*
Bay three was still hard vacuum, and Hesperus and his crew were left to wait nearly two hours before Stranglehold’s dockmaster drifted out to inspect the Dubious Profit. While they waited, Hesperus had ducked into his cabin, closed the door behind him, and dialled the combination of the strongbox built into the bulkhead. Opening it, he packed a slim wallet with a variety of coins, a few thin strips of bullion, and some low- to middle-value gemstones. Outside the mainstream, many merchants preferred rare-metal specie to Co-operative credits, and gold and precious stones often traded at a premium. He drummed his fingers against his chin, then added a small twist of metal foil, containing a generous pinch of red wango, which he tucked into the back of the wallet. As a sample or as a gift, it made good business sense to spread a little happiness – and this twist carried quite a lot of happiness, right there. He closed and locked the strongbox, and carefully strapped the wallet to the underside of his left forearm, before changing out of his baggy, single-fit flightsuit. He emerged from his cabin wearing soft black moleskin trousers, cinched at the knees with pinchbeck buckles, and tucked into elastic-sided boots of glossy chestnut leather. His jacket was a dark bottle-green, with a high black collar where his trader’s pips were picked out in enamelled gold. Around his waist gleamed a belt of flexible silver links, supporting a short ceremonial sword, and on his head he sported a slim twixtear cap of black felt with a proud stiff peak and a brave red hackle.
“Remember,” said Hesperus, as the airlock cycled, “in these … kinds of places it is important always to project an aura of confidence, prosperity, and authority. Above all else, respect is the prime currency here.” He twitched his collar into a more pleasing configuration and leaned nonchalantly against the cockpit door.
The airlock gasped open and the dockmaster, a sag-faced human male sealed inside a grimy pressure suit, stepped on board. He carried an environmental monitor which he scrutinised at arm’s length, one eyebrow raised.
“Looks like you folks have an issue with your atmospherics … youse are a little light on the old oh-two, there, chief.” His voice twanged high and nasal from his helmet speaker, as he waggled the monitor’s illuminated screen at Rus.
Hesperus pushed himself forward. “I am Captain Hesperus, master, commander and owner of the Dubious Profit,” he said. “You can address your remarks to me. And I am aware of our, ah, issues with the atmospherics. In fact, I require the use of your pressurised drydock facilities, to effect some running repairs.”
The dockmaster raised his other eyebrow. “Hum. Drydock, eh? Have to square that one with the boss. Quarantine protocols, all that …”
“I am a close and highly regarded friend of the station owner,” said Hesperus. “Ah … nevertheless I would be grateful, my man, if you could expedite this service for us.” He ran the ball of his thumb casually across the tips of his fingers.
The dockmaster’s eyebrows slumped back down to make a single thick and furry line. “Ah well, chief, normally I’d be happy to oblige – but the boss has asked to see you first, in person.”
“Oh, ah, um,” said Hesperus. “In person, you say? Well, usually, of course, I …”
The dockmaster grinned, exposing a mouthful of broken teeth stained red with betel-juice. “You got no cause to worry, now,” he said. “The boss perked right up when your ship showed on the dial. Laughed, even. That’s a good sign, likely. Maybe you’re still a close-guarded friend, hey?” He slapped Hesperus on the shoulder.
Hesperus wound his fingers together, his eyes dancing left and right. “Ah. Good. Excellent, excellent …” He lifted his cap, smoothed down the fur on his scalp, and took a deep breath of the Profit’s tainted air. “Well,” he said, replacing his cap, “it will be my pleasure.”
“Grand, grand; you suit up, and mind your fancy hat; I’ll take you over, and I’ll rattle up the boys to fuel you on account, how’s that sound?”
“That,” said Hesperus, hoisting a sickly smile onto his face as he sidled into his pressure suit, “would be most kind. A true example of the, ah, the solicitous hospitality for which Stranglehold is so rightly famed.”
Hesperus and the dockmaster passed through the Dubious Profit’s airlock, emerging into the near-weightless vacuum of Stranglehold’s outer bay. The dockmaster leaned over and touched his helmet to Hesperus’s.
“You okay to jump? Or you want a tow?”
Hesperus, more offended by the implication that he was unused to zero-g than by the dockmaster’s familiarity, did not deign to reply. He scanned the rough rock walls, quickly locating the hatchway which led to the station’s interior; with one kick he pushed away from the Profit’s hull and sailed across, turning neatly half-way and cushioning his landing with an easy flexing of his legs. The dockmaster arrived a few moments later, grabbing a stanchion to steady himself. He and Hesperus passed through the station airlock and emerged into a bustling stockroom. A drifting cluster of cargo canisters over by one wall provided an indication of the gravity afforded by the asteroid’s spin: at the outer levels it might be noticeable, but here at the core it was fractional at best.
Hesperus unsealed his helmet, and took a first cautious sniff of Stranglehold. In the stockroom the air was pungent: aromas of exotic foodstuffs, wines and spices brought from half a hundred star systems, pierced by the tang of hot mineral oils, larded with alien musks and body-odours … and beneath it all the faint burnt flavour of carbonaceous chondrite. Heady, rich, and invigorating, especially after the foul soup he had been forced to inhale aboard the Profit. He felt his confidence returning: commerce, transactions, trade pulsed through the station. This, he thought, was his kind of place. Hesperus had remembered Stranglehold as a seedy anchorage of last resort, a host to the poorer sorts of smugglers, thieves and fences: now it had the hum and bustle of a regular port of call.
Hesperus hung his pressure suit in a locker, before smoothing a few stray creases from his clothing and adjusting the angle of his twixtear cap. The dockmaster popped his own visor, a sour waft rising from the opening; one more addition to the medley of smells in the stockroom.
“Your appointment with the boss is at eighteen, sharp,” the dockmaster said, as Hesperus synched his chronometer to station time, “in the good ship Fractal Sacrifice, in the private bay at the other end of the station. You got yourself a couple hours to kill, so feel free to take a wander. Trading floor’s that way, bars and joyjoints that way … we’s even got a casino that’s no more’n averagely bent, should you take a fancy to the hazards.”
“Ah, thank you,” said Hesperus. “I believe I will peruse your mercantile facilities …” The dockmaster grinned at him again, his teeth redder than his gums. Hesperus wondered if he was waiting for a tip. It was often hard to judge local protocol, in these smaller stations: sometimes people were offended by the offer, sometimes by its absence. Facing equal risk, he chose the path marked out by economy: he nodded politely, and passed through the portal to the trading floor.