“Which is somewhere warmer?” Isla asked.
“Iceland,” he answered. “Still arctic, sorry.”
She groaned. “Fine, but there better be hot food. And a shower.”
* * *
—
The ferry from Kalaallit Nunaat was a welcome few hours of peace and boredom. As Isla napped in the seat across from him, the ferry passed alongside the rising structure of the Arctic rail bridge, a dozen orange-and-yellow automated construction vehicles crawling under, over, and around it in a synchronized dance, and he found himself tempted to wave out the window to them, in case one was Akio’s.
Instead, he leaned back in his ferry seat and checked in with Ignatio and Whiro. “Isla is not sickened of you yet?” Ignatio said.
“Getting there, I think,” Fergus said.
“Hmm. I have more physics things for her when she is ready. You will tell her, yes? Math is the best of all funs.”
“I’ll have to take your word on that,” Fergus said, then lowered his voice. “She seems to love it all, but remember a lot of this is new for her? Give her a chance to catch up and maybe ask if she has questions? Uh, but don’t tell her you’re doing that or that I said so. In the meantime, I have two, er, packages for you and I’m not sure how to deliver them. Whiro, you were working on something?”
“I have sent down a small delivery drone with our larger autonomous supply drone, Constance. We are officially here conducting business to restock our garden ring, which requires transactions at multiple points on Earth,” Whiro said. “I had originally directed my drone, once free of Constance, to intercept you at the Kangerlussuaq Shuttleport on Kalaallit Nunaat, as we all expected Ms. Ferguson to have gotten over the idea that you are more interesting to spend time with than us, but you appear to both be on a ferry. You are heading toward Reykjavík?”
“Yeah. Should be there in a few hours,” Fergus said. “Going to find our next core piece and then get a room for the night, I think.”
“My drone should catch up with you before nightfall,” Whiro said. “It is bringing you two more modified cans so you can send up both the Qeqertarsuaq fragment and the Reykjavík one when you acquire it.”
“Good,” Fergus said. “I don’t like carrying even one of these around unshielded, much less two, so the less time I have to do so, the better.”
“Neither do I like it,” Ignatio said. “It is bad, very, very bad, but I am sure it will somehow be fine, yes?”
“Sure it will. I’ll check in when we’re settled down,” Fergus said. He disconnected and glanced over at his lightly snoring sister. He’d been in everything is very bad–level trouble before, but what worked out fine for him—minus inconveniences like getting shot in the leg with a harpoon gun, and stuff like that—didn’t always work out fine for people around him.
You can’t make choices for other people, he reminded himself, and then spent the rest of the ferry ride trying to figure out if he could somehow trick Isla into leaving of her own volition in a way that didn’t involve being a jerk.
* * *
—
The target zone was up in the hills to the north of the capital, outside a town named Bakkakotsvöllur. At the ferry terminal in Reykjavík, there were multiple holo ads for horseback tours out in the hills and across the lava fields, but both Fergus and Isla agreed they’d had enough livestock encounters for a while. “Electric mountain bikes,” Isla said, waving at one of the pop-up ads ahead of them in the terminal corridor. “But first, I’m hungry and I need a shower. Ye might be used to running all over the galaxy, but the most exercise I usually get is going downstairs to steal chips from the kitchen when Gavin’s not around.”
“All right,” he said, and handed her one of his anonymous credit chits. Then he pointed across the intersection from the ferry terminal at an automated hotel. “Rent us a room? I’ll look around a bit, find us some food, arrange for the bikes, and meet you back there. That okay?”
“You won’t take off without me?” she asked.
“No,” he said, which was true now that she’d asked.
“Okay,” she said. “Don’t forget the food. And try to stay out of trouble.”
“Always,” he answered, which was definitely less true, but since she didn’t call him on it, he figured he was in the clear.
He waited until she’d gone safely into the autohotel, then walked into the city. Iceland wasn’t noticeably warmer than the Arctic Union, but the sun was out, it was a new place, and he was feeling cautiously optimistic about his impossible task. The city lay spread out around a bay, separated from the water by a strip of park and seawalls that had kept the rising ocean back for centuries. Gulls wheeled overhead, smaller than the Mongolian gulls near Buir Lake but no less noisy. As soon as he was inside the embrace of buildings, there were people and chatter everywhere, out shopping, sitting at cafes, talking about the undying day with a slightly manic air. When he stopped to ask directions to the bike rental place, a young woman with a bright blue mohawk directed him in nearly flawless English.
As he walked, he hummed and slowly realized he was humming to the un-canned fragment, both with his voice and with something deeper in his gut. He couldn’t tell if it hummed back the same tune, but it was definitely awake, deep in his coat pocket. The suggestion that he could talk to it seemed less ridiculous.
Also, more scary. He stopped humming.
The bike rental place was in the center of the city, on the far side of a main bus station. Between him and it was a white van, parked on the side of the street. He curled his hand around the Qeqertarsuaq fragment and slowed his walk without obviously stopping; he didn’t want to attract attention. Instead, he curved his path past the side of the bus stop away from the van, and then, when he was a bit farther along, ducked through the door of an open museum to give himself time to think.
Could they detect the fragment from the distance of the bike rental? He didn’t think so. Were there vans camped out at all hundred-something sites, waiting for someone to show? Or were they closer to finding him than he thought? Or was it just a random white autovan, ubiquitous everywhere and not necessarily sinister at all?
He knew how his luck ran.
He could pull his hood up and make for the bike rental place, see if that prompted any activity, but with the sun out, having his hood up would be suspicious unto itself. What he needed was a hat, a good, old-fashioned baseball cap, until he could set off another round of hair nanites to deal with his returning red. He turned around to the museum’s gift shop and stopped mid-step in some surprise at the museum’s particular subject, unnoted on his way in.
“Um . . .” he said. “Is this . . .”
“The Icelandic Slug Museum,” the elderly, grandmotherly-like woman behind the counter said. “Our founder was given a dried banana slug for a birthday gift and became fascinated by it. Slugs come in a remarkable variety of shapes and sizes, and we have the largest collection of specimens from all over the world, land and sea.”
“Snails?” Fergus asked.
She made a face. “Snails are not slugs.”
“Of course not, sorry,” Fergus said. “I was just looking to buy a hat? For a souvenir.”
She smiled knowingly and waved him over to a rack of hats. “Keychains are buy one, get one free,” she said, and when he shook his head, she pointed out another rack. “Slug-themed intimate wear? Adult toys? They’re on clearance.”
“No, thank you, just a hat,” he said. He picked out a cap with just the museum’s 150th anniversary logo on it and, after checking the sidewalk outside the door, scurried out with a brand-new hat on his head.
When he got back to the Shipyard, he’d gift the hat to Maison, who would probably love it. He could claim it was a goodwill gesture for the hat Mister Feefs peed in.
The van hadn’t moved. He kept his hand on the fragment, trying to project calmness
at it, as he walked as casually as he could toward the bike rental kiosk. There, he reserved two bikes for pickup in two hours—plenty of time to eat first, he thought—and then turned away and immediately found himself face-to-face with a pale, rail-thin, ill-looking man in linen clothes who had been coming the other way down the sidewalk. The man’s eyes went wide with surprised recognition, and his mouth was opening and closing in panic as if he were trying to remember how to shout.
Okay, Fergus, improvise, he told himself. And do it fast.
“Hello again, Peter,” he said. He stepped in close enough to take the man down if he had to, and put one arm around his shoulders. The man froze like a rabbit caught in the gaze of a hawk. “Still working on that apocalypse, are ye?”
“You?” Peter squeaked.
“Me,” Fergus said. “Are you following me?”
“No! I—” The cultist’s eyes drifted over to the van.
“You following Kyle?”
Peter gritted his teeth. “Not Kyle. That’s Jeremy. Malseka ŝaltillo! He’s an asshole. He’s over in the bar on Hverfisgata, getting drunk again.” Suddenly remembering who he was talking to, he looked around skittishly. “Where is your alien friend?”
“Nearby,” Fergus said. The man was shivering, and not all of it from fear. “Uh . . . don’t you have a coat?”
“What?” Peter seemed taken aback. “No. Why would you care?”
“Because you look cold!” Fergus snapped. Why did he care? “And when did you last eat?”
“I don’t know,” Peter said. “Food is of no concern for the followers of the fire.”
“Look,” Fergus said, “you’re interfering in an official investigation . . .”
“You’re Scottish police?” Peter said, then smiled. “This isn’t Scotland.”
“No, I’m an undercover agent of the Secret Space Police. We have jurisdiction everywhere,” Fergus answered.
“Secret Space Police? I’ve never heard of anything like that!”
“Because it’s secret,” Fergus said. “I’m investigating them”—he pointed at the van—“not you. For murder, among other things. But since you seem to know a fair bit about that group, if you give me a little information, I’ll buy you a hot meal. Deal?”
“You are not one of the Chosen,” Peter said.
“Nope, I’m sure not, but if you think about it, the more you help me, the more I get in their way,” Fergus said, nodding his chin toward the van. “I’m betting you’d like that.”
Peter was clearly thinking about it, wringing his bluish hands together. “Okay, look, no pressure here,” Fergus said. “I’m going to go around the corner there”—he pointed down a side street, well away from the bus station, van, and the street where Jeremy was off drinking—“and I’m going to go into that little sandwich shop with the red awning, and I’m going to have myself a nice lunch. If you join me, I’ll buy you lunch, too. You don’t even have to talk, okay?”
“Why?” Peter asked again.
“Because I’ve been hungry and cold too,” Fergus said.
He walked away from the cultist, not looking back, though he did glance over at the van, which was still showing no signs of occupation or interest.
The sandwich shop was a brightly lit little place called Mjög Besti Maturinn, and though in the moment he wanted nothing more than to go back to the kiosk, get his bike early, find the core fragment, and move it and Isla out of there, he saw the potential for something useful here. Never turn down opportunities for more resources, he told himself, scrolling down the menu in the table top. And anyway, he’d promised Isla food, too.
He lingered a bit longer than he would normally have, but when Peter didn’t show, he sighed and ordered himself a faux lobster sandwich, a salad, and a hot coffee, and a to-go pack of the same.
Peter slumped into the booth about the time his coffee arrived, and immediately, the man reached over and slid it to his side of the table. Fergus ordered himself a replacement without saying a word.
“Secret Space Police, huh?” Peter said after several minutes.
“Yep.”
“Doesn’t sound real.”
“Neither does belonging to an apocalypse cult in the twenty-fifth century,” Fergus said. “And yet here we are.”
Fergus’s replacement coffee arrived along with his sandwich and salad. Peter’s eyes were on his tray as the server robot slid the food onto the table. “You want it?” Fergus asked.
“No,” Peter said, too quickly, and Fergus was pretty sure the man sat on his own hands. “You said murder.”
“Yes,” Fergus said. “Near Yakutat City, in the Alaskan Federation of North America. A park guide.”
“The techbros were there,” Peter said.
Fergus paused with a forkful of salad halfway to his mouth. “You mean the van guys?”
“Yes.”
“Digital Midendian,” Fergus said.
“Yes,” Peter said again, eyes widening in surprise.
“Were you there? You do follow them.”
“I was not. One of my Sisters in Flame was, though.”
“Could she have witnessed the murder?”
“No,” Peter said. “She went in after they had gone and was only there long enough to verify they did not miss getting what they wanted.”
“And that is?” Fergus asked.
Peter shrugged, and stared forlornly as Fergus’s lobster roll. Fergus sighed, took half the sandwich, and set it on a napkin before pushing it across the table to Peter.
“I’m not telling you any more,” Peter said.
“That’s fine. I can’t finish the whole sandwich, anyway, though, so you might as well,” Fergus said. He leaned back against the seatback and sipped his coffee, and watched as the man slowly reached out and inched the napkin closer, before picking up the sandwich and stuffing as much of it into his mouth at once as he could.
Peter’s body language was hunched, defensive, and he kept glancing between his vanishing food and Fergus as if ready to bolt. Reluctantly, Fergus decided he wasn’t going to get much more info out of the man anyway, at least not right now, and whatever increment of trust the food might have earned him was best left unwasted by pushing, anyway.
Instead, he paid for lunch through the table interface. “I’ve got some business,” he told Peter, “and I better not catch you following me. And I will catch you.”
Peter shook his head, mouth too full to speak, and Fergus took that as a probably fickle but sincere promise. He stood up and shrugged his coat back on, and slung his bag over his shoulder. “I know giving unasked-for advice is treading a thin line of civility,” he said, “but let me just say: apocalypses are terrible things. It’s not something to wish for.”
Peter swallowed a large mouthful of food before answering. “Sometimes, it’s the only thing you have left,” he said. “Thank you for the food.”
“You’re welcome,” Fergus said, and picked up his takeout on his way out the door.
* * *
—
Peter was nowhere to be seen when he and Isla cautiously approached the rental kiosk to pick up their bikes. From a block away, he sent Isla ahead first and watched to be sure no one followed her. There was some overhead drone traffic, mostly small package-carriers, and nothing seemed to change directions after she pedaled off at casual tourist speed up the road.
Ten minutes later, Fergus got his own bike and followed after her, alert for the van and overhead traffic. “So far, we’re clear back here,” he said to her over the pager mic. “How is it up there?”
“Uphill,” she answered, sounding a bit out of breath.
“It’s electric,” he said. “You could turn it on.”
“Not until I have to,” she said. “Catch up if you can without cheating.”
Well, fuck, Fergus thought. I have to p
edal now, too? I’m too old for sibling rivalry.
He swore his entire sweaty way up the hill until he caught up with Isla sitting in the meager shade of a crooked, windblown larch, drinking water. It was a relief that she let him get down off his bike, his bad leg complaining stiffly, and join her in the grass for a while without any snarky commentary.
“So, how far we going?” she asked, eventually.
“Another ten or eleven kilometers,” he said. As near as Fergus could tell from the high-res shots of the area, the location was not dissimilar to the one on Kalaallit Nunaat, another steep hillside of jumbled, lichen-covered scree virtually unreachable except on foot.
They stopped outside the surveillance circle, and Isla watched him intently as he concentrated, making absolutely certain he could pinpoint the piece’s location. “Got it,” he said. “There are three cams and one motion sensor. Let me show you where.”
She turned on her smart sunglasses, and he sent the overlay to her systems. “Oh, yeah, I see them now,” she said. “How are ye going to get to the piece without tripping them? No sheep to hide among.”
“I think it’s gotta just be a fast grab,” he said. “None of the cams seem to be mobile units, so our biggest issue is going to be drones coming in as soon as I’m detected. Once we get safely back into Reykjavík, we should be able to ditch the bikes and get lost in the pedestrian traffic.”
Isla pulled up the hood on her jacket, stuffing her hair back in and under so none of it was visible. Fergus, in turn, pulled his museum hat down over his brow, kept his head down, and bicycled into the zone along the small path, trying to maintain the appearance of a regular passing bicyclist as long as possible. When he was closest to where the piece was, he jumped off the bike and scrambled down the slope, dug his fingers painfully through the scree, and was up and back on his bike again in less than five minutes.
The Scavenger Door Page 23
