Weird Space 2: Satan's Reach (2 page)

He’d snapped, plotted his escape, and a month later stole a small starship and lit out for the closest sector of space not under Expansion authority, Satan’s Reach.

He’d had his ship’s computer nexus synthesise the data-pin and create new songs – jazz, opera, and popular ballads, from his mother’s voice. He even reprogrammed the ship’s neutral male voice to sound like his mother’s sweet, soothing contralto.

And it was this that lulled Harper to sleep as the ship spiralled down to the surface of Ajanta.

“W
AKE UP,
D
EN.
We’re coming in to land.”

He awoke from the usual dream: a bounty hunter had caught up with him, was raising a laser to his forehead and pressing the firing stud – dispensing the summary justice meted out to all absconding telepaths.

He awoke with a cry, sat up and worked to calm himself.

The ship was coming in low over darkened jungle. Ahead, a cluster of lights denoted the spaceport. Beyond was a further sprawl of lights, the city of Kuper’s End.

“Local time?” he asked.

“Just after seven in the evening.”

“How long’s a day last here?”

“Ajanta spins fast, Den. A day is a little under eighteen hours, with just ten hours of daylight, though daylight is a misnomer as the level of light rarely reaches that of terrestrial twilight. We’re a long way from the sun.”

Through the viewscreen Harper made out the red dwarf sun balanced just above the jungle horizon. It dropped like a red-hot coin as he watched, and minutes later was lost to sight.

Judi
hovered above the ’port, its apron pocked with docking rings and cradle berths. He counted a dozen ships, small traders like his own and much larger transport liners. It was a quiet ’port, compared to many, which all things considered was not that surprising.

They landed with a cannonade of multiple concussions as the docking ring took hold and a dozen grabs made the ship stable.

“If you could establish a link with whoever’s in charge of trade here, send them our details and request the transfer.”

“Will do.”

Six hours, at most, and then plain sailing all the way to Amahla...

He climbed from pilot’s sling and stood before the viewscreen, staring out across the ’port. He made out a line of ornate buildings, constructed from what looked like timber. The terminal buildings had an ancient, down-at-heel appearance, and he wondered if this was indicative of the city beyond the perimeter.

Minutes later
Judi
said, “There is a problem, Den.”

“Go on.”

“The ’port has warehousing facilities, but the purchaser of the engine does not have an office in the terminal. So although we can authorise the unloading of the goods, the transaction can only be ratified – and the goods paid for – at his workplace.”

“Don’t tell me,” Harper said. “That’s in the city, right?”

“Correct.”

Harper swore, then said, “Okay. Contact the merchant and see if he’ll meet me at the terminal. I’m sure we can conduct business there.”

“I will try, Den.”

The minutes elapsed. A sliding scale at the foot of the viewscreen indicated that the temperature outside was in the nineties, with a humidity rating of fifty-nine. The old star captain’s description of Ajanta as a sweltering hell-hole was no exaggeration.

“Den, the merchant refuses to come to the terminal building. He insists that all business must be conducted at his premises.”

He had little option but to concede to the merchant’s demands. “Very well then. If he’s there now, I’ll leave immediately.”

“Krier Rasnic informs me that he will be at his desk until midnight.”

“Inform the good Rasnic that I’ll meet him at his office, but don’t release the engine until you hear from me. I’ll want his address and the directions.”

He moved to his bed-chamber behind the bridge and slipped a velveteen case from a drawer. He withdrew the loop of his ferronnière, placing it around his head, and ducked to check the result in the mirror. The silver filament of the ferronnière showed through his curls. It might arouse comment, which he could do without. He opened a storage unit, selected a hat – a navy blue tricorne – and set it on his head at a jaunty angle, concealing the ferronnière.

He would only activate the amplification device in the company of the merchant, he decided, to ensure Rasnic’s probity. The idea of opening his mind to the thoughts of the locals for a prolonged period did not appeal.

Two minutes later
Judi
relayed Rasnic’s address and Harper stepped out into the sweltering heat of the Ajantan evening.

T
HE CITY OF
Kuper’s End was laid out on a grid pattern of narrow canals. He was surprised to find that not the slightest hint of modernity informed the architecture of the city. He’d seen pictures of cities on mediaeval Earth, of crooked timber buildings crowding over narrow streets like a convocation of ruffians up to no good, but he’d never expected to experience their like in reality. He felt as if he were walking through a museum, and this in turn gave him the idea that the people bustling through the many night-markets and over the humpback bridges that spanned the canals were no more than hired extras. This impression was heightened by the bizarre nature of their attire. The men wore dour blousons and puffed leggings, the women long skirts and layered top-coats. They spoke the
lingua franca
of the Reach – a corrupted form of Anglais – with broad, rustic accents. He listened to the cries of street-hawkers and stall-holders, and wondered at first if the language was indeed his own. Only when his hearing accustomed itself to the extended, fruity vowels did he make sense of the sounds: “Fine bellyfish fresh from the drink!” sang one ancient crone, while another waved a fistful of black berries at him and cried, “Nightfruit, ten francs a dozen!”

He was further surprised by the nature of the illumination above the market stalls. At first he thought the balls of light floating above his head were ingeniously lighted balloons, until he stopped directly beneath one and looked up. It was tethered by a length of string to the awning of a stall, but that was its only similarity to a balloon. The light was a living creature, a bloated insect whose abdomen pulsed a steady sulphurous glow.

He walked on, his way lighted by these bizarre entomological illuminations.

The claustrophobic nature of the city, with its crowded streets, narrow alleys and squashed bridges, was exaggerated by the proximity of the crowding jungle which pressed in on all sides. The animal calls that issued from the surrounding darkness only served to befuddle his already confused senses; it didn’t help that he was unable to identify the nature of the beasts responsible for the cacophony of shrill howls, moans and guttural roars that competed with the more mercantile cries of the stallholders.

At least, he thought as he hurried over an arched bridge, he had yet to bump into a native of the planet.

He followed
Judi’s
directions and found himself on a broad boulevard that ran between a canal and a higgledy-piggledy line of timber dwellings behind which loomed the inky jungle. This was Spinner’s Way, and in the third building along the street was housed the venerable company of Rasnic, Rasnic and Gotfried, General Merchants.

And yet the third house along the row appeared to be a public hostelry, not a merchant’s shop. The carousing clientele had spilled from the building and stood in noisy knots, enjoying flagons of ale in the humid evening air. Harper looked right and left, thinking he’d mistaken
Judi
’s directions, but the premises on either side of the inn were shuttered and in darkness.

There was little else for it but to enquire within.

Enduring the curious stares of the locals, he pushed through the crowd and stepped into the warped timber interior of the inn which was named – he read on a sign above the door –The Rat and Corpse.

He had expected the interior to be a facsimile of the scene outside – rowdy quaffing accompanied by much noise. He was surprised to find himself in a plush, timber-panelled public bar occupied by sedate, seated drinkers, of both sexes, intent on a small stage situated at the far end of the long room.

He approached the bar and asked a small, dumpling-shaped woman the whereabouts of the premises of Rasnic, Rasnic and Gotfried. The barmaid screwed her face into an expression of mystification and made him repeat his request. His words, enunciated this time with exaggerated care, elicited a look of enlightenment. She pointed over his shoulder and said something incomprehensible.

He looked behind him, expecting to see an exit leading to an alley or some such, but instead saw only a wall of timber drinking booths.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the woman.

“Krier Rasnic, yes! There be ’is office. Here till midnight, every night he be. Take a seat.”

“Ah...” Harper said, staring at the indicated booth. “But I don’t see Rasnic...”

“He’ll be makin’ room for more,” said the woman. “Take a seat, and no doubt it’s a jar you’ll be wantin’?”

She pulled him a flagon of foul-smelling ale, and when he proffered his data-pin she stared at it with disgust. “Cash here. None of your fancy pins, m’boy. But fret not, I’ll put it on Rasnic’s slate and he’ll add the cost to his bill.”

Nodding his thanks, Harper carried his flagon to the booth and sat down.

The ale tasted as noxious as its odour promised. He glanced at an open door marked ‘Gents’, but of Rasnic there was no sign.

At the far end of the room, four members of a pipe band stepped onto the stage, and a murmur of appreciation passed around the room. Seconds later a slim, dark-skinned woman of uncommon beauty took centre stage to a patter of muted applause.

She stood upright, her face downcast, and remained like this while the pipers began a sad refrain. The reedy notes twisted and twined, producing a tune that suggested melancholy and grief. The tempo increased, became upbeat, and the woman began ever so slightly to tap her foot, then to sway sinuously to the rhythm.

Harper watched, quite captivated.

He judged that the woman was perhaps ten years younger than himself, perhaps twenty, with a midnight cataract of jet black hair, a thin black face and huge obsidian eyes. Her face appeared so singular as to be almost alien, and Harper did indeed wonder if she were human. She swayed back and forth, lost in a transport of identification with the mellifluous strains, and a minute later began to sing.

Her voice was high and fluid, and trilled a tale of loss and lament, though Harper was quite unable to make out a single word. If she were singing in Anglais, then it was in a dialect so corrupted as to be incomprehensible. Then again it might have been a foreign language.

Her song came to an end, but the music continued; the audience applauded, and Harper clapped in appreciation. The woman’s dark eyes scanned the drinkers, saw him and seemed to linger before passing on, and he wondered if his off-worlder’s apparel had caught her attention.

Perhaps, many years ago, his mother had enjoyed appreciative audiences like this one.

“Eye not the bitch, for she be promised.”

Startled, Harper looked up. “Excuse me?”

The fat stranger belched. “The bitch be promised and she’s as good as meat already,” he said.

Harper shrank back, hoping that the drunkard would pass by, but to his surprise the man slumped into the opposite seat and said, “You be ’Arper, no doubt?” He frowned at the untouched flagon and went on, “And Aggy foisted a jar of wash on you, for shame. Aggy!” he yelled to the bar. “Two jars of Finest and no scant measures!”

“Why, thank you,” Harper said. He reached out a hand. “I take it I have the pleasure of addressing Krier Rasnic?”

They shook. “And no other,” Rasnic said with a belch. He was in his fifties, squat and exceedingly ugly, with a bald bullet of a head, his face a playground of pustules and warts. His eyes, however, belied his general air of drunken dishevelment. They were brilliant blue and piercing.

Harper looked around him. “Rather unique office, if I may say?”

“You may. Been said before by off-worlders, but what do they know? Papers?”

“Ah...” Harper held up his data-pin, and Rasnic almost spat at the sight of it.

“No, no, no... At the warehouse, when you off-loaded the goods. They should’ve given you the papers for me to...” He waved a hand, interrupted by Aggy bearing two flagons of ale which smelled as unpleasant as the first.

Harper sipped. The pungent brew tasted only marginally less vile than the first. He smiled politely and said, “The engine is still aboard my ship. I intend to release it only when I’ve been paid.”

“But how do I know that the goods are in order? Answer me that.” Rasnic pointed at Harper’s pin. “That might contain nothing but lies. For all I know your engine might be no more than an empty box!”

Harper smiled again and began to reassure Rasnic, but the other waved his reassurances away.

Harper reached under his tricorne, ostensibly to scratch his head, and activated his ferronnière. A brief scan of Rasnic’s addled sensorium would ensure him that the merchant was attempting no duplicity.

He slid the switch and suddenly the room around him blazed with the actinic flare of mind-noise. He read murder in the mind of a nearby man, grief and despair in another. A thousand emotions swirled in an incoherent maelstrom that Harper struggled, with depressing familiarity, to modulate. He concentrated, focussed, and directed a probe across the table.

But where Rasnic’s mind should have blazed there was nothing but an opaque blankness, an emptiness. Harper’s probe slid off and around the lacuna where the merchant’s mind should have been... and his alarm intensified.

It could only mean one thing. Krier Rasnic was shielded, and if Harper had learned one thing in his years as a star trader, it was not to trust a shielded merchant.

He attempted to present an unruffled exterior while his mind raced with a dozen malign possibilities.

“Nothing for it,” Rasnic said, “but I’ll have to go to the ’port and check myself.” His shrewd gaze pierced Harper. “Put me to a lot of trouble, young man.”