Queen of Nowhere

by Jaine Fenn

  He spoke the name like he knew it wasn’t hers.

  DATA BONANZA

  Obviously, there are more than a few hundred Sldhe in total.

  I don’t think there are billions, not even millions. They always were a minority, even during the Protectorate when under their heel.

  I believe the residua! of Sidhe lives outside human-space, although they take a keen interest in what goes on here. But even there, we might still be able to hurt them.

 

  Her instinct was to ditch her current ID and hide out until Captain Reen arrived, then take on a transient persona long enough to board his ship. But provided she did not act suspiciously, hub-law had no reason to come after her, and if someone was watching the infoscape, then accessing one of her dataeggs was risky. For the moment, she should stick with this persona, but monitor the situation.

  However, she needed to rethink her departure plans. The encounter in the service passages had rung too many alarm bells; when she did leave Tarset she wanted to disappear comprehensively and untraceably. There was only one way to do that.

  Once she was sure no one was physically following her, she stopped off at an independent freight company with a rep for cutting corners. She made a verbal booking with the bored night-shift clerk, requesting the ‘pay on despatch’ option and adding a discretionary ‘service charge’ to avoid the transaction going into the system too quickly.

  She then returned to her hotel where she used the room’s com, spoofed to a room on a different Boor of the hotel, to set ongoing searches on the local news, sprinkling dummy keywords in with the relevant search parameters. She would have expected the authorities to know there had been no physical breakin by now.

  However, her initial results implied this wasn’t the case.

  Having been forced to abandon her spotcams, she had to rely on hacked surveillance feeds. She had booked a room with a private emergency exit; if the corridor cam piped anything suspicious to the part of her visual cortex devoted to keeping watch, she would be using it.

  One hour and thirty-one minutes after the incident, the search turned up a minor piece about a breakin at the offices of the Freetraders’ Alliance. The report claimed the culprit or culprits had crudely sabotaged the surveillance by spraying paint over the pickups, then stolen some slates and other office equipment, as well as raiding the office kitchen. The authorities suspected hab-rat youths, probably on drugs. There was no mention of any virtual activity.

  So, there had been a burglary at exactly the moment she was hacking the freetraders. This was too convenient, and hence highly unlikely. Then someone, who held considerable power on Tarset station, had happened to turn up when she was about to be rumbled. That went beyond unlikely and into implausible.

  She set up a new search on public com footage, looking for a match on the image her eyewear had snapped of the apparently friendly stranger. This she spoofed through a different hotel entirely.

  Unwilling though she was to trust intuition, this evening’s events felt different from the few other times she had been careless enough to draw attention to herself. At least he was not one of their agents: ifhe had been, he wouldn’t have let her go so easily. Unless he was confident she would go back to her hotel, from where he could pick her up at his leisure … She hastily applied the best-case principle.

  When her search on the mysterious stranger came back negative, she was neither surprised nor reassured.

  She decided that, until proved otherwise, she would regard the incident as unrelated to the problem with the Estrante ID. But it was more serious. While she had safely ditched the only persona that linked her to the still incommunicado BetaI6, this incident involved a stranger taking a direct, personal interest in her. He had set her up. Or rather un-set her up. And then there was his ridiculous attempt to flirt with her. Why show an interest like that? Was he trying to win her trust? To disconcert her? If it was the latter, he had succeeded.

  She decided to carry out an initial examination of the data she had acquired before being so unpleasantly interrupted. It needed doing, and it would help her stay centred and calm.

  The bulk of the update was ship movements and cargo manifests: what freetraders had visited what systems when, carrying what, over the last three months.

  There had been a time when she had believed the Sidhe freetraders were the key to her plan. She had refocused her strategy in the light of the Setting Sun data, which was why she had not picked up any freetrader data during the last major update. But the Enemy freetraders were still loose cannons, and she wanted as complete a picture as possible of their movements.

  She hoped this trickle-down might solve the mystery of a missing ship. Or possibly two ships. According to the Setting Sun’s files, the Enemy owned thirty-two tradebirds, most of them large vessels with a human crew in the thrall of a rarely seen Sid he captain, an arrangement that chilled Bez to the core. Recent Alliance updates had included data on thirty or fewer Sidhe tradebirds. One of the missing ships was the Setting Sun itself, now disabled and abandoned in an uncharted system. But another ship, the Missed Symphony, had also been absent last time. She ran a basic search on tonight’s data and found no sign of it this time.

  She had a couple of theories as to why the Missed Symphony was not present in the freetraders’ data. The first, less likely one, was that the Sidhe had sold it. The ship was an ex-starliner so the Starliner Guild would probably buy it back. But why would the Enemy sell their largest ship? They had not one but two Sidhe on board, so even if-say - the captain had met with some accident, her first officer would step in. The Missed Symphony was a vital asset.

  During the last trickle-down, Bez had delved into Guild records, just to be sure, and found no ship purchases in the relevant period.

  It was possible the ship had been sold to a private individual - a very wealthy private individual - but that did nothing to change the fact that this was not logical behaviour. The Enemy had few enough ships as it was; to sell one of their best would be stupid.

  Another possibility was that the ship was being refitted. But given the rarity of shiftships, the yards that serviced them had to be efficient and competitive. Keeping a tradebird off the shipping lanes for more than a few months was not something any shipyard could afford to do. The Missed Symphony's absence from this latest update meant it had not been operational for at least a year. So a refit was unlikely.

  Then there was the Steel Breeze. This was a Protectorate-era, in-system military vessel that had been fitted with a transit-kernel when humanity wrested the power of interstellar flight from their erstwhile rulers. According to the Setting Sun files, the Steel Breeze still retained some of its armaments. The ship had appeared in earlier updates, but not the one six months ago, and it was missing from this one too.

  Of course, transit-kernels did eventually fail - she tried not to think of the word ‘die’ in this context - but for two shiftships to go out of service in one year was highly improbable.

  Having confirmed her suspicions but come up with no further insights, she moved on to her second area of interest.

  The information in the Setting Sun’s files had been a veritable data bonanza. One of the most intriguing items was a schedule showing where certain Sidhe freetraders were due to be on particular dates. The dates were regular - once every two to three weeks. The locations were all over human-space. Bez believed this schedule indicated that Enemy freetraders were periodically leaving human-space. She set to work checking the schedule against actual ship movements.

  Given the data came from beacons, which recorded details of any ship that used them to enter shiftspace, if the Enemy were going off the map, they weren’t making standard transits. The received wisdom was that the beacon network had only been installed a thousand years ago, after the Sidhe Protectorate fell and humanity (thought they had) regained their freedom. Bez had not yet come across anything to contradict this. It was logical to assume that the Sidhe, who ha
d travelled freely while humans remained planet-bound during the Protectorate, could enter and leave shiftspace without the use of beacons.

  Picking a ship at random, she found that it had indeed gone to the spur-world listed on the date given, as per the Setting Sun’s schedule. The freetrader spent two days there, during which, according to the Alliance records, it travelled to a point out-system where it apparently remained, doing nothing and, as far as local Traffic Control knew, going nowhere. It then came back in-system and left via the beacon.

  Three more ships matched up to the schedule, having travelled to insular one-world systems far off the shipping lanes, where they apparently loitered beyond the purview oflocal surveillance before leaving again.

  The next ship didn’t fit the pattern, but Bez had an idea why.

  She would need the full picture before she could confirm her hypothesis.

  She set data-agents to work completing the job and took a shower.

  If she was right, the Sidhe free traders took regular trips away from human-space in order to meet up with the rest of their people.

  The thought of a whole society of Sidhe lurking in dark uncharted space beyond the limits of human expansion sometimes kept her awake at night. She consoled herself with the logical addendum to this possibility: however many there were, and wherever they were, their continued absence implied they were not in a position to return en masse and challenge humanity. After a thousand years she would have expected them to have made their move.

  Yet they still took an interest. Without beacons to transmit beevee, then unless the Enemy had another, unknown method of interstellar communication, they relied on the freetraders to bring them news. Bez got the impression the Sidhe in human-space operated with a massive degree of autonomy; certainly the Setting Sun’s files had provided almost no intel on their activities outside human-space. Yet the Sid he freetraders made frequent trips off the map; with so few ships at their disposal, and the Sidhe agents in human-space doing such a good job, why did the Enemy in the great beyond need updates every couple of weeks?

  She had a theory. While she waited for the evidence to support it, she uploaded the pictures she had taken of the ‘helpful’ stranger to a transient datadrop, encrypting a short accompanying message, and setting the timed release for four hours after she was due to leave Tarset.

  A couple of minutes later she got a com call from hotel reception; acting on the standing instructions she had left with them, an item had been put into storage for her. Checking the security cam in the luggage store, she confirmed that all was as expected.

  She considered having a drink but decided against it; thirst would be a lot less inconvenient than having to urinate in the next couple of hours.

  She left the room, turning off the lights and locking the door.

  When she reached the luggage store she checked the corridor feeds to make sure no one was coming then switched her attention to the luggage room’s lock and internal cam. Only when the cam was safely looping its low-light image of a dark and empty room did she open the door and slip inside.

  A sturdy grey box, measuring approximately one metre by two, stood among the items left by other hotel guests. Bez opened it to confirm that it had been configured correctly.

  Just in case anyone was paying attention to her plans, she made a provisional booking for another, cheaper, hotel. Then she commed reception and checked out, leaving a generous-but-not-excessive tip.

  Finally she performed a few breathing exercises to induce physical calm, climbed inside the box and, after securing herself in the internal webbing, pulled the lid shut.

  AN lNTERNAL PROBLEM

  The Sidhe in the human-space are well entrenched. They've got excellent cover and don’t take risks. Plus, if you are unlucky enough to come face-to-face with them, they'll probably make you forget you ever met them, or force you to do what they want you to do while believing it was your own idea.

 

  For the second time In a week, Bez found herself regretting her lack of mood-mods. She reminded herself that there were concealed ventilation holes in the side of the box and an internal release on the lid. She was not trapped, and she was not going to suffocate. And she had done this before, when an ultra-secure exit was called for. No matter how good the disguise, if someone was specifically watching the port for a solo traveller of a certain height, build and gender, then her departure could be noticed.

  Cargo, however, would not be. The ruse was never pleasant, but neither was it dangerous.

  She shouldn’t need neurotransmitter regulators and adrenalin suppressors; they were the stuff of adventure holodramas, the fabled tools of spies and soldiers. Such gross physical tampering resulted in erroneous feedback, leading to bad judgement and risk-taking. Far better to avoid stressful situations. Which she did, most of the time.

  Of course, in a properly ordered universe the human will alone would be enough to override these inconvenient bodily responses.

  Such control was said to have been practised by the Enemy-She curled her hands into fists, digging her fingertips into her palms hard enough that, had she any nails, she would have broken the skin. Then she released her fingers slowly while listening to her breathing and watching her chrono.

  Once the unpleasantness had passed, she blinked her overlays online and retreated into the comforting world of data.

  Examining the results of her search, she quickly concluded that her theory was correct: the movements of two Sid he freetraders did not conform to the Setting Sun’s schedule because these ships were covering for the Missed Symphony and Steel Breeze. So, the Enemy was adjusting to their loss. But she was still no nearer to knowing the fate of the missing ships.

  She had just started a new search, contingent on the results of the first, when a noise outside made her jump. Muffled voices, sounding unconcerned; bored, even. That should be the shipping company’s employees, transporting the box to the port. Unless they were taking her somewhere else … No: best-case principle.

  The box jolted. Another tug then a lifting sensation. She could still hear the voices, a man and a woman, griping about something, from the sound of it. She made herself breathe evenly and quietly.

  The movement became smoother; they must have loaded her onto a trolley. She tried to get back to the data, but the box’s motion was too distracting. She retreated into her oldest and deepest mantra, reciting digits of pi.

  Her mental routine was interrupted when the box was shoved sideways hard enough to make her swing in the webbing. Sweat broke out all over her body. After that, blessed stillness.

  If everything was going to plan, this would only be a temporary stop.

  Someone spoke nearby. Bez started then calmed herself as the voice was answered by another, further away.

  The box began moving again. This felt like a customs conveyor.

  A full scan at this point would reveal her. Fortunately the authorities were far less concerned about what left a hub station than what came in. According to the manifest, this box contained cured meats, and no one had any reason to think otherwise. She had paid the export duty on the consignment - which the hub authorities did care about - legitimately. After her near miss in the Alliance system, she had decided against hacking the customs’ virtuality to fake the payment.

  Of course, there was nothing to stop a bored customs officer doing a spotcheck.

  If they did, how would she know, until it happened? That was the worst thing about this method of travel: being not only powerless but also ignorant of what was happening around her.

  On previous occasions, she had concealed a spotcam on the outside of her box, which gave some idea of her surroundings, but she was all out of cams.

  More voices, sounding relaxed. The box lurched to one side.

  Bez snapped her mouth shut to stop herself making any noise.

  The voices receded. She let herself exhale.

  It was noticeably colder now, but mercifully silent
. Bez waited for one minute then went back to her data, checking her latest search, which collated the manifests of the freetraders who had left human-space. As she scanned the results a smile broke out on her face. She was right! The freetraders didn’t just take news to their sisters out in the void. They took supplies. Not weapons or hi-tech gear, but mundane, basic items like slates, tools, polymer sheets - even clothing and foodstuffs. If the Sidhe had a large and stable planet-based culture, they would have developed the manufacturing capacity to provide such items for themselves.

  The logical conclmion was that the Enemy operated out of ships, probably large ex-colony ships. They would be self-sufficient in basics like food and water but would have to rely on humans for anything that could not be either recycled or manufactured using their limited means. There was no seething mass of aliens out there in the dark, merely the last dregs of a dying race.

  If she could curtail the activities of the Sidhe freetraders, she would cut off this supply-line. She dared hope that, should she succeed, eventually the distant Sidhe exiles, isolated from human-space, would wither and die.

  The box moved again, without any accompanying voices this time. Bez barely noticed: she was too deep in the data.

  Bang BANG.

  Bez twitched, suddenly back in the real.

  The knock came again. She froze, suspended in the webbing-

  ‘Bez? You in there?’

  Although she knew the voice, part of her wanted to stay in the box, safe in her own head. Rather than give in to the foolish temptation, she snatched at the handle above her. She misjudged it in the darkness, stubbing her fingers. She ignored the pain and tried again, grasping the release handle and pulling smoothly. As soon as the lid clicked, she pushed it up with all her strength.

  Light flooded in, along with a mix of homely, human smells.

  ‘Christos, watch it!’

  Bez grabbed the sides of the box and pulled herself upright. She was in a large, semi-circular ship’s cabin. The only other person in sight was the one she was expecting, although he had just recoiled from the box’s rapidly opening lid. He gave a wry smile. She remembered that smile, at once friendly and roguish. ‘At least it was you in the box, not some random piece of cargo,’ he said.