She had a half-formed notion to remind him that she was scarcely infirm when a nudge from Sally behind her made her accept the offer of courteous assistance. Feeling slightly regal, Yana accepted with a smile and a nod to Millard.
“You’re doing just great, Yana,” Sally murmured in her ear.
“Will you be coloneling me, too?” Yana whispered back.
“No, but I’m another woman and patently your companion, while Millard has just been booted into the role of escort.”
“Oh!”
When they reached the main concourse, Yana was sorry that Bunny was in front of her. She would have liked to see the girl’s expression when she beheld the mechanical and commercial splendors of the Second Level. Not only was there a ceiling monorail in operation, but there were four levels of shops on this part of the concourse, and belt steps at regular intervals to get people easily from one level to another. Some of the shops were blasting passersby with their sounds, smells, and sensual outputs, assaults to which the residents were no doubt immune but which would stun Bunny as they did Yana, who had only heard about such concourses. The lower-level facilities she had patronized infrequently as an officer had been considerably more primitive than these.
“You will notice, Colonel,” Millard was saying, “that there are location diagrams at convenient intervals by the belt-lifts.” He indicated the one they were passing. “Your quarters are located at Interface Three, that’s two circles right of our present position, Three El one-ten. Please memorize that and record.”
Yana’s hand was halfway to her belt for the recording device that had so often been part of her basic equipment when she remembered Marmion’s gift. She had drilled herself on the position of the keys and now, with a brush of her hand, activated the recorder and spoke: “3-L-110, Interface Three.”
“Handy gadget,” she murmured over her shoulder to Sally.
“They are.”
They continued to the turn, the panels sliding open to admit them at the wave of a wrist and closing behind them, shutting out the frenetic noise of the concourse.
“The walkway is on the port side,” Millard said. “Or you can walk for the exercise.”
“I need the walk,” Yana replied. “Oh, is it safe?”
“Safe enough, Colonel.”
“That’s going to unnerve me,” Yana said between her teeth.
“It’s supposed to have the opposite effect,” Millard murmured back, and she saw the glint of mischief in his eyes.
The living accommodations were on two levels, with belt-lifts to take the upper-level residents to their doors. Obviously the second level was more secure. There was also an air of refined elegance in the floor covering, the discreet, nonstimulating murals and decor. Brass territory, Yana thought to herself, and also thought she could stand a bit of this right now, especially with Petaybee’s winter on its way when she returned to the planet.
Marmion’s quarters were on the upper level and seemed to take over one whole quadrant of the circle. Each wristband had to be presented before the panel would admit another body. Yana had lost track of the luggage ‘bots, but when she arrived in her room, everything was there, so she suspected a service access and wondered if the ‘bots got their IDs checked, too.
In a state of shocked bemusement, Bunny was peering around the sumptuous main lounge of Marmion’s quadrant. And it was a quadrant, Sally told her with a grin.
“Marmion rents four of the five levels to Gal Three,” she added.
“And the fifth?”
“That’s environment, and another company owns it and the equipment. Marmion does have a share in the company, but only a small one.”
“Oh!”
“We’re all on the guest side,” Sally explained. “Marmion’s got a complete office here so she can keep up with her investments.
“This way, Bunny, Diego,” she added, and set off to take the newcomers on a small tour while Marmion went off with her business colleagues and Bailey and Charmion deliberated exactly how to entertain Bunny and Diego when they returned to the lounge.
4
Youngling, you are troubled. The rumble of the clouded snow leopard’s concern brushed soothingly against the painful thoughts and feelings attacking ’Cita’s spirit.
The girl reached up and put her arm around the neck of the great cat, burying her face in fur. “Oh, Coaxtl, I am nothing but troubled. I have been weak and foolish and now my new family, my sister and her mate and my beautiful new aunt, have left me behind, and my kind uncle is so displeased with me he seldom speaks to me anymore. I am indeed unworthy to be included in the activities here, too stupid to help, too needy, too . . .”
Too long dwelling in the false caves of men, Coaxtl said with a cough of disdain. Too long away from the clean cold snow. Come, let us go to the mountains together and chase each other’s tracks and find a rabbit who wants to die. It will be like the old days, before the men brought you here.
Goat-dung wailed and hugged the cat harder. “Oh, poor, poor Coaxtl, I know you have stayed here away from your home just because I am too stupid to look after myself and you are a very kind cat . . .”
Hush that! And stop thinking of yourself as Goat-dung, youngling. The others have given you good names—the name of your dam, Aoifa, and the name of your sire and your litter-mate, which is Rrrrrourrrrke! Coaxtl took great pleasure in roaring the name. Or they call you ’Cita, which is a better name than La Pobrecita, the poor little one or Goat-dung. This one would drop all of those kitten names and simply call one’s self Rrrrrourrrrke!
“I wish I were your kitten, Coaxtl.”
Well, you aren’t, but we can pretend. Come. Though you’ve gained some weight since you’ve been here, still you are not too large for one to carry on one’s back part-way. One smells snow and one wants to rrrroll!
Goat-dung—no, ’Cita—no, the Rrrourrke Youngling climbed onto the back of her friend, and together they bounded away from the river and the town, away from all the bustling people, away from the memories of the terrors of the SpaceBase, and out into the forest with its showers of rust-colored needles and bright golden leaves. Rabbits, squirrels, and birds scattered before them as Coaxtl raced through the red underbrush, her paws crackling on the carpet of old leaves, which sent up a delicious, spicy smell with the cat’s every step.
Before they reached the edge of the forest, Coaxtl suddenly lay down and rolled over. Youngling Rrrourrke tumbled into the leaves and laughed as Coaxtl mock-pounced her, all four paws landing clear of the girl while the furry face gazed into hers.
“Your breath smells like dead meat!” the girl cried.
Yours smells like you’ve lived among men too long! Coaxtl answered. What are you lying there for, lazy youngling? It’s your turn to carry one!
“And how should I do that, crazy cat?” she asked, scrambling out from under the creature’s underbelly, where twigs and leaves dangled from the silky fur. The girl opened her mouth wide and pretended to go for the back of the cat’s neck. “Shall I carry you in my mouth, like a mama cat?”
Don’t be impertinent! Coaxtl said, and bounded off into the brush. Bet you can’t track one!
Goat-dung/Pobrecita/’Cita/Aoifa/Youngling Rrrourrke roared the cat’s name and plunged through the brush after her friend. Every time she paused, bewildered when the cat seemed to be nowhere around, she heard a laughing thought just ahead of her and saw the quiver of a bush or the flash of silver fur which was not awfully good camouflage in the bright-colored forest, and she was on the trail once more.
And then, without warning, she ran out of the forest, onto the edge of the muskeg-humped plain, and there was no Coaxtl, not anywhere.
Hsst, the cat’s voice cautioned. Hide. A man thing comes.
“What? Where? Coaxtl, I can’t find you. Where are you?” she asked, and rustled the brush trying to find sight of the cat. But while her back was turned, she suddenly smelled what must have alerted the cat long before, and saw a small flat vessel, not l
ike the copters she had once known as Company Angels, but what Bunny had referred to as a “shuttle.” It had letters on the side. Bunny had been showing her stupid sister letters before she left. She thought the names of those letters were P, like the first letter of Petaybee or Pobrecita, and I—no, the table on top, that was it! Bunny had said that a T had a table on top! PT—S like snake or serpent. PTS. That was what it said on it.
She was so proud of herself for puzzling this out that she didn’t think to hide. She had become somewhat easier among people since her move to Kilcoole, and more accustomed to what Coaxtl called man things. The Shepherd Howling had not cared much for such things unless they were bringing supplies, so machinery had played little part in the terror of her life among the flock before she met Coaxtl.
So mostly she was curious and watched the shuttle land, despite many hissings from Coaxtl.
She had no idea that such an important-looking craft or the people from it would take any notice of someone like her.
One by one they climbed out and sank promptly into the squooshy hillocks of muskeg. Their lower clothing and legs and feet would be very wet, she knew. Some of them carried long metal sticks; some of them had on long white skirts, and others wore short skirts and high fur boots, and leaned on the arms of companions. Still others wore shiny pants. All of them were much too warmly dressed in layers and layers of fur and down, mittens, boots, coats, mufflers, and hats.
“Aha!” one of the ones in a skirt cried. “There’s one!”
“One what?” asked a woman’s bored voice.
“An aboriginal Petaybean.”
“There’s no such thing,” another protested.
“Ah, you, sir, as a businessman, obviously do not understand the spiritual nature of the relationship between the Petaybean native and his or her Great Benefactor. It has been explained to me and my brethren, however, by an expert on the subject.” And without waiting for further argument, the man in the white skirt slogged forward, squooshing up to his knees with every step. “You there?”
“Brethren.” He had said “Brethren.” Shepherd Howling talked that way, and Dr. Luzon. They were not very nice people, but she had learned to obey them. Half of her wanted to shrink back into the brush, but she stood as if rooted while the man approached, and waited for him to demand that she do something she didn’t want to.
“Oh, little girl, yoo hoo!” another white skirt, this one a woman, called.
“Yes, you!” the man said. “You are an indigenous native of this glorious being upon which we stand?”
“Well,” the girl began.
Youngling . . . Coaxtl’s voice whispered.
“Well, yes, I guess so.”
“Ah!” The man’s nervous smile broadened into a wide grin and he beckoned to those waiting behind the shuttle. “She is! Come along, it’s all right then.”
The others surged forward as awkwardly as the first, carrying their bags and their metal sticks and baskets.
The woman in the white skirt was the first to arrive. “Brother Shale, you’ve been too hasty as usual and frightened her.” The woman pulled back her hood to reveal a shaven head, and took off her mitten to stick out a hand. “Hello, honey. I’m Sister Igneous Rock. Take us to your leader.”
Ponopei II
Torkel Fiske had disguised himself before leaving his shuttle. He didn’t care to be recognized by any of his father’s cronies. A dark colorwash and a quick weave altered his hairstyle to shaggily long with a part instead of his usual cropped red cut; he wore a dark mustache that looked utterly convincing, and a pair of dark glasses well suited for the climate of the resort moon Ponopei II. The white synlin suit and Caribbe seascape-designed shirt were unlike anything he ever wore anywhere else. Woven sandals, no socks, and the sort of jewelry he normally wouldn’t be caught dead in completed his ensemble. He had chemically altered his skin color with the substance designed to keep shipsiders from feeling out of place where sun and sea worship were the norm.
Running an all-view holo to check his appearance, he didn’t recognize himself. He looked like a pirate on vacation.
Good. Onidi Louchard wouldn’t take him for a rich, regimented fool then, a company flunky who had risen to power on his father’s reputation. More and more he was starting to feel that people around him viewed him in that light, and he hated it.
Fortunately, he had experience at disguising himself on company business. A little fiddling with the computers altered the identity codes to provide him with yet another persona. His shuttle was an Intergal rental registered to M’sser J. LaFitte, a gem dealer from Burroughs Canal, Mars.
He had come to Ponopei II often enough that he was known there, so he was gratified when none of the docking authorities recognized him, nor the florist where he bought his leis, one for himself and one to seal the deal with Louchard. The maitre d’ at his favorite restaurant failed to recognize, him as well, saying only, on consulting the reservation, “Ah, M’sser LaFitte, your companion has not yet arrived, but your chamber is ready. This way, sir.”
Torkel spent the next fifteen minutes sizing up the people who entered after him, wondering which one could be Louchard. After watching three men in shorts and sandals, another in a yellow business suit similar to his own, five giggling young girls, and one slightly older, petite, demure looker, dressed to kill—a society trophy wife, he guessed—he thought he had been stood up.
Then the trophy wife in the soft lavender and blue sarong dress turned her snappy high-heeled sandals his way. Her legs were very nice, he noted. Pity women seldom showed them in public anymore—except here, of course, where they showed everything. In taking in her appearance, he saw that she was somewhat older than he had assumed at first, her dark blond hair tufted at the ears and crowned with silver. Then he realized she was wearing a blue frangipani behind one ear. Louchard’s communiqué had melodramatically mentioned a blue flower and that he was to bring leis.
The woman with the blue flower smiled and extended a tiny, beringed hand. All the rings had gems that matched her dress except for a prodigious stack of gold ones on the ring finger of her right hand. He admitted her to the chamber, and shut out the sights and sounds of the soft pink sands of the beach, the lime green waters, and the multicolored gardens by closing the hatch of the privacy bubble behind her and drawing the beaded curtain.
“It’s Captain LaFitte, surely, isn’t it?” the woman inquired, sliding neatly across from him.
“It’s Captain Fiske, as your organization was told,” he said. “And I was told I would negotiate with Louchard.”
“Louchard couldn’t make it,” the woman said with a charming show of teeth in a pink-lipsticked mouth. “I represent the organization. We understood you had business to discuss, and I am the business manager, Dinah O’Neill.”
“I see,” he said, and he did. She was no more a business manager than he was Jean LaFitte. The appearance of Onidi Louchard was a carefully guarded secret, but he had heard that the pirate was female. And this lady’s eyes were as cold and calculating as he always fancied himself to be. They understood each other quite well already. “The deal is simply this. I recently met some gentlemen in business with Louchard on the planet known to the locals as Petaybee. It’s a treacherous world that refuses to give up its secrets to outsiders, but seems to have a fondness for certain people who live there. Three of those people are now on Gal Three. The one I’m concerned with is a former company corps officer, Yanaba Maddock. She and her paramour, a suspicious local named Shongili, have maneuvered themselves into being named coadministrators of the governmental affairs of Terraform B. They’re the ones who threw a monkey wrench in your operation on the planet, and they’re now the ones in charge of future resource use. Maddock is pregnant. Her husband is, for a variety of complicated reasons, unable to leave the planet. The teenagers accompanying her are a boy of no particular consequence and a girl who is the husband’s niece. But the important one is Maddock.”
“I can see where ho
lding her would give you a certain—leverage. But I fail to see where there’s any profit in that for us,” said Dinah O’Neill.
“I really should have spoken to your leader then,” Torkel said. “He would have understood at once. Petaybean mineral wealth is still waiting to be mined. Captain Louchard has seen this . . .”
She shrugged. “That is true, but it’s also true, Captain, that there are many other worlds to mine. Petaybean ore and gems are top quality, but are proving costly . . . to extract. In addition to losing four men and the supplies invested in their operation, you now want us to kidnap some settlers? That planet doesn’t yield its largesse to them either, and they’re all poor as dirt. Sounds to me like you’ve got a personal problem with these people, Captain. We’re not terrorists, we’re businesspeople.”
“So is the woman who is hosting Yana Maddock and the children. I’m sure as a ‘businessperson’ you’ll be familiar with the name Marmion de Revers Algemeine?”
“Naturally, though regrettably she has never shown an inclination to avail herself of our services. If the parties you’re interested in detaining are in her care, however, I must tell you that such an operation would be so difficult it would be no more cost-effective than your other proposal.”
“Even if detaining Algemeine as well as Maddock is possible? I would think that the lady would command an extremely high ransom.”
The woman shook her head and looked at him pityingly. “So would the board of directors of Intergal, but we do know our limits, Captain.”
He leaned over and boldly took her hand. “So do I—on my own. You don’t think I’d suggest this unless I knew I could expedite access to the targets, do you? Just say yes and we can make this happen.”
She smiled and covered his hand with her other one. The rings bit into the back of his knuckles. “I never could resist a smooth-talking man who wears more jewelry than I do. Expedite away, Captain, and have your people get in touch with our people. You know how.”
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