How Dark the World Becomes (17 page)

I fought down the urge to vault over the desk and look at the damned viewer myself, but Marfoglia snapped out of her momentary paralysis and recovered like a pro, taking the documents from the captain and dropping them into her briefcase in one motion. She said, “Come, children,” in aGavoosh, and four pairs of wobbly knees carried us through the door. 

“That was lucky,” Marfoglia whispered to me, once we were out into the corridor. I just looked at her. 

Lucky?

We were dead.

FOURTEEN

Whenever I have a very big problem to solve, I find it helps to lay it out as clearly as possible, so I can see what I have going for me and what obstacles are in my way. Also, it gives me something to do in lieu of hyperventilating.

Okay. We were on an orbital station light-years from any of my friends or contacts. Both our real and cover identities were in the security database, associated with each other, and somebody with access to that database wanted us dead—and had the resources to make that happen. We were sitting ducks at Rakanka High, and it’s a safe bet that whoever was coming to kill us would show up before our ride did. 

See? When you lay it out that way, it gets very simple, and the solution becomes obvious. 

“What do you mean,
obvious
?” Marfoglia demanded. 

“Well,” I explained, “obviously we can’t stay here and wait until the replacement C-lighter arrives, so we have to leave. Obviously we can’t leave as passengers, because our identities are compromised, so we have to leave as cargo. Obviously, we are not—legally speaking—cargo, so we have to find someone with a flexible approach to the law, and who is leaving in the next couple of days.”

“And going to Akaampta,” she added, but I shook my head.

“Let’s don’t complicate things. Our immediate problem is staying alive, not getting to Akaampta. I don’t care where they’re going, as long as it’s away from here.”

She was annoyed—nothing new there—and my explanation didn’t do much to reduce her irritation level. Instead she took a few paces back and forth, thinking it over, looking for a different way out. 

“Where are you even going to find someone?” she demanded. 

I just looked at her. We were on an orbital station that was a jump transit hub. About a dozen commercial ships coasted in nearby parking orbits, and only half of them had major line logos painted on the sides. Commercial ships don’t make any money just hanging around, so they were all going someplace, and independents always need extra cash. The difficult part was going to be approaching them in such a way that they didn’t think we were Co-Gozhak spooks trying to trap them into an illegal move so the
Cottohazz
could impound their ship. That part would be a delicate dance number, but
finding
them was going to be ridiculously easy. 

“And how do you know which ones are honest captains who would turn us in to the authorities instead of taking a bribe?”

“The honest ones have already lost their ships,” I answered. “If they’ve got a mortgage, they’ll take the money.”

More nervous pacing back and forth. Finally she stopped, her back to me and her arms folded, looking at the wall viewer with Rakanka filling the image. There was a big storm down there, one of those gas giant meta-storms visible from space, with an eye thousands of kilometers across. I thought she was looking at it, but I guess she was just trying to gather herself for what came next.

“How are we going to pay them?” she asked. 

“
We?
” I asked. “Are you pregnant, or do you have a mouse in your pocket?”

She turned to look at me, anger on her face, but something else, too, something the anger was meant to cover. Panic?

“I paid you up front, and I had to pay Markov a deposit as well. All I have left is about four thousand
Cottos
.”

“What do you mean, all
you
have left? Those kids . . .”

No, come to think of it, those kids might be rich beyond any mortal’s dreams of avarice, but they were just kids. They had no access to bank accounts or stock portfolios. So they were all traveling on Marfoglia’s cash, and she was just visiting on Peezgtaan, so probably wouldn’t have had all of her assets available. She’d had a fair chunk of change, but I’d taken forty-five thousand of it, no telling how much Kolya had taken, so she’d gone through a nice little fortune in the past few weeks, and now she was down to her last couple grand. 

“How long have you known those kids?” I asked.

“I never met them until Mr. Arrakatlak contacted me, the day I came to you,” she answered.

“What did Arrie promise you?”

“Nothing,” she answered, and I could see she was telling the truth. No pledge from Arrie and no family member to promise her reimbursement when and if she got the kids home safe.

“Then why?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you when I know you better,” she answered defiantly.

Touché.

Now this was an interesting situation, and one of considerable ethical complexity. My agreement was to get them safely to Akaampta, for which we had agreed to a price and an itinerary. The itinerary was broken—or rather sticking to it would likely get us all killed—and the client did not have sufficient resources to adjust the travel arrangements. Under the circumstances, was I obligated to stay with them until the silencers showed up and killed us all? Or could I, in good conscience, simply refund the unearned part of my fee and walk away? This was, after all, a business deal, not a suicide pact.

Not that I considered walking away. It was just, on a theoretical level, an interesting ethical problem. But on a practical level . . . 

“Okay, here’s the deal,” I said. “From now on, we travel on my nickel, and at the end of the trip, I will be fully reimbursed—
by you
—plus an additional fifteen percent of whatever my out-of-pocket comes to. Is this acceptable?”

She looked surprised, but nodded quickly. I wasn’t rich by any means, but since I was relocating, I was liquid—everything carried along in the form of bearer bonds and cash—and cash opens doors.

“You understand that if the e-Traaks stiff you, it’s not my problem, right?
You
still owe me.” 

She nodded again.

As I think back on it now, I don’t really have a good explanation for why I didn’t consider leaving them. I didn’t leave, and perhaps that’s what’s important—the choice I made. But it’s interesting that I felt no urge to do otherwise. 

At least
I
think it’s interesting. Of course, I find everything about myself interesting. We each think we’re the most fascinating person in the world, but we can’t all be, can we? 

*   *   *

The only sushi bar on Rakanka Highstation was about as good as you’d imagine, considering it was nearly a hundred straight-line light-years from any place where Human-edible fish swam. Since room on the station was limited, and there were only so many Humans around anyway, the sushi bar doubled as a veggie burger joint. You want fries with your
unagi
? No problem.

The menu was almost all Human-specific. Most restaurants have a couple dishes available for other races, just to cater to mixed parties, and this was no exception, but the clientele was overwhelmingly Terran. I looked around and the only non-Humans in sight were Barraki and Tweezaa—sitting with Marfoglia two tables away and eating some kind of fried brown starchy stuff—and a pair of Zack dirt soldiers with slung thud guns, standing outside the dining area but keeping a grim eye on everything going on inside. It was a Human gathering place, and Humans were the problem, so keep an eye on them. 

Everyone in the restaurant was aware of the two Zacks, and everyone knew why they were there, so the food was seasoned with resentment, and just a touch of fear. But the patrons also stole occasional glances at their fellow diners, and wondered. The young man and woman leaning together, their heads almost touching—were they lovers, or anarchists figuring out what to bomb next? The two families having a boisterous dinner—were the noisy kids just a cover, a distraction? 

Suspicion is a disease, and once it infects a community, the suspicion becomes the reality. Once you start thinking that the parents
might
be using their children as a cover, then whether those particular parents are or aren’t, you hate them anyway, just for being
capable
of it. 

Well, the good news was that it rendered us real conspirators fairly inconspicuous. I pow-wowed over beer and
tofu katsu
with the master and mate of a Terran registry freighter called the
Long Shot
out of Bronstein’s World and inbound for K’Tok. K’Tok wasn’t Akaampta, but it was in the right direction, and only one jump away for anything with a good set of legs on it—maybe two jumps if we weren’t as picky about what we flew on.

There were Varoki independents in-station as well, but I thought I’d have better luck with the Humans. Although I’d told Marfoglia that independents were all a bit crooked, that wasn’t really true. It
was
true for most Human captains, though, for a couple reasons. First, being a little bit shady had become an element of Human pride out here. We might be at the bottom of the pecking order when it came to most things, but by God we could steal with the best of them. Second reason kind of went along with that: it was harder to make it on the level as a Human-mastered ship, because everyone else in the
Cottohazz
figured you were a crook anyway, so it was okay to screw you every chance they got, just to stay even. 

So we sat there and talked. Actually, the mate and I talked; the captain just shoveled down the
tofu katsu
as if he hadn’t eaten in a week, and he was skinny enough he might not have. His hair was dark and straight, thinning on top, and there was an Asian cast to his features, with mischief lines around his eyes. The mate had introduced him as Joe Lee Ping. The mate—guy named Jim Turncrank—was short and stocky, with hard eyes and an unsmiling mouth that told me the best thing you could say about his life was that he’d made it this far. If he’d had any joy in recent memory, he hid it well, and nobody hides it
that
well. The captain of the
Long Shot
was the opposite. He wasn’t just enjoying the
tofu katsu
, he was savoring it, relishing it, thinking hard about how good it was as he chewed, so he’d be sure to remember it later. I liked him right away. Here was a guy knew how to live.

I laid out our problem, giving them as much truth as I felt comfortable with. I didn’t want to make a big deal about the Co-Gozhak maybe being after us, in case that scared them away, but I had to explain that I figured there was a guy inside leaking to his pals outside, which was why we needed to stay below the sensor horizon. I also let them know the general situation with the kids, but didn’t tell them their real name; a name as big as e-Traak would scare too many people away—probably scare away everyone with any sense. 

I got done, and the whole time it was as if the captain was in a different world, or at least at a different table. But when Turncrank looked at him, something passed between them—not a yes, but not quite a no, either. 

Turncrank settled back in his chair, took a pull on his beer, and looked me over.

“So, what’s
your
story? You’re, like, Russian, huh?”

“Ukrainian . . . or my parents were. I’m second generation Crack Trash—don’t even speak the old lingo, except a few dirty words. No story really worth telling. I ran some rackets back in the Crack, but I had a . . . a falling out with senior management, so figured it was time to move on. This gig came along and I took it. Not sure it was the best move I ever made, but sometimes the timing forces your hand.”

The captain was watching me now as he continued to chew, and he nodded and grunted his agreement with that. 

“So that’s it?” Turncrank asked. “You’re just some small-time crook from Peezgtaan? You act like you’ve been around, and there’s talk about some guy shooting the shit with Zack dirt soldiers like he was their brother. That wouldn’t be you, would it?”

So they’d done at least a little homework. 

“Yeah. I soldiered a bit ten years back.”

“Where?” he asked. 

“Nishtaaka,” I answered, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion and disbelief. The captain grinned and shook his head, looking down at the food, as if I’d been caught in some kind of lie. 

“Every swinging dick from here to Sol claims they were on Nishtaaka,” Turncrank said, scowling. “Thing is, I
was
there, and I don’t remember you.”

“Lotta people went to Nishtaaka,” I said, but he shook his head. 

“Lots of guys went, but not that many came back, and after the surrender they kept all of us in a processing compound for seven weeks before they shipped us out—those they pardoned. I figure I know about everyone still alive from the Ram and Gray Phantom brigades, at least by sight.”

“Never said I was in one of the rogue brigades.”

“Then what the hell . . . ?” 

“A.C.G.,” I answered. “Third Cohort, Peezgtaan Loyal Volunteers—The Piss-Can Rangers to our friends.” 

The captain’s eyes got a little bigger, and he glanced at his mate, as if expecting trouble. A.C.G. was short for
Attatti Cottohazz Gozhakampta
—Co-Gozhak Reserves. 

“So it’s probably just as well we didn’t run into each other,” I added, and smiled.

Turncrank’s face remained a sour, but otherwise expressionless, mask. There was silence for maybe ten seconds, and then he spoke.

“You guys sucked.” 

“So I’ve heard it said.”

“Where were you?” 

“We went in behind the Zacks at Sikander’s Mountain. Then they shifted us over to the Garden. Mostly I pushed ’bots, while we had some. Resupply was all screwed up anyway, so once you guys broke the Needle, and everyone ran out of ’bots to push, the leather-heads pushed us—foot patrols, sensor sweeps, you know.”

“Yeah, you’re breaking my heart.” After a moment he asked, “Kill anyone?”

I looked him in the eye and nodded.

He thought for a while and then shifted uncomfortably in his chair, scowling.