*
Stranglehold’s trading floor was situated towards the exterior of the asteroid, where the rock’s rotation provided a modicum of artificial gravity. The space had been greatly enlarged since Hesperus had last visited, and he could see evidence of ongoing operations to extend it still further. Clearly, business was on the up and up. There was a marked difference in the clientèle, too. Gone were the squalid plots marked off by spraybomb paint, guarded by shifty thugs and littered with random scatterings of looted goods and scavenged flotsam. In their place were long rows of tidy booths, each specialising in their particular commodities, with samples arrayed to best effect to catch a discerning customer’s eye. True, many of the traders possessed a certain raffish air, and merchandise which on a Co-operative station would have been tightly regulated were offered openly for sale with no restrictions; but even here, he felt, any disagreements as to price or provenance could be kept within the bounds of civil discourse. Hesperus always preferred negotiations where threats and violence were not part of the consideration. Clearly, Sunderling had developed a sense of business acumen since last they met; Hesperus made a mental note to compliment him on it later.
In the meantime, he intended to enjoy this opportunity to examine the available wares, and perhaps to snare a clever trade or two. Here, a Tiriusri merchant squatted, slit-eyed and smiling, before a range of cargo canisters, with samples of the rare earths and ores that they contained exhibited in ceramic dishes and transparent flasks. There, a tall Gerebian raised her long-fingered hands in a gesture signifying acute distress – although she wobbled her large horned head in amusement as a fat human pitched a price too low for the delicate moth-wing silks that floated and shimmered in the booth behind her.
Hesperus was in no hurry; a rich field such as this one deserved his full attention. Close study of stock and sellers alike could often pay dividends. Whiskers twitching, he strolled around the trading floor, smiling amiably but allowing no-one to catch his eye. A few minutes of observation showed that many of the cargo canisters stacked neatly up were often more than usually battered and abraded. Canisters, of course, led rough-and-tumble lives, and were often knocked around by careless hands on ships and stations; but here were more than just scrapes and dings, and on more than a few Hesperus could spot signs of scorching which had not been entirely buffed away. This confirmed one suspicion, at least: Sunderling may have added a veneer of legitimacy to his operation, and successfully wooed a thriving population of merchants to take up residence in his station, but at least some proportion of the goods on sale had almost certainly been acquired through the explosive destruction of their original owners.
Still, though, goods obtained without financial outlay could often be purchased at advantageous discounts; a prospective buyer might hope to wring a deeper concession from the seller than would otherwise be possible. Hesperus adjusted his internal calculations accordingly: this was a buyer’s market, to be sure. Unfortunately, this meant that his own cargo – the twenty-two tonnes of prime red wango – was devalued here. Stranglehold’s market was, for now at least, glutted with intoxicants and narcotics of every description: in one aisle alone, Hesperus was offered everything from bales of tobacco and jameson weed to exotic concoctions of za blossom extract, fermented groal milk and ten-year wiseberries.
He wandered around the trading floor, peering and scrutinising, weighing and considering, lost in a whirl of profitable possibilities, until finally his happy reverie was interrupted by the presence of a sour, animal reek, accompanied by an unattractive blend of grunts, coughs and whimpers. Located at the back of the floor, next to the extractors, was a clutch of slave pens. Hesperus tutted, and glanced downwards: slave pens often leaked unpleasant effluvia, and he didn’t want to spoil his boots. He looked up again: numerous anatomies hunched and huddled within the pens; eyeballs of varying colours and designs regarded him dully. Hesperus frowned: a depressing sight, to be sure – a wise decision by Sunderling to tuck the pens at the back of the marketplace. Hesperus’s appreciation for the man’s business sense rose another notch.
Sunderling! His appointment. Hesperus checked his chronometer: he would have to hurry. Successful businessmen, and successful pirates, should not be kept waiting. He stepped carefully over a suspicious-looking stain, scuffed the soles of his boots, and strode away towards the far end of the station.