Andre Norton - Derelict For Trade

The three whipped around and Rael found herself the focus of their attention. Someone spoke. Tooe touched Rael’s arm and said, "They have questions."

Rael felt Jasper move restlessly at her side.

She sent him what she hoped was a reassuring glance, and pushed away from the wall she’d floated near.

Everyone’s heads were oriented in one direction—a concession to the Shver, she figured.

The dark-cowled one spoke, and Nunku said, "The Deathguard wisheth to hear thy story from thine own lips."

"What story?" Rael asked. "How we found the derelict, or what has happened since we arrived here?"

"Everything," Nunku said. "They say that those from the Solar Queen have brought the Monitors into the Spin Axis. This changes what hath been accepted for lifetimes."

Rael heard the threat implicit in her soft voice, and felt danger clamp her insides. She knew very little about the Deathguard, other than that they were Shver outcasts and assassins—and that they had nothing to do with anyone outside their numbers, unless they were paid. These Shver outcasts would not have any interest in the plights of the other inhabitants of the Spinner, so they certainly would not care about justice for the Starvenger or the Ariadne .

She took in a deep breath, cast her mind back to Denlieth, and started to talk.

Rip Shannon wasnot surprised when every present member of the Queen's crew expressed his desire to accompany Dane Thorson to the site

of the duel.

"Right," Captain Jellico said. "There are ten of us who want to go."

"Five is an important number to them," Van Ryke said.

"As well," Jellico said. "We’ll pick lots, then. I want half here to guard the Queen against any other tricks that Flindyk might concoct."

Frank Mura produced some fine tiles from somewhere, some colored white and some blue. He mixed them all up in a bag, and as each man picked one, the captain said, "White goes, blue stays."

Rip didn’t say anything, but he was relieved when the tile he pulled out was white. He wanted to be there for a number of reasons—partly guilt, because he still felt that he ought to have talked Dane out of the fruitless errand to the mail drop in the first place, but also out of an intense desire to see if Ali’s plan would work.

He thought grimly to himself as he handed his tile back to Frank and bounded down to get his sleeprod that he also wanted to be there to help in case Ali’s plan blew up in their faces. He wasn’t going to stand by and watch some planet-sized Shver warmonger munch his crewmate. Rip was very ready to prove that humans could fight—well—when they had to, and he could see in Kamil’s bright-edged gaze and challenging smile that he felt exactly the same, even though he was staying with the Solar Queen .

Surprisingly, Frank had chosen a tile, and as it was white, he had silently produced his feedle pipe before he took his place with the others.

Steen Wilcox had drawn blue. As he frowned at his heirloom, discreetly stowed in a sturdy bag in Dane’s arms, Jan Van Ryke, who had also gotten a white tile, said, "Wilcox, we can swap if you like. You can keep an eye on your property."

Steen hesitated, then gave his head a shake. "Better not," he said. "If there’s a problem, you’d be better at talking us out than I. If they come here, there won’t be any talking." He smiled grimly, then nodded at the bag in Dane’s hands. "As for that—my being there or not isn’t going to make a particle of difference. But it’s been safely through many a battle, so I’ll hold to the faith it’ll come through one more."

Jellico said, "It’s time. Let’s get this over with."

Rip followed the others into the lock tunnel. Behind, he heard Ali and Steen talking to Stotz, Tang, and Tau, planning their defensive strategy. Their voices very soon dropped away as the five bounded their way to the maglev access.

The five got half a pod to themselves. Rip had half expected either emptiness or stares, as if news of the duel had somehow gotten all over Exchange—demonstrating Flindyk’s far reach. Except that Flindyk wouldn’t want it publicized, he realized as he noted a group of Kanddoyds buzzing and clacking away in a corner, utterly unconcerned with either the knot of humans at the other end of the pod or the four Arvas spacers at one side, who spoke together in a sibilant language of their own.

He looked across at Dane, who was fingering some mysterious lumps and bumps pressing against his bag.

"You know what to do with that thing?" he asked.

Dane gave a short nod. "Steen showed me when we went down to his cabin to get it." He grimaced slightly. "Not that there was time enough to show me how to really operate it. But I know enough to." He stopped, then shrugged. "Succeed or fail."

Jellico had been conversing in low tones with Van Ryke. Now he glanced up, assessing the other occupants of the pod, and Dane and Rip. He didn’t say anything to the apprentices, but Rip decided to drop the subject.

As the grav increased, Rip became aware of a faint breathing sound coming from somewhere. He looked over, fascinated by the sight of Dane breathing into the bag, eliciting a soft wheeze from whatever was in it. It was changing shape, flattening into a kind of ovoid with odd bumps poking at intervals along one end. It reminded Rip unpleasantly of some asymetric sea creatures—was it some sort of biological construct? His stomach lurched. The use of living weapons was forbidden throughout Terran space, but out here. ?

Captain Jellico didn’t seem concerned. The last of the passengers on the pod hurried off, sending odd looks toward the Terrans.

Dane didn’t look back at Rip, hunching instead over the bag as if meditating. Was he imagining the impact of Shver weapons on his weaker frame? And how did that feel to someone who’d probably gotten used to—or become resigned to—being bigger than everyone else?

As they reached the one-gee level, whatever was in the bag had distended to a hard-looking mass; Rip could hear its coarse breathing, edged with a weird, honking whine, and the odor of its breath, a kind of rank, greasy sweetness, filled the maglev pod. What kind of bioweapon had Steen Wilcox been secreting in his cabin all these years? All Rip knew was that he had several heirlooms from his Scots ancestors, and that Ali had somehow found out about them. And he remembered a Scots word—"haggis"—that he’d overheard a spacer mention once with a look of great horror on his face. Was that what Dane had?

As the grav increased, the wheeze faded away, and Dane straightened up as the bag flattened out into a completely incomprehensible and utterly sinister shape. The haggis—if that’s what it was—was silent. Was it dead? Dane didn’t seem upset. Rip was no advocate of violence—or he’d be wearing the black and silver of a Patrol officer now—but the menace of the thing in that bag was comforting just at this moment. Rip firmly hoped a haggis was much more deadly, and fast, than whatever the Shver would face him with.

Soon the familiar vise squeezed slowly on his heart and lungs. Rip knew they were near the surface; he hoped he’d never have to feel this pressure—or see this place—again. Just let me leave alive , he thought as the maglev trundled its way slowly toward the place the Shver had told Dane they would be met.

They passed the mail drop building, and proceeded deep into Shver territory. At the proper stop, a group of five Shver waited, silent and impassive, for the Terrans to debark, which they did slowly and with care. The Shver waited without speaking until everyone was on the concourse, then the lead Shver made a slight gesture, touching hand to chin.