Marque and Reprisal (10 page)

“Licensed assessor Grill, at your service,” he said clearly enough, bowing to both the Immigration Control officer and Ky. “A crystal for assessment, yes?”

The Immigration Control officer transferred it to Grill’s hand—a hand that appeared to be normal, to Ky’s fascinated gaze—and Grill put it into his mouth for a long moment, then spat it back to his hand. “Carbon,” he announced. “Impurities negligible to value.” Now the magnifier extended, lenses telescoping from his eye. “Cut… Melique-cut diamond, crystalline structure excellent, flaws… minimal. Value for official purposes 2,443 credits.” He handed it back to the Immigration Control officer, who tucked it into the sealed pouch again. “Good day,” Grill said to the space between them, turned on his heel, and walked away.

“Your receipt for a credit balance of 1,643 to be set against docking and service fees,” said the Immigration Control officer, handing Ky a hardcopy strip that had just extruded from his lower forearm. “Welcome to Lastway and enjoy your stay.” Then he and his escort marched off.

Ky shook her head and spoke to the ship’s intercom. “All clear now. I don’t see the loader that should be here; I’ll contact them and the security company again.”

“The captain should reenter the ship,” Martin said. “I’ll want to get the net set out. I’ll need Jim, Beeah, and Mehar.”

Before Ky could contact the rental agency, Martin reported that the loader had arrived. He and his crew had already installed the first of the visual scans, so Ky could watch the loader grind across the dock toward the ship and listen in on the conversation with her crew.

“Sorry,” the operator said. “Had to get clearance from Immigration and check your financials.” The operator had a gray uniform with RENTALL EQUIPMENT in red on the front and back.

Martin held up a hand. “We will need to scan your machine.”

“Fine. I get paid by the hour; don’t hurry.” The operator lounged in his seat.

Martin used a long-handled mirror and various other tools to check over, under, and around the loader. “Now you,” he said. “Get down.”

“Me? You’re only renting the loader; you don’t need to scan me.”

“Oh, I think we do,” Martin said. The man shrugged, started to climb down, and suddenly launched himself at Mehar, whipping a knife from his boot. She sidestepped neatly and thrust a short baton into his gut. He folded around it, dropping the knife. Mehar stepped back; Martin moved in, swung the man around, and clipped him smartly on the jaw. “Good job, Mehar,” he said. “You’re a natural at this.”

“I would rather not be,” Mehar said, hooking the baton back on her belt.

“Beeah, Jim—perimeter.” Martin’s reminder focused the other two on the dock access. Ky watched, fascinated, as Martin secured the man’s knife by scooping it into a plastic bag, then fastened his wrists and ankles with cargo cords, as he had done with Jim at first.

“Captain—”

“Yes,” Ky said. “I saw that.”

“You said station police didn’t want to give us protection. Think they’d be interested in taking in a perp?”

“I suppose we’d better ask,” Ky said. “And I’d better talk to the rental company, too.”

“Threaten them,” Martin advised. “They sent you a ringer or they were bent to start with.”

Ky looked up the emergency numbers and called the station police, here called the Garda. “You did
what
?” was the response of the desk clerk. “You can’t just hit people and tie them up.”

“My crew was attacked with a knife,” Ky said.

“Witnesses? Other than your own crew?”

“Recorded in video,” Ky said.

“Oh. Well. We’ll send someone over.”

Who to call next? Getting more security on their dockside seemed more important than wrangling with the rental company. Lastway’s business directory listed five security services, but only three were bonded and insured: Baritom, Maxx, and Padilla Protection. She had no clue which to pick. The stationmaster, she knew, would not be allowed to give an opinion—who else could?

ISC. They had their own security, but they must use onsite firms for personal protection sometimes, and they would surely know who to contact for dockside surveillance. Ky contacted their Lastway office and asked for the station director.

“Who’s calling, please?”

To ISC, the Vatta name should still be gold-plated, Ky thought. “Captain Kylara Vatta,” she began, “of the—”

“Vatta!” Then, “Just a minute…”

Less than a minute, and a gruff male voice barked at her. “Who do you think you are, queen of the spaceways? Don’t you realize we have better things to do than baby-sit some rich trader’s brat?”

“I beg your pardon!”

“You Vattas are spoiled rotten,” the voice went on. “Can’t wait your turn like everyone else! Think you’re special. Well, out here,
Captain
Vatta, we’re all citizens and we don’t try to cut in line. You’ll take your place in the outgoing queue just like everyone else and that’s final.” The connection blanked.

Ky stared at the console as if it had grown actual teeth, and then called again.

“What?” said the angry voice she’d just heard.

“I wasn’t trying to cut in line,” Ky said. “I had a question.”

“I’m not a damned information desk,” he said, and cut the connection again.

Ky told herself that everyone at ISC must be under tremendous strain. She still found it hard to believe that the station manager of an obscure office like Lastway could have reason to be that angry with Vatta Transport, or any particular Vatta, but he was, and that was a fact to cope with.

Who else? She scanned the business directory, looking for familiar names. Somewhat to her surprise, Lastway Station had three branches of Hark!, the sectorwide pastry franchise: “The original Hark!, in business at this location for 17 years…”; “Hark! #2, convenient to the financial district”; and “Hark! Light: same flavor, less filling.” She doubted that they’d have much knowledge of security companies. The Captains’ Guild? She contacted them.

“I’m sorry but we consider the Vatta account closed at this time,” said the reception clerk as soon as she gave her name. “Any services would be on a cash basis only.”

“I’m not planning to stay there,” Ky said. “I just had a question.”

“A question?” He sounded as if he’d never heard of asking a question. “What about, then?”

“What private security companies onstation would you recommend?”

“The station business directory has a list.”

“I know that, but only three are bonded. What services have other captains found reliable?”

“I’m afraid, under the circumstances, that I can’t take the liability risk of recommending anything in that line. Now if you wanted a recommendation for a good restaurant—”

“Oh, fine,” Ky said. The clerk went on, completely missing her tone.

“Julian’s is very nice—they grow their own fresh vegetables, and they have a cultivar of synthibeef that’s extremely good. Or, if you prefer seafood, there’s Fish Heaven. All local produce—”

“Thank you,” Ky said. “That’s very nice. I don’t suppose you have any idea where I can purchase ordnance?”

“Ordnance?” The clerk’s voice squeaked. “You mean like… er… weapons?”

“Exactly,” Ky said. It was a forlorn hope, but scaring him looked like the only fun she was going to have.

“Well… there’s always the MilMartExchange, over on Hub Four.”

“Thank you,” Ky said again. “Are they in the business directory?”

“Yes, Captain. Under HEAVY EQUIPMENT NEW AND USED.”

“You’ve been most helpful,” Ky said, her good humor restored. Heavy equipment new and used, huh? Was this why the Sabines had been so suspicious of her “farm equipment” on the manifest?

She looked at the directory again, shrugged, and called Baritom Security Services because it came first on the list. Baritom Security Services put her on hold long enough to be annoying; then a senior sales representative came on. “You can understand that we have concerns about any assignment with a Vatta family member at this time—with Vatta accounts frozen—”

“Hard goods,” Ky said. “Acceptable to Immigration Control.”

“Oh. Well… the liability risk—”

“I am willing to waive liability where no misconduct by your employees is involved,” Ky said. “We need dockside security as well as personal escort.”

“I’m afraid we would have to add a surcharge for the additional hazard.”

“If you add the surcharge, I’m less willing to waive liability,” Ky said.

“Surcharge. Dockside… that’s a minimum of six personnel, two on each shift. Escort charges vary with shift. When would you want them?”

“As soon as possible,” Ky said. “I’m uncertain of the duration at this point.”

“That’s all right. We can have a team at your dockside in… fifteen minutes. An escort will be dispatched when you request—were you needing one this shift?”

Ky looked at the chronometer, set now to Lastway Station’s standard time. The shift would end in a half hour, and the next shift was mainday or business. She wouldn’t get out of here before then. “No, not this shift,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”

The police still hadn’t arrived. Ky looked up MilMartExchange, and found that it occupied almost half of Hub Four’s extensive storage holds. “Surplus new and used military heavy equipment: no credit” was its subhead. No more details available without a personal visit, but she could apply for a customer ID that would, the site said, “facilitate entry to the facility for first-time customers. Confidentiality assured. Recommended procedure.” Ky hesitated, then decided to apply: anyone interested already knew she was docked here; the public-access ship listing would tell them that. To her surprise, the “application” consisted of asking for a number; she did not even have to give a name.

She took down the number she was given—fifteen digits—then looked up WEAPONS, where she found six gun shops listed, ranging from Bernie’s Knives and Guns, “cheap, reliable personal protection,” to Blade, Bullet, and Bow—” blades, firearms, and archery tackle for the discriminating.” She looked for ORDNANCE and found “see heavy equipment,” plus a small boxed notice that Lastway was not responsible for the legal status of ships mounting heavy equipment—captains should check with their relevant political units.

Sabine’s concern now seemed more reasonable. And Lastway Station’s regulations on personal weaponry were clearly less stringent than those on many other stations. Ky looked at the available live shots of station activity and noticed that a number of the people walking past were obviously armed. Probably others carried concealed weapons.

The directory listed a number of sources for surveillance and security systems, including most of the weapons sources already shown. Vic’s Precision Protection Supply was closest, on the same sector of the same hub. She had Martin’s wish list of gadgets and software. No, the first thing was to arrange handling of funds.

All the major quadrant banks had branches here; Ky picked Crown & Spears. Their representative regretted any inconvenience that it might cause, but they had put a lock on Vatta corporate accounts until matters had been adjudicated. Ky had expected that. “Did you receive a transfer from Belinta a few weeks ago? It was in my personal account, not a company account.”

“I regret, madam, that I find no record of such a transfer. The last value we have for madam’s personal account, based on ansible data, is indeed healthy, but those funds are not presently available because of the ansible failure. In the present crisis, we cannot advance monies based on remote accounts.”

“Very well, then. I want to open a new account,” she said. “We’re selling cargo here and I’ll be making purchases.”

“It would have to be cash or hard goods,” the bank’s representative said.

“Of course,” Ky said. “I’ll courier over about four thousand credits’ worth—using as a rough guide the official appraisal from Immigration—”

The face in the screen smiled more naturally now. “That will be fine, Captain. Their assessments are often… less than we might give, shall we say. And you say you have cargo as well?”

“Yes. We’re unloading now; my cargomaster will be dealing shortly.”

“Excellent. Now—is this to be a Vatta Transport account, or a personal account?”

“Personal,” Ky said.

“Very well. We will await your courier and make funds available as soon as the valuation has cleared.”

Ky had just closed the connection when Martin called to her. “The Garda are here,” he said. “Their officer would like to speak with you.”

“I’ll be right out. Baritom Security is sending a couple of personnel to help guard dockside, and I’m going to need a courier to Crown & Spears to open an account. Would you say another Baritom agent, or a courier service?”

“Neither,” Martin said. “When Baritom takes over dockside coverage here, I’ll escort you or a crewmember.”

The Garda who met Ky held out a legal notification pad. “Make your mark here, madam. You’re being notified of your legal status on this station, your legal rights and obligations…” Ky read the notification and signed her name. She handed him a data cube with the recording of the man’s attack, and he nodded. “We’ll be in touch,” he said. One of his fellows took the cargo cords off the operator and put on their own restraints; then they hauled the man away.

“I’ve got a list of what we need to complete our own perimeter security,” Martin said.

“There’s a supplier on this hub, not that far away,” Ky said. “When I get the bank account set up—and by the way, I haven’t contacted the rental company yet. In the meantime, can we start unloading?”

“Yes, ma’am. Jim here has convinced me that he does indeed know how to handle one of these things—I had him move it around while we were waiting for the Garda to show up.” He paused, then said, “And here’s Baritom.”

Ky glanced toward the dockside entrance and saw two uniformed men waiting by the entrance. She started forward, but Martin stopped her.

“It’s my job,” he said. “If you’ll just get whatever you need for the bank run… and I’d recommend Mitt for your courier. He has an implant and he looks nothing like you.”

By the time Ky came back, Martin had assigned the two Baritom guards to the dockside entrance and told Alene to open up the nearside cargo hold. Beeah and Mehar were pacing around the dockside; Jim was backing away from the cargo hold with the first stack of containers. Mitt, his face sober, took the packet with two diamonds from Ky and put it in an inner pocket in his tunic.

Shortly thereafter, she had an account with a balance of 5,876 credits and a Crown & Spears credit chip, with authorization code. With that, Vic’s Precision Protection Supply was willing to send over 648 credits’ worth of surveillance gear. It arrived just as Martin and Mitt returned from the bank; Martin took charge of it and began installation at once.

Unloading proceeded; Ky looked at the tradehall listings and saw that the Leonoran pharmaceutical components should do very well, bringing much more than they would have on Leonora. Now that she had a bank account, she could list the cargo on the boards, and bids began to come in. She shunted those to Alene’s attention. Her own attention focused on what she needed most to make her ship and her crew safer while in port. Any port. The attack on Belinta had involved both firearms and contact poison; they would need their own weapons, personal armor, and antidotes to such poisons—if any existed.

The tricky part would be getting to the small-arms dealers before someone got to her. Martin would come with her, but would that be enough? If she didn’t wear Vatta colors, and carried her own weapons after she got them… who else in the crew knew how to use any? She paused to ask Martin.