Nimbus

by Jacey Bedford

“I can’t win. Come in hot with someone dying in my sick bay and I’m the worst pilot in the history of Crossways. Stick to the rules and I spoil your sweepstake.”

  Roebuck laughed. “Life’s a bitch, Benjamin. At least you’ve never twisted a docking bay door or busted a ship-cradle.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “Say, did you hear that the Ashington didn’t make it through the Folds?” Troop gestured toward a board at one side of the room. Most of the ship names on there were old, but Ashington and the date had been scrawled in bold capitals.

  “Ashington?” Ben hadn’t heard. An icy shiver found its way down his spine.

  “Freighter belonging to Lomax trading. Small outfit based on the Saturn Ring. Outward bound with a cargo of spare parts.” He emphasized spare parts, which probably meant the freighter was carrying smuggled weaponry. “Bound for Burnish. It made it through the Folds from our gate to Pinch Point Hub, but took Gate Three from Pinch Point and never came out again at the other side.”

  “How many on board?”

  “Five. You thinking of going into the Folds to get ’em?”

  Was he?

  He’d done it twice before. Once for the ark with thirty thousand settlers on board in cryo. The second time for Garrick’s shuttle. That second time was not an experience he wanted to repeat. There was a limit, and he’d reached it.

  “It’s not as simple as that. If it was, everyone would be doing it.”

  His days of hanging around in the Folds looking for waifs and strays were over. When he had to, he’d go through, but as quickly as possible with no sightseeing en route. In, through, and out was his new motto. There were enough ways to die in space without adding to them.

  Gwala and Hilde headed for central control to pull the surveillance images for the attempted hit.

  Ully, Mother Ramona’s personal Telepath, ushered Ben through to Garrick’s office. He felt he should be holding the door for her. She was a tiny woman, stick-thin, with dandelion clock hair. She must be at least ninety by the look of her lined face, though you’d never guess from her strong telepathic touch and the twinkle in her gray-blue eyes. Ully approved of having the Free Company on-station and always went out of her way to be helpful.

  Mother Ramona, handsome in her strangeness, flashed Ben a smile and continued to check off something on her handpad display.

  Garrick stood and shook his hand. “My friend, come in. I heard you had trouble.” He was a little more effusive than usual. Ben felt a slight tremor in the man’s handshake. Garrick’s badger-striped beard was trimmed to perfection. His eyes were bright, but his pupils were pinprick small. Ben hoped he wasn’t on something. Garrick was the rock at the dead center of the station. Crossways would soon be plunged into chaos if the old coalition of crimelords tried to take over again. They’d never been able to agree on anything among themselves.

  If Garrick was using, he wouldn’t be the first to need a little chemical help in a crisis. Garrick had accomplished miracles, pulling Crossways together after the megacorps attack and directing the rebuild. He’d persuaded the station’s great and good, that is, its richest criminals, to partially finance the restoration, and the rest came from the platinum profits. It reduced the dividend paid out to investors, but at least they weren’t sucking on vacuum, so most of them didn’t squeal too loudly.

  “A seat. Please . . . sit.” Garrick’s voice was slightly louder than it needed to be in the confines of this room.

  He led Ben to a group of four comfortable chairs. Garrick flopped down against the cushions in one, and Mother Ramona took up a perch opposite Ben, crossing her long legs which still looked elegant despite being encased in a buddysuit—practical, comfortable and, more importantly, providing a layer of body armor. Garrick had eschewed the safety of a buddysuit and instead had gone for an open-necked, deep-red silk shirt and black trousers. It was as if attack wasn’t a real and present danger. Assassination was, after all, the way Garrick had taken over from Chaliss.

  Since Crossways’ original bid for independence over a century ago, political backstabbings—and sometimes literal ones—determined who was at the top at any given time. Temporary alliances lasted only as long as it benefited one or the other party. Truces sprang up and broke down again. So far, Garrick had managed to stay on top for close to five years, something of a record.

  “So what happened on the way over?” Garrick asked.

  “News travels fast.”

  “Having to flush toxic nerve gas from a minor pull-in is a dead giveaway. Your friend Crowder, do you think?”

  “That would be everyone’s best guess, but speculation without information is pointless. Now that Crowder has moved to Earth, I have someone keeping tabs on him.”

  “Someone you can trust?”

  “In this particular case, someone I can trust implicitly though I’ve never met him. A family connection.” Cara had contacted Nan; Nan had made a suggestion to a very old friend.

  “Heh, that’s good.”

  Ben smiled. “As to this morning’s unfortunate incident, Hilde and Gwala are checking the security recordings right now to see if we can work out who it was or—better still—who sent them.”

  “Save yourself the trouble.” Mother Ramona said. “The perps were on our contractors list, a pair of twins who use a variety of names. We know them as Kurt and Marie Lamond. They’re independent. They’ll take any assignment that pays well enough.”

  “They were on your list? Past tense?”

  “We removed them from the protection of the list as of five minutes ago. When we find them, and we will, we’ll remind them of the severe penalties for breaking the rules. They’re allowed to base themselves here as long as they work anywhere but Crossways. We’ll let you have any information they offer before we ask them to leave the station.”

  Her voice told Ben all he needed to know about the two assassins’ method of departure. It would be out of an airlock, and there wouldn’t be a ship waiting on the other side.

  Ben had known Mother Ramona since his days in the Monitors. He’d come to Crossways looking for someone who could supply forged papers for a bunch of Burnish refugees he was trying to resettle while the frontier war raged. The someone Ben had found was Mother Ramona, a startlingly beautiful woman of indeterminate age, white skin with silver-gray marbling, and cerulean hair. She’d driven a hard bargain, but she’d delivered as promised, and insisted on sealing their bargain physically on the overstuffed couch in her den.

  That was before she’d risen to prominence, joined the ruling council, and partnered up with Norton Garrick. Between the two of them, they outgunned every other council member—literally.

  Unlike other alliances in the history of Crossways, Mother Ramona and Garrick had not only retained their business partnership, but they’d formed a personal one as well. Maybe they’d sealed their bargain on the couch, too.

  “So . . .” Garrick leaned forward. “How many jumpship pilots do you have for me?”

  Now that Crossways had a retrofit jump drive available, it made sense to convert their fleet, but jumpship pilots were rare. Ben had agreed the Free Company would train suitable individuals. So far, they’d recruited twelve pilots with potential, but not all of them were ready to face the Folds alone.

  “Seven, possibly eight.”

  “Is that all?”

  Mother Ramona touched Garrick’s arm. He jumped visibly, but lowered his voice. “I’d hoped for more.”

  “I know. Me, too,” Ben said. “But it’s no use putting pilots into the field who are going to snap. Just because they can see the void dragon doesn’t make them good pilots. Not all of them are going to make the grade. Being able to see the void dragon also makes them vulnerable to the terrors of foldspace. Seven are ready, one is almost there, but I’d like to keep her in the training program for another month. Three are simply not re
ady, and might never be. We’ve only lost one, so far, out of the original dozen.”

  “Lost?”

  “Not literally. James Suli cracked. You know what it’s like out there.”

  Garrick swallowed hard. “I wish I didn’t.”

  “If you look into foldspace for long enough, sometimes it looks back. It could happen to anyone at any time.”

  “Suli—will he recover?”

  Ben shook his head. “He’ll never fly the Folds again, but he’s not having conversations with angels or trying to harm himself. I’ve put him on light duties, and he’s thinking of retraining as a flight controller.”

  “You flew again when it happened to you.”

  “Yes.” Ben lowered his voice. “But don’t think the Folds don’t look into my soul every time I go out there. I’ve forced myself to accept it and fly anyway, but it’s like being a recovering addict. I doubt I’ll ever be able to say I’m cured, only that I’m all right so far. Suli wasn’t so lucky.”

  Chapter Six

  NIGHTMARES

  GARRICK LOOKED UP AT THE SOUND OF A commotion. The door shushed open, allowing the last few phrases of a heated argument to boil through from outside: Ully’s voice and a man’s.

  “Let him in.” Garrick recognized the voice and nodded to Ully.

  “As if she could stop me.” Henry Roxburgh, self-styled Lord Roxburgh, purveyor of entertainment to the masses via casinos, strip joints, whorehouses, and fight arenas, stood in the doorway, powerful shoulders almost filling the space, handsome face scowling.

  Garrick sighed. Roxburgh was such an arse. But a dangerous arse. There was never a good time to see him, but this was as good a time as any, and better than most with both Mona and Benjamin here. Garrick wasn’t exactly surprised at his intrusion.

  Garrick noted Ben’s hand close to the thigh pocket where he doubtless carried a weapon. Roxburgh would be a fool to start anything other than a battle of words here in Garrick’s heartland. Sadly, Roxburgh was no fool. Pity. It would be worth the risk to be able to put him down right here and now. The man was dangerous. Not only that, but he stood in the way of Garrick’s plans for Crossways.

  Roxburgh hadn’t objected when Garrick ousted Chaliss with extreme prejudice and took over Crossways, but Garrick knew he wasn’t happy about it. Some said the only reason Garrick had the top job was because Roxburgh didn’t want to take time off from making money to put any effort into governance. It was always easier to let someone else do the hard work and then complain. Garrick knew it was only a matter of time before he made his move.

  Ully ducked around Roxburgh and glared at his back as she made a hasty retreat. Roxburgh, being a deadhead, didn’t pick up anything from her disregard, but he muttered something under his breath. It didn’t sound complimentary.

  “Treat that lady with respect, Roxburgh,” Mona said. “She’s not only my personal Telepath, but she worked the clock around to keep communications open after the battle. You can be thankful that the banking houses kept their interest in Crossways. Where would you be without them?”

  Garrick fingered the small diamond in his earlobe and casually waved Roxburgh to a seat, trying to appear relaxed. “What can I do for you this time?”

  Mona uncrossed her legs, rose from her chair, and brought a tray with a decanter and four glasses. She placed it on the low table between Garrick and Roxburgh and then retreated to lean casually against the wall. Almost too casually. Garrick could tell she was tight as a coiled spring beneath the languid exterior.

  What weapons might Roxburgh be carrying? It was a safe bet that, despite station regulations, he was armed to the teeth.

  “You know Ben Benjamin, Henry,” Garrick said.

  “That’s Lord Roxburgh to you.”

  Garrick kept his tone light. “Henry, I’ve known you since you arrived on this station calling yourself Hank; don’t expect any deference from me.”

  “I never expect anything from you, Garrick. That’s why I take what I want.”

  “Just be careful who you take it from.” Garrick glanced sideways at Ben.

  Ben merely cocked his head to the side and raised one eyebrow.

  “I’ve had this notice.” Roxburgh waived a flimsy.

  Of course, he had. Garrick had wondered how long it would take for the communication to pass through several administrative layers and land on Roxburgh’s desk. He’d expected Roxburgh to start yelling yesterday.

  “Yes, that’s right. We need to reroute some power conduits that pass under Roxburgh Heights. It’s part of the post-battle restructuring, a proper refit instead of a temporary fix. We’re going to need you to shut down operations for a day or two.”

  “Like hell I will! Not without compensation. Do you know how much we lose for every hour of closure?”

  Garrick leaned against his cushions. He laughed, but the sound was entirely without mirth. “Are your establishments still standing? Did you lose any staff in the battle?”

  “Compensation, or we’re not closing for one second.”

  Garrick raised both hands, palms out. “No compensation. We’ll figure something else out.”

  “The power’s fine. Never better.”

  “Take care, Henry, I might even consider that to be an endorsement. Go away now. Count your blessings. Look after your own power supply. Don’t come whining to me if it fails.”

  “Why, you—”

  At the unmistakable whir of a bolt gun charging, Roxburgh froze in the act of leaning into a lunge toward Garrick.

  Mother Ramona said, “Henry Roxburgh, don’t give me an excuse. I would love to paint the wall with your brains. I always said this place needed a little imaginative decoration.”

  Garrick saw Ben sit up, his hand barely an inch away from his weapon. Mona had the situation under control.

  Roxburgh didn’t raise his hands, but his whole body stiffened.

  Mona stepped forward. Her eyes narrowed as she sighted along her outstretched arm to the barrel of the lethal bolt gun. Her hand was rock steady.

  “Mona, my love, Lord Roxburgh was about to leave,” Garrick said. “Henry, I’ll send you a waiver to sign regarding the electrical work.”

  Roxburgh glared at Garrick, turned smartly, and walked out, ignoring the fact that Mona’s weapon never wavered.

  “That one’s dangerous.” She clicked on the safety and deposited the bolt gun on top of the cupboard she’d taken the drinks from. “You’ll have to deal with him sooner or later.”

  “When the time is right,” Garrick said.

  “You played him,” Ben said. “You never expected him to close down so that you could run cables under Roxburgh Heights.”

  Garrick’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’ve primed him for his power to fail. When the electricians are running new cables past his front door, they’ll install an isolator. If I need to, I can turn off his power. As Mona says, I’ll have to deal with him one day, so I’m planning ahead. I like to give myself an edge.”

  Cara yanked her crestie to a ragged halt outside Wonnick’s defensive palisade. The timbers didn’t form a straight wall, but were shaped like a tilted letter Y. The outer timber stake was sharpened to a point at crestedina height, and the inner one vertical and enmeshed in a spaghetti of razor wire. It wouldn’t keep determined attackers out, but it would give the residents some time to prepare.

  The gate was the weakest point in the perimeter, tall enough for a crestie and rider, and wide enough to take a single wagon and outriders. Right now, it stood wide open. Outside the gate a pod of crestedinas gathered in the lee of the osteena shed, some dozing quietly, others whiffling along the dried-up mud looking for sand-spiders. Cara glanced over her shoulder.

  “Who goes?” The kid on the gate looked about eighteen. A crossbow pistol dangled from a tie on his belt, neither cocked nor loaded. Obviously, they didn’t look v
ery threatening. Perhaps the whole blending-in thing had worked.

  “Let us in and close the gate!” Cara dismounted.

  “Not from around here, are you?” the kid said, staring at the narrow strip of purple skin around Jussaro’s eyes, all that was showing between the head-wrap and the scarf.

  Cara led her crestie past him, turned, and pointed. “Close the bloody gate!”

  Jussaro slithered off his own beast and followed her through.

  “Oh, shit! You might have said. Stay right there. I guess the mayor will come to you soon enough.” The kid was babbling now. “Don’t move.” He scrambled for a bell rope and yanked on it three times.

  “What’s your business here? I’m supposed to ask you before I let you in.”

  Cara didn’t like to say they were in already and he could hardy stop them when all he was carrying was an unloaded crossbow. Her own pulse pistol was a solid presence strapped firmly to her middle under the surface layer of clothing. Smuggling it through the perimeter hadn’t been a problem since it was fabricated from ossio, a man-made substance that registered as human bone on all scanners but was as strong as steel.

  People ran out into the street, some carrying crossbows, others implements that had some heft to them, right down to one rotund middle-aged woman wearing an apron and wielding a heavy skillet.

  There were questions and exclamations, mostly repeating a pattern of what, where, and oh, shit! A scruffy dog ran in circles barking until someone aimed a kick at it, whereupon a boy grabbed its collar and pulled it close to his leg.

  Three women stepped outside the gate and called in the cresties who plodded obligingly toward town, entering in a slow procession that delayed the closing of the gate for long enough that Cara could see the Lifer gang approaching through the dwindling gap.

  *Looks like the whole town’s here, Jussaro. Anyone familiar?*

  *I said I’d find her and I will.*

  Cara felt Jussaro psyching himself up to contact Zandra Hartwell mentally, though he’d been trying without success ever since he’d had his implant restored. Since Hartwell was on the run from every megacorporation in the galaxy, that was hardly surprising. She would either be wearing a damper, powered down, as Cara herself had once been, or she’d have one hell of a mental shield.