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Authors: Linnea Sinclair
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what the problem was, and they’d solve it together.
Then she’d deal with the rest of the thirteen thousand credits Frinks wanted.
Maybe Trip would give her a loan. Then again, given the trouble Kiler had caused, maybe not.
She threw one last question at Pops before she left his office: “You have any need of a Welcran data-booster system? Slightly used? Or”—she hesitated, her mind running over how much of her ship she could gut without putting herself in a serious hole—“a Gartol sublight regulator? It’s only two months old.” It made her sublights run so sweetly, but it could also garner her a couple grand. She still had the older unit. She could reinstall that. And hope it didn’t break down again.
“Not right now. But if someone comes asking …” He let his voice trail off, and she could see troubled thoughts clouding his gaze as his eyes narrowed. Yeah, she was broke, and yeah, it was tough admitting that. But Pops wasn’t the type to dole out pity.
“You know where to find me. Thanks.”
“They’ll open the lanes soon, Kaid. Hang in there.”
“Working on it,” she replied with a halfhearted salute as she turned away. Soon. It was always soon. She just didn’t know if soon would be soon enough.
Devin Guthrie had never been to Dock Five.
He’d heard stories—some from the various GGS pilotsover the years, and some from Philip—and all had highlighted the aging station’s decrepit condition, unsavory denizens, and general air of impending peril. Along with any number of other things that defied identification.
In Devin’s estimation—as he and Barty threaded their way through the bedraggled, unkempt stationers and the whirring, blinking, barely functioning servobots filling the corridor on Green Level—the stories paled in comparison to the actual experience.
It wasn’t the acrid tang of sweat or the torn and greasy coveralls that made him itch. Dirt didn’t bother Devin. Like the rest of his brothers, he loved competitive sports. Handball was his choice, but he’d spent years on basketball courts and ice rinks. He’d taken his spills in the mud and dropped his gloves on and away from the blue line. But even the worst locker room didn’t have a fragrance quite like Dock Five.
“The air recyclers,” Barthol said, as Devin again raised his hand to his nose, far less discreetly than he thought, “aren’t one of Dock Five’s strong points.”
Neither was the shuttle flight here—a very long two and a half shipdays, even in first class, or what passed for first class on a spaceliner that serviced Dock Five. Devin slept through the six hours in jumpspace, though dreams of a woman with short, tousled pale hair kept intruding. During the time in realspace, he grabbed what data he could from whatever Imperial data beacons’ frequencies he could snag with his Rada and tracked Trippy’s financial withdrawals—which were all small amounts so as not to raise any alarms.
Except that Devin knew what he was looking for.
Dock Five was where he’d thought Trip would head, anyway, based on his previous conversationswith his nephew. Plus, if one wanted to get somewhere illegally, Dock Five—a convenient distance from the Calth and Stol borders—was the most logical port of embarkation in Baris.
Chances were good that whoever was trailing the Guthrie heir knew that too. All Devin could hope was that he and Barthol got to Trippy first.
“It appears accommodations might be a bit difficult to come by with the current trader embargo in effect,” Barthol said, glancing at his microcomp as they threaded through the crowd. “My first two hotel queries have come back negative.” Barty’s microcomp wasn’t a Rada like Devin’s but a military-issue DRECU. Given Barthol’s ImpSec background, Devin suspected Barthol’s microcomp might be as sophisticated as his own, but he could never remember what the acronym stood for other than Decode, Reception, and Covert.
Traveling by GGS
Then she’d deal with the rest of the thirteen thousand credits Frinks wanted.
Maybe Trip would give her a loan. Then again, given the trouble Kiler had caused, maybe not.
She threw one last question at Pops before she left his office: “You have any need of a Welcran data-booster system? Slightly used? Or”—she hesitated, her mind running over how much of her ship she could gut without putting herself in a serious hole—“a Gartol sublight regulator? It’s only two months old.” It made her sublights run so sweetly, but it could also garner her a couple grand. She still had the older unit. She could reinstall that. And hope it didn’t break down again.
“Not right now. But if someone comes asking …” He let his voice trail off, and she could see troubled thoughts clouding his gaze as his eyes narrowed. Yeah, she was broke, and yeah, it was tough admitting that. But Pops wasn’t the type to dole out pity.
“You know where to find me. Thanks.”
“They’ll open the lanes soon, Kaid. Hang in there.”
“Working on it,” she replied with a halfhearted salute as she turned away. Soon. It was always soon. She just didn’t know if soon would be soon enough.
Devin Guthrie had never been to Dock Five.
He’d heard stories—some from the various GGS pilotsover the years, and some from Philip—and all had highlighted the aging station’s decrepit condition, unsavory denizens, and general air of impending peril. Along with any number of other things that defied identification.
In Devin’s estimation—as he and Barty threaded their way through the bedraggled, unkempt stationers and the whirring, blinking, barely functioning servobots filling the corridor on Green Level—the stories paled in comparison to the actual experience.
It wasn’t the acrid tang of sweat or the torn and greasy coveralls that made him itch. Dirt didn’t bother Devin. Like the rest of his brothers, he loved competitive sports. Handball was his choice, but he’d spent years on basketball courts and ice rinks. He’d taken his spills in the mud and dropped his gloves on and away from the blue line. But even the worst locker room didn’t have a fragrance quite like Dock Five.
“The air recyclers,” Barthol said, as Devin again raised his hand to his nose, far less discreetly than he thought, “aren’t one of Dock Five’s strong points.”
Neither was the shuttle flight here—a very long two and a half shipdays, even in first class, or what passed for first class on a spaceliner that serviced Dock Five. Devin slept through the six hours in jumpspace, though dreams of a woman with short, tousled pale hair kept intruding. During the time in realspace, he grabbed what data he could from whatever Imperial data beacons’ frequencies he could snag with his Rada and tracked Trippy’s financial withdrawals—which were all small amounts so as not to raise any alarms.
Except that Devin knew what he was looking for.
Dock Five was where he’d thought Trip would head, anyway, based on his previous conversationswith his nephew. Plus, if one wanted to get somewhere illegally, Dock Five—a convenient distance from the Calth and Stol borders—was the most logical port of embarkation in Baris.
Chances were good that whoever was trailing the Guthrie heir knew that too. All Devin could hope was that he and Barthol got to Trippy first.
“It appears accommodations might be a bit difficult to come by with the current trader embargo in effect,” Barthol said, glancing at his microcomp as they threaded through the crowd. “My first two hotel queries have come back negative.” Barty’s microcomp wasn’t a Rada like Devin’s but a military-issue DRECU. Given Barthol’s ImpSec background, Devin suspected Barthol’s microcomp might be as sophisticated as his own, but he could never remember what the acronym stood for other than Decode, Reception, and Covert.
Traveling by GGS
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