“Eh—” I paused for a moment. “Indium. That would be reaction mass for ion thrusters, hmm? Isn’t that rather a lot, um, is there enough to be worth—” I paused again. Shock fought with chagrin that I hadn’t worked out what was going on and gave way to amusement: “You didn’t. Did you?”
“They call it piracy, you call it hijacking; I call it taking advantage of an unscheduled rendezvous to audit the undeclared cargo of a suspicious long-haul vehicle and order put options on the raw material prior to its arrival on the commodities market at its destination.” His grin widened into a yawn. “And meanwhile saving a little lost scholar who had fallen in with a hive of villainy and criminality along the way. Assuming that is your story, and you’re sticking with it. Now, Ms. Alizond. I’d like to make you an offer.”
“An”—I came crashing back to reality—“offer?”
“Yes.” He gestured at the spreadsheets floating around his office: “This occupation is not called ‘going to the books’ for nothing. Ms. Alizond, let me be clear; I want you to lead me to your sister Ana, preferably alive. If you can do that, I will be somewhat in your debt because you will have saved me from having to make good on an unfortunate subordinate’s badly gauged decision. To that end, we are making our way toward Shin-Tethys. Indeed, right now, this is your fastest route to your destination. We are due into Highport more than a hundred days ahead of that flying junkyard you took passage on. However, the operation of this vehicle . . . we’re a subsidiary of a larger enterprise, and must pay for our running costs. Right now, you are an overhead on my balance sheet. But it so happens that we have been shorthanded for some time. If you were to make yourself an asset, a Post-human resource, so to speak, I could move you from column A to column B, and thereby justify to my superiors the expense of providing you with more comfortable quarters, better food, a modest stipend—all the perquisites of employment.”
“With respect, uh, Count—”
“That’s a-count-ant, Ms. Alizond.”
“—I’m sorry, er—”
“Rudi will do. And may I call you Krina?”
“—Uh, um, I suppose so . . . Rudi. Ahem. With respect, you’re pirates. Forgive me for saying this, but I have some misgivings about the legality and enforceability of any employment contract you might be in a position to offer—”
“On the contrary, my dear: We are a privateer. We carry letters of marque signed by a genuine recognized sovereign government, authorizing us to enforce customs regulations and collect tolls and taxes on their behalf from traffic not in possession of a license from the government in question. We’re recognized by more than a third of the autonomous governments of Dojima System—almost a plurality! Which is why I can assure you that if you accept employment aboard Permanent Crimson Branch Office Five Zero, it will be recognized and enforced by the full majesty of the law of the Federal Inhabited Republics of Shin-Kyoto—”
“You’re telling me you’re carrying letters of marque signed by a government in another star system?” I tried not to squeak, but not, I fear, entirely successfully. “What use is that if someone arrests you?”
“None whatsoever in the short term although they’d risk economic sanctions. Specifically, they’d suffer total key revocation for all slow money transactions denominated in FHR/S-K dollars that are in progress. A not-insignificant portion of their interstellar balance-of-trade deficit.” Rudi licked his whiskers again, in what I was coming to recognize as the chiropteran cognate of a sly grin. “Krina, I am disappointed in you. Consider: Branch Office Five Zero has been trading in this system for more than a century now! If we were mere pirates, we would have been hunted down and destroyed decades ago. We are in point of fact a trading entity—actually a local subsidiary of an out-system bank—that occupies an extralegal niche which is sufficiently convenient for certain governments that a blown-out photoreceptor is directed toward us. It would cost them a lot of money, resources, and time to provide their own customs infrastructure. Much more convenient to leave it to the free market—us—and then to rake in a commission by selling us consumables and other supplies. If nothing else, they can deny all liability for consequences arising from our actions.
“So, as I was saying, I have an offer of employment for you. The work is eminently suited to your specialty—a mendicant doctor of the historiography of accountancy practices. I believe it will keep you amused for the next three hundred days, as we make our way in-system, and I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable if you have something to do with your time.”
“Why don’t you compel me?” I had to ask. Rudi had already demonstrated that he had the wherewithal to turn me into a zombie.
“Because.” Rudi looked round, his neck alarmingly supple: “I can’t. As I told you, we operate under letters of marque that set out in great detail what we may and may not do. We are not allowed to steal your personal effects, for example. We may only use compulsion under certain limited circumstances to investigate suspected barratry, or while conducting a hostile boarding action. We may only use interrogation devices in the strictly regulated conduct of certain types of criminal investigations. But this is not the former, and you have been ruled out of the latter, unless you are plotting to take over this branch office, ha-ha. Ha. Ha. Rule of law, Ms. Alizond! Without it, where would we be?”
Three hundred days of sitting on my thumbs in an oubliette did not appeal. Furthermore, I had to admit that he made a plausible case. And how better to gather the intelligence I would need to revenge my mistreatment than by working from within his business? I determined to give no sign of my long-term plans, and instead leaned closer. “This job. Tell me about it . . .”
Before I can explain the full horror and glory of the Atlantis Carnet, I need to tell you about the Spanish Prisoner.
Long, long ago on a planet far, far away, where the Fragile roamed free in the biosphere, they developed a complex and dizzying array of tricks, lies, and fraudulent schemes that have served us well to this day.
Spain was the name of one of their polities; it was attached to the archetypical confidence scheme more or less at random. It could be any other location chosen purely for its remoteness and the difficulty of traveling yonder from hither.
The Spanish Prisoner is a fabulous person! Rich and powerful in your homeland, this person (who is a personal friend and benefactor of mine: I must introduce you at the first opportunity) has traveled to Spain on a matter of highly confidential business, to which end they are employing a false identity. While there, they have been unavoidably detained due to a minor misunderstanding: Trivial, but they have lost their wallet and passport, and consequently need some help. Surely you could find it in your heart to send them the price of a meal, the down payment on their bail money, the cost of a ticket home? They will be eternally grateful and reward you appropriately upon their return, I assure you. Just remember, though, that they are traveling under conditions of secrecy, and if their true identity is declared to the Spanish authorities, there will be embarrassing (and expensive) questions to be answered.
Are you with me so far? Can you be trusted? Are you sincere and good-hearted and will you help keep my friend’s secret?
It’s the oldest con in the book because the victim’s greed reels them in, and they pay, and pay again, bit by bit, for one small service after another. More sophisticated versions emphasize the borderline illegality of the prisoner’s activity, the better to tangle the victim up in a knot of guilty criminal complicity and thereby deter them from seeking aid. But the pattern is the same: A too-good-to-be-true opportunity is presented to the victim, an opportunity to ingratiate themselves with the rich or to buy shares in a dubious but highly profitable venture. And then they are suckered into paying one fee after another in hope of the ultimate payoff.