by Sean Danker
I gazed at it while Willis swore into her com.
The door unlocked; the old man must have keyed it remotely. We went through, into another set of unattractive corridors, but there were faint sounds of life. We were getting closer to the action. A dispenser that had once offered decon cream for hands was covered in some kind of red mold, which had spread onto the bulkhead. Freeber and Willis didn’t seem to notice it; Sei and I moved to the other wall and slipped past as far from it as we could get.
The next hatch took us directly into a dark storefront. It was a shop that sold physical components. Robotics, by the look of things. They had to be highly specialized parts, because most businesses would just print their own when something broke down on them. The objects in view were for show; these physical locations were only symbolic. No one had time to actually visit a place like this. The Bazaar was crawling with robotics and services built around delivering physical wares to their buyers.
This guy they were taking us to—the Dane—had a sensitive job. They’d said the words “gray market.” I wasn’t intimately familiar with the terminology, but I took that to mean he wasn’t hung up on the Free Trade Charter. That would necessitate a little more discretion for both him and his patrons.
That seemed normal enough. Free Trade culture wasn’t as savage as Evagardians thought it was, and it was nothing if not predictable. Imperials had the Empress, and Free Traders had the bottom line. We all lived to serve.
Willis and Freeber knew where they were going. They had used this route before, and they kept a brisk pace through the store, hustling us to the hatch. The noise on the other side was muted by the air seal, but I knew it would be loud. I braced myself and looked at Sei. He was holding together well. That stood to reason if he was in the Service. And he’d mentioned something about a rough tour. He’d probably seen some things.
Willis checked something on her holo, glanced at me and Sei, then threw back the latch and pushed the door open.
There was a lot going on in the Bazaar, so much that it was difficult to make sense of it. The only thing I could see was the scale. It was probably two hundred meters to the other side of the corridor, and half a kilometer down to the lowest floor. I couldn’t even guess how far we were from the top.
A dizzying network of walkways spanned the gap, and personal flyers glided past in glittering lines.
The opposite side of the corridor was a grid of thousands of businesses and enterprises, vendors and merchants. I knew our side was the same. People milled far below, little more than a vague swarm.
The noise was painful, and so were the smells. I’d been in big stations, but never with this kind of open design. It was overwhelming. I couldn’t look at any one thing; there was too much, and a lot of it was so far away that I couldn’t see it clearly. It was a teeming mess. Even in good health, it would’ve made me want to pass out. There were limits to what the brain could handle.
Willis made a disgusted sound. “Here we go,” she said.
Freeber went to a door a few meters down from the one we’d emerged from. He touched his earpiece and muttered something, and the latch fell out of place. He got the door open, and Willis prodded us through.
It was a tiny bay for a small flyer. The cramped space was made more cramped by tall stacks of boxes with logos from Bazaar delivery services on them. There was an acrid stench in the air, and a single plastic advertisement on the wall for Isakan whiskey.
The flyer was sleek and glossy purple. It had a closed top and a gaudy emblem on the front. It was trying to be the sort of flyer a self-important chem dealer might cruise in on a Trigan world, but it was falling a bit short. Those flyers were much more elaborate and bombastic.
Freeber opened the rear cargo space and unceremoniously shoved Sei inside. That struck me as rude; why couldn’t we ride in the back? The flyer had room for four, maybe even five people.
I didn’t get to ask. I was muted.
Freeber pushed me in as well and slammed the lid.
8
“DOESN’T look so bad,” Diana said, eyeing the bright lights and festive atmosphere of the little casino through the shuttle’s front viewport. Young people were dancing spiritedly outside, a small mobile cart was serving drinks, and it looked like a party was getting under way.
“You’ve got something,” Salmagard said, pointing at a notification.
“Registration fee?” Diana looked offended. “Just for docking? Like it’s a privilege?”
“I’ll pay it.”
“No, I’ve got it.” Diana produced her holo and transferred the money. “And will they even guide us? No? I have to do this by hand?”
“You’re a good pilot,” Salmagard said. It was true. Diana was so deft at the controls that Salmagard had trouble believing this was her first time flying a shuttle. Even if she said she was a fighter pilot, it was clear she could fly anything. Indicators appeared on the display to warn them if they got too close to anything, but no alerts flashed.
“Not good enough for Oen Bjorn,” Diana replied bitterly, guiding them deftly into the tight rows of shuttles.
Salmagard didn’t know who that was. She hoped Diana wasn’t going to turn morose again.
“Remember,” Salmagard said. “If we can’t get them out, we can’t. All we have to do is keep track of them. As long as they’re alive and we know where they are, even if things get bad, the GRs can handle it.”
“I’m not leaving Sei. Not if they’re being mistreated.”
Salmagard swallowed. She felt the same way. “Quite,” she said, taking Idris’ pistol from her sash and checking it.
“How should we do this? You’re the negotiator.”
Salmagard considered it. “We’ll ask to see whoever’s in charge.”
“And?”
“And we will—” she began, but stopped, considering it. “We will compel them to tell us if they’ve seen our boys.” Salmagard tried to put a little firmness in her voice.
The shuttle locked in place between a Luna yacht and a Free Trade peacekeeping patroller. Local peacekeepers—they wouldn’t do them any good. Free Trade authorities only cared about crime relating to money. In Salmagard’s mind, that was irrational—the Free Trade economy relied on money from all around the galaxy. If people didn’t think Free Trade space was safe, they wouldn’t visit it. Free Trade authorities should’ve felt obliged to be very hard on crime and to cultivate an atmosphere and culture of gentility.
But it didn’t work that way at all. At the end of the day, people wanted what they wanted—and for many things, this was the only place to get it. People wouldn’t stop patronizing Free Trade space no matter how dangerous it was. It was that simple.
Diana unstrapped from the pilot’s seat and pulled on her new jacket, fastening it shut and rolling up the sleeves. It was quite a look: the oversized trousers and a jacket that only fastened in the middle, revealing plenty of pale skin. Diana’s hair was a mess and her eyes were blazing. The pale woman opened and closed her hands with a series of soft pops and snaps.
Salmagard got up, politely ignoring those alarming sounds from Diana’s joints. She reflected that Diana’s peculiarities probably worked in their favor. They would add to their intimidation factor, which Salmagard suspected they were going to need.
They disembarked, boarding a small float platform. Diana swept her holo across the pad, paying for the lift.
“You have to pay for everything here,” she complained.
“But it’s not very expensive.”
“It’s barbaric. It’s the principle—it’s undignified. It’s shameless. Desperation isn’t pretty, and neither is greed.”
Salmagard couldn’t argue with that, but Alice Everly had always warned her never to judge galactics. She tightened her sash, and she could feel the cold of the metal underfoot. She’d left her shoes behind at Idris’ place. Her hair wasn’t
ruined, but it was just askew enough to be distracting. She did what she could to adjust her assorted combs and ribbons, but the ride was short and the lift touched down before she could finish.
At first Salmagard had worried that their disheveled appearance would draw attention, but that wasn’t the case.
Heimer’s Gaming Parlor was packed with such a colorful array of people that it made the sights and sounds of Imperial Pointe seem mild by comparison. The waiters and waitresses, the dancers, the images on the displays, even the patrons themselves—they were all more interesting to look at than Salmagard and Diana.
A performer in a gravity bubble had some spectacular and distracting anatomical modifications, and there was a woman who wore nothing but a robotic snake covered in blue fur. At least, Salmagard assumed it was robotic. Out here maybe engineered organisms were legal and accepted. She didn’t know. The snake hissed at a passing waitress, who twirled by, unperturbed, her holographic skirt spinning and sparkling wildly.
They entered the establishment and paid the cover fee, taking it all in. It was, like so many places Salmagard had found herself in since leaving imperial space, loud. Perhaps Red Yonder was a bit like this, only on a larger scale. And probably a trifle classier.
Salmagard was new to the Service; Diana had already done a combat tour, so she was supposed to be the experienced one. But she was just gaping at the dancer in the bubble, and while Salmagard silently agreed that he was impressive, she was determined to stay on task.
She thought about Willis and Freeber, and felt her fists clench. She turned on the nearest bouncer.
“We need to speak to the proprietor.” She had to raise her voice over the music.
He gave her a blank look, then nodded. “You’re early,” he said, taking her by the shoulder and guiding her past the rows of gaming machines. People seemed to know to get out of his way.
Diana seemed taken aback, but Salmagard wasn’t complaining—there was some kind of misunderstanding, but she didn’t care about details; she wanted results. She let the man guide her through the rows of screens and gaming machines, wondering if her eyes were going to adjust to all these lights and colors.
She thought about how her family would react to the news that she had set foot in an establishment like this. Forget the circumstances behind it all; this was scandalous. It was alien.
But no worse than everything that had already happened.
There were more dancers, both in bubbles and on a stage. One was actually in a cage. Most of them were female. Salmagard had never given it a lot of thought. She knew her family was privileged, but she’d never thought they were too different from everyone else.
But just the gap between her lifestyle and that of the average Evagardian subject was substantial. And the gap between that average Evagardian and this was staggering. It was just like Alice Everly had said: it was one thing to know, and another to see.
Salmagard could feel anxiety in her chest. It wasn’t just fear for the Admiral—this was too much. Acting alone without orders, seeing the contrast between the Imperium and the rest of the galaxy up close. It was a lot to deal with. It was getting to her.
In a moment they were off the main floor, in a short, dim corridor. There was less noise, and that helped. Salmagard breathed.
The bouncer tapped on a door.
“This is you,” he said. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”
He walked off. Salmagard and Diana hesitated. There were no signs, nothing to indicate what these rooms were.
“Does any of this make sense to you?” Diana asked. Salmagard shook her head and hit the release for the door. Inside was a plush circular room. It was ringed by a purple sofa. Above was a zero-g bubble, just like the ones out on the floor.
“Oh,” Diana said. “That’s flattering.”
“What?”
“They must be expecting a new dancer. They think it’s you.” She snorted and hit the release, sealing them in. “Because they sure as the Empress don’t think it’s me.”
“I see,” Salmagard said slowly. “Do I seem like the sort to do that?”
Diana was still gazing up at the bubble. “You’re built for it, at least. Must be nice.”
“What?”
“Work like this. Lots of attention. And the job skills are more transferable than knowing how to pilot a top secret experimental fighter. No one trying to kill you. Could be worse.” Diana looked distant.
Salmagard folded her arms, annoyed. “Is that really what I look like to these people?”
“Different culture.” Diana waved a hand. “Don’t let galactics offend you; there’s no money in it. That guy thinks you’re the new dancer, so maybe this is an interview. Maybe he’s expecting you to dance for him to get him to hire you. I wonder if he’s good-looking. That’s the cliché, right? That you sleep with them to get them to hire you? That’s what they do in all the dramas.”
Salmagard gave her a questioning look.
“What?” Diana asked.
“In any case,” Salmagard said, “we can have a word with him. See if he knows anything about that man and woman.”
“We’ll have him all to ourselves. These people are convenient.”
“I’m sure all of this would be a lot more difficult if they were taking us seriously,” Salmagard said. “But they aren’t expecting trouble. We have to exploit that.”
“Why doesn’t anyone respect imperials?”
“We are not popular,” Salmagard said, surprising herself. It was obvious to her now that she had never properly appreciated how big the universe was, and just how much values and cultures could differ.
She’d known that galactics were different from people raised in the embrace of the Empress, but she’d never thought those differences could be quite so radical.
The door opened, and Diana reacted instantly. She violently yanked the man inside, throwing him onto the sofa. Salmagard leveled her pistol at him, holding a finger to her lips. He was a short, older man in a tremendously expensive suit.
Diana glanced outside, then sealed the door.
“You’re not my new holo editor,” the man in the suit said, narrowing his eyes.
Salmagard ignored that. “We’re looking for a man and a woman who have some friends of ours. A large man, and the woman has red hair. Do you know who I’m talking about? Have you seen them recently?” She couldn’t keep the urgency out of her voice, but she worked to keep her tone reasonable. Her expression and the pistol could do the threatening for her.
His eyes grew wide.
“No,” he said. “No—no way. Who are you two?”
He did know them.
“Imperial Service,” Diana said from the door, folding her arms and trying to look tough. It worked.
The man in the suit stared at her and swallowed. “Who were those Evagardian guys?”
Salmagard felt a surge of triumph. This man had seen them.
“Important people.” Diana was getting into this. “Are they here?”
“No. No—I didn’t touch them. I don’t even know why she brought them here. That is not my business.”
“Where did they go?” Salmagard demanded.
“To the Bazaar,” the man said, keeping his hands up. “I’m sure. I mean, where else?”
“Contact them,” Diana ordered. “Tell them to let the imperials go. We can all walk away from this.”
“I can’t,” he said.
Salmagard looked at Diana, who strode forward, then seized the man’s wrist and put his hand flat on the sofa. Salmagard prepared to start breaking fingers.
“Wait,” he said. “Wait—you have to—you have to understand—they’re freelancers. You don’t just call them—you don’t know where they are. It’s not in their interests to be found—this is who they are—” He gasped. “They come to you—you don’t go to the
m.”
“Who are they?”
“Just people. They do jobs.”
“What kind of jobs?” Salmagard asked, beginning to bend his middle finger. His body stiffened.
“Anything,” he said, starting to sweat. “They’re nobody special; they just do their thing. Your guys are probably headed for the meat market. It’s the easiest way—that’s all I got, I swear.”
Salmagard let go of him and got up, thinking hard.
“I can prove it,” the man said quickly. “I can show you the feed of them leaving my place with your guys. They’re not here, I promise you.”
“Let’s see it,” Diana said.
The man reached into his jacket, and it was painfully obvious to Salmagard what he was doing. Instead of shooting him, she lunged for him before the pistol was even visible, but he was stronger than he looked. He pushed her off and took aim at Diana, pulling the trigger several times. Diana rolled out of the way and dropped her elbow on the control panel for the zero-g bubble, smashing it to pieces.
Salmagard dropped flat as the bubble burst with a deafening roar of feedback, the shock wave throwing the man in the suit against the wall hard enough to stun him.
Salmagard kicked the fallen gun to Diana and raised her own, but the man was out. Diana eyed the pistol but didn’t pick it up. She rose to her feet, rubbing her elbow and looking annoyed.
“Do we believe him?” she asked after a moment.
“I think we have to,” Salmagard replied, letting out her breath. Her ears were buzzing a little. That had been terribly loud, and they had to assume it would draw attention.
Diana hit the door release and went into the corridor, coming face-to-face with the bouncer who had led them to the back. He had his gun out.
Diana rammed him into the wall and forced his hand up, but he pulled the trigger. The gaming floor was loud, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of gunfire in the open.
Salmagard rushed to Diana’s side and sank her fist into the bouncer’s solar plexus; then Diana threw him aside. Together, they rushed onto the floor—maybe they could make it out before the other security people figured out what was going on.
