The New Space Opera 2

by Gardner Dozois

  Yet his gut clenched just as it had sixteen years before. The familiar shapes of the storefronts seemed to jeer at his present status, his sense of self as Bryce James Gosslin. Still someone’s servant, still dependent…his employer might be softer-spoken, less obviously cruel, but he was still not his own master.

  He shook his head, forcing those thoughts aside as he always did to focus on the immediate dangers. Nothing he could see…Triolet’s, a store he’d never had the money to enter legally in his bad old days, looked just as it had. Fresh, clean, its displays of shiny, enticing tech up to date.

  The store was moderately busy; Bryce kept the boys in sight from a little distance, letting them make their own choices. He didn’t care about players and entertainment slice and cubes. If he’d had a day off, he’d have been at the far end of the store, where a locked door gave entrance to the special room full of high-quality spyware. He’d been there once, as a small boy, in the dark of station night, sent to steal something to prove his loyalty to his leader. He remembered how the pounding of his own pulse drowned out ambient sound, how he’d swallowed back the raw fear that he’d be caught and spaced.

  Now he could go there legitimately, a professional in the security field: show his identity and credit reference, and one of the senior clerks would let him in, let him try out those delicate and effective instruments. But not while he was guarding the boys.

  Evan had chosen a player; Karl was hesitating between two. Evan glanced over his shoulder for Bryce. Bryce came forward, once more feeling the tug of an invisible chain on a nonmaterial collar. “This one’s even nicer than my other,” Evan said. “Is that all right?”

  “Of course,” Bryce said. “What else do you want?”

  “Some games. Some storycubes. But that salesclerk keeps looking at me.” Evan’s voice lowered. “I didn’t think it was enough to say ‘Mr. Henson’ about—”

  Bryce glanced that way—a salesclerk was in fact watching, but when he saw Bryce with Evan he relaxed and turned away. “I’ll speak to him,” Bryce said. “Boys your age are in school or at work during prime shift here.” He could remember all too clearly what he’d been doing at that age and time of day. Disassembling stolen merchandise into its components, filing the results in Macalapar’s Parts & Supplies. Clerks had looked at him that way, too. There must still be boys employed by the station mafi to steal and dismantle what they stole.

  He introduced himself to the clerk. “Those two boys, my nephews—” he pointed out Evan and Karl. “A delay in travel. Whatever they choose goes on my account, unless the older one tries to buy something illegal—he’s at that age.”

  “Over twelve?”

  “Oh, yes. He can certainly access material for over-twelves, but his mother would have my head if I let him explore the adult material. She’s just a tiny bit overprotective.” He grinned at the clerk, who grinned back. It wasn’t true…Alicia Veronese Stoner-Hall hadn’t seen either of her sons since she’d left their father for a famous professional jockey two years before. Evan had cried; his grades had dropped and he’d lost weight, but he was back to normal now. Karl had pretended not to care, but Bryce, whose older brother had died, unpleasantly, when he was that age, knew better. But mothers were supposed to be protective, even overprotective, and it was another layer of protective falsehood to enhance the boys’ legal identities.

  Bryce wandered around the store, observing everything from the clerk’s new demeanor toward the boys to the other customers. A midday truant, trying to keep the strap of his book bag over the telltale crest of his school as he poked through the adult bin. The clerk spotted him too, and headed for him. The truant slouched out the door without being caught and Bryce watched him through the window…he would find what he sought somewhere.

  A young mother, baby in a sling on her hip and whiny toddler at her heel, pawed through the bin of preschool educational cubes for the one the toddler wanted. Two somewhat older women, talking nonstop, flipped through a tray of “just in” bestsellers. A woman his own age, in rough work clothes, tool bag on her shoulder—something about the way she moved made him look again. His shift of stance caught her eye; she turned to look straight at him.

  His breath caught. Glia. It had to be Glia. He looked down, hoping she hadn’t recognized him, not with the straight white unbroken teeth, the straight nose…

  “I will never forget your eyes,” she’d said, the last time, the time he’d been beaten so hard he didn’t even want to live, when his face…

  No. He would not think of that. He would think of now, of his good suit, of his good job, his new identity. He stared at the racks and bins in front of him, forcing his hands to move among them as if he sought something in particular. She’d been headed to the far side of the store; their eyes had met only for a moment. And it might not be Glia. She looked older, harder…her hair was darker…she was heavier.

  He looked at the bin he was working through and found it was texts for history, grades K–12. That almost made him laugh. History indeed. He had enough history without studying it. When he glanced up again to find the boys, they were talking with the clerk. And the woman who might be Glia had her back to him, looking at racks of power cells.

  The boys were through now, and Bryce joined them.

  “We could tube this stuff back and explore more,” Evan said.

  “Better we go back,” Bryce said. “The clothes should be there now—get things put away.” They’d been out of the secured area for hours, plenty of time for someone to set up a trap, and he didn’t want to run into anyone else he remembered.

  They didn’t argue, for once. Bryce paid the clerk; the clerk tagged the items and put them in an ID-confirmed carrysack. Karl picked it up and headed for the door; Evan followed. Bryce stretched his stride to catch up…and the woman he hoped wasn’t really Glia popped out from between racks, staring straight at him.

  He’d half-expected it; it was her style. He had readied his polite stranger face…she still shouldn’t recognize him. But he saw the slight widening of her pupils, lift of brows. She had. His nod was polite, distant.

  Her voice followed him, barely audible. “I’ll never forget your eyes…” No more than that; he could feel the distance between them widen as she accepted his nonresponse. He glanced back once, but didn’t see her.

  He cursed his carelessness all the way back to the Premier Lounge entrance, through a brief stop at a food outlet to buy something he could prepare for the boys’ supper. Once more they had to pass Immigration and Customs, acquiring blue stickers on the carrybags. Nothing had happened…nothing but one person thinking she’d recognized him. The boys were safe. He was safe.

  As safe as they ever were.

  Their new clothes were in the hotel’s reception room, and the woman—again on duty—seemed marginally more friendly. Bryce tipped her. The boys showered and changed into their new outfits, as did he, then he ran an experimental towel through the suite’s clothes-cleaning cabinet. Karl had gone into the other suite to use its entertainment center and get away from the sound effects from Evan’s game, he said—little chimes and crackling noises. Bryce filtered them out automatically as he took care of the laundry and considered options.

  As Bryce half-expected, the towel came out a tan wadded mess, so seldom was the cabinet used. On the second try the same towel emerged white, fluffy, and soft. He put his own clothes in first, clothes so different from those he’d worn here as a boy. A boy who had been saved from more torment and certain death by Glia. A boy who no longer existed, physically or legally.

  What would Glia do? No doubt in his mind that she’d recognized him. She knew his past; she knew who would most want to find him…but she hadn’t been part of that. She’d tried to help.

  And he’d cut her, his oldest and only friend here. A woman scorned…but she wasn’t every woman. She’d looked tired, worn…poor, still. Working, at least, unless that had been a disguise, but he thought not. How would she react to his refusal to acknowledg
e her? Anger? Misery? And what had he cut her for? For the boys? For the spoiled rich kids whose clothes he washed?

  Load by load, he put clothes in the cabinet and took them out. He folded and put away their underwear, their shirts, the cheap pajamas they’d bought the night before. Was this what he’d become…just a servant? He stepped to the door, where he could see Evan hunched over his player; the screen showed a multicolored pattern that had to be manipulated into something else. Karl had pushed the connecting door almost closed, no doubt to cut down on the noise. Bryce looked at his chrono. Time to start supper. If he was going to be a servant, he might as well be a good one.

  The boys ate supper without complaint; they had entertainment waiting for them, and they left their mess on the table as soon as they’d had enough to eat. Bryce cleared the table and put all the dirty dishes in the kitchen cleaner. Two more days, and either Altissima would be in, or they’d leave on the yacht. He could stand two more days. Once aboard the liner, he’d have others he could depend on to help with the boys’ security, just as he usually did. Someone adult to talk to, someone adult who understood, who knew the rules.

  Next morning, the boys were restless again. The packets of breakfast food he’d bought to prepare for them in the suite brought scowls.

  “I don’t see why we can’t go out,” Evan said. “Nothing happened yesterday.”

  Should he tell them about Glia? No, they would not understand that being recognized by an old friend was a problem.

  “Just because nothing happened yesterday doesn’t mean nothing will happen,” Bryce said.

  “I know you don’t want us to stay out there all day,” Karl said. “And I know you think the things we bought are enough to occupy us. But just for meals? Surely we can go out for breakfast, maybe lunch?”

  “We could eat at one of those places at this end of the concourse,” Evan said. “Wouldn’t that be safer?”

  It would, if the danger depended on them being in a particular place and that wasn’t it. Still…Bryce was tired of being the only adult he saw. He missed his usual partner, Arnie Bennett, more than he’d expected, missed the simple adultness of the man, the cooperation, the shared goal of keeping the boys safe. And he’d been cooped up with the boys since he picked them up. Yesterday, outside this empty and depressing section, had been enjoyable for him, too. At least, until Glia recognized him.

  “Breakfast,” he said. “We’ll see how it goes—no promises about lunch. Remember our code phrases?”

  They grinned at him, nodding. Evan rattled them off; Bryce looked at Karl until he repeated them.

  “Alert, aware,” Bryce said. They nodded again.

  Bryce made his morning check of his own security devices, made sure that the boys each had an ID and a key to the room, and put the Altissima tickets in his own safehold.

  The concourse looked no more or less dangerous this morning than it had the day before. They found a table at a café that sold baked and fried goods; Evan and Karl both chose stacks of pancakes smothered in sweet sauce and fruit, with faux-sausages on the side.

  Bryce ate two eggs and a hot sweet bun, watching the concourse. Still nothing. Maybe he could bring the boys out for every meal. That would make life easier today and tomorrow.

  After breakfast, out on the concourse, the boys thought of other things they needed. “I’m out of my derm treatment,” Karl said. And before Bryce could remind him of the store inside the Premier Section, he said, “They don’t have it inside—I asked. But there’s a pharm just down there—you can see the sign—and it wouldn’t take a minute.”

  “And they might have mint chewies,” Evan said.

  He could get things for them—but that meant leaving them alone in the hotel suite. Not a good idea. The pharm might deliver, or it might not. Might as well take a few minutes…

  Karl found his derm treatment; Evan found his chewies and bought packets of mint and spice both. As they left, Karl lagged behind a little—no doubt looking for some other excuse to stay on the concourse longer.

  “Come on, Karl,” he said, turning. Karl had stopped to look in a display window.

  When he looked back at Evan, he saw them. At first he thought they were station security—their clothes could pass for uniforms at a casual glance. The belts with weapons-slots added to that impression. But their feral eyes, fixed on him, belonged to a different order of power. Clearly, they recognized him, and he remembered Merrick all too well. Merrick had worked for Santorin, who’d killed his brother. Merrick had made Bryce’s life hell, when Bryce was still Boris. The other with Merrick, he wasn’t sure of.

  “Applejack,” Bryce said. And again, a little louder, for Karl’s benefit, “Applejack.”

  Merrick grinned.

  “You haven’t changed that much,” he said. “You’re not going to give us any trouble, now, are you?”

  Not until the boys got free. Karl had backed away, and was now edging into a café entrance, but Evan stared from Bryce to the men and looked around for Karl just that instant too long. Bryce pushed him, said “Run!” and Evan started, took one step. Too late: Merrick’s partner had him.

  “Let me go!” Evan said, and kicked out, but the man simply picked him up, rolled him into a bodywrap, and touched his neck with a sleep-stick. Evan slumped into the man’s arms. A few bystanders slowed to look, but no one interfered. Merrick had an obvious weapon out now; his accomplice had a less obvious one poised near Evan’s neck.

  “Citizen arrest!” Merrick said. “There’s a warrant outstanding for this individual, suspicion of human trafficking as well, and we’re licensed bounty hunters.”

  “It’s a lie,” Bryce said. “I’m a businessman from out-system; that’s my nephew! Call Security!”

  Merrick grinned at a few more bystanders who’d actually come to a halt. “Security? By all means—that’s where you’re going, straight to the central station.”

  “They’re not bounty hunters, they’re common criminals!” Bryce said, appealing to the one man in the crowd who looked truly interested. “Call Security, please!” The needler in his palm would shoot only one at a time…the drug took a second or more to disable…if he got the one who held Evan, Merrick would have ample time to shoot him…and then take Evan anyway. Bryce cursed himself for his mistakes, for failing to insist on having a partner along.

  Then he felt the sting of a needle in his own neck, and the world receded to a set of gray shades, one of whom kindly guided him along the concourse to somewhere he didn’t want to go…but could not summon the energy to resist.

  Karl tried to remember everything Bryce had ever said about sneaking in the almost-five years the man had been one of their security detail. Don’t have a pattern. Don’t look back; use reflections. Don’t be obvious. Never be first or last. Never sit with your back to a door.

  Now he was alone on a strange space station, and his bodyguard and his brother had just been snatched…he didn’t believe for a moment that Bryce was really a criminal on the run, so those so-called bounty hunters must be criminals themselves.

  He was not a child. He was not helpless. He forced the panic down and forced himself to think like Bryce—or what he thought Bryce thought like. Situation: bad. He was supposed to keep Evan safe if something happened to Bryce, but Evan had already been captured by…by someone. Bryce was supposed to be rear guard, but he too was captured. Well, resources: he had his own credit cube, but his credit was limited, in case his cube was stolen. The bad guys had Bryce’s. Bryce had his Altissima ticket, too…no, wait…that was back at the hotel. So he had a ticket and identification and a little money. Enough to survive on for a few more days, at least, but that didn’t help Evan and Bryce. Would Customs let him back into the Premier Lounge without an adult?

  Maybe he should do what Bryce had said—he finally remembered that—find a security kiosk and hit all the buttons, and then ask someone to escort him to the hotel. But how would that really work? He imagined sirens wailing and whooping, lights flash
ing, people in the concourse scurrying for cover, those in shops pouring out to see what was going on, various emergency teams arriving on the scene—hull breach, fire, hazardous materials, crime in progress. Lots of people looking at him, asking questions, angry that he’d called them out for no reason…boys had been expelled from his school for sending in fake emergency calls and making the local police waste taxpayer time and money. A child—Evan, maybe—could get away with that; children panicked. Surely it would be better to find a security station and just tell them what had happened. More adult, more—the more he thought about it—believable.

  Karl finished the juice he’d ordered and looked out into the concourse. No sign of the bounty hunters, Bryce, Evan. Down the concourse, he saw the lighted logo of an open security station. If those were bounty hunters, maybe they’d taken Bryce and Evan there, to check on that warrant and get their reward. That’s how they did it in the games he’d played. But if that had happened, Bryce should be free, should be in there with Evan or coming out…he peered in. No Bryce. No Evan. A man at the desk looked up from a screen and stared at him. Karl felt his shoulders tightening. They’d said something about central station; he had no idea where it was. He could at least ask.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the man at the desk. “I’d like to know where the central security station is.”

  “Why? Anything you need to report, you can report here. ID.” The man put out his hand. This close, Karl could see that what he’d taken for uniforms on the men who grabbed Evan and Bryce weren’t the same.

  “I didn’t—”

  “ID, son. We log everyone who comes in. You should know that.”

  “I’m a visitor,” Karl said. “We’re only here until—”

  “Transient,” the man said. “ID, now.”

  Karl fished out his legal ID and handed it over; the man passed it through a machine and then laid it on the desk rather than hand it back.

  “You’re underage; why aren’t you in school?”