“I want people outside Lo-Moth politics.” Heikki’s tone added, of course.
“So you do think it’s sabotage.”
“I don’t know yet,” Heikki answered, and then, because that was no answer at all, said, “I’m not ruling out any possibilities.” She waited then, and when Ciceron said nothing, added, carefully casual, “Is that the local talk, sabotage?”
Ciceron’s mouth twisted as though he’d bitten into something unexpectedly bitter. “That’s the talk, certainly. But Lo-Moth blames the crew, and the crewfolk blame the company.”
“Do they now,” Heikki said, almost to herself. That was a possibility she had not fully considered, and one that did not, at first glance, make a good deal of sense.
After all, the crystal matrix was—potentially—the company’s ticket to the first ranks…. Even as she articulated that thought, however, she began to see other scenarios, rivalries within Lo-Moth’s ranks, between departments and between parents and subsidiaries. It was plausible enough, but she put the thought away as something to be tested later, and turned her attention back to the little man behind the desk. “Would you recommend anybody?”
Ciceron nodded. “For the guide, yes, without reservation. There’s a woman named Alexieva, licensed surveyor, who has her own company outside the Limit.” He held up his hand, forestalling Heikki’s question. “She was part of the team that did the ordinance survey, the reliable one. She was a section chief, I think. But there’s not a lot of survey work these days, so she does some guide work. She’s good. Or anyone she recommends, of course, but she’s the only one I really know is good.”
Heikki nodded back. “Contact code?” she asked, and Ciceron slid a card across the table. Heikki took the featureless square of plastic, feeling the familiar roughness of the data ridges, and tucked it into the pocket with her lens. “Now, what about a pilot?”
Ciceron hesitated. “The best pilots are Firsters,” he said after a moment, his voice completely without expression.
“I do the hiring,” Heikki said, and when he did not respond said, “It’s in my contract, I have a free hand.”
“Ah.” Ciceron’s expression did not change, but his voice was fractionally warmer. “The best pilot—” He stressed the word. “—is a kid called Sebasten-Januarias.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
Ciceron smiled thinly. “One. He’s very young. Two. He’s a Firster—real Firster, trouble to the core when it comes to Lo-Moth. Three…. No, three’s just a part of one. He’s very young.”
Heikki’s eyebrows rose. “All this, and you’d still recommend him? He must be one hell of a pilot.”
“He’s the best I know. If you weren’t working for Lo-Moth I’d recommend him without reservation.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Heikki said. “Do you have any other names?”
“Pell Elauro,” Ciceron answered promptly, “and Liljana Kerry.” He reached into his desk again before Heikki could ask, and produced two more cards. Heikki accepted them, and lifted an eyebrow.
“Don’t you have one for the Firster, Sebastian—”
“Sebasten-Januarias,” Ciceron corrected her. “No. He works out of a bar called the Last Shift. By the airfield—”
“I know it,” Heikki said, and was rewarded by a look of surprise from Ciceron.
“Not many off-worlders do.”
Heikki allowed herself a genuine, if somewhat crooked, grin. “I grew up here, Ser Ciceron. I’ll try Sebasten-Januarias first, thanks—if he’s the best.”
“He is.” Ciceron nodded twice as if in punctuation.
“He is.”
“Good enough,” Heikki said, but made no move to go. “I’m also going to need some meteorological analysis done, confidentially. Lo-Moth will be doing most of the sim and scan work, but I’d like an independent verification. Can you handle that for me?”
Somewhat to her surprise, Ciceron neither smiled nor frowned at the possibility of work. “Yes.” He nodded to the cloud chamber blocking the media wall. “As you can see, I’ve got the equipment.”
“Are you interested?” Heikki asked bluntly. “If you’re not, I’m sure you can recommend someone who has the time.”
“It’s not that.” Ciceron shook his head as though coming out of a dream. “No, I can handle the work—I’d be glad to handle the work.”
“Rates?”
Ciceron reached into his desk again, withdrew a slightly larger card that shimmered faintly, light sparking as well from the metal threads woven through its surface. “Everything you need is on this.”
I’m missing something, Heikki thought, and bit her lower lip in frustration. I’m missing something, political or professional, and I don’t know what it is. She put that knowledge aside with an effort, filing questions to be asked later, of other people, and took the card. “I appreciate your help, Ser Ciceron.”
Ciceron bowed slightly, an antique gesture Heikki had not seen in years. “My pleasure, Dam’ Heikki.”
Heikki made her way back to the fastcat quickly enough, but sat in the cab without touching the controls, fingering instead the cards tucked into her pocket. She didn’t really want to go into First Town in search of Sebasten-Januarias, though she knew perfectly well that that was the easiest way to find any Firster. After a moment’s thought, she pulled out Alexieva’s card, and adjusted the data lens to the standard setting. Letters sprang into existence within the thin plastic, giving the woman’s full name—Incarnacion Alexieva Cirilly, with the middle name, the business name, underlined—and beneath that the various contact codes. The office address was for a quarter on the opposite side of the city: she would almost have to go by the port, and the Last Shift, to get there. Heikki sat for a moment longer, eyeing the ‘cat’s communications panel, and wondered if she could call Alexieva first. She frowned at her own weakness then, and tucked card and lens back into her pocket and punched on the engine. There was no point in talking to Alexieva until she knew whether or not she would be asking the surveyor to work with a Firster. Better to deal with Sebasten-Januarias first and get it over with, especially if it meant meeting someone she knew. And besides, she did want to see First Town again after all these years, in spite of all the people she might meet, who might remember— She slammed the ‘cat into gear, focusing on the act of driving, and swung the machine out onto the road, heading for First Town.
First Town hadn’t changed much, in the years since she had left Iadara. The roads were still rutted, drifted with the fine dust; the tall, thin houses still stood almost bare on their tracts of land, their stark white paint either faded into the bleached silver-brown of the wood itself, or violently new and bright, never anything in between. There were crawlers in the yards, or the occasional ‘cat, sometimes stripped to the frame with tallgrass springing through the empty engine well. Faded clothing hung on frames outside, bleaching in the sun; an equally faded woman leaned from her third-floor window, calling to the pack of children in the dust below. A fruit tree stood beside one smaller house, incongruously green and blossoming behind its protective cage. Its owner scowled as he sprayed the dust from its leaves, daring it to die.
Closer to the airfield, the buildings stood further apart, but the space between them was filled not with gardens or children’s playgrounds, but with rusted machines and heaped wires, or nothing at all but the dust and the ubiquitous sere grass. A group of Firsters, most of them so muffled in headscarf and loose sun-cheating coat, four meters of sunblocking fabric pleated into a gaudy patchwork yoke, as to be indistinguishable by age or sex, sat on the broad steps of one house, passing a stoneware falk from hand to hand. So afaq is still common here, Heikki thought, and shifted her leg so that she could reach the slim blaster tucked into the top of her high boot beside her knife. The group did not move as the ‘cat slid past, but in the mirror she saw one of them throw a stone after her, not purposefully, but with an old and pointless despair.
The Last Shift was just outside the airfield
perimeter, where the buildings changed from tall houses to the squat shapes that marked machine repair shops throughout the Precincts. The neighborhood was busier, a few men and women gathered outside the shops, or busy in the open bays, sweltering despite the wind scoops on the roofs. There were a few other vehicles in the vacant lot next to the Shift, a pair of battered ‘cats tucked against the airfield fence, and an enormous ho-crawl pulled up next to the building itself, the roof of the driver’s well just brushing the overhanging eaves. Heikki edged her ‘cat up next to the others until its blunt nose almost touched the fence, and swung herself out of the cab. The heat was scorching, the sudden weight of sunlight a hot wind against her skin. She could feel eyes on her, not from the blank-walled bar but from the shops to either side, and ignored them.
The Shift was exactly the same as it had always been, miraculously cool and dark after the glaring heat outside. Through the green sundazzle, Heikki saw the bar’s familiar shape, and, less clearly, the maze of wovewood tables that filled the central room. Most of them were empty now, she saw as her sight cleared, and those that were filled held mostly the retired or the unemployable, bent over drinks or shallow falks. They looked up as she passed, were still watching her as she leaned against the bar and touched the bell that called the bartender. Its sonorous note sounded through the space, filling the air, drowning out the lack of conversation, and faded slowly. After a moment, the bartender appeared from the back room, wiping his hands on his faded shirt. He hesitated, seeing who had summoned him, then came forward reluctantly.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so.” Heikki kept her voice scrupulously neutral, attempting neither to hide nor to emphasize the liquid off-world vowels. “I’m looking for someone, a pilot. I was told he worked out of here.”
The bartender’s expression shifted subtly. “Who would that be, that you’re looking for?”
“The name I was given is Sebasten-Januarias. Mine’s Heikki, I’m in salvage, based in the Loop.”
The bartender’s expression eased even further, and he nodded. “If you want to wait, I’ll find him. Would you want something to drink?”
It was early to be drinking, but Heikki nodded anyway. “Field punch, please.” She glanced over her shoulder, toward the row of semi-private cubicles set along one wall. Most were empty, the sound-proofing curtains pulled back to expose the stained cushions and chipped glass tabletops. “I’ll be over there.”
“I’ll see if I can find him,” the bartender said.
Heikki bent her head politely, and took the drink he slid toward her, offering her paycard in return. He accepted it, flushing, and ran it easily through the scanner. She took it back without looking at the total already fading from the display window, and started toward the nearest of the cubicles. She settled herself against the dirty cushions and waited. The bartender vanished again, and the conversations slowly recommenced.
The punch was tartly sweet, deceptively mild to the tongue. Heikki sipped it with wary respect, but even so found herself finishing the last of it before she had intended. She was not drunk, not nearly, but she could feel the liquor warming her stomach, warning her to have no more. She stared down at the glass, cupping her hands around it to hide its emptiness, and heard the door open. She looked up, hoping it would be Sebasten-Januarias, but it was only a boy barely into his teens. Then the boy turned toward her, visibly looking for someone, and Heikki fought to keep her expression steady. Ciceron had said he was young, certainly, but this was ridiculous. He looked all of sixteen, at a generous estimate, a skinny, brown-skinned boy with the enormous headscarf of a Firster adolescent wrapped around his head and shoulders—
“Dam’ Heikki?” The boy stopped just outside the cubicle, dropping one end of the scarf like a veil, to reveal a face streaked with multicolored sunpaint. “I’m Sebasten-Januarias.”
He sounds a little older than he looks, Heikki thought, and gestured for the boy to seat himself across from her. Is this Ciceron’s idea of a joke? “Get yourself a drink, if you want,” she said aloud, “and then have a seat. Ionas Ciceron mentioned you as a pilot.”
“Thank you,” the boy said, somewhat ambiguously, and slid gracefully onto the cushions opposite. “That’s kind of him.”
Interesting that he doesn’t want the drink, Heikki thought. “You got my name?” she said, and the boy nodded.
“You’re in salvage, I hear?” There was just enough of an upward lilt to make it a question.
“That’s right,” Heikki said. “I have a local contract, and I need a local copilot to back my main man, going into the ‘wayback, probably along the Asilas into the massif.”
“That cargo flight Lo-Moth lost?” Sebasten-Januarias asked.
“That’s right. Is that a problem?”
“No.” The boy’s voice was confident, and when he did not continue, Heikki sketched out a quick description of the job, studying him while she talked. Sebasten-Januarias was definitely older than he looked at first glance, but not very old—maybe in his early twenties, Heikki thought, no more. Beneath the garish sunpaint she thought he was rather plain, strong boned, but ordinary. He frowned slightly as she spoke, and the frown deepened slowly, but when she had finished, he nodded to himself.
“Will you be taking a latac?”
“No, a standard jumper.”
“Then I’m your boy—if you’ll take me.” He had an engaging smile, and Heikki smiled back.
“How long have you been flying?”
Sebasten-Januarias’s smile widened, and he said, without rancor, “You mean, how old am I. I’m twenty-four, but I’ve been flying the ‘wayback solo for eight years, and I apprenticed with my uncle before that, for two years.”
“Sounds good,” Heikki said, and meant it. If Sebasten-Januarias had been taking aircraft across the wayback since he was sixteen without an accident—and if he had had an accident, he would not be sitting here now; the wayback did not forgive even minor errors—then he was the sort of pilot she wanted. She curbed her enthusiasm abruptly. “Can you give me some references?” She kept her voice briskly professional, and, to her surprise, the young man did not bridle.
“Tom Tolek at the tower will speak for me, and Kameka Decker. I’ve worked for Lo-Moth, too. The field ops coordinator knows me,”
“FitzGilbert?” Heikki looked up sharply.
“Yes.” He seemed unsurprised at the question.
Heikki looked back at her noteboard. “I’ll contact them, certainly. In the meantime, I’d like you to come to dinner, and meet the rest of my team. Are you free this evening?”
“Yes’m.”
“Your full name?”
“Josep Laurens Sebasten-Januarias.” His lips turned up briefly in a rather wry smile.
“What do they call you for short?” Heikki asked idly.
Before the other could answer, a voice called from the doorway, “I hear you’re working, Joe-Laurie.”
Sebasten-Januarias turned to face the* tall man weaving his way through the tables, warning him off with a stare. “I might be, Uncle Cass, if you don’t screw up the deal.”
The tall man laughed without anger—he was three-quarters drunk, Heikki saw—and fetched up against the bar, his hand fumbling for the bell. Sebasten-Januarias turned back to her with an apologetic grimace.
“My friends call me Jan.”
“Good enough,” Heikki said, and stood. “I’ll expect you at—” She hesitated then, remembering local traditions, and compromised between Loop and Precinct custom. “—at eight evening, at the corporate hostel in Lowlands proper. All right?”
“I’ll be there,” Sebasten-Januarias said, and stood with her. Heikki did not look back, unexpectedly pleased with her choice.
She settled herself back in the ‘cat’s cab, glancing at the side and rear mirrors. Nothing moved in the sweltering shadows except the trio at work in the repair shed, bending oblivious over a ho-crawl’s opened fan housing. She engaged the engines and swung the ‘cat slowly
back around toward Lowlands’ center.
The ‘cat had a fairly up-to-date communications block mounted in the forward panels. Heikki eyed it for a moment, dividing her attention between its controls and the road ahead, then felt one-handed in her pocket until she had found Alexieva’s card. She inserted that into the machine’s read-slot, and touched keys until the voiceline menu showed faint against the ‘cat’s windscreen. She touched more keys, and was rewarded at last by the three-toned chime of a standard secretarial program. She exchanged codes and a message with it, expecting it to file the information and close down, but to her surprise the machine chimed again.
“Dam’ Heikki,” a flat synthetic voice said abruptly. “Dam’ Alexieva requests the favor of a personal meeting, at map coordinates JP89.332II12N, as soon as possible. If that meets with your approval.”
Heikki reached for the map controls. The coordinates were on the north side of the city, probably an hour’s drive beyond the Limit. She sighed, but triggered the communications console again. “I can reach those coordinates in—” She glanced again at the map display. “—seventy-nine minutes. I would be glad to meet with Dam’ Alexieva at that time.”
There was another, shorter pause, and the secretary answered, “That would be ideal. Dam’ Alexieva will be expecting you then.”
This time, the air filled briefly with static before the console’s overrides shut off the speakers. Heikki adjusted the map so that the route pointer showed on the windscreen, then fingered the communications keyboard until she reached the hostel’s concierge program. Djuro and Nkosi had not yet returned, the urbane artificial voice informed her; she left a brief message explaining where she was going and asking Djuro to check Sebasten-Januarias’ references, and to ask about Alexieva’s reputation, then switched off the machine.
It took slightly less than the projected time to work her way around the city to the road indicated by the map. The map’s ghostly arrow steadied in her windscreen, directing her down a metalled road that ran almost as straight as the arrow itself. This part of Iadara had been settled for almost as long as First Town, she knew, but she had rarely ventured out in this direction when she was younger, keeping either within the Limit, or riding crew somewhere deep into the wayback. It was unfamiliar land, an unfamiliar kind of land, farmland of sorts, but far more diversified than on most other worlds, the fields patched and banded in a dozen different shades of green and yellow. The farm buildings were crammed into what she assumed were the least fertile sections of the property, lowlying, cramped buildings whose walls were covered with gleaming white insulfoam panels. The roofs were bright with solar panels, so that the most distant, houses flamed like stars against the green land.
Mighty Good Road Page 10
