Instead he wiped his mouth and tried to summon saliva into his mouth. The yellow seconds ticked by in his sleeve display. He still couldn’t remember how he got here.
He wondered if there had been an accident, but he thought not. An accident would have resulted in more damage, not least to him.
Martinez remembered the hand flash hanging off his wrist, and he reached for it and switched it on, pointing it above his head. The beam vanished into the darkness without encountering anything. He panned the beam down, and at a downward angle the beam found a wall painted a dark grey. Martinez tracked the beam along the wall until he encountered a large sliding cargo door, on which were painted in white the numerals 7-03. Which meant Warehouse Three, Docking Bay Seven.
Bay Seven was where Kayenta had been docked. Apparently he’d got as far as Kayenta’s berth before . . . before what?
Perhaps the yacht had left early and stranded him on the station. But in that case, it seemed odd that Martinez had no memory of it.
The cargo door, Martinez saw, had handholds by it. There wasn’t a lot of point in hanging in midair and waiting for something to happen. Perhaps he ought to get to somewhere where he could make something happen.
He swam awkwardly in midair until he had his back to the cargo door, then he took off a shoe and hurled it as hard as he could in the opposite direction.
Equal and opposite reaction, though unfortunately the masses were unequal. Martinez began drifting very slowly toward the cargo door while pitching backwards in long, slow circles.
Several seconds later, he heard a clang as the shoe hit something on the other side of the cargo bay.
The act of throwing his shoe left him panting and out of breath. Something was clearly wrong with him physically. It was going to take him a while to reach the cargo door, and while he slowly drifted and tumbled he thought about how he had got here, and why he couldn’t remember.
He had been drugged, he thought. He had been drugged and only the fact of his veins being full of narcotics had prevented him from realizing it earlier.
As he tumbled, his hair flying in front of his eyes, he felt a sudden chill as he realized what had happened.
He’d been drugged and left to be killed by the pulsar, but the person who had left him to die hadn’t known that Titan was going to shut off the pulsar, and Martinez had survived.
Which meant that as soon as the person who had left him to die worked out that the x-ray beam hadn’t hit the station, he was going to have to come back and finish the job.
Martinez almost wrenched his neck as his head darted around, staring into the darkness for his attacker. Who could be lurking on the station, and loading his gun or his med injector even now.
The wall rotated closer and Martinez reached out to grab one of the handholds by door 7-03. The drug almost made him miss, but he touched it with his fingertips and that slowed his rotation slightly, so that when he hit the wall and bounced he was able to make another grab for a different handhold and brought himself to a stop.
It occurred to him that his hand flash was very possibly making a target of him, so he turned it off and tried to think where he needed to go next.
The person who had tried to kill him could have hidden easily on the nearly-deserted station, and then from hiding to strike as Martinez moved from the elevator to Kayenta. Wherever the assassin had hidden, though, there was only place the assassin would be now, and that was in shielded Ring Command, where he’d be safe from the pulsar. Martinez should definitely avoid Ring Command.
The problem was that Ring Command had all he’d need to establish contact with the outside world: control of all communications systems, the antennae, and the power supply to start everything up.
Martinez tried to think where else he might find communication gear, and then sudden light dazzled his eyes.
Across the docking bay, the floodlights at one of the ports had just lit. A ship had docked, and was powering up the airlock through its electrical connection.
Kayenta! Martinez felt his heart give a leap. Kayenta had come to rescue him!
He gathered his legs under him, feet pressed against the wall, ready to spring to the airlock and greet his rescuers the second they came through the door.
And then he hesitated. There was something about the sight of the distant airlock, surrounded by its glowing lights, that caused him unease.
Why? Why was someone trying to kill him?
He hadn’t stopped to think about that before.
He had found out that the Meridian Company had been committing massive fraud. That might be worth killing over, he supposed, though assassination seemed an immoderate response.
It was so uncivilized. They might at least have tried to bribe him first.
Kayenta, in any case, wasn’t a Meridian Company ship; it belonged to the Chee Company, owned principally by the Martinez family. Lady Marcella Zykov, a Chee company executive and a near relation of the Martinez clan, was on board and in charge.
But there were Meridian Company personnel on board, to inspect and help restart the station. Some of them might have been given orders concerning Martinez and his health.
Perhaps, Martinez thought, he shouldn’t jump straight to Kayenta. Perhaps he should first hide, and then see who left the airlock, and if they had large firearms.
He glanced around the huge space and found no place to hide. To his left was a corridor, rather distant, that led to Ring Command— and he didn’t want to go that way, in case an assassin was heading in the other direction. To the right was a huge bulkhead door that led to another cargo bay, but that had been closed and it would require station power to open it.
That left one or another of the warehouse spaces. 7-03 was as good as any.
The cargo door would require a power assist, but each warehouse space also had a personnel hatch, and the hatches were extremely well balanced so that weightless people could use them. Martinez pushed toward it and snagged a handhold. The hatch opened in complete silence. Martinez slipped in feet-first, then drew the hatch partly shut, so that he still had a view of Kayenta’s airlock.
The air in the warehouse was close and has an aromatic scent, something like cardamom. Martinez looked over the interior with his hand flash and saw it was packed with standardized shipping containers, all in bright primary colors, stacked atop one another and strapped down to keep them from drifting. Because the weightless conditions permitted it, the containers were strapped to all six surfaces, including those he might arbitrarily designate as walls and ceiling. There was very little open space in the room, only a straight square tunnel that stretched to the back and that would permit a containers to be maneuvered in and out.
No real place to hide, he realized. He should have chosen another storage room.
Martinez was considering a jump to the next warehouse when he heard the airlock doors open and knew it was too late. He peered over the sill of the hatch and strained to see past the glare of the floodlights. There were at least three figures in the airlock, and from their barrel torsos and squat, powerful legs, Martinez knew the first two for Torminel.
An alarm rang in Martinez’ mind. He didn’t like the sight of those Torminel, and even though he couldn’t remember why, he knew very well that he didn’t want to show himself now.
“Lord Inspector?” one of the Torminel called, lisping the words past her fangs. “Lord Inspector, are you there?”
The sound echoed and died away in the vast empty dockyard.
The Torminel turned on bright flashlights and began shining them across the big room. Martinez remembered how well their huge eyes could see in the darkness and shrank from the hatch sill.
“Look!” the other Torminel called. “It’s his shoe!”
While the Torminel were inspecting the mystery of the shoe that was floating by itself in the vast room, Martinez drew the hatch shut and locked it down. Unfortunately the manual lock mechanism could be worked from the outside, but at least it when it began to
move it would provide a bit of warning.
What Martinez really needed was a weapon.
He panned along the wall with his hand flash and saw a small locker on the wall. He drifted toward it and opened it.
In the locker were spare light globes, a pad of stick-on labels for shipping containers, a pair of fire extinguishers, pairs of work gloves adapted for different species, large reels of strapping for holding down crates and containers, and tough plastic clamps for tying down the strapping. But what chiefly attracted Martinez’ attention were the two shiny aluminum pry bars, each as long as his leg, that were used to wedge the containers into their proper places. They were octagonal in shape until the business end, where they narrowed into flat, slightly curved blades.
Martinez reached for one and drew it from the clips that held it in place. It was lighter than it looked. He held the bar under his arm and drew out a reel of strapping, thinking that perhaps he could use it to tie down the hatch mechanism and keep anyone from opening the door.
He closed the locker and drifted back to the hatch. He studied the closing mechanism and then the reel of tape.
Martinez did his best, tangling the mechanism in a web of tape. The work left him out of breath, and he panted for air while he gripped one of the handholds next to the door. Once he’d caught his breath he moved to one end of the door, so that he wouldn’t be caught like a fly in a bottle once the door opened. He tucked his feet into the handgrips at the top of the door— the metal chilled his stockinged foot— and he took a few experimental swipes with the pry bar. It cut the air with a particularly nasty hiss. With his feet planted firmly he could be confident in doing a heartening amount of damage if he needed to.
And then he turned off his hand flash and waited in the darkness.
Time passed, over twenty minutes according to the flashing yellow numerals on his sleeve display. From time to time he took a swipe with the bar to keep his muscles warm and supple. He was feeling better and thought that the drug had almost worn off.
Martinez had begun to believe that the Torminel had gone elsewhere when he heard a thump on the far side of the wall on which he was standing, followed by a metallic clang on the door. His heart gave a leap and he felt the sizzle of adrenaline along his nerves. He made sure his feet were firmly in the handholds and cocked the pry bar over his right shoulder.
There were another pair of thuds against the door or the warehouse wall. Martinez felt the vibration against his feet. He heard speech but couldn’t make out the words. Then the latching mechanism began to creak open.
And jammed. The tangle of strapping was working.
He heard voices from the other side, more urgent his time, and then there was a kind of slamming noise from the mechanism, and the hatch popped open.
Martinez blinked in the light pouring in from one of the big hand lights. He was suddenly aware of sweat patches all damp under his raised arms, and the fact that his mouth was painfully dry again. He couldn’t understand why there was so much moisture under his arms when there was none in his mouth.
“It’s him,” one of the Torminel said in an urgent whisper. “He did that, with the tape. He’s in there.”
“My lord?” the other called. “Lord Inspector? You can come out. Everything is safe.”
There was a moment in which the Torminel waited for an answer, and then he told his partner, “Hold my legs while I go in.”
Martinez felt cramp in his feet where they were braced in the handholds. He shifted the pry bar slightly.
The Torminel appeared in the hatch. His back was to Martinez, and he was peering dead ahead, into the long tunnel surrounded on all sides by shipping containers. He had a flash in one hand and a stun baton in the other. A light on the stun baton winked amber.
The blade of the pry bar caught the Torminel in the side of the head and hurled him violently into the hatch coaming. The flash flew from his limp fingers and tumbled, casting wild strobing lights across the expanse of the warehouse. The stun baton tumbled in another direction. A line of irregular crimson blobs flew from the Torminel’s head and resolved themselves as they flew into perfect spherical droplets of blood.
Someone pulled the Torminel out of the hatchway, and then there was a sudden squalling noise that froze Martinez’ blood, and the second Torminel appeared. Her hair stood on end in her rage and her head looked like a giant puffball with huge angry dark eyes and ferocious white fangs. She knew where Martinez was and one hand clutched the sill of the hatch while the other stabbed at Martinez with a stun baton.
Martinez snatched his shod foot out of the hand grip to keep the baton from hitting his leg. He swung the pry bar, but the Torminel managed to cushion the impact with one arm. She flew against the hatch coaming anyway, but bounced back with the stun baton thrust out like a sword blade. Martinez swung again, awkward with only one foot to anchor him.
This time he connected with the Torminel’s head, but the impact jerked his stockinged foot out of the hand grip and sent him spinning slowly toward a side wall. The Torminel drifted limp in the hatchway. Her fur had relaxed and become smooth again.
Martinez hit a bright orange shipping container and bounced. Before he got clear he managed to push wildly with one foot and get himself on a trajectory more or less for the hatchway. His breath rasped in his throat. The pry bar felt slippery in his hands.
Somebody pulled the unconscious Torminel out of the hatchway. Martinez’ heart sank at the knowledge that there was at least one more assassin.
One of the stun batons floated toward him and he snatched at it with one hand, careful to take it by the safe end. He looked at the readouts and saw that the baton was charged and set at maximum.
He looked at the hatch again and he saw that he was going to miss it, drifting past without getting close enough to seize one of the hand grips. For a few seconds Martinez was going to be in plain sight of whoever was on the other side, and then he would have to wait till he hit the far wall and push off again.
His fists clenched around his two weapons. His eyes were fixed on the hatchway as it came closer, at the erratic bouncing light that danced through the opening.
He drifted slowly past and narrowed his eyes against the light. On the other side, Lady Marcella Zykov wrestled with the limp form of one of the Torminel, trying to lash him down to a hand grip with his own belt
Marcella looked at Martinez and with an expression of great annoyance on her face reached into a pocket and came up with a pistol. The pistol was small and made of plastic and red in color.
Martinez threw the stun baton at her. The reaction sent him tumbling slowly backwards. The pistol made a vast noise and Martinez felt the heat of the bullet flying past his chin.
Martinez craned his neck frantically to keep track of what was happening. The recoil of the pistol had pitched Marcella backwards, rotating at much greater speed than Martinez, and as her legs flew up to replace her head the stun baton struck her on the back of the thigh. There was a crackle and a sudden electric snap of ozone. Marcella gave a cry and spasmed into a foetal ball as her stronger flexors won the battle over her extensors.
Martinez lost track of her as he flew past the hatch. He hit a shipping container and jumped off for the hatch. When he arrived at the hatch he checked his motion, lined up on the distant form of Marcella tumbling end over end, and launched himself for her, the pry bar poised over his head like a battle axe.
A battle axe wasn’t needed. He caught Marcella easily enough and found that she was frozen into her ball and barely conscious. With some effort he levered the pistol out of her clenched fist.
Once he had the pistol he was reasonably certain that he was in possession of the only firearm on Chee Station.
He intended to take full advantage of this position.
*
“It was panic,” Martinez said. “Marcella saw the message and panicked.”
“That would be the message addressed to me, from my friend Bernardo in the Ministry,” Terza s
aid. The scent of her breakfast coffee floated agreeably on the air. “The message informing me of the principal owners of the Meridian Company, the answer to the query the emergency we had rather forgotten about. Lord Ehl got a look at the contents as it got routed through the communication center at Meridian Command, and he intercepted it.” She lifted the corner of a napkin tucked around a pastry in a silver wire basket, and offered it. “This is the last. Would you like it?”
“Thank you,” said Severin. He took the pastry and waved away a pair of large purple bees that were hovering over the jam. He spread jam and turned to Martinez.
“But why did Lord Ehl intercept the message?”
“Because his name was on it. He owns something like four percent of the company, and his Tir-bal clan owns more. They’re clients of Lord Pa’s Maq-fan clan, which is heavily invested as well.”
Terza sipped her coffee. “Every time Lord Ehl approved an overrun on Chee Station, his net worth grew that much larger.”
Severin chewed his pastry as he gazed through the oak alley at the distant Rio Hondo. The rising sun had outlined each leaf in silver. The shadows beneath the oaks were very dark. Tart and sweet flavors exploded on his tongue.
“I suppose Marcella’s name was on the list, too,” he said. “That’s why she panicked.”
“Marcella had two percent,” Martinez said.
“Two percent hardly seems worth killing someone over,” Terza said.
Martinez looked at her. “Marcella’s very focused on outcomes,” he said. “Processes don’t matter as much, they’re just a means to an end. If there’s a reward, she grabs it; if there’s an obstacle, she removes it. We should have taken note of the efficient way she cleaned Lord Mukerji of his money.
“And once she was caught,” he added, “once I got her gun and had her tied up with strapping, she began working toward a new outcome, which was a lessening of her sentence. She confessed to everything and blamed it all on Pa and Lord Ehl. So that once I’d restarted the station, and had Lord Ehl and a company of military constables come up from the surface, I was able to put Lord Ehl under arrest as soon as he stepped out of the elevator doors.”
Investments Page 11