Sarah Zettel: Fool's War

I wish to thank Timothy B. Smith for his excellent technical advice, the Untitled Writers Group for their invaluable insights, and Dawn Marie Sampson Beresford for keeping the stories on the right track.

This book is dedicated to my parents: Gail Elizabeth and Leonard Francis Zettel Jr., with love, respect and gratitude.

Curran watched the man whose life he required settle onto one of the dozen faux leather couches that were scattered around the station’s reception module. The monitors showed him Amory Dane, spruce, tall, and fair. Dane made the perfect picture of someone prepared to wait patiently for an appointment. He was a radically different creature from the furtive Freers in the corner dickering over the delivery price for the wafer case that sat on the floor between them, or the gaggle of haggard mechanics who had put in one shift too many at the bar.

Curran wondered idly what they would do if he spoke up and announced what he was. Would they laugh, thinking it was a crazy engineer’s joke? Would they scramble for the wall and try to get at the computer system? Or would they just start running for the hatches?

He ran through each of the scenarios and decided that any would be amusing, but that the risk of being recorded on a hard medium was not worth it.

From his position of safety, Curran calmly overrode the inspection commands for the module’s automatic systems. Then, he ordered the hatches to cycle shut. One of the mechanics, more sober than the others, jerked his head up as he heard the hatch seal.

Before anyone could make another move, Curran sent a single command to each of the three explosive charges his talent had laid against the module’s hull.

As the wind ripped through the room and the screams began in earnest, Curran slid away.

“How dieth the wise man?” He murmured as he hurried toward his next task. “As the fool.”

Al Shei got the distinct feeling that Donnelly was trying to stare her down out of the desk’s video screen.

“In that case,” Donnelly said, “the answer is no.”

Al Shei refrained from letting her shoulders sag. The talent agent was playing havoc with her worn temper. She was very glad of her opaque, black hijab , the veil that covered her hair and hid the lower half of her face. She didn’t want Donnelly to see her jaw move as she ground her teeth together.

“You aren’t even going to do me the courtesy of pretending to consult with your client, are you ‘Ster Donnelly?” For the hundredth time Al Shei mentally cursed her pilot for picking this run to sell out and leave. First class pilots who would work for the shares Al Shei offered were as scarce as water ice on Venus.

Donnelly held up his manicured hands and made an exaggerated shrug. “Jemina Yerusha is one of the best pilots I’ve ever represented. I know her. She’s not going sign on a ship that’s only got a Lennox rating of D for a twentieth share, which, according to your stats, doesn’t amount to all that much.”

Al Shei looked away for a moment to watch the clients at the other rented desks that filled the station’s bank. The noise of a dozen different languages was deadened by panels of jewel-toned, wired plastics that covered the walls. The only quiet person in the room seemed to be Resit, who sat next to Al Shei’s desk. Resit shook her head at Al Shei and mouthed “I told you so.”

Al Shei tapped the edge of the desk heavily with her index finger and looked back towards Donnelly. “Yerusha is a highly skilled child who’s been out of work for three weeks and must be getting pretty sick of this station.”

“She’s a Freer, ‘Dama Al Shei.” Donnelly folded his arms across his chest, making his black satin shirt wrinkle and bag. “She doesn’t have a problem with stations. She does have a problem with anything under a C rating.”

Al Shei shuffled her boots against the bristly, brown carpet. She briefly considered telling Donnelly he was an unprofessional little weasel and that when Yerusha found out he was billing her at twice her worth, thus making it next to impossible for her to find employment, she was going to take him to pieces with the thoroughness that Freers were noted for.

“Thank you for your time, ‘Ster Donnelly.” Al Shei pressed her thumb against the corner of the screen, cutting the connection.

“I’m very glad you didn’t.” Resit tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her beaded, white kijab . Unlike her cousin Al Shei’s, Resit’s veil left her whole face bare. Lawyers who covered their faces, she said, were even less trusted than the ordinary kind, if that was possible.

“Didn’t what?” Al Shei pushed the screen down until it was level with the top of the desk.

“Say what you were thinking.” Resit drew aside her full-hemmed skirt to let a man in maintenance coveralls squeeze past the desk. “I didn’t fancy spending the next two weeks trying to keep you out of the brig for slander of a fellow station client. The wire-work alone would have used up most of my retainer.”

“You’re not on retainer,” Al Shei reminded her.

“Ah, you noticed that too, did you?” Resit gave her a cheeky smile.

Al Shei grimaced under her hijab . “Don’t try to cheer me up, Resit, I’m brooding.” She fiddled with the hem of her black tunic sleeve, a terrible habit she had never even tried to break. “Yerusha would have been a good catch. We’d’ve been halfway to that C rating just having her at the boards.”

Resit drummed her fingers on her burgundy-clad knee and rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. “Jemina Yerusha is not the only available pilot in the whole of Port Oberon,” she pointed out with a touch of exasperation. “Pick one with an agent who’s a little less cagey.” She looked towards the bank’s hatchway and mumbled something Al Shei couldn’t catch.

“What was that last bit?” she asked, although she had a feeling she knew what was coming.

Resit sighed. “And you might try to find one that’s not a Freer.”

Al Shei felt her eyebrows draw together. In response, Resit stiffened her shoulders. “Before you say it, I am not being bigoted. Having a Freer on board is going to create strain on the crew, starting with Lipinski and working its way out.”

“All the way to you?” Al Shei did not feel in the mood to let her cousin off the hook.

“Yes,” said Resit flatly. “All the way to me. I do not like revolutionaries.” She paused. “I also don’t like people who have been sent into exile by their justice systems.”

Al Shei rubbed her forehead. “Push come to shove, Lipinski is a rational human being, as is my honored-and-educated cousin,” she drew the last phrase out for emphasis. “I trust you both to behave yourselves. I also trust you to recognize that we do not have the time or the money to be overly fussy.” It was an old battle, and there wasn’t much Al Shei could do but continue to fight it. The Pasadena was a good ship. When she had charge of it, she generally ran it at a decent profit, but acquiring that profit too often involved a miserly attitude and constant juggling between the need for skilled hands and the need for frugality. “And yes,” Al Shei sighed. “She is an exile. That’s why I thought she’d be willing to work cheap. I’ve already had Schyler check with his Freer contacts. He says there’s a lot of suspicion that the charges against her were trumped up.” She eyed Resit carefully. “Schyler says he’ll fly with her. If you have any comments regarding the competency of my Watch Commander’s judgement, I’d love to hear them.” The depressurization alarm sounded overhead. Reflexes jerked Al Shei halfway to her feet. Logically, she knew that if the leak was in the section she was currently occupying, she would have heard the whistle of the wind and felt it tugging at her clothes before the alarm even had time to cut loose, but she had half a lifetime’s training in responding to any unusual sound produced by her environment. She sank slowly back into her chair.