“You were right, Arhos. In-house projections at Calmorrie are that demand will rise steeply, especially for repeat procedures where the last procedure used drugs from a questionable source.” Gori scowled, an unusual expression on his normally amiable face. Arhos nodded.
“In other words, last week’s blip in the price of a first-time rejuvenation wasn’t a blip at all.”
“No.” Gori pointed to details in the chart he’d displayed. “Ever since the king resigned, there’s been talk about adulteration of the components. The shakeup in the Morreline family holdings suggests to me it may be even bigger than what’s alleged in the suits already filed.”
“I suppose we should be glad we didn’t get ours done last year,” Losa said. Arhos looked at her; had there been a hint of smugness in her tone? Probably. Losa enjoyed rightness as a personal fiefdom. Usually he didn’t mind, but when she disagreed with him that buzzsaw certainty hurt.
“Not to our credit, since we couldn’t afford them last year—or this, with the price increase. I suppose we could get one of us done—” Arhos glanced at his partners. Gori might go along with that, but Losa never would. Nor would he himself, unless he was the one to get rejuv.
“No,” Losa said quickly, before Gori could say anything. “For the same reasons we didn’t pool funds to do one of us last year.”
“You don’t have to make your distrust quite so obvious,” Arhos murmured. “I wasn’t suggesting it—only pointing out that we could afford only one this year, too. It’s taken us five years to save up that much—and with the price expected to rise steeply—”
“We need more contracts,” Gori said. “Surely with all that’s happening in the Fleet right now, we can find a niche?”
“We should have an advantage,” Losa said. “We shouldn’t be under any suspicion, like the major suppliers and consulting firms.”
“That might help.” Arhos had his doubts. Somehow even when the witch-hunters were out, the good old firms seemed to find a safe hideout. “We do good work; we’ve had Fleet contracts through Misiani . . . if anyone notices the sub-sub-contractors at a time like this.”
“That’s what you’re worried about? That we’re not noticeable enough?”
“In a way. The thing is, they have no way of knowing whether we subs perform well because we’re good, or because we’re under the thumb of the main contractor. Thus no reason to trust us on our own.”
“We’ve had a few . . .” Losa began. Then she shrugged, before Arhos could say it. “But not enough of the juicy ones. Our profit margin’s too low.”
“No, and the real problem, I’m convinced, is that we aren’t rejuved yet. The big firms all have rejuved executives now.”
“We’re not that old.”
“No, but—Gori’s not as boyishly cute anymore. None of us look like bright young kids. Look, Losa, we’ve been over this before . . .”
“And I didn’t like it then . . .” She had abandoned the fake slouch for her more normal upright posture; he had never seen anyone but a dancer with such a back and neck. He could remember the feel of it under his hands . . . but that had been years ago. Now they were only partners in work. He pulled his mind away from the thought of Losa rejuved to . . . perhaps . . . eighteen . . .
“Look, it’s simple. If we want to survive in this field, we have to convince clients we’re successful. Successful consultants are rich—and rich people are rejuved. We’re still getting contracts, but not the best contracts. In ten years, the kind of contracts we’re getting will go to the new bright young things—or to our present competitors who’ve managed to afford rejuv.”
“We could cut back—” That was Gori, with no conviction in his voice. They had discussed this before; even Gori didn’t really want to live like an impoverished student again.
“No.” Arhos shook his head. “It’s suicide either way. To save out enough for rejuv, even one at a time, we’d have to cut expenses—this office for one—and that would make us look like losers. We need to rejuv—all of us—within the next five years. With the revelations about those contaminated drugs, the price will go up and stay up just when we need it most.”
“Which comes down to more contracts,” Losa said. “Except that we can’t do more without hiring more—and that drives our cost up.”
“Maybe. We need some new ideas, contracts that will give us a higher margin of profit, and not require any more expenditures.”
“From your tone I’d gather you already have some.”
“Well . . . yes. There are specialties which pay a much higher rate . . . for which we are already qualified.”
Losa’s lip curled. “Industrial sabotage? We don’t want to try that with Fleet . . . not with the current mood.”
“Public opinion’s on their side right now because of the Xavier affair—that Serrano woman is a hero—but in the long run what they’ll remember is one hero and three traitors.”
“And we’re to be traitors too?”
Arhos glared at her. “No, not traitors. But—none of us got into this work because of any particular love for the Familias bureaucracy. Remember why we left General Control Systems. And then, as subcontractors, we’ve had the same piles of paperwork—”
“You’re talking about working outside Familias space? Won’t that just mean a whole new set of paper-pushers to contend with?”
“Not necessarily. Not everyone outside is as tangled in red tape as the Familias. And it isn’t necessarily against Familias interests . . . at least I don’t see it that way.”
“You want rejuvenation,” Losa said sharply, leaning forward.
“Yes. And so do you, Losa. So does Gori. None of us have been able to increase our profits within the confines of Fleet contracts and subcontracts: too many fish in this pond, many of them with more teeth. So either we give up our ambitions, which I for one am not willing to do, or we find another pond. Ideally a pond that connects with this one, so we don’t lose all the goodwill we’ve built.”
Losa heaved a dramatic sigh. “All right, Arhos . . . just tell us.”
He let himself smile. “We have a potential client who would like to have us disable a self-destruct device on a service ship.”
“Whose service ship? Fleet’s?”
Arhos nodded.
“Not blow it up—disable its self-destruct?”
“Right.”
“Why?”
Arhos shrugged. “In this kind of situation it’s not my business why . . . though I could speculate, I’d rather not.”
“And who is this potential client?”
“He didn’t say whom he worked for, but a little discreet data probe allowed me to estimate a very high probability that he’s an agent for Aethar’s World.”
Losa and Gori stared at him as if he’d sprouted horns. “You were talking to the Bloodhorde?” Losa asked, having beat out Gori by a breath.
“Can we trust him?” asked Gori.
“Not really,” Arhos admitted, spreading his hands. “But the offer was . . . generous. And I suspect we can work up from it—he didn’t sound as firm as he thought.”
“What kind of service ship?” asked Gori.
“A deep space repair ship, one of those floating ship-factories crewed like an orbital station. Why anyone would put a self-destruct on it in the first place, I can’t understand—it sounds dangerous to me, what if the captain goes crazy? And they want it disabled, is all.”
“I hate the thought of dealing with the Bloodhorde,” Losa said. “And here we’re talking about twenty or thirty thousand people—”
“Military personnel,” Arhos said. “Not ordinary people. They signed up for the risk. That’s what they’re paid for. And we need the cash. If we don’t get the new rejuv procedure soon—”
“But the Bloodhorde, Arhos! All those hairy, beefy types with their Destiny garbage! They belong back on their home planet, whacking each other with clubs and sitting around drunk singing . . .”