correct. I'm sorry I haven't let you know my intentions. We're going to take a roundabout route to the Rim."
"Sir, I have computed the time of jump; six days, sixteen hours plus; with our current relative heading vector, unless my midbrain is scrambled, I'd say we were headed for the Junkyard and Glass-Eyes Paradise."
"Nothing wrong with your computational skills, Mister Ing; as a matter of fact they are excellent."
Strange ripples moved across his body but no sound came forth.
"Do I detect distress, Mr. Ing?"
"Well...er..Captain, are you aware Glass-Eyes himself has a standing bounty of ten thousand gold solars for a Whistler carcass...alive or dead?"
"Ten thousand solars? IMP, what is the condition of the exchequer? What do you think, men, ten thousand solars would throw one hell of a party on Joy. Begging your pardon, ladies."
There was a lot of cheering and comments flying around. Even the IMP joined in, although Piehl couldn't imagine what the IMP would do on Joy.
"I think for the good of the ship, a crew member should be willing to make a few sacrifices. What about it, Mr. Ing?" Piehl said with a straight face.
"Hah, hah, hah. A good one, sir, yes indeed. We Whistlers are known for our fine sense of humor." His voice died away.
"Not to worry, Mr. Astrogator, we do need a first class man for the jumps, and I don't know where we would find someone with as good a singing voice. We'll just have to see that no one collects that bounty. What does Glass-Eyes want with one of you fellow's hides?"
"As I understand it, sir, he wants to use the individual resonators for some bizarre musical instrument." The outrage poured off his body.
Flex spoke up. "Now that's a great idea. Look, Mr. Ing, let's you and I get together and talk about this. I've got some great ideas how you and I might turn a credit or two." The two of them left the flight deck amid the others' laughter.
"Major Tenn'ek, you and the sergeant have the watch. The IMP will monitor all systems and keep security," said Piehl.
Things settled down to normal routine for jump-time. One got to hear everyone's stories three or four times, sleep as much as they could and work at keeping the ship in good running order, although there was little of that with the Wellspring.
It appeared that they had gotten away clean, so Piehl wondered why he felt jumpy. It was too easy. He found it hard to believe that if Trone wanted to make trouble, he wouldn't have the resources to destroy them and get away with it.
Chapter 9
They're going where!" Trone's normally remote voice rose to a screech of rage. The agent on the other end of the secure comm-line trembled with apprehension. Even though he was thousands of miles away in Central City, he felt the threads of his future unwind.
Trone took a moment to regain control. "Tell me what you know, every detail."
"Sir, I have a confirmed report from our man on LaGrange III that I.M.S. Wellspring, Captain A.J. Piehl commanding, has jumped from within the safety envelope of LaGrange IV to a location in the rough vicinity of Heara in Beta Crucis.
"The data taken on the Mass Event, even though the ship was cloaked, is accurate to eight figures. They are going direct. There didn't seem to be any effort to disguise their destination. This all took place about fifteen minutes ago, Milord."
Trone was silent for a moment. "Thank you for your prompt report. Your diligence will be rewarded. That is all." Trone had turned the line off before he could hear the man's sigh of relief.
The second shoe had dropped. First he'd had the report on the fiasco at the docking bay. Krasnieven's work, he thought with disgust. By now those people should be dead, instead Krasnieven loses ten men killed, the tracer discovered and the lot of them thoroughly alerted for trouble.
Now this. What else does he know? Why straight toward Haera? Has my network been penetrated? Piehl, I should have killed you years ago when I had the chance.
The computers had forecast it then. He'd programmed them himself and asked a question that was the entire purpose of the program.
"Computer", he'd asked, "given my goals, who are the most dangerous individuals in the Western Arm?” Some of the names had surprised him and some not at all. What had surprised him was how high up on the list Piehl's name had been. At the time Piehl was in Valshorn Prison so he disregarded the information. Others on the list weren't so fortunate.
He sat in the humid atmosphere of the ancient stone and metal room pondering everything he knew about Piehl.
Why did he go to Haera with the Princess Iralane aboard if he knew there might be trouble out that way. The crew is nothing. A Whistler. A retired lush of a Sergeant Major in the Royal Marines. Hmmm, he might be an agent for the King. A Sufic Warrior of the Household Guard. That was natural with the women aboard. His old cell-mate, Flight Major Holtzman. And the women. It doesn't make any sense.
Ahhh, yes. The Junkyard! Of course. He must not be allowed to contact Glass Eyes; that stupid, greedy little man knows too much.
One of Trone's skills was to examine and decide and move on to the next problem. He issued orders to a null-space communications expert and went to the next item of his agenda, the King. Piehl would die where he'd spent most of his life, in space.
Chapter 10
Piehl had his reasons for wanting to go to the Junkyard. Despite its location toward the galactic core, it was intimately connected to the Dark Worlds. The Junkyard was in fact the biggest fencing operation in the Western Arm, and as such was a prime location for information, and information was what he wanted most.
Very little was known about the Dark Worlds. There were historical records and ethnological survey data, but it was mostly the product of university studies and government surveys; ergo, garbage.
At the Junkyard anything could be had for a price and this time Piehl had the credits to pay.
The Junkyard had its genesis shortly after the Eridani conflict early in the 3rd Imperium. There was a tremendous logistics problem. Thousands of ships, satellites comm-stations, all the hardware of a long war had to be disposed of. Some rear-echelon chair warmer had fired up his star-vue and arbitrarily picked a location in the middle of nowhere, near the lone blue-white sun, Haera.
It became the dumping ground of everything, all the debris of a outward moving, space faring civilization. Then, over the centuries, it was sold to a variety of loners and criminals, few of whom were even vaguely honest; right up to the current owner, Glass Eyes Paradise. He was decidedly criminal.
Each of the owners had added to the inventory, the flotsam and jetsam of planetary castoffs. It was a dumping ground, a junkyard on a Promethean scale.
Few remembered what Glass-Eye's real name was. There was a rumor that he had been a tax collector in the old Imperium. A man whose cruelty and avarice couldn't be swept under the rug. Finally, even that vice-ridden crew had to get rid of him before they were all exposed.
Now he was the Junkman, a dealer in stolen goods,
