Bloodstone Page 2

  I eyed Hiram’s half-full brandy bottle. “Kojo will want to lift off pronto. Maybe I better keep that for you.” I held out a hand.

  He took a lingering look at the bottle before handing it to me. “Good idea, missy. Never can tell when someone might need a jolt.”

  “All the provisions loaded?” I asked Archer. “Jump cells and power mods stowed?”

  “Forty cells, but somebody must have let them get warm—they tested a little low. You should complain to the supplier. It would be bad to run out of juice in the middle of a jump.”

  So it would, but I wouldn’t complain. Bottom prices meant bottom quality. Forty cells should still be more than enough to get to sector 204 and then home to Palermo.

  Kojo traipsed in. “Why are you all standing around? The passengers are on their way. Launch in half an hour. Archer, secure the hatch. Patch, what are you doing, drinking before a launch? Better put that bottle away and get changed, I want to make a good impression. Hiram…”

  Hiram crossed his arms and raised his chin.

  Whatever orders Kojo had been about to give, he reconsidered. “Yes, well. I’ll get started on the prelaunch checks. See you in the wheelhouse.” He trotted up the aft steps toward the upper decks.

  My teeth were grinding. “Captain Kojo is getting awfully high-handed with the orders. Does he think we’ve never left port before?”

  Hiram chuckled. “He’s growing into hisself, missy. Don’t take it to heart. You just keep a firm hand on the business side. He’ll settle in time.”

  “If I don’t throttle him first.”

  Sparrowhawk was an old Selkid military cutter turned oligarch’s private transport and then converted into a pirate’s raider before being reborn under Papa’s command as a hauler. She was a solid ship, for all her age, with a lot of power in her engines. Papa had remodeled Sparrow’s barracks as holds that could be reconfigured for passengers as needed, and in the process had built in plenty of well-hidden caches. Over the years, Papa and Hiram had added homey comforts, like a salon with couches and a long dining table. They’d also installed some extra touches for eluding raiders—or inconvenient Corridor Patrol cruisers.

  A quick check of the stateroom and its adjoining passenger cabin proved them tidy, their blankets and towels clean and ready for use. Furnished in soothing beige, the cabins were softly lit to give the illusion of luxury and hide the threadbare patches in the carpet.

  But one item in the stateroom was new. In the luggage locker sat a gray duffel—the one Kojo had carried away from the inspection station, even though he hadn’t had it the minute before.

  Yes, I thought sourly, the razzle-dazzle had worked just fine. Kojo had used the diversion we’d set up for the premium brandy to sneak the passengers’ goods past the inspectors.

  Damn the man.

  I didn’t have time to corner Kojo about the duffel or forging my imprint. After checking the stowage of the crates in the small holds, I climbed the aft steps to my cabin—an awkward little ’tween-decks space with room for an elevated bunk, now stowed, over a locker that served as table and business office. It had seemed spacious when I was seven years old.

  The first thing I did was change my access codes. Burzing Kojo, imprinting my name on a contract he knew I wouldn’t want.

  After transferring credits for docking fees, I contacted Vell, the local agent for the Selkid Trading Cartel.

  “Ah, Mzee Patch,” his translator plug screeched. “Wouldn’t you like to visit my office to do our business in person?” His squinty grin multiplied the creases in his face.

  I manufactured a smile. “Sorry, Vell. We’re on a schedule.” Given Vell’s roving flippers, I preferred to deal with him remotely—ideally from another sector.

  I keyed in the required payment for the Cartel’s cut of our haulage.

  Vell squawked, “Next time, you must visit me. Yes, payment received. Do you confirm?”

  “Cutter Sparrowhawk confirms agreement with the Cartel’s trading articles.” I put my imprint on the agreement.

  “Fine. That squares me. Smooth sailing and easy berths.”

  A ping on my datacon told me he’d activated our ship’s transponder. A flash from that would alert other Cartel members—and potential pirates—that Sparrowhawk traveled under the Cartel’s protection.

  I found a med kit and smoothed a clear skin seal over the torn graft on my left forearm. The slave brand had been burned in deep when I was a baby. One of the first things Papa had done after taking me from Gavora at the age of seven was to get the brand grafted over.

  The Gavoran aristos claimed the clans were sacred, established by the blessed Sages in the dawn of history when they’d seeded Earth’s Neanderthals onto the planet Gavora. Crap. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing sacred about slavery and the Sages were nothing more than myths concocted by aristos to justify keeping the lower castes subservient.

  I’d had to renew the graft from time to time as I’d grown, but I’d hoped the current one would survive my latest—hopefully my last—growth spurt. Unfortunately, that little clash with the Clan Enforcer had ripped it open. I’d have to keep my sleeves down until I could get a more permanent fix. More expense.

  I donned a dark blue jacket and matching beret. With a glance in the mirror, I yanked my hat a little lower on my forehead, letting my orange hair frizz out in back. Ready to meet the clients.

  At the passenger hatch, Hiram was withdrawing the gangway.

  “They’re already boarded,” Hiram whispered. “Best keep an eye on the boy—the lady has the kind of looks he likes.”

  As if I could do anything about Kojo’s romantic adventures. I hurried to the cabins.

  Hiram was right—Miranda Tai was a petite Terran with long-lashed eyes, a tawny complexion, and smooth, black hair pulled into an elegant bun. When I arrived at the stateroom, she had Kojo’s hand in hers.

  A tall, tan man with military-straight posture knelt among a jumble of suitcases and packs, checking the seal on the gray duffel.

  Kojo nodded to the man. “Your property hasn’t been disturbed, Mzee Grimbold.”

  Grimbold flashed a smile under his ginger mustache. “Just checking, Captain. Can’t be too careful. The damn Settlement Authority with its damn restrictions. Nothing more than a Gav tool to keep Terrans from expanding.”

  “We appreciate your helping us, Captain Babatunji,” Miranda cooed. “The hydroverter will make a huge difference to our future.” Her smile made little dimples in her cheeks.

  Kojo patted the client’s hand. “I understand perfectly. We always try to stay on the right side of the law, but a hydroverter’s harmless.”

  So that’s what was in the duffel. I relaxed a little. Hydroverters might be illegal without an extensive—and expensive—environmental justification to the Settlement Authority, but they were a necessity on ag planets and not nearly as sensitive as some other items.

  Grimbold stood and brushed the dust from his trousers. The butt of a stun pistol peeped out from under his jacket.

  I stepped forward. “Welcome aboard. I’m Patch, the ship’s business manager and steward. If everything’s in order, Mzee?” I presented my datacon for payment.

  Miranda’s smile froze. She looked back to Kojo as if to reassure herself that the captain, at least, was truly Terran, before transferring thirty-two hundred credits for seven standard days’ charter of Sparrowhawk.

  That would help to refill our slender assets.

  Kojo grinned. “If that’s all settled, I’ll tell the crew we’re ready to depart.”

  After stowing their luggage in the cabin lockers, I led the passengers to the salon. Decorated in warm colors, the salon was equipped with plush couches for relaxing and watching the ether and entertainment consoles to help pass the time. A dining table and chairs were bolted down—we wanted no flying furniture when we hit the occasional bout of turbulence.

  Large viewscreens—bracketed by curtains to give the illusion of windows—relayed the
scene around us. At the moment, the only things to be seen were the featureless sides of the cargo haulers flanking Sparrow. Once we were underway, the salon’s telescanner would let the passengers track the ship’s progress toward the next beacon.

  Hiram’s voice came over the com, “All hands, secure for departure.”

  Grimbold sprawled on a couch. “How about a little drink to start us off?”

  “Of course.” I went to the narrow galley at the salon’s side, but I knew better than to pour drinks yet.

  The docking clamps released with a loud clang. With a low rumble, and a jerk as our grav generator adjusted, the port’s lifters propelled Sparrowhawk into space.

  There was a heart-stopping hiccup and moment of weightlessness. Grimbold stiffened. Then, with a jolt, Sparrow’s engines roared to life and the ship sailed out of the atmosphere.

  As I served the passengers some wine, the glare of the planet’s lights gave way to muted darkness and the slivers of Santerro’s moons. A Selkid cargo transport smoothly passed us, heading for the jump gate, and a trim Gavoran corvette sped by on its way toward the planet.

  In the background swirled the dark haze of ether—currents of energy and subatomic particles left from some primordial galactic collision. Its whorls of color blocked all but the brightest stars.

  “How lovely,” Miranda murmured, taking the wine goblet. She was a fit woman in her middle thirties. Her jacket and trousers were practical, faded, and comfortably worn; her hands showed calluses and healing scrapes. She might have been the owner of a farm or small business, but she spoke in educated tones and moved with elegance and assurance.

  She turned to me brightly. “I say, I’m quite impressed that you should be the ship’s business manager. One doesn’t see many Gavorans running an enterprise with Terrans.”

  My jaw tensed. “I consider myself Terran. The captain is my half-brother.”

  “Oh, dear!” Miranda’s perfect teeth glistened in a fleeting smile. “I do apologize.”

  Grimbold kept his eyes on me. “Right. No offense.” The man was younger than Miranda, and a bit of a dandy. His clothes were casual, clean, and new, his ginger mustache neatly trimmed.

  I forced a friendly smile. I’d lived all my life with prejudice from both Terrans and Gavs. And I had to admit, I had mixed feelings about both my races.

  I realized I was rubbing the graft scar under my sleeve and put my hand down.

  Kojo’s voice came over the com node. “Patch, report to the engine room, now.”

  In the passage between the cargo hold and engine room, Kojo confronted Archer, posture stiff, hands on hips.

  As soon as Archer saw me over Kojo’s shoulder, he rushed to say, “It’s my fault, Patch. I didn’t think you’d mind.” He shifted from foot to foot.

  “Mind what?” What could shy, nervous Archer have done to get Kojo riled up?

  Archer waved his hands and stepped aside to reveal a man—a Gavoran.

  I took an involuntary step back, my stomach cold. A Gav on my ship? Outside of Gavoran jurisdiction, I was legally Terran, but Gav laws still saw me as a runaway slave.

  But this Gavoran was no Clan Enforcer. Head hanging, eyes cast down, he stood stoically, as if waiting for a blow. His clan badge had been torn from his tunic, but he could only be a slave.

  “He’s a runaway, Patch.” Archer jiggled some more.

  Kojo snapped, “You mean he’s a stowaway.” He stabbed a finger at me. “Did you know about this?”

  “No.” As if I was the one bringing contraband aboard without checking.

  Archer jittered. “I told you, it’s my fault. I saw the security patrol looking for a runaway at the dock, so when I saw him slip up the cargo ramp, I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have a chance to tell you, but I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  Damn. The last thing we needed was another stranger aboard.

  Sparrow shuddered. Archer dashed into the engine room just as Hiram’s voice came through the com with a sharp, “Archer, what are you doing? Mind the balance, lad.”

  Kojo growled, “Figure it out, Patch.” He shook his head as he passed me, muttering, “Simple. Why can’t it just be simple?”

  The Gav had the sturdy frame typical of his race, with wide shoulders and long, muscular arms. His eyes peered from under a prominent brow ridge, and a light brown pelt covered his sloped forehead and crown. He was not much older than me, but his tunic and trousers had seen a lot of wear and his hands were calloused from labor. A cloth was tied awkwardly around his furred forearm—no doubt it hid his brand. His left wrist was marred by a jagged wound, still healing.

  He murmured in Gavoran. “Please, Mzee, I only ask to work. I will do anything, for no pay, only for a little food and passage away from Santerro.” He rubbed his hands together, a Gav nervous habit I’d worked hard to break myself of.

  “Speak Terran,” I ordered. I avoided my mother’s tongue—I still had a telltale slave accent. “What’s your name?”

  “Fandar, Mzee. Cactus Clan.”

  A coincidence—Cactus was my own maternal clan. “What’s your job?”

  “The mines, Mzee. I ran away from the mines.” He hung his head.

  Archer peeked out of the engine room like a naughty puppy, unsure whether he was about to be stroked or kicked.

  I backed Archer against the console and whispered, “Do you know what the fine is for carrying a runaway?”

  He crossed his arms and pouted. “Why shouldn’t we help him? He can get asylum on any Terran world.”

  I poked a finger into his chest. “We won’t be in Terran space for days. If the Patrol catches us, the fine is coming out of your pay.”

  A ping signaled a need for power adjustments. Archer turned away, twisted dials, and grumbled, “Fine. I haven’t been paid in weeks anyway.”

  I turned to the Gavoran. “You don’t talk like a miner.”

  “I was a house servant. A daughter of the house, she became…sympathetic. My masters sent me away.”

  I cringed internally. Sending an educated man to the mines was a deliberate cruelty—one a pampered house servant was unlikely to survive. The wound on his wrist might well be self-inflicted.

  Fandar whispered, “I heard rumors that Terrans would not send me back. Please, take me with you.”

  Archer turned his puppy-soft eyes on me. “You won’t send him back, will you?”

  I sighed. “All right, Fandar. As it happens, our course doesn’t take us through any checkpoints. Oakdale’s a Terran colony, you can ask for asylum there. Don’t make trouble. And stay away from the passengers and the cargo.”

  “I will do as Archer tells me.”

  As I left, Archer reassured Fandar, “I told you she’d come around. She may be half Gav, but she’s really more Terran, if you see what I mean.”

  Ancestors! I was the youngest member of the crew, but since Papa died, I felt like the only adult.

  CHAPTER 3

  Runaways

  I climbed the steep companionway to the command deck and found Kojo in the small cabin behind the ship’s wheelhouse that we glorified with the title of wardroom. Its small table and two chairs served as captain’s dining table and office and its bunks provided sleeping quarters for him and Hiram.

  Kojo lounged on his bunk, Hiram’s cat Tinker curled into an orange-and-white ball at his feet.

  “The stowaway’s name is Fandar,” I said. “Archer saw him slip aboard but kept his mouth shut. I said he could go with us to Oakdale.” The scanner showed our vector toward the distant jump gate.

  Kojo rubbed his temples. “Zub’s beard. Archer takes a lot of liberties for a new hand.”

  “He must be hanging around you and Hiram too much—he’s learning to be sly.” I scooched Tinker to the side so I could perch on the bunk.

  “I oughta fire him at the next port,” Kojo grumbled.

  It was an empty threat. Archer was the best engineer we could get for the wages we paid—when we paid. Archer knew engines cold, and
could have gotten a better job but for his shyness and odd twitches.

  “I ought to fire you next port,” I said. “Agreeing to contracts without me? Forging my imprint? And what about Miranda and that duffel?”

  Kojo teased Tinker’s tail, earning an annoyed squint from the cat. “Nothing to make a fuss about, Patch. Just a hydroverter.”

  “You’re as bad as Archer. If we’re taking on trouble, don’t you think I’m entitled to know what it is? Before my name goes on the contract?” With a pang, I remembered Papa’s failure to tell me about the huge risk we were already taking.

  Kojo waved a hand. “It was a lot of money and I had to decide on the spot. If you don’t like gambles, we should have sold out after Dad died.”

  That’s what it always came down to. I wanted to keep the business going a lot more than Kojo did, and he knew it. It gave him the upper hand in every argument.

  I took a breath—getting mad with Kojo never helped. “We’ve been through that. Once we sell the brandy, I’ll pay the suppliers and Hiram and Archer, and the interest on that damn loan from Branson. That will put us on a smoother course.”

  “Just make sure we have enough credit left to resupply for the delivery to Ordalo.”

  I calculated in my head, weighing the upfront expense of a voyage to the distant port of Kriti against the eventual profit. “I hope the payment’s worth the risk,” I said. “I wish Papa had talked to me before he struck that deal.”

  “I guess he got sick too fast.” Through the viewscreen, a fine Cartel hauler smoothly outdistanced us.

  Tinker stretched, arching her orange-and-white back. She extended first one set of toes, then the other. Jumping to the deck, she waited at the door. Kojo took the hint and opened the door just enough to let her slip out.

  He blew out a breath. “Patch, don’t fuss, but the Selkid Trading Cartel offered berths to both me and Hiram as pilots. Hiram promised he’d stay long enough to make the delivery to Ordalo, but after that, I expect he’ll take the Cartel berth, especially if we can’t keep up his pay. And without Hiram…”