by Marque
“We did drill in them aboard the ship,” Toby said.
“Good. Now. I’ve set all the external systems on full alarm. You have an implant—let’s see—you should have channel fourteen open, right?”
“Right,” Toby said, looking more enthusiastic.
“I’ll program the alarms to ping your implant. First ping—anything, no matter how minor—suit up. Second ping, get the weapon and back into the toilet space. You have a clear line of fire, and they have to find you. Don’t, please, shoot us when we come back.”
“I won’t,” Toby said.
“And dial yourself some high protein now, about a hundred grams. We’ll be back in a couple of hours, I expect.”
Toby looked at Stella, and she made herself smile at him. “Don’t fret, Toby, we’ll be back for you.”
Not surprisingly, Rafe had covert exits from his shop, and he and Stella finally emerged two passages over. They looked, she thought, like any young businesswoman and her older male escort—his gray hair and conservative clothes were, she knew, a disguise—but she was too aware of the potential danger. The attackers would certainly have vidscan of her from dockside, and possibly a line into Customs and Immigration.
“We need to stop by here,” Rafe said, as they neared a small café.
“We do?” Stella said, but followed his lead. She was certain he wasn’t after a quick snack, but he sat down in an empty booth, facing the door. Stella sat opposite him, and her back itched. Facing the door was her choice.
“Rafe—heard you had some problems over at your place.” That was a brisk-looking man with a long apron and a pot of something in his hand.
“Idiots tried to burn in my front door,” Rafe said. “I tell you, Lars, this about does me in. Trade’s been down, and I’ve foisted off all the old books and prints and statuettes you longtime stationers can absorb—”
The man laughed. “You’re right there. We still haven’t finished The Longway Saga, and Myths of Ancient Rome may never make it off the shelf.”
“They don’t know when they’ll get to my security grille, let alone the door, and I don’t know if I can afford it anyway. Can’t do business until it’s fixed, not without going out with a box and obstructing the common walkway.”
“Which is against the fire code. Right. Coffee?”
“No . . . I was wondering if you’d seen Joey.”
“Ah, Joey. Well, I heard he was assisting the police with their inquiries . . . I told you, Rafe, Joey could get you into trouble.”
“He’s not bad,” Rafe said. “Want you to meet my friend Sally here.”
“Sally,” the man said. “Any friend of Rafe’s . . .” His voice trailed away; he looked past them, his gaze sharpening.
“Be right with you,” he said; then, to Rafe, “Strangers. Trouble?”
“Maybe,” Rafe said. “I’d hate to cause a problem—”
“No problem.” The man moved in the direction of his gaze; Stella fought the urge to turn around.
“We might have to leave,” Rafe said to her. “I’m sorry—I thought a snack would do you good.”
Stella kept her own voice low. “Very interesting girl, Sally.”
“Oh yes. Known her a long time, I have. Once had a thing for her. She teaches primary.”
“Teaches?”
“Quite firm with the little lads, I understand. A bit of a softy with the girls, especially the pretty ones.”
Stella felt her face heating. “You are a wicked man, you know that?”
“Oh, darlin’, I know that very well. You look pretty when you’re mad, Sally dear.”
“You do realize I don’t have to be mad to move fast?”
“That’s good because—come on!” He was out of the booth, walking toward the back entrance, as someone behind her let out a yowl of pain. Stella slid out of the booth and followed, not looking around. She could hear the proprietor’s apologies, profuse and urgent, and the angry voices of at least two men, and then they were through the swinging door in a cramped kitchen, where a gray-haired woman kneaded a pile of dough on a counter and a skinny girl had her head in an oven, an array of tools spread on its open door.
“Oh, Rafe,” the older woman said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you—I’m really enjoying The Longway Saga .”
“I’m glad, Tulie. Catch you later, maybe?”
“Sure. Ginny, get your head out of that oven and say hello to Rafe and—”
“Sally,” Rafe said firmly. “Never mind, Ginny, we’re just passing through.”
“Some idiot put a number six cone in here instead of a number eight.” The girl’s voice sounded strange, coming from inside the oven. “Hi Rafe, ’bye Rafe.”
The back door let them out into a passage much like that behind Rafe’s shop. “So all the bad guys aren’t gone,” Stella said.
“Apparently not. We’ll have to go to Tommy’s. I was hoping to avoid that. Joey’s a leetle more reliable, for this kind of thing.”
“Picking up my gear at the dock?” Stella said.
He looked at her. This time her insides did nothing. “No,” he said, after that long look. “And we have to go to Tommy’s first.”
Tommy’s appeared to be a home furnishings store, complete with new and used items and an instore fabricator for custom orders.DESIGN YOUR OWN BED , the poster read. The illustration was nothing Stella would want to sleep in, but she supposed there were people of certain persuasions who would find it . . . useful. Certainly not restful. As she looked around, more and more of the items seemed suitable for a particular clientele.
“Don’t worry,” Rafe said. “Tommy’s staked out a market niche, but it’s not the one he lives in.”
Before Stella could ask, Tommy himself appeared. He dressed to appeal to the market niche, Stella assumed, and since it wasn’t the one she lived in, either, she felt uncomfortable.
Rafe wasted no time in pleasantries. “Alternate IDs, Tommy. How much, how fast?”
Tommy’s full red lips pursed. “You have a problem, Rafe? I don’t want trouble with the police. In my line of business, you know, I can’t afford—”
“To have them know that you’re playing with the stationmaster’s daughter? I suppose not.”
Tommy paled. “How’d you—what makes you think I—”
“She told me,” Rafe said. “I’m her father confessor or something like that . . . you really shouldn’t, Tommy. Young girls are not reliable about keeping secrets. You know that.”
“I know you’re a pain in the—” Tommy looked at Stella. “And who’s this, some female agent?”
“A friend,” Rafe said. “To return to my first question: how fast, how much?”
“Two hours each. Five thousand each. Hard goods.”
“Fine. We need three. Me, her, and a fourteen-year-old kid, male, shorter than her, dark hair, dark eyes—”
“I need the data.”
“Tommy . . . these are alternate IDs. You make the data up. And you don’t screw around. We’ll be back in two hours, with the goods. Squeal, and the deal’s off.”
“But I—I said two hours each.”
“And I said we’d be back in two hours. Get busy.”
“But if I—”
“If you don’t,” Rafe said, rounding on him, “then the stationmaster’s daughter will have a very unpleasant discussion with her mother, and her mother will have an even more unpleasant discussion with you. You did know the father’s one of Bruno’s men?”
Tommy’s skin paled even more and acquired a green undercast.
“So you will have them ready, and we will pick them up, and you will have some trade goods and all will be calm and bright . . . won’t it?”
“Y-yes, Rafe. Ma’am.”
“Come on, Sal. Time to make tracks and drive a train on them.”
From Tommy’s, they traveled a fast, direct route to the docks, and Rafe stayed back as Stella walked up to the ISC dock warden, who waved to her. “Glad you’re here, Sera, because th
e captain is ready to break loose. Your duffel’s here; they said something about a burst message?”
“No recording where I was. Can I use your set?”
“Of course, Sera. I hear one of the crew lived?”
“A boy. Apprentice. I’ve got to take him somewhere. Nobody’s going to Slotter Key, I know that . . . I’ve hired a guard.”
“Yeah. I see him. Looks kinda old.”
“Age and treachery over youth and beauty, Pete,” Stella said. She put on the headpiece, tapping the connection to be sure it was seated against her implant’s external pickup, and closed her eyes. Composing a burst message required total concentration. She had thought through what she needed to send, and was almost finished when her concentration broke at the sound of weapons fire.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Pete hunched behind the service counter, weapons in hand. An alarm whooped. Stella couldn’t see what was going on without unhooking the burst message headset; she reviewed what she’d recorded already, decided it was enough, coded it “interrupted/trouble,” and detached herself. The recording booth would already have transmitted the message to the courier’s shielded com center. At the ship’s access, two armored ISC security personnel were firing at something in the middle distance—near the dockside entrance, she guessed. Prudence suggested that down on the deck would be a good idea; the recording booth wasn’t armored. Stella slid down and eeled her way to Pete’s side.
He turned and tapped his implant; Stella nodded.
“That guard of yours . . . told us he spotted . . . some trouble.” Pete’s transmission was punctuated with little bursts of white sound when he fired. “He was right . . . dunno if . . . it was you or us . . . they were after.”
“I’m armed,” Stella said into her skullphone.
“Figured,” Pete said. “Just stay down.”
Always listen to the professionals, Stella had been told often enough. She pulled out her weapon anyway, and waited. Return fire ceased; the alarms silenced. Stella stayed down, not needing Pete’s reminder.
“Police are arriving,” he said, relaying information from the ISC guards at the ship access. This time he spoke into the air, and Stella answered the same way.
“Good. Safe to get up?”
“Probably, but I’d stay down another tick or so if I were you. Just in case. Oh—here comes your guard . . .”
Rafe came around the end of the counter. “You have interesting friends,” he said. “Persistent, too, if not very bright.”
“Good job you spotted them,” Pete said.
“Thank you,” Rafe said, with demureness alien to his nature. “I was lucky—they didn’t see me, and they were talking openly.”
“Ah. I’ll be glad to get off this place, and I wish you were coming with us,” Pete said to Stella.
“I’ll be all right,” Stella said, with confidence she didn’t feel.
“Hope so,” Pete said, with another glance at Rafe, this one slightly edged.
“I’ll take care of her,” Rafe said. His smile appeared entirely genuine, even to Stella.
“We’ll get your burst to HQ soonest,” Pete said to Stella.
“Anyone hurt?” came a hail from the other side of dock space.
“Not here,” Pete called back. “Just being careful.”
On the way back to 4th Blue, Rafe took every opportunity to check for followers. They dodged through restaurants, clothing stores, even a weapons shop—Rafe seemed to know everyone. Finally they took a drop tube to 2nd, and worked their way back up through Blue Sector, stopping at 3rd to pick up the new ID from Tommy.
“Don’t be surprised,” Rafe said before they entered. “Tommy’s been a bad boy and I have to do a little cleanup.”
Cleanup,where Rafe was concerned, had many variant meanings, including sudden death. Stella shrugged. If Tommy had set pursuers on them, she didn’t care what Rafe did to him. Inside, Tommy was talking to two—no, three—people who seemed to share the dominant decorating style of the place. He didn’t notice them until Rafe picked up the bald man and deposited him on an odd-shaped couch. The skinny one whirled, but Stella had her weapon out.
“Don’t,” she suggested mildly. He backed away, almost falling over a low table. That left the woman with the low-cut silver snugsuit, who walked over and sat on the bald man.
“Tommy,” Rafe said. Tommy shook his head, eyes wide, even before Rafe said, “Have you been a bad boy, Tommy?”
“Not me!” Tommy said. “I didn’t—it was—”
“I think you have, Tommy,” Rafe said. “I think you’ve been a very bad boy . . .”
Stella realized, with a lurch of disgust, that Tommy’s former customers were watching this avidly, and that Rafe was playing to them as well as to Tommy.
“I asked you to do one simple thing,” Rafe said. “One simple thing, and you couldn’t even get that right . . . went whining off to somebody for sympathy, didn’t you, Tommy?”
“I—I told you it’d take longer . . . I couldn’t . . .”
“Excuses, Tommy. Excuses are worth . . . nothing. You know there will be consequences . . .”
“No . . .”
“Oh, yes,” Rafe said. He glanced at the erstwhile customers, who were sitting in a row now, flushed and excited, and then watched Tommy as he ticked off points on his fingers. “First, disobedience . . . then disloyalty, in running off to someone else . . . and then . . . I don’t suppose you have completed the assignment?”
“I . . . I did . . . it’s ready, but . . .”
“Well, that’s something,” Rafe said, as if sorry to hear it. “But the fact remains, Tommy, that you’ve been a bad boy and bad boys must be punished. Sally, check in Tommy’s office and see if he’s telling the truth about the assignment, or if he lied . . .”
Stella, in the persona she’d been assigned, wove her way quickly through the furniture and into Tommy’s office. A folder on his desk withRAFE on the cover . . . she looked inside. Three sets of alternate ID that looked reasonably good to her less practiced eye. A stack of credits, which probably came from betraying them, with a call number, lay beside the folder. She scooped it all up, stuffed it in another folder, and went back to the front, where Rafe’s rather disgusting banter had Tommy trembling and the watchers bright-eyed.
“The assignment was complete,” Stella said. “But he had a stack of money and a call number with it.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Rafe said. “Naughty Tommy . . . and what shall we do with a naughty boy, mmm?” He glanced again at his audience. “Should I tell them who else you’ve been playing with, perhaps?”
“No!” Tommy jumped as if he’d been touched with a live wire.
“He has very special tastes,” Rafe said to the audience. “You would be surprised.” Then to Tommy, “But I think there’s a punishment to fit this crime. One particularly suitable to someone of your . . . type. Over here . . .”
Stella pretended disdain, while Rafe attached Tommy to some of his merchandise, explaining to the audience that of course Tommy would forfeit the reward he’d been promised for doing a tedious chore, but that he, Rafe, had matters awaiting and perhaps they would like to amuse themselves in the store until Tommy managed to get himself loose. If he could.
“And don’t pay any attention to his protests, of course. When Tommy’s been bad he likes to pretend he’s better than all this.” They nodded. “I’ll just shut the door on my way out, and turn the sign . . . everybody knows Tommy’s hours are irregular . . . along with other parts of his life . . . I am in your debt.” He put his hands together and bowed.
“We’ll . . . we’ll be glad to help . . . we . . . haven’t seen you before.”
“Few see me,” Rafe said. “But all remember me.”
Stella nearly choked on that one, but maintained her calm until they were outside and Tommy’s store had a bigCLOSED sign facing the passage. “What were you doing in there?”
“Having fun,” Rafe said. “Surely you’ve n
oticed how easy it is to get people to join the right party . . . all you have to do is make whatever’s going on the right party. I’m assuming you got the cash and the number.”
“Of course,” Stella said.
“Then it’s back home in a hurry, and hope that our boy Toby hasn’t had to use that blunderbuss I left him with, or there won’t be much left of the shop.”
But Scurry Lane was peaceful and normally busy. Stella called Toby by implant, and he said nothing had happened.
“We’re coming in the back, Toby. Rafe’s going to pick up some food—” And some gossip, she was sure.
Ten minutes later, they were all in the upper office. Rafe peered at the new ID. “Functional, not perfect. But it should do. Stella, you’ll want to dull your hair a bit, maybe use a cheek pad. Toby will do as he is. Now to find transport . . .”
“There is one ship leaving today and two tomorrow,” Toby offered. “I checked while you were out. Thought you’d need to know.”
“Did I tell you to open a com line?” Rafe said.
“Good thinking, Toby,” Stella said, with a glare at Rafe. “What ID did you use?”
“None,” Toby said. “Straight open inquiry, by implant, ID hidden.” He did not quite stick out his tongue at Rafe, but his tone was sufficient. Rafe rolled his eyes.
“Two of a kind, I see. All right, Toby, who’s off today and what capacity?”
“Rose of Bannoth,Roselines Limited. Dex said Roselines were small but pretty good, just not as fancy as the Empress Lines. Mostly passenger, light cargo. She has ten berths available to Placer B, then eight to Golwaugh, and then she’s going to Lastway.”
“That’s handy,” Stella said. “Rafe?”
“We need to leave,” he said, “and this ship is leaving. I wouldn’t care if she was going to Slotter Key or Sabine. All right—I’ll book us passage. Stella, if you’ll keep an eye on the external scans . . . and Toby, make a list of anything you need. A little ship like that won’t have much commissary capacity.”