Bloodhype (17 page)

“You are bluffing. You are not the type to welcome suicide.”

“Commander, I invited it by coming here! If you want other proof, you can find out real quick.”

Parquit did not make Commander by hesitating in awkward situations. “All right. I grant your sanctuary.”

“Swear by your Shell and The-Sand-That-Shelters-Life.”

Parquit made the AAnn equivalent of a smile. Naturally he did not bare his teeth. “You are a knowledgeable rogue, soulless Lord.” The Commander lowered his voice, rumbled through the archaic hisses and croaks of the ancient oath.

“There. Are you satisfied?”

“You forgot the sealing of the membrane and the last three wind atonings.”

“A simple test, man. Compliments.” This time Parquit did it properly. It was impressive.

Rose nodded when the AAnn had finished. He turned, set the case down on the floor. Arris winced involuntarily when the man took his hand from the handle. Rose turned back to face them.

“You were bluffing, of course,” said Parquit.

“Don’t let the either-or keep you awake nights, Commander.” Rose looked around, helped himself to an awkwardly shaped chair.

“I might say that any being who deals in bloodhype is a living scab to all AAnn as well as to your own race.”

“Insults are a sad way to begin a long relationship, Commander. Besides, I’ve heard them all already.”

Chatham Kingsley’s island-home, Wetplace, reflected wealth—new wealth, as opposed to traditional inherited types. Kingsley could have built an old-Terra type baronial mansion (they were currently in style). But he eschewed the false reproduction and opted instead for the maximum in modern convenience. This left a good portion of the island’s interior for a wilderness garden. Most of the necessary business edifices, such as warehousing, were built offshore on a complex of struts, pylons, and floating platforms.

The central residence consisted of a single tower, which rose some 50 meters into the air while plunging an equal distance into sea and bedrock, on the side where the island fell off steeply into the shallow sea.

The island thus remained almost entirely in a virgin state. The natural profusion of greenery was encouraged by judicious additions of organic fertilizers, powerful plant foods, and professional verdurement. Thick cycads, ferns, sporophytes and horsetails grew to the waterline, dipping graceful fronds into the slightly salty tideflow. In some places they even mingled with the sea-plants which grew sunwards from the seabottom, forming an unbroken wall of green against which water lapped viscously.

The Tower itself was constructed of parallel vertical bands of a coppery bronze alloy and panes of opaque black glass.

Takaharu guided the raft among the few small commercial craft which plied the artificial harbor. They headed towards a single long, floating dock. An anchored walkway led towards the Tower.

Mal glanced at the console. “All right, Maijib. You can acknowledge their calls now.” Since Kingsley was overtly legitimate, they could expect to approach his property closely without fearing the gift of a missile or mine. But now at least a cursory greeting was in order.

The first mate flipped on the comm. Immediately a harried voice filled the cabin. It was also officious and slightly bellicose.

“ . . . a private residence! Identify yourselves, please! This area is defined as . . .’

Hammurabi leaned over the mike for the second time in two days. “Malcolm Hammurabi, Captain-owner of the free freighter
Umbra,
and First Mate, along with Lieutenants United Church Kitten Kai-sung and Porsupah, and engineer Philip . . . Philip . . .” Mal glanced back at the lanky youngster. In all this time he hadn’t thought to ask the fellow’s last name.

“Lynx,” the engineer replied.

“ . . . Philip Lynx, to see merchant-trader Chatham Kingsley, and is the old S.O.B. at home or not?”

“I beg your modification, Captain! I might inform you that . . .”

“Never mind, Hulen,” a cultured, even voice broke in.

“Yes sir,” the unlucky Hulen replied. He sounded subdued. The voice returned.

“Is that you, Hammurabi? This is the old S.O.B. himself. What brings you down from orbit? I thought you hated anything over half a gee. Your credit, in full, has already been transceived to your ship’s account on Terra. I’d have thought you’d have checked on that long ago.”

“I did. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Well, then?”

“I’m peeved, Kingsley, peeved.”

“And presumably I’m the one who’s peeved you, eh? All right, come on up. Or down, rather. And bring your friends with you. We’ll see if we can’t unpeeve you.”

Firm as its footing in the sloping
Pecces
was, the wide delivery-way shifted slightly under their feet with the action of the tide. A human butler met them at the entrance to the black and gold structure.

“The master awaits you in the viewing room, sirs and lady. The sixteenth level.” The elegantly appointed servant directed them to a room-sized elevator. It was more than large enough to hold them all comfortably. Kitten depressed the stud marked 16 and the lift started to move.

“Feels like we’re moving downwards,” said Porsupah.

“I sense so too,” Philip added.

“The building is half below sea level,” Mal informed them. “I’ve never been here myself, but I’m acquainted with the schematics for storage reasons.” He indicated the lights over the front door. Number 18 had just winked out and 17 on.

“We entered at midpoint—about the 20th floor.” The door slid back silently. He stepped out into an enormous, unfamiliar room. It had a concave ceiling and was crescent shaped. The elevator shaft formed its apex.

The far wall was entirely glass. It revealed a breathtaking panorama of the sea floor that disappeared in a turquoise haze. Fish and sea mammals swam lazily back and forth in front of the glass, catching the sunlight which filtered down through the clear water. Some clustered around feeding platforms. A number differed sufficiently from the familiar vertebrates to be classed as eye-catching, if not exotic.

No, it was the room’s decor that deserved the latter label. There was no individual furniture. Seats, tables and chairs were formed by rises and depressions in the floor of the room. The entire compartment was covered in a rich, reddish-brown fur. Artificial, but still exorbitantly expensive. The hairs ran as long as five centimeters. The lining—it couldn’t be called a carpet—covered every space: floor, ceiling, walls, everything but that single panoramic window. Like the skin of some misshapen behemoth turned inside out. They were in the belly of a dream.

“Fascinating concept,” Kitten whispered. “Kind of like being inside a marsupial’s pouch.”

“A fine analogy, Miss Kai-sung,” boomed a voice from near the window.

Chatham Kingsley reclined on a low, fur-covered platform. He was shorter than any of them, with the exception, of course, of Porsupah. A good three centimeters shorter than Mal or Kitten. He affected a blond crewcut, a short, thick brush mustache, and a gold and topaz ring in one ear. Angular cheekbones, a pointed chin, Roman nose, and falsely innocent china-blue eyes completed the face. A curious mixture of putty and flint. The mind behind the baby-eyes was at least that hard—a fact which Kingsley’s ever-polite chatter strove to obscure.

“Well Malcolm, you arrived in time for lunch, anyway. Sit yourselves down, all of you. I’ve instructed the cook appropriately.”

“I’m afraid, Chatham, that there are a few things that are more important than—”

‘”Hold on,” said Kitten. “Porsupah and I haven’t had anything but a few scraggly canapes and fish sandwiches in the past 36 hours. At the moment,
nothing
is more important than lunch.”

“I myself have no intention,” added Porsupah, his eyes glued to the subterranean scene, “of staring at all those delightful and no doubt edible swimmers without taking a bite of something. Your obviously well-nourished bulk not excepted, Captain.”

“So we accept your invitation,” finished Kitten firmly. She stared challengingly at Mal, who sighed deeply and chose not to fight back.

“Marvelous! Bless you, my dear. Miss Kai-sung, wasn’t it?”

“Call me Kitten.”

“And you must call me Chatham, yes. Are you and your friend—Porsupah is a Tolian calling, I believe—are you really ranked officers in the Church forces? I’ve not seen you around city before.”

“Really and truly we are, Chatham. We’re only temporarily attached to the Rectory in Repler City.”

“A shame. But old Orvenalix’s taste is improving.” The merchant stared at her approvingly.

Kitten turned to Mal. “That settles your question. He’s innocent!” The freighter-captain groaned.

“Innocent?” said Kingsley uncertainly. “Then I am presumed guilty of some wrongdoing?” He shifted to a sitting position on the lounge, looked questioningly at Mal.

“Okay, okay. Let’s eat first, as voted. I confess I’ve been overruled by my innards, also. I’m famished.”

The others were playing with dessert. Mal was cleaning off his fourth leg of Garvual, a large, carnivorous wading bird, when their host cocked an inquiring eye at him. Mal had long since decided that subtlety would be as useful with Kingsley as it had been with Rose. For different reasons. He wiped his hands and mouth with a hot towel, stifled most of a gargantuan belch, and began.

“Chatham, I found a consignment of drugs mixed in with the
Umbra’s
last cargo. That shipment was 92% yours. We completely deshipped at Largess, so I know it came aboard there. It included a significant milling of refined bloodhype. Yes, bloodhype. Nearly pure, I’m told. Also a number of other nasty types, but nothing in jaster’s class. Don’t try and play coy with me. I know you’d be aware of the stuff’s reintroduction onto the market.”

Kingsley tapped delicately about the corners of his mouth with a towel. “It is true I am not entirely uninformed where information concerning trade in this section of the Arm is concerned.” He sat back and folded his hands contentedly over an emerging pot-belly. “Cordials will be forthcoming. Your implication, then, is that I am somehow involved in this traffic?”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Why wouldn’t you be? You live conveniently close to Dominic Rose, who we know is responsible for distributing the stuff.”

“We live on the same planet, that’s true.”

“This is too serious for sarcasm, Chatham.”

“Pomposity invites sarcasm.”

“Okay. Look, modern transport reduces a planet to nothing, distancewise. Your contacts are broader than his, better established, legitimate across the lanes, and have strong financial support. With his illegal connections, the two of you are logical partners in an enterprise capable of pulling astronomical profits.”

“I’d heard rumors that it was that old reprobate who’d been transshipping the stuff, but there was no way to confirm any of them. He covers himself too well. Or did, apparently. You’re wrong on several counts.

“For openers, much as I respect Rose’s business sense and his ability to handle complex transactions across parsecs with a maximum of secrecy, I personally hate his guts. That would put a crimp in any relationship of needs founded on complete trust. Second, I’m doing quite well, thank you, trading in legitimate goods. Too well to risk jeopardizing everything for a single line. However profitable. And don’t think I don’t envy him the margin of that trade. I do. Not that I’m averse to handling something a little off-grain, understand. I’m no saint. A respectable stimulant like Kepong, now. The authorities frown on it, but it is not, strictly speaking, under edict.”

“According to whose lawyers,” said Kitten.

“Yes, a point of contention. But while the powers that be debate, I see no harm in making hay while the sun shines, as the saying goes. Wonder what ‘hay’ is? But bloodhype? That’s a little too filthy. A decent gun will kill a man honestly. That stuff eats as it kills. The thing that finally dies isn’t a man anymore. Or whatever race. No, no. Absolutely not.”

“What about your son?” broke in Philip. He’d finally turned away from a close inspection of the window view.

Kingsley swiveled in surprise. “Russell? My son, I fear, is not interested in anything remotely indicative of work. He is averse to business in all its manifestations, excepting his allowance.” The merchant sighed. “A deficiency which I fear I encourage overmuch.”

“Among other things,” Kitten said flatly.

“You’ve met him then, Kitten?”

“Briefly. Twice.”

“I’m not surprised.” The trader helped himself to a flagon of imported honey-pollen brandy from Calm Nursery. A second human servant had arrived with a rolling cart of drinkables. Clearly, people were still regarded as a status symbol on Repler. Porsupah opted for a tall bottle of Bitterind, a common mixer, and poured himself a straight glass.

“Yes, Russell would hardly miss a new arrival arranged like yourself, Kitten.” The trader chuckled. “The lad’s a terror with the ladies, I’m told.”

“Chatham,” began Kitten, “you don’t know the half of it. Matter of fact—”

Mal interrupted hastily. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Chatham . . .”

Porsupah put a restraining paw on Kitten’s arm, felt the tensed muscles relax. “Softly treading now, smooth-skin. The other is clearly not present. It is bad manners to think of killing the son of one’s host. Especially while drinking with him.”

“Relax, Pors. Obviously if he was around the old boy would have presented him. As for manners, I’m not going to consult a book of etiquette the next time I meet that chap. I’ll be very polite at his funeral.”

“Sssss! Listen, for a change.”

“I’ve as much as given my word on this drug thing,” said Kingsley amiably. “However, if you like, I’ll provide the strongest proof. I will post a bond with an intermediary to the effect that, should I ever be implicated of trafficing bloodhype or any of the commonly fatal drugs, you will receive thrice your payment for this last shipment—from my estate, if need be.”

“A grand gesture, Chatham. You almost convince me. I’ll take that offer. You’d better hope no one tries to frame you.”

Kingsley chuckled. “On the day someone manages that, I will hire in with an AAnn consortium as kitchen inspector. The bond will be drawn up tonight. By tomorrow morning it will be posted with the central exchange computer here and at annexes on Terra and Hivehom.”