"Well," the foreman frowned, "what I really need is a whole 'nother cargo shuttle – the humidity here breeds a bacterium capable of metabolizing hexacarbon – and if I had five or six hundred Macana auto-rifles and ten thousand rounds of 8mm caseless, I could raise the cash to buy one…" He raised a placating hand at Helsdon's grimace. "But! But…I've no d esire to hand the slicks something that will wind up aimed at me, so the real thing I could use is whatever scrap metal you might have on hand."
"Scrap?" Helsdon gave up on not sweating and feeling miserably hot. "We've suffered some battle damage. We planned to dump the wreckage…"
"That," said the foreman with a broad grin, "is exactly the kind of trade goods I can use."
"So," Helsdon said, scratching his jaw and turning on an earbug channel to the ship. Thai-i Isoroku would be interested in this bit of bartering. "How many square meters of hexacarbon steel are you looking for?"
The Petrel Estate
District of the Claw-Polishers, Parus
Despite Chu-sa Hadeishi's suggestion that she attend the Legation party in a traditional furisode-style kimono, Kosho stepped out of her groundcar in a straight, knee-length black silk dress. Conceding a non-Fleet, civilian occasion, she did not pin up her hair. She also dispensed with her usual command bracelet, settling for a comm-thread disguised by foundation and blush powder on her cheek. A chevalier-style jacket disguised a palm-sized shockpistol. Two silver bracelets obscured her medband.
Rain threatened, charging the air with the sharp smell of imminent thunder. The sky over Parus was clogged with fat, dark clouds as night advanced. By the time her car was within sight of the estate, Kosho decided to get out and walk. Strings of globe-lights atop the walls gave her an unmistakable heading. A great crowd of locals milled about at the edge of the security perimeter. An instant festival had sprung up on the sidewalks, complete with carts and canopies, and vendors selling steaming drinks, roasted meat, and confections of all kinds. The peculiar cinnamon smell of the Jehanans mingled with wood smoke and boiling tea in the sweltering twilight.
Fleet ID and the invitation passed her through to an ivy-covered gate. The mansion sprawled within a rectangle of crumbling red-brick walls. The one-and two-story buildings themselves looked quite old to Susan's eye, but she couldn't tell if this was by design or circumstance. The customs of the rich often ran counter to what she considered common sense.
A stream of party-goers crossing an ornamental garden carried her towards the main house. Servants were waiting to take coats, hats, ornamental cloaks, and umbrellas beneath the shelter of an imposing entranceway flanked by tall granite statues. The figures were Jehanan, bulky, muscled bodies carrying the lintel of the doorway on their shoulders. Kosho made a face at the overwrought tableau as she passed into the vestibule, a very small purse in hand.
Beyond the entryway, the main, hexagonal hall of the house rose towards a lofty ceiling circumscribed by a mezzanine-style balcony. Old-style chandeliers supporting clusters of shimmering paper lanterns hung down on long cables. Dozens of slow-moving fans stirred the air. The wavering light, reflecting across the ribbed vault of the roof, reminded Susan of sunlight dancing on the walls of a sea cave.
She guessed there were nearly a thousand people packed into the room, and found a section of wall to stand beside, out of the press of traffic. Humidity and constant noise enveloped her, pressing tight against her flesh. Within a heartbeat, a servant appeared before her with a platter of drinks. Politely, Susan took one – something amber-colored, which she hoped was beer – and waved him on.
Interesting, she thought, scanning the multitude of human and alien faces. Not as disturbing as the Admiral's Dinner, but telling in its own way. She could pick out only a handful of Fleet officers – the white dress uniforms were hard to miss among the splashy colors of the natives or the rich garments of the civilians – but there were quite a few groundpounders in evidence. As she expected, they formed their own reefs of dark olive uniforms amid the sea of civilians. Kosho judged most of them to be of Mixtec extraction, if the profusion of strong noses, mahogany skin and visible tattoos was any guide. …or Indian, she corrected herself, spying a tall infantry officer with a spade-shaped, belt-length yellow beard, sharp nose and turban wandering past.
The drink proved to be a passable lager, but far too warm for her taste. Another passing tray won the glass back. Kosho found herself considering elaborate tortures for Chu-sa Hadeishi.
I do not like parties, she remembered. And this is a very lively, but disorganized party. Worse, the training of her childhood nagged at her conscience. You should introduce yourself properly to the host and hostess.
Her disgust at feeling guilty about proper protocol must have shown on her face. A middle-aged human, a European with short, sandy blond hair, moved into her field of view. "Surely the beer isn't that poor…" he started to say, then paused with a startled look on his face.
Kosho realized she was considering him in the same way she scrutinized the unsatisfactory work of junior ratings. Not polite, ko-ko! A voice very much like her grandmother echoed out of memory. Say hello. Introduce yourself. Even a gaijin deserves so much.
"Your pardon, sir," Susan said, very stiffly. She offered a very small bow. No more than required by common courtesy. "Lieutenant Commander Susan Kosho, IMN Henry R. Cornuelle."
"Really?" The man's fine-boned face lit with surprised delight. He bowed in return, rather more deeply than necessary. "How unexpected! What brings you to Jagan? You know…"
The familiar tone in his voice touched off a flood of nausea. I feel trapped, she realized, eyes flicking from side to side. There are too many people here. This room is too big. Those windows are open. Why is this person talking to me?
Without another word, she turned on her heel and made her way back through the latest arrivals. Everyone she passed seemed appallingly cheerful. Overhead, on the mezzanine, a troupe of native musicians began tuning up their instruments, filling the air with an atonal wailing and clashing sound. The Jehanan nobles present lifted their heads in interest. A hissing and clicking undercurrent to the sound of human voices rose.
Puzzled and surprised, Johann Gemmilsky, once the Librarian of the refinery ship Turan stared at her retreating back. "…I was just wondering how Captain Hadeishi was doing…" His voice trailed off in dismay. "Good to meet you in person!"
Shaking his head, Gemmilsky turned around, a tumbler of vladka between thumb and forefinger. "Very disappointing," he sighed. "Quite a striking woman."
His eye fell upon two brawny Jehanan tribal chiefs, flat, spadelike heads wrapped in unusual red, purple and magenta haylan. They were deep in discussion with a tiny, old Mйxica woman in a black shawl and traditional beaded dress. "Hello! A pair of Arachosian nabobs come down from the hills… Now that is interesting… I wonder if they've brought strings of sprinters for sale?"
The Pole took a quick swig of his Chernei Gyooz, nodded genially to a chattering crowd of Lencolar Sisters pressing around him and began circulating towards the chieftains with commerce on his mind.
Kosho stepped out into the garden with a sense of enormous relief. She had not realized how hot and close the hall had become. Even the still-warm night air was a relief. Walking quickly away from the servants in the entryway, she dabbed the sides of her neck with a cloth. I never sweat! Am I falling ill? She realized her fingers were trembling.