SEVENTEEN
On port
Barbit
THREE-AND-A-HALF CANS were full of the Lightest cargo Dancer had carried since—well, ever, if Cantra’s understanding of her pedigree was correct. Not that Garen had ever actually come out and said she’d killed a sheriekas agent and took their ship for her own. Garen hadn’t said much as a general thing, and when she did, more’n half of it didn’t make sense. The bits that did make sense, though, had outlined a history that would have broken stronger minds than hers by the time she came to work as a courier for the Institute.
Come with me, now, baby. You gotta get clear, get clear, hear me? Pliny’s gone and struck a teacher. Now, I said! You think I’m gonna let you die twice?
Cantra shook her head. The memories were getting worrisome, popping up on their own like maybe there was some urgent lesson embedded in the past that she was too stupid to learn. She had a serious case of the soft-brains, that was what, though she’d never heard it cited among the faults of her line. On the other hand, there’d been Pliny.
She’d have given a handful of flan to know how Rint dea’Sord had uncovered his info—and another handful to learn how Dulsey had gained her own and independent judgement of the situation.
All Garen’s care. All those years. And the directors must have been sure she’d died in the edlin, along with the rest of her line. If they’d thought for an instant there were any survivors—
She took a hard breath and forcefully banished that run of thinking. Life ain’t dangerous enough, you got to think up bogies to scare yourself with?
Deliberately, she focused on the here-and-trade, doing a mental inventory of the filled cans. Jela’d shown himself to be good about not grabbing extra room for “his” part, though she certainly didn’t begrudge him his space—especially when he had such a knack for the felicitous buy. They’d hit five worlds so far, slowly trading their way from In-Rim to the Far Edge, specifically not attracting attention, according to Jela, and they’d come in to more than one port with exactly what was in high demand.
Two of those lucky buys had been hers, if she wanted to be truthful—and if she wanted to continue the theme, she was finding the trade—the honest trade—interesting. She was even getting used to wearing the leathers of a respectable trader on-port, rather than pilot’s ‘skins.
Almost, she thought, I could go legit.
Don’t want to get too high-profile, baby, Garen whispered from the past. Don’t want to cast a shadow on the directors’ scans. . . .
Right.
So, the trade, for now. Despite they had a good mix, there was still an empty quarter-can with her name on it. She could take a random odd lot, but there was still some time to play with and she wanted to do better than random, if she could.
Trouble was, nothing on offer in the main hall had called out for her to buy.
Shrugging her shoulders to throw off some of the tension of unwanted memories, she moved out of the main hall, heading toward what was the most boring part of any trade hall—the day-broker room. Odd how that was, ‘cause on almost any vid feed of market action the image most shown was this: A couple rows of tiny booths, tenants wearing terminal-specs or half-masks, with four or five keyboards and three microphones in front of them. Day-brokers. Made an honest gambler look sane and saintly, and a dishonest gambler look smart.
Day-brokers bought and sold at speed all day long, breaking lots, building lots, mixing cargo in and out. They were willing to sell down to handfuls, or discounted stuff that needed delivery two shifts before a ship could possibly get there.
Some of them were desperate, most made a living. A few were unspeakably rich—or would be, if they survived long enough to enjoy their earnings. Day-traders didn’t often quit, though—it appeared that those who took to the trade at all found it addictive. What the attraction was, Cantra had never been able to figure.
They stuffed themselves into booths barely wider than their seats, with risers overhead or behind proclaiming names or specialities or preferences; some even had small bowls of trust-me smoke, or gave away candy, or free-look vids for the senses, just stop and say hello . . .
Hard to know what might be found, hard to figure which booth to call the start. Some of the brokers were pay-box pretty, some just plain sloppy. Some looked liked what they were: Rich and bored and bored by getting richer—
And then there were the ones who paid attention to passersby, so the room was near as noisy as a livestock market.
“Pilot, what can we . . .”
“If you have three cans empty I can . . .”
“Only sixteen cubes and you ought to triple your money . . .”
“Go ahead, pass by! Pass up cash, pass by . . .”
“Sector fifteen or sixteen, I’ll pay you, quick trans-ship . . .”
“Guaranteed to . . .”
She slowed, ran the sounds back through her head and turned. The skinny, bearded, bejeweled man smiled and repeated the magic words, “Guarantee, Trader? We can . . .”
She hand-signed him off, watching the hope fade on his face even as his hands jumped between keyboards, and he muttered into a mike tangled in his beard—
“That’s a sell to you, and theft it is. Forty percent . . .”
Cantra drifted back a couple paces, glanced up for an ID—which was an overhead banner with a blue light flashing first around a circle, then through, then back around.
Interesting design.
“I can pay you before lift,” the broker was saying to a couple of traders who had come up and paused, maybe also lured by the promise of a “guarantee.”
“Credits,” the broker crooned, “gems, fuel rights . . .”
He wore a head-ring with a short visor, and she guessed he was reading info from that even as he appeared fully interested in the traders before him.
Interesting design, that.
The elder of the two traders said something Cantra couldn’t pick out of the general ruckus. The day-broker whipped out a card and handed it over extravagantly. Ah, a fumble there—too many cards. The younger trader had his hand out, though, and neatly caught the extra as it fluttered away. He returned it; the other card disappeared into big hands. A nod, smiles all around, and the traders moved on, the broker carefully tucking the extra card away . . .
The day-broker looked at her now, even as he mumbled into his mike, “Live, seventeen, drop orders five-five and five-six, pay the penalty and get it off my dock.”
“Now, Trader,” he said pleasantly. “A profit before you start interest you? I have goods that need moving. I’ll pay you up-front to load, and you’ll get a delivery bonus from the consignee as well. I have . . .” He paused, squinting slightly as he apparently read the info off his visor—
“Double can loads transhipping to most Inward sectors, I have three one-can loads needing to transit the Arm, I have fifteen half-can loads going regionally including some transships, I have three half-can loads going Inward, one going to the Mid-Rim. I have one-quarter can transshipping to Borgen, I have . . .”
“Pay up-front can always sound good,” she admitted, while trying to place the man, his accent, or his type. It wasn’t that he looked familiar, but that he didn’t look familiar at all.
“Indeed, it can. Are you a rep for another, or do your own trades?”
“Indy,” she nodded, “with a partial can needs filling. You got a hardcopy list of what-and-where I can peer at so I . . .”
“The trades move so quickly—but, I hardly need tell you, do I?—there is no hardcopy list, but if you can merely give me an idea of your direction I’m sure we can . . .”
A flash of something odd went across the man’s face, his voice stumbled, and she felt rather than saw Jela at her side.
“Pardon, Broker,” he said, over loud even in this loud place, “I’m afraid the trader’s attention is needed elsewhere immediately.”
She turned, sudden, and felt the pressure of Jela’s knee on her leg. While not offensive of itself, the sheer audacity of it surprised her, as did the near fawning line of nonsense that came out of his mouth.
“Trader, I swear, this isn’t just jitters this time. There’s a problem, and you’re needed! Quickly, before—”
Her gut tightened, thinking it might be real and there was active danger to her ship—but there was Dulsey on-board and watching, and the talkie in her belt hadn’t beeped. And Jela looked serious, damn him. Which meant nothing at all.
“Broker,” she called, holding out hand, “your card? As soon as I—”
“Now, Trader!” Jela cried, and she caught the quick flutter of fingers at belt level, read touch not jettison flee just before he dared to take her arm . . .
“I return!” she called to the broker, over Jela’s continued babble. “Trader, I’m sorry. Broker, my pardons. Trader . . .” and followed his insistent tug.
JELA’S BACK WAS not what Cantra wanted to see right now, nor did she intend to watch him walk in those damned tight leathers he preferred for his dock-side rambles. Since she wasn’t going to run to catch him, the best thing she could do was try to cut him off when they turned the corner—
But that quick he spun about, fingers fluttering low like he thought someone might have a microphone or a camera pointed in their direction.
Next right quick time. Left and left. Safe corner door.
She snapped a two-finger assent and he took off again like there was an emergency at the end of the walk.
They made the door right quick at the pace he set, and then out into the wide common hall that acted like a street in this section of port, and she did have to stretch her legs a bit to keep up. How he made it look easy to move quite so fast without drawing attention to himself was—
He signaled that he was slowing, and she caught up to walk at his side.
“I was about to finish settling the cargo for that last quarter-can,” she said, letting it sound as irritated as she felt. “This better be a quick answer . . .”
“Is. That’s a really bad place to be getting involved with.”
“What, you think picking up an extra bit of cash is going to hurt us? You must have more credit than I know about.”
Jela looked her full in the face as he strode on, and the look was so full of genuine concern that it shocked her.
“What I can tell you is, best analysis, that man’s operation runs at a loss, and he’s been running it for the better part of a long-term lease. It’s a loss,” he added quietly, “that would keep you in wine and boys for the rest of your life.”
She thought about that through the next six steps, then brought her hand up, fingers forming repeat?
Jela sighed and slowed his pace again.
“About what I can say is he’s on a really quiet watch list. Looks like he must be selling IDs, shipping info out to—somewhere. Part of the reason there’s no hardcopy is that he’ll send something wherever it is you say you’re going. There’s a pattern—ships he deals with have some problems. Some pilots or traders end up in legal hassles a port or two down link. Some have cargo problems. Some . . . just don’t show up.”
“Legal hassles?” She frowned. “What could he do—”
“Forges contracts. Fakes tape. Fakes DNA seals—or breaks them . . .”
Cantra played the day-broker’s actions over in her head. He’d looked straight—nothing had smelled wrong to her, with her highly developed nose for trouble. And those two traders who—
“Damn.” She shot a glance at Jela. “Breaks DNA seals? How, do you know?”
He finger-waggled something that might have been captain’s knowledge, and gave a short and barely audible laugh before waving his hands meaninglessly, and chanting lightly, “Lore of the troop, Pilot. Lore of the troop.”
She harumphed at that, then had to do a quick half-step to get back onto his pace.
“So, why’re we in a hurry?”
“Can’t tell if he sent a runner after us or not, yet.”
“Runner? For what? And if he’s so bad, why’s he still in business?”
“Second son of the second spouse of the ruling house.”
He almost sang it—she wondered if this was another one of his seemingly endless store of song-bits.
“For real?” she asked.
“Close enough for our purposes. I expect the locals think he’s spying for them.”
“If he is, he’s good and I hope they pay him what he’s worth. Look, I didn’t sign nothing, but I saw him stash a card a trader handled . . .”
“Right. Doesn’t take much if you’re not careful. But, I think all we need to do is act like you solved the problem your idiot junior couldn’t, and then got busy. So, let’s get busy. Buy you a drink?”
Some days, she wondered what Jela’s head was stuffed with. Other days, she was pretty certain it was ore.
“What about that quarter-can that needs filling?” she asked him. “Besides, the last time we ate together in public, we had a bit of trouble.”
“Nope. We had a good meal, and nice wine. I still think about that.”
She shot him a glance, but he was busily scanning the storefronts they were passing, so she didn’t know how she should take that. Hard to figure him, anyway.
She glanced over at him again, and saw his face brighten like he’d spotted a treasure.
He looked at her, grinning. “Really—are you up for a big helping of brew and a quiet lift-off in the morning? If worse comes to worse, that pod ought to be able to suck in some air . . .”
That was a point she hadn’t considered, and it was true. The next step out was a station where they could probably sell excess air, and they could run up the pressure in the can pretty good without hurting a thing.
“You think like a trader, for all you got soldier writ all over you.”
He gave a short laugh.
“Call me a soldier if you like, but tell me if you want a brew before we walk by the place!”
“Sure,” she said, thinking that a beer would taste good, and if there was trouble at the ship, Dulsey would call.
“Wait . . .” she said, blinking at the bar they were on approach for.
“It’s here,” said Jela, and there was an under note of something excited in his voice, “or buy a ride back to the ship, I think. This is the last place on port they’ll send a runner, if they’ve got any sense at all.”
If the day-broker sent a runner at all, which wasn’t proven, or in Cantra’s opinion, likely.
She stopped on the walk, looking carefully at the doubtful exterior of the place Jela proposed for a quiet brew and a wait-out. It was decorated in antique weapons in improbable colors, the names of famous battles scrawled in half-a-dozen different scripts and languages across what looked to be blast-glass windows.
One Day’s Battle was written a little larger than the rest, in red lumenpaint . . .
“You want me to go into a soldier’s bar? One Day’s Battle sounds kinda rough for a friendly drink . . .”
He grinned. “Too rough for you, Pilot?” he asked, and then, before she could decide if she wanted to get peeved or laugh, he continued.
“It’s the title of a drinking song long honored by several corps. I’m sure you can hold your own, Pilot—don’t you think?”
Well, yeah, she did think, and she’d done it a few times in her wilder youth, but those days were some years back.
“Safest place on port, ship aside,” Jela said, earnestly.
Damn, but the man could be insistent.
She looked down at him, which meant he was that close to her, which he usually kept his distance, and closed her eyes in something like exasperation and something like concentration.
It wasn’t always easy being candid with herself, training or no training, but the boy was starting to get tempting.
Well, she’d not let him hear her sigh about it, but the truth was, she didn’t want him quite that close. Oughtn’t to have him as close as he was, acting like co-pilot and trade partner. She of all people ought to know about acting. Might be a little distance could be got inside, where there’d be noise and distractions for them both.
So she pointed toward the door with a flourish and laid down the rules.
“We split. Any round you buy, I buy the next. Don’t buy a round if you think you can’t walk back to the ship from the next.”
His grin only got wider. Which, Cantra thought resignedly, she might’ve known.
“Wohoa!” he cried, shoving an exuberant fist upward. “Yes—a challenge from my pilot! I’m for it!”
“Sure you are. You break trail.”
He stepped forward with a will—and then stepped back as a pair of tall drunks wandered out, each leaning on the other, which complimentary form of locomotion was suddenly imperilled when the taller of the two tried to stand up straight and bow to Cantra.
“Pretty lady,” he slurred with drunken dignity, “take me home!”
Cantra shot a glance to Jela, but he only laughed, and led the way in.
* * *
DESPITE HER INITIAL misgivings, One Day’s Battle was—on the surface—a fine looking establishment, with a good number of people at tables, not as much noise as one might suppose, and lots of space to relax in. That the overwhelming number of patrons were military was a little unsettling, but nobody seemed to mind the entrance of an obvious civilian.
The place was laid out in three levels. They came in on the top level, and at the far end was a long bar manned by two assistants and a boss. A quick glance showed one of the reasons for the noise level being quite so low—there were a dozen or so noise-cancel speakers set about between levels.
To get to the next level they went down a ramp on the left, with a glass wall about thigh high on Cantra and a good bit higher on Jela; at the end of that ramp was a fan-shaped area with a bar at the wide end, and more empty tables than full. Two additional ramps led still lower, where a crowd was gathered around a big octagonal table.
That big table seemed to be where the action was—from a quick glance between the players, Cantra thought it looked like some kind of gambling sim . . .
Jela, however, was headed for the other side of the room, where he claimed an empty table overlooking the lower levels—including a view of the octagonal table and its denizens.
Cantra followed him more slowly, noting that the seats were more luxurious than those in the bar upstairs, and that the tables were topped with some rich-looking shiny substance. The slight sounds of her footsteps was silenced by springy, noise-absorbing carpet. The lighting, too, was more subdued on this level.
“Officers’ section?” she guessed. “We up to that?”
“Officers’ mess, of sorts,” Jela agreed, “but off-duty, and thus not official. It’ll be just a bit quieter, though, and easier for us to note someone who doesn’t necessarily belong.”
He handed her into a seat, which surprised—then she realized it was proper. Co-pilot sees to the pilot’s comfort first, after all. Too, by slipping her into the seat he chose for her, Jela got the chair with the best view of the entrance ramp, which was a habit she’d noted in him before—and couldn’t much fault. A lot of his habits were like that—couldn’t be faulted if you were a pilot who sometimes walked the wrong side of a line.
Cantra leaned into the seat, realized it was a bit oversized for her. Jela’s legs threatened to dangle, except that he sat forward, leaning his elbows on the table. Cantra could see him reflected in the dark surface; he was staring into it, perhaps looking at her reflection in turn.
Then the table top shimmered, and Jela’s reflection disappeared within the image of a battle sim.
He looked up, grinning wryly.
“Sorry; looks like it’s autostart. This’ll be the battle of the day, is my guess.”
Cantra glanced into the table, recognizing some of the icons, but not all. Frowning, she bent closer—and then looked up as a tall group of soldiers walked by, talking between themselves as they headed for the bar. Their voices was easily audible, despite all the sound-proofing, and she frowned even more. It wasn’t what they were saying that bothered her as much as the fact that she couldn’t pick words out of the sentence flow—and that the sentence flow itself was—off-rhythm for any of the many languages, dialects, and cants she spoke . . .
Losing your edge, she told herself and tapped the top of the table, drawing Jela’s attention.
“Why is this here?” she asked.
“Ah. Anyone who wants to—and who has credit enough—can play against the sim. Most prefer, as you see, to use the large table downstairs, but some of us like our comfort, and some prefer only to watch.
“This particular sim is of a battle fought some time back, so there’s always a chance that someone in the crowd may have studied—and come up with something better. Of course someone else who has studied may be sitting at another panel . . . and thus learning may take place—and wagers.”
“Great.” She sat back. “Not sure I’m up to trying to outfight history . . .”
“Sometimes,” he said, his voice sounding oddly distant as some change on the screen caught his attention, “there are battles which ought be re-fought a time or two—mistakes unmade. And some mistakes not made.”
He pointed at the screen, touched some table side control and turned it toward her.
“You see in action exactly such a case. In this battle, a new weapon was all the rage on the side of the blues; and in the actual battle brought the other side to a nearly untenable position very early on. But you see, someone down there—” he pointed to the deepest pit— “who happens to know one of the now-proven weaknesses of this weapon, has attempted an early turning of the lines here and—” he swept his hand to the other edge of the board— “over here.”
He sighed. “This is an easily refutable attempt to win the battle by guile rather than by true force of arms. The sim, if no one else will jump in, will take quite awhile to react, since it is required to work from the actual situation and toward the original goal . . .”
He stared into the screen a moment longer.
“No, foolish Green,” he muttered, “you’ve overcommitted . . .”
Suddenly, he laughed, and folded both arms atop the screen, partially obscuring the play.
“My apologies, Pilot. If this is what the corps is teaching, the Arm is in danger for truth!”
Another pair of uniformed soldiers passed their table just then—faces animated under the gaudy tats—and they, too, walked inside the odd rhythm of a conversation she couldn’t quite grasp.
Cantra looked to Jela, nodding toward the group of them.
“They from around here?” she asked.
“I couldn’t read the insignia . . .”
“Me neither. But I got good ears, and I couldn’t pick up a word they was saying.”
“I was distracted,” he admitted ruefully. “But to answer the question you asked—they are not from ‘around here’ by the look of their tattoos. To answer the question you meant—yes. They feel that they are at home here, and so they speak the language the troop wishes them to speak, which is not one you will likely be familiar with.”
She shifted in the too-big seat—big enough, she realized, for one of the tall soldiers to sit in comfortably—turned around, caught the bartender’s eye, and waved.
“If they’re gonna have tattoos on their faces,” she said to Jela, “and their own language, too, it might be hard for an ordinary citizen to take to ‘em much. If I may be so bold.”
He glanced away for a moment, scanning the room, she thought, then looked back to her with a slight lift of one shoulder.
“See for yourself. There are groups of those wearing tattoos, and there are groups of those not wearing tattoos. There are some solitary examples of each. You, I expect, will be perceptive enough to follow on these observations and . . .”
“Right. What I see is that there’s only one place where you can see both tats and no-tats together . . .”
She completed her scan of the room; looked back at him, indicating condition is with her free hand as she watched a rowdy bunch striding down the ramp to the big board.
“Condition is they ain’t what you’d want to call together down there, they’re competing . . .”
Condition is, he agreed in hand talk as a tall and extremely straight-backed man in what was almost a proper uniform came to their table.
“Comrades,” he began, speaking to Jela, then looked hard at Cantra.
“Comrade and lady,” he corrected himself. “How may we serve you?”
Jela’s face went to that place Cantra categorized as one step from dangerous, and he answered firmly.
“Pilots will do, comrade.”
There was a pause, then a sketch of a salute.
“Pilots,” he agreed amiably enough, “your drink or meal?”
Cantra flashed your choice, and without hesitation Jela told the server, “The local commander’s favorite brew, with a platter of mixed cheeses and breads.”
After a slight pause—but before the question was asked—he added, “That will be a pitcher.”
* * *
IT WAS A BIG pitcher and it was good beer, but for all of that Cantra wasn’t best pleased with her co-pilot being willing to stake out quite so much time at One Day’s Battle at her expense. Her figurative expense, anyway, because he hadn’t had the sense to see that she’d want to be back to the ship as soon as could. How long, after all, did he think this possible-but-not-proven “runner” would look for her?
She’d figured that they’d have a couple glasses . . . but now they’d be looking to about four or five each if she kept to her promise, and by damn she wasn’t gonna not keep to her promise.
The cheese was decent and so was the bread. The beer was more than acceptable, and, unfortunately, so was the company.
“Don’t much care for military art?” Jela asked, correctly reading her reaction to the over-done specimen of same hanging behind the bar.
She moved a shoulder and had another taste of beer.
“Not much in favor of this school, anyway,” she answered. “Could be there’s another?”
He took a couple heartbeats to study the painting.
“Could be. If there is, though, they all learned to paint the same things in the same way.” He reached to the platter and slid a piece of the spicy-hot cheese onto a slip of dark bread.
“What do you find objectionable? If it can be told.”
“Well, leaving aside the subject, the colors are too loud, there’re too few of them, the figures are out of scale and out of proportion . . .” She heard her voice taking on a certain note of passion and cooled it with a sip of beer, waving an apologetic hand at her companion.
“No,” he said, “go on. I’m interested in such things. Call it a hobby.”
“It depends,” Cantra said slowly, “what the art was meant to do. Me saying some certain piece is too garish or too . . . primitive—that has to stand against the question of the intent of the artist. If I was an honest critic—which you’ll see I ain’t—I’d be talking in terms of did yon offender make its point.”
Jela had paused with his glass half-way to his lips, his eyes fixed on her face. As she watched, he turned his head and gave the painting under discussion a long hard stare.
Cantra helped herself to some bread and cheese and wondered what was going through his head.
“I see what you’re saying,” he said at last, and finally had his sip—and another one, too. “I’d never thought of art in terms of intent.” He smiled and his fingers flickered.
Owe you.
“My pleasure,” she said aloud, her eyes drawn down again by the damn sim.
She moved her gaze by an effort of will, only to find Jela absently watching a couple their server would undoubtedly address as ladies wind their artless way down the ramp to the game level.
Neither one was her style, so she found herself looking again at the battle sim and trying to work out the icons and the situation.
Damn, if it was her that was general, she’d’ve realized that turning the battle line wouldn’t really work, on account of the fact that the defenders could use the planet as a shield, and likely they must have had some secret of their own because they were fighting like there wasn’t any particular point—or that the planet wasn’t any more important than any other, which didn’t make all that much sense, since she gathered it was a home world . . .
There was a sound that she realized was Jela’s half-laugh. She glanced up to see a half-smile, too.
“It does grab the attention,” he said, indicating the scene before her. “If you like we can buy into the observer mode . . .”
It was her turn to laugh.
“It’s like trying to ignore somebody messing up their piloting drills. It hurts to see it going so stupid.”
“Oh, you think so, too? I’m assuming you think Blue is . . .”
“I think I could whip Green pretty good if any of the ships I see over here are what they look like.”
His smile grew, and with a flip of a credit chip he bought them the full observer feed. By the time the second pitcher had been delivered, she’d added a bit more to the sim’s takings and bought their table a commentary slot, so they could drop public and private notes to the combatants. Jela’d commented at the time that they might as well go to full combatant, but she’d thought not, and called for another round of bread and cheese.
“You’re absolutely correct,” Jela was saying in all seriousness. “Blue has willingly got themselves set up just about backward now. See, that’s because you came to this fresh, and without benefit of assuming anything. Green did very nearly the same thing in the real war, you know, and—well,” he said, looking at the screen. “Well, I think they’re just about to be toast . . .”
Green was very loud in the pits and apparently sure of a victory by now, and the other side was quiet. Much of the joyful noise was in the language Cantra didn’t know, so she felt sure which side was which.
“Eh,” came a loud voice from the depths, speaking to the whole establishment at once. “And what shall we do now, witnesses?”
“I’d say Green should ask for terms,” Jela suggested to Cantra, as he looked over the rail at the action well below, “and beg that their officers will be allowed to keep their weapons . . .”
As it happened, they agreed on the point, and, it being her turn at the keyboard, Cantra tapped that good advice into the system, which dutifully displayed it on the screens below.
The sounds of joy and laughter from the pit plunged into silence, and in reaction all other conversation in the bar died almost instantly, a order for a double-grapeshot ringing incongruously from the upper bar.
“Madness!” howled the soldier in the game pit. “Who dares? Who dares?”
All stared up from the pit as eyes around the room settled on their spot.
“We can make the door,” Cantra said, putting the keyboard aside, dread rising in her stomach. “You start . . .”
Jela grinned at her and stood, but rather than jumping for the door he leaned over the rail and spoke down into the pit.
“I dare.”
There was a moment of what Cantra believed to be stunned silence, then a minor roar of laughter.
“You dare, little soldier? You? Do you know who you speak to?”
“Yes, I do,” Jela said calmly. “I speak to one whose mouth runs faster than his mind.”
Cantra picked up her beer and had a sip, allowing herself to go back over the brief good time they’d spent. If they survived what was surely coming next, they ought to try it again sometime.
Or maybe not.
“Come down here and tell me that!” howled the soldier in the pit.
Jela laughed.
“No, I needn’t. You’ve heard the truth; it would be the same wherever it was spoke. Go back to your little lost game and . . .”
There was some motion going on, Cantra saw. At the bar, a couple of the servers were pulling breakables back behind the counter, and some of the other soldiers were moving to get a glimpse of the one on the mezzanine who would be getting pulped soon.
Down in the pit, half-a-dozen soldiers were pushing their way out of the crowd ‘round the game table and heading for the ramp.
Jela looked at Cantra and spoke low and quick.
“You’ll likely see blood. If you see too much of it is mine, it will be time for you to leave.”
“Not a chance,” she said. “If you’re gonna break up the bar, I want my share of the fun, too.”
He grinned at her, more than half-feral, and there was a gleam of anticipation in the black eyes.
The soldier from the pit cleared the upper end of the ramp and strode over to their table, where he stood, breathing hard, his mates not far behind. His right cheek carried a colorful tattoo of a combat whip, throwing sparks—or maybe it was stars—and he looked to be at least twice Jela’s mass.
“You, little soldier.” His snarl suffered somewhat from his ragged breathing. “What do you do here? You have no right to be where real soldiers drink!”
Jela moved, slowly, from the rail toward his antagonist.
“Child,” he said, softly, “I was drinking and fighting before you suckled your first electric tit. Return to your games, or have at me, but please do either before you fall over from breathlessness!”
That looked to do it, thought Cantra dispassionately, if what Jela wanted was a fight. The first closing ought to be coming soon, if she was reading the big soldier right, and—
It might have been a sound that warned her—she didn’t know herself.
Whatever, her hand was in the air, snatching the incoming by its handle and swinging it down onto the table with a thump. Jela’s glass jumped and fell over, spilling beer onto what was left of the cheese and bread.
She turned in her chair; spotted the offender three tables back.
“Fair fight is fair,” she yelled to the room in general, “but this—” she hefted the would-be missile— “this is a waste of beer!”
She held the pitcher up for all to see, and there were chuckles. The boy who’d come to pulp Jela was standing uncertain, his hands opening and closing at his sides.
Cantra waved the pitcher in the direction of the man who’d attempted to blind-side Jela.
“Bartender,” she sang out, “that soldier’s pitcher is empty and he’ll pay for a refill. He’ll pay for a refill for us, too!”
There was a hush then, but came a voice from behind the bar.
“Yes, Pilot. Immediately!”
There was some outright laughter then, and the chief antagonist dismissed his would-be champion with a wave of a long, improbably delicate hand.
“I need no help against this old midget.” And to Jela: “Fool. I will show you . . .”
The bartender appeared, carrying two full pitchers. He placed one in front of Cantra and passed on to leave the second with the sneak.
That done, he stepped back and stood tall, drawing all eyes to him.
“I will personally shoot anyone who pulls a weapon,” he yelled, showing off a what looked like a hand-cannon. “Fatally!”
Jela glanced at Cantra, grinned, and hand-signed seven, six, five . . .
And indeed, on the count, the large soldier came round the table in a rush, seeking, it seemed, to merely fall on—
Jela was gone, not with the expected small sidestep, but with a leap. The soldier whirled, and in doing so faced—no one, for Jela had kept moving, staying behind him. The soldier stopped.
Jela was behind him again, but close.
This time the big soldier expertly swept out a leg, bringing the kick to Jela’s throat—
Which wasn’t there; and then the big man was down, leg jerked out from under him by a twisting form in black leather, in and out.
The soldier was quicker than his size foretold—he rolled and came up, spinning.
The recover put Jela uncomfortably close to the rail, or so Cantra thought, and the big soldier, seeing this same advantage to himself, pressed in. Jela moved—fake, fake, fake, fake, strike the shoulder, bam!
The big soldier bounced off the rail to cheers and moans of the onlookers, coming on in a rush, nothing daunted—and abruptly stopped, stretching deliberately, showing off his size to the crowd. Cantra, at the table, yawned.
The soldier glared at her. “Do I bore you so much? Wait your turn.”
“Tsk.” Jela moved a hand, drawing his opponent’s attention back to himself. “A word of wisdom to the hero-child: Do not threaten my pilot.”
The big soldier smiled. “You are correct. My first quarrel is with you.” He opened his arms, as if offering an embrace. “Now I know your tricks, little one. Just close with me once and it will be over . . .”
Jela danced in slowly, his posture not one of attack, but of calm waiting.
From her ring-side seat, Cantra could see the size of the problem—the big man’s arms were almost as long as Jela’s legs. If Jela couldn’t get a single quick strike in—
She grimaced with half the crowd as the large solider threw a punch toward Jela’s face. There was the inevitable sound of breaking bone and a yowl of pain, and she was out of her chair and three steps toward the action before she realized there was no need.
Jela stood fast, legs braced wide, the big soldier’s right fist in his slowly closing hand. There was no sign of blood on either of them and for a long moment, they were simply frozen in tableau, Jela calmly continuing to close his fingers, the soldier’s mouth open in amazement or agony—then, all of a sudden, he moved, putting every muscle in that long body into a lunge.
Which Jela allowed, dropping the ruined hand and pivoting as the soldier went by him.
The big soldier cuddled his broken hand against his chest, breathing hard. His shoulders dropped, the left hand twitched—
Cantra moved—two steps, slipping the dart gun out of its hideaway inside her vest.
“Pull that, and I’ll shoot your kneecaps off!” she snapped.
The big soldier froze amidst a sudden absolute silence in the bar, which was just as suddenly shattered by the bartender’s shout.
“I cede my board to the pilot!”
“Drop it,” Cantra told the big soldier. “Now.”
Slowly, he opened his hand and a slim ceramic blade fell to the carpet. Jela swept forward and picked it up, then fell back into a crouch, knife ready.
“Good boy,” Cantra said to the wounded soldier, and looked over the crowd, picking out a familiar insignia on two jackets.
“You two—medics! Take care of him!”
They exchanged glances, their faces stunned under the tattoos.
“Are you two med techs or aren’t you?” yelled the bartender. “I told you, the pilot has the board!”
One of the techs ducked her head. “Yes, Pilot,” she mumbled and jerked her head at her mate, both of them moving toward the injured man—pausing on the far side of Jela.
The second medic threw Cantra a glance.
“If the pilot will be certain that the—that the soldier is satisfied?”
Right. Cantra considered the set of Jela’s shoulders and the gleam in his eye, and decided she didn’t blame them for being cautious.
“Jela.” She gentled her voice into matter-of-fact. “Stand down. Fun’s over.”
He didn’t turn his head. She saw his fingers caress the hilt of the captured knife meditatively.
Cantra sighed.
“Co-pilot, you’re wanted at your board,” she said sternly.
Some of the starch went out of the wide shoulders, the knife vanished into sleeve or belt, and Jela took one step aside and turned to face her fully.
“Yes, Pilot,” he said respectfully, with a half salute.
In the pit there was the sound of groaning—and cheering.
On the way out the door Cantra heard someone say, “Never argue with an M . . .”
She’d have to remember that.
THEY WERE IN A cab and on the way back to Dancer when the talkie in Cantra’s belt beeped.
She yanked it free and pressed the button.
“Dulsey? What’s wrong?”
There was a short lag, then the Batcher’s bland voice.
“I only wished to tell you, Pilot, that the delivery from Blue Light Day Broker was taken at my direction to the port holding office. It awaits your signature there.”
Cantra blinked. So Jela’s “runner” wasn’t a play-story, after all, though what the second son could want with her was a puzzle, indeed.
“Your orders, Pilot,” Dulsey said, sounding unsure now, “were not to accept any package or visitor unless it came with you.”
Standing orders, those, and trust Dulsey to stand by them.
“You did fine, Dulsey,” she said into the talkie. “Pilot Jela an’ me’ll be with you in a couple short ones.”
“Yes, Pilot,” the Batcher answered. “Out.”
Cantra looked over to Jela, who was sitting calm and unperturbed next to her.
“Now what?” she said, snapping the talkie onto her belt.
“Leave it,” Jela said. “Somebody whose duty it is to watch that day-trader will show a proper interest, if they haven’t already.”
“Why target me?” she asked, which was a bothersome question, but Jela just shrugged his wide shoulders.
“You talked to him, you looked hungry, you might take the bait,” he said, like it wasn’t anything to worry on. “Man can’t get ahead unless he takes some risks.”
Which she had to allow was true.