seventy percent of what other cargo of equal mass would be.” She named a figure.

“Where did you say you picked it up?”

Ky gave the name again.

“Just a moment.” After a pause, the caller reappeared onscreen. “That's quite satisfactory, within the usual parameters. Thank you, Captain Vatta. To what account should we direct the transfer of funds?”

“I just arrived; I'll be setting up a ship account with Crown & Spears under my name, Kylara Vatta.” She spelled it.

“Within the hour, then,” the caller said. “Or is that too soon?”

“No, that's fine,” Ky said. “And your representatives can pick up the cargo as soon as I have confirmation of funds transfer. The containers are standard one-meter shipping cubes.”

She called the local branch of Crown & Spears next.

“Aye, we saw a Vatta ship was inbound,” the woman on the vidscreen said. “So you want to see the Vatta Transport balances? Do you have the account numbers and passwords?”

“Yes, but I want to set up a separate account for my current business,” Ky said. “Under my own name, Kylara Vatta. There'll be a funds transfer coming in from the West Cascadia Rehabilitation Centre shortly—”

“Oh, you brought the prostheses?” Without waiting for an answer, the woman rattled on. “We really need them, you know. Or I guess you don't. We had a huge industrial accident months ago and there's a lot of people waitin' for 'em. My brother lost his left arm.”

“I'm sorry,” Ky said.

“Not your fault,” the woman said. “But of course, if you need an account to take that transfer you will have to come by the branch for personal identification procedures.”

“What's the shortest way?” Ky asked. The listing in the station directory gave an address by direction and branch connection, but no map.

“Get yourself a leader-tag,” the woman said. “They're free to visitors; there'll be a booth as you enter the concourse. Type in our name, and it'll program the leader, and then it'll tell you the best route.”

“Thanks,” Ky said, thinking that a map would have been simpler.

“People get turned around,” the woman said. “Leader-tags save a lot of confusion.”

The kiosk dispensing leader-tags had both keyboard and voice input; it recognized “Crown & Spears” and spit a green tree-shaped tag into its output bin. Ky picked it up.

“Hold pointing tree tip facing away from you,” a tinny voice said.

Ky turned the tag in her hand until it pointed forward.

“Turn fifty-eight degrees right.”

She almost laughed, but instead turned until the tag said, “Walk ahead.”

By the time she got to the Crown & Spears entrance, she was heartily tired of the tagger's voice. It didn't seem to have a volume control, so everyone nearby got to hear its fussy warnings. “Do not walk into trash bins—turn thirty degrees right—now thirty degrees left…” As she came to the entrance, the tagger announced, “You are here. You are here. You are here,” and then “Task over. To reactivate, place in input bin of leader-tag kiosk. If not returned to kiosk within one hour, alarm will sound.”

Ky entered Crown & Spears, the familiar silver-gray-and-blue décor comforting.

“May we help you?” said an elegant young man in black suit and white shirt.

“Excuse me—where can I put this tagger thing?”

“Oh, we have a kiosk. Most businesses do.” He took it from her and put it in a smaller version of the kiosk she'd used tucked between two ornamental pillars. “Now—may we help you with something else?”

“I'm Captain Kylara Vatta; I am opening a new account here.”

“A moment.” His eyes blanked, then focused again. “Yes, of course. You spoke to our senior account executive before. She will be pleased to meet with you now, if that is quite convenient.”

“Certainly,” Ky said. “Thank you.” She followed him across the dark shining floor, past large desks each with its attendant, and then down a carpeted hallway to a large office on the right.