Mighty Good Road

CHAPTER 7

As Heikki had expected, the freighter’s captain was not unwilling to add two more passengers to her manifest, though she did add up the surcharges with an unholy glee. She had not expected that Nkosi would agree so meekly to his share of the outrageous price, but could not complain about the lack of protest. They were able to bring the equipment aboard without interference from Lo-Moth, though Heikki was somewhat surprised by the ease with which she evaded FitzGilbert’s offers of help. The voyage itself was uninteresting, and Heikki spent most of the time in her cabin, trying to sort out the crash data recorded on her disks. She was able to get somewhat further than she had on Iadara, but the captain was unable to spare her enough computer space to run the full scale simulations Heikki wanted. Despite that setback, however, she was able to analyze both the tapes of the wreck site and of the exterior of the latac itself, and by the time the freighter had nosed into its dock on Exchange Point 5, she was certain the LTA had been the victim of a deliberate attack, and thought she could even name the missiles used. Her report might not convince a full court of law, she amended silently, as she thumb-sealed each of three copies, but the tapes would be good enough for any inquiry short of that. The law was, after all, notoriously demanding.

She left Djuro to manage the transfer of their equipment to the next startrain for EP7, and went looking for the nearest locator screen. Its bright blue console stood just outside the entrance to the tunnel that led down to the dock—set there, she knew, for the convenience of the arriving crewmen. The inquiry rates were higher than in the main volume of the station, but she ignored that, and keyed in her request. The machine considered for a moment, then chimed twice. She lifted her data lens to read the output: the nearest postal station was at the Pod’s core, just outside the main traffic control station. She nodded to herself, dismissing the screen, and looked up to find Djuro watching curiously.

“I have an errand to run,” Heikki said, forestalling any questions. “I’ll meet you at the Station Axis in half an hour.”

“It’s three hours to the next train,” Djuro said, expressionlessly, and Heikki started to swear. She bit back the oath with an effort, remembering where she was, said instead, “All right. We’ll meet at the Club, then. We can get Jan in, can’t we?”

Djuro nodded. “You’ll let Jock take responsibility for Alexieva?”

“He certainly seems to want to,” Heikki said, rather dryly, but nodded. “Absolutely. I’m still not sure we can trust her, Sten.”

“Does that have anything to do with your errand?” the little man asked, and Heikki sighed.

“I—maybe. This whole thing is screwed—fouled up,” she amended, too late, and the inquiry console flashed a plaintext warning. Immodest language is not permitted within the Loop. Visitors are advised to remember local custom. Heikki made a face at it, and moved away from the console’s pickups. “I’ve been doing some work,” she said, lowering her voice, “and I’d like to get the results on record now, just in case there’s any questions later.”

Djuro nodded again. “I think that’s smart,” he said, and Heikki found herself wishing, irrationally, that he’d derided her fears. “I’ll take care of the unloading then, and the transfer. How do you want to handle the transshipment fees?”

Heikki grimaced, annoyed with herself for forgetting, and slipped one of the business’s bankcards from her pocket. “This should cover it. I’ll see you at the Club in half an hour.”

“Right,” Djuro said, and turned away.

Heikki looked away from him, too, along the broader corridor that led toward the center of the Pod. The pods that made up the docking shell were fairly standardized; the fastest path from skin to center would also be the most spectacular. Typical of the ‘pointers, she thought. They want you to be sure and admire what they’ve wrought—and it is admirable, what’s been built out here, out of nothing and less than nothing—but they also know better than to delay a harried businessman.

The corridor sloped gently upward underfoot. She slowed her steps to meet it, and to match ‘pointer expectations: here in the dock shell, precinct behavior was more tolerated, but it was hard enough to move from one mode to the other. From the moment she set foot on an Exchange Point, she had to become ‘pointer from head to toe, or she could never make the transition. She walked carefully, stride restrained, and kept her eyes politely averted from the other pedestrians, assessing them only with the proper, sidelong glance and the reserved and silent smile.

The corridor’s slant became more pronounced, and it curved gently to the left. Heikki allowed herself an all too genuine smile, earning a glance of censure from an elegant man in a severe grey-blue coat, but kept her pace steady. There was a light ahead, very white, like the light of a young sun. Then the polished-bronze arch that ended the corridor loomed ahead, and through it Heikki could see the blinding curve of armored glass that was the wall of the Lower Ring. She suppressed her smile, and stepped through onto the padded tiles.

The transparent wall of glass bowed gently outward above and below a ledge of darkly gleaming glass—a data bar, Heikki knew, but she ignored it, and stepped up to the wall itself, trying to hide her pleasure. Below her lay transfer tubes and the pressurized parts of the docking pods, their interiors visible through the broad bands of armored glass that let in the light of the Exchange Point’s artificial suns. Those long tubes lay overhead, and even with the heavy filters to protect her, Heikki was not tempted to look up. She looked down instead, watching machines as small as ants maneuver the enormous starcrates in and out of the FTLfreighters’ holds. Almost directly below, a customs team was at work, conspicuous in their brilliant yellow coveralls. As she watched, the team leader conferred with the ship’s captain and a woman in a neat, dark red suit—the cargo owner’s factor, Heikki guessed—and then, with a practiced twist, popped the seal on the meter-long packing tube that lay on the bench in front of them. A little of the tube’s cargo spilled, glittering, and the team leader upended the cylinder, pouring its contents across the scratched surface: pearl crystals, the crudest, cheapest, and in some ways the most vital product of any crysticulture firm. The factor cupped her hands to catch a few that bounced away, sparkling, and poured them back with the others. The captain did not move, his eyes on the team leader as he swung his wand slowly back and forth across the spilled crystals. Then the man nodded, resheathing his wand, and another agent moved to sweep the crystals back into their container. The factor extended her board, and the team leader signed it. Deliberately, Heikki turned away, reaching for the data lens in her belt.

Through its circle, the black emptiness of the ledge bloomed with letters: the ship in the dock below was the Kubera, under contract to Salmatagin Bros., Lo-Moth’s largest competitor, just in from Diava; the location code was CF12/145; the station time, 1099. It was the location which interested her, and she ran her hand along the finger-marked flange, the letters blurring and shifting at her touch, until she found the right spot and the diagram-map sprang into existence in the ledge before her. The postal station was not far at all, the corridor where it lay less than five degrees around the Lower Ring’s immense circle. She blanked the screen out of habit, turned to her left, and started off along the curve of the Ring.

It did not take her long to reach the corridor, which led off the Ring at a slight upward slope. Ceiling-mounted signboards pointed travellers to the traffic control center that lay at the corridor’s end, and an enormous notice board filled an entire wall of the center’s small lobby. The postal station stood in the center of that lobby, a red-walled kiosk with an “engaged” sign flashing above its door. Heikki scowled, and walked around to the other side. The second cubicle was unoccupied. She fed the machine her mailcard and ID codes, and stepped inside.

The interior volume was small, but the various vendors were well-stocked. It took only a few minutes for Heikki to find and purchase the necessary packing materials, and seal the disks containing both the raw data and her most recent conclusions into a secure and well-protected package. She hesitated for a moment over the address, and then placed Santerese’s personal mailcode on the seal, and paid the extra charge for security handling. Now only she would be able to retrieve the package from the postmaster’s hands, and there would be precise records of the package’s movements through the system. She worked the package through the acceptance slot, and shut down the machines before she could change her mind. This was probably all unnecessary, she thought, as she let the kiosk door close behind her—and if so, she’d wasted almost a hundred poa on the various handling charges—but she could not shake the feeling that Lo-Moth wasn’t through with them yet.

And there was still Galler to deal with. That thought froze her in her tracks for a brief instant, and then, with an impatient headshake, she started toward the nearest cross corridor. There would be time enough to deal with him once she was home again, and had seen his message. Until then, there was no point in worrying.

The others were waiting for her at the Club, Alexieva wide-eyed at her first real glimpse of ‘pointer life. Djuro had ordered food, and Heikki accepted her share gratefully, sinking into the empty chair at the little man’s side. After Iadara’s damp heat, the Exchange Point’s air seemed almost chill; she shivered, and drew her coat more closely around her shoulders. Alexieva gave her a rather wry smile at that, and Nkosi said, “So, what are your plans for us now, Heikki?”

Heikki, her mouth full and grateful for the excuse, glanced at Djuro. The little man said, “I have tickets for us on the next train to EP7, which leaves in—” He glanced at his own chronodisplay. “—a little less than two hours.”

Watching the others, Heikki saw a brief look of disappointment flicker across Nkosi’s face, and the frown that appeared momentarily on Alexieva’s forehead. “If you want,” she said, “you’re welcome to come with us. I’m sorry I didn’t make that clear. I thought you had other plans, Jock.”

The pilot had the grace to look away at that, smiling rather sheepishly.

“I’d better see to getting tickets, then,” Djuro said, and pushed himself to his feet.

“I’ll come with you,” Nkosi said instantly, and Alexieva stood with him. She was clearly determined not to let the pilot out of her sight, Heikki thought, watching them leave together. I wonder, could she be just as uncertain as I was, once upon a time? The thought was obscurely comforting, and she turned back to her food with renewed appetite.

The others returned with the tickets within an hour, but they stayed at the Club table until only half an hour remained to boarding. Alexieva glanced nervously at the nearest chronodisplay—not for the first time, and Heikki sighed.

“There’s a priority tube from this level to the Station Axis.”

The surveyor flushed, and Nkosi said easily, “She is right, though, Heikki. We should be on our way.”

Heikki nodded, and pushed herself to her feet. Djuro touched the key that would route the table’s final bill to the accounting programs—Heikki had already, after only an instant’s hesitation, routed the charges to the company membership—and gestured for the others to precede him.

The priority tube was as crowded as ever, but there were, for once, enough free jitneys cruising the broad traffic lanes. Heikki lifted her hand in signal, and Nkosi, less inhibited, gave a piercing whistle. One of the signals attracted a computer’s attention, and a passing jitney slowed inquiringly. Heikki held up two fingers, and the jitney slid neatly up to the platform. A moment later, a second joined it.

“Alex and I will take this one,” Nkosi announced, and pulled the surveyor into the crook of his arm. She made no protest, though her rather grim expression did not change.

“Why am I not surprised?” Heikki muttered, and reached to pop the other jitney’s door. “All right,” she said, more loudly. “We’ll meet you at the station, then.”

The jitney slowed as they approached the Station Axis. Heikki glanced past Djuro, through the righthand window, and saw the fluted pillars that marked the entrance to the station itself. Between and behind them, she could just make out the broad dull grey band that was the edge of the airtight hatch that would seal off the area should the outer skin ever be breached. She shivered a little, remembering the stories she had read all her life about the disaster of EP1. When the fifth PDE had failed, its crystal apparently shattering, the collapsing warp had triggered a wildfire reaction in the generators that had blown a hole through the shell and sent a plasma plume racing the length of the axis. There had been some survivors, even so, sheltered in the cars of the train that had been ready for the second and third tracks, and in the panic someone had tried to reopen the hatches that had sealed automatically. The mechanism, already damaged, had opened just far enough to breach the tube’s integrity, and then the outer door had collapsed as well. The same scenario had been repeated throughout the station, despite attempts to preserve discipline; in the end, only the docks and the two most distant pods had survived undamaged. EPl’s economic development had been set back fifty years, shifting power permanently into the Loop’s Northern Extension, and consolidating EP4’s position as the richest of all the points. Heikki smiled rather bitterly to herself. If anyone should put up a memorial to the disaster, it was EP4. Still, despite the loss of life and property, EP1 had, in the end, been very lucky: the new station at the other end of the warp, the one that would have been EP15, had been completely destroyed. Scientists were still arguing whether it was the chain reaction destruction of the station’s crystal, and the resultant the plasma plume, coupled perhaps with faulty safety equipment, or some as-yet-unidentified property of the warp itself that had destroyed the station, but there was no denying the fact of that destruction, FTLships still occasionally translated back into normal space near the site of the abortive station, and brought back photographs of the exploded spheres, their broken edges curling like the petals of a flower, that were slowly compressing into a new planet for that distant sun.

It was not a pleasant thought, and Heikki shook herself unobtrusively as she reached to pop the door. Fortunately, neither of the others had noticed her momentary preoccupation, and she swung herself out of the jitney with her usual grace. Nkosi’s jitney drew up to the platform behind them, and the pilot levered himself out, then turned back to help Alexieva from the compartment. Heikki lifted a hand in greeting, and glanced back to collect the others.

“Which track, Sten?”

Djuro held up three fingers. Heikki nodded her acknowledgement, and started for the entrance, the others trailing behind.

The station itself was crowded, and there was the usual confusion at the gates while travellers sorted out their tickets and their destinations. Heikki bit back a curse, and gestured with her free hand for Djuro, who held the tickets and had an unfailing eye for the fastest-moving gate, to go ahead of them. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nkosi put his arm around Alexieva’s waist and pull her close. They negotiated the crowd without difficulty, and were checked only briefly at the gate. The attendant on duty in the overseer’s box didn’t even glance down while the computer scanned their tickets and then opened the padded barrier. They swept through in a group, and the barrier thudded closed again just in time to cut off a skinny girl in bright metallic facepaint. She gave them a cheerful leer, and swung away.

Alexieva frowned, staring after her. “Does that happen often?” she asked.

“Often enough,” Nkosi answered, already turning toward the tunnel-like entrances to the platforms themselves, but the surveyor hung back, staring at the place where the skinny girl had become lost in the crowd.

“But what if she gets through? Does somebody lose their ticket?”

“Sometimes,” Nkosi answered briskly, “but more often not. They—the free riders—always pick on people who don’t know the Loop, so the railroad is willing to give them the benefit of the doubt.”

“It can make you miss your train,” Heikki said dryly. “I think we’d better hurry.”

“You are right,” Nkosi said, contritely, and swept Alexieva ahead of him toward the tunnels.

The sign above the righthand entrance was a steady yellow, the destinations and departure time spelled out in black against it: the string of capsules was at the platform, but passengers were not yet allowed aboard. Heikki led the way through the final arch, past the green-glowing security eyes, and then out onto the platform itself. The capsules lay comfortably in the gravity field, rocking only as the moving air hit them. Heikki glanced at the wall board, reconfirming the standard symbols, and then moved along the platform until she found the section of the train that was marked with the familiar symbols that meant the cars would not be unsealed until they reached EP7. One capsule would hold them all, and she led them past several groups of travellers until she found an unclaimed car.

“We seem to be early,” Nkosi said, with a grin.

“Better that than late,” Heikki retorted, and the big man laughed.

“True enough. Shall I fetch supplies for the trip?”

Heikki glanced at the chronodisplay in her lens—fifteen minutes still to boarding—and then manipulated the bezel to find the schedule she had downloaded to the lens’ memory. The entire trip would take several hours, what with the intermediate stops and transfers, and she wished she had thought to download the files from her newsservice. “Go ahead,” she said aloud. “Would you get me a copy of the lastest techfax, if it’s in?”

“Of course,” Nkosi answered, and looked at the others. “May I fetch anything for the rest of you?”

“Piperaad,” Djuro said, naming a favorite snack. Nkosi nodded, and headed off to intercept the slow-moving sales van that was making its way along the length of the platform.

The others stood for a moment in silence, idly watching the pilot’s progress, and then Alexieva cleared her throat. “I was wondering,” she said reluctantly. “About that girl. If she’d gotten onto the platform, how would she have gotten on the train? Don’t they check the tickets again?”

Heikki shrugged, but before she could give her answer—that the automatic scanners were easily foxed— Djuro said solemnly, “Ah. Well you asked.”

Alexieva gave him an inquiring glance, and Heikki frowned. “Sten,” she began, but the little man was hurrying on, his face crinkling into an expression that Heikki knew to be one of sheer mischief.

“If she could get on the train, of course, she’d take it—and there’re plenty of ways of foxing it—if you get a disk of the right material, reflex or tattrun, and stick it under the scanner, that’ll usually work. But if it doesn’t….” He paused then, his voice becoming sepulchral. “Then you got two choices. You can either give up, or you can try riding free.”

“Sten,” Heikki said again, but she couldn’t keep the amusement completely out of her voice. Djuro heard, and darted her a quick, evil smile.

“Riding free?” Alexieva said. From the sound of her voice, Heikki guessed she suspected she was being teased, but couldn’t quite see how. She sighed, and Djuro hurried on before she could interrupt again.

“Yeah. You only see part of the train here in the station, there’s a few dozen more capsules, cargo capsules, on a secondary platform beyond the firewall.” He nodded toward the head of the train, and the barrier that closed off the runway. “You’ve probably heard they send any cargo through first, just to be sure everything’s working right?”

Alexieva nodded, her expression still wary.

Djuro went on, “Now, you see that hatch there, left of the barrier at the end of the platform? Five’ll get you ten the lock was jimmied a long time ago, and the securitrons haven’t fixed it. That hatch gives access to the cargo platform—it’s meant for the baggage handlers. If you can get through there, you can get into one of the cargo capsules.”

He paused, expectantly, and Alexieva said, “What about the loaders?” Her voice was less disbelieving than it should have been, and Heikki shook her head at Djuro.

The little man ignored her. “They’re pretty busy, and anyway, they leave the area before the run-up starts— that whole area’s too close to the warp, once the train gets under way. So you’ve got maybe ten minutes to slip aboard. Or you could bribe somebody,” he added, after a moment’s thought. “It might well cost you less than a ticket. But it’s not hard to get into one of the capsules.”

He stopped then, waiting. Heikki was suddenly aware that Nkosi had returned, and that the pilot was waiting just as eagerly. She frowned at him, ready to tell both of them to stop their nonsense, and then saw Alexieva’s face. The surveyor was certain she shouldn’t listen, but she believed all the same. The temptation was overwhelming. Heikki swallowed her reproof, and slipped her hands into the pockets of her shift.

After a moment, Alexieva said, as though she grudged the question, “Isn’t that dangerous?”

At her side, Nkosi grinned, and as quickly wiped the expression off his face. Djuro said, “Oh, yeah. The capsules aren’t screened, you see. Why should they be? After all, it’d be a waste of money to protect inanimate cargo. So you go through the warp without the shielding.”

There was a moment of silence, and Heikki shivered in spite of herself. Even though she knew better than to believe Djuro’s story entirely, the picture was a frightening one: to be exposed to the unimaginable forces that could tear open the universe and then hold it open, to face a chaos that wasn’t chaos, but an order beyond any description except the most approximate of mathematics…. She shook the thought away.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sten,” she said, more roughly than she’d intended, and Nkosi shook a finger at her.

“Language, Heikki.”

“You know perfectly well that isn’t true,” Heikki said, without turning to look at the pilot. “Stop telling old wives’ tales.”

Djuro grinned. “It’s all perfectly true, and you know it,” he protested, but without conviction.

Alexieva blushed furiously red, and looked even angrier as she touched one hot cheek. “So what about that girl?”

“Persistent, isn’t she?” Djuro murmured.

Heikki frowned at him, and said, “Well, half of what Sten said is true, anyway. Those kids, station rats, free riders, do hide in the cargo capsules—but the capsules are solid, even if they don’t carry the same shielding as the live transfer ones. When people get killed, it’s usually through lack of oxygen. Somebody suffocates in a loose cargo.”

“Or they forget to open the cock,” Djuro began, and Heikki glared at him.

“Give it up, Sten. You’ve had your fun.” The chimes sounded, releasing the cars for boarding, and Heikki was grateful for the interruption. “All right, everybody on board.”

She held the capsule door for them, shaking her head at a stranger who would have joined them, and the others filed inside, Alexieva darting a single distrustful glance at the barrier ahead before ducking into the little car. It was, Heikki thought, a sweet—if petty—revenge, and she allowed herself a faint smile as she closed the capsule door behind them. Djuro passed their tickets under the capsule’s scanner; the machine clicked to itself, then flashed a steady green bar: passage confirmed. Heikki settled herself against the cushions, glancing around the compartment, and took the single sheet of folded thermoprint that Nkosi held out to her. The warning sounded, and the train slid smoothly forward, picking up speed as it approached the opening barrier. In spite of all the times she’d ridden the trains, Heikki braced herself, and saw, out of the corner of her eye, the others doing the same. The train lurched once as they passed over the threshold of the barrier—Alexieva turned as white as she had been red—and then the capsule seemed suddenly to pick up speed at an impossible rate.

“Now,” Nkosi said softly, one big hand closing over Alexieva’s clenched fist, and then they were into the warp itself. For a moment that seemed horribly endless, they hung in non-space, outside of space, and then reality returned, and the string of capsules was coasting up to the platform on EP3.

Alexieva murmured something that might have been a curse, and shook herself free of Nkosi’s hand as though she were angry at her own frailty.

The rest of the trip was uneventful. Heikki, watching covertly over the edge of her newssheet, was surprised and reluctantly impressed to see that Alexieva, while she avoided looking at the screen, managed to face the rest of the trip with surprising equanimity. But then, Heikki thought, I knew she was brave enough. I just wish her courage were all 1 had to worry about.

And then at last the capsule slowed to a halt at the inbound platform of EP7. Heikki reached for the door controls with more eagerness than she’d admitted feeling, and felt her cheeks grow hot as she fumbled with the latch. The door slid open, and she stepped out onto the platform, glad that the others were busy with their own belongings.

“Where away?” Nkosi asked cheerfully, folding the last newssheet into his jacket’s capacious pocket.

“Baggage claim first,” Heikki answered, “and then— I’m heading for home. What you do is up to you, but you’re all welcome back at the office.”

“Thank you,” Nkosi said, and looked at Alexieva. “But I think we had better find a place to stay, first. My usual flat only has housepacks for one.”

“I want to stop by briefly,” Djuro said, “but just to pick up my pay.”

Heikki gave him a smile of thanks, as much for the tact as for the offer itself, and said aloud, “Whatever suits you, people. Just—keep your mailcodes current with us, please? After all the strangeness of this contract, I’d like to be able to get in touch with you if the lawyers have any questions.”

“You’re not thinking of suing?” Alexieva asked.

“Not yet,” Heikki answered. “But—as I’ve said all along—this way of terminating a contract doesn’t make me look good.”

They made their way through the first set of gates to the baggage windows, and Nkosi volunteered himself and Alexieva for the tedious job of waiting for the crates to appear. Heikki, genuinely grateful, dug a handful of transfer slips out of her belt pockets and gave them to him.

“I will not need all of these,” the pilot protested, halfheartedly, and Heikki shrugged.

“Send your own stuff wherever it’s going, and if you haven’t used up the credits, flip me the excess sometime.” She glanced over her shoulder, and saw an unexpected and familiar figure standing at the entrance to the transport concourse. Santerese lifted a hand in exuberant greeting, and Heikki felt her own heart lift. “Keep in touch, Jock,” she said, and tried not to turn away too quickly.

“Oh, I shall,” Nkosi called after her, laughing. “We have not yet completely settled accounts, after all.”

Heikki turned back, flushing in embarrassment, and Nkosi waved her on. “Which we will do when you have settled your contract, I know. I will contact you tomorrow, all right?”

“Right,” Heikki agreed, relieved, and made her way through the crowd to Santerese. Djuro was there before her, but Heikki ignored him.

“Marshallin,” she said, and the two women embraced.

“Lord, doll,” Santerese said, heedless of modest language, and held her partner at arms’ length. “It’s good to see you back.”

“It’s good to be back,” Heikki said, aware both of the foolish inadequacy of her words and of Santerese’s impish acknowledging smile. “How’re things?”

“Well enough,” Santerese answered, but there was a note in her voice, a hint of restraint, that made Heikki look sharply at her. Santerese shook her head once, and said, “Let’s get back to the suite, and get Sten fed—”

“That’s not necessary, thanks,” Djuro interrupted, with a slight smile. “I just want to get a draft, if I can, and then I can be on my way.”

Heikki saw Santerese’s almost imperceptible sigh of relief, and knew Djuro had heard the same restraint in her partner’s voice. Thank you, Sten, she said silently, and opened her mouth to suggest they take a floater across the stations’s central volume, when Santerese said, with an almost perfect imitation of her usual breezy tone, “As it happens, Sten, I can save you the trip. I brought a voucher here, if you can bear to take LloydsBank.”

Djuro lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll take what I can get, Marshallin.” He paused, hazel eyes darting from one to the other as he took the slim card from Santerese, visibly considering further questions, but in the end said only, “I’ll be in touch.” The words were as much a threat as a promise.

He started away—toward the common transport tubes, Heikki saw without surprise, but she could not muster amusement at the little man’s habitual frugality. “What’s wrong, Marshallin?”

Santerese made a face. “Nothing’s wrong, precisely—or nothing’s wrong, yet.” She shook her head—annoyed with herself, Heikki knew, and offered a tentatively consoling hand. Santerese accepted it with a smile, but the response was abstracted. “Let’s get back to the suite,” she said, “and then we can talk.”

As bad as all that? Heikki thought, chilled, but let the other woman draw her away toward a waiting jitney. Santerese was unusually silent on the long ride back through the station corridors to the suite of rooms that served as both office and living quarters, and Heikki found her nervousness contagious, so that she barely noticed the familiar landmarks passing outside the jitney windows. At last the machine drew to a stop at the end of the corridor that led to their pod, and Santerese popped the canopy with a sigh of relief, saying, “I was beginning to think we’d never get here.”

So was I, Heikki thought. She followed Santerese down the twisting corridor that led to the stairs, nodding to the securitron on duty at the head of the stairway, and then rode the movingstairs down the three levels to their suite. The staircase seemed slower than ever, and it was all Heikki could do to keep from breaking modesty and start striding down the stairs at twice the stair’s sedate pace. She shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, and Santerese gave her a wry glance, but said nothing until they were finally inside the suite.

Even then, she didn’t seem eager to begin, but glanced instead toward the kitchen alcove. “I’ll start some coffee—”

“Marshallin,” Heikki began, but the other woman did not seem to hear.

“—and that tape I told you about, the one you thought was from your brother? It’s on the desk in the workroom.”

“Screw my brother,” Heikki said, and Santerese gave her a flickering smile before she sobered again. “Marshallin, what’s going on?”

Santerese sighed, her mobile face suddenly grave. “I think maybe a drink’s better than coffee,” she said, and palmed open a wall storage space to produce a bottle of amber liquid and, after some search, two glasses. Heikki accepted what was poured for her, but stood waiting. Santerese sighed again. “Since you asked, I had Malachy ask some questions about the contract, and I spoke to Idris Max about Tremoth. It was just checking, all the lightest feelers, nothing more…. But somebody took it all wrong. The answer—well, take away the legalese, and Lo-Moth’s lawyers, pardon me, Tremoth’s, it’s them who’re handling it, not Lo-Moth—” She seemed to have lost the thread of her sentence, and paused to recover it. “Take away the legalese, and they’re threatening to go to the Board, accuse us of illegal procedures, archaeology—failure to report antiquities, improper handling and so on.”

“What?” Heikki’s hand tightened painfully on her glass, and she loosened it with an effort. “That’s ridiculous—we’ve been triple certified, and everything.”

“They hint they have evidence. Nothing so direct as a threat, of course, but they do drop hints,” Santerese said. She sipped her drink, and gave a tight smile. “Which they won’t use, as long as we don’t pursue this contract.”

“Galler,” Heikki said, with a decisive venom that surprised even herself. “That son of a bitch.”

Santerese was looking at her in some surprise, and

Heikki bared teeth in an angry grin. “This is just the sort of thing he’d do. Where’s the cube?”

“In the workroom,” Santerese answered, her voice a little wary now. “Heikki—”

“What?”

Santerese seemed to swallow what she had been going to say. “What makes you think he’s responsible?”

Heikki laughed. “This is the sort of thing he’d do, the sort of thing he always did do. Haven’t you noticed that we haven’t had a bit of luck since he showed up again?” Santerese’s eyebrows lifted, but Heikki stalked into the workroom before the other woman could say anything. After a moment, she heard Santerese call after her.

“Why don’t you bring that cube out here?”

Heikki swore to herself, unreasonably unwilling to follow any suggestions, but then curbed her temper and hefted the message cube. It was heavier than it looked, and she stared at it with loathing, almost ready to blame that, as well, on Galler’s machinations. The irrationality of that brought her back to her senses a little. She laughed, with a touch of real amusement this time, and went back into the main room.

Santerese was waiting exactly where she had left her, her glass still held a little above waist level, her face, its only expression a sort of polite neutrality, turned toward the door. Heikki, recognizing the signs, set the cube on the nearest table, and said, with an effort, “All right, ‘Shallin, I’m overreacting.”

Santerese’s expression did not change. “Yes, you are.”

“You don’t know my fucking brother,” Heikki retorted, stung, and then gestured an apology. “He’s more trouble than you can imagine, always has been.”

Santerese did not answer, and Heikki shrugged to herself, reaching for the tag that contained the thumb-print seals. If that’s how you want to be…. she thought, and studied the little tab. There was no movement from Santerese. Heikki’s lips tightened, and she set her thumb firmly on the bright orange dot. The tag considered the imprint, comparing that to the pattern in its memory, and then, reluctantly, the dot faded from orange to green. Heikki took a deep breath, twisted it away, and used her thumbnail to pry open the little door that covered the controls. They were the standard set, but she pretended to study them for a moment before she could bring herself to trigger the tape.

A funnel of light flared from the machine’s projector, filled at first with static, and then with a sort of visual noise that slowly resolved itself into an image. For an instant, Heikki didn’t recognize the face that stared out at her, but then the long chin and the undistinguished nose, so like her own, resolved themselves into her brother’s once-familiar face. He had aged, she thought vaguely—but then, so had she. In a wicked mirror image, the same lines bracketed their mouths, fanned delicately from the corners of their eyes. If anything, she thought, we look more alike now than ever we did.

“You didn’t tell me you were twins, you know,” Santerese observed.

“I did—” Heikki began, and the first words of Galler’s message cut across whatever else she would have said.

“Heikki,” said the voice—her own voice, if deeper; the same tricks of phrase and the same flat vowels. And then the image smiled in the old way, sweetly malicious, and Heikki’s thoughts steadied. “Gwynne. I apologize for troubling you, but I could use your help— which, of course, I am willing to pay for, as I realize old affection doesn’t stretch nearly that far. These codes are current; contact me as soon as possible.” The image smiled again. “For old times’ sake,” it said, and dissolved into static.

“I’ll see you in hell first,” Heikki murmured, and switched off the machine.

Santerese whistled softly, and stepped forward to examine the codes inscribed on the plastic tag. “What is all that about, darling?”

“I don’t know,” Heikki said, flatly, staring at the cube without really seeing its flat grey surface. She was sorely tempted to do nothing, to ignore the message—but if she did, Galler would find some way to force her to do what he wanted anyway. I wonder, she thought suddenly, is everything that’s gone wrong his way of proving to me just how far he can go? She shook the thought away as unproved, if not unfounded, and said again, “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to make contact.”

Santerese lifted an eyebrow. “What’s between the two of you, anyway? He sounded like he was in trouble—he said he needed your help, anyway.”

“That’s just like him,” Heikki answered. She took a deep breath. “You don’t know Galler. He always did get into trouble, and then drag me into it after him, just so I could get us both out.” Santerese was looking at her oddly, and Heikki managed a sideways smile. “And if you’re wondering why I didn’t just leave him, he usually managed to involve me in spite of myself, so I didn’t have any choice but to help him if I was going to save myself.”

“What kind of trouble?” Santerese asked slowly.

“Oh, you’re right, nothing too serious,” Heikki answered, and with an effort held onto her smile. “The usual stuff, staying out after curfew, borrowing sailboards, things like that. But one of his schemes got me in bad with some people I really cared about, and—” I’ve never forgiven him for it. She bit off the words unspoken, perfectly aware of how ridiculous it sounded, to hold a grudge against your own brother for twenty years, and over a long-dead friendship; said instead, “We were always opposites, anyway. I said black, he’d say white to spite me, and vice versa. I only went by Heikki to prove the name was mine, I never minded Gwynne, but he kept digging up proof that in the old days it wouldn’t’ve mattered that I was older, he would’ve gotten the name because he was the male.” She’d said too much, she knew suddenly, and shrugged and fell silent, not looking at Santerese.

There was a little silence, seemingly interminable, and then Santerese said, “How come you never told me any of this, in all these many years, doll?”

Heikki shrugged again. “It didn’t seem to matter. I’d left home, cut the ties—I never expected to have to deal with him again.”

“So what are you going to do?” Santerese nodded toward the message cube, still sitting on the table where Heikki had left it.

Heikki stared at it, loathing mixed with resignation filling her. “I suppose I’ll have to contact him,” she said, and saw the approval in Santerese’s nod. Not for the reasons you think, Marshallin, she thought, but accepted the other woman’s embrace. You’d do it because he’s family, you with your cousins and god-cousins scattered all over the settled stars. Me, I’ll do it because it’s dangerous not to, because I know him, and I know he’ll hurt us if we don’t.

She looked again at the contact codes, peering over the curve of Santerese’s shoulder. “But not until tomorrow,” she said, with some relief. “Those codes are for EP4.”

Santerese laughed softly. “All right, tomorrow, then.” And then, when Heikki did not relax in her arms, she tilted her head back and sideways to look into the other woman’s face. “You do hate him, don’t you?”

Heikki kept her cheek against the warm curve of Santerese’s neck, rubbing against her like a cat for comfort. “No,” she said after a moment, because it was expected of her—you don’t hate your siblings, not blood-sibs and most especially not your twin—and felt Santerese’s arms tighten quickly. “I guess not.” She heard the lie in her own voice, but, blessedly, Santerese did not seem to notice. “Tomorrow,” she said, with an attempt at briskness. “I’ll deal with him tomorrow.”