Crossways (10 page)

“The trade embargo is the first step,” Mother Ramona said. “We think they might use Olyanda as an excuse. We need to find a way to fight them.” She took Garrick's hand. “And we need to get all the independent planets talking to each other. Alone, they're in danger of being swallowed up every time they have something that a megacorp wants, but together they can stand strong.”

“And if the megacorps lose their grip you get a whole new trading network to support Crossways,” Ben said.

“Exactly,” Garrick said. “Only that should be
we
, Benjamin. Are you in? You and the Free Company?”

“News travels fast.”

Mother Ramona cleared her throat. “I might have had a casual conversation with your Miss Phipps.”

Ben looked at Cara. She gave him a curt little nod.

“I'd say take all the time you need,” Garrick said. “But I'm not sure how much time we have.”

“We don't need time,” Ben said. “Thanks for the offer. It's a good idea. Cara says yes. We need a base and Crossways is it. We're in.”

*You like Garrick, don't you?*
Cara asked, using a tight telepathic band to keep the conversation private.

They were on their way to the warehouse, crammed into a tub with their silent guards.

*Like is too strong a word. I trust Mother Ramona and she trusts Garrick. I've seen a few people come and go at the top of the Crossways heap. Garrick is something different. He thinks big and he's not just at the top because that's where the profit is.*

*That's what I mean,*
she said.
*You like him.*

*I like his vision and I respect him. I'd rather give someone the benefit of the doubt than live my life expecting to be let down. I find if you put your trust in people they often come up to your expectations. My grandmother taught me that. Of course there are occasionally exceptions.*

*Crowder.*

*A big exception. I confess I didn't see it coming.
*

*Neither of us shines in the character-judgment department.*
Cara sounded rueful.

She put on a good front, but she wasn't over the Ari van Blaiden fiasco, yet. Maybe it would always leave a scar. Van Blaiden's pet Telepath, McLellan, had messed with her head appallingly, conditioning her to protect van Blaiden against all her natural instincts. It had almost killed them both until Cara had managed to turn the tables on McLellan, get inside her head and smash her down.

Oh! He had a sudden insight into the way Cara had put down the Telepath in the warehouse yesterday. McLellan had turned her into a killer.

Ben took her hand and squeezed it.
*I trusted you. I still do.*

*That's more than I deserve.*

The moment begged for her to say she trusted him, too, but she didn't. An aching gap opened up between them. He let go of her hand.
*It's a start, isn't it?*

The warehouse was in district Blue Seven, close to where they'd been attacked the day before. The back of Ben's neck prickled. Too late. Why hadn't he had warning shivers yesterday?

“Déjà vu,” Cara whispered as the little transport tub bounced into the bay.

“This time I'm ready.” Ben patted his buddysuit thigh pocket. “Not getting caught like that again.”

Cara patted her own pocket. “Derri?”

“Derri,” he confirmed.

One of the guards cleared his throat. “I'll pretend I didn't hear that.” The voice was female. Ben revised his opinion hastily.

“The no-firearms rule could hardly apply to something as low powered as a Derri,” Ben said.

Even smaller than its antique counterpart, a palm-sized Derringer delivered twenty stun bolts without recharging time between shots. It was short-range, but had laser-point accuracy over a distance of twenty meters and the advantage of being able to shoot around corners, or at least bounce off any shiny surface. It wouldn't kill, not unless you pumped five or six bolts into a person on rapid-fire, but it would give you an edge in a street fight. You really had to want to kill someone to make it lethal.

The warehouse door stood open. The female guard commed ahead and received the all clear. No traps waiting for them today. They stepped into the cavernous, well-lit space, their boots echoing on the medonite floor. No packing crates this time, good. A knot of people had gathered a little way in, where Wenna, Gen, and Max stood with a young woman in a sober business suit. Archie Tatum, Serafin's young Psi-Mech second, was above them on a gantry examining structural beams.

“Hey, Boss, Cara, come and meet the real Bettina Mirakova.” Wenna waved them over.

“I heard what happened yesterday. I'm so terribly sorry.” Mirakova stepped forward and offered her hand. “I wouldn't want you to think we're all savages on Crossways.”

“Miss Mirakova.” Ben took the hand and then stood aside for Cara to shake.

*Well?*
he asked, close range.

*As far as I can tell she's who she says she is. Damn, I should have realized something was wrong with yesterday's Mirakova, but I took her agitation for anxiousness to make a deal. I was careless.*

*We both were, and we nearly paid the price.*

“Please, call me Tina,” Mirakova said.

“This is the warehouse Tina was supposed to show us
yesterday,” Wenna said, “but her appointment got canceled by your secretary.”

“I don't have a secretary,” Ben said.

“I know that now,” Tina said. “I'm sorry.”

“No need to keep apologizing. It was a good setup, a team of professionals. We were taken in as well. Caught off our guard. Slow and slack-witted. It won't happen again.”

“What do you think?” Tina said. “You can use this space for anything legal.”

“Legal?” Cara said. “I thought this was Crossways.”

“A lot of things are legal on Crossways that might not be legal elsewhere.” Tina smiled. “But killing Mr. Garrick's guests is definitely not.”

“I like it.” Archie recalled a small flotilla of engineering bots no bigger than his thumbnail. They came zooming to his bag as he scrambled down from the gantry, scuttling down from where they'd been examining structural beams and wall skins, transmitting information directly back to his neural implant. “The boys say the outer structure is sound and the floor”—he stamped hard—“is strong enough to support whatever we want to build. There's potential to install a back door to Blue Eight and a direct link to Upper Blue One.” He glanced upward. “We could have our own docking cradle.”

“And a communications hub to connect to Crossways Main and the intersystems banking grid,” Max said. “We'll need to invest if we're going to make the most of the platinum.”

Ben sometimes forgot Max had a previous career in accounting before he signed up for the Olyanda Colony. He might need training in survival skills, but he left them all in the dust when it came to finance.

“We should send a recovery party back to Olyanda, Boss,” Wenna said. “I know we're going to be filthy rich in platinum, but there's no point in wasting some of the good equipment we left behind.”

It seemed they'd settled matters of the Free Company between themselves. Ben tried not to smile. The secret to running a good team was that a really good team ran itself. All it needed was someone to nod or shake their head a time or two at appropriate moments.

He nodded.

Wenna and Gen high-fived. “You won't regret it, Boss,” Gen said.

Wenna hugged him, her newly fixed prosthetic arm squeezing just a little tighter than a human arm might have.

“Oww! I already do.”

He turned to Cara, strangely silent through all of the discussion. “Are you in?”

*Am I invited?*

*Of course.*

She gave one brief nod.
*I'm in, then.*

Relief flooded through him. He'd been worried she'd cut and run.

Kitty was dozing in her bunk when she felt a mental handshake, implant to implant.

*Remus, thank goodness.*

*Ms. Yamada wants to know what the hell you are doing, Keely.*

*Making the most of an opportunity.*

*Have you considered the opportunity you'll give Benjamin if he figures out who you are working for?*

*He won't. I aced the psych test. Put all my feelings about Ari van Blaiden right to the front of my mind. After what happened to Carlinni, they've given me the benefit of the doubt. No one suspects.*

*They'd better not.*

*I can make my way home if Ms. Yamada prefers.*

*Since you're there, let's have a report.*

Kitty tried not to feel smug, since Remus would notice.

*Benjamin's psi-techs and the Olyanda settlers are all on Crossways, but there's a plan to move the settlers out as soon as possible.*

*To where?*

*I don't know. I'm not sure even they know yet.*

*What else?*

*Benjamin's psi-techs, or most of them, have officially formed the Free Company and they're setting up a base here in Blue Seven district.*

*As mercenaries?*

*More like psi-techs for hire, problems solved, that kind of thing, but their first job is searching for the missing settler ark.*

*You don't know—*

*If I did, I'd tell Benjamin. Thirty thousand settlers.*
Kitty shuddered at the thought.
*Ari van Blaiden didn't tell me anything. I wish he had. Whatever happened to them was arranged before I hooked up with him.*

*What about the psi-techs who are not joining the Free Company?*

*Going their own way with a new identity. They'll be laying low, heading out for the independent settlements. Shouldn't be any trouble. They won't want to draw attention to themselves.*

*Not sure Ms. Yamada will agree with your assessment. Secure a list of those new idents in case we need to seek them out at any time.*

*I'll do what I can.*

*Yes, you will.*

*Remus, what about my mom?*

*Stand by for further instructions.*

She waited until Remus returned.

*Ms. Yamada says don't worry about your mother for now. She wants to be kept up to speed on everything concerning the Olyanda platinum. Mining operations, production schedules, the lot. I'll contact you every three days. Stay sharp, Keely.*

Kitty felt sick.

While she'd been waiting for Remus to contact her she'd been worrying about her mom, but now she was worrying about herself again. She felt supremely inadequate at the spying game, but she was stuck with it.

S
QUISHED IN A BOOTH BETWEEN WENNA AND Archie, with Gen and Max opposite, Cara glanced at her handpad for what felt like the hundredth time and resisted the urge to order another beer. Alcohol had a suppressant effect on her implant, so she rarely overindulged.

Sam's Bar. There was a Sam's Bar on every station from Earth to the Rim. Few of them were run by actual Sams, but that didn't matter. This Sam's Bar was around the corner from their new premises and was unpretentious, clean enough to be comfortable, and quiet at this time of day. Each booth had a privacy baffle, so they couldn't be heard, though the general noise from the bar filtered through at a low level. Wenna turned down the musak, a monotonous fluctuating tone designed to be soothing. It did nothing for Cara. She preferred the classics if she had to listen to anything, but music wasn't her thing. Syke had arrived, checked the guard and left four of his men on duty. They sat at a table by the door, trying to look inconspicuous in their livery with glasses of juice in front of them and weapons ready below table level.

How long did it take to interview would-be assassins? Cara knew why Ben had taken Ronan instead of her, but it galled her. They weren't even psi-techs, how could she hurt them?

“So are they trying to kill just you and Ben,” Wenna asked, “or are we all in danger? And who's
they
?”

“I guess Ben and I were the main targets yesterday,” Cara said. “But Crowder was willing to sacrifice everyone on Olyanda to secure the platinum, so no one's safe.”

“So anyone who's not staying in the Free Company is going to have to watch out when they leave.” Archie stirred his caff. “Not that I'm thinking of leaving, you understand. I don't have any relatives waiting for me.”

“No one can leave without getting new idents,” Cara said. “And a fix for their implant so they can't be traced.”

“Everyone needs one of those,” Wenna said. “Whether they're staying or going.”

“The ones who are leaving are the first priority. The rest just as soon as we can afford it,” Max said. “Do you know how much those things are? I guess it's a seller's market.”

Wenna took a long pull of cinnabeer. “So with limited creds we have to resettle Lorient's Ecolibrians somewhere safe.”

“While finding thirty thousand lost settlers.” Cara bit her lower lip. “That's Ben's top priority.”

“And establishing the Free Company here on Crossways,” Gen said. “It seems obvious, but we're going to have to split our resources.”

“I'm no good to anyone in the field until this arm is fixed properly,” Wenna said. “It looks okay, but it's not fully functional yet. I'm happy to stay on Crossways and refit the warehouse into Free Company Central.”

“And Bump's not going to get any smaller over the next few months.” Gen patted her belly. “I'll take care of new idents and safe passage for those who are leaving.” She turned to Max. “With me, honey?”

“Huh? Oh, yes, sure. Whatever you want.”

Cara smiled. They were holding hands under the table. So sweet.

Ben and Ronan walked in through the front door, stopped to order at the bar, and then slid into the booth as everyone shuffled up to make room.

“Well?” Cara asked.

Ronan shook his head.

“They know nothing,” Ben said. “Local hires. Mirakova—or the false Mirakova—did the hiring, and she's dead. The psi-tech apparently had a single contact to make when the
job was completed, but as far as we can work out he was just a link in a chain.”

Cara thought back to the moment she broke through the Telepath's defenses. Was there any residual memory she could find? Damn! She hadn't meant to kill him. She really hadn't. But yet, her only remorse was for the way she'd done it, and the possibility that she'd given everyone linked to her the vicarious experience. She felt especially sorry for Max, who was still a novice.

“Alphacorp or the Trust, Boss?” Wenna asked. “What's your best guess?”

“Let's assume it's either or both.” Ben pinched the bridge of his nose, then shook his head as if to clear it. “Garrick's not pleased. Crossways is a megacorp-free zone and he intends to keep it that way. He's stepped up security, but there are close to a million people here. How many of them could be sleeper agents? If I were running Alphacorp or the Trust or any of the corporations, I'd have agents here.”

They all sat back as the bot delivered more drinks, caff all around and a sharing plate piled high with savory chimichi rolls. It trundled away from them with quiet authority and delivered another plate of rolls to the guards.

“We can't keep using Garrick's private army,” Ben said, nodding at Syke's men who had waved thanks for the rolls.

“Well, we need some security, and Gupta's only got a small team,” Cara said.

“Hiring might be problematical right now,” Gen said. “We could easily be hiring our own assassins.”

“Wenna was talking about going back to Olyanda to pick up some of the equipment we left behind,” Cara said. “But we forgot one of the biggest resources Ari left us.” They all looked at her blankly. “His mercenaries.”

“They were trying to kill us just a few days ago.” Wenna rubbed the stump of her arm above the prosthetic.

“Of course they were. That's what they were being paid for, but they were cool and professional and tight as a drum. And now they're kicking their heels on Olyanda and wondering if they're going to be able to negotiate their way off that rock. Ari only ever employed the best. They have the advantage that they've been tied up on Olyanda for long enough that they've not been in a position to accept a new contract to kill us.”

Ben nodded. “Let's see what they're made of.”

Cara realized they were all looking at her. Oh, right, contact the mercs. She steeled herself. The last time she'd had any direct contact with Captain Morton Tengue she'd been his prisoner. She knew he'd lost men in the fracas that followed Ari's death. She hoped she'd judged him correctly and that he proved to be a man who didn't hold a grudge.

How would he react to a suggestion to come work for the Free Company? Only one way to find out. She'd met him face-to-face, she could find him mind-to-mind, though his telepathy rating was moderate, a Psi-4 at best.

She cleared her mind and let herself concentrate on Tengue as she'd last seen him, a buzz-cut, thick-necked soldier in a dark blue buddysuit with a white flash at the shoulder, his unit's uniform. She thought about what she knew of him: tough, professional, undemonstrative, impersonal. All good outward traits in a soldier for hire. She wondered what lay underneath that. Surely there was more to Morton Tengue. Ari had hired him, so he must have come with a good reputation. She got the impression that all the mercs had served together for a long time, so loyalty played a part in their makeup. Mercs weren't generally loyal to a commander who wasn't loyal to them, so that gave her another aspect of Tengue to fix on.

She let her mind range out. Though most Telepaths had a limited range, distances meant very little to a Psi-1—that's why they were so important to the megacorps. Instant communication was often the difference between the success of an enterprise and its abject failure. It wasn't just what you knew that counted, it was how quickly you knew it. The only limit was the length of time she could keep the communication open. The longer the distance, the shorter the call.

She felt her implant handshake with Tengue's.

*Who?*

*Cara Carlinni.*
She felt him on the verge of clamping down and cutting her out.
*I've got an offer for you. Can we talk?*

There was a long pause.
*I'm listening.*

*We're willing to set the past aside if you are. We'd like to employ you.*

*Who's we?*

*A new outfit. The Free Company. Not affiliated to any megacorps. Working out of Crossways.*

*Who's running it?*

*Ben Benjamin.*

He was on the point of cutting her off again and she needed to keep his attention and finish this quickly before her energy levels drained.

*Please. Talk to me.*

*You and Benjamin took out two of my best men.*

*And you led us to our execution. Have we got that out of the way? You were doing your job. We were trying to stop you. Our fight was with van Blaiden. Sadly you picked the wrong boss. I made the same mistake myself once. It's easily done. The bad guys don't always wear black hats.*

Ben had said that to her once about his time in the Monitors.

*You come here in person and we'll talk. Face-to-face. You and Benjamin.*

Cara could feel his wariness, but he was giving them a chance.

*Done.*

The back of Ben's neck prickled. Mother Ramona hadn't exaggerated when she said Red One was not a great neighborhood. Located in Crossways' maintenance layer, the station's underbelly, it was a space the wealthier citizens avoided. The roadways were all narrow canyons with exposed conduits for power, coolant, and waste. Crossing them either meant jumping a three-meter-wide tub-way or walking to one of the rickety looking metal gantries to clamber up and over. The third alternative was climbing down to track level and taking your chance between passing tubs.

Syke loosened his sidearm in its holster. Ben still carried a derri, as did Cara, but he didn't draw attention to it as they climbed out of the tub.

Ronan climbed out of the second tub, leaving his guards behind.

“We should come with you,” Syke said.

Ben eyed the three teens lounging against the wall. There had been four when they arrived. One had gone to alert others.

“Three of us are less threatening than eight. Better stay here and make sure we've still got transport if we need to get out quickly.”

“So we're your getaway drivers.” Syke hrmphed. “Yell if you need us.”

“We know the routine.” Cara tapped her forehead. “We'll keep in touch.”

“Ronan?” Ben asked.

*Just teens, wary as hell, but not a threat.*

Ben, Cara, and Ronan breezed past the teens as if they hadn't a care in the world.
Don't look like a victim
. The only way into the neighborhood from this direction was via a narrow walkway down a featureless tunnel, brightly lit. There were no hidden openings, so no place where an ambush might occur, but an attack from either end would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

The teens behind them didn't follow them in.

They emerged into an open space with a ceiling that felt too low.

Red One was close to the spindle, a wedge-shaped block of workshops, storage areas, and tenements. This central open space was the closest Red One came to having a commercial plaza.

“I think we hit lunchtime,” Cara said.

There were maybe sixty individuals gathered in groups. Every single one of the adults was looking toward them as they emerged from the walkway.

*Surprise. No malice,*
Ronan said.

*Agreed.*
Cara nodded.

The smell of cooking—salty, spicy, savory—fought with the smell of hot grease, or maybe the grease was all part of the cooking. An open stall with a row of steaming cauldrons was doing good business ladling something into folding bowls the customers had clipped to their utility belts. About a third of the people, men and women, wore green coveralls that said they worked for the station's maintenance crew, low-paid manual workers, but the others were dressed in a variety of inventive styles from the occasional buddysuit to sarongs—on both men and women—or the collarless shirts and straight-legged trousers that were common on-station.

A few children, from toddlers to teens, clutched their
own bowls and stood in line with parents, though a group of five- or six-year-olds played tag through the crowd. A shout snapped out brought them all up sharp. They stared at the strangers, wide-eyed, peeled away from each other and skittered back to their parents.

Most of the diners took their food to a seating area furnished with packing case chic, crates and boxes either used as they came or reworked. It didn't look as though these folks let anything go to waste. Upcycling was an art form.

“Looking for Dido Kennedy,” Ben announced over the heads of a group of diners.

There was no answer.

“Dido Kennedy,” he repeated.

“Who wants her?” A plump woman with her hair shoved untidily under a leather cap stood up. She wore what might once have been a buddysuit, but the trousers were now a separate garment. The sleeves had been ripped out of the top and the remains hung open above a grubby shirt.

*That's her,
* Ronan said.

“You're Kennedy,” Ben said.

“Might be.” She sniffed. “Depends who wants to know.”