“Want something?” she asked.
Rafe compared her to the description Gary had furnished and ordered a drink; he handed her the marked bill.
“You’re not from around here,” she said.
“No,” Rafe said. “From Cascadia. I am sent by my company to find a supplier of food processing equipment.”
“Here?” asked the blonde.
“Well…not exactly.” Rafe sipped his drink. “I have been here on your lovely world for many days, and I needed a break. It is lonely, you know, traveling so far from home at the holidays.”
“Holidays?”
“At home,” Rafe said, “It is the festival of trees. We put lights in the trees and walk among them.” Cascadians did that, anyway. He had done it once, just to experience what Cascadians claimed was the ineffable spiritual power of trees. What he’d felt was chilly and damp from the wet branches dripping on his head. Now he leaned toward the woman and fell easily into the role Gary had given him.
“We don’t worship trees here,” the redhead said. “But I know what you mean about being lonely.”
From there the conversation moved swiftly to the necessary conclusion, both he and the redhead having the same goal. She offered to show him around; he agreed.
On the way up the street to the high end of town she suggested a trip to the town’s dairy center, empty at this time of day. Rafe agreed. They spent a pleasant fifteen minutes or so in the hay barn, settling on who would do what, and then Rafe walked back to the hotel alone. They might have enjoyed more, but an essential part of the agreement was that no biological evidence should be produced.
“I understand your concern, Ser Ratanvi,” the man in the green uniform said an hour later. “And I mean no disrespect to either your system of origin or yourself. But when we have a complaint—”
“But it wasn’t me,” Rafe said, thickening his Cascadian accent. “She must have made a mistake. I’m a Cascadian; I would never offer insult to anyone. It’s against our culture. And I have tickets. You’ve seen them.”
The man’s name tag read SLY LILYHANDS, which seemed entirely too strange, but his subordinates—two of them—addressed him formally as Lieutenant Lilyhands without so much as a twitch of the mouth. He sighed now, obviously a little out of patience with the stubborn foreigner. “Ser Ratanvi,” he said a little more slowly. “It is the policy of our government that if a person is detained from travel for an official inquiry, the transport company must refund the price of the tickets or offer equivalent transportation later. You will not be out the cost of the tickets.”
“That’s something.” Rafe pouted. “But it is a disgrace even to be mistakenly thought to have committed such a heinous act. If my company finds out—”
“They will not find out from us, unless you are in fact guilty,” Lilyhands said. “Now—if you will agree to make yourself available, and not attempt to flee the community, I will simply retain your identity information.” He tapped the ID folder he had taken. “Otherwise, I’m afraid it will be necessary to take you into custody. And I hope you realize that this is a courtesy to a foreign…guest…and that our laws would allow me to take you into custody no matter what your demeanor.”
Rafe nodded. “I understand. It is indeed most kind of you to allow me to remain in…more congenial surroundings.” He bowed a little, in the Cascadian manner.
Lilyhands laughed. “It was your congeniality that may have gotten you into trouble. A little less congeniality and a little more circumspection would be advisable. Now—you understand that no commercial transportation will be available to you without current ID, is that clear?”
Rafe nodded. “But must I walk everywhere, then?”
“No. Your money is good on local public transport. This applies to long-distance transport only.” Lilyhands handed back Ratanvi/ Rafe’s jacket, the business case, and a little bowl containing what had been in Rafe’s pockets: the hotel room key, the small change. All but the ID case.
“Thank you, again, for your generous handling of this unfortunate situation,” Rafe said, in Ratanvi’s plummy voice. “I apologize for my remarks earlier—it was just the surprise of being accused of such a thing.”
“No offense taken,” Lilyhands said. “Just settle in for a few days as we straighten this out. The local judicar is on vacation, but she’ll be back in ten days or so, and then—and maybe by then the young lady will have changed her mind.”
At the hotel, it was clear that his room had been searched; Rafe didn’t bother to check for newly planted surveillance gear. He was sure it was there, but it didn’t matter. What he ached to know—and could not find out without risking his cover—was whether Gary’s contact was Lilyhands or the woman. Or both. Both would make sense, especially if false claims against tourists were part of an established scam of some sort.
He fell asleep, somewhat to his own surprise, on sheets scented with some flower—a few petals clung to a pillowcase—with the window open to let in a draft of cold air off the mountains behind the city. He had nothing to do until Gary contacted him—if Gary contacted him—and he might as well sleep.
Two boring days later, Rafe had chatted up the hotel food service manager, who complained about the inadequacies of the hotel’s automated kitchen machinery, and the town’s only baker, a Luddite who insisted on doing everything by hand. Rafe felt that he had done all he could to establish himself as a genuine food service professional. Everyone in town knew he was stuck there, and most of them thought they knew why. The redhead turned her back on him when he came into the bar; other locals glared. Rafe himself was tired of wearing Ratanvi’s plump suit and the disguising facial pads that made him look, to himself, like a constipated rodent.
Another day dragged past. Rafe had walked up the street on one side of the noisy creek, and back down the street on the other side. Though a brightly colored tram trundled up to the first ski lift station and back, Rafe preferred to stretch his legs in town. He needed nothing in any of the few shops, though they were fully stocked with anything a tourist might want, the owners having changed out the summer stock for winter: sweaters, caps, gloves, fur hats and jackets. He had nothing to do. It was like being in deep space, in FTL flight, isolated from anything interesting, except for the smells. His nose wrinkled as a small herd of cattle appeared at the head of the road, up the mountain.
Every day, Lieutenant Lilyhands appeared at the hotel, paused for a polite greeting, and then walked back to the station.
Rafe wondered how much longer he could stand this without going crazy. He had finally given up walking the street over and over, and spent hours sprawled in a swing on the hotel’s porch, staring down the valley. Far away, sunlight twinkled on moving vehicles, where the regional roadway and railway ran together for a few miles, sharing bridges across the Meltorn River.
The car was a kilometer up the valley before he registered it. By now he knew the usual ones: the regional post van, bright blue with buff stripes, that came every day, the eight vehicles that left in the morning and returned in the evening from jobs away in the valley, the grocery truck that came every other day to the hotel and restaurants and bars. This car was different. Rafe took his feet off the little table and looked more closely.
The car went past the hotel and stopped in front of the nearest bar. Gary got out and went into the bar without glancing at the hotel. Lilyhands, on his morning walk through the village, nodded to Rafe on the hotel porch and stopped into the bar, as usual. He came out and walked back to the hotel.
“I do believe, Ser Ratanvi, that your accuser may have made a mistake; she seems willing to retract her accusation. On the other hand, I really must have the judicar’s permission to release your identification documents. So I remind you that you cannot travel on any commercial vehicles”—the slight stress he placed on ‘commercial’ went with a twitch of his mouth—“and while I do not feel compelled to forbid your traveling outside the town limits with a friend, I must remind you that your identificat
ion will stay in my custody until the justice has put her stamp on the file.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Rafe said, adding Ratanvi’s stiff little bow.
“I might just mention that there’s a fellow in the bar now, someone I personally know, who says he’s willing to take you into town for a short time. I realize that a foreigner might not be willing to just go off with a stranger, but you may find it easier to contact your office back home, let them know what’s going on and when you’ll be back, from a communications center like Brygganha, which is where this fellow’s headed. It’s up to you, of course.”
“That’s very kind,” Rafe said again. “I should—I need to contact the office, you’re quite right, and also to make another reservation. I should talk to him perhaps?”
“I can tell him you’re willing,” Lilyhands said. “If you want to settle up with the hotel…”
“How very kind of you,” Rafe said, bowing again. “I believe I shall take the assistance of this kind stranger, if you will excuse me.”
The hotel clerk accepted his money; Rafe rolled his belongings into his duffel and was waiting on the hotel porch when Lilyhands came back with Gary and solemnly introduced them to each other, with a warning to Gary that Ser Ratanvi was on no account to be allowed to use commercial transport without proper identification, which he, Lilyhands, retained.
“He is not a criminal,” Lilyhands said slowly, as if Gary needed a full explanation. “There was a misunderstanding, and I do not wish to make difficulties, but the judicial process must be followed. When the judicar comes back, I am sure that his documents will be released.”
“I will take care of him,” Gary said.
“You have my thanks,” Rafe said, with a final bow before he climbed into Gary’s vehicle.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
“That was a very interesting experience,” Rafe said as Gary negotiated the tight curves on the way down the valley.
“I’ve stashed nervous clients there before, some of them unwillingly,” Gary said. “People likely to interfere with the op, cause me trouble…” He looked sideways at Rafe. “Truth be told, I did consider just leaving you there until afterward, but I was afraid you might bolt. Lilyhands is good, but I’m not sure he’s your match.”
“He’s not,” Rafe said. “But I wouldn’t have bolted. You don’t need to be worrying about me.” His tongue probed the edge of a cheek pad. “Can I get out of character now, or should I stay Ratanvi awhile longer?”
“Stay until we’re through Istelhaut. There’s a rail station there, a busy one. Buy a ticket to Brygganha, board the train, get off at the first stop. I’ll meet you there.”
“What about ID?”
“They don’t check ID on the suburban part of the line. And you can use this in the ticket machine—” He handed over a small ID chip. On it, Rafe saw his own image, with a different name: Oliver Pierson. Address: 6713 Av. Rets, Apt. 1407.
“It’s a valid address,” Gary said. “Shouldn’t be a problem in a quick inspection, if they even ask. Which they won’t.”
Rafe went into the train station—as busy as Gary had said, and why was that?—and bought his ticket from a machine that evinced no interest in who he was. It probably had a visual recorder—certainly the station had a number of them—but how often were such records checked? He found the right track and bought himself a snack from one of the vendors. When the gate opened for his train, he boarded with a crowd of others, pushing his ticket into the automated reader. No one in uniform appeared on the short ride to the first stop, where he got off along with at least fifty others and pushed his way out of the exit turnstiles. He didn’t spot Gary at first; it wasn’t the same vehicle but a utility van, with MARRIN & SONS, CUSTOM DOORS AND WINDOWS on the door. Gary was apparently reading a newsfax like half the other drivers in the lot, his face partly hidden with just enough profile showing for Rafe to recognize.
“Get in back,” Gary said as Rafe neared him. Rafe said nothing, but climbed into the back of the little van. Gary drove off and after a short distance said, “Now you can change. Clothes for you are in the blue duffel. Be sure to wear the cap, and come sit by me when you’re done. Bring the mugs that are in the rack behind my seat.”
Rafe changed quickly, stuffing Ratanvi’s paunch, cheek pads, and clothes into his own duffel and putting on the contents of the blue one. Programmable long underwear, lightweight body armor, a loose turtleneck that concealed the armor’s gorget, a set of arm and leg sheaths, already loaded with knives—Rafe slid them out to check before putting the sheaths on—shoulder and back holster with the firearms to put in them, a striped jumpsuit to fit over all that, and a cap that—when he felt carefully—had reflex armor sewn in between its cloth layers.
He glanced around the van’s interior. Neatly racked and secured tools and other equipment. Two multipaned windows and a door were secured in racks toward the rear, with an obvious invoice taped to the door.
He clambered forward. They were moving along a road lined with light industrial buildings: building contractors, plumbing supply, weatherstrip manufacturing, and the like. The mugs racked behind Gary’s seat had the logos of a local drive-through eatery; Rafe picked them up and twisted between the seats to settle in beside Gary and put the mugs in the forward drink holder as a much larger vehicle roared past.
Gary also wore a striped jumpsuit with a logo panel on the breast. “Everything fits?” he said, not taking his eyes off the road.
“Like you measured me,” Rafe said. “Changed your mind about having me along, I see. I take it we expect trouble?”
“Trouble pays my bills,” Gary said. “I always expect it, though I do my best to avoid the worst of it. Still, if I let you get killed, where’s my money coming from? Yeah, your father’s rich, but my contract’s with you.” He negotiated a sharp turn in silence. “About the other—you behaved yourself, Lilyhands said. And it occurred to me, if this is an ISC inside job, as you think, then your expertise may be useful. As long as you do what you’re told.” That with a warning glance. “You can still use stickers as well as firearms, right?”
“Right,” Rafe said. His stomach felt far more uneasy than the vibration of the van warranted.
“We have food in the van,” Gary said. “If you’re hungry.”
“Not really,” Rafe said.
“I need you in condition,” Gary said. “You’re going to be helping Sid with the communications; I can’t afford to have you groggy. You look sick. What’s the problem?”
“I’m just tense,” Rafe said. “I get this way.”
“Well, don’t barf in my van. Try some crackers.”
“In a bit,” Rafe said. He watched the terrain to their right. Up there—ahead, off to the right—his family were imprisoned by…by whom, exactly? He still wasn’t sure. And how were they doing? He tried to imagine it, then tried not to. His background gave him too many pictures of such things, and it was all too easy to put his father’s face, his mother’s, his sister’s, into those images. “How far in this van?” he asked.
“South side of Brygganha,” Gary said. “Three to four hours, if conditions don’t change. We’re delivering the windows and door there. You don’t say anything, just follow orders.”
Rafe had never been to this part of his home world; his family home was on the far side of the continent, and they had vacationed mostly in the tropics. Now he saw mountains, ever more mountains, lifting higher and higher, and the sea visible on the left, bright as a mirror. The sun sank westward; gulfs between headlands appeared far to the north as traffic thickened and the usual urban-suburban mess closed in around them. Gary turned into a fenced yard, backed up to a loading dock, and hopped out. Already the yard was dim, the late sun blocked by a taller warehouse across the road.
“Got those windows,” he yelled up to the man on the dock. And to Rafe, “Come on, kid, get out here and help.”
Rafe climbed down and went to the back of the truck. Gary was al
ready up on the loading dock, opening the van’s back doors. The man on the loading dock had gone back inside for a wheeled dolly; Rafe climbed up to stand beside Gary. When the man came back, they eased the windows and door onto the dolly, and the man wheeled them into the light.
“Close up,” Gary said to Rafe. “Then get in the cab and wait.” Rafe closed and locked the back doors, jumped off the loading dock, and climbed back into the cab. Whose windows and door? Was this Gary’s other job, making custom windows and doors? Another truck came in the gate, now with lights on. Rafe slumped down in his seat like any lazy helper, cap tipped forward. Footsteps crunched past him; someone tapped on the window. He looked up. Gary beckoned.
“Sid’s going to drive from here. I’ll be with the rest of the team. It’s about another hour, hour and a half, to our base for this op.” Gary waved and turned away; someone Rafe had never seen had opened the other door and was already climbing in.
“Understand you know something about surveillance and com,” Sid said. Rafe couldn’t tell much about him except that he was dark and lean.
“Something, yes.”
“Gary said he knew you back when,” Sid went on. “Just so you know, I didn’t, so I got no reason to trust you and I’ll kill you if I think you’re ruining the op. That clear?”
“Clear,” Rafe said.
They said nothing more for the remainder of the drive, and it was dark by the time they reached the far side of the city. Sid proved a careful, skillful driver; he attracted no attention, and Rafe did his best to project bored relaxation. As traffic and lights thinned out on the road north—Brygganha, Rafe recalled, was the northernmost large city on the west coast—the air grew markedly colder. Sid made no move to turn on the van’s heater; Rafe touched the controls of the programmable underwear. Finally, Sid turned off the main road onto a secondary, and then another, always moving toward the mountains and climbing; it grew colder yet. They came to a cluster of vacation cottages overlooking a stream, and Sid pulled into a lean-to shelter. Before Rafe could say anything, he had touched a control on the dash, and Rafe felt the van shudder…then blackness rose around them as the van sank down into the ground and something thudded closed overhead. A jerk, a faint whine, and then lights came on.
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