Subgenre: Space opera, short story
About The Cost of Business:
Cabot Layne has unintentionally become the owner of someone else's
problem. In order to get free of it, he'll need to use every bit of his
trader cunning. If he does it just right, he might stay out of prison.
With a little luck, he'll even manage to turn a profit.
Excerpt:
“Are
you going to turn me in?” Arlen stood next to the trunk, which Cabot had opened
just long enough to show her their very large problem. She was nice-looking, though
part of that handsomeness might have been due to her youth. Like Cabot, she had
naturally tan skin and light-brown hair. Her eyes were an amber brown, compared
to his own blue-gray ones. She had a winsome rugged frame that spoke of Rescan
sturdiness.
Cabot
admired her composure. Being the connoisseur of people he was, he recognized the
anxiety beneath her placid features. “That would save my skin at the direct
expense of yours. Since you’re guiltless, I don’t wish to see that happen.”
Instead
of reassuring her, this caused her face to harden in suspicion. “And what do I owe
you for that?”
“You
have nothing I want. What could I need from someone just getting set up in the
business?” He laced his words with disdain, which took the edge off her suspicion.
Yes, she’d understand derision and self-interest much better than she would
altruism. His own distrust of philanthropy ran deep.
“Then
why not sell me out?” she demanded.
“Even
an innocent transaction involving Brivinium would tarnish my reputation. I
don’t need the PAC breathing down my neck on every deal I make for the rest of
my life. We can get the stuff back into the right hands, and keep our names out
of it besides. We stay clean, the Brivinium gets returned, and nobody has to deal
with countless hours of debriefings and administrative work. Everyone wins.”
“If
we get caught—”
He
cut her off. “We won’t.” He fixed her with a hard look, daring her to argue.
She
backed down. The young ones always did. Taking a breath, she asked, “What’s
your plan?”
***
A
certain acumen, combined with a few decades’ worth of experience, gave Cabot
the skills to retrieve information from the voicecom that, technically speaking,
he wasn’t supposed to have. He prided himself on maneuvering within the gray
areas that couldn’t result in any charges being brought against him. Even so, it was always prudent to avoid being
caught.
In
two days, a Briveen ship would dock for scheduled maintenance in accordance
with the PAC’s strict protocols for engine safety. The security notes had
indicated that the Briveen would inhabit standard guest quarters during the
repairs. That would give Cabot time to arrange a business venture.
He
opened a channel, placing a call to a pair of human traders who had been darkening Dragonfire’s boardwalk for a
little too long now.
Cabot
had no issues with competition. In fact, he found
that the more trade activity that happened on Dragonfire, the more business eventually
came his way. His objection to these two humans was personal. No, professional.
Actually, it was personal, because of
his dislike of how they sullied his profession. Yes, that was it.
Dirtbags
like those two didn’t fulfill their contracts. They lied about volume,
freshness, or item origin. They didn’t deliver as promised, and Cabot had no
tolerance for that kind of sleazy, amateur
behavior. He wouldn’t have that rubbish on his station.
Intending
to leave a message, Cabot was surprised when one of
the traders answered. It was Morris, the younger of them. He wasn’t
bad-looking, overall, but he had the hardness around his eyes and mouth that Cabot
recognized as an indicator of nasty temperament.
“What?”
Morris snapped.
Cabot
wore his most benign, pleasant expression. “How lucky to have caught you in person.
I was hoping to schedule a meeting with you.” He paused, smiled knowingly, and
added, “A business meeting.”
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About Zen DiPietro:
Zen DiPietro is a lifelong bookworm, dreamer, writer, and a mom of
two. Perhaps most importantly, a Browncoat Trekkie Whovian. Also
red-haired, left-handed, and a vegetarian geek. Absolutely terrible at
conforming. A recovering gamer, but we won’t talk about that. Particular
loves include badass heroines, British accents, and the smell of
Band-Aids. Writing reviews, author interviews, and fun stuff at
www.womenofbadassery.com.
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