Jinx On a Terran Inheritance Read online

  Alacrity scuffed his boots on the gazebo floor and looked at Floyt, who shifted uneasily and began, "We understand, really we do—"

  Dorraine wore a faint grin. "Teh! Don't look so glum! We arranged for you to earn a little traveling money, didn't we? Bear with us, fellows, and maybe you won't have to walk all the way to Blackguard, however far that is."

  Alacrity, eyes closed, had risen a bit and leaned his head back over the bench and divider, catching fleecy white hex-lattices on his face.

  "I haven't been able to discover any explicit information on the place," Redlock said. "Director Weir apparently kept everything he knew about it in his head, or banked somewhere inaccessible to the rest of us. How did you plan to tackle the problem, Alacrity?"

  Alacrity opened his eyes again. "Everything's happening so fast. Our only choice was to go to the spaceport and start asking. I thought maybe we'd try to locate a Forager lashup."

  "Not very promising."

  "No. Governor, you're looking at two guys who're open to any and all input. Fire away."

  "You're trying to track down a rumor, essentially. I'd say to begin with the kind of people to whom that rumor's important. You have money to pay for information now. Why don't you begin at a Grapple?"

  Floyt held his tongue, not wanting to sidetrack the conversation with "What's a Grapple?"

  Alacrity's brows knit. "It's not so easy to find one of those either."

  "Have you ever been to one?"

  "A real Grapple? Well, no. I mean, I've been to some Turnouts, some fairly rough ones. And lived in boxtowns, Forager lashups. But still—"

  There was a chime from the direction of the entrance. A tall man in a parka appeared, gawking around him in amazement. Redlock hailed him and the man started up the hill.

  "You'll kindly allow me to do the talking," Redlock ordered pleasantly. He got no argument from them.

  "Who's he?" Alacrity inquired softly, out of the corner of his mouth.

  "Amarok, an Innuit-Esker from Quaanaaq-Thule," Dorraine said in a hushed voice.

  Amarok stopped at the gazebo's entrance, studying those within. He was youngish, perhaps two years older than Alacrity. The Innuit-Eskimo descendant was also taller, a good bit over 200 centimeters. He had to bend forward to enter.

  Amarok bowed low before Redlock and Dorraine. "Your Excellency; Your Majesty. This One is very grateful for your kindness to a poor traveler. One hears tales of the winter garden, but those are far short of the mark. Someone deems Himself most fortunate to see it with His own eyes."

  "Does it resemble your homeworld?" Dorraine asked.

  A tiny smile touched the broad face. "That's somewhat like comparing a perfect little bansai to the jungles of Last Ditch, Your Majesty. Still, Quaanaaq-Thule is beautiful to those who live there."

  "Ah; I see."

  There was a bit of silence, Redlock not yet choosing to speak, Amarok not daring to move his eyes from the august personages to scrutinize Floyt and Alacrity. It gave them a chance to look him over.

  He had the flat Mongol features of his Terran forebears, dark oriental eyes, and fine, straight hair, black as the night outside the winter garden, worn in bangs low across his forehead. He had a thin down of mustache and a complexion that reminded Floyt of Yumi's.

  The governor broke the silence at last. "Your trading venture goes well?"

  Amarok tried to make his hesitation as short as possible, but he gave that one a little thought. "As Your Excellency may already know, yes, Someone did quite a bit of trading. But He is afraid His profit margin will only barely cover the cost of the voyage this time out. If that."

  Redlock gave him a frank look. "I'm aware of your business skills, Amarok, and that you've already made your family wealthy several times over. But your humility is praiseworthy."

  Amarok showed the distress any trader feels when a government official talks knowledgably about his balance sheets.

  "After all," Redlock went on, "we'd hate to have you suffer losses through your dealings with the Weir Domain."

  "Hee! This One never meant to give that impression, Your Excellency! Things have been most propitious, indeed, to be sure."

  "Fine, fine." The governor nodded slowly. "I would certainly wish to know if there was anything we could do to help our friend Amarok."

  "Someone is most honored and beholden for your generosity, Your Excellency."

  Redlock waited expectantly. Amarok was too good a trader to miss the point.

  "And of course, presumptuous as it may be for This One to say this to the lord of nine stellar systems, if there is anything, any favor that lies within Someone's modest powers—any way in which He might show gratitude and His boundless admiration for Governor Redlock and the Weir Domain—"

  "Now, that's a very decent thing for you to say, Amarok; how kind!" The governor seemed to consider the concept for the first time.

  "And since you raise the point, there's something—oh, but it would be too great an imposition … "

  Amarok grew distressed. "Please don't give that any thought! It is Someone's honor and His delight! How many times One has wished to make known His esteem for Your Excellency!"

  "If you insist. These two here beside me are Citizen Hobart Floyt and Master Alacrity Fitzhugh. For their own reasons, they wish to attend the upcoming Grapple."

  "Grapple, Governor Redlock?"

  "Grapple. I thought you might advise them as to how to get there."

  "This One, Lord? But Grapples are iniquitous gatherings. What would Someone know of them?"

  "Ah, my error. I'd heard that you've been known to attend them. So I was told by Deputy Minister Nightweather—who's in charge of commerce regulations and, oh, preferential trade agreements."

  "A splendid and noble man to be sure, Your Excellency. Does This One take it then that these gentlemen here wish to book passage or charter His Pihoquiaq?" Amarok asked without much optimism.

  Redlock's response was flat. "They don't. They want to attend the Grapple and perhaps receive some guidance there. Naturally, if it is in the least inconvenient for you to suggest anything, dismiss it from your mind altogether. Deputy Minister Nightweather informs me that the trader Munificent of Tillman Quendal is due soon. Maybe Quendal will have a helpful thought."

  Amarok took the plunge with a completely believable smile pasted across his wide face, Alacrity had to grant him that.

  "Ooo! An idea occurs! This One can transport these two intimates of the Weir Domain to the Grapple in the Pihoquiaq, and be their advisor and guardian!"

  Redlock contrived to look surprised. "That is truly a noble gesture, Amarok," Dorraine said elatedly. "We'll have to remember to mention it to Deputy Minister Nightweather."

  There was a little more of the same, then Amarok begged leave to go make ready to depart. He was scheduled to get underway in a little over an hour.

  Before the trader left, Alacrity managed to get in, "What kind of ship is the Pho—the Phio—"

  "Pihoquiaq" Amarok supplied. "It means Ever-wandering one. That is what Someone's ancestors called the white bear on old Earth. Pihoquiaq is a converted monitor."

  Alacrity's face fell. "Real fine. Looking forward to it."

  When Amarok was gone, Redlock said, "I take it you've shipped in a monitor?"

  Alacrity sighed. "Uh-huh. But don't get me wrong! We've got a ship and a destination now; wouldn't have either, or any money, if it wasn't for you."

  "Yes, and I don't quite see how we can ever hope to pay you back," Floyt put in.

  "Don't mention it." Redlock waved a hand. "Belt-favors come in assorted forms, from pulling a few strings to, oh, lending a hand in a landing party, for instance."

  That wasn't the first time Floyt had heard the Inheritor's belts referred to that way. "What is a belt-favor?" Perplexed, he fingered the ring of plaques around his middle.

  "We wanted to make sure you understood the custom surrounding Inheritors—that they can call on one another in time of need," Dorraine said.r />
  "No one bothered to tell me about that," Floyt said slowly. "Thanks."

  "I thought that Tiajo might neglect telling you," Redlock added. "Hang on to that belt, Citizen Floyt."

  Alacrity was already running down the list of other Inheritors in his mind. They were spread all across that part of human space, and in many places beyond.

  Who might be willing to do us a favor if we—Ho—needed it? Stare Skill and Kid Risk, I'll bet. And Maska, if we ever run into him again. Sir John? Seven Wars and Sortie-Wolf, for certain.

  "I hate to seem abrupt," Redlock said briskly, "but you two haven't much time."

  "I am bound by the same proscriptions as my husband," Dorraine announced, "but they wouldn't apply to a few going-away presents. Perhaps something to make a long voyage in a monitor more bearable?"

  "Alacrity," Redlock said, "surely you can think of a few things. Speak up; don't make us drag it out of you."

  "Books," Alacrity replied promptly. "Vitamins and diet supplements. Some recreational substances. Soap and air fresheners; spices, condiments, and sauces. A few games and diversions would be nice, and snacks and a supply of potables. Oh, yeah: and a hammock or sleepsling; the bunks in the cuddy are always short in those monitors—every time."

  Dorraine had started laughing halfway through the shopping list. "You really have shipped in them, haven't you? What about you, Hobart?"

  Floyt was looking thoughtfully after the departed Amarok. "He comes from a cold climate, and he'll be in charge of the thermostat. Um, is there any chance of getting some warm underwear?"

  Chapter 5

  Guests Of The

  Ever-Wandering One

  "The secret to cutting it as a breakabout, Ho—a real breakabout, that is, not a trained flea on a yacht or a liner—isn't resourcefulness or job proficiency. Or I.Q. or even wanderlust. Watch your head now."

  "What is the secret, Alacrity?" Floyt asked, playing audience amiably. The inner hatch of the Pihoquiaq's main airlock began to open.

  "Putting up with shipboard life. Boredom, routine, and especially—"

  The inner hatch swung away and they were looking into a passageway.

  "—cramped quarters," Alacrity finished.

  "Great Suffering Martyrs!" Floyt cried. He'd assumed the ship's interior would be a bit close, having seen her through a viewpane. Monitor-class vessels, named by some history buff of long ago, had been aptly tagged. Pihoquiaq did indeed suggest, in a streamlined, sweptback way, the cheesebox-on-a-raft federal ironclad of the American Civil War.

  She wasn't very big, some forty-five meters long, if a bit beamy. Floyt had figured that all available cargo space would be used; running a starship was very, very dear but the profit to be realized equally high. But he hadn't expected that most of the living space would be usurped too.

  The main passageway had become a low tunnel, its sides lined with packed storage shelving, its dropped ceiling of tranverse metal lathes holding cases and boxes, bales and crates. There was barely room to crawl and duck walk along.

  "Does this mean there won't be a Welcome-Aboard Cotillion?" Floyt wondered aloud.

  Amarok showed up just then, stylus behind his ear, a readout in his right hand and another tucked in his belt.

  "Welcome aboard, gentlemen. This One has shifted most of the cargo out of the cuddy." Alacrity gave a stifled groan. "So you can bunk in there. Is all that ballast yours?" he cried, staring at their luggage—Alacrity's warbag and attached umbrella case, Floyt's travel bag, and the parting gifts from Dorraine and Redlock, a not-excessive pile of this and that bulging in a large backpack. Amarok made it sound as if they'd lugged along an engine block collection and a wet bar.

  "That's right," Alacrity answered. "Redlock said if there wasn't enough room, the—what'd he call her, Ho?—oh yeah, the Munificent is a roomy little tub and we could hang around Palladium until she shows up."

  Redlock had said no such thing, but Amarok didn't know that. With considerable worming effort, he turned around in the narrow passageway and led them forward.

  "The man's part squirrel." Floyt snorted, grabbing his stuff.

  "Just be glad he's not a midget," Alacrity advised.

  As they made their way aft, Floyt noticed that the ship was chilly.

  If Amarok had cleared the cuddy, a tiny compartment below and abaft the round deckhouselike structure, it must formerly have been packed solid. He didn't try to enter with them, but squeezed beyond the hatch and ushered them in. It was noticeably warmer than the rest of the Pihoquiaq. Sure enough, the bunks were short.

  Alacrity, his worst fears realized, entered first, obliged to stoop, shoving all his gear onto the upper bunk. He wedged himself in after, in a sort of modified fetal position. Floyt followed awkwardly, pushing his luggage into the lower bunk, which had less than fifty centimeters' clearance from the top. There wasn't quite enough room in the space between the bunks and the opposite bulkhead to scratch.

  The trader hastened off to finish restowing cargo and make final preparations, saying they'd be leaving shortly. Floyt turned his head and met Alacrity's gaze, since turning his whole body would've been too laborious.

  "Let's hear it, Ho; what d'you think?"

  "I was trying to make up my mind if it would be better to wait until we're in Hawking before we mutiny and shove him out the lock."

  Alacrity chortled. "He's probably thinking more or less the same thing about us. Every little widget and thingie you can cram into a ship can mean a boodle, if your luck's right. And we're taking up the equivalent space of an awful lot of widgets."

  "What's our next move?"

  "Stow our stuff in those lockers; that'll give us a little more breathing room. Check 'em, would you?"

  But every locker was tightly packed, not with Amarok's precious cargo, but with oddments of ship's gear, spare parts, tools, repair materials, and so forth.

  "Alacrity, if we hurry, we can get back out of this thing before this packrat casts off from the King's Ransom. We'll wait for the Munificent. I don't care if my conditioning kills me."

  Alacrity was shaking his head. "The Munificent is from Dlyria, in the first place. That means the ship's complement is an extended polymorphous pansexual menage."

  "So?"

  "So anyone else is obliged to participate, de rigueur."

  "But we can't live under these conditions! We'll never make it!"

  "Easy, shipmate, easy. Here—" Struggling and grunting, Alacrity dug something out of the backpack. "Here's the hammock I got from Redlock. We can rig it and I'll slide in. Then we cram our stuff into the lower bunk, and you get the penthouse. I can stick my feet into the end of the bottom bunk and lay the rest of me in the hammock."

  Floyt thought for a moment. "Alacrity—those recreational substances and potables Dorraine gave you—"

  "Yes?"

  "Did she give you plenty?"

  She did. Once they'd thrashed out a compromise with the laws of mass and space as applied to the confinement of the cuddy, Alacrity brought out a container that looked like a big onyx kidney bean. He hadn't found it necessary to stick his feet into the end of the baggage bunk; rigging the hammock from the side of the hatch frame had given just enough room to sleep as long as he wasn't too active.

  Just now he was sitting up, feet hanging off to either side of the squeezed-together hammock. He carefully tapped out onto his palm two tiny granules that glittered like prisms.

  "Nirvanitol! Redlock and Dorraine really know how to entertain."

  "Is this a good idea in the state we're in, Alacrity? How long is it since we slept? Thirty hours?"

  "Something like that."

  "What will that stuff do?"

  "We'll feel awfully nice for a while; quiet, perfectly content to lie right here in this cocoon without moving around."

  "And then?"

  "Out like a light, probably. It's just as well; Amarok wouldn't mind not having us underfoot for a bit."

  "Alacrity, I'm practically out right now. W
hy waste it?"

  "You won't get any argument out of me." He carefully put the nirvanitol back in the kidney bean and reached up with his toes, the most practical way to reach the light controls. He experimented and got the illumination down to something like a low nightlight. By that time Floyt was asleep.

  Floyt dozed a little fitfully. Alacrity half sat in his hammock when Amarok cut in the Breakers, activating the Hawking Effect generator. Hearing nothing amiss, Alacrity went back to sleep without even realizing he'd wakened.

  Floyt came around much later, tried to edge around Alacrity in order to visit the head. Alacrity woke up in the course of the struggle. They both felt famished and were beginning the battle to collect their clothes when Amarok showed up.

  He brought two trays of ship's rations straight from the warming unit, explaining that they'd have to eat in the cuddy, the passageway, or the head.

  Alacrity waved a hand around the cuddy. "This just isn't going to do, Amarok, and you know that. How long before we get to our next stop? Fifty hours? A hundred?"

  "More on the order of one hundred twenty."

  "Merde alors! You don't expect us to sit in this coffin that whole time, do you, shipmate? Better not."

  Amarok bridled. On someone his size, it was rather scary.

  "This is Someone's ship. He doesn't care who got you two inboard, or how important you are; nobody tells One how to run His ship."

  "Ah, but nobody helps you run it either, right? You've got this whole crate automated and you're a one-man crew. Well, we can bear a hand. Stand watch in the control room. Turn to in the power section. Run standard maintenance. All we want is a chance to stretch; you look like you know what that means."

  The flush was leaving the Innuit's cheeks. He motioned to Floyt. "He's not a high-mover." Like "go-blood," it was another name for a career spacer, a breakabout.

  "I'll keep an eye on him. But listen, there's something else: prepackaged food isn't this bad by immutable natural law. There're things that can be done with it."

  Amarok's face looked like a displeased graven idol. "Men of Quaanaaq-Thule don't cook, freeloader."