Winds of Marque Page 10

  The orbital platform, known as Windfall, was the largest settlement on Farmer’s Paradise, and it was hundreds of kilometers above the surface, connected by a single elevator to a grubby town in the middle of the agricultural plain far below. Navy records indicated that the repair and replenishment facilities here were competent, if overpriced, and while there were no manufacturing capabilities, there was enough trade to supply standard goods. It was trade that kept this station alive, providing just enough work to keep drawing in destitute farmers from the vast, hostile countryside.

  The long line of landing berths had transparent sides and the various ships tied up outside the station’s hull were clearly visible, bows pointing upward as each ship connected beam-on to the airlock. Each berth had a clear area in front of it, and they opened into a massive interior chamber with soaring walls and as much floor space as a planetary village. Sunlight streamed in from high overhead and there were even a few birds flitting between solitary gnarled trees in garden mounds. The outside walls of the chamber were still metal, but a great deal of effort had clearly once been made to make this central part of the station look terrestrial.

  A waist-high fence separated the berths from the main thoroughfare, but there were no guards and Liam pushed the gate aside with barely a nudge. Locals walked past, barely glancing at the new arrivals, but across the street, scattered in front of an assortment of taverns, cafés, and shops, the usual riffraff of port life eyed them with varying degrees of interest.

  “I don’t see any obvious reception area for new arrivals,” Liam said, looking at the Imperial port building directly ahead of them.

  “If there even is a customs official on duty,” Swift muttered, “he’s probably snoozing or drunk.”

  “Likely both,” Liam agreed. “Let’s hit the Cup of Plenty.”

  The Cup of Plenty, Liam recalled from previous visits years ago, was a coffeehouse known for its patronage of merchants. He spotted the sign hanging several doors down on the far side of the street. “Your pistol comfortable?” he asked Virtue as they weaved through the traffic.

  “Not really.” She laughed, adjusting the lapel of her leather coat over the concealed weapon pressed tight against her torso. “But at least I don’t have a giant sword.”

  He placed a hand on the long dagger on his belt. “I’d hardly call it a sword, but it’ll do for today.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “A gift from my father years ago.” He cast her a wry look. “It makes me look the part of the faded noble, don’t you think?”

  “It’s more the size of blade I’m used to,” she said. Then she flashed him a sudden grin. “If ever you want to trade it for my cutlass on a boarding, I’m in.”

  They strolled past the first tavern, with its open doors and broad windows occupied by young ladies and gentlemen whose beckoning eyes promised more than just ale, and the second with its beer kegs piled high out front. The third establishment, the Cup of Plenty, was a larger, brick frontage, and from the number of patrons crowding the open patio, was clearly a local favorite. Liam led his team inside, where the café was arranged in neat rows of long tables, each able to seat three a side in comfort, on a dark, tiled floor under a vaulted roof. The rich smells of roasted beans helped to mask the stale air outside, and on the far wall was an entire table of elegant pastries and cakes. Liam needed only a glance at the finer clothing and smaller number of the patrons inside to guess that the coffee was much more expensive if you wanted to drink it here. With a nod of satisfaction, he headed for one of the tables.

  Amelia followed Blackwood across the smooth wooden floor of the wonderful café, trying to appear nonchalant even as she drank in the sights and smells. About half the tables were occupied, and all were quiet, she noticed; no gales of laughter, no fists thumping tables—everyone in the café seemed intent on their conversations. One or two glances were cast toward her group, but otherwise they were ignored.

  She gladly accepted Blackwood’s invitation to sit beside him, noting that Swift and Sky took the far side in order to keep their backs to the wall and gazes to the room.

  It was all rather surreal, she thought. Here they quietly sat, in an upscale café, when barely two days ago they’d been sorting through bodies on an abandoned merchant ship. Amelia had seen her share of violence, but it had always been the randomness of tavern brawls or petty street thuggery. She’d never seen butchery performed with such brutal intent. The junior boarding-party members were certainly talking about it on the lower decks, but hardly a word had been uttered at her own dinner table. And here she sat, with the three senior members of that boarding party, all lounging casually as if this was just another day on the job. She admired their cool professionalism, but she doubted she’d ever be able to match it.

  Blackwood suddenly reached out and gripped her shoulder. She jumped, shaken from her thoughts.

  “Amelia, have you ever met one of the other races before?” he asked quietly.

  “No, why?” she asked, startled at the randomness of the question.

  “You’re about to,” he whispered.

  In the stillness of the café she heard the soft padding of approaching feet, and she forced herself to turn her head slowly.

  The server approached in a walking stance, body horizontal over powerful legs and long tail straight out for balance. It was dressed conservatively in a black outfit that covered it from neckline to tail tip, and a brown apron clung to its midsection above narrow hips. Soft, triangular shoes covered each foot, which she knew from pictures ended in three massive, clawed toes. Its small arms were bare, dark stains of coffee grounds visible against pale, scaly skin, and its neck curved up in an S to a narrow, wedge-shaped head dominated by a long mouth, which was kept politely closed. Vertically slit eyes flicked between the new patrons, quickly settling on Blackwood.

  The Theropod paused at Human arm’s length, rising into its stationary stance, tail dropped to the floor and the body lifted. At full height it was probably as tall as Amelia, but as the guests were seated it lowered its S-neck to meet Blackwood at eye level.

  The server’s scaly lips parted, revealing rows of teeth as it barked and grunted in its own language.

  “Good morning, sir,” came the electronic voice from the translator around the neck. “May I bring you a pot of coffee? Would you like something to eat?”

  Blackwood met the Theropod’s gaze with complete casualness, as if he spoke to other races on a daily basis. Amelia tried to take her cue from this and not stare, but the creature was close enough to touch. If the server was aware of her fascination, no indication showed in the reptilian gaze.

  “Good morning, madam,” Blackwood replied. “A pot of coffee, with five cups. No food, thank you.”

  The translator around the server’s neck growled and snorted its words. The head cocked.

  “Five cups? Are you expecting another?”

  “Actually, I’m hoping you can help with that. My ship has recently arrived here in Windfall, looking for honest cargo to take on.”

  The head bobbed fluidly on its neck in a decent imitation of a Human nod. “I’ll bring you five cups.”

  It pivoted away in a quick movement that harkened back to its ancient ancestors’ hunting instincts, body lowering to a walking stance and weaving around the dessert table as it retreated to the kitchen.

  Amelia tore her gaze away, noticing that Blackwood was watching her. His eyes sparkled with good humor.

  “Wow,” she said, trying to match his apparent ease. “That’s not something you see every day.”

  “Out here it is,” growled Sky. “The brutes go anywhere they think they can make money and not pay taxes.”

  “This place,” Swift added, casting a critical eye toward the door, “probably has just the right amount of anarchy to suit.”

  Amelia took this in, nodding as she glanced back again to where the server had disappeared. “It seemed nice.”

  “It is a she,” Blackwood said. “
You can tell by the lack of adornment on the head—the smooth bones of the nose and around the eyes.”

  “Are we going to see any bugs here too, do you think?”

  “Probably not. The bugs hate this sort of remote wilderness—they like crowds.”

  “Have you ever met one?”

  “What, a bug?”

  “Yes.” Amelia had heard enough stories of the Sectoids—she was eager to hear a firsthand account.

  Blackwood frowned thoughtfully. “I’ve seen Sectoid ships in space, but never come face-to-face with an individual.”

  She glanced questioningly at Swift and Sky. The propulsor shook his head.

  “Once,” said Sky. “A scouting party jumped us when we’d crashed on one of their claimed worlds. It’s best to aim for the neck or the waist, where the thorax meets the abdomen.” She met their gazes and shrugged. “The meeting didn’t end well.”

  The coffee arrived within minutes. Amelia was fascinated to watch the server carry the pot in one small hand and a gaggle of cups in the other, both slung in a mesh frame supported by a flat tray. The Theropod expertly avoided physical contact as she reached between Amelia and Blackwood to place everything on the table and lay it out with quick, bird-like movements. Amelia had to fight the temptation to reach out and run her fingers along the smooth scales of the brute’s arm. Were their bodies cold, or hot? Did they need clothing or was it just an affectation for Human clientele? What kind of food did they eat?

  “Do you actually like coffee?” she finally blurted, unable to hold back.

  The server ignored the translated question at first, clearing the trays and their webbing from the table. But after the moment of silence extended, she stepped back, eyes flicking from Human to Human. She noticed Amelia watching her and lowered her head to stare back. A third eyelid flashed across her vision, then her long lips parted as she growled. Her translator was only a second behind.

  “We like the smell. There are a lot of rich textures to it. You’re welcome to enjoy the taste.”

  Amelia could feel a stupid grin tugging at her lips. She was talking to a Theropod! A dozen questions burst to life in her mind to ask, but with effort she pushed them down. The creature stared back at her now in silence, expectation clear even through her reptilian features.

  “Thank you,” Amelia said finally.

  The server bobbed her head and retreated once again to the kitchen.

  “Making friends?” Swift commented, taking a sip. His eyebrows suddenly shot up and he looked at his cup. “This is good coffee.”

  “When you live your life based on smell,” Blackwood said, “you can mix a pretty mean blend.”

  “Can we get a few brutes on board as stewards? I could go for more of this.”

  “So,” Sky asked, “what now?”

  “We sit and enjoy our coffee,” Blackwood replied. “And wait for business to come to us.”

  Amelia lifted her cup and tasted the hot, bitter liquid. It was powerful, and not unpleasant, but she reached for the sugar nonetheless and spooned in some sweetness.

  “I see we have a more civilized coffee drinker at the table,” Blackwood said with a smile. “I learned to drink the stuff as a young bridge watchkeeper, and we always seemed to run out of sugar on the bridge. It was down this stuff straight, or find another way to stay awake.”

  “Sugar was a rarity where I grew up,” Amelia admitted. “It was always a huge treat to have some in the market. When I first discovered coffee I thought it was as repulsive as most Navy fare, but then I heard it was acceptable to put sugar in it.”

  “So coffee is nothing more than a sugar delivery system for you?” Blackwood observed.

  “Pretty much,” she said smugly, stirring in another spoonful and taking a sip.

  “Do you have any idea who we can approach for business?” Swift asked, eyes casually scanning the room.

  “None whatsoever,” Blackwood replied, leaning back casually in his seat. “But then, as a merchant new to the station, why would I? Anyone watching us will expect me to be haughtily disinterested in the common rabble.”

  Swift nodded, pouring himself another cup. Sky, Amelia saw, hadn’t touched her drink, or even moved a muscle as she expertly watched the room.

  “Both of you, relax,” Blackwood said, with a touch of exasperation. “Or at least look like it.”

  Sky slowly sat back in her chair, placing her hands in her lap. Swift managed a wry smile.

  “I think you and Amelia need to up your game,” he said. “Create a smoke screen of friendly chatter.”

  Amelia glanced at Blackwood, her mind racing for something to say.

  “Do Theropods lay eggs,” she asked suddenly, “or have live young?”

  Blackwood leaned in with sudden interest, his arm brushing hers. “I’ll bite. Which is it?”

  “Uh,” she stammered. “I don’t know—I’m asking you!”

  His laughter was deep and musical. “It sounded like you were making a joke, Amelia. I was genuinely curious where you were going with that.” His friendly smile robbed his words of any mockery. “But to answer your question, I think they lay eggs.”

  “They do,” Sky added. “Their nests are the only things they get really defensive about.”

  Amelia nodded thoughtfully, suddenly charmed at the idea of Theropod villages aggressively defending their young. It sure sounded better than the wretched town where she’d grown up.

  She glanced at Sky. “Where are you from, Harper?” she asked, curious if the woman’s childhood had been similar to her own.

  Sky’s eyebrows raised at the question, but her expression softened. “Pacifica. A farming village which bored me to tears.”

  When no further information seemed forthcoming, Amelia turned to Swift with an inquiring gaze.

  “I grew up in space,” he said. “My family are traders and we worked for several different merchant houses over the years.”

  “Is there anywhere you might call home today?”

  “Passagia, I guess.” He glanced at Blackwood. “My lord is kind enough to drag me along to a fancy ball on occasion.”

  The words were mild, but they caught Amelia off guard. She caught Sky’s glance, and saw a touch of envy in those eyes that mirrored her own. Amelia hadn’t ever been inside a noble house, let alone attended a ball. It was easy to forget, she suddenly realized, how different Blackwood’s life was from theirs when they left their ship behind. Did he even realize that?

  “Mason endures my company from time to time in such settings,” Blackwood said with a self-deprecating tone, “and for that I’m grateful.”

  “It’s hardly your company that draws me in, milord—it’s the good food.”

  “And drink,” Blackwood added, before giving Amelia an appraising glance. “Perhaps you might join us next time, Amelia? It would be more fun than meeting in dark alleys, I think.”

  Amelia thought about the brawl at the Laughing Boar she’d escaped. “I don’t know if I’m ladylike material,” she said wryly. He was still staring at her, so she gave him an appraising glance in return. “But I think you might hold your own at the tavern, if you could drop that accent and learn to cuss.”

  Blackwood’s face lit up as he laughed again. She heard Swift snort with good humor, and even Sky chuckled.

  “Perhaps you just need to drop your accent,” Blackwood retorted. “My vote is still for the ball. I’ll even teach you how to dance.”

  “Good luck with that . . . milord.”

  The next half hour was undoubtedly the kind of experience Commander Riverton had not wanted them to have, but that Liam had every intention of enjoying. He was in an upscale café on a distant station, drinking fine coffee with an officer and a chief he respected, and a woman who continued to impress him. Virtue’s sincerity was a pleasant counter to Swift’s dry sarcasm and Sky’s blunt responses to any direct queries. She was really a breath of fresh air after so many years of navigating the intrigue embedded in any conversation with a
noblewoman, and Liam had to confess that he was actually quite enchanted with this no-nonsense commoner. The Theropod occasionally padded by, checking in as she made the rounds of all her clients. Liam could almost have forgotten that they were on a mission—that this was just a pleasant run ashore—until the server suddenly approached with a Human in tow.

  “Sir,” she hissed through her translator, “this gentleman would like to speak to you.”

  The newcomer was a bull of a man, folds of mottled skin hanging from his jawline. His broad face was pale, his skin was weathered by years of artificial environments, and long, scraggly hair hung from beneath his hat. Deep-set eyes scanned the table, lingering on Virtue before returning to Liam.

  “Matthew Long,” he said simply, “warehouse owner.” His deep voice had a liquid quality to it, almost a faint gurgle from deep in the throat. “Welcome to Farmer’s Paradise.”

  “Thank you,” Liam replied, allowing his noble accent to emerge as if he was addressing his father. “Please, join us.”

  As Long took a seat and the server departed, Swift poured the last of the coffee into the fifth cup and sat back.

  “I am Julian Stonebridge, master of the merchant ship Sophia’s Fancy,” Liam continued once the man was settled. “I am bound for Silica and have room aboard for legitimate cargo.”

  “Well, I can get you cargo, but I can’t guarantee it’s legitimate,” Long said bluntly. “How much space do you have?”

  “Twenty standard units, as well as secure storage for any handheld items.”

  “What kind of armament do you carry?”

  “I said,” Liam huffed, “that we carry legitimate cargo. I’m not interested in moving contraband weapons.”

  Long’s dark eyes watched him carefully, clearly assessing possibilities in his mind. “No, my lord,” he said, “I meant how well armed is your vessel? There are reports of pirates in this region.”

  Liam made a show of considering this. “Well enough, I’m sure. Not that we’ll need it, as our speed will keep us clear of any brigands. Which reminds me—do you have up-to-date charts on small objects in this sector?”