Steven Brust - My Own Kind of Freedom

Wash came up next to her and looked down at the cargo area. “I don’t know. That one by the ramp is kinda cute, in a big, hairy, bearded guy sort of way.”

“I was just thinking that.”

“Can I borrow that big, hairy, ugly gun of yours for just a minute? I’ll give it right back.”

“Now dear, you know we’re not supposed to murder the help.”

“Speaking of murder, what’s up with Jayne?”

She shrugged. “I asked the Captain. He grunted. But it looks like Jayne’s gone.”

“Gone. What kind of gone?”

“Gone gone.”

“Oh.”

She looked at her man. “You seem disappointed. I didn’t think you were that fond of him.”

“Sweetie, I’m fond of people who help keep you alive and with all of your moving parts intact. Not to mention the motionless parts, which have their own charm. Any idea what happened?”

“No. I imagine we’ll hear about it eventually.”

“It’ll make great dinner conversation. Sweetie—”

“Hmm?”

“What’s wrong with Mal?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?”

“No, honey. The question is, why won’t you talk to me about it.”

Zoë reached over and squeezed his arm, then stepped to the intercom. “Sir, they’re here to unload the ship.”

“I’ll be right down.”

Wash said, “Honey—”

She just shook her head, and he fell silent.

He was both at “work” and at work when his belt buckle started vibrating. He liked it when he could do both at once; it made him feel that the ’verse was behaving the way it was supposed to.

The “work” part he could do with only a portion of his brain: download tonnage of dirt moved, download percentage of pay dirt, download content of pay dirt, download produce futures, download bauxite futures, run the projections, break them down, generate the report. Tedious, but, once you’ve learned the system (and Kit learned systems quickly and easily), there was nothing to it.

The work part was more entertaining, more important, and just the least little bit scary: monitor everyone else in the office without ever being caught doing so, wait for someone to be sloppy with a keycode, sniff around in places he wasn’t supposed to have access to, look for the fact, the hard number, that would add another layer of sealant to the case he was building. And, if he were very lucky, maybe he’d be able to get to Miss Wuhan’s system, and then he could just walk out the door and be done with it.

What he did not want was anything to break him away from both activities at once, and that’s just what it meant when his belt buckle started vibrating.

Gorram them anyway; this better be important.

He got up from his desk, stretched, put on his jacket, and made his leisurely way to the men’s room. That was just the sort of thing he would notice if someone else did it: Why is that man putting on his coat to use the men’s room? But it wasn’t likely any of his co-workers would twig to it; they didn’t have his training.

He closed the stall door, and removed his C-box from the coat pocket. He fired it up, selected a reasonable mask, and made the connection.

After his identity was established and confirmed, they didn’t waste any time.

New instructions. Top priority, abort current operation if necessary. There is a man you have to meet…

Five minutes later, he was out the door, leaving everything undone behind him and trying not to think about the feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Only the smell of fresh-cut wood was left in the empty hold.

“Still going smooth, sir,” said Zoë.

“We haven’t been paid yet.”

“I noticed that.”

“So let’s go do it now.” He looked up. Wash was there, leaning on the rail. “You’re in charge,” he called up. “Supervise.”

Wash nodded, but didn’t make any remarks.

Kaylee’s voice came through the intercom. “Can I go out, Cap’n? I want to see if there’s a junkyard here with a monolock for the gravboot.”

“Okay. Don’t take too long. If we manage to get paid, I want to be off the world in a couple of hours.”

Zoë fell into step beside him as they made their way out of the boat and onto the road into Yuva.

“Sir, any idea just what he wants all the wood for?”

“Couldn’t say. There’s enough for a good-sized house, but not for a whole new mansion.”

They made it to the office, and looked at the sign on the door.

He clicked on his comm link. “Wash, can you find out what local time is?”

The voice came back in his ear, “Just a second, Mal… it’s about thirteen hundred.”

“Okay, Zoë. We have an hour to kill.”

“I could stand a beer, sir. There’s a place on North street, just a step from their office.”

“Good plan.”

It was a low building, made out of the same sort of crumbling brick as most everything else in Yuva, and distinguished only by a neatly stenciled sign that said, “Canteen.”

It was dark inside, surprisingly clean, and mostly empty.

Mostly.

Mal looked at Jayne, sitting in the back corner, then looked away. He led Zoë to a table on the far side.

The bartender called, “If you want something, you’ll have to get it from me. No table service ’till evening.”

“I’ll get it,” said Mal.

“Thank you, sir.”

As he approached, the bartender said, “Welcome to Yuva. You with chatty over there?”

“No,” said Mal, not turning around. “What sort of beer do you drink, when you drink beer?”

“My own. I make it in back. We have a winter ale that came out pretty good.”

“Two.”

The bartender was of medium height, had a shaved head, and seemed to be about Simon’s age. Young. Too young to have fought in the war. Mal still pegged people that way: could they have fought? And if the answer was yes, which side? “Two it is.”

Mal took the bottles. “They’re cold. I’m impressed.”

The bartender smiled. “We serve the staff here, so nothing but the best.”

“Staff?”

“Office workers, and such.”

“That all that comes here?”

“Both offices, and the security people.”

“Both offices?”

“General office, and the ones who work in Mister Sakarya’s house. The important ones work there. They sit on that side of the room.”

“There are rules for what side of the room you sit on?”

“No rules. It just works itself out that way.”

“What does everyone else do?”

“Everyone else?”

“In town. The ones who aren’t security, or one office or t’other.”

“I work in a bar. This bar, in fact. See, this is me, working. In the bar.”

“Good job. Own it, too?”

The other laughed a little. “In effect. Not technically. Only one man owns things. I’m just grateful not to be digging bauxite.”

“One man. That would be Sakarya.”

He nodded. “Mister Sakarya owns pretty much everything on the subcontinent, and quite a bit on the rest of the world.”

“I’m sure he finds that very fulfilling.”

“Uh huh.”

“And not so good for the rest of you?”

The bartender made a non-committal grunt. “I do okay. Call me Mark, by the way.”

“Mal. That’s Zoë.”

“Pleasure.”

Mal nodded, paid, and brought the beers back to the table.

“What was that about, sir?”

“Beer, and the after-affects of being on the losing side.”

“Oh?”

“I sort of asked him what things were like here.”

“And?”

“He gave me the kind of answer you give when you don’t want to give an answer.”