Long View - Zelde M'Tana Part 11

98."Yes, sir." Parnell signed the fuel receipt and handed it over. "Would you like to join us in the galley? Coffee, a drink-whatever you like?"

Trask started to nod, but Verrane jogged his elbow. After a moment he said, "Thank you, Captain, but I have a conference coming up, and wouldn't like to be late."

So after handshakes and the usual chat of taking leave, the commandant and his shadow left the s.h.i.+p. Parnell went to the galley, and Zelde with him. After one sip of fresh coffee, she said, "I guess we know who's boss at this port."

Parnell made a flicking gesture. "Maybe. We haven't met the commandant's wife yet. Or Verrane's, the Trask daughter."

Zelde wanted to go down to Old Town, and finally Parnell said she could. "And be on the lookout for any clue that might lead us to the local Underground group.

Be very cautious, though."

"Glad you told me." She snickered. "What I thought was, Parnell, I'd just go up to one of the Committee Police their own d.a.m.ned selves and ask if they seen Horsehead lately." For a second his eyes went wide; then they both laughed and she went downs.h.i.+p.

The s.h.i.+p had the use of some of the port's groundcars, but Zelde hadn't ever learned to drive one. Never had the chance. Well, it wasn't more than four kilos, and she wanted to go in town alone, so why not walk it?

Morning was chilly; she wore gray tights, fairly heavy cloth. No badges of rank, naturally. A hood, dark goggles attached, covered her hair and ears. In that outfit she didn't figure to be recognized.

Past the port, the land dropped off fast. Heading down toward the lower plain, Zelde saw that the rough-paved road made two switchbacks. At the top of the first, she stopped and looked. Then she nodded and left the road, walking directly down the steep hillside. Where the road next crossed her path she came to the top of a high bank; she eased herself over the edge and slid down, landing sprawled. Rising, she brushed loose, tan soil from her legs and seat. Probably there was some on her back, too, but she couldn't see or reach it. Oh, well. . . .

At the next crossing the bank was vertical, perhaps even undercut. She followed it downhill to the left until she 99.came to a washed-out portion, and climbed down. Crossing the road again, she set off at a diagonal, toward the lower switchback's end. When she reached straight road- and here, on nearly level ground, no high bank-she turned and looked back up the hill. Yes, she'd saved considerable time and distance.

Closer at hand, Old Town looked bigger. Well, she knew it held nearly ten thousand people and was home base for about as many more, spread out through the surrounding country.

The first shacks, at the outskirts, sat haphazardly back from the road; footpaths went past the nearer ones to others farther away. Then she came to the first cross- street- bare dirt-running about a hundred meters to either side. Two more dirt streets-each a little longer than the one before it-and then she reached a group of larger buildings. Two and three storeys, these, and here the cross-street was graveled.

Yes, definitely she was coming to the downtown district.

Until now she'd met, walking, only a few people. Some paid her no attention, some looked but made no sign, and a few spoke or nodded. Clothes varied from new, tailored fabric all the way to makes.h.i.+ft cloaks of animal hide; Zelde could see no rhyme or reason to the differences.

Near the intersection, though, there were more walkers. At the corner Zelde stopped and looked around, standing off the pavement beside a ramshackle wooden building; its sign read "Rooms to rent." To her left, across the road, a stone structure looked more prosperous. Offices, mostly, it looked like-"Doctor Ras Tarrasogan, no app't needed," "Independent Miners Exchange," and at ground- floor corner, a shop: "You Need It, We Have It." Shrugging at the last one, she looked across the intersecting street.

Straight ahead, a building of wood and plastic-no signs, and the windows boarded up. Across the corner to her left, some kind of bar-maybe food and rooms, and could be other things, too. She looked-no groundcars in sight. She'd seen only two, both with UET markings on them. And people seemed to amble across the road however they wanted to. So Zelde crossed cattycorner and went into the building.

The door was partway open; she turned sidewise and got in without moving it.

Darker, inside, than she expected- 100.dirty windows, and only a few dim lights. A bar at the back, and tables here and there across the floor. Not many people, though. She looked around the room-some were watching her, some not-and went to the bar.

The woman behind it, hefty in a pink dress, had a lot of fluffy blonde hair, and a chubby young face that didn't look quite right. Zelde hitched up onto a stool and grinned at her. "Morning." The woman smiled back, and what looked wrong was that she had no teeth. Zelde tried to act as if she didn't notice; she said, "I got a thirst."

The woman nodded. "You want beer, trair, jash-or something fancy-mixed?" She talked plainer than Zelde expected.

Questions weren't a good idea. "Beer's fine," and she got it cold in a big gla.s.s.

Trair, though-and jash? She wished she knew more about the town-but who was there to ask? She took two big swallows. "Good." She paid out a UET credit slip and received a handful of plastic slugs in change. "Ba.r.s.e-he's the boss here-got the cooler fixed just yesterday. Warm, that stuff tastes like you already drank it once."

At Zelde's chuckle, the woman said. "My name's Soft Touch; you can call me Softie." Zelde felt her brows raise; Softie said, "My professional name, I mean."

Then: "Well, I told you who / am. And where are you from, anyway?"

"All around." No thought needed for that. A name, though-she thought a long way back. "Horky, they call me." And was the real Horky still alive? And by now, the s.h.i.+p rolling up time, how old?

Lines pudging her brow, Softie frowned. "What's it mean?" Zelde shrugged, and the other said, "If you'd rather not say, then don't. Mine's no secret, for sure."

At a table, someone called for service. Zelde finished her beer, and when Softie came back, was standing to leave. The woman began to speak, but from the foot of a flight of stairs at the far end of the bar, a skinny, bearded man whistled.

"Hey, Softie!"

The blonde hair jerked with the quick turn of her head. "Yeah, Ba.r.s.e?"

"Clients, lovey. Get your trained yap upstairs." As the woman hesitated, he said, "I'll cover the bar. It shouldn't 101.

take you long. Before I was out of the room she had his pants down-and he was groping hers."

/ don't like this. Zelde turned toward the door, but the man Ba.r.s.e said, "What's your hurry, blackie? Stick around and have one on the house."

Blackie. Sounded like him calling her a name or something, and she wasn't used to that. Not since the Ut ie she d.a.m.n near ki lled-how long ago? Whatever-she paused, and Ba.r.s.e reached across the bar and grabbed her arm, just above the wrist.

"On the house-okay?"

If he was strong, he wasn't using it; she could have pulled loose, easy. But she was here to find out stuff, right? So she stayed put and looked at him, and grinned.

"Sure. I'll take a free drink any old time."

His own grin showed a lot of tarnish-brown, mostly- and one gap. "Name it and you've got it."

She wanted answers without having to ask real questions. "How's the jash here, and the trair? You like them yourself?"

First he looked insulted; then he said, "h.e.l.l, yes-I own this place, do my own buying, drink my own stock. How else?"

"Then serve us up both the same. Jash or trair, whichever."

Leaning toward her, he laughed. His breath smelled of rot; until he moved back again, she held hers. "A little of both, love-a little of both." He stood. "I'll get it. Sit easy."

The trouble was, this way she didn't know which was which. The stuff in the plump little tumblers was apricot-colored, and the tiny thimbles-on stems-held a bright green liquid.

He was looking at her, waiting. Does he know I 'm just fis.h.i.+ng? And does it matter?

But the rule was, all her life, never tell the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds anything they don't know already. So she made up her mind. "Ba.r.s.e, I think the trair first."

His eyes moved then, and he held out the larger gla.s.ses. No difference between the two; she reached wi th her left hand. And setting both gla.s.ses down, with his own left fist he hit her.

She fell back off the stool, landed rolling, and came up to see him vault over the bar. He reached for her-his hand slipped off her hood, then off her shoulder. "You 102.

don't know jash from trair! What is this, you're trying to pull?"

And what makes it so all-h.e.l.l important?

He was still attacking but he wasn't very good at it. She heard sounds behind her, though; maybe the customers could be a problem. Shoving Ba.r.s.e away she grabbed a barstool and flung it, without looking, backward over her head. Jumping up onto the bar, in the act she stepped on Ba.r.s.e at the shoulder and felt him start to crumple under the force. She turned. People at the tables were standing, but only one came at her. She grabbed up a bottle and threw it, and that one ducked away.

"What the h.e.l.l?" Ba.r.s.e was getting up again-but she had no time for Ba.r.s.e. She ran along the bar and jumped to nearly halfway up the staircase at its end, and in long strides climbed the rest of it. At the top, in a short hall, sat a bench. She heard footsteps behind her. The bench was almost too heavy, but she tumbled it down the stairs. Someone below screamed-outrage, it sounded like, more than hurt.

Panting now, Zelde looked. The hall-one door on each side and one at the end. To her left she heard sounds. Should get out of here-but she opened that door, anyway.

She saw. Softie writhed between a woman at one end and a man at the other.

Zelde gasped-I ought to stop this!-but on the stairs behind her, footsteps clattered.

Slamming the door, she ran for the end of the hall-just so I don't puke now!

That door was locked. She kicked the latch; it broke and the door opened onto a slanting roof; she ran down it and jumped. Landing on a pile of loose dirt and cut, dried plants, she turned and ran again-off the hummock and downhill. At the corner of the next building she swung into a narrow alleyway. Where it reached the main road she strolled out slowly and joined the people walking along it. By that time her breathing was slowed down to usual. Pausing, refusing to think about what she'd seen in that room unti l she had time for it, she looked back up the road to see if anyone followed.

Nothing she could spot. The only UET uniform in sight was going the other way and not in a hurry. As for others -she peeled the hood back partway, oft" her forehead 103.

and the front of her hair but still covering her ears, and put the goggles in a pocket.

Then she turned downhill again. After all, she did want to scout the town all the way to water. Do one thing at a time.

The buildings weren't too interesting-"Warehouse Brokers" and such. The people, now-she looked-some were different, but she couldn't see any pattern. She kept walking. Two cross-streets were paved; then she came to the great road that ran along the bay.

The docks, across it, varied-some ramshackle, some well-built-and warehouse buildings the same. A lot of boats-fis.h.i.+ng gear on most of them, but two carried mounted guns. Some kind of patrol? Police, maybe? Well, she wasn't going on the water.

She walked along a vacant dock and looked to each side, then to where both sh.o.r.es curved back together and made a narrow opening-far out from her, and with sun- glint making it hard to see much. All right. Outside was the sea, and she'd already decided that was none of her business. She turned and began walking back, up through the town again.

She'd walked through only the middle slice of Parleyvoo's Old Town; she knew she didn't understand it much, yet. But now, like it or not, she had to think back to that upstairs room. The blonde, Softie-with the woman sitting on her face, she couldn't scream much, though the man had his hand in her up past the wrist, and his forearm muscles indicated a clenched fist he was pumping there inside. Zelde hoped he hadn't seen her at the door. Because remembering the wild eyes, and the mouth stretched out tight to show all his teeth, Zelde decided she'd never seen anyone look so insane mean as Cort Verrane.

Well short of Ba.r.s.e's place, Zelde cut over to the parallel street on her right-bare dirt, rutted. Three blocks farther on, she went back to the main, paved road.

Looking back, she saw nothing to worry about, and kept walking.

Now the day's heat reached her-and she realized she hadn't eaten since breakfast.

Another thought-it was a good time to hood herself again, so she did. And speeded up her pace.

When the groundcar pa.s.sed her and stopped just ahead, she pretended to ignore it. But sidelong she saw that one 104.

woman, alone, sat at the controls. And when the woman beckoned to her: What else can I do? Slowly, she walked to the car.

"You're going to the port? Hop in." The voice was deep for a female, but not harsh. Squinting against sun glare, Zelde saw a heavy silhouette-not fat so much as strongly built. Then, climbing in, she got a better view. This woman was black- browed but pale in skin and hair. Strong, bulky features-her jaw, Zelde thought, could bite your arm off. Not ugly-just strong looking.

"The port, yeah," she said. "Thanks for the ride."

"No shake," said the other. She pushed at the pale hair coiled at her crown.

"Except-when I pick up a rider, I want to hear a name."

Name? Not Horky-Ba.r.s.e or Softie might have tipped that one, or still might.

Hmmm. . . . "Honcha."

The woman either laughed or coughed. "What kind of name is that?"

"It goes back a way-too long to explain quick." Now, though-leave it one-sided, or ask? Might's well try it. "Do you tell me yours, too?"

The car had begun to move; now it stopped, and the woman frowned. "You don't recognize me?"

Headshake. "Afraid not."

"Then you don't live here, do you? Well, I'm sure you've heard of Amzella Trask Verrane."

Zelde blinked. Cort Verrane's wife? And not the woman who'd been upstairs at Ba.r.s.e's. So put that mess out 6f mind, and concentrate on now. She wished she'd turned down the ride, said she was only going another block or so. No-she'd been alongside the last batch of shacks and still going straight ahead.

She nodded. "Yeah, sure." What to say to this big stuffed ego? "I-hey, it's a real honor."

The heavy face relaxed; the car moved again. "And where do you come from?

What's your business at the port?"

Good question. To stall a minute, she faked a coughing spell. All right-admit to being off the s.h.i.+p, because she couldn't make anything else stick; she didn't know enough. "The Great Khan-you know, the s.h.i.+p up there. I came groundside, to look around Old Town. Now I'm due back."

105.

Verrane didn't look convinced. "And aboard s.h.i.+p, what's your job?"

"Comm tech, second rating. Just made second a while back."

"I see. What's it like, riding a s.h.i.+p?" Bought it! Zelde shrugged. "I don't know. I mean, it's all I'm used to, by now. Like if I asked you what's it like not being on a s.h.i.+p."

Amzella Trask Verrane laughed. "Yes, I see what you mean." Then her brow wrinkled. "But I still want to know. My father was in s.p.a.ce for years, before I was born, but he won't tell me anything of how it was-living in a steel bottle and spanning years without living them. And when we came here from Earth, I was too young to remember much of it."

Zelde couldn't afford to like this woman, but she found herself beginning to, anyway. "That last part, the s.h.i.+ps rolling up time-I don't hardly understand it.

Never been back to the same place twice. I guess that's when you find out." Now they reached the first switchback; Verrane's jaw clamped as she steered the sharp corner. Zelde said, "The s.h.i.+p-well, I guess it's like a town all to itself and nothing outside. You have your job-everybody has-and if you're late for it, you cheat the watch you relieve."

Past the first turn, now. "The people-what are they like?"

"Like anybody else, I guess."

"Cooped up that way, I mean. Don't you have problems?"

Problems? "Sure, I guess-like anyplace else. But you got the rules and you got the Captain, see? Get out of line and it's your a.s.s-so you don't, if you have half sense.

Not more than once, anyway."

Here, not for long, the road climbed straight. Verrane said, "Not too different, really. It's more complicated here, of course. That is to say, our authority system is much more complex."

She seemed to want an answer, so just before the switchback ended, Zelde said, "Yeah, I suppose so. Wouldn't know about that."

Loose gravel littered the tight curve; Verrane wrestled the car around and straightened out for the last leg to the top. "I have the feeling, Honcha, that you're overplaying 106.