Mighty Good Road

CHAPTER 4

Heikki spent the next few hours at the communications console, arranging for the rental of a fastcat, an on-road machine lighter and faster than a ho-crawl, and eminently suited for city travel. After the encounter with Dael, she was reluctant to run into anyone she’d known from the old days, and was glad to rely on the relative anonymity of the communications net. Only contacting the Explorers’ Club’s local representative required a face to face meeting—ostensibly, she wanted to check what her membership could bring in the way of local privilege; actually, of course, she wanted to tie in to whatever local networks the local representative had managed to infiltrate, and that required a personal touch—and at least the name was not one she recognized.

Ionas Ciceron was listed in the city’s business and services index as a private meteorological consultant, with an office in the Portside district. That area was inexpensive but respectable; Djuro lifted an eyebrow at the address.

“Problems?” Heikki asked, and kept her voice calm with an effort.

Djuro shook his head. “Weathermen—especially poor weathermen—don’t usually act as Club Reps, that’s all.”

Or belong to the Club in the first place, Heikki thought. “Yes, but…” she began, and Nkosi grinned.

“Nothing has been normal yet on this planet. Why should the rep be any different?”

“Classist,” Heikki said, to Djuro, and shook herself, hard. “The ‘cat’s waiting. Let’s go.”

She left the two men at the expensive end of the 5K Road, where the equipment rentors generally kept their show lots, and turned the ‘cat back toward town, threading her way through the minimal traffic to the Portside district. This was one of the newer parts of Lowlands, where the low, mostly one-and two-story buildings were finished with dull bronze-colored insulating tiles. The streets were broad, but empty, most workers hiding inside, out of the morning heat. Once she had found the Frozen Pool—it was actually a broad black-metal sculpture of a pond crammed with the local wildlife, birds and various small amphibians, even a fish caught in the act of leaping half out of the mirror-bright “water”—it was easy to find Ciceron’s office. She worked the ‘cat into one of the narrow parking slots, and made her way into the building.

The lobby was cool and quiet and empty, blank-walled except for the dull grill of a mechanical concierge. Heikki crossed to it, and pressed its almost invisible button.

“Gwynne Heikki, for Ionas Ciceron.”

For a long moment, there was no answer, but then at last relays clicked, and she heard the faint indistinct hiss of an open channel.

“Dam’ Heikki,” a voice said, from a speaker set somewhere in the ceiling. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t expect you so early. Please, do come up.”

“Thank you,” Heikki said, and waited. A minute or so later, servos hummed, and an almost invisible section of wall slid back, revealing a moving stair. A new voice—the building’s computer, Heikki guessed—said,

“Please take the stair. Movement will stop at your floor. Enjoy your visit.”

Heikki bit back her instinctive answer, and stepped onto the stirring stairway. It rose, slowly at first, then faster and more smoothly, curving up and around a massive central pillar. Heikki could see other offices, the ones on the lower, more expensive floors, each with its shaded-glass frontage and a human secretary visible behind it to prove the operation was worthwhile. As the stairway approached the fifth level, it began to slow down, slacking off tread by tread. Heikki clutched at the handrail to steady herself, and was looking down as the machine ground to a stop and she stepped off onto the mirror-floored landing.

“Good morning, Dam’ Heikki.”

She looked up quickly—she hadn’t seen anyone as the stair approached—to see a small man standing in an open doorway at the far side of the stairwell.

“Ser Ciceron?”

The little man bobbed his head in acknowledgement. He was a perfect miniature of a man, Heikki thought, bemused. His head barely reached her shoulder—and she was not exceptionally tall herself—but he was so strikingly handsome, and carried himself so gracefully, with an assurance long unconscious of his size, that it was she who was outsized, not he who was diminutive.

“Do come in,” Ciceron continued. Heikki smiled, and stepped past him into the office. It was a typical business property, reminding her of the suites she and Santerese had rented for years, but the media wall had been half blocked off by an elaborate cloud chamber, only a third of its surface visible from the working desk. Heikki could not help raising an eyebrow at that, and Ciceron smiled crookedly.

“I do rather more simulations work than anything else, Dam’ Heikki. Despite my other responsibility.”

“I beg your pardon,” Heikki said automatically, and settled herself in the client’s chair. “However, it is as Club representative that I’ve come to see you today.” Deliberately, she left other possibilities dangling, knowing that Ciceron would know what she had been hired for, and saw the little man’s smile broaden briefly.

“Of course, Dam’ Heikki. How can I be of assistance?”

“I need recommendations,” Heikki said bluntly. “I expect you know why I’m on planet.”

She waited then, curious to hear his response. After a moment, Ciceron nodded. “The missing latac. Yes, I heard they were hiring off-world to find it.”

That, Heikki thought, was an odd turn of phrase. “Locals couldn’t handle it?” she asked, and allowed a note of contempt to seep into her voice.

Ciceron frowned. “They didn’t try.”

“The Firster problem?”

“No.”

Ciceron’s voice changed subtly, and Heikki swore to herself. She’d missed it, whatever it was, and he knew she knew less than he did now. She kept her face expressionless, and said, “I need a pilot, one with back-country experience, and a lot of it—someone reliable. And I need a guide, also reliable, preferably someone who knows the massif well.”

“What would you mean by reliable?” Ciceron did not reach for his workboard, but steepled his fingers above the desktop. There was amusement in his voice that did not reach his eyes.

“I want people outside Lo-Moth politics.” Heikki’s tone added, of course.

“So you do think it’s sabotage.”

“I don’t know yet,” Heikki answered, and then, because that was no answer at all, said, “I’m not ruling out any possibilities.” She waited then, and when Ciceron said nothing, added, carefully casual, “Is that the local talk, sabotage?”

Ciceron’s mouth twisted as though he’d bitten into something unexpectedly bitter. “That’s the talk, certainly. But Lo-Moth blames the crew, and the crewfolk blame the company.”

“Do they now,” Heikki said, almost to herself. That was a possibility she had not fully considered, and one that did not, at first glance, make a good deal of sense.

After all, the crystal matrix was—potentially—the company’s ticket to the first ranks…. Even as she articulated that thought, however, she began to see other scenarios, rivalries within Lo-Moth’s ranks, between departments and between parents and subsidiaries. It was plausible enough, but she put the thought away as something to be tested later, and turned her attention back to the little man behind the desk. “Would you recommend anybody?”

Ciceron nodded. “For the guide, yes, without reservation. There’s a woman named Alexieva, licensed surveyor, who has her own company outside the Limit.” He held up his hand, forestalling Heikki’s question. “She was part of the team that did the ordinance survey, the reliable one. She was a section chief, I think. But there’s not a lot of survey work these days, so she does some guide work. She’s good. Or anyone she recommends, of course, but she’s the only one I really know is good.”

Heikki nodded back. “Contact code?” she asked, and Ciceron slid a card across the table. Heikki took the featureless square of plastic, feeling the familiar roughness of the data ridges, and tucked it into the pocket with her lens. “Now, what about a pilot?”

Ciceron hesitated. “The best pilots are Firsters,” he said after a moment, his voice completely without expression.

“I do the hiring,” Heikki said, and when he did not respond said, “It’s in my contract, I have a free hand.”

“Ah.” Ciceron’s expression did not change, but his voice was fractionally warmer. “The best pilot—” He stressed the word. “—is a kid called Sebasten-Januarias.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

Ciceron smiled thinly. “One. He’s very young. Two. He’s a Firster—real Firster, trouble to the core when it comes to Lo-Moth. Three…. No, three’s just a part of one. He’s very young.”

Heikki’s eyebrows rose. “All this, and you’d still recommend him? He must be one hell of a pilot.”

“He’s the best I know. If you weren’t working for Lo-Moth I’d recommend him without reservation.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Heikki said. “Do you have any other names?”

“Pell Elauro,” Ciceron answered promptly, “and Liljana Kerry.” He reached into his desk again before Heikki could ask, and produced two more cards. Heikki accepted them, and lifted an eyebrow.

“Don’t you have one for the Firster, Sebastian—”

“Sebasten-Januarias,” Ciceron corrected her. “No. He works out of a bar called the Last Shift. By the airfield—”

“I know it,” Heikki said, and was rewarded by a look of surprise from Ciceron.

“Not many off-worlders do.”

Heikki allowed herself a genuine, if somewhat crooked, grin. “I grew up here, Ser Ciceron. I’ll try Sebasten-Januarias first, thanks—if he’s the best.”

“He is.” Ciceron nodded twice as if in punctuation.

“He is.”

“Good enough,” Heikki said, but made no move to go. “I’m also going to need some meteorological analysis done, confidentially. Lo-Moth will be doing most of the sim and scan work, but I’d like an independent verification. Can you handle that for me?”

Somewhat to her surprise, Ciceron neither smiled nor frowned at the possibility of work. “Yes.” He nodded to the cloud chamber blocking the media wall. “As you can see, I’ve got the equipment.”

“Are you interested?” Heikki asked bluntly. “If you’re not, I’m sure you can recommend someone who has the time.”

“It’s not that.” Ciceron shook his head as though coming out of a dream. “No, I can handle the work—I’d be glad to handle the work.”

“Rates?”

Ciceron reached into his desk again, withdrew a slightly larger card that shimmered faintly, light sparking as well from the metal threads woven through its surface. “Everything you need is on this.”

I’m missing something, Heikki thought, and bit her lower lip in frustration. I’m missing something, political or professional, and I don’t know what it is. She put that knowledge aside with an effort, filing questions to be asked later, of other people, and took the card. “I appreciate your help, Ser Ciceron.”

Ciceron bowed slightly, an antique gesture Heikki had not seen in years. “My pleasure, Dam’ Heikki.”

Heikki made her way back to the fastcat quickly enough, but sat in the cab without touching the controls, fingering instead the cards tucked into her pocket. She didn’t really want to go into First Town in search of Sebasten-Januarias, though she knew perfectly well that that was the easiest way to find any Firster. After a moment’s thought, she pulled out Alexieva’s card, and adjusted the data lens to the standard setting. Letters sprang into existence within the thin plastic, giving the woman’s full name—Incarnacion Alexieva Cirilly, with the middle name, the business name, underlined—and beneath that the various contact codes. The office address was for a quarter on the opposite side of the city: she would almost have to go by the port, and the Last Shift, to get there. Heikki sat for a moment longer, eyeing the ‘cat’s communications panel, and wondered if she could call Alexieva first. She frowned at her own weakness then, and tucked card and lens back into her pocket and punched on the engine. There was no point in talking to Alexieva until she knew whether or not she would be asking the surveyor to work with a Firster. Better to deal with Sebasten-Januarias first and get it over with, especially if it meant meeting someone she knew. And besides, she did want to see First Town again after all these years, in spite of all the people she might meet, who might remember— She slammed the ‘cat into gear, focusing on the act of driving, and swung the machine out onto the road, heading for First Town.

First Town hadn’t changed much, in the years since she had left Iadara. The roads were still rutted, drifted with the fine dust; the tall, thin houses still stood almost bare on their tracts of land, their stark white paint either faded into the bleached silver-brown of the wood itself, or violently new and bright, never anything in between. There were crawlers in the yards, or the occasional ‘cat, sometimes stripped to the frame with tallgrass springing through the empty engine well. Faded clothing hung on frames outside, bleaching in the sun; an equally faded woman leaned from her third-floor window, calling to the pack of children in the dust below. A fruit tree stood beside one smaller house, incongruously green and blossoming behind its protective cage. Its owner scowled as he sprayed the dust from its leaves, daring it to die.

Closer to the airfield, the buildings stood further apart, but the space between them was filled not with gardens or children’s playgrounds, but with rusted machines and heaped wires, or nothing at all but the dust and the ubiquitous sere grass. A group of Firsters, most of them so muffled in headscarf and loose sun-cheating coat, four meters of sunblocking fabric pleated into a gaudy patchwork yoke, as to be indistinguishable by age or sex, sat on the broad steps of one house, passing a stoneware falk from hand to hand. So afaq is still common here, Heikki thought, and shifted her leg so that she could reach the slim blaster tucked into the top of her high boot beside her knife. The group did not move as the ‘cat slid past, but in the mirror she saw one of them throw a stone after her, not purposefully, but with an old and pointless despair.

The Last Shift was just outside the airfield perimeter, where the buildings changed from tall houses to the squat shapes that marked machine repair shops throughout the Precincts. The neighborhood was busier, a few men and women gathered outside the shops, or busy in the open bays, sweltering despite the wind scoops on the roofs. There were a few other vehicles in the vacant lot next to the Shift, a pair of battered ‘cats tucked against the airfield fence, and an enormous ho-crawl pulled up next to the building itself, the roof of the driver’s well just brushing the overhanging eaves. Heikki edged her ‘cat up next to the others until its blunt nose almost touched the fence, and swung herself out of the cab. The heat was scorching, the sudden weight of sunlight a hot wind against her skin. She could feel eyes on her, not from the blank-walled bar but from the shops to either side, and ignored them.

The Shift was exactly the same as it had always been, miraculously cool and dark after the glaring heat outside. Through the green sundazzle, Heikki saw the bar’s familiar shape, and, less clearly, the maze of wovewood tables that filled the central room. Most of them were empty now, she saw as her sight cleared, and those that were filled held mostly the retired or the unemployable, bent over drinks or shallow falks. They looked up as she passed, were still watching her as she leaned against the bar and touched the bell that called the bartender. Its sonorous note sounded through the space, filling the air, drowning out the lack of conversation, and faded slowly. After a moment, the bartender appeared from the back room, wiping his hands on his faded shirt. He hesitated, seeing who had summoned him, then came forward reluctantly.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” Heikki kept her voice scrupulously neutral, attempting neither to hide nor to emphasize the liquid off-world vowels. “I’m looking for someone, a pilot. I was told he worked out of here.”

The bartender’s expression shifted subtly. “Who would that be, that you’re looking for?”

“The name I was given is Sebasten-Januarias. Mine’s Heikki, I’m in salvage, based in the Loop.”

The bartender’s expression eased even further, and he nodded. “If you want to wait, I’ll find him. Would you want something to drink?”

It was early to be drinking, but Heikki nodded anyway. “Field punch, please.” She glanced over her shoulder, toward the row of semi-private cubicles set along one wall. Most were empty, the sound-proofing curtains pulled back to expose the stained cushions and chipped glass tabletops. “I’ll be over there.”

“I’ll see if I can find him,” the bartender said.

Heikki bent her head politely, and took the drink he slid toward her, offering her paycard in return. He accepted it, flushing, and ran it easily through the scanner. She took it back without looking at the total already fading from the display window, and started toward the nearest of the cubicles. She settled herself against the dirty cushions and waited. The bartender vanished again, and the conversations slowly recommenced.

The punch was tartly sweet, deceptively mild to the tongue. Heikki sipped it with wary respect, but even so found herself finishing the last of it before she had intended. She was not drunk, not nearly, but she could feel the liquor warming her stomach, warning her to have no more. She stared down at the glass, cupping her hands around it to hide its emptiness, and heard the door open. She looked up, hoping it would be Sebasten-Januarias, but it was only a boy barely into his teens. Then the boy turned toward her, visibly looking for someone, and Heikki fought to keep her expression steady. Ciceron had said he was young, certainly, but this was ridiculous. He looked all of sixteen, at a generous estimate, a skinny, brown-skinned boy with the enormous headscarf of a Firster adolescent wrapped around his head and shoulders—

“Dam’ Heikki?” The boy stopped just outside the cubicle, dropping one end of the scarf like a veil, to reveal a face streaked with multicolored sunpaint. “I’m Sebasten-Januarias.”

He sounds a little older than he looks, Heikki thought, and gestured for the boy to seat himself across from her. Is this Ciceron’s idea of a joke? “Get yourself a drink, if you want,” she said aloud, “and then have a seat. Ionas Ciceron mentioned you as a pilot.”

“Thank you,” the boy said, somewhat ambiguously, and slid gracefully onto the cushions opposite. “That’s kind of him.”

Interesting that he doesn’t want the drink, Heikki thought. “You got my name?” she said, and the boy nodded.

“You’re in salvage, I hear?” There was just enough of an upward lilt to make it a question.

“That’s right,” Heikki said. “I have a local contract, and I need a local copilot to back my main man, going into the ‘wayback, probably along the Asilas into the massif.”

“That cargo flight Lo-Moth lost?” Sebasten-Januarias asked.

“That’s right. Is that a problem?”

“No.” The boy’s voice was confident, and when he did not continue, Heikki sketched out a quick description of the job, studying him while she talked. Sebasten-Januarias was definitely older than he looked at first glance, but not very old—maybe in his early twenties, Heikki thought, no more. Beneath the garish sunpaint she thought he was rather plain, strong boned, but ordinary. He frowned slightly as she spoke, and the frown deepened slowly, but when she had finished, he nodded to himself.

“Will you be taking a latac?”

“No, a standard jumper.”

“Then I’m your boy—if you’ll take me.” He had an engaging smile, and Heikki smiled back.

“How long have you been flying?”

Sebasten-Januarias’s smile widened, and he said, without rancor, “You mean, how old am I. I’m twenty-four, but I’ve been flying the ‘wayback solo for eight years, and I apprenticed with my uncle before that, for two years.”

“Sounds good,” Heikki said, and meant it. If Sebasten-Januarias had been taking aircraft across the wayback since he was sixteen without an accident—and if he had had an accident, he would not be sitting here now; the wayback did not forgive even minor errors—then he was the sort of pilot she wanted. She curbed her enthusiasm abruptly. “Can you give me some references?” She kept her voice briskly professional, and, to her surprise, the young man did not bridle.

“Tom Tolek at the tower will speak for me, and Kameka Decker. I’ve worked for Lo-Moth, too. The field ops coordinator knows me,”

“FitzGilbert?” Heikki looked up sharply.

“Yes.” He seemed unsurprised at the question.

Heikki looked back at her noteboard. “I’ll contact them, certainly. In the meantime, I’d like you to come to dinner, and meet the rest of my team. Are you free this evening?”

“Yes’m.”

“Your full name?”

“Josep Laurens Sebasten-Januarias.” His lips turned up briefly in a rather wry smile.

“What do they call you for short?” Heikki asked idly.

Before the other could answer, a voice called from the doorway, “I hear you’re working, Joe-Laurie.”

Sebasten-Januarias turned to face the* tall man weaving his way through the tables, warning him off with a stare. “I might be, Uncle Cass, if you don’t screw up the deal.”

The tall man laughed without anger—he was three-quarters drunk, Heikki saw—and fetched up against the bar, his hand fumbling for the bell. Sebasten-Januarias turned back to her with an apologetic grimace.

“My friends call me Jan.”

“Good enough,” Heikki said, and stood. “I’ll expect you at—” She hesitated then, remembering local traditions, and compromised between Loop and Precinct custom. “—at eight evening, at the corporate hostel in Lowlands proper. All right?”

“I’ll be there,” Sebasten-Januarias said, and stood with her. Heikki did not look back, unexpectedly pleased with her choice.

She settled herself back in the ‘cat’s cab, glancing at the side and rear mirrors. Nothing moved in the sweltering shadows except the trio at work in the repair shed, bending oblivious over a ho-crawl’s opened fan housing. She engaged the engines and swung the ‘cat slowly back around toward Lowlands’ center.

The ‘cat had a fairly up-to-date communications block mounted in the forward panels. Heikki eyed it for a moment, dividing her attention between its controls and the road ahead, then felt one-handed in her pocket until she had found Alexieva’s card. She inserted that into the machine’s read-slot, and touched keys until the voiceline menu showed faint against the ‘cat’s windscreen. She touched more keys, and was rewarded at last by the three-toned chime of a standard secretarial program. She exchanged codes and a message with it, expecting it to file the information and close down, but to her surprise the machine chimed again.

“Dam’ Heikki,” a flat synthetic voice said abruptly. “Dam’ Alexieva requests the favor of a personal meeting, at map coordinates JP89.332II12N, as soon as possible. If that meets with your approval.”

Heikki reached for the map controls. The coordinates were on the north side of the city, probably an hour’s drive beyond the Limit. She sighed, but triggered the communications console again. “I can reach those coordinates in—” She glanced again at the map display. “—seventy-nine minutes. I would be glad to meet with Dam’ Alexieva at that time.”

There was another, shorter pause, and the secretary answered, “That would be ideal. Dam’ Alexieva will be expecting you then.”

This time, the air filled briefly with static before the console’s overrides shut off the speakers. Heikki adjusted the map so that the route pointer showed on the windscreen, then fingered the communications keyboard until she reached the hostel’s concierge program. Djuro and Nkosi had not yet returned, the urbane artificial voice informed her; she left a brief message explaining where she was going and asking Djuro to check Sebasten-Januarias’ references, and to ask about Alexieva’s reputation, then switched off the machine.

It took slightly less than the projected time to work her way around the city to the road indicated by the map. The map’s ghostly arrow steadied in her windscreen, directing her down a metalled road that ran almost as straight as the arrow itself. This part of Iadara had been settled for almost as long as First Town, she knew, but she had rarely ventured out in this direction when she was younger, keeping either within the Limit, or riding crew somewhere deep into the wayback. It was unfamiliar land, an unfamiliar kind of land, farmland of sorts, but far more diversified than on most other worlds, the fields patched and banded in a dozen different shades of green and yellow. The farm buildings were crammed into what she assumed were the least fertile sections of the property, lowlying, cramped buildings whose walls were covered with gleaming white insulfoam panels. The roofs were bright with solar panels, so that the most distant, houses flamed like stars against the green land.

The guidance arrow flashed sharply against the windscreen, and a string of translucent letters trailed across the plastic beneath it: destination approaching. Obediently, she adjusted the throttle, slowing the ‘cat almost to a walking pace, and looked around warily. She was almost exactly in the center of a cultivated area, one set of buildings just visible in a stand of trees a kilometer or two to the north, another, more distant, sprawling across an expanse of some low-growing vegetable. The arrow swung abruptly to the left. Heikki started to swing the control yoke, and stopped, looking for the road. It took her a moment to realize that the machine really was pointing to the rutted dirt track between the two fields. She grimaced, adjusted the ‘cat’s tracking, and turned cautiously onto the ill-made road. For a few minutes, the towering fronds of neocale hid everything to either side, and then the road turned sharply, to end in a dusty turnaround enclosed by thickly growing hedges. Another fastcat was parked there, next to an ancient treaded cultivator with a digging bar cocked up over its rear cowling like the tail of some enormous insect. Heikki pulled her ‘cat to a stop next to the other, and pulled the canopy release. The roof folded back, whining a little in protest, and she pushed herself up until she was sitting on the back of the driver’s seat, bracing herself against the top of the windscreen.

From that vantage point, she could see into the next field, beyond the hedge that marked its border. Several people were at work there, and a standard-model robosurveyor was trundling busily along an invisible guideline. Heikki raised a hand to wave, unsure if anyone was even looking in her direction, and saw one of the distant figures put a hand to its mouth. A moment later, the nearer of the other two—a wiry shape barely distinguishable as female at this distance—turned and waved back, then beckoned to her companion. They spoke for a moment, and then the woman started toward the turnaround.

“Dam’ Heikki?” she called, as soon as she was within earshot.

“Yes. Dam’ Alexieva?”

“We’ve only got one more baseline to do,” Alexieva shouted. “Would you mind waiting?”

Heikki shook her head, and then, realizing the gesture was probably not readable at a distance, called back, “No, take your time.”

Alexieva lifted a hand in acknowledgement, and turned away. Left to herself, Heikki leaned forward against the windscreen, watching the robot move across the field. At some point in the morning, the sky had clouded over, but the change had been so gradual she had not noticed. Now, however, the wind was picking up, tossing little swirls of dust across the turnaround. To either side, the neocale dipped and rose with the breeze. Heikki frowned slightly, and glanced to her left, toward the southeast. Sure enough, a bank of clouds was rising there, not as heavy as the previous day’s storm, but still impressive. I hadn’t realized it was afternoon already, she thought, and in the same moment realized belatedly that she was hungry. After a moment’s thought, she searched her belt pockets until she found a crumpled ration bar, and ate it without really considering the too-sweet taste. The robot was moving in short arcs now, and she glanced at the sky again, hoping Alexieva would finish before the storm broke.

The first of the storm clouds were almost directly overhead when Alexieva recalled her robot and lifted a hand to wave the others in. She paused at the edge of the field to give some last-minute instruction to her people, then pushed through the hedge and came to stand at the fastcat’s side. Heikki looked down at her, seeing the other woman’s fine dark hair stir in the wind.

Alexieva pushed the loose strands out of her eyes, frowning slightly. “Dam’ Heikki. I’m glad you were able to see me now.”

“No problem,” Heikki answered absently. Alexieva was a small, sun-weathered woman, dressed despite that in trousers and a worn shirt that left her back and wiry arms mostly exposed. There was nothing at all remarkable about her, except her lightless eyes. They were brown, Heikki thought, but darkly intense, and marked at the corners with fine wrinkles: not the eyes of someone who compromised easily.

“Shall we talk here?” Alexieva went on briskly, seemingly unaware of the scrutiny, and Heikki brought herself back to the matter at hand. “Or if you could give me a ride back toward Lowlands, we could save some time.”

I’d forgotten Precinct manners, Heikki thought, with an inward grin. “No problem,” she said aloud. “We might as well talk on the way.”

Alexieva nodded dispassionately. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Heikki nodded in return, and reached into the cab to pop the passenger door. Alexieva swung herself inside, glancing up at the sky as she did so.

“Better close up soon.”

Heikki felt a stab of annoyance, but had to admit that the clouds were closing fast. She slid back into the cab, and manipulated the controls to close the roof, then almost in the same movement switched on the engine and the map computer. “Coordinates?”

“I can put them in, if you’d like.” Alexieva’s voice made her preference clear.

Heikki’s eyebrows rose. “Go ahead,” she said, with a mildness that would have warned her friends. Even Alexieva seemed to sense something, and she looked up from the miniature keyboard.

“I have an appointment at 0300. I can set shortcuts easier than tell you about them.”

It made sense, Heikki thought, but I don’t have to like your interfering. Nevertheless, she nodded, and touched the controls, easing the ‘cat back out of the turnaround. “You got my message, then,” she said aloud.

Alexieva nodded. “You got my name from Ser Ciceron, and you’re looking for a guide to travel in the Massif, probably along the upper Asilas. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Is this the Lo-Moth latac?”

“I’ve been hired to find the wreck, and salvage anything I can,” Heikki answered, and darted a quick glance at the other woman. Alexieva was frowning, but whether it was answer or merely concentration was impossible to tell.

“You won’t find anything,” Alexieva said, after a moment.

“Why not?”

There was a fractional hesitation before the surveyor answered. “There’s a native hominid, called an orc that lives up on the Massif. If there were human remains, the orcs found them already—maybe ate them, if it was a breeding group that hasn’t had contact with us before. Regardless, they’ll have disturbed the wreck site. You’ll have a hell of a time proving causes.”

“My contract is primarily to find the crash site,” Heikki said.

“Oh.” Alexieva looked at her hands, folded too tightly in her lap, then looked up again as though she’d come to a decision. “Yes, I’d be interested in the job.”

But why go on about the orcs? Heikki wondered. “The orcs didn’t use to disturb machine remains,” she said aloud, experimentally, and there was another little silence.

Heikki risked a sideways glance, to see Alexieva frowning warily at the blank communications console.

“Things’ve changed,” the surveyor said at last, and Heikki frowned.

“How changed? And why?”

“Who knows why?” Alexieva shrugged. “Probably human intervention.”

A good catchall explanation, Heikki thought, except that human beings don’t go into the Massif on that large a scale. “Changed how?” she said again.

Again there was that slight hesitation, before Alexieva said, a fraction too loudly, “Nesting habits—they’re moving into new areas.”

“The orcs rear their young in caves,” Heikki said calmly. “Of which there are a limited number on the Massif, giving the orcs a set of reasonably well-defined breeding grounds, each one of which is occupied by a single breeding troupe. Nesting habits outside the limited breeding area have always been widely varied, depending on the available terrain. Orcs will cheerfully attack human beings who become separated from their vehicles, but have always shown a distinct aversion even to non-functional machinery, until and unless provoked into a killing frenzy.” She looked sideways as she spoke, and saw dull color rising under Alexieva’s tan.

“They’ve become less shy of machines lately,” Alexieva said.

And I think that’s a lie, Heikki thought. It’s a statement I’ll look into, at any rate. “Then I take it you’re not interested in the job, after all.”

“I didn’t say that.” Alexieva looked up sharply, frowning. Her cheeks were still red under the weathered tan.

“You surprise me,” Heikki said, and waited.

“I simply wanted to be sure you were aware of the variables,” Alexieva answered. “No, I would be interested in the work—at standard Guild rates, you were offering?”

But would I be interested in hiring you? Heikki wondered. An interesting question. “Guild rates are a little steep, especially on a world where—forgive me if I’m blunt—you’re unlikely to have the latest equipment.”

There was a little intake of breath from the woman beside her, but when Alexieva answered, her voice was unexpectedly mild. “That’s true, I might be able to arrange a rebate.”

Startled, Heikki glanced sideways again. Alexieva’s expression was determinedly neutral, only her dark eyes and a tightness about her lips betraying any anger. And she should be angry, Heikki thought. I’ve insulted her professionalism where a Precincter’s usually most sensitive, the technology gap between the Loop and the Precincts. She must want this job damn badly.

“My intent was to offer half the Guild rate,” she said aloud—which was only half true, in any case, but should give some room for negotiation. “Plus a percentage of any success bonuses, of course.”

“You’ll accept a formal bid?” Alexieva asked.

“Of course.”

“I’ll have one for you tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll be glad to look at it,” Heikki said. Somehow, she was not sure how or why, the balance of the interview had changed; Alexieva seemed suddenly to want the job far more than was reasonable. And maybe I’m being unreasonable, she told herself. Maybe she needs the money badly—it wouldn’t be the first time competent people have been beaten down to cut rates out here. If all she’s been doing is boundary surveys, then she probably does need the money. Still, I think I’ll ask at Lo-Moth if there’s anyone else, since Ciceron didn’t want to name anyone, and see if Sten can turn up anything.

“Ah.” Alexieva leaned forward in her seat, pointed toward a low-roofed, nondescript building. “This is the place, here.”

Obediently, Heikki pulled the ‘cat to a stop by the unmetalled side of the road, and manipulated the door controls. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you,” she said automatically, and saw Alexieva scowl as though she’d intended irony. Even then, however, the wiry woman controlled her temper, and slid gracefully from the ‘cat.

“You’ll receive my bid in the morning.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Heikki answered, but Alexieva had already turned away and was hurrying across the dusty ground toward the building’s single entrance. Thunder growled in the distance, and Heikki hastily shut the ‘cat’s door. The rain fell just as the seal cut in.

The downpour began to slow as she eased the ‘cat into the last series of turns that led to the Lo-Moth hostel. She made a face—perfect timing once again— and swung the ‘cat onto the ramp of the underground entrance. Water sheeted up to either side, and she found herself hoping that at least one of Lo-Moth’s employees had been in range. She shook that thought away, and concentrated on finding the workbay that had been reserved for her equipment. It was well-marked, and surprisingly convenient, within twenty-five meters both of the main cargo lift and the entrance to the hostel itself. It was also empty, except for the diagnostic computer sitting against one wall. So Sten’s not back yet, she thought, and slid the ‘cat neatly into the smallest of the available spaces.

Somewhat to her surprise, there was no attendant in sight. She levered herself out of the ‘cat, half expecting someone to appear at any moment, and busied herself hooking the charger cables to the ‘cat’s capacitors. I wish Sten were back, she thought, and glanced around the enormous space. Most of the other bays were empty; those that were not had an oddly suspended look to them, as though the ‘cats and triangle-wheeled crawlers had not been used in some time. And still there was no one in sight. I wonder, she thought suddenly, if they did search our crates. Kasib had put them in the sealed storage area, at the hostel’s lowest level; it would be the work of a moment to find out. She glanced around again, this time looking for nonhuman surveillance, and was rewarded by the sight of two palm-sized cameras hung from the ceiling grid. One was focussed on her bay, the other on the entrance to the hostel. Quite deliberately, she stepped out of the first camera’s range, and a third glided into view almost at once, swivelling from side to side in search of any movement. Right, then, she thought, and started boldly for the cargo lift.

Before she reached it, an almost invisible door opened in the wall beside it, and Kasib appeared. “Can I help you, Dam’ Heikki?”

Several remarks sprang instantly to mind, and none of them were helpful. Heikki curbed herself sternly, and turned to face him. “Yes. I understand this leads to sealed storage?”

“Yes, Dam’, that’s right.” Kasib’s eyes were fixed on her unblinking, one hand in the pocket of his shapeless coveralls, and Heikki felt a sudden chill of fear. He has a blaster, she thought suddenly, irrationally, and cast about for something to say that would distract him.

“Will there be pallets down there, or will we have to use grav-units?”

“There’ll be pallets if you want, or you can use the units,” Kasib answered, his expression easing slightly. He slipped his hand from his pocket, hooked it instead in the loop of his empty toolbelt. In spite of herself, Heikki let out a sigh of relief, and knew he saw.

“Anything else, Dam’?”

Heikki shook her head, irrationally annoyed at her own fear. “No, that’ll be all.” She made herself turn her back on him, though the space between her shoulder blades tingled all the way to the hostel entrance. She sighed again as the door sealed itself behind her, her fear giving way completely to anger. I’m behaving like an idiot, an inexperienced coward, jumping at shadows; it was impossible he had a blaster, or—if he had one— that he would use it…. She paused then, just inside the archway leading to the hostel’s main lobby, anger draining away. I am not a fool, I’ve been in bad situations before—and I think he had his blaster in his hand then, ready to use it. It could’ve been security, but I want to make damn sure Sten knows about it before he goes down to collect our things.

The lobby was empty of human beings, though a robot cleaner hummed to itself as it polished the mosaic floor. The concierge clicked and sprang to life as she passed its column, too-perfect voice saying, “Dam’ Heikki.”

She stopped, turning to face its cameras. “Yes?”

“There is a message cube waiting in your suite. A private and personal message arrived for you on the fast mail.”

“Thanks,” Heikki said, and then, because that was not a response the program would understand, “Its arrival has been noted.”

“Thank you, Dam’ Heikki.” The machine went dormant again, leaving her alone in the empty space.

The unnerving quiet continued as she made her way across the lobby to the second bank of lifts, and all the way up to the fifth floor. I can’t think when I was last in a place this empty, she thought—if I ever was. It’s not natural…. But then she had reached the suite, and the cube that waited in the center of the living room floor. It was a standard mailgram, a block of super-tough translucent plastic, each of its faces a quarter-meter square. Santerese, Heikki thought, her spirits lifting in spite of herself, and crossed to the workroom . to retrieve her personal remote. After a moment’s hesitation, she brought the minisec as well, and triggered its field. She knelt on the thick carpet beside the cube, feeling across its unmarked faces for the shallow depression that would receive the key. When she’d found it, she sat back on her heels, adjusted the remote to her private mailcode, and laid it into the keyhole. The mailgram glowed, and projected a hissing cloud of static. Heikki sighed, and reached through the swirl of light to touch a second codesequence.

The picture cleared then, and the hiss became a familiar voice, backed by the gentle sound of waves. Santerese stood on what appeared to be a low balcony overlooking a pale grey beach and a brilliant blue ocean, twin moons hanging in the daylit sky behind her shoulder. There were single-sail boards in the water behind her, sport craft rather than anything useful, and strollers in brightly colored impractical draperies moved along the beach below. Despite her surroundings, Santerese was scowling, and Heikki’s eyebrows rose.

“Well, doll,” the projection said, “I guess you can see I’m not at the seamine, nor am I likely to be there. You won’t believe this one, but apparently PAMCo is also owned by Tremoth Astrando, and they have some kind of corporate policy about not hiring one company twice on a job like this. They’ve got some locals who say they can do the work—” Her voice was brisk and contemptuous. “—so they’ve paid the cancellation fees and transport, and as an apology they offered me and Corsell a five-day at the better of the two resorts—which they also happen to own, by the way. I’ve accepted, and so has Corsell, but I don’t mind telling you I’m pretty pissed.”

The image paused then, Santerese visibly trying to calm herself. She forced a smile finally, and continued. “This means I’ll be available if you want me for Iadara— let me know asap, I don’t have to stay here, darling, that’s for sure. I suppose I shouldn’t complain, but it’s a funny way to do business, if you ask me.” Santerese paused again, her smile more natural now. “The Tremoth people were pretty decent about it all, gave me a long apology and explanation-of-policy, and sent a higher-up to do that, complete with staff. Speaking of which, do you have any kin who work for Tremoth? The guy’s liaison was also named Heikki, Galler Heikki.”

There was more to the message, but Heikki did not hear. Oh, yes, she thought, her mouth slewing sideways to keep in a bitter laugh, I have kin who works for Tremoth, a brother, Marshallin, named Galler Heikki. My twin—and, oh, God, I did think I was rid of him, would never have to see the son of a bitch again. And I’ll bet you money he was responsible for your losing the job, the little bastard. He could—would—have guessed, from the name, who your partner was, it’s not exactly a common name. . . . She shook those thoughts away, forcing the memory back where it belonged, and reached into the image to adjust the projection. The image blurred briefly, and then reformed.

“—Galler Heikki. Anyway, no big deal, but it would be like you not to mention a relative. Do let me know if I’m needed for Iadara.” Santerese gestured vaguely at the scene around her. “This is all very nice, but a tiny bit dull. Love you, doll, and keep in contact.” The image fuzzed, and vanished.

Heikki reached into the cone of light and picked up the remote. The mailgram shut down automatically, and she did not restart it. Sent by mailship, she thought dully. I suppose the Marshallin’s making sure she gets to spend some time at this resort—but she could not muster either amusement or annoyance about something so unimportant. So Galler’s back, she thought, and on Pleasaunce and in contact with my partner. Well, I’ll do whatever’s necessary to keep him from getting any closer. She reached out then with reluctant decision, and triggered the erase function, wiping Santerese’s message from the mailgram’s memory.

“You fucking bastard, Galler,” she said aloud, and set the cube outside the door for the cleaning robots to retrieve.

Djuro and Nkosi did not return for another two hours. Heikki spent the time hunting for other surveyor/guides, and culled three possible names from the directories. Two did not respond to her message of inquiry; the third seemed curiously reluctant to bid on the job. Heikki did not press the issue, but left name and numbers with the firm’s junior partner. She turned her attention then to extracting the meteorological data from the disks Lo-Moth had provided, and setting up a crude simulation of the missing latac’s flight path. Her answers did not match Foursquare’s projections, deviating four degrees north of their line, and pushing almost a dozen kilometers further into the wayback: if her projection was right, Foursquare’s course would have taken them well out of range of any visible remains. She smiled at the results, but could not muster more than a dour satisfaction. She copied her final results to a transfer file, and triggered the communications function. When the concierge program appeared, she gave it FitzGilbert’s codes, and leaned back in her chair to wait.

The media wall lit within minutes, FitzGilbert’s heavy-browed face superimposed on the mess of charts. So we’re still getting the first-class treatment, Heikki thought, and nodded in greeting. “Dam’ FitzGilbert, it’s good of you to see me.”

FitzGilbert grimaced. “I’ve a heavy schedule today, so let’s keep this quick, please. What can I do for you?”

The words were brusque, but not intended to be actively rude, Heikki thought. “You said we could draw on Lo-Moth’s staff if we needed. I’ve run a rough simulation; I’d like your people to check it for me—you must have a supercomp on line for crystal design.”

FitzGilbert nodded, her hands busy out of camera range. She glanced down at an invisible workscreen, and said, “We can give you eight hours tonight; it looks like, if you have the material set up for us.”

“I can flip it to you now.”

“Do that.”

Heikki nodded, and touched the keys that would transfer the contents of her working file to FitzGilbert’s diskprinter. “You receive?”

“Copy received,” FitzGilbert said, almost absently. “I’ll pass it to Simulations right away. Is there anything else?”

“One other question,” Heikki said. “I may have mentioned, I wanted to hire some local talent, a backup pilot and probably a guide of some kind. I had a pilot recommended to me, and he gave your name as a reference. The name was Sebasten-Januarias, Josep Laurens Sebasten-Januarias.”

For a moment, she thought FitzGilbert would deny knowing the name, but then the other woman sighed. “Yes, I know him. He’s a good pilot, one of the best. He doesn’t like Lo-Moth, particularly, but he did good work for us. That good enough?”

Heikki nodded again. “How about a surveyor named Alexieva? Do you know her at all?”

FitzGilbert’s head lifted slightly. “Now her I can speak for properly. She’s the best there is, knows the wayback better than anybody on the planet. If she’ll take the job, you’d be a fool not to hire her.”

“Thanks,” Heikki said, startled. “That was all I wanted to know.”

The brief animation died from FitzGilbert’s face. “I’ll flip you the sim results as soon as they’re available.”

“Thanks,” Heikki said again, but the other woman had already broken the connection. Heikki sat very still for a moment, then began mechanically to shut down the workroom. So why is she pushing Alexieva? she wondered. Is she really that good, or is there something else going on? She shook her head, suddenly angry. I’ll check with Ciceron again, and maybe with people at the port, or Jock’s contacts, if he knows anybody on planet. Then we’ll see. She punched a final button, switching off the media wall, and stalked back into the living room. Djuro and Nkosi found her there an hour later, staring at the printed maps that showed the possible courses, stylus and shadowboard discarded on the floor beside her. She looked up as the door opened, and nodded, but said nothing.

“The rentals are set,” Djuro said, after a moment. “Do you want to look over the papers?”

Heikki roused herself painfully, making an effort to put aside her bad mood. “Yeah. What did you get?”

“A standard jumper, like you asked for, capable of hauling a skyhook and a jungle crawler—with grav assist, of course,” Djuro added, and Heikki gave a twisted smile.

“What’s that add to the fuel costs?”

“Twenty per cent,” Nkosi said, and when Heikki scowled, shrugged elaborately. “That is the usual factor—”

“I know that,” Heikki snapped, and bit back the rest of her comment, well aware of the glance the two men exchanged when they thought she wasn’t looking.

“Figuring in the exchange rates, we came in about fifteen hundred poa under your maximum,” Djuro said after a moment.

Heikki nodded, and forced a smile, knowing she was being irrational. “Good,” she said, and managed to sound as though she meant it. “Did you have a chance to check those references I gave you?”

“We both did,” Djuro said, and Nkosi spread his hands.

“Heikki, who is this paragon? All the pilots say he is the best, and ten years younger than I.”

“More like fifteen,” Djuro interjected, smiling.

Nkosi gave him a look of disdain. “Which would make him a mere child, a baby. There must be something wrong with him.”

Heikki smiled in spite of herself. “We can find out tonight. I asked him to dinner, so you’d both have a chance to meet him before I made a final offer.”

“That was kind of you,” Nkosi said, grinning, and Heikki gave a rueful smile.

“Well, if you can’t work with him, that’s my problem, isn’t it? But I want to know what you both think.”

“What about the surveyor?” Djuro asked.

Heikki sighed. “It’s another weirdness, Sten. She wants the job more than she ought, and FitzGilbert was really pushing her. Of course, Ciceron said she was the best, too….” She let her voice trail off, then went on with more confidence than she actually felt. “I’m going to wait and see what her bid comes in at. If there’s anything funny there, we’ll try someone else.”

Djuro nodded agreement.

“One thing more.” Heikki fumbled on the floor for the minisec, switched on its field. “When I brought the ‘cat in, I started to go down to the storage, check on our stuff, but that guy who handled it, Kasib, was waiting, and I’m pretty sure he had a blaster. I want you both to watch your step around him.”

“I checked the crates when we came in,” Djuro said. “They’ve been opened. Nothing’s missing, nothing’s disturbed very much, but I’m sure someone went through them pretty closely.”

“What the hell could they want?” Heikki said involuntarily, and waved the question aside. “Never mind, if you knew that—”

“—we would know whether we should dump the job,” Nkosi finished for her, grinning.

Djuro looked at her, his lined face very serious. “I took a full photo-record, and I have pictures from before, too. I have evidence of tampering that will stand up in court.”

“Are you saying we should pull out?” Heikki asked, startled in spite of herself. Djuro had always been a grumbler, but this was something more than his usual worrying.

Djuro shook his head reluctantly. “No, not yet. But with your permission, Heikki, I want to put this evidence somewhere very safe, and not part of Lo-Moth.”

“Do that,” Heikki said. “If there’s a Lloyds or a SwissNet on planet, that might work.”

Djuro nodded. “And I’ll send copies back to the office.” He shook his head. “Let’s hope we don’t have to use it.”

“Amen,” Nkosi murmured, the smile for once gone from his lips.

“Dinner’s at eight, evening,” Heikki said, and switched off the minisec.

The hostel boasted a ‘pointer-style dining area on its ground level, complete with private terraces and a fleet of service robots supervised by a human overseer. Despite the apparent emptiness of the hostel, Heikki was careful to reserve a table through the concierge, and was not surprised, when she and the others made their way down to the ground floor, to find the dining area busy, perhaps half the terraces occupied by medium-level functionaries. Sebasten-Januarias was there before them, very conspicuous in the loose coat and brightly-patterned headscarf, the only Firster in the comfortable bay, and Heikki’s mouth twisted.

“Expecting trouble?” Djuro murmured at her side.

“I don’t know,” Heikki answered, and moved forward to meet the young man. He rose to greet her, but the hostel’s overseer deftly interposed herself.

“Dam’ Heikki? Your places are set, and I believe your guest has arrived.” There was a slight, insulting stress on the word “believe.”

Heikki ignored the woman in her turn, held out her hand to Sebasten-Januarias. “Glad you could make it.”

“Thanks,” the young man answered, and, unexpectedly, smiled.

Heikki smiled back gratefully, and nodded to her companions. “This is the rest of my permanent crew,

Jock Nkosi and Sten Djuro.” As the three exchanged greetings, she turned at last to the overseer. “I think you said our places were ready?”

The woman at least had the grace not to show her chagrin. “Yes, Dam’ Heikki. If you would follow me?”

“Of course.”

The dining area was almost as luxurious as the hostel’s publicity claimed, with semi-private terraces ringing a central public space where the tables stood on islands in an artificial lake. Most of those public tables were filled: corporate politics often required that its practitioners be seen making deals. Heikki cast a rather wistful glance at the nearest empty table—the careful geometry of the islands and the stepping stones that gave access to each one was more to her taste than the lush greenery of the terraces—but followed the overseer along the pool’s edge to the area reserved for her. The low table was already set for the first course, a long platter of vegetables so artistically cut as to be almost unrecognizable set in its center, a tray with wine and glasses set discreetly to the side. A service robot sat inert to one side of the terrace; the overseer frowned discreetly at it, and reached into her pocket to trigger a remote. Lights flickered across the machine’s face, and vanished. The overseer nodded, satisfied, and bowed to Heikki.

“If there’s anything else we can do for you, Dam’ Heikki, please inform us.”

“Thank you,” Heikki said, though privately she longed to demand some utter impossibility. “That’ll do for now.”

“Enjoy your meal,” the overseer said demurely, and backed away.

“For God’s sake, let’s sit,” Heikki said, and forced a smile to cover her sudden irritability. “Wine, everybody?”

“Yes, thank you,” Sebasten-Januarias said, sounding more than ever like a child on his best behavior before the grown-ups, and the other two echoed him. Heikki filled the glasses—real star crystal, too, probably grown and cut from the rejects of the crystal houses—and handed them around. Nkosi darted a single glance at her, and turned his attention to the Iadaran.

“I am told by Heikki that you have been flying over the interior since you were very young.”

“That’s right, ser Nkosi.” Sebasten-Januarias sounded reserved, and still absurdly young, Heikki thought, but not entirely wary. She sipped at her wine—it was quite good, just light enough—and leaned back in the padded chair, content to allow Nkosi to do the talking. She was aware that Djuro was watching her, and smiled benignly back at him, then glanced back at the others, only half hearing their conversation. It was dangerous to allow herself to be so put off her stride—and by what? The mention of the twin she had not thought of in years? That was foolish: Galler was nothing to her any more, had no more claim on her than she would make on him. The fact that he had met Santerese was unfortunate—no, not even that, not even something worth regretting. It had happened; she would explain it to Santerese when they met again.

She became aware suddenly that the conversation was flagging, and recalled herself to her duties as host. The platter of vegetables had been well picked over— mostly by Sebasten-Januarias, she thought, though Nkosi had run a close second. “Are we ready for the main course?” she asked, and when the others murmured agreement, pushed herself to her feet. “Next course, please.”

The service robot trundled forward to remove the emptied dish. It carried it off into the greenery, and returned a moment later bearing a stack of place settings. It dealt them out with stiff grace, and vanished again. Heikki untied the ribbon that fastened the interlocking dishes. They were ceramic and crystal, rather than the usual plastic lacquers—more a product of the planet’s wealth, Heikki thought, than of ‘pointer ostentation. She glanced at Sebasten-Januarias, and saw her guess confirmed by his matter-of-fact handling of the pieces. The service robot appeared for a final time, this time carrying an enormous platter in three of its arms. It was an all-in-one meal, of the sort very popular in the Loop, but made with far more meat than was possible even for the richest ‘pointers. It had been prepared with delicacy and skill, and Heikki found herself sniffing its subtle spices with real pleasure. It was her place, as host, to serve, but that was one of the social skills she had never fully mastered. She nodded instead to Nkosi, saying, “Jock, would you?”

“Of course,” the pilot answered. The service robot, attentive to words and gestures, trundled toward him. Heikki poured out the second bottle of wine. When everyone had been served, she said, “You may leave the platter, thank you. That will be all.”

The robot did as it was told, and rolled back to the edge of the terrace. Sebasten-Januarias said abruptly, “I was wondering—I’ve always wondered. ‘Pointers are so polite to robots. Why?”

Heikki, who had fallen into ‘pointer mode without thinking, blinked at him in some surprise. Djuro said, “They’ll tell you it’s because a robot’s standing in for some person somewhere, and you wouldn’t be rude to him/her. But it’s really because if you get into the habit of being rude to anything, you’ll find it very hard to be polite.”

“You are a cynic, Sten,” Nkosi said.

Sebasten-Januarias nodded thoughtfully. “That makes a lot of sense.”

“You said you’d always wondered,” Heikki said. “I didn’t know you’d had much contact with people from the Loop.”

“Not a lot,” Sebasten-Januarias answered. “I have worked with off-worlders, though, and it’s the sort of thing you notice.”

“Since we’re already on the subject,” Heikki said, “I hope you won’t mind my asking a few more questions.” As she spoke, she reached into her pocket for the minisec, then triggered its field and set it in the center of the table. They were now cut off from the service robot, as well as from any likely eavesdroppers, but she guessed that it would be no hardship.

Sebasten-Januarias shook his head, his eyes suddenly wary again.

“For one thing,” Heikki went on, “I heard a lot of talk about you, when I was looking for names—all good, except for one thing. Everyone told me you hated Lo-Moth, wouldn’t work for them on a bet, and I know by now you’re not stupid enough to think that working for me isn’t the same as working for Lo-Moth. So what’s going on?”

Sebasten-Januarias shrugged rather self-consciously. “Look, when I said I didn’t want to work for Lo-Moth, what I meant was I didn’t want to take a full-time job with them, something like that. I like working freelance, it keeps my options open. But I’m good, and people from the company kept asking, and I kept saying no. I don’t mind having a bit of a reputation, because it stops people asking, or most of the time, anyway.”

That attitude was familiar enough from her own childhood for Heikki simply to nod in agreement.

“I imagine it’d pay a lot better to work for Lo-Moth,” Djuro said.

“Pay’s not everything,” Sebasten-Januarias retorted. “I make enough to live on, and I like being my own boss.”

“Are you able, then, to make enough money outside the company?” Nkosi began, and waved his hands in apology. “I am sorry, that was rude. I have no right to pry.”

Sebasten-Januarias shrugged. “No problem. I do all right.” He gave a lopsided smile, its self-awareness robbing his words of bravado. “When you’re the best around, you get work. Besides—” He hesitated for an instant, then looked straight at Djuro, defying him to laugh. “If ever I get to go off-world, I want to have the freedom, not be tied down by some contract.”

“A very wise decision,” Nkosi agreed. “I did much the same myself.”

Heikki glanced at Djuro, lifting an eyebrow in question, and saw the little man nod in return. Nkosi saw it as well, and said, “Heikki, I think you must do it, you should hire him.”

“I intend to,” Heikki answered. “If you’re willing, Jan.”

Sebastaen-Januarias nodded slowly. “You were offering half the union scale, plus an eighth of any bonuses?”

It was not precisely a question, but Heikki answered anyway. “That’s right.”

“Then I’ll accept—assuming the contract doesn’t have any surprises, of course.”

“I’ll flip it to you in the morning,” Heikki said. “If you can give me a number.”

Sebasten-Januarias fumbled in the pockets of his enormous coat, and finally produced a crumpled slip of paper. “This’ll reach me. It’s at the field.”

“Good enough,” Heikki said. She reached across to switch off the minisec, saying as she did so, “If it meets with your approval, I’d like to talk to you about our search plans. Can you come by tomorrow at one?”

“I’ll be there.” The young man nodded.

“Good,” Heikki said, and pocketed the minisec. The service robot trundled forward as she did so, and she waved it away. Only when the dinner was over and Sebasten-Januarias had left in an ancient fastcat did she wonder why the young man had not bothered to get himself a computer linkup of his own. Probably doesn’t want to pay Lo-Moth any more than he has to for power, she decided. Everything in FirstTown runs off the company grid. You don’t even know if he does live in FirstTown, a small voice whispered, at the back of her mind. She pushed it aside, and reached into her belt for the card that controlled the lift. The lobby was very empty, most of the corporate functionaries having left long before; even so, she lowered her voice a little as she ran the card across the sensor face.

“What did you think of him?”

“I like him,” Nkosi said immediately. “I can work with him, that is quite certain. I think this will be fun.”

Oh, wonderful, Heikki thought. She had been on other jobs when Nkosi had had fun with his work. “Sten?”

“He seems to have more sense than most,” Djuro said. “He’ll do.” He saw Heikki’s grin and added, “All right, he’ll more than do. I’m pleased.”

“Good enough,” Heikki said. “Then we’ll settle with Alexieva in the morning, and see if we can’t schedule a first overflight for—say, the day after tomorrow?”

Djuro nodded. “We can do that.”

“Right, then,” Heikki said, and punched open the door of the suite. She was more tired than she had expected, she realized belatedly, and had all she could do to stifle a jaw-cracking yawn. A light was flashing on the monitor cube. She glared at it, then manipulated the controls to transcribe the message to a storage disk unheard. “I’ll deal with it in the morning,” she said, when Djuro raised an eyebrow. “It’s bound to be Alexieva’s bid.” She closed her bedroom door behind her without waiting for an answer.

When she ran the disk the next morning, however, the message proved to be from FitzGilbert instead. Heikki leaned back behind her workboard, a cup of the hostel’s excellent coffee in her hands, and stared at the face projected on the media wall. She ran the message again, then a third time, and then sat staring at her empty screen.

“I take it that wasn’t Alexieva’s bid?”

Heikki turned, to find Djuro standing in the doorway, a cup of tea in one hand and a fresh message block in the other. “No,” she said, and triggered the message again. “Somebody from Tremoth Astrando’s on planet, and I’m summoned to a meeting.”

“With a strong suggestion that you’d better have a team put together for this person,” Djuro agreed. He held up the message block. “This is Alexieva’s bid. It’s good for us, on the low side, but not unreasonably so. Somebody really wants her on the team, Heikki.”

“You noticed that,” Heikki said, rather sourly. She took the message block from Djuro, plugged it into the workboard’s socket, but let the data reel by without really looking at it. “What do you think, Sten?”

“I don’t like it,” Djuro said bluntly. “I don’t think you should hire her if she were the last guide on planet.”

“That’s really reassuring,” Heikki muttered. She glanced again at the figures, and said, more loudly, “But if not her, who? The other names I’ve unearthed are strangely uninterested, or at best don’t answer my call. Lo-Moth wants me to have a full crew picked out and hired—and I can see why, it gives Tremoth less chance to interfere in what’s Lo-Moth’s affair. And, of course, I don’t want to take the chance of anybody interfering with me.”

“You’re going to hire her, aren’t you?” Djuro asked. His tone was unreadable, and Heikki glanced warily at him.

“I don’t see that I have any other good choices. Alexieva is at least supposed to be the best.”

“That’s true enough.” Djuro did not sound convinced.

“If I offer a provisional contract,” Heikki said slowly, her fingers moving with sudden decision across her workboard, “and she accepts it, then I can say to FitzGilbert, and to this person from Tremoth, yes, I’ve got my team picked out, thank you very much, and I don’t need any help from you. And I can still dump her if it doesn’t work out.”

“It could work,” Djuro said, and sighed. “I think you’re being a little paranoid about Tremoth, Heikki. Why should they interfere?”

Heikki looked at him and said nothing. The little man sighed again.

“All right. You’re the boss, Heikki.”

Heikki nodded. “I won’t be able to be here to meet Jan. Can you and Jock handle that? Where is Jock, anyway?”

“Asleep.”

“Oh.” Heikki glanced at her workboard, already displaying the bones of a provisional contract, and ran her hand across the shadowboard beside it to throw a set of program menus onto the media wall. “All right. We should be getting some weather and course simulations that I asked FitzGilbert to run. I’m also getting Ciceron to run the same set, just to see how they compare. When those arrive, you and Jock go over them. I’ve made some preliminary notes, which are in the files, but I’d appreciate anything you two can come up with. Talk to Jan, too, see if he can add anything. I’m going to work on this contract.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Djuro answered, and disappeared.

Heikki grimaced at her screen, and settled herself in for a long morning’s work. She finished preparing a provisional contract and flipped it to Alexieva’s mailcode, then copied her earlier simulations into another transfer file and dispatched that to Ciceron. The meteorologist came on line himself an hour or so later to discuss fees; they haggled for almost half an hour before settling on the usual rate for his sort of work. Nkosi appeared briefly, left the disk of rental contracts on the desk, and vanished again. The simulations results arrived from Lo-Moth—the corporate technicians confirmed her general conclusions, Heikki saw with some satisfaction, but had made some minor changes. She logged those, then tied her console into Lo-Moth’s main library. As she’d expected, there was a set of survey-satellite photos of the most likely area of the massif—raw data, mostly, only a few frames processed around the time of the crash in a vain search for the wreck. She pulled up a program of her own, and set it searching through the accumulated material, looking for changes in the forest cover that might signal a crash clearing. The program produced nearly three dozen possibilities, but after several hours’ work with her own battery of programs, she was able to narrow the possibilities to six. She skimmed through her final compilation once, then left the disk for Djuro, and headed for the workbay and her fastcat.

The trip to Lo-Moth’s main headquarters took her back out through town, outside the Limit on the spaceport side. This was crysticulture country on a grand scale, the scrubland fading into glittering sand as it approached the distant bay. Sifters moved across the shifting ground, following courses marked by brightly colored flags. Their massive scoops grabbed up the first ten centimeters of topsoil, funneling it into electrostatic screens where the usable minerals were separated from the surface impurities, which were vented from chutes at the sides of the machines. The land in the wake of the sifters looked darker, almost tarnished. Heikki shook away the image almost angrily: the next good blow— and there would be one, at least one within each planetary year; that was a certainty, given Iadara’s weather— would stir the darkness back into the sand, drive the sea up onto the land until it reached the edge of the scrub and even beyond, churning the loose soil until it was fit to be harvested again.

The road curved north a few kilometers further on, leaving the sands behind. The land showed scrub growth again, low-growing, fleshy-leaved plants that gave way quickly to the lusher growth of the plains. There were houses now, attached to the road by newly-metalled turn-offs, ostentatious single dwellings screened from the road and from the neighboring dozen-unit complexes by carefully tended screens of highgrass. This was mostly corporate land, and corporate housing; between the settlements, sunlight flamed from the mirror-bright walls of the enormous crystal sheds. Neilenn had been right, Heikki realized. Production had doubled or tripled, at the very least, since she had last been on planet.

Lo-Moth’s headquarters complex lay at the heart of a little town, its streets and open parks laid out with a studied irregularity that was more artificial than the corporate rigidity it sought to avoid. Heikki swore to herself as she worked her way through the maze, damning all architects and city planners, but at last fetched up at the entrance to the headquarters complex. The securitron on duty at the main gate informed her blandly that she was expected, and gave her the guide frequency that would take her into the executive parking bay. Heikki thanked him with equal blandness, and let the flashing arrow in the windscreen guide her around and then through the cluster of towers. The mirrored glass cylinders reflected her fastcat back at her, and then reflected its reflection; she looked away, dizzied, and concentrated on the guiding arrow.

Neilenn was waiting for her in the parking bay, his hand running nervously over the electronics pad set into the high collar of his ‘pointer-style jacket. Heikki swore again, silently, glancing down at her own too-casual dress, but composed herself to greet him with ‘pointer courtesy.

“Ser Neilenn, it’s good to see you.”

“And you, Dam’ Heikki,” Neilenn answered, unsmiling. “If you’d come with me?”

Heikki’s eyebrows rose, but she allowed herself to be led through the tangle of corridors, each one embellished with plates of half-grown crystal—slag crystal, flawed in the earliest stage of growth, useless but beautiful—and brightly polished metal. They passed through a plant-and-stream lobby, and then followed a circular stairway up to the next level. Glancing back, Heikki was suddenly aware of shapes, people, and security devices, concealed among the greenery. And why should they be watching me? she wondered. There were a dozen obvious answers, most of them having to do with corporate politics, and she didn’t like any of them.

“Dam’ Heikki.” Neilenn came to a stop beside a brass-paneled door, one hand resting on the security box set into the wall beside it. “Dam’ FitzGilbert is waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” Heikki said, and could not keep a certain tartness from her voice. She drew herself up, wishing once again that she were wearing something other than her four-paneled shift and high boots that were her usual exploration gear, but put aside that fear instantly. It would do her no good to arrive feeling inferior—that was a lesson she had learned long ago, and learned too well to forget now. Neilenn touched buttons on the panel, and the door slid back. Heikki took a deep breath, and stepped into air suddenly chill. She shivered in spite of herself, and glanced around quickly. FitzGilbert, standing beside a massive executive desk, greeted her with a strained smile. She seemed to be feeling the cold, too, Heikki thought; the other woman was wrapped in an incongruously heavy jacket that was trimmed with some sort of feathery fur. Then she saw the stranger, sitting at the desk, broad shoulders broadened further by the cut of his expensive jacket. He was sweating visibly, despite the chill. Used to a colder climate, Heikki thought, but did not speak.

FitzGilbert cleared her throat, and took a step forward. “Ser Slade, this is Gwynne Heikki, of Heikki-Santerese, the salvage company we’ve hired to try and clear up this mess. Dam’ Heikki, this is Daulo Slade, a troubleshooter for our parent company.”

Heikki murmured a polite response, trying to keep her face expressionless. Troubleshooters were just what their title implied, the people who solved problems for the mainline, Loop-based corporations—except that most troubleshooters’ idea of solving a problem was to create other problems for other people.

“Dam’ Heikki.” Slade had risen to his feet at her approach. Light glinted from a pin clipped to his lapel: a green circle marked with three gold “R”s. A Retroceder? Heikki thought. Damn, he must be good, if Tremoth’s willing to tolerate that visible an eccentricity. Slade stood now, frowning slightly, the expression barely raising a line on his rounded face. “Heikki. That name’s familiar.”

Heikki’s stomach contracted. Galler, she thought, but kept silent, looking at the big man with an expression as innocent as she could make it.

“That’s it,” Slade said, “I had a publicity liaison, oh, not long ago, whose name was Heikki. Galler Heikki.” The frown vanished, to be replaced by an enormous and unsettling smile. “Would he be any relation of yours, Dam’ Heikki?”

“No,” Heikki said, instinctively and irrationally, and in the next instant could have bitten her tongue for that stupidity. There was no point in lying; records were too good, and too easily checked, to make it worthwhile denying Galler. She hesitated, looking for some way to recover the situation, and Slade shrugged.

“I see. Not that it matters. Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

“Certainly,” Heikki said, and FitzGilbert stirred again.

“Ser Mikelis planned to join us if we could raise the main link. Shall I see if communications has managed it yet?”

“I doubt they have,” Slade said, pleasantly enough, but with an edge that stopped FitzGilbert in her tracks. “The plant has been down since yesterday, and—forgive me, but your technicians don’t seem to be very efficient in their repairs.”

“We could use more up-to-date equipment,” FitzGilbert murmured, and Slade smiled again.

“I see the shoemaker’s child still goes barefoot.”

FitzGilbert flushed, barely restraining some profane retort. Slade’s smile widened, and he turned his attention to Heikki. “Now, Dam’ Heikki, please forgive me for being blunt, but I haven’t much time to spend on planet. Would you mind my asking your plans for the recovery of our matrix crystal?”

“Not at all,” Heikki answered, and was pleased with the academic detachment of her own voice. “I brought our—the firm’s—best technician with us, and a senior pilot with whom we’ve worked in the past. We’ve hired a local pilot and guide as well, for back up—”

“If you don’t mind,” Slade interrupted. “Could you perhaps just give me a summary?”

“Whatever you want,” Heikki said, suppressing her own annoyance. “We’ve run some simulations of the latac’s course, and have mapped out an area for a preliminary aerial search. We’ve pulled in satellite data on the area—standard orbital survey material, both from before and after the crash—and have identified six possible sites. Once we’ve found the wreck, and I think the odds are that we will find the crash site within that preliminary area, then we’ll either bring in equipment to analyze the wreck in situ or we’ll fly out the remains and look at it here in Lowlands.”

“I assume Lo-Moth has already run this sort of program,” Slade said. “What makes you think you can find anything new?”

Heikki suppressed an angry answer only with an effort. “Because this is what I do for a living. Look, I have either modified or have had written half a dozen programs that look through your raw data for the few trivial bits of information that will help me find what I’m looking for. Once those programs are running, I have to make decisions within the program—what it’s looking for, whether a certain variable that meets the search parameters really is relevant or just noise—and I make those decisions based on twenty years’ experience. Your people don’t have the experience or the programs to do what I do.”

Slade nodded again, oblivious to her anger. “What would cause you to decide to remove the wreck from the crash site? I would have thought an oil-site analysis would be far more valuable.”

“Any number of factors,” Heikki answered, fighting for control, and in the same breath, FitzGilbert said,

“Orcs.”

“Orcs?” For a moment, Slade looked puzzled. “Oh. Your resident hominid.”

His tone was faintly contemptuous, and Heikki struggled to keep her own voice steady. “That’s the most likely reason we’d want to move the remains. If the site were awkward for any other reason, though, I’d move— after obtaining a full holographic record, of course.”

“Of course.” Slade sounded almost bored now. “Tell me, do you think this is a matter for internal affairs?”

“He means, was it sabotage,” FitzGilbert interjected.

“I have no idea at this point,” Heikki answered.

“You must have made some assumptions,” Slade murmured.

Heikki stiffened. “I assumed the job was as advertised, Ser, and therefore that this was probably a case of bad weather bringing down a flight that should have kept to the coastal route. If you have any additional information, I would of course be grateful for it.”

Slade shook his head. “None, Dam’ Heikki, I assure you.”

“Then I’ll continue to go on the assumption that it was a routine accident.”

“What will happen if it proves not to be routine?” Slade asked.

“That’s really up to my employers,” Heikki answered. “I assume Dam’ FitzGilbert can tell you more about that.”

Slade waved the answer aside. “I didn’t mean in terms of company policy, I meant in terms of what you can do for us. If, for example, the LTA’s crew were part of some conspiracy, is there any chance you could still find the wreck?”

Heikki nodded. “Oh, yes. It would probably take longer, but I think we’d find it in the end. Even a commando demolition charge would leave some traces—a multi-ton chunk of fused metals, for one.”

FitzGilbert grinned at that, but said nothing.

“Under those circumstances, we wouldn’t be able to tell you much beyond the fact that there had been sabotage,” Heikki went on, “but even that’s something.”

“Quite.” Slade pushed himself slowly to his feet, signaling the end of the interview. He was a big man, bigger than Heikki had realized, but there was muscle under the unfashionable softness. “I hope I’ll be on planet long enough to receive at least a preliminary report first hand, Dam’ Heikki.”

It was an order, despite the velvet phrasing. Heikki smiled, and said, “I can’t make any promises.” Slade frowned, but before he could say anything more, Heikki had nodded to him and to FitzGilbert. “Dam-i-ser, good day.”

On her return to the hostel, Heikki’s temper was not improved by the announcement that Alexieva had accepted the provisional contract. She did her best to keep herself under control, but despite her best efforts snapped at Djuro until the little man raised his hands in surrender.

“What did you expect her to do?” he asked reasonably. “If you didn’t want to hire her, you shouldn’t’ve made the offer.”

Heikki took a deep breath. “I know. Look, I’m sorry.”

“What happened with this person from Tremoth?” Djuro asked, after a moment.

Heikki shrugged. “I think—” she began, and broke off, frowning now in puzzlement. “I’m not sure what he wanted, precisely. To find out how we were going about the job, certainly, but I don’t know why he’d care. And I think I made a bad mistake dealing with him.”

“Oh?” Djuro sat quite still, neither consoling nor condemning. Quite suddenly, Heikki wished Santerese were there instead, but put the thought aside.

“Yeah. He asked me if I had a brother, and I told him no.”

“So?” Djuro said, after a moment.

Heikki looked up, briefly startled, then managed a rueful grin. “I do have one, you see. And he used to work for this troubleshooter—”

“I don’t mind not knowing you’ve got a brother,” Djuro said, “but you might’ve told me we were dealing with a troubleshooter.”

“Sorry.” Heikki spread her hands. “You’d expect them to send one, if the matrix is as important as they say.”

“True. So why’d you tell him you didn’t have a brother?” Djuro’s voice was patience itself, but Heikki could hear the annoyance under the neutral words.

“Because I cut all contact with my family twenty years ago, because if I had a choice I wouldn’t have a brother, and because I think of myself as not having a ‘ brother.” Heikki glared at the monitor without really seeing the lights rippling across its surface. “I know I should’ve explained that, but there wasn’t a chance.”

“I doubt it’ll matter,” Djuro said, after a moment. “If it comes up again, you can always tell him what you told me. It’s a good enough explanation.”

“Thanks,” Heikki said, rather sourly, and took a deep breath, putting aside the whole subject. “So, did you get the results from Ciceron? And where’s Jock, anyway?”

“He and Jan went to look at the fliers we rented,” Djuro answered. “The sims are in the boards, and we’ve worked out a tentative course. I spoke with Alexieva just before you came in, so I’ve got her input as well,”

“Great,” Heikki said, and reached for the nearest workboard. She fingered its miniature keyboard to display the projected course, traced its progress from the Lowlands airfield up across the scrub and then into the wayback, following the winding course of the Asilas river. The map program Djuro had been using was very good: the topography that unrolled beneath her fingers was almost uncannily like the land she remembered from her youth. “When do you think we can leave?”

“The day after tomorrow,” Djuro answered promptly.

“Good. Get in touch with the others, have them meet us at the airfield at—when’s sunrise?”

Djuro pulled out his data lens, glanced sideways into its depths. “Five fifty-six.”

Heikki closed her eyes, trying to remember the weather tables she had studied on the journey to Iadara. The normal morning turbulence usually burned off within two hours of sunrise. “Have them meet us at the hangar at eight; we’ll plan to take off at nine.”

Djuro nodded. “You’re the boss, Heikki.”

“I know it,” she said, but to empty air. She sighed, not entirely displeased, and reached again for the workboard, recalling the map. It shouldn’t be too bad a flight, she thought, and started for the workroom.