Kismet

by Watts Martin

  Gail leans forward. “How many ideas for it do you have already?”

  He covers his eyes.

  Chapter 10

  Ansel’s collected what he needs in a small and tasteful traveling bag; Agent Squarejaw directs the tram to a hotel not too far from the spaceport so he can pick up his own suitcase. The hotel looks like one Gail could afford even with her purchase restrictions. Is PFS the agency cheaping out, or is it Interpol? Probably more polite not to ask.

  As they head out, Gail asks a leading question. “So how do we fly to the Ring without using the PFS?” Use Kismet, of course. She’s been going over the case in her head. Since the whole idea is to minimize PFS influence, then depending on them for transportation isn’t just nice to have, it’s essential. Even if you don’t trust her, Agent Squarejaw, you’ll be with her. What’s she going to do, kidnap you? You can sure as hell trust that she wants this resolved even more badly than you do.

  “The best way would be to take your ship.”

  No, look, we should—

  Her breath catches, for just a moment, and her ears come forward. She can’t help it. Thomas sees it, she can see it in his eyes but she can’t tell if he’s thinking that’s cute or damn crazy animal people or what and it doesn’t matter. “You’re releasing her?”

  “I’m going to try.”

  “Contingent on me helping you?”

  “If I’d been planning to use your ship as leverage with you, I’d have told you this a half-hour ago, rather than after you’d already agreed to help.”

  Ansel snorts. “But you wouldn’t have released it if she hadn’t.”

  Gail swears that Thomas looks like he’s counting to five under his breath. Then he turns to look at the back seat, directly at the fox. “Mr. Santara, I’m about to take a trip with someone Interpol still considers a person of interest, bringing the central evidence in that investigation with me outside of PFS jurisdiction. Do you know how my supervisors are likely to react to this?”

  The fox’s ears lower. “Not well?”

  “Not well. My sincere hope is that we’ll clear the databox to go back to Earth as scheduled, because if Ms. Simmons’s conjectures are right, I should probably start applying for work on the Ring myself.”

  As the tram approaches the station wall and navigates into the same transit lot she’d walked out to when she landed a couple days ago, her brooding stops. She’s almost—almost home.

  Officer Wolfe waits at the port entrance for them. He gives Gail a surprisingly warm smile as they approach; she can’t tell if he’s flirting or he’s feeling apologetic about the last time they met. She guesses those aren’t mutually exclusive.

  Before he says anything and before she thinks of anything to say herself, Thomas steps up. “Everything’s all set?”

  “Set as it’s going to be, sir.”

  “I’m not sure how to interpret that.”

  “All the standard records have been updated, and nothing’s been forwarded to the liaison office other than automatic actions. This—candidly, this isn’t the kind of scheme I’d expect from you.”

  Thomas strides forward, making them all hurry to keep up. “I think of it as conducting an independent investigation. I’m sure everyone out here should approve of independence.”

  Ansel mutters under his breath.

  Wolfe grunts. “I’m being dead serious here. I can tell when I’m being kept out of the loop, but I can’t tell whether it’s because you don’t trust me, don’t trust the PFS, or don’t trust your own damn agency.”

  “From what I’ve seen of you, I trust you. I know from experience that both the FBI and Interpol do good work, and I have no reason to doubt the PFS. But it’s my sense that someone’s trying to close this case too fast.”

  “You think someone’s trying to cover up something.”

  “I think…I think bureaucracies treat ‘go along to get along’ as a bedrock value, and someone’s afraid to open the wrong doors.”

  The leopard’s tail lashes. “If this databox’s chain of custody is broken it’s my ass in the sling, too.”

  “It’s remained entirely under either your control or mine since we obtained it. I double-checked this morning, and involving private contractors isn’t considered breaking that chain as long as the work’s performed under our supervision—well, mine—or a private judiciary’s. Correct?”

  “Under some circumstances.” Wolfe narrows his eyes.

  She glances up at Thomas. “The Ring Judicial Cooperative isn’t private, technically.”

  “Wait. You’re going to the Ceres Ring?” Wolfe sounds even more agitated.

  “It sounds like an excellent place to disappear for a few days. And functionally the RJC and a private group are the same in the eyes of the PFS, aren’t they?”

  “To some degree, yes, but…” The leopard gets the look of someone trying to do differential equations in his head. Yes, going through New Coyoacán will make the communication slow and prickly. The leopard’s expression shifts to a silent ohhh as he solves his equation: slow and prickly is the entire point. “Sir, they can co-opt your investigation if they decide it’s in their interest. It’s happened before.”

  “If they do, I promise I’ll step in front of the plasma for you.” When they reach the top of the escalator that heads down to the small craft level, Thomas stops. “If anything comes up, keep me in the loop.”

  “I will, sir.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a smartpaper pad. Thomas takes it, scribbles a signature, and hands it back. Wolfe studies it, puts it back in his pocket, and seems to steel himself. Then he holds out the databox. “Sir?”

  Thomas takes it. “Thank you. And yes?”

  “Watch yourself.” His tone’s genuine concern, not veiled threat.

  Thomas nods thoughtfully, and steps onto the escalator. Ansel and Gail follow.

  It’s only a minute walk to Kismet’s berth. The cisform officer stationed there gives Thomas a curt nod and Gail a suspicious glance as he makes the agent sign yet another form, then makes Gail sign one, too.

  When Gail steps in front of the ship’s entrance hatch, it takes her a second to remember it’s not going to open for her automatically. She takes out her viewcard and flips through its control set to find its key function.

  She’s rewarded with the sweet familiar sound of the lock disengaging. The hatch slides open.

  Before the lights have come up to their full level she’s beelined to the ship’s power panel, sliding back the cover plate and switching the knobs back to on. An indicator light comes on, but nothing else happens for a second. Then a three-tone chime sounds, followed by the same three tones at slower, irregular intervals as integrity checks run. Cabin lights come up, circulation systems start whirring.

  Ansel and Agent Squarejaw enter behind her, both looking around. She knows Ansel’s been on the ship before but he has his judgmental look, like her housekeeping isn’t up to par, even though nearly everything’s still stowed. The bed isn’t made, though. Her ears flick down a moment; the sheets might still smell a little of Adrian. If she’d been able to, she’d have asked Kis to inject a little more of that citrus air freshener into the system.

  A final chime sounds, all three tones at once as a major chord. Finally, Kismet speaks, as melodious as ever. “All system checks are complete. Good afternoon, Gail.”

  She lets out the breath she’s been holding. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Thank you. I have missed you, too.”

  She beams.

  “You know that’s just a stock response.” Ansel’s mutter doesn’t quite stay under his breath as he takes a seat.

  Gail glares.

  “It was turned off.” Ansel gives her an exasperated look. “Even if it was capable of missing you, which it isn’t, how could it have?”

  “It’s a nice touch, either way.” Squarejaw’s looking around at the ceiling, as if trying to find the speaker. “That’s not a stock voice for an Arcturus, is it?”
/>   “You’re that familiar with the line? Mittelbach’s a River-based company.” She heads toward the cockpit, motioning him to follow.

  “They licensed the Alphaliner 200 from Red Sun Engineering back on Mars, including the software, if I’m not mistaken. I didn’t think the voice was adaptive.”

  “It’s not an Alphaliner, though. And everything about her’s adaptive.” She ignores Ansel shaking his head behind her and takes her customary cockpit seat. Thomas sits in the other one. “Strap in.” He does. “You’ve been in zero g before, right?”

  Squarejaw nods. “Yes.”

  “So you’re not gonna puke, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Because I don’t like floating vomit.”

  “Noted.”

  “Okay. Kis, let’s plot a course to New Coyoacán.”

  “Yes, Gail.” After a short pause the ship continues speaking. “The flight will be approximately eight hours thirty-six minutes.”

  “Let’s have the full view projection.”

  Suddenly she and the agent are sitting in two seats floating in space. The docking platform spreads out in a vast curve to the left, above, behind. Under them: stars. She knows Earth skies are nothing like it is out here, not even what they call a night sky. They just have a scattering of weak white dots. Here, this far from the sun, you see the stars. Colors across the spectrum, some steady and some constantly shifting, many faint and many blazing like guidance beacons, all against a background of the highest grade, purest blackness nature allows.

  Squarejaw sucks in his breath, looking down over the edge of his seat but otherwise remaining still, as if he might fall out if he leans over too far.

  Gail arches her brows. “Don’t you get this kind of view on the long haul ships? I figure they’d have to have observation decks.”

  “They do, but they don’t do that.” He points down at the floor.

  “You’re not gonna puke, right?”

  He gives her a reproachful look.

  “Okay. Kis, let’s go.”

  The floating status windows fade in around Gail’s seat, virtual indicator lights and meters flickering. Then the ship’s engines come online. The deep thrum’s the most beautiful music she knows. She keeps her hand by the throttle, but Kismet is flying this one on her own.

  “Signaling departure from Panorica,” says the ship. A series of clunks and rattles follow as physical connections disengage. “Casting off.” The engine’s pitch changes subtly, and the station recedes from overhead.

  Jack looks nervous, gripping the armrests, and she recognizes the look as the one she wore for about the first two years of being a pilot: your eyes tell you that you’re falling, but your body tells you that you’re upside-down and accelerating. She grins. “Don’t worry, it’ll just be relaxing microgravity soon.” The feel’s already changing as the direction of thrust changes; now they’re being pressed back in their seats. You could almost mistake it for being in a vehicle driving along on a surface, although if you unstrap you won’t fall to the floor.

  “It’s a eight hour trip, she said?”

  “Eight and a half.”

  He nods, looking like he’s making an effort to get comfortable. “I’m mildly surprised they standardized on Earth time out here.”

  Ansel chimes in. “It’d be awfully inconvenient if we picked something else.”

  “That’s why I’m surprised you didn’t.”

  “Very droll. We’re nothing if not pragmatic.”

  “That’s not the first word that would have come to mind, Mr. Santara.”

  “You’re just conditioned to think that if you’re not living in an authoritarian state like Earth, you’re living in chaos.”

  He twists around in his seat to look back at the fox, visibly straining against the ongoing acceleration. “You do realize that Earth isn’t one state.”

  “It might as well be for all the difference it makes.”

  “That’s—”

  Gail raps her armrest loudly. “If you two plan to talk politics for the trip, I’m going to make you take it outside.”

  Ansel throws up his hands. “Sorry, captain.”

  They all fall silent until Kismet levels off her speed, transferring the duty of holding them in their seats from acceleration force to their four-point harnesses. True to his word, Thomas doesn’t look like he’s going to throw up. He fingers the harness release, but doesn’t press it.

  “I didn’t mean to needle you, Mr. Santara. The River’s a set of radical political experiments, from virtual anarchy to minimal states to at least one command economy. And they’ve mostly all been successful. I’m interested both in what’s stayed the same since the founding of various platforms, and in what’s changed. And why.”

  The conversation’s off course now from the argument, but she’d like to keep it steered away. “Is that why you volunteered to come out here? Or were you assigned? I can’t tell if being a liaison between Interpol and Panorica is a top-notch gig or being banished to the fringes.”

  “That was a matter of debate at the office. It’s a fourteen-month posting with a guaranteed four-month paid vacation afterward, and total pay of two years’ worth of my normal salary. But it’s considered a high stress assignment. You’re isolated from the chain of command, but you’re not given any breaks because of it. And yes, I volunteered. You don’t get opportunities to travel to new worlds too often.”

  “So kinda for the experience and kinda for the money.”

  He nods, and for a moment looks like he’s going to say more. What’s he leaving out? The expression that flickered through his eyes for a half-second makes her less worried than curious. It’s not something about this case, or even about the job; it’s something personal. And, yeah, none of her business. Maybe she can find a way to ask without seeming like she’s prying, but she’ll table it for now. She’s still suspicious he might be playing her—but if he’s telling the truth he has every reason to be suspicious of her, too.

  “Well, make yourself comfortable.” She waves back at the cabin. “There’s a combochef back there and I’m pretty sure all the ingredient cartridges are full, and I have a few beers. Unless you don’t drink on the job. Assuming you’re on the job now.”

  “Saying ‘I’m always on the job’ is a cliché, but it’s going to be accurate the next few days. I’d rather just get a ginger ale than a beer for now, if it can do that.”

  “It should, yeah, although it’ll mix with low carbonation. Bubbles don’t work well in zero-g.”

  He clicks the harness open and pushes off from the seat, sailing gently toward the cockpit roof.

  “Careful there, flyboy.”

  “There’s nothing fragile to bounce into.” He bumps into the roof and pivots back with too much force, nearly crashing back into the seat he’d just vacated.

  Gail flinches away. “I’m something fragile to bounce into.”

  “I have my doubts about that, Ms. Simmons, but I’ll try to be careful.” He makes his way to the cabin like a skydiving frogman.

  Ansel watches warily. “I could have just gotten something for you.”

  “I may not be an old hand at this like you two are, but I don’t think I’m doing that badly, and I can only get better by practicing.” He hangs onto a handle by the combochef, putting his feet on the ground. He doesn’t hold himself down with enough force to keep from slowly drifting aftward, a sign the ship’s still very gently accelerating, but he doesn’t seem to be bothered. Or maybe he doesn’t notice. After a touch to the display he speaks the order aloud. “Ginger ale.”

  After a beep of confirmation, the machine goes to work, printing a zero gravity cup while another part of it mixes a flavoring syrup. He scans through the menu selections on the display idly while he waits. “This is all junk food.”

  Ansel’s ears come forward. “Still? I’ve told her about that before.”

  She rolls her eyes. “It is not all junk food. It’s got what it needs for dough, meat, veget
ables, and spices. It may not be gourmet, but it can make a lot.”

  He keeps flipping through the sections. “Unless you’re pretending the mushroom pizza counts, I’m not seeing the vegetables.”

  “Jesus. You’ve gone from my arresting officer to my abuelita in under twenty-four hours.”

  “I’m just making the observation.” The machine chimes, its door sliding back to reveal the filled cup. He picks it up and studies it.

  “Sip from the side with the groove,” Ansel says.

  Thomas nods. “I’ve seen cups like this, but I haven’t used one.” He takes a seat on the bench opposite Ansel. More accurately, he positions himself against it, then starts a slow drift.

  She gets up and pushes off, settling by Ansel and latching the belt around her hips. “Remember, you’re not sitting, you’re just touching your butt to the cushion. If you want to stay there, put on your belt.”

  He puts on the belt. “When’s the last time you went back to New Coyoacán?”

  Maybe an idle question, although he might know the answer already—he looked up her history before the interrogation. But no, he couldn’t have had time to get more than the major beats; putting together a travel history from public records isn’t a casual action. He talked to Sky, though, and that might be the first thing she’d bring up. “Twelve years. Did you already know that before asking?”

  “No, but it’s what I’d have guessed.” He doesn’t look ruffled. “You don’t get to be a detective without learning to pick up subtle cues, like you having spent ten years telling Mr. Santara it’s a gray featureless shithole.”

  Ansel stifles a laugh.

  “Yeah, well. He kind of misquoted me. The sky is gray and featureless. The Ring itself is much more like a planet than an enclosed arcology.”

  “It’s actually open at the top, isn’t it? And the sky is Ceres.”

  She nods.

  “But it must rotate much too fast to let the side of Ceres you’re facing determine the day and night cycle.”

  “Yeah, a full rotation takes about twenty-five minutes. There’s a lot of reflectors and floating particles and…” And what? She doesn’t remember how it works, exactly. “Maybe that’s it. Anyway, the light and dark cycles mimic an Earth day, but it’s lighter when you’re facing the light side of the surface and darker when you’re facing the dark side. It doesn’t have sunset and sunrise the way Panorica does.”