The planet Gistron Delta hung below, a small maroon disc, gleaming like a rheumy eye.
Wren studied me, as if trying to guess what went on behind that brow of mine. Good luck with that. Desert tanned, lithe as a country cat, she stood tall, back ramrod-straight, with a pride and toughness that had always been earned rather than role-played. She always gave me something else to admire about her. Younger than me, with good pizazz, knew how to handle herself in tough situations. Wish every one of my crew was like her. No hint of our bedroom antics in the workfield. On the job it was all business. A bonus on these long excursions—voyages to nowhere looking for paradise, or was it salvation?
She fiddled with the stock of her R4. “I don’t even know why we’re docking here, Rusco.”
“There’s always an angle to run at the auctions. You’ll see.”
We approached Gistron station with fake registration: Bantam registered to an asteroid mining speculator, entrepreneur, unmarried, one Jorry Rambo, a favorite pseudonym. I’d had the holo-disc with Rambo’s registry doctored up to look pretty, with a clean bill of health, and a history of fake stops at various ports, times and stamps, courtesy of a man in Hzadn who owed me a favor.
I paged station control on a general hailing frequency. A young-old face with blue eyes appeared on the viewscreen.
“What’ll it be?” the face said.
“Berth for one mid-range craft,” I replied. “Crew, maintenance and cleanup.”
“Premium berths are going at 400 yols.”
“What, a week?”
“No, a day.”
I gave a croak of disgust. “Highway robbery. You have anything cheaper?”
“Down the end, there are lower-end berthings, going for 180. For limited time. 12 hour max.”
I grunted. “Okay, but it’s still very high.”
I saw his lip move in irritation. He gave me a distracted shrug.
“Busy today,” I muttered. “It’s like a circus fairground here. What’s up?”
“Holse and Detran are hosting an auction. Starships galore. Wholesale.”
“You don’t say?” I looked on in feigned interest, my eyes traveling to the roster of sleek, grey silver hulls neatly arranged on the far side of the ring. “Nice vehicular lines. Those some of the ships up for sale?”
“Uh huh.”
“I might want to bid on one myself.”
He regarded us with a dubious grunt, then scratched his cheek. “If you get the proper clearance maybe. But I’ll warn you it’s a minimum 600 to enter a qualifying bid, refundable on purchase of a ship.”
I whistled a low note. “That’s a mighty steep entry point, chief. Still, if it fetches us a decent ship—”
“It discourages sharpers.”
“How far will a man go to get a good starship?”
He shrugged, clearly not engaged. “You look like you’re doing pretty good with your own craft, Rambo. Why buy another? You not pleased with what you got? What is it, an early Bantam?”
I nodded. “Big on the horsepower, lean on the energy.”
“Go down to central to get your badge, though I warn you, if you want to bid, there’ll be some serious players.”
We berthed on the farther side of the docking ring amidst somewhat dodgier-looking vessels than those on display. The automatic air lock connected to our cargo port; we passed through, strode down the hall and passed customs, though I took a disguise kit with me and another two of those hide-saving explosives that could pass easily as coins. Needless to say, no weapons were allowed beyond the checkpoint. Rectangular artificial-grav units, regularly spaced around the station and emitting their characteristic low hum, kept us walking on our feet at expected Earth g levels.
A large open-air rotunda buzzed with activity. A milling crowd flushed with pre-auction excitement, jostled for position. As did we, in its main restaurant-bar, enlivened by the noisy rattle and hum of slot machines and video games set up to the sides. Glass ports overlooked the docking station where thirty some odd starships were moored. Wren and the others grabbed seats with me around the curved bar, complete with vid screens showing sports and news. A place to scout the scene, relax. I picked an area to the left and center of the bandstand, ideal for people-watching as it offered an unobstructed view of every movement. Banners and flags pinned on the high wall behind the bandstand and over the glass observatory fluttered in the air-circulator’s draft.
We nursed our drinks; Noss, poor boy, ordered a cold glass of milk, on account of his ulcerated stomach due to stress. Blest chewed a mouthful of peanuts then shoveled a handful of crackers down his maw too before downing his two shotglasses of rum straight up. I looked at him in amusement, but couldn’t see anything worth salvaging, or softening in that lackluster gaze of his. Eyes two pissholes in the snow. A rosy nose, like a drunk’s. Comical with that mop of dirty blond hair, but a sullen stare like a teenage rebel. I knew he had more brains than what most credited him for. Not my usual recruit, but such are the woes of running a ship on a tight delivery schedule. Wren sat back in silence, her shiny vibrancy and health the epitome of cheer—at least next to Blest.
My brain gave critical scrutiny to the clientele. A mix of sorts, but somehow the partners, Detran and Holse, had attracted a stable breed of middle-incomers and well-off business-people searching for their next pleasure craft. Maybe one to upgrade their current vessel in need of an overhaul.
Loud talk, breezy smiles, energetic drinking—all marked a definite pleasure-cruise atmosphere.
