Other than the temperature and water content of the air, the door debouched into a pleasant-enough little reception/waiting area with a series of padded tuffets for seating, those being the sort of things that almost any species that liked to sit could sit or rest upon without discomfort. I was the only sentient visibly present. I took a blue tuffet beside the half-wall, and waited.
No more than a few minutes later, someone poked their head around the edge of the divider, and my suspicions were confirmed. The being wearing the stationmaster ID flash on their upper torso was bipedal, roughly humanoid in outline, but their integument was, from the front, an almost lusterless, smooth purple-black resembling rubber. They had a head, with four pretty normal eyes—by Terran standards—ranged around it, but the head was otherwise a fairly featureless egg. There were respiration slits between each of the eyes, and on the back of the body was a series of pollen-yellow bladders that lay flat in ranks on either side of the spine.
They were a Ceeharen, a member of a symbiotic, photosynthetic syster species I’d noticed represented in the corridor. They made a pleasant susurrant moaning—which issued from the bladders along their cellulose spine, not from their respiration apparatus—and exhaled a welcoming cloud of oxygen into the room.
Come in, my senso translated their speech. Be welcome. I am designated as [Colonel] [Habren] for these purposes. How may such a one as this assist such a one as you?
I was glad the stationmaster wasn’t human. It limited the chance that they would find the makeup hiding the silver stuff all over my hands and face weird or suspicious. On the other hand, most interspecies advantages flow two ways. I didn’t have a damned idea what they were thinking, either.
I followed Habren in, was seated on one of the ubiquitous tuffets, introduced myself by name and—by his registry number—as Singer’s engineer, and said, “I wanted to thank you personally for the braking assist.”
Of course, Habren said. For humanitarian reasons if nothing else.
They paused.
There is the little matter of justifying your crew continuing to hold right of use to the salvage tug, as it seems the recent cost of your missions has dramatically exceeded their usefulness, and the tug appears damaged. Also there is the little matter of your shipmind’s selective service option having been called in. . . .
“These things are true,” I told them. I steepled my fingers in my lap. “We have some nonmaterial salvage from this past trip that is significantly better than a prize vessel, however. I’d like to speak to the station Goodlaw about it. Do you have a border control vessel in port currently? Or within hailing distance?”
We have a Goodlaw on the station, Habren said. They stretched under the full-spectrum light that bathed their desk. My butt was leaving a pair of hemispherical sweat stains on my tuffet, encouraged by the warmth and humidity, but my lungs and skin were basking in it. Something about that pose, straining—unconsciously?—toward the light, and their lack of access to a Justice vessel that would be more useful to an outpost like this than the constable they did have, made me think the Ceeharen was a little bitter about being exiled out here at the back of beyond. It was administering the kind of station that would never be anything but countless troubles, small and big, without the resources allocated to manage it properly. There was probably nothing the stationmaster could do to stop Freeporters from calling through here, even if they wanted to.
So was it safe telling them what we’d found? Would they pass our identity and registry on to the captain of that Republic ship docked out there, willingly or under duress?
“I would like to speak with the station Goodlaw,” I said. “We have information of significant value regarding piracy and other illegal acts. I think it should more than redeem our debt to society.”
I see, said Habren.
“I also need some information about a syster species.”
Well, that should be possible, if we have it in the databases. Which syster would that be?
“Ah,” I said. “You see. That’s the problem.”
They waited patiently, blinking the eyes in sequence around their head.
“I don’t know which syster it was. I know some details of their physiology.”
Habren continued blinking, and I decided to anthropomorphize that as a show of polite-and-engaged listening and get on with my life.
I said, “Large. Perhaps two times my height, three to five times my mass. Bipedal, with manipulating structures not too unlike these.” I held up a forehand. “Strong preference for what we humans would call earth tones.” I sensoed Habren some absorption data to give it an idea about the colors.
In the answer to one of those ancient philosophical questions, it turns out that nobody’s idea of green is the same as anybody else’s idea of green, at least on a species level—but at least the physics for comparing them all is pretty straightforward.
It blinked again, perhaps reviewing the data. Perhaps stalling for time.
Would you care to share why you require this information?
“I’ll be happy to.” My back was up. I sucked it up against my irrational objections and tuned my irritation back a little. But just a little. Possibly my instincts were telling me something important, and not merely xenophobic. I didn’t trust Habren. But I didn’t know for sure they were one of the bad guys either. “I’ll share it with the Goodlaw as soon as I can get an appointment with it.”
Perhaps it will be able to be more helpful, then. The translator made Habren sound inanely cheerful. Somehow, I doubted its actual expressions of emotion were so chipper. Now, on to the matter of resolving your debt. . . .
“Yes,” I said. “We have no prize.”
We are aware.
“But we do have a good deal of information on Freeport pirate activity off the galactic plane.” I left out the part where we could provide detailed descriptions of what appeared to be salvaged Koregoi tech that they seemed to be using—or stealing from renderers.
I also left out that we’d noticed the pirate ship docked on our way in. Just in case. “That ought to be worth something, right?”
Something, it agreed. I thought, reluctantly.
I pressed on. “And we’ve also found out some interesting information about renderers who are murdering Ativahikas and producing organic devashare in quantity. Traffickers. Including something about their hunting grounds, and the coordinates of one of their victims.”
I really wasn’t going to mention the Koregoi senso to this being, I decided. At the back of my head, I could hear Singer agreeing. We’d send a packet to the Core, just in case. If we could get one out clean, without having to go through Habren’s offices. Or if Singer thought the wheelmind could be trusted.
Could you corrupt a wheelmind?
You could probably convince one that maximum preservation of life required going along with some shady business practices.
The Ativahikas might be grateful for that information, they mused.
They might be. Who could tell? Who could manage to communicate it to them?
“Is that enough to justify our fuel and refit expenses?”
My senso translated the sound it made in reply as a wordless, noncommittal grunt.
There’s also the matter of your shipmind. We have received word that it is selected for service and is requested to be on the next packet Coreward.
The constriction of panic squeezed my lungs.
“I believe he is aware of this selection, and is filing for an extension as we speak. Our intention is to move Coreward as soon as our ship is spaceworthy again, which would actually get him there faster than if he went into service todia, given relative speeds of a direct route and a packet. Never mind the fuel savings.”
We will have to research whether fuel can be allotted. And other consumables, of course. You will no doubt require sustenance of various kinds for such a long journey.
The constriction eased a bit, but only a bit. The damned plant was dragging me. What did it want? A bribe of some kind? Or just to slow us down?
I tuned myself until I could say “That seems reasonable” and sound like I meant it. I thought to myself, Oh slightly corrupt stationmaster, what do you want? What is your motive for being pointlessly obstructionist?
And was I confused, or had the obstructionism kicked in when I started asking about the Mystery Systers from the Milk Chocolate Marauder?
What was going on with Habren, then?
Maybe they just hated being exiled to the ass-back of nowhere on this shitty station without enough resources to control it properly. Maybe they wanted out, or enough resources allotted to help them fight the pirates. Or maybe they themselves were beholden to pirates. They probably had no choice but to deal with them occasionally, so far from the might of the Core.
And either they did not wish to be so beholden, and were willing to bend rules for what seemed to them a good purpose—or they didn’t mind at all, because the pirates were paying.
Possibly I’d just given away a lot of useful information to the people who were hunting us.
It occurred to me that it was possible that the alien tech in my skin could by itself buy Habren an awful lot of goodwill and resources. Then it took all my willpower not to start picking self-consciously at the skin on my hand.