The Night's Dawn Trilogy (65 page)

Marie’s air of sophisticated confidence faltered slightly. “Yes, I know.”

“You want to leave pretty badly?” Ashly asked sympathetically.

She dropped her gaze and nodded. “Wouldn’t you? I lived on Earth until last year. I hate it here, I’m not staying no matter
what it costs. I want civilization.”

“Earth,” Ashly mused whimsically. “Lord, I haven’t been there for a couple of centuries. Wouldn’t call it particularly civilized
even back then.”

“He’s a time hopper,” Joshua explained as Marie gave the pilot a confused look. “And if you hate this place as much as you
say, then Norfolk isn’t where you want to go either. It’s strictly a pastoral planet. They have a policy of minimal technological
usage, and the government enforces it pretty rigorously from what I hear. Sorry.”

She gave a small shrug. “I never thought it would be that easy.”

“The idea of signing on with a ship is a good one,” Ashly said. “But you really need neural nanonics before a captain will
consider you.”

“Yes, I know, I’m saving up for a set.”

Joshua put on a neutral expression. “Good.”

Marie actually laughed, he was being so careful not to hurt her feelings. “You think I waitress for a living? That I’m a dumb
waster girl saving up tips and dreaming of better days?”

“Er… no.”

“I waitress here in the evenings because it’s the place the starship crews come. This way I get to hear of any openings before
the rest of Durringham. And yes there are the tips, too, every little helps. But for real money I bought myself a secretarial
job at the Kulu Embassy, in their Commercial Office.”

“Bought a job?” Warlow rumbled. His sculpted dark-yellow face was incapable of expression, but the voice booming from his
chest diaphragm carried a heavy query. People turned to look as he drowned out the ballad.

“Of course. You think they give away a gig like that? The embassy pays its staff in Kulu pounds.” It was the second hardest
currency in the Confederation after fuseodollars. “That’s where I’m going to get the money to pay for my neural nanonics.”

“Ah, now I see.” Joshua raised his glass in salute. He admired the girl’s toughness—almost as much as he admired her figure.

“That, or the deputy ambassador’s son might get me off,” Marie said quietly. “He’s twenty-two, and he likes me a lot. If we
married then obviously I’d go back to Kulu with him once his father’s tour was over.”

Ashly grinned and knocked back some of his fruit juice. A suspect grumble emerged from Warlow’s chest.

Marie gave Joshua a questioning glance. “So. Do you still want your mayope, Captain?”

“You think you can get me some?”

“Like I said, I work in the Commercial Office. And I’m good at it, too,” she said fiercely. “I know more about this town’s
economic structure than my boss. You’re buying your cargo from Dodd Purcell, right?”

“Yes,” Joshua said cautiously.

“Thought so; he’s the nephew of the governor’s industrial secretary. Dodd Purcell is a complete screwup, but he’s a good partner
for his uncle. All official tenders for timber go through the company he owns, except it’s actually his uncle’s, and all it
consists of is an office down at the port. They don’t actually own a yard, or even any timber. The LDC pays through the nose,
but nobody queries it because no lower quotes ever make it past the industrial secretary’s office. All that happens is Purcell
contracts a real lumberyard to supply whatever project the LDC is paying for; they do all the work while he and uncle cream
off thirty per cent. No effort, and all profit.”

Warlow’s chair creaked alarmed protests as his bulk shifted round. He tilted the brandy glass to his mouth aperture, the brightlime
surged out, almost sucked down into his inlet nozzle. “Smart bastards.”

“Jesus,” Joshua said. “And I’ll bet the price goes up tomorrow.”

“I expect so,” Marie said. “And then again the day after, then it will become a rush order to meet your deadline, so you’ll
have to pay a surcharge.”

Joshua put his empty glass down on the stained table. “All right, you win. What’s your counter-offer?”

“You are paying Purcell thirty-five thousand fuseodollars, which is about thirty per cent over the odds. I’m offering to put
you in touch with a lumber-yard direct, they’ll supply the wood at the market rate, and you pay me five per cent of the difference.”

“Suppose we just go to a lumber-yard direct now you’ve told us what’s happening?” Ashly asked.

Marie smiled sweetly. “Which one? Are you going back to the Governor’s industrial secretary for a list? Once you’ve picked
one, do you know if it was burnt down in the riots? Where is it, and how do you get to it? Parts of this town are very unhealthy
for visitors, especially after the riots. Does it have that much mayope in stock or is the owner stringing you along? What
are you going to use to transport it out to the spaceport? And how much time can you spend sorting all that out? Even a relatively
honest lumber-yard owner is going to catch on that you’ve got a deadline once you start fretting because you haven’t got permits
and procedures smoothed out in advance. I mean, God, it took you almost a day to hire a McBoeing. Bet you didn’t buy energy
for it either, they’ll hit you for that tomorrow. And when they scent blood it’ll be Purcell all over again.”

Joshua held up a warning hand to Ashly. Nobody at the spaceport had mentioned energy for the McBoeing. Jesus! On a normal
planet it would be part of the charter; and of course he couldn’t use his neural nanonics to access the contract and run a
legal program check because his copy of the fucking thing was printed out on paper.
Paper
, for Christ’s sake. “I’ll deal with you,” he told Marie. “But I only pay on delivery to orbit, and that includes your fee.
So you’re going to have to clear all those obstacles you mentioned out of our way, because I don’t pay a single fuseodollar
once those six days are up.”

She stuck out her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation Joshua shook.

“We’re sleeping in my spaceplane, seeing as how it has the only functional air-conditioner on the entire planet,” he told
her. “I want you there at seven o’clock tomorrow morning ready to take us to this lumber-yard of yours.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” She stood and picked up her tray.

Joshua pulled a wad of Lalonde francs from his jacket pocket and peeled a few off. “We’ll have the same again, and have a
large one yourself. I think you’ve just earned it.”

Marie plucked the notes from him and stuffed them in a side pocket on her skirt. She gave them all a ludicrously sassy twitch
with her backside as she walked off to the bar.

Ashly watched her go with a lugubrious expression, then drained his juice in one gulp. “God help that ambassador’s son.”

Darcy and Lori spent the day after the riots preparing for their trip. There was Kelven Solanki to brief on the situation,
and their eagles Abraham and Catlin to take out of zero-tau, equipment to make ready. Above all, they had to find transport.
The harbour-master’s office had been damaged in the riot, so there was no list available of the boats in dock. In the afternoon
they sent the eagles skimming over the polyp rings searching for something they could use.

What do you think?
Darcy asked. Abraham was turning lazy circles over harbour seven, his enhanced retinas providing an uncluttered image of
the boats moored up against the quays.

Them?
Lori exclaimed in dismay.

Have you found someone else?

No.

At least we know we can bully them with money.

The port still hadn’t recovered from the riot when they made their way down to harbour seven first thing the next morning.
Huge piles of ashes which used to be buildings were still radiating heat from their smouldering cores, giving off thin streamers
of acrid smoke. Long runnels of mushed ashes meandered away from their bases, sluiced out by the rain; they had coagulated
under the morning sunlight, looking like damp lava flows.

Gangs of workers were raking through the piles with long mayope poles, searching for anything salvageable. They passed one
ruined transients’ warehouse where a stack of cargo-pods had been pulled from the gutted remains, the warped composite resembling
surrealistic sculptures. Darcy watched a forlorn family prise open a badly contorted mar-supium shell with deep scorch marks
on the oyster-coloured casing. The infant quadruped had been roasted in its chemical sleep, reduced to a shrivelled black
mummy. Darcy couldn’t even tell what species it was.

Lori had to turn away from the empty-faced colonists scrabbling at the pods’ distorted lids, shiny new ship-suits smeared
with dirt and sweat. They had come to Lalonde with such high hopes, and now they were faced with utter ruin before they’d
even been given a chance at a life.

This is awful,
she said.

This is dangerous,
Darcy replied.
They are numbed and shocked now, but that will soon give way to anger. Without their farmsteading gear they can’t be sent
up-river, and Rexrew will be hard pushed to replace it.

It wasn’t all burnt,
she said sorrowfully. The afternoon and evening of the riot there had been a steady stream of people walking past the Ward
Molecular warehouse carrying pods and cartons of equipment they had looted.

They walked round harbour seven until they came to the quay where the
Coogan
was moored. The ageing tramp trader was in a dilapidated state, with holes in its cabin roof and a long gash in the wood
up at the prow where it had struck some snag. Len Buchannan had only just managed to get out of the harbour ahead of the rioters,
flinging planks from the cabin walls into the furnace hopper in his desperation.

Gail Buchannan was sitting in her usual place outside the galley doorway, coolie hat shading her sweating face, a kitchen
knife almost engulfed by her huge hand. She was chopping some long vegetable root, slices falling into a pewter-coloured pan
at her feet. Her eyes fastened shrewdly on Darcy and Lori as they stepped onto the decking. “You again. Len! Len, get yourself
out here, we’ve got visitors. Now, Len!”

Darcy waited impassively. They had used the Buchannans as an information source in the past, occasionally asking them to pick
up fleks from assets upriver. But they had proved so unreliable and cranky, Darcy hadn’t bothered with them for the last twenty
months.

Len Buchannan walked forward from the little engine-room, where he’d been patching the cabin walls. He was wearing jeans and
his cap, a carpenter’s suede utility belt hanging loosely round his skinny hips, with only a few tools in its hoops.

Darcy thought he looked hungover, which fitted the talk he’d heard around the port. The
Coogan
had hit hard times of late.

“Have you got a cargo to take upriver?” Darcy asked.

“No,” Len said sullenly.

“It’s been a difficult season for us,” Gail said. “Things aren’t like they used to be. Nobody shows any loyalty these days.
Why, if it wasn’t for us virtually giving our goods away half of the settlements upriver would have starved to death. But
do they show any gratitude? Ha!”

“Is the
Coogan
fit to be taken out?” Darcy asked, cutting through the woman’s screed. “Now? Today?”

Len pulled his cap off and scratched his head. “Suppose so. Engines are OK. I always service them regular.”

“Of course it’s in tiptop shape,” Gail told him loudly. “There’s nothing wrong with the
Coogan
’s hull. It’s only because this drunken buffoon spends all his time pining away over that little bitch-brat that the cabin’s
in the state it is.”

Len sighed irksomely, and leant against the galley doorframe. “Don’t start,” he said.

“I knew she was trouble,” Gail said. “I told you not to let her on board. I warned you. And after all we did for her.”

“Shut up!”

She glared at him and resumed slicing up the cream-white vegetable.

“What do you want the
Coogan
for?” Len asked.

“We have to get upriver, today,” Darcy said. “There’s no cargo, only us.”

Len made a play of putting his cap back on. “There’s trouble upriver.”

“I know. That’s where we want to go, the Quallheim Counties.”

“No,” Len Buchannan said. “Sorry, anywhere else in the tributary basin, but not there.”

“That’s where
she
came from,” Gail hissed venomously.

“That’s what you’re afraid of.”

“There’s a bloody war going on up there, woman. You saw the boats with the posse leaving.”

“Ten thousand fuseodollars,” Gail said. “And don’t you two try haggling with me, that’s the only offer you’ll get, I’m starving
myself as it is. I’ll take you up on my own if Lennie’s too frightened.”

If that’s starvation, I’d like to see gluttony,
Darcy said.

“This is my boat,” Len said. “Made with my own hands.”

“Half yours,” Gail shouted back, waving the knife at him. “Half! I have a say too, and I say
Coogan
is going back to the Quallheim. If you don’t like it, go and cry in her skirts if she’ll have you. Drunken old fool.”

If this is the way they carry on, they’ll kill each other before we get out of the harbour,
Lori said. She watched Len staring at the burnt-out sections of the port, his brown weathered face lost with longing.

“All right,” he said eventually. “I’ll take you to the mouth of the Quallheim, or as near as we can get. But I’m not going
anywhere near the trouble.”

“Fair enough,” Darcy said. “How long will it take us at full speed?”

“Going upriver?” Len closed his eyes, lips moving around figures. “Without stopping to trade, ten or twelve days. Mind, we’ll
have to moor in the evenings, and cut logs. You’ll have to work your passage.”

“Forget that,” Darcy said. “I’ll have some firewood delivered this afternoon, enough to get us there in one go; we can store
it in the forward hold instead of a cargo. And I’ll spell you at night, I don’t need much sleep. How long travelling like
that?”