Timothy Zahn - The Icarus Hunt

"So that's where the pig stick goes, huh?" Shawn snarled, his face working ashe glared at me with blazing eyes. Once again, as it had when we'd first met, Shawn's veneer of civility had cracked badly, revealing the callously rudeyoungbrat underneath. "You little tin-plate dictator—you love this, don't you?

Well, forget it—just forget it. I'm not sitting here staring at the walls whileyou'reout having fun. Neither is anyone else."

"That's enough, Shawn," Nicabar said quietly. Quietly, but with the fullweightof all those years as an EarthGuard Marine in his voice.

Shawn either didn't notice or didn't care. "Well, runny muck to you, too," hebit out at Nicabar. His whole body was trembling now, his fists opening andclosing like relays in an unstable feedback loop, and out of the corner of myeye I saw Ixil ease a little closer beside him. "I'm not staying cooped up inhere—I'm not."

"Look, son, I understand how you feel," Everett said, laying a hand on Shawn'sshoulder. "But he is our captain—"

"I don't care," Shawn snapped, shrugging off the hand. "I'm going out. Now!"

And with that, he bunched his hands into fists and dived straight toward me.

He didn't get very far. Ixil was ready on his right and Nicabar on his left, and each of them grabbed an arm right in mid-leap. For a moment Shawn struggled intheir grip, mouthing obscenities and threats mixed liberally with snarls in analien language I didn't understand. But he might as well have tried to walkawaywith the Icarus resting on his foot. Ixil and Nicabar held on; and withoutwarning, Shawn suddenly collapsed in their grip, whimpering softly under hisbreath.

"Bring him back here," Everett said quietly, gesturing as he backed down thecorridor toward the sick bay. "I'll give him something."

Ixil caught Nicabar's eye; the tall man nodded understanding and shiftedaround behind Shawn, taking his other arm from Ixil and half guiding, half carryingthe moaning kid down the corridor behind Everett. They all disappeared inside, thedoor closed behind them, and Ixil looked back at me. "That was interesting," he said.

"Is he ill?" Chort asked, his alien face as usual impossible to read. "Perhapswe should take him to a full-service medical center."

"Let's see what Everett can do with him first," I said, throwing a glance atTera. Her face, too, was unreadable. "Look, I've got to go. I'll be back assoon as I can."

"Go ahead," Ixil said. "We'll handle things here."

I headed down the ramp—as on Xathru, the landing cradle here was concave, putting part of the Icarus's bulk beneath ground level and making a long climbunnecessary—and crossed to the edge of our landing square. A high-speedslidewayran past two landing squares over, with two short layers of lower-speedtransfer slideway beside it, and in a minute I was being carried briskly westwardtoward the edge of the spaceport where the map had said the StarrComm building waslocated.

The port was busy today, I noticed with some concern as I studied my fellowslideway travelers with the same casual and nonintrusive glances they wereusingback on me. The extra anonymity provided by a crowd was always useful, butcrowded slideways also often meant crowded StarrComm booths. Even before we'dlanded I had wanted to make this stop as brief as possible. Now, after Shawn'sperformance back there, I wanted it even more.

It took me nearly fifteen minutes to reach the StarrComm building, only tofind my fears had been realized. The entire place was in use, with estimatedwaitingtimes for a booth hovering around half an hour. I tried to talk my way higheron the waiting list, but on a place like Dorscind's World the operators were usedto much more serious threats and bullying than I was willing to try andwouldn't budge. Conceding defeat, I accepted the numbered card they handed me—no oneasked for or gave out names here—and retreated across the lobby to thewaiting-room taverno. Not surprisingly, it, too, was doing a brisk business, but I was lucky enough to arrive just as a pair of Mastanni were leaving a smalltable near the entrance and was able to grab it. I glanced at the menu, punchedup the cheapest drink they had, and sat back to glower at the large displayover the bar indicating which customers were currently next in line for the booths.

It wasn't an encouraging sight. At the leisurely rate the numbers werecrawlingupward, I decided darkly, the operator's estimation of thirty minutes wasentirely too optimistic. I hadn't wanted to make this call to Uncle Arthur, but being forced to sit here and wait for the chance to have myself verballyflensed was just adding insult to injury. I tried to come up with a clever way tocircumvent the system, but it was really only mental steam-venting. OnDorscind's World, the people I'd be cutting in line in front of would not bethe sort to greet such attempts with genial smiles. I had enough trouble in mylife already without going out and finding more.

A shadow passed over me; and to my annoyance a thin, wiry man with dark hairand a scraggly beard plopped himself down in the chair across from me. "Hey, oldbuddy," he greeted me expansively. "How's it going?"

"It's going just fine," I told him automatically, frowning. His tone andexpression implied we knew each other, and he did indeed look vaguelyfamiliar, but for the life of me I couldn't place him.

He apparently picked up on my uncertainty. "Aw, come on, Jordie old buddy," hesaid, sounding hurt. "Don't tell me you don't remember your old drinking pal."

And in that moment, it all came disgustingly back. James Fulbright, small-timegunrunner and smuggler, the only person I'd ever met who was either too stupidor too stubborn for me to break of using the hated nickname Jordie. I'd beentrying to negotiate a deal with his group when Uncle Arthur had fixed me upwith Brother John instead. The drinking bouts that had been a centerpiece ofFulbright's negotiations had been one of the definite low points in my life.

"Hello, James," I sighed. "Small Spiral, isn't it?"

"Small as you'd ever want," he agreed, grinning with a mouthful of uneventeeth.

Rumor had it they'd started out perfectly straight, but that every time onewas knocked out during a brawl he'd had it put back crooked just to make himselflook meaner. "Waiting to make a call, huh?"

"Yes," I said, bowing to the inevitable. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Oh, I think you can do better than one measly drink," he said. "How much cashyou got on you?"

I stared at him, warning bells belatedly going off in the back of my mind.

Fulbright was still smiling, but I could now see the hard edge beneath thegrin.

He was definitely not here just to cadge drinks. "What are you talking about?" demanded quietly.

"I'm talking about a shakedown," he said, lowering his voice to match mine.

"What'd you think? All for your own good, of course. So. You got ten grand onyou? That's what it's gonna take, you know. At least ten grand."

For a good three seconds I just stared at him, wondering what in hell wasgoingon. There he sat, alone, both hands on the table, his right casually holding a folded piece of paper, his left open and empty. His sleeves were too tight tobe concealing a quick-throw gun or knife, and there was no way he could beat meto a standard draw with his jacket zipped and mine half-open. It was possible hehad a backup somewhere in the room already targeting me; but even drawing aweapon in here would be begging for trouble, and starting a firefight would beeven worse. And why pick on me in the first place? "Maybe you don't know I'mnot running independent anymore," I said at last. "I'm connected with a pretty bigorganization. They wouldn't think much of this."

His smile went a bit more brittle. "Yeah, well, whoever they are, I canguarantee they won't lift a finger to help you on this one," he said. "Believeit or not, Jordie, I'm your only friend in this room right now." With a smoothmotion, he flipped open the paper in his hand and swiveled it around to faceme.