The Jump Point Read online

  Travel regs these days meant that it was becoming increasingly difficult to move from world to world fully armed, and the inner-system worlds tended to have a more stringent policy about bearing weaponry unless you were fully certified and had the legitimate permits. That Mahra wasn't certified didn't really concern her. The permits were exceedingly difficult to acquire unless you knew the right people. Strangely enough, you didn’t need a permit for a blade. People just didn’t carry them anymore.

  It was no different on New Helvetica where the flaunted wealth of the resort set would make easy pickings for a fully armed street thug. Usually she could get away with her blade, and, if it came to the worst, she could use it, but there was still that odd occasion where she felt she could do with a little extra security.

  She spotted a vacant booth and slipped between the crowded bodies, careful not to spill any more of her drink than the barman had already. She took up position in preparation for a long night of watching and waiting. She slid along the padded bench seat, settled herself in the corner and placed her mug in front of her. She made sure of Chutzpah's perch before she nestled back. One arm, she draped across the back of the booth, the other across the table surface, hand encircling her mug. It was not the most comfortable of positions, but it afforded the best view and left her right arm in a position where her blade was close to hand.

  Chutzpah assessed the situation, and deciding that there would be no further movement for the time being, clambered down the front of her tunic, using his claws for purchase. Settling his hindquarters in her lap, he stretched up, one paw on either side of her throat, almost as if embracing her. Within moments, a low rumble emanated from deep in his chest as he watched her, face upturned and nostrils flaring with his breath.

  Mahra put her watching reflexes on automatic. She let her eyes scan the bar and its inhabitants with half her attention and allowed her thoughts to wander with the other. She trusted to her perceptions to alert her as well as her empathy with Chutzpah's moods and impressions. Chutzpah's continuous rumble seemed to assist, with its almost hypnotic quality tuned to the rhythms of her body and brain. The symbiosis had been there always, but it had grown from the early beginnings. She felt as naked without Chutzpah now, as she did without her blade. Somehow it was like the link she used to have, so long ago, with the Old One, and then with Aleyin after that, but in other ways it was different.

  The zimonette was an interesting creature, little understood by the few who knew anything about them. There was precious little available from those that did. One school of thought held that they only gave the pretence of sapience and that attributing any rationality to them was pure anthropomorphism. Mahra was inclined to disagree with that analysis more than just a little. She and Chutz had been together too long, and she had seen too much to make the mistake of down-playing his abilities. Just because the zimonette had not, as a species, developed a tool-using and structured society, did not, as far as she was concerned, deny the powers of cognitive thought. Let the academics hold their theories, she was quite happy with her own.

  "Isn't that right Chutz?" she said and stroked the length of his back with the ends of her fingers, right from the place between his shoulders down to the base of his tail. Her stroking intensified the rumbling. "We could tell them a thing or two."

  She had met Chutzpah on a garden world aptly named Paradise because of its lush verdure and teeming life. The world had been designated a sanctuary and was relatively unsullied by human contact or exploitation. Mahra had wound up there by accident and in very poor circumstances. She had been lucky to survive the landing, and if it hadn't been for Chutz, she probably wouldn't had made it. He had found her on the forest floor when she could walk no more, wounded, and fevered. He located food for her, and eventually, when she had understood, led her to water. He had also kept the less desirable inhabitants at bay, guarding her sleeping form.

  Eventually, she had been located via her distress beacon, but that was nearly two months later. By that time, she had fully recovered, Chutzpah and she had the beginnings of their long-standing bond already in place. When she had finally shipped off Paradise, he had come with her. She didn't know why, nor could she fathom the workings of his mind, but he had been with her ever since.

  That had been in the early days when she was still raw and naive about many things. Now she had been through a little more, Chutzpah with her, and both had become somewhat more jaded over the course of time.

  Chutzpah continued his steady regard of her face and slowly blinked his eyes as if in confirmation.

  She smiled at him for a moment before focusing once again on the bar population. The resort crowd was thinning now, to be replaced by a few more navy types and those others whom she couldn't put a label to yet. She found this often happened in places nestled around the port as the evening wore on. The resorters tended to drift off to parties or dinners or shows, to leave the other, more regular patrons to make up the numbers. Because of its proximity to the port, this place could turn out to be more useful to her than she had hoped.

  A few green-suited technicians started to wander in with the regulars and merchanters, as well as one or two dark-suited militaire — shipboard militiamen who rode with the large freighters and passenger liners. She didn't envy them their jobs. She had done her stint in that line too. Boring as hell, but the pay was good. It didn't matter if it was a long or a short haul. The job always seemed to be the same. The problem was that it was necessary. With the combination of both the boredom, and the number of creds one could earn, it was a recipe for port-side disaster. There was nowhere to spend the earnings on long haul flights so the militaire generally wound up with a lot of money and little satisfaction. It encouraged them to let off a little more steam than normal once they finally hit a port, especially if they'd just came off a particularly long haul.

  The few who appeared were not exactly making their presence felt, so she assumed they were only local short-hoppers. The greetings and signs of recognition that passed around the bar confirmed that impression. There were the inevitable one or two glances over in her direction, but nothing too overt. The glancers were probably based locally and had partners or lovers to return home to, after they loosened the joints. No, there was little to be concerned about there. She could have probably handled most of them on her own if required.

  The problem was that it didn't offer much in the way of a potential contact. If something didn't eventuate soon, she'd be forced to move on and take her chances elsewhere.

  She lifted her mug and was in the process of draining the last of its contents when the low rumble in Chutzpah's chest abruptly stopped. She looked down to see him craning back over his shoulder, eyes fixed on the door.

  "What is it Chutz?" she murmured, following his gaze.

  At first there seemed to be nothing to capture the zimonette's attention. The usual assortment of individuals circulated round the bar and the booths. A few wandered out the door, only to be replaced by more of a similar type. But Mahra had long ago learnt to trust the signals given by her small companion. His intuitions were uncannily accurate. After a few moments, the crowd by the door parted unconsciously to admit a newcomer. When she at last had a clear enough view, she knew why the crowd gave way.

  The new arrival stood out without trying. He was a good head taller than the majority of those already inside the bar and the navy types and techs give way, consciously or unconsciously deferring to his greater size. There were a few smiles and nods of recognition as he made his way to the bar, with a smaller and rounder companion following in his wake. The shorter one wouldn't normally warrant a second glance, but the tall one naturally drew the eye as the pair moved through the room. There was no need for them to signal for the barman's attention. He was there waiting with a smile to take their order as they reached the bar. Nice for some, she thought.

  These two were obviously known. The tall one ordered kahveh and stood surveying the bar as he waited. His companion signalle
d a mug and the barman moved back along the bar length to fill the order.

  They were an unusual pair, she had to give them that. The tall one was clad top to bottom in black except for the boots, and the boots themselves were enough to attract attention. They were deep, blood red and rose almost to his knee. Black and white designs worked up and down their length forming intricate patterns. By narrowing her eyes a little, she could pick out what appeared to be intertwined serpents. Long black curls fell to his shoulders framing a moustachioed face, highlighted by vivid green eyes beneath a finely etched brow. His companion, by contrast, was swarthy, overweight and wore eye lenses beneath his more standard navy crop. The spectacles were no fashion statement either. They were thick and heavy, magnifying the eyes behind them — eyes that flickered nervously around the room. There must have been some reason why he wouldn’t have opted for corrective surgery. It didn’t exactly look like they were an affectation.

  Their drinks arrived and the two stood there, leaning across the bar in conversation, the taller one stooping a lot more to bring himself into hearing range of his companion. As they talked, they sipped at their drinks, the short one cradling his mug in thick pudgy hands, the tall one sipping daintily at the hot kahveh, watching the room in the mirror behind the bar, eyes always on the alert. No, not your normal porters these ones. His roving gaze paused once, twice, in Mahra's direction as they surveyed the reflected room, then he bent and muttered something to his companion. The short one looked back over his shoulder and pushed his heavy lenses further up his nose before he peered across the room. He caught her in that magnified gaze for a moment or two, said something to his partner, then gave a dismissive shrug before turning back to his brimming mug.

  Mahra, pretending not to have noticed, focused her eyes on another part of the room, fixing her face toward a huddle of people near the door. This allowed enough of an angle so that she could watch the pair in her peripheral vision. They continued their conversation, with the taller one passing the occasional unsubtle glanced her way in the reflected image behind the bar.

  Uh-oh, here it comes, she thought, as the tall one finally turned and looked unabashedly straight at her. His gaze travelled up and down as if sizing her up. His companion turned and watched, a wry expression on his face. No, there was no doubt about it, he was about to make his move. The flamboyant stranger sauntered across to stand over her booth and looked down at her with an obviously practised, but very charming smile.

  "I couldn't help noticing, Mez. It's an interesting pet you have there. I was over there, debating the matter with my companion. Now would you be kind enough to help me out by settling the argument. It's a zimonette is it not?" he asked in a lilting, musical accent.

  His voice was deep and full, but the inflections made it seem a little gentle. As he spoke, he smiled, one eyebrow rose in query. This close, he wasn't bad at all. If he was trying to pick her up, she might even be tempted. Chutzpah, at the first sign of the intrusion had scuttled up her shoulder and stood tensely poised, ready for action and obviously objecting.

  "Yes, zimonette, and no, pet he is not," she replied, putting a slight hardness to the last few words just for good measure. She wanted to see how much of a challenge he really was.

  Up close, the stranger was a lot younger than she at first presumed, but the air of self-assurance seemed to be at odds with his apparent age. She could see a strip of white hair running through the dark curls at the top of his head. It began at a ridge of slightly reddened skin that continued in a line that slanted across his wide forehead. The large moustache was curled upward at the ends and he smoothed it with the tip of his finger and thumb as he stood watching her.

  "Ah, it has been a while since I've seen one of those, you see? Therefore, the debate. You're not a local." It was a statement rather than a question.

  "Well, we'll certainly have to give you points for observation there," she answered wryly. He ignored the sarcasm and continued.

  "Listen now, I hate to be forward, but would we be intruding if we joined you? You're alone, are you not? Let us buy you a drink perhaps."

  Why not? she thought as she pursed her lips. She pretended to be thinking it over as she looked him up and down. She also made sure she did it in the same fashion that he had done it to her earlier. Then, adjudging that her point had been made, and that there had been enough of a pause, she shrugged and signified her assent. She tapped the rim of her mug with her finger.

  At least the pair's intrusion would pass the time, and if this pair turned out to be a waste in other ways, she could always keep an eye on the rest of the bar. The man, however, looked like he might be interesting enough to provide a snippet or two of useful information. She sized him up some more, while his attention was distracted by signalling to his companion to get the drinks and to come and join them.

  He was indeed tall, and looked reasonably fit with it. If nothing else, it could almost be worth an evening's dalliance. She couldn't pick the accent, and that bothered her. Accents were something she was usually good at.

  As his companion arrived with the drinks, the tall one swept her a mock bow.

  "Allow me to present my companion, Jayeer Sind. Travelling companion, accomplice, and comp man extraordinaire. And I, who have the pleasure of standing before you, I am Timon, Timon Pellis ... Mez ... "

  "Mahra, Mahra Kaitan ... and this, is Chutzpah," she said giving the zimonette a reassuring scratch under the chin. "Thanks for the drink."

  The pair slipped into the booth facing her. She couldn't help thinking what odd companions they made for each other.

  "Well Mez Kaitan, um ... Mahra, if I may...?" She nodded. "What brings you to the lovely world of New Helvetica? Pleasure is it ... or perhaps, might I venture, profit?" he asked, giving her a smile.

  She noted that when he smiled, he turned up one corner of his mouth more than the other, making it a lopsided grin, further accentuated by the large sweeping moustache. He brushed back his hair as he spoke, to further reveal the red line that passed up across the skin of his forehead. It looked like a burn of some sort — perhaps a legacy of some old combat. The music's intensity had died down a little by this stage, no longer pandering to the resorters. Thankfully, it now provided a subtler background to their conversation.

  He was certainly a charmer this Timon Pellis, which was more than could be said for his companion. Chutzpah didn't seem impressed though. He still sat tensed upon her shoulder, looking from one face to another.

  "I didn't exactly have any plans, per se, Mezzer Pellis," she replied warily. "Just what you might call 'passing through.'"

  "Well ... I wouldn't think that pleasure would make you carry a blade either," said Pellis carefully, following the curl of his moustache with thumb and forefinger. "Are you working?"

  "Currently I am, what you'd call, between contracts," she replied, wondering where this might be leading. "You're pretty direct, Mezzer Pellis. Why do you want to know? What is your interest, anyway?"

  Pellis looked down and toyed with his mug. Sind just sat watching with his eyes magnified many-fold through those thick viewport lenses. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, Pellis looked up, pursed his lips for a moment and answered.

  "Experience has shown me that one who wears a weapon of any sort is either in employment necessitating its carriage, or has the skill to use it and might need to use it. Now we've already established that it is not employment. So, I have to make the other assumption. Are you any good with that thing?"

  "I manage," answered Mahra, in a measured voice.

  "Uh-huh. And would you have any skills in any of the other, uh, shall we call them, manual arts?" he asked, once more smoothing his ample moustache. He fixed her with a calculating look.

  "As I said, I manage, Mezzer Pellis."

  "Now please. Call me Timon. I'm not exactly one for formality. But, anyway, that is beside the point ... I'm not going to ask you for references ... No, what I mean to say is, have you done any ship work
?"

  Ah, at last this is starting to get somewhere, she thought.

  Pellis continued. "No, excuse the awkwardness of my phrasing. Let me put it this way. Would you be looking for something?"

  "I just might be, Mezzer ... uh, Timon. It depends. Yes, sure, I've done my share of shipboard work. I've had a few militaire runs among others. Why, what have you got on offer? I assume you do have something on offer."

  Pellis was on the verge of answering when the silent Sind, who up to this point had not made a move, gripped him by the shoulder and gestured with an inclination of his head toward the bar. Pellis frowned and looked from Sind to Mahra and back again. Sind raised his eyebrows and again inclined his head in the bar's direction.

  "Yes, all right. Excuse me, if you would, for a few moments. We just have to sort a little something out," Pellis said, sighed, and slid across the bench after Sind, then followed him over to the bar.

  There was an animated discussion. Sind stood with hands outstretched, palms upward. Pellis alternately pointed with his finger and chopped the air with one hand. Mahra strained, but couldn't hear what passed between them. Finally, the matter seemed to reach resolution. Sind nodded his head twice in quick succession and Pellis clapped him on the back with one hand, and gestured back to the booth with the other. Pellis almost propelled the smaller man toward the table as they moved back to re-joined her. Pellis slid his long body into the booth, and Sind sealed the gap with his more rotund frame.