"What do we want out of all this?"
"Well, we don't want a war, that's for sure," Goonar said. "We want a chance to make a living, same as anybody else."
"Not the same . . . a good living. And wars sometimes prosper traders."
"Well . . . yes. When they don't kill them outright. Protection for our property. Opportunity. Economic stability, so we can depend on credit and currency."
" `Profits are highest in times of trouble,' " Basil quoted.
"Yes. But so are losses."
"The question is, which side offers us the best deal?"
"The question is, how do we define the best deal?"
"It's not our decision, Goonar. Our fathers—"
"Won't have to live with the outcome. We will. I'm not going to stand by and see them ruin us."
"Kaim is one of us—"
"Kaim is crazy. We both know that. Yeah, the mutineers are strong now, but they're not the sort of people we want to do business with, not in the long run."
"What about . . ." Basil hooked his thumb and gestured to the far wall.
"The Black Scratch? You'd try dealing with the Black Scratch?"
"Very cautiously, maybe."
"Not me," Goonar blew on his finger, expressively. "The tongs aren't long enough."
"If the Familias comes apart—"
"It won't if we keep our heads."
"We?"
"All the real people—the traders, shippers, ordinary people."
It struck Goonar suddenly as ridiculous that he had described Terakian & Sons, Ltd., as "ordinary people" but he didn't let that internal chuckle show in his face. Better if Basil didn't think about that one too long.
"Right now," he said, tapping the manifest display, "we have a cargo to worry about, customers to serve. Things won't get better if we start playing doom-caller."
"Spoken like someone who wants to be a captain," said Basil, only half-joking.
"And you don't?" Goonar cocked an eye at him. Their last recommendation had resulted in a solid profit; he and Basil had their bonuses, and he'd put his in the captain's pool for the first time.
"I do, but—captains always have to think of the long term, and you know, cuz, that sometimes I'm a bit more focussed on the short."
That was true, but this was the first time Basil had admitted it.
"I'd rather be your second and stay your partner: you steady me down, and I keep you from being stodgy."
"I'm not stodgy," Goonar said, trying to sound stodgy to hide the inner glow that came from Basil's admission that they weren't in competition for the next open captaincy.
"You would be," Basil said, "if you didn't have me kicking you every now and then. I told the Fathers two days ago."
Which meant Goonar was up to number three, at least, in the pool, and sending in his bonus money had been even smarter than he thought. Captains had to have ship shares before selection; he had been saving for years for this, investing carefully.
"We'll make a good team," Goonar said, accepting Basil as formally as the Terakian family ever accepted anyone.
"We already do," Basil said.
As they turned again to the manifest display, one of the clerks knocked on the door. "Goonar—there's a message from the Fathers."
"Thanks," Goonar said. He took the sealed packet—two levels below the highest secrecy—and thumb-printed it until the seal peeled back. He stared at the first line, and felt his face flush. "Basil—!"
"What is it, your first ship?"
"You knew!"
"I didn't . . . but Uncle did hint that something nice was coming to you, and did I want to ride your coattails, or strike out on my own."
"It's the Fortune." Old Fortune, one of the real prizes of the Terakian & Sons fleet, had close to the ideal blend of cargo capacity and maneuverability, including an ample shuttle bay and two drone cargo shuttles. Goonar went on reading. "It's Miro—he's developed some neurological condition, and they don't want to rotate captains through the ships in this political crisis—they want to keep people with crews they know, and routes they know . . ."
"Miro . . ." Basil said. "Did he ever rejuv?"
"I haven't a clue. Get off that, will you? People developed shakes and bad memory long before rejuvenation. But—what a plum! What a ship!" He went on reading. "We're taking over Fortune's regular routes, but I have leave to expand or contract them as I see fit . . . report acceptance/refusal by fastest secure route . . . As if anyone in his right mind would refuse this—" He stopped and looked at Basil. "Finish up that manifest check for me, Bas, and I'll go answer this."
* * *
The Terakian Fortune was everything Goonar had hoped for, and more. Miro's crew accepted him readily, the cargo couldn't be better—he couldn't lose money unless he flung it out the hatch—and the first two stops went so smoothly that he let Basil talk him into spending several days downside at the next, Falletta, meeting with Terakian's agents, lunching with local bankers, inspecting merchandise before it was packed up. He found a suitable thank-you gift for the Fathers and a pendant for Basil's wife. Basil came back from his own forays into the local markets to suggest an evening at the theater.
"I'm not going to sit through one of those acrobatic noise festivals," Goonar said.
"It's not that. It's something you'll like."
"Really."
"Brides of the Mountains. It's a really good company, too."
"Out here in the sticks?"
"Come on, Goonar; it's better than sitting in the hotel doing nothing."
* * *
The curtains opened on a stage set for the traditional drama Brides of the Mountains . . . a peasant village, with peasant men lounging around pretending to hold agricultural implements as if they knew what to do with them. The backdrop was painted with purple mountains that looked like nothing on any of a hundred planets.
Goonar nudged his cousin. "Even I know more about a scythe than that fellow on the left."
"Hssh." Basil gave him a brief glare. "Just wait."
The overture swelled, and the peasants drew breath. A flourish of pipes brought in the peasant women, brilliant shawls around their shoulders, and the men burst into song.
Lovely as the morning star
sweet girls, our brides to be
Goonar had to admit they could sing. Loudly, at least. He caught himself starting to hum along and stopped before Basil could poke him in the arm.
The women's chorus responded as the music changed keys.
Strong as the trees that dare the heights
brave boys, our husbands to be
Then they opened out, and revealed the most beautiful woman Goonar had seen.
And yet, my dears, we will not wed
until you prove your faithful love—
Rich red-brown hair—it might be a stage wig, of course, but it moved so naturally . . . lush figure, though of course it might be the costume. Her mellow voice filled the hall, and she seemed to be looking straight at Goonar. His breath shortened. He was too old to have this reaction—but his body paid no attention to his mind.
All through the first act, in which the men left on a dangerous quest, and the women of a neighboring village came to visit, Goonar argued with himself.
In the second act, as the women of the two villages changed places, to follow and test their respective suitors, Goonar thought he had himself in hand. Betharnya Vi Negaro—he had glanced at the program in the brief interval between acts—was a well-known actress and singer, and of course she wasn't looking at him. Not him in particular. Probably every man there felt she was flirting with him alone. Maybe she was. During the dance sequence, he tried to fault her dancing. That blonde was more nimble . . . that brunette had a wider smile.
The long interval, between the second and third acts, found him silent. He could feel Basil's gaze, but refused to meet his eyes.
"What did you think of her?"
"Who?"
Basil grabbed his elbow. "Her, you idi
ot. Bethya. Isn't she gorgeous?"
"She's an actress," Goonar said, pulling his arm away. "She's got to be. Are you thirsty?"
Basil heaved a dramatic sigh; Goonar headed for the refreshment booths. When they both had drinks in hand, Basil backed him into a corner.
"She's coming with us," Basil said. "Actually, the whole troupe is. They're worried about the borders."
"An acting troupe?"
"They'd rather perform here than there," Basil said, jerking his head to the side where, Goonar supposed, he'd already determined the Benignity to be.
"So—you pointed me out as a Terakian." Which meant she had seen money and influence and maybe competence . . . those glances had been directed at his position, not at him.
"No. But she does know my face. Why—did you think she was looking at you?" Basil's indulgent tone stung, as perhaps it was meant to.
"No," Goonar said. And to himself, silently, I know.
In the third act, with the cross talk between faithful and unfaithful lovers and their various temptresses, Goonar tamed his wayward heart and put his mind to considering just how the troupe and its supplies could best be packed aboard the ship. He reached for his handcomp once, but caught himself before flipping it open. But the climax, when the mysterious stranger has won the heart of the village beauty, when her former suitor attacks the stranger, and is killed by him, and the girl must choose whether to go or stay . . . that held him fascinated by a story he had known since childhood. What would she choose? Again she seemed to be looking at him—at Basil, he reminded himself—and again he could not help responding. She was someone to fight for, to kill for if necessary.
After the show, on the street, Goonar strolled along savoring the memory of that look. He could always pretend it had been meant for him.
"Come on," Basil said. "We have to hurry."
"Why?" Goonar said. "We have two days before we lift."
"Not any more," Basil said. "I put us on the short list."
Goonar stopped short, careless of the crowd. "What! You put? Who's captain of this ship, anyway?"
"Goonar, please! Not here. I'll explain, but there wasn't time. Seriously." Basil for once looked more worried than truculent.
Goonar walked on, lengthening his stride to keep up with Basil. "So, just how long do we have?"
"As soon as they're loaded. I offered to help, but they said they'd rather . . . tear down, I think they said . . . themselves. Less obvious."
Goonar managed not to stop again by an act of will; he wanted to shake Basil upside down. "In other words, we're carrying fugitives." Terakian & Sons did not carry fugitives; it was a rule made long ago for good reason.
"Not . . . officially."
"Not officially carrying, or not officially fugitives?"
"Goonar . . . please, just let's get off the street."
That was beginning to sound like a really good idea. Goonar glanced up the street, at the status board for the city's spaceport tram, and moved faster.
The tram deposited them at the main terminal, where they cleared the first level of security and boarded the 'port tram, which took them to the private bays. Once they were in the Terakian compound, Goonar turned on Basil.
"Are we bringing them up on a family shuttle?"
"No, they're taking a bigger shuttle—one of the duals—but we need to prepare, I thought."
"Basil—"
"I know, I know." Basil spread his hands and tried to look contrite, an expression that sat uneasily on his face. "Terakian and Sons does not carry fugitives, does not involve itself in local politics, does not interfere in legal actions—"
"So explain." Goonar tapped out the code on the shuttle's access hatch, and the pilot's voice came over the intercom.
"Yes, sir?"
"Heading up early, Jas. Goonar and Basil—" He went on with the family codes.
"Opening up." The pilot popped the hatch, and Goonar climbed in. Basil followed, but said nothing until they were both seated and strapped in. "Five to clearance," the pilot said. "There's a Benignity diplo shuttle coming in, and that bumps the departures back a bit."
Goonar stared at Basil, who flushed.
"A Benignity diplomatic shuttle. Does this have any relation whatsoever to the fact that we're running off with a troupe of singers and dancers from—where are they from?"
"Various places," Basil said. "They're talent, you know—they come from all over."
"And?" Goonar said.
"Well . . . they aren't fugitives. Exactly. It's just that they don't want to be. If they're not at the theater, then . . . it won't be an issue."
"And if they are?"
"I don't know," Basil said. "None of them are citizens of the Benignity, and none of them have committed a crime. They're just . . . maybe . . . people the Benignity would rather have stay there."
"Captives?"
"Of a sort. Maybe. I don't know. I just know they wanted to be out of here before the Benignity diplomatic mission arrived and got settled."
"And they knew it was coming?" Goonar asked.
"Apparently," Basil said. He still looked embarrassed, which Goonar knew from experience meant he hadn't yet told all he knew. Goonar felt tired; dragging facts out of Basil had exhausted better men than he.
"Please, Basil," he said. "I'm the captain now; I have to know. Are we going to be pursued by Benignity warships? By Familias warships? Are we transporting stolen property? State secrets?"
Basil glanced out the window as the shuttle rolled forward slowly and pursed his lips. "I don't think we'll be pursued by anyone—certainly not before we can make it into jump." Goonar did not think that "not before we can make it into jump" was anything like "not pursued" but he waited for the rest of it. "As far as I know, there is no stolen property. I made that clear to her, and she said there was nothing," Basil said. "State secrets—I didn't ask about that, because if they are running with data, she wouldn't tell me anyway."
"So—do you think they'll be out of the theater before the Benignity gets there?"
"I think so, yes." Basil leaned forward. "If all went well, they weren't that far behind us; she said they'd be packing as the play went on."
"I assume by `she' you mean Betharnya," Goonar said. "Is she the . . . what, the owner of the troupe or something? I thought she was just the leading lady."
"She's the manager, yes. As well as the female lead. Something happened to the manager they had before."
"When?" Goonar asked. "Where?"
"I think . . . on tour in Vorhoft."
"Which just happens to be in the Benignity—Basil, if you weren't my cousin and partner, I would cheerfully brain you."
"I know—"
"Delay," the pilot said, over the intercom. "That pigdung Benignity shuttle has asked Traffic Control for a hold for some reason."
Basil made a noise that Goonar easily interpreted, and the same thought was running through his own mind. He flicked down the seat com screen, and patched into the pilot's download of the local net. Ships at station, seven. Lucky number, seven—sometimes. But there'd been more than that when they docked four days ago. Ships insystem, incoming, three. He relaxed slightly. Ships outbound, eleven. He frowned, and checked the departure times.
"Did you notice this?" he said to Basil, pointing to the screen.
"What? No . . . wait . . . there should be more docked upstairs."
"Right. And look at the departure times . . . compared to the first scan record of the Benignity diplomatic mission."
"Ouch." Basil leaned forward. "Chickens scattering before a hawk."
"And you have us on the ground—away from the ship—a nice fat chicken, with the hawk already stooping." Goonar knew who would be blamed if Terakian & Sons lost by it—he was the captain, after all, and he was supposed to be in control. But before his uncle reduced him to mincemeat—if he survived to be minced—he could take a few chunks out of Basil.
"Sorry," Basil said, in an absent tone. "Did you know the Stationm
aster up there is a Conselline agent?"
"No—and if you think that bit of information is going to distract me—"
"The ships that left—they're all Conselline Sept flags."
Goonar scolded himself for not seeing that first. "You're right. So—does that mean the Consellines are playing some game with the Benignity, or what?"
"I don't know, but Betharnya might. If we can get her safely away."
"Fat chance now," Goonar said. But at that moment, the pilot said, "Hold's unlocked. They've moved us up past a scheduled shuttle—they've got a red light on something. Ready for immediate takeoff?"
"Yes," Goonar said. The shuttle bumped over the guide strips in the taxiway, and swung onto another approach lane to the main runway. Far off to the right, he could see the main terminal, surrounded by the winking lights of other shuttles and long-haul aircraft. As they turned again, he saw something behind them. To the pilot, he said, "Something's on our tail, Jas . . ."
"I know," Jas said. Then, to Traffic Control, "Orbital shuttle outbound, Terakian and Sons, two passengers, ID 328Y. Auto shuttle outbound, Terakian and Sons, cleared cargo, manifest 235AX7."
"Check, 328Y. Cleared."
The cabin intercom clicked off. Goonar looked at Basil, who turned to look out the window.
"Basil . . . what do you know about an auto shuttle shadowing us?"
"I hope," Basil said, now studying his nails, "that it's a cargo shuttle."
"Failure to declare passengers is an offense under local and Familias law, Basil," Goonar said. Their own shuttle rolled forward, on the right-hand margin of the runway. He leaned to look out the left-hand windows. Sure enough, the other craft had come up beside them, the safest launch for an autopilot shadow. And far less visible from the main terminal.
"I know."
"Are there passengers on that shuttle, Basil?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
No use arguing until they got to the Station. If they did. Goonar leaned back as acceleration shoved him into the seat. Jas pulled both ships up into a steep climb once they were off the ground, then directed the cargo shuttle—unlit and almost invisible—to a safe distance.