Merchanter's Luck

“She moves fast when she’s empty, your Lucy”

“You can inspect her rig—”

“We have an unusual degree of concern here. The allegations made against you include a possible charge of piracy.”

“That’s not true.”

“We advise you that the Alliance Fleet is making its own investigation, apart from Pell Dock Authority. That investigation will take longer than three days. In fact, it will be ongoing, and it involves a general warrant, along with a profile of your ship and its internal identification numbers, a retinal print and voice print, which we’ll take before you return to dockside, and all this will be passed to Wyatt’s Star Combine and Mariner through diplomatic and military cha

“And what if I’m i

“Military operations,” Talley said, “are not under civil court You can protest, through application to Alliance Council, or through a military court. Both are available here at Pell, although the Council has finished its quarterly business and it’s in the process of dispersing as ships leave. You’d have to appeal for a hearing at the next sitting, about three months from now. Military court could be available inside a month. You’d be detained pending either procedure, but counsel will be provided, along with lodging and dock charges, if you want to exercise that right. And you can apply for extensions of time if you need to call witnesses. Counsel would do that for you.”

“I’ll see what counsel says.”

“That would be wise,” Quen said. An aide had come in, padded round the outside of the U and slipped a paper under her hands. She read it and spoke quietly to the messenger, folded her hands over the paper on the table as the messenger slipped out again. “There is an intervenor in the case, Captain Stevens, if you’re willing to accept.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Reilly of Dublin Again has offered his onboard legal counsel. This would be acceptable to Pell.”

The blood drained toward his feet “Am I free to make up my own mind in the matter?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’d like to talk to them.”

“I think our business with you is done, pending your appointment with the military identification process.”

“But maybe I don’t want to go through that. Maybe—” He stared into a row of adamant faces. Stopped.

“Captain,” Talley said, “you have your rights to resist it. The military has its rights to detain you. Your counsel can interview you in detention and advise you. If you wish.”

He thought of jails, of a Dubliner arriving to fetch him out, one of Allison’s hard-eyed cousins. “No,” he said. ‘I’ll go along with the ID.”

That ought to do it, then,” Quen said, and looked aside at Talley. Talley nodded, once and economically. “Sufficient, then,” Quen said. “Our hopes, Captain Stevens, that there’s nothing but a mistake involved here. You’re free to address the board in general. We’ll listen. But I’d advise selecting your attorney before you do that. And prepare your statements with counsel’s advice.”

“I’ll reserve that, then.”

“Captain,” Talley said, “if you’d go with the officer.”

“Sir,” he said, quietly, precisely. “Ma’am.” He turned and walked out with the security officer, through the outer office and into the hall, trying in his confusion to remember where he was and which way the lift was and to reckon where he was being taken now. He was lost; he was panicked, inside corridors which were not Lucy’s, a geometry which was not the simple circle of dockside.

There was a small office down the corridor, two desks, a counter full of equipment. He stood, waited: a technician in militia blue showed up. “General ID,” the officer said, and the tech took him in charge, walked him through it, one procedure and the next, even to a cell sample.

It was done then, irrevocable. The information was launched, and they would send it on. The tech gave him a cup of cold water, urged him to sit down. “No,” he said. Maybe it was the look of him that won the sympathy. He failed at unconcern-looked back at the officer who had acquired a companion.

“Your party’s waiting for you,” the second officer said, “out by the lift.”

Allison, he thought, at a new ebb of his affairs. He should have accepted jail; should have refused the typing. He had fouled things up. But confinement—being shut up in a cell for Dubliners to stare at—being shut inside narrow station walls, in places he knew nothing about—

The officer indicated the door, opened it for him, pointed down the hall to the left “Around the corner and down.”

He went, turned the corner—stopped at the sight of the silver-coveralled figure standing by the lift, a man he had never met

But Dubliner. He walked on, and the dark-haired young man gave him no welcome but a cold stare, C. REILLY, the pocket said, on a broad and powerful chest. “Curran Reilly,” the Dubliner said.

“Where’s Allison?”

“None of your business. You’re through getting into trouble, man. Hear me?”

“I’m headed down to the exchange. I’m not looking for any.”

“You hold it.” An arm shot out, blocking his arm from the lift call button. “You got any enemies in port, Stevens?”

“No,” he said, resisting the impulse to swing. “None that I know about. What’s your percentage in it?”

Curran Reilly reached in his coveralls pocket and pulled out several credit chits, thrust them on him and he took them on reflex. “You take this, go get breakfast, book into the same sleep-over as last night. You don’t go to the exchange. You don’t go near station offices. You don’t sign anything you haven’t signed already.”

“I’ve been printed.”

“A great help. Really great.”

He thrust the credits back. “Keep your handout I’ve got my own funds.”

“The blazes you have. Shut your mouth. You go to that sleep-over and stay there and that bar next door. We want to know right where to find you. We don’t want any complications and we don’t want anything else stupid on your part. Keep that money and don’t try to touch what you arrived with. You’ve got enough troubles.”

He stared into black and angry eyes, smothered his own temper, afraid to walk away. “So how do I find the place? I’m lost.”

The Dubliner reached and pushed buttons on the lift call. “I’ll get you there.”

“Where’s Allison?”

“Don’t press your luck, mister.”

“That’s Captain, and I’m asking where Allison is. Is she in trouble?”

“Captain.” The Dubliner hissed, half a laugh, and the scowl darkened. “Her business is her business and none of yours, I’m telling you. She’s working to save your hide, and I’m not here because I like the company.”

“She’s not spending any money—”

“You’ve got one track in your mind, haven’t you, man? Money. You’re a precious dockside whore.”

“Go-”

“Shut your mouth. You take our charity and you’ll do as you’re told.” The car arrived and the door whipped open. The Dubliner held it for him and he got in, with rage half blinding him to anything but the glare of lights and the realization that they were not alone in the car. Curran Reilly stepped in: the door shut and the car shot away with them. A pair of young girls stood against the rail on the far side of the car; an old man in the front corner. Sandor put his hands in his pockets and felt the Reilly money in his left with the sandwich wrapper, with the adrenalin pulsing in him and Curran Reilly standing there like a statue at his right. The girls whispered behind their hands. Laughed in adolescent insecurity. “It’s him” he heard, and he kept staring straight ahead, an edge of raw terror getting through the anger, because his face was known—everywhere. And he had to swallow whatever the Dubliner said and did because there was no other hope but that.