Timothy Zahn - The Icarus Hunt

For a long moment he studied my face, and I found myself holding my breath.

Brother John's tentacles stretched everywhere, even to backwater worlds likeXathru. A touch of a button, a few pointed words, and I would probably noteven make it out of the StarrComm building alive. A flurry of contingency plans, none of them very promising, began to chase each other through my mind.

And then, suddenly, he smiled again, the chill that had been frosting thescreen vanishing into warm sunshine. "You're a sly one, Jordan—you really are," hesaid, his tone implying that all sins had graciously been forgiven. "Allright; since you've gotten my cargo delivered on time, you may go ahead and take thisother ship and cargo home. Consider it a vacation of sorts for all yourservice these past three years, eh?"

Considering what I'd already been through on the Icarus, this trip was notexactly turning out to be my idea of a good time. But compared to facingBrother John's vengeance, I decided I couldn't complain. "Thank you, Mr. Ryland," Isaid, giving him my best humble gratitude look. "I'll let you know when I'llbe available again."

"Of course you will," he said; and suddenly the warm sunshine vanished againinto an icy winter's night. "Because you still owe us a considerable debt. Andyou know how Mr. Antoniewicz feels about employees who try to leave withoutpaying off their debts."

Involuntarily, I shivered. Mr. Antoniewicz was the head of the wholeorganization, with a shadowy identity that was even more carefully guardedthan Brother John's. Rumor had it that there were already over a thousand warrantsfor his arrest across the Spiral, ranging from happyjam manufacture to massmurder to deliberately starting brush wars so that he could sell arms to bothsides. The badgemen would probably give any two appendages to smoke him out ofhis lair. "Yes, sir," I told Brother John. "I wouldn't want to disappointeither of you."

"Good," he said. His smile shifted to somewhere in early April, glowing withspringtime warmth but with the threat of winter chill still lurking in thewings. "Then I'll let you get back to your new ship. Good-bye, Jordan."

"Good-bye, Mr. Ryland," I said. He glanced up over the camera and nodded, andthe vid went dead.

I sat there scowling at the blank screen for nearly a minute, trying to sortthrough the nuances of the conversation. Something here didn't feel quite right, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out what it was.

And I was painfully aware that that life of me phrasing could well turn out tobe literally the case. If Brother John—or Mr. Antoniewicz above him—decidedthat I had outlived my usefulness or otherwise needed to be made an example of, hewould hardly telegraph that decision by threatening me on an open vid connect.

No, he would smile kindly, just as he had there at the end, and then he wouldtouch that button and say those few pointed words, and I would quietly vanish.

A soft rustling of bills startled me out of my reverie: what was left of myhundred commarks feeding down into the change bin. I collected the bills andcoins together, wondering if I should just go ahead and feed them back in. Icould give Uncle Arthur a call...

With a sigh, I slid the bills loosely into my ID folder and dropped the coinsinto a side pocket. Uncle Arthur had been the conniving benefactor who'dworked so hard to get Ixil and me connected with Brother John in the first place, back when our soaring debts were threatening to land us in fraud court, and I justknew what he would say if I even suggested I might be in trouble with theorganization.

Besides, it was unlikely that he would lift a finger to try to help me even ifI did call him. In his own way, he was as much a reclusive figure as Mr.

Antoniewicz, and he had made it abundantly clear that he liked it that way. Itwould serve him right if he had to read about my death on the newsnets.

Overhead, the lights flickered twice, a gentle reminder that my call wasfinished and others were waiting their turn for the booth. Standing up, Ipulledmy plasmic from its holster nestled beneath my left armpit, checked the powerpack and safety, then returned the weapon to concealment, making sure it wasloose enough for a quick draw if necessary. Then, taking a deep breath, Iunsealed the door and stepped out into the corridor.

None of the dozen or so people present shouted in triumph or whipped out aweapon. In fact, none of them gave me so much as a second glance as I made myway back down the corridor to the main lobby. Aiming for an unoccupied cornerwhere I could have at least a modicum of privacy, I pulled out my phone andpunched Ixil's number.

He answered on the third vibe. "Yes?"

"It's Jordan," I told him. "What's your status?"

"I've landed and finished the entry forms," he said. I had to hand it to him; not a single cue anywhere in words or tone to indicate the surprise he wasundoubtedly feeling at hearing from me here on Xathru. I could imagine Pix andPax were doing some serious twitching, though. "I've also made contact withthe local representative and started off-loading the cargo."

"Good." So we were almost rid of Brother John's happyjam. Best news I'd heardall day. "When you're finished, upgrade to a long-term docking permit, lockdown the ship, and get yourself over to Dock Rec Three-Two-Seven."

There was just the briefest pause. "Trouble?"

"You could say that, yes," I told him. "Our mechanic was killed during theflight, and I need a replacement. You're it."

"An accident?"

I grimaced. "At this point I'm not really sure. Better come prepared."

Once again, he took it all in stride. "I'll be there in forty minutes," hesaid calmly.

"I'll be there in thirty," I said, hoping fervently that I wasn't being overlyoptimistic. "See you soon."

I keyed off and, squaring my shoulders, crossed the lobby and headed out intothe sunlight, tension and uncertainty mixing together to make the skin on myback crawl. Just because nothing had happened to me in the StarrComm buildingdidn't mean it wasn't going to happen somewhere else between here and theIcarus.

"Hey, Hummer," a crackly voice came from my left.

I jumped, hand twitching automatically toward my hidden gun. But it was only aGrifser, his tiny eyes peering up at me from leprous-looking skin, his spindlypaws held out pleadingly. Brother John might use aliens from time to time whenthey suited his purposes, but he would never use them to discipline one of hisown people, even a lowly smuggler in his final disgrace. Like most of theSpiral's criminal organizations—human and alien both—the Antoniewiczorganization was oddly but vehemently ethnocentric. "What?" I asked.

"You got any caff?" the alien asked plaintively. "I pay. You got any caff?"

"Sorry," I said, brushing past. Grifsers were absolutely nuts for Earth-stylecaffeinated beverages or snacks—it actually qualified as a drug for them, putting it on the controlled substance list anyplace they had a decent-sizedenclave. Elsewhere in the Spiral, they created nuisances of themselves aroundspaceport entrances and tavernos, but most of them knew how to more or lessgraciously take no for an answer. Those who weren't feeling all that graciouswere usually at least smart enough not to press the point with beings halfagaintheir size and twice their weight.

This particular Grifser was apparently on the trailing edge of both those bellcurves. "No!" he insisted, darting around behind me and coming up again on myright. "Caff caff—now now! Will pay for it."

"I said no," I snapped, reaching out to push him away. I didn't have time forthis nonsense.

"Caff!" he insisted, grabbing my arm and hanging on to it like a mottled-skinleech. "Give me caff!"

Swearing under my breath, I grabbed one of his paws and pried it off. I wasworking on prying the other away when a long arm snaked its way around my backfrom my left to an overly familiar resting place just beneath the right sideof my rib cage. "Hello, old Hummer chum," a voice crooned into my left ear.