The Icarus Hunt

CHAPTER 4

THE PARQUET DOCKYARD on Xathru was like a thousand other medium-sized spaceportsscattered across the Spiral: primitive compared to Qattara Axial or one of theother InterSpiral-class ports, but still two steps above small regional hubslike the one we'd taken off from on Meima. The Parquet's landing pits werecradle-shaped instead of simply flat, smoothly contoured to accommodate avariety of standard ship designs.

Of course, no one in his right mind would have anticipated the Icarus'slopsidedshape, so even with half its bulk below ground level the floors still slopedupward. But at least here the entryway ladder could be reconfigured as a shortramp with a rise of maybe two meters instead of the ten-meter climb we had hadwithout it. Progress.

Nicabar volunteered to help Everett take Jones's body to the Port Authority, where the various death forms would have to be filled out. I ran through thebasic landing procedure, promised the tower that I would file my own set ofaccident report forms before we left, then grabbed one of the little runaround cars scattered randomly between the docking rectangles and headed out to theStarrComm building looming like a giant mushroom at the southern boundary ofthe port.

Like most StarrComm facilities, this one was reasonably crowded. But also asusual, the high costs involved with interstellar communication led togenerallyshort conversations, with the result that it was only about five minutesbefore my name was called and I was directed down one of the corridors to mydesignatedbooth. I closed the door behind me, made sure it was privacy-sealed, and afteronly a slight hesitation keyed for a full vid connect. It was ten times asexpensive as vidless, but I had Cameron's thousand-commark advance money andwas feeling extravagant.

Besides, reactions were so much more interesting when face and body languagewere there in addition to words and tone. And unless I missed my guess, thecoming reaction was going to be one for the books. Feeding one of Cameron'shundred-commark bills into the slot, I keyed in Brother John's private number.

Somewhere on Xathru, StarrComm's fifty-kilometer-square star-connect arrayspata signal across the light-years toward an identical array on whichever worldit was where Brother John sat in the middle of his noxious little spiderweb. Ididn't know which world it was, or even whether it was the same world eachtime or if he continually moved around like a touring road show.

Neither did InterSpiral Law Enforcement or any of the other more regionalagencies working their various jurisdictions within the Spiral. They didn'tknow where he was, or where the records of his transactions were, or how to gethold of either him or them. Most every one of the beings working those agencieswould give his upper right appendage to know those things. Brother John's influencestretched a long way across the stars, and he had ruined a lot of lives andangered a lot of people along the way.

Considering my current relationship with the man and his organization, I couldonly hope that none of those eager badgemen found him anytime soon.

The screen cleared, and a broken-nosed thug with perpetual scowl lines aroundhis eyes and mouth peered out at me. "Yeah?" he grunted.

"This is Jordan McKell," I identified myself, as if anyone Brother John hadanswering the phone for him wouldn't know all of us indentured slaves bysight.

"I'd like to speak with Mr. Ryland, please."

The beetle brows seemed to twitch. "Yeah," he grunted again. "Hang on."

The screen went black. I made a small private wager with myself that BrotherJohn would leave me hanging and sweating for at least a minute before hedeignedto come on, despite the fact that fielding calls from people like me was oneof his primary jobs, and also despite what this vid connect was costing me perquarter second.

I thought I'd lost my wager when the screen came back on after only twentyseconds. But no, he'd simply added an extra layer to the procedure. "Well, ifit isn't Jordan McKell," a moon-faced man said in a playfully sarcastic voice, looking even more like a refugee from a mobster movie than the call screenerhad, his elegantly proper butler's outfit notwithstanding. "How nice of you tograce our vid screen with your presence."

"I'm amazingly delighted to see you, too," I said mildly. "Would Mr. Rylandlike to hear some interesting news, or are we just taking this opportunity to helpyou brush up on your badinage?"

The housethug's eyes narrowed, no doubt trying to figure out what "badinage" was and whether or not he'd just been insulted. "Mr. Ryland doesn't appreciategetting interesting news from employees on the fly," he bit out. The playfulpart had evaporated, but the sarcasm was still there. "In case you'veforgotten, you have a cargo to deliver."

"Done and done," I told him. "Or it will be soon, if it isn't already."

He frowned again; but before he could speak, his face vanished from the screenas a different extension cut in.

And there, smiling cherubically at me, was Brother John. "Hello, Jordan," hesaid smoothly. "And how are you?"

"Hello, Mr. Ryland," I said. "I'm just fine. I'm pleased everyone over thereis so cheerful today, too."

He smiled even more genially. To look at Johnston Scotto Ryland, you wouldthink you were in the presence of a philanthropist or a priest or at the very leasta former choirboy—hence, our private "Brother John" nickname for him. And Isuspected that there were still people in the Spiral who were being taken inbythat winning smile and clear-conscienced face and utterly sincere voice.

Especially the voice. "Why shouldn't we be happy?" he said, nothing in hismanner giving the slightest hint of what was going on behind those dark andsoulless eyes. "Business is booming, profits are up, and all my valuedemployeesare working so wonderfully together."

The smile didn't change, but suddenly there was a chill in the air. "Exceptfor you, Jordan, my lad. For some unknown reason you seem to have suddenly grownweary of our company."

"I don't know what could have given you that impression, Mr. Ryland," Iprotested, trying my own version of the innocent act.

"Don't you," he said, the temperature dropping a few more degrees. Apparently, innocence wasn't playing well today. "I'm told the Stormy Banks docked onXathru not thirty minutes ago. And that you weren't on it."

"That's right, I wasn't," I agreed. "But Ixil was, and so was yourmerchandise.

That's the important part, isn't it?"

"All aspects of my arrangements are important," he countered. "When I instructyou to deliver a cargo, I expect you to deliver it. And I expect you to takeit directly to its proper destination, without unscheduled and unnecessary stopsalong the way. That was our agreement; or do I have to bring up—again—the fivehundred thousand in debts I bailed you and your partner out of?"

"No, sir," I sighed. Not that I was ever likely to forget his largesse in thatmatter, what with him reminding me about it every other assignment. "But if I may be so bold, I'd like to point out that another of your standinginstructions is that we should maintain our facade of poor but honest cargo haulers."

"And how does that apply here?"

"I was offered a position as pilot on another ship for a one-time transportjob," I explained. "A thousand commarks up front, with another two ondelivery.

How could I turn that down and still pretend to be poor?"

That line of reasoning hadn't impressed Ixil very much back on Meima. Itimpressed Brother John even less. "You don't seriously expect me to buy that, do you?" he demanded, the cultured facade cracking just a bit.

"I hope so, sir, yes," I said. "Because that is why I did it."

For a long moment he studied my face, and I found myself holding my breath.

Brother John's tentacles stretched everywhere, even to backwater worlds likeXathru. A touch of a button, a few pointed words, and I would probably noteven make it out of the StarrComm building alive. A flurry of contingency plans, none of them very promising, began to chase each other through my mind.

And then, suddenly, he smiled again, the chill that had been frosting thescreen vanishing into warm sunshine. "You're a sly one, Jordan—you really are," hesaid, his tone implying that all sins had graciously been forgiven. "Allright; since you've gotten my cargo delivered on time, you may go ahead and take thisother ship and cargo home. Consider it a vacation of sorts for all yourservice these past three years, eh?"

Considering what I'd already been through on the Icarus, this trip was notexactly turning out to be my idea of a good time. But compared to facingBrother John's vengeance, I decided I couldn't complain. "Thank you, Mr. Ryland," Isaid, giving him my best humble gratitude look. "I'll let you know when I'llbe available again."

"Of course you will," he said; and suddenly the warm sunshine vanished againinto an icy winter's night. "Because you still owe us a considerable debt. Andyou know how Mr. Antoniewicz feels about employees who try to leave withoutpaying off their debts."

Involuntarily, I shivered. Mr. Antoniewicz was the head of the wholeorganization, with a shadowy identity that was even more carefully guardedthan Brother John's. Rumor had it that there were already over a thousand warrantsfor his arrest across the Spiral, ranging from happyjam manufacture to massmurder to deliberately starting brush wars so that he could sell arms to bothsides. The badgemen would probably give any two appendages to smoke him out ofhis lair. "Yes, sir," I told Brother John. "I wouldn't want to disappointeither of you."

"Good," he said. His smile shifted to somewhere in early April, glowing withspringtime warmth but with the threat of winter chill still lurking in thewings. "Then I'll let you get back to your new ship. Good-bye, Jordan."

"Good-bye, Mr. Ryland," I said. He glanced up over the camera and nodded, andthe vid went dead.

I sat there scowling at the blank screen for nearly a minute, trying to sortthrough the nuances of the conversation. Something here didn't feel quite right, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out what it was.

And I was painfully aware that that life of me phrasing could well turn out tobe literally the case. If Brother John—or Mr. Antoniewicz above him—decidedthat I had outlived my usefulness or otherwise needed to be made an example of, hewould hardly telegraph that decision by threatening me on an open vid connect.

No, he would smile kindly, just as he had there at the end, and then he wouldtouch that button and say those few pointed words, and I would quietly vanish.

A soft rustling of bills startled me out of my reverie: what was left of myhundred commarks feeding down into the change bin. I collected the bills andcoins together, wondering if I should just go ahead and feed them back in. Icould give Uncle Arthur a call...

With a sigh, I slid the bills loosely into my ID folder and dropped the coinsinto a side pocket. Uncle Arthur had been the conniving benefactor who'dworked so hard to get Ixil and me connected with Brother John in the first place, back when our soaring debts were threatening to land us in fraud court, and I justknew what he would say if I even suggested I might be in trouble with theorganization.

Besides, it was unlikely that he would lift a finger to try to help me even ifI did call him. In his own way, he was as much a reclusive figure as Mr.

Antoniewicz, and he had made it abundantly clear that he liked it that way. Itwould serve him right if he had to read about my death on the newsnets.

Overhead, the lights flickered twice, a gentle reminder that my call wasfinished and others were waiting their turn for the booth. Standing up, Ipulledmy plasmic from its holster nestled beneath my left armpit, checked the powerpack and safety, then returned the weapon to concealment, making sure it wasloose enough for a quick draw if necessary. Then, taking a deep breath, Iunsealed the door and stepped out into the corridor.

None of the dozen or so people present shouted in triumph or whipped out aweapon. In fact, none of them gave me so much as a second glance as I made myway back down the corridor to the main lobby. Aiming for an unoccupied cornerwhere I could have at least a modicum of privacy, I pulled out my phone andpunched Ixil's number.

He answered on the third vibe. "Yes?"

"It's Jordan," I told him. "What's your status?"

"I've landed and finished the entry forms," he said. I had to hand it to him; not a single cue anywhere in words or tone to indicate the surprise he wasundoubtedly feeling at hearing from me here on Xathru. I could imagine Pix andPax were doing some serious twitching, though. "I've also made contact withthe local representative and started off-loading the cargo."

"Good." So we were almost rid of Brother John's happyjam. Best news I'd heardall day. "When you're finished, upgrade to a long-term docking permit, lockdown the ship, and get yourself over to Dock Rec Three-Two-Seven."

There was just the briefest pause. "Trouble?"

"You could say that, yes," I told him. "Our mechanic was killed during theflight, and I need a replacement. You're it."

"An accident?"

I grimaced. "At this point I'm not really sure. Better come prepared."

Once again, he took it all in stride. "I'll be there in forty minutes," hesaid calmly.

"I'll be there in thirty," I said, hoping fervently that I wasn't being overlyoptimistic. "See you soon."

I keyed off and, squaring my shoulders, crossed the lobby and headed out intothe sunlight, tension and uncertainty mixing together to make the skin on myback crawl. Just because nothing had happened to me in the StarrComm buildingdidn't mean it wasn't going to happen somewhere else between here and theIcarus.

"Hey, Hummer," a crackly voice came from my left.

I jumped, hand twitching automatically toward my hidden gun. But it was only aGrifser, his tiny eyes peering up at me from leprous-looking skin, his spindlypaws held out pleadingly. Brother John might use aliens from time to time whenthey suited his purposes, but he would never use them to discipline one of hisown people, even a lowly smuggler in his final disgrace. Like most of theSpiral's criminal organizations—human and alien both—the Antoniewiczorganization was oddly but vehemently ethnocentric. "What?" I asked.

"You got any caff?" the alien asked plaintively. "I pay. You got any caff?"

"Sorry," I said, brushing past. Grifsers were absolutely nuts for Earth-stylecaffeinated beverages or snacks—it actually qualified as a drug for them, putting it on the controlled substance list anyplace they had a decent-sizedenclave. Elsewhere in the Spiral, they created nuisances of themselves aroundspaceport entrances and tavernos, but most of them knew how to more or lessgraciously take no for an answer. Those who weren't feeling all that graciouswere usually at least smart enough not to press the point with beings halfagaintheir size and twice their weight.

This particular Grifser was apparently on the trailing edge of both those bellcurves. "No!" he insisted, darting around behind me and coming up again on myright. "Caff caff—now now! Will pay for it."

"I said no," I snapped, reaching out to push him away. I didn't have time forthis nonsense.

"Caff!" he insisted, grabbing my arm and hanging on to it like a mottled-skinleech. "Give me caff!"

Swearing under my breath, I grabbed one of his paws and pried it off. I wasworking on prying the other away when a long arm snaked its way around my backfrom my left to an overly familiar resting place just beneath the right sideof my rib cage. "Hello, old Hummer chum," a voice crooned into my left ear.

I turned my head to find myself gazing at close range into an alien face thatlooked like a topographical map of the Pyrenees. "If you don't mind, friend—"

"Ah—but I do mind," he said. His hand shifted slightly, clipping expertlyunder the edge of my jacket and then burrowing upward to rest against my rib cageagain.

And suddenly the hard knot of his fist was joined by something else. Somethingthat felt cold through my shirt and very, very sharp. "It's a wrist knife," myassailant confirmed in a low voice. "Don't make me use it."

"Not a problem," I assured him, feeling chagrined, scared, and stupid all atthe same time. Brother John had totally blindsided me on this one, catching melike some fool fresh off the cabbage truck.

From my right another of his species appeared, tossing a four-pack of cola tothe Grifser with one hand as he reached under my jacket and relieved me of myplasmic with the other. "Now," the first said as their decoy ran off gurglingwith delight over his prize. "Let's go have ourselves a nice little chat."

Flanking me on either side like a couple of long-lost friends, they guided me through the usual crowd of spaceport traffic, along a couple of narrow andincreasingly depopulated service streets, and eventually into a blind alleyblocked off at the far end by a warehouse loading dock. It was a long way togo, I thought, for what was going to be only tentative privacy.

But more importantly, from my point of view anyway, the trip itself wasalreadya major blunder on their part. The ten-minute walk had given me enough time torecover from the shock and start thinking again, and that thinking hadpersuadedme that my original assessment had indeed been the correct one. Whoever thesethugs were, they weren't Brother John's enforcers. Not just because he didn'tlike aliens, but because his boys would have dropped me right there in frontof the StarrComm building instead of engaging in all this unnecessary exercise.

All of which boiled down to the fact that, whatever I wound up having to do tothem, no one was likely to care very much. At least, that's what I hoped itboiled down to.

They settled me with my back against the loading dock and took a prudentcoupleof steps away. The first was now holding his wrist knife openly: a kind ofpushknife sticking out from his palm at right angles to his arm, the weaponstrappedto his hand and wrist so that it couldn't be snatched or kicked out of his hand.

The other was holding my plasmic loosely at his side, not crassly pointed butready if it was needed. Both aliens were roughly human in height and build, Icould see now, except with simian-length arms and foreshortened torsos. Therelief-map look of their faces was repeated over their entire bodies, or atleast the parts that were visible sticking out of the long brown neo-Greektunics they were wearing.

"If this is a shakedown, I'm already broke," I warned, getting in the firstword just to irritate them as I gave their outfits a casual once-over. There wereno bulges or asymmetric bagginess that I could see. Either they didn't have anybackup weapons at all—which would be pretty careless on their part—or elsetheywere holstered behind their backs.

"It's not a shakedown," Lumpy One said, waving his wrist knife back toward themain docking area. "We want your cargo."

I blinked in surprise. "You want to steal fifty cases of combine machineparts?"

I asked incredulously.

They exchanged furtively startled glances. "That's not what you're carrying,"

Lumpy Two growled.

I shrugged. "That's what it says on the manifest and the crates. If there'sanything else in there, the Barnswell Depot is going to have a lot ofexplainingto do."

For a long second Lumpy One seemed at a loss for words. Then his crack of amouth cracked a little wider in what I decided was probably his version of aslysmile. "Clever," he said. "But not clever enough. You are Jordan McKell, youcame here from Meima, and you have a highly valuable cargo aboard your ship.

We want it."

"Jordan who?" I asked. "Sorry, boys, but you missed completely on this one. Myname's Ivo Khachnin, I'm flying a ship called the Singing Buffalo, and I'mcarrying fifty cases of farm-equipment parts. Here—I can prove it." I reacheda hand into my jacket—

"Stop!" Lumpy One barked, leaping forward with knife held ready. "I'll getit."

"Sure, pal," I said, managing to sound both startled and bewildered by hisviolent reaction. In point of fact, I'd been counting on it. "Fine. Helpyourself."

He approached at a cautious angle, staying out of his partner's line of fire, which at least proved he hadn't picked up his street-mugging technique solelyfrom watching Grade-B star-thrillers. Carefully, he set the point of his wristknife against my throat and reached into my inside jacket pocket. The probingfingers located my ID folder and pulled it out, holding it cautiously by acorner as if expecting it to be booby-trapped.

And as it came free from my jacket, the bills I'd slipped carelessly inside inthe StarrComm booth slid out and fluttered colorfully to the ground.

It was a small distraction, but it was all I needed. As their eyes flickedinvoluntarily to the floating commarks, I jerked my head back and around, movingit out of contact with Lumpy One's knife, simultaneously snapping up my lefthand to catch his wrist behind the knife strap. Pushing his arm high, I duckedunder it and spun 180 degrees around, ending up standing behind him with hisknife arm between us, bent upward toward his neck at what I very much hopedwas a painful angle.

"Release him!" Lumpy Two spat. He was holding my plasmic straight out at menow, clutched in a two-handed grip, his whole body trembling.

"Make me," I grunted, looping my right arm around Lumpy One's throat andpullinghim hard back against me. If I'd guessed wrong about this—if he did not infact have a backup weapon—I was now officially in serious trouble.

But he did. There it was, a hard flat object pressing against my abdomen as Iheld him to me. Cranking his arm up another couple of centimeters, eliciting agasped phrase that was probably an unfavorable comment on my parentage, Itwisted the knife tip down and jabbed it into the fabric of his tunic. Withthe jammed knife preventing him from lowering his arm, and the limits of his owntendon structure preventing him from raising it, the limb was effectivelyself-immobilized, freeing my left hand. Reaching up the back of his tunic, Igrabbed his weapon.

Lumpy One shouted something, probably a warning, to his companion. But by thenit was already too late. Almost too late, anyway. Lumpy Two got off a shotthat nearly scorched the side of my face as the superheated plasma ball made a nearmiss, and fired another that would have seared my right arm and possiblykilled Lumpy One outright if I hadn't bent my knees suddenly, driving my kneecapsinto the backs of Lumpy One's legs and dropping us both halfway to the ground. Thejolt of the sudden movement sent the embedded knife tip tearing a couple ofcentimeters farther into the cloth and, judging from Lumpy One's gasp, intothe skin beneath it as well.

And then I had his weapon out and pointed over his shoulder. The gun wasn't remotely like anything I was familiar with, but I didn't have time to do anything except hope like hell it had some stopping power behind it. Flicking a

thumb key that I hoped was the safety, I squeezed the trigger.

From the size and shape of the weapon, I would have guessed it to be a flechette thrower or maybe a two-shot scattergun. It wasn't. My hair and skin tingled with electrical discharge; and suddenly Lumpy Two was writhing in agony in the middle of a sheathing of blue-white coronal fire.

The electrical firestorm lasted about two seconds. From the looks of things, Lumpy Two himself didn't last nearly that long.

Under other circumstances I would probably have taken a few seconds to gape at the unexpected display of firepower I'd just unleashed. But I wasn't given that chance. Mouthing obvious obscenities, Lumpy One broke out of my grasp with a sudden lurch and spun around to face me, the sound of tearing cloth warning that he was half a second away from freeing his knife hand. I jumped to the side, swinging the alien weapon around; and as he got his arm free and lunged toward me, I fired again.

With the same result. Three seconds later, I was standing alone over two alien bodies, both of them charred literally beyond recognition.

I had seen a lot of repulsive things in my years of knocking around the Spiral, but this one definitely took the cake. Glancing around for any sign of witnesses—our little confrontation seemed to have gone unnoticed—I squatted down beside the corpses, trying to breathe through my mouth as I forced myself to sift through what was left of their clothing.

But there was nothing. No ID folders, no cash wallets, not even any bank cards.

Or at least, I amended to myself, nothing that had survived the attack.

Lumpy Two was wearing a duplicate of the alien handgun in a half-melted holster at the small of his back. I managed to pry it loose and pocketed both weapons for future study. I retrieved my ID folder and cash from the ground—Lumpy One had dropped all of it when I jumped him—and returned my now scorched but still functional-looking plasmic to its holster. Taking one final look around, I headed away at a brisk walk.

IXIL WAS WAITING for me at the Icarus's entryway. "I thought you were going to be here in thirty minutes," he greeted me as I came up.

"I ran into a little trouble," I told him. "Why didn't you go inside?"

"I thought it would be better if you were here to introduce me," he said.

"Besides, the entryway appears to be double-locked."

"Great," I scowled, punching the new code I'd set up after leaving Meima into the keypad. A double-locked entryway in port either meant the rest of the crew had sacked out for a couple of hours' sleep or, more likely, they'd scattered to the four winds the minute my back was turned.

"Had you told them to stay with the ship?" Ixil asked as the hatch swung open.

"No, I was too busy making arrangements to get Jones's body to the Port Authority and worrying about what I was going to say to Brother John," I said.

"Under the circumstances, I wish I had, though."

"I thought you smelled a bit singed," he said. "Why don't we go inside and youcan tell me all about it."

"Let's talk here instead," I said, sitting down inside the wraparound where Icould look out into the docking area. "If people with guns start wanderingcasually toward the ship, I'd like to see them before they get here."

"Reasonable," Ixil agreed, sitting down a couple of meters away from me wherehe could cover a different field of view from mine. As he settled down, Pix andPax hopped off his shoulders and skittered down the ramp, vanishing in oppositedirections around the ship. "Now," Ixil said, "why don't you start at thebeginning."

So I started at the beginning, with my near arrest on Meima, and gave him thewhole story, finishing with my near death on Xathru half an hour earlier. Thetwo ferrets came in twice while I was talking, dumping their scoutinginformation on Ixil and presumably getting new instructions before scamperingoff again. Given that Ixil didn't know anyone involved in any of this, Iwondered what exactly he was having the outriders look for. Maybe it was justpure Kalix hunters' instinct.

"I seem to have missed all the excitement," he said when I finished. "A pity."

"I wouldn't worry about it if I were you," I warned. "It's still a long way toEarth."

"It is that," he conceded. "You said you took the aliens' weapons?"

I passed them over to him. He looked at the charred one for a moment, his nosewrinkling at the smell, then exchanged it for the other. "Interesting," hesaid, studying it closely. "Coronal-discharge weapons aren't exactly new—I presumefrom your description that that's what these are—but I've never heard of suchcompact ones before."

"I've never seen one of any size," I said. "I can tell you one thing, though: These things really mess up victim identification."

"I can imagine," he said soberly. "Face, retinas, and prints, plus any IDs ordatadisks the victim happens to be carrying, all destroyed or badly damaged. Aconvenient little side effect of the killing shot."

"You have such a way with words," I growled. "I just hope these things don'tcatch on with the taverno brawling crowd."

"I think that highly unlikely," Ixil assured me. "Aside from the tremendousmanufacturing costs involved and the relative ease of detection, coronaweaponsby their nature have a very short range. Three meters, I'd guess; four at theoutside."

I shivered. In an uncomfortably large number of situations, a four-meter rangewould be perfectly adequate for the purpose. "Remind me to practice up on mydistance shots."

"Good idea." He dropped the guns into his hip pouch. "I'll try taking oneapartlater and see if I can figure out where it was made. Right now, I'm morecurious about this deadly accident of yours."

"I'll admit right up front that it's got me stumped," I said, feelingdisgustedwith myself. Strange and unpleasant things were happening all around me, andso far I didn't have a handle on any of it. "I ran a diagnostic across the wholesystem, and I can't figure how the grav generator kicked in when it did."

"You are, of course, hardly an expert in such things," Ixil pointed out, not unkindly. "There are three main locations where the generator can be turned on: the bridge, engineering, and computer."

"Right," I said. That much I knew. "I was on the bridge—and I didn't do it—

Revs Nicabar was in engineering, and Tera was handling the computer."

"Both of them alone, I take it?"

"Nicabar definitely was," I said. "The only way back there is through the wraparound, which was serving as airlock at the time."

"Odd design," Ixil murmured, glancing around.

"Tell me about it," I said dryly. "I don't know if Tera was alone, but the only person who could have been with her was Hayden Everett, our medic."

"Who you also said helped Jones on with his suit before the incident," Ixil said thoughtfully.

"You think there's a connection?"

He shrugged, a human gesture he'd picked up from me. "Not necessarily; I merely note the fact. I also note the fact that if Everett wasn't with Tera, that means all the rest of the crew were alone."

"Actually, no," I corrected him. "Geoff Shawn, the electronics man, had come to the bridge to watch Chort's spacewalk on my monitors."

"Really," he said. "Interesting."

I cocked an eyebrow. "In what way?"

"I said there were three main places where the grav generator could be turned on," he said, stroking his cheek thoughtfully with stubby fingertips. "But there are probably several other places where someone could jump power into the system."

"I was afraid of that," I said heavily. "I suppose it would be too much to ask that there would be no way to set that sort of thing up with a timer."

"You mean so that Shawn's appearance on the bridge might have been solely to establish an alibi for himself?"

"Something like that."

He shrugged again. "If he could tap into the system, I see no reason he couldn't set it up on a timer, too." He paused. "Of course, for that matter, the same thing goes for Chort and Jones."

I frowned. "You must be kidding."

"Must I?" he countered. "Look at the facts. Chort wasn't injured in the fall, at least not very seriously. And if Jones set it up, he may have planned to catch him before he fell too far."

"And his motive?"

"Whose, Jones's or Chort's?"

"Either one."

Ixil shrugged. "What motive does anyone here have? That's the main reason I hesitate to ascribe any of this to malice."

I sighed; but he was right. Considering the Icarus's, haphazard design, glitches could easily turn out to be the rule rather than the exception. "What about Jones's rebreather?"

Ixil hissed softly between his teeth. "That one I don't like at all," he said.

"I don't suppose you still have it."

I shook my head. "We had to turn over the suit and rebreather both withJones's body."

"I was afraid of that," he said. "I would have liked to have looked it over.

Frankly, I don't know if it's even theoretically possible for a rebreather tomalfunction that way on its own."

"Then you're thinking sabotage?"

"That would be my guess; but again, for what purpose? Why would anyone aboardwant to kill Jones?"

"How should I know?" I asked irritably. "These people are total strangers tome."

"Exactly my point," he said. "From your description of how Cameron was hiringhis crewers, all these people are supposedly also total strangers to eachother."

I frowned. That part hadn't occurred to me. "You're right," I said slowly, thinking back to that first meeting back at the base of the Icarus's stairway.

"No one gave any indication of knowing any of the others. At least not when Iwas watching."

"Which implies that if any of this is deliberate there must be some othermotivation," Ixil concluded. "The general sabotage of the ship, perhaps, orthe systematic disabling of the crew."

"Tied in with Cameron's failure to show up at the ship, maybe?" I suggested.

"Could be," Ixil agreed. "The massive manhunt we saw near the archaeology digwould support that theory, not to mention your playmates with the high-techweaponry."

I drummed my fingers on the deck. "So where does that leave us?"

"With quite a few unknowns," Ixil said. "The key one, in my mind, being thismysterious cargo you're carrying. Have you any idea what's in there?"

"None whatsoever," I said. "There's nothing listed in the computer that Icould find, and there are no access panels listed on the schematics where we couldeven go to take a look. When Cameron said it'd been sealed, he meant it."

"We may have to find some way to unseal it before we're done with this," Ixilsaid.

There was a scrabbling sound at the hatchway, and Pix and Pax appeared. "Okay, I

give up," I asked, finally tired of wondering about it. "What exactly havetheybeen doing out there? Neither you nor they know what any of the crew lookslike."

"Given your brush with the Lumpy Brothers, as you call them, it occurred to methat someone might have the Icarus under surveillance," Ixil said as theferrets climbed his torso to his shoulders again. "I'm watching for anyone who seemsto be loitering around the area without a legitimate reason to do so."

"Ah. And?"

"If he's there, he's very good at his job," Ixil concluded. "By the way, isone of your crewers about one-point-nine meters tall and bulking out at a goodhundred ten kilograms, with short black hair and a face like a throw-boxerwith a bad win/loss record?"

"Sounds like our medic, Everett," I said, scooting across the floor to hisside.

Sure enough, there he was, heading toward us with an air of briskdetermination about him. "Yes, that's him," I confirmed, getting to my feet. "Be nice, now—he's probably never seen a Kalix before."

Apparently lost in his own thoughts, Everett didn't even notice us standing inthe shadow of the wraparound until he was halfway up the ramp. Judging fromhow high he jumped, he had indeed never seen a Kalix before. "It's all right—don'tworry," I said quickly, before he could turn tail and run for the hills. "Thisis Ixil. He's with us."

"Ah," Everett said, regaining his balance and most of his composure andpeeringoddly at Ixil. "So this is your partner. Ixil, was it?"

"Yes," Ixil said. "How did you know I was Jordan's partner?"

Everett blinked. "He said he would be bringing his partner in to take Jones'splace," he said, looking at me uncertainly. "Just before we set down. Didn'tyousay that?"

"Yes, I did," I confirmed. "Any problems with the drop-off?"

"Not really," he said. "It was your basic fifteen-minute inquest. They didwant to keep the suit and rebreather, though."

"I figured they would," I said. "Where's Nicabar?"

"He headed off somewhere after the inquest," Everett said. "Why, is that aproblem?"

"It could become one," I said. "Did you happen to see any of the others onyourway back?"

"I passed Shawn at one of the vendor stalls a few minutes ago," he said. "Ihaven't seen anyone else."

"Perhaps it's time we called them," Ixil suggested. "I presume you have theirphone numbers, Jordan?"

"Yes, they're programmed into list two," I said, handing him my phone. "Givethem a call, will you, and tell them to get back as soon as they can. I'llmake sure the refueling's been finished and get the rest of the paperwork out ofthe way."

"What can I do?" Everett asked.

You can tell me who out there has it in for this ship and its crew, thesuggestion ran through my mind. But there was no point springing somethinglike that on him. Odds were he hadn't the faintest idea anyway. "Go make sure yourgear's ready for liftoff," I told him instead. "As soon as the rest get back, we're out of here."