Freedom's Ransom (29 page)

“I thought Barevi had everything,” Bazil replied, eyes wide in surprise.

“Not quite
everything
,” Zainal said, laughing and ruffling his son's hair.

“What, for instance?” Peran asked.

“Milk . . .”

“That white stuff you made us drink. The cow's milk? From Kenya?”

“Very nutritious,” Kris said firmly.

“Doesn't it come in cans, too?” Ferris asked.

“It does, but I haven't seen any here in the food stalls,” Kris replied.

“What else?”

“Flour, usually fine ground from wheat or corn.”

“And?” Ferris prompted since Kris's intonation suggested flour was not the final missing ingredient.

“Yeast. Which I haven't ever seen here. Yeast is a leavening, which causes the bread flour to rise in the baking. Similar, I think, to your meal cakes.”

“Meal cakes. Phooey,” Bazil said, having eaten too many under- and overdone meal cakes as a child.

“But you like bread,” Kris countered.

“Botany bread, yes,” Bazil agreed amiably, qualifying his taste.

“Surely we can find a substitute for yeast, and maybe cans of milk,” Ferris said.

“Quite likely,” Zainal replied, noticing Ferris's speculative expression. “But these are not things easily found or . . . acquired.”

Kris rolled her eyes because Ferris was not above proving doubters wrong, and Zainal had probably just piqued him professionally. She devoutly hoped that Ferris would take the hint, and he must have, because he shot her a hurt, accusing look. She wondered whether
she should warn Floss and Clune to reinforce her warning to curb his acquisitive tendencies. On the way to their stalls, she made sure to point out the triangle, where minor market offenses were punished with lashes of a particularly nasty whip. There were no such things as trials or sentences in Barevi. Corporal punishment for infractions of the market laws, like thieving, was swift and did not allow for appeals. While Ferris looked sturdier than Ditsy, his undernourished bones were fragile. She didn't want to think of him under the whip.

THE NEXT MORNING STARTED VERY WELL INDEED, with an impatient clutch of people waiting for them to start serving the coffee. There were even some wanting to trade, and Zainal managed to obtain a palette of truck batteries, a real prize.

Captain Harvey was attempting to repair the damage to the iridium comm sat they had scooped out of the skies above Earth. In her talks with John Wendell, she had learned that many of the satellites the Catteni had damaged could be repaired in situ. The one they had in the BASS-1 needed only the necessary LNB, low-noise block-down converter. They now had the solar replacement vanes that would power the comm sat once it was back in space. They had found two antenna “ears” that had been sliced off, but needed two connecting boards so the individual units of the satellite could exchange information. The controlling mechanism, which Harvey called the mission package, had survived and was operational.

“That's the most delicate of the stuff on board,” Captain Harvey told him. “It'll keep the comm sat in the orbit
where we place it.” She cleared her throat. “Replace it, actually, because it's already programmed to stay in its proper orbit . . . except when Catteni use it for target practice. But then, they have to practice on something, don't they, to keep their edge?”

Harvey could surprise him with some of her wry comments and Zainal tilted an amused expression up to her. He hoped they could find more relatively undamaged comm sats on their return. They also needed to build some from the spare parts in the lower cargo level.

“What're the part numbers for these needful connector boards, Captain?” he asked her, wondering yet again at the greed that had occasioned looters to take such unusable items back to Barevi. The merchants could
not
sell everything: there had to be buyers who wanted the items. Of course, they now had them in Zainal's mission.

She yanked a scrap of paper out of her top pocket and handed it to him. “Got them from the schematics last night.” She aimed the small tool in her hand at a bunch of twisted plastic on the floor. “That's what was left of them, so's you got an idea what you're looking for. Spiders, only you don't have spiders, arachnids, a multi-legged creature, on Barevi, do you? Once I have those to hook the system up, we can test to see if all parts are running. You can see the part numbers, loud and clear.”

“I can?” Zainal cupped his ear, though he suspected she was using one of those maddening vernacular phrases Terrans so enjoyed.

“You're some kidder, Emassi,” she replied with a grin and a waggle of her elbow.

The Terrans had so many of these little sayings, cryptic comments that confused him. It was as well that his sons were being exposed to such verbal wordplay. They would be able to speak Terran very well. So far he was quite pleased with Brone. The young pilot had proved firm with them and had gained their respect. Zainal brought himself sternly back to the work at hand: he must list the numbers for Ferris, in hopes the boy could discover who
owned the relevant storage shed. Zainal had also told Clune and Ditsy to be on the lookout for anyone holding parts with the HCA logo on them and briefed both Natchi and his sidekick, Erbri, a footless man whom Natchi presented as thoroughly trustworthy and who knew every alley in the market. Why didn't the Terrans assign just one worker to the completion of a project, and then one would only need to find the worker and know from which “industry”—the word came to him—he had acquired the original parts? Of course, a single man could not construct an entire spaceship by himself but a comm sat, once the components were collected, would be within a good workman's compass.

So Zainal mused as he passed on the numbers for the connector units, explaining how important they were to Ferris before he resumed his bargaining position. His next client was a burly man named Kierse, a Drassi who had left space for the more secure port life. He had brought with him a list of the items he wished to sell, and Zainal felt a thrill of anticipation as he saw so many HCA listings.

“I do not know what good these Terran bits and pieces will do you, but I have developed a taste for this coffee, and you are apparently in possession of many sacks of the cooked beans. They are ready, I understand, to be ground and filtered.”

“You understand correctly.”

From a pouch Kierse wore on one shoulder, he took out a handful of what Zainal now easily recognized as vacuum-packed plastic sleeves, each containing a bouquet of wires of different colors with tips of different shapes, including several bars of tiny holes on a black plastic strip. As little as Zainal knew about comm sat innards, these looked like the blackened discards that Captain Harvey had pointed to on the floor of the cargo hold. Zainal covered his excitement by asking Floss to fill a cup for Emassi Kierse.

“I am not Emassi,” Kierse said with a twitch of irritation to his lips. “I am but Drassi.”

“You have the manner, however, and should be treated accordingly,” Zainal said graciously, knowing that many Drassi were of the Emassi class but had failed some part of their training and thus were unable to use their birth-rank.

“These are useful to you?” Kierse asked, neatly dealing the packets of parts into a line across the table so the identifying part label was clearly visible.

Zainal quickly scanned his eye down the labels, having committed to memory the numbers of the ones he sought.

“Possibly,” he murmured discreetly.

“They have the numbers I am told you are seeking,” Kierse replied, settling into his chair to haggle.

Zainal wondered who had given that information to the market. Clune and Ditsy were notably close-mouthed. What had Kris been warning him about? Ah yes, Ferris stole. Or were Natchi and Erbri as trustworthy as advertised? No, Zainal reassured himself, Natchi definitely was and he had vouched for Erbri. And here were the connectors Captain Harvey required.

“What good did you think these leggy things would do you when you bought them?”

“Wait for someone who needed just such oddities,” Kierse replied, then refreshed himself with a sip of the mountain mild that was currently on offer. As Zainal considered his next gambit—the sounds of the marketplace closed around them—the
rat-tat-tat
of Eric's eternal hammering, the scurry of feet on the dry aisles between stalls, the occasional raised voices as people pounded out a suitable bargain.

Zainal hefted one of the packets experimentally. “Not very heavy. Since you like coffee, perhaps beans would be acceptable.” He leaned forward. “We have been trading weight of beans for weight of the packets. Is that satisfactory to you?”

“You may weigh them and we will see what the total
comes to—in beans and then in the gold I understand you are using for barter.”

“Coffee beans have been referred to as ‘black gold,' Drassi Kierse.”

“I thought that was the thick stuff they put into barrels. Oil.” Kierse, who was much sharper than he looked—certainly for one of Drassi rank—pronounced the word in two syllables: Oy-yill.

“I have heard the term ‘black gold' used for both,” Zainal said blithely, “though I believe the barreled stuff is undrinkable.”

Kierse chuckled and Zainal worried about the bargaining abilities of this client. Beans he had in plenty, but the gold was in much shorter supply. Still, that standard would be in keeping with the value—to him—of these particular parts and he wanted to conclude a deal with Kierse.

It didn't take long to put the packets into the weighing pod and the scales swung past and then settled on 50 grams. Zainal did not wish to part with that much gold no matter how essential the parts were to repair the connectors. It would take most of the dust they had in the little safe. And since the man had specified gold, he would probably not consider the lesser ores that Zainal still had available.

“If we deal with the beans, I am willing to throw in a grinder. The filtered bean gives a finer taste and goes further.” Zainal hoped this would tip Kierse in his favor.

“I know how one makes this brew,” Kierse said, dismissing Zainal's suggestion. “But, in truth, I do not have a grinder. Let me see it working. I prefer the filtered drink to the boiled grounds.”

Floss, who had been listening to the exchange, immediately stepped forward with sacks of several varieties of bean.

“Which would you prefer, the milder roast or the hearty robusta bean?”

Floss, skilled now at tipping a handful of beans into
one of the little saucers, filled two packets, one with the mild mountain and the other with the richer roast and offered each in turn to Kierse. Zainal made a little bet with himself and won. Kierse preferred the stronger brew.

“There are, as I am sure you know, Kierse, several methods of obtaining coffee. The percolator provides a stronger flavor. Grind the beans,” Zainal began but Kierse waved off a discussion of the process and the percolator pot, which Floss displayed for him.

“Filtered. And that darker bean.”

Floss withdrew the dismissed ones from consideration and reached under the table for the appropriate packages. These she placed in the other scale, casually adding a trickle of beans until a balance was achieved between the product and its payment. Zainal held his breath. Kierse looked longingly at the casket of gold, which Zainal had left on the table. Then he took another sip of the coffee in his cup.

“I have more packages. We will deal with the gold then,” Kierse said and extended his hand to Zainal, accepting the barter.

Quickly Floss transferred the bags of beans to a carrier, wrapped the grinder and placed it on top, handing the convenient package to the new owner.

Zainal rose and gave the obligatory courtesy bow, which Kierse mirrored, though there was a smile in the man's eyes that Zainal read as anticipating a return with more valuable stock. As Kierse left, Zainal signaled for Ferris to follow him. He might merely go to his home with such a package, but he might also return to his stall to gloat over what valuable merchandise he still wished to sell to the bean man. Perhaps Ferris could discover exactly what else might be of value to them.

The tone of voices abruptly changed. There was some sort of a fuss coming down the aisle, much shouting and warnings. Zainal was instantly alert but relaxed when he saw what was becoming a daily occurrence, someone
with a bloody mouth coming to see the tooth man. The victim had a bloody rag over his face as friends escorted him to Eric's booth. Zainal called out Eric's name for he was busy
rat-tat-tatting.

Eric quickly emerged and, taking in the scene in one glance, ushered the Catteni into his stall, twitching the curtain across it.

“Good fight?” Zainal inquired, as Catteni courtesy permitted.

“I won,” replied a burly man with the ship insignia of a minor duty officer. “Oh, this is where the coffee is. I could certainly use a cup.”

Zainal gave him a wave toward Floss, who smiled engagingly up at the fellow and put the cup in his hand and indicated the coin pot.

“What's it worth?” he asked Floss.

“What you care to put in,” Floss replied flirtatiously.

Floss might have learned vocabulary from Peran and Bazil at the Masai camp, but she had certainly not learned how to flirt from them. Clune stepped forward from where he was drying cups and lingered just beyond her. The officer did not mistake the warning in the young man's manner and moved judiciously toward Eric's office space, just as a bellow and a kicking foot stirred the curtain.

“It would not have lasted past the first thing you chewed,” Eric shouted. His command of dental Catteni was now comprehensive enough for such remarks.

In her role as part-time dental assistant, Sally arrived with a glass of water and a bowl for the man to spit into. She disliked that part of her job but was becoming inured to it. She did like appearing in the form-fitting white uniform that Eric had said went with the duties. The uniform had been one of the things Eric had stuffed in at the last moment at his office, and fortuitously it fit Sally very well indeed.