Only I hadn’t intended on heading out quite this soon. And I hadn’t intended on beginning my journey at any of Earth’s pitiful handful of frontierland colony worlds.
I certainly hadn’t intended to leave with a dead body behind me.
But someone had gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to buy me a ticket to Yandro. Someone else had given his life to get that ticket into my hands.
And someone else had apparently been equally determined to prevent that ticket from reaching me.
“Destination, please?”
I dropped the folder into my pocket and pulled out my cash stick, wishing I’d taken the dead kid’s stick when I’d had the chance. My credit tag contained an embarrassment of riches, but tag transactions were traceable. Cash stick ones weren’t. “Grand and Mercer,” I told the cab, plugging the stick into the payment jack. Fifteen minutes at my apartment to get packed, another autocab ride to Sutherlin Sky-port, and I should be able to catch the next flight for Luna and the Quadrail station. If the torchliners were running on time this week, I should make it with a few hours to spare.
“Thank you,” the cab said, and pulled smoothly away into the traffic flow.
The moonroof was open, and as we headed south along Seventh Avenue I found myself gazing at the few stars I could see through the glow of the city lights. I found the distinctive trio of Orion’s belt and lowered my gaze to the star Rigel at the Hunter’s knee, wondering if our own sun was even visible from Yandro.
I didn’t know. But it looked like I was going to have the chance to find out.
TWO:
“Attention, please,” the soothing voice called over the restaurant loudspeakers. “Quadrail Number 339216 will be arriving from Helvanti and the Bellidosh Estates-General in one hour. All passengers for New Tigris, Yandro, the Jurian Collective, and the Cimmal Republic please assemble in the Green debarkation lounge. Attention please…”
The voice ran through the message once more in English, then switched over to Juric and then Mahee. Finishing the last two bites of my burger, I wiped my hands and poked my cash stick into the jack on the bar in front of me. Most of the restaurant’s other customers were staying put, I noted, apparently booked on later trains. Sliding off my stool, I activated the leash button fastened inside my coat and my two ancient carrybags rolled out from beneath the counter.
They’d made it about two meters when one of the motors in the larger one seized up and started it rolling in circles. Swearing under my breath, I shut off the leash and scooped the bags up by their handles, hoping no one had noticed. There were few things more ridiculous looking than misfiring luggage, and few things more pathetic than an owner too lazy or too poor to get it fixed. Slinging the larger bag’s strap over my shoulder, trying to look like I was just carrying them for the exercise, I headed for the door.
I was halfway there when I saw The Girl get up from one of the booths and join the trickle of exiting patrons, her own single carrybag trailing obediently behind her.
I’d first spotted her at Sutherlin Skyport as we’d gotten on the Luna flight together, her third-class seat five rows up from mine. She’d been hovering at the edges of my attention ever since, through three separate flights and two different transfer stations.
Now, it seemed, she was also going to be traveling on my Quadrail.
The fact that we’d spent a week on the same space vessels was no big deal in and of itself, of course. There was only one practical set of scheduled flight connections between the Atlantic side of the Western Alliance and the Quadrail transfer station. Anyone who had decided to take a trip to the stars within a three- or four-day window had no choice but to fly with me.
My problem was that The Girl didn’t seem to fit any of the standard passenger profiles. I hadn’t seen her mingle with any of the other travelers, or even speak to the attendants except on business. Space travel had its share of the shy and the aloof and the just plain oblivious, but most of those eventually gravitated to one activity or another aboard ship, even if it was just to wrap themselves in a cocoon of stargazing silence in one of the observation lounges. I’d made it a point to periodically wander through all the public areas of the torchliner, and I’d never seen The Girl outside her cabin except during meals or an occasional visit to one of the shops. She hadn’t even shown up for the shipboard Christmas celebration.
I gazed at her back now as we walked down the corridor toward the debarkation lounge, watching the light glint off her short, dark brown hair. She was about twenty-two, a decade younger than I was, with eyes that matched the color of her hair and the slender, trim figure of someone who exercised to keep in shape, as opposed to someone who did hard physical labor for a living. Her face was pretty enough, but there was a strange sort of distance to her eyes that was more than a little disconcerting. Possibly one reason I’d never seen anyone aboard the torchliner approach her more than once.
And there was one other peculiarity I’d noted during our flight: Never had I seen her pay for anything with a credit tag. With her, apparently, it was strictly cash sticks.
Of course, I wasn’t using anything but cash sticks, either. But I had good reasons for not wanting anyone to trace my recent movements. Not with the body I’d left back at the New Pallas Towers.
I wondered what reasons The Girl had.
The shuttle was already loading when our restaurant contingent arrived. I made my way inside, found a seat, and threw my bags up onto the safety-webbed conveyer that would carry them up to the roof luggage hatchway. Fifteen minutes later we undocked. Passing beneath the guns and missile ports of the Terran Confederation battle platform floating overhead like a brooding predator, we started across the final fifty-kilometer leg of our journey to the Quadrail station.
I gazed out the window as we approached, half listening to the murmurs and twitterings from the first-timers among us. The Quadrail Tube lay across the starscape straight ahead, a shiny metal cylinder stretching seemingly to infinity in both directions. Despite its sheen, it was strangely difficult to see until you were practically on top of it, which was probably why a hundred years of outer-system probes had drifted through the space around Jupiter without ever noticing this thing sitting just beyond its orbit.
The ends of the Tube were even harder to see, fading away in both directions as the whole thing receded into the strange hyperspace where most of it lay. There had been a few attempts to follow the cylinder out to those vanishing points, but no matter how far you went, the Tube seemed perfectly solid the whole way. A trans-optical illusion, the experts called it, a fancy way of saying they didn’t have the foggiest idea how it worked.
But then, as far as I knew, none of the other alien races who traveled the Quadrail knew how it worked, either. The Spiders who ran the system were the only ones in on the secret, and they weren’t talking.
The station itself was an extra-wide spot in me Tube, five kilometers long and two in diameter, with hatches of various sizes set in neat rows around its surface. Current theory held that it had to be built wider than the rest of the Tube in order to bring it more solidly into normal space. The more cynical view was that the Spiders had to do
Two of the smaller hatchways had passenger shuttles like ours already snugged up to them, ready to pick up incoming passengers. Another ten or twelve of the cargo hatches were similarly occupied, which meant there must be at least one freight train arriving soon as well. Cargo was the true economic backbone of the operation, of course, given that the Quadrail carried every gram of trade that passed among the galaxy’s thousands of inhabited star systems. Passenger transport was nice to have, but in the larger scheme of things I suspected all of us together barely registered as a footnote on the Spiders’ balance sheet.
Our shuttle eased past a drifting maintenance skiff and zeroed in on a hatch marked with bright lavender lights, rolling over to press its upper surface against the alien metal. There was a click of lockseals, and the shuttle’s dorsal hatch slid open. Sensing the presence of air against it, the station’s hatch irised open in response, and the passengers unfastened their restraints and floated their way into a civilized line at the ladder.
The information cards everyone received with their tickets emphasized the fact that, unlike the transfer station’s rotational pseudogravity or the Shorshic-style vectored force thrusters that everyone else in the galaxy
