Even then, she didn’t seem eager to begin, but glanced instead toward the kitchen alcove. “I’ll start some coffee—”
“Marshallin,” Heikki began, but the other woman did not seem to hear.
“—and that tape I told you about, the one you thought was from your brother? It’s on the desk in the workroom.”
“Screw my brother,” Heikki said, and Santerese gave her a flickering smile before she sobered again. “Marshallin, what’s going on?”
Santerese sighed, her mobile face suddenly grave. “I think maybe a drink’s better than coffee,” she said, and palmed open a wall storage space to produce a bottle of amber liquid and, after some search, two glasses. Heikki accepted what was poured for her, but stood waiting. Santerese sighed again. “Since you asked, I had Malachy ask some questions about the contract, and I spoke to Idris Max about Tremoth. It was just checking, all the lightest feelers, nothing more…. But somebody took it all wrong. The answer—well, take away the legalese, and Lo-Moth’s lawyers, pardon me, Tremoth’s, it’s them who’re handling it, not Lo-Moth—” She seemed to have lost the thread of her sentence, and paused to recover it. “Take away the legalese, and they’re threatening to go to the Board, accuse us of illegal procedures, archaeology—failure to report antiquities, improper handling and so on.”
“What?” Heikki’s hand tightened painfully on her glass, and she loosened it with an effort. “That’s ridiculous—we’ve been triple certified, and everything.”
“They hint they have evidence. Nothing so direct as a threat, of course, but they do drop hints,” Santerese said. She sipped her drink, and gave a tight smile. “Which they won’t use, as long as we don’t pursue this contract.”
“Galler,” Heikki said, with a decisive venom that surprised even herself. “That son of a bitch.”
Santerese was looking at her in some surprise, and
Heikki bared teeth in an angry grin. “This is just the sort of thing he’d do. Where’s the cube?”
“In the workroom,” Santerese answered, her voice a little wary now. “Heikki—”
“What?”
Santerese seemed to swallow what she had been going to say. “What makes you think he’s responsible?”
Heikki laughed. “This is the sort of thing he’d do, the sort of thing he always did do. Haven’t you noticed that we haven’t had a bit of luck since he showed up again?” Santerese’s eyebrows lifted, but Heikki stalked into the workroom before the other woman could say anything. After a moment, she heard Santerese call after her.
“Why don’t you bring that cube out here?”
Heikki swore to herself, unreasonably unwilling to follow any suggestions, but then curbed her temper and hefted the message cube. It was heavier than it looked, and she stared at it with loathing, almost ready to blame that, as well, on Galler’s machinations. The irrationality of that brought her back to her senses a little. She laughed, with a touch of real amusement this time, and went back into the main room.
Santerese was waiting exactly where she had left her, her glass still held a little above waist level, her face, its only expression a sort of polite neutrality, turned toward the door. Heikki, recognizing the signs, set the cube on the nearest table, and said, with an effort, “All right, ‘Shallin, I’m overreacting.”
Santerese’s expression did not change. “Yes, you are.”
“You don’t know my fucking brother,” Heikki retorted, stung, and then gestured an apology. “He’s more trouble than you can imagine, always has been.”
Santerese did not answer, and Heikki shrugged to herself, reaching for the tag that contained the thumb-print seals. If that’s how you want to be…. she thought, and studied the little tab. There was no movement from Santerese. Heikki’s lips tightened, and she set her thumb firmly on the bright orange dot. The tag considered the imprint, comparing that to the pattern in its memory, and then, reluctantly, the dot faded from orange to green. Heikki took a deep breath, twisted it away, and used her thumbnail to pry open the little door that covered the controls. They were the standard set, but she pretended to study them for a moment before she could bring herself to trigger the tape.
A funnel of light flared from the machine’s projector, filled at first with static, and then with a sort of visual noise that slowly resolved itself into an image. For an instant, Heikki didn’t recognize the face that stared out at her, but then the long chin and the undistinguished nose, so like her own, resolved themselves into her brother’s once-familiar face. He had aged, she thought vaguely—but then, so had she. In a wicked mirror image, the same lines bracketed their mouths, fanned delicately from the corners of their eyes. If anything, she thought, we look more alike now than ever we did.
“You didn’t tell me you were twins, you know,” Santerese observed.
“I did—” Heikki began, and the first words of Galler’s message cut across whatever else she would have said.
“Heikki,” said the voice—her own voice, if deeper; the same tricks of phrase and the same flat vowels. And then the image smiled in the old way, sweetly malicious, and Heikki’s thoughts steadied. “Gwynne. I apologize for troubling you, but I could use your help— which, of course, I am willing to pay for, as I realize old affection doesn’t stretch nearly that far. These codes are current; contact me as soon as possible.” The image smiled again. “For old times’ sake,” it said, and dissolved into static.
“I’ll see you in hell first,” Heikki murmured, and switched off the machine.
Santerese whistled softly, and stepped forward to examine the codes inscribed on the plastic tag. “What is all that about, darling?”
“I don’t know,” Heikki said, flatly, staring at the cube without really seeing its flat grey surface. She was sorely tempted to do nothing, to ignore the message—but if she did, Galler would find some way to force her to do what he wanted anyway. I wonder, she thought suddenly, is everything that’s gone wrong his way of proving to me just how far he can go? She shook the thought away as unproved, if not unfounded, and said again, “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to make contact.”
Santerese lifted an eyebrow. “What’s between the two of you, anyway? He sounded like he was in trouble—he said he needed your help, anyway.”
“That’s just like him,” Heikki answered. She took a deep breath. “You don’t know Galler. He always did get into trouble, and then drag me into it after him, just so I could get us both out.” Santerese was looking at her oddly, and Heikki managed a sideways smile. “And if you’re wondering why I didn’t just leave him, he usually managed to involve me in spite of myself, so I didn’t have any choice but to help him if I was going to save myself.”
“What kind of trouble?” Santerese asked slowly.
“Oh, you’re right, nothing too serious,” Heikki answered, and with an effort held onto her smile. “The usual stuff, staying out after curfew, borrowing sailboards, things like that. But one of his schemes got me in bad with some people I really cared about, and—” I’ve never forgiven him for it. She bit off the words unspoken, perfectly aware of how ridiculous it sounded, to hold a grudge against your own brother for twenty years, and over a long-dead friendship; said instead, “We were always opposites, anyway. I said black, he’d say white to spite me, and vice versa. I only went by Heikki to prove the name was mine, I never minded Gwynne, but he kept digging up proof that in the old days it wouldn’t’ve mattered that I was older, he would’ve gotten the name because he was the male.” She’d said too much, she knew suddenly, and shrugged and fell silent, not looking at Santerese.
There was a little silence, seemingly interminable, and then Santerese said, “How come you never told me any of this, in all these many years, doll?”
Heikki shrugged again. “It didn’t seem to matter. I’d left home, cut the ties—I never expected to have to deal with him again.”
“So what are you going to do?” Santerese nodded toward the message cube, still sitting on the tabl
e where Heikki had left it.
Heikki stared at it, loathing mixed with resignation filling her. “I suppose I’ll have to contact him,” she said, and saw the approval in Santerese’s nod. Not for the reasons you think, Marshallin, she thought, but accepted the other woman’s embrace. You’d do it because he’s family, you with your cousins and god-cousins scattered all over the settled stars. Me, I’ll do it because it’s dangerous not to, because I know him, and I know he’ll hurt us if we don’t.
She looked again at the contact codes, peering over the curve of Santerese’s shoulder. “But not until tomorrow,” she said, with some relief. “Those codes are for EP4.”
Santerese laughed softly. “All right, tomorrow, then.” And then, when Heikki did not relax in her arms, she tilted her head back and sideways to look into the other woman’s face. “You do hate him, don’t you?”
Heikki kept her cheek against the warm curve of Santerese’s neck, rubbing against her like a cat for comfort. “No,” she said after a moment, because it was expected of her—you don’t hate your siblings, not blood-sibs and most especially not your twin—and felt Santerese’s arms tighten quickly. “I guess not.” She heard the lie in her own voice, but, blessedly, Santerese did not seem to notice. “Tomorrow,” she said, with an attempt at briskness. “I’ll deal with him tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 8
The public trunk lines between EP7 and EP4 were among the busiest in the Loop, and it took Heikki almost an hour to find an operator who could give her a place in the transmission queue. Even so, it was over an hour’s wait before her slot would arrive. Heikki growled a curse at the empty screen, and pushed herself up from the workstation, punching a last series of keys to set her remote to pick up the incoming operator’s signal. She started for the suite’s main room, but paused in the doorway, hearing familiar voices.
“—this new woman of yours?” That was Santerese’s voice, cheerful as always, and Heikki started to pull back into the workroom, not quite ready to face such determined good humor.
“Heikki doesn’t like her,” Nkosi answered, and lifted a hand in greeting.
Fairly caught, Heikki came on into the main room, nodding to Nkosi. At least Alexieva was nowhere to be seen. Santerese emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of steaming mugs, and smiled when she saw Heikki.
She set the tray on the low table, gesturing for the others to help themselves, and said, “Why not?”
Heikki shrugged, uncomfortable, and busied herself with the plate of spices. Nkosi said, not entirely playfully, “I do not think she trusts her.”
Heikki sighed, keeping control of her temper with an effort. “That’s true, I don’t, not entirely.”
“You can’t just leave it there,” Santerese said.
Nkosi smiled. “I admit, Marshallin, I do not—entirely—trust her. Not entirely.”
Santerese scowled, and Heikki said, “She wanted the job too badly, ‘Shallin, and she admits she works for Lo-Moth, or for Electra FitzGilbert, which to my mind is much the same thing.”
“That I am not certain of,” Nkosi murmured. “She said that she worked for FitzGilbert,”
Santerese’s frown was growing deeper. Hastily, Heikki outlined the circumstances of Alexieva’s hiring, and then her own suspicions. When she had finished, Santerese made a face. “Lord, doll, you sure can pick them.”
“Which, jobs or people?” Heikki asked, sourly, and Santerese touched her shoulder.
“Both and neither.” She looked at Nkosi, the smile fading from her face. “So if you don’t trust her either, why are you bringing her along?”
“Well, there are two reasons,” the pilot began, and Santerese glanced at him.
“I could stand to hear the short version, Jock.”
“As you wish.” Nkosi did not seem in the least abashed. “First, she is attractive, and when you are not growling at her, Heikki, she is good company. Second, or was that two already? No matter. The other reason, the last reason, is that I would rather have an eye on her than leave her out of sight.”
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Heikki said slowly. “Did you suggest her coming back with you, or did she ask you first?”
“Ah.” Nkosi gave her a rather sheepish smile. “I would have said I asked her, but I have been thinking, Heikki, and I believe she was hinting for such an invitation all along.”
Santerese looked from one to the other, and shook her head in disbelief. “It sounds to me like you did just what Lo-Moth—or FitzGilbert, or whoever’s running her—wants. She’s watching us, Jock, not the other way around.”
“The thought,” Nkosi said, “had crossed my mind.” He looked at Heikki, and then back to Santerese. “I am sorry. What do you want me to do about it?”
“Nothing,” Heikki said abruptly.
Santerese gave her a startled glance. “You’ve changed your tune.”
“No, look.” Heikki put down her mug. “We know she’s watching us, so we don’t let her see anything, right? And we still have a connection with Lo-Moth if we need it.”
“That makes a great deal of sense,” Nkosi said. “And I will not pretend I am sorry to have to keep an eye on Alex.”
I bet you’re not, Heikki thought, but a soft beeping from the remote cut off her next remark. “My call’s gone through,” she said instead, to Santerese, and looked at Nkosi. “Excuse me, Jock.”
“Of course,” the big man said, and Heikki retreated to the workroom.
A string of lights rippled across the communications display, now projected on the media wall. Heikki studied it, her fingers already busy on her workboard, finetuning her receivers’ frequencies to match more closely the numbers displayed below the flickering lights. The string steadied, became a solid bar, and the monitor system said, in its artificial voice, “Local station tuning within acceptable limits. System connect offered, system connection made. You may enter your contact codes when ready.”
Heikki had already hit the keys that transferred Galler’s codes to the system. A light flashed green below the bar, and then turned red. The monitor said, “Codes not valid. Please reenter.”
Heikki swore to herself, knowing she’d been overeager, and hit the keys again. The light flashed briefly green, then went back to red.
“Codes not valid,” the monitor announced. “Please reenter.”
Frowning now, Heikki reached for the tag she had taken from the message cube, and keyed the numbers in directly, reading them over twice before she pressed the button that flipped them to the communications system.
“Codes not valid,” the monitor repeated.
“Please reenter,” Heikki snarled in chorus. “I know.” Despite the expense of the connection, she hesitated, hands poised over the workboard. The codes Galler had given were no longer good, that much was obvious— and how typical of him, she thought, then pushed the complaint aside as less than useless. She could disengage from the system now, and would only have to pay a nominal fee; the local databanks should be able to give her any updates to Galler’s code listings. Still, she thought, there was no guarantee they’d have the most recent books from the other stations, and this was clearly a very recent change. Before she could think too much about the expense, she triggered the codes for EP4’s main directory service. The screen faded, shifted, and at last displayed a scratchy system prompt. She flipped it Galler’s codes, and waited. The system was silent for a long moment, the wall showing only the standard “processing” symbol, the speakers hissing faintly. Then at last the symbol faded, to be replaced by a dozen lines of closely-spaced printing. The last dozen letters were highlighted, and Heikki copied them into her own machine. A moment later, a chime and a second symbol indicated a successful transfer. She sighed, and touched a button, turning control of the communications system back over to the workroom’s operating system.
“End session,” she said aloud, and saw numbers begin to stream across the wall too fast for a human eye to follow as the automatics took
over. She settled herself in her chair, staring at the codes that now filled her workscreen. Galler’s contact codes were listed—the new set—along with his present place-of-employ and his residence code. The date-of-last-revision was listed as well: less than thirty hours before.
You must want my help real bad, she thought, changing your codes like that at the last minute. The least you could’ve done was flip me an update—one thing I do know is that you have my codes. She studied the numbers for a moment longer, a slow smile spreading across her face. Never mind the mail system, she thought, never mind whatever stupid games you’re playing. I’ve got your residence number, and I’m going to show up on your doorstep—and I don’t care if it’s a corporate pod, or maybe I hope it is, and you have to explain my very unpointer presence—And, by God, when I get there, you’re going to tell me exactly what is going on.
That decision made, she touched keys, calling up departure schedules and a fare table. There was a train for EP4, a one-stop, that left in an hour. She ran her hand across her board again, transferring money, and reserved a seat. The diskprinter chattered, and spat a set of ticket foils; she left them in the basket, and ran her hand across her board, pulling chunks of data from the past hour’s work and melding them into a single reference file. When it was finished, she slid her lens from her pocket, and fitted it carefully into the read/ write socket. As she touched the sequence that would transfer the file to the lens’ memory, Santerese spoke from the doorway.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Heikki gave her a guilty glance, but said, “I’m going to EP4 myself.”
“Was that what he wanted, your brother?”
Mighty Good Road Page 23
