William Zellmann - The Privateer

The newly renamed Scorpion was some 150 meters long, streamlined to operate in-atmosphere. In keeping with her design as a super-luxurious yacht, both her inertial drive and her jump drive were oversized, and made even more so by Yan. She could berth twelve in her six large staterooms, each of which had a private ‘fresher and a large viewscreen that could be set to provide panoramic views of hundreds of worlds and moons, as well as familiar starfields, even if the ship was in jump.

Largest and most complete was what John called the ‘owner’s suite’, closest to the lounge that occupied the space normally filled by the ‘bridge’ controls on lesser craft. The owner’s suite was larger than the other staterooms, to accommodate a desk with controls to access not one, but two comps. One was the main, Tess-operated ship’s comp, with its massive library of books, vids, and other entertainments. The other was more interesting. It was entirely separate from Tess. Its keyboard was not covered by any of Tess’s ubiquitous vision sensors, and it even featured a hush field so that not even the AI could hear spoken information. More than almost anything else, this second comp, with its obsessive security features, convinced Cale that Scorpion really had been built for an Empire Viceroy.

Scorpion ’s missing “bridge” was a small cubby off the engine room, its walls covered with viewscreens and control readouts. It was not expected that the bridge, or “manual control” as the manuals and the ship’s artificial intelligence referred to it, would be used in anything other than an emergency. Normally Tess controlled all mechanical and astrogational functions, leaving even her “Captain” to simply enjoy her amenities after choosing a destination.

Overall, a rich man's restored plaything became a 350-year-old military surplus workhorse with a checkered past. Scorpion 's papers showed that she had passed through hundreds of hands over the years, from couriers, traders, and pirates to the rich man that had customized her into a yacht some fifteen years before. The last entry showed her sold to James Yor-Tarken some five years ago. Of course, John had matching identification showing him to be the aforementioned sire Yor-Tarken, native of Terranea in the Horsehead Sector. He also had a replacement for the last page, showing an additional sale, but with the buyer's name blank. Once John established a permanent identity, he could sell the ship to himself, if he so desired. John knew he could trust Yan with his life. However, many people had worked on this project. Eventually, one of them would drop a hint that could lead Townley back to John. He had warned Yan, and hoped the big man would be safe.

John set course for Marchand. During the long days of jump, John confronted his worst enemies: loneliness and boredom. He spent the time familiarizing himself with his new ship and carefully exploring its near-sentient artificial intelligence. Despite Rey Teros's assurances, John was still suspicious and even a bit intimidated by Tess, the newly modified AI. There was a persistent rumor that in the years before the Fall, the Alliance had actually produced sentient AI's, and John was haunted by the possibility that Tess was one. What would a 400-year-old intelligence bound to a ship be like after centuries of bouncing around the galaxy under hundreds of owners? Would it even still be sane? What if it decided it didn't like him? Or got angry with him? There are dozens of ways a ship can kill its occupants without harming itself. John tried using conversation to probe the AI without marked success.

John also stopped his depilatory, and grew a full beard. Beards were rare in this part of space, and John had learned that if a person sports an unusual feature, an oversize nose, say, or a full beard, people focus on the distinctive feature, and do not look very closely at the person displaying it. Just before grounding, he emphasized the beard even more by trimming it into a fanciful design that most should assume was common on some rural planet. He also cultivated a slight limp.

John had only a name and a place to use that name on Marchand; he had never been there. Marchand was reputed to be one of only three planets in the sector retaining the capability to provide deep-level body sculpting, and John needed the deepest level sculpting available if he was to escape Townley permanently.

The contact point was a rather large ship's chandlery and general merchandise store adjoining the spaceport. John decided it was perfect cover for the man who controlled much of the criminal activity on Marchand. "I'd like to see Joma Alcar," he told the security guard just inside the door.

The large man with the bulge on his hip looked unimpressed. "He's busy. What's it about?"

"It's about money. I was referred to sire Alcar by Sarky Camro."

The man shrugged. "I heard Sarky was dead."

John nodded. "I heard that too." Actually, John had been there. Sarky had been careless going through a door. He merely stood looking at the guard as silence began to drag. Finally, the guard shrugged again and said a few words into a wrist mike. He slid off the stool he occupied, and with a negligent, "C'mon," headed for an inconspicuous door near the front of the store.

As soon as the door closed behind John, the big man whirled and slammed him against the wall. The point of a knife pricked John's neck.

"Hands up!" the man demanded. Then, "You carryin'?"

John raised his hands above his shoulders. He had expected to be searched. He nodded slowly. "Knife, behind my right hip. Nothing else. I heard the johns on Marchand were really rough about weapons."

A rough chuckle sounded from behind his head. "They are. It costs Joma a bundle to keep it that way."

He felt a light touch at his hip, and then the knifepoint vanished and the man frisked him quickly but thoroughly.

"Okay," the big man said, "Come on. You go first. It's the third door on your right. And don't move too fast, okay?"

Joma Alcar looked more like a politician or aging vid star than the head of a criminal syndicate. He sat behind a large desk with a single uncomfortable-looking chair in front of it. The rest of the office was almost completely undecorated and shadowed. The dimness was relieved only by a pool of bright light on the desk area. John recognized the psychology. Put your visitor in a hard, uncomfortable chair in front of a massive desk, in a pool of bright light, with no distractions and yourself in a large, comfortable swivel chair. Instant dominance.

John took a seat in the hard chair at Alcar's casual wave. The distinguished-looking man flashed a bright smile that did not reach his eyes. "So," he said in a bass voice, "You're a friend of Sarky's, huh?"

John smiled and shook his head. "Naw, we worked a few jobs together, is all. But he give me your name in case I ever needed anything on Marchand."

The man nodded, the phony smile still in place. "Uh huh. Last I heard he was workin' for a pirate. That 'Terror' guy. You a pirate too?"

John laughed aloud. "Me? Gods no! Too much blood an' guts. Besides, I don't think I could kill. I'm strictly a heister."

Alcar seemed to relax slightly. "So, what can you do for me?"

"Isn't that supposed to be 'what can I do for you'?"

The man's smile grew even wider as he shook his head. "Nope. You're here because you need something from me. What's gonna make it worth my while to hear about it? Sarky was strictly a small-timer. He never put together a decent job in his life. How do I know you ain't just like him, and flat broke?"

John turned his smile nervous. "Look, sire Alcar. I'm not gonna lie to ya. I'm pretty small time, too. But I got lucky, if you can call it that. A job I did turned out to be a lot richer than I thought it would be. Enough richer that the pigeon put out a contract on me and I hadda run. I heard there's still some bounty hunters on my tail. I've used up the entire score runnin' for months, now. All I got left is a beat up old ship and my emergency fund.