John Maddox Roberts - Spacer: Window of Mind Page 9

  When she came to the deserted mall area, she had to change tactics. A single person crossing these completed but unoccupied areas might be picked up by surveillance instruments. She found an elevator and took it down. Below the mall area was another, almost identical. Below that was a third, and here crews were still working. She figured they must be working three shifts around the clock, but that worked to her advantage because she would be less conspicuous.

  She got off the elevator on the level where the crews were putting up paneling. The layout was identical to those above, but here the materials were plain, functional synthetics. This level served the immigrants or the third-class passengers. She walked about as if she had some purpose for being there, and nobody looked up from whatever they were doing. It was working out. She was dressed as a working spacer, although her coverall wasn't white like theirs. The construction workers had stolid, workingmen's faces, unlike the group she had seen before.

  Kiril began to make her way back, towards the holds. There were long corridors of small cabins and big, barracklike rooms for immigrants. Some of these had been fitted out for the construction crews, and she passed tiers of bunks where the off-shift workers slept or viewed holos to pass the time. All through this area, people were installing lights, putting in wiring or plumbing, all the tasks of fitting out a ship for space.

  The living quarters ended at a bulkhead that separated them from the holds. She stepped into an elevator and took it up to the level of the access corridor she and Huerta had taken earlier. She didn't dare call for one of the transports they had ridden in, but the walk wasn't all that far. She moved very quietly as she neared the guarded hatch. As she reached it, Kiril knew she had timed it just right. The guard was seated at his post, sound asleep. She checked her watch. If this area were run on a regular ship's schedule, he was due to be relieved in about ten minutes.

  She had been coached by experts on how to move silently. She leaned over the guard and studied the panel below his flat-vision screen. She found a pressure plate marked Hold Three and punched it. The screen lit up. Kiril just stared, unable to register what she was seeing. Inside, dwarfed by the immensity of the hold, was a ship. The ship was Space Angel.

  Her mind kicked into gear again. How had they brought her aboard, and why? Then she noticed a row of slots around the ship's midsection she didn't remember seeing on the Angel. That was where the holds were. Delicately, she worked the viewer into a closeup scan of the ship. The shape was identical, the old, dust-scarred sides the same. The navigator's bubble came into view. She could just make out the banks of instruments inside. The Angel's had been torn out years before. This ship was almost the same, but it wasn't the Angel.

  Kiril knew that it was time to get out. Now she had something to take back. She didn't know what it signified, but finding this justified the risk she had taken. But there might be more. What else was in that hold? She found a numbered series of plates below a label denoting storerooms and access corridors. She began hitting them in sequence, viewing one empty room and passage after another, scanning each for a moment before going on to the next. Then she hit the jackpot. One was occupied. She spared an instant to glance at her watch. Her time was gone. She should clear out fast. She decided to press her luck a little further.

  The storeroom had been rigged as a barracks. She could see at least three men stretched on bunks. Another had his head enveloped in a holoviewer. Two sat at a table in the center of the room playing a complicated game with dice and counters. The ones she could see wore military coveralls equipped with colorshift camouflage. One of the game-players reached across the table to place a counter, and she watched the arm of his coverall change from the brown of his chair to the green of the tabletop.

  The men had hard, brutal faces. She knew this breed, all right: mercenaries who fought for pay in the little wars that had begun as soon as the big one was over. She had seen many like these in the streets near the port of Civis Astra. On liberty when (heir ships put in for fuel or repairs, they had been big spenders and valued customers in all the dives and dope houses.

  She had the viewer scan the room, and she saw a rack of beam rifles. She could see that the weapons were unsecured. One of the oldest and most rigidly enforced rules was the one against letting anyone handle a weapon or tool that might pierce the hull of a ship in space. She wanted to see more but turned the screen off. Time to go.

  The sleeping guard didn't stir as she left him. A hundred meters down the corridor she began to breathe regularly again. It looked like she was going to get away with it. Then a door opened almost in her face and a' man stepped out into the corridor.

  "Well, what have we here?" It was one of the meres, wearing a ship's security uniform. Undoubtedly this was the sleeping guard's relief. He couldn't carry a gun, of course, but he had a stun rod on one hip and a sheathed knife on the other.

  "I been back to the engine room to deliver some stuff," Kiril said. Might as well brazen it out. "If you're going on guard, you better hurry. Your buddy back there's snoring up a storm. Whoever's security chief on this tub won't like that."

  His ugly, scarred face split in a grin. "You don't say. Well, if he's asleep, he won't notice if I'm a few minutes late."

  "What do you mean?" she said, ready to bolt. Before she could even pick a direction, he grabbed her arm and yanked her into the access corridor he had stepped from. He sealed the door and turned to her, still grinning.

  "What I mean is, anybody with a call to go to the engine section just takes a shuttle car. And when they want something back there, they just send for it through the delivery system. It don't need to be hand carried."

  Automatically her hand went for one of her wrist sheaths, but her knives were still back aboard The, Angel. Mentally she cursed herself. She had let shipboard life make her soft and slow. Back in the alleys this ugly lout would never have laid a hand on her. Old K'Stin would be ashamed of her, if she ever got back alive.

  "You don't work on this ship," the mere said. "You're some officer's play toy he brought along, ain't you? Only you got a boyfriend back there in engine section and you don't want your sugar daddy to know when you go visit him. I'm right, ain't I?"

  "You got it," she said. "Now let me out of here."

  "Sure," he said. "Only before you go, you're gonna let me in on boyfriend's action, or maybe your officer friend finds out his dolly been taking unauthorized trips sternward."

  She let him get his arms almost all the way around her before she took the knife from his belt and opened his uniform from belt to collar. Then she spun and cut from shoulder all the way to wrist. The mere jerked back, his face a ludicrous picture of surprise. His mouth dropped open as he saw his uniform ribboning away from his body and arm. A single, continuous cut ran from his belly to his collarbone, then made a right-angle turn and went down his arm to the wrist. Blood began to seep from the shallow gash as he watched.

  "You cut me!" he said. Then he called her a number of things so shocking that some of them were new even to Kiril. "I'm gonna make you wish you'd been smart and agreeable."

  he started for her, but she raised the knife and he stopped.

  "That was a little scratch, but you could be looking at your guts right now and you know it, soldier." She hissed her words in a deadly monotone. "I can sure give you that look if you push this."

  He started to grin again. "Just a little way down that hail is a dozen more men even prettier than me. If I just holier, you're gonna have to do some real fast cutting."

  "Sure, soldier," she taunted. "You're gonna tell your friends that you let a skinny little girl take your knife away and cut you with it. No, I'll tell you what you're gonna do: You're gonna go to your infirmary and put some tape on that little souvenir I gave you, and you're gonna get into a new uniform. Then you're gonna go and relieve your sleeping friend. And while you're doing all that you better be praying that I don't tell Izquierda that one of his hired thugs forgot he was supposed to keep a low profile." It wa
s the last threat that struck home. He had half smiled until she mentioned Izquierda's name, then his face held nothing but fear.

  She sidled around him and reached behind her to grasp the door handle. He didn't try to stop her as she opened it up and slipped through, always keeping the blade between herself and the mere. She shut the door and started to run. She heard no pursuit, but she did not slacken her pace until she reached the elevator. Her heart thudded and she began to shake as the elevator dropped. She stopped it at one of the unoccupied levels and waited for the shakes to pass.

  When she was more composed, she realized that she was still holding the knife. It wouldn't be much help if Izquierda's men came for her, but she didn't want to give up the only weapon she had. She searched an empty corridor until she found a scrap of tough molyfilm left by some worker. She wrapped the plastic around the knife and thrust the wrapped blade into the top of her boot. She bloused her trouser leg around the handle until she was satisfied that it didn't show, then got back into the elevator.

  On the level where work was going on, she got off and retraced her steps. At every moment she expected security men to collar her and take her to Izquierda. When she reached her suite, she went inside and sat tensely for several minutes. It meant nothing that she had made it here without incident. Maybe Izquierda wanted to keep this quiet. It was fairly certain that most of the line officers on the ship weren't in on his plot. She looked at her watch. Still two hours before wakeup. She knew she wasn't going to get any sleep between now and that time.

  6

  When Kiril heard the quiet tone of the wakeup call, she knew that she had actually nodded off. It was morning and nobody had come to get her. Groggily, she got out of the chair and went lo the bathroom to freshen up. She splashed icy water in her face and straightened her hair until she was satisfied that she didn't look either disgraceful or suspicious.

  She went back into the main room. Nobody had told her what I lie breakfast arrangements were, but she heard a musical tone and saw a panel open in one of the walls. Inside was a tray bearing covered dishes. She took the tray to a table and sat. "They sure don't make you knock yourself out around here," she muttered to herself. She ate hungrily, noting that the food was really no better than she was used to aboard the Angel, although it was more elegantly served. When she was through eating, she sipped at the coffee. It still tasted vile, but since spacers seemed to live on the stuff, she figured she'd better cultivate a taste for it.

  She set the cup down with relief when a voice came out of nowhere. "All personnel on the landing party, report to the shuttle dock in fifteen minutes." The voice repeated the instruction and Kiril stood, pushing table and tray away from her. She checked to make sure that the knife was secure in her boot and not showing. She hoped there wouldn't be a weapons check before boarding the shuttle. She didn't dare leave it in this suite, but she didn't know of anyplace to dispose of it between here and the dock and she wanted to keep it, anyway. It was more than just a weapon now; it was evidence of a sort.

  She took a last look at the incredibly luxurious suite before she left. A few months ago she had thought that only gods or holo stars could live like this. It was gorgeous and seductive, like the rest of the ship, and she wanted to be away from it more than she'd wanted anything else in her life.

  Huerta met her at the shuttle dock. "Did you sleep well?"

  For the first time in hours she felt a little safe. Surely they wouldn't try anything in this mass of people. "Never better. The setup here is a lot more posh than I'm used to."

  "That could be changed," he said enigmatically. Uh-oh, she thought, here comes the pitch. Bewilderingly, though, he let it drop. Izquierda arrived and he signaled to Huerta. The young man went to join him, and he remained with the circle around the director for the duration of the trip back down to the planet.

  The Angel's crew had not yet arrived when Kiril got off the shuttle. She began walking toward the ship, then stopped. She didn't want to look conspicuous. Best to wait for them to show. There was no sign of the aliens yet. A few minutes later they arrived, and she went to join them.

  "Any problems?" the skipper asked Kiril.

  "We have to talk," she said in a low voice.

  "Later," the skipper said, smiling for the benefit of anyone who might be looking. "Don't say anything until we're back aboard ship."

  Nagamitsu saw them and signaled for them to join him where he stood with a knot of scientists. "Any luck with the language?" the skipper asked.

  "We've made very little headway," Nagamitsu said. "The computers have analyzed every sound they made and come up with nothing. We were hoping Homer might have had more success. How about it?"

  "I lack sufficient data," Homer said. "But I suspect that the vocal sounds are only a part of their system of communication. There are odd breaks and pauses in what seems to be an otherwise conventional speech mode."

  "We caught the pauses," said one of the scientists, "but we couldn't make anything of them. Our holos didn't show any concurrent body language to fill them in. Of course, we have no way yet to interpret their facial expressions. Some kind of chemical signaling has been suggested."

  "My own belief," Homer said, "is that they employ a mixture of speech and telepathic communication."

  "Telepathy!" said the head of the scientific mission. "It's so rare that we have little understanding of it. If they really do communicate that way, we could have great difficulty in establishing a dialogue. Are you certain, Homer?"

  "Not perfectly, but I have experience of other telepathic or part-telepathic species. The speech mannerisms of these people bear some resemblance to theirs. Perhaps today I can gain enough data for a key to their speech. I have only a very slight telepathic sensitivity myself, and in my experience it is rare that even two fully telepathic species can communicate efficiently. However, I think a mutual language can be established. If they did not depend upon it strongly, they would have no spoken language at all. It is not impossible that the telepathic signals carry only small but crucial inflections of meaning."

  "Let's hope so," Nagamitsu said. "Here they come."

  There were only three of the aliens this time. Two of them carried instruments of some kind; a flat, black box and a slender rod covered with odd markings.

  "It looks as if they've come prepared to do some analyzing of their own," Nagamitsu said. "Homer, gentlemen, go to it."

  Homer and three of the scientific party walked over to the aliens. They had recording devices and one carried a flat computer display screen. If the two species could not communicate directly, it was hoped that some kind of computer dialogue could be established. Assuming that the aliens had computers, of course. It was difficult for the humans to imagine how a species could accomplish interstellar travel without computers, but Homer insisted that he knew of several species that did exactly that.

  They watched the scientists at their tedious task for several minutes. "Admiral," the skipper said, "this is a momentous event of great historical significance, but it's about as exciting as watching grass grow. If you don't mind, we'll return to our ship and paint the bulkheads or something. Let us know if something interesting happens."

  "1 envy your relative independence," Nagamitsu said. "Duty keeps the rest of us here. Go ahead, but keep your ship-to-ship hailer open."

  They returned to the Angel. Torwald started to talk as soon as they were inside, but the skipper hand-signaled him to be quiet. When they were in the mess room, she turned to the rest. "They might have some kind of listening device aimed at us, and it'd look suspicious if we buttoned up the hatch, so no talking near the lock. Finn, check her for snoop devices."

  Kiril stood motionless while Finn, checked her out with an instrument that looked like a pistol to her. She hadn't considered the possibility that they might have planted a bug on her. "She's clean," Finn announced.

  "All right, Kiril, let's hear it." The skipper sat, and so did the rest.

  Kiril began her story, fr
om the time she boarded the shuttle to the dinner in the officer's wardroom. When she got to the part about her late-night escapade, she said: "Sorry, Skipper. I know you said for me not to snoop on my own, but it just seemed too important, and the opportunity was there."

  The skipper snorted disgustedly. "I have a hard enough time getting people to follow orders in this ship. It'd be too much to hope that somebody'd be obedient on another ship. Go ahead, tell us all about your spook mission."

  Kiril told them the rest. She could tell from their expressionless stares that they weren't buying it. "I hope you realize," the skipper said when she had finished, "that that's just about the craziest story I ever heard. A duplicate Angel in the hold? Hired troops hiding in the supply rooms? Are you sure you didn't sample the goods in that bar in your luxury suite?"

  Kiril took the knife from her boot and tossed it in the middle of the table. "The shops aren't open yet," she said, "so you know I didn't pick it up from a souvenir vendor."

  The skipper frowned and picked the knife up. She unwrapped the blade and handed it to Finn. "Anybody seen one like this before?" Finn shook his head and passed it to Torwald.

  The quartermaster examined the curved blade and deeply checked, black composition handle. "This was made on Beli-sarius. I saw lots of troops from there carrying these during the War. Those rats changed sides so many times their boots were made with toes at both ends."

  "So the part about the mercenaries is true," Finn said. "Kiril, I've known a lot of meres. Mostly, they're just soldiers adrift after the War who don't know any other trade. Do you think the one you encountered was a rogue?"

  She shook her head. "That whole lot's the kind that'll cut your throat for pocket change. Back in Civis Astra I've seen them knife each other in alleys for the price of a drink."

  "He has them there for some kind of dirty work, then," Bert said. "But that part about the ship is still a little hard to accept."

  The skipper was sunk in her chair, pondering deeply, her head almost buried in her collar. "I'm not so sure about that now," she said around her cigar. "Ham, what shape's our Registry of Spacecraft in?"