Requiem for a Ruler of Worlds (14 page)

Capitan Valdemar, sensing the pressure under which Earthservice reps were negotiating, had charged the top, all-inclusive fare listed on the fee schedules of luxury liners, plus a hefty course-deviation bonus.

Earthservice auditors had wept at the amount of money being transferred, none accessible to them.

Capitan Valdemar, notoriously grasping and tightfisted, had, under the circumstances, been content to allow Alacrity to deadhead on the voyage, since there was plenty of space available.

The
Bruja
was making ready for translight. At the Terran's insistence, the two had watched the liftoff on screens in the tiny passenger lounge. At Alacrity's, they were drinking blastoff cocktails, a tradition in many human-run spacecraft. The drink differed from vessel to vessel.

"I can't find any listing for Bolivar." Floyt frowned as he consulted a portable data bank provided by Earthservice.

"That thing's full of Earthservice errata-data," the breakabout replied. He took another swallow. "An awful lot of worlds changed their original colony names. I mean, who wants to live on a place called New Passaic?"

The purser/third mate refilled their goblets with more of the
Bruja's
blastoff cocktail, which was known as an
emboscado.
Like the rest of the all-male ship's complement, he wore a heavily adorned uniform of green leather jacket and tight britches, with red, ruff-collared blouse. He cued up Wainwright's
Liftoff Overture
on the sound system. Alacrity was more partial to ditties like "High Movers Reel," or "Breakabouts' Waltz," but said nothing.

With differing attitudes, the three men watched Luna's crescent shrink behind them. The forward screen registered little change. Then there was a distinct rise in the sensation of activity within the compartment, something impossible to define but vividly felt.

"Breakers," Alacrity toasted solemnly, raising his goblet. Floyt held up his as well, and they clinked with the purser. An unprecedented feeling coursed through Floyt, like enormous velocity without movement, as the
Bruja's
captain cut in the Breakers and the Hawking Effect generator set the craft thrumming. Then there was an over-the-top sensation, and the outboard screens went blank.

The purser left to attend to his duties. Floyt looked around the cramped compartment for a reader, drawing from his pocket one of the info chips given him by Supervisor Bear. It was labeled: PROJECT SHEPHERD

MISSION BRIEFING FILE

EYES ONLY: HOBART FLOYT

"Are they serious?" Alacrity sniggered as he reached for it. "I have to see this."

Floyt held it away from him. "I'm sorry, Alacrity. This is classified Earthservice material."

"Ho, from here on in, you
are
the Earthservice. Or at least, that's the attitude a lot of people'll take.

Aren't you going to feel a bit stupid arresting yourself for a security breach?" To his surprise, the breakabout felt an odd twinge even
joking
about that, perturbations from his conditioning.

"It's still a sensitive document, Alacrity."

"It's a coprolite, is what it is. You never handled a sensitive document in your life, Ho, because Earthservice'd never let you." He was leaning over the bar, ransacking.

He came up with a reader. Floyt decided that he had little to gain by losing his temper with the breakabout, who did seem to be doing his job. The Terran hesitantly handed over the chip; Alacrity popped it into the machine.

He skimmed the projected data, chuckling, then began reading. '"Citizen Floyt is enjoined and warned against unnecessary exposure to or indulgence in off world habits, attitudes, customs, practices, turns of phrase, and/or other aberrations. Individual is warned that failure to comply may require postmission measures including, but not limited to, conditioning, deconditioning, behavioral engineering, attitude modification, memory adjustment, sequestration, radical reorientation, and partial or total loss of Earthservice privileges, rights, and prerogatives.'"

He looked around at Floyt. "You traded grips with that kid Angle, back at the lashup. Think you ought to stick your arm in a sterilizer?"

"That's not fair! You know, like it or not, they're going to debrief me when I get home. It's nothing to joke about."

"I agree, but it's that or puke."

Floyt tried to grab the reader, but Alacrity pulled it out of his reach and scanned on.

"Blah, blah, jibber-jabber-oho! 'Undue fraternization with escort or other offworlders could prove prejudicial to postmission disposition of this case.'"

"Alacrity,
that's enough
!"

The breakabout wasn't listening. The radiant yellow eyes were slitted now. "They even talk about
contemplated
misconduct." Floyt reached for the reader again, but the other was much taller and longer of arm.

"Maybe you'd better start sedating yourself; wouldn't want any impure thoughts."

Floyt lost patience. "I just want to complete this mission with a minimum of trouble, Fitzhugh. Now,
give that back
!"

Though there'd been the reference to their common dilemma, it was more the tone of Floyt's voice that inadvertently triggered Alacrity's conditioning. The derisive smile vanished; Alacrity seemed paralyzed for a moment.

He suddenly felt contrite. Here was likable Hobart Floyt, coping as best he could with a predicament that was none of his fault, and he, Alacrity, was adding to the man's problems needlessly, acting like a delinquent.

"I—I'm sorry, Ho." A little benumbed, he slid the reader along the bar, back to Floyt. "That was out of line, I know."

But deep inside, something was shrilling,
How much of me did they get?
and was terrified.

It dawned on Floyt what had happened. "No, no harm done. Forget it, Alacrity."

The breakabout nodded absently, distracted and confused. Floyt tried to see the matter as an unfortunate but minor incident.
At least things will proceed more smoothly,
the Terran thought.
Or is
that my own conditioning talking?

Capitan Valdemar saw no reason to assign the deadheading Alacrity quarters alotted for paying passengers, even if there weren't any others. Since there was room in Floyt's cabin, they'd been billeted together.

As Floyt studied the glowing instructions etched by the entrance to the head, Alacrity dug into his warbag, tossing things onto the fold-down conform-bunk he'd chosen. There were long, heavy gauntlets, a few wads of clothing-mostly standard spacer's attire—and a personal kit. Strapped to the bag was a sheath, from which he drew a metallic-looking umbrella.

Alacrity sat and changed from the pathfinder boots into soft tabi with separate toes. Then he opened the front of his shipsuit so that the chain carrying his wonderment could be seen.

He rose and took up the umbrella. "I'm going to look around a bit. If you need me, use the intercom."

He didn't have to add that it would be a better idea all around for them not to be pent up together just then.

The
Bruja
had been scheduled for a lunar call before Weir's death, and made no changes in crew. It was pro forma that all inloaded cargo had been carefully inspected. Too, passage for Floyt and Alacrity had been negotiated in strictest secrecy; Alacrity was therefore fairly sure that Floyt would be safe in transit.

Such basics of shipboard life as hadn't been explained by the purser were easy enough to find out about. Spanglaterra was the
Bruja's
official tongue, but there were few breakabouts who didn't speak at least passable Terranglish.

"They won't mind you touring the ship if you feel like it," Alacrity said. "The off-limits areas are all secured and marked, like the power section and the Fuckup Factory."

"The
what
?"

"The bridge, the control room." Floyt nodded, still perusing the instructions. Alacrity left.

It wasn't hard to find the ship's broker; most human or mixed vessels had one, whether they were called that or fixer, or fo'c'sle chaplin.

Gabriel was a well-fed little hornet of a man with reddish hair and mustachios and quick gray eyes.

He was obviously doing well, having a tiny cabin to himself though he was only a common crewman. He invited Alacrity in and asked what he could do for him.

"Well, you can tell me what the ship's game is, just as a point of origin. Poker? Wari?" Then Alacrity remembered that the ship's homeport was Bolivar. "No, wait; dominoes, right?"

"Monopoly. Do you play?"

Alacrity came up with his lucky playing token, a racy little one-seater sky coupe. It was a real spacer's piece, with freefall stickum on the bottom. "But I haven't got much cash. What're the stakes?"

"Fifty ovals to get in, I'm afraid."

In due course Gabriel was looking the umbrella over with an experienced eye. "It's a Viceroy Imperial, from Outback," Alacrity told him. "Practically new."

Aside from footgear, an umbrella—or "gamp" or "brolly"—was often more useful than anything a breakabout took groundside, including guns and commo equipment. The Imperial was top of the line, rugged and extremely versatile.

Gabriel opened it, examining the ribs and gores, working the runner, checking tacks and joints. A brolly was also a parasol, walking stick, seat rest, and weapon. The Imperial was big enough to serve as an emergency shelter of sorts and had drop-down protective netting.

"Twenty's the best I can do," Gabriel pronounced mournfully. Alacrity played out the scene, hunching his shoulders at the proper moment so that Gabriel caught sight of the chain. Gabriel whistled when he opened the cross and saw the sliver of decayed wood. He wasn't fooled, but he knew there were always those who could be.

They finally agreed that it would be collateral—unless Alacrity lost—and the fifty changed hands. As Gabriel saw his customer to the door, an odd-looking little being bustled toward them along the passageway.

Evolution had given it shape, coloring, and texture that suggested to Alacrity a potato augmented by eyestalks, tentacles, and stubby podia.

The being was preceded by an incongruous aroma of powerful cologne.

The thing waved a bouquet of tentacles at Gabriel. "Ah, there you are, charmer of engines! Well met!"

"Hello there, Squeeb. Alacrity, meet technician-in-training Squeeb, from—" The name of the planet sounded as if Gabriel were clearing his throat.

"Or as you humans call it, Hyperbole," Squeeb put in brightly, speaking in a birdlike voice from an organ located at his top, in the center of all those eyes and tentacles. "Nice to meet you."

"Squeeb's the first of his people ever to go space traveling," Gabriel said.

"Hi-ho, for the life of a breakabout," Squeeb joked nervously. "Gabriel, the others invited me to join the game, but they forgot to tell me where it would be." Squeeb held up a membranous purse that clinked.

"Number four cargo lock," Gabriel told him. "Do you have a playing token?"

"Oh, the good-luck fetish; no. I was going to beg your council."

Gabriel held out a miniature wheelbarrow of some blue substance that looked like ivory. Squeeb's eyestalks gathered around it curiously.

"I can let you have this one for a very reasonable … " Gabriel began, then stopped. "Oh, here you go.

Just make sure you bring it back." He dropped it into a curl of tentacle.

"I'm forever in the vastness of your largesse," Squeeb assured him, then scooted off.

Alacrity blew his breath out, shaking his head with pity. "Supper's on, hm?"

"Oof," Gabriel agreed. "They're going to skin him for sure. Too bad; he's a decent little troll."

"Except for his taste in after-shave."

Gabriel sniggered. "When he was assigned to a berth, he naturally thought to scent-mark his personal area. They almost cycled him out an airlock. So he started wearing Shore Leave to avoid offending anybody."

"I never saw a—Hyperbolarian?—before."

"I think Squeeb got stuck with the job of evaluating space travel for his people. All Hyperbolarians really care about is getting themselves an allocation of ground and having offspring."

"Limited living space?"

"Absolutely. The elders dole it out; when you've got your personal domain, your 'ramazz,' you can start a family, but you can only have as many children as the ramazz can support. The more important you are, the more ramazz you get."

"And Squeeb?"

"Nada,
zero. He's trying to resign himself to being a bachelor all his life."

"But how is he as an apprentice?" Alacrity wasn't at all sure he liked the idea of Squeeb fooling around in the chandelier guts of a Hawking Effect generator.

"Not bad at all. But he's worried about fitting in with the crew. He tries too hard."

"Do they ride him?"

"The usual. You know: sending him out after left-handed emery paper or a bag of dried squelch.

That's why he's so happy they asked him to join the game. I don't think it'd bother him to lose all his money. He draws his pay through some kind of trade assistance program; I'm not sure he even
understands
money."

"He'll understand it if he loses it all."

"Six!" hissed Juan-Feng. "Chance! The Question Mark!"

Alacrity stoically hopped his sky coupe the six spaces and reached for a Chance card.

"The Capricious Curlicue of Cash," Juan-Feng barkered. "The Loony Loop of Luck. C'mon, show us the card, Fitzhugh! What's it say?"

"Sez, 'All Sino-Hispanic Players Kiss Your Ass.'" Alacrity glared.

Number four cargo airlock was a loud, humid den of banter, laughter, recreational substance abuse, and horseplay, but that drew some catcalls anyhow. Juan-Feng took it gracefully.

He toyed with the chain that held his union book around his neck, wrapping it around his finger. The tiny info wafer held his history as a spacer: disciplinary, medical, and technical details were all there.

"Now I
know
you picked yourself a good card." He leered.

For answer, Alacrity buried the Chance card and, opening his playing till, began disbursing money around the circle. Even though it was early in the game, he was careful to let none of the others get a look at how much game currency he had or remind themselves what properties he'd bought.