"That a fact?"
"Pilot, it is. It is also a fact that an
aelantaza
could not survive a line edit without outside intervention. Much the same sort of intervention—" She raised her unmarked arms—"necessary to wipe the Batch numbers not only from my skin, but from my muscles, bones, and cells." She lowered her arms and addressed Jela.
"There is an Uncle, and Pilot Cantra knows where to find him. If you would see me safe, see me to him."
"Pilot Cantra?" Jela said quietly.
Pain, in her head, in her joints, in the marrow of her bones. Garen's voice, grief-soaked, weaving through the red mists of shutdown, "Hang on, baby, hang on, I'll get you help, don't die, damn you baby . . . "
"Pilot Cantra?" Louder this time. The man who held her ship ransom to his have-tos. And wouldn't the Uncle just be pleased as could be to welcome a genuine soldier, not-exactly-military or—
"Pilot." Back to quiet. Not good.
She sighed and gave him a wry look.
"There was an Uncle, years back. He was old then, and near to failing. Told us so, in fact. He's died by now for certain, but the story won't do the same. If I was a Batcher, I'd sure as stars want to believe there was a benevolent Uncle leading a community of free and equal Batch-grown. But it just ain't so—anymore, if it ever truly was."
"The pilot surely does not believe that the Uncle would have died without arranging a succession." Dulsey again.
Cantra sipped tea, deliberately saying nothing.
"Do you know where the Uncle's base is?" Jela asked, still on the wrong side of quiet.
She lifted a shoulder. "I know where it
was
. Understand me, Pilot, this was back a double-hand of Common Years. Uncle's dead, and if he did arrange for a transfer of authority, the way Dulsey's liking it, anybody with a brain would have moved base six times since."
"I'd do it that way, myself," he agreed, and his voice was edging back toward easy. "But, as you say, the info's still out there, and it's not impossible that somebody might strike straight for the base instead of risking an intermediate stop where they might be noticed. Even if this Uncle or his second has shifted core ops, they'll have to have left something—or someone—at the old base, to send people on—or to be sure that they don't go any further."
That made sense. Unfortunately. It was looking like a trip to the Deeps in her very near future. Pilot Jela was going to be no end expensive, unless she could persuade whoever might be at the Uncle's old place of business that he was an unacceptable risk, while keeping her own good name intact. That was possible, though not certain. Still . . .
"Where is it?" Jela asked.
Cantra sighed. "Where would you put it, Pilot?"
His eyelashes didn't even flicker.
"In the Beyond."
"Ace," she said, and drank off the rest of her tea.
"I'd like a look at the chart," he said then, and she laughed.
"You're welcome to look at any chart you want, Pilot. You find the Uncle's hidey hole, you let me know."
"I hoped you'd be kind enough to point it out to me," he said, in a tone that said he wasn't finding her particularly amusing.
"I'd do that," she said, pitching her voice serious and comradely, "but it's not fixed. Or, say, it
is
fixed, though built on random factors."
"The rock field," Dulsey breathed, and Cantra regarded her once more.
"There's a lot of detail in that story, Dulsey."
"It is not one story, Pilot, but legion."
"Is that so? Stories change as they migrate—you know that, don't you? They get bigger, broader, shinier, happier. Might be, if—and in my mind it's a big 'if'—the Uncle I met did manage to pass his project on to another administrator, and if—another big one—they managed to be clever and stay off the scans of all who wish rogue Batchers ill, it might still be that the community of free and equal Batch-grown ain't as equal or as free as the stories say."
Dulsey bowed. "This humble person thanks the pilot for her concern for one who is beneath notice," she said, irony edging the colorless voice. "Indeed, this humble person has been a slave and a chattel and resides now under a sentence of death."
Meaning that the Uncle's outfit would have to be plenty bad before it came even with what she'd been bred to and lived her whole life as, Cantra thought, and lifted a shoulder.
"I take your point," she said, and looked at Jela.
"My business is nearer the Rim than Inside," he said, which she might've known he would. "First, we'll take Dulsey out to the old base and see if the Uncle's left a forwarding address."
"All the same to me," Cantra said, doing the math quick-and-dirty and not liking the sum. They couldn't run empty all the way to the Far Edge. She had padding, but a Rim-run would eat Rint dea'Sord's eight hundred flan, and the ship's fund, too, like a whore snacking through a packet of dreamies. There was cargo—legit, or, all right, Pale Gray—that could be profitably hauled to the Rim. It would mean buying at markets where she wasn't known—and where her info was thinner than she liked. But it was that or run empty, and she'd rather not find herself broke at the end of Pilot Jela.
"Need goods," she said, giving both of them the eye—Dulsey first; then a stern lingering glare for Jela. "Eight hundred flan is all very nice, but the ship needs to sustain itself."
He inclined his head. "I agree that the ship should continue to trade and to behave, as much as is possible, as it always does." One eyebrow quirked. "I said that earlier, if you'll recall, Pilot."
"I recall. And you'll recall that I'm not taking you to my usuals. That means some bit of extra care, though I'm intending to carry legits rather than high risks. There's profit to be made on the Rim, in small pieces. Coming out of the Rim, that's something else."
"First, we go in," Jela said.
"That looks to be the case," she agreed. "If there's nothing else to discuss, then the captain declares this meeting at an end. Pilot Jela, I'll be spending some time with the charts, if you'll attend me. I'll need what info you might have on some possible destinations."
"I'm at your service, Pilot," he said, and gave her a smile. It was an attractive smile, as she'd noticed before. Which was too bad, really.
"If the pilots have no duties for me," Dulsey piped up. "I will prepare a meal."
The words were on the tip of Cantra's tongue—
Don't bother; ration sticks'll be fine
. Second thoughts dissolved them, though, and she inclined her head a fraction.
"A meal would be welcome," she said formally. "Thank you, Dulsey."
"You are welcome, Pilot Cantra," the Batcher said softly. "I am pleased to be of service."
THREE-AND-A-HALF CANS were full of the Lightest cargo
Dancer
had carried since—well, ever, if Cantra's understanding of her pedigree was correct. Not that Garen had ever actually come out and said she'd killed a
sheriekas
agent and took their ship for her own. Garen hadn't said much as a general thing, and when she did more'n half of it didn't make sense. The bits that did make sense, though, had outlined a history that would have broken stronger minds than hers by the time she came to work as a courier for the Institute.
Come with me, now, baby. You gotta get clear, get clear, hear me? Pliny's gone and struck a teacher. Now, I said! You think I'm gonna let you die twice?
Cantra shook her head. The memories were getting worrisome, popping up on their own like maybe there was some urgent lesson embedded in the past that she was too stupid to learn. She had a serious case of the soft-brains, that was what, though she'd never heard it cited among the faults of her line. On the other hand, there'd been Pliny.
She'd have given a handful of flan to know how Rint dea'Sord had uncovered his info—and another handful to learn how Dulsey had gained her own and independent judgement of the situation.
All Garen's care. All those years. And the directors must have been sure she'd died in the edlin, along with the rest of her line. If they'd thought for an instant there were any survivors—
She took a hard breath and forcefully banished that run of thinking.
Life ain't dangerous enough, you got to think up bogies to scare yourself with?
Deliberately, she focused on the here-and-trade, doing a mental inventory of the filled cans. Jela'd shown himself to be good about not grabbing extra room for "his" part, though she certainly didn't begrudge him his space—especially when he had such a knack for the felicitous buy. They'd hit five worlds so far, slowly trading their way from In-Rim to the Far Edge, specifically not attracting attention, according to Jela, and they'd come in to more than one port with exactly what was in high demand.
Two of those lucky buys had been hers, if she wanted to be truthful—and if she wanted to continue the theme, she was finding the trade—the honest trade—interesting. She was even getting used to wearing the leathers of a respectable trader on-port, rather than pilot's 'skins.
Almost
, she thought,
I could go legit
.
Don't want to get too high-profile, baby,
Garen whispered from the past.
Don't want to cast a shadow on the directors' scans . . . .
Right.
So, the trade, for now. Despite they had a good mix, there was still an empty quarter-can with her name on it. She could take a random odd lot, but there was still some time to play with and she wanted to do better than random, if she could.
Trouble was, nothing on offer in the main hall had called out for her to buy.
Shrugging her shoulders to throw off some of the tension of unwanted memories, she moved out of the main hall, heading toward what was the most boring part of any trade hall—the day-broker room. Odd how that was, 'cause on almost any vid feed of market action the image most shown was this: A couple rows of tiny booths, tenants wearing terminal-specs or half-masks, with four or five keyboards and three microphones in front of them. Day-brokers. Made an honest gambler look sane and saintly, and a dishonest gambler look smart.
Day-brokers bought and sold at speed all day long, breaking lots, building lots, mixing cargo in and out. They were willing to sell down to handfuls, or discounted stuff that needed delivery two shifts before a ship could possibly get there.
Some of them were desperate, most made a living. A few were unspeakably rich—or would be, if they survived long enough to enjoy their earnings. Day-traders didn't often quit, though—it appeared that those who took to the trade at all found it addictive. What the attraction was, Cantra had never been able to figure.
They stuffed themselves into booths barely wider than their seats, with risers overhead or behind proclaiming names or specialities or preferences; some even had small bowls of trust-me smoke, or give away candy, or free-look vids for the senses, just stop and say hello . . .
Hard to know what might be found, hard to figure which booth to call the start. Some of the brokers were pay-box pretty, some just plain sloppy. Some looked liked what they were: Rich and bored and bored by getting richer—
And then there were the ones who paid attention to passersby, so the room was near as noisy as a livestock market.
"Pilot, what can we . . . "
"If you have three cans empty I can . . . "
"Only sixteen cubes and you ought to triple your money . . . "
"Go ahead, pass by! Pass up cash, pass by . . . ."
"Sector fifteen or sixteen, I'll pay you, quick trans-ship . . . "
"Guaranteed to . . . "
She slowed, ran the sounds back through her head and turned. The skinny, bearded, bejeweled man smiled and repeated the magic words, "Guarantee, Trader? We can . . . "
She hand-signed him off, watching the hope fade on his face even as his hands jumped between keyboards, and he muttered into a mike tangled in his beard—
"That's a sell to you, and theft it is. Forty percent . . . "
Cantra drifted back a couple paces, glanced up for an ID—which was an overhead banner with a blue light flashing first around a circle, then through, then back around.
Interesting design.
"I can pay you before lift," the broker was saying to a couple of traders who had come up and paused, maybe also lured by the promise of a "guarantee."
"Credits," the broker crooned, "gems, fuel rights . . . "
He wore a head-ring with a short visor, and she guessed he was reading info from that even as he appeared fully interested in the traders before him.
Interesting design, that.
The elder of the two traders said something Cantra couldn't pick out of the general ruckus. The day-broker whipped out a card and handed it over extravagantly. Ah, a fumble there—too many cards. The younger trader had his hand out, though, and neatly caught the extra as it fluttered away. He returned it; the other card disappeared into big hands. A nod, smiles all around, and the traders moved on, the broker carefully tucking the extra card away . . .
The day-broker looked at her now, even as he mumbled into his mike, "Live, seventeen, drop orders five-five and five-six, pay the penalty and get it off my dock."
"Now, Trader," he said pleasantly. "A profit before you start interest you? I have goods that need moving. I'll pay you up-front to load, and you'll get a delivery bonus from the consignee as well. I have . . . " He paused, squinting slightly as he apparently read the info off his visor—
"Double can loads transhipping to most Inward sectors, I have three one-can loads needing to transit the Arm, I have fifteen half-can loads going regionally including some transships, I have three half-can loads going Inward, one going to the Mid-Rim. I have one-quarter can transshipping to Borgen, I have . . . "
"Pay up-front can always sound good," she admitted, while trying to place the man, his accent, or his type. It wasn't that he looked familiar, but that he didn't look familiar at all.
"Indeed, it can. Are you a rep for another, or do your own trades?"
"Indy," she nodded, "with a partial can needs filling. You got a hardcopy list of what-and-where I can peer at so I . . . "