“If they offer the job,” Djuro went on, “will you take it?”
Heikki looked at him in some surprise. “Of course,” she answered, and was surprised in turn by her own certainty. Why do I want this job? she wondered, and put the question angrily aside. “Why the hell shouldn’t we?” Her voice was harsher than she’d intended, and Djuro shrugged.
“Just wanted to be sure. I’ll be off now.”
Heikki nodded. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”
There was no word from Lo-Moth for the next ten-day. Heikki occupied herself with the routine business of operating from an Exchange Point, and kept an eye on the news reports from Pleasaunce. Santerese did not appear in them, though she did dispatch a brief message saying that she had begun work. All in all, Heikki thought, I shouldn’t ask for more. Djuro reported that at least two other companies, including the Twins’ cooperative, had put in bids on the job, but no one was offering odds on the eventual winner. Heikki grumbled, but resigned herself to waiting.
When the message finally arrived, it was at the end of the business day, too late to send a formal response. The media wall lit and windowed, codes streaming across its obsidian face. Heikki answered the prompts, filling in the security codes, then waited while the screen went blank and the hardcopier linked to the wall whirred to life. Sighing, she went to read the sheets as they came off the machine: as she had expected, Lo-Moth had copied her standard contract into its corporate format, but, to her surprise, there were no significant changes. She frowned, read it again, dumped the original to the legal analysis program, and leaned against the edge of the desk, waiting for the results. After nearly a minute’s consideration, the program spat its response: no significant changes. Heikki’s frown deepened, and she settled herself in front of the workscreen.
She tied herself into the communications net, and keyed in the codes that would reach Malachy’s secretarial program. She dumped a copy of both contracts to him, and added a quick note, asking him to go over the language and make sure that Lo-Moth hadn’t changed anything important. Only when the codestring indicated that the message had been accepted did she touch Djuro’s code.
It was several minutes before the screen lit, and when it did, the camera was turned carefully to the white-painted wall. “Yes?”
“It’s Heikki, Sten.”
“Ah.” The camera did not move. “What’s up?”
“We got word from Lo-Moth,” Heikki said, and could not keep the pride from her voice. “We’ve got the contract, if we want it. I’ve got Malachy looking over the terms now.”
“Didn’t they do what you wanted?” Djuro asked.
“It’s practically our contract, copied onto their format,” Heikki answered. “That’s why I want Malachy to look at it. Do you know where Jock’s staying these days, or if he’s taken another job?”
“No, he’s still looking,” Djuro answered, and swung the camera back toward himself. Heikki blinked, dizzied by the sudden movement, and saw the little man fasten the last clasp of his jacket. “He’s staying on the hostel level here, but I don’t think he’ll be there now. He’s probably at Victoria’s.”
“We can track him down there,” Heikki answered. “Meet me—unless you have other plans.”
Djuro shook his head silently.
“It’ll take me about an hour to get there,” Heikki went on.
“I’ll be there,” Djuro answered, and cut the connection.
It would take somewhat less than an hour to reach Dock Seven, and Victoria’s, but there was a certain code of dress observed in the dock pods that could not be broken with impunity. To ignore it was to proclaim oneself an outsider, fair game; to follow it was to state quickly and clearly who and what one was. Heikki kicked off the station slippers she was wearing, rummaged in a wall bin until she found the tall arroyo-leather boots she usually wore planetside, and worked the clinging leather up over her knees. She left the two front slits of her skirt unbuttoned, freeing the sheath at the top of each boot, and transferred her knife from the thigh sheath to the boottop. Then she reached into a second bin for the jacket she kept for venturing into the docks. It had the standard ‘pointer collar, left side higher than the right, an electronics pad sewn into the stiffened material, but it was tailored more sharply, broad in the shoulders and nipped in at the waist, and the fabric was visibly expensive, an unpatterned blue-black tree-wool. She shrugged it on, feeling automatically for the electronics in collar and cuffs, then went back into the bedroom for her blaster. She slid a fresh cartridge into the charging chamber—half-power, a stun cartridge, all anyone ever carried on any space station— and slipped it into the top of the right boot. It was not that she expected to need it—in all her twenty-five years in salvage, she had never yet had to use it, or the thin-bladed knife she carried in the left boot, on any Exchange Point—but it was a part of the uniform, part of the romance of salvage. She grinned, too aware of the ironies in that view to do more than enjoy them, and started for the door.
She took the stairs to the connecting level and walked the length of the tube to the minitrain station. The other passengers, recognizing the clothes, gave her a wide berth until the Docks change-station, and then she was swallowed in a crowd of similarly dressed men and women. The corridors connecting the dock pods were brightly lit, high-ceilinged tunnels with padding on the floors and halfway up the slightly curving walls. People moved quickly along the center of the corridor, the harsh light flaming from exotic Precinct clothing and flamboyant spacer dress, but here and there eddies formed in the relative shadow of the padded walls. Once it was a group of neo-barbs, mostly women this time, clustered about the platform of the sonic drill that was their sole means of support; then it was a trio of spacers, standing close together, heads turned into their collars as they talked. Light flashed from biolume bracelets as they gestured.
A slidewalk ran down the center of the tunnel that led to Docks Five through Nine. It was crowded, knots of men and women in spacers’ bright clothes leaning against the groaning grab bars, while other people, carefully suppressing any immodest language, pushed past them to hurry down the moving strip. Heikki hesitated for a moment, then, with some reluctance, stepped up onto the walk. By the time the slidewalk had carried her the three hundred meters to the entrance to Dock Five, a number of adolescents—‘pointers, mostly, out for a spree in the frowned-upon dockside clubs—had stepped up onto the walk, and Heikki advanced her left leg a little, letting the skirt fall back to expose the knife tucked into the cuff of the boot. The nearest ‘pointer hesitated, and there was a little swirl of movement as the group rearranged themselves, giving her a wider berth. Heikki allowed herself a cold smile, and looked away. Most of the trouble in the docks was caused by touring ‘pointers; the real dockside crime tended to be silent, nonviolent, and deadly only when it had to be.
The slidewalk ran out between Docks Six and Seven. Heikki walked the last fifty meters to the entrance to Dock Seven, disdaining the slidewalk’s continuation, and turned into the dock corridor. Behind her, the gang of adolescents stopped dead, glancing first at the brightly lit directory board, and then at the glittering signs that lined the head of the corridor. I hope to hell they’re not going to Victoria’s, she thought—but Victoria will know how to deal with them, if they are. The thought was more than a little satisfying, and she was smiling when she stepped through the mirrored door.
It was very dim in the main room, especially after the brightness of the tunnels, but she made her way to the bar with the ease of long habit. It was not particularly crowded yet, and Victoria himself was manning the bar. He stepped forward as Heikki came into the wedge of light in front of the bar, his generously painted mouth curving up into a genuine smile of welcome.
“Heikki. Where’ve you been, dear, and where’s the Marshallin?”
“Pleasaunce,” Heikki answered, and seated herself comfortably on the nearest stool. “And I’m just back from Callithea.”
“Anot
her one of your archeological specials, or routine business?” Victoria asked, and leaned heavily against the bar. He was a big man, despite the corsets and padding that provided the shape beneath the satin and sequined evening gown, and his heavy makeup could not entirely hide the lines at the corners of his eyes and bracketing the sensual mouth. He looked like a dowager who resolutely refused to give up the habits of her youth—and it was, Heikki thought, a fair summation. “Salatha gin?”
“Please.” Heikki accepted the drink as it appeared seemingly from nowhere, and shrugged when Victoria waved away the proffered cashcard. “That can’t do your business much good.”
“Oh, the next drink’s on you, dear, never fret.” His eyes narrowed as the door opened again, and the group of adolescents Heikki had noticed on the slidewalk came in, clustering together and murmuring into their collars at the strangeness of it all. Victoria sighed, and shook his head. “Excuse me,” he said, and ran his fingers across the touchplate embedded in his enormous bracelet. Heikki grinned, and swung around on her stool to watch. A moment later, a short-haired woman in a black leather bodice and trousers that fit like a second skin slouched forward to meet them, her white-painted face set in a forbidding scowl. A heavy chain swung menacingly at her waist.
“Yeah, help you?” she growled, with patent insincerity. The adolescents exchanged glances, and said something too soft for Heikki to hear: Then, as abruptly as they’d appeared, the group retreated. As the door swung shut behind them, the leather-clad woman grinned, the expression transforming her almost elfin face, and came over to the bar, pulling her orderpad out of her waistband by its chain.
“Was that all right, boss?” she asked. “And I need a bottle of joie-de-vivre for upstairs, while I’m here.”
Victoria nodded, touching buttons on the bar, and a moment later the frosted bottle rose through the serving hatch, steaming gently in the sudden warmth. “Neatly done.”
The woman smiled again, and disappeared, balancing the bottle easily in one hand.
“Who’s she?” Heikki asked.
“Happily married—to a freighter tech, I believe—with two kids,” Victoria answered.
Heikki laughed. “I hadn’t seen her before, that’s all.”
“You haven’t been in recently,” Victoria answered. “Lord, my dear, I think it’s been two months.”
“I’ve been working,” Heikki said again, and added, before the other could ask, “All routine.” She took a sip of her gin, and leaned forward. “And I’m afraid it’s partly business that’s brought me now. Is Jack Nkosi here tonight? Or Sten?”
“Sten’s not in yet, if you’re meeting him. Jock’s upstairs.” Victoria lifted painted eyebrows. “Flirting with the waitresses. Do you want him?”
“I’ve got some business with him,” Heikki answered. She started to stand up, but Victoria waved her back.
“I’ll send a message. He’ll be distracting them all night, else.”
“Thanks,” Heikki said, and waited while the other fingered his bracelet again.
After a moment, Victoria nodded. “He’s on his way. You don’t know how glad I’ll be when I can finally retire, dear, and let someone else take over.”
“There’s no one else like you, and you know it,” Heikki began, but Victoria continued as though she had not spoken.
“You know what I’m really looking forward to? Not having to put on this damned corset every night.” He gave an impish smile as a warning buzzer sounded, and reached out to hit the monitor’s override button. “And I will say what I want in my own place, thank you very much.”
Heikki returned the smile, but Victoria’s eyes were already on the staircase that curved down from the bar’s upper floor. “And here he comes, looking like a cat in cream.”
Heikki turned on her stool, and couldn’t restrain a laugh. Nkosi was a big man, made bigger by the bulk of the leather coat he wore slung across his shoulder, its color and textures dulled by the rich brown of his skin. Two of the waitresses—and one of the waiters, who should have known better—were hanging over the railing, the younger girl calling something that Heikki could not hear. Nkosi lifted his hand in laughing answer, and moved toward the bar, arms spread in greeting. Heikki, who did not as a rule like being touched, submitted to being lifted off her stool, whirled in a dizzying embrace, and set neatly back where she belonged.
“And that is also a mighty fine jacket you have now,” Nkosi said, as though their last meeting had not occurred five standard months ago. “Tree-wool? Yes—”
“Now, dear,” Victoria said, and he was smiling, “I can’t have you assaulting the customers as well as corrupting my staff.” He slid a tall drink across the counter toward the newcomer.
“Have there been complaints?” Nkosi asked, with a grin.
“I’m not waiting for the paternity suits, dear,” Victoria retorted.
“Outrageous,” Nkosi said. “I always take precautions, do I not, Heikki?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Heikki answered, and Nkosi continued as though she had agreed with him.
“One would think you were jealous, Victoria. Most unworthy of you.”
“I could be jealous,” Victoria said, “if you ever paid any attention to me.”
“If I thought there was a chance you would consider me, Vickie, I would be on my knees in an instant,” Nkosi answered.
Victoria shook his head, smiling. “Someday, dear,
I’m going to take you up on that offer, and then where will you be?”
Heikki laughed. “Sten said he ran into you about a ten-day ago, and you were looking for work?”
“And I still am,” Nkosi answered. “The job he mentioned came?”
Heikki nodded. “I’m just waiting for the contract to go through our lawyer. It looks as though it will be pretty much a standard air search and wreck analysis— it’s been long enough since the crash that even if it was sabotage or hijacking—”
“Sten did not say that that was a possibility,” Nkosi murmured.
“—there shouldn’t be any problems, and there’s a danger bonus built into the contract in any case,” Heikki finished. “Yeah, there does seem to be a good chance it was one or the other. Does that make a problem?”
Nkosi shook his head. “Not in the least. It should add spice.”
Well, that’s typical, Heikki thought. She said aloud, “I can offer you union rates, plus your share of the bonus if we earn it. How does that sound to you?”
Nkosi didn’t seem to hesitate. “I am willing, the pay sounds good. Yes, I will go. What are the atmospheric conditions like?”
That was also typical, act first and think later, Heikki thought, and suppressed a grin. “Do you know Iadara, Sixth Precinct?”
“No.”
“It’s semi-tropical, in the settled areas, with a bad weather pattern through the interior—”
“Which of course is where we’re going?”
“Of course.” Heikki smiled, rather thinly this time. “It rates about a four on the Antraversi scale, up to a six in the storm season.”
“Not bad.” Nkosi nodded. “We can handle that, no problem. When do you want to sign papers? And when do we leave?”
“I’m waiting for the contract to come back from the lawyer,” Heikki answered.
“Heikki?” That was Djuro’s voice, and Heikki repressed a start. “Sorry I’m late,” the ex-engineer continued, “but I got a call from Malachy. He’s cleared the contract.”
Nkosi beamed down on the little man, and Heikki said, “That’s good news.”
Djuro nodded, and edged forward between two of the tall stools to lean easily against the bar. “I checked the shipping schedules, too, and there’s a freighter leaving for Iadara in six days.”
“So.” Heikki paused, considering. “If the money comes through from Lo-Moth in time, we’ll reserve cabins. You did say a freighter, Sten?”
“Yeah. I doubt there’ll be any trouble getting space.” Djuro paused for a moment, frow
ning, but then seemed to think better of his objection.
“That’s settled, then,” Heikki said firmly. “Jock, come by tomorrow morning, we’ll draw up an agreement and I’ll give you copies of the information that we have so far.”
“Excellent,” Nkosi said, and nodded to Victoria, who had withdrawn discreetly to the far end of the bar. “Then if you will all excuse me, I will return to what I was doing.”
“God help us,” Victoria said, and put his finger on the override.
“You’re not happy, Sten,” Heikki said quietly.
“I just—I’ve got a bad feeling about it, that’s all,” Djuro said. “But I’m not backing out on you, don’t worry.”
“I didn’t think you were.” Heikki forced a smile, pushing away her own sudden unease. “Come on, I’ll buy you dinner,”
CHAPTER 3
The money arrived as promised, within ten hours of Lo-Moth’s receiving the signed contract, and with it came the survey tapes from Foursquare. Heikki raised her eyebrows a little at the unusual promptness, but reserved passage on the freighter and on the connecting trains for herself, Djuro, and Nkosi. Together, the three reviewed Foursquare’s data, and by the end of the week, Heikki had decided that the tapes were essentially useless.
Djuro, scanning the figures on his own workscreen, nodded. “Yeah, the numbers just don’t match. We’ll have to do it all over again.”
“Which won’t hurt us any,” Heikki answered mildly. “Don’t worry, I took that into account when I made the bid.”
Djuro grunted, acknowledging the hit. “Still, it’s a pain not to be able to trust their work.”
Heikki shrugged, and Nkosi looked up from his own board—which displayed a complicated game pattern— long enough to say, “No problem. We’ll just fly a few extra passes—up near the mountains, that should be exciting.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Heikki said. She stared at her own maps, colored now with the bright red lines of the prevailing weather patterns. At least they were arriving on Iadara during the summer’s calm, not storm— but that just meant that the weather would be difficult, not immediately dangerous. “We’ll have to make friends with someone in meteorology,” she said, still frowning at the map, and Djuro looked up quickly.
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