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  He pulled out a tablet and peered at the screen. To anyone else, it would show a standard news page. People often made it a point to catch up on the news when they stopped at stations, and those in the richer districts made use of the official broadcast pages rather than word of mouth.

  However, Barnabas did not see the news page at all. Instead, the interaction between the tablet and the glasses gave him a view of what the camera on his earpiece saw. He was able to watch the interior of the nearby bar while he pretended to read.

  Above his head, a tiny listening device made to look like an insect darted behind one of the security cameras and went into the bar. Barnabas tapped the edge of the screen to direct it to land near a likely-looking group and settled down to wait.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” A Torcellan waiter in a well-tailored black tunic and pants laid down a dish of some unidentifiable vegetable and a napkin in anticipation of Barnabas’ drink order. “What may I get you?”

  “Would you happen to have any fruit juice?” Barnabas asked him.

  You have an addiction.

  I do not. I merely enjoy the beverage.

  “I’ll see what we can get you.” The waiter looked doubtful. “Do you have any preferences?”

  “Hakoj,” Barnabas told him. It was the juice Aebura liked to serve. “If you don’t have that, surprise me.”

  After all, it wasn’t as if any low-level poison could hurt him, since his nanocytes would easily take care of it. And to Barnabas’ knowledge, no one on this station should know enough about him to want to use a more potent poison.

  Yet.

  All right. He straightened his back slightly and adjusted the tablet on his crossed legs. Time to find out if these bankers have anything interesting to say. Let me know if you hear any talk related to anything you found out about those ships.

  Of course. I’m already running their known crew members against a list of the patrons at these bars.

  What about the banks?

  The bars are the banks. You do your business while you get a drink. Come to think of it, we should make that the standard in the Federation. Deposit your money, get a drink. It’s an experience, not a transaction.

  Sometimes your business acumen worries me. Just keep me updated, and we’ll see who comes to find us.

  Gar made his way through Virtue Station slowly. Barnabas had told him to take his time, so he was. He paused at some of the vendors’ stalls and inspected their wares. Certain fruits and vegetables were available, types that stored easily for long distance travel in space. Most of them weren’t anyone’s favorite, but it was remarkable just how much the palate craved fresh food after living on preserved meals and nutritional paste.

  The main level hadn’t had any of this. It was entirely given over to the “legitimate” and high-grossing business interests of the station—namely, banking. Gar had only seen a glimpse of it before he was shuffled off onto the other levels. The guards on the main level were careful to let through only those who looked as though they had the funds and temperament for monetary activities.

  Once one got away from the main floor the station quickly came to resemble any other station Gar had ever been on. It had been built as a series of corridors, each lined with shops and apartments. Commerce, however, had spilled into the corridors, so that there was only a narrow path to walk in between the blankets and carts that lined the thoroughfares.

  Gar walked carefully, trying not to bump into anyone. He knew that the Pod-doc on the Shinigami could repair any fractured bones, but he had spent a lifetime without any such resources and it would take time to unlearn his innate caution.

  It was reflex to turn his body so he wouldn’t collide with other pedestrians. It was habit to walk through the least-traveled areas of the corridor.

  At least the people here seemed to be accustomed to Luvendi. Many even went out of their way to avoid bumping into him, which Gar made sure to thank them for. One never knew when a kind word or a single gesture might come back in the form of desperately-needed help. He had watched Lan go through life treating the polite actions of others as no more than his due. Lan had ended up with almost no allies, and certainly no one who would speak up for him.

  Gar was determined not to end up the same way, but he did wonder if this was only self-interest speaking again. At heart, he still wasn’t sure if he had the makings of a fitting ally for Barnabas—and he was afraid of what would happen if Barnabas decided he did not.

  He put those thoughts aside and made his way up to the floor Barnabas had specified. As Barnabas had told him, there was a bar here. Gar approached the dingy entrance, where the two hulking Brakalon guards proceeded to shout at Gar to stand still for a weapons scan.

  He complied and they let him through, but only after looking him up and down suspiciously, as if to ask what he wanted in a place like this.

  The same thing everyone else here wants, Gar thought acidly. He was clearly not a person who could fight on his own, and the bar was full of people who could. It made a great deal of sense that he was here.

  He went to the bar to buy a drink first. This allowed him to see the layout of the bar and get a feel for the conversation around him, and it made sure that he wouldn’t get the evil eye from the bartender. Businesses didn’t like it when you loitered.

  Even before Gar’s drink arrived he knew his target. There were plenty of shadowed alcoves in this bar, and two Shrillexians had walked by him on their way to one, growling to one another about what kind of ship could take on three.

  As Barnabas would say, “Bingo!”

  Gar still needed to figure out the origin of the phrase, since every time he searched the results were a strange game with number-filled squares. Clearly, his dictionary was broken. He’d have to talk to Shinigami about that.

  In the meantime, he looped around the bar and took a circuitous route toward the alcove where the two Shrillexians were now sitting. Unfortunately, the acoustics of the bar had been well-designed so that people inside the alcoves could speak with relative privacy.

  Cursing, Gar eased himself forward, trying to catch even a snippet of conversation—

  “What do you want, spy?” The words came from behind him, and they came with the distinctive sound of a Shrillexian voice.

  His blood seemed to turn to ice. Gar turned and looked at the Shrillexian, then made a show of looking in the alcove. He knew what had happened, though. He thought he’d been stealthy but all the while they’d known he was there and they’d circled around behind him.

  He was terrible at this.

  There was only one thing for it, and that was to act well enough that they didn’t shoot him right here. “Are you…” He made a show of trying to pronounce a name but finally settled for, “The Shrillexian I’ve been hearing about? The mercenary. They say you always complete your jobs?”

  It was a gamble, and a dangerous bluff, but Gar had chosen his lie well. The Shrillexian gave a dangerous smile and puffed his chest out a bit.

  “I am Fedden, yes.”

  “Fedden!” Gar said the name as if he’d been reminded of it. “Yes. Look, I really need your help. A contact suggested you to me. I wasn’t sure you’d talk to me, but if you’re free to take a job…”

  His heart was pounding. If Fedden took offense to anything he said, Gar could be well and truly dead by the time Barnabas got there to help. Even the Shinigami’s medical Pods wouldn’t be able to help with that.

  But Fedden gave a sharp-toothed smile and gestured to the booth. “Tell me about your problem and I’ll tell you if I’m available.”

  Well, this is interesting, Shinigami commented.

  Barnabas jumped. His video feed of the two bankers had been interrupted by a view from Gar’s perspective as he spoke to two Shrillexians.

  Shinigami, what am I looking at?

  While Gar was under, I decided to install a chip in what I was fairly sure was his audio-visual processing center. He took to it remarkably well.

  You
mean that he did not immediately drop dead.

  Yes, that.

  And now we’re spying on him.

  Right again.

  That was unethical.

  Shinigami said nothing, but Barnabas had the impression that she would be rolling her eyes if she were human. At his elbow, the waiter appeared once more with an apologetic expression.

  “I’m very sorry, sir. It appears we have no hakoj juice. However, the bartender sent along this cocktail with his compliments.”

  “Thank you very much,” Barnabas told him. He made a show of tipping the man an extravagant amount, knowing that several people would notice the money and want to speak to him soon.

  When the waiter had gone, after a very deep bow and profuse thanks, Barnabas took a sip of the drink. Shinigami, can you analyze this for me, please?

  Some preserved fruit juices, sweeteners, and of course, alcohol. It looks like the suspension facilitates a very slow release into your bloodstream.

  So you get drunk without noticing it?

  Pretty much. What’s it like to get drunk?

  Well, it inhibits cognitive processing, so if you’re curious, I could just whack one of your servers with a mallet and we can see what that does. Or perhaps just switch a bunch of connections around at random.

  Shinigami radiated silent horror.

  Believe it or not, Barnabas told her, it’s quite fun.

  Are you sure? It doesn’t sound like fun.

  Perhaps it’s an acquired taste. Barnabas took another sip and sensed the nanocytes swinging into action. He certainly wasn’t going to get drunk, not with the settings he’d given himself. His body neutralized all poisons, alcohol included. Back to Gar. I would rather not spy on his thoughts unless it’s necessary.

  First, you always think it’s necessary. Second, this isn’t about his thoughts, it’s about his actions. Your whole purpose in bringing him was to determine whether he is a potential ally or a self-centered douche-canoe.

  Tabitha again?

  She also suggested “cock-monkey,” just as a general term—not specifically about Gar. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to use it.

  Keep me posted. Barnabas settled back in his seat. And you’ve made your point. Let’s see what Gar does when he doesn’t know we’re watching.

  Right. Also, heads up—there’s a munitions dealer in the bank who might be connected to the mercenary ships. I’m trying to get into his accounts now.

  Excellent. Barnabas gave a satisfied smile and settled down to watch Gar’s performance.

  Gar leaned on the sticky table and tried desperately to think of what he might say next. There was one gambit that might work well, of course, but it was so directly applicable to the Shrillexians’ problems that they might get suspicious.

  So he embroidered the truth somewhat selectively.

  “Did you hear about what happened on Devon recently?

  They exchanged a look. He definitely had their attention, but Fedden made a show of leaning back in his seat. “Why don’t you tell us,” the mercenary challenged.

  So he was at least a little bit clever. Gar shrugged. “The company that owned the mines got bought out and they all got closed down…unless we wanted to reopen them and give the workers what they thought were good contracts.” He made a show of snorting, as if to say this was plainly ridiculous. “I tried that, but I think you can guess how it went. Now I’m looking to relocate.”

  This put them off-balance, as he’d meant it to. He had essentially told them he knew all about Devon but hadn’t been directly involved in anything that had happened there recently.

  “What’re you coming to us for?” Fedden asked.

  “Jutkelon recommended you,” Gar bluffed. This was the dangerous part, but it seemed a worthwhile risk. “I went to him a couple of weeks ago and asked him if he’d staff a mine off-planet. He wanted to stay local, but he said maybe you’d know someone.”

  Fedden and the other Shrillexian looked at one another for a moment and Gar held his breath.

  Then Fedden smiled and leaned forward again. “Let’s talk specifics, then. I think you and I can deal. And I think maybe you’ll be able to help us with something else, too.”

  In the docking bay, Klafk’tin strolled down the gangway of the Gruwa and looked around. Virtue Station was fairly well-staffed, but there still weren’t enough dockworkers to linger outside ships that had clearly already been unloaded and vetted.

  Which meant the Shinigami—which had been here for a couple of hours now—did not merit even a single glance from the people hurrying by.

  Excellent.

  Klafk’tin pointed a scanner casually at the ship and gave a chuckle when it came back saying that there were no life forms aboard.

  “Get ready,” he told his crew. “We need to do this quick. Let’s take that ship and get out of here before anyone’s the wiser.”

  4

  I think this is going well, Barnabas remarked offhand to Shinigami. In his opinion, Gar was showing a good sense of subtlety in his dealings with Fedden.

  The only problem was that Fedden clearly knew something about High Tortuga, and Barnabas wished he were there to scan the Shrillexian’s mind. If he’d gone there and had Gar come here, they’d know exactly what it was that Fedden wanted help with.

  Because it looked like someone was searching for them, too.

  But who?

  Barnabas was just about to mention this to Shinigami when a Brakalon sat down opposite him. There was no request as to whether the seat was taken, nor did he ask if Barnabas was busy. It was clear that there would be a discussion between the two, and it would happen now.

  Barnabas smiled pleasantly at him. “Good afternoon.”

  The Brakalon did not acknowledge the greeting, just sat back in his chair, his posture nominally relaxed. However, it only served to show the outline of the weapon under his jacket, and he was clearly ready to move quickly if it came to a fight.

  Barnabas did not move at all. The Brakalon was not making a scene, and Barnabas saw no need to make one either.

  Yet.

  “There’s a listening device in the bar,” the Brakalon commented. His gaze was on the people in the pretty park area of the main floor as he spoke. “Mr. Jodu wants to know if it might be yours.”

  “It is,” Barnabas agreed simply.

  The Brakalon turned his attention to him and narrowed his eyes.

  “I’m new to Virtue Station,” Barnabas explained. “I hear any number of useful activities take place near this very bar. I need to ascertain which people here would be the correct ones to approach—and which would not.”

  Shinigami snickered. I like it when you’re sneaky.

  None of what I said was a lie.

  You meant to make him think you’re a banker who needs illicit business done, and he probably does think that. You misled him.

  I create opportunities, Barnabas clarified with great dignity. Ones that allow moral people to show their fortitude and immoral people to show their lack of it.

  Mmmhmm. You know, you have your head so far up your—

  There was a pause.

  Shinigami?

  Another pause. How busy would you say you are?

  Well, he just put his hand on his gun, so I’m not exactly unengaged.

  Ah. Never mind then.

  What’s going on?

  A minor matter, nothing to worry about. You talk to him. I’ll brief you when you get back to the ship.

  Barnabas frowned mentally, but his face held a pleasant smile when he looked at the Brakalon. “Clearly, your employer is offended by my use of listening devices. Perhaps he would be prepared to provide me with accurate information regarding the trustworthiness and provenance of those inside the bar. In specific, I’ve had difficulty finding someone to provide quality munitions on a reliable schedule.” He folded his hands in his lap. “And I want to be very clear that I will take great offense if I later learn I have been given inaccurate informatio
n.”

  The Brakalon froze. He had been here to threaten Barnabas. He might not run the show, but he knew—just like many large beings who beat compliance into people for a living—that when someone smaller than him did not seem afraid, there just might be a reason for it.

  “I’ll speak to Mr. Jodu,” he demurred and disappeared.

  Shinigami? Shinigami?

  Kind of busy here. Look, I’ll, uh… I think you have an open line to get to some of those people at the bar. You really should follow up on that while you have the chance. Mustafee Boreir is the Yofu at the bar—blue skin, eyes on the side of his head? That one. He owns a munitions group that might have supplied Galagg and Jutkelon.

  Excellent, thank you. Now, if you—

  Gotta go!

  Strange. Barnabas stood up, buttoned his suit jacket, and strolled to the bar to meet his first set of targets.

  Gar’s communications unit buzzed at his wrist. When you are free, come to the docking bay but do not come within sight of the ship. -S

  He frowned at the message. What was Shinigami up to?

  The only thing he knew was that she had reasons for everything she did. Perhaps there was about to be a scene on the station and they needed to get out quickly. ‘When you are free’ suggested the matter wasn’t extremely urgent, however.

  Gar looked up at the two Shrillexians with a smile. They had made some good progress, and he laid a card with his contact details on the table.

  “There is a matter that requires my attention, I’m afraid. Funding for the mining equipment. Underwriting. I’m sure you understand.” He waved a hand to indicate everyone’s universal annoyance with the paperwork required to start a business. “Most importantly…contact me about the matter you said I might help with. If we are to do business together, a benefit to one of us is a benefit to both.”