Angeleyes - eARC (13 page)

I expected we’d have a rush toward departure time. Lots of transshipments look for available craft, or get delayed, or travel space-A, or hope for a discount on an already full load. It’s how trampers stay in business.

It was eight hours and a bit until departure when Shannon said, “Angie, can you come dockside with me? I’d like some info.”

“Sure. What?”

“Can you show me a couple of emergency safehouses here? Do you have any?”

“Bypassing the gate, hiding out for a nap and some privacy, or being invisible?”

“Whatever you have.”

They wanted proof I was bona. It made sense. Worst case, I was in Caledonia.

“Okay. Dark coveralls, and follow me.”

I went to my cubby, found a maintenance cover, pulled it on and met him back at the cargo lock. He was dressed the same. He handed me a badge that would clear me out and back in through the dock.

I led with chatter, and hoped he’d catch on and play along.

“So we’re off the ship,” I said. I was quiet and conversational, but parannoyedly assumed someone might listen. “You realize the captain will be a bit ticked if he finds out we’re sweating together.”

“He won’t find out,” he said, and gave me a grin that almost seemed real. But I knew he’d got the meaning.

There was the “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY” sign, and I said, “This way.” I slipped past and into a door that led to a cleaning closet. That was smart because it gave distance to stuff they cared about. It was stupid because it was easy, unsecured cover. A few seconds later, he was in behind me.

“This is one,” I said. Good for a quick snog or a spread if you’re adventurous.”

“Are you?” he asked. It took me a moment to realize he meant that strictly professionally. He was asking if I had.

“I have been. Now and again and again.”

“Go on,” he said, and it took me a bit more to realize he meant about hideouts.

“Up there,” I said. “The grill pulls off, and there’s a large air plenum. That’s used . . . not often, but it’s not that uncommon . . . and laborers use it to get past gates when they miss a sched. They’d report anyone really suspicious and figure to get a slap and a bonus for stopping a smuggler or whatever.”

“Got it,” he said, looking up. I’d had to toe the shelf to get up. He could reach it unassisted. If he was fit enough, he could probably spring up and pull.

“This way,” I said. I cracked the door, checked, stepped back out and around into the main passage again. He followed.

Down two ramps was an under-ramp stowage, that locked. We went around behind it and I pointed, then kept walking.

Once around again, I whispered, “That takes a standard key all the maintenance use. All it has is cleaning carts, vacuums, things like that. If you wait until traffic dies down, it’s a quiet place to rest or sleep. They change the key periodically, but I spread with one of them two years ago and he let me have the login. It updates me when I hit system.”

“Do I get that, too?” he asked, leaning close as if we were flirting heavily.

“Of course,” I said, and licked the tip of his nose. Damn, this was distracting. He was built, smart, had a lot of charisma and I hadn’t been properly boned in weeks. Shipboard release was work, not play, and not the same. It was more like petting a cat than real sex.

“One more?” he asked. “Somewhere more private?”

I’d shown him two closets. He wanted something more serious, to prove I was.

“How long do we have?” I asked.

“A couple of hours at least.”

“Just enough time,” I said. “You can’t rush these things.”

I’d have to go in the back way from here. I hadn’t done that before.

“It would be easier with blue coveralls for station staff, but these will work,” I said. “Can we get a bit dirty?”

“Yes.”

“Find some grease or dust as soon as we get into the service passage,” I said.

Getting into the service passage wasn’t too hard, but I did have to shim the latch. I carry a small tool that has a reflective surface that fools a non-locked latch into thinking it’s been opened.

I had it out, he ran a hand down my wrist, glanced that way, and shifted his eyebrows to silently ask, “Want me to do it?”

I let the card go and he stretched up with both hands, touched the doorframe, waved it, and stepped slightly back as it opened.

Once inside, I glanced around, pointed low at a dumpster with some rags and other “clean” waste, and we walked over to it. I grabbed one, rubbed it between my hands and across my brow, then wiped it down the coveralls and across my ass. I was a well-worn laborer now, as far as anyone looking could tell.

Looking like that, I led the way down the length. It doesn’t quite circle. It crosses another one that’s polar rather than circumferential, and it stops before the next bay.

I spoke regularly, so it sounded normal. “We’re needed down at Chinchy’s in ten. This isn’t really authorized, but as long as we go straight there, we should be okay.”

We passed some guys unloading a flat behind a restaurant. It looked like new equipment. Two glanced up, and I said, “Sorry, can’t help or would.”

“Yeah, you better get back into transient passage,” he said.

“Working on it,” I replied, with a tone of
go screw
.

Past them, there were occasional others, but no one said anything, most didn’t really notice, and those who did just sort of stared to make sure we kept walking. This was trespass, but mild.

Then I waved my thumb and ducked into a little side niche. This had a door that was almost a hatch.

“Watch this,” I said, and punched the code I had from my phone. It clicked, I opened it, and he followed me through. Inside it was dark. This was a conduit for water and sewage, and it was hot, dank and almost pitch black. There were emergency lights every hundred meters or so. Actually, probably exactly one hundred meters.

He whispered, “Can we talk?”

“At a whisper, yes. There are camps out here from time to time. Refugees, homeless people, petty criminals, some of all that and more. If they’re found, they get sent wherever home is or to ground.”

“That’s expensive.”

“Yeah, they’re very decent like that, though of course, a lot of us don’t want to be on ground. But at least..I guess they’re somewhere.”

“How often do they sweep for them?”

“Every few weeks. The campers get good at moving around.”

“Should we look messy?”

“Some do,” I said. “Some are smugglers. Some scrape a living acting as go-betweens and shoppers. They look nicer. If someone can save, or has skills, they might find a slot on a near-derelict and relocate.”

“I’m told there’s a lot of these at Ceileidh and Breakout.”

“Yes, and it’s easier to make a living there, but harder to survive. Most of these can beg for assistance from the government and get it.”

“Yeah. We actually do save some, though. We just can’t save all.”

“No one can.”

“How do we get out of here?” he asked.

“Down this way about two hundred meters. There’s five little alcoves along the way. A board or cloth hanging up,” I pointed at the first one, “indicates it’s taken. It’s rude to shove in until at least a third of a day goes by. If you get snoopy, they might be armed and mean, or drugged, and the community of sorts will come after you as well.”

He looked around as we walked, and I was pretty sure his shades were taking images.

“They’d leave us alone?”

“Mostly. If they thought we were doing what we are they’d turn us in themselves.”

“Got it,” he said.

The exit was behind a dumpster behind a restaurant. The dumpster wasn’t supposed to block the access, but there wasn’t anywhere else to put it. That passage was full. I gather they paid an occasional bribe of a meal to the safety inspector, and he mostly looked away.

“Straight back now,” I said. “We’re too dirty for this area.”

“We should have brought spares.”

He handed me a wash wipe, and I cleaned my face and hands at least.

In twenty segs we were back at the dock.

In the meantime, loading started, and I joined in to help, with all the internal and racked tainers.

CHAPTER 15

At the last minute, we had a passenger.

We weren’t really set up for them, but Roger cleared out a compartment that was mostly pantry, and rolled in a folding rack. With that, comm access and agreed use of our shower and head, he settled in. He was slightly old, slightly gray, in really good shape, and quiet. He nodded all around, shook hands limply for his mass, and went to secure for launch.

We shoved out and immediately queued for transit across system, and then to Earth, which seemed like a dangerous thing to taunt. We were enemy combatants in disguise, and regardless of the bad publicity, could be executed at once. No one had done that in the colony battles, officially, but I’d heard rumors. I also knew some people got spaced from habitats, unofficially. I’d seen bodies twice.

I was curious as to why we’d taken him on. We didn’t need a lot of money, and presumably had some clandestine backing. Yet here he was, going to Earth.

We actually went in-system and grav-slung around their gas giant, Titania, which I never remember without looking it up. It was pretty, in bands of bronze and red and amber.

It was two weeks, and the passenger only left his cabin to shower, and usually on third shift.

Four times he actually ate in the mess, but then, we mostly didn’t either. He didn’t talk much. No one else questioned him, so I didn’t.

I mostly stuck on main shift, took care of meals, took care of cleaning. Roger handled cargo monitoring himself. Teresa pulled maintenance on controls and mechanicals as needed. Otherwise, we continued our workouts. Mira had third shift command, so we often didn’t see her. She slept while we worked, and we tried to keep the noise down.

I helped Teresa strip and clean a shower head that got clogged. It was an easy job, but I was bored.

“How did you learn about all these places?” she asked.

“Clubbing, and hanging out with local drunks who want to be clever,” I said. “It’s just like the treehouse or cut through a field groundside.”

“Only it’s all artificial.”

“Right,” I agreed. “Most people have no idea how much maintenance space there is. Usually thirty percent of a station is support for the rest.”

“It isn’t even that secret,” she said. “Hold right there and crank that down.” She handed me one wrench and put another somewhere else.

“No,” I said. “Just not something most people pay attention to.”

“Do you have a favorite?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Depends what I’m doing. If I need sleep, Caledonia Three. If I want to dance and get spread, NovRos One, right across. The culture there, though.” I shook my head.

“It’s reported to be pretty rough.”

“It’s not if you avoid those elements, but it can be if you don’t.”

That was the most excitement we had on that leg. Which was good, I guess.

Once across on a far arc of the system, we ignored the station and instead went straight into queue to jump. I wondered about that, because dead legs cost money, but it does happen. I really didn’t know enough about what we carried to guess.

We jumped, and that put us only hours from Earth’s JP3 station. But, there are so many craft going through that the wait for a slot can take longer than the flight. We were parked in a holding orbit far out from Humea, which is some sort of dwarf planet. It was two and a half days before they called and slotted us.

During the wait, I saw our passenger pretty much at meals. He spent most of his time in his cabin and his head calls were short. Even so, his presence hindered us. We didn’t exercise as much, and didn’t do any combat practice. I spent a lot of time on vid and sim, and took long showers that took the edge off but weren’t satisfying.

The station is so big that craft actually dock inside. I suited up, and Roger and I waited while the local crew detached the cargo train. They charge for that, of course, and you don’t have any choice. It was supposed to “save money” and “level the playing field,” but the big shippers don’t lose anything, and the small shippers can’t pay less wages for a leg, so they pay their crew to not work, while paying the station crew to work.

They weren’t terribly slow, but an experienced ship crew could have done better.

While waiting there, tethered to the ship, I thought about getting my suit resized. I’d changed shape slightly over the two years since, and it was tight in a couple of spots. Also, the helmet needed polished. I had a few scratches that made annoying distractions in my field of view. I marked it all when I was back aboard, and planned to take it in for repair.

Roger saw me and said, “We’ll cover that.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“No worries. Jack can polish the dome here. Take the rest to the fitter.”

Tiny one-crew rocket tugs came to meet us, and bumped us in a complicated game of tag. There was even a resonance to the bumps, increasingly fast and decreasingly noticeable, until we skidded down a long rail into the dock. It actually airlocked us in, vac-clamped the hull, pressurized and opened the inner hatch. Then huge motors chugged us into the bay proper.

Clamps secured us, with loud thumps, and that was scary, too. We were locked inside, strapped down, and couldn’t leave without their say-so. We’d have scannable tags as soon as we debarked, and being found without one would get you harassed and questioned. A lot.

“Thanks, all,” the passenger said. He had two large travelbags, shouldered one, dragged the other, and strode down the ramp.

“Take care, sir,” Dylan said to his back.

I had to wonder a bit then, and more later. Given his build and silence, was he one of the infiltrators we sent to Earth proper? Had I played a part in wiping out a large chunk of humanity?

But as fast as he debarked, we had Customs and Safety Inspectors approaching. Four of them.

“Good day, is the captain available?” one called up.

“I am Captain Gaspardeau,” Juan said, with a bare touch of Alsacien accent. I couldn’t tell it from a natural one. I wondered if they could.

“Permission to board for inspection,” the team leader said. She wasn’t really asking. It was a formality.

“Certainly,” he agreed, with a smile that looked strained. It was the right level of strain for this. I wondered if he’d been here before.

They came up, and in a few minutes had logged in for the manifest and crew data.

One of them walked over to me. “Ms. leBlanc?” he asked.

“Yes. Cargo and cook.”

“Here’s your Personal Safety Tracking Unit. Have you been in Sol system before?” He handed over an ID dangly.

I had no idea what my cover background was, so I said, “Better tell me about it to make sure.”

He rattled off the whole spiel from memory about, “Will respond in emergencies” and “enables easier access to support functions” because they wouldn’t let you in without one and you better “report if lost or stolen, at once” or there would be “severe penalties for loss.”

“Got it,” I said.

The team leader looked up from her screen and said, “There are weapons listed here.”

Roger took that. “Antiques, with licenses and EUCs, being shipped to collectors. They are secured and double sealed.”

“I need to see the seals, please.”

“Sure. Angie, can you pull C Five Two out?”

“I think that’s double stacked, but I can if you give me a few.”

“Take your time,” she said. She didn’t mean that of course. We also wouldn’t get her name. They don’t do that in Sol, claiming we have the inspection number, and they’re chipped for scan, if there’s a problem. It’s less friendly, though.

I unplugged the loader, rolled back and pulled two cans, stacked them aside carefully in case they reported a safety violation, and got the one they wanted. Roger opened it, they walked in, and presumably the box within the box of the antique rifles was secure as it should be.

Eventually they left. They took some real Coca Cola and some good chocolate with them, as a gift of hospitality, and if they got that from every ship, they were doing well.

That accomplished, we could start unloading the internals.

The dock is clear space and a controlled zone. We pulled the cans, unloaded partials, consolidated for next leg based on schedule tags, then went to eat, which meant going through security, showing ID, stating a ship, stating a “purpose” for being on the station, as if “transient cargo haulers” wasn’t obvious. The food was bland and overprocessed, and cost too much.

While we were eating, I thought I saw our passenger walk by. It wouldn’t be that big a deal, and I might have been mistaken.

I dropped off the suit and shopped for some basics. I needed to replace three briefers that were wearing through, I was low on chocolate, and I wanted to pull loads of some new vids. I was also trying to avoid tackling the gauntlet back to the dock. Late night had less traffic. It also meant I didn’t have to make a separate run for my suit. All those stores run three shifts, so I just grabbed it late.

To get back aboard, I had to do the whole procedure in reverse: ID check, listing of where I’d been, ship I was reporting to, they had to check with the dock side of security that I’d come through, then pass me in, and take back their dangly.

I did wonder how anyone we snuck in here was going to work around those tracking danglies, but I didn’t want to ask.

That’s why a lot of colonies and the Freehold don’t want to deal with Earth, and why stuff is so pricey in their outer habitats. Delays mean you’re not working. You are consuming mass and supplies. Then you have to be inspected by snoopy assholes, then carry a doggie tag. Doggie style I’m all about. Doggie tags, not so much.

As to doggies, back at the ship, Admiral Bertrand was waiting at the corner of the lock.

“Bert!” I said and knelt down. He trotted over and sniffed my hand. A moment later he started squirming.

“Your dog?” Roger asked from above.

“He’s nobody’s. Admiral Bertrand Russell is a rent-a-dog.”

“Huh?” He looked confused.

“He shows up, waits for permission to come aboard, and takes a leg. He’ll get off at the next stop, and find another ship. He’s been doing it for three years. There’s about six others around, too. They’re temporary mascots.”

“So he wants us to take him aboard?”

“All you have to do is tell him he’s welcome.”

“You’re kidding.” He thought I was playing some prank.

“Is he welcome?” I asked.

Roger looked around and said, “I guess. He’s handsome, and has sat there behaving himself. Jack Russell Terrier?”

“I think so.” Bert was lean, brown and not much bigger than a large cat.

“So what do I say?”

“Just say, ‘Welcome aboard, Bert.’” Bert looked up at me, then at Roger.

Shrugging, he said, “Welcome aboard, Bert.”

Bert trotted up the ramp and bumped his head against Roger’s knee.

“I don’t fucking believe it.”

“Just find him a blanket to curl up in and a chunk of carpet in a tray he can poop in. I’ll take care of him.”

I was glad to see Bert. I run into former crew and former buddies now and then, but hadn’t really since we started this. Seeing him cheered me up.

I laddered up to the C-deck.

“You need to report the Admiral is aboard,” I told Juan.

He frowned and said, “I’m not very comfortable drawing attention to it.”

“It’s tradition. You have to. You’ll stand out if you don’t. Even Earthie controllers have a sense of humor and know who he is.”

He took my advice and said, “Ah . . . Then I guess we better.”

I said, “News will get ahead. When we dock, there’ll be people waiting for him. He gets snacks, toys, all kinds of stuff to fly as mascot.”

“Why did he pick us, then?”

“I don’t know. I’ve flown with him once. I know his story. Maybe someone here is really a dog person.”

“I am,” Jack said.

“See?”

Juan asked, “Is there a particular phrasing?”

“You just note manifest on file, sealed and checked, Admiral aboard and ready to depart.”

He did, and Control replied, “Understood,
Pieper
. Our respects to the Admiral. We’ll report his destination. Stand by for separation.”

We shoved out, and met the train at their loading terminal. Their mechanical dock with their operators attached it. After they left, we inspected it ourselves, even though that was rude, if they saw us.

Roger grudgingly agreed it wasn’t a bad job, but he tightened a couple of scaffoldavits.

Once hooked, we pulled out.

Bert was great. He knew Jack and I were friends. As soon as I was off shift, he followed me to my bunk, looked up at me until I pointed to the mattress, then hopped up. He waited for me to get comfy, and curled up against the back of my legs.

It was wonderful to have a sleeping partner to cuddle with. I had pressure and warmth all night, from ass to ankle. I’d rather have someone’s arm around me, but that wasn’t possible. Still, he was a friend and warm.

The leg across Sol system was longer, and we had a small robot escort that was basically a beacon to make sure everyone knew where we were, as if it wasn’t obvious where the main routes were. Still, they get a lot of traffic, and even if an actual collision is almost impossible, trajectory diversions cost fuel, shake containers and sometimes require a rescue response. I wasn’t going to call them out on it. It made me remember, though, that Sol system is packed. There’s no privacy, no escape, even their habitats are megacities.

I made sure to have hot and cold breakfast and lunch available, hot dinner, and stuff in the crew fridge for late night. Mira tended to nibble in her G couch to stay awake, and drank coffee instead of chocolate. Other than that, I was second on maintenance and cargo and didn’t have a lot to do. Not as far as ship duties.

With just ourselves, we managed to get in more drill on fighting. I’d qualified in Recruit Training, but that was a long time ago. I was older, had spent most of the time not working out except for dancing, and a lot of that was in low G. These people held Expert ratings or more. Jack built us a striking dummy to practice punches and kicks with, and we grappled every couple of days. I got better, but I was never going to match this bunch.