The Little Ships (Alexis Carew Book 3) (14 page)

“Which would have been clearer and less dramatic if you had made my position and role clearer when we came aboard,” Alexis whispered.

“I was a bit busy dealing with Anya, if you recall.”

“As you were this morning, uncle.”

Dansby flushed. “You wanted to speak to me about something?”

“Well, yes, several things, in fact. The state of the ship, for one.”

Dansby frowned. “What about it?”

Alexis gestured around the quarterdeck, wondering if Dansby truly didn’t see it. “Have
Marilyn’s
decks had even a single bristle set to them since you acquired her?”

Dansby rubbed his eyes as though pained. “I realize that … your side of the family trades in higher class of goods than I might,” he said, “but most merchantmen don’t.
Marilyn
looks as she does for a reason.” He knelt and unscrewed the fasteners on a panel beneath the plot. “Look, what do you see?”

Alexis knelt and looked inside. The components were spotless and the wiring was neatly tied up. Even the inside face of the panel Dansby had pulled off was practically shining, unlike the dingy outer side.

“What —”

“Most merchantmen are small, ill-kept, and one failed trade away from debtors prison,” Dansby said, standing. “When
Marilyn
is inspected at some port, I want the customs man to see exactly what he’s seen on the last dozen ships and what he expects to see of the next dozen. She is to be, in all respects, unremarkable.”

“
B
eets
?” Alexis watched the crates of roundish vegetables being carted through the hatch from the boat alongside. “Of all things, beets?”

Dansby shrugged. “They don’t grow on Diebis — something in the soil.” He tapped his tablet as a crewman pushed an antigrav pallet with another four crates through the hatch and toward
Marilyn’s
hold. “We’ll make a nice bit of profit on this cargo.”

Alexis crossed her arms and waited until the rest of the pallets had come aboard and she was alone with Dansby at the hatch.

“You’ve stopped us at every world we’ve passed … more than every world. Our course has zigged and zagged for weeks now. I thought we were sailing for this Baikonur place?”

Dansby touched his tablet a last time and looked down the tube to the station. He waved to one of the station workers there and slid
Marilyn’s
hatch shut.

“Neither this system, nor any of the others we’ve zigged and zagged to offer much in the way of what Baikonur demands,” he said. “Diebis, on the other hand, requires beets, and is quite close to Kennet.”

“And?” Alexis asked, knowing there must be more.

“Kennet produces items of a, shall we say, intimate nature … much in demand by the miners of Baikonur.”

Alexis started to ask what products those might be, then decided that she truly didn’t want to know.

“Then why didn’t we simply sail directly to Kennet?” She shook her head. “Come to that, why not sail directly to Baikonur?”

Dansby gave her a pained look.

“We’ve had similar discussions before, I believe.
Röslein
is a merchant ship, dear niece, or must appear so. It would be odd, indeed, if she sailed straight from New London space to Baikonur, especially with a bloody war on.”

Röslein
was the ship’s new name, changed in the signals console and all her registrations as the former-
Marilyn
had crossed the border to stop at the first system on Dansby’s list to trade with.

“You’ve forged your ship’s name easily enough,” Alexis said. “Why can’t you just forge these stops then and quit wasting time?”

Dansby rubbed his face. “I'm perfectly willing to falsify every bit of it, but the truth is so much more effective. If some overzealous local does happen to check things further than our logs, I’d prefer that as much as possible be the truth. Once someone's been overloaded with truth they stop looking for a lie, you see.”

Alexis closed her eyes and nodded. She didn’t like the delays but could see the sense of it.

“Please don’t try to teach me my business. We’re now an Hanoverese trader doing lawful business in Hanoverese systems. It’s why my crew speaks fluent German … and why I’d much prefer you stayed in your cabin while we’re in port.” Dansby shook his head. “I can’t believe Eades sent you aboard without your having learned the language.”

“I have a bit,” Alexis said, “but found French much easier.”

Dansby gave her a dubious look. “I don’t see how. German’s quite precise and logical — properly spoken French is indistinguishable from being asphyxiated.”

“Still … beets?”

Dansby double-checked that the hatch’s lock was engaged and motioned for her to follow him to the quarterdeck.

“Do you think a smuggler carries nothing but what he smuggles?” He made a derisive noise. “Legitimate cargoes cover the illicit ones — they’re what justifies our travels from system to system.”

Alexis had a sudden thought and grabbed Dansby’s arm to stop him.

“These ‘legitimate cargoes’ we’ve been carrying,” she whispered. “Are you saying they’re not all?”

“All what?”

“You know full well what I’m asking. Are there smuggled goods aboard this ship?”

“I’m not generally a produce hauler.”

“But you’re on a mission for the Crown!” Alexis kept her voice low, but she was furious. It was one thing to rely on Dansby knowing that he’d been a pirate and was a smuggler. It was quite another thing for him to endanger their mission with his activities. “What if the ship is searched?”

Dansby sighed. “I’ve been at this business a rather long time, you know. Besides, I’m known to the Hanoverese and they generally leave my ships alone. The subterfuge is more for the local system agents.”

“Known to them?”

“Yes, known. They know that I smuggle and make use of my services on occasion to get a man into New London or information out.” He waved a hand as she started to object. “Oh, Eades knows all about it. His men pick up the Hanoverese agents where I drop them off and keep them under surveillance.”

“And the Hanoverese don’t suspect this?”

Dansby shrugged. “They may, which is why Eades provides me with just enough true information to keep them guessing.” He grinned at her. “It’s a deep game we play when leaping into this particular rabbit hole, Carew. We can only hope it’s our side who owns the bottom.”

His words didn’t put her any more at ease, as she was still not convinced that Dansby’s side was the same as hers.

R
öslein née Marilyn
finally arrived at Baikonur. The system itself was remarkable only in that it had no remaining planets whatsoever, just a series of asteroid belts, as though some long-ago cataclysm had shattered every planet that formed.

Those asteroids, though, were remarkable in that they contained a great deal of gallenium, and so Hanoverese miners flocked to the system in a rush to extract the wealth.

The system’s only station was a hodgepodge of traditional station modules cobbled together with the remains of ships that were too decrepit ever to risk
darkspace
again, yet solid enough that they could be used as habitats instead of being sent to the breakers.

That they were being used this way was a further testament to the gallenium ore in the system. Despite those hulls having valuable gallenium embedded in them, they were being used as habitats in normal space instead of being broken up for scrap. In Baikonur, it was easier and cheaper to mine fresh ore than to melt down an otherwise useless ship.

One entire section of the station seemed to be made up of nothing but a large loop of station corridor, with decrepit ships permanently filling the inside of the loop and temporary docking for visiting merchants along the outer edge.

Dansby docked
Röslein
along this stretch, as the place he’d meet his contacts was deep in the middle.

Alexis followed him through the maze of interconnecting corridors and ships.

“I’ve brought you along with me at your insistence, niece, but you simply can’t join me at the table.”

“I’d only like to hear for myself.”

“And this sort of man won’t speak with someone he doesn’t know at the table. Especially a stranger with too much English in her German. Most of those on station won’t care — this is the sort of place in Hanover that someone fleeing New London for a misunderstanding would head for. The Hanoverese authorities care about nothing here, save that there’s no gallenium smuggled out. But this particular man takes more care than most.”

“‘Fleeing a misunderstanding’?”

“Discretion being the better part of not being hanged, yes.”

“Such wonderful places you take me to, uncle.”

They left the main corridor into the maze of interconnected ships’ hulls that made up the center. Some were stitched together with more sections of station corridor, while others had their hulls and locks welded directly to the next, and still others had lengths of flimsy ship’s boarding tubes stretched between them.

“Perhaps I should have worn my vacsuit,” Alexis murmured.

“You’d look too out of place,” Dansby answered. “Risk assessment is not amongst these men’s more prominent traits.” He grinned at her. “Else they’d not have had those misunderstandings to flee from.”

They entered a long length of station corridor that stretched between two hulls, with other hulls to either side. It appeared the corridor had become the dumping ground for all those connected to it, with stacks of shipping crates and piles of refuse strewn about. There was barely enough room to walk side by side between the refuse and only a few places where they could see the corridor’s bulkheads at all.

“Here,” Dansby said, gesturing to the next alcove in the trash and crates. This one led to a hatch, behind which was a mid-sized merchant hull turned into some sort of pub. The messdeck, on which they entered, was a large common room, full of tables and bustling with activity. The servers were human, not automated, and based on the girl who set down her tray of drinks, grasped a miner’s hand, and led him laughing to the aft companionway, both they and the deck above were available for more than simply food and drink.

Dansby led her to an empty table, gestured for a server, ordered wine for the both of them, and waited until they’d been served before speaking again.

“I see my man in the back — and, no, I won’t point him out to you. Don’t go looking, either, and don’t stare when I go to meet him. I’ll tell you all he tells me as soon as I return.”

Alexis drained her glass. She’d grown more and more nervous the farther they went into Hanoverese space. With every throw of the ship’s log, her growing dependency on Dansby had gnawed at her. That he’d done nothing untoward failed to ease her fears. After such a long time aboard ship with him, she suspected he had a bit of integrity, at least that he’d like to think so, and that he’d stick with the job he’d been paid to do so long as he could. It was what circumstances might convince him he could no longer fulfill the terms of his contract that concerned her. She’d be far more comfortable if she heard for herself what their destination might be.

Dansby leaned close and whispered to her, as though having read her thoughts. “I’ve never failed Eades in a task, Carew, and I’d not want to learn what might happen were I to do so.”

Alexis studied his face. She found trusting hard enough when the recipient was worthy. She forced her jaw muscles to relax.

“Very well.”

Dansby grunted and rose. He left, walked to the other table, and sat, making no show of greeting. Soon he was bent over head close to the other man, whispering. Alexis watched them for a moment, but realized her scrutiny would only draw attention to Dansby as others wondered what she found so interesting. She forced herself to look away, not wanting to draw too much attention to Dansby’s meeting. She poured herself another glass of wine and scanned the rest of the pub.

Dansby had described Baikonur as a vile hub of smugglers and piracy, and the pub, from what Alexis could see, was the worst of the lot. Looking around, she thought he hadn’t gone nearly far enough in his description.

The clientele made her want to spin around in circles so as to never allow any of them at her back for too long, and she found, as she looked around, that the other patrons were as aware of her gaze as she was of theirs. One in particular seemed to raise his eyes to meet her whenever her gaze moved in his direction — or eye, rather, as he sat in profile to her. She could only see half of his face, and that so scarred and disfigured that she found the sight uncomfortable.

“
Kann ich dich begleiten?
”

Alexis spun her gaze around and found a man standing at her table. He smiled and repeated himself, but Alexis had no idea what he’d said. For a moment, she panicked at how to respond, but then remembered Dansby’s assurances that Baikonur was so near the border and had so varied a clientele that English would not seem suspicious here.

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand,” she said.

The man smiled broader. “Ah, English.” He pointed at the chair across from her. “I to sit?”

Alexis frowned. “You want to borrow the chair?”

The man shook his head, laughing. “
Nein
.” He pointed at her then at the chair. “Pretty girl. I to sit?”

Alexis glanced around. Dansby was still hunched over the table talking to the man he’d come to meet. The disfigured man glanced away again as her gaze passed over him and a chill went through her for some reason. She looked back at the man by her table.

“You want to join me?”

The man smiled. “Very pretty.”

“Thank you,” she said. “But no.” She tried a tentative smile so as not to offend him.

The man frowned. “So alone. Pretty girl should not be alone.”

Alexis took a deep breath. “I …”

Is it so inconceivable that I should be at a table alone?

She glanced around again. The man was keeping her from seeing what Dansby was doing, but she still didn’t want to be rude.

“I’m waiting for someone,” she said finally.

“Ah,” the man nodded and walked away.

Alexis frowned. She wondered if this sort of thing was common. She’d never encountered it before, but she’d never really gone anywhere on leave except in her uniforms. She shook her head.

As though I couldn’t possibly stand being alone, but so long as I’m claimed by another …

She glanced around again and saw the disfigured man staring at her again. She found her own eyes drawn to him as well. There was something about him — she frowned. Was it a familiarity?

As her eyes passed over him again, he raised a glass to his lips and Alexis saw that it was not only his face that was disfigured. His arm had been replaced by a crude prosthetic. It moved well enough for him to grasp his glass, but its covering lacked the more lifelike hue she’d expect even from one made on her homeworld or printed aboard ship.

Perhaps Baikonur lacked the facilities to manufacture better, but the clientele of this pub were supposedly spacers, who’d travel widely and surely make stops where he could receive better care.

She started to avoid looking at him directly, but he still drew her attention. She kept her eyes always to the side, but tried to keep him in sight. Then the man turned, stared at her fully for a moment, revealing the undamaged side of his face, then rose and walked toward the back of the pub.

Alexis stayed where she was, jaw clenched in sudden recognition from the moment’s glimpse of the unscarred half of the man’s face. He was familiar for a reason, but she couldn’t believe it was him. Had, in fact, spent the years since their last meeting certain that she’d killed him.