Liaden Universe [19] - Alliance of Equals - eARC (11 page)

Stew blew his breath out in an impatient huff. Not going to be seeing the Tinker anymore at Jemiatha’s, thanks to
Admiral Bunter
.

The rest of the regulars, though…

Word would’ve got out, Stew thought, staring at his diagnostic screen glumly—about the Tinker. That was worrisome, but—flip side—it was a relief. Station needed its regulars, sure, and truth was there wasn’t much
but
Jemiatha’s out here, given the way most of the small-routes run, which was another way of saying the regulars needed the station. They’d have to come back, eventually.

It was
eventually
Stew’d been counting on. Time. Time enough for one or t’other of the experts to get their duffs out here and either talk some sense into the
Admiral
or take him off-line.

Time was running out, though. The regulars—yeah, they’d run out of avoid soon enough.

The crews, that was another thing. He wasn’t in any way trigger-happy, and Vez—Down-Shift manager, Vez was, his opposite number and junior to him by just ten hours…

He could trust Vez to follow chain of command, and he
was
senior. What he couldn’t trust her to do was see
Admiral Bunter
as anything more than a parlor trick—half comedy and all stupid.

Despite what’d happened with the Tinker.

And the crews? There was talk ’mong the crews about cobbling up some cannon. He’d disallowed that, on Up-Shift. Vez, though, she’d let her crew go ahead with it as a side project, so long as reg’lar work was done and the materials draw was strictly from declared derelicts.

Cannon. Stew shook his head.

A surprise attack. He sighed.

Problem with cannon and that
surprise attack
was that neither took into account the nature of a mind rooted in comps ’stead of human flesh.

Vez was smart. Vez was a damn good tech.

But Vez didn’t believe in independent logics. She
was
a tech. A machine was a machine to her.

And all the time, there was
Admiral Bunter
, keeping station, protecting Jemiatha’s from
pirates
, the gods of space help ’em all, and inclined to view any attempt to differentiate between the Tinker’s petty thievery and real pirates as pretty dern near piracy, itself.

Stew had backed off of that conversation the minute he realized how the
Admiral
was processing his explanation, and he had an uneasy feeling that he was now a suspect character.

So far, they’d been lucky, that’s what it was, Stew thought, and jumped when the diagnostics beeped twice for
done
.

Within tolerances, he thought, running a practiced eye down the column; plenty good enough to go into the used inventory. He punched a button to print out a ticket, and another to enter the part into the catalog.

Lucky, he repeated to himself. They couldn’t depend on staying lucky, that was the thing.

Repairs wasn’t the only department running nervous and thinking about ways to rid themselves of Cap’n Waitley’s gift. Stationmaster was getting nervous, starting to listen to advice from chancy quarters, and it was all Stew could do, to talk him into waiting just a little bit longer.

For the specialist…

Cap’n Waitley’d sent for a specialist before she ever left system. Trouble being, they’d never shown up.

Hadn’t seemed urgent, and Stew’d been willing to wait a little more.

Then…

Well, then
Admiral Bunter
’d fragged the Tinker’s ship, and Tinker inside it. That’s when Stew’d put in a call to his own expert. Pinbeam; he’d sent it with his own hands. Got the ack.

But no expert on that side, either.

Last time they’d talked, he’d asked the stationmaster for fifteen more Standard days, for a solution to arrive, in the form of specialists.

There were eight days left on that grant o’time, and what Jemiatha’s Jumble Stop was gonna do if no experts ever did show up was more’n Stew could figure.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Dutiful Passage

“…which means that my research was sound; there
is
profit to be made in
milaster
on Chessel’s World,” Padi said warmly, eyes flashing with triumph, her soup forgotten on the table before her. Abruptly, her shoulders sagged, and she averted her face.

“Only, one is not allowed to keep it, which seems, someway…less satisfying than no profit at all.”

“Also,” she said, putting her spoon down with the air of one who has no appetite, “I’ve overspent my spec money. Even if another high-profit deal presents itself, I haven’t enough funds to take proper advantage.”

“You did take a bold gamble,” Shan said, leaning back in his chair. He was toying absently with a wineglass, all of his attention on Padi. He had several times during the course of the meal perceived anomalies—a smile yoked to a sudden, frigid tremor of fear; a shrug of resignation linked to a flicker of white anger; and, once more, fear, shadowing a bold look of pride.

“I seem to recall,” he added, when she made no answer nor even looked up, “that we had touched upon the wisdom of committing so much of your cash to one deal.”

He expected a pretty sparkle of prideful temper, and a sharp reminder that, had Chesselport law not been
quite
so addlebrained, she would have trebled her funds.

It was what he would have done, when he was her age. It was what he would have been strongly tempted to do, even now. Padi herself…

But it occurred to him, watching the subdued halfing across the table, that Padi was
not
herself.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I ought to have been more conservative.” And there it was at last, a flare of bright, sharp heat. “But I was right!”

Energy sparked, and pinwheeled. Padi raised her head, and it was pride and justified anger he saw on her face. He took a firmer hold on his glass, in case she should decide to throw—

The anger evaporated; the pinwheel of pride fizzled into chill grey. Shan shivered; tasted grit on his tongue, felt stone beneath his palm.

Across from him, Padi sighed, and shook her head, exhaustion coming off of her in damp waves.

“I see that your adventures have caught you up,” he said. “Shall we leave the rest until some other time?”

Curiosity stirred, striking a momentary spark of energy. She asked, “Rest?”

“Oh, indeed! I understand that you might not like to do the work, but in my judgment as master trader, your research was accurate, your instinct was good, and you trebled your investment. In other circumstances you might have gained your first repeat customer—and a reason for the
Passage
to include Chesselport among its scheduled stops. The circumstances that parted you from your profit before ever you had it in hand are apart from the transaction itself.”

He raised the wineglass and sipped, feeling Padi’s attention, and the small beginning of a hope that she might, somehow, come about, despite recent events.

“Of course, I cannot make a Determination of Completed Trade by myself. I must lay the case before another, unaffiliated master of trade, and abide by their opinion. We would not, after all, wish it to seem that I had shown my apprentice special favor. Your license will rest upon these early transactions. It is best that they are above question.”

He considered her: face slightly flushed, bright eyes intent on him, no hint of stone in her pattern, weariness burned away by hope.

“What is it?” she asked, when he paused for another sip of wine. “What work must I do?”

“Ah, are you interested? What you must
do
is write an account of your transaction, including your research, the facts of your purchase, and of your sale. You will include copies of the sales receipt, the auction hall’s record of the sale, and the public log entry of the magistrate’s decision. I will tell you that straightforwardness, and solid fact, is more likely to be read favorably than impassioned outrage, and that your facts
will
be checked, so be very certain that they are correct.”

“Yes, of course.” She was leaning forward now, watching his face.

“Yes,” he repeated, and shook his head slightly. “As with all such things, there is a deadline for submission of this report. You have three ship-days to produce your part, as I have three ship-days to produce mine. After we are finished here, I will contact the guild with the information that we have a case requiring a master trader’s attention. Once our reports have been transmitted, the master trader will have two Standard weeks to render her opinion, which she will send to the guild. The guild will then inform me of the outcome, and I”—he inclined his head politely—“will inform you. If the outcome is as we desire, your trade at Chesselport will be admitted to your record, rated favorably, and become one of the cornerstones of your license.”

“And…” Padi’s voice squeezed out; she cleared her throat and began again. “And if the master trader should disallow my trade?”

“Then it is done, and you have only lost what you never held.”

Her mouth tightened at that, and he tasted the sizzle of anger, but she did not choose to dispute him; after a moment she nodded.

“I am willing to do the work,” she said.

“Very well, then, I shall expect your report on my screen in three ship-days. In the meantime, there is one thing that I may do, as master trader on the
Dutiful Passage
.”

Padi’s expression took on a certain wariness, for which he didn’t entirely blame her, but she asked him courteously enough.

“What may you do, sir?”

“I may bring your spec fund back to pre-
milaster
levels.”

She blinked.

“But…I made the buy; there was no loss there, though I will allow it to have been, perhaps, a little…reckless.”

“It’s nothing short of astonishing, how often boldness is found to be its own reward. However, this is no act of charity; it is a loan.”

“A loan?”

“Exactly. Should the master trader decide in your favor, the guild will reimburse you for half of the lost profit. If that should happen, you will repay me from those funds.”

“And if the master trader decides that my case has no merit?”

“Then you will come to me with a plan to pay back the loan by the end of this trade run. Are these terms agreeable?”

“Yes, Master Trader!”

“Excellent; we are in accord. Now, may I suggest, as your parent, that you do not begin writing—or researching—your report until you have slept for at least a half-shift?”

“Yes, Father,” she said, and gave him a fond smile that he found to be sincere on all the levels accessible to him. “Truth told, I am a little tired.”

She was more than a little tired, but he held his tongue, and forbore from probing more deeply, drilling for stone.

Instead, he gave her a smile, and allowed his love for her to sweep out and envelop her as he rose, and walked her to the door.

“Sleep well, child,” he said softly, gently reinforcing the impulse to sleep.

“Yes, Father,” she said, and stood on tip-toe to kiss his cheek.

—•—

“So, nothing yet?”

That was Vez, coming in for her shift. She threw a fast glance at the change-over board, but she’d see the answer on his face, easy enough.

“Nothing yet,” Stew said anyway. It’d become a ritual, like they’d taught at home, before he got tired of ritual and hired himself off-world.

He was plenty tired of this ritual, too, and even tired of the fear that was the reason for it.

“Still peaceful,” he said, watching the screen—
the
screen, divied up into eight sections: one section each for the ships that made up the being who called hisself
Admiral Bunter
; the eighth displayed the boundary beacon, where a ship Jumping in would show first.

Vez sighed, and came over to stand at his shoulder, looking at the screen in her turn.

“How much longer you figure on waitin’, Stew?”

“Still got eight days on the stationmaster’s word, last time I counted,” he said, stiffer then maybe he’d oughta been.

Him and Vez, they worked good together; they consulted and kept each other in the loops. Not that there been all that many loops at Jemiatha’s Jumble Stop, nor crises, neither.

Except for the one they had now, and it was a doozy. Seven near-derelict ships, keeping station—keeping
watch
. He oughta’ve known better than to take an independent logic on, but…the logic—
Admiral Bunter
—had saved the station’s bacon; and he had some manuals; and he’d always been good with tech, and…

…he’d been overconfident, is what. Shoulda dismantled the old ships first thing. Should never have let that little captain talk him into keeping what she’d done. Made it sound so damn reasonable. Made it sound like there wasn’t going to be no problems at all.

“Been peaceable, lately,” he said quieter, and heard Vez sigh; felt her hand come down light on his shoulder.

“Ain’t been anything but a couple junk haulers in, since,” she said. “How do we know what it’ll do, if we get in a ship full o’marines, or some miners lookin’ for a good time?”

It
. Yeah, well. Vez was looking at a malfunctioning machine, which was worrisome enough for Vez, Stew thought. Independent logics was make-believe, to Vez, something like you’d read about in
Thrilling Space Adventures
and get all over shivery for a minute.

“Somebody with family. Connections,” Vez continued, her fingers pressing hard into his shoulder, “’stead of a rag-edged rimrunner?”

Stew shrugged and moved out from under her hand.

“Still got eight Standard days,” he said, turning to face her.

Vez pressed her lips together, and shook her head. He braced himself for maybe a cussing-out, but her voice was even, and reasonable.

“We got the cannon up and targeted,” she said.

Well, that wasn’t no good news, and a bad plan, too.

The idea was to target all seven pieces of
Admiral Bunter
at once, and blow him to Galaxy Nowhere before he knew there was a threat.

Problem being that Stew was…pretty sure the
Admiral
knew about the cannon. He was slow, but he was thorough. Observant, too. And, to be fair, the cannon was a better idea than Vez’s first, that they just send a tech onto each deck to decommission the comps.

That, in Stew’s not-exactly-uninformed opinion, would’ve been suicide.
Admiral Bunter
’s personality was shared around thirteen comps in the seven old ships. He’d know what was going on the minute the first tech went for main comp. And he’d act to defend himself, which anybody would, and there would be seven dead techs, and an
angry
Admiral Bunter.

“We don’t know the cannon’ll work,” he said to Vez. “We can’t afford to have him mad at the station. So far, he don’t see us as a threat; he sees us as something he’s responsible for protecting. If we made a move that causes him to suspect we’re trying to kill him—I can’t answer to that, Vez. Nor I might not have to. Those ships can take out the whole station.”

“And they will. It’s not
stable
, Stew.”

“I know,” he said. “I know that. I just—let’s just wait a little longer, Vez, right?”

She sighed, but—

Vez nodded. “Day nine, we still got nothing, we use the cannon.”

Stew shook his head.

“Day nine, we still got nothing, we pull the whole crew together and we go over the situation. Come up with a plan.”

He reached up and resettled his cap on his head, reached to the screen to sign himself out and shut down Up-Shift accounting—and snatched it back as the bell sounded—the bell from the boundary beacon, announcing a ship incoming.

“Jemiatha’s Jumble Stop,” the beacon’s rusty voice came across broadband. “Please identify yourself, and your purpose: repairs, refuel, supply. Please supply standard ID compressed cross-load and active voice broadcast.”

The beacon was a long way out—but neither him nor Vez moved, nor maybe breathed, waiting for the ID to come across.

Some clicks on audio; then the high ping of an ID arrival alert.

There was a delay before the voice answer came, crisp as if the pilot was talking in Stew’s ear.

“
Ahab-Esais
, out of Waymart, Pilot First Class Inkirani Yo. Repairs.”

Stew stepped to his console, and opened a direct line. The ship showed up now on radar as a small courier-class blip, in a neat and proper approach orbit.

“
Ahab-Esais
, this is Repairs. If you transmit a list of your necessaries, we can get started pulling what we’ll need to fix you up and give you orbital vectors for a connect to the yard or the shop.”

Again the delay of light, and now the commlink even brighter, like the pilot was using directional homing.

“I thank you,” the crisp voice said in his ear. “My necessity is to speak with Master Mechanic Steward Vannigof. He had requested my assistance.”

The station seemed to rotate around Stew. He grabbed onto the edge of the console and let relief take him.

“Yard,” he said, touching a different comm slot, “Yard and security. Be advised incoming will visit the station by invitation.”

It was automatic, now, to tell the
Admiral
to keep him calm, and to be sure everyone was alert for trouble when a ship got close. What he couldn’t say and hoped didn’t show, was his exquisite relief.

The expert—the one he’d sent for, after it seemed clear that Cap’n Waitley’s expert didn’t have no time for Jemiatha’s Jumble Stop…

The expert had finally arrived.

—•—

Before the
Passage
left Surebleak, Aunt Anthora had given Padi a Name Day present. Never mind that her last Name Day had passed inside Runig’s Rock, or that her next would very likely be celebrated aboard the
Passage
. It was never wise to attempt to reconcile Aunt Anthora with mundane realities.

So Padi had received, with all due gratitude, a bath set: soaps and shampoos and lotions, all scented with lavender.
A small luxury
, Aunt Anthora had said, putting the box into Padi’s hands.
A small luxury, niece, against a time when you may wish to smell like flowers.