“What do you mean?” FitzGilbert’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Heikki allowed herself a crooked smile. “Like I said, your latac was shot down, FitzGilbert. There were burn marks on what was left of the envelope, and on the gondola. Somebody ripped a hole in their balloon, and watched them crash, then went in and smashed everything, possibly including the crew. Or else the orcs got them.”
FitzGilbert shot her a look that would have melted steel, and Heikki was suddenly ashamed of herself. There was no point in taking out the day’s frustrations on FitzGilbert, no point and any number of reasons not to. She made a face, trying to frame an apology, and the other woman shook her head. “All right,” she said. “Did you find anything else?”
Heikki looked curiously at her, not knowing what she wanted, and FitzGilbert made a face. “Tracks, anything? Any trace of who?”
“There was one patch that showed crawler tread,” Heikki answered, trying by the honesty of her answer to match the other’s capitulation. “It was a standard make, probably an Isu or a Tormacher, nothing I could ID any better just by looking. We may be able to tell more when we’ve had a close look at the tapes, and at the wreck itself.”
FitzGilbert swore under her breath, and turned away. “That’s just what you won’t be able to do,” she said, and turned back toward the other woman. “Tremoth wants you to hand over your data and go home.”
Put so baldly, the sheer ridiculousness of the request struck Heikki dumb. She stared for a moment, unable to believe what she had heard, and then, when FitzGilbert did not deny it, drew a slow breath. “Do you mean to tell me that we’re being fired?”
“Our principal’s position,” FitzGilbert said, slowly and with irony, “is that you have fulfilled the requirements of your contract. They are willing to pay you in full for your work, and to pay the applicable success bonus. Our principal feels that this is an internal matter, and best handled by internal security.”
“What the fuck are you up to?” Heikki asked, and FitzGilbert stared back at her morosely,
“I wish to hell I knew.”
Heikki took another deep breath, making herself count to ten and then to fifty before she spoke. “So you want me to hand over all my records, and the coordinates, and let you go to it.”
“That’s right.” FitzGilbert looked away.
There was no choice, and Heikki knew it. Lo-Moth—or Tremoth, it’s Tremoth that’s stage-managing this—was willing to pay everything the contract called for, and that willingness robbed her of any reason to complain.
Except, of course, she added silently, for professional pride. “Your people, your labs, aren’t experienced at this sort of thing,” she began, and let her voice trail off as FitzGilbert managed a bitter smile.
“That’s not the point,” she said. “Whatever the point is, that’s not it.”
There was no one to appeal to, nowhere to lodge a protest. Heikki steadied her voice with an effort. “If you’re determined, then,” she said, and FitzGilbert nodded.
“Our principal is determined.”
“Then I will flip you our raw data in the morning,” Heikki said. “I expect to get vouchers for our full payment as soon as you receive the disks.”
“That I can manage,” FitzGilbert said, and turned away. Heikki watched her back to the car, squinting a little in the slanting light, and saw the door open and a shape lean forward to beckon the other woman inside. Even at a distance, she recognized Slade’s blocky figure. She stood watching as the car drove away, wondering what had gone wrong, what the troubleshooter had against them, what convoluted internal politics were involved, then shook herself, slowly, and walked back to the jumper.
“What the hell was that all about?” Djuro asked.
Heikki smiled coldly. “We’re off the job, Sten.”
“What?” Djuro’s shout was made up equally of disbelief and indignation.
Nkosi said, “That is not right—it is not reasonable behavior, Heikki, under any circumstances.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Alexieva muttered. She looked at Heikki, her expression suddenly very serious. “Whose idea was this? Not FitzGilbert’s?”
And what do you know about FitzGilbert? Heikki thought, but held the question in abeyance for the moment. “I’m told the decision was made off-world.”
“They did say Lo-Moth did itself in,” Sebasten-Januarias said, carefully not looking at Alexieva. The surveyor scowled.
“What do you mean by that?”
Sebasten-Januarias gave her a limpid glance. “It was common talk when it happened, that Lo-Moth was responsible for the crash.”
“It would have been nice to know that two days ago,” Heikki said sourly, cutting off Alexieva’s angry response. “Whatever happens, we’re getting paid in full.” Djuro looked up at that, and Heikki nodded. “Oh, yes, and I didn’t even have to scream about it. They’ve asked us to turn over the disks as soon as possible; I told them I could have them ready tomorrow morning. We won’t bother doing any analysis, we’ll just hand them the raw data.”
“You’re just going to do it?” Sebasten-Januarias demanded.
“I don’t have any choice,” Heikki answered, and cut off further protest, saying, “Look, Jan, technically we don’t have any cause for complaint. They’re willing to pay our contract in full, even though we haven’t completed the work. What can I object to?”
“So this is it,” Alexieva said.
Heikki looked at her. “That’s right.”
“What are we supposed to do now?” Sebasten-Januarias asked, “Just go home?”
“I’ll send your voucher tomorrow,” Heikki said. “Unless you don’t trust me?”
Sebasten-Januarias shook his head. “Tomorrow’s fine.” He turned on his heel, and stalked off toward the terminal.
“I’ll be going, too,” Alexieva said. Her voice was utterly without expression, but Heikki thought she glimpsed an unbudging anger in the other woman’s eyes. She watched the surveyor walk away, and sighed slowly, the tension that had sustained her draining from her.
“So you’re thinking of fighting this,” Djuro said.
Heikki looked at him, startled, then gave a lopsided smile. “I’ve been considering our options, yeah. How’d you know?”
“Putting the innocents out of reach,” the little man answered dryly, and surprised a laugh from her.
“Well, it wouldn’t be right to get them into trouble with the company, not when they have to live here.”
“Is there anything you—we—can do, do you think?” Nkosi asked, and Heikki shook her head slowly.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
The hostel was very quiet on their return, even the faint electronic murmurings of the concierge seeming somehow muted. Heikki led them through the silence to the lift, saying nothing until they were inside the suite and she had switched on the minisec. Even then, she sat very still, staring at the monitor cube, and tried to think of something that would take away the feeling of failure.
“I will make drinks, shall I?” Nkosi said, after a while, his voice sounding very loud and cheery after all the silence. He disappeared into the suite’s kitchen without waiting for an answer; Heikki and Djuro sat listening for what seemed a very long time to the muted whirring of machines, before the pilot returned, bearing an enormous pitcher and three stacked plastic tumblers. He filled the glasses with exaggerated care, then handed one to each of the others. “I would like,” he said, “to propose a toast. Murphy strikes again.”
Heikki chuckled in spite of herself, and lifted her glass in answer.
“Murphy,” Djuro said, the same wry smile on his face. They touched glasses solemnly, and Heikki took a long drink. It was one of the elaborate—and extremely potent—sweet-sour concoctions that Nkosi usually reserved for his women-of-the-moment, and she couldn’t help raising an eyebrow.
“It is all I know how to make, these days,” Nkosi said, with a shrug and a smile that were more boa
st than apology.
“I’m surprised anyone can function after one of these,” Djuro said.
There was a little silence then, and Heikki cleared her throat. “All right. I figure we have the following options.” She held up her hand, ticking each one off on her fingers as she spoke. “First, we can do nothing—hand over the data and go home with our pay. Second, we can refuse the money, keep the disks, and file an official protest, probably with the Contracts Board.”
“They’d laugh us off the Loop,” Djuro muttered.
“Probably.” Heikki allowed herself another lopsided smile. “Third, we can play for time—turn over copies of the data, or maybe even turn it over in installments, and put Malachy onto the contract itself, see if we have any legal recourse.”
“On what grounds?” Nkosi asked softly.
Heikki shrugged. “I don’t know, that’s what I pay him to find out. But, damn it all, I don’t like being thrown off a job for no reason.”
“So that’s your decision, then,” Djuro said.
Heikki looked at him, trying to guess the emotions behind the neutral voice. “That’s my recommendation,” she said, after a moment, and stressed the word. “I’m open to suggestions.”
“I’d like to know why we were bounced, that’s all,” Djuro said. “I think it’s important.”
“So would I—so do I,” Heikki said.
Djuro went on as though she hadn’t spoken, his tone still scrupulously uninflected. “After all, this could have more to do with Lo-Moth’s politics—or Tremoth’s—than any intention of insulting us.”
Heikki looked down at her drink. She knew perfectly well what Djuro was saying, but shook her head irritably in rejection. “They’ve been jerking us around since we took the job. I don’t think they should get away with it.”
“Damn it, Heikki, there’s nothing we can do about it,” Djuro said.
Heikki took a deep breath, controlling her anger. “I grant you, not directly. Fine, we have to hand over the data, and I’m willing to do it. But I also think, given how strange this job has been right from the beginning, that we should keep certified copies of every disk, and put Malachy onto the question.”
“You are thinking of suing Lo-Moth to make them show cause for ending the contract?” Nkosi asked.
Heikki nodded. “That’s right,” she said, and looked at Djuro. “It’s self protection.”
The little man shook his head. “You’re the boss, Heikki.”
That’s right, Heikki thought. She said, suppressing her impatience, “I think we have to know, for the sake of our reputation, if nothing else. If they want to keep things quiet, that’s fine, but I don’t want us to suffer for it.”
Djuro made a face, but nodded reluctantly. “You’re right,” he said, after a moment, and nodded again.
It was more than she had expected, and Heikki dipped her head in unspoken thanks. “I’m going to contact the Marshallin as soon as possible.”
“There is a direct line available into the Loop,” Nkosi said.
“Probably monitored,” Djuro said.
“Quite possibly,” Heikki agreed. “However, we’re not doing anything wrong, remember? We’re within our rights to check this out.”
“I know,” Djuro said softly. “I just don’t like it.”
At least he didn’t remind her that he had objected to the job from the beginning. Heikki stood, feeling the past days’ work in every muscle. “I’m going to try and get the Marshallin,” she said, and went on into the workroom.
To her surprise, Iadara and EP Seven were roughly congruent, and there was an opening in the transmission queue. She gave the synchronizer Santerese’s mailcodes and then her own bank payment code, wincing a little at the cost quoted her. Then there was nothing to do except wait, pacing, for the connection to be established. Nkosi appeared in the doorway, offering more to drink; Heikki let him refill her glass, and returned to the communications station.
It took a little less than an hour to establish contact, an unusually short turnaround. Heikki settled herself in front of the room’s cameras, waiting with a familiar impatience while the media wall lit and slowly focused. The image flickered steadily despite the compensating enhancements as the transmission passed through the distortion of the open warp, but it was all too recognizably Santerese. Heikki smiled, the day’s events momentarily forgotten in the sheer pleasure of seeing Santerese again, and saw the same delight in the other woman’s grin. Predictably, it was Santerese who spoke first.
“Well, doll, I was expecting to hear from you, but not like this.” Her tone sharpened abruptly. “What’s up? I was on the verge of calling you myself.”
“Murphy’s law, according to Jock,” Heikki answered, and saw Santerese’s smile widen. “We’ve lost our job, too—not precisely lost it,” she amended, “since we’re getting paid, but the effect is the same.”
Quickly, she outlined what had happened, first the job and then Lo-Moth’s reaction, and finished, “So I was wondering if you could get onto Malachy for me, have him check out our legal position.” She hesitated, then said slowly, “Do you remember Idris Max?”
“The transit cop you were living with when I met you?” Santerese asked.
“We were roommates,” Heikki said, with some annoyance, and Santerese gestured an apology.
“Sorry, doll. Do you want me to talk to him, too?”
“I think it might be useful. I hear he’s with the Terran Enforcement now; he might be able to tell us if there’s anything we ought to know about Tremoth.”
“I’ll do that,” Santerese said, her hands already busy on a shadowscreen.
“So what were you going to call me about?” Heikki asked.
Santerese hesitated, finally said, with unwonted seriousness, “You remember I asked you if you had a relative, doll? Named Galler?”
Heikki paused in turn, not knowing what to say. This was not the way she would have chosen to explain things to Santerese, at a distance and over a flickering ultima line, but there was no evading the question. “Yes,” she said at last, and couldn’t think how to continue.
“Yes what?” Santerese said, after a moment. “Yes you remember, or yes, he’s related?”
“Both,” Heikki said. “I had—have—a twin brother named Galler. We lost contact a long time ago, and frankly I’d rather not regain it.”
“It may be a little late for that,” Santerese said. “When I got back from Pleasaunce, there was a message cube waiting for you, and the sender’s listed as G. Heikki. So, unless you’re sending yourself letters. . . .” She let her voice trail off.
Hardly likely, is it? Heikki thought, but bit back the angry comment. There was no blaming Santerese for this, only Galler—and only herself, for allowing herself to be found. She said, her voice strictly controlled, “What does he want?”
Even on the cloudy screen, she could see Santerese’s shrug. “I don’t know. The cube’s palm-sealed, love, no way for me to play it. Do you want me to send it on, or do you think it can wait till you get back?”
“Let it wait,” Heikki said. She paused then, considering, and ran her hand over the shadowscreen. It would take physical mail almost a ten-day to reach them—the main Iadaran FTLship had just made planetfall, bringing Santerese’s cube; the next scheduled landing was almost a week away—and by that time she and the others would be on their way back to the Loop. There was really only one other possibility…. “You know as many shadow-sides as I do,” she said abruptly. “What’s the odds of their fixing the seal?”
Santerese made a face at her through the pulsing static. “That’s illegal,” she said firmly, in a tone that was intended to remind her partner of the open line. When Heikki did not respond, she sighed. “It’s the new model cube, Heikki. I doubt it could be done.”
“Then it’ll have to wait,” Heikki answered. “We’ll be home in a ten-day anyway.”
“Good enough,” Santerese said, and smiled. “I’m looking forward to it, doll.�
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Heikki smiled back, looking for an excuse to prolong the conversation despite the expense. There was none, and she knew it; her smile twisted slightly, and she said, “I think that’s everything.”
Santerese nodded with equal reluctance. “Nothing else here.”
“Then transmission ends,” Heikki said firmly, and watched the screen fade.
It took less than a day to make the necessary arrangements for their return to the Loop. A cargo FTLship on a semi-scheduled run was due to land at Lowlands in a little under a local week; as Iadara was its last stop before swinging back to Exchange Point Three, the captain was only too happy to fill her otherwise empty compartments with paying passengers. Somewhat to Heikki’s surprise, Lo-Moth made no objection to covering the additional costs for equipment transfer—she had more than half expected to have to have the heavy crates shipped on a fully scheduled corporate flight. Maybe it was the fact that she had made no official objection to ending her job and handing over unedited, unanalyzed data; or maybe, she thought, with an inward frown, it was someone’s—Mikelis’s?—oblique apology for the situation. She put the thought aside as unimportant, and flipped the voucher numbers to the captain’s agents back in the Loop. An hour later, the receipt numbers and confirmation were flashing on her screen, and the transport chits were in her diskprinter’s basket. Heikki allowed herself a sigh of relief—she had been worried, irrationally, she knew, but undefinably uneasy—and locked the disks into her travel safe.
That left them with nothing to do but to wait for the cargo ship to land. Lo-Moth, through FitzGilbert, encouraged them to remain at the corporate hostel. Heikki hesitated, but could think of no reason to shift their quarters: the hostel was the most up-to-date transient housing on-planet, and there was no point in subjecting anyone else to her own prejudices. That decision made, she was more than a little annoyed when Nkosi announced blithely that he had made arrangements to fly out to the South-Shallow Islands with Alexieva.
“May one ask just what you expect to do there?” she asked, and blushed at the big man’s grin. “Oh, never mind.”
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