The New Space Opera 2

by Gardner Dozois

“We’ll check into rooms,” he said.

  “When’s it coming?” Evan asked.

  “It’s delayed. They estimate three days.”

  “I am not staying cooped up in here—” Karl glared around the Premier Lounge, “—for three days.”

  “For now, you are,” Bryce said. “That’s what your father said to do. First we check into rooms, find someplace to eat—” Another deficiency of this so-called Premier Lounge: where were the upscale eating establishments? The shops? The entertainments? “—And then we’ll see,” Bryce said.

  The auto-attendant flashed a series of options on its screen. Only one sleeper: the Premier Suites, through the sliding door on the far side, third entrance down. Bryce reserved two executive suites, connecting. Only two eating places: Jargooli’s Junction, offering “Strickly orgenic fuds for discriminalling custimers” and Sheehan’s Bar & Grill, “All U Can Eat, All Day, All Night.” The only listing under “Entertainment” was “Novice Public Library, Premier Branch.”

  Bryce led his charges through the reluctantly sliding door at the far side of the lounge space, noticing yet more signs of economic uncertainty. Here the carpet had an obvious wear path down the middle, and the walls were scuffed and stained. The two entrances before Premier Suites had official seals warning visitors not to enter them. Premier Suites itself had a lighted logo out front, but of a much-lower-level chain hostelry.

  Bryce pressed the entrance button; lights flared beyond the door, and a heavyset man with a rumpled, stained tunic lumbered into view. As he neared, Bryce had the uneasy feeling that he had seen the fellow before. The man unlocked the door and said, “You’re the new reservation?”

  “That’s right,” Bryce said. “Bryce Gosslin and nephews Karl and Evan Terrine.”

  The man made a face, then stepped back and waved his arm. “Welcome to Premier Suites. We don’t get that many travelers staying several days. I’ve turned on the room cleaners, but it’ll be a few minutes. You got luggage?”

  “Yes,” Bryce said.

  “I can get it for you, if you want,” the man said. “Or you can bring it—the rooms’ll be ready by then, most likely.”

  “Karl—” Bryce began, but Karl heaved a dramatic sigh.

  “I know—you want us to fetch the luggage. Come on, Ev. Uncle B wants to chat with another grown-up…”

  “I’m coming,” Bryce said. He shrugged at the man and turned away. He was not going to leave Karl alone in the main lounge in this mood. He caught up with the boys before they reached the sliding door.

  “This is boring,” Karl said. “There’s nothing to do, and no one to talk to—it’s deserted.”

  “Does look pretty empty,” Bryce said, in as pleasant a tone as he could manage. “But it’s mid—second shift here. Let’s see…our Altissima IDs should get us access…” He put the premier-class ticket card into the slot; the reader whirred and spat the card out. Nothing moved. He looked at the card—had he put it in backward? No. He tried again. Again the whirring and the card’s return, and the luggage bin did not unlock.

  “Try mine,” Evan said, holding it out.

  “I’d rather not risk it,” Bryce said. “Some of these machines will swallow a card if you try the same thing too many times.” He looked for any of the standard biometric readers but didn’t find one. “We’ll just have to find someone to help us. Perhaps the information clerk—”

  At the information desk, the automated clerk did not respond. Bryce tapped the desk and finally tapped the clerk’s head. Nothing happened.

  “Now what?” Karl asked. “If we can’t get our luggage, we don’t even have dentabs, let alone sleepskins.”

  “I was wondering that myself,” Bryce said. “And my first thought is the charter.” He pulled out his parle and flicked it. The display bloomed in the air in front of them; he ticked his way through the station directory, noted the yacht’s docking assignment, the red dot that meant the dock was indeed occupied, and touched the correct icon.

  “Dock Yellow Thirteen, berths one through ten,” a voice said.

  “I’m trying to reach the charter yacht Bois d’Arc, berth two,” Bryce said. “Captain Vincent.”

  “They’re not here,” the voice said.

  “But the station display says—”

  “They’re not here,” the voice said again, and snapped the connection.

  Bryce looked at the station directory again. Dock Yellow Thirteen berth two had a little green light now, indicating that it was empty. He had the sense of time passing, of delays snicking into place like the pieces of a child’s 3-D puzzle, all aiming at something…but what? Captain Vincent had said they had at least six hours of dock time before they headed out again. It had been…Bryce checked…three hours local. They should be boarding Altissima now, if only the liner had been on time. Vincent could have decided to leave earlier; Novice had little to attract him or his crew.

  If only his employer had listened. They could have met Altissima at Gorley, two stops on: the yacht had enough range. Yes, it would have cost more, and maybe the liner would still have been delayed, but Gorley was a big, busy, very successful transnexus, with excellent services, a safe haven.

  What next? He looked at the display again. Novice Directory listed a charter yacht service. Two in fact. Bantang Insystem Charter Services wouldn’t do them any good, but the local branch of Allsystems might have something. He called up their public face, ticked through to a live rep—a reasonably personable middle-aged woman wearing a blue vest with the familiar Allsystems logo over her white turtleneck.

  “I’d like to arrange a charter to Gorley,” he said. “Three passengers.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Both our yachts are out right now. One of them will return in two days, and then a day turnaround, before it could leave. Earliest departure possible would be nineteen hundred, that’s—” a pause, “—seventy-three-point-five hours from now.”

  That made three days, the same as Altissima, if the liner arrived on time. Bryce wavered, glanced at the boys. Karl was staring at the far wall, the perfect image of sullen uncooperativeness. Evan looked worried, the way he himself felt.

  “Do you have another reservation pending?” he asked.

  “No…we don’t have much call for them. May I ask—?”

  “We were to board the liner Altissima; it’s been delayed at least three days, according to the Infomat in the Premier Lounge. We’re making a connection at Gorley; if Altissima doesn’t arrive in three days, we’ll miss it.”

  “For two hundred credits I can give you a provisional reservation,” the woman said. “You’ll be notified if another customer places an order, and you can upgrade to the full fare then to hold the reservation.”

  “I’ll take it,” Bryce said. “Bryce Gosslin, ID from Manus Trinity.” His current name wasn’t the one he’d been known by here on Novice, and his employer’s credit authorization was good anywhere, so it should be safe.

  “Passengers’ names?” she asked.

  Bryce let his eyebrows rise in calculated amazement. “You need their names now?”

  “Not really,” she admitted. “It’s just to have the paperwork ready.”

  And share it with whomever offered the going rate for breaching confidentiality. “We’re not in that big a hurry,” Bryce said. “We can deal with that when the time comes.”

  “Fine, then,” she said. “You’re holding first option on the yacht Karoe Star, due to arrive here in—” she glanced at the chronometer on the wall, “—forty-seven hours, thirty minutes. Crew reported an on-time departure from Fissley, and they’re in-system with clearance confirmed, so I expect an on-time arrival. I have your contact information; you will be informed when the yacht arrives and when it will be available for boarding. If you exercise the option, you will be expected to pay full fare at that time.”

  “Thank you,” Bryce said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” she said, with a smile that looked gen
uine. “Regular office hours are from ten hundred to eighteen hundred Sig through Argen and Bona through Vale. If you need assistance with your reservation outside those hours, please contact the regular number but give your reservation code.”

  “Thank you,” Bryce said again.

  At least now they had a way off this place if Altissima didn’t show. But three days…he looked at the boys. Karl’s sullen expression had slipped into a mix of derision and rebellion: the adult had screwed up and he wasn’t going to take it anymore. Evan, playing for the opposite team, looked bright-eyed and eager for whatever might happen.

  “Well,” Bryce said. “So—we won’t be leaving today. And I don’t want to risk our ticket or credit chits in the luggage bins; I’ll ask the man at the hotel to fetch it for us. He should have a key. If that doesn’t work, we can buy some necessities for a day or so.”

  “This is so boring,” Karl said.

  “It’s an adventure,” Evan said. “It’s the unexpected, something new—you’re always wanting something different.” He shifted sideways, dodging his brother’s attempt to knuckle his head.

  “We’ll go back to the hotel now,” Bryce said. He hoped the rooms would be ready. He hoped the man there—manager, clerk, bellman, whatever he was—could fetch their luggage. He hoped the stores inside the transit lounge would have the items they needed if the man couldn’t, but he was beginning to expect everything to go wrong at once.

  “Your rooms are ready now,” the man said, when the bell brought him shuffling into the hotel’s foyer once more. “You want to register now?”

  “Yes,” Bryce said. “And our Altissima tickets didn’t work in the luggage bin’s release, so I’ll need you to fetch the luggage.”

  “Your tickets didn’t work?” The man stared at them. “I don’t know if I can—I use the tickets, see, to open the bin—” His voice had acquired a whiny edge.

  “You don’t have station access?”

  “I’d have to get a card. It costs, and you have to reapply every standard year. For the traffic we get through here, it’s not worth it.”

  “What about station security?”

  “Oh, they don’t come in here. Ritzy passengers don’t want to be bothered by station security.”

  “Well, we’ll go to our rooms now.” Bryce held out his hand for the keys.

  “Here you go, then,” the man said. “You have a nice stay.”

  Bryce led the way down the passage indicated. Their rooms, he noted, were at the very end of a quiet corridor. Too quiet. Too much a dead end. A red “emergency exit” light glowed across from their doors. He pushed the key against its pad on the room door; it made the right sound and the door opened. A quality door, anyway: thick, tough. Bryce touched it as he passed. The boys followed him in, Karl radiating resentment and Evan radiating equally strong perkiness, both of them radiating brotherly competition.

  Inside, the first room looked like it had once been part of a true high-quality suite: a large, uncluttered sitting room with couch, chairs, desk with dataports, entertainment console. It still had a faint “dead air” odor and the furniture—though clean and less worn than that in the arrival lounge—looked dull, the beige/cream/black decor decades out of date. One of the lights flickered a little. Bryce pulled out his security scanner. The suite should be secure, and his keycard should light up when he activated his own scanner…it did, and the suite’s own surveillance/security seemed to be functional and adequate, though hardly top-of-the-line.

  Executive-level suites usually had two bedrooms, sitting room, large bath, and kitchenette. Bryce checked them all, while Evan turned on the entertainment system in the sitting room and Karl wrestled him for the controller, got it, and turned it off again. Bryce ignored this; he wasn’t their tutor, he was their protection.

  The kitchenette’s cooler was on; the ice maker produced ice when he pressed the button. The cooker’s heating elements hadn’t been tampered with; the oven still had its manufacturer’s seal and had never been used. The cleaning cabinet appeared to work when he put in a plate from the cupboard: it reported 0.1 gram of recyclable waste had been transferred to the station’s main vat.

  The bath, the room with the most lethal possibilities, checked out as well. No cross-wired plumbing facilities. He disabled the options for toilet seat temperature control—every security expert and most criminals knew about that method of murder—and scanned for implanted needles, actually the commonest way of rendering someone unconscious. Both bedrooms…beds, closets, chairs, floor, entertainment centers: players and controllers all passed as safe.

  He left the boys in that suite while he checked out the adjoining one. Just as dull and apparently just as safe. He could find nothing to explain his sense of unease except the coincidences piling up…but coincidences happened. Three times wasn’t always enemy action.

  He just didn’t want to miss it when it was.

  Back in the other suite, Karl had finally given in to Evan’s complaints and had the entertainment center on again. “Only four choices,” Karl said. “A program too childish even for Evan, something you have to have an adult ID for—I can imagine what that is—local news, and a parpaun tournament. And three games we wore out five years ago. Even Evan could get to the top level in about five minutes.”

  “It will play your own flakes,” Bryce said.

  Karl made a face. “I’ve seen everything I’ve got with me; the rest is locked in the luggage bin. Did you forget that?”

  Bryce reminded himself that Karl would, inevitably, grow out of the stage he was in, but hoped it would be soon, the bored, world-weary, sulky stage being tiresome to live with. His more serious problem was how to arrange the three of them in the two suites. The boys would be happier—well, Karl would—if they were in one, each having his own bedroom, and Bryce were in the other. But here at the end of a long empty corridor, either that last suite or the one in front of it could offer opportunities to kidnappers or other criminals, and being separated from the boys by a door they could lock on the inside…no.

  He’d have to disable the connecting doors’ locks to ensure that he had access, and then he might as well sleep in the sitting room. No hardship—he’d slept far worse places, including here on Novice Station, but still too far from the boys, whose bedrooms were on the far side of their sitting room. They’d all stay in one suite, for sleeping; the boys could use the entertainment consoles in the other when awake.

  “We have a security issue,” he said to the boys. Karl sneered; Evan grinned. “This situation is not the safest. We’re all going to sleep in here—you two in the master bedroom—”

  “No!” Evan said. “He snores.”

  “Me! You snore, and you kick.”

  “There are two large beds; you have earplugs. This is the safest arrangement and I’m paid to ensure your safety.”

  “And I suppose you want us to stay in this suite, with no real entertainment, for three whole days?”

  “No,” Bryce said. “You’ll have to eat, of course. When I’ve secured the suites, we’ll go see what we can find.”

  “Thank you for that,” Karl said, and stared at the wall while Bryce shut down the entertainment center.

  Bryce led the way back down the long passage, alert to anything that might happen, but he heard no sounds and saw nothing. None of his devices vibrated or buzzed or flashed. As he’d expected, the man who’d let them in was nowhere to be seen when they came into the reception area; the door opened to let them out into the public corridor. Bryce queried his parle: Jargooli’s Junction would close in a few minutes, but Sheehan’s Bar & Grill, across the corridor, claimed to be open all the time.

  Jargooli’s had already closed when they got there, beaded curtains pulled across the opening behind the security barrier. By the lingering fragrances, their food might be better than their spelling; Bryce decided they’d try it for breakfast. From Sheehan’s entrance, light and noise spilled out into the corridor. Bryce looked at the menu displayed o
utside: HERE’S YOUR MEAT! in glowing orange letters above a list of steaks, chops, ribs.

  Memory churned his stomach. The only real meat on Novice Station would be here, in the Premier Section, or in the private residences of the stationmaster and his cronies. For the commoners, vat-manufactured, extruded stuff was standard, the daily protein ration barely enough for adults, let alone growing boys Karl’s age.

  He led the boys in. About half the tables were occupied, mostly by solitary drinkers, but one filled by five large men laughing and talking a little too loud. Not good. But the smells were right. A chunky man in a stained apron came forward. “Travelers, eh? Late arrival? Want a meal?”

  “That’s right,” Bryce said, nodding at the boys. “A quiet table, if you have one.”

  “Heard there was a yacht in. Waiting for Altissima, are you?”

  Rumor spread faster than light; trouble could spread as fast. Bryce nodded. “Got to get these boys to school,” he said.

  “School…” The man’s expression hinted at something else; Bryce chose to ignore it and took the menus he handed over. He offered one to each boy.

  “I’ll be in middle this year,” Evan said to the man. “Graduated primary last term.”

  “Congratulations,” the man said.

  “Don’t bother our host,” Bryce said. Evan knew better than to divulge any personal details to strangers; he was doing it to annoy Karl.

  “I’ll have the biggest steak you have,” Karl said, leaning back without looking at the menu. “Rare. If you have potatoes, I’ll have two, baked, loaded. No salad. What are your desserts?”

  “Our biggest steak is two kilos,” the host said. “Of course, you can always take the leftovers with you.”

  Karl gave him a tight grin. “There won’t be any leftovers.”

  “Very well. If you do finish it, and the potatoes, and dessert, it’s free. Desserts are fruit cobbler—blackberry or apple, real fruit, not dried—or cheesecake or chocolate melt. Though if you puke in our ’fresher, you have to mop it up.”

  For a moment only, Karl looked daunted, but then he shrugged. He did not, however, order dessert immediately.