Live Free or Die-ARC Page 6

  "Their chemistry is incompatible with ours," Agent Poore said. "How can they metabolize it?"

  "No clue," Tyler said. "But they reacted like it was booze or something."

  "We saw the reaction," Spuler said, waving at the cameras. "But the problem is the Horvath."

  "The Glatun apparently have as much control over Horvath information systems as Horvath have over ours," Tyler said. "Or so they say. We're going to meet tomorrow night. I need to go get some money and then, somehow, get my hands on a truck-load of maple syrup without the Horvath finding out. They'll come to me and give me cover for the transfer. Frankly, it feels a bit like a drug deal."

  "Your truck?" Spuler asked.

  "Yes."

  "That should escape their notice as long as they are not actively watching you," Spuler said. "More would be harder. The flip side is that if this is popular among the Glatun, it could give us some leverage."

  "I've thought about that," Tyler said, holding up a hand to forestall a reply. "Let me just be clear about something. I'm not going to play puppet to the government. By the same token, yes, I care about that damned Horvath ship and this country and the world and humanity. And I will do my level best to figure out a way to get it out of our sky. But right now, I need to go get some money and find six fifty-five gallon drums of maple syrup. In about thirty hours."

  "We're not going to get involved in a purely commercial enterprise," Spuler said. "But this isn't on one level. If you need our help, we'll be around."

  "Thanks," Tyler said. "Can I get out, now?"

  "Feel free," Spuler said, waving at the door. "Just . . . try not to get the world destroyed, okay?"

  "Doing my best," Tyler said, yanking open the door.

  When he got to his truck, Tyler picked up his cellphone and brought up his contacts.

  "Hey, Petra," Tyler said, trying not to sigh.

  "Tyler," Petra said. It was that tone. That 'I'm unsatisfied with the situation but I'm not going to bring it up' tone.

  "Sorry I've been behind in my payments. I'm going to slide some money over this week."

  "Thank you," Petra said, civilly.

  "I'm doing some projects with AT&T so the money should be better," Tyler said. "So . . . hopefully no more money issues."

  "That would be nice. It's hard enough to make it on the settlement as it is. The girls are right here . . ."

  Tyler thought about his kids every day. What he had not thought about, until that moment, was what that meant in terms of his current doings. It took him less than a second, a very brief pause, to make the hardest decision of his life.

  He hadn't talked to his kids in two weeks. And he realized he might not be talking to them for months.

  But when you sail in harm's way, you don't take hostages.

  He squelched the screaming inside.

  "Don't really have the time," he said, airily. "Got to go. Bye."

  Petra Vernon closed her cellphone and looked at it with a puzzled expression. She and Tyler might have had their differences and schedules might have prevented him seeing the girls much, but he always wanted to talk to them.

  They'd been married for ten years and even over the phone she could read him like a book. Something was going on and it was very odd. And if he didn't want to talk to the girls there was a reason.

  She made a face and put the phone in her pocket. She'd find out what was going on when it started to smell.

  "Hey, Mr. Haselbauer!" Tyler yelled, waving at the tractor.

  Jason Haselbauer was one of the old farmers in the district. A lot of people had moved in from outside the area of late. Most of those were Vermonters and people from the People's Republic of Massachusetts looking for somewhere cheaper to live. And immediately wanting to change things so they were as screwed up as Vermont and Massachusetts.

  The Haselbauers, though, were descended from Hessians who'd decided they'd rather farm alongside the Scotts and English of the White Mountains than fight them.

  "Mr. Vernon," the farmer said in a slow New England drawl. "Pleasure to see you. Fine weather we're having."

  "Great," Tyler said. "Leaves are coming out a treat."

  "Be good winter for the sap," Haselbauer said, climbing off the tractor. "Good leaves means good sap. And how are you doing?"

  "Well, sir, well," Tyler said. For all he dressed like a homeless guy, Haselbauer probably owned more land than Mrs. Cranshaw. And, notably, a maple syrup distillery. And about as renowned for keeping his own counsel as Mrs. Cranshaw was for being a revolving bitch. He was also, Tyler recalled as he craned his head up and up and then up again, the single most massive guy Tyler had ever met. He looked more like a mountain than a human being. "I have a rather unusual request. Are you carrying a cellphone?"

  "Don't hold with them," Mr. Haselbauer. "If someone wants me they can call me at home. An if I don't answer they can come to find me if it's that important."

  "Yes, sir," Tyler said. He'd heard that about Haselbauer as well. "Just rather not have anyone listening in on our conversation. Some people can listen to them even if they're turned off."

  "Ayup," Haselbauer said, narrowing his eyes and adjusting his ballcap. "What have you gotten yourself into, young man?"

  "Simple trade, sir, simple trade," Tyler said. "The thing is, I need to buy some barrels of maple syrup. But I need it to look as if I'm not buying them. I don't need anyone knowing my business."

  "That's an odd request, young man," Mr. Haselbauer said, tilting his head to the side.

  "Well, sir," Tyler said, shrugging. "It's got a bit to do with the Revenuers."

  "Ah!" Haselbauer said, his face going hard. "Them. You need not say more. When do you need it?"

  "I'd like to do it like this . . ."

  "There's a space-ship landing in Homer's Field," Tyler whispered to himself in wonder as the stars were occluded.

  The sky was clear and bright with a thin crescent moon. What the locals still called a smuggler's moon. New Hampshire had, back in the day, been a major supplier of corn whiskey to the lowland folks. Back when people considered a tax of fifteen percent on their hard work of running a still to be a slap in the face. There was more than one meaning to the state's motto.

  A shiner's moon was gibbous, half full, to full. That was when you could see well enough by night to get the still running and the mules with corn up to the hollers. Up in the hollows of the hills the smell of the distilling was caught and held, keeping the Revenue Agents from finding you. Making shine.

  To bring it down to the city folk with their silver you needed good dark to sneak past those Revenuers. A smuggler's moon.

  "Do you have the stuff?" Wathaet whispered as he stepped off the cargo ramp.

  "Six barrels of first quality Dragon's Tears," Tyler whispered back. There was no point to it, nobody was moving this time of night and Homer's field was back off the road. But the whole thing did have the feel of a drug deal. That was fine by Tyler. Granda had had a few stories about slipping past Revenuers here and there. Family tradition was being upheld.

  "Awesome!" Fabet said, dragging something that looked like a cross between a broom and a forklift.

  Tyler opened up the back of the truck and started to roll one of the barrels off onto the ground.

  "Got it," Fabet said, sliding the device into place. He carried the six hundred pound barrel away through the air.

  "Anti-grav," Tyler said with a sigh. "I want."

  "Might be able to do something about that if this stuff takes off," Wathaet said. "By the way when my head finally cleared I felt screwed."

  "Come on," Tyler protested. "You're trading trash for something you're going to make a fortune on. And on that subject, we need to talk."

  "What?" Wathaet asked. "You want my firstborn?"

  "No," Tyler said. "I want your corporations."

  "You want me to give this up?" Wathaet said. "No way!"

  "Come back in about thirty of our days," Tyler said. "I'll have two of our heavy trucks loaded
with Dragon's Tears. That's about enough to fill your cargo hold. But between now and then you need to contact your corporations. I'm going to get as much of a control on this market as I can. I am, hereby, willing to contract that the ship Spinward Crossing, crew thereof, will get five percent of any trade in Dragon's Tears in which I engage with other parties. If they will, upon determining that there is an economic worth to Dragon's Tears, engage with major Glatun corporate partners for further trade. Bottom-line, you get five percent of all the Dragon's Tears I trade for the rest of your life. Well, split however you split stuff. If I'm trading with multiple corporations I can get more than you're going to get me. Right?"

  "Trade for what?" Wathaet said, thoughtfully. "I mean, you guys are trading for atacirc. Wow, I get 5% of all the atacirc you guys buy? No way!"

  "Think I'm just going to trade for atacirc?" Tyler said. "I'm not sure how to do it but I'm going to trade for whatever you guys use as currency, and not cheap, and then buy atacirc. New stuff that's not crap!"

  "You guys don't have a hypernode point on the whole damned planet," Wathaet said.

  "Then the first thing I'll trade for is a hypernode link!" Tyler said. "Wathaet, we've got a Horvath ship sitting on our necks. We need your big guys to sit up and take notice. That's not going to happen, sorry, because a small-time free-trader got lucky. It will if they're making the profits. Think about it. Especially since sooner or later the Horvath will find out about this. And then they'll cut us both out. In my case, probably cut up. They'll take the m . . . Dragons Tears, trade it to your big corporations and you'll be back to trading with primitive planets for coconut shells and 'folk art.'"

  "All transferred," Fabet said. "Hey, can I . . ."

  "No!" Wathaet said. "That last point has merit I'll admit. I'll think about it."

  "Oh, one more thing," Tyler said, going to his front seat and pulling out a jug. "Look, I know we're not contracted on this, but . . . That primitive folk art? Could I, uh, buy it back from you?"

  "Hell, yeah," Wathaet said, hefting the jug. "For this? Sure. I don't get the night painting, anyway."

  "The painter was kind of cracked," Tyler said. "It's the night sky the way he saw it."

  Tyler started at the tap on his window and sat up, rolling down the window.

  "Were you here all night?" Jeff asked, looking around the secure garage.

  "I had Ireland's worth of atacirc in the back," Tyler said, wiping his eyes and yawning. "What was I going to do, sit at home with a shotgun on my lap?" He set the shotgun on the floor.

  "Not to mention what you had up front," Jeff said, his eyes wide. "Is that . . . ?"

  "Yeah," Tyler said, getting out. "And two Goyas, a Matisse and some Italian guy from the Renaissance. I couldn't fit the Venus. Wathaet said he'd store it for me off-planet. I'd appreciate it if AT&T would do me the same service on planet. Lord knows I'm not going to keep them in my house. Maybe Starry Starry Night. It'd look great in the kitchen."

  "Well, come on up to the conference room," Jeff said. "We'll get some coffee in you."

  "A donut would be nice."

  "Gentlemen, welcome," Rayl said, nodding at the executives gathered in the shield room. "Sorry for the crowding but I think this is the appropriate venue. By arrangement with Mr. Tyler Vernon we have a rather large quantity of atacirc available. AT&T will be taking a ten percent cut on all trades. We will be bidding by lot which will be, pardon, a case by case basis."

  "How many?" an Asian asked.

  "Twenty-six cases," Tyler said. "All the Spinward Crossing could fit in my pick-up. It was up to the roof. They're hauling them up here at the moment. There was a problem of spoofing the internal cameras so the Horvath wouldn't notice."

  "Twenty-six!" the man had a British accent. "Bloody hell! I don't suppose you'd like to tell us what you're trading?"

  "I'll let the term 'proprietary' hang in the air," Tyler said, sipping his coffee.

  "The atacirc we are getting is, of course, not consistent," Rayl said. "As soon as it is delivered you will be given an opportunity to examine each case and decide what it is worth and then we'll get the bidding started."

  "I think they went a little crazy off that one case nobody could find any faults in," Tyler said, riffling through the checks. They were the big kind so people could fit all the zeroes.

  "Feeling a bit stunned?" Rayl asked in a contented tone. He was going to come out of this smelling like a rare hybrid rose. He'd just made a fair bit of AT&T's profits for the quarter in one day's work.

  "It's not every day that a guy becomes an instant billionaire," Tyler said. "Multi . . . multi-billionaire. In fact, I don't think anyone has ever become a multi-billionaire in a day."

  "So what are you going to do with it?" Jeff asked. "And is anyone else really in the mood for a drink?"

  "Champagne would be about right," Weasley said. "Tyler's buying."

  "I am in a mood for a drink," Tyler said. "But first I need to see a lawyer. Besides the tax implications, which are going to be large, I've got some stuff to buy. I'll need to take a rain-check."

  Three

  "Fabet!" Wathaet commed as they cleared the gate. "Fabet! Is he in the Dragon's Tears again?"

  "Don't think so," Drast replied. "I locked it up."

  "Did you get the jug?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh, hell," Wathaet said as a customs cutter approached.

  "Ship Spinward Crossing. Heave to and prepared to be boarded."

  "We're getting hit by the nosies," Wathaet commed. "Just stay cool, man."

  "It's all good," Drath replied. "There's no special import duty on this stuff."

  "There will be if they see Fabet."

  "You seem to be in compliance with all applicable regulations," the customs bot said, dubiously. "You are, however, officially notified of note of seizure by the Onderil Banking Corporation for non-payment of mortgage on the Spinward Crossing. And you owe back payment for parking orbit charges of four hundred and eighty-four credits on Glalkod Station."

  "I don't have that on me," Wathaet said. "I've got two and a half pounds of gold . . ."

  "Checking. That is acceptable to prevent immediate lock-down. Full payment is required before leaving parking orbit. Your ship is . . . required to go to holding area Z-A-Four pending further determination."

  "I have thirty days to challenge the seizure order," Wathaet said. He knew that one like the back of his hand.

  "Correct. Your ship cannot be seized for thirty days. However, it will be held in orbit until full payment is made of back charges on mortgage including any appropriate penalties and unpaid parking including levied fines."

  "Fine, fine," Wathaet said. "But I've got thirty days, right?"

  "That is correct," the robot said, spitting out some forms and handing them over. "You are free to move to . . . Holding Area Z-A-Four. Have a nice day."

  Wathaet didn't even want to open up his hypernode link. He knew what it was going to look like. But he had to call a cab to get to the station since they wouldn't even let them dock!

  "Captain Wathaet, this is Agent Girinthir representing the Onderil Banking Corporation . . ."

  As soon as his hypernode link was open everybody he owed money to knew it and their bots went to work.

  "I've got to make trade before you can get paid," Wathaet commed back. "As soon as I can move my cargo you'll get paid. I confirm that I have been contacted. Any contact in less than one week's time will be defined as harassment."

  "Very well, Captain Wathaet," Agent Girinthir replied. "I see that you have officially accepted note of seizure. Your ship will not be . . ."

  "Got it," Wathaet commed. "We're done. Goodbye. Damnit."

  That was a lot of bots.

  "Captain Wathaet, this is the Lrdrgl Company. You are three months behind on your . . ."

  "Damn!" Wathaet said, closing the call. "Vauroror Taxi . . ."

  "Captain Wathaet, this is the . . ."

  "DAMN!"

  Fortunately, t
he taxi-bot was programmed to take metals in trade. That was one of the reasons he used Vauroror. They took any form of exchange and no questions asked.

  On the other hand, he couldn't take the tubeway. He'd checked and all his bank accounts, even the ones he thought nobody knew about, were levied and emptied. Any money going in those was down a black hole never to return. So anything that required a hyperpay was out.