Necessary Evils (Adventures in the Liaden Universe®?) by Sharon Lee, Steve Miller
Authors: Sharon Lee, Steve Miller
Tags: Science-Fiction
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THE BEGGAR KING
The front office of Triplanetary Freight Forwarding was empty, which he'd expected, considering. He hadn't called ahead, and they'd only known he was on his way, not when he'd arrive. Which turned out to be just as well, because he hadn't done all that good a job coordinating his arrival with local downtime; the cabbie who'd brought him from the shipyard had spent no energy at all hiding his surprise that any Terran would wander here by himself at this sunless time.
The files . . . the front-office files were in order, up-to-date, and accessible to his code, which --given one thing and another--he hadn't expected. The boss' office, what he supposed he'd be calling
his
office for as long as might be, that was locked, which didn't mean anything except that staff was conscientious.
He used the key he'd been given and stood to one side, shoulder against the wall, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, while the door slid open and the lights came up in the room beyond.
There not being any immediate hostilities initiated, he eased 'round the wall, hands still in his pockets, and stood just beyond the threshold, taking a long careful look at everything there was to see.
The office was pretty much like he remembered it from his last visit, excusing the lack of clutter obscuring the expensive red wood of the desk, and the sharp, infuriating presence of Lela Toonapple behind it.
"Well, now," he said conversationally, tarrying yet by the door. "Already you've outlasted Replacement Number Three. That ought to ease you."
In fact, it didn't ease him in the least, nor was he a man who usually talked to himself, despite that being a common trait of courier pilots. Replacement Number One had apparently bought his ticket out by congratulating himself aloud upon entering this very office. The sound waves had triggered a razorfall rigged into the ceiling and, hey, presto! Replacement Number One was so much freshly bleeding meat. He fancied he could see a stain of dried blood, dull against the gleaming crimson wood. Fancy only, he assured himself; staff here was efficient, having been trained by Herself, who would never have tolerated bad housekeeping.
According to the reports, Replacement Number Two had gotten herself done within ten planet days by a local bent on revenge, what they called
Balance
hereabouts. Occupational hazard, that was. Or not. He considered himself warned.
And, he acknowledged, finishing his visual scan and stepping into the office, the fact remained that each of the three replacements before him had gone their own road to meet death very soon after planetfall, the only obvious link between them that they'd struck Sector Boss Ailsworth as a threat to his position; enough of a threat that they'd been shuffled out of the high visibility zone and dropped in a place where, apparently, there was no advancement. Hard to know who to blame, there, if anyone-- they'd all accepted the job, after all.
Same, he admitted wryly to himself, shrugging his shoulder pack off and putting it on the desk, as Number Four.
"Nice going, Clarence," he muttered, and pulled his left hand and the bug-finder out of its pocket. He scrutinized the read-out, with its cheery blue lights proclaiming safe-safe-safe, and set it down next to his pack. Sighing, he slipped the gun out of his right pocket, snapped the safety on and put it decently away into its holster.
The temp was set a little low for his liking, so he kept the jacket on as he pulled the chair into a comfortable spot before sitting, adjusted the armrests so he wouldn't bang his elbows too hard because he knew he was one that used his armrests-- ergonomics be damned--and bent over to bring the comp on-line.
First file up was addressed to him. A roster it was, listing names and contact numbers for staff, couriers, day labor and such. It also gave the address and contact codes for the round-the-clock office, whose work he'd seriously not wished to impinge upon
The front office of Triplanetary Freight Forwarding was empty, which he'd expected, considering. He hadn't called ahead, and they'd only known he was on his way, not when he'd arrive. Which turned out to be just as well, because he hadn't done all that good a job coordinating his arrival with local downtime; the cabbie who'd brought him from the shipyard had spent no energy at all hiding his surprise that any Terran would wander here by himself at this sunless time.
The files . . . the front-office files were in order, up-to-date, and accessible to his code, which --given one thing and another--he hadn't expected. The boss' office, what he supposed he'd be calling
his
office for as long as might be, that was locked, which didn't mean anything except that staff was conscientious.
He used the key he'd been given and stood to one side, shoulder against the wall, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, while the door slid open and the lights came up in the room beyond.
There not being any immediate hostilities initiated, he eased 'round the wall, hands still in his pockets, and stood just beyond the threshold, taking a long careful look at everything there was to see.
The office was pretty much like he remembered it from his last visit, excusing the lack of clutter obscuring the expensive red wood of the desk, and the sharp, infuriating presence of Lela Toonapple behind it.
"Well, now," he said conversationally, tarrying yet by the door. "Already you've outlasted Replacement Number Three. That ought to ease you."
In fact, it didn't ease him in the least, nor was he a man who usually talked to himself, despite that being a common trait of courier pilots. Replacement Number One had apparently bought his ticket out by congratulating himself aloud upon entering this very office. The sound waves had triggered a razorfall rigged into the ceiling and, hey, presto! Replacement Number One was so much freshly bleeding meat. He fancied he could see a stain of dried blood, dull against the gleaming crimson wood. Fancy only, he assured himself; staff here was efficient, having been trained by Herself, who would never have tolerated bad housekeeping.
According to the reports, Replacement Number Two had gotten herself done within ten planet days by a local bent on revenge, what they called
Balance
hereabouts. Occupational hazard, that was. Or not. He considered himself warned.
And, he acknowledged, finishing his visual scan and stepping into the office, the fact remained that each of the three replacements before him had gone their own road to meet death very soon after planetfall, the only obvious link between them that they'd struck Sector Boss Ailsworth as a threat to his position; enough of a threat that they'd been shuffled out of the high visibility zone and dropped in a place where, apparently, there was no advancement. Hard to know who to blame, there, if anyone-- they'd all accepted the job, after all.
Same, he admitted wryly to himself, shrugging his shoulder pack off and putting it on the desk, as Number Four.
"Nice going, Clarence," he muttered, and pulled his left hand and the bug-finder out of its pocket. He scrutinized the read-out, with its cheery blue lights proclaiming safe-safe-safe, and set it down next to his pack. Sighing, he slipped the gun out of his right pocket, snapped the safety on and put it decently away into its holster.
The temp was set a little low for his liking, so he kept the jacket on as he pulled the chair into a comfortable spot before sitting, adjusted the armrests so he wouldn't bang his elbows too hard because he knew he was one that used his armrests-- ergonomics be damned--and bent over to bring the comp on-line.
First file up was addressed to him. A roster it was, listing names and contact numbers for staff, couriers, day labor and such. It also gave the address and contact codes for the round-the-clock office, whose work he'd seriously not wished to impinge upon
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