“As you wish, Heikki.” Nkosi’s expression sobered. “Besides, Alex has promised me the chance to brush up on my wavetop flying. It has been a while since I have had the opportunity, and I want to keep in practice.”
I bet, Heikki thought, but bit back any further direct comment. “Have fun,” she said instead, and thought Nkosi looked at least momentarily abashed.
Djuro, too, had found business elsewhere, renewing contact with an old acquaintance now an engineer on the transport Carnegie. Left more or less to herself, Heikki passed the time by running the raw data from the wreck through her own analysis programs. As she had expected, the results were inconclusive: the machines she had brought with her, the ones that would leave no record in Lo-Moth’s systems, were simply not powerful enough to give her any kind of definite answer, and she was still prohibited from tying in to Lo-Moth’s mainframes. When she had finished the last frustrating datarun, she sat for a long moment, staring at the empty workscreen. There were ways to get into the system—there were always ways—and maybe even to get the answers she wanted without risking being accused of a breach of contract, at the very least ways of getting what she wanted and getting off-planet before the intrusion was discovered…. It was a stupid idea, stupid and dangerous, she told herself firmly. Whatever was going on was part of Lo-Moth’s internal politics, and not worth risking Heikki/Santerese’s license over. Once she was back in the Loop, and once Malachy had analyzed the legal situation, then she could finish the job. She leaned over the workboard, typing in sequences that brought the mall menus onto the main screen, and spent an hour browsing through Lowlands’ only bookstore. She took a certain perverse pleasure in sending the hostel’s messenger service to pick up the freshly printed copies.
The suite’s tiny kitchen had been restocked every day since their arrival, but, after a moment’s hesitation, she turned away from the bright packages and used the main room console to order fresh-cooked food from the concierge. She felt vaguely guilty, less for the expense than for the indolence, but put that sternly aside. There was wine as well, in the wall bar; she decanted a smallish jug, and took it over to the suite’s main window, dragging the most comfortable chair with her. The books and the food arrived together on an autotable, which positioned itself beside the chair and then shut down, only a single red light on its tiny control box still lit to show its dormant state. Heikki unwrapped the package of quick-print texts, smiling a little at the sharp pleasant scent of the new ink, and settled herself into the long chair. Santerese would laugh at her, she knew with a sharp pang of homesickness, tease her both for the adolescent indulgence, food and wine and books, and for the books themselves. She preferred—Santerese said needed—the carefully structured disorder of the classic mystery, the ultimately passionless passions, especially the stories set in the Loop and its maze of obligation and subtly conflicting rules. And analysis destroyed her pleasure, though she would never be free of the awareness: she put those thoughts aside, and settled down to read.
When she looked up again, the novel finished and the rules restored, the afternoon’s storm was rising beyond the window, the thick blue-purple clouds making the yellow grass seem even brighter. As she watched, lightning slashed across the bank of clouds, a distinct and delicate tracery, but she was either too distant or the hostel was too well insulated for her to hear the thunder. She had seen storms before, and bigger ones; even so, she stared in fascination as the clouds swept up toward the zenith and the light changed, imagining in that shift of colors the sudden cooling of the air that was the breath of the storm. The lightning was closer now, and thunder was audible, low rumblings not quite absorbed by the hostel’s thickened walls. The first gusts of rain rattled against the window. Heikki blinked, but kept watching, until the sheets of water obscured everything except the hostel’s lawn.
The storm ended as quickly as it had risen. Djuro arrived with the returned sunlight, drenched and out of temper, and vanished into his bedroom. Heikki hid her grin, and disappeared into her own room with the rest of her books.
The concierge’s beeping dragged her awake far too early the next morning. She swore, and groped for her remote, fumbling with its buttons until she had triggered first the room lights and then the little speaker next to her bed.
“Yes, what is it?” She didn’t bother reminding the machine that she had requested it to hold her calls: only something important—or someone with the right codes—could override that particular program.
“A call for you, Dam’ Heikki, from Dam’ FitzGilbert.” The machine-voice held only its programmed politeness. “She apologizes for disturbing you, but she says it’s urgent.”
Heikki shook herself, trying to banish the lingering sleep. “Please tell Dam’ FitzGilbert I’ll take her call in five minutes—on the workroom main line.” She didn’t know if the last instructions were necessary, but it couldn’t hurt.
“Very good, Dam’ Heikki,” the concierge answered. “I’ll convey your message.”
“Thanks,” Heikki said, sourly, and swung herself out of bed. There was no time for a shower; she pulled on loose trousers and shift, and made a beeline instead for the miniature kitchen. The coffee was premixed; she touched buttons, and a few moments later took a filled mug from the rack beneath the spigot.
“Heikki?” Djuro’s querulous voice came from the door of his room. “What’s going on?”
Heikki turned carefully, balancing the too-full mug. “A call from FitzGilbert. I don’t know what about yet.”
“God damn—” Djuro broke off as though they were still on the Loop. “Is Jock in yet?”
Heikki frowned at him. “No,” she answered slowly, and then hesitation sharpened into suspicion. “Why, what didn’t he tell me?”
“Nothing, that I know of,” Djuro answered. “I thought—hell, I don’t quite know what, accident, maybe, or something like that.”
“I don’t think so,” Heikki said, with only slightly more confidence than she actually felt. “FitzGilbert wouldn’t be calling; that’s the planetary police’s job.”
Djuro nodded, rubbing his eyes, then ran a hand over his bald head. “You’re right, of course. I’m just not awake.”
“Get yourself some coffee,” Heikki said, “then perhaps you should listen in on this.”
The buzzer sounded from the workroom before Djuro could answer. Heikki gave him a last abstracted smile, and turned away, her hand already busy on the remote, setting the acceptance sequence she would trigger as soon as she was in range. The wall lit, a window opening to present an image perhaps a little larger than life-size. It was like looking directly into FitzGilbert’s office, and Heikki rubbed her chin thoughtfully, wondering just what sort of an image she herself presented.
FitzGilbert, discouragingly, looked as touchily ill-tempered as she always did, despite the early hour. “There’s been a problem with one of your people,” she began abruptly, and Heikki’s stomach lurched.
“Nkosi?”
“No.” FitzGilbert frowned, more puzzled now than irritated, snapped her fingers twice as though the noise would trigger her memory. “The other pilot—Sebasten-Januarias.”
“Not exactly ‘mine,’” Heikki said, automatically, and then frowned at her own cowardice. “I hired him here, on-planet. What’s the problem?”
“He straggled in out of the wayback this morning,” FitzGilbert answered. “Claims somebody tried to kill him.”
At her back, Heikki heard Djuro’s soft hiss, mingled surprise and anger, and said with a coldness she did not feel, “But what does this have to do with me? My job’s over, remember?”
FitzGilbert’s frown deepened again. “Ser Slade would like to see you. At once.”
Heikki’s eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?” The anger in her voice had been real, instinctive; she matched it deliberately. “It’s just past the fifth hour, Dam’ FitzGilbert—not an hour at which I am accustomed to doing business. Jan—Sebasten-Januarias has been paid off, his employment with me
is over. I repeat, what the hell does this have to do with me?”
FitzGilbert grimaced. “Sebasten-Januarias was shot down—surface-to-air missile, a seeker—while taking a routine private-mail flight for a friend. Ser Slade would like to discuss the possibility that this may be connected with the attack on our latac.”
Put that way, Heikki thought, the inquiry was not that unreasonable. “I can be at the headquarters complex in one hour,” she said, and FitzGilbert lifted a hand.
“We can send a ho-crawl—”
“Thanks, I have my own transport,” Heikki said.
“As you wish.” FitzGilbert looked down at a shadowscreen, out of sight beneath the camera’s sightline. “I’ll have someone waiting to escort you.”
“Thanks,” Heikki said. “In an hour, then.” She broke the connection without waiting for an answer.
“Damn,” Djuro said softly. “I wonder if the kid’s all right?”
Heikki made a face, embarrassed by her own negligence. “He walked out, she said. That’s something.” She took a deep breath, putting aside guilt as something less than useless. “Raise Jock—I think it’s still middle night over the South-Shallow, that may help— and tell him what’s happened. They’re to get back here at once, taking all precautions.”
“You think this Slade may be right?” Djuro asked, but he was already moving toward the communications console,
“I don’t want to take the chance,” Heikki answered. “Once you’re sure he’s on his way back, I want you to get over to the airfield, and find out what’s going on, see what people are saying about this.”
Djuro nodded. “Do you want me to try to track down Jan?”
“Yes,” Heikki began, and then shook her head. “No, on second thought, better not. If it is because of the latac, the less contact he’s had with us, the better. Just find out what the gossip is. And get Jock home.”
Djuro gave her a lopsided smile. “I’ll do that, boss.”
“Thanks,” Heikki said, and headed back to her room to dress.
This time, she didn’t bother with the clothes a ‘pointer would consider appropriate. The securitron on duty at the main gate glanced uneasily at her hastily-tied turban and unstylish shift, but the mention of her name brought him instantly to attention.
“Oh, Dam’ Heikki. Ser Neilenn will be out to escort you at once.”
“Thank you,” Heikki said, and resigned herself to wait. To her surprise, however, Neilenn appeared within a few minutes: clearly, he’d been waiting somewhere close at hand.
“Dam’ Heikki,” Neilenn said, and bobbed a sort of greeting. “I’m so sorry to have to disturb you so early….” His words trailed off unhappily, though Heikki could not tell precisely why.
She said, “It doesn’t matter. I assume Slade is waiting?”
Neilenn bobbed his head again, and there was a note almost of relief in his voice. “Yes, Dam’ Heikki. If you’ll come with me, Timon will take care of your vehicle.”
So they don’t want my ‘cat inside the security perimeter, Heikki thought. I wonder why? She said nothing, however, and followed Neilenn across the hard-metalled road to the waiting runabout. The little man lifted the passenger hatch politely, and Heikki swung herself into the low-slung seat. To her surprise, Neilenn settled himself behind the controls and touched the throttle gingerly. The runabout eased forward, and Neilenn gave her an apologetic glance.
“I’m afraid my driver isn’t on duty yet.”
Heikki made what she hoped was a sympathetic noise, her mind racing. She did not for an instant believe that Neilenn lacked the authority to wake up someone as junior as a driver, no matter how early—or late—it was. No, she thought, he’s been ordered not to use a driver— but why? To keep my meeting Slade a secret? That was the only explanation that presented itself, but it didn’t make much sense. She shook her head, and put the question aside for later, concentrating instead on the meeting at hand.
Neilenn brought the runabout to a halt beside one of the smaller towers, under a sunscreening canopy that hid the entrance from any observers in the neighboring buildings. Slade was waiting for her inside, in a second-floor room that overlooked the outer perimeter. The thin, sunblocking curtain was drawn back from the main window, letting in the light of the rising sun; the same sunlight gleamed from the roof of a crystal shed a thousand meters away, a blindingly bright rectangle well outside the circle of terrestrial green that marked the headquarters perimeter. Slade was staring at the shed, eyes narrowed against the light but his face otherwise expressionless. Heikki had one fleeting glimpse of that stillness, and then the man was turning toward her, his face taking on an expression of welcome. He was still wearing the Precincter button, clipped to the low side of his collar.
“Dam’ Heikki, it was good of you to see me on such short notice. And so early in the day, too.”
So my protest was relayed, Heikki thought, murmuring a politely meaningless response. Well, too bad. “I was concerned to hear about Sebasten-Januarias’s accident,” she said. Better to make the first move directly, she thought, or he’ll spend an hour dancing around whatever it is he wants.
“If one can call it an accident,” Slade murmured, a slight smile quirking his lips.
Touché, Heikki thought. “A seeker missile doesn’t usually fall into that category, I grant you,” she said aloud, “but I don’t know what else to call it.”
“I’ll be frank with you,” Slade began, and Heikki mentally braced herself for trickery. “All we know is the police report that Ser—Sebasten-Januarias?—filed this morning when the patrol picked him up. He claims his craft—I forget the type, some heavier-than-air model—was fired on from the ground as he crossed the Asilas below the massif; he took evasive action and was able to avoid the main explosion, though it damaged the ship. He made a crash landing, and walked back toward the nearest farming station, where he called for help. The police picked him up there this morning, as I said.”
It was plausible enough, Heikki thought. The most common aircraft on Iadara were wood-framed douplewings, propelled by a light, cool running Maximum Morris powerplant—not an easy target for the usual small-brained seeker missiles to follow. And the douplewings were extremely forgiving in a crash—that was why they continued in use on Iadara and dozens of other Precinct worlds. The light frame would collapse and crumple on impact, but much of the force of a crash would be absorbed in the process. You could walk away from a smash-up that would kill you in any other craft. She became aware, tardily, that Slade was watching her curiously, and managed a shrugging smile. “I don’t quite know what you want of me. I can see that you might be concerned that this has something to do with your crash, sure, but I can’t for the life of me see what.” Abruptly, she wished she had used some other metaphor.
Slade frowned. “The wrecked latac. Were there any signs, for example, that it had been hit by a seeker?”
Heikki suppressed a surge of malicious pleasure, and answered, “I really couldn’t say, Ser Slade. After all, we only made the one visual examination, and that under less than ideal conditions. If we’d been able to finish the analysis, of course…. But I’m sure your own technicians will have the answers for you in a week or two.”
“What’s your guess, as a professional?” Slade’s voice was untroubled, not in the least annoyed by her jibe, and Heikki hesitated, newly wary.
“I wouldn’t rule it out,” she said, after a moment. “Certainly, if I wanted to bring down a latac, a seeker’s cheap and relatively efficient—the bigger powerplant makes a latac a lot better target than a douplewing’s, for one thing. And there was nothing at the wreck site that would suggest otherwise. But it could also have been an on-board explosive, or even engine sabotage.” Slade opened his mouth to say more, and Heikki spread her hands. “I’m sorry, Ser, I simply can’t give you a better guess.”
Slade sighed. “Fair enough, Dam’ Heikki. As you say, our people will bring in their assessment soon enough.” He paused, staring o
ut the window at the distant crystal shed. Heikki watched him uneasily, not quite believing in his sudden abstraction.
“I suppose,” he said, after a long moment, “this could be some—purely personal matter of the pilot’s.”
“It doesn’t seem likely,” Heikki said in spite of herself, and instantly wished she’d kept her mouth shut.
Slade looked curiously at her. “Why do you say that, Dam’ Heikki?”
Because nobody except a corporate stooge settles a private argument with a missile, Heikki thought. She said, slowly, not quite sure why she was playing for time, “Certainly he never said or did anything that would lead me to believe he had that sort of enemy.”
“But not that he had no enemies?” Slade nodded, almost approvingly.
That wasn’t what I meant, Heikki thought, and you know it. But I can see it would be very convenient for you to explain it that way, at least until you can figure out what happened to your latac. And right now, I don’t see any reason not to give you what you want. She said, “All I know about Jan is his professional reputation—which is excellent. I don’t know anything about his private life.”
“So you would not rule that out? As an explanation, I mean.”
“I couldn’t, no,” Heikki answered. She was quite certain that Slade had noticed the changed verb, but the troubleshooter gave no overt sign of it.
“Mm.” Slade turned away again, back toward the window. The light was fading as the sun rose into a thin haze of cloud, the shed roof no longer flaming against the dull green of the distant hill. “There is one other question, which I must apologize in advance for asking. Is there any possibility that this account is a fabrication, that Ser Sebasten-Januarias is using this to cover up, say, navigational or general error on his part?”
That’s going a little too far, Heikki thought. I’m willing to go along with you if you want to declare there’s no connection with the latac crash—no harm to me either way—but I’m not about to see the kid’s reputation destroyed. “No possibility at all. He’s too good to have to lie like that.”
Mighty Good Road Page 19
