Or belong to the Club in the first place, Heikki thought. “Yes, but…” she began, and Nkosi grinned.
“Nothing has been normal yet on this planet. Why should the rep be any different?”
“Classist,” Heikki said, to Djuro, and shook herself, hard. “The ‘cat’s waiting. Let’s go.”
She left the two men at the expensive end of the 5K Road, where the equipment rentors generally kept their show lots, and turned the ‘cat back toward town, threading her way through the minimal traffic to the Portside district. This was one of the newer parts of Lowlands, where the low, mostly one-and two-story buildings were finished with dull bronze-colored insulating tiles. The streets were broad, but empty, most workers hiding inside, out of the morning heat. Once she had found the Frozen Pool—it was actually a broad black-metal sculpture of a pond crammed with the local wildlife, birds and various small amphibians, even a fish caught in the act of leaping half out of the mirror-bright “water”—it was easy to find Ciceron’s office. She worked the ‘cat into one of the narrow parking slots, and made her way into the building.
The lobby was cool and quiet and empty, blank-walled except for the dull grill of a mechanical concierge. Heikki crossed to it, and pressed its almost invisible button.
“Gwynne Heikki, for Ionas Ciceron.”
For a long moment, there was no answer, but then at last relays clicked, and she heard the faint indistinct hiss of an open channel.
“Dam’ Heikki,” a voice said, from a speaker set somewhere in the ceiling. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t expect you so early. Please, do come up.”
“Thank you,” Heikki said, and waited. A minute or so later, servos hummed, and an almost invisible section of wall slid back, revealing a moving stair. A new voice—the building’s computer, Heikki guessed—said,
“Please take the stair. Movement will stop at your floor. Enjoy your visit.”
Heikki bit back her instinctive answer, and stepped onto the stirring stairway. It rose, slowly at first, then faster and more smoothly, curving up and around a massive central pillar. Heikki could see other offices, the ones on the lower, more expensive floors, each with its shaded-glass frontage and a human secretary visible behind it to prove the operation was worthwhile. As the stairway approached the fifth level, it began to slow down, slacking off tread by tread. Heikki clutched at the handrail to steady herself, and was looking down as the machine ground to a stop and she stepped off onto the mirror-floored landing.
“Good morning, Dam’ Heikki.”
She looked up quickly—she hadn’t seen anyone as the stair approached—to see a small man standing in an open doorway at the far side of the stairwell.
“Ser Ciceron?”
The little man bobbed his head in acknowledgement. He was a perfect miniature of a man, Heikki thought, bemused. His head barely reached her shoulder—and she was not exceptionally tall herself—but he was so strikingly handsome, and carried himself so gracefully, with an assurance long unconscious of his size, that it was she who was outsized, not he who was diminutive.
“Do come in,” Ciceron continued. Heikki smiled, and stepped past him into the office. It was a typical business property, reminding her of the suites she and Santerese had rented for years, but the media wall had been half blocked off by an elaborate cloud chamber, only a third of its surface visible from the working desk. Heikki could not help raising an eyebrow at that, and Ciceron smiled crookedly.
“I do rather more simulations work than anything else, Dam’ Heikki. Despite my other responsibility.”
“I beg your pardon,” Heikki said automatically, and settled herself in the client’s chair. “However, it is as Club representative that I’ve come to see you today.” Deliberately, she left other possibilities dangling, knowing that Ciceron would know what she had been hired for, and saw the little man’s smile broaden briefly.
“Of course, Dam’ Heikki. How can I be of assistance?”
“I need recommendations,” Heikki said bluntly. “I expect you know why I’m on planet.”
She waited then, curious to hear his response. After a moment, Ciceron nodded. “The missing latac. Yes, I heard they were hiring off-world to find it.”
That, Heikki thought, was an odd turn of phrase. “Locals couldn’t handle it?” she asked, and allowed a note of contempt to seep into her voice.
Ciceron frowned. “They didn’t try.”
“The Firster problem?”
“No.”
Ciceron’s voice changed subtly, and Heikki swore to herself. She’d missed it, whatever it was, and he knew she knew less than he did now. She kept her face expressionless, and said, “I need a pilot, one with back-country experience, and a lot of it—someone reliable. And I need a guide, also reliable, preferably someone who knows the massif well.”
“What would you mean by reliable?” Ciceron did not reach for his workboard, but steepled his fingers above the desktop. There was amusement in his voice that did not reach his eyes.
“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.”
