Slip Point Page 4

  “Do we?” she asked with a skeptical lift of her brow. She’d learned the precise intonation and gesture from him.

  “Just you,” he conceded. “I’m busy with something else. You’ll need to handle this one.”

  “Sir—”

  “Do it as a favor for me. It’s a two-parter, anyway. The first is to talk to our client in person. That’s all I want you to do. He’ll tell you what he wants, and you can decide whether to do it.”

  “No strings?”

  “Believe it or not.”

  She didn’t, and let it show on her face. “Why do we have to meet in person? Smells like a trap to me.”

  “It’s not. I swear it.”

  Her father rarely made such assurances, but they were solid when he did. She sighed. “Fine.”

  He smiled, confident all along that she would say as much. “I think you’ll actually like this one. You’ll meet our client on the Ionia.”

  Through some quirk, the station was only a single slip away from three Hub worlds. As such, it was dead neutral ground, safe for anyone who set foot upon it. “All right,” she said. “Who is it?”

  “He’d rather not say at this point.”

  “Then how will I know who he is?”

  “He insists on a rather devious way of meeting. You’ll be picked up at the Questor Lounge with an End of Days.”

  It took her a moment to realize he was referring to the mixed drink. “He’s going to hit on me? Now that’s just degrading.”

  “How better to get complete privacy with a stranger?”

  “No wonder you wanted me to take care of this for you,” she said with a sigh. “Fine.”

  “You can drop off some cargo while you’re at it,” he said cheerfully.

  “I was planning on it.” They still had some loot from their most recent run that they hadn’t manage to offload in the black market. No one was dealing with bulk goods right now.

  The entire Wheel was in a state of disarray ever since first contact with an alien race had been made. Havoc had ensued, and the Senate had placed the involved planet, Albarz, under quarantine—and since Albarz was a Hub world, positioned near the major slip point for the entire spoke, all of Atia was closed to traffic. Some of the Rim colonies would be mostly unaffected—Centuris among them, self-sufficient as the Steaders prided themselves on being—but Albarz itself had attracted a number of scientists and was usually a major exporter of advanced tech.

  Shayalin and her father slipped around the barricade, finding the opportunities it provided by blocking other ships, although never quite reaching Albarz itself due to the heavy military presence around the planet. But the Senate couldn’t keep such tightly controlled access to the aliens forever, and Shayalin was looking forward to the stream of novel, exotic goods an entire new race must be able to provide.

  That wasn’t why she was anticipating restored order, though. She was insatiably curious about the aliens—the Bellers, as they were called—and so far almost no information about them had leaked out. Despite this, a faction had sprung up almost as soon as the news had hit the feeds: the Purists, determined to keep human society uncontaminated by any alien influence. Shayalin knew better than to wonder how people could be so small-minded in this age, having been raised by Steaders who had deliberately sought the most forsaken planet they could find and turned their back on advanced tech. She still thought they were idiots.

  Of course, it was hard to tell the aliens’ intentions. So far only one person had been able to communicate with them: Speaker Nala Zakiyah, born with a mutation that allowed her to speak in their tongue. She was said to be working with a team of xenolinguists to decipher one of their languages and build a device capable of emitting their words. But no reports of her progress had come out of the quarantine.

  Shayalin allowed herself a quick check of the newsfeeds—still nothing—before rounding up her crew. They were more accustomed to her father’s mysterious commissions, as some of them had worked with him before coming over to her ship, and most were glad of the opportunity to visit the Ionia.

  Creeds, her second, reacted the way she had. “You don’t even know what the job is yet? You have to go find out in person?”

  “I know,” she said, strangely reassured by his scowl. “But I can handle it.”

  His frown only deepened. “You’re meeting the client alone?”

  “I’m getting picked up in a bar,” she said in disgust. “Having you with me might get in the way.”

  “I could watch from another table,” he suggested.

  She patted his arm. “Stop hovering. You’d think you were my chaperone.”

  He snorted.

  Their slip to the Ionia was uneventful. They avoided the established slip points as a matter of habit—her father had given Shayalin the compass to use—and sailed into one of the Ionia’s docking cradles.

  She unstrapped herself and hit the lock, letting the door swing open and downward. Security guards flanked the ramp before she even set foot upon it. None of their rifles was aimed at her, but they still made for an ostentatious display.

  The head guard pointed Shayalin toward a portable scanner. “No weapons,” he said.

  “You think I’m an idiot?”

  “Does that mean you have some or that you don’t?”

  Shayalin refrained from rolling her eyes. “I don’t.” She walked through the scanner, which remained cooperatively quiet, and the guard waved her on. Most of her crew made it past with equal ease, although Apris had a such a nervous demeanor they made him run through it a second time, and Ramiruz’s cybernetic hand always warranted a particularly detailed inspection.

  “All right,” she said to them in the hall once they’d all gotten through. “Scatter, have fun, but not too much. I’ll let you know more when I do.”

  Creeds waited 'til everyone else had left then gave her a single, sharp nod. She knew he’d quietly keep an eye on her—unless she was fool enough to protest, and any semblance of quiet would be abandoned for an argument she couldn’t win. She’d never out-stubborned Creeds, and she didn’t try this time.

  She found the Questor Lounge easily enough. It was dimly lit, but its old-fashioned wood veneers told her it was a classy place, at least enough so to keep out the common riff-raff. Less crowds meant it was easier to find someone, she supposed, although that also translated into being more easily noticed. Shayalin claimed a seat at the bar and ordered a drink to nurse while she waited for her contact. She knew that behind her, Creeds was similarly sitting down with a nonchalant air where he could watch her.

  She was careful not to drink so fast as to blur her judgment, but the sooner she neared the end of this glass the sooner contact could be made, and she was already a little weary of this clandestine way of meeting. And she wasn’t sure how to look believably approachable without attracting people other than her contact. She settled for engaging the bartender in conversation, regaling him with outrageous tales of her father she disguised as hearsay.

  He laughed in amazement when she finished her story about the Galatian glass theft. “Wily old bastard, isn’t he? I think he’s been around for decades now, and not caught once.”

  “Maybe we’re just hearing stories of his exploits after he died a peaceful death on some resort planet,” Shayalin said. She liked to muddy the waters.

  The bartender shook his head. “Haven’t you heard about his daughter, Lin Bailey? They say he taught her everything he knows, and she’s as tough and sly as he ever was. If he’s gone, it’s because she took him out to get all his treasure.”

  “If she did, it was to have one less person to rat her out—just like he taught her!” She grinned and drained the last of her drink.

  “Care for another?” the bartender asked her, taking the glass as she set it down.

  She opened her mouth, not sure what she was going to say, when a man deftly inserted himself between her and the person next to her. “Actually,” he said, “if I may?”

  S
he looked him over, glad to have an excuse to be obvious about it. He was easy enough on the eye, with blond bangs and an open smile. Too open. He didn’t seem like a secret contact, but she supposed if he were blatant about it, she’d be even more concerned.

  “Thanks,” Shayalin said with a nod.

  He turned to the bartender. “Two End of Days,” he ordered.

  She gave him a smile of her own. “So, stranger…”

  “Grayson,” he said, offering his hand and her drink.

  She took both. “Shayalin.”

  His smile grew warmer. “So, Shayalin, what do you do?”

  “I’m in the trade business,” she said vaguely. “And you? What brings you to the Ionia?”

  “Trying to set up some meetings,” he said. “Sometimes it’s easier in person.”

  That fit in well enough without giving anything away. Naturally neither of them would reveal their true purpose. She’d been hoping he’d at least give her a clue, but she couldn’t detect anything behind his interested expression. She’d talked over the details of contracts in her share of bars, and it made her wonder what business he was involved in that required such secrecy.

  “So you must be on the Ionia often,” she said. “Thoughts?”

  “It has at least one passable bar,” he said judiciously.

  She quirked a brow at him. “It has alcohol, which is all I need. You must have higher standards.”

  “I do,” he said. “This bar normally wouldn’t rate a mention, but when you average it out with its patronage…” He smiled at her.

  He certainly moved quickly. She decided against making this too easy for him. “Why, thank you. Unless you’re flattering yourself?”

  “I’m trying to flatter you,” he said. “And my taste. Certainly not that hulking fellow in the booth behind us who’s been glaring at me since I came to sit by you.”

  She propped her chin up with both hands to hide her surprise at how easily Creeds had been spotted. There were other people in the bar, but her second-cum-bodyguard had been singled out among them. “He’s just jealous he didn’t work up the courage first. So where does a man of such refined tastes come from?”

  “Albarz. Have you ever been to the Atian spoke?”

  “I’ve passed through a time or two,” she said easily. She wasn’t about to admit she’d been born on one of its Rim worlds, nor that she regularly smuggled goods through Albarz’s quarantine these days. “I was born on a ship.” True of Lin Bailey, if not of Shayalin Cho.

  “A born traveler then, I see.”

  It pleased her to be called that, even under these false pretenses. She couldn’t help warming to him.

  Their flirtation progressed through another couple rounds of drinks until there was a natural pause in their conversation. He had edged his stool closer to her so there was barely any space between them. He leaned in then let her close the distance.

  The kiss was more competent than heated, but she was sure she was flushed anyway, from the embarrassment of this façade.

  He stood. “I think I’m done here. I have a suite,” he said, and left it there as a suggestion.

  She looped her arm through his. “Lead on.” She allowed her movements to be loose and easy as though she were intoxicated, although it took more than a few cocktails to get a pirate drunk. Whenever he leaned down to nuzzle her ear or murmur some endearment, she laughed lightly. But her palms were sweaty.

  When she glanced at Creeds, he was staring fixedly down at his drink. No doubt he was embarrassed to have his captain acting like this, even in pursuit of a commission. Her father owed her one. Creeds’s loyalty hadn’t been easily won.

  Grayson led her through the station, down a hallway and to a door. “Almost there.” But instead of pulling out a key chip, he backed her up against the wall and bent his head over her. Perhaps someone was watching. She reciprocated the kiss, finding to her surprise that he was putting a lot more into this one.

  His hands roved down her sides and over the curve of her ass to pull one of her legs up and around him. It seemed a bit much, but she kept her body pliant so no onlookers would doubt her willingness. His mouth moved hotly on hers and his fingers skimmed up to the curve of her breast with light but insistent pressure. Frankly, at this point, she was willing.

  When he pulled away, his breathing was a bit ragged. If she was honest, so was hers. “Shall we?” he asked.

  “You have the key,” she reminded him, trying to keep her tone teasing instead of tart.

  He gave her a wry smile, as though well aware of her true feelings, then unlocked the door, waved her in and closed it behind them.

  The heavyset man seated in the living room stood up at her entrance. He was either on the far end of middle age, or perhaps his tired expression just made him look older. “Lin Bailey?” he asked.

  She nodded, unsure what to expect.

  Grayson, her erstwhile affaire, came to attention beside her. There was no mistaking that posture—he was security. No wonder his hands had roved so much. He’d been frisking her for weapons.

  “Thank you, Kens,” the man said, and the guard bowed before ushering them into the inner chamber. That would be where Grayson—Kens?—and Shayalin were purportedly sporting between the sheets.

  The client seemed to follow the line of her thoughts because he said, “I apologize for the manner in which you were brought here. But it’s urgent no one learn of your true purpose here, and I don’t think it would’ve been as believable if I’d been the one to meet you out there.”

  She made herself shrug it off. “I understand that secrecy’s important to you.”

  “My name is Nat Perra.” He bowed in formal greeting. “I was appointed Senior Deputy of the Atian Premier.”

  So this was why her father had been so mysterious about this meeting. Atia was one of the most technologically advanced spokes. Albarz, the Hub world of Atia, had encountered the aliens.

  The Atian Premier’s second was indeed someone who would command attention, especially when dealing with a pirate. She believed his claim just from the shadows under his eyes and the strain in his voice from too many long, important talks. The toll of bureaucracy, she reckoned. But his gaze was shrewd and level upon her, his bow fluid.

  She bowed hastily in return. He gestured to the armchair across from his, and she sat. Courtesies dispensed with, she asked, “So what is it that you want?”

  He countered with another question. “You came in a merchant ship?”

  A little irritated at the way he’d wrenched the conversation around, she nonetheless answered. “Yes. Aequitus-class.”

  “With cargo?”

  “Four gross gamma—”

  He dismissed her inventory with a wave of his hand. “Whatever you have, I’ll buy it.”

  Shayalin grinned. “In that case, I’ve got some nice lunar property too.”

  He didn’t let her distract him. “You’ll make a pick-up and delivery for me.”

  She nodded, thoughtful now. “So you want to empty my hold for your own cargo.”

  He gave her a thin smile. “I wouldn’t want you to be…encumbered. You’ll have to carry a Swallow.”

  Swallow-class ships were swift and nimble and, most of all, expensive, reserved for the use of the elite. Shayalin wasn’t sure it would make it to its destination. She was a pirate, after all, and Swallows were said to be sweet to fly.

  As though reading her thoughts, Perra said, “It’ll have a pilot and a passenger.”

  Her thoughts of the Swallow evaporated. “I don’t deal in human trafficking,” she said flatly.

  “Neither do I,” Perra said in exasperation. “I’m on the Senate. You really think I’d engage in the slave trade?”

  She shied away from the mention of the Senate, the ambassadorial organization of the Hub worlds and the Rim colonies. She’d assumed this man had come to her precisely because pirates operated outside of the law. “Tough luck. I don’t deal in politics either.”

  He
made an impatient gesture. “But surely you’ll deal with politicians.”

  There were plenty of corrupt government officials, and she supposed this extended to the senators as well. It was a little disappointing, but not really all that surprising. “Depends on the deal,” she said. “What exactly do you want me to do with these people, then?”

  “I need you to go to Cuoramin, where you’ll pick up a third person, then take them all through the blockade to Albarz.”

  She laughed and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. “That’s impossible. You’d need an entire fleet to punch your way through there.” And Albarz’s military was on the other side of the blockade, while the Corps was swarming around the planet’s slip point to keep the alien ship in check.

  “You’ve smuggled supplies through.”

  “Cargo,” she said. “Not people. If something goes wrong, you can always abandon the goods.”

  “But you wouldn’t abandon people entrusted to your care,” he said.

  “No,” she said shortly.

  “A principled pirate. Precisely what I need.”

  “Glad to match your specifications. It means worlds to me, truly. But I can’t help you.”

  “I know about the compass,” he said.

  She jerked upright and cursed herself for reacting. It was her father’s most closely guarded secret. But if anyone could have inferred its existence from her father’s activity, it would be Albarz.

  “Its inventor was from Albarz,” the deputy premier said. “After he disappeared and the escapades of Kennick Bailey began to take over the newsfeeds, we knew what conclusion to draw.”

  He seemed amused. These were not the tones of a man brandishing a threat—at least, not at the moment.