The Orphan Alliance (The Black Ships Book 3) (36 page)

C’al’s pleased chuckle was all the reward the man needed.

Tsekoh, Capital of Chaco Benthic

T
he
denizens of the small pedway diner grew quiet as Graadt Fell and his two
comrades stalked in through the gate. Graadt shoved an inattentive greeter
aside and headed for a table by the railing.

The small establishment was completely full but that was
hardly a problem if you were in the right frame of mind. He walked up to the
table and grabbed the slate from it’s occupant, flinging it over into the
roiling mists of the atrium. “Time’s up.”

He pulled the Eesari out of his chair and handed him off to
Kaans who enjoyed throwing people out of places. He turned to claim the still
warm chair when his eyes lighted on the object on the table.

“Kaans,” he growled sharply. Looking up, he saw his man still
holding the Eesari near the gate. “Bring that back over here.” He dropped his
bulk into the seat as the frightened patron was shoved back over to his former
table.

Though the Eesari were a relatively large race, this one
showed no inclination to resist. Graadt and his cronies weren’t exactly
lycohunds themselves. They were at least twice the size of their Dactari
ancestors and they had an almost feral air about them.

After six generations living on Oudtstone and mixing with the
local primitives, his people had become something new. They’d lost their tails
generations ago. The gene was a recessive one, and Dactari tails would have had
little impact on the balance of such large bodies.

It wasn’t their mixed heritage that made them so
frightening. It was their training. Standard Dactari training on Oudtstone had
been tempered by the traditional tribal rituals of the natives. Graadt had
needed to spend a full solar cycle on Oudtstone’s second moon, Chokbaan. He,
like all his kind, had been dropped on the surface with nothing but the
clothing on his back. Each year, a shuttle would pick up a limited number of
successful candidates.

If you couldn’t fight your way into one of the pickup pods,
you never saw home again.

Long months of survival in the deep walds had given him the
raw edge that instilled such fear in this big Eesari and Graadt simply accepted
it as the normal way of things. Prey feared the predator.

He picked up a small wooden bracelet. “How does a dung heels
like you get his front paws on spicewood?” He’d been noticing the steady
increase of spicewood objects in Chaco and it was constantly nagging at the
back of his mind. If you weren’t attuned to your environment, it wouldn’t be
long before you became the prey, and this sudden profusion of luxury items
represented a change he couldn’t put his finger on.

The Eesari’s mouth moved but no sound was coming out.

The corners of Graadt’s mouth twitched up -  half grin
half snarl. “Boys, help him find his slate.”

Kaans and Nid dragged him over to the grimy railing and bent
him over it. A slag carrier passed beneath in the fog, greyish white eddies in
its silent wake. They reached down and grabbed their victim’s feet, lifting
them up so he slid over the rail and hung upside down over the nine story drop.

The Eesari found his voice. The other patrons guiltily
ignored the screams and concentrated intensely on their meals.

Graadt got out of the chair and leaned over the slick
graphene rail, shoving a mouthful of half eaten fish into his mouth. “You don’t
expect me to eat with you hanging there shrieking, do you?”

“You were asked a question,” Kaans shouted down at him.
“Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

“It’s cheap,” their victim screamed. “Some shops on twenty
three, near the pinch, they carry stuff like this.”

“How much was it?” Graadt brought the bracelet to his nose.
His eyebrows shot up.

“Thirty two hundred credits,” the Eesari whined. “You can
have it…”

Graadt held out the bracelet for Kaans to sniff. “Thirty two
hundred is cheap for old wood, but this is fresh from the trunk. No way you
paid so little for something this new.”

“It’s true, I didn’t believe the stories myself until I
actually went there.” There was a series of rapid, shallow breaths.

Graadt nodded at his cronies. Waited till they pulled him
up. “Near the pinch?” He asked.

A relieved nod.

“What was the name of the place?”

A fearful glance darted at the railing. “Gods, I don’t
remember. I just walked into some stores until  I found that bracelet.”

Graadt wanted more information, but he’d caught a scent and
he wanted to start the hunt. He grabbed the Eesari’s wrist, holding it up for
Nid to scan with an arm mounted unit.

“Nish Ainashu,” Nid grunted.

Graadt stepped closer, his face inches from Nish. He cupped
the back of the Eesari’s head with his right hand. “If I decide later that I’m
angry with you, Nish, I’ll come looking for you. You don’t want that to happen,
do you?”

A terrified shake of the head.

“Good.” Graadt patted the back of Nish’s head roughly. “You
enjoy your meal.”

He pushed Nish back in his seat. Graadt had suddenly
forgotten he was hungry. He hadn’t given much thought to the profusion of
spicewood because he’d come back to the fifth planet of his home system to hunt
a Human agent, not to trade in luxury goods. Still, something seemed out of
place and he couldn’t just ignore it any longer.

He led his two comrades out of the diner and over to a
loading portal.

There were two lines waiting at the portal.  One
regular line where eight ordinary nobodies waited for their vehicles to be
brought up and one priority line where a single Dactari company man waited for
his driver.

The nobodies watched the approaching hunters with mixed
alarm. Graadt approved. They were attuned to their environment. They had the
brains to sense the potential danger that he represented.

The Dactari was completely oblivious. He obviously saw
himself as the king of this little corner of the dung heap and he had no idea
that trouble was approaching.

And that trouble was heading right for him. Graadt and his
friends needed a vehicle and the Dactari’s runabout was large, it was
comfortable and it was the only vehicle currently docked.

The company man was just stepping into the back of his open
top ride when Nid shoved him from behind, sending him sprawling onto the floor.
He rolled onto his back, holding a hand to his nose. Shock and anger fought
each other for control of his features. The anger won as Graadt leaned over
him.

“Hello, little cousin,” Graadt showed him a smile that did
little to reassure. “We need to use your ride for a few minutes, just keep
calm.”

Behind him, Kaans was throwing the driver up onto the
loading platform. Nid hurled the driver’s crown-shaped dash ornament at the
back of his head, whooping with delight as it connected.

“You’re those gods damned ‘stoners’,” the Dactari
spluttered.

Graadt nodded agreeably. Most full blooded Dactari used the
name as a pejorative derivative of ‘Oudtstoner’ but Graadt liked the sound of
it. The moniker actually made him seem a little more frightening – a little
more like someone who was outside the rules of orderly civilization.

 “I know what I am, little mouse.” Unlike the Dactari
choice in nickname, the Oudstoner’s handle for their pureblood cousins was
clearly an insult. “Why do you think saying it will improve your
morning?” 

“We turn a blind eye to your activities,” the mouse
protested, “even though your kind are persona non grata in the Republic, but
don’t start thinking you can take liberties with senior planetary officials.”

The Oudstoners were descended from the renegade force led by
Flota Reis Mas of the Krypteia. They fought the Alliance, and they did so more
effectively than Dactari regulars. As a result, the official Republic approach
was to ignore them. Stoners could travel freely within the Republic and their
operators were largely ignored by local military and law enforcement.

They were able to carry out attacks against the
Human/Midgaard Alliance without risking the shaky détente that had existed for
the last fifteen decades. They were unofficial, so blame never came back to the
Triumvirs on Dactar.

It was possible for a stoner to go too far and run afoul of
the local authorities, but Graadt knew he was far from red-lining the current
situation. He noticed a small cooling unit in the back seat bolster and helped
himself to a bottle of water. Despite the city’s location beneath millions of
cubic meters of water, it was still a very expensive product.

The company owned the only desalination plants and their
computer algorithms automatically kept the prices just below the point where
riots would have broken out.

He grabbed two more bottles and threw them to Kaans as Nid
pulled them out from the platform. “Senior official…” He let the words hang
there like rotten fruit for a moment. “Why would a senior official be dressed
like five kilos of dung in a ten kilo bag? Hmmm?”

The Dactari refused to answer. His clothing was better than
most Tsekoh citizens but he certainly wasn’t dressed like anyone important.

“And why would he be here in a fleet runabout rather than a
personal vehicle?” Graadt took in the view as they ascended. “No, little mouse,
you’re a petty company functionary who’s going to keep his lips glued until we
don’t need him anymore.”

The mouse squeaked as Nid banked to take them around the
pinch at a more or less suicidal speed.

They eased to a halt next to the railing on the commercial
side of twenty three. “Hold him here, lads.” Graadt jumped from the side of the
runabout, landing with one foot on the edge of the pedway and both hands on the
railing. He swung his other foot over the rail and dropped into the space that
had opened up in the wary pedestrian flow.

“What’s our play?” Kaans called out as he moved back to sit
near the Dactari.

Graadt turned back, sorting out what had, until that moment,
been a collection of hazy thoughts. The instinct of the hunt. “This spicewood
thing is too juicy for our quarry to ignore.” He nodded to himself. “Follow the
spicewood and we’ll cross trails with the Alliance agent, soon enough.” He
turned to head into the first store.

Finding that agent would go a long way toward squaring the
three of them with their own people. Being a stoner meant being outside of
Republic society. Being an outcast from the stoners meant you were completely
alone.

Tsekoh, Capital of Chaco Benthic

T
he
warehouse was nicer than Cal had expected. The entire front was a glazed office
space, opening on three different levels. The window mullions hadn’t developed
the smutty patina common to Tsekoh, marking the façade as a new addition,
probably during the last year.

“The son’s name?” he asked over his shoulder as he crossed
toward the main doors, jamming a Tauhentan buck-herder’s hat on his head.

“G’Mal.” The Ufangian gazed at the ridiculously out of place
hat for a split second before trotting after Cal.

They pulled the doors open, striding confidently into the
comfortably dry and warm atrium. A catwalk led across the three story open
space and Cal headed across without breaking stride, acting as if he knew where
he was going. He completely ignored passing office employees and they repaid
the favor, glancing at his hat, but not thinking to wonder where the confident
stranger was headed.

Momentum was key in a situation like this. If you stopped
and took in your surroundings, then you didn’t belong. If you acted as though
you knew what you were doing, chances were good you’d avoid entanglements with
territorial staff. Just pick a point and start walking.

They reached the end of the catwalk and Cal swerved left to
pass a reception desk, aiming for the heavy spicewood doors at the back of a
small seating area. The heady scent was nice for a few moments, but he couldn’t
imagine spending entire days next to those doors.

“Excuse me,” the young Tauhentan man at the desk got up,
speaking in an authoritative tone. “Can I help you?”

Cal supressed a grin. Most people had a chronic aversion to
saying what they really meant. This receptionist was a prime example. What he really
wanted to say was
Stop, you can’t just walk in there.
It would have
worked a hell of a lot better in this case. Instead, his choice of words gave
the impression that he was just offering help.

Taking him up on his offer was the best way to keep the
momentum alive. “Three algae floaters, and see that we’re not disturbed –
G’Mal’s on a tight schedule today.”

The flustered receptionist frowned in confusion as the two
interlopers pushed the heavy doors open and disappeared inside.

The office stank of spicewood. The desk in the center of the
room was made of the stuff and it was probably the reason the ventilation
system was running full tilt. The twenty-something Tauhentan behind it looked
at the closed doors for a second then back to his unexpected visitors. His eyes
slid up to Cal’s ostentatious hat, then darted away diplomatically.

“Ro’j,” Cal boomed. “Ro’j Yoyeco’s the name.” He jammed a
thumb over his shoulder at his Ufangian companion. “This here’s McFreely –
Elmer Fudd McFreely.”

The young man nodded absently, trying to work out what was
happening to his quiet morning. He looked back up at Cal. “Wasn’t there a Ro’j
Yoyeco that betrayed Tauhento to the Alliance long time ago?”

Most Tauhentans revered Yoyeco as part of the liberation
effort, but the expats had to make a point of seeing it the other way. If you
lived in the Republic and your home world was under Alliance dominion, you
didn’t have much choice about things like that.

“No relation,” Cal breezed. “Speaking of relations, when’s
the old man getting back? I’m anxious to finalize the details.”

“The, Um…” His eyes darted from side to side. “What?”

One of the doors opened and the receptionist backed in with
a tray in his hands. He slowly walked to the desk and set out the three drinks
that Cal had ordered. He looked up to G’Mal, who looked pointedly down at the
drinks before directing an incredulous look at him. The poor fellow shrugged
helplessly, nodded at the two invaders and then scuttled out, closing the door
quietly.

“The investment, sonny!” Cal exclaimed in perfect Oaxian.
Though Dheema had been the official language on Oaxes and their colony,
Tauhento, for over a thousand years, the smugglers of both worlds still used
the old language to help obscure their activities.

“Investment?”

“I’ll just take another look at the stockpile.” Cal headed
for the side door, hoping it wasn’t just a closet or washroom.

The young man jumped out of his seat in alarm. “Wait, you
can’t just walk in there! You might be dealing with my father, but I have no
clue who you are.” He caught Cal by the arm, just as he reached the door.

He was so focused on Cal, that he failed to notice
‘McFreely’ slipping behind his desk. The ‘sticky’ was a short range data chip
with a cloning program. If you could get close enough to your target’s data
node, you could make a copy of everything he had.

If you could get close enough.

The Ufangian was leaning right up against it. The closer you
got, the faster the data transferred.

“Hey!” G’Mal turned Cal from the door. “McFreely, what are
you doing?”

“Nice picture,” Cal’s accomplice muttered, pretending to
stare at the details of the image on the wall behind the desk. “Not the first
Foxlight
is it?”

“Yes, it is the first,” he waved the Ufangian back out to
the middle of the office. “Look, gentlemen, if you have a deal, it’s with my
father. I don’t know anything about it so we’re not going to accomplish
anything here today. Why don’t you come back in a few days, when the old man
returns.” He held out his hand, offering the old imperial version of a
handshake.

Cal was impressed with the young Tauhentan. He didn’t hide
behind polite phrasing, he came right to the point, once he managed to regain
his footing. ‘Roj’ looked at ‘McFreely’ who gave a barely perceptible nod.
“Fair enough, lad.” He waved his hand over G’Mal’s. “We’ll be seeing you.”

Outside, Cal took the sticky and they split up. Cal headed
for one of the connectors that linked the two sides of the city, tossing his
hat over the railing as he activated his implant. There were literally
thousands of convenient locations where he could view the files on the sticky,
but all of them were watched by a bank of quantum core computers that sat,
brooding over all intra-city messages and data access.

His implant, however, was completely independent of the city
systems and it was shielded from scans. Using it for short range links,
such  as the sticky, was more or less safe, but a long range message could
be picked up by the random scanners.

He powered up the Hothmoen discriminator, developed by the
Yo’Thage brothers on Weirfall a century and a half ago. The discriminator
allowed perception at the quantum level. Linking it to a Midgaard implant
allowed faster than light communication by tunneling a path through countless
micro-wormholes.

Cal focused his attention on the device in his tunic pocket,
picking up the ready signal almost immediately. He came to a stop at a
semicircular rest area that jutted out into the main atrium of the city.

Leaning on the damp railing, he began to work his way through
the files. The manifests for the
Foxlight II
were particularly
illuminating. Each voyage resulted in a cargo transfer, straight through the
orbital counterweight platform and onto another freighter. There was always a
sub note indicating a large quantity of water coming down on the elevator each
time the ship visited orbit.

It made sense. If G’Maj had found a new source of spicewood,
he’d want to bring enough down here to generate local pocket currency, and he’d
want to keep folks from finding out. What better way than to declare it as
water.

Technically, water was in permanent shortage, but it was an
artificial shortage – the city was sitting under several kilometers of it,
after all. Still, if it was declared as water, that meant official involvement.

Cal reckoned that direct involvement went no farther up the
chain than a customs official or two. A lot of ‘water’ got imported into the
city every day, but the company turned a blind eye, as long as the bribes flowed.
G’Maj was paying an inspector, who then gave his own supervisor a share. That
supervisor, in turn, paid a percent of his take to his manager and so, up the
chain it went.

The unofficial system was so old, it wasn’t even considered
illegal. It also had the benefit of allowing certain, archaic laws to be
circumvented without engaging the infamously costly re-legislation process. The
old saying went that money flowed into Xo’Khov and fed the Consul’s pet
black-hole.

“Give an Ufangian a credit and he’ll make two more by days
end,” Cal muttered the old adage as he mentally scrolled the data. “Give a
credit to a Dactari and he’ll melt it down to sell for scrap, then ask you for
another credit so he can ship it to a recycler.”

Since the first Consul had replaced the Triumvirs, fifteen
decades ago, accountability had gone to the scuttlers. The Triumvirs had at
least kept each other in check to some degree. The Consuls ruled without
interference and so the great gears of Republic administration had grown increasingly
dirty.

Small wonder there was so much undeclared cargo shifting
around between the worlds.

Cal frowned. He closed the current file and went back to the
expense account. G’Maj always bought the same amount of reactant every time he
returned to Chaco Benthic. It was always the same amount, right down the the
last tenth of a grain.

It was a simple matter for Cal to have his cranial processor
crunch the numbers. He had everything he needed to calculate the radius
represented by the reactant purchases. The specs on the
Foxlight II
were
right there in the files and their engine performance was clearly stated in the
sales brochure G’Maj had received from off world.

Cal projected a three dimensional chart on his retinas and
overlaid a sphere with the calculated radius. Only three worlds came anywhere
close to the surface of the sphere. One was a carbon giant and he removed it
from the projection. The next two seemed like good candidates. Both were G
class worlds.

The G class, or
Goldilocks
class of worlds were the
ones that orbited their stars at just the right distance for liquid water to
exist. Of the two G class worlds, one sat just inside the sphere, and the other
just beyond it.

Cal figured the smuggler wouldn’t take any risks on running
out of fuel so the closer world was the most likely candidate. Both were
outside of Republic control, but he figured he could wait for G’Maj to return
before attempting to contact the Alliance.

He toyed with the idea of sneaking aboard the
Foxlight II
when it returned, but the crew would almost certainly purge the nav
computer before the customs officials came aboard.

He figured the best course of action would be a chance
meeting with G’Maj at one of the smugglers regular watering holes. Just two
Tauhentan expats, reminiscing about a world that neither had set foot on. Once
Cal got him talking, he should be able to pick up enough data to confirm his
analysis.

He was hoping it would turn out to be planet 3428. If the
Alliance decided to garrison that world, it would give them a strong position
on the Dactari flank and it meant a greater enemy force would have to be
stationed here, drawing off enemy troops from the core worlds. If they timed it
right, he could start an insurrection here while Alliance forces took 3428.

The Dactari Consul ruling the Republic was also the titular
head of the military but, no Consul since the first one had any actual military
experience. Chances were good he’d overreact, sending a massive force to keep
this insignificant ball of water in his domain.

Cal close the data and shut off his implants, finally
hearing the growl of his stomach. He started walking. He could wait for a few
more days, before calling Flemming with the news.

Counterweight
will release in the first quarter of
2014. If you would like to be notified of the release date, just send me a
quick request at
[email protected]
.
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