Randon cocked an eyebrow at me. "Benedar?"
I let my eyes sweep the room, relaxing my mind and letting it dig out every nuance of feeling it could. "I think it might be a good idea, sir," I said, "to make sure the Bellwether is ready for trouble."
Randon snorted gently. "Let's not get overly melodramatic," he advised. Still, I could tell that he too was growing uneasy.
As was Kutzko. "Sir, I have to agree with Benedar again," he spoke up. "If it really is those cyls that have all these people nervous, they must be blazing valuable. To someone, anyway."
"Probably right," Randon grunted. "All right, go ahead. Keep it quiet, though—if someone tries to get them, I want him to get close enough for us to grab."
Kutzko was already making the connection. "Seqoya?—Kutzko. What's the status on the ship?"
I couldn't hear the answer, but Kutzko's sense indicated everything was normal. "Well, that may be changing in the next few hours," Kutzko told him. "I want the perimeter extended fifty meters, a cat-yellow on the gatelock, and a double cat-yellow on Mr. Schock's stateroom. You'd better warn him that someone may be after those cyls he brought home from HTI today; he ought to know how to protect them." He got confirmation, raised his eyes to Randon. "Anything else, sir?"
And I had a flash of inspiration. "Have Calandra brought to the gatelock," I said.
Both of them looked at me; and after a moment they both understood. "Excellent idea, Benedar," Randon said, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Do it, Kutzko."
Kutzko nodded and relayed the instructions. "All set, sir," he said, lowering his hand.
"Good." Randon glanced around. "Let's rejoin the party, then."
A few meters away, Governor Rybakov was talking quietly with a man dressed in the white uniform of a Pravilo flag officer. Commodore Kelscot Freitag, I remembered from Randon's briefing: in charge of security for Solitaire system.
A man who also clearly enjoyed his vodkyas. Even as Rybakov took his arm and steered him toward us, I could see the slight glaze over his eyes and the twitching of muscles in his cheeks. "Mr. Kelsey-Ramos," Rybakov nodded to Randon. "That security matter all cleared up, I trust?"
"Yes, thank you," Randon assured her.
"Well, if you should have any trouble," Freitag spoke up, "I'm the man to see. Commodore Kelscot Freitag, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos."
"Pleased to meet you." Randon nodded to him, and I revised my opinion of the man a few steps upward. Despite the effects of at least three separate types of vodkyas showing in his face, his speech and eye-focus showed his mind wasn't nearly as touched as I'd first assumed. "Thank you for your offer of assistance, but I suspect any security problems I might have will take place on the ground."
Again, Rybakov's sense flickered with uneasiness. Freitag's, in contrast, remained untouched. "Doesn't matter," he rumbled. "As an oftworlder, you come under Pravilo jurisdiction whether groundside or out in the ring mines."
"Though it is Solitaran law that applies," I murmured.
Both he and Rybakov frowned at me. "Solitaran law is sanctioned by the Patri and administered by their representative," the governor told me stiffly. "Which makes it as much Patri law as anything else."
"Of course it is," Randon agreed, throwing me an annoyed glance. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kutzko take a half step backward and pull out his phone, and I hoped fervently he hadn't taken my comment to be his cue. Clearly, Rybakov had some internal conflicts about her position here, and I was going to have to give her more study before I could even attempt to bring Calandra's case to her attention. "What Mr. Benedar was referring to, I think," Randon went on, "was certain minor differences between standard Patri law and certain particular variations that are applied here."
"All colony worlds have their own differences," Rybakov pointed out, still cool. "Local customs, local requirements—all of those enter into it."
Randon nodded. "Which is certainly how the law ought to be—"
"Sir?" Kutzko cut him off; and with that one word I knew something was wrong. "A moment, if I may."
Randon's eyes flicked to him, back to Rybakov and Freitag. "If you'll excuse us...?"
"Certainly," Rybakov said, an almost haunted look flickering across her face as she and the commodore stepped back.
"Trouble at the ship?" Randon murmured to Kutzko as he pulled out his own phone and keyed for the Bellwether.
"Actually, sir... we're not quite sure," Kutzko admitted.
Randon frowned at him; and then the connection came through. "This is Kelsey-Ramos," he said into the instrument. "What's going on?"
I already had my own phone out. "Well, sir, we're not quite sure," Seqoya's slightly embarrassed voice came. "We have a couple of customs people here who say they're supposed to check on how much cargo we still have and to arrange to have it offloaded."
"Their IDs check out?"
"Oh, yes, sir, all the way... but Ms. Paquin says they're frauds."
Randon threw me a quick glance. "Oh?"
"Yes, sir. Unfortunately, she can't tell me who they are or why they're here; just that they're lying about being from customs."
Randon pursed his lips. "They're not armed, are they?"
"No, sir." Seqoya was on more familiar ground here. "We checked them completely. They've got a recorder and package reader; that's all."
"And you did run their IDs?"
"Yes, sir. The central Cameo computer says they're legit."
"They could have been suborned," Kutzko murmured.
"Maybe," Randon growled. "Or maybe Paquin is just jumping at shadows." He threw me a glare... but it was a worried glare. "All right, Seqoya, tell you what. You have someone call the customs chief on duty at the spaceport and find out what you can about these two. We're on our way; do not let them move from the gateway—in either direction—until I get there."
"Understood, sir," Seqoya said.
Randon signed off, threw me another glare, and nodded at Kutzko. "Let's go," he said grimly.
Chapter 9
They were still there when we arrived: two men in the official capelets and unofficial hauteur of customs officials, sitting at the gatelock guard station under the watchful eye of the Ifversn brothers. Outwardly, they were mad as hornets at being kept from their duties.
Inwardly, they were badly worried.
It didn't keep them from putting on a good act, though. We'd barely gotten inside the outer lock when the elder of the two was on his feet, glaring at Randon with a fair counterfeit of righteous fury. "Mr. Kelsey-Ramos," he snarled, "I want you to know that if you don't call off your shields immediately and let us get about our duties I will be forced to file official and formal charges against you, them, and the master of this ship."
"I'm sure everything will be straightened out in just a few minutes," Randon assured him, giving a good imitation himself of being impressed by the outburst. "Excuse me a moment, and I'll go find out just what the trouble is."
We passed them and headed on into the ship. Calandra and Seqoya were waiting at the door to the first room, the latter looking much more justified than he'd sounded on the phone. "Well?" Randon demanded, throwing a glance at Calandra and then shifting his attention to Seqoya. "What did you find out?"
Seqoya gave him a grim smile. "Something very interesting, sir: our visitors out there don't exist."
Randon frowned. "Explain."
"The customs duty officer at the spaceport doesn't know them," Seqoya said, ticking off massive fingers. "Neither does their central coordination office in Cameo itself. Neither do any of the customs officials, inspectors, or workers that I was able to track down and talk to."