Freelance On The Galactic Tunnel Network by E. Foner (best beach reads of all time TXT) 📗

and Vergallian customs has a whole thing with hazardous chemical control forms I’d just as soon avoid.”

The woman snorted and looked off to her right, obviously getting information from somebody who was invisible to the camera. “You have to identify yourself as a reporter when I ask if you’re with the Galactic Free Press, and I’m asking.”

“Not me,” John said and laughed. “It would make me very unhappy should word of our business get around.”

The woman stared out of the viewscreen at him for almost a half a minute before making up her mind. “We’ll divert the waste ejection for thirty seconds when you approach, but longer than that, you’re going to get the paint sand-blasted off your pretty ship. Our bay can fit four ships your size, and there’s only one in there at the moment, so you shouldn’t have any trouble landing. If your approach looks wrong to our factory controller, it will blast you with the primary asteroid defense system, so don’t screw around.”

“Got it,” John said. “Estimated time of arrival—”

“Thirty-seven minutes,” the ship’s controller put in.

The viewscreen went back to showing the asteroid belt, but both men were pressed into their seats as the ship accelerated. Despite the fact that asteroid belts throughout the galaxy were famed for being mainly space and very little asteroid, the ship had to perform multiple course corrections to avoid debris on the way to the Gzelda, leaving neither man in the mood for chitchat. Thirty-seven minutes and eighteen seconds later, the two-man Sharf trader decelerated hard as the simple momentum scavenging field favored by Frunge shipbuilders brought it to rest in the docking bay.

“Factory ships always look beat up, but this one must be around a million years old,” John commented on the image presented by the main viewscreen as he unbuckled his safety restraints.

“Don’t radiation and metal fatigue cut that short?” Mario asked.

“I wasn’t being literal, but the Frunge are advanced enough to have workarounds, though nothing as reliable as Stryx stasis fields.” He activated his magnetic cleats and swung around in the chair to bring his boots into contact with the deck. Then he shuffled to a locker, palmed it open, and removed a belt with a holstered Dollnick stunner. “Listen,” John said. “I don’t expect trouble here, but if anything does happen, just tell them the truth about hitching a ride.”

“I’m not a hero, but I’ll take one of those if you’ve got a spare,” the young man offered. “I had one on my ship but I didn’t get a chance to grab it. The repossession happened so quickly.”

John shot an appraising look at his passenger, and then removed another belt from the locker and pushed it gently across the cabin in Zero-G. Mario caught it, fastened the belt, and checked the charge on the power pack. There was a loud banging from below, and rather than making their hosts wait, John ordered the controller to lower the ramp as he headed for the ladder.

The woman who had answered the comms was accompanied by three muscle-bound thugs who didn’t look like they knew anything about running a metallurgical factory ship. They were halfway up the ramp by the time John and Mario were in position to meet them.

“Where is it?” she demanded.

“Controller, work lighting,” John instructed. “All of those drums behind the netting are hydrochloric acid, and the stackable containers with the skull and crossbones are the cyanide.”

“Nice artwork,” the woman said grudgingly. “Do it yourself?”

“I have a stencil,” John admitted. “I’ll trade you for straight weight in nickel ingots unless you’d rather pay in gold.”

The oldest joke in space drew a short bark of laughter from the leader and smirks from her three musclemen, decreasing the tension in the hold by several degrees.

“Ten ingots for the lot and you don’t have to fill out any forms,” she countered.

“Fifteen, and five minutes of your time,” John said. “I’ve got a good source for this stuff and I’m trying to build a steady customer base who can take quantity.”

“My time is worth more than that,” the woman said. “Ten ingots and I’ll join you on your bridge while these four make the exchange.”

“Fair enough. Mario, make sure you load an ingot for every two drums and three containers that goes out.”

“Got it, boss,” the young man said.

The woman nodded for John to precede her up the ladder, leaving the four younger men to work the transfer. Once they reached the bridge, she looked around, and spotting the manual override to close the hatch, hit it. “A little privacy,” she said.

“We may be on my ship, but we’re inside your ship,” John pointed out.

“I’m just a hired gun who knows how to run the equipment because I worked a twenty-year contract for the Frunge, but as a technician, not a captain,” she said. “I committed to six months here to get the operation up and running for SHARE, and believe you me, I won’t be signing an extension. My name’s Liz,” she added, looking him straight in the eyes. “Liz Barnes, and I run the operation the way they tell me. You happened to come on a day that my minder is off giving somebody else a hard time or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“But you’re authorized to trade…”

“Those ten ingots wouldn’t pay for twenty percent of what you’re giving me and you know it. You’re some kind of cop, aren’t you? Are you working for the Frunge? The Drazens? I was in a bad situation when I took this deal and I had no way of knowing how SHARE operated.” She reached in her coverall’s pocket and pulled out a data chip that might have been for a home entertainment system. “Names, dates, documents. I’ve been hoping somebody like you would come along and I want to make a deal.”