by Jay Posey
“And what was it you said you did again?” the man said.
It was a dangerous question to answer in these circles. Or, at least it would have been, if he’d cared about his social standing among these people. If your answer was too close to actual work, you risked being considered lowbrow new money. Too far removed, and you were simply living off the wealth generated by the real producers. For all their preening, these people did wield genuine power, and they were very concerned with making sure they only associated with others of equal stature.
“I’m a problem solver,” Vector answered.
“Ha!” the man let out a single laugh, a little too abruptly, a little too loudly. “Don’t we all! Don’t we all! Solve problems. I like that.”
The man’s wife flicked her eyes down to Vector’s shoes and walked her gaze back up until she met his, at which point she gave a beautifully charming smile that managed to clearly communicate her distaste for his attire. A shame. The suit was the second most expensive one he’d worn in his life, behind only the one he’d been issued for his previous job. The Woman had paid for this one; the United States taxpayers had paid for the other.
“I’m going to start using that,” the man said. “‘I’m a problem solver.’ Brilliant. I do a bit of that myself, if I’m honest. Nothing to brag about, of course, not in this room, but I do have my hand in the occasional negotiation or two. Just managed the Coryn-Glenworth-Liao acquisition, for example. Touchy bit of work there.”
Vector had no idea what the man was talking about, but he nodded and, by imagining how he might kill the man with the gold-flecked skewer holding the garnish of his drink, even managed a smile.
“I’m sorry,” said a woman behind Vector, “but I’m afraid I need to deprive you of this fine man’s company.” She laid her hand on his forearm. He felt a thrill at her touch, but told himself it was only from concern for her safety.
“So soon?” the man said, “A shame, we were just discussing the Coryn-Glenworth-Liao acquisition. I don’t mind mentioning that I was the principal negotiator–”
“I’ll bring him back,” the woman said. “I know he’ll want to hear every detail of your involvement.”
“Excuse me,” Vector said, with a hint of a bow. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Not yet.
As the woman led him away, he heard the man behind him say, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name…” Vector didn’t turn back. Together, he and the woman navigated their way through the loose crowd, her hand still tucked in the crook of his arm.
“I don’t know why you hate me so much,” he said to the woman. The Woman.
“Hate you?” she said. “I thought I was rescuing you.”
“I wouldn’t have needed it if you hadn’t brought me here in the first place.”
“This one’s important to me,” she said. “And I wanted you to get out a little more. Have a little dose of culture.”
“If this is a little dose…” he said, shaking his head.
“Stop,” she said. “Is it so awful to be here with me?” He risked a glance at her out of the corner of his eye, and caught her subtle pout. She was teasing him.
“It’s an unnecessary risk,” he answered.
They passed by a cluster of partygoers, and she dipped her head and smiled graciously at them before responding.
“A life without risk would not be worth living,” she said. The Woman led him out of the main room to a balcony overlooking the vast atrium that was the hop’s crowning glory. Below them, a sprawling botanical garden filled the lower level, traced throughout by delicate lines of meandering paths. Here and there, couples appeared and disappeared as they walked the trails. A lesser man might have been tempted to imagine himself down there, walking those paths with her. But not Vector. He was tempted, yes. But instead, he observed the romanticism of the setting, noted it, and remained detached from the sentiment. He was here on business, nothing more. Best if he kept that foremost in his mind.
The Woman took her hand from his arm and leaned forward on the rail of the balcony, inhaling deeply. The fragrance of the garden was strong even from several floors above it; vibrant, earthy. Healthy. They spent a minute or two in silence, she soaking in the beauty while he kept silent watch at her side. In moments like this, if it’d been possible, Vector would have been tempted to shut off the analytical side of his brain. The part that filtered out the beauty before him and dissected it into angles of approach, lines of sight, routes of escape. Nor could he prevent his mind from roughly calculating the expense for such extravagance. Other hops could barely afford to sustain staple crops for their crew. The gardens below almost seemed designed with wastefulness in mind; a display of the vast wealth that the people in the other room could throw away without feeling the effect.
“Is everything in place?” the Woman finally asked, without turning to look at him.
“Yes,” he answered. She nodded and continued to scan the garden. And he saw it now, in the way she held her shoulders. Not hesitance, exactly. Never hesitance with her. But the tension of the moment, the weight of the action she’d committed herself to, had settled on her. The playfulness was her mask.
“I can see it through,” he said. “You can go on home.”
She gave an abrupt exhale through her nose, an almost silent chuckle. She shook her head.
“And the ship?” she asked.
“Let’s discuss that later,” Vector said. “When things are a little more private.”
“Oh, Vector,” she said, turning. “Always so serious. Always so concerned.” She stepped close to him, draped her hands over his shoulders, clasped them behind his neck. Her touch was light, soft, but her eyes were intense with purpose. “Of all the people on this station, I assure you we are the least to be noticed. But here, now we can speak quietly and no one will suspect a thing.”
He put his hands on her hips to complete the ruse, reminded himself that that’s all it was. A performance. A cover. She looked into his eyes with her eyebrows raised. “My ship?”
“A couple of weeks to finish the work,” he said. “Then travel time.”
“Whose week?” she asked.
“Oh, sorry. Terran.”
She nodded.
“Does that mean we’re on schedule?” he asked.
“Close enough,” she answered. “The timing doesn’t need to be precise to the hour, or even the day. Just enough to keep momentum.”
She stared into his eyes, searching them in silence for a span, lengthy enough for Vector to feel his emotional distance threatening to slip. Since she didn’t appear to be intending to speak any time soon, he took the opportunity to rescue himself.
“While I’ve got you here,” he said. “I’d like to ask you something, if I may.”
“Anything,” she said.
“I’d like you to answer the question, too.”
“Ah, so demanding,” she said. “In that case, no promises. But ask anyway.”
“Why Vector?” he asked. Contrary to his expectations, the Woman had decided to keep his codename intact for the foreseeable future.
“It suits you.”
“Obviously you think so. I’d like to know why.”
“Because you are a man of magnitude,” she said. “And you have purpose. Direction.” She gave it a moment, and then gave him her easy smile, her dark eyes sparkling. “It’s a math joke, see.”
“Yeah, I get it,” he said. “You sure it isn’t from another definition of the word? Something to do with, say, I don’t know, an agent responsible for the spread of a disease, maybe?”
She just smiled back at him. Without meaning to, he noticed her hair smelled of lilacs; the proximity made it impossible to miss.
“Yeah,” he said. Back to business. “What do you want us to do about the girl?”
“She’s secure on your ship?” she asked. Vector nodded.
“Your ship,” he added.
“Is she troublesome?”
“Nah. But she�
��s smart.”
The Woman smiled at that. “Dangerous, then. Keep her as she is for now. I feel safer having her with you than anywhere else.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But,” the Woman said pointedly, “if she becomes troublesome, I may need to reconsider.”
“Understood.”
After a moment her smile faded, her eyes hardened, and a grey stillness of iron resolve replaced the Woman’s playfulness.
“I ask a lot of you,” she said. “And you’ve been faithful in every way. It will only get harder from here.”
“I know.”
She nodded, unclasped her hands from behind his neck, drew herself away. Vector released her and tried to ignore the reluctance he didn’t want to admit he felt.
“We should finish the business at hand.”
“I really think you should let me handle it,” he tried, one last time.
“No, dear,” she said, in a way that was just soothing enough to make the condescension tolerable. And with that comment, the last trace of her impishness and any hint of softness melted away as she flipped the mental switch to go operational. Vector had seen it dozens of times, and even so it still unnerved him how different she became when it was time to work.
“Wrap up what you need to and prep the ship for departure,” she said, and even her voice had changed. Sharper, deeper. “This one, I’ll handle myself.”
TEN
LINCOLN STOOD STILL and looked directly into the reader, as he’d been told. Well, not quite exactly as he’d been told. Technically he was supposed to lean forward until his forehead and cheeks were in contact with the device, but given the number of people that came through Shackleton’s infamous customs lines, there was no way he was touching any part of his face to that thing.
The device chirped, having confirmed his retina did in fact belong to him.
“Mr Kim,” the customs agent said, motioning for Lincoln to step over to him. Lincoln glanced over at the agent at Booth 8, disappointed. He’d been trying to time it so that he’d be called over to the bored-looking older woman at Booth 6. Instead, two twenty-somethings had somehow missed the three thousand signs between the arrival gate and here, informing them that only one person was allowed to leave a line at a time. Security was still interviewing them at Lincoln’s intended entry point, which was taking even longer than usual because of the two violators who were weeping like their lives were at stake.
The man at Booth 8 stared at Lincoln with cold expectancy. He was a big guy, intense. He’d been the one Lincoln had specifically been hoping to avoid. The agent at Booth 8 was former military, no doubt about it, and Lincoln knew the agent had already pegged him for the same. Something about service members; they could always spot each other from a mile away.
Lincoln nodded and walked over to the booth, doing his best impression of the weary traveler, which fortunately wasn’t too tough since he’d been awake for at least thirty-two hours straight. He’d been stuck in a middle seat on the trip up between an overweight narcoleptic who snored and a skinny author who wanted to talk about his books the whole time. Lincoln would gladly have traded the author for the snoring man’s twin brother.
“Morning,” Lincoln said.
The customs agent acknowledged the greeting with half a nod.
“Been to Luna before?” the agent asked. His accent was English, marked by a few years in southern Luna.
“A few times,” Lincoln answered.
“And the nature of your visit?”
“Here for work.”
“And what do you do, Mr Kim?”
“I’m a filmmaker,” Lincoln said.
“Yeah? What sorts of films?”
“Not the good kind. Corporate stuff mostly.”
“And you’re filming here, then?”
“Yes sir.”
The agent waited for more, but Lincoln had learned a long time ago that the easiest way to spot a liar was to count the number of unnecessary details they included in their story.
“Not keen to share?” the agent finally asked.
Lincoln shrugged. “Usual propaganda-disguised-as-transparency gig. ‘Hey, look at all these great things we’re doing for the environment, see how happy everyone is to work here.’ That sort of thing. I probably shouldn’t name the client unless I’m required by law.”
The agent shook his head. “Not required. Just curious.”
“It’s every bit as exciting as you’re imagining, I assure you.”
The agent cracked a smile then, and tapped something out on his console. Lincoln couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a customs agent take such interest in him. Some part of his lizard brain started telling him something was up, something was wrong. NID had helped put the cover package together, but they hadn’t had a lot of time to do it. Maybe the retinal scan picked something up it shouldn’t have. He took a deep breath and exhaled, disguised it as a sigh. It’d be all right. He’d been in far tougher spots than this before. And at least in this case, if he did get caught, they probably wouldn’t execute him where he stood.
He looked over at Booth 6, with what he hoped was a look of casual impatience. The two twenty-somethings had finally gotten cleared through customs and were off to one side, still crying. The bored woman at Booth 6 was practically waving people through. Lincoln sighed again, genuinely.
“And your crew?” the agent said.
“Just me and my camerawoman,” Lincoln said. He scanned the crowd and caught sight of Thumper a few aisles over, waiting for him. Good, she’d made it through no problem. He pointed vaguely her direction.
“Duration of your stay?”
“Three weeks on the schedule,” he said. “Less if I’m lucky.”
The agent nodded again, tapped on his console some more.
“You serve in the military at all, Mr Kim?”
“Yep,” Lincoln said. No point in denying it.
“I thought so,” the agent said.
“How about you?”
“Eight years, Royal Marines.”
“Nice,” Lincoln said. “Miss it?”
“Only my mates,” he said. Lincoln felt a hint of relief at that. Not an interrogation after all. Just a lonely Marine, glad to steal a little time with someone with shared experience. A Royal Marine working customs probably had to grit his teeth a hundred times a day listening to the stories of security personnel around the port who liked the uniform and authority, but didn’t have the steel to serve.
“Yeah. Hard to find good people out here with the regular folks sometimes,” Lincoln said. The agent nodded. “When I was in, they used to say the only thing meaner than a US Marine was the Royal Marine that had to clean up after him.”
The agent chuckled. “Hadn’t heard that one. Is it meant to be a compliment or an insult?”
“Some of each, I think,” Lincoln said. In fact, he’d just made it up on the spot. But it sounded like the kind of thing someone might say. The agent tapped a few more times on his console, and then turned back. Maybe Lincoln was imagining it, but the man’s face seemed a little brighter.
“You have a good day now, Mr Kim.”
“Cheers,” Lincoln said.
Once he’d cleared Booth 8, he walked over to where Thumper was waiting for him and together the two of them headed towards the baggage holding area. Between them, they had a couple of hundred pounds of surveillance gear to pick up, all cleverly packed and disguised to look like standard film equipment. To Lincoln’s great disappointment, they’d had to leave the recon suits back home for the Luna op. It was hard to stay inconspicuous doing street-level work while armored up. That hadn’t stopped him from trying to find a way to work it into the plan, of course, but in the end he just couldn’t make it work.
“What was that all about?” Thumper asked.
“Just a brother-in-arms looking for a chat,” Lincoln said. And then he looked back over his shoulder, and quietly added, “I hope. Either that, or we’re going to get picked up any se
cond. Keep your eyes open.”
“You got it.”
Fortunately, apart from having to ask an attendant to track down a missing bag for them, they didn’t have any more trouble getting out of the port. Pence was supposed to be waiting for them outside somewhere. The team had all come in on commercial flights and staggered their arrival, with Sahil coming in last. He was scheduled to show up later that afternoon. Mike and Master Sergeant Wright had been first to land in order to lay some initial groundwork.
They found Mike waiting out front, in an old model car. Amazingly, even though car accidents were a rare occurrence, the one he’d picked up looked like it’d been in at least three. The front fender was crumpled; the side had a long trench gouged out from the front door almost all the way to the rear of the vehicle. There didn’t appear to be a rear bumper. And that’s just what Lincoln could see from the right side.
Mike hopped out and, after some struggle, opened the trunk for them.
“I was starting to worry I’d gotten the day wrong,” he said as they approached. “Two days in and I still can’t tell you what time it’s supposed to be.”
“Then how do you know it’s been two days?” Thumper said.
“Missed you too, Thump,” he said, grabbing one of the bags from her and loading it in the trunk. “What took you?”
“The boss here tried to pick up one of the customs agents,” Thumper said.
“Yeah, any luck?”
Lincoln shook his head. “He was out of my league.”
“Too pretty?” Mike said.
“Nah. A Brit.”
Mike whistled. “Well good on ya for trying.”
Once the gear was loaded up, they opened the doors to get in the vehicle. The interior emanated an almost tangible aura, thick with the scent of air fresheners, laced with subtle undertones of either curry or vomit. Possibly both. And the inside looked even worse than the outside. All the seats were forward facing, two in the front and a bench seat across the back, but the upholstery had been ripped out so that the rear seating was just bare metal.