Luck, and the express subway schedule, were with us. We made the depot with fifteen minutes to spare, grabbed our luggage and got tickets for the suborbital transport to Portline, and were soon arcing our way through the darkened Ghonsilya sky.
Penny insisted on trying to call Stafford before we did anything else. But there was no answer. Either his comm was off or else he’d lost it sometime during his residence at the Paradise. She tried a dozen times before reluctantly agreeing to stop long enough to call the torchliner station about booking passage. There were, as I’d expected, several staterooms still available, and her credit tab was healthy enough to reserve four of them for us. Brushing off Morse’s promise to try to get ESS to reimburse her for at least his part of the fare, she resumed her efforts to get through to Stafford.
The flight took three hours, during which time we passed from the early evening of Magaraa City to the midafternoon of Portline. The torchliner was already in the middle of flight prep, but we had time to sign in and get settled before it lifted.
The staff was, of course, not at liberty to give out the names of other passengers. Morse suggested trying to tap into their computer, but since none of us knew what name Stafford was traveling under there wasn’t much point in that. So instead, the four of us settled in to keep a close watch on the dining rooms and public areas. Sooner or later, he would have to come out of his stateroom.
Only he didn’t. We were two days out when even Morse was forced to accept the conclusion that Stafford wasn’t aboard.
“This is all your fault,” Penny bit out, glaring at me across the dining-room table.
“You’re
the one who said he’d be on this torchliner.”
“You saw the message,” I reminded her, fighting to stay professional about this. It wasn’t easy, what with her anger and sense of betrayal hitting me like high-radiation solar wind. “What other assumption could we have made?”
“Maybe he decided at the last minute he didn’t want to leave without his share of the auction money,” Bayta offered.
“Or else he knew we would read his note and go charging off like a pack of idiots,” Morse growled. He was clearly with Penny on the plan to drop all the blame for this into my lap. “He probably went to ground in Portline to wait for the next torchliner.”
“So that we could be waiting for him when he reached the Tube?” I scoffed. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe he thought we’d turn around and go charging back to Ghonsilya as soon as we hit the transfer station,” Morse said. “Thereby being conveniently out of position when his actual torchliner came in.”
“Only we won’t be doing that, I take it?” I said.
“Bloody right we won’t,” he said firmly. “There’s only one way out of this system, and that’s through the transfer station. I’m prepared to set up camp there and wait all month if I have to.”
“Well, best of luck to you,” I said. “You want Bayta and me to escort Ms. Auslander back to Earth?”
“I’m not going back without Daniel,” Penny said firmly. Her eyes softened a little as she looked at me. “You aren’t going to leave us, are you?”
And with that, all three sets of eyes were on me: Penny’s pleading, Morse’s unfriendly, Bayta’s merely watchful. “I guess we’ll see,” I said. It was a lame answer, but it was the best I could come up with.
Because I knew that by the time we reached the transfer station I very likely wouldn’t have any choice as to whether I stayed or not.
We reached the transfer station four days later, tying up at our dock ten minutes ahead of schedule. The disembarkation listing called for our particular grouping to exit about an hour after docking, and at Morse’s suggestion we spent the time in the aft observation lounge, where we’d at least have a view of something besides the station hull.
I studied Penny’s face as we sat there, wondering if she was thinking about what had happened between us the last time we were in one of these aft lounges together. But it was clear that her thoughts were on Stafford, with me running a distant second.
If I was even in the running at all. Whatever that kiss had meant to me, I was starting to suspect it had meant a great deal less to her.
The transfer station was busy today. Docked a safe distance away from us was a small-capacity torchferry, presumably making its run from one of the asteroid mining regions scattered throughout this part of Ghonsilya’s outer system. Farther down were a pair of the even smaller torchyachts, plus a third currently maneuvering away from the station at the low-power drive setting necessary to keep from frying everything within reach of its heavy-ion plasma exhaust. For a minor system, Ghonsilya seemed to have a lot of traffic.
Finally, the lounge’s speaker called our disembarkation grouping. Gathering our luggage, we joined the line of passengers passing through the hatchways, walked down the entry corridor, and emerged in a large and crowded reception room. Fifty meters directly ahead I could see a row of customs tables with a line of passengers at each, with the doors into the main part of the transfer station just beyond them. A little ahead and to our right was a group of Tra’ho’seej I didn’t recognize from our flight, possibly some of the passengers from the torchferry.
And eight people ahead of us and two lines to our left, freshly disembarked from their rented torchyacht, were Fayr and Stafford.
Stafford was in front, with five Tra’ho’seej and a Nemut between him and Fayr. He was wearing the same plain, nondescript clothing he’d had on at the Paradise, but at least he’d taken the time to get the outfit cleaned during the torchyacht trip. Fayr, in contrast, was resplendent in upper-class clothing, as befit a Bellido wearing four handguns in a matched set of double shoulder holsters.
Stafford had two carrybags rolling alongside him, plus a heavy-looking backpack. Fayr had a single carrybag—an expensive one, naturally—and a long, flat shoulder case for his Rontra 772.
I watched Penny and Morse as we settled into position in our own line, wondering if either of them would recognize Stafford. The odds were low, I knew. Only a little of the younger man’s face was visible at our angle, even less with all that extra hair and beard obscuring it. Between the hair and the clothing, he looked more like a wilderness wanderer than a rich college student. Still, it was a concern, and I kept my eye on Morse and Penny in hopes of stifling any cry of recognition before it got started.
Which was probably why Stafford was nearly to his customs table before I spotted the Tra’ho oathling standing quietly among a group of armed guards in the far corner of the room.
An oathling I’d last seen in Magaraa City outside the Fraklog-Oryo Hotel.
I looked sideways at Bayta, found her looking tensely back at me. She’d obviously spotted him, too, probably before I had. Morse and Penny, in contrast, still seemed oblivious to this new threat.
But then, he wasn’t a threat to either of them.
Stafford had moved up to the table and opened his backpack, revealing a strange half log, half sculpture hybrid that looked like that odd breed of rough-hewn folk art so dearly beloved by sentimental tourists. The customs agent was frowning as Stafford gestured and talked, most likely explaining it was kiln-fired clay and not real Ghonsilyan wood. The agent cut him off, peering at his sensor display, and gestured for the next bag to be put on the table. A minute later, with the procedure completed, Stafford packed up his last bag and strode off through the doors into the station. The customs agent beckoned, and the next Tra’ho in line moved up to the table.
I looked back at the oathling. His eyes were still searching the crowd, having missed Stafford completely. Now all the kid had to do was get aboard one of the shuttles and get to the Tube before the balloon went up. Fortunately, with this much traffic the shuttles were likely to be running pretty continuously.
And then, as I watched the oathling out of the corner of my eye, his drifting gaze abruptly locked on to my face.
I forced myself to stand still, waiting tensely for him to sic the guards on me. But no cry was given, no signal passed. Apparently, the Modhri had decided to play it cool.
And it suddenly occurred to me why. Back during our private parley in the art museum, I’d hinted that I had concealed weapons that the Spiders permitted me to carry aboard the Quadrail.
I’d spun the story mainly to try to obscure Fayr’s role in our rescue. But the Modhri had apparently taken the conversation seriously. He was therefore waiting to make his move until after I hit the customs tables, hoping their scanners would pick up any such weaponry and deprive me of it.
Ahead, the Nemut directly in front of Fayr moved up for his turn under the microscope. “Morse?” I murmured.
“What?” he said distractedly.
“Whatever happens, make sure to get Bayta and Ms. Auslander to the Tube,” I said. “Got that?”
I had his full attention now. “What are you talking about?” he demanded quietly.
“Just get them to safety,” I said. I started to drift to the side.
Morse caught my arm. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned. “Whatever
it
is.”
“We don’t have a choice,” I said. “See that oathling over there, the one with all the mobile firepower? He’s looking for me.”
“What, over the hotel thing?” Morse scoffed.
“No, over the fact that the Lynx I gave the art museum to auction off was a fake.”
Morse’s grip tightened. “A
what
?”
“One of Stafford’s friends in the artists’ colony sculpted it for me,” I told him. “It was late enough in the auction schedule that the gang wouldn’t have gotten hold of it and learned the truth until we were already off planet. Obviously, they lasered a message ahead.”
“So how did the oathling get here before we did?”
“They probably sent him off right after Bayta and I gave the rest of you the slip,” I said. “They would have wanted one of their own here as backstop in case I managed to get off Ghonsilya with the Lynx.”
“Are you saying you have it with you?”
In answer, I nudged my larger carrybag with my foot.
Morse hissed softy between his teeth. “This won’t be easy.”
“No kidding,” I said. “Just stay clear, wave your badge around if necessary, and get the women to the Tube.”
The Nemut sealed his last bag and strode off through the doors, and it was Fayr’s turn. The customs agent was obviously familiar with Bellidos; even as Fayr stepped forward, he reached down and pulled a pair of Quadrail lockboxes from beneath the table, one for the handguns, the other for the Rontra in its case.
Stepping out of line, I started toward the row of tables, walking with a determined but casual gait that I knew from experience tended to slow people’s reactions. For a half-dozen steps no one even seemed to notice me, and for another two they remained frozen out of sheer puzzlement as to what I was doing. By the rime the oathling in the corner recovered from his own paralysis and snapped an order I was nearly there.
And as the customs agent frowned, and the Tra’ho guards started forward, I took a final step to Fayr’s side and plucked one of his handguns and a clip from the open lockbox on the table in front of him.
The customs agent gave a startled screech and lunged toward me. But he was too late. Taking half a step back, I jammed the clip into the gun, chambered a round, and aimed the weapon at the oathling and his guards. “Hold it,” I called.
The whole room froze, no one speaking, no one twitching, and for that first few seconds possibly no one even breathing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Fayr shift his weight subtly—“You—Bellido,” I growled, gesturing to him with my free hand. “Back away from the guns and you won’t get hurt.”
Fayr caught the cue. “You have my status gun,” he said stiffly.
“Don’t worry, it’s not personal,” I assured him. “Now, back off. You—over there,” I added to the guards standing like a set of overwound springs beside the oathling. “Hands on your heads. No need for anyone to be a dead hero.”
Silently they complied. I was just reaching over to shut the lockbox with the rest of Fayr’s guns when I heard the faint sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. I turned my head, wondering what Morse had in mind.
But it wasn’t Morse. “What are you
doing
?” Penny demanded as she ran toward me, her eyes wide with disbelief. A startled Morse, I saw peripherally, was in pursuit, but a crucial four steps too far back. “You mustn’t—”
There was no time to think. No time to do anything but what her action had forced on me. As she came within reach, I grabbed her wrist and pulled her close, shifting my left arm to wrap around her throat. “Play along,” I muttered into her ear as she gasped with surprise and perhaps a little pain. “You hear me?”
Whether she heard me or whether sheer disbelief finally succeeded in freezing her muscles, she went rigid. Lifting my gun hand over her shoulder, I peered around the side of her head.
If I hadn’t burned my bridges before, I had definitely dynamited them now. The Tra’hok culture might have a strong undercurrent of specism to it, but they drew a strange but solid line at females. Especially their own, but also those of other species. By taking a female hostage, I had just taken a giant step over that line.
The entire crowd knew it. All around me, Tra’hok ears were twitching with anger and injured honor, and I had the feeling that we were one spark away from a full-fledged lynch mob.
I focused on the oathling. He was as outraged as the rest of them, his eyes burning like he was trying to set me on fire through sheer willpower.
But his Tra’hok sensibilities weren’t alone behind those eyes. I waited, letting the Modhri mind segment think it through, hoping he would come to the same conclusion I’d already reached.
In the deathly silence, the oathling stepped forward. [What do you do, Human?] he demanded. [What purpose have you?]
“I want to get on the Quadrail and go my way,” I told him. “That’s all.”
[You have committed criminal acts.]
“Only this one,” I said. “And if I get to leave and don’t hurt anyone, it won’t count.”
It was a strained and completely implausible line of reasoning, of course. But I wasn’t counting on reason to get me out of this.
[Interesting logic you present,] the oathling said dryly, taking another step toward me. [Let us examine your claim. Have you murdered any Tra’ho’seej? Or committed Assault One?]
“No, to both,” I said. Fortunately for my presumed part in the sunburst grenade incident, Tra’hok law defined Assault One as an attack causing actual injury. Dazzled eyes didn’t count.
[Theft?]
Technically, I hadn’t stolen anything that had ever belonged to a Tra’ho. “No.”
[Arson?] he continued, still coming toward me. No doubt he believed he was being very brave, approaching an armed and obviously unhinged alien this way. Distantly, I wondered what he would think if he knew his current behavior was coming from an alien mind that would sacrifice him in a second if he thought it would gain him anything.
“No,” I said.
[Fraud?] he asked, his eyes glittering a little brighter. “Not against the Tra’hok people,” I said.
His ears pricked up at that one. [I’m told you offered a piece of counterfeit art for sale.]
“Where it was bought by a Halka, not a Tra’ho,” I pointed out. “Besides, since I never received any money for that sale, it was technically not fraud.”
He finished his walk in silence, stopping three meters in front of me. [Then you may leave this place in peace,] he said. [You will go aboard the Quadrail, and you will never again return to any world of the Tra’hok Unity.]
“Understood,” I said, and meant it. If we got out of this in one piece, I would willingly and gladly write off this entire region of space.
The oathling drew himself up. [Then go.] he said. [I will serve as your shield and safe-conduct. You may release the female.]
Released to his guards so she could be returned to bargaining-chip status? “The female comes with me,” I said firmly. “But you’re welcome to tag along if you want.”
For a long moment I thought he was going to cancel the deal right there. He looked at Penny, glanced sideways at the crowd, then looked back at me. [Very well,] he said. [A shuttle will be prepared to take you to the Tube.]
“Good,” I said. “Lead on.”
He started toward the doors behind the customs desks. “Just a second,” I said. Keeping my eyes on him and the guards, I reached down and scooped up my larger carrybag, clutching it to my chest like a combination armored vest and medieval shield and leaving the other carrybag to continue rolling along at my side. “Wouldn’t want this getting lost along the way,” I explained. “Start walking.”
The wide corridors were deserted as we headed toward the shuttle docking stations. I wondered uneasily where all the people had gone until we passed the first restaurant and I saw the wide-eyed crowd huddled inside staring out at me. A line of station security was standing as a barrier between them and our three-person parade, their hands on their heads away from their weapons. Someone had made sure to clue them in on the rules.
The same silent mob scene was repeated at every restaurant, bar, waiting room, and shop we passed. My own tension notched up a bit each time, wondering if and when the station personnel were going to make their move.
But to my mild surprise, none of them did. The oathling, under urgent Modhri prodding, had apparently managed to convince, persuade, or threaten the station manager into letting me go without a struggle.
“You take great risks,” the oathling murmured as he walked stolidly beside Penny.