Part 60 (1/2)

yet, and until then what he planned was, by all the laws and regulations, not merely mutiny but also murder. And piracy. And probably a dozen or so lesser crimes to be tacked onto the charge sheet(s), including the things Sa.s.sinak might say about his tap into her com shack. And his present unauthorized reprogramming of emergency equipment. Not to mention his supposed orders to proceed into Seti s.p.a.ce: faked orders, which no one (after he pirated a s.h.i.+p and killed the crew) would believe he had not faked for himself.

What would Sa.s.sinak do about that, he wondered. He remembered the holo of the Zaid-Dayan with its patched hull, with the scars of the pirate boarding party. She had let the enemy onto her s.h.i.+p to trap them. Could he think of anything as devastating? All things considered, forty-three years of cold sleep might be the easy way out, he thought, finis.h.i.+ng off the new switching sequences.

Sa.s.sinak's great-great-great might complain but a little time in the freezer could keep you out of big trouble. His mind b.u.mped him again, hard. Of course. Coldsleep them, the nasties. Drop the charges to mere mutiny and piracy and et cetera, but not murder (mandatory mindwipe for murder), and he might merely spend the next twenty years cleaning toilet fixtures with a bent toothbrush.

Of course it still wasn't simple. For all his exercise up and down the ladders, he had no more idea than a s.p.a.ce-opera hero how to operate this s.h.i.+p. He'd had only the basics, years back; he'd flown a comp-desk, not a s.h.i.+p. He could chip away at that compartment of water ice and not die of thirst, but he couldn't convert it and take a shower. Or even get the s.h.i.+p down out of FTL s.p.a.ce. Sa.s.sinak could probably do it, but all he could do was trigger the Fleet distress beacon and hope the pickup s.h.i.+p wasn't part of the same corrupt group. He wouldn't even do that, if he didn't quit jittering and get to it.

Chapter Seven.

Diplo Zebara led her through the maze of streets around the university complex at a fast pace. For all his age and apparent physical losses, he was still amazingly fit. She was aware of eyes following them, startled glances. She could not tell if it was Zebara himself, or his having a lightweight companion. She was puffing when he finally stopped outside a storefront much like the others she'd seen.

”Gin's Place,” Zebara said. ”Best chooli stew in the city, a very liberal crowd, and a noisy set of half-bad musicians. You'll love it.”

Lunzie hoped so. Chooli stew conformed to Federation law by having no meat in it, but she had not acquired a taste for the odd spices that flavored the mix of starchy vegetables.

Inside, hardly anyone looked at her. The ”liberal crowd” were all engrossed in their own food and conversation. She smelted meat, but saw none she recognized. The half-bad musicians played with enthusiasm but little skill, covering their blats and blurps with high-pitched cries of joy or anguish. She could not tell which, but it did make an effective sonic screen. She 103.

104.

and Zebara settled into one of the booths along the side, and ordered chooli stew with figgerunds, the green nuts she'd had at the reception, Zebara explained.

”You need to know some things,” he began when the chooli stew had arrived, and Lunzie was taking a first tentative bite of something yellowish.

”I heard you were head of External Security,” she said quietly.

He looked startled. ”Where'd you hear? No, it doesn't matter. It's true, although not generally known.” He sighed. ”I can see this makes it more difficult for you ...”

”Makes what more difficult?”

”Trusting me.” His eyes flicked around the room, as anyone's might, but Lunzie could not believe it was the usual casual glance. Then he looked back at her. ”You don't, and I can't blame you, but we must work together or. Or things could get very bad indeed.”

”Isn't your involvement with an offworlder going to be a little conspicuous?” She let a little sarcasm edge her voice; how naive did he think she was?

”Of course. That doesn't matter.” He ate a few bites while she digested the implications of that statement. It could only ”not matter” if policymakers knew and approved. When he looked up and swallowed, she nodded at him. ”Good! You understand. Your name on the medical team was a little conspicuous, if you'd had any ulterior motive for coming here . . .”He let that trail away, and Lunzie said nothing. Whatever motives she had had, the important tiling now was to find out what Zebara was talking about. She took another bite of stew; it was better than the same dish in the research complex's dining hall.

”I saw the list,” Zebara went on. ”One of the things my department does is screen such delegations, looking for possible troublemakers. Nothing unusual. Most planets do the same. There was your name, and I wondered if it was the same Lunzie. Found out that it was you and then the rocks started falling.”

”Rocks?”

”My . . . employers. They wanted me to contact you, renew our friends.h.i.+p. More than friends.h.i.+p, if possible. Enlist your aid in getting vital data oflplanet.”

105.

”But your employers . . . that's the Governor, right?” Lunzie was not sure, despite having read about it, just where political power was on this planet.

”Not precisely. The Governor knows them, and that's part of the problem. I have to a.s.sume that you, with what's happened to you, are like any normal Federation citizen. About piracy, for instance.”

His voice had lowered to a m.u.f.fled growl she could barely follow. The half-bad musicians were perched on their tall stools, gulping some amber liquid from tall gla.s.s mugs. She hoped it would mellow their music as well as their minds.

”My ethics haven't changed,” she said, with the slightest emphasis on the p.r.o.noun.

”Good. That's what they counted on, and I, in my own way, counted on the same thing.” He took a long swallow of his drink.

”Are you suggesting,” Lunzie spoke slowly, phrasing it carefully, ”that your goals and your employers' goals both depend on my steadfast opinions, even if they are . . . divergent?”

”You could say it that way.” Zebara grinned at her, and slightly raised his mug.

And what other way, with what other meaning, could I say it? Lunzie wondered. She sipped from her own mug, tasting only the water she'd asked for, and said, ”That's all very well, but what does it mean?”

”That, I'm afraid, we cannot discuss here. I will tell you what I can, and then we'll make plans to meet again.” At her frown, he nodded. ”That much is necessary, Lunzie, to keep immediate trouble at bay. We are watched. Of course we are, and I'm aware of it so we must continue our friendly a.s.sociation.”

”Just how friendly?”

That slipped out before she meant it. She had not meant to ask that until later, if ever. He chuckled, but it sounded slightly forced.

”You know how friendly we were. You probably remember it better than I do since you slept peacefully for over forty of the intervening years.”

106.

She felt the blood rus.h.i.+ng to her face and let it. Any watchers would a.s.sume that was genuine emotion.

”You! I have to admit that I haven't forgotten you, not one . . . single . . . thing.”

This time, he was the one to blush. She hoped it satisfied whoever was doing the surveillance but she thought the actual transcript would prove deadly.

As if he could read her thoughts, he said ”Don't worry! At this stage they're still letting me arrange the surveillance. We're relatively safe as long as we don't do something outside their plans.”