Habu. James B. Johnson
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fumbled the casing off the ammo belt which crisscrossed his chest. “My credentials, madam.” He leaned closer to the pickup and increased the lighting momentarily.
“I’m Captain Kent, at your service, sir. Of course you realize that if those gemstones are not real, I’ll have you scrubbing the hull while we’re in transpace—from the outside.”
“They’re real.”
The woman nodded. “They look it. Passage one hundred thousand fedcreds, and one thousand fedcred bonus to each member of the crew.”
Steep. “Done.”
Her eyes narrowed and glanced aside. “There appears to be a war following you. Our east entry port will be open for two minutes, no more.” The comm link died.
With fifteen seconds to spare, he sidled up to the east entry port. He set the barge controls to fly north with a two second delay. He climbed out onto the stabilizing cradle and into the entry port as his barge surged away.
Habu faded back into the darkness.
A crewman stood waiting. Reubin walked wearily ahead through the airlock into a corridor. The outer door did not close. What was this?
Reubin turned to ask the crewman and a one person aircar settled into the cradle he’d just vacated. A woman with silver hair stepped out. She turned and pushed the aircar away with a shapely leg no jumpsuit could disguise,
The crewman bowed quickly and escorted her inside. The outer door snapped closed.
As the two passed Reubin and the airlock closed behind them, Reubin thought that Captain Kent had snookered him: she was waiting for another passenger anyway.
Without a word, Reubin followed the pair. The crewman showed them into a nearby lounge cabin. “Use the cushion seats, please, in case of inordinate acceleration.” He disappeared.
The woman looked at Reubin. “Inordinate acceleration?”
“Perhaps he’s government trained,” Reubin said.
“Lift off,” a voice from an overhead said. A small buzzing repeated three times.
Reubin looked at the woman. She was dressed in a silver jumpsuit and her silver hair was long and windblown. She was staring at him.
He knew what she saw. An exhausted man carrying an energy rifle on his back, a laser on his hip, a projectile weapon in an underarm holster, not to mention the handles of several other weapons and knives protruding from his clothing and paraphernalia. The bandoliers crossing his chest and around his back were full of charge packs, explosives, and ammunition that wouldn’t fit into or onto his combat vest. The gemstones were concealed again.
The woman’s eyes flashed as her teeth showed in a tight grin. “You didn’t stop to shave?”
“Hello, Silver Girl,” Reubin said against his will. He didn’t want to get familiar with this woman, but he couldn’t help it. “Traveling light?”
“The skycap will be along with my luggage directly.”
The ship jerked upward. “We could share my toothbrush,” Reubin said.
She ran her eyes along his body again. “No, thanks. Doubtless it’d turn out to be lethal.” She turned and strode to a seat and sank into it thankfully. Reubin couldn’t miss the sigh of weariness.
“Me, too,” he said and lowered himself into the adjoining lounge. “My name is Reubin Flood.” Which it wasn’t. He’d appeared on Karg using the name Erdenhaer and enlisted under the name of Teale. Reubin Flood was the identity he planned to use for the purpose of changing life. He was due. The pressure within his mind was growing.
“I’m Alexandra Sovereign.” She regarded him for a moment. “They vectored me in from a different direction; but I watched the trail of fire behind you. Indeed, Reubin Flood, you are a lucky man.”
“I am now, Silver Girl.” Habu wouldn’t like that.
She smiled in acknowledgment.
Acceleration increased. The ship’s own field would kick in soon with a single standard gee.
“You’re from Snister?” he asked.
She nodded, forking more spinach onto her plate.
“Nobody’s from Snister.”
“I am.”
It was hours later and they were sharing a midnight meal. The dining room was empty. Reubin was considerably poorer, his load of gems lightened.
Alexandra Sovereign eyed the platter. “I wonder if that’s real or mock liver?”
“The onions are real. If you don’t want to know the answer, don’t ask the question.”
“What’d you do with all your weapons?” Alexandra asked.
“Captain Kent quoted some arcane rules, laws, regulations, and took them away.”
Alexandra regarded him. “You don’t look the man to bow to authority.”
“Rules are rules,” he said, and was glad they hadn’t x-rayed or scoped him. Not to mention a couple of weapons he’d concealed in the room they’d occupied during takeoff.
Alexandra’s silver jumpsuit had been cleaned and glistened in the dim light. Reubin wore slacks and a tunic from the ship’s stores.
* * * * * * *
Later, in a lounge, they had an after dinner drink together. While they weren’t in synch with shipboard time, Reubin felt his body and internal clock becoming accustomed to the change.
“Now let me get this straight,” he told Alexandra. “You’re a coffin salesperson from Snister.”
“Casket,” she corrected automatically. “And I am no salesperson, though, in essence, that was my business upon Karg. My title is Minister of Wormwood, principle export of Snister. Death is a way of life on Karg. It was my intention to pitch the benefits of interment in wormwood caskets.”
“The corpses care?”
“Loved ones,” she corrected. “Yes. Wormwood is highly sought after in this sector of the Fed. It lasts longer than other wood. It is of much higher quality.” She sipped her drink and Reubin wondered if the liquor was synthetic. He could never tell.
“And the worms?” he prompted.
“The wood is harvested at a specific time in the growth process. The worms are the natural symbiote. The worms’ activities while the trees are growing insure that the wood will last longer after it is harvested. They eat their way through the wood so very slowly—their metabolism is geared to two speeds: slow and stop. Their, um, processing of the wood leaves a faint sweet, pleasant smell which is why the wood is so popular,”
“I don’t think I’ll ask about the worms and the deceased.” But his mind was serious. He knew about symbiosis. Day after day, year after year, century after century. Would he never get any respite?
She smiled and leaned back. They sat in silence for a while.
And it took awhile, but finally the thought occurred to him that he was growing an affinity for this woman. Something he hadn’t felt so deeply for a century or two. Maybe longer. The feeling was more of a comfortable empathy than a physical attraction.
He had volunteered nothing about himself other than his name. Nor had she pushed him about his background, his past. As it was, he felt that he’d talked more than he had in the last year.
Her eyes on him and a slight smile, she said, “You are much used to silence, no?”
“If I don’t have anything to say, I don’t say it.”
“Cryptic,” she said. “A man accustomed to living