The Icarus Hunt

CHAPTER 9

POTOSI WAS THE most populous world we'd hit yet, big enough that it was nolonger a colony but a full-fledged member of the Najiki Archipelago, a seriesof thirty or so Najiki worlds scattered across several hundred light-years andwinding its way through at least three other species' claimed regions orspheresof influence. That the other species tolerated what might otherwise have beenseen as an unacceptable intrusion on their sovereign territories was a tributeto Najiki diplomacy and bargaining skill.

That, plus their unique gift for creating wealth and their willingness toshare that wealth with governments who were generous enough in turn to grant themright-of-way corridors through their space. The cynics, of course, would putit rather more strongly.

There were five major InterSpiral-class spaceports on the Potosi surface, thelargest and most modern of which was heavily dominated by the Patth mercantilefleet. As soon as we were in range, I contacted the controller and asked for alanding bay in the port farthest away from it. Under some circumstances, Iknew, a request that specific might have raised eyebrows, or whatever the Najik usedfor eyebrows. But the Patth near monopoly on shipping had hit this areaparticularly hard, leaving an almost-universal hatred for them in its wake, and I knew that the controllers would take it in stride.

Unfortunately, that same universal hatred also meant that every other incomingnon-Patth ship was also making the same demand; and most of them were regularvisitors here. In the end, in a result that fit all too well with thedepressingpattern of the entire trip so far, not only were we not granted a slot half acontinent away as requested, but were instead put down square in the middle ofthe Patth hub.

Once again, I told the rest of the crew to stay aboard while I went outshopping. Once again, they weren't at all happy about it.

"I don't think you understand the situation," Everett rumbled, staringdisapprovingly down at me from his raised position on the slanted deck. "Itseems to me that if we could simply take Shawn to the port med center and showthem his symptoms—"

"We could then all sit around a quiet room somewhere," I finished for him.

"Explaining to the nice Najik from the Drug Enforcement Division just how itwas he got a borandis addiction in the first place. Remember the hijackingthreat—this would not be a good place to make ourselves conspicuous."

He snorted. "No one would try a hijacking here in the middle of a majorspaceport."

"You must be kidding," I growled. "With strangers wandering around all overthe place, and no one knowing anyone else, either spacers or ground personnel?

It's a perfect spot for it."

His lips compressed briefly. "What about you?" Tera spoke up, gesturing at mynewly recolored hair and eyes and the set of false scars I'd applied to mycheek. "You think that disguise is going to get you past the people lookingfor you?"

"Someone has to go hunt up a drug dealer," I reminded her patiently. "Wouldyourather do it yourself?"

"I just don't want you to get caught," she shot back angrily. "If you do, thatends it for all of us."

"I won't get caught," I assured her. "I won't even be noticed. The picturethey've got of me is old, and I know the sort of people the Patth arerecruiting. They won't be able to get past the hair and eyes, believe me."

"Interesting," Nicabar murmured. "I wonder how one gets to be an expert on howpeople like that think."

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to," I warned him acidly.

Maybea little too acidly; but time was getting tight. And besides, I really didn'twant to go out there, either.

There were apparently no more questions that anyone wanted answers to. "That'ssettled, then," I said into the chilly silence. "Revs, call and get someoneout here to fuel up the ship—hopefully, we can get the tanks properly topped offthis time. Don't forget that we're the Sleeping Beauty now. Everett, keep aneyeon Shawn. Keep him quiet until I get back."

Everett's lips compressed again. "I'll do what I can."

"What about Mechanic Ixil?" Chort asked. "Is he all right?"

"He's resting in his cabin," I told them, deliberately bending the truth abit.

If our saboteur didn't already know about Kalixiri healing comas, I had nointention of enlightening him. "Don't worry, he'll come out when he's ready.

I'll be back in two hours."

They were still standing together in the wraparound as I headed down the ramp, looking for all the world like hapless waifs watching the last bus leaving forthe orphanage. I hoped they wouldn't still be standing there like that whenthe fuelers came by to start filling the tanks. It would look a little odd.

The slideways here were similar to the ones on Dorscind's World, only bettermaintained, as well as being equipped with transparent half-cylinder shieldsoverhead to ward off the elements. At the moment the protection wasn'tnecessary, but judging by the dark clouds beginning to gather on the horizonit likely would be soon.

The port itself was neat, efficient, and as clean as a port could be, not agreat surprise with the Patth directly running three-quarters of it and havinga strong say in the operation of the rest. The civilian area just outside the port, though, wasn't under even their nominal control and was likely to bejustas dark, sinister, and vice-ridden as any other spaceport environs in theSpiral. There I would find the dealers in happyjam and other forms of misery, at least one of whom—I hoped—would have borandis in stock.

The problem, of course, was finding the right needle in the correct haystack.

Under normal circumstances that would take a great deal of time, time neitherShawn nor I nor the Icarus had to spare at the moment. I had to cut throughthe danger and tedium of the search process and go straight to the source.

Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, I had the source's phone number.

The screen lit up to show the same broken-nosed thug who had answered BrotherJohn's line the last time I'd called. "Yeah?"

"It's Jordan McKell," I said. "I need some information."

The scowl lines around his eyes deepened as he frowned at me. "McKell?"

"Yes; McKell," I said, striving mightily for patience. I'd already lost twentyminutes of my promised two hours, ten in getting to the StarrComm building andten more waiting for a free booth, and I wasn't interested in playing Greekchorus to one of Brother John's housethugs. "I'm disguised, all right? I needsome information—"

"Hang on," he interrupted me. "Just hang on."

The screen went black. I glared at my watch, suddenly very tired of BrotherJohn and his vicious yet stupid people. The next one on the line would probably bethat moon-faced thug in the butler's outfit, who by now had probably figuredout what badinage was and would waste more of my time trying to come up with some.

The screen cleared; but to my surprise it wasn't the butler. "Hello, Jordan,"

Brother John said. The voice was as smooth as ever, but the usual cherubicsmile was nowhere to be seen. "Do you have any idea what kind of stir you've beencreating out at that end of the Spiral?"

"Have I, sir?" I asked.

The chill visibly surrounding him abruptly dropped into the subzero range.

"Don't play innocent with me, McKell," he snarled, his veneer of civilitycracking like a cheap packing crate. "A ship from Meima, they're all saying—arogue freighter the Patth are panting like sick dogs to get their callousedlittle hands on. Are you going to sit there and tell me that's not you?"

"Yes, sir, it's me," I said hastily. It was impossible to grovel properly in aStarrComm booth, but insofar as vocal groveling was possible I was grovelingfor all I was worth. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way. I just didn't realizehow much of a stir we were actually causing."

The temperature stayed where it was. "I don't like commotions, McKell," hewarned. "I don't like them at all. Commotions draw attention, and I don't likeattention. You don't like attention, either."

"I know, sir," I agreed humbly. "Believe me, I'm trying as hard as I can togetout of the spotlight."

"Trying how?" he demanded. "It's not your ship or your problem—just walk awayfrom it. Where are you? I'll have you picked up."

He had a point, all right. Half of one, anyway. It wasn't my ship; but it wasmyproblem. "I can't do that, sir," I said, bracing myself for another burst ofhis anger. "I accepted a contract to fly the ship out. A poor but honest independentshipper can't just break contracts that way. Not and continue to look like apoor but honest shipper."

"Who would know?" he countered. His voice was still hard and cold, but atleast he hadn't started screaming at me. Maybe I'd gotten him to start thinking itthrough.

"Too many people," I told him. "A lot of people—some of them spaceportofficials—have seen my ID in connection with it. People who might startwondering how an independent shipper could afford to break a contract thatway.

People who might start wondering if that independent shipper had anothersource of operating funds." I shrugged, a brief twitching of my shoulders. "And iftheydid, I wouldn't be very effective as an employee anymore."

For a long minute he just stared at me, breathing heavily, his faceunreadable.

I gazed back, visually groveling now, wondering uneasily if I'd pushed my handtoo far with that last one. Cutting me loose from our agreement would lose himmost of the five hundred thousand in debt I still owed him, but theAntoniewicz organization probably blew that much a month just on paper clips. If, on theother hand, he decided that I had become too much of a liability to be trustedon my own, I would be summarily snuffed out like an atmosphere-test candle.

And it would be the height of irony if it turned out I was the one who hadtalked him into doing it.

"You keep trying to force these decisions on me, Jordan," he said at last. Hisvoice was still cold, but I thought I could detect a slight thawing of thechill factor. "These faits accomplis. There are to be no more of them."

"Yes, sir," I said. "I'm really not trying to do that. It's just that thingskeep happening too fast, and I keep having to improvise."

"No more of them, Jordan," he repeated in the same tone. "I make myselfclear?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "Perfectly."

"Good. Now, why did you call?"

I took a careful breath. "I need to find a dealer, sir."

He blinked at that, the blink turning into an even deeper frown. "A dealer?" he repeated, the chill factor diving into arctic territory again. For all themisery he caused with his happyjam, Brother John was almost puritanical whenit came to his own people using the stuff.

"One who carries borandis," I said hastily. "One of my crew is ill with Cole'sdisease, and borandis is the treatment for it. It's also called jackalspit."

"Yes, I know." For a few more seconds those soulless eyes gazed into mine, hisface still unreadable but almost certainly wondering if I was telling thetruth or simply spinning a line. I held my breath, trying to look as simple andhonest as I possibly could.

And then, to my relief, he shrugged. "Why not? Where are you?"

I got my lungs working again. "Potosi," I said. "Kacclint Spaceport."

He grunted. "A Najiki world. Decent enough bug-eaters."

"Yes, sir," I agreed, mildly surprised that a xenophobe like Brother Johnwould be even that complimentary toward a nonhuman race. Either he genuinely hadsome grudging respect for the Najik, or else he had business interests in theArchipelago and the Najik were doing a good job of making money for him. If Ihad to guess, I'd pick the latter. "I need to know if the organization has adealer here who can help us. And if so, how to find him."

"Yes." Brother John's eyes flicked to his right. "Just a moment."

The screen blanked. I took another deep breath, suddenly aware of the weightof my plasmic against my side under my jacket. So far, it was all lookinghopeful.

But I knew better than to risk relaxing, even for a moment. Brother John'smoods were notoriously mercurial, and with his already stated displeasure at mybeingaboard the Icarus he might suddenly decide that letting a sick crew member diewould be all to the good, either as an object lesson to me or as an extra pushto get me to walk away from the whole situation. If he looked like he wasgoingthat direction I would have to remind him that Shawn's death would only serveto raise the Icarus's profile that much higher.

He was gone a long time. Long enough that I began to wonder if perhaps he'ddecided that this had become more trouble than it was worth, that both Shawnand I were expendable, and he was off making the appropriate arrangements. I wasjust thinking about pulling out my phone and seeing if Ixil had come out ofhis coma when the screen abruptly cleared.

"All right," he said briskly. "He's a Drilie named Emendo Torsk, and he runshis business from a street music stand at Gystr'n Corner. I presume your sickcrewman can pay?"

"We should have enough, yes," I assured him. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't call here again, Jordan," he said quietly. "Not until this is all over.

Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir, perfectly clear," I said. If the Icarus was going to go down, andif I was going to be stupid enough to go down with it, he had no intention ofbeingtied in with either of us. "Thank you, sir."

"I'll talk to you when this is all over." He reached to the side, and theconnection was broken.

I swallowed, noticing only then how dry my mouth had become. Dealing withBrother John was becoming increasingly hard on me, both because of himpersonally and because of what he represented. To say I'd ever been genuinelyhappy about our arrangement would have been far too generous a statement; butlately my quiet distaste seemed to have fermented into a galloping revulsion.

And that was dangerous. Not only because of what it was doing to my own heartand soul, not to mention my stomach, but because men like Brother John have afinely honed sense of people, particularly the people closest to them. I washardly close to him, just one small employee among thousands, but theAntoniewicz organization hadn't gotten where it was by letting even smallemployees become disaffected to the point where they dribbled away money ormerchandise or secrets. Especially secrets.

Brother John was presumably under no illusions about what it was that kept meworking for him; I'd already seen how adept he was at making sure that half-million-commark debt would be hanging over my head for a long time tocome.

But if he was ever able to penetrate my mask and see the emotion swirlingbeneath it, he might very well decide I was a walking time bomb that needed tobe dealt with.

But there was nothing for it now but to continue on. I'd made my bed, as thesaying went, and now all I could do was make myself as comfortable in it as Icould.

Unfortunately, for the moment comfort of any sort was out of the question. I'dsuffered through yet another conversation with Brother John; and now I had todo what I'd been postponing for at least three worlds now.

It was time for a nice long chat with Uncle Arthur.

The call screener on Uncle Arthur's vid was female, cheerful, and if notactually beautiful, definitely edging in that direction. Following on theheels of Brother John's surly male screener with the plastic-surgeon-baiting face, it was a contrast that seemed all the vaster for the comparison.

Until, that is, you looked closely into her eyes. For all her attractiveness, for all her easy smile and aura of friendliness, there was something cool andmeasuring and even ruthless that could be seen in those eyes. Given the propercircumstances, I had long suspected, she would be able to kill as quickly andefficiently as any of the ice-hearted thugs in Brother John's household.

But then, that was to be expected. She did, after all, work for Uncle Arthur.

"It's Jordan, Shannon," I greeted her, pushing such thoughts out of my mind asbest I could. I had to prepare to talk to Uncle Arthur; and anyway, despitethe eyes, she was really quite good-looking. "Is he available?"

"Hello, Jordan," she said, her smile tightening just a bit. Unlike BrotherJohn's screener, she took my altered face in stride without blinking an eye.

"I'll see."

A superfluous comment, of course; she would have signaled Uncle Arthur as soonas she recognized me. And if the tightening smile was any indication, Isuspected Uncle Arthur was either sufficiently interested or sufficientlyannoyed with me to take the call immediately.

I was right. Even as she turned toward her control board her face abruptlyvanished from the screen and was replaced by one considerably less photogenic.

An age-lined face, framed by a thatch of elegant gray hair and an equallyelegant gray goatee with an unexpected streak of black down the middle, andtopped off with a pair of pale blue eyes peering unwinkingly at me across thetop of a set of reading glasses.

It was Uncle Arthur.

Judging from past experience, I fully expected him to get in the first word. Iwasn't disappointed. "I presume, Jordan," he said in a rumbling voice thatsomehow went perfectly with the beard and glasses, "that you have some goodexplanation for all this."

"I have an explanation, sir," I said. "I don't know whether you'll think itgoodor not."

For a moment he glared at me, and I could see his face tilting fractionallyback and forth. The glasses, I'd long since decided, were about two-thirdsnecessityfor an inoperable eye condition and one-third affectation, with the addedbenefit of giving him something he could use to subtly throw distractingflickers of light into people's eyes while he was talking to them. That was what he was doing now, though through a vid screen it was a complete waste of histime. Probably pure subconscious habit.

He finished his glaring and leaned back a bit in his chair. "I'm listening," he invited.

"I ran into Arno Cameron in a taverno on Meima," I told him. He would bewantingdetails—Uncle Arthur always wanted details—but there was no time for me to gointo them now. "He was in a jam, with a ship to fly to Earth and no crew. Heasked if I would pilot it, and I agreed."

"You just happened to run into him, did you?" Uncle Arthur rumbled ominously.

"Did I somehow forget to mention that you weren't supposed to do anything butwatch him?"

"He was the one who accosted me, not the other way around," I said. "I didn'tthink challenging him to a duel for such an impertinence would be a properresponse."

He turned the shrivel power of his glare up a couple of notches, but I'd justfaced down Brother John, and Uncle Arthur's glares didn't seem nearly aspotentin comparison. "We'll leave that aside for the moment," he said. "Have you anyidea of the furor you and that ship are causing at the moment?"

Almost the same question, and in very nearly the same tone, that Brother Johnhad asked. "Not really," I said. "All I know for sure is that there are agentsof the Patth spreading hundred-commark bills through the Spiral's sewers, withan extra five thousand for the one who fingers me for them."

"Five thousand commarks, did you say?" Uncle Arthur asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"That's what I was told a few hours ago on Dorscind's World," I saidcarefully.

Uncle Arthur had a latent dramatic streak in him, which generally surfaced atthe worst times. The fact that he had now slipped into that mode was a badsign.

"Have they upped the ante since then?"

"Considerably." He picked up a sheet of paper, holding it up to the camera asif to prove he wasn't just making it all up. "The Patth Director General haspersonally been in contact with at least fifteen different governments alongyour projected route in the past twelve hours," he read from it in theprecise, clipped tone he always used when delivering bad news. "They have been informedthat a ship called the Icarus, with a human male named Jordan McKell incommand, is to be detained immediately upon identification. It is then to be held untila representative of the Director General arrives, at which point it is to beturned over to him."

I felt a shiver run up my back. "Or else?"

"Or else," he added, in that same clipped tone, "the Patth will imposemercantile sanctions on the offending governments, the severity of thesanctions to be determined by the offending government's perceived complicity in theIcarus's escape. Up to and including a complete embargo against that species'cargoes."

He laid the paper back down again. "As you say, the ante has been upped," hesaid quietly. "What in God's name did Cameron's people dig up out there, Jordan?"

"I don't know, sir," I said, just as quietly. "But whatever it is, it's sittingin the Icarus's cargo hold."

Dramatically, it was the moment for a long, heavy silence. But Uncle Arthur'sdramatic impulses didn't extend to wasting time. "Then you'd best find a wayto learn what it is, hadn't you?" he said.

"Actually, I think I already have," I said. "Found a way, that is. Can you gethold of a personnel list from that archaeological dig?"

"I have it right here," he said. "Why?"

"Because I suspect one of them is aboard the Icarus," I told him.

"Masqueradingas a member of the crew."

The beard twitched slightly. "I think that very unlikely," he said, "since allof them are currently in custody on Meima."

I felt like the floor had just been pulled out from under me. "All of them?

You're sure?"

"Quite sure," he said, holding up another sheet. "Everyone involved was pickedup in that one single night, even the crew of the private ship Cameron flew inon a few days before this all started. Cameron himself is the only one stillat large, and the Meima authorities say it's only a matter of time before theyrun him to ground. They think they spotted him at a Vyssiluyan taverno last night, in fact, but he gave them the slip."

"Wait a minute," I said, frowning. "If they've already got the whole team, whydon't they know what the cargo is? For that matter, why don't they have anaccurate description of the ship? And they don't, because otherwise the fakeIDs Ixil and I keep churning out sure wouldn't fool them."

"Good—you're using fake IDs," Uncle Arthur said. "I'd hoped you were being atleast that clever."

"Yes, but why are they working?" I persisted, passing over the question ofwhether or not there was an insult buried in there. "I trust you're not goingto tell me that a bunch of plunder artists like the Patth are squeamish about theclassic forms of information gathering, are you?"

"In point of fact, the archaeologists are still in Ihmis hands," Uncle Arthursaid. "The Patth are trying to get them, but so far the Ihmisits are resistingthe pressure." He grimaced. "But at this point it hardly matters who has them.

Cameron took the precaution of having hypnotic blocks put on everyone's memoryof certain aspects of the operation. Including, naturally, the Icarus'sdescription and details of its cargo."

I nodded. Obvious, of course, once it was pointed out. Not especially ethical, and probably illegal on Meima to boot, but it was exactly the sort of thingCameron would have done. "And without the release key, all they can do isbatter at the blocks and hope they crack."

"Which I'm sure they're already doing," Uncle Arthur said darkly. "Not apleasant thing to dwell on; but the point is that the maneuver has bought yousome time."

"Yes, sir." So much for my embryonic theory that it was one of Cameron'speoplewho had been trying so hard to keep us out of the Icarus's cargo hold.

"Unfortunately, it's also bought someone else some time, too."

"Explain."

I gave him a quick summary of the jinx that had been dogging us ever sinceleaving Meima. Or since before our exit, actually, if you counted Cameron's failure to make it to the ship. "The incident with Chort and Jones mightconceivably have been an accident," I concluded. "But not the cutting torch orthe lad skulking between hulls with the handy eavesdroppers' kit. Having thePatth on our tail would have been plenty; but having this added in is way toomuch of a good thing."

"Indeed," Uncle Arthur said thoughtfully. "You have a theory, of course?"

"I have one," I said. "But I don't think you're going to like it. You said theIhmisits thought they spotted Cameron on Meima yesterday. How certain are theyof that?"

"As certain as any of these things ever are," he said, his eyes narrowing.

"Which is to say, not very. Why, do you think you know where Cameron is?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "I think there's a good chance he's dead."

There was another twitch of the beard. I was right; he didn't like it at all.

"Explain."

"It's clear that someone doesn't want us getting a look at the cargo," I said.

"I thought that that someone must be one of the archaeologists, but you've nowtold me that's impossible. So it's someone else. Someone who does know what'sin there, and who furthermore has decided that having sole proprietorship of thatknowledge will be valuable to him."

"It couldn't be Cameron himself?"

"I don't see how," I said, shaking my head. "When I first arrived at theIcarus there was a time lock on the hatch, which didn't release until after most ofthe crew had already assembled. I examined the lock later, and it had definitelybeen set the previous afternoon, well before the Ihmisits threw everyone outof the spaceport and locked it down for the night. There was no way for Cameronto have gotten aboard before the gates opened again, and he certainly didn't geton after we were there."

"And you think that was because he was already dead?"

"Yes," I said. "One of the people he hired to crew the Icarus either knewsomething about it already or was sufficiently intrigued to take Cameron intoa dark alley somewhere and find out exactly what was aboard."

"That would have taken some severe persuasion," Uncle Arthur murmured.

"Which is why I suspect he's dead," I said. "An interrogation that would havegotten him to talk would have left him either dead or incapacitated ordrug-comatose. In either of the latter two cases, the Ihmisits or Patth wouldcertainly have found him by now. In the first case..." I didn't bother tofinish.

"You may be right," Uncle Arthur said heavily. "You will identify this person, of course."

"I certainly intend to try," I said. "It would help if I had some moreinformation on this crew I've been saddled with."

"Undoubtedly. Their names?"

"Almont Nicabar, drive specialist, onetime EarthGuard Marine. Geoff Shawn, electronics. Has Cole's disease and a resulting borandis addiction. Any chanceyou can get some borandis to me, by the way?"

"Possibly. Next?"

"Hayden Everett, medic. Former professional throw-boxer twenty-odd years ago, though I don't know if it was under his own name or not. Chort, Craea, spacewalker. Nothing else known."

"With a Craea almost nothing else needs to be known," Uncle Arthur put in.

"Possibly," I said. "I'd like him checked out anyway. And finally Tera, lastname unknown. She may be a member of one of those religious sects who don'tgivetheir full names to strangers, but I haven't yet seen her do anythingparticularly religious."

"The practice of one's beliefs is not always blatant and obvious," UncleArthur reminded me. "A quiet look into her cabin for religious paraphernalia at somepoint might be enlightening."

"I intend to take a quiet look into all their cabins when I get the chance," Iassured him. "Now: descriptions..."

I ran through everyone's physical description as quickly as I could, knowingthat it was all being recorded. "How fast can you get this to me?" I askedwhen I was finished.

"It will take a few hours," he said. "Where are you now?"

"Potosi, but I have no intention of staying here any longer than I have to," Itold him. "I don't know where we'll be heading next. Someplace quiet andpeaceful and anonymous would be a nice change of pace."

"You may have to settle for anonymous," he said, his eyes shifting to the sideand his shoulders shifting with the subtle movements of someone typing on akeyboard. "Is there anything else?"

"Actually, yes," I said. "We also seem to have a new group of players in thegame." I described the incident with the Lumpy Brothers on Xathru, and thecoronal-discharge weapons they'd been carrying. "Have you heard of either thisspecies or the weapons?" I asked when I finished.

"A qualified yes to both," he said, his eyes still busy off camera. "You mayrecall hearing rumors about a failed covert operation a few years ago in whichan elite EarthGuard task force tried to steal data on the Talariac Drive.

Weapons very similar to those you describe were used against them, by guardswho also match your description."

I sighed. "Which makes the Lumpy Clan some kind of Patth client race."

"Very likely," he agreed. "Don't sound so surprised. Certainly their firstefforts to find the Icarus would be made quietly, through their own people andagents. It was only after that failed that they began to approach first theSpiral's criminals and now legitimate governments."

I thought about the three Patth Cameron and I had seen in that Meima taverno.

So that was why they'd ventured out of their usual restricted hideouts. "Still, it strikes me that they gave up on the quiet approach rather quickly," I pointedout. "Could my smoking the Lumpy Brothers really have rattled them thatbadly?"

"I doubt it," he said soberly. "More likely it was a matter of new informationas to what exactly the prize was they were chasing."

And that knowledge had instantly pushed them into an open and increasinglypublic hunt. Terrific. "This place you're finding for us better be realanonymous," I told him.

"I believe I can make it so," he said. "Can you make Morsh Pon from there inone jump?"

I felt my eyes narrow. "Assuming we can get off Potosi, yes," I saidcautiously, wondering if he was really going where I thought he was on this.

He was. "Good," he said briskly. "The Blue District on Morsh Pon, then, at theBaker's Dozen taverno. I'll have the information delivered to you there."

"Ah... yes, sir," I said. Morsh Pon was an Ulko colony world, and theUlkomaals, like the Najik, had a reputation for great talent at creating wealth. Unlikethe Najik, however, the Ulkomaals relied heavily on the hospitality industry tomake their money, specifically hospitality toward the less virtuous members ofcivilized society at large. Morsh Pon was a quiet refuge for smugglers andother criminal types, far worse than even Dorscind's World, with the Blue Districtthe worst area on the planet.

Which under normal circumstances, given my connection with Brother John andthe Antoniewicz organization, would have made it an ideal place to go to ground.

Unfortunately, the current circumstances were far from normal. "I trust youremember, sir," I said diplomatically, "that the Patth have invited the entireSpiral underworld out for a drink?"

"I remember quite well," he said calmly. "It will be taken care of. Now, Isuspect time is growing short. You'd best get moving."

It was, clearly, a dismissal. I didn't particularly feel like being dismissedyet—there were still several aspects of this whole arrangement I felt likearguing some more. But when Uncle Arthur said good-bye, he meant good-bye.

Besides, he was right; time was indeed growing short. "Yes, sir," I said, suppressing a sigh. "I'll be in touch."

"Do that," he said. The screen blanked, and he was gone.

I collected my change and left the booth. Once again, I half expected one ofBrother John's assassins to jump me in the corridor; once again, it didn'thappen. I snagged a city map from a rack by the main exit doors, located thestreet intersection called Gystr'n Corner, and headed outside.

The rain that had been threatening earlier was starting to come down now, ascattering of large fat drops that almost seemed to bounce as they hit theground. I had already decided that Gystr'n Corner was too far to walk, and nowwith the rain beginning I further decided not to wait for the public railsystem. Brother John wouldn't like that; his standard orders were for us totake public transportation whenever possible, the better to avoid officialbacktracks. But then, Brother John wasn't here getting wet. Hailing a cab, Igave the driver my destination, told him there would be an extra hundredcommarks for him if he got me there fast, and all but fell back into thespring-bare seat as he took off like an attack shuttle on wheels.

With the way I'd been spending money like water lately, first with full-vidstarconnects and now on cabs, it was just as well I'd relieved that Patthagenton Dorscind's World of all those hundred-commark bills that had been weighinghim down. Now, watching the city, startled vehicle drivers, and outragedpedestrians blurring along past my windows, it occurred to me that perhapssome extra travel-health insurance might have been a good idea, too. My map's keyestimated it to be twenty-three minutes from the StarrComm building to Gystr'nCorner. My driver made it in just over fifteen, probably a new land-speedrecord for the city, possibly for the entire planet.

Emendo Torsk was there as promised, standing in front of a short cabanalikeshelter, his squat Drilie shape almost hidden behind the complex multimusicbox he was playing with both his hands and the set of short prehensile eating tentacles ringing the base of his neck. A crowd of perhaps twenty admirerswere standing in the rain in front of him listening to the music.

I let the driver take the cab out of sight along the street and had him pullto the curb. I paid him, told him to wait, and walked back through the nowpouringrain to join the crowd. I wouldn't have guessed there were that many beings onthe whole planet who liked Drilie di-choral anthems, even when they wereproperly performed, which this one emphatically was not. But then, I doubtedanyof those in attendance were there for the music, anyway.

Fortunately, the piece Torsk had chosen was a short one, and I silentlythanked the downpour for whatever part it had played in that decision. Amid thesmattering of totally fraudulent applause he passed a large hat around forcontributions. I'd made the necessary preparations while careening about inthe cab, and as he waved the hat in front of me I dropped in a small packageconsisting of three tightly folded hundred-commark bills wrapped around apieceof paper with the word "borandis" written on it. Most of the rest of theaudience, I saw, had similar donations for him. He finished taking up hiscollection and gave out with a set of guttural barks that were probably atraditional Drilie thank-you or farewell, then disappeared through the flapinto his cabana. At that, the audience faded away, splashing away in all directionsto disappear down the streets and alleyways or into the dark and anonymousdoorways fronting on the streets.

All of them, that is, except me. Instead of moving back, I moved forward untilI was standing directly in front of the long-suffering multimusic box. There Iplanted myself, facing the flap Torsk had disappeared through, and waited, doingmy best to ignore the cold drips finding their way beneath my collar anddribbling down my back. I had no doubt he could see me perfectly well throughhis cabana; there were several different one-way opaque materials to choosefrom, and a person in Torsk's profession couldn't afford not to know what wasgoing on around him at all times. I just hoped he'd be curious enough orirritated enough to find out what I wanted before I was soaked completelythrough.

He was either more curious or irritable than I'd expected. I'd been standingthere less than a minute when the flap twitched aside and I found myselflookingdown into a pair of big black Drilie eyes. "What want?" he demanded inpassableEnglish.

"Want borandis," I told him. "Have paid."

"Wait turn," he snapped, waggling a finger horizontally to indicate the nowvanished audience.

"Not wait," I told him calmly. Pushing him this way was risky, but I didn'thave much choice. The standard pattern seemed to be that you placed your order andcame back for it later, probably at Torsk's next performance, and there was noway I could afford to hang around that long. Particularly not if it requiredsitting through a second concert. "Want borandis. Have paid."

"Wait turn," he repeated, even more snappishly this time. "Or get mad."

"I get mad, too," I said.

Apparently I'd been wrong about the whole crowd having vanished. I was justabout to repeat my request when a large hand snaked over my shoulder, grabbeda fistful of my coat, and turned me around. I blinked the rainwater out of myeyes, and found myself looking fifteen centimeters up into one of the ugliesthuman faces it had ever been my misfortune to see. "Hey—trog—you deaf?" hegrowled. His breath was a perfect match for his face. "He said to wait yourturn."

There was undoubtedly more to the usual speech, probably something along thelines of what would happen to me if I didn't go away immediately. But as I'dlong since learned for myself, it was hard to speak when all your wind hasbeen suddenly knocked out of you by a short punch to the solar plexus. I duckedslightly to the side to avoid his forehead as he doubled over without a sound, wincing at the extra dose of bad breath that blew into my face; and as hishead dipped out of my line of sight I saw that three more men stamped from his samemold were marching purposefully across the street toward me.

I hit the first man in the same spot again, folding him over a little farther, and half a second later had my plasmic pointed over his shoulder toward thethree newcomers. They stopped dead in their tracks. I kept my eyes and theweapon steady on them while I kept hitting the halitosis specialist inselected pressure points with my free hand, trying to make sure that when he went downhe would stay there.

He finally did, but it took several more punches than I'd expected. Idefinitelydidn't want to be around when this lad felt like his old self again. I gazedat the reinforcements for another couple of seconds; then, leaving my plasmicpointed their direction, I deliberately turned my head around to face Torskagain. "Want borandis," I said mildly. "Have paid."

"Yes," he said, his face an ashen shade of purple as he stared down at thelumpat my feet. Apparently he'd never seen anyone beaten up with one hand before.

"Wait short."

He disappeared back into the cabana, but not before I got a glimpse ofreflected movement in those big Drilie eyes. I turned my head around, to find the ThreeMusketeers had tried advancing while I wasn't looking. They stopped even moreabruptly than they had the first time, and we eyed each other over the barrelof my plasmic until there was another rustling of wet fabric behind me. "Take,"

Torsk hissed, jabbing something solid against my shoulder. I turned, half-expecting to see a gun; but it was only a music cassette prominentlydisplaying Torsk's face and name on the front. The Best of Emendo Torsk, apparently, with the borandis concealed inside. "Go," he insisted. "Not comeback."

"Not come back," I agreed, taking the cassette and tucking it away in aninside pocket. "Unless borandis not good. Then make small wager you hurt plenty."

"Borandis good," he ground out, glaring daggers at me.

I believed him. The last thing a corner drug dealer wanted was to haveattention drawn his direction, and my performance here had already disrupted his cozy schedule more than he was happy with. The last thing he would want would befor me to come back in a bad mood.

He had no way of knowing that I couldn't come back even if I wanted to, orthat I was even more allergic to official scrutiny at the moment than he was. Hewas rid of me, and that was what mattered to him. Perhaps he'd even learned not tohire his protection muscle off park benches.

My cab and driver were still patiently waiting where I'd left them. I got inand gave my destination as Gate 2 of the spaceport, the closest one to where theIcarus was docked. With visions of another absurdly large tip undoubtedlydancing trippingly through his mind, he took off like a scalded foxbat. Onceagain I hung on for dear life, my own mind dancing with unpleasant visions ofa premature obituary. During the straightaways I managed to break open thecassette and confirm that there were fifteen capsules inside filled with ablue powder that looked like it had come from grinding up the normal tablets thatthe Icarus's med listing said borandis came in.

Closing the cassette and putting it away again, I pulled out my phone andpunched in Everett's number. That all-too-familiar feeling that something waswrong began to tingle through me as the fifth vibe came and went with noanswer.

By the time he did answer, on the eighth vibe, and I heard his voice, thefeeling solidified into a cold certainty. " 'Lo?" he muttered, his voice heavyand slightly slurred, as if I'd just awakened him.

"It's McKell," I identified myself. "What's wrong?"

There was a faint hiss, like someone exhaling heavily into the mouthpiece.

"It's Shawn," he said. "He got away."

I gripped the phone tighter, the driver's maniacal slalom technique abruptlyforgotten. "Which direction did he go?"

"I don't know how it happened," Everett said plaintively. "He must haveslippedthe straps somehow—"

"Never mind how he did it," I cut him off. "The recriminations can wait. Whichdirection did he go?"

"I don't know," Everett said. "I didn't see him leave. We're all out lookingfor him."

"All of you?"

"All but Ixil—we pounded on his door, but he didn't answer, and the doorwasn't working right. It's okay—we locked the hatch—"

There was a quiet sputtering click as another phone joined the circuit.

"Everett, this is Tera," her voice came excitedly. "I've found him."

"Where?" I snapped, pulling my city map out and trying to shake it open withmyfree hand.

"McKell?" she asked, sounding both surprised and wary.

"Yes," I said. "Where is he?"

"Outside an outfitter's store at Ude'n Corner," she said. "He's accostingpeopleas they go in."

"That's a good way to get all his troubles ended permanently," I growled, locating the spot on my map. It was only a short block away from Gate 2, where was headed anyway. "Keep him in sight, but try not to let him see you," I toldher. "I'll be there in a couple of minutes and we'll bring him back together.

Everett, call Nicabar and Chort and the three of you head back to the ship.

Get it ready to fly."

"Now?" Everett asked, sounding surprised. "What about the borandis?"

"Done and done," I told him. "Make sure—"

"You've got it?" Everett asked. "Already?"

"I'm very good at what I do," I told him, trying hard to be patient. "Makesure we've been fueled and are ready to lift as soon as Tera and I get back withShawn."

Another faint hiss. "All right. We'll see you back at the ship."

There was a click as he disconnected. "Tera?" I called.

"Still here," she confirmed tightly. "And I think people are starting to getirritated by Shawn's ravings. You'd better hurry."

"Trust me," I assured her, wincing as I turned part of my attention back tothe automotive drama taking place around me. "He must have made good time to beout of the spaceport already. How long since he jumped ship?"

"About an hour ago," she said. "Just after you left to—"

"An hour?" I cut her off in disbelief, a white-hot flash of anger slicingthrough me. "An hour? And you didn't think it worth mentioning to me?"

"We didn't want to bother you," she protested, clearly startled by my suddenanger. "You already had the medicine to find—"

"I don't care if I've got the crown jewels to steal," I snarled. "Somethinglike this happens, you get on the phone and tell me about it. Let me worry aboutwhat it does to my schedule. Is that clear?"

"Clear," she said, more subdued than I'd ever heard her. For a moment Iconsidered taking another verbal slice of flesh out of her, decidedregretfullythat it probably wasn't her fault, and kept my mouth shut. Possibly it wasn'tany of their faults. Ixil would have known what to do; but Ixil was in hiscabin in a coma, and it was painfully obvious that none of the others had anywherenear our experience with this sort of thing.

Instead, I vented my frustration on the map lying open beside me, folding itback up with far more force than was necessary and shoving it into my jacket'sleft side pocket.

"McKell?" Tera said, her voice suddenly tight. "I think I see a police carheading this way. Red and blue, with a flashing blue light on top, moving veryfast."

"Don't worry," I told her. "It's a cab, and I'm in it. Flag me in, will you?"

A block ahead, I saw her step to the curb and raise her hand, a vision ofloveliness standing there in the downpour in her stylish drowned-rat look. Idirected the driver over to her, dropped two hundred-commark bills on the seatbeside him as I got out, and pulled Tera quickly away from the curb as he shotoff again in a foaming wave. Maybe I'd wasted all that tip money; maybe thatwas the way he always drove anyway.

"There," Tera said, pointing across the street.

"I see him," I said. Considering the way Shawn was bouncing around the storeentrance waving his arms at everyone in sight, he would have been hard tomiss.

Taking Tera's arm again, I steered us through the traffic flow toward him.

After everything else that had happened, the capture itself was ratheranticlimactic. Pleading and screeching and cursing at the passersby, his wethair plastered half across his face, Shawn was in no shape to see anythinghappening around him, Tera and I could have driven up to him in an armoredpersonnel carrier without him noticing. As it was, we simply moved in fromopposite sides and grabbed his arms. He gave a single terrific lurch, butthere wasn't much strength left in him, and after that one attempt to break free hejust stood there shaking in our grip.

We led him away from the door and the pedestrian traffic to the narrowpassageway between the outfitter's store and the next building over, Teramurmuring soothingly in his ear the whole way. When we were as far out of thepublic eye as we were likely to get, I dug out the cassette and fed him one ofthe borandis capsules. He seemed to be having trouble getting it down untilTera filled her cupped hands with rainwater and gave him a drink.

The effects were quite amazing. Almost immediately his trembling began tosubside, and within a couple of minutes he seemed almost back to normal.

At least physically. "You sure took your sweet time about it," he growled, breathing heavily as he brushed his wet hair impatiently out of his face.

"Where the hell are we, anyway? You said we were going to Mintarius. This isn'tMintarius. I know—I've been there."

"Change of plans," I told him shortly, peering closely at his eyes. Hispupils, strongly dilated when we'd first grabbed him, seemed to be shrinking back tonormal size.

"Yeah, well, that change of plans might have killed me," he snapped. "Did youever think of that? This place must be at least three hours farther thanMintarius was."

"No, just two," I said. He was well enough to travel, I decided; and even ifhe wasn't, we were going. The sooner he was aboard the Icarus and shut away whereI didn't have to listen to him, the better. Taking his arm, I pulled him backout toward the main thoroughfare.

"Wait a minute, what's the rush?" he growled, leaning back against my pull.

His strength was also making a remarkable comeback. "We just got here. How aboutjust for once sticking around some planet more than five minutes, huh?"

"Shut up and come on," Tera snapped, grabbing his other arm. From the look ofsurprise that flicked across his face, I guessed she was digging her nailsinto his skin more than was necessary to maintain the grip. Certainly more than Iwas; but then, I'd only been irritated by his disappearing act for the pastfive minutes. Tera had had a whole hour of slogging through the rain in which towork up resentment.

Between her voice, her grip, and whatever he saw in her face, Shawn apparentlyrealized that, too. He shut up as ordered, and docilely followed us down thestreet and through the spaceport gate. We caught the slideway and headed in.

I kept a careful eye behind us, as well as on the slideways that passed orintersected ours, but I saw no sign of anyone tailing us. I had thought Torskmight have second thoughts about letting me leave so easily, but apparentlyhe'd decided that discretion was the better part of continued employment and haddecided to leave well enough alone.

We reached the last freighter parked between us and the Icarus; and finally, it seemed, we were out of the woods. We had the borandis, we had Shawn, and no one had pointed toward me and yelled for the Patth. Now, if the Icarus had justbeen fueled properly, we would be in business. Hoping distantly that we wouldn'tfind the fuelers still trying to figure out how to get the hose into the Icarus'sintake, we came around the side of the freighter.

The fuelers weren't there. What was there was a group of ten Najik wearing theblack-and-red tunics of customs officers. Standing by the entry ramp.

Waiting for us.