She was right about the scanners. Crossways was particular about security. With a population laced through with criminals, opportunists, misfits, mercenaries, and free-thinkers, it had to be.
It was good to have the de facto president of Crossways on their side, though. The extra layer of protection was useful. Garrick owed them for the platinum deal, which would make him several million credits richer as soon as Olyanda started to produce, though that was still six months away.
Only the Trust had lost out. And Ari van Blaiden, of course.
They passed through the vast hangar lined with three ship-servicing gantries, two in use, one idle. The whole place was gray medonite, clean and workmanlike, but with touches of individuality: Mother Ramona’s simple “R” logo and Norton Garrick’s colors, dark green with a red flash. One of the ships in dock was Garrick’s private yacht, cigar-shaped with a crystal observation deck topside, the other a guppy-shaped runabout, unmarked, that looked as though it had met with some trouble. Ben supposed trouble was an everyday thing for someone in Mother Ramona’s line of business—the softer side of crime, but equally dangerous in its own way.
Smart private guards, dressed in Garrick’s livery, escorted them all to the door. Exiting past the security station, they emerged onto a utilitarian concourse divided by a sunken track for the auto-cabs that looked more like a fairground ride than a transport system but sped efficiently around Crossways’ complex spiderweb of interconnecting routes.
A tub-cab, garishly hand-painted yellow, red, and blue, pulled up. Serafin West stepped out, trim for seventy, but with a face wrinkled like a walnut. He had a satchel of small engineering bots slung over one shoulder, which he was able to connect to, mentally, via his implant. He called them his boys.
“Hey, guys.” He grinned at them. “Glad of an excuse to get out of the stadium for a while. It’s good to see my fellow criminals looking so well. I hear you ran into trouble.”
Ben shrugged. “Had to change our plans about Chenon. Crowder outmaneuvered us. We’ll get settled here first and try again.”
A second cab pulled up, equally bright. Gen Marling, nearly four months pregnant and just starting to show, leaned into the protective embrace of a tall settler with a brush of dark hair. Ex-settler, since Max Constant had thrown in his lot with the psi-techs, even going so far as to have an implant fitted, though he’d barely learned how to use it yet. His civilian suit set him apart. Maybe that’s why Gen had elected to leave her buddysuit behind. She wore leggings topped by a lightweight tunic in blue with a spray of peacock colors emblazoned across the front that flattered her small bump and set off the golden undertones in her skin.
“Will you two get a room?” Wenna said.
“Got one,” Max said. “The stadium’s not the place for us to hang out. I may have been forgiven my romantic indiscretion . . .” He squeezed Gen’s waist. “But having an implant fitted is one step too far for my former settler colleagues.”
“So we figured we’d come house-hunting with you,” Gen said. “I want to make sure we get somewhere decent.” She patted her belly. “We don’t know how long we’ll be here and I don’t want to bring up baby in a dump.”
“How come you know where we’re going?” Ben said. “I only asked Serafin to come and do a structural survey of the place.”
“Ah, my fault,” Serafin said. “I may have mentioned it to a few people as I was getting the boys together.” He patted his satchel.
“All right.” Ben sighed a mock sigh. “Come on.”
“Coffee, Mr. Jussaro?” Crowder pushed a lidded cup toward the squat, genetically engineered individual with a serious case of monobrow and unsettling nictitating third eyelids. His dark purple-black skin, slightly scaly, was designed to be impervious to the cancer-causing radiation that swamped planets in the Hollands System.
Jussaro blinked his inner eye membrane sideways, like a reptile, and reached for the cup, hesitating just short of grasping the handle, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether the offer would be snatched away. He glanced toward the clear panel on the interview room door to see if anyone was observing.
Crowder opened his hand to indicate the coffee was his, free and clear.
Jussaro nodded and drew the cup between his palms, holding it under his nose and breathing in the fragrant steam before sipping slowly. “Nice. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. No need to be uncivilized. I believe you’ve been Mr. van Blaiden’s guest on Sentier-4.”
“You might say that.”
“He wanted to know the whereabouts of Cara Carlinni, I expect.”
Jussaro put the coffee on the table and sat back, eyes suspicious. “I’ve not seen van Blaiden for weeks . . . months . . .” He jerked his shoulders. More of a nervous twitch than a shrug. “Maybe longer. It’s difficult to tell.” He held up his left hand, showing a ridged scar on the back where his handpad had been ripped off. They’d cut him off from the world, removed his ID, isolated and dehumanized him.
“Please.” Crowder pushed the coffee back toward the little man. “So . . . Carlinni.”
Jussaro frowned and shook his head.
“I don’t need you to tell me where she is,” Crowder said. “I already know.”
Jussaro didn’t react, rising in Crowder’s estimation.
“You might also be interested to know that Mr. van Blaiden met with an unfortunate accident.”
“Fatal, I hope.”
“As it turns out, yes.”
“I see. Good.” Still the poker face.
“Did you know he used to work for me before he defected to Alphacorp? He was a great disappointment in so many ways. Mr. van Blaiden was not a friend to this department.”
“That might mean more to me if I knew which department we were in,” Jussaro said.
“Forgive me. You’re safe with the Trust, now, Colony Division, Chenon.”
“Safe. Ha!” Jussaro’s face twisted. His laugh was like a bark and contained no humor whatsoever. “The Trust, Alphacorp, Ramsay-Shorre, Arquavisa; you’re all as bad as each other. Megacorporations are the curse of our time. You think a stranglehold on jump gate travel and ownership of the psi-techs gives you trading rights throughout the colonies.”
“Ownership?”
“Well, what would you call it? They toe the line or they get decommissioned.” He touched his own forehead. “Sure, they can move from one owner to another for a transfer fee, but they can’t go independent unless they can buy out their own contracts—and how many of them ever have the resources to do that?”
“We care for them, provide for them. They want for nothing.”
“You make sure you bill them for every damn implant checkup, their apartments, their uniforms, every last piece of equipment. That’s how you tie them to you. It’s economic slavery, only it’s soft enough that most of them don’t complain.”
“Still continuing the rant that got your implant decommissioned in the first place, Mr. Jussaro.”
“Damn right.”
“No matter.” Crowder waved one hand to dismiss the past. “Doctor Zuma has finished conducting her tests. You have a very strong natural psi talent. One that has survived the termination of your implant. I’ve checked your records. Two periods of Neural Readjustment after being found guilty of encouraging psi-techs to go rogue.”
“If you call leaving their employers going rogue.”
“Do you know how much it costs to find kids with psi potential, fit neural implants into their skulls, and train them? We have contracts for a reason.”
“Yes, to keep them on a tight leash.”
“So you went rogue yourself. Formed a breakaway group of psi-techs. Sanctuary.”
“I didn’t form it, but, yes, all that’s a matter of record. I helped kids to get free of the megacorps and I paid for it. You nixed my implant.” He fingered his forehead again whe
re a faint scar still glistened. “There’s nothing else you can do to me except kill me, and there are times I think that would be a mercy.”
“There is something we can do.” Crowder tried to make his smile reach his eyes. “Not me personally, you understand, but Doctor Zuma tells me that you’re a suitable subject. She can refit you with a new implant.”
Jussaro’s face traveled through the whole spectrum from derision to hope via the realization that his principles were about to be sorely tested. After a moment of indecision, his eyes shone wet and his mouth formed an oh shape, but no sound escaped.
Got him, Crowder thought.
“What would you do to have your Psi-1 status restored, Mr. Jussaro? What would you do?”
Chapter Three
DAMAGE
CARA STARED IN FASCINATION AT THE sunken roadway. It was alive with automated tubs whizzing past, each cab competing for the annual bad taste prize, all of them dipping into tube-like tunnels and emerging equally suddenly into stations and pull-ins.
The real estate agent, Bettina Mirakova, hopped out of her tub to meet them. Cara had never taken too much notice of fashion—it was too hard to keep up when you spent chunks of time away, and every world had its own local styles—but she desperately hoped this look was not currently in vogue on Crossways. Mirakova almost outdid the tubs. She wore a spotless white lace top, a formal purple vest, and a plaid kilt in shades of purple and green with matching purple knee-length boots, flat heeled. Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe knot, emphasizing the planes of her face and her tightly sculpted curves.
“I was only expecting two.” Mirakova eyed the seven of them. Her tub would take no more than four. “I’ll take Mr. Benjamin and Miss Carlinni and here’s the address.” She paused to scribble on the back of a business card and handed it to Ronan. “You five grab another tub and catch up with us.”
“There’s room for a little one.” Serafin waited until Ben and Cara had settled themselves in the tub with Mirakova and then muscled in. Mirakova shot him a dark look, then quickly replaced it with a bright smile. Their tub, the interior blissfully gray, whirled away into the traffic, leaving the other four on the concourse.
Cara settled back into the seat, still feeling drained from the long-range talk with Nan. The whole tub experience was damned uncomfortable and a little dizzying, but efficient. Mirakova was all sales pitch. She talked too much and too quickly, obviously anxious to make the deal. That was real estate agents the galaxy over. They’d swear black was white if it secured a sale.
“Of course, it needs some work,” Mirakova said, “but I gather you’ve just come into some funds.”
“Not yet,” Ben said. “But soon.”
*Needs some work . . .* Cara aimed a thought at Ben and Serafin. *That probably translates to near derelict and barely holds an atmosphere.*
“We have excellent builders on Crossways,” Mirakova babbled on, unaware of their shared thoughts. She was probably on commission from the builders, too.
The tub popped up out of a tube and slowed to a halt in a private pull-in. Mirakova had been talking for the whole journey. Cara had zoned out.
“Not sure that we’ll be needing builders.” Ben offered Mirakova his hand as she exited the tub. “Not even sure how long we’ll need the place for. Things are still fluid.”
Cara hopped out unaided, followed by Serafin.
The street, if street it could be called, was empty. It was just more gray medonite with a low ceiling and broad featureless walkways on either side of the transport pull-in. Cara could hear the whir of traffic along the main thoroughfare, but this branch remained deserted. There was no sign of the second tub.
*Are you guys on your way?* she asked Ronan.
*Took us a while to get a cab,* he replied. *Does it look okay?*
*Only just arrived. The whole area looks a bit run down. No one around. You’d expect a station this densely populated not to have any deserted bits, but we seem to have found one.*
Cara stared around the warehouse district and suppressed a shudder. Most of the units were vacant or shuttered. The overall impression was of locked doors and boarded windows. The ceiling, just a couple of meters above Cara’s head, was low enough to be oppressive.
“I thought this would be perfect for you,” Mirakova said. “It doesn’t look like much, yet, but this whole segment is about to be redesignated as a mixed residential and commercial zone. Pretty soon it will be awash with cafes, shops, and apartments, but right now the space is up for grabs. I believe you have a lot of people to accommodate.”
“Not sure how many yet,” Ben said.
Mirakova swiped her handpad across the doorplate. A quiet beep accepted the connection. The wide loading door grumbled back to reveal a cavernous interior full of crates stacked in blocks and bays.
“I thought this was supposed to be available right away.” Cara started counting the stacks and lost track where the shadows swallowed them up.
“The previous tenant is clearing them later today. They’re mostly empty.” Mirakova skimmed her handpad over a control panel by the door and punched in a series of numbers on the keypad. Lights in the ceiling immediately above their heads sprang into wakefulness, obscuring the rest of the warehouse in shadowy gloom.
Serafin reached into his bag and loosed a handful of mind-controlled mini-bots to scurry like demented spiders across the floor, up walls and along ceiling beams. Mirakova stared at them and Cara sensed extreme agitation, but maybe the woman was just not used to being around Psi-Mechs. Cara admitted that the little spider bots were uncomfortably insect-like. Serafin tossed another handful to the floor and they scuttled away, probing, calibrating, calculating, and sending information back to him on the structural integrity of the warehouse. This was an old station, never designed to be in service for centuries. Many parts had been renewed and strengthened, but sections could be prone to materials fatigue.
“This way, quickly. Quickly.” Mirakova led them deeper into the warehouse and away from the bots at a brisk pace.
“Why the rush?” Serafin muttered, turning to check on the bots as Mirakova strode on.
*We’re here, where are you?* Ronan asked.
*Inside.* Cara glanced toward the door. *Can’t see your tub. You sure you’re in the right place?*
*Warehouse district. Looks quiet. Some workmen in the unit across the way. No open doors apart from theirs.*
*Nope, definitely the wrong place.*
*My sweetie says he thinks he knows where you are,* Gen butted in. *Be right there.*
“Miss Carlinni, this way, please,” Mirakova called.
Cara turned to follow, feeling uneasy.
Somewhere outside a tub clanged to a halt. “Sorry we’re late,” Wenna called from the doorway. “I think you gave us the wrong address, Miss Mirakova.”
“We’d never have found you,” Gen said, “but it looks like Max is shaping up to be a Finder.”
“I just said it felt as though they were around the next corner.” Max looked bewildered. He obviously didn’t know what a big deal it was to show signs of a specialty this early after having an implant fitted.
“That’s the way it works, sweetie.” Gen grabbed his hand and pulled him toward her, bumping her little round belly into him and giving him a swift kiss on the cheek.
Mirakova glared at them as if kissing in public was against the law. Cara caught a wave of anxiety from her. Why should she be anxious? Did she have another appointment? Was she afraid of losing a good commission if she failed to sell them the warehouse? After all, the more of them there were, the less likely it was that there would be an instant and unanimous decision on the first viewing.
Ronan strolled in behind Wenna. Ah, good, his Empathy rating was stronger than Cara’s. Perhaps he could help pin down her feelings.
As they moved further into the warehouse the
sensor-lights lit their path and darkened behind them. Serafin’s bots kept pace, but Mirakova strode ahead.
*Ronan, there’s something not right with Mirakova. Can you sense it?*
Cara opened up a comms channel and brought them all into it, even Max, who still felt very green. She showed them what she felt: a sense of unease, maybe anticipation, emanating from Mirakova.
Serafin sent his bots scuttling ahead.
*There’s someone else in here.* Ronan was staring into the shadows. *Four of them,* he said. *Concealed behind crates.*
*Trap!* Cara blasted out a warning.
A shadow moved behind the crates. *Take cover!* Cara shoved Max and Gen toward a gap between two stacks. She reached out for Mother Ramona’s personal Telepath and snapped out a mayday call.
Mirakova spun around and produced a pistol from beneath her kilt. Ben and Ronan each ran for a different gap. Separated from the others and caught out in the open when the first zap of a bolt gun rang out, Serafin fell, arms flung wide. He jerked once and lay still.
Another shot clipped the corner of the packing case above Cara’s head. *I called Mother Ramona. I sure hope these aren’t her guys.*
*I trust her,* Ben said.
*You trusted Crowder.*
She shouldn’t have said that. It was a low blow. Cara’s tiredness vanished under the adrenaline spike. She opened a mental link and drew them all into a gestalt, feeling Max’s surprise as his world opened up to five other minds. Hell of a time for his first experience of hive-mind.
A hail of bullets peppered the crates close to Ronan. *Shit, that was close!* he said.
*Status,* Ben said.
*Fine,* Gen and Max said together.
*Ronan?*
Crossways: A Psi-Tech Novel Page 4