The screen cleared, and a broken-nosed thug with perpetual scowl lines aroundhis eyes and mouth peered out at me. "Yeah?" he grunted.
"This is Jordan McKell," I identified myself, as if anyone Brother John hadanswering the phone for him wouldn't know all of us indentured slaves bysight.
"I'd like to speak with Mr. Ryland, please."
The beetle brows seemed to twitch. "Yeah," he grunted again. "Hang on."
The screen went black. I made a small private wager with myself that BrotherJohn would leave me hanging and sweating for at least a minute before hedeignedto come on, despite the fact that fielding calls from people like me was oneof his primary jobs, and also despite what this vid connect was costing me perquarter second.
I thought I'd lost my wager when the screen came back on after only twentyseconds. But no, he'd simply added an extra layer to the procedure. "Well, ifit isn't Jordan McKell," a moon-faced man said in a playfully sarcastic voice, looking even more like a refugee from a mobster movie than the call screenerhad, his elegantly proper butler's outfit notwithstanding. "How nice of you tograce our vid screen with your presence."
"I'm amazingly delighted to see you, too," I said mildly. "Would Mr. Rylandlike to hear some interesting news, or are we just taking this opportunity to helpyou brush up on your badinage?"
The housethug's eyes narrowed, no doubt trying to figure out what "badinage" was and whether or not he'd just been insulted. "Mr. Ryland doesn't appreciategetting interesting news from employees on the fly," he bit out. The playfulpart had evaporated, but the sarcasm was still there. "In case you'veforgotten, you have a cargo to deliver."
"Done and done," I told him. "Or it will be soon, if it isn't already."
He frowned again; but before he could speak, his face vanished from the screenas a different extension cut in.
And there, smiling cherubically at me, was Brother John. "Hello, Jordan," hesaid smoothly. "And how are you?"
"Hello, Mr. Ryland," I said. "I'm just fine. I'm pleased everyone over thereis so cheerful today, too."
He smiled even more genially. To look at Johnston Scotto Ryland, you wouldthink you were in the presence of a philanthropist or a priest or at the very leasta former choirboy—hence, our private "Brother John" nickname for him. And Isuspected that there were still people in the Spiral who were being taken inbythat winning smile and clear-conscienced face and utterly sincere voice.
Especially the voice. "Why shouldn't we be happy?" he said, nothing in hismanner giving the slightest hint of what was going on behind those dark andsoulless eyes. "Business is booming, profits are up, and all my valuedemployeesare working so wonderfully together."
The smile didn't change, but suddenly there was a chill in the air. "Exceptfor you, Jordan, my lad. For some unknown reason you seem to have suddenly grownweary of our company."
"I don't know what could have given you that impression, Mr. Ryland," Iprotested, trying my own version of the innocent act.
"Don't you," he said, the temperature dropping a few more degrees. Apparently, innocence wasn't playing well today. "I'm told the Stormy Banks docked onXathru not thirty minutes ago. And that you weren't on it."
"That's right, I wasn't," I agreed. "But Ixil was, and so was yourmerchandise.
That's the important part, isn't it?"
"All aspects of my arrangements are important," he countered. "When I instructyou to deliver a cargo, I expect you to deliver it. And I expect you to takeit directly to its proper destination, without unscheduled and unnecessary stopsalong the way. That was our agreement; or do I have to bring up—again—the fivehundred thousand in debts I bailed you and your partner out of?"
"No, sir," I sighed. Not that I was ever likely to forget his largesse in thatmatter, what with him reminding me about it every other assignment. "But if I may be so bold, I'd like to point out that another of your standinginstructions is that we should maintain our facade of poor but honest cargo haulers."
"And how does that apply here?"
"I was offered a position as pilot on another ship for a one-time transportjob," I explained. "A thousand commarks up front, with another two ondelivery.
How could I turn that down and still pretend to be poor?"
That line of reasoning hadn't impressed Ixil very much back on Meima. Itimpressed Brother John even less. "You don't seriously expect me to buy that, do you?" he demanded, the cultured facade cracking just a bit.
"I hope so, sir, yes," I said. "Because that is why I did it."
For a long moment he studied my face, and I found myself holding my breath.
Brother John's tentacles stretched everywhere, even to backwater worlds likeXathru. A touch of a button, a few pointed words, and I would probably noteven make it out of the StarrComm building alive. A flurry of contingency plans, none of them very promising, began to chase each other through my mind.
And then, suddenly, he smiled again, the chill that had been frosting thescreen vanishing into warm sunshine. "You're a sly one, Jordan—you really are," hesaid, his tone implying that all sins had graciously been forgiven. "Allright; since you've gotten my cargo delivered on time, you may go ahead and take thisother ship and cargo home. Consider it a vacation of sorts for all yourservice these past three years, eh?"
Considering what I'd already been through on the Icarus, this trip was notexactly turning out to be my idea of a good time. But compared to facingBrother John's vengeance, I decided I couldn't complain. "Thank you, Mr. Ryland," Isaid, giving him my best humble gratitude look. "I'll let you know when I'llbe available again."
"Of course you will," he said; and suddenly the warm sunshine vanished againinto an icy winter's night. "Because you still owe us a considerable debt. Andyou know how Mr. Antoniewicz feels about employees who try to leave withoutpaying off their debts."
Involuntarily, I shivered. Mr. Antoniewicz was the head of the wholeorganization, with a shadowy identity that was even more carefully guardedthan Brother John's. Rumor had it that there were already over a thousand warrantsfor his arrest across the Spiral, ranging from happyjam manufacture to massmurder to deliberately starting brush wars so that he could sell arms to bothsides. The badgemen would probably give any two appendages to smoke him out ofhis lair. "Yes, sir," I told Brother John. "I wouldn't want to disappointeither of you."
"Good," he said. His smile shifted to somewhere in early April, glowing withspringtime warmth but with the threat of winter chill still lurking in thewings. "Then I'll let you get back to your new ship. Good-bye, Jordan."
"Good-bye, Mr. Ryland," I said. He glanced up over the camera and nodded, andthe vid went dead.
I sat there scowling at the blank screen for nearly a minute, trying to sortthrough the nuances of the conversation. Something here didn't feel quite right, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out what it was.
And I was painfully aware that that life of me phrasing could well turn out tobe literally the case. If Brother John—or Mr. Antoniewicz above him—decidedthat I had outlived my usefulness or otherwise needed to be made an example of, hewould hardly telegraph that decision by threatening me on an open vid connect.
No, he would smile kindly, just as he had there at the end, and then he wouldtouch that button and say those few pointed words, and I would quietly vanish.
A soft rustling of bills startled me out of my reverie: what was left of myhundred commarks feeding down into the change bin. I collected the bills andcoins together, wondering if I should just go ahead and feed them back in. Icould give Uncle Arthur a call...
With a sigh, I slid the bills loosely into my ID folder and dropped the coinsinto a side pocket. Uncle Arthur had been the conniving benefactor who'dworked so hard to get Ixil and me connected with Brother John in the first place, back when our soaring debts were threatening to land us in fraud court, and I justknew what he would say if I even suggested I might be in trouble with theorganization.