Mainline

by Deborah Christian

  It was a primitive yet gracious setting, reminding Reva of her own sojourn on Des'lin in her late teens. Her coarse Vudesh companions had had floor mats of the same style and a firepit just as welcoming on a cold night. The fruity Cadanessa wine Lish handed her would only be served by one who appreciated the native food and drink.

  Her habitual scan of the Lines was soon done, yielding no hint of danger. Then the assassin allowed herself to do what she seldom did. She relaxed in the company of another, and enjoyed her drink.

  Vask had a problem. None of Lish's street connections knew of her hideaway on Selmun IV. That meant he couldn't walk up, knock on her door as if he had legitimate Fixer business, and finagle an introduction to Reva.

  You better come up with something, he chided himself, or you're gonna blow this trail and freeze to death at the same time.

  He sat shivering in a rented snowcrawler, watching the gateway of Tyree Longhouse appear and disappear between swirls of snow. He needed a break in this stakeout, a way to get closer, and nothing was suggesting itself. Well, there was one way, sideslipping. ... He shook his head. That was crazy. Draining enough even when he was rested.

  No, wait a minute. If I sideslip, then ...

  He began to tick off points on his left hand.

  I get in tonight, undetected. I hear what they have to say between them now, in this very private meeting. I might get a lead I can follow up on soon. The bad news is...

  —he switched to the other hand—

  I've been on hoppers too long. If I take psiboost now, I'll crash afterward, and there's nothing I can do about it. Out for, probably, a day and a half. What if I have to move sooner than that?

  Sideslipping was one of the most difficult of psionic disciplines. It required concentration and energy that would deplete all his reserves and then some. Was it worth it?

  He wasn't learning anything by sitting in the snowcrawler, that was certain. And there was no telling when either of the women would leave the longhouse again.

  He powered off the vehicle, then fished around in his carrybag until he found the medtab applicator. Punching up a dose of psiboost, he injected the potent compound into his thigh muscle and waited while the psionic drug took effect. In a few minutes he felt refreshed, not physically, but mentally alert and once more up to his full psychic potential. He knew it was part fact and part illusion, and he needed to get moving before the dose wore off. He opened the crawler's door and climbed out into the blustering storm.

  The agent walked away from the vehicle, into the snow-laden darkness beyond a feebly glowing lightpost. Better there than toward the longhouse gate, where security cameras might pick up his disappearing act. As soon as he was in relative obscurity he stood motionless and gathered his concentration. When the next flurry of snow whipped over him, Vask closed his eyes against the sting of icy flakes. He stood stolid and relaxed, then let himself go into the trance required for sideslipping.

  Soon a peculiar, skin-crawling sensation came over him as his molecular structure unphased. Like many psi powers, phase-shifting was simply a matter of manipulating the body's natural energy field. Or, not "simply." It was a difficult skill to master, and few could learn to do it.

  But Vask had. Every particle, every elemental chain that composed the man on the physical plane shifted its vibratory frequency ever so slightly up-spectrum. He was there, yet not there, existing in a state more akin to light than gross physical matter. Straddling dimensions, the entity that was Vask became a semi-coherent form, one no longer hindered by the physical stuff of his natural state. A form no longer visible to earthly sight at all.

  The snowstorm faded to a cloud of gray mist as Vask phased out of the realm of ordinary sensation. He no longer felt cold or stinging ice. His clothing, caught within the radius of his body's natural bio-electric field, traveled with him, although it, too, lacked substance and tangible presence.

  He walked in a foggy half-world where mist-soft objects glowed with a blue-gray luminescence born of radiant molecular energy. He approached the shadowy gate of Tyree Longhouse and moved through the incorporeal structure of the bars. As he pushed through, he felt a crawling sensation in the path of the earthly material. It was not a horrific feeling; neither was it pleasant. He gathered his nerve before pushing through the door of the long-house in the same manner.

  What seemed to be rough wood planking was a veneer over thick steel, with a reinforced core like a blast door. The crawling sensation came again, throughout his body. Vask closed his eyes, hating the disorientation of walking through what his mind told him should be—no, was—a solid object. Only when the sensation was gone and he was on the other side did he open his eyes.

  At the far end of the great hall, Lish and Reva sat beside the firepit drinking wine. Vask could hear nothing of their conversation, for sound, like other physical sensations, was not perceivable in a phase-shifted state. To eavesdrop, he would have to sideslip back to the material plane, then either hide in a mundane manner or use his blindspot ability to avoid detection. Blindspot-ting would exhaust even more of his powers; it would be better to simply hide.

  The furnishings in the room were sparse: cushions and mats, a few benches and tables along the walls, and the sideboard that held the dinner dishes. That high-backed furnishing stood behind Lish.

  Vask wafted through pillows and cushions, skirting the women as he came closer to them. Moving through the inanimate was uncomfortable enough; sideslipping through living creatures was even more disturbing, and could be detected by the highly sensitive, at least as a chill or sense of presence. He took care to avoid the women as he moved past toward the sideboard.

  The furniture was angled so that he would be hidden from sight behind it. The shadows there were deep. He would not be able to watch his subjects from that vantage, though he could listen to their conversation, and he could blindspot if either walked around the room.

  He moved to the space behind the sideboard, assumed what would be a comfortable sitting position, and shifted the phase of his structure back down-spectrum. First there was nothing, then there was a shimmer, then a form rested in the natural gloom at the end of the great hall.

  Vask clenched his jaw, tripping a molar relay, and a microcir-cuit implant started recording what came to his ears. It was nearly as passive a device as an implant could be, powered by a simple bio-electrical relay, recording the sounds captured by Kastlin's own inner ear. Psionicists had a low tolerance for cybersystems, which interfered with their fine-tuned control of mental and physiological processes. Vask hated using even this simple device, but some evils were necessary in order to do his job right. He listened, and let the dumb recorder do its work.

  At first the women sat in silence, sipping the Cadanessa, uncertain what to say.

  Before the silence could become uncomfortable, Reva forged ahead, deciding to get out one of the things that had been on her mind.

  "You take too many risks in your work," she declared bluntly.

  Lish raised an eyebrow. Reva felt a twinge of misgiving; that was not the kind of small talk she'd had in mind when coming here. Since there was no angry outburst to stop her, she went on. "You're doing hot drops out on the ocean. If I could figure that out, you can be sure someone else will. Bugs. The Grinds—"

  "I bribe the police," Lish interjected.

  Reva narrowed her eyes. "No, you don't. You think you do. They'll milk it for what it's worth, then turn you over for extra points to someone with less invested. Maybe Selmun Customs. They must be hopping mad by now. You've been doing this for, what, eight months or so? You're running out of time, Lish."

  The Holdout gave her a calculating look. "How do you know all this? About the Grinds? And Customs?"

  Reva set down her wineglass. "Look. First, you make these underwater runs after dark, submerged. Harbor Patrol tracks that traffic. Are your smugglers good enough to avoid detection on each run, or are they counting on being faster than Customs?"

  Lish shrugge
d.

  "That's what I thought. So on half the runs they slip in undetected. The other half, you can bet someone's put the pieces together."

  Lish's brow furrowed in thought. "I'm not the only Holdout on R'debh. Customs must have their hands full with other traffic."

  "Don't count on it. You keep your transponders hooked up, don't you?"

  "If there's an emergency—"

  "—at sea, you want Patrol to be able to help you out. So your movements are traced. It's a two-way deal, you know. You ping the navsat for your location; the navsat knows where you are by your squawk."

  The smuggler paled. "Are you certain my ID is recorded? There's so much ground traffic...."

  Reva looked at her shrewdly. "You're not used to working dirtside, are you?"

  Absently the Holdout shook her head. "Started in shipping."

  "And you continue to think that way. That'll get you killed, or locked up."

  Lish studied her guest with a thoughtful eye, then refilled their glasses. "Got any other suggestions?" she asked seriously.

  Reva shook her head. "Too late for that. You cut a deal with Karuu, that'll keep you safe for a little while. He's connected. But when the fall comes, your cargo will be grabbed by someone else—probably the Dorleoni—while you and your playmates get swept up by the Grinds. Or Internal Security, with the kind of stuff you've been moving."

  Lish waved that comment aside. "I'm safe from Security. I've got connections."

  The assassin looked skeptical. "I haven't heard of any that'll keep the Bugs off your back. Generally speaking. What makes you think you're so safe?"

  Lish chewed her lip and hesitated before speaking. "Do you know of the Shiran Traders?" she finally ventured.

  Reva shook her head.

  "From the Empire. Sa'adani space, I mean, from before we annexed the Confederacy."

  "Ahh...." The meaning of that sank in, and Reva looked at her host as if seeing her for the first time. The Confederacy of Allied Systems was thirty-three subsectors conquered by the Sa'adani Empire over a century and a half ago, now lumped into one large administrative sector for Imperial purposes. Lish meant that she was from that greater Sa'adani Empire, a place that remained largely alien in culture and attitude from what predominated on the CAS "frontier."

  "I couldn't tell to look at you," Reva commented. Almost all Sa'adani wore a caste mark of some sort, either visible on their skin or formalized in their clothing. To be without that mark was a crime, for then how would high-caste tell low-caste apart? It seemed impossible for a Sa'adani to have social interaction without consciousness of caste and therefore relative rank.

  Yet here sat Lish, with nary a mark upon her. She blushed slightly under Reva's scrutiny, let her thumb stray to the left side of her jaw. She stroked the skin there. "I had it removed," she said, apologetically.

  Reva looked closer and saw a faint blemish there the length of a finger. She hadn't noticed it earlier, and certainly wouldn't have taken it for a caste mark if she had. She rehearsed in her mind the list of identifying marks that young children were made to memorize in school. Stylized battleslash, laser-scribed in skin of left jaw...

  "Rus'karfa." She identified what caste Lish must be. The

  Holdout nodded almost shyly. "Warrior-in-service," it meant, one of the higher-ranking Sa'adani classes. From it were drawn officials, military officers, persons with authority who were expected to oversee operations under the direction of high-caste nobility.

  Reva coiled more tightly where she sat. "Isn't it a crime to be without your caste mark?" she asked, unable to resist the jab.

  Lish blushed again. "That's not well enforced in the CAS Sector. You know how people are about caste here."

  Reva knew: not accepting of Sa'adani efforts to force a caste system down their throats. Yet the smuggler had gone to some considerable trouble to have her mark of aristocracy removed, and Reva was curious about that. "Laser-scribe marks are permanent," she observed. "It must've been expensive to lose that."

  "They do interesting things with nanobugs on Tion," Lish replied awkwardly.

  Nanotechnology was one of the few areas where the CAS Sector held its own—in fact, exported products and know-how to the greater Empire. Reva hardly thought twice about it; everyone she knew took bodysculpting and other nano spin-off for granted.

  "I suppose any unhappy Sa'adani can come here, lose their caste mark like you did, and start a new life," she mused. "There must be a lot more Imperial refugees in this Sector than we realize."

  Lish's back stiffened and she put down her wineglass. "I'm no refugee, and this uncouth Sector is hardly a haven. I can go back if I want to. I just... don't want to."

  The silence between them was strained. After a minute Reva asked, "So who are the Shiran Traders?"

  That subject was not much more neutral, and Lish abruptly changed it. "Never mind. It was a mistake, bringing it all up." She eyed the food on the sideboard. "Want something to eat?" She jumped to her feet without waiting for agreement, loaded two plates with pepper-roast, breadleaf, and radish root, then returned to the fireside.

  Reva took a plate, refilled their glasses, and returned stubbornly to their prior topic. Her curiosity was piqued, and consideration for the amenities of polite conversation had fallen by the wayside.

  "I said watch out for Security, and you said you're safe from them. What do Shiran Traders have to do with that?"

  Lish set her mouth, disapproval evident on her features. That was no surprise to Reva: probably her sense of caste interaction was offended. Yet whatever reaction the Holdout felt she soon quashed, and Reva gave her a point for self-discipline. A smuggler couldn't afford to put too much stock in rigid observance of caste and rank; street savvy and common sense were a lot more important, and Lish seemed to have that. She took an audible breath, found her equanimity, and answered Reva's question.

  "Shirani are the trading and shipping arm of House Arleon in Sa'adani space. We were one of your first trade contacts, initially in the Corvus subsector, later in other Confederacy systems."

  Reva downed a chunk of pepper-roast and chased it with a drink. "That sounds like legitimate trade." The unspoken question was, how did Lish get from that into smuggling?

  The Sa'adani woman wasn't biting. She skipped ten years of personal history, and simply said, "IntSec won't arrest me because of my family ties."

  "Are you saying the Empire doesn't care what kind of crime you're running if you're well-born enough?"

  Lish quirked a smile. "Well... yes, actually. Usually."

  "I haven't heard of the Bugs holding back. Even when big names are involved."

  "They like to clean up in this sector, but never when high-caste is involved. At least, not publicly."

  "Maybe you're overlooking something," Reva pointed out cynically. "You've lost that caste mark. Maybe they think you're just another CAS Sector bottom-feeder. If they come in blasting, you could get in the line of fire as easily as anyone."

  Lish let the bottom-feeder jibe go and shook her head. "That can't happen," she said, gesturing with a yellow radish. "Once they know my family connections, they're bound by law and honor to treat me like the Rus'karfa I am."

  Reva was taken aback by the woman's sincere tone. "You really believe that, don't you?"

  The Sa'adani looked surprised at the question, and Reva shook her head in exasperation. By the Sea Father, this woman was naive! In this business, it would surely get her killed.

  The conversation wandered then, by mutual consent, a break from the intensity of the last hour. Lish revealed no more about her background, and Reva even less. The pair enjoyed small talk, another bottle of wine, and a long game of castle-stones.

  While they played, Reva studied the smuggler. Lish was unaware of the attention, bent over the board, biting her lip with the intensity of her concentration. She had a fine-boned beauty about her, accentuated by the firelight. A full lower lip, red highlights from the embers shining in her blond hair... />
  The assassin felt the strings of attraction, and thrust that thought from her mind as quickly as it surfaced.

  Business and pleasure do not mix, came her rote reprimand of self. Besides, I don't have time for relationships. They make you vulnerable. Good way to get close and kill someone.

  She knew; she'd used the pose of intimacy more than once to do her work, with men and women alike. Lish was neither threat nor target, but the habit of reserve that kept Reva alive was not something she was about to set aside over one firelit dinner.

  Don't waste time thinking about it, she told herself sternly. That's what sex-shops and quick pick-ups are for.

  She forced her mind away from that line of thought, and considered the other reasons why the smuggler intrigued her. Lish wasn't too ready to listen to common sense, that was for sure. It was an irritating trait.

  She thinks she knows how things will play out. Short-sighted, short-sighted...

  It made Reva wonder if anyone could save another from herself. No one had been able to do it for her. It would be a waste of time to try it with Lish.

  But she's so damn much like me, stubborn, cocky—a younger, stupider me....

  Again and again, Reva saw the woman's flaw illustrated in the way she played. She was too confident, too trusting in the routine way of doing things. Toward the end, when the assassin played her own variation on the Moat Gambit, Lish followed with the traditional response. Consistently she overlooked the small variables that indicated an outcome other than what she expected.

  She's smart, and she's trying hard, Reva thought wryly, but she needs someone to jar her complacency. Someone should teach her the error of her ways, before she ends up dead.

  A silent headshake accompanied the thought.

  Why's it have to be you, Reva?

  Well, you know it's not going to be Karuu, she answered herself.