by Gwynn White
Whatever it was, nobody knew the answer, and the British Empire continued to spread into the galaxy without encountering any other sentient species.
“Well.” Tipper held his light up, illuminating the sheer wall in front of them where the tunnel ended. “Now what?”
“Go back for the rope?” She leaned back, lifting her lightstick high. “I think there’s a trapdoor overhead.”
“How do we get to it? Hidden ladders or something?”
That made sense. The workers who used this tunnel in the past wouldn’t want to be carrying around ladders as they went about their business.
“Take that side.” She nodded to the left, then moved to the right and started running her hands over the smooth wall. Soon, her fingers found an irregularity—a long seam running vertically up from the floor to the ceiling.
“Here,” she said, pulling out her makeshift dagger.
Tipper hurried to her side, and together they pried and pulled at the metal. Diana levered it up, then Tipper wedged his gloved hand in the space and yanked. Finally, with a loud creak, the seam parted to reveal a ladder built against the wall.
She jumped back, dropping her lightstick, but Tipper just stood there, laughing. Her heart looped in spirals of astonished joy as she stared at the ladder ascending the wall. They’d done it! They’d actually found their way into the spaceport.
Well, almost. Whether or not they could actually get inside remained to be seen.
10
Diana let Tipper go first up the metal ladder, then followed a safe distance behind. The rungs were cool as rain under her fingers. As they neared the ceiling of the corridor, strange, thumping vibrations filled the air. At first she thought it was drums, but the rhythm was too uneven.
“Footsteps.” She reached up and tapped Tipper on the leg. “I think this opens onto a walkway.”
That complicated matters. Spaceport travelers would not stand idly by as two streetrats clambered up from a shaft in the floor. Especially not two individuals as soiled and bedraggled as herself and Tipper. Her last visit to the bathhouse had been nearly a fortnight ago, and who knew how long it had been since Tipper had washed? Years, maybe, judging by his rank boy-sweat odor and matted hair.
“Let’s get closer,” he said. “I think I see a bolt across.”
Despite her doubts that the hatch was secured by anything so mundane as a bolt, it turned out he was right. She gripped the sides of the ladder tightly as he slid the bolt back in slow, screeching increments. Hopefully, the people tromping above would pay little mind to the noise.
Tipper braced his palms against the trapdoor.
She grabbed the ragged edge of his trousers. “Wait. Not yet.”
She’d been counting the steps, the ebb and flow, the pattern swirling in her head in elliptical shapes. A rise, a smoothening, a dip as the traffic diminished. She didn’t think there would be a perfect moment for them to emerge, not in the middle of the afternoon at the busy spaceport, but a good opportunity was coming. Soon, soon.
“Now,” she said. “Quick!”
Tipper heaved the hatch open and flung himself out. She was right behind him. The door banged against the floor, and the three people in evidence turned, staring. One, a woman in a long, ruffled gown, began to scream.
Moving in accord, Diana and Tipper flipped the hatch closed and raced away, deeper into the spaceport. The woman’s shrieks echoed behind them. Unlike the alleyways of Southampton, there were no side passages, no dark places to duck into. Just flat, straight walls. Diana’s breath burned in her chest, her eyes darting from side to side, barely registering the looks of shock as she and Tipper dashed past.
They had to find a hiding place. Behind them, she could hear the rough commands of Spaceport Security, ordering people out of the way. Her blood iced as she considered the very real possibility that she and Tipper might get shot.
Oh, why hadn’t they waited until night, when the chance of discovery was much lower? They were fools, the both of them, carried along by the current of excitement without considering the cost.
“Stop!” a deep voice bellowed. “Stop those two!”
Diana sidestepped a man in a bowler hat, then wrenched out of an older lady’s grasp. The wild exhilaration of breaching the spaceport had curdled to panic. She and Tipper were in trouble deep.
“Hey!” Tipper yelped.
She whirled to see him caught, arms pinned against his side by a tall man in a tweed suit.
“Tip!”
She went to pull him from his captor’s grasp, but those few seconds was all it took for security to catch up to them. Before she could dash away, a woman in a bright blue uniform grabbed her wrist and slapped a shackle on it. The man holding Tipper thrust him into another guard’s custody, and, just like that, their mad adventure was at an end.
Her euphoria was gone, replaced by a looming sense of dread.
A quick, impersonal frisking left the guard holding Diana’s makeshift knife and her unwanted brat bar. She’d missed the money bound to the inside of Diana’s ankle, though—not that tuppence and three was worth anything, where they were going.
Jail, most like—but Diana hoped rather desperately that she and Tip wouldn’t be separated. Surely their crime wasn’t enough to warrant transportation? The thought made her stomach clench.
“It’s over, you two,” the guard holding her said. “Come quietly.”
Diana pulled in a deep breath. At least she’d seen the inside of the spaceport—however briefly. She didn’t try to pull away. Though she’d never been in stun shackles before, she knew how they worked and had no desire to put them, or the guard’s temper, to the test.
Tipper shuffled his feet and hung his head low—no doubt remembering his all-to-recent captivity—but Diana looked everywhere. They’d paid dearly enough to get inside the spaceport, and she wanted to take it all in: the travelers hurrying to catch their ships, porters pushing brass luggage trollies behind, the uniformed starliner attendants, a woman clad in brown leather, who surely must be a pilot.
And stitched through it all, the thrum of ships decelerating, landing, taking off. The air vibrated with the sound. Windows on the far wall showed tantalizing glimpses of the ships outside, but Diana knew better than to linger.
The officers led them down one shining hallway, then another. Ahead, doors whooshed open and closed, the brighter light of day spilling through.
And then they were outside, on a partially enclosed walkway, and Diana nearly forgot she was a prisoner. On the right-hand side of the walk, ships spread in a half-circle in their berths. She couldn’t help but slow down as she stared, cataloguing. There—a Xeros 2000, sleek as an arrow. Beside it, the crablike shell of an older hauler bound for the asteroid mining belt.
On the far left, another freighter rose, engines wheezing, but holding. Overloaded, by the way it listed slightly in the air, and not with legal goods she’d wager. She frowned. Couldn’t the authorities tell when smugglers freighted contraband out right under their noses?
At the midpoint of the freighter’s arc, a Class A Cruzline ship began ignition. The fore engines fired, and then the aft. Slowly, the ship rose, gleaming and no doubt full of important and moneyed passengers.
Diana halted. Something was wrong.
“Keep moving,” the guard said. Her name badge simply read Nails.
“Wait… wait.” Diana leaned forward, listening, watching, calculating the arc of the Cruzline as it began its ascent.
Deep in her memory, she heard the shriek of an omnibus horn. Felt her blood slow as she once again recognized the trajectory of disaster. This time, they must listen.
“Stop that ship!” She lifted her shackled wrist and pointed at the sleek passenger ship.
The woman’s hand fell to the stun unit at her belt. “Don’t make me use this.”
“They’re going to crash!” Diana strained forward. “Contact the control center—it’s a direct collision course in… twenty seconds. Please, tell t
hem! Please!”
The guard narrowed her eyes, but the panic in Diana’s voice must have convinced her. Her gaze went unfocused as she activated her nano-comm and spoke hurriedly, using lots of acronyms and letters.
Twelve seconds.
“Do it,” the security woman said, her voice hard. “I don’t care—just abort the liftoff.”
Diana’s attention fixed on the gruesome calculation unfolding overhead. Her lungs clenched so tight, she had no room for breath. No air. I’m sorry, Mama. Papa.
The bright ship tried to veer, but it was going fast. Too fast.
Eight seconds. Seven. Six.
The Cruzline’s engines stalled, and Diana sucked in her breath. Three. Two.
One.
The edge of the Cruzline nicked the freighter, then spun out, but beautifully slowly. The pilot was good enough to control the move, steering his craft into a shining silver loop. The freighter wobbled, the collision barley nudging the massive ship off-course.
Diana grasped the railing to keep herself upright, her knees weak with relief. With redemption. The breath shuddered back into her lungs as the Cruzline steadied and returned to its berth. A security bugship, lights flashing, buzzed the freighter, leading it back to the customs screening pad.
Eyes blurred, she glanced up at the cloud-specked blue overhead. In a different universe, the air would be full of fire and death and a hundred personal tragedies. But not this world. Not this day.
She lifted her hand to rub at her eyes, the motion cut short by the cuff on her wrist. With a slump of her shoulders, she turned back to the guard. For a moment, she’d forgotten that she was still a prisoner, bound for more trouble than she’d ever imagined.
“Right away, sir,” Nails said. Her gaze cleared and she looked at Diana. “Taking you upstairs to meet the director.”
Diana glanced at Tipper, who stood uncharacteristically silent. If they were separated, she had the feeling she’d never see him again.
“My companion comes, too,” she said.
The security guard hesitated.
“I mean it.” Diana put the steel of truth in her voice. She hadn’t spent her entire savings just to see him hauled away by Spaceport Security.
Whatever was going on—and it probably had to do with the averted crash—she and Tipper were in it together. After all, without him, she wouldn’t even have been there to witness the near-collision.
“Very well—the both of you. Don’t try anything.” This last was directed at Tipper, with a narrow-eyed glare.
He put on his wounded face, and Diana felt a stir of grim amusement. His expression wouldn’t get him anywhere with Nails, but at least they wouldn’t be separated.
The security guards led them through several corridors, and then to a grav lift tucked in a corner. Another guard stood there, clearly expecting them. He keyed open the lift, and the doors swooshed open.
Nails led her inside, and Diana tried not to show the nerves etching a jagged graph through her mind. It was too posh—the marble floor and polished wooden walls of the lift far above the normal trappings of the spaceport. The smooth, fast rise left her courage sinking to her feet. Tipper shot her a look that showed too much eye, clearly just as nervous about wherever they were going.
The lift slowed and halted, the doors slid open, and Diana blinked at the view. She barely noticed the plush burgundy carpeting and wingback chairs, the wide desk or the gray-haired man sitting behind it. Her eyes were drawn inexorably to the huge bank of windows on the wall opposite the lift.
They were at the very top of the spaceport. Ships dived and flew, and she could see the neighborhoods of Southampton spread out beyond the silvery wall. The portside slums, of course, were behind them—a view no one wanted to contemplate.
“And so.” The man behind the desk stood, revealing a portly figure dressed in well-tailored clothing. “Our heroine of the hour. Come, come.”
He gestured to her, and Diana took a step forward, trying not to wince at the pain in her tailbone.
“Wait.” He held up a hand. “Remove her cuff, Nails, if you please. I would like to shake this young woman’s hand without fear of a shock.”
He laughed, and the security guards guffawed along with him, though their laughter sounded forced.
“Apologies, Director Quinn.” Nails quickly took the cuff off, with a warning look at Diana. Her hand grazed the lightpistol holstered at her side, the message clear.
The luxurious surroundings made Diana acutely aware of her own grime and stink. She lifted her chin. If this director fellow wanted to talk to her, he’d have to take her as she was.
Somewhat to her surprise, he actually did step forward and take her hand, giving it a firm shake.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Diana.” She didn’t think he’d appreciate her street name of Diver. “Diana Smythe.”
“The spaceport owes you a debt of thanks, Miss Smythe. Are you aware that a very important delegation was aboard that Cruzline vessel?”
She shook her head, but it didn’t surprise her. Who else but the toffest nobs would book passage on that kind of ship?
“Without your acute observational skills, a very messy incident would have occurred. Tell me—how did you know the ships were on a collision course?”
“It was clear as glass, least to me,” she said. “The liftoff arcs intersected. That freighter’s smuggling something. They were too slow to clear the line of flight.” When Nails prodded her in the back, she added a belated, “Sir.”
“And you could tell all that at a glance?” He didn’t sound doubtful, just curious.
“Yes.”
“She’s always been good at such things, sir,” Tipper said. “Knowing how a mark moves through a crowd, or the fall of dice, or—”
He broke off as Diana elbowed him in the ribs.
“I notice suchlike,” she said.
“Hm.” Director Quinn gave her a keen look. “Join me at the window, if you would.”
Diana followed him to the expanse, and her spirits lifted at the view. The whole port spread out below her feet. All those lives and dreams and arrows to the stars, shot right from here—the busiest port in England, the center of Empire—straight into the heart of the stars.
“What do you see?” he asked. “Describe the ships to me as they come and go.”
It was a test, though she wasn’t sure what the penalty for failure might be. She narrowed her eyes and rolled forward on the balls of her feet, focusing on the geometry, the arcs and parabolas forming and re-forming outside the window.
“That ship—the Tellium X class, just landing. They’re coming in a little too fast. Bet they get a warning. And the Aristo there needs a tune-up. They should have better lift, especially a later model like that.”
She continued to scan the spaceport, pointing out holes where ships were too slow or too fast, speculating aloud on destinations and cargo, flagging possible smugglers and lazy pilots. All the while, the director nodded and, judging by his slightly unfocused stare, accessed his nano-comm.
Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Diana’s throat tightened from talking so much. Behind her, she could hear Tipper fidgeting and coughing. Finally, the director spoke.
“Impressive,” he said. “You have quite a gift, Miss Smythe. You strike me as something along the lines of a mathematical genius. Have you ever considered putting your talents to official use?”
She took a step back, her dingy boots sinking into the plush carpet. Did they mean to barter? No jail time for her and Tipper, in exchange for her servitude? Or could she ask for even more? With the director praising her odd skills, perhaps she had the advantage.
It was a daring notion, but then, the day had been full of extraordinary things. And she’d just saved two ships full of people, after all. That was worth something.
“Seems to me you need me in your employ, then,” she said. “After stopping the crash and all.”
Director Quinn’s brows ro
se. “Do you think so?”
“Who else could spot the things I just saw? The spaceport would function more efficiently if you hired me. I could help watch the ships, calculate trajectories, tell when something’s off. Don’t you need something like that?”
“As a matter of fact, we do. Which is why we’ve commissioned work on a Calculations Device that would do the very things you mention.”
Her heart dipped. They didn’t need her then, and it would be jail after all.
“However,” the director said, “work on the device is going rather slowly. Until it’s functional, I don’t see why you couldn’t join us here in the spaceport. Under proper supervision, of course.”
“Then you’ll do it?” She tried not to let her hope show in her eyes. “You’ll hire me on?”
He frowned. “It wouldn’t do to have a streetrat in our employ. Would you be willing to live in a flat provided by the spaceport, in addition to your salary?”
“I don’t live in the West Quay slums because I love it,” she said, perhaps a bit too tartly.
Director Quinn simply laughed, however. “I’ll take that as a yes, then. Miss Smythe, on behalf of Spaceport Authority, I would like to offer you employment. Help us achieve the stars to the best of our ability, and put your rare skills in the service of the greater cause of humanity.”
It was a pompous speech, but it stirred her all the same. There was a glint of truth in the director’s eye that touched her, even more than his grand words. Who didn’t dream of the freedom of the galaxy, after all?
“Tipper comes with me,” she said. After what they’d been through, she couldn’t just abandon him to his fate. “What’s the pay?”
“Ever practical, aren’t you?” He named a sum that stilled her heart for a moment.
But only a moment.
“A week?” she asked, half in jest.
This time it was Director Quinn’s turn to blink. Then he laughed again.
