David Weber - We Few

"Whatever will we do with the time?" Despreaux smiled again, not at all crookedly.

None of the crew recruited for the freighter were aware of the true identities of their passengers. They'd been recruited in spaceport bars around the Seranos System, one of the fringe systems of the Alphane Alliance which bordered on Raiden-Winterhowe, and they knew something was fishy. Nobody, no matter how rich and eccentric, charters a freighter, picks up a crew, and loads the freighter with barbarians, live animals of particularly nasty dispositions, and food that can't possibly recoup the cost of the voyage for reasons that weren't "fishy." But the crew, most of whom had some questionable moments tucked away in their own backgrounds, assumed it was a standard illegal venture. Smuggling, probably, although smuggling what was a question. But they knew they were getting paid smuggler's wages, and that was good enough for them.

It was twelve days to the edge of Imperial space, and their first stop was Customs in the Carsta System, Baron Sandhurt's region.

They intended to stop only long enough to clear customs, but it was a nerve-wracking time. This was "insertion," the most dangerous moment of any covert operation. Anything could go wrong. The Mardukans were all briefed with their cover stories. The Earther had hired them to go to Old Earth to work in restaurants. Some of them were soldiers from their home world, yes; but wars were getting short, which was leaving them unemployed, and unemployable. Some of them were cooks, yes. Would you like to try some roast atul ?

Roger waited at the docking port as the shuttle came alongside, standing with his hands folded behind him and his feet shoulder width apart. Not entirely calm; total calm would have been a dead giveaway. Everyone was always uncomfortable at customs. You never knew when something could go wrong—some crewman with contraband, a change in some obscure regulation that meant a portion of your cargo impounded.

Beach appeared much calmer, as befitted her role. She was only a hired hand, right? Of course she was, and she'd been through customs repeatedly. And if anything was amiss, well, it wasn't her money, was it? The worst that could happen was a black mark against her and, well, that had happened before, hadn't it? She'd still be a captain on some vessel or another. It was just customs.

The airlock's inner hatch slid aside to reveal a medium-height young man with brown hair and slight epicanthic folds to his eyes. He wore a skin-tight environment suit and carried his helmet under his arm.

"Lieutenant Weller?" Roger said, holding out his hand. "Augustus Chung. I'm the charterer for the ship. And this is Captain Beach, her skipper."

Weller was followed by four more customs inspectors—about right for a ship this size. Most of them were older than Weller, seasoned customs inspectors, but not ones who were ever going to be promoted to high rank. Like Weller, they racked their helmets on the bulkhead, then stood waiting.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Chung," Weller said.

"Ship's documents," Beach said, extending a pad. "And identity documents on all the passengers and crew. Some of the passengers are... a little irregular. Mardukans. They've got IDs from the planetary governor's office, but... well, Mardukans don't have birth certificates, you know?"

"I understand," Weller said, taking the pad and transferring the data to his own. "I'll look this over while my team does its survey."

"I've detailed crew to show you around," Beach said, gesturing to the group behind her. It consisted of Macek, Mark St. John, Corporal Bebi, and Despreaux. "Go for it," she continued, looking at Weller's assistants. "I'll be available by com if you need me, but where I'll be is down in Engineering." She transferred her glance to Roger. "I'm going to make sure the damned TD capacitors aren't overheating this time, Mr. Chung."

She nodded to the customs party generally, then walked briskly away, and Weller looked up from the data on his pad to cock his head at Roger.

"Trouble with your ship, sir?"

"Just old," Roger replied. "Chartering any tunnel drive ship's bloody expensive, pardon my Chinee. There's little enough margin in this business at all."

"Restaurants?" Weller said, looking back down at the data displayed on his pad. "Most of this appears to be foodstuffs and live cargo."

"It was all checked for contamination," Roger said hurriedly. "There's not much on Marduk that's infectious and transferable. But, yes, I'm starting a restaurant on Old Earth—authentic Mardukan food. Should do well, if it catches on; it's quite tasty. But you know how things are. And the capitalization is horrible. To be successful in the restaurant business, you have to be capitalized for at least eighteen months, so—"

"I'm sure," Weller said, nodding. "Bit of an interesting group of passengers, Mr. Chung. A rather... diverse group."

"I've been in the brokering business for years," "Chung" said. "Like my investors, the people I picked to assist me in this venture are friends I've made over the years. It may look like a bit of a pickup crew, but they're not. Good people. The best."

"I can see what your captain meant about the Mardukans." Weller was frowning at the data entries on the Mardukans.

"They're all citizens of the Empire," Roger pointed out. "That's one of the points I've kept in mind—free passage between planets, and all that. No requirement for work visas, among other things."

"It all looks right," Weller said, holstering his pad. "I'll just go tag along with my inspectors."

"If there's nothing else, I'll leave you to your duties. I need to catch up on my paperwork," Roger said.

"Just one more thing," Weller said, taking a device from the left side of his utility belt. "Gene scan. Got to confirm you're who you say you are," he added, smiling thinly.

"Not a problem," Roger replied, and held out his hand with an appearance of assurance he didn't quite feel. They'd tested the bod-mods using Alphane devices, but this was the moment of truth. If the scanner picked up who he really was...

Weller ran the device over the back of his hand, then looked at the readout.

"Thank you, Mr. Chung," the lieutenant said. "I'll just get on with my work."

"Of course."

"We're cleared," Beach said as she came into the office.

"Good," Roger replied, then sighed. "This is nerve-wracking."

"Yes, it is," Beach agreed with a grin. "Covert ops are bloody nerve-wracking. I don't know why I don't give it up, but for now, things are looking good. A day more to charge, and we're on our way to Sol."

"Three weeks?" Roger asked.

"Just about—twenty and a half days."

"Time, time, time..." Roger muttered. "Ask me for anything but time."

"That damned inspector!" Despreaux groused.

"Problems?" Roger asked. As far as he'd been able to determine, the only trouble the inspectors had found was one of the pickup crew who'd had a stash of illegal drugs. The crewman had been escorted off the ship, and a small fine had been paid.

"No, he just kept trying to pinch my butt," Despreaux said angrily. " And asking me to reach up and get things from overhead bins."

"Oh." Roger smiled.

"It's not funny," Despreaux said, glaring at him exasperatedly. "I'll bet you wouldn't have enjoyed it if it'd been your butt, either! And I kept expecting him to say something like: 'Aha! You are the notorious Nimashet Despreaux, known companion of the dangerous Prince Roger MacClintock!'"

"I really doubt they'd put it like that, but I know what you mean."

"And I'm worried about Julian."

"So am I."

"If I never see another pocking ship, it be too soon," Poertena muttered as they stepped off the shuttle.