Mark Tiedemann - Chimera

They had argued, he remembered, and she had left him confused. It had taken some time for him to understand that part of what had hurt her was that he had not made a counteroffer. He had not asked her to stay with him. Coren Lanra did not think that way. Nyom had made a decision-what right had he to ask her to turn her back on her choice?

On the other hand, perhaps he still did not know what it had been about.

Beneath the sheaf of images were three small boxes. One contained a silver-and-jade bracelet, another contained a set of rings in gold and platinum, and the third held the receipt for an apartment lease they had shared.

Coren stared at the pictures, left the boxes unopened, and grunted. This was all-the only evidence outside his memories of their relationship. All that remained of someone for whom he had cared. All he would ever have of her, now.

"She's dead," he said quietly. "Nyom is dead."

And then, for the third time in his life, Coren Lanra wept. The office of Immigration and Trade Enforcement, Baltimor District, occupied five floors of a hexagonal block near the Trade Mall, where thousands of Import-Export firms kept offices, adjacent to the warehouse warrens that occupied an apostrophe-shaped wedge around the lines of the ancient harbor. South of the District, spaceport facilities filled the upper levels and the urban canopy almost the entire distance to D.C. Passengers debarked in D.C., at Union Station; cargo and its handlers came into Baltimor, through Customs and Dissemination.

Coren waited outside the administrative entrance, in a small cafe, watching. Brun Damik emerged a little more than an hour before his regular shift ended. Damik walked quickly for a man of his size, but being so tall it appeared to be his natural gait. Coren had some trouble keeping up with him and nearly lost him twice before Damik entered a restaurant.

Coren watched from the entrance as Damik was seated at a small table near the back of the dining room. When the maitre d'hфtel approached, Coren laid a credit note on his station and pointed at Damik.

"He's alone, sir," the maitre d' said. He palmed the note and turned his back while Coren, smiling, entered the restaurant.

He sat down across from Damik, who looked up from his salad, startled.

"What's good here, Brun? A little expensive for you, isn't it? Take must be good this year."

Damik's face lost all expression for several seconds. Then, slowly, a wide grin compressed his features. "You ass. Lanra! How are you?"

"Busy these days. But I thought I'd make time to talk to an old backstabber. How are your connections these days, gato?"

Damik laughed loudly and slapped the table once, sharply. "What are you drinking? I'm off-shift, so it doesn't matter."

"I'm not, so it does. Are you buying?"

"Of course."

"Nava."

Damik frowned briefly. "That's a Solarian drink, isn't it?"

Coren nodded. "Tastes like a good bourbon but without the alcohol. "

Damik grunted. "Very Spacer. Riskless pleasure. Spineless ninnies."

Coren shrugged. "Good drink, though."

"Expensive. " He gestured for a waiter and gave the order anyway, including a beer for himself. "What have you been doing, Coren? Still working for what's-his-name? Rega Looms?"

"I am."

"He pays you well enough to afford good food?"

"When I have time to eat it. What about you? You're not still counting canisters, are you?"

"Not by hand, no. They gave me my own department."

"They must be desperate. "

Damik laughed again. Their drinks arrived and he raised his beer in a mock toast. Lanra tapped his glass and sipped.

"So," Damik said. "Pleasantries aside, what do you need?"

Coren reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small hemisphere that looked like polished foam. He pressed the base with his thumb and set it in the center of the table.

Damik cocked an eyebrow. "Does Looms know you play with toys like that?"

"I take it you've seen one or two yourself, then. No, actually, if Rega knew what I use in the course of my job we'd probably have a serious policy disagreement. Fortunately, he's not the sort of employer that pries a lot unless things go wrong."

Damik thought about that. "Has anything gone wrong?"

"We don't have to be coy now, Brun." Coren pointed at the hemisphere. "Maybe Special Service has something that can unscramble the interference that's generating, but it would take longer than our conversation."

"You're not staying for dessert, then."

"I don't think I'm staying for a second drink. I asked how your connections are. I meant it."

"I got a promotion, didn't I?"

"I'm talking about your black market ones."

Damik grinned. "So'm I. What do you need?"

"I stumbled on a diverted shipment recently. You gimmicked a bay assignment all the way over in Petrabor, some stuff for Kysler. I'm assuming it was you, or someone in your office. "

"You 'stumbled' on it? How does that work?"

"Part of the job. Am I speaking to the right man?"

Damik shrugged. "What if you are?"

"Baley-running. How does that work?"

Damik stabbed a forkful of green leaves and pushed them around the plate listlessly. "How much are you offering?"

"Depends entirely on the quality of your data. "

"Hm. Well, the cheap part is the actual transportation. Refitted cargo bins are popular. Usually, they only have to support life for a day or two till they get turned over to the ship that's going directly to the colony of choice. Then it's no different than steerage class. Most baleys, I can't understand why they bother-they could go legally."

"You know that's not true. ITE screening sorts out 'undesirables' and denies them visas. That means anyone with a political opinion, technical skills above a certain level, and money they might take with them. That's about eighty percent of the people who apply. "

"If they're that well-off or that smart, why would they want to go?"

"I really don't care. Go on. "

"The expensive part is the bribery. You need a customs inspector, a set of transit permits, and enough to payoff a warehouse crew. You need another customs official on the other end. "

"At Kopernik."

Damik nodded. "But you knew all this."

"You left out the part I don't know. Who do you start the process through? Who fronts the credits and who parcels out the payments?"

"It's not that organized. We're talking about rats in the system, a few here and there. Whoever is taking money from the baleys themselves has to know who to talk to-"

"Not in every case," Coren said. "That might be true for small groups, but in the last two years the numbers have increased. There are shipments of up to three hundred people leaving in one group."

"That's a myth. Numbers like that, ITE would look totally negligent-or subverted-to let them through. No, the largest single group you'll ever see go through would be fifty or sixty. Even that's pushing it." Damik finished his salad. "So?"

"So that still means enough money to attract the people I'm looking for. Once they get a taste, they don't go away, they assume control."

Damik chuckled. "You never disappoint, Lanra. I can see why you left Service-those idiots wouldn't know what to do with a smart one like you. "

"I assume that means I'm right. So who?"

"Depends on the colony. Each one has a gatekeeper."

"Reporting to who?" Coren asked.

"I don't know. I imagine you're right, there is some person or persons at the end of the chain, but…"

"Okay. Then give me a gatekeeper."

"Which colony?"

"Let's say Nova Levis."

Damik's eyes widened fractionally, just for an instant. He shook his head. "You don't have that kind of credit."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're overdrawn now and we haven't even talked price. "