In Ashes Born (A Seeker's Tale From The Golden Age Of The Solar Clipper Book 1) (15 page)

“Comin’ right up.”

“Maybe,” Pip said, “but you’ve had three and I’m still trying to enjoy my beer. Hush, now. Lemme think.” He took a swig of beer and rolled it around in his mouth before swallowing. “Flea Market Traders,” he said after a few moments.

“Deep Dark Delivery,” I said.

He made a face. “Possibilities, but it’s still my turn.”

Daryll came back with a plastic basket filled with deep-fried breaded squid and another pair of beers. “You guys know what ya want yet?”

“We’re thinkin’,” Pip said. “Give us a couple minutes.” He reached for a menu and flipped it open while Daryll wandered back inside. “I had a burger here yesterday. Pretty good, but I bet the fish is better.”

I grabbed a chunk of the calamari and waved it at Pip. “You know they fly this in from Blanchard, don’t you?”

“Yeah? It’s just the next system over.” He took another bite. “How do you know?”

“No squid here. They were never introduced. The nearest place is Blanchard.”

He shrugged. “You’re suggesting they ship the fish in, too?”

“It’s possible.”

“I’m still having the whitefish sandwich,” he said.

I looked at the menu and shrugged.

Daryll popped up again. “What can we get started for you?”

Pip ordered his sandwich and I took a chance on the fish and chips. The menu claimed it was a local whitefish—probably mouta—beer-battered and deep-fried. I figured it should hold me to breakfast.

I lifted my beer and poured some of it down my throat. I had to give Pip credit. Ice cold beer on a hot day, looking out over the water? It hit the spot after being locked up with the legal team all day.

The bottle made a thunk noise when I put it back on the table. I chuckled.

Pip looked at me out of the corners of his eyes. “What’s so funny?”

I turned my head the way Ms. Ball had and said “Alexander?”

He laughed, too, and the people at the next table looked at us with “Were you talking to us?” all but printed on their faces.

“What do you suppose she pays him?” Pip asked.

“No idea. Probably enough. That was some serious skill there.”

He shrugged. “Less than you might think.”

“Really? He had my file—at least the public parts—nailed down.”

“When we go back, look in his right ear,” Pip said.

I started to take another slug of my beer, but stopped. “His what?”

Pip pointed to his own right ear. “He’s wired for sound. My guess is that mics in the ceiling transmitted our conversation to the bright faces in the back room that Ball was talking about. They did the research on the fly and fed the puppet in the corner.”

“She pulled his string and they fed him the answer to the most obvious question.”

Pip nodded. “Just a guess, but even if it wasn’t the answer she wanted, it was close enough to fool us.”

“He perked up enough with our notes.”

“He did. Which makes me wonder what his relationship with the charming Ms. Ball might be. He recognized the legalese and all the clauses we threw into that thing.”

“And the retainer offer.”

“That, too,” he said and toasted me with his bottle. “That was brilliant.”

“That was nothing. I lost more than that in the first week of working with William Simpson.”

“Great fish and little godlings. How much are you worth anyway?” He turned his head and pulled back a bit to look me straight in the eye. “None of this wishy-washy stuff.”

His look made me self-conscious. “I’m not sure with any degree of accuracy. Something between a hundred forty and a hundred sixty million. Depending on how the accounting rules treat my salvage claim. I don’t count it as income until I see the credits in my account. Some of the CPCJT rules on accounting show it on my balance sheet as an outstanding receivable with an estimated value of twenty million based on the last two auctions.”

“Ah, accountants,” Pip said and clinked the neck of his bottle to mine. “We’d be broke without them.”

“It didn’t seem that hard in the academy. Debits on the left. Credits on the right.”

“Yeah. That’s accounting for officers. A good accountant is worth his weight in gold because he can take one set of numbers and make them say three different—completely legitimate—things depending on what you need them to say.”

I looked at him hard and he shrugged.

“All right. I’m exaggerating, but only a little.”

“Do we need to hire one?”

He shrugged again and took a short pull from his bottle. “Probably wouldn’t hurt. We don’t want to pay Ball and Associates to run our books for us. The board would probably feel better if we had one.”

“Where do we find an accountant?”

Pip shook his head. “Beats me. Anybody worth having is probably too busy to take us on.”

“We used a payroll service that Simpson lined up. They handled most of the receivables and sorting credits from our income to the various bills. Bastard was probably skimming that account, too.”

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned him. That name’s familiar but I can’t place it.”

“He was the financier who set up the Icarus paperwork.”

He frowned. “No, it was something else. Something recent.”

“He was arrested by the TIC for assault, murder, embezzlement, and a few other things I’ve probably forgotten.”

Pip’s eyebrows rose slowly. “And he was your money man?”

“He came highly recommended by DST.”

“Seriously? He had them hoodwinked, too?”

“Oh, yeah. One of his subsidiaries through a holding company run by a shell ran a bodyguard service so well thought of that all the high-level corporate officers—and a lot of the lower ones—used it.”

Pip’s eyes narrowed. “This can’t end well.”

“One of the things the guards were supposed to do was protect their clients from unwanted coverage in the newsies.”

“That’s an impossible task. Anybody with a face hanging out in public is fair game to those people.”

“Made even doubly so because the guards regularly proved how much their services were needed by taking pictures of their clients on the sly and selling them to the press.”

Pip looked at me, beer bottle raised halfway to his gaping mouth. “My garters and braces, that’s brilliant!”

“Also just slightly illegal under the terms of their agency contracts.”

He shook his head. “I bet it wasn’t.”

“What?”

Pip took a sip and leaned over the table toward me. “Look, this guy was a high-end money guy. I bet he wiped his butt with three-hundred-page contracts every day. He was either a lawyer besides or had two hotshots on staff. There’s no way he’s going to set this up and then make it so he’s hung by his own damn contract.” He shook his head. “If he was half the crook you say? He was way smarter than that.”

I laughed. “Damn, I missed you.”

Daryll brought our food and another round of beers. I looked at Pip who just shrugged.

Daryll smiled and asked, “Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” I said. “Would you bring me a coffee? Black.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

He bustled off and we dug into our meals. I had to admit the view wasn’t bad. Pip must have seen my expression.

“What? You think we came here for the food?”

“You said you ate here yesterday and it wasn’t bad.”

He shrugged and took another bite of his fish sandwich. “It’s not bad. And the beer is cold. And the view?” He waved a hand at the light gleaming off the water of the harbor and the picturesque view of boats and docks. “You gotta admit. Not exactly the view we get from the cottages.”

I sighed. “I’ll grant you all that.”

“All right then. Quit bitchin’ and relax. We still need a name.”

He was right. The food wasn’t bad. The chips were hot and not overly greasy. The batter on the fish was a bit heavy and the fish itself was a little soft, but it wasn’t bad.

Daryll came back with my coffee and, predictably, it wasn’t bad.

I sat back and listened to the wavelets lapping the pilings under us. The breezes made the leaves and flowers on the trellis dance in time with the glinting waves in the bay. I watched the boats in the harbor and forgot about it. This wasn’t something I’d see in the Deep Dark. There were no warm zephyrs in the cold vacuum between the stars.

Pip was right. We weren’t there for the food.

Chapter Fifteen
Port Newmar:
2374, June 7

Daryll brought me another coffee and kept taking away Pip’s empties. I’d had two with him. I’d lost track of how many he’d had since. I was fairly certain he felt at least as relaxed as I did. The system primary had slipped nearly to the tree line in the west. Daryll kept asking if we wanted dessert.

“We’ll just finish this round and go,” Pip told him.

I might have felt guilty except the tables on either side of us were free.

“Yanno?” Pip said. “We’re going at this wrong.”

“You couldn’t have thought of that before we retained counsel?”

He shook his head. “Not that. The name.”

“Oh, yeah. Stella d’Oro.”

“I get a gold star?”

“No. As a name.”

“It’s my turn.”

“But you’re not offering any.”

“I’m trying to tell you. Hush.”

“All right,” I said. “You know you’re about half in the bag, though, right?”

“Yes, but you’re not. Are you going to listen?”

I waved a hand for him to continue.

“We’ve been picking random names. No rhyme. No reason. They sound good, or funny, or they’re just random words that pop into our heads.”

“True. Your suggestion?”

“Who do we want to be?”

“You mean a name? I thought that’s what we were trying to figure out.”

He squinted against the glare. “Are you sure you’re not drunk?”

I lifted my coffee cup in toast. “Unless Daryll has slipped a little something extra in here, I’m pretty sure.”

Pip ran finger across the tip of his nose. “Is your nose numb?”

I touched it. “No.”

“Must be mine.”

“Your point?” I asked.

“Oh, brand-wise. Who are we? What do we represent?”

“We haul big cargo.” I shrugged. “What else is there?”

“That’s kinda thin, brand-wise.”

“I thought so, too. That’s why I didn’t bring it up.”

“We’re doing research. Kinda.”

“So? Cargo Lab?”

He blinked at his beer. “That’s not bad.”

“Yes, it is. It was a joke.”

“No, it wasn’t. That’s not bad.”

I blew out a breath. “I hope you can walk. I don’t fancy dragging your drunken butt to the shuttle stop.”

“All right.” He upended the bottle and drained it. It slapped down on the table with a hollow thunk. “You ready?”

“We should pay first.”

Pip raised a hand. “Daryll? Our tab, my good man.”

Daryll was there before Pip could lower his arm. “Here you go, sir. We hope you found everything satisfactory.”

Pip keyed in a tip and I looked over to make sure it had the right number of zeros on it before I let him thumb it.

“What’re you doing?” he asked.

“Just checking.” I released his arm. “Carry on.”

He glared at me and thumbed the tab.

Daryll smiled and nodded before standing well back while Pip levered himself up from the chair.

I’ll give the man credit. He stood, found his jacket, and slipped it on before walking in the wrong direction.

“Ah, the exit is this way, sir?” Daryll said, herding Pip toward the door.

“Restroom?” Pip said. “I should probably go before we leave.”

“Just through here.” Daryll led us out of the brilliant late afternoon sun and into the darkness inside. Not many people had shown up for the dinner hour. I realized that it was well past the dinner hour when we walked past a Clipper Ship Lager logo on a chronometer done up like a ship’s wheel.

About halfway back, Daryll pointed Pip to the appropriate door and stood back, apparently ready to resume herding duties if needed.

Pip nodded and disappeared into the head.

Daryll looked at me with an odd expression until I realized what he wasn’t saying.

“Oh, I’ll just make sure he doesn’t fall in,” I said and joined Pip in the head.

After doing the needful and washing up, I held the door for Pip and followed him out.

We hadn’t gone more than three steps when he stopped so suddenly, I nearly ran into him.

“You lost?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I think I’m found.”

“If you start singing ‘Amazing Grace’ in here, they’re going to kick us out.”

“Stop being so damn sober for a tick and look.” He pointed to one of the paintings on the wall.

The accent light illuminated a smallish piece with a tag beside it. A simple black metal frame held a collection of stylized flames. At first glance they looked random but the longer I looked the more of the pattern I saw until I found they created the image of a bird made completely of these delicate flames. It was beautiful.

Pip leaned over to peer at the tag. “Firebird. Fifty credits. E.J.”

Daryll appeared from the dimness of the dining room. “Gentlemen? Is everything all right?”

“This painting. It’s for sale?” Pip asked.

“Yes, sir. You can take it with you, if you like. Just pay at the desk on the way out.”