Mighty Good Road

by Melissa Scott

  Mighty Good Road

  Melissa Scott

  Gwynne Heikki is in the business of salvaging. Her company wins a contract to find and salvage a lighter-than-air craft that had disappeared in the wilds on the planet of Iadara. The craft had been transporting a valuable experimental crystal matrix would make great changes to the interstellar railway currently in place. Although the job seemed “not quite right” from the beginning, Gwynne and her team take the contract.

  Melissa Scott

  MIGHTY GOOD ROAD

  Oh, the Rock Island Line, it is a mighty good road

  Oh, well, the Rock Island Line, it is the road to ride.

  Now if you want to ride it,

  Got to ride it like you find it,

  Get your ticket at the station for the Rock Island Line!

  CHAPTER 1

  The Memorial glowed in the somber light that mimicked Earth’s setting sun, or the reddened light of fires. It was a disturbing light, to anyone who’d spent any time on the orbital stations of the Loop, and deliberately so. At the center of the pool of light were the statues, twice life-size, a man and a woman crouching together, their bodies arched protectively over the huddled shape of a fallen child. The pale stone stood out in high relief against the blackened metal that sealed off what had once been the entrance to the Cross-Systems Railroad’s Platforms Four and Five. There were flowers at the woman’s feet, real flowers, already wilting a little from the heat of the lights: an extraordinary expense on any station, but especially here.

  Gwynne Heikki shivered, seeing the frail bundle, and glanced for reassurance back over her shoulder toward the bustle of the still-working platforms. Signs flashed above the entrances, the mass of the most recent arrivals ebbing away through the multiple customs barriers. Few appeared to notice the statues, or the other signs of the disaster, the charred softiles, bare metal, melted wires hanging in tatters, that were still carefully preserved on the memorial wall. Nor did they pay much attention to the man who sat cross-legged on the floor tiles just outside the band of light that defined the memorial, protest banner dangling limply overhead. The green circle stood out sharply against the black background, three interlaced gold “R”s inscribed on its surface. They stood, Heikki knew only too well, for the Retroceders’ creed: Remember, Repent, and Return. Remember that the railroad has failed once, repent of your dependence on it, and return to the planets from whence you came.

  Heikki shook her head, and turned away. Popular though that creed might be in the Precincts, for the planets not yet connected to the Loop by a spur of the railroad, it was hardly practical. Settled space depended utterly on the Loop as its economic and political center, and the Loop in turn was dependent on—more than that, was created by and existed only because of—the railroad, the network of permanently open warps that allowed virtually instantaneous travel between the Loop’s stations, the thirteen Exchange Points. But the railroad in its turn was dependent on the Papaefthmyiou-Devise Engine, and that, Heikki thought, was the weak point that the Retroceders could and did exploit. After all, a PDE had failed once, here on Exchange Point One, and the station was still recovering from the disaster a hundred and fifty years later. Despite the engineers’ assurances—and they swore it could never happen again, that it had been the strain of trying to open a fifth warp in an already crowded system that had caused the PDE to fail—not one could be entirely certain that they were right.

  Heikki shook herself then and turned away, annoyed at having given Retroceder propaganda even that much consideration. She stepped onto the slidewalk that carried arriving passengers toward the center of Point One, swinging her carryall deftly out of the way as barriers rose to either side. The flexible carpet picked up speed, and signs flashed overhead, warning riders to use the handrail to either side. Heikki balanced easily, shutting out the hum of the machinery and the shop displays flickering past outside the barriers. She should deposit the draft from the ProCal job as soon as possible, now that she had access to Loop banks and the better exchange rates they could offer. Even if she had to search a little to find an open console, she’d still have plenty of time before her next train left for EP7.

  The end-of-strip lights flashed overhead, breaking her reverie, and a moment later a dulcet mechanical voice repeated the warning. She stepped from the slidewalk as soon as the barriers went down, disdaining the slow-down strip or the grab bars. To her left rose the massive arch that joined the Station Axis to the Travellers’ Concourse, the gleaming, gold-washed metal engraved with the names of the people who’d died in the disaster: Exchange Point One wanted to be certain no one would ever forget her losses. Heikki made a face, and looked away, adjusting the strap of her heavy carryall.

  Outside the arch, the Concourse was crowded, as always—Exchange Point One was still the unofficial capital of the Loop’s Southern Line—but Heikki wove her way through the crowd with practiced skill, heading for the massive staircase that led to the Concourse’s upper level. After several weeks in the Precincts, and in the open air, working sea salvage on Callithea, the noise and the faintly chemical smell of an over-worked ventilation system were almost pleasant: this was home, or close to it. Heikki allowed herself a faint, lopsided smile, and took the upward stairs two at a time, dodging a group of giggling tourists whose clothes marked them as inhabitants of the Danae cluster. The first four uni-bank consoles were occupied, lights on and doors blanked. The fifth was empty. Heikki started toward it, then checked, abruptly understanding why. A group of neo-barbarians crouched in an alcove less than three meters away from the cubicle’s door—probably between trains like any other travellers, Heikki knew, but neo-barbs had a deservedly bad reputation on and off the Loop. In the same moment, she saw a florid, soberly dressed man whose high-collared jacket bore half a dozen variations on his corporate logo, obviously hesitating to use the same cubicle. He saw her glance, and sneered slightly. That was enough to make the decision for her. This was EP1, the Travellers’ Concourse of EP1, not some planetary spaceport. If the neo-barbs were stupid enough to start something, the securitrons would be on them in an instant.

  Even as she thought that, the group in the alcove stirred uneasily, scowling down the length of the Concourse and murmuring to themselves. One of the Point’s security teams, a half-armored human and his mechanical enforcer, was making its leisurely way along the walk. The neo-barbs pushed themselves to their feet, the single woman tugging nervously at her greasy skirt, the three men hastily collecting their heavy, shapeless bags, and started back toward the station axis. Heikki waited a moment longer, then stepped into the cubicle, ignoring the veiled annoyance of the florid man. As she latched the door, lights faded on inside, while the clear material of the door darkened to opacity behind her.

  Like most people who did business both on the Loop and in the Precincts, she did her banking through Lloyds/West, with its well-earned reputation for being able to handle any local currency at an acceptable rate. She settled herself in front of the console and keyed Lloyds’ codes into the machine. The screen blanked, the internal mechanisms clicking to themselves, and she leaned back in the little chair to fish her data lens from the outer pocket of her belt. She fiddled with the thick bezel, adjusting the setting to match Lloyds’ privacy codes, then squinted through it as the prompt sequence appeared. She keyed in her personal codes and the serial numbers for the local draft that was the payment for her latest job. Viewed through the lens, the string of numbers was perfectly bright against the dark background; when she opened her other eye, she saw only a blank screen. The machine considered briefly, then signalled its willingness to accept the draft. Heikki fed the embossed datasquare into the port, and watched through the lens while numbers shifted on the screen. The exchange rate was b
etter than she’d expected, almost two Callithean dollars to the pound-of-account. Nodding to herself, she touched the keys that would accept the transaction. The machine beeped twice, and recorded the transfer of 13,128.49 poa, less service fee, from the negotiable draft to the account of Heikki/Santerese, Salvage Proprietors. Even after twenty years in the business, Heikki still smiled a little, seeing the name.

  She shook herself then, slipping the data lens back into the belt pocket, and touched more keys to close the terminal and retrieve her access card. The cubicle door swung open, plastic fading again to transparence. The florid man was still waiting for a cubicle, his face prim with disapproval. Heikki hid a grin, and started down the Upper Concourse, still heading away from the station axis. It would be almost five hours, by the exchange points’ standard time, before she could board the train that would take her to Exchange Point Seven, and there was no point, she added silently, in spending that time in the station’s common waiting rooms.

  A few meters further along the concourse, a sign flashed invitingly above a General Infoservices multiboard. Heikki paused, glancing over the charges engraved on the plate beside the tiny numeric keyboard—as on most exchange points, the basic locator service was free, but further inquiries were assessed at an increasingly exorbitant rate—then fished her data lens out of her pocket. After a moment’s thought, she twisted the bezel to the Explorers’ Club’s standard setting, and held the five-centimeter-thick cylinder over the multiboard’s screen. Within the charmed circle of the lens, the chaos of colors and shapes vanished, to be replaced by the Club’s greeting and the location of its nearest members’ lounge. As she had hoped, it was on this level of the concourse, perhaps a quarter-hour’s walk from the multiboard. She slipped the lens back into her pocket and turned away, unconsciously lengthening her stride. The disapproving glance of a dark woman in a maroon corporate uniform reminded her that she was no longer on a Precinct world, and she shortened her step to something more appropriate for the exchange points.

  The Club lounge was a small place, a sort of alcove off the main walkway that not even dim lighting and carefully sited distortion units could make spacious. There was, however, a bar and an autokitchen, and the two dozen tables were arranged around a four-seater newsvendor. It was not particularly crowded, only a few men and women tucked into the corner tables, barricaded behind their printed flimsysheets. Heikki slipped her membership card through the sensor gate, and seated herself at the empty newsvendor. There were some new options available—a general fiction listing, for one—but she ignored that, and punched in the personal codesequence that would give her a customized precis of the day’s news. The machine murmured to itself for what seemed an interminable time, then spat sheet after sheet of closely spaced print. At the same moment, the service charge appeared discreetly in the corner of the screen. Heikki winced, but tore off the last flimsy, and headed for a table by the wall. An order pad was set into the polished surface. She touched the keys that would bring her a ‘salatha gin—a sequence so familiar she hardly looked at the pad—and settled back to scan the flimsies.

  Nothing much was happening on the political scene, either in the Loop or in the Precincts, and she lifted the sheets to allow the Club’s human waiter to set the tall glass in front of her. The Loop’s Southern Extension was accusing the Northern Extension of more than usually Byzantine dealings in the bidding for the new FTL depot; there had been Precincter riots on Bacchus; there was trouble between neo-barb incomer-workers and the eco-fundamentalist settlers on Hauser, in the Tenth Precinct—but that particular problem had been simmering for the past three years, standard. Neither side was likely to listen to reason at this late date.

  Heikki sighed, and made a note to put Hauser on her personal watch list when she got back to EP7: it was not a place to be accepting work, just now.

  The technical news and markets were more interesting, including an article culled from a scholarly journal describing the exhumation of an ancient Lunar waste-disposal site. Heikki had advised on several similar projects, though always in-atmosphere, and read through the article attentively, noting technique. The next article was culled from an unfamiliar source, the Terentine Argus of Precinct Six, with a screaming headline, Local Business Under Siege from Off-world Magnate; Insiders Baffled. Heikki stared for a moment at the glaring type, wondering what had possessed the compiler to slip this piece of trash into her file, and then saw the first line of the story. Local salvage proprietors Foursquare confirmed today that they are the object of a breach-of-contract suit by the Iadara-based crysticulture firm Lo-Moth, following Foursquare’s refusal to complete its search for the LTA craft lost on Iadara eight months ago.

  Heikki’s eyebrows rose. Salvage proprietors did not break contract even with mid-rank firms like Lo-Moth; or rather, she amended grimly, one broke a contract in the full knowledge that one was also breaking one’s career and company. Something must have gone very wrong, to force Foursquare to give up like that…. She skimmed quickly through the article, but it said nothing more about the reasons for the breach, concentrating instead on the suit and the possible legal consequences for Foursquare. The dateline on the article was nearly two weeks old.

  The final flimsysheet was less than half full, and contained only a single entry. Lo-Moth of Iadara announced today the settlement of its dispute with Foursquare, salvage proprietors, Terentia, in exchange for all data collected by Foursquare during the term of its employment. Lo-Moth is presently accepting bids (licensed proprietors only) for completion of the project abandoned by Foursquare.

  “Holy shit,” Heikki said aloud, and winced as the red light flashed above the orderpad. A moment later, numbers streamed across the little screen: the Club’s monitor program assessed a fine of ten poa for immodest language. Heikki made a face, but pressed the acknowledgement button silently.

  “Oh, dear, Heikki,” a too-familiar voice said, and a second, equally familiar voice added, “Slip of the tongue?”

  Heikki looked up slowly, allowing herself a slight, lopsided smile. Piers Xiang and Odde Engels, known without much fondness as the Siamese twins, smiled down at her, the expression particularly at odds with Engels’ hard-edged blondness.

  “What’s up?” she said in return, and did not offer them a chair.

  To her surprise, however, the two men lingered, Xiang’s green eyes flickering sideways in what might have been a reproving glance. “I see you’ve seen the news,” he said, in the clipped Havenite accent he’d never been able to erase.

  “Which news?” Heikki asked warily.

  “About Lo-Moth.” Xiang paused, round face suddenly serious. “May we join you, Heikki?”

  Exchange point etiquette required that she say yes— though ‘pointer etiquette also decreed that the question should never have been asked. Heikki hid her annoyance, and gestured to the chairs that stood opposite. “Make free.”

  “We heard you spent time on Iadara,” Engels said. He did not reach for the orderpad, and Heikki did not offer it to him.

  “Staa, Eng,” Xiang murmured. To Heikki, he said, “I assume you and the Marshallin will be bidding?”

  “I only just heard about the opening,” Heikki said. “We haven’t spoken.”

  “It is, from all accounts, an excellent opportunity,” Xiang said.

  Heikki hid a sigh, recognizing both the ploy and her own imminent capitulation. “I haven’t seen much about the job,” she said aloud, “but Iadara, now. It’s an interesting planet.”

  Xiang leaned forward a little, folding his hands neatly on the tabletop. In that position, he looked rather like a young and somewhat naive monk of some ascetic sect. Heikki, who had seen the act before, eyed him with concealed dislike. “Lo-Moth lost a lighter-than-air craft that was carrying some important research cargo, on a flight over the—I gather unsettled—interior. The locator beam went off the air, and the crash beacon did not fire. Lo-Moth is, not unreasonably, curious.”

  Heikki leaned back in her chair,
her dislike of the Twins fading in the face of an interesting problem. “Crashed in the interior? And a research cargo—so it probably went down in the ‘wayback. The weather’s very bad there, there’s a central massif that sets up a bad storm pattern during the planetary autumn. The storms have been known to—” She caught herself before the monitor could respond, substituted a more modest word. “—interfere with beam transmissions before now. But of course, that wouldn’t explain the beacon. I take it no one’s walked out?”

  Engels shook his head silently. Xiang said, “I understand they don’t expect anyone to do so.”

  “They wouldn’t,” Heikki said, and allowed herself a grin. “There’s an indigenous primate, nasty job, semi-bipedal and tool-using—probably well on its way to intelligence. They’re fairly territorial, the orcs, and they find humans a pleasant addition to their diet.”

  “Don’t try to scare us, Heikki,” Engels said.

  Heikki spread her hands, opening her eyes wide in innocence. “Oath-true, Eng. The Firsters—the first settlers—were just lucky they landed in the Lowlands. The orcs don’t come down there.”

  Engels frowned, and Xiang touched his shoulder. The blond man settled back in his chair, lips closed tight over whatever it was he had been going to say.

  “Still,” Heikki went on, the mockery fading from her voice, “orcs and bad weather—that shouldn’t be enough to make pros break contract. Who is FourSquare, anyway?”

  Xiang shrugged. “I don’t know the company, myself. They were—still are, I suppose—licensed in all the proper ways, so….”

  Heikki nodded thoughtfully, as much to herself as to the Twins. Something had gone very wrong on Iadara, that much was obvious—something political, possibly; companies had been paid to break contract before now; maybe something technical that wasn’t being reported for fear of scaring off other companies that might bid for the job. Almost without wishing it, she found herself adding up the costs of the job, framing an acceptable bid.