Guardsmen of Tomorrow (34 page)

Between the prefab units, huts like you might see on some primitive world had been erected, shelters where the spillover residents from the houses slept and perhaps dreamed of the day when they could return home.

Gilbert City had provided only one tube stop to serve all the inhabitants of the Bathtub. No one had anticipated that the camp might grow large enough to need more than one. I shuffled my way to the station exit, glancing at the tired faces of men and women burdened down with packages of goods dearly bought in the main city. Some were empty-handed, burdened only with sorrow and disappointment.

Fortunately, at least for now, there was plenty of work available throughout the Endpoint system-one of the reasons that it had become a popular choice for the refugees. As I walked briskly down the wide avenue leading toward the registration center, I had a feeling who one of the less reputable employers might be.

Pirates would find this refugee camp a good recruiting ground. As my smuggler friends had noted so acidly, it would serve even better as an outlet for black market goods and as a place from which the pirates’ planetside spies could gather information.

From the pirates’ point of view, the Bathtub would be all the more attractive because of the secondary spaceport that had been erected nearby. Theoretically, the port was solely for refugee ships-there having been complaints that refugee traffic was crowding the main spaceport. Realistically, other ships could get clearance to land and take off. Endpoint’s orbital traffic control, like everything else, was strained these days.

Thinking thus, I bypassed the registration center and walked through the prefab sprawl to where a makeshift market had grown up on the fringes of the Bathtub.

Here, if my contacts were correct, evidence of illicit commerce could be found.

Steeling myself to the task-for no spacer walks when she can ride-I trudged up and down rows marked out in a more or less orderly fashion. Sound-deadening barriers along the edge of the secondary port muted the noise, but intermittently I heard the rumble of a spaceship engine- mostly shuttles like the one that had brought me ground-side, but every so often the deeper roar of a larger vessel.

The thundering of these high-tech vessels provided an odd contrast to a market so simple that its like had existed anywhere humans had gathered. Many of the vendors merely spread a blanket or tarp on the ground and piled their wares on top. A handful had set up stalls cobbled together from packing crates or from less identifiable scavenged junk.

Along these tatty corridors of commerce, men and women sold everything from household goods and old clothes to cheap luxury goods. A few of the more ambitious sold food or offered opportunities for entertainment.

After one quick tour through the surprisingly crowded lanes, I ducked into a stall selling puffy fried cakes seasoned with curry and onions-a Batherite treat. I traded some of my unassigned credit vouchers for a heaping platter and something pungent, iced, and cool to drink.

Seizing a seat on a plastic crate at a table that had begun life as a cable spool, I mulled over what to do next. Overall, everything was as innocent as could be. The vendors were Batherite refugees mixed with a few entrepreneurs from Gilbert City come to take advantage of the crowds. Most of their wares were just what you’d expect.

It had been among the shoppers, not the vendors, that I’d caught a glimpse of something that didn’t fit the setting-a few men and women whose body language didn’t match the pervading mood of exhaustion and pathetic hope. They were too confident, too eager to be interested in the sort of rag-trade, used goods, and craftwork ostensibly being sold in this marketplace.

After some cautious observation I thought I even recognized a couple of these shoppers. In the parlance of the underworld, we called them “shuttlers” because they made their money buying goods of dubious legality at low prices and reselling them with the registration stamps and such mysteriously in place.

Essentially, shuttlers were high-tech fences with operations that often spanned multiple star systems. As such, they were useful to both smugglers and planet-based fences. Since shuttlers could often locate what more usual channels could not, some even had a semi-legitimate status. My most recent contact with one had involved a per-fectly legal request on the part of a well-known artist for an exotic hallucinogen.

Of course, most shuttlers were scum, buying low, selling high-often to the very people from whom the goods had been stolen in the first place. I didn’t doubt that some shuttler had made a good profit returning Orion Lines their “misplaced”

wine-and perhaps more importantly, the expensive stabilizing crates.

Licking the last of the curry-seasoned oil off my fingers, I decided to wander until I spotted one of the shuttlers, then follow him or her and see with whom my mark did business. Despite my aching feet, I set off in an optimistic mood. Three days later, I was less cheerful.

Perhaps the last of the black market goods had been sold the very morning I spotted the shuttlers in the market. Perhaps that was why enough shuttlers had been present for me to pick them out of the crowd. For whatever reason, the Bathtub market had descended into mundanity. I did find a copy of a hard-to-locate holo-documentary about one of my favorite musical performers, but as far as anything that would lead me to the pirates, I came up as cold as the interstellar void.

Spike was due back the next day and I wasn’t looking forward to telling him I had nothing to offer, so I put in one more tour.

Now, I hadn’t been such a rube as to roam around the market day after day without any disguise at all. The first day I’d gone pretty much as myself. It was reasonable that I’d want to look around a new part of town. The next several days I’d gone dressed in the general style of a system local, but as a different type of person each time. Usually, I’d changed my disguise more than once in a day.

It isn’t hard to seem what you aren’t-especially when you’re small and slight to start with. Built-up shoes and padding make you seem larger. Very active body language makes you seem younger. Add in basic changes in hair or eye color or manner of dress and you’re set, especially in a crowd where no one person is in your company for too long. Really, the only thing that gave me trouble were my aching feet, especially when I wore built-up shoes.

For my last tour before Spike’s return, I went as myself. During earlier jaunts, I’d noticed a couple of gambling parlors and figured that I’d sit in on a poker game or two when my feet got too tired for wandering through the market. Since my skill at the game is well-known in some circles, I sometimes have trouble getting into a high-stakes game. If any of my local acquaintances recognized me, they’d figure I was looking for a hot game. If I was lucky, they’d even pretend not to see me.

Courtesy, you know.

I was deep into a game of seven card stud, the Fyoly-nese version that offers some real challenges when calculating the odds, when I heard the distant rumble of a large ship landing out in the field. I didn’t think anything of it. Many large ships arrived after dark. It’s all one and the same to the ship’s pilots and eases things for system traffic control by decreasing the amount of competition from routine daytime air traffic.

Several hands later, I noticed an increase in the amount of activity outside the gaming parlor. “Parlor” was really a courtesy title. The place I was frequenting was little more than a tent. As the night was warm, the side-flaps were up to let in some fresh air.

“New visitors,” grumbled one of the other players, a stately, plump young man who had introduced himself as Buck. “Wouldn’t think there was anyone left on Bath to fight the war.”

Buck’s use of the euphemism “visitor” rather than the blunter “refugee” labeled him a Batherite, as did his accent. As he had obviously gotten out of the system rather than fight, I thought his criticism less than fair, but didn’t say anything. One of the other players-a weathered older woman-was more vocal.

“You sound like you
want
the war to continue,” she said, her voice rusty with exhaustion. She had introduced herself as Cookie and carried with her the scent of curry, onions, and sugar.

“I don’t!” Buck protested, glancing at Cookie, then back at his cards. “I was just making a comment.”

“Are you in?” asked one of the other players, his eagerness betraying a good hand.

“I am,” Buck said. Cookie nodded, pursing her lips into a thin, angry line.

Play went on for several hands without further comment. The Batherite War wasn’t something the system’s natives liked talking about. It wasn’t just a political thing.

Some of the weapons the Absolutist fanatics employed embarrassed even those who favored their cause.

The cards were with me, but the increased activity outside of the tent distracted me from my game. I misplayed what should have been a sure thing and pushed back from the table.

“I’ll quit while I’m about even,” I said. Actually, I was ahead, but they didn’t need to know. Cookie grunted something that might have been good-bye. No one else seemed to notice my departure.

Outside, the market was busier than it had been for several days. It seemed as if all the Bathtub had turned out to see the new arrivals who, their arms filled with bundles or small children, hurried down the road toward the registration center. A few pulled small wagons, but such were rare.

Apparently, most of the refugees had been limited to what they could carry on their persons.

“No need to rush!” called someone from the market, following the comment with a good-humored laugh. “The cen-ter’ll keep you waiting long enough.”

The sense of this seemed to get through to some of the new arrivals. While the majority continued pushing their way toward the center, a few peeled off from the flow. Most of these headed for the food stalls, doubtless tired of ship’s rations.

Some drifted about asking after the location of friends and family. I noticed that the name “Kingsley” came up repeatedly, though matched with different surnames.

Admittedly, Kingsley is a popular Batherite personal name, in honor of Kingsley Moisan, the charismatic leader who founded the original colony. What caught my fancy was how often the request was made to a perfect stranger- and how often that stranger seemed to have directions or guidance to offer.

I trailed after one of these parties, noticing that the bundles they carried seemed particularly heavy. We worked our way through a maze of streets to where a row of prefabs from the earliest days of the camp stood. They were well-kept, with a minimum of tents and auxiliary buildings around them. I wondered if Gilbert City zoning was trying to maintain some standards.

Inside the buildings lights glowed and sounds of domestic activity drifted from the open windows. I heard a baby crying, the sizzle of something dropped into frying oil, running water, laughter. All well and normal, even pleasant.

The refugees were directed inside a building near the middle of the street. I slipped into the shadows between two buildings across the way, watching. While I lurked there, two other guided parties arrived. Then a few people departed. Although they had all the hallmarks of new arrivals, they were not the ones I had followed, so I continued my vigil.

After a time, my group came out. Their guide was not with them, but otherwise, they seemed much as before- even a bit more cheerful. They laughed and their steps were light as they hurried toward a cross street that would take them to the registration center.

Then it hit me. Their feet were light! Though they still carried their bundles, these were clearly no longer as heavy. No chat with folks from home, no matter how friendly, could have relieved the burden. Clearly an exchange had been made.

I pondered for a moment, wondering whether or not to follow the new arrivals. Then I decided. These were probably just mules carrying goods. The real action lay inside that building. I hunkered down in the shadows, preparing for a long wait.

A few more parties of bundle-bearing refugees came through, but not many. I decided that this must be only one of several places where smuggled items were being dropped off. To occupy myself, I tried to reconstruct the chain of events that had gotten the goods to this point and decided that whatever had been brought here wouldn’t stay here long. Eventually, the houses grew quieter and lights were extinguished-all but a faint glimmer low on the wall to one side of the house I’d been observing.

It was an odd place for light to show. For speed of construction these prefabs had been erected without basements, but I was willing to bet that what I was seeing was light from just such a subterranean room. The opening was completely shielded by a neatly placed trash can. During the daytime, it would probably be invisible. Only the light gave it away now.

My curiosity grew as I estimated the chances of sue-cessfully satisfying it. After I’d staked the place out for quite a while longer and traffic on the street had diminished to nothing, I decided that I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t take a look.

Padding across the street, I gained the side of the house. Fortunately, the wall of the structure on the other side of the narrow alley was windowless. If I stayed pressed close to the wall alongside the bit of light and no one on the street-should anyone pass at all-looked directly down the alley and noticed movement from behind the trash can, I should remain unseen.

The source of the light proved to be-as I had deduced- a makeshift window cut into the prefab material. The scrap had been skillfully shaped into a shutter that would cover the hole, but it was propped open now. I lowered myself slowly prone, both so I would be less visible and to get my ears closer to the opening.

Conversation, lazy and sporadic, accompanied by rather interesting thuds and clanks came to me. I lay there in the dirt, wishing I’d brought along some peepers, hoping that someone inside would speak up. I didn’t dare sneak a look until I had a better sense of where the occupants were in relation to the hole.

Tired as I was from my long day, the ground seemed quite comfortable and the warm night air made my watch almost relaxing. I believe I was close to drowsing when a new voice, male and commanding, addressed the group in the basement.