Nimbus

by Jacey Bedford

  If the dust cloud was a fast-moving Monitor skimmer, it would be a short race, but if it was a Lifer band, they stood a fair chance of staying ahead. The Lifers might not even have seen them yet. It might be a family band, in which case they wouldn’t move any faster than their slowest rider. If it was a raiding party, however, all bets were off. And they’d be easy to follow. Their own cresties would kick up even more of a dust cloud once they began to pound the ground. There was a chance, if they simply stayed put, that the Lifer band might not spot the gentle dust cloud they’d already stirred up, but it wasn’t a chance worth taking.

  *How far away do you reckon they are?* Jussaro had lived on space stations for most of his adult life and had poor long-distance perception.

  *Hard to tell. Fifteen klicks, maybe.* Cara pushed her crestie into a run which was half lope, half bound. Cresties had an unsettling two-by-two gait: front legs, with toes splayed like fingers, hitting the ground in a leap and hind legs, with short, clawed toes overreaching, to whump down to either side and ahead of the front feet. The net result was that the balance strap was essential to staying on board. At that height and speed, falling off was not an option.

  *Cara? Whassup?* Jake Lowenbrun responded mind-to-mind from the Bellatkin. The connection was weak. Jake was a first-class pilot and strong on Navigation, thanks to his neural implant, but his Telepathy skills sucked.

  Cara clutched the balance strap, trusting her crestie would follow Jussaro’s while her mind wasn’t fully on riding. *We’ve picked up a tail, Jake,* she said. *It’s either a Monitor skimmer or a Lifer band. What’s your estimated time to a rendezvous?*

  *About six hours if I come in nice and slow and legal. Maybe three hours if you don’t mind me lighting up every air traffic warning on the planet.*

  *We’d lose any chance we had of finding Zandra,* Jussaro said with obvious reluctance.

  *Come in slow,* Cara said. *If we need you sooner, we’ll yell. If it’s a skimmer, you can’t get here in time, anyway.*

  *I’ve been watching traffic at the jump gate since I dropped you,* Jake said. *No Monitor vessels in the area. It could be the local law, but my guess is you’ve picked up a Lifer band.*

  *In which case, if we can beat them to Wonnick, we won’t blow our cover.*

  *Good call,* Jussaro said.

  *The only possible call under the circumstances. I hope Zandra Hartwell is worth it.*

  *She’s the very embodiment of Sanctuary,* Jussaro said.

  Cara disengaged mentally and gave all her attention to the crestedina’s uncomfortable stride. How far and how fast could she push the beast before it succumbed to exhaustion?

  Ben returned from Jamundi no wiser than when he’d gone out there. The autopsy on Kayla Mundi had shown no underlying cause of death, so with lack of other evidence and the fact that she’d not been wearing her damping pin, they could only assume she’d been the third victim of the Trust’s triple-threat Telepath. Gods, Ben hoped there was only one of them out there.

  Missing Cara more than he could articulate, even to himself, he’d hardly slept last night. He’d had two distinct dreams, one of the Nimbus, from which he’d woken, sweating even though he should be used to Nimbus dreams by now, and the other in which the Free Company were all actors on a stage in a complex whodunit mystery, with a new corpse turning up every five minutes. The Great Detective, who wore a deerstalker hat on top of her space helmet and smoked a pipe inside it, knew exactly who’d done it, but confessed she couldn’t bring the culprit to justice because he was too well-protected.

  Blinking grit out of his eyes, Ben set off to take a tub cab from Blue Seven to Garrick’s office at the Hub. Crossways should have a better transport system. The tub cabs were ridiculous; their garish paint grated on his eyeballs, and the squeaks and clatters from the jolts and scrapes were sandpaper to his ears.

  Apart from being hard on the eyes, the cabs were also open.

  Of course, no one needed sealed cabs when there was no wind, rain, or sun on a space station. Whoever had designed this system, in the days when Crossways had been a company spaceport, no doubt intended it to be egalitarian—which it was by its very nature. They had not considered the possibility passengers might wish to ward off potential assassins.

  Ben took the first cab that came his way. The very randomness of grabbing a cab made the old method of assassination—a bomb under your personal vehicle—impractical, but it still left the way open for someone taking a pot shot into your open cab.

  Why was he even thinking about that? He had security up the wazoo though he still didn’t feel important enough for an entourage of babysitters. After all, he was simply a farm boy who’d proved to be good at flying, and by a series of coincidences ended up as caretaker for the Free Company.

  Gwala and Hildstrom had drawn bodyguard duty again. As minders went, they were the best in the business, and he had hired Tengue and his mercs to run security for the Free Company on Crossways, so he had only himself to blame if sometimes their presence felt smothering. There was little point in employing an expert and then not letting him do his job. Tengue was right, on a station like Crossways with over half a million people, any number of assassins could be lining up to take a shot at him, literally or figuratively.

  Maybe even today. Maybe even in this tub cab.

  Crowder still wanted a piece of him, preferably cold and on a slab; he was on the Monitors’ most wanted list; half the criminals on Crossways blamed him for Garrick trying to clean up the station, even though the idea had been Garrick’s own.

  It was nice to be popular.

  Hilde Hildstrom gave him a sideways look as she dropped into the seat beside him. Had he actually sighed? Emmanuel Gwala punched in their destination and sat on the other side. They made an interesting looking trio, all dressed in severely practical buddysuits with only their faces and hands showing. Gwala’s skin was the deep brown of his African ancestors; Hildstrom’s Nordic skin was so pale it was almost cream. Ben was somewhere in the middle, mid-brown from his mixed ancestry.

  “Seen the results of the grapple quarterfinals?” Gwala asked.

  “No,” Hilde said. “And don’t tell me, Manny, I don’t want to know. I’m going to watch the replay when I get off shift.”

  As far as Ben knew, Hilde was the only person who could get away with calling Emmanuel Gwala Manny. They’d obviously worked together for some time. Ben wondered whether they kept the same professional distance when they were off duty. Sometimes they bickered like an old married couple. Were they more than good friends? If it made them happy, he hoped so.

  The little tub cab shuddered for a few moments, as if undecided which way to go, then with a jerk it hurtled into the traffic stream, bouncing haphazardly off the fenders of other cabs as it pushed its way into the throng of similar vehicles.

  Whirling into the denser stream of the main arterial traffic, another tub ricocheted off the sidewall and bounced right into them. A man drove, while his passenger knelt leaning against the cab’s side. Ben’s first thought was that anyone trying to drive in this traffic was crazy. His second thought—always worth taking notice of—said something was wrong with this picture.

  Was it because he’d been thinking of assassins?

  Shit!

  He hit the floor of the tub with Hilde on top of him as something whined overhead. Gwala’s foot was in his face as the big man crouched on the seat to return fire. A dart had lodged itself in what passed for upholstery on the inside door panel.

  Ben pulled a derri out of his thigh pocket and thumbed off the safety. Ordinary citizens were not supposed to carry weapons, especially ballistic projectiles, but this wasn’t the first attempt on his life. Hilde sprang for the cab’s board and took over manual control, crouching down to make a smaller target.

  “There they are.” Gwala indicated a red-and-yellow tub, mercilessly bumping through traffic.r />
  “Quick! After them.” Ben raised his lobstered helmet and flipped down the face shield, leaving only a very small vulnerable gap under his chin. An assassin would have to be lying almost at his feet to make that shot. His buddysuit was armored and would turn a dart, but the assassin had obviously been aiming for his unprotected head. Damn, he didn’t want to have to travel everywhere fully helmed.

  “We’re supposed to be getting you to safety,” Hilde said. “It’s the job. Tengue will pick up the chase.”

  “Once they dump the cab, he doesn’t stand a chance. Move it! At least get close enough to ID them.” His own helmet cam was already recording. “That red and yellow is pretty distinctive. Cotto’s colors, I think.”

  Gwala grunted assent. Hilde smacked her hand down on the control board and they shot forward, rebounded from the same two tubs the would-be assassins had bumped so hard, and zoomed through into a gap, barely twenty meters behind the red-and-yellow tub.

  Ben heard a soft whoosh and turned to see a dart quivering.

  “Air filters. Pull over. Now!” He snapped out.

  Hilde didn’t falter. She swept into a pull-in and jumped out of the cab. Ben held his breath and scrambled out after her.

  Ben’s suit was now blowing filtered air into the face mask. He breathed again.

  The pull-in was a standard platform with a single foam fire extinguisher hanging on the wall. Ben grabbed it, pointed the nozzle at the dart, and released a stream of foam which immediately hardened and formed a shell to seal it in.

  “Gas dart,” Ben said. “Did you activate your air filters?”

  Gwala and Hilde both nodded.

  “They didn’t need to get a direct hit on a body. They could have killed all three of us with that.”

  Thankfully, there was no damage done.

  Hilde and Gwala covered the entrance and exit and the traffic stream. The red-and-yellow cab was long gone, but there was also a chance the attack had been designed to trick them into pulling in to a waiting trap.

  Gwala spoke briefly into his comms unit and then looked up. “Tengue will have a crew here in five minutes.”

  Hilde waved away a couple of curious bystanders.

  “Are you all right?” she asked Ben.

  “Yes, fine.” And he was—at least if you didn’t count the adrenaline pounding through his system. “Did we get close enough for an ID?”

  “I’ve uploaded my helmet cam to the matrix, but I doubt we were close enough to identify faces. However, we did ID the cab, so we can get footage from other security cams. We might be able to identify them.”

  Minutes passed.

  Nothing happened.

  Ben didn’t interfere. He’d leave it to the security team. No use butting in on their territory. Besides, it wasn’t the shooters he had to worry about, it was whoever had employed them. He huffed out a breath.

  “Do you think it was Crowder?” Hilde said.

  “Could be. Could be Crowder, the Trust, Alphacorp or any number of small-time crooks who blame me for Garrick’s decision to legitimize Crossways and put them out of business. Crowder can take a ticket and stand in line.”

  “Crowder’s going to come after you one day.”

  “I know.”

  Tengue arrived with six buddysuited figures in three tub cabs. All had their helms up, face masks down, and breathing tubes at the ready. After the usual are-you-all-right exchanges, Tengue set two of his guards to block the entrance and exit to this quiet throughway.

  “We should go back to Blue Seven while we’re so close,” Hilde said, indicating the tub Tengue had brought for their use.

  “No point,” Ben said. “They’re not likely to try again now we’re on to them, at least not today and not from a tub cab. Let’s get on with living.”

  Chapter Five

  LIFERS

  IT WAS A LIFER GANG—NO DOUBT. A MONITOR skimmer would have had them by now.

  Cara eased back, and her crestie slowed to a walk. Jussaro caught up and matched her pace. Both beasts plodded on, sides heaving, heads down, crests rippling.

  Jussaro swiveled in his saddle. *Can you tell if they’re any closer?*

  *Not really. They’re no farther away, though.*

  He grunted. *How far to Wonnick?*

  Cara checked her handpad. *Fifty-three klicks.*

  *If they’re no closer, they’re not going to be able to close the gap before Wonnick.*

  *Unless they’re a raiding party, in which case they’ll have spare cresties and can make much better time.*

  *I was trying not to dwell on that possibility.*

  They walked the cresties for ten minutes before setting off at a lope again. Cara thought the Lifers might be closer now, but pushing the cresties any faster would see them both on foot sooner rather than later.

  Fourteen klicks farther on, they pulled up to give the cresties another brief breather.

  *Even with my eyesight I can tell they’re closer now.* Jussaro squinted into the distance.

  Cara pushed her scarf aside and took a few sips of water from the skin anchored to the saddle. *Yeah. I didn’t want to worry you. How are you holding up?*

  *Ask my arse. I never want to see another crestedina as long as I live.*

  *Hey, they’re from your home planet.*

  *Why do you think we export them?*

  *Point.*

  They set off again. Cara’s beast stumbled, its pace more sluggish. Cresties were biddable and would keep going for as long as they had breath in their bodies, but because of that, it was possible to run them to a standstill. If that happened, they’d be on foot in this unforgiving landscape. She checked her handpad at regular intervals: twenty klicks to Wonnick. Seventeen. Fourteen. Thirteen. Her crestie stumbled. She halted and slithered off.

  *I’m going to walk for five. Give the big guy a chance to catch his breath.*

  Jussaro joined her on the ground. *How much lead do you figure we have on them now?*

  *Not enough.*

  Five minutes later they both scrambled for their saddles again.

  *Can we make it?* Jussaro asked.

  *If we don’t kill the cresties trying.*

  Nine klicks out from Wonnick, Cara checked the dust cloud behind them. It was closer. She couldn’t make out detail, but by the density of the dust it was a sizable band.

  *Last push,* she told Jussaro. *Let’s go.*

  Both cresties leaped forward.

  A rocket flew over their heads and landed barely a hundred meters in front of them with a dull bang, throwing up a large dust cloud.

  *What the hell was that?* Jussaro said.

  *Ordnance.*

  *Looked more like a firework.*

  *May have started out life as one. Not exactly high tech, but it packs a bang.*

  A second rocket landed about a hundred meters behind them. The cresties bounded forward, startled.

  A third showered them with chunks of baked mud from close by their left.

  *Damn, they’ve found our range,* Cara said.

  *How far now?* Jussaro asked.

  *Three klicks, maybe.* Cara urged her crestie even faster.

  The last few klicks, were pure slog across baked mud riven with cracks and craters.

  Cara heard the rocket but couldn’t judge its trajectory until an explosion knocked her crestie to its knees. She lurched toward its neck, saved only by its crest jabbing hard into her stomach.

  “Come on!”

  It staggered to its feet and galloped on, but its pace was uneven.

  “Can’t stop now.” She urged it on.

  From the top of a slight incline, Cara saw the town of Wonnick spread below them. Relief and consternation vied with each other. It was a collection of mud huts—okay, adobe or maybe cob houses: stone foundations topped with mud bric
ks and then plastered with more mud. The roofs were thatched with osteena stems and overhung the walls to keep the rain from washing away the whole structure.

  But at least it had a wooden palisade. Would that be enough?

  Outside the town walls a large osteena processing shed hunkered down low. Every town had them. Wonnick’s was powered by a pair of helical wind turbines on the roof.

  *Not much to look at, is it?* Jussaro echoed Cara’s first impression.

  *It doesn’t look like I expected Sanctuary to look.*

  *I said Zandra Hartwell embodied Sanctuary. I didn’t promise you’d find it right here, fully formed, but she has the network key. Trust me, if we find Zandra, we’re one step closer.*

  *If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t be here.*

  *Yeah, you would. Lives are at stake.*

  She looked over her shoulder. She could make out individual figures in the dust cloud now. They were close, but Wonnick was closer.

  Her crestie slithered down the hill and raced for the town with Jussaro’s beast barely a pace behind.

  Ben took the antigrav tube from the Mansion House up through the levels to Crossways Control. Garrick and Mother Ramona had set up house there after the battle, opening the Mansion House for refugees, a move that had won them many friends, especially since, more than a year later, they were still living in two rooms next to their respective offices.

  To get to Garrick’s office, Ben had to pass through the operations room where the flight controllers worked. He stepped inside, retracting his buddysuit helm.

  “Hey, it’s Benjamin,” Roebuck said. “Going off-station anytime soon?”

  “Why, have you got another bet on me?”

  “Sure have,” she said.

  “Save your credits. I’ll be sticking strictly to the standoff limits.”

  “That’s what you always say,” Troop joined in. “And then you finish off by saying ‘except in an emergency.’”

  “You don’t want any more emergencies, do you?”

  “Not exactly, but—”