Counterweight (5 page)

He wanted to be angry with her but he had to admit his own
reasons had less to do with affection than they did with a need for acceptance.
In some dark recess of his mind, there lurked a vague hope that she would defy
convention and free him from his family’s undeserved shame.

“I used to sit in that very same spot,” a strong, deep voice
told him.

Rick didn’t need to look over as the older man settled
beside him. “Hi, Dad.”

“You know, I see you walking past our quarters every time
you head up here.” He arched his back. “Wait till you’re my age. You’ll find a lower
place to work out your troubles.”

“What makes you think I’m troubled?”

“’Cause you’re a Heywood,” the old man said mildly, “and I
used to come up here for the same reason.” He looked out at the setting sun,
beams of red and orange shafting through the jungle canopy. “Good place to get
some thinking done, but thinking’s highly overrated, if you ask me…”

“If I could stop, I would.”

The older Heywood nodded. “That was the reason I first came
up here,” he said quietly, looking down at the drop beneath their feet, “to put
an end to the thinking.”

Rick turned his head to look at his father. It wasn’t
entirely surprising to hear he’d considered such a thing. Rick could relate to
that, but it was the first time Carrol Heywood had ever admitted it to his son.

“What stopped you?”

Carrol was quiet for so long that Rick began to think he
wasn’t going to get an answer. When the older man finally spoke, it was a
surprise.

“I’d just found out we were expecting your older brother,”
Carrol said quietly. “What kind of world have we made for ourselves when a
man’s first emotion at such news is guilt? I was dooming him to the same
soul-crushing existence that I’d endured and the shame of it nearly drove me
over the edge.”

Another long silence followed. Rick didn’t want to risk
prompting him for fear of breaking whatever spell had finally led the old man
to open up.

“I realized I wasn’t doing your brother any favors by making
him grow up a pariah
and
an orphan, so I figured I’d better stick
around.” He looked over, waiting for Rick to meet his gaze. “I’m glad I did.”

“I’m glad too, Pop, but…”

“But nothing,” Carrol cut him off firmly. “So people treat
us like dirt – it is what it is.
We
know the truth of things because we
were taught by our parents. The others know hate because
they
were
taught to think that way.”

Carrol put a four-fingered hand on his son’s shoulder. “I
know you’ve been tempted to lash out because I’ve been in your shoes myself,
but you have to remember the stupid bastard in front of you is acting the way
he does because he was
taught
to be that way.”

“I doubt things will change in our lifetimes.” Carrol swung
his legs up onto the hull. “But it doesn’t mean we should stop trying. Now,
help your old man get back on his feet, will ya? You’re brother’s waiting for
me down in dorsal thermodynamics.”

Tsekoh, Capital of Chaco Benthic

T
he
patrons of the small pedway diner grew quiet as Graadt Fell and his two
comrades stalked in through the gate. Graadt shoved an inattentive greeter aside
and headed for a table by the railing.

The small establishment was completely full but that was
hardly a problem if you were in the right frame of mind. He walked up to a
table and grabbed a computer slate from its occupant, flinging it over into the
roiling mists of the atrium. “Time’s up.”

He pulled the Eesari out of his chair and handed him off to
Kaans, who enjoyed throwing people out of places. He turned to claim the still
warm chair when his eyes lighted on the object on the table.

“Kaans,” he growled sharply. Looking up, he saw his man
still holding the Eesari near the gate. “Bring that back over here.” He dropped
his bulk into the seat as the frightened patron was shoved back over to his
former table.

Though the Eesari were a relatively large race, this one
showed no inclination to resist. Graadt and his cronies weren’t exactly
lycohunds
themselves. They were at least twice the size of their Dactari ancestors and
they had an almost feral air about them.

After six generations living on Oudtstone and mixing with
the local primitives, his people had become something new. They’d lost their
tails generations ago. The gene was a recessive one, and Dactari tails would
have had little impact on the balance of such large bodies.

It wasn’t their mixed heritage that made them so
frightening. It was their training. On Oudtstone, standard Dactari training had
been alloyed with the traditional tribal rituals of the natives. Graadt had
needed to spend a full solar cycle on Oudtstone’s second moon, Chokbaan. He,
like all his kind, had been dropped on the surface with nothing but the
clothing on his back. Each year, a shuttle would pick up a limited number of
successful candidates.

If you couldn’t fight your way into one of the pick-up pods,
you never saw home again.

Long months of survival in the deep walds had given him the
raw edge that instilled such fear in this big Eesari, and Graadt simply
accepted it as the normal way of things. Prey feared the predator.

He picked up a small wooden bracelet. “How does a dung-heels
like you get his front paws on spicewood?” He’d been noticing the steady
increase of spicewood objects in Chaco and it was constantly nagging at the
back of his mind. If you weren’t attuned to your environment, it wouldn’t be
long before you became the prey, and this sudden profusion of luxury items
represented a change he couldn’t put his finger on.

The Eesari’s mouth moved but no sound came out.

The corners of Graadt’s mouth twitched up – half grin, half
snarl. “Boys, help him find his slate.”

Kaans and Nid dragged him over to the grimy railing and bent
him over it. A slag carrier passed beneath in the fog, greyish white eddies in
its silent wake. They reached down and grabbed their victim’s feet, lifting
them up so he slid over the rail and hung upside down over the nine-story drop.

The Eesari found his voice. The other patrons guiltily
ignored the screams and concentrated on their meals.

Graadt got out of the chair and leaned over the slick
graphene rail, shoving a mouthful of half-eaten fish into his mouth. “You don’t
expect me to eat with you hanging there shrieking, do you?”

“You were asked a question,” Kaans shouted down at him.
“Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

“It’s cheap,” their victim screamed. “Some shops on
twenty-three, near the pinch, they carry stuff like this.”

“How much was it?” Graadt brought the bracelet to his nose.
His eyebrows shot up.

“Thirty-two hundred credits,” the Eesari whined. “You can
have it…”

Graadt held out the bracelet for Kaans to sniff. “Thirty-two
hundred is cheap for old wood, but this is fresh from the trunk. No way you
paid so little for something this new.”

“It’s true, I didn’t believe the stories myself until I
actually went there.” There was a series of rapid, shallow breaths.

Graadt nodded at his cronies and waited till they pulled him
up. “Near the pinch?” he asked.

A relieved nod.

“What was the name of the place?”

A fearful glance darted at the railing. “Gods, I don’t
remember. I just walked into some stores until I found that bracelet.”

Graadt wanted more information but he’d caught a scent and
he wanted to start the hunt. He grabbed the Eesari’s wrist, holding it up for
Nid to scan with an arm-mounted unit.

“Nish Ainashu,” Nid grunted.

Graadt stepped closer, his face inches from Nish. He cupped
the back of the Eesari’s head with his right hand. “If I decide later that I’m
angry with you, Nish, I’ll come looking for you. You don’t want that to happen,
do you?” The question sounded more like a statement of fact.

A terrified shake of the head.

“Good.” Graadt patted the back of Nish’s head roughly. “You
enjoy your meal.”

He pushed Nish back into his seat. Graadt had suddenly
forgotten he was hungry. He hadn’t given much thought to the profusion of
spicewood because he’d come here to hunt a Human agent, not to trade in luxury
goods. Still, something seemed out of place and he couldn’t afford to ignore it
any longer.

He led his two comrades out of the diner and over to a
loading portal.

There were two lines waiting at the portal.  One was a
regular line where eight ordinary nobodies waited for their vehicles to be
brought up and the other was a priority line where a single Dactari company man
waited for his driver.

The nobodies watched the approaching hunters with mixed
alarm. Graadt approved. They were attuned to their environment. They had the
brains to sense the potential danger he represented.

The Dactari was completely oblivious. He obviously saw
himself as the king of this little corner of the dung-heap and he had no idea
trouble was approaching.

And that trouble was heading right for him. Graadt and his
friends needed a vehicle and the Dactari’s runabout was large, it was
comfortable and it was the only vehicle currently docked.

The company man was just stepping into the back of his
open-top ride when Nid shoved him from behind, sending him sprawling onto the
floor. He rolled onto his back, holding a hand to his nose. Shock and anger
fought for control of his features. The anger won as Graadt leaned over him.

“Hello, little cousin,” Graadt showed him a smile that did
little to reassure. “We need to use your ride for a few minutes; just keep
calm.”

Behind him, Kaans was throwing the driver up onto the
loading platform. Nid hurled the driver’s crown-shaped dash ornament at the
back of his head, whooping with delight as it connected.

“You’re those gods-damned ‘stoners’,” the Dactari
spluttered.

Graadt nodded agreeably. Most full-blooded Dactari used the
name as a pejorative derivative of ‘Oudtstoner’ but Graadt liked the sound of
it. The moniker actually made him seem a little more frightening – a little
more like someone who was outside the rules of orderly civilization.

 “I know what I am, little mouse.” Unlike the Dactari
choice of nickname, the Oudstoner’s handle for their pureblood cousins was
clearly an insult. “Why do you think saying it will improve your
morning?” 

“We turn a blind eye to your activities,” the mouse
protested, “even though your kind are persona non grata in the Republic, but
don’t start thinking you can take liberties with senior planetary officials.”

The Oudstoners were descended from the renegade force led by
Flota Reis Mas of the Krypteia. They fought the Alliance, and they did so more
effectively than Dactari regulars. As a result, the official Republic approach
was to ignore them. Stoners could travel freely within the Republic and their
operators were largely ignored by local military and law enforcement.

They were able to carry out attacks against the Human/Midgaard
Alliance without risking the shaky détente that had existed for the last
fifteen decades. They were unofficial, so blame never came back to the Consul
on Dactar.

It was possible for a stoner to go too far and run afoul of
the local authorities, but Graadt knew he was far from red-lining the current
situation. He noticed a small cooling unit in the back seat bolster and helped
himself to a bottle of water. Despite the city’s location beneath millions of
tons of water, it was still a very expensive product.

The company owned the only desalination plants and they kept
the prices just below the point where riots would have broken out.

He grabbed two more bottles and threw them to Kaans as Nid
maneuvered the vehicle away from the platform. “Senior official…” He let the
words hang there like rotten fruit for a moment. “Why would a senior official
be dressed like five drachmos of dung in a ten drachmo bag? Hmmm?”

The Dactari refused to answer. His clothing was better than
most Tsekoh citizens but he certainly wasn’t dressed like anyone important.

“And why would he be here in a fleet runabout rather than a
personal vehicle?” Graadt took in the view as they ascended. “No, little mouse,
you’re a petty company functionary who’s going to keep his lips glued until we don’t
need his vehicle anymore.”

The mouse squeaked as Nid banked to take them around the
pinch at a more-or-less suicidal speed.

They eased to a halt next to the railing on the commercial
side of twenty three in an area where a rail shop had recently collapsed. There
were thousands of the unlicensed shops throughout the city, clinging to the
outside edge of the railings. They sold anything they could to pedestrians and
the city collected taxes, including a hefty initiation fee, but never issued
them with licenses.

Construction was usually shoddy and collapses were common,
often taking out the shops below them as they fell. The company administrators
didn’t mind because it increased the ratio of initiation fees.

“Hold him here, lads.” Graadt jumped from the side of the
runabout, landing with one foot on the edge of the pedway and both hands on the
railing. He swung his legs over the rail and dropped into the space that had
opened up in the wary pedestrian flow.

“What’s our play?” Kaans called out as he moved back to sit
near the Dactari.

Graadt turned back, sorting out what had, until that moment,
been a collection of hazy thoughts. The instinct of the hunt. “This spicewood
thing is too juicy for our quarry to ignore.” He nodded to himself. “Follow the
spicewood and we’ll cross trails with the Alliance agent soon enough.” He
turned to head into the first store.

Finding that agent would go a long way toward squaring the
three of them with their own people. Being a stoner meant being outside of Republic
society. Being an outcast from the stoners meant you were completely alone.