One of the other security officers was in the lounge, waiting. “What’s wrong with you, Tersha?”
She glared at him. “What business is it of yours, anyway?”
By the time she reached her next interview, she’d worked herself up to a splendidly foul temper.
There were a good three-dozen lace shops on Baret Station, which was no surprise, since Baret Two was known for lace, and any number of Gate tourists passed through the station halls. Tal gathered that much of the lace was machine-made in the bowels of the station itself, but the prices seemed acceptable, and nobody was complaining loudly.
With a clean bill of health from Baret Security, getting onto the Republic Ship Kestrel as a visitor should not be too difficult. The Republic tended to prefer letting outsiders in to letting its own folk out. He applied from the station link, got permission to board at fourteen hundred, and decided to use the interval at hand to shop.
“Bring me back something nice,” Adrian had said the first two times he’d issued passes to Tal, but he’d soon given that up. Gifts for other people were so low on Tal’s priority list that he somehow never got around to them, and on those rare occasions when he did come through, his presents were known for their inappropriateness.
He stopped at a plate glass window on the tourist level and peered inside a branch of The Chi, a widespread net of tech supply shops. The place looked run-down, costconscious. Signs proclaiming bargains covered the walls. A middle-aged man and a girl of about thirteen were working inside; otherwise, the aisles were empty.
There were possibilities here. He entered the shop.
The girl, who had hair of bright gold feathers, ignored him. The man, who was bald and unhappy looking, followed his progress as though he expected Tal to pocket the merchandise at any moment. They both wore complex tattoos on their foreheads that suggested ancient circuitry.
Tal made his way gradually to the glass case in back where the expensive items were kept. The man left his post and joined him there; they reached the case simultaneously.
“Service to you, John?” asked the man. His expression remained unhappy.
“I’d like to buy a riccardi,” said Tal.
The man’s jaws had been working away as though he were chewing something; they stopped abruptly. “You got a license, John?”
“I’ve got cash,” said Tal. “How much are they?”
“We don’t take dollars or yen. Get your money changed at one of the banks—”
Tal lifted a gold unit chip, imprinted with the station logo. The man glanced toward the golden-feathered girl. She was across the store, unpacking boxes, her back to them. Tal said, helpfully, “Why don’t you just tell me about them, as though I did have a license, and we can iron out the details later?”
The man nodded, not looking Tal in the face, and pointed to the case. “We got three. Those there on the left, they got full sensory input, but they dissolve after six months. That chip on the right’s a permanent. You don’t want it anymore, you got to get a pro to take it out. Okay?”
Tal nodded.
He went on, “One on the right’s designed for the best companies, lifetime employment. You won’t find any side-effects there, John; they have to be real careful when it comes to putting something together that’s got to be accurate for decades.”
“I take it that’s the most expensive.”
“Happens it is. This one’s fifteen thousand units. Others are four thousand, eight hundred. But you got to figure, you need a new one twice a year. So you’re really saving money with this one, aren’t you?”
“Are any of your riccardis two-way? Send and receive?”
“Send? There’s no such thing as a two-way riccardi, John. You don’t know a lot about the field, do you?”
Tal smiled a humorless smile. “Can I get it within the next ten hours?”
The man’s gaze flicked back toward the girl, who had finished with her boxes, and was glancing their way. “You leaving, right?”
“You’ll never see me again,” Tal assured him.
“Cost you twenty, to get it so fast.”
“Done,” said Tal, “but I’ll need the service of an installer.”
“You crazy? Get your own damned installer.”
Tal shrugged and started to leave. The man took a couple of steps toward him and said softly, “I’ll walk you to the door. Come back at nineteen hundred. I can get somebody to meet us then.”
“You don’t understand,” said Tal quietly. “It’s not for me. I need the installer to come out to the City of Diamond to do it, that’s where the person is.”
The man made a sound like a laugh. “Forget it, John. Nobody’s rowin’ out to that ship, I’ll tell you right now.”
“It’ll take him all of an hour. And I’ll give him another twenty.”
They were at the door to the shop. The man blinked, as though there were sunlight in the entranceway. “Come back at nineteen, John.” Then he turned and went back into the badly lit interior. Tal heard him say, “Kit, you don’t know how these window shoppers waste my time.”
The RS Kestrel was another story. Clean, precise lines, efficient processing of his boarding request; Tal approved. He was shown into the lounge, the only area open to visitors, within minutes. It followed a typical Republican aesthetic; utilitarian furniture, least-common-denominator pictures on the walls, beige carpeting. The atmosphere brought back memories.
And there, on one of the soft brown chairs, was Cyr Elizabeth Vesant, an olive-skinned, silver-haired, human woman of middle age in an emerald cape and tight blue pants, perched like a bird of paradise in this island of respectability. “Empire” was written all over her; certainly she made no concessions to her fellow passengers.
But then, at the moment, there were no fellow passengers. Except—as he came closer he took in the
