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levels up
from here. A place owned by a registered smuggler by the name of G’Maj Tumela.
Folks say he bought up an old supply of whole trunks from an estate sale, which
is complete eel-droppings of course.”
    “It is?” Cal raised an eyebrow.
    “Of course.” The Ufangian waved off the possibility of any
other answer. “Stuff like that is supposed to be old pre-Republic stock. There
haven’t been any undocumented trunks since the Iimperial days, so we’d be
talking about wood that sat in a warehouse for at least a couple thousand
years.”
    Cal shrugged.
    “A full, commercial-size trunk loses half its aromatic
compounds every two hundred years,” the investigator explained. “Anything from
the imperial era has some antique appeal but the smell is almost completely
gone. You pretty much only see small boxes made from an Imperial trunk because
they accumulate some odor between openings and the owner can get a decent sniff
of it.”
    He nodded back over his shoulder. “The stuff I’ve seen here
in Tsekoh is fresh – damned fresh. It’s not legacy wood – it’s stuff that got
harvested in the last century at the most.”
    “So, it has to be coming down on the tether,” Cal mused. “I
don’t imagine there’d be a secret plantation down here.” He closed his graphic
novel. “And it all goes through this Tauhentan’s warehouse – G’Maj was the
name?”
    A grin. “Planning on paying a visit to your planetman?”
    “Something like that.”
    “Well, he’s off world right now. One of his sons is looking
after the place while he’s gone.”
    “Then there’s not a second to waste.” Cal stood, his comrade
following his lead. “It’s the perfect time to pay a call and suggest we’re
interested in doing business. With the kid, we probably won’t be expected to
finalize anything so we can just talk our way in the front door, steal their
data and get the hells out.”
    Another grin from the Ufangian. First an investigative
assignment and now a field trip with the big guy himself. “I’ve got a sticky.”
He patted his chest pocket. “No need to stop anywhere along the way.”
    C’al’s pleased chuckle was all the reward the man needed.

Heritage
    Planet 3428
    R ick
sat in his usual spot, staring down from the top of the ship to where a small
group worked in the vegetable plots. He wished he could change places with any
one of them. They may not be engineering officers, but they were at least
treated with respect.
    Rick’s family had kept the ship running for a century and a
half, but they were resented for it. Sandy Heywood’s rare, esoteric knowledge
had been the reason the mutineers couldn’t leave him with the fleet. Without a
proper, distortion-qualified engineer, the Canal wouldn’t have made it
very far.
    Heywood had possessed the sense to keep that knowledge in
the family and, as the decades went by, the family became the only ones who
could keep the core systems operating. The twisted version of history on 3428
might make them a family of untouchables, but they were still indispensable untouchables.
    If he were a simple, anonymous harvest worker, would Nell
think better of him? He seriously doubted it. If he weren’t forbidden fruit, he
wouldn’t be a safe, harmless diversion for her. He’d be someone with slightly
less unrealistic expectations. Rick was safe because there was simply no chance
of his being a viable prospect for Nell.
    He wanted to be angry with her but he had to admit his own
reasons had less to do with affection than they did with a need for acceptance.
In some dark recess of his mind, there lurked a vague hope that she would defy
convention and free him from his family’s undeserved shame.
    “I used to sit in that very same spot,” a strong, deep voice
told him.
    Rick didn’t need to look over as the older man settled
beside him. “Hi, Dad.”
    “You know, I see you walking past our quarters every time
you head up here.” He arched his back. “Wait till