“Quiet down,” I heard the other say then a shuffling of feet. “Nobody here, Lew, you know the deal.” It was Detran’s voice that hissed.
I smiled. Careless of those two to assume the stalls were empty without checking them. I’d seen it happen before.
“What about our little problem?” said Lew.
“What problem?” A pause. “Ain’t no problem that I know of.”
“Come on, you’ve skimped big this time round, Hal, now we’ve got eyes on us. When those fools find out you’ve rigged the ships to look good and they haven’t got anything worth having, someone’s going to blow. We’ll get reported.”
Detran laughed, an outright guffaw. “Report us to who? They’ll never know. Little dumb tweety birds pecking around the dunghill for a bit of feed. These pigeons’ll have no clue who they’re running with, Lew, or what they’re running—Myscol XR, Magoo’s magical formula, toting it around the universe for us. Haha. It’s in demand in practically every port. Tourists, laypeople, the odd wealthy middleman, take your pick.”
I gave an unpleasant grin. So, scammer Detran was drug-running on the side. While ripping off the ignorant spacefarer, the man got his kicks and mega yols running Myscol to all ports of the galaxy. Nice scene.
Something didn’t add up. I frowned, listened with perked ears, hoping my groaning guts would stay quiet.
“They’ll take what I give them, Lew. Traders’ rations, Squatters’ rights, Governors’ Law.” Detran laughed. “Once an item’s sold, it’s sold. No law around here’s gonna hold out to some fine print. We’ll be long gone, rounding up more ships and more suckers to sell them too. Universe’s full of suckers, Lew. Junkers, derelicts, impounded craft, especially with that warmonger Mongo or Bongo, whatever the hell his name is, on the loose.”
“So, you didn’t hear then? Maybe you aren’t worried, Hal, but there’s an RSA agent out there, posing as some bidder. Already checked out The Alastar. Targa spotted him. Remembered him from a job back on Jajaran.”
Detran swore. “That fouls things up. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me right off?”
“Thought Targa informed you.”
“He didn’t. You say this RSA person scouted Alastar already?”
“Targa says dogs were on board sniffing around shortly after the RSA left.”
“Jesus, Lew! Lucky we didn’t have any stash there. Somebody must have tipped somebody off.”
“Still so sure of your little plan?”
“The only one of those ships worth anything is Alastar. It’ll go for plenty. Vintage. Transfer the contraband off the other rigs to Alastar. Mistress Luella, Flyboy, the rest of them. Mr. RSA won’t suspect at all. We’ll stall out Alastar’s sale, put her off the list if we have to, so the scam doesn’t get out from under us.”
“Security’s locked down all the ships’ ports—auction protocol.”
Detran hissed. “So, go in the back door. Get it fixed.”
“Hard to muck around when there’s nosy patrols crawling around the station. They’ve got ear coms, networks galore, cameras.”
“I don’t care, just get it done.” A pause. “Wait, Lew.” I heard some beeps as somebody fumbled for something in his breast pocket. Maybe a mini-com or tablet as Detran pulled up some data. “Here’s the code. 661XA. Override the main nav and unlock the control board on Alastar, loosen any hatches you need to stash stuff away. The code’ll give you the nav.”
Another patron came into the washroom. There were sounds of running water and the two conspirators coughed, shuffled their feet, cleared their throats and left without a further word.
I pieced it all together. So, Detran’d sell the ships to tourists and magnates as pleasure craft, hopping the worlds on vacation while his lackeys stashed the drugs on board. The tourists who’d get past borders and checkpoints, would be prime cash cows, being low suspects on the list for contraband. He’d get his boys somehow on the other end to sneak the stuff off their ships and sell it on the streets.
I waited some minutes before I finished my business. Been holding the rest in too long now. I strode out of the loo, pondering Detran’s greasy scheme for more than a few minutes, half my brain taking in the auction ships on the nearby ring and the busy flush of activity at the lounge. It’d be hit and miss as some of Detran’s unwitting stooges would not pay out. But when others did, the profits would make up for the losses. I rubbed my chin, pretending to take personal interest in a vintage cruiser with wide tail fins and beaklike prow, The Starbird. To ensure he got the right dupes at auction time, I guessed he’d probably bid them out with plants giving fake bids, if they weren’t the types he was looking for. A slick scheme. I wouldn’t have thought the oaf had the brains to put this together, but then again, it must have been his slimy partner behind it all, Lew, or whatever the fuck he called him.
If I could get The Alastar out from under them, I’d get two for one—a ship and a viable product. Sell the Myscol myself on the black market. Maybe even find the need to use some myself.
Chapter 7
I approached our part of the bar where Noss was trying to enliven Blest with a joke and failing.
“New plans,” I whispered, “we’re going after that old bird there, the one with tinsel color and queenly look.”
Blest was all ears. “Oh, yeah, how? You suddenly got a quarter of million yols?”
Noss laughed.
“Better. What I want you to do is get cleaned up—in disguise to bid against any others and stall out the process. I need you and Noss on the floor.”
“What are you planning to do?” Blest asked, squinting from Wren to me in suspicion.
“Give a little surprise to Mr. Halley Detran and
