Mari’s eyes darted back to the window. “We’re not going to have to go outside, are we?”
“Not if I can help it,” he said. “First I want to show you something.” He got to his feet, happy for the feel of true gravity again, and held out his hand. She took it and pulled herself up.
They mingled back into the crowd and stopped in front of a long, narrow black electronic board that stood on poles in the center of concourse. A constant stream of symbols scrolled from one end to the other. “This is called a Pierreboard,” Fergus explained. “It’s a relic from the early colony days when people moved around a lot and there wasn’t a global comm network. Essentially it’s a message board for letting people know who is in town.”
Mari watched the board. “How does it work?”
“People have their own symbol called a tag,” Fergus said, “and when they arrive, they add their tag to the ticker. When they leave, they remove it.” He tapped the screen as a symbol moved past, a green teardrop with a fox silhouette in it. An infobubble popped up. “See? This person is a human from the Gaian Ecosphere who goes by the name ArcxFlyer, arrived four days ago.”
“Why does it say ‘limited’?”
“The three options are open, which means anyone can leave a message for you—very bad idea; closed, which means no messages at all, in which case why bother; or limited, which means someone can leave a message only if they have a tag associated with this one. ArcxFlyer doesn’t want to talk to strangers but is looking for their friends. Pretty standard.” Fergus closed the infobubble. “The MCA hates this, because the Pierreboards aren’t wired to anything outside of themselves. Each city has exactly one active board, and it’s a blackbox. Its internal data is deeply encrypted in a rolling changeover scheme, and the tags are, with a few exceptions, anonymous.”
“So why don’t they just take them down?”
“Oh, they’ve tried. The locals get very upset, including a lot who otherwise don’t mind the MCA. It’s a part of Mars heritage. So they track the boards closely and probably know who a fair number of the tags belong to, but the Free Marsies and others change up their tags all the time or insert bogus ones. Often the tags themselves are the message.”
Mari was regarding the board thoughtfully. “How is this useful to us?”
Fergus took out the handpad Maha and Qai had given him and held it up to the comm eye on the side of the Pierreboard. “Easy. We add a tag.”
There was a faint beep, and a new icon appeared on the control window. It was a complex symbol in gold on a red background. Fergus set messaging to closed, verified it, and disconnected. “The board will randomly insert our tag into the stream sometime in the next six hours,” he said. “Another protection to keep the MCA from just staking out the board and matching each person who uses it to whatever new icon appears.”
“Red and gold are Gilger’s colors,” Mari said.
“Yep. And that symbol is the Luceatan glyph for ‘boss.’”
“Wait . . . Did you just put a symbol on the board announcing that Gilger was here?”
“Yes.”
“But he’s in Cernee. Surely they know that.”
“Oh, certainly.”
“Then . . . why?”
“Think of it from their point of view. They’re holding the daughter of a dangerous man hostage in hostile territory. They used to have regular communication with their boss, but all of a sudden: nothing.”
“Why nothing?”
“Because Gilger no longer has a ship with its own high-powered comm system, the few interstellar-capable settlement comms are effectively unreachable because of local jamming in the system, and he can’t take a small ship far enough out of the Halo to bounce something off Crossroads because—”
“—because of the Asiig!”
“Right. Those ships are buying us time in several ways, whether they mean to or not. It’s likely that no one here has any idea what’s happening back there. If Gilger trusted them to do this job and not turn around and blackmail him in turn, that means his people here are loyal and not very imaginative. So probably they are very anxious right now for someone to tell them what to do.”
“And?”
“What would you think if you spotted a tag that could only mean your boss was here on Mars when you know he can’t be? What would you do?”
“I wouldn’t believe it, but I wouldn’t know what to think. I’d try to call back to Cernee, I expect.”
“That’s exactly what I’m counting on,” Fergus said.
Mari frowned, stealing another glance toward the wide window. “So what, we hang out here around the board and wait for someone to come by and visibly panic?”
“There are cameras that pick up and broadcast the tag stream on half the channels in the city, so we don’t have to wait here. Also, we have time before our tag goes up, and we have some errands to do first.”
Fergus put the handpad away, then led Mari through the concourse, with its faux marble floors made of fused Martian sand and colored glass, to a small but prominent desk along the perimeter. A woman with dark hair and piercingly blue eyes looked up and broke into a grin. “Scottie!” she called.
“Alena,” Fergus said. “It’s been a long time.”
She put her chin in hand and her elbow on the counter. “Two years at least! Since you never come to see me just for fun, what can I do for you?”
“A favor,” he said. He pulled an anonymous credit chip out of his pocket, bought at a machine moments earlier, and laid it down lightly on the counter.
Alena raised her eyebrows. “And what’s the favor?” she asked, not moving to take it.
“Someone is going to want to fast-bounce a call to Cernee in the next day or so.”
“Cernee?”
“Cernekan. A settlement out near the Gap, in the Ohean System, off the Crossroads point. This person will be anxious, with a thick accent, paying for the fastest drop.”
“Ah,” she said. “Yeah. He’s been here a few times.”
“Today?”
“No, not for several days.”
“Okay.” Fergus rubbed his chin. “We didn’t miss him, then.”
“And if he comes back? I can’t drop calls. I’d lose my job.”
“I’d be happy if you could send it on the slow channel, though. By mistake.”
“That happens sometimes,” she said. “By mistake, of course.” She put her palm on the credit chip and slid it toward herself, where it disappeared behind the counter.
“A hundred marks, Atlantic States Coalition backed,” Fergus said.
She smiled. “Slow as slow can be,” she said. “Good seeing you again, Scottie.”
“And you.” He smiled, tapped Mari gently on the arm, and they walked away.
Once they were past the booth, Mari chuckled.
“What?” Fergus asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “It’s just weird, knowing there are all these random people out here in the universe who actually like you.”
“Ha ha,” he said. “Let’s go find me a new exosuit. There is no way I’m getting into any more crates or pods without one.”
Ares Five was old familiar territory, and he moved with confidence through the halls and shops. Once they were away from the last of the windows, he could see Mari visibly relaxing. It made him, conversely, more tense. Maybe there was a chance they could find Harcourt’s daughter, but were the odds any better than those of him getting them both killed chasing her down? Mari might be insistent that he wasn’t responsible for her choices, and he’d be smart enough not to say he was out loud, but that didn’t mean he could just stop feeling as if he were.
They reached the shop just as his conscience started into the guilt and doubt in earnest.
“‘RedZoots’?” Mari asked, looking up at the sign.
“Trust me,”
he said. He strode straight to the back of the store, where a young man was watching a holonovel behind the counter. He was thin, short, his face and head completely shaven except for a thin golden ring of hair on the crown of his skull. Zero-gen, Fergus thought. There’s no way that’s ever a Martian fashion.
Mari arrived at Fergus’s side just as the clerk deigned to look up. “Oooh,” he said, eyeing Mari up and down. “Shouldn’t be hard to improve on that.”
“Actually, I’m the one in need of a new suit,” Fergus said.
The man’s eyes traveled over to him doubtfully. “Yes,” he said at last, “I imagine you might.”
“I thought you said you liked this place,” Mari said.
“I did,” Fergus answered. He leaned over the counter, doing his best to loom. “What happened to Red Bart?”
The clerk backed up a half step, to Fergus’s satisfaction. “The MCA came looking for him, and he ran off. Turns out Red Bart was, to no one’s surprise, a Red.”
“Maybe we should go somewhere else,” Mari said.
“No, this will still do,” Fergus said, annoyed. “What have you got in the SuitSmythe B-series?”
“Not much,” the clerk said. “Their C-series is coming out in a few months, so we’re waiting on the release. But I can recommend the SpaceMart Alpha-Three—”
“I’d rather stick with SuitSmythe,” Fergus said.
“I do still have some B-series inventory,” the clerk said reluctantly. “I’d have to check it against your size. If you’d care to step in the sizing booth . . .?”
The clerk pointed at a small door, and Fergus stepped inside, letting the door close and latch. There was barely enough room to stand, and it took him a moment to turn around and orient himself in the center of the floor, where a pair of footprints had been thoughtfully stenciled as a guide.
The lights dimmed, and blue scan lines moved up and across his body from three directions. He’d done this so many times before, he knew the procedure cold. “Three, two, one, done,” he muttered under his breath, and exactly as he said “done,” the lights came back up. He put his hand out to unlock the door. The moment his fingers touched the latch, there was the sharp sting of static, and the lights in the booth went out completely.
What the hell? Fumbling around in the dark, he got the door open and stepped back out onto the sales floor. “Uh, there’s something wrong with your booth,” he said.
“Lights in the whole store flickered,” Mari said.
“This has never happened before,” the clerk said, glaring at Fergus. “Are you wearing some sort of electronic kill switch device? Did you touch something?”
“Do I look like I’m wearing anything?” Fergus said, holding his arms out wide. “And what is there to touch? The bloody door latch, and that was it!”
“Well.” The clerk went over, peered into the measuring booth, then shook his head. “The measurements were logged before the failure,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do for a suit, and while it’s fabbing, I’ll call tech support.”
He turned his console around to face Fergus. “If I may recommend optional features—” Fergus reached for the buttons, but the clerk held up a hand. “Why don’t you let me?”
Fergus curtly listed his needs while Mari’s face shifted between amused and anxious. Finished, the clerk set to work on the config for the fab in the back of the shop, and Fergus sank into a chair near the sizing booth. Mari sat down next to him. She looked tired.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “I was going to ask you the same.”
“I’m thirsty again. When we’re done here, we should get some food and find a room.” He put his handpad away. “Here comes Red Bart’s inadequate replacement.”
He stood up to meet the clerk, who was rolling a fab case out of the back room. “This is a B-forty-four base—my last one—with the options you specified,” the clerk said. He had recovered his customer-service composure. “Given the problems with the booth, for which I apologize, we ought to make sure it fits properly.”
“Good idea,” Fergus said. “Uh, and thanks.”
The clerk cracked open the case and extricated the new exosuit from it, checking the material carefully as he did so. At last he held it up. “The forty-four has the sleek-style integrated control panel along the forearm,” he said, waving a hand along it. “Much less bulky than the thirty-ex models.”
“My last was a twenty-eight.”
“Ah, well, then I think you’ll be pleased with this,” the clerk said. He powered it on, showing a sequence of green lights along the forearm. “Would you care to try it on?”
Fergus reached out for it, and just as his fingers touched the fabric, a big spark leapt between his hand and the suit. “Ahhh!” he shouted, letting go even as the clerk jumped back and dropped it.
The brand new suit fell to the floor, a wisp of smoke coming up from the dead display of the control panel. The clerk stared at him.
“Whoa,” Mari said.
“What the hell?” Fergus said.
“I’m calling security,” the clerk said, and he backed up to his counter, reaching around the far side.
“It wasn’t me!” Fergus protested, but Mari grabbed his arm.
“We’ve got to go,” she said. “Now.”
“But . . .”
“Now.” She pulled him out of the store, stumbling around the corner. “You know this place. Where do we hide?”
“Hide?” He was confused, dizzy, thirsty. “I didn’t do anything! It was that clerk and his crazy store!”
“Sure, and who is security going to believe?” she asked.
Fergus was fairly sure Ares Five security would have more than one officer who’d remember him. “Right,” he said. “Follow me.”
They sprinted out of the mall area, up a few escalators, down another, and into a crowded open-concourse market. He walked at a fast clip—not so fast as to catch anyone’s attention, but enough to make good time through the maze of stalls and booths. His mouth felt parched, and his stomach was cramping, a dull ache somewhere just north of his kidneys, and he stumbled, shoulder tagging a doorway painfully.
Mari caught him. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t feel good, not since that booth and then the suit zapped me.”
They left the far side of the market and headed into the public bunkspace. Fergus found the first bunk flagged as available, transferred over enough credit for a day, then pulled open the door and half fell inside the tiny, closet-sized room. Mari followed him, closing and locking the door.
He made it to the small sink and poured water into his hands, drinking it down greedily, not caring about the meter ticking up charges. Beard dripping, he finally shut off the spigot and pulled a bunk down from where it was folded up against the wall. He collapsed onto it, barely able to keep his eyes open.
“You don’t look good,” Mari said.
“I’ll be fine,” he answered. “I just need to close my eyes for a minute or two.” He did just that, lying there, feeling his body start to relax, unclench itself. The pain in his gut eased.
“Fergus, what’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” he said. He made himself sit up. “Why don’t you stay here, get some rest? I’ll go get us some food.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to go out.”
“I’ll be careful,” he said. “Trust me.”
She looked like she was going to argue, but at last she nodded. “What do I do if you don’t come back?” she asked.
“I’ll be back.”
Before she could argue, he left.
What’s your plan here? he asked himself. He knew he should stay in the rent-a-bunk, lay low until he heard from Alena, not leave Mari alone in a strange city on a strange planet whil
e he went out and pushed his idiot luck for no good reason.
The sort of idiot luck that had left him drifting in space, mangled, broken, and bleeding out and two days later had returned him miraculously to full health. Had he genuinely believed there weren’t strings attached?
Fergus did what he did by assuming everyone and everything around him were variables that just needed understanding, maybe a little manipulation, to get them all lined up where he needed them to be. And he was good at it because he knew, at his core, that he was the constant in the equation. The only thing he could count on was himself.
He took an elevator up and over several levels, then wandered the public sector until he found what he wanted. It was a small booth with a frosted glass door marked with a red caduceus. He stood in front of it for a long minute. This is stupid, he thought. There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s just a coincidence, some weird side effect of the pod sleeper systems.
If it’s nothing, Fergus, he told himself, why not go in and prove it?
Before he could talk himself out of it, he opened the door and stepped inside, trying not to touch anything he didn’t absolutely have to.
“Welcome to Dr. Diagnosis!” a friendly, comfortably artificial voice piped up. “Please indicate your species. For human, say, ‘Human.’ For Vei—”
“Human,” he said.
“Thank you. Please listen to the following diagnostic selections. To give a bodily fluid specimen, say, ‘Sample’ and wait until a receptacle is provided. To have a blood specimen taken, say, ‘Blood.’ For a general internal scan, say, ‘Scan.’ For a colonosc—”
“Scan,” he said.
“Please transfer thirty credits local or say, ‘Indigent.’”
He transferred over the thirty credits without hesitation. Fresh off Earth and not even sixteen years old, he remembered thinking ‘indigent’ sounded like ‘free.’ It had taken weeks to shake the stink of the complimentary parasite bath the booth had given him before letting him go again.
“Thank you for your payment. Please stand still. Scan will commence in ten seconds,” the voice informed him. His hands began itching again. The booth lit up, changing color from blue to red to yellow—he wasn’t sure if that was necessary or if it was just to make the patient feel like something was happening—and then returned to its normal state.
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