Norton, Andre - Anthology (26 page)

 
          
 
He also didn't have the experience to be
anything other than the most junior officer in any ship, so transferring
wouldn't have any benefits.

 
          
 
Unless, of course, he parlayed his
profit-share into a small fortune and bought his own ship. Then he could be
Captain, and he might even be able to buy SKitty's contract—but he lacked the
experience that made the difference between prosperity and bankruptcy in the
shaky world of the Free Traders. He was wise enough to know this.

 
          
 
As for the breeding project—he had some ideas.
The Brightwing would be visiting Lacu'un for a minimum of three weeks on every
round of their trading-route. Surely something could be worked out. Things
didn't get chancy until after the kittens were mobile and before SKitty
potty-trained them to use crew facilities. Before they were able to leave the
nest-box. SKitty took care of the unpleasant details. If they could arrange
things so that the period of mobility-to-weaning took place while they were on
Lacu'un . . .

 
          
 
Well, he'd make that Jump when the coordinates
came up. Right now, he had to keep outsiders from discovering that there was
feline contraband on board, and find out where that contraband came from.

 
          
 
:Dick smart,: SKitty purred proudly. :Dick fix
everything.:

 
          
 
Well, he thought wryly. At least I have her
confidence, if no one else's!

 
          
 
It had been a long time since the Brightwing
had been docked at a major port, and predictably, everyone wanted shore leave.
Everyone except Dick, that is. He had no intentions of leaving the console in
Cargo where he was doing his "mate-hunting" unless and until he found
his match. The fact that there was nothing but a skeleton crew aboard, once the
inspectors left, only made it easier for Dick to run his searches through the
BioTech database available through the station. This database was part of the public
records kept on every station, and updated weekly by BioTech. Dick had a notion
that he'd get his "hit" within a few hours of initiating his search.

 
          
 
He was pleasantly surprised to discover that
there were portraits available for every entry. It might even be possible to
identify SCat just from the portraits, once he had all of the black males of
the appropriate age sorted out. That would give him even more rationale for the
claim that SKitty had "chosen" her mate herself.

 
          
 
With an interested feline perching on each arm
of the chair, he logged into the station's databases, identified himself and
gave the station his billing information, then began his run.

 
          
 
There was nothing to do at that point but sit
back and wait.

 
          
 
"I hope you realize all of the
difficulties I'm going through for you," he told the torn, who was
grooming his face thoughtfully. "I'm doing without shore leave to help you
here. I wouldn't do this for a fellow human!"

 
          
 
SCat paused in his grooming long enough to
rasp Dick's hand with his damp-sandpaper tongue.

 
          
 
The computer beeped just at that moment to let
him know it was done. He was running all this through the Cargo dumb-set; he
could have used the Brightwing's Expert-System AI, but he didn't want the AI to
get curious, and he didn't want someone wondering why he was using a Mega-Brain
to access feline family trees. What he did want was the appearance that this
was a brainstorm of his own, an attempt to boost his standing with his Captain
by providing further negotiable items for the Lacu'un contract. There .was
something odd about all of this, something that he couldn't put his finger on,
but something that just felt wrong and made him want to be extra-cautious. Why,
he didn't know. He only knew that he didn't want to set off any telltales by
acting as if this mate search was a priority item.

 
          
 
The computer asked if he wanted to use the
holo-table, a tiny square platform built into the upper right hand corner of
the desk. He cleared off a stack of hard-copy manifests, and told it
"yes." Then the first of his feline biographies came in.

 
          
 
He'd made a guess that SCat was between five
and ten years old; shipscats lived to be fifty or more, but their useful
lifespan was about twenty or thirty years. All too often their job was hazardous;
alien vermin had poisonous fangs or stings, sharp claws, and teeth. Cats
suffered disabling injuries more often than their human crewmates, and would be
retired with honors to the homes of retired spacers, or to the big
"assisted living" stations holding the very aged and those with
disabling injuries of their own. Shipscats were always welcome, anywhere in
space.

 
          
 
And I can think of worse fates than spending
my old age watching the stars with SKitty on my lap. He gazed down fondly at
his furred friend, and rubbed her ears.

 
          
 
SKitty purred and butted her head into his
hand. She paid very little attention to the holos as they passed slowly in
review. SCat was right up on the desk, however, not only staring intently at
the holos, but splitting his attention between the holos and the screen.

 
          
 
You don't suppose he can read . . . ?

 
          
 
Suddenly, SCat out a yowl, and swatted the
holoplate. Dick froze the image and the screen-biography that accompanied it.

 
          
 
He looked first at the holo—and it certainly looked
more like SCat than any of the others had. But SCat's attention was on the
screen, not the holo, and he stared fixedly at the modest insignia in the
bottom right corner.

 
          
 
Patrol?

 
          
 
He looked down at SCat, dumbfounded. "You
were with the Patrol?" He whispered it; you did not invoke the Patrol's
name aloud unless you wanted a visit from them.

 
          
 
Yellow eyes met his for a moment, then the paw
tapped the screen. He read further.

 
          
 
Type MF-025, designation Lightfoot of Sun
Meadow. Standard Military genotype, standard Military training. Well, that
explained how he had known how to shut down the "pirate" equipment.
Now Dick wondered how much else the cat had done, outside of his sight. And a
military genotype? He hadn't even known there was such a thing.

 
          
 
Assigned to Patrol ship DIA-9502, out of
Oklahoma Station, designated handler Major Logan Greene.

 
          
 
Oklahoma Station—that was this station. Drug
Interdiction? He whistled softly.

 
          
 
Then a date, followed by the ominous words,
Ship missing, all aboard presumed dead.

 
          
 
All aboard—except the shipscat.

 
          
 
The cat himself gave a mournful yowl, and
SKitty jumped up on the desk to press herself against him comfortingly. He
looked back down at SCat. "Did you jump ship before they went
missing?"

 
          
 
He wasn't certain he would get an answer, but
he had lived with SKitty for too long to underestimate shipscat intelligence.
The cat shook his head, slowly and deliberately—in the negative.

 
          
 
His mouth went dry. "Are you saying—you
got away?"

 
          
 
A definite nod.

 
          
 
"Your ship was boarded, and you got
away?" He was astonished. "But how?"

 
          
 
For an answer, the cat jumped down off the
desk and walked over to the little escape pod that neither he nor SKitty ever
forgot to drag with them. He seized the tether in his teeth and dragged it over
to an access tube. It barely fit; he wedged it down out of sight, then pawed
open the door, and dropped down, hidden, and now completely protected from what
must have happened.

 
          
 
He popped back out again, and walked to Dick's
feet. Dick was thinking furiously. There had been rumors that drug smugglers
were, using captured Patrol ships; this more-or-less confirmed 1 those rumors.
Disable the ship, take the exterior air lock and blow it. Whoever wasn't suited
up would die. Then they board and finish off whoever was suited up. They patch
the lock, restore the air, and weld enough junk to the outside of the ship to
disguise it completely. Then they can bring it in to any port they care to —
even the ship's home port.

 
          
 
This station. Which is where SCat escaped.

 
          
 
"Can you identify the attackers?" he
asked SCat. The cat slowly nodded.

 
          
 
:They know he gone. He run, they chase. He try
get home, they stop. He hear of me on dock, go hide in ship bringing mates.
They kill he, get chance,: SKitty put in helpfully.

 
          
 
He could picture it easily enough; SCat being
pursued, cut off from the Patrol section of the station—hiding out on the
docks—catching the scent of the mates being shipped for SKitty's kittens and
deciding to seek safety off-world. Cats, even shipscats, did not tend to grasp
the concept of "duty;" he knew from dealing with SKitty that she took
her bonds of personal affection seriously, but little else. So once "his"
people were dead, SCat's personal allegiance to the Patrol was nonexistent, and
his primary drive would be self-preservation. Wonderful. I wonder if they —
whoever they are — figured out he got away on another ship. Another, more
alarming thought occurred to him. / wonder if my fishing about in the BioTech
database touched off any telltales!

 
          
 
No matter. There was only one place to go now—
straight to Erica Makumba, the Legal and Security Officer.

 
          
 
He dumped a copy of the pertinent datafile to
a memory cube, then scooped up both cats and pried their life-support ball out
of its hiding place. Then he ran for Erica's cabin, praying that she had not
gone off on shore leave.

 
          
 
The Spirits of Space were with him; the
indicator outside her cabin door indicated that she was in there, but did not
want to be disturbed. He pounded on the door anyway. Erica might kill him—but
there were people after SCat who had murdered an entire Patrol DIA squad.

 
          
 
After a moment, the door cracked open a
centimeter.

 
          
 
"White." Erica's flat, expressionless
voice boded extreme violence. "This had better be an emergency."

 
          
 
He said the one word that would guarantee her
attention. "Hijackers."

 
          
 
The door snapped open; she grabbed him and
pulled him inside, cats, support-ball and all, and slammed the door shut behind
him. She was wearing a short robe, tying it hastily around herself, and she
wasn't alone. But the man watching them both alertly from the disheveled bed
wasn't one of the Brightwing's crew, so Dick flushed, but tried to ignore him.

 
          
 
"I found out where SCat's from," he
babbled, dropping one cat to hand the memory-cube to her. "Read
that—quick!"

 
          
 
She punched up the console at her elbow and
dropped the cube in the receiver. The BioTech file, minus the holo, scrolled up
on the screen. The man in the bed leaned forward to read it, too, and whistled.