of memory crystals, and a relatively new comp-though he could see the device lacked a pochteca maker’s mark.
“These computers were old when I was a young man,” he said by way of greeting.
Gretchen did not look up. Her fingers, lined here and there by old scars, moved quickly on the old-style interface.
“There’s a pitiful ghost in this corner,” the nauallis said, forcing himself to step through the door despite an uneasy stomach. “There’s no proper sign on your door, no windows… this whole building feels… ill.” He patted the chest of his poncho. “My guidebook says this was formerly the Territorial Prison.”
“Then leave,” Gretchen said, not bothering to look up from her control slate. “I have work to do. Paying work to finish today.”
He leaned over the table, reading her comp screen. Disaster Communications Protocols: Classroom Lockdowns. One of the side panes was filled with thumbnail-sized video feeds from cameras scattered around the campus. The rest of the display surface was filled with text-readers scrolling constant streams of log data. To his eye, even the fonts seemed archaic.
Hummingbird moved a stack of printed manuals aside and sat down. “ISS will make it worthwhile to listen; I’ve found a contract for you-a lucrative one-if you’ve need of more quills than this place can afford.”
Gretchen’s fingers paused in their movement. Now she did look at him, and her expression was cold. “Do you? Paying like the last one? Not a single quill? An oversupply of broken promises? What will it be this time? Do you know my son Duncan is… too old for calmecac, even if, at long-last, you came up with tuition and an open door!”
Hummingbird stiffened slightly. “What is this? I kept my end of Chu-sa Hadeishi’s bargain, Dr. Anderssen.”
Gretchen laughed harshly, her oval face suddenly chiseled with tight fury. “Duncan’s applications were lost, so the calmecac deans say. So sorry. It is too late, Dr. Anderssen. All the deadlines have passed. Perhaps when your son has obtained a certification from your local collegium, he can apply for graduate school?”
Hummingbird sat quietly, his face still.
Gretchen went on. “The colonial government denied us access to the tuition funds. Your so-subtle influences meant nothing to these institutions. You have no power over them. I have no delusion that you are capable of paying me anything for my work. Ever. Go away!”
“How does it happen that you are not, at least, still working for The Honorable Company?”
“I am working here because I fit with everything here. We are unaligned with any of the great families, the big corporations, or the Imperial government. We cater, in fact, to the sons and daughters of the timbering crews, the land-clearing gangs, the Batrax miners, and the local rural population.”
She pointed to the door. “If you leave now, you can still catch the last bus. You’ll be back at your transport node by noon tomorrow. Find another fool for your dirty work.”
Hummingbird did not stand up. He continued sitting quietly, watching her work. Twice, he attempted to dissipate the suffocating atmosphere of the cell-like room with a movement of his wrinkled hand.
“Stop that!” Gretchen turned and gave him a sharp look. The blue flash of her eyes showed her pent-up anger had not abated. “I like it this way. It keeps managers and other carrion birds out of my hair.”
Hummingbird smiled a little at her joke, but did not reply. Instead, he continued to wait.
At last, Gretchen gathered her materials together and stood up. “Why are you still here? I told you ‘no.’”
“I cannot leave until you accompany me.”
She hissed in annoyance, and then shuffled through papers in one of the drawers. “See-” She handed him a closely printed page. “You must leave no later than tomorrow by eleven in the morning, or you’ll be stuck here for three days longer. The bus service only runs four days a week.”
“ We should leave tomorrow, Dr. Anderssen. There are several transport changes between Dumfries and the Rim.”
“The Rim.” Gretchen’s eyebrows twitched. Then she shook her head. “I’m late getting home already. You can’t stay here. The night watch would shoot you.”
The Anderssen homestead hugged a ridge well above the town. Gretchen’s mother had picked the site-there was plenty of open space to discourage surprise attacks, and the house sat with its back to the wind among stands of imported spruce and fir. Night had already fallen under the eaves of the forest as they settled onto bare, rocky ground west of the house that served as a landing pad. Together, they pushed the aircar into a pole barn cut into the hillside. Heavy blocks of stone and turf formed three of the walls. Before crossing the garden-all rows of spindly beans on lattices, with some tomatoes and squash in between-Anderssen took a slow careful look around, hand light on the heavy revolver slung at her hip. “You carry a weapon, Crow?”
Hummingbird shook his head, though her tension made him wary.
“There are cats here big as jaguars. And half-humans with the same table manners. Out beyond the townfence, you should always go armed. Never know what might come roaming by.”
“I don’t use them,” the old man said quietly, keeping clear of her gun hand.
Inside the house and behind a pair of locked, airlock-style doors, Gretchen started to relax. Curt introductions served to identify the Mexica to Grandmother Anderssen and the two girls. Isabelle and Tristan regarded Green Hummingbird with interest, but when the meal arrived, they quickly fell to whispered gossip from the day. Gretchen’s mother caught the wary look Hummingbird gave their sidearms and monofilament knives as she was setting the table for dinner.
“Not the Center, eh?” Grandmother cracked a betel-nut and grinned at the old man. “Though we do occasionally put on a duel or blood feud for the tourists. Then it’s just like Anahuac, isn’t it?”
Hummingbird ignored the aside, his attention fixed on the hulking gray reptilian shape squatting on a broad, leathery tail at the end of the table. Gretchen smiled wickedly at the old nauallis’ pained expression when Malakar snuffled around him, her snout wrinkled up in suspicion. Anderssen was in no mood to explain anything to the Crow.
Why volunteer, she thought, that our old friend spends her nights crouched at my bedside with pen and parchment book, listening to me mutter and sing in my sleep, writing down all the fragmentary bits and pieces of Mokuilite poetry so revealed? It is the least I can do to repay her my life, and her friendship.
After the plates were emptied and cleared away, and the night was fully upon the house, and with all eyes upon him, Hummingbird nodded to them each in turn and then faced Gretchen. “Your particular skills are urgently needed, Dr. Anderssen.”
Both girls perked up at this, but Gretchen felt a cool thread of anger boil up in her chest. That’ll get you nowhere, Crow. She caught her mother scowling from the kitchen door and held up a finger for pause. “Excuse me.” Gretchen took a handheld scrambler from the pantry and set it on the table between them. The constellation of lights on the device flickered, formed a series of random geometric patterns, and then settled into a calm blue square.
Hummingbird tilted his head to one side. He scrutinized the sturdy, if outdated, Vosk Model 12 for a moment, and then nodded approval. In a low voice he went on: “Imperial Scout Service has found something enormous, Anderssen, hidden back in the depths. Within an area of heavy interstellar dust clouds navigators name the kuub. Are you familiar with this place?”
Gretchen blinked involuntarily in recognition, then eyed Isabelle and Tristan, who were sitting very quietly at the table, trying their best to remain invisible. “Why don’t you two show Malakar how to play that new coaling sim?”
Twin pouts met the invitation, but the code for “make yourselves scarce, this is business,” was unmistakable.
