Jinx on a Terran Inheritance (40 page)

The interior was lit with weak glow-globes and furnished in a potpourri of whatever the proprietor had been able to salvage, scrounge, or throw together.

In booths and at tables and the long bar were toothless bunco steerers, addict-pushers, and devious pimps; one or two cashiered breakabouts trapped in a terminal nightmare; failed con artists; prostitutes of all description except handsome; thugs and cutthroats, informers and bottom-rung racketeers.

The odors of strange food and strong drink competed with vomit, sweat, unwashed bodies, incense, feces, urine, and blood, all overlaid with a disinfectant strong enough to open Floyt's nasal passages to full max.

Alacrity had his brolly back in his hand. He and Floyt paused at the door, glancing around. Everyone in the place was looking them over in return. Half a dozen people were already moving on them, not threateningly but to make some solicitation.

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The first to reach them was a pimp, a beringed, white-bearded little man wearing a soiled mirrorflash suit.

Alacrity waited until the man was close enough, then brought the brolly up like a fencer executing the stop-thrust. He'd taken the ferrule cap off its tip; the pimp barely halted in time to avoid impaling himself on its wicked point. The others stopped short, standing where they were or sliding back toward their places. Alacrity advanced, pinking the pimp lightly until he fell backward over a chair.

Floyt and Alacrity looked around. No one else wanted any. Alacrity picked out a booth at the far end of the room. They piled their bags on Floyt's side, between the Earther and the wall. Alacrity turned down the booth's cone-spot, preferring darkness.

The waitress was a light-heavyweight at least, one of the more intimidating people in the place, with a big neurosap tucked in her apron pocket.

Alacrity held up two fingers and said, "Beer." She went away.

He stared distractedly at the door.

"If you're thinking about the man you shot, you shouldn't be blaming yourself, Alacrity."

"You have it wrong, Ho. I was just thinking: those others we chased off will go out and drag down some poor feeb who can't defend himself. Or herself. They'll kill somebody tonight if they get the chance.

When I was a kid I swore I'd slaughter 'em all if the opportunity ever came my way. Things never work out the way you picture 'em."

"Amen."

The waitress brought the beers in big, mismatched plastic schooners, keeping them in hand until Alacrity passed over a square silver-alloy piece. She gave them the drinks but no change.

As she turned away a youngster slipped around her and practically into the booth, except that Alacrity was showing the muzzle of his pistol. Floyt's hand, concealed by his shawl, went back to the Webley. It was the kid from the rooftop.

Close up, in better light, they could see his thin fuzz of mustache, the barely there down of beard. The kid's hair was iced in metallic gold and his teeth had been replaced with gold ones set with nova buttons, shimmerettes, and plasmabeads. He held his hands up, all smirking innocence and good intentions.

"Easy, Overmen! Refrain! I'm on your side!" he said in Terranglish.

"We don't need anybody," Alacrity said stiffly. "Keep cruising."

"What're you gonna do, conduct business with the people you meet in here? They'll cheat you just on the file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruis...aley%20-%20Jinx%20on%20a%20Terran%20Inheritance.htm (211 of 320)19-2-2006 17:12:30

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principle of the thing and then kill you for fun."

"But you're a good guy, is that it?"

The kid gestured to a nearby table. About a dozen kids, mostly teenagers, were pulling chairs up to it.

Other patrons studiously ignored them. They wore an assortment of clothes, mixed and matched and layered indiscriminately. They didn't look at all like anybody's victims or sexual playthings.

"You're in town to do business. You need somebody who knows where the wires are attached," the leader said. "That's me. My name is Notch."

Alacrity said casually. "Now, I'll tell you, Notch: why don't you just find yourself somebody else to crimp? There's nothing you can do for us."

"There is if you want to get on the spacefield grounds," Notch said. "Why don't we talk? A free audition, no charge."

"Sit down," Alacrity said. "But you buy your own drink." He eased over to make room, holstering his gun but sitting so that he could get at it. Floyt held his revolver in his lap.

Notch signaled the waitress, then sat. "I saw you looking through the perimeter fence before. No one knows who you are or where you come from. I figure, you broke off a deal with one of the tribes and you're looking for a way to do your business, right?"

"Just say what you dropped by to say, Notch. One more question and I'm kicking your skinny little rear out the door. And I'll braise your youth group over there if they give me any trouble about it."

"Settle down! Refrain!" Notch protested quickly as the waitress returned with his drink. "All right; I compute that you're looking for a spacefield connection. I've got lots of them, but they cost money."

"Prove to us you know something," Alacrity shot back. "What kind of ships are in port? What vessels call here? What about a rundown on all the action for the last year or so? We might have something special in mind." He unwound the scarf tail from his face and took a drink of the beer.

Floyt hesitated, then did the same. The beer was watered and flat.

"Oo, ooo." Notch smirked, cupping his hands around a shotglass of blended whiskey. "That will cost you. How about something on account?"

"So far you've said just enough for me to pay for your drink, dung-brain," Alacrity snapped. "And if you don't tell me more, I'm gonna kneel on your neck and pour it down your nose."

Notch, still smirking, gave Alacrity a gimlet look. "Don't threaten me anymore, go-blood. It's unhealthy.

Check with anybody in Tombville."

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"Your time's up, runtbug." Alacrity yawned. His hand was on his pistol again. "I said talk or walk."

"I can tell you whatever you want to know about any ship that's in port or that's been here or that's expected soon," Notch drawled. "Just tell me what it is you're looking for. Say, a hundred ducats now and two hundred more when I get back to you."

Alacrity regarded the smiling Notch for a moment, then reached into an inner pocket. He pulled out a single ten-unit Spican banknote, worth perhaps half what Notch was asking. He carefully tore it in two and tendered one half to Notch.

"You get the other half when you come to us with a complete list of everything that's going on, especially all the shipping that's gone on in the last year.
Everything,
understand? You're getting twice what the job's worth, so I want to know everything about every ship. Read me?"

"Roger that," Notch said, flashing them his jeweled smile again, but his eyes threatening. "You two staying here? It's as good a place as any." Notch stood up.

"We'll be around," Alacrity said.

"Oh, I'm not worrying about finding you, old poppa. Don't bother yourselves about that."

The kids rose and fell in behind him. They marched out, still ignored by the hardened boxtowners.

"They've got everybody scared," Floyt said. "I never saw anything like it, even in the roaming troupe."

Alacrity stared after them. "You get kids that age, place like this, they don't care if they live or die, don't even really understand what death is. They don't know anything but their alley gang. They're quick and fearless and they haven't got one atom of conscience in 'em." He shook his head. "You can't have worse enemies in boxtown."

He looked Floyt in the eye. "You ran with a roaming troop on Earth. You know. If anything happens, don't waste your time feeling sorry. Shoot. Shoot right away. Because what you saw there were people with most of the human being leeched out of 'em."

"I do know. I'll keep it in mind."

"Let's see what they've got in the way of a room. Did we bring any antivermin spray?"

Accommodations in the Dis Hill Caravansary varied according to guests' requirements and wherewithal, of course. They passed on the boblines; sleeping space on the floor was too cramped; conditions among bunks close-stacked in a big flop area would have left them too vulnerable.

The two decided that they could afford to splurge, and negotiated the best the Dis had to offer, a big reefer cargo box that had had its cooling equipment and insulation stripped out of it and been spot-file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruis...aley%20-%20Jinx%20on%20a%20Terran%20Inheritance.htm (213 of 320)19-2-2006 17:12:30

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welded into place on the second floor. By that time twelve ovals seemed cheap.

Floyt, studying the grimy mattress—a bubblefoam futon on the floor—sighed deeply. At least the single blanket given them by the owner seemed reasonably clean. Floyt suddenly thought of something, got Alacrity's attention with gestures, and mouthed,
Do you think this place is bugged
?

Alacrity shrugged, putting aside his visor, then nodded that it might well be, and went back to checking the place, making sure the door wasn't gimmicked. He inspected the bars on the windows and spotted possible escape routes.

They lay down still clothed, boots on, heads pillowed on their bags. Alacrity kept his pistol under his right hand; Floyt laid the revolver next to his haversack. Alacrity took first watch and turned down the filament ball.

Floyt woke to Alacrity's touch against his shoulder and took up the revolver. Very light footsteps could be heard on the sheet metal of the hallway. They stopped at the door to the reefer box.

The two friends moved as quietly as they could, off the futon to either side, giving themselves clear fields of fire. Alacrity made sure he could cover the window as well. They were both sweating.

Floyt expected some sort of burst-in or long eavesdropping to begin. Instead there was a light rapping at the door. Floyt could see it took Alacrity somewhat by surprise too.

Alacrity eased over, keeping to one side of the door, and flicked up the latch lever, then moved back fast, bringing up the Captain's Sidearm.

"It's open."

The door opened wide. A man stepped in, framed in the weak light of the hallway. He was empty-handed, squinting into the darkness. "I hope I didn't disturb you and your friend, Citizen Floyt," he said.

"Or rather, since you're
Astraea Imprimatur's
new owner, perhaps I should have said
Master
Floyt?"

Alacrity turned up the light a little. Floyt gasped. It was the man he'd seen in the Whereabouts at the Grapple, and later at the Newsspew at the Complex, the famous outlaw and fugitive from justice, Janusz.

CHAPTER 18—THE TERRAN INHERITANCE

"I'm sure you'll find it a lot more comfortable staying with us," Janusz was telling them a few minutes later as a roomy old airsedan bore the three men through the night to Parish Above. The hills were lighted with the mansions and villas of the large estates.

Alacrity noticed that Janusz scrupulously avoided flying over any of the residences and concluded that, file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruis...aley%20-%20Jinx%20on%20a%20Terran%20Inheritance.htm (214 of 320)19-2-2006 17:12:30

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as usual, the wealthy had the means to keep out intruders, even airborne ones.

Janusz's craft was a classic with wood paneling, indigo veneer, nickeled pipes, and blue crimson interior.

He handled it very well.

"Although," he added, "the Dis Hill Caravansary is a scenic place."

"Especially the way
you
come and go," Floyt said.

"People up on Dis Hill are used to watching the streets, but not the sky," Janusz said. He had a soft, cultured voice that commanded attention even though he spoke with an almost stiff propriety. He was dressed in soft ankle boots, flowing trousers and blouse, and puffy vest, his sleeves held back from his hands by what looked like old-fashioned sleeve garters around his upper arms.

Alacrity noticed that Floyt had his finger close to the emergency button on his proteus, just in case, and nodded approval when Janusz wasn't looking.

They barreled in low over a high, spikey blue vitristeel wall that radiated an antipersonnel field. The estate was a sizable piece of property, three hectares or so in what appeared to be a most exclusive area of Parish Above. There were trees and flower beds and several small ponds.

The stately old sedan touched down on a circular landing pad in front of a large chateau resembling a regal, burnished epergne, rising in tiers and levels of elegance and beauty surrounded by splendid trellises, arbors, a lovely belvedere, and a guest house like a jeweled music box.

As they climbed out, something lazed by overhead. Alacrity looked up and saw a very modem, lethal security drone, an Azrael model.

"Welcome to Old Raffles," Janusz bade them. Floyt smiled.

Alacrity saw another of the dolphin-shaped Azraels as they entered the foyer.

Old Raffles wasn't anywhere near as grand as Frostpile or even the compounds, but it was genteel and stately in unisystem polyglot.

Household robots, offworld products, approached to take their luggage. Janusz did not suggest that they disarm.

In a society like that of Parish, domestics and staff ought to be cheap and plentiful, a glut on the market, Alacrity knew. But Old Raffles' looked completely automated. There was even an expensive system of whisk-platforms like flying coasters, to zip occupants around the rambling chateau. Alacrity was beginning to be concerned about what he and Floyt had gotten into, and was very alert. A starship was worth an upright fortune—enough, perhaps, to tempt someone into eliminating a troublesome Inheritor file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruis...aley%20-%20Jinx%20on%20a%20Terran%20Inheritance.htm (215 of 320)19-2-2006 17:12:30