“It belongs to the university.”
Again he shrugged. “Well, it did. It doesn’t anymore.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How can you say that? This is important.” She shook her head. “Nuh-uh. It has to go back. We have to take it back.”
“Oh, come on, Billie. We’ve dealt with stuff that’s been stolen before. Why this now?”
“It’s just important, that’s all. You should have heard Hervé talk about all that stuff. The City of Trees and everything. You were too interested in your stupid case to understand what he was saying. It doesn’t belong to you, Jack.”
He narrowed his eyes back at her. She was really starting to annoy him now. “Dammit, Billie. It’s out of my control. You know who’s playing with this stuff. If it gets taken back, it’ll just get stolen again. And I could tell you a thing or two about your precious Hervé, too.”
“What do you mean by that?” She’d crossed her arms and was sitting in her defiant stance, back straight, jaw thrust out.
He sighed. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“But it does matter,” she said.
“No. Forget it.”
She growled at him, got to her feet and stomped off into her room. A second later the door shut, hard.
Dammit. Apparently he’d put his foot in it again.
The next morning Billie was still sulking, being precious with her conversation. Jack really didn’t have time for her little performances. He needed to make sure he was ready for his rendezvous with the Alan Dean. Bridgett Farrell had been right about one thing—knowing Landerman and the sorts of things he was involved in, it was a fair assumption that he’d have someone watching the port, especially if he wanted to get hold of the artifact so badly.
He pulled on his coat, patting his pockets to make sure he had his handipad. He was about to head for the door when he had another thought. If Landerman truly did have someone there, then he’d better go prepared, and there was only one logical extra precaution to take. He reached up to the top shelf and retrieved the weapon he’d acquired from where he’d left it. He held it in his hand, looking at it with distaste for a few seconds. The thing was heavy. Nasty. But it would do the job if he needed it. He just hoped he wouldn’t. He shoved it away in his pocket, feeling the unfamiliar weight dragging his coat on one side. He really ought to have a proper holster, but he wasn’t going to make a habit of carrying the thing, so he could do without for now.
As he left the living room, Billie was pointedly ignoring him. He gave a little shake of his head and left her to it. Hopefully by the time he got back, she might have gotten over it and her mood as well.
Out on the street, he walked quickly to the shuttle stop. As he clambered aboard, he thought it funny that he would be going back to the port so soon after their little trip to Mandala. Sometimes, things just seemed to work in clusters.
The trip uptown was uneventful, and he entered the Yorkstone port area with a brooding sense of déjà vu, only this time he wasn’t carrying luggage. Dammit. He should have thought to bring the smaller travel bag with him, something to stow the item out of sight when he finally got hold of it. It was too late now to go back and get it.
The ground transport to the spaceport was empty. He sat alone, watching the empty landscape pass by, looking at Yorkstone’s track where it had chewed up the ground in its progress. Farther back, regrowth was starting to occur, but the whole process took years of recovery. Sometimes the city tracks remained barren for years afterwards, after the city builders had leached the ground of everything they could use.
The transport crossed a ridge, and there, revealed, lay the ocean and the spaceport spread out below him. Navigational requirements meant the complex needed to be a fixed structure so they’d have one identifiable place to aim for. They shipped in raw materials for the structures to renew themselves and maintain further growth. The port itself was a cluster of domed structures, spreading from a central hub into various terminals. Passengers arrived and left from the southern area. To the north of the complex lay the commercial and transport areas. Well separated from the rest lay a drab, unmarked dome, the home of a small military unit. Even from this distance, Jack could see the colored flickering of the passenger terminals as displays and advertisements flashed across the internal dome surfaces.
The ground transport dropped him at the passenger terminal, and he took a few moments to get his bearings. He had to go through the main concourse, right through the shopping area, and up a connecting tunnel. The port itself serviced not only spaceflight, but domestic passenger transports as well, connecting flights to the larger cities. For some reason this afternoon was busy, and the domestic gates were crowded with arriving and departing passengers. It could be a good thing or a bad thing, thought Jack. He’d either be lost in the crowd, or there’d be lots of people to see him. He really did need something to carry the artifact in, or he’d stand out like a sore thumb. He grimaced and looked around. What he needed was something he could buy that needed a bag, but was light and disposable. Nobody, but nobody, was just going to give him a bag.
Wait. This was a port. They had to have a travel accessories store somewhere. He located an information pillar and punched up directions. Yes, there was one, but it was over in the far end of the terminal. There was nothing else for it. He strode quickly in that direction, keeping an eye out for anything that might be closer and could possibly serve the purpose. As he walked he kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Another thought quickly came to him. He hoped to hell there wasn’t a security check between the passenger and freight terminals; otherwise he’d be forced to get rid of the gun. Maybe more than that . . . he’d have to explain the artifact on the way back. He just didn’t want to have to do that at all. Stupid, Stein. He should have thought it through better.
At the other end of the concourse, he spotted the small accessories shop and walked quickly over to it. He wandered around the displays, but there was nothing there that seemed even slightly appropriate. There was a wall panel over to one side, and he headed for that instead. A couple of taps and he found just what he was looking for, a small black flight bag with a detachable strap. It didn’t cost too much either. He punched up the order, took his handipad and made payment, then reached into the delivery slot and dug out the bag. It was neatly folded, light. He uncoiled the strap, attached it to the clips, and put it over his shoulder. He then had another thought and reached down into the bag, running his hand around the inside so that any visible folds were cleared away. That was better. Making sure there was no one to see him do it, he reached into his pocket and surreptitiously transferred the gun into the bag, then sealed it shut. He still hadn’t worked out what he’d do if it came down to a search, but he’d deal with that if it happened.
The walk to the cargo berth took him a good twenty minutes. The spaceport hadn’t thought to install moving walkways in the connecting tunnels. He guessed anyone coming this way would be traveling on one of those small square beeping transports.
As he approached the entrance arches to the cargo areas, he was starting to feel nervous about the gun carried hidden in the bag by his side. He needn’t have worried though; it was straight-through access, no security, no checks. It made sense really. The port was far enough away from any city that it would take a real effort to get out here. You’d only really make that effort if you had some real business out here. The cargo section was set out in a wide arc, with loading docks stretching out like teeth from a wheel. Jack stood in the entranceway, looking for some indication of what lay where. There were no signs, nothing. He walked slowly along the dock, seeking clues. A few ships sat off in the distance out through the half-shell entrance. In closer was some company hauler, big, shiny and new. The ships further out were none so grand. His footsteps echoed as he walked and the smell of machines and something else, probably fuel, tinged the underdome space. He glanced up at the flat dome surface, gray, strangely reminiscent of the flat solid sky in his dreams.
There had to be some way to get out to the ships, but there didn’t look like there was any form of transport in evidence. Maybe this place was only staffed when they were loading or unloading, or when a ship was due in, because right now, there wasn’t a single sign of life.
“Dammit,” he muttered.
“Can I help you?” The voice came from above and behind him at the same time.
“What?” Jack turned around and around, but there was no sign of anyone.
“Can I help you?”
Jack shook his head. There was no pinning down the source of the voice. “Yeah, maybe. I’m looking for the Alan Dean.”
“Of course. Behind you.”
That was stupid. The ship wasn’t . . . he turned slowly. What before had apparently been blank wall was now completely clear from about waist height up. Two men sat there in port uniforms sitting at a desk. One of them held a mug, and the other one sat back with another mug sitting on the desk in front of him. The one not holding the mug waved him closer.
“Over there, toward the left. It’s the old brown hauler, slightly beaten up. It’ll be a bit of a walk though. All the transports are currently out. I’m not sure if there’s anyone out there though. He’s been down a while. It should be safe to go out there now if you want to. There’s nothing else due in today.”
That would explain the lack of activity. And of course, there were no transports. Great. Just what he needed—more walking. “But the Alan Dean was due in about four thirty, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, came in a couple of hours early.”
And he’d wasted time fiddling around in the accessories shop.
“Okay. Thanks,” said Jack.
“No problem. Do you want me to page the ship for you, see if anyone’s out there?”
That was the last thing Jack wanted. He didn’t want anyone warning the captain he was coming. “No, thanks. I’ll be fine. Wish me a pleasant walk, guys.”
The man who had spoken grinned and the other raised his mug in salute. The wall went blank again. With a knowing nod and a wry smile, Jack headed for the nearest stairway to the ground. Yeah, let them laugh. A job like that, you had to get your entertainment where you could find it.
It was a long walk out, and by the time Jack neared the ship, he was grumbling. At least he’d headed for the right ship. There it was, Alan Dean in letters as battered as the old tub itself. He stood looking along its length for a couple of minutes, wondering how much business this Captain Gourley actually got. A hatch toward the front sat open. Okay, that was a good sign. It looked like the good captain was in residence.
Jack headed for the stairs leading up to the hatch. They creaked as he put his foot on the bottom one and groaned as his full weight followed. They didn’t feel very solid at all and shook with each step. At the top he stepped quickly inside the lock, trusting more to the battered hull than the steps themselves. Inside the lock, the ship reeked of unwashed human stuck in a confined space for too long. He wrinkled his nose and tried to breathe through his mouth as he stepped inside properly. He stopped and listened—there was no noise, not even the sound of circulating air, but that much should have been evident. Captain Gourley clearly ran things lean.
He was just about to head for the front when something made him stop. A sudden chill worked in his guts. Reaching down slowly to the bag, as quietly as he could, he unsealed it and felt around for the gun. He lifted it out slowly, looking first one way up the corridor, then down the other. Still there was no sound, no sense of movement. Frowning, senses on alert, he took one silent step toward the ship’s front, followed by another. Closer to the very front, something else struck him. It was the vaguest scent. A smell, familiar.
“Oh, shit,” he whispered under his breath. Blood.
He held the weapon at the ready and moved closer to the door. There were smears on the door’s edge. Quickly he ducked his head around the frame. The space beyond was a chaos of disorder. His brief glance hadn’t been enough to get any proper impression, but there was no one living in there at least. Slowly he moved his face around the door. It was where the captain spent his time. There were bits and pieces of clothing, junk, food, everything. There was blood on the floor as well. Not a lot, but there was blood. There was no sign of anything that looked vaguely like the artifact. He looked beyond the room, but there was nothing farther forward.
Jack came back and stared at the blood. What had happened here? Someone had been wounded. No sign of the artifact. No sign of any body. No sign of Captain Gourley. He walked the length of the ship, through the stinking disorder, looking for some other clue to what had taken place, but there was nothing apart from more mess and disorder.
He headed back up to the captain’s living quarters and gingerly started shifting some of the mess around, looking for the artifact or anything else that might prove useful. After a while of fruitless searching, he realized that it was pointless. He might as well give up.
Dammit. He had to assume that the artifact was gone. Whoever had done this already had it.
Nineteen
All the way back to Yorkstone, Jack was cursing himself. If only he hadn’t wasted time in the port. If only he’d been there earlier. It was all “if only,” and he knew there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it, but it still rankled. In the shuttle back down from Yorkstone’s port to the apartment, it was no better. He got a couple of suspicious looks from fellow passengers as he muttered to himself under his breath, but he ignored them. Now he had to work out who the hell had taken the thing. And what had happened to the captain, anyway? The most likely suspect was one of Landerman’s people, possibly even Larkin himself, but there was nothing there apart from blood to tell him that. He wouldn’t put it past any of the Outreach crew either. It was just as likely that they could have arranged it. Well, one thing he knew for sure; it wasn’t Bridgett Farrell. At least he didn’t think it was. She had seemed reluctant to leave her apartment, but then that could have been bluff as well, knowing her. Just some performance meant to convince him that she was an innocent victim. As he left the shuttle, he was no closer to an answer, and he was cursing his missing senses again as well. Missing . . . well, he hoped it was more like dormant. He really should have had some warning. More “should haves.” He growled to himself as he walked toward the apartment.
He was bouncing on his heels all the way up in the elevator, desperate for a coffee, anything to take his mind briefly away from the problem. Already, he could see the look on Billie’s face. You’ve screwed up again, Jack. What are you going to do about it, Jack?
Stepping out of the elevator, something snagged him like a cold hook grabbing the middle of his abdomen. Jack stopped where he was, waiting, sensing, extending his perceptions. No, he wasn’t imagining it; the feeling was definitely there. Carefully, he reached down into the bag and pulled out the gun. He stood just outside the elevator, hesitating. What if it was Billie? What if something had happened to her?
“Dammit, Stein. No more ‘what ifs,’ ” he said quietly. Step by careful step, he headed down the corridor and toward the apartment door. He stood there for a couple of seconds, listening, sensing, seeing if there was anything further to hold on to. But nothing . . . just the cold hard chill nestled in his gut.
The door was locked. He hissed with exasperation.
“Open,” he said, but it remained firmly sealed. “Billie, are you in there? Open up.”
He leaned on the wall beside the door, the gun held upright, ready, waiting.
Still nothing.
“Billie. Dammit!”
Gritting his teeth, transferring his grip on the weapon, he reached out with his left hand and physically knocked, rapping sharply on the door. He was just about to knock again when it opened a crack, and a sliver of Billie’s face peered out.
“Are you alone?” she said, looking past him through the narrow opening.
“Shit, Billie. What is it? Let me in!”
She opened the door a touch wider and po
ked her head out, looking both ways up the hallway, and then pulled back, opening the door only wide enough for him to slip inside.
“Come on,” she said through closed teeth when he hesitated. “Quick!”
He stepped past her and she shut the door. “Lock.”
Jack turned on her. “Dammit, Billie, what is it? We’ve talked about this before. You can’t just lock me out.”
Instead of answering, she waved for him to follow, her face a pale brushstroke in the dim light of the entranceway.
Frowning now, Jack followed as she led the way into the living room. She stood in the room’s center, waiting for him, her head tilted toward the couch. She wasn’t alone.
Lying there on the couch was a man, unshaven, rumpled clothes, a thick old spacer’s jacket and a broad dark stain across his chest. His face was gray, his breathing shallow. Jack knew the dark stain was blood. There was no issue worrying about some guy bleeding all over the couch. The couch had already consumed most of it and would be done with it soon.
“Shit,” said Jack. Forget about how he managed to get here—what the hell was he doing here? This had to be Captain Gourley. He sure as hell wasn’t some stray resident of Yorkstone. Jack wasn’t sure if the guy was conscious, but he didn’t look very good at all. Slowly he lowered the gun, tossed it on the chair, and undraped the bag from his shoulder, dumping it as well.
“How long’s he been here?” said Jack, looking down at him distastefully.
“About an hour,” said Billie, still looking pale. She was holding up pretty well considering.
Damn. Jack didn’t want to touch him. He didn’t really know quite what to do about him.
“Did he say anything?”
Billie gave a little shrug. “Just your name, then he sort of collapsed inside. I had to help him to the couch.” She waved over to one side. “He had that with him.”
There was a bundle lying on one of the chairs, wrapped in greasy gray cloth. Jack merely glanced at it. He crossed to the couch and squatted down. The man’s breathing really was barely there. Reaching out a hand, he prodded at one dirty shoulder. There was a brief flutter of the eyelids, but no other reaction. Jack shook a little harder.
Metal Sky Page 20
