Merchanter's Luck

“What’s the military doing in this?” Curran asked. “Those papers are clear.”

“I don’t know, sir,” the official said. “Answering ought to clear it up.”

The fear was back, familiar as an old suit of clothes. “I’d better get out there and take care of this,” Sandor said. “I don’t see there’s any reason for you to go.”

They walked out with him, that much at least, back out onto the dock facing the military ships… the schedule boards showed it plainly: NORWAY, the third berth down occupied now, conspicuously alight. He looked at the Dubliners, at worried faces and Curran’s scowl.

“Don’t know how long this may take,” he said. “Allison, maybe I’d better call you after I get back to the sleepover. Maybe you’d better go on back to Dublin”

“No,” Allison said. “If you don’t get out of there fairly soon, we’ll be calling some legal help. They don’t bluff us.”

That was some comfort. He looked at the rest of them, who showed no inclination to take any different course. Nodded then, thrust his hands into his pockets, crumpling the message in the right

He prepared arguments, countercharges, mustered the same indignation he had used on authorities before. It was all he knew how to do.

But it was hard to keep the bluff intact walking up to the lighted access of Norway, where uniformed troops—these were troops, far different from any stationside militia—took him in charge and searched him. They were rejuved, a great number of these men and women—old enough to have fought in the war, silver-haired and some of them marked with scars no stationsider would have had to wear. They were not rough with him in their searching, but they were more thorough than the police had been. They frightened him, the way that ship out there frightened him, behind that cheerful lighted access, a huge carrier bristling with armaments, a Company ship, from another age. They brought him toward the ramp that led up into the access. And standing in the accessway… Talley, grim and waiting for him.

He kept walking. So the man was part of this action. He was somehow not surprised. The Dubliners, he was thinking, ought to get back to their ship. The military would think twice about demanding that a merchanter family of the Reillys’ size give up some of its own to questioning. But alone, far from Dublin, they were vulnerable, unused to authorities who ran things as they pleased.

He encountered Talley, a bleak, pale-eyed stare from the Alliance officer, a nod in the direction he should go. So he had acquired a certain importance: a man with commander’s rank took him in personal charge and escorted him into the heart of this row-accessed monster. Dim corridors: a long walk to a wider area and a lift to the upper levels. He stared through Talley on the way up in the car. Conversation could do him no good. One never gave anything away. One always regretted it later.

A walk afterward down a narrower corridor—bare, dull metal everywhere, nothing so cheerful as Lucy’s white, age-scarred compartments. Coded identifications on the exposed lines, on the compartments. Everything was efficiency and no comfort. They reached the door of an office and got a come-ahead light: the door opened, and Talley brought him through.

“Captain,” Talley said, “Stevens of the merchanter Lucy.”

The silver-haired woman was already looking at him across her desk, already sizing him up. “Mallory,” she identified herself. “Sit down, Captain.”

He pulled the chair over and sat facing her across the desk, while Talley settled himself against the cabinet, arms folded. Mallory pushed her chair back from the desk and leaned back in it— rejuved, young/old, staring at him with dark eyes that said nothing back.

“You’re getting clearance to go out,” she said. “On the Venture run. I understand there’s some question about your ID, Captain.”

His wits deserted him. It was not the question. It was the source. One of the nine captains, one of the Mazia

“You don’t have any comment,” Mallory said.

“I thought it was settled.”

“Is there an irregularity, Captain?” Softly. Staring straight at him.

“Look, I just want the lock off my ship. I’ve got a cargo lined up, I’ve got everything else in order. Because some muddled-up merchanter mistakes my ship…”

“Let me see your papers, Captain.”

It took the breath out of his argument. He hesitated, off his mental balance, pulled them out of his pocket and leaned forward as she did, passing them into her extended hand across the desk, close, that close to touching. She leaned back easily, looked through them, lingered over them.

“But these are new,” she said. “Except for the title papers, of course.” She felt of the older paper, the title, itself false. “You know this kind of paper gets traded on the market. Has to get from one station to the other, after all; and across docks, and I know places where you can get it. Don’t you, Captain?”

“I’m legitimate.”

“So.” She passed the papers back to him, and he thrust them quickly back into his pocket, his fingers gone cold. “So. Linked up with Dublin Again, are you? A very respectable operation. That does say something for you. Unionsider.”

“I plan to operate here. On the Alliance side.”

“Oh, relations are very good with Union at the moment They’re supplying ships and troops all along the Line. We have no quarrel with Union origins. You plan to stay here, do you? Operate as Dublin’s pipeline out of the Sol trade?”

“I don’t know how things will work out.” He stepped slowly through the argument, aware of maneuvering on the other side, not understanding it. Mallory was not taken in. Was prodding at him, to find some provocation.

“Your certification comes through us,” she said. “We’ve got a problem, Captain. We’ve got Mazia

“It bothers me.”

“They’d like to cut us off, you understand. It’s a lot of territory to patrol. And they win, simply by scaring merchanters out of that run. We’ve got two stations coming back into operation, and we’re doing what we can to keep the zones clear. We’ll be out at the nullpoints, making sure you’re not ambushed there. We’ve got a rare agreement on the other side of the Line. Union’s sealing up Tripoint and Brady’s and any other point you can name.” The eyes shot up to lock on his, abrupt and invasive. “You play the shy side of legal, do you? Marginer. I’ll reckon you’re no stranger to the fringes. Lying off in space. Operating out of the nullpoints. Doing trading on the side, without customs looking on. I’ll bet you have a fine sense of what’s trouble and what’s not. A fine sense.”

He said nothing. Tried to think of an excuse to look away and failed in that too.

“Might stand you in good stead,” she said. “It’s a place out there—that makes raw nerves survival-positive. We’ll be there, Captain. I really want you to know that”

It was delivered very softly, with the same stare. It promised-he had no idea what.

“You can go,” she said. “You’ll find the obstacles clear. But I have news for you. Your Konstantin Company cargo is cancelled. You’ll be carrying military cargo. You’ll be paid hazard rate. An advantage. You’ll be taking it aboard in short order and undocking at 0900 mainday.”

“Like that?”

“Like that.”

“I thought—I was under military investigation.”