"I've got to hand it to you, Harvey," said the man sitting across from me. "I've seen you looking rough before, but never like this."
The Starburst bar was about three quarters full at that hour, but then it usually was. Spaceports never close, which means that spaceport bars also work around whatever clock the locals use. No matter what the hour, the Starburst and the half dozen or so other other watering holes within stumbling distance of it were always busy, serving a mixed audience of about two dozen species from all over the galaxy.
I looked at him without much enthusiasm.
"Like I told you, Deke, it's been tough lately."
The look he gave me in return was as sympathetic as always. Which is to say, not at all.
"Tough how?"
I found a sigh without trying, knowing that I would have to tell him. You see, Deke Ryder is my cargo broker on Radix. I needed him. And we both knew it.
The thing is this: when you're making a living as an independent interstellar cargo hauler, you end up spending most of your time being a trader. Not by choice, but out of necessity. Unless you can get a haulage contract to ship cargo for somebody else for a flat fee (which happens occasionally but not too often) you have to trade for your own cargo. You make a living by locating goods that are cheap wherever you happen to find yourself; buying them and then shipping them to another place where those same goods are worth a fortune. There you sell them. If you get it right, the profit you make will cover your expenses and buy you a living. If you don't get it right, you lose your shirt.
While that doesn't sound too bad in theory, the problem is that the position from which you have to negotiate is terrible. You can't move on to the next port until you sell your cargo and buy a new one, and everyone knows it. Not only that, but spaceports charge for berth by the hour, so the more time you spend trying to get a decent deal, the deeper the berthing fees will cut into your bottom line. Any trader you deal with knows he's got you by the spheroids, and he won't hesitate to squeeze until you scream for mercy.
Which is where your friendly spaceport cargo broker comes in. Cargo brokers have their offices at the larger spaceports, and they specialize in trading with independent interstellar cargo haulers such as yours truly. The cargo broker has a fairly easy job: both incoming spacers and local manufacturers will come to him, eager to sell, and all he has to do is make arrangements with buyers to come and collect their merchandise from the spaceport, so his expenses are minimal. He's also secure in the knowledge that he is a necessary evil, and being necessary is absolutely essential for a middleman. On the other hand, he needs repeat business and lots of it, so it's in his own interest not to squeeze you too hard. In the end you make some money, he makes some money, and everyone's happy.
It also means that when you meet with your broker, he's buying the drinks. Which suited me fine right now, because I needed several stiff drinks rather badly. However, another unwritten rule of the brokerage game meant that it was up to me to stay sober enough not to do anything stupid, like signing a haulage contract without reading the small print. Deke has always given me a fair shake so far, but there's a first time for everything. If I got too faded before signing a contract, I'd be a chump, deserving everything I got, and everyone would know it. Still, there's usually a certain basic level or trust between spacers and their long-time brokers, and Deke and I were no exception to that rule. Which meant I would have to tell him exactly how badly I was stuck right now.
"Well," I said, taking a deep breath, "For starters, I just came in from Tau. You know about what's been happening there?"
"Some major in-system war, I hear. Not sure how bad it really is, though."
"Trust me, it's bad. Very bad. They've set up grav tractors in the inner asteroid belt to bombard each other with interplanetary debris. Have you ever seen what happens when a hundred thousand tons or so of interplanetary rock hits the surface of a planet at orbital velocity?"
I reached for my glass and drained it in one gulp. Whatever he had poured me burned its way down my throat, but at least it seemed to have some sort of numbing effect.
"Let's just say that none of us will be trading with Tau anytime soon."
I waited for Deke to pour me another one. This time I took a smaller sip.
"Great gods, Deke, what is this stuff?"
"Nothing but the best for you, Harvey, as always. Are you sure that Tau is no longer an option?"
I nodded.
"I was hauling metals, as usual. But I couldn't find a buyer."
Deke seldom shows much on his face, but this time he was clearly surprised. I couldn't blame him. Tau Ceti, with its two habitable planets, is seriously deficient in metals, so any sort of refined metal is always in demand there.
"Deke, there's simply nobody left to sell it to. All the major industrial centers are smoking craters now. I'm telling you; they're pounding each other back into the stone age over there. There was a bright flash in my rear camera when I took off from Tau One, so I don't think the port is even still there anymore. It's probably been replaced with a glass-lined crater by now. Trust me, we can all forget Tau for the next century or so."
I took another sip of my drink.
"Anyway. There I was, with a cargo that nobody would pay me a milli-credit for, and I clearly needed to get both my ass and my ship out of there quickly. So I did the only thing I could, which was to dump my cargo and write it off, and take on a passenger instead."
"Doesn't sound too bad," Deke said. "There must have been a lot of people wanting to get out rather badly."
One thing that I have always respected Deke for is his impartial attitude to aliens. Deke and I are both human, and he's one of the few humans I know who actually seem to appreciate non-human species as much as I do. To us they're all just people, no matter what their species. Except for Tragulans, of course, but that's only because of their rather unappetizing alternative to an internal digestive system. With pretty much all other species I'm fine, and so is he. Unfortunately, that particular trait hadn't helped me much at Tau.
"Well..." I said slowly, taking a deep breath, "Picture this. The locals are all busy obliterating each other. Spacers like me have their ships to worry about, and they either manage to refuel or they die trying. So what's left?"
Deke shrugged.
"Foreign diplomats, Deke, that's what. And the problem with foreign diplomats is that they're not welcome just anywhere, interstellar politics being what they are these days, so they can't simply travel wherever they want."
I reached for my drink again and drained it in an attempt to fortify myself.
"Coming this way, my options were limited," I continued. "In fact, as it turned out, I only had one."
I put down the glass and sighed.
"So my passenger was a Vulpin."
Deke looked at me for a moment, then silently poured me another one. I was grateful. Vulpins are built along generally humanoid lines, but they are also furry, lithe and supple. They are slender and curvy, they have long, bushy tails, and in spite of their needle-sharp teeth and claws they are intensely, achingly sexy. The males of the species are barely sentient and rarely leave their home world, so any Vulpin you meet is invariably female. Very female. Few human males can look at a Vulpin without wanting her, badly.
