Trading in Danger Page 10

  “Yes,” Ky said.

  “A licensed escort service suffices; if you choose to be out with an unlicensed escort after curfew, be sure he or she has his or her citizenship card. It is most inconvenient when our staff is asked to intervene in cases of curfew-related arrests and detentions. And things are rather tense just now.” The clerk, formerly so friendly, now seemed severe.

  “I understand,” Ky said. “I have a licensed escort, and no intention of wandering about without one.”

  “Good. And the most important local taboo, on page eighteen, is underlined in green. Never, under any circumstances, sneeze without using a sprayer immediately afterward.”

  Ky had had no inclination to sneeze, but now her nose tickled. “But doesn’t that spread infection?”

  “It’s symbolic. Don’t ask me, I think it’s stupid, but you’d better buy a sprayer. The cheap ones are actually considered in better taste.”

  Ky rubbed her nose. “So . . . anything else?”

  “No, I’ve put you down for the call tomorrow; the consul will expect to take tea with you. Allow a half hour, though it will probably be less; it depends on how many show up. Dress is afternoon business; your captain’s uniform is fine.”

  “Thanks,” Ky said. She collected her escort outside the embassy, and called up a list of other ag machinery suppliers. None listed prices lower than FarmPower’s, but since a few listed no prices at all she put in queries.

  “Where would I find a . . . er . . . sprayer?” she asked her escort.

  “In general merchandising emporiums,” he answered. “There’s a shopping arcade just a few blocks away . . .”

  “Fine,” Ky said. “That’s where I need to go . . .”

  The shopping arcade, floored in tesselated stone laid out in floral patterns, had fascinating little shops on either side, and one large store with several doors. Her escort led her to the farthest, and then to a sales rack whose shelves were covered with items Ky would not have recognized as sprayers. She did recognize them as the rounded objects so many pedestrians carried. Pink, green, blue, yellow . . . painted with what must be intended as flowers . . . but how did they work?

  “I don’t understand,” Ky said.

  “The incense bead goes in here”—he pointed—”and the igniter is there, and you squeeze this—” This was an accordion pleated arrangement that Ky had not realized could flex. “These are all expanded to show the design,” he said. “But they compress to fit in a pocket.”

  “Incense bead?” Ky said. “Igniter?”

  “For the aroma,” he said. “If I might recommend—a neutral scent, like rainwater, is most appropriate for professional visitors. There are presumptions made about, for instance, honey musk or spiced fruit, no matter what your intentions.”

  “So where are the incense beads?” Ky asked. He pointed out little packets of tiny round beads in various colors. Ky found “falling rain,” and then picked out the least garish of the sprayers—green with blue flowers. She paid cash for them, and then had her escort explain how to insert the incense bead, and how to compress and then operate the sprayer. He didn’t smile, but she could sense his approval. Stupid tourist does something right, for once.

  When she queried her insert, she found a list of prices from other suppliers . . . none better than FarmPower. Drat. She had to hope now that either FarmPower or a repair yard would extend credit, based on her family name. She had better check again with her crew on the extent of necessary repairs.

  Back at the Captains’ Guild, she called up to the orbital station. Quincy burst out laughing when Ky showed her the sprayer and explained its use.

  “That’s the silliest thing I ever saw,” she said.

  “I know. But what I need now is your best assessment of what repairs we absolutely have to make, and what we can defer. Nobody’s selling used ag equipment, and nobody’s prices—that I’d trust anyway—are lower than FarmPower’s.”

  “The sealed unit, of course. But Ky, we can’t tell about the rest of it until we tear down the whole drive sequence. Depending on how much damage it did as it degraded, we could have cavitation in the main chambers. And once we start tearing it down, we’re committed to fixing whatever it is . . .”

  “Yeah. I know. Well, tomorrow I have a courtesy call to pay on the consul—he only takes courtesy calls two days a week—and in the meantime I’ll see what I can do about arranging financing. There’s no way my cash on hand will pay for both the equipment and the repairs. We’ll have to find a cooperative soul who will trust our honest faces.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” Quincy said.

  “I’m not,” Ky said. “It’s wishful thinking. But something has to work.”

  “Captain’s problem,” Quincy said. “Mine is diagnosing something without looking at it. But just for your planning—the going rate for a new sealed unit here is fifty thousand credits, installed.”

  Something was going to have to give somewhere. Ky forced herself to eat a solid, stodgy meal in the solid stodgy dining room of the Captains’ Guild, and hoped none of the other captains could see past her face to her fears. No one spoke to her but the waiter. She signed the tab and went back to her room to wrestle with information available on the public ’net and the intractable number of zeros on her letter of credit.

  FarmPower, in the tail end of its recorded sales pitch, mentioned its credit terms. Sheer robbery, but she didn’t have to worry about the interest rate because “. . . we do not extend credit offplanet; this includes consignment carriers. Please make arrangements with the financial institution of your choice. FarmPower apologizes for any inconvenience . . .”

  So she would have to pay cash for the ag equipment. Fine. Then she could find a lender for the ship repairs. Lots of people borrowed to pay for ship repairs . . .

  By morning, she had a list of the equipment she needed, and signed on to FarmPower’s interactive sales site again. The total brought a whistle of dismay. Prices were up 3.8 percent from what Belinta had paid—not surprisingly, but still. She was going to have to find a lender for that, too, or have no down payment for the ship repairs.

  The list of financial institutions willing to do business with a first-trip independent captain, even one named Vatta, was short and not sweet. Over half were lending companies whose own ratings didn’t make her cut. Her name and letter of credit got her an interview with the Loan Department at Crown & Spears, but their rates were . . . high.

  “I have the signed contract with Belinta’s Bureau of Economic Development,” she said, tipping the fac to the loan officer’s implant.

  “That’s good,” the loan officer said. She was an older woman with silver hair pulled back into a braid. “That means we can almost certainly approve the loan. It does not, of course, change the interest rate.”

  Ky’s implant calculated the total cost, including transfer fees, and compared it to the profit margin she’d originally loaded. Ouch.

  “And I should warn you,” the woman said, “that the way events are proceeding between Sabine Prime and Sabine Secundus, you would be wise to procure any necessary funds soon. Interest rates will be rising, I’m quite sure.”

  From her earliest training, she knew that anyone pressuring for a quick deal had other priorities than the customer’s welfare. But when she queried the implant’s newsfeed, she found that the woman was right: Sabine Secundus and Sabine Prime had long been at loggerheads over some obscure religious matter, and it looked like the conflict might erupt in violence any moment. The market, though volatile, looked to be headed up, in anticipation of hostilities that would require increased manufacture of war goods.

  Great. So she was short of money with a ship needing repair and a contract, and she might be in the middle of a war as well. How many other rules of safe trading could she break? She thought for a few moments; the woman didn’t rush her. If she could get the cargo up to the ship, then trouble on the surface couldn’t prevent her from getting it . . . and the ship repair
facilities were in space, where again a surface war wouldn’t affect them. True, Secundus had supporters on the mining world, Tertius, but her implant indicated no ability by either Prime or Secundus to sustain a war in space.

  She would rather have locked in ship repair first, but in the event . . .

  She arranged the loan as quickly as she could, for as much of the purchase price as she could. From the bank, she was able to contact FarmPower and arrange transport of the machinery to orbit—at least “freight on board” in the price meant that delivery was covered, though not transfer to her ship. From the bank’s secure com booth, she let Tobai know what was coming, and when, and briefly explained the political and economic problems involved.

  “And yes, I know, we still have to get the ship repaired, but at least we won’t have the cargo impounded.”

  “See your point,” was all he said. “When is delivery?”

  “Tomorrow or the next day, depending on cargo shuttle availability. They say it’ll take four shuttles, and their estimated load time here is six hours per. They’re starting to move the cargo to the shuttle port now, though—or anyway, they said within four hours. I’ll keep on it.”

  “Fine, you do that. If we’re in a hurry, we may need to hire some temp labor, for loading . . .”

  “We can’t,” Ky said. “At least—we shouldn’t.”

  She looked at the time when she came out of the booth. Close enough to her courtesy call on the consul. The morning’s calls had all taken longer than she hoped. Her implant reported that she could get by without returning to the Captains’ Guild for a trip through the ’fresher. A simple tuning of pores . . . her skin tingled, briefly, and for a moment she smelled a sharp herbal scent she couldn’t name, then it vanished.

  Someone sneezed, across the walkway, and instantly yanked a screaming yellow sprayer from his pocket and sprayed something that smelled like melons. Ky tried not to stare. Other pedestrians ignored him, Ky noticed.

  “Captain Vatta—” That was her escort, who until now had been as quiet as a robot servant.

  “Yes?”

  “I am receiving information relevant to your safety. It is my considered advice that we proceed immediately to the embassy.”

  “What’s going on?” Ky asked.

  “I—would rather not speculate,” he said. “My concern is your safety, and I am sure your officials will explain if there is need.”

  If the loan department at the bank was worried, and her escort was worried, perhaps she herself should be worried.

  “That’s where I was going anyway,” she said. “It’s only a short distance; do you think it’s still safe to go on foot?”

  “At present, yes,” he said.

  “Good,” Ky said. “Let’s go, then.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  By the time she reached the embassy, she knew something was going on. The streets were oddly quieter; though people were talking, they had lowered their voices. Pedestrians would occasionally stop short—listening to their implants, probably—and then stride on, looking tense. Ky wondered if any of them were reservists being called to active duty. Her escort ducked into the guard’s kiosk; Ky went on into the building.

  “Ah, Captain Vatta,” the desk clerk said. “Have you heard the news?”

  “That Secundus and Prime are unhappy with one another, yes,” Ky said.

  “There’s been a demonstration at Majel Dis, in Secundus,” the clerk said. “We just heard . . . four deaths confirmed, many injured.”

  Ky could think of nothing to say.

  “The consul would not commit the discourtesy of failing to greet you, Captain, but he is rather busy and would appreciate it if your visit could be . . . brief.”

  “Of course,” Ky said.

  “We will be updating our citizens with whatever information we have, of course,” the clerk said. “We recommend that you authorize an override to your implant, so that we can send to you directly whether your skullphone is on or not.”

  “That’s fine,” Ky said. She thumbprinted the form he held out.

  “Now,” the clerk said. “Let me show you to the reception room.”

  The reception room, a parlor overlooking a small garden planted with native Slotter Key flowers, was centered with a large table, laden with refreshments. The consul greeted Ky warmly, as if nothing were going on, and led her to a pair of chairs near the window.

  “Captain Vatta, so pleased to see you. I’m Doss Verdin, senior consul. Does this mean that Vatta Transport is setting up more frequent regular service here?”

  “Not to my knowledge, sir; I am on a contract run from Belinta.”

  “Ah. Belinta. We have had complaints from that quarter.”

  “They blame Slotter Key for the Pavrati not delivering their ag machinery,” Ky said.

  “I know,” he said, pinching his nose. “They said so many times. I tried to explain that Slotter Key and Pavrati Shipping were not the same entity, that we had no control over Pavrati, and so on. I understand you’re here on the same errand from Belinta?”

  “Yes. Perhaps Vatta can redeem Slotter Key . . .”

  “I hope so,” he said. “You’re aware of the political problems we have here now?”

  “I just heard,” Ky said. It didn’t sound particularly bad yet.

  “I was wondering, Captain, if perhaps you could do us a favor.”

  “Of course, if I can,” Ky said.

  “We have four Slotter Key citizens on the beach at present. One of them caught chahoki fever; he and the others were quarantined, and their ship left without them. They’ve been here almost six months; their visas are running out, and although I might get an extension, this is not the best time to ask for one. I wonder if you need any extra crew, or if you’d be willing to take them as supercargo until you can drop them someplace they’re likelier to find work . . . ?”

  “We’re not a large ship,” Ky said slowly. But spacers helped stranded spacers, unless stranded for the wrong reasons . . . and Tobai had said they could use help . . .

  “We don’t have funds to pay their passage,” the consul said. “But we can pay their way up to orbit, and we could offer a small sum toward supplies for them.” He looked grim. “Sabine Prime has a history of impressing foreigners without high status into their military—I can’t stand by and see these people conscripted, and yet I can’t keep them in the embassy.”

  “What are their records like?” Ky asked.

  “Ordinary,” the consul said. Ky’s implant lit, and she looked over the files he’d just sent her. Experienced, licensed in their specialties, no black marks from their last two employers—all that their traveling records held.

  “I can do it,” Ky said. “But I’m ashamed to admit I’ll need that honorarium for extra supplies. Belinta demanded that I purchase the cargo, and we had a bit of trouble on the way so we also need some repairs. Supplies for another four people are just out of range.”

  “We can stretch to that,” the consul said. “And thank you. They will thank you as well. Shall I send them up, or do you want to meet them?”

  “I want to meet them,” Ky said. She was not going to foist onto her loyal, experienced crew some strangers she hadn’t even met. “Are they here?”

  “Yes. We’ll just have a cup of tea and—” His face went blank. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Captain, but it’s urgent and I must respond. I’ll have them sent in. Take as long as you like chatting, but I would recommend you have Zar arrange their shuttle tickets and your honorarium as soon as possible. Things are getting nasty over on Secundus.” He left the room, and a few minutes later the clerk—Zar?—ushered in three men and a woman, all in spacer clothes. They looked at Ky and the woman gave a tentative smile.

  “Captain Vatta? Of Vatta Transport?”

  “Yes, I’m Captain Vatta . . . you’re Specialist Lucin Caliran Li, environmental, right?”

  “Yes, Captain. Thirteen years experience. We were hoping—wondering—if maybe—”


  “The consul explained you were all stranded thanks to chahoki fever—your ship left you behind.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you need a ride somewhere—I said I’d meet you and we’d see.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Left us high and dry, they did, and only the minimum in our drop account, too. We tried to get work, both shipside and downside, truly we did . . .”

  “I believe you.” The record the embassy had kept showed that; the consul clearly thought they were honest and diligent. They had even taken over work in the embassy garden, to the chagrin of the former gardener. “It’s a small ship,” Ky said. “We’re headed to Belinta with a load of agricultural machinery. After that Leonora, and after that Lastway. But at either Belinta or Leonora you might be able to find another berth. I can’t pay you—”

  “That’s fine, Captain. Just to get away from Sabine, that’s enough.” Li turned to the others. “This is Specialist Seth Garlan, also environmental, Technician Paro Hospedin, drives maintenance, and Specialist Caleb Skeldon, cargo.”

  Ky knew that already from the files the consul had given her, and was interested that Li introduced them in strict order of seniority and the others said nothing as she did so.

  “Well, let’s just chat a little. Specialist Garlan, you have seven years ship service, is that right?”

  “Actually twelve, Captain, but only seven in environmental; I was hoping to make pilot, but turned out to have an immune problem with the pilot implants. Legacy of a childhood bout of tick fever, they thought. My family had a farm up on the North Coast.” He grimaced. “And yes, I was the one who got sick here.”

  “Well, you’re out of quarantine now,” Ky said. She knew vaguely that tick fever was a problem on Slotter Key’s North Coast, but otherwise nothing about it and it wasn’t relevant at the moment anyway. “How about you?” she said, turning to Technician Hospedin.

  “My training’s from Pearce Institute,” he said. “I have an A-class certificate in drives, for both insystem and FTL drives; six years onboard experience. My last requal exam was eighteen months ago, just before signing on Apple Blossom Song, the ship that left us here. Most of my shipboard experience has been with Plackman-Moreson 8800 insystem drives, and the Rollings series G FTLs, but I did my onboard apprenticeship in an old R-class freighter with PM-42s for insystem and a II-C FTL.” His voice had the pedantic rhythms Ky associated with drives specialists.