live transfer ones. When people get killed, it’s usually through lack of oxygen. Somebody suffocates in a loose cargo.”
“Or they forget to open the cock,” Djuro began, and Heikki glared at him.
“Give it up, Sten. You’ve had your fun.” The chimes sounded, releasing the cars for boarding, and Heikki was grateful for the interruption. “All right, everybody on board.”
She held the capsule door for them, shaking her head at a stranger who would have joined them, and the others filed inside, Alexieva darting a single distrustful glance at the barrier ahead before ducking into the little car. It was, Heikki thought, a sweet—if petty—revenge, and she allowed herself a faint smile as she closed the capsule door behind them. Djuro passed their tickets under the capsule’s scanner; the machine clicked to itself, then flashed a steady green bar: passage confirmed. Heikki settled herself against the cushions, glancing around the compartment, and took the single sheet of folded thermoprint that Nkosi held out to her. The warning sounded, and the train slid smoothly forward, picking up speed as it approached the opening barrier. In spite of all the times she’d ridden the trains, Heikki braced herself, and saw, out of the corner of her eye, the others doing the same. The train lurched once as they passed over the threshold of the barrier—Alexieva turned as white as she had been red—and then the capsule seemed suddenly to pick up speed at an impossible rate.
“Now,” Nkosi said softly, one big hand closing over Alexieva’s clenched fist, and then they were into the warp itself. For a moment that seemed horribly endless, they hung in non-space, outside of space, and then reality returned, and the string of capsules was coasting up to the platform on EP3.
Alexieva murmured something that might have been a curse, and shook herself free of Nkosi’s hand as though she were angry at her own frailty.
The rest of the trip was uneventful. Heikki, watching covertly over the edge of her newssheet, was surprised and reluctantly impressed to see that Alexieva, while she avoided looking at the screen, managed to face the rest of the trip with surprising equanimity. But then, Heikki thought, I knew she was brave enough. I just wish her courage were all 1 had to worry about.
And then at last the capsule slowed to a halt at the inbound platform of EP7. Heikki reached for the door controls with more eagerness than she’d admitted feeling, and felt her cheeks grow hot as she fumbled with the latch. The door slid open, and she stepped out onto the platform, glad that the others were busy with their own belongings.
“Where away?” Nkosi asked cheerfully, folding the last newssheet into his jacket’s capacious pocket.
“Baggage claim first,” Heikki answered, “and then— I’m heading for home. What you do is up to you, but you’re all welcome back at the office.”
“Thank you,” Nkosi said, and looked at Alexieva. “But I think we had better find a place to stay, first. My usual flat only has housepacks for one.”
“I want to stop by briefly,” Djuro said, “but just to pick up my pay.”
Heikki gave him a smile of thanks, as much for the tact as for the offer itself, and said aloud, “Whatever suits you, people. Just—keep your mailcodes current with us, please? After all the strangeness of this contract, I’d like to be able to get in touch with you if the lawyers have any questions.”
“You’re not thinking of suing?” Alexieva asked.
“Not yet,” Heikki answered. “But—as I’ve said all along—this way of terminating a contract doesn’t make me look good.”
They made their way through the first set of gates to the baggage windows, and Nkosi volunteered himself and Alexieva for the tedious job of waiting for the crates to appear. Heikki, genuinely grateful, dug a handful of transfer slips out of her belt pockets and gave them to him.
“I will not need all of these,” the pilot protested, halfheartedly, and Heikki shrugged.
“Send your own stuff wherever it’s going, and if you haven’t used up the credits, flip me the excess sometime.” She glanced over her shoulder, and saw an unexpected and familiar figure standing at the entrance to the transport concourse. Santerese lifted a hand in exuberant greeting, and Heikki felt her own heart lift. “Keep in touch, Jock,” she said, and tried not to turn away too quickly.
“Oh, I shall,” Nkosi called after her, laughing. “We have not yet completely settled accounts, after all.”
Heikki turned back, flushing in embarrassment, and Nkosi waved her on. “Which we will do when you have settled your contract, I know. I will contact you tomorrow, all right?”
“Right,” Heikki agreed, relieved, and made her way through the crowd to Santerese. Djuro was there before her, but Heikki ignored him.
“Marshallin,” she said, and the two women embraced.
“Lord, doll,” Santerese said, heedless of modest language, and held her partner at arms’ length. “It’s good to see you back.”
“It’s good to be back,” Heikki said, aware both of the foolish inadequacy of her words and of Santerese’s impish acknowledging smile. “How’re things?”
“Well enough,” Santerese answered, but there was a note in her voice, a hint of restraint, that made Heikki look sharply at her. Santerese shook her head once, and said, “Let’s get back to the suite, and get Sten fed —”
“That’s not necessary, thanks,” Djuro interrupted, with a slight smile. “I just want to get a draft, if I can, and then I can be on my way.”
Heikki saw Santerese’s almost imperceptible sigh of relief, and knew Djuro had heard the same restraint in her partner’s voice. Thank you, Sten, she said silently, and opened her mouth to suggest they take a floater across the stations’s central volume, when Santerese said, with an almost perfect imitation of her usual breezy tone, “As it happens, Sten, I can save you the trip. I brought a voucher here, if you can bear to take LloydsBank.”
Djuro lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll take what I can get, Marshallin.” He paused, hazel eyes darting from one to the other as he took the slim card from Santerese, visibly considering further questions, but in the end said only, “I’ll be in touch.” The words were as much a threat as a promise.
He started away—toward the common transport tubes, Heikki saw without surprise, but she could not muster amusement at the little man’s habitual frugality. “What’s wrong, Marshallin?”
Santerese made a face. “Nothing’s wrong, precisely—or nothing’s wrong, yet.” She shook her head— annoyed with herself, Heikki knew, and offered a tentatively consoling hand. Santerese accepted it with a smile, but the response was abstracted. “Let’s get back to the suite,” she said, “and then we can talk.”
As bad as all that? Heikki thought, chilled, but let the other woman draw her away toward a waiting jitney. Santerese was unusually silent on the long ride back through the station corridors to the suite of rooms that served as both office and living quarters, and Heikki found her nervousness contagious, so that she barely noticed the familiar landmarks passing outside the jitney windows. At last the machine drew to a stop at the end of the corridor that led to their pod, and Santerese popped the canopy with a sigh of relief, saying, “I was beginning to think we’d never get here.”
So was I, Heikki thought. She followed Santerese down the twisting corridor that led to the stairs, nodding to the securitron on duty at the head of the stairway, and then rode the movingstairs down the three levels to their suite. The staircase seemed slower than ever, and it was all Heikki could do to keep from breaking modesty and start striding down the stairs at twice the stair’s sedate pace. She shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, and Santerese gave her a wry glance, but said nothing until they were finally inside the suite.
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
