Mighty Good Road

by Melissa Scott

  The image paused then, Santerese visibly trying to calm herself. She forced a smile finally, and continued. “This means I’ll be available if you want me for Iadara— let me know asap, I don’t have to stay here, darling, that’s for sure. I suppose I shouldn’t complain, but it’s a funny way to do business, if you ask me.” Santerese paused again, her smile more natural now. “The Tremoth people were pretty decent about it all, gave me a long apology and explanation-of-policy, and sent a higher-up to do that, complete with staff. Speaking of which, do you have any kin who work for Tremoth? The guy’s liaison was also named Heikki, Galler Heikki.”

  There was more to the message, but Heikki did not hear. Oh, yes, she thought, her mouth slewing sideways to keep in a bitter laugh, I have kin who works for Tremoth, a brother, Marshallin, named Galler Heikki. My twin—and, oh, God, I did think I was rid of him, would never have to see the son of a bitch again. And I’ll bet you money he was responsible for your losing the job, the little bastard. He could—would—have guessed, from the name, who your partner was, it’s not exactly a common name. . . . She shook those thoughts away, forcing the memory back where it belonged, and reached into the image to adjust the projection. The image blurred briefly, and then reformed.

  “—Galler Heikki. Anyway, no big deal, but it would be like you not to mention a relative. Do let me know if I’m needed for Iadara.” Santerese gestured vaguely at the scene around her. “This is all very nice, but a tiny bit dull. Love you, doll, and keep in contact.” The image fuzzed, and vanished.

  Heikki reached into the cone of light and picked up the remote. The mailgram shut down automatically, and she did not restart it. Sent by mailship, she thought dully. I suppose the Marshallin’s making sure she gets to spend some time at this resort—but she could not muster either amusement or annoyance about something so unimportant. So Galler’s back, she thought, and on Pleasaunce and in contact with my partner. Well, I’ll do whatever’s necessary to keep him from getting any closer. She reached out then with reluctant decision, and triggered the erase function, wiping Santerese’s message from the mailgram’s memory.

  “You fucking bastard, Galler,” she said aloud, and set the cube outside the door for the cleaning robots to retrieve.

  Djuro and Nkosi did not return for another two hours. Heikki spent the time hunting for other surveyor/guides, and culled three possible names from the directories. Two did not respond to her message of inquiry; the third seemed curiously reluctant to bid on the job. Heikki did not press the issue, but left name and numbers with the firm’s junior partner. She turned her attention then to extracting the meteorological data from the disks Lo-Moth had provided, and setting up a crude simulation of the missing latac’s flight path. Her answers did not match Foursquare’s projections, deviating four degrees north of their line, and pushing almost a dozen kilometers further into the wayback: if her projection was right, Foursquare’s course would have taken them well out of range of any visible remains. She smiled at the results, but could not muster more than a dour satisfaction. She copied her final results to a transfer file, and triggered the communications function. When the concierge program appeared, she gave it FitzGilbert’s codes, and leaned back in her chair to wait.

  The media wall lit within minutes, FitzGilbert’s heavy-browed face superimposed on the mess of charts. So we’re still getting the first-class treatment, Heikki thought, and nodded in greeting. “Dam’ FitzGilbert, it’s good of you to see me.”

  FitzGilbert grimaced. “I’ve a heavy schedule today, so let’s keep this quick, please. What can I do for you?”

  The words were brusque, but not intended to be actively rude, Heikki thought. “You said we could draw on Lo-Moth’s staff if we needed. I’ve run a rough simulation; I’d like your people to check it for me—you must have a supercomp on line for crystal design.”

  FitzGilbert nodded, her hands busy out of camera range. She glanced down at an invisible workscreen, and said, “We can give you eight hours tonight; it looks like, if you have the material set up for us.”

  “I can flip it to you now.”

  “Do that.”

  Heikki nodded, and touched the keys that would transfer the contents of her working file to FitzGilbert’s diskprinter. “You receive?”

  “Copy received,” FitzGilbert said, almost absently. “I’ll pass it to Simulations right away. Is there anything else?”

  “One other question,” Heikki said. “I may have mentioned, I wanted to hire some local talent, a backup pilot and probably a guide of some kind. I had a pilot recommended to me, and he gave your name as a reference. The name was Sebasten-Januarias, Josep Laurens Sebasten-Januarias.”

  For a moment, she thought FitzGilbert would deny knowing the name, but then the other woman sighed. “Yes, I know him. He’s a good pilot, one of the best. He doesn’t like Lo-Moth, particularly, but he did good work for us. That good enough?”

  Heikki nodded again. “How about a surveyor named Alexieva? Do you know her at all?”

  FitzGilbert’s head lifted slightly. “Now her I can speak for properly. She’s the best there is, knows the wayback better than anybody on the planet. If she’ll take the job, you’d be a fool not to hire her.”

  “Thanks,” Heikki said, startled. “That was all I wanted to know.”

  The brief animation died from FitzGilbert’s face. “I’ll flip you the sim results as soon as they’re available.”

  “Thanks,” Heikki said again, but the other woman had already broken the connection. Heikki sat very still for a moment, then began mechanically to shut down the workroom. So why is she pushing Alexieva? she wondered. Is she really that good, or is there something else going on? She shook her head, suddenly angry. I’ll check with Ciceron again, and maybe with people at the port, or Jock’s contacts, if he knows anybody on planet. Then we’ll see. She punched a final button, switching off the media wall, and stalked back into the living room. Djuro and Nkosi found her there an hour later, staring at the printed maps that showed the possible courses, stylus and shadowboard discarded on the floor beside her. She looked up as the door opened, and nodded, but said nothing.

  “The rentals are set,” Djuro said, after a moment. “Do you want to look over the papers?”

  Heikki roused herself painfully, making an effort to put aside her bad mood. “Yeah. What did you get?”

  “A standard jumper, like you asked for, capable of hauling a skyhook and a jungle crawler—with grav assist, of course,” Djuro added, and Heikki gave a twisted smile.

  “What’s that add to the fuel costs?”

  “Twenty per cent,” Nkosi said, and when Heikki scowled, shrugged elaborately. “That is the usual factor—”

  “I know that,” Heikki snapped, and bit back the rest of her comment, well aware of the glance the two men exchanged when they thought she wasn’t looking.

  “Figuring in the exchange rates, we came in about fifteen hundred poa under your maximum,” Djuro said after a moment.

  Heikki nodded, and forced a smile, knowing she was being irrational. “Good,” she said, and managed to sound as though she meant it. “Did you have a chance to check those references I gave you?”

  “We both did,” Djuro said, and Nkosi spread his hands.

  “Heikki, who is this paragon? All the pilots say he is the best, and ten years younger than I.”

  “More like fifteen,” Djuro interjected, smiling.

  Nkosi gave him a look of disdain. “Which would make him a mere child, a baby. There must be something wrong with him.”

  Heikki smiled in spite of herself. “We can find out tonight. I asked him to dinner, so you’d both have a chance to meet him before I made a final offer.”

  “That was kind of you,” Nkosi said, grinning, and Heikki gave a rueful smile.

  “Well, if you can’t work with him, that’s my problem, isn’t it? But I want to know what you both think.”

  “What about the surveyor?” Djuro asked.

  Heik
ki sighed. “It’s another weirdness, Sten. She wants the job more than she ought, and FitzGilbert was really pushing her. Of course, Ciceron said she was the best, too….” She let her voice trail off, then went on with more confidence than she actually felt. “I’m going to wait and see what her bid comes in at. If there’s anything funny there, we’ll try someone else.”

  Djuro nodded agreement.

  “One thing more.” Heikki fumbled on the floor for the minisec, switched on its field. “When I brought the ‘cat in, I started to go down to the storage, check on our stuff, but that guy who handled it, Kasib, was waiting, and I’m pretty sure he had a blaster. I want you both to watch your step around him.”

  “I checked the crates when we came in,” Djuro said. “They’ve been opened. Nothing’s missing, nothing’s disturbed very much, but I’m sure someone went through them pretty closely.”

  “What the hell could they want?” Heikki said involuntarily, and waved the question aside. “Never mind, if you knew that—”

  “—we would know whether we should dump the job,” Nkosi finished for her, grinning.

  Djuro looked at her, his lined face very serious. “I took a full photo-record, and I have pictures from before, too. I have evidence of tampering that will stand up in court.”

  “Are you saying we should pull out?” Heikki asked, startled in spite of herself. Djuro had always been a grumbler, but this was something more than his usual worrying.

  Djuro shook his head reluctantly. “No, not yet. But with your permission, Heikki, I want to put this evidence somewhere very safe, and not part of Lo-Moth.”

  “Do that,” Heikki said. “If there’s a Lloyds or a SwissNet on planet, that might work.”

  Djuro nodded. “And I’ll send copies back to the office.” He shook his head. “Let’s hope we don’t have to use it.”

  “Amen,” Nkosi murmured, the smile for once gone from his lips.

  “Dinner’s at eight, evening,” Heikki said, and switched off the minisec.

  The hostel boasted a ‘pointer-style dining area on its ground level, complete with private terraces and a fleet of service robots supervised by a human overseer. Despite the apparent emptiness of the hostel, Heikki was careful to reserve a table through the concierge, and was not surprised, when she and the others made their way down to the ground floor, to find the dining area busy, perhaps half the terraces occupied by medium-level functionaries. Sebasten-Januarias was there before them, very conspicuous in the loose coat and brightly-patterned headscarf, the only Firster in the comfortable bay, and Heikki’s mouth twisted.

  “Expecting trouble?” Djuro murmured at her side.

  “I don’t know,” Heikki answered, and moved forward to meet the young man. He rose to greet her, but the hostel’s overseer deftly interposed herself.

  “Dam’ Heikki? Your places are set, and I believe your guest has arrived.” There was a slight, insulting stress on the word “believe.”

  Heikki ignored the woman in her turn, held out her hand to Sebasten-Januarias. “Glad you could make it.”

  “Thanks,” the young man answered, and, unexpectedly, smiled.

  Heikki smiled back gratefully, and nodded to her companions. “This is the rest of my permanent crew,

  Jock Nkosi and Sten Djuro.” As the three exchanged greetings, she turned at last to the overseer. “I think you said our places were ready?”

  The woman at least had the grace not to show her chagrin. “Yes, Dam’ Heikki. If you would follow me?”

  “Of course.”

  The dining area was almost as luxurious as the hostel’s publicity claimed, with semi-private terraces ringing a central public space where the tables stood on islands in an artificial lake. Most of those public tables were filled: corporate politics often required that its practitioners be seen making deals. Heikki cast a rather wistful glance at the nearest empty table—the careful geometry of the islands and the stepping stones that gave access to each one was more to her taste than the lush greenery of the terraces—but followed the overseer along the pool’s edge to the area reserved for her. The low table was already set for the first course, a long platter of vegetables so artistically cut as to be almost unrecognizable set in its center, a tray with wine and glasses set discreetly to the side. A service robot sat inert to one side of the terrace; the overseer frowned discreetly at it, and reached into her pocket to trigger a remote. Lights flickered across the machine’s face, and vanished. The overseer nodded, satisfied, and bowed to Heikki.

  “If there’s anything else we can do for you, Dam’ Heikki, please inform us.”

  “Thank you,” Heikki said, though privately she longed to demand some utter impossibility. “That’ll do for now.”

  “Enjoy your meal,” the overseer said demurely, and backed away.

  “For God’s sake, let’s sit,” Heikki said, and forced a smile to cover her sudden irritability. “Wine, everybody?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Sebasten-Januarias said, sounding more than ever like a child on his best behavior before the grown-ups, and the other two echoed him. Heikki filled the glasses—real star crystal, too, probably grown and cut from the rejects of the crystal houses—and handed them around. Nkosi darted a single glance at her, and turned his attention to the Iadaran.

  “I am told by Heikki that you have been flying over the interior since you were very young.”

  “That’s right, ser Nkosi.” Sebasten-Januarias sounded reserved, and still absurdly young, Heikki thought, but not entirely wary. She sipped at her wine—it was quite good, just light enough—and leaned back in the padded chair, content to allow Nkosi to do the talking. She was aware that Djuro was watching her, and smiled benignly back at him, then glanced back at the others, only half hearing their conversation. It was dangerous to allow herself to be so put off her stride—and by what? The mention of the twin she had not thought of in years? That was foolish: Galler was nothing to her any more, had no more claim on her than she would make on him. The fact that he had met Santerese was unfortunate—no, not even that, not even something worth regretting. It had happened; she would explain it to Santerese when they met again.

  She became aware suddenly that the conversation was flagging, and recalled herself to her duties as host. The platter of vegetables had been well picked over— mostly by Sebasten-Januarias, she thought, though Nkosi had run a close second. “Are we ready for the main course?” she asked, and when the others murmured agreement, pushed herself to her feet. “Next course, please.”

  The service robot trundled forward to remove the emptied dish. It carried it off into the greenery, and returned a moment later bearing a stack of place settings. It dealt them out with stiff grace, and vanished again. Heikki untied the ribbon that fastened the interlocking dishes. They were ceramic and crystal, rather than the usual plastic lacquers—more a product of the planet’s wealth, Heikki thought, than of ‘pointer ostentation. She glanced at Sebasten-Januarias, and saw her guess confirmed by his matter-of-fact handling of the pieces. The service robot appeared for a final time, this time carrying an enormous platter in three of its arms. It was an all-in-one meal, of the sort very popular in the Loop, but made with far more meat than was possible even for the richest ‘pointers. It had been prepared with delicacy and skill, and Heikki found herself sniffing its subtle spices with real pleasure. It was her place, as host, to serve, but that was one of the social skills she had never fully mastered. She nodded instead to Nkosi, saying, “Jock, would you?”

  “Of course,” the pilot answered. The service robot, attentive to words and gestures, trundled toward him. Heikki poured out the second bottle of wine. When everyone had been served, she said, “You may leave the platter, thank you. That will be all.”

  The robot did as it was told, and rolled back to the edge of the terrace. Sebasten-Januarias said abruptly, “I was wondering—I’ve always wondered. ‘Pointers are so polite to robots. Why?”

  Heikki, who had fallen into ‘pointer mode
without thinking, blinked at him in some surprise. Djuro said, “They’ll tell you it’s because a robot’s standing in for some person somewhere, and you wouldn’t be rude to him/her. But it’s really because if you get into the habit of being rude to anything, you’ll find it very hard to be polite.”

  “You are a cynic, Sten,” Nkosi said.

  Sebasten-Januarias nodded thoughtfully. “That makes a lot of sense.”

  “You said you’d always wondered,” Heikki said. “I didn’t know you’d had much contact with people from the Loop.”

  “Not a lot,” Sebasten-Januarias answered. “I have worked with off-worlders, though, and it’s the sort of thing you notice.”

  “Since we’re already on the subject,” Heikki said, “I hope you won’t mind my asking a few more questions.” As she spoke, she reached into her pocket for the minisec, then triggered its field and set it in the center of the table. They were now cut off from the service robot, as well as from any likely eavesdroppers, but she guessed that it would be no hardship.

  Sebasten-Januarias shook his head, his eyes suddenly wary again.

  “For one thing,” Heikki went on, “I heard a lot of talk about you, when I was looking for names—all good, except for one thing. Everyone told me you hated Lo-Moth, wouldn’t work for them on a bet, and I know by now you’re not stupid enough to think that working for me isn’t the same as working for Lo-Moth. So what’s going on?”

  Sebasten-Januarias shrugged rather self-consciously. “Look, when I said I didn’t want to work for Lo-Moth, what I meant was I didn’t want to take a full-time job with them, something like that. I like working freelance, it keeps my options open. But I’m good, and people from the company kept asking, and I kept saying no. I don’t mind having a bit of a reputation, because it stops people asking, or most of the time, anyway.”

  That attitude was familiar enough from her own childhood for Heikki simply to nod in agreement.

  “I imagine it’d pay a lot better to work for Lo-Moth,” Djuro said.