Andre Norton - Derelict For Trade

Just then a slight movement on the periphery of his vision caused him to glance to the side to see that the ferny border of the booth was dark with witnesses. Dane saw the gray of Shver skin, black-clothed, and the tension accelerated into danger. Deathguard! Had the Jheel managed to bring his group of toughs in, then?

But then a subtle change in the light from above drew his gaze upwards, and there, far above, the balconies of the highest level were lined with Shver staring down in silence, their martial ornaments glinting in the pinlight illumination they favored.

Flindyk sensed it too, revealing this by the barest flicker of his eyes.

His smile increased, full of confidence and false bonhomie.

Before he could speak again, Jellico said quietly, "Though the means may be limited, if the story is compelling enough, the entertainment will fascinate the widest audience."

"Perhaps," Flindyk said, finishing the wine at a toss, then setting the goblet down. At once his Kanddoyd servitor refilled it. "But at the end, the audience wakes up, and leaves, and knows after all that a story is just that: mere fabrication."

"Only," Jellico replied, "if you overlook the holographic arts. Through

them we can review the acts of history. I assure you, they are very entertaining."

Flindyk’s eyes narrowed sharply, then he smiled, and steepled his fingers. On the periphery Dane saw movement again, this time a flicker of red.

It was Gabby.

Dane put his hands behind his back and gripped them tightly, determined if anyone made any move toward the captain, they were going through him first.

"Alas for the fact that audience as well as performers are equally aware that holographic representations can be manufactured, just as are the stories our actors mouth out upon the stage."

Jellico smiled. It was not at all a pleasant smile. "When the actors believe what they are saying, the performance can be remarkably convincing."

Flindyk considered the keen gray eyes, the hard face creased down one side by a blaster scar, and leaned forward. For the first time Dane saw just a trace of doubt visible on the man’s face. "You haven’t enough actors for this play," he said in his mellow voice. "And when it is done, and you are gone, the. effects. of it remain with the actors for the rest of their lives."

"It already has," Jellico returned. "And there are plenty of actors for the story of Sphere Eleven Startraders. More than you think."

The ferns on the periphery rustled, and several figures stepped forward. Dane looked up, and it was then he realized what Jellico had gambled on: that the word would spread, through all the Traders, and not only were two Spinner gang leaders there, but Dane recognized the Shauv of the clan he’d had his duel with, and three Company ship captains—including one from I-S—and a cluster of Kanddoyds.

"More than you think," Jellico repeated.

Flindyk’s thin lips went white. With one hand he fumbled at his belt, then he leaned back. "You may have gotten these fools to believe your bluff," he said quietly, dropping all pretense of politeness. "But you forget I

still hold this station, and too many owe their livelihoods—and their lives—to me."

Both of them glanced aside; as yet Gabby had not moved.

Jellico said, "I think the time has come for you to confess the truth: that you have committed piracy, theft, murder, and barratry, and have profited therefrom."

"The time has come for your life to end," Flindyk said, all suavity gone. "Which will occur as soon as you step outside these doors."

Jellico nodded at the people ringing the booth. "I believe I can make the same threat."

"Then we wait here," Flindyk said, smiling cruelly. He stretched out his wrist, and pointed to the handsomely carved platinum chain there. Set in its midst was a jewel, not unlike Dane’s ring-brooch.

"Alas for your loyal crew," Flindyk said. "I’ve just caused some modifications in life support for the Queen —of which, you know, the cylome docks have total control. Their air, my dear captain, is being contaminated by carbon monoxide." He smiled again, showing his teeth, startlingly feral against his babylike cheeks. "It’s a painless death," he added unctuously. "I am minded to be merciful in honor of our common heritage."

"They will take care of themselves," Jellico said steadily. "You’ve been in a habitat so long that you’ve forgotten how common combustion engines are on planets. We’re familiar with cee-oh poisoning."

"How about drowning in sewage?" Flindyk snarled suavely. "I can mix in some live steam, if you like."

"Then my comtech will have time before he dies to issue one last com: we sank a bitbomb into the communications system, and every file we have will be spammed all over the starlanes."

"You have no proof of anything," Flindyk said softly.

"But someone with time, and money, and power will undoubtedly come who will get proof. There’s enough there to interest someone, don’t you think? Ya’s orders are clear: as soon as anyone does anything to my ship, that com goes out. And meanwhile, we can sit here until the restaurant descends. How long has it been since you experienced one grav, much less one-point-six?" Jellico went on. "I endured it today and lived. Can you say the same?"

"Many hours will pass between now and then," Flindyk said. "You will have no crew to return to."

"That is the risk I take," Jellico said. "The cause is justice for a greater number than six."

Flindyk started to fumble at his wrist communicator again, and no one moved to stop him.

However, not everyone was still. Flindyk himself realized something had happened, and looked up, then froze.

Gabby had raised one hand, his carapace droning a weird threnody of stridulations. He made a gesture, and the lights in the restaurant flickered—not once, but three times.

And Dane felt a gentle lurch in the pit of his stomach that rapidly grew to dizziness. The restaurant was dropping! Whispers, toots, keens, hooms, all sounded around them as the apparent gee force slowly declined toward zero as the program Gabby had set in motion gradually released the restaurant into free fall. Far below, the surface began to expand slowly as they plummeted toward it.

But his attention was wrenched around by sudden movement from Flindyk. A ring winked brightly on one fat finger and there was sudden movement among the Deathguard. They drew their weapons, serrated short swords intended for low-grav combat, designed to snag in the rent flesh of an enemy to enable the combatant to change vector easily after the stroke. Dane could see their huge muscles bunch under the black cloth that shrouded their forms.

From far above, in vast recapitulation of his tweedling bagpipe in the duel, the ancient triumph music of the Shver pealed out, brass and drum and shrilling hydraulisynth, electronic echo of the bloody Shver past. The crowd of witnesses shouted, screeched, keened, and tooted in shock as the bulky Shver leaped off their balconies, floating down with elephantine grace, brandishing the same type of swords. Dane saw that every clan was represented, all by Shver of the highest caste.

The Deathguard halted, frozen in a posture of pure menace, ready for anything as the Shver from above landed between them and the Terrans. Dane could hear the click of their magboots fastening to the deck. The eldest Shauv hoomed and rumbled at the Deathguard; Dane caught only one phrase, but it made his skin prickle.

"This is of the Path and the Conquest to Come."

Dane translated rapidly to himself, and realized what had been left out of the ancient phrase: "The Blood."

A frisson gripped his spine as he realized what had happened: the Shver had spoken to the outcasts, not welcoming them back—they were no longer of the Blood—but acknowledging that they too walked the Shver path.