Besides, it was unlikely that he would lift a finger to try to help me even ifI did call him. In his own way, he was as much a reclusive figure as Mr.
Antoniewicz, and he had made it abundantly clear that he liked it that way. Itwould serve him right if he had to read about my death on the newsnets.
Overhead, the lights flickered twice, a gentle reminder that my call wasfinished and others were waiting their turn for the booth. Standing up, Ipulledmy plasmic from its holster nestled beneath my left armpit, checked the powerpack and safety, then returned the weapon to concealment, making sure it wasloose enough for a quick draw if necessary. Then, taking a deep breath, Iunsealed the door and stepped out into the corridor.
None of the dozen or so people present shouted in triumph or whipped out aweapon. In fact, none of them gave me so much as a second glance as I made myway back down the corridor to the main lobby. Aiming for an unoccupied cornerwhere I could have at least a modicum of privacy, I pulled out my phone andpunched Ixil's number.
He answered on the third vibe. "Yes?"
"It's Jordan," I told him. "What's your status?"
"I've landed and finished the entry forms," he said. I had to hand it to him; not a single cue anywhere in words or tone to indicate the surprise he wasundoubtedly feeling at hearing from me here on Xathru. I could imagine Pix andPax were doing some serious twitching, though. "I've also made contact withthe local representative and started off-loading the cargo."
"Good." So we were almost rid of Brother John's happyjam. Best news I'd heardall day. "When you're finished, upgrade to a long-term docking permit, lockdown the ship, and get yourself over to Dock Rec Three-Two-Seven."
There was just the briefest pause. "Trouble?"
"You could say that, yes," I told him. "Our mechanic was killed during theflight, and I need a replacement. You're it."
"An accident?"
I grimaced. "At this point I'm not really sure. Better come prepared."
Once again, he took it all in stride. "I'll be there in forty minutes," hesaid calmly.
"I'll be there in thirty," I said, hoping fervently that I wasn't being overlyoptimistic. "See you soon."
I keyed off and, squaring my shoulders, crossed the lobby and headed out intothe sunlight, tension and uncertainty mixing together to make the skin on myback crawl. Just because nothing had happened to me in the StarrComm buildingdidn't mean it wasn't going to happen somewhere else between here and theIcarus.
"Hey, Hummer," a crackly voice came from my left.
I jumped, hand twitching automatically toward my hidden gun. But it was only aGrifser, his tiny eyes peering up at me from leprous-looking skin, his spindlypaws held out pleadingly. Brother John might use aliens from time to time whenthey suited his purposes, but he would never use them to discipline one of hisown people, even a lowly smuggler in his final disgrace. Like most of theSpiral's criminal organizations—human and alien both—the Antoniewiczorganization was oddly but vehemently ethnocentric. "What?" I asked.
"You got any caff?" the alien asked plaintively. "I pay. You got any caff?"
"Sorry," I said, brushing past. Grifsers were absolutely nuts for Earth-stylecaffeinated beverages or snacks—it actually qualified as a drug for them, putting it on the controlled substance list anyplace they had a decent-sizedenclave. Elsewhere in the Spiral, they created nuisances of themselves aroundspaceport entrances and tavernos, but most of them knew how to more or lessgraciously take no for an answer. Those who weren't feeling all that graciouswere usually at least smart enough not to press the point with beings halfagaintheir size and twice their weight.
This particular Grifser was apparently on the trailing edge of both those bellcurves. "No!" he insisted, darting around behind me and coming up again on myright. "Caff caff—now now! Will pay for it."
"I said no," I snapped, reaching out to push him away. I didn't have time forthis nonsense.
"Caff!" he insisted, grabbing my arm and hanging on to it like a mottled-skinleech. "Give me caff!"
Swearing under my breath, I grabbed one of his paws and pried it off. I wasworking on prying the other away when a long arm snaked its way around my backfrom my left to an overly familiar resting place just beneath the right sideof my rib cage. "Hello, old Hummer chum," a voice crooned into my left ear.
I turned my head to find myself gazing at close range into an alien face thatlooked like a topographical map of the Pyrenees. "If you don't mind, friend—"
"Ah—but I do mind," he said. His hand shifted slightly, clipping expertlyunder the edge of my jacket and then burrowing upward to rest against my rib cageagain.
And suddenly the hard knot of his fist was joined by something else. Somethingthat felt cold through my shirt and very, very sharp. "It's a wrist knife," myassailant confirmed in a low voice. "Don't make me use it."
"Not a problem," I assured him, feeling chagrined, scared, and stupid all atthe same time. Brother John had totally blindsided me on this one, catching melike some fool fresh off the cabbage truck.
From my right another of his species appeared, tossing a four-pack of cola tothe Grifser with one hand as he reached under my jacket and relieved me of myplasmic with the other. "Now," the first said as their decoy ran off gurglingwith delight over his prize. "Let's go have ourselves a nice little chat."
Flanking me on either side like a couple of long-lost friends, they guided me through the usual crowd of spaceport traffic, along a couple of narrow andincreasingly depopulated service streets, and eventually into a blind alleyblocked off at the far end by a warehouse loading dock. It was a long way togo, I thought, for what was going to be only tentative privacy.
But more importantly, from my point of view anyway, the trip itself wasalreadya major blunder on their part. The ten-minute walk had given me enough time torecover from the shock and start thinking again, and that thinking hadpersuadedme that my original assessment had indeed been the correct one. Whoever thesethugs were, they weren't Brother John's enforcers. Not just because he didn'tlike aliens, but because his boys would have dropped me right there in frontof the StarrComm building instead of engaging in all this unnecessary exercise.
All of which boiled down to the fact that, whatever I wound up having to do tothem, no one was likely to care very much. At least, that's what I hoped itboiled down to.
They settled me with my back against the loading dock and took a prudentcoupleof steps away. The first was now holding his wrist knife openly: a kind ofpushknife sticking out from his palm at right angles to his arm, the weaponstrappedto his hand and wrist so that it couldn't be snatched or kicked out of his hand.
The other was holding my plasmic loosely at his side, not crassly pointed butready if it was needed. Both aliens were roughly human in height and build, Icould see now, except with simian-length arms and foreshortened torsos. Therelief-map look of their faces was repeated over their entire bodies, or atleast the parts that were visible sticking out of the long brown neo-Greektunics they were wearing.
"If this is a shakedown, I'm already broke," I warned, getting in the firstword just to irritate them as I gave their outfits a casual once-over. There wereno bulges or asymmetric bagginess that I could see. Either they didn't have anybackup weapons at all—which would be pretty careless on their part—or elsetheywere holstered behind their backs.
"It's not a shakedown," Lumpy One said, waving his wrist knife back toward themain docking area. "We want your cargo."
I blinked in surprise. "You want to steal fifty cases of combine machineparts?"
I asked incredulously.
They exchanged furtively startled glances. "That's not what you're carrying,"
Lumpy Two growled.
I shrugged. "That's what it says on the manifest and the crates. If there'sanything else in there, the Barnswell Depot is going to have a lot ofexplainingto do."