Throne of Stars (70 page)

“You saying I’m cheating?” Julio asked as the most massive guard stepped forward. His move put Sena behind him, and she glanced up casually from her manual, then went back to her reading.

“I’m simply wondering out loud,” Denat replied, ignoring the guard. “If it
isn’t
the custom, perhaps you would like to remove that card you stuck up your sleeve and shuffle again.”

Julio raised one hand to the guard, and then slipped the ace of diamonds from the cuff of the same wrist.

“Just checking,” he said, sliding it back into the deck. “Julio Montego.”

“Denat Cord,” Denat said as the bar regular slid back from the card table.

“I’m just gonna—” the old man said.

“Yeah, why don’t you?” Julio agreed without even glancing away from the Mardukan to look at him.

“As I said, on Marduk we have a saying: if you aren’t cheating, you aren’t trying,” Denat explained. “I have no personal reservations about anything along those lines. Humans are so . . . picky about it, though. I was pleased to see you weren’t.”

“You wanna give it a try?” Julio asked, sliding the cards over. “Just a friendly hand? No money, that is.”

“Doesn’t seem much point,” Denat muttered, “but if you wish.”

He’d pulled off the environment suit’s gloves and flexed his hands, then shuffled. He moved the cards so quickly they seemed to blur, then slid the deck over for a cut. After Julio had carefully cut the cards, he picked them back up and tossed out a three-way hand.

“Straight stud. No draw.”

Julio picked up his cards and shook his head.

“What are the odds of getting a royal flush on the deal?” he asked. “Wow, am I lucky, or what?”

“Yes, very,” Denat said. “Yours in diamonds would even have beaten mine, in spades.”

“I t’ink maybe we don’t play cards,” Poertena said. “It’s times like t’is I regret teaching t’at modderpocker poker.”

“Or maybe, instead of playing, we just put the cards on the table,” Julian said, sliding into the chair the regular had vacated. “What can we do for you, Mr. Montego?”

“I dunno,” Julio replied. “What
can
you do for me?”

“We’re not muscling in on your turf,” Julian said delicately. “We’re just looking for work with the Navy. If that’s not available, we’re just going to slide out. No muss, no fuss. No trouble.”

“You aren’t spacers.”

“I’ve got a data chip says different,” Julian pointed out.

“I can pick them up for a credit a pop,” Julio scoffed. “And I’ve got local responsibilities to maintain.”

“We’re not going to cause any trouble with the locals,” Julian said. “Just call us the invisible foursome.”

“You’ve got two scummy bodyguards and a guy says he’s from Armagh that’s probably never even seen the planet,” Julio said. “You’re not exactly invisible. What’s your angle?”

“Nothing that concerns you, Mr. Montego,” Julian replied smoothly. “As I said, it would be better all around if you just ignored us and pretended we were never here. It’s not something you want to stick your nose into.”

“This is my turf,” Julio said flatly. “Everything that goes on here concerns me.”

“Not this. It has nothing to do with Halliwell or your turf.”

“So what’s the angle? You a drug contact for the Navy? Porno? Babes?”

“You’re not going to let this lie, are you?” Julian said, shaking his head.

“No.”

“Mr. Montego, do you have someone who you . . . deal with? Not a boss, not that. But someone to whom you, perhaps, forward a portion of your local income? For services rendered?”

“Maybe,” Montego said cautiously.

“Well, that gentleman probably has someone with whom he deals in turn. And so on, and so forth. And at some level, Mr. Montego, well above what a friend of mine would refer to as our pay grade, there’s a gentleman who probably should have mentioned that some of his associates were going to be sliding through your turf. We’re not dealers, we’re not mules. We’re . . . associates. Conveyors of information. And before you ask, Mr. Montego, no. You’re not going to find out what information. If you choose to get busy about that, Mr. Montego, things will get very ugly, very quickly. Not only in this bar, but at a level you don’t even want to think about. The sort of level where people don’t hire spaceport bouncers, but professional gentlemen who are familiar with the use of powered armor and plasma cannon, Mr. Montego.”

All of this was said with a thin smile while Julian’s eyes were locked on the local’s.

“He’s not pocking kidding,” Poertena said, and rolled up his sleeve to reveal a thin scar line where an arm had been regrown. “Pocking trust me on t’at.”

“I would, if I were you,” Sena said in perfect Imperial from behind the mobster.

It was the first time she’d spoken anything but Mardukan, and Julio’s head turned in her direction. She looked back at him with the closest thing to a smile a Mardukan’s limited facial muscles could produce, and his eyes narrowed as he observed the heavy, military-grade bead pistol which had somehow magically appeared in her lap. She made no move to touch it, only went back to her book.

“One such professional gentleman, in his own way,” Julian observed dryly, never so much as glancing in Sena’s direction.

“You’re correct,” Julio said. “There should have been some word passed. But there wasn’t. And there’s a price for doing business on my turf; two thousand credits, and this meeting never happened.”

“T’at’s pocking—”

“Pay him,” Julian said. He stood up. “Nice doing business with you, Mr. Montego.”

He held out his hand.

“Yes,” Montego replied. “And the name was?”

“Pay the man,” was all Julian said, and walked over to the bar.

Poertena pulled out two large-denomination credit chips and slid them across the tabletop.

“I don’ suppose you’d care por a priendly game of poker?”

“I don’t think so,” Montego said, standing up. “And it would probably be better if you kept your mouth shut.”

“Story of my pocking life,” Poertena muttered.

The stripper turned out to be a rather tired looking woman in her forties, and the live band was louder than it was capable. Sena and Denat, whose species’ sexuality was rather different from that of humans, found the entire production bizarre, to say the very least, but they’d turned out to be quite popular with the regulars. Eight Mardukan-sized hands could set and maintain a beat for bumps and grinds that not even
this
band could completely screw up. And whatever else, the noise and crowd made for a decent place for a secure conversation.

Julian slid into the vacant seat beside the Navy warrant officer and nodded.

“Buy you a drink?” he asked. “Seems right for our boys in black.”

“Sure,” the pilot said. He was young, probably not too long out of flight school. “I’ll take an alcodote before I lift, but, Christ, a guy’s got to have some downtime.”

“I’ve only seen shuttle crews come down,” Julian said over the noise of the band and the Mardukans’ enthusiastic clapping. Nobody in the bar had to know that Denat and Sena’s contribution was the body-language equivalent of semihysterical laughter among their people.

“Fleet orders!” the pilot shouted back as the drummers started an inexpert riff. “No contact with the planet. Hell, even
this
is better,” he said, pointing at the tired-looking stripper. “We’ve about run through the pornography available on the ship, and my right forearm is getting sort of overdeveloped.”

“That bad?” Julian laughed.

“That bad,” the warrant replied.

“You’re from Captain Poertena’s ship, right?” Julian said, leaning closer.

“Who wants to know?” The warrant took a sip of his drink.

“Yes or no?”

“Okay, yes,” the warrant said. “Man, I know I’ve had too much to drink. She’s starting to look good.”

“In that case, I need you to pass a message to your captain.”

“What?” The warrant officer really looked at Julian for the first time.

“I need you to pass a message to your captain,” Julian repeated. “Do it in person, and do it alone. Message is: The boy who stole the fish is sorry. Just that. And everything he’s heard lately is a lie. Got it?”

“What’s this all about?” the warrant asked as Julian stood up.

“If your captain wants you to know, he’ll tell you,” Julian replied. “In person, alone. Got it? Repeat it, Warrant.” The last was clearly an order.

“The boy who stole the fish is sorry,” the warrant officer repeated.

“Do it, on your honor,” Julian said, and walked into the crowd.

“How was the run?” Captain Poertena asked. He was looking at data on a holo display and eating a banana. Fresh fruit was a precious rarity in Sixth Fleet these days, even in one of the supply haulers, like
Capodista
, and he was breaking it into small bites to enjoy it properly.

“Went fine, Sir,” Warrant Officer Sims replied. “We got a full load this time, and I spoke with one of the Governor’s representatives. They’ve been trying to fill our parts list, so far with no luck.”

“Not surprising,” Poertena said. “Well, maybe better luck next week. Sooner or later Admiral Helmut is going to have to fish or cut bait. Any new news from the capital?”

“No, Sir,” Sims said. “But I had a very strange conversation on-planet. A guy came up to me and asked me to pass you a message. In person, and alone.”

“Oh?” Poertena looked up from the holo display, one cheek bulging with banana while another piece rose towards his mouth.

“The boy who stole the fish is sorry,” Sims said.

The hand stopped rising, then began to drop as Poertena’s swarthy face went gray.

“What did you say?” the captain snapped, his mouth half-full.

“The boy who stole the fish is sorry,” Sims repeated.

The piece of banana was crushed between two fingers, and then flung onto the desk.

“What did he look—No. Did this guy have an accent?”

“No, Sir,” the warrant said, coming halfway to attention.

“Did he say anything else?”

“Just something about everything being a lie,” Sims said. “Sir, what’s this all about?”

“Sims, you do not have the need to know,” Poertena said, swallowing and shaking his head. “Modderpocker.
I
don’t have the need to pocking know.” The captain had worked hard on his accent, and it only tended to show in times of stress. “I did not pocking
need
t’is. Where was t’is guy?”

“Well . . .” Sims hesitated. “In a bar, Captain. I know they’re off limits—”

“Forget t’at,” Poertena said. “Modderpocker. I’ve got to t’ink. Sims, you don’t tell
anyone
about t’is, clear?”

“Clear, Sir.” It was Sims’ turn to swallow hard.

“I’ll probably need you in a while. Get some chow and crew rest if you need. I t’ink we’re going back to Halliwell.”

“Sir, regulations state—”

“Yeah. Well, I t’ink t’e pocking regulations jus’ wen’ out t’e pocking airlock.”

Julian looked up as a sizable shadow loomed over the restaurant table.

“Guy that looks a lot like a Poertena just walked into the bar,” Denat said. “He’s with that shuttle pilot. Sena’s keeping an eye on them.”

Julian had gone over to one of the local restaurants that served a really
good
bitok. He’d missed them on Marduk, and this place did them right—thick, cooked to a light pink in the middle, and with really good barbecue sauce. It was infinitely preferable to the “snacks” served in the bar, and Denat and Sena had remained behind to keep an eye on things while he ate it.

Now he set down the bitok and took a sip of cola.

“Okay, showtime,” he said. “Where’s Magee?”

“Dunno,” the Mardukan said.

“Find him,” Julian replied, and tried very hard not to be irritated by the little Pinopan’s absence. After all, Julian hadn’t expected Captain Poertena to show up this fast, either, and it was late at night by local time.
Capodista
’s skipper must have gotten the message and taken the first available shuttle back.

Julian dropped enough credits on the table to pay for the bitok and a tip and walked out. He glanced around as he stepped out of the restaurant’s door. The street was somewhat more animated at night, with groups moving from bar to bar, and he felt mildly uneasy without backup. But there was nothing he could do about that.

He went to the bar and looked around. Despite the hour, the party was still in full roar, and the band had gotten, if anything, worse. At least the stripper was gone.

He moved along the edge of the crowd around the bar until he spotted Sena. She was by the bar, one lower elbow propped nonchalantly on its surface while a true-hand nursed a beer, where she could keep an unobtrusive eye on the two Navy officers who’d taken one of the tables at the back. Lousy trade craft. It was like signaling “Look over here!
We’re
having a Secret Conversation!”

He chose a spot of his own at the bar, out of sight of them but where Sena could flash him a signal if they tried to leave. About ten minutes later, Denat loomed through the door, followed by Poertena.

“Where were you?”

“Taking care of some pocking personal business.”

“You know that human who was taking off her clothes?” Denat asked.

“God
damn
it, P . . . Magee!”

“Hey, a guy’s got pocking needs!”

“Well, you’re not gonna have the equipment to do anything about them if you just wander off that way again,” Julian said ominously, then sighed and shook his head at Poertena’s unrepentant look.

“C’mon,” he said, and led the way through the crowd towards the Navy officers’ table.

“Captain Poertena,” he said, sitting down and shifting his chair to a spot from which he could keep an eye on the bar.

“Well, I know
he’s
not Julio,” the captain said, pointing at the Mardukan. “And neither is he,” he added dryly as Sena wandered over to join them. “And you’re too tall,” he continued, looking at Julian.

“Hey, Uncle Marciel,” Poertena said with a slight catch in his voice. “Long pocking time.”

“Goddamn it, Julio,” the captain said, shaking his head. “What have you gotten yourself into? I should have had a team of Marines standing by, you know that? I’m putting my balls on the line here for you.”