Owner's Share (Trader's Tales from the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper) (18 page)

I shook my head.

“For others?” She barked a laugh. “That’s more of a cliché than the first.”

I shook my head again. “I don’t think that’s it either. It’s not something her father would see as required in a CEO.”

She looked at me sharply. “Just how well did you know him?”

“Not that well.”

She shrugged and continued walking. “You got him nailed pretty well for somebody you didn’t know that well. Don’t get me wrong. He recognized talent and he respected expertise, but it was more like a resource to be exploited than anything else.”

“Yeah, that was my impression as well. I didn’t have any problem with it. He was what he was. Mostly.”

She snickered at that. “So, what then?”

“I think she needs to learn how to earn it.”

She looked up at me again, but didn’t stop walking. “That would be a valuable skill for somebody at the top. What makes you think she doesn’t know already?”

“I don’t but it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“And being a lowly quarter share teaches you that?”

I shrugged. “Depends on the circumstances, but it’s as good a place as any.”

We walked along for another few meters before she glanced at me again. “So, what did you think of Roni and Willie?”

“I loved them. She’s such a sweetie and he’s a charming old fuddy duddy.”

She shot a glance at me. “You think that?”

“Oh, yeah.” I looked back at her. “What? You think she made all that money from being a cut-throat, take no prisoners businesswoman?”

“Um. Yeah.”

I shook my head. “That probably didn’t hurt, but she made her money by being a shrewd judge of character. Mean people only see other people as mean. It’s all they know, and they distrust anybody who isn’t”

“Well, ain’t you Mister Wisdom!” she said with a grin.

“That’s Captain Wisdom to you.”

“What about Willie?”

“Dr. William Simpson, brilliant economist. Left his academic career to put his theories into practice. Made too much money to go back and set up shop as a financial adviser to the rich and upcoming.”

She blinked at me, consternation plain on her face. “You know him?”

I shook my head and held out the card he’d pressed into my hand. “Larks, Simpson, and Greene. He’s the Simpson, isn’t he?”

She nodded. “Yes. He was Philo Maloney’s advisor when he first started DST.”

“I figured.”

“Give.”

“Something Richard Larks said, and something you said.”

“I’m not letting go until you tell me.”

“Larks said the firm was the advisor to Philo Maloney, but he’s not old enough to have advised me on how to get a school loan. He also doesn’t understand spacers.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that. What did I say?”

“You were surprised by the advice he gave me.”

“And that told you all that about Willie?”

I shook my head. “My mother was an ancient lit professor back on Neris. I grew up on a college campus from the time I was four. He was a professor for so long he can’t shuck himself out of the tweed, or more likely cultivates it. He’s old enough to be advisor to Philo, and if he left academe that long ago, it has to have been for a reason, but he never went back. There had to be a reason for that, too.”

She sighed and nodded. “Well, Captain Wisdom, you get high marks for sorting out my dinner party. Maybe you can tell me where it went wrong.”

“What makes you think it went wrong?”

“Well, I kinda expected we’d have a nice business meeting over our post-prandial cocktails and it would end up with your getting some advice, and a big pile of money, and winning over our new CEO.”

“Oh.” I shrugged. “I kinda thought that, too, but it wasn’t necessary.”

“No? Why do you say that?”

“Roni already decided to invest in me, and she got Willie to set up the meeting for tomorrow to find out how much she needs to kick in.”

“You sound pretty sure of that.”

“Where do you think I got the card?”

“From Willie.”

“And where do you think Willie is right now?”

She laughed quietly. “Trying not to be the next late Mr. Dalmati.”

“And do you think he’d have given me the card if Roni hadn’t given him the high sign?”

She stopped laughing, and frowned at the carpet as she walked.

We walked in silence for about a quarter of the way around the promenade. “Okay, Captain Wisdom,” she said at last. “What about Christine?”

I sighed at that one. “She’s going to be very, very tough.”

She snorted. “I’ll give you full points on that one.”

“I like to think I know my limits.”

She laughed again at that. “Speaking of limits, I’m at about the end of mine. Is Ms. Arellone with you?” She turned to look at where the woman in question was studiously looking in a shop window full of china. “She’s been following us ever since we came out of the restaurant.”

“Yeah. She seems to think I need a bodyguard. How did you know?”

She nodded her head at a wiry, dark-haired young man studying the menu in the window of a closed restaurant behind us. “He’s mine.”

“Is it really necessary?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It didn’t help Geoff in the end. Although Kurt probably discouraged a lot of problems before they started.”

“Good point.”

She looked at me curiously. “By the way, where’s Greta?”

“Chief Gerheart?”

“That would be the Greta in question, yes.”

“Back on the
Agamemnon
, I think. Why?” The question caught me sideways and I couldn’t figure out where it came from.

“Still on the
Agamemnon
?” She looked at me like I’d suddenly grown a second head. “Good gods, man, you don’t need a bodyguard. You need a keeper!”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means it’s time to get Ms. Arellone over here, and we’ll call it a night.” She held out her hand. “Good night, Captain Wang. You were doing really well right up to the end.”

I shook her hand but the sense of bewilderment wrapped me in fog as the wiry young man swooped in and escorted her away even before Ms. Arellone could cross the promenade.

“What was that last bit all about, Skipper?” She asked, looking at their retreating backs.

“I don’t know, Ms. Arellone. I just don’t know.”

Chapter Fourteen
Diurnia Orbital:
2372-December-21

I’d forgotten the sybaritic pleasure of a hotel bed. They’re frequently soft, invariably wider than a bunk, and dressed with luxurious linens. More, when sleeping in a hotel, my body seems to know it doesn’t need to wake at any particular time. The sweet arms of Morpheus hold me safe.

Right up until my bladder kicks some sense into me and drags me out of bed and into the cold, porcelain light.

It was barely 0600 when cold tiles interfered with snuggly dreams, and I found myself in the middle of my morning routine before I really grasped the idea that my day didn’t need to begin until I wanted it to. By then, of course, it was too late, and I finished rinsing off the depilatory cream, brushed my teeth, and frowned at the sparseness of the fuzz that adorned my scalp. Having a spacer’s buzz cut saved me from the indignity of comb-over but apparently not the risk of blinding people from the reflection.

As if that weren’t enough, clothing became a problem as soon as I padded out of the bathroom and began rummaging in my grav trunk. I had ship suits, uniforms, work out gear, and almost no civilian business attire. I found four pair of jeans in various states of disrepair, a couple of polo shirts and exactly one sport coat, which on close inspection was missing two of the three buttons on the front.

The shipsuits would be fine for mooching about the docks, and I could wear an undress uniform anywhere on the orbital in a pinch. The dress blue uniform was wrong for almost every social occasion I could think of, and while I might eek by with it for some business meetings, I didn’t think Willie Simpson would appreciate me showing up in it.

I’d need to do some shopping, at least enough to get by in the short term until I could find a decent tailor. On a whim, I rummaged around in the bottom of one of the trunks and turned up a small box of odds and ends. In it I found the small data key with the engraved R on the top—my introduction to Henri Roubaille. I tucked it into the top of the grav trunk where I could find it again later.

Pulling on the least disreputable pair of jeans, and a dark green polo shirt, I padded barefoot out into the common room. I rummaged around in the small kitchenette until I found the coffee making supplies. I proceeded to make some coffee colored water that might have had more taste if I’d just chewed the paper filter. I looked at an ornate clock on the wall and tried to prioritize what I needed to do. Another sip proved that the first thing I needed to do was find a decent cup of coffee.

I retrieved a pair of socks and shipboots from my trunk, slipped on the badly dated sport coat, and grabbed my tablet from the nightstand. It fit neatly into a side pocket. A door opened, predictably, onto the corridor and I used it to slip out of the suite. Of all the problems I faced in the day, coffee was one I knew how to address. I headed for the lift and as I stepped aboard, my stomach growled loudly. I punched the oh-two button and headed for the solution to that problem as well.

The aromas of coffee, bacon, and toast flooded the lift doors as soon as they opened on the oh-two deck. Whoever engineered that placement had to have been a genius and I shook my head in admiration as I pushed through the door to Over Easy, my favorite restaurant in the whole sector.

The breakfast rush roared inside with the clinking of metal on china, half a hundred conversations, shuffling feet, and all the myriad sounds that a small room filled with people all busily eating can hold. I lurked by the door until I saw a beefy woman wearing an orbital maintenance jumpsuit push back off a stool on the left end of the counter. I made my way to the vacant spot, even as she slid between the tables and headed for the door. The vinyl seat was still warm as I clambered onto it, but the place in front was already clean and set with fresh silver and pristine white china mug. I recognized Phil before I saw his name tag, but I didn’t think he’d recognized me until I got a flash of teeth. He splashed the mug full without even asking.

“The usual, Captain?” he asked with an arch of his brows.

“Yes, please, Phil.”

He nodded once, scrawled something on an anachronistic paper tablet, and slapped it into a clip on a rotating contraption in the kitchen pass through.

The coffee hit the spot. After a few swallows, my brain stopped complaining and started kicking over—fitfully, but kicking. The comforting hubbub of the restaurant faded into the background while I considered my options.

In my mind I started a mental list of the things I needed to do. First on it, I needed to meet with William Simpson. Before I could do that, I needed to get some better clothes, nothing flashy, but at least better than decrepit jeans and a dated jacket. I pondered Avery’s advice on renting an office. If I was going to keep Ms. Arellone busy, perhaps having a locale would be the right choice.

Something about that idea niggled in the back of my brain, but a plate of ambrosia derailed the train of thought, and I dug into breakfast with a will. The eggs were perfect, bacon crispy, and the mound of onion-fried potatoes made the perfect base. In about four ticks, the china plate held only a couple of greasy smears and a bit of yoke that I sopped up with the last corner of toast. I sighed in contentment and finished the coffee. Phil offered to refill but there was a line at the door, and I had things to do so I refused and thumbed the tab. I headed back to the room to do some research on clothiers. If I were quick, I could probably get outfitted before I paid a visit to the offices of Larks, Simpson, and Greene.

As I stepped out of the restaurant, a wiry hand dug into my right elbow and used my forward momentum to swing me around, face to the wall, and warm weight pinned me there while a sharp metal object dug into my back just above my kidney. “This is what we’re trying to avoid, isn’t it, Captain?” Ms. Arellone hissed into my ear. “People getting the jump on you, maybe robbing you, or worse?” She dug what had to have been her tactical defense pen into my back for emphasis.

She held me there for about five heartbeats before releasing the pressure on the pen and stepping back.

“And a cheerful good morning to you, too, Ms. Arellone.”

She stood there in a variation of the outfit she’d worn the night before. Her flushed face showed an expression I wasn’t used to seeing directed at me. “That’s what you have to say? ‘A cheerful good morning to you, too, Ms. Arellone?’” She rested on fist on her hip and cocked her pelvis to the side. The coated titanium barrel of the defense pen gleamed in the overhead lights as she rolled it between and over the fingers of her free hand. “You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously, Captain.”

A pair of spacers gave us amused grins as they stepped around us and pushed through the door to Over Easy.

“Perhaps we could head for the lift while we chat, Ms. Arellone? At least clear the passage here a bit?”

I nodded in the direction of the lift doors. “Shall we go?”