“So what do we do?”
I thought about it for a moment. The wheels turned slowly but turned just the same. “You hungry?”
People came and went in both directions. Sasha watched them. “Yeah, but what does that have to do with the door?”
“Let’s order some room service.”
I placed the call from a com booth down the hall. It took fifteen minutes for the autocall to arrive, use its electronic pass key, and roll inside. I waited for a bomb to go off, for assassins to peer outside, for a thief to run down the corridor. Nothing.
Minutes passed, the autocart emerged, and the door closed. We waited for the robot to trundle away, keyed the proper code, and stepped inside. Our dinner sat steaming on a carefully set fold-down table. The rest of the place was a mess. What few belongings we had were scattered about like toys in a child’s room.
I stated the obvious. “It’s been searched.”
“Yeah,” Sasha agreed. “But by whom?”
I shrugged. “Trask is a distinct possibility, but why wait till now? My money’s on Trans-Solar. It took some time…but they caught up with us.”
Sasha didn’t agree, but she didn’t disagree either, which was almost the same. We balanced trays on our knees. Sasha took some pills as an appetizer. I envisioned her big brown eye, a strand of nerve still attached, rolling around the bottom of a kidney-shaped basin. Or worse yet, being installed in a lifer’s head. My appetite vanished and I felt an almost overwhelming need to cry. But bodyguards don’t cry, not in front of clients anyway, so I poked at the food and pretended to eat it. Not so Sasha, who had the appetite of a stevedore, and cleaned her plate with a piece of bread.
It was a simple matter to throw our dirty clothes into the knapsack, slip out the door, and meld with the crowd. The room charges would continue to mount, but that was better than checking out, which would signal our departure. Sasha set a brisk pace. I struggled to stay abreast of her and watch for tails at the same time.
“Dorlop impog asup 95601.”
“What did you say?”
“I asked where we’re headed.”
“A ship called the Red Trader leaves in two hours. She’s headed for Mars, which is not the most efficient way to get where we want to go, but some progress is better than none.”
“She’s a passenger ship?”
Sasha laughed then stopped as if something hurt. “I wish. No, she’s little more than a clapped-out freighter, and we’re members of the so-called crew.”
I frowned. “Then why sell your eye?”
Sasha spoke patiently as if to a child. “Because the jobs cost five thousand dollars apiece.”
There was nothing to say so I didn’t.
Staros-3 was shaped like the letter H, with living accommodations clustered around the center bar, and docking facilities, solar arrays, and other facilities located along the four extremities. They were variously identified as Leg One, Two, Three, and Four. The Red Trader was docked on Leg Three so we headed in that direction. I checked our tail for any sign of Trans-Solar’s goons, or Nigel Trask’s greenies, and damned near missed the black man. The same man I’d seen with Trask. He caught my eye and waved. Sasha made a grab for my arm, but it was too late. I waved back.
He was there within seconds, his eyes darting from one to the other, summing us up. He had intelligent eyes, a rather aquiline nose, and thin, expressive lips. His suit was white, or had been once, before the accumulated grime stained it gray. We stepped into an alcove to escape the traffic. “Mr. Maxon…Ms.
Casad…this will only take a moment. I know you’re in a hurry. Mr. Maxon…may we speak privately?”
I looked at Sasha. She didn’t like the situation one bit. “Speak your piece…but I’m staying here.”
The man bowed in acknowledgment. “As you wish.” He turned, blocking Sasha with his body. “My name is Philip Bey. I have a message for you. Mr. Trask wants you to know that our associates have performed some research, and the Mishimuto Corporation discharged two marines who suffered brain damage identical to yours. They experienced the same reduction in cognitive function, the same loss of memory, and had skull plates similar to your own.”
“They did?” I asked stupidly. “Where are they? What happened to them?”
Bey looked me in the eye. He was so direct, so sincere, that I felt sure he was telling the truth. “The first committed suicide within months of discharge. The second has been in and out of mental institutions ever since her release from the Marine Corps. A man who claimed to be a relative took her on a day-trip. She hasn’t been seen since.”
Thoughts plodded their way through my mind. They were like elephants linked trunk to tail. Slow, ponderous things that barely moved. I looked to Sasha for guidance. She refused to meet my gaze. I turned to Bey. “What does this mean? What are you saying?”
Bey shrugged. “Mr. Trask believes that you are in danger. He’s aware of your upcoming journey and suggests that you remain here with us. We will pay your expenses plus five thousand dollars.”
I frowned, moving the thoughts by force to will, determined to make my own decision. Five thousand dollars would have been a fortune only days before, but I had my sights set on fifty thousand, and there was Sasha to consider. A contract is a contract, and I had agreed to escort her home. Besides, the greenies were as bad as the corpies, so why stay with them? I shook my head. “I’m sorry about those other guys, but there’s no reason to think they’re connected to me, and I’m under contract.”
I looked at Sasha, and where I had expected to see approval, I saw something like sorrow instead. It seemed I couldn’t do anything right.
Mr. Bey bowed slightly. “As you wish. I shall inform Mr. Trask.”
The old Sasha seemed to reassert herself. “Do that…we have a ship to catch.”
Bey looked at Sasha’s bandages. “Yes. I hope the accommodations are worth the price. The god called ‘technology’ demands many sacrifices. Your eye was little more than a down payment.”
Sasha turned white and headed up-corridor. I followed. So much for getting off Staros-3 unobserved. The greenies might be strange but they didn’t miss much. I hurried to catch up. The Red Trader was connected to Lock 3-C. We stopped outside the lock, called the ship via vid screen, and identified ourselves to a woman so fat I could barely see her eyes. If she had virtues, charm wasn’t one of them. “Well, it’s about damned time. You got the money?”
Sasha held a certified check in front of the scanner. The woman nodded. “Good. Get your asses aboard. We got a schedule to keep.”
The screen snapped to black. The lock yawned and swallowed us whole. The hatch made a hissing sound as it closed. The umbilical that connected the Red Trader with Staros-3 was already pressurized. The second hatch opened quickly. The umbilical was pleated to accommodate slight movements of the ship or the habitat it was moored to.
Six or seven steps were sufficient to carry us into a rather spacious lock. Sections of paint had been worn away, leaving islands of magenta. A rubber mat gave slightly beneath my feet and air jets cooled my face. I was still inspecting the space suits racked to either side of the compartment when the inner hatch irised open and a man entered. A funny smell followed him in, like when you visit another person’s apartment, or skirt the edge of an enthnoplex.
He had thinning black hair, feral eyes, and a hatchet-shaped nose. He wore a filthy tank top, baggy shorts, and bright orange high-tops. His eyes went from my skull plate to Sasha and stuck like glue. “And what have we here? Some nice-lookin’ poontang, that’s what. Hi, honey, my name’s Lester, what’s yours?”
Sasha gave him a look that would have killed most men. “Screw you.”
Lester licked his lips and rubbed his crotch. “What a coincidence. That’s exactly what I had in mind.”
I stepped forward, gathered some of the tank top in my right hand, and lifted Lester clear of the deck. His feet kicked and his fists beat against my arms. “Put me down!”
“Apologize to the lady.”
“All right! I apologize. Now put me down.”
I put him down. He pulled his tank top straight and looked daggers in my direction. “Come on. The captain wants to see you.”
