Текст книги "Burning Bright"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Melissa Scott
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Avellar answered her anyway. “If it’s not enough, then we fight.”

“Brilliant,” Harmsway jeered. “How clever of you, Royal.”

“Shut up, Desir,” Hazard said. “Avellar. Belfortune’s right, much as I hate to admit it.”

Avellar nodded. “We need a diversion, I agree. But to make it work, we have to get rid of the hunter.” She looked back at Belfortune. “Well? Will you do it?”

Belfortune closed his eyes for a moment, pain etched deep in his face, then nodded. “Oh, yes. What’s one more?” Lord Faro reached out to touch his shoulder.

“Then we’ll need to distract the rest of the searchers,” Avellar said.

“No, really?” Harmsway murmured.

“Yes, and you’re just the man to do it,” Avellar answered. She smiled briefly, daring him. “This bay is right next to the main computer nexus, Desir. Think what you can do with that.”

Harmsway said, “But why should I, Royal? Give me one reason, after everything you tried to do.”

There was a little silence, and then Avellar looked at him, her face absolutely without emotion. “I told you then. I’m telling you now. I need you, need your talent, to make up for what I lost when my sibs–my twins, the rest of the clone, the rest of me–were killed. I can’t take the throne without you.”

“To hell with you,” Harmsway said, and there was an odd, gloating note in his voice.

“I need you,” Avellar said again. “I came here for you, didn’t I? I did what you couldn’t do, I broke you out of the Baron’s prison because I need you. Isn’t that enough?”

“Maybe if you went down on your knees,” Harmsway said, “but not before.”

“For God’s sake,” Hazard said. He pushed himself to his feet, grabbed Harmsway roughly by the shoulder, and swung him to face the others. “If you don’t do it, Desir, we’re going to die.”

Harmsway lifted an eyebrow at him. “I’m surprised at you–”

“I want out of here,” Hazard said. “We can sort out the rest of it once we’re free, but right now, getting off planet is a hell of a lot more important than Avellar or the goddamn throne.”

“I won’t work with her again,” Harmsway said.

“So what?” That was Jack Blue, hoisting himself to his feet. “It won’t be as good, Avellar, but maybe I can do something if this shit won’t.”

Avellar nodded her thanks, still watching Harmsway, who smiled bitterly.

“All right. I’ll do it–if only to spare your talents, Jack.”

“Too kind,” Blue said, and achieved a passable imitation of Harmsway’s sneer.

“There’s only one thing,” Faro said. “How close do you need to be to a–a subject, Bel?”

“I don’t really know,” Belfortune said. “A few meters, probably closer.” He looked at Lyall. “Any ideas, Doctor?”

Lyall shook her head. “I wasn’t involved in that part of the project. I would think within two meters.”

Belfortune laughed softly to himself. “Do you know who it is? Which hunter?”

“No,” Lyall answered. “I told you, it’s shielded.”

“You’ll need support,” Avellar said.

Belfortune shook his head, and Faro said, “I’ll go with him. One’s enough.”

Avellar nodded. “Good luck, then, both of you.”

Lyall said, “The hunter’s coming closer. Moving along the east wall, toward the entrance there.”

“Careful,” Africa said. “You don’t want to tip him off.”

Lyall shook her head, and Blue said impatiently, “She’s not strong enough. Nobody can hear her, not unless they’re right on top of her.”

“Let’s go, Bel,” Faro said gently, and Belfortune nodded. Faro reached down and pulled the other man to his feet.

“Take an extra power pack,” Hazard said, and handed his last spare to Faro.

“Thanks,” Faro said, and he and Belfortune stepped out into the corridor. They turned left at the first cross corridor, heading east, toward the entrance and the searching hunter.

Avellar looked at the others. “Dr. Lyall, tell me when the hunter’s dead.”

Lyall winced, but nodded.

“And the rest of us?” Harmsway demanded.

“We wait,” Avellar answered, grimly. “Be ready to act when Lyall gives the word.”

–

Game/varRebel.2.04/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses4.25

Faro and Belfortune moved warily through the corridors, ready to duck under the shelter of the cargo racks at the first sign of patrolling guards. To their surprise, however, the racks and catwalks were empty, and they reached the eastern wall without incident.

“What now, Bel?” Faro began, stopped abruptly at the look on Belfortune’s face.

Belfortune was staring into the middle distance, pale eyes vague, unfixed, pupils dilating. He ran a hand delicately along the bare metal skin of the cargo bay’s exterior wall, a gesture unnervingly like a caress, and began to walk, slowly, a faint smile curving his lips. Faro, who had seen this before, this stalking hunger, shivered convulsively, but kept his place at Belfortune’s shoulder, gun drawn and ready, the spare power pack ready to hand.

“Come to me,” Belfortune whispered. “Come here, you, I feel you walking there, come to me now…” The words trailed off into a hissing murmur, rising and falling with his slow breath. He could feel the hunter’s presence, a vague warmth beyond the cold wall, allowed his own hunger to rise to match that warmth, played out his desire as a fisherman plays a line, a thread of appetite disguised as curiosity. He could feel the hunter’s presence more clearly now, and recognized the man, had considered him a friend, but his unleashed hunger accepted that knowledge only as a way to make the bait more attractive. He leaned against the thin metal of the wall, flattening himself against the cool surface as though he could feel the hunter’s body against his own, and let the tendril of thought unfold. He felt the hunter take the bait, felt him turn his attention toward the faint, stray presence, the oddity that must be investigated, and kept tight control of his own power, letting the hunter’s own curiosity draw him nearer. Belfortune could almost see the slight frown, the familiar lines of his face; he pressed himself harder against the wall, willing the hunter closer. And then, at last, he was close enough. Belfortune smiled, let himself go at last, and felt the hunter’s whole body jerk convulsively as he realized he was no longer free. Belfortune felt him struggle and tightened his grip, felt the sudden terrified release as the hunter’s shields failed, and tasted the hunter’s power, his strength and his cunning and the delicate flavor of his mind. He drained him, not bothering to savor it–there was no time for such niceties, and it had been too long since the last one, anyway–and saw/felt, in the last moment of double vision, the hunter’s body slumping to the ground just on the other side of the wall. He slid down the wall with it, sucking the last dregs of life, and crouched there for a moment, breathing hard.

Faro looked away, swallowing bile, unwilling to watch the sated hunger turn to disgust in Belfortune’s eyes. “Tell them it’s done,” he said, and a whispering voice said, from the end of the corridor, “Tell who what, Faro?”

Faro spun, gun leveled, even as he knew it was useless, and felt as much as heard the snap of a laser bolt. He ducked instinctively, but the shot had been meant as a warning only.

“Hold your fire,” the voice said. It came from the closed cabin of an airsled that blocked the corridor behind them. Soldiers–soldiers in the black uniforms of Baron Vortex’s elite troops–flanked it, their lasers lowered and ready. Belfortune shook his head, trying to drive away the cloying satisfaction, made a small, pained noise of despair. The voice went on, as though no one had spoken. “Faro, you’re not a fool. I think we can come to some agreement.”

Faro hesitated, the muzzle of his gun wavering slightly–to fire was suicide, his and Belfortune’s, but the speaker was Baron Vortex, and the Baron could never be trusted.

“I find you useful,” the voice went on, “just useful enough to salvage from this mess. Put down your gun, and I’ll let you live.”

Faro dredged a laugh from somewhere. “To what end?”

“I told you, I find you useful,” the voice said. “You can return to your previous employment.”

“Not much better off than the prisoners,” Faro muttered, said more loudly, “What about Bel?”

“Ah.” There was a note like amusement in the Baron’s voice. “For him, there is a price.”

“Well?” Faro said.

“I asked you before, tell who what,” the voice said. “But I think I know that. Where are they, Faro? Where are Avellar and the rest?”

“Faro,” Belfortune said, and the word was ambiguous appeal.

Faro glanced down at him, at the renewed sanity in the pale eyes, saw him start to pull himself to his feet, clinging to the wall of the cargo bay, looked back at the Baron’s airsled and the flanking soldiers. He let the gun fall to his side.

“Your lands and your lover,” the voice whispered. “You can still have them both. Is Avellar’s rebellion worth that much to you?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Faro said. “She–they were back toward the middle of the bay, heading for a ship.”

He paused, hoping that would be enough, a large enough betrayal, saw the nearest soldier raise his laser, and waited for the Baron to pronounce the sentence.

“Put down your gun, Faro,” the Baron said at last, and Faro laid the pistol on the floor tiles, kicked it toward the line of soldiers. Two of them came forward, slinging their rifles, and Faro let them drag him forward, stood quite still as they ran their hands roughly over his body, then locked his wrists together behind his back. Another pair dragged Belfortune to his feet, and did the same to him.

Flame flared overhead, bursting from the shattering light fixtures, and raw electricity leaped like lightning from the power nodes. One of the soldiers fired reflexively at the snapping currents, and screamed as the laser’s power pack exploded in a sheet of flame.

“Harmsway,” Belfortune said, and the pale eyes were suddenly alive again.

“Get them out of here,” the Baron ordered. “The rest of you, come with me.”

–

Game/varRebel.2.O4/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses4.26

“The hunter’s dead,” Lyall said, and in spite of her best efforts the disgust showed in her voice.

Avellar nodded, hiding the same repulsion. “Then let’s get on with it.” She looked at Harmsway. “It’s your show now, Desir.”

Harmsway nodded, allowed himself a smile of pure pleasure. “So we need a diversion,” he said aloud. “And the computer center is right behind these walls.” He turned in a full circle, scanning the racks until he found a power node, and went to crouch beside it, laying one long‑fingered hand gently over the input jack. There was a faint crackling, and then he had matched the current precisely. He closed his eyes, and let his consciousness wander out into the bay’s power grid. There was a faint humming, and a haze of blue light, all but invisible, formed around his hand. He could feel the pattern of the electrical systems, and of the computers and other instruments that fed off it, could almost see their regularity like lines against his eyes. He felt his way into the grid, merging himself with the flow of power until he was all but invisible, a faint surge of current that was still within the tolerances of the port computers. He found the access port, and teased it open, then slipped cautiously into the alien space within the network.

He had the electron’s view, current flashing on or off, and he hung for a moment, disoriented, trying to match that image with what he knew must be hidden in the computers. The lights blinked on and off, too fast to follow even in his heightened state, tuned perfectly to the flow of the currents; he stared a little longer, still trying to analyze the workings, and heard, very distant, Lyall’s cry.

“My God, it’s the Baron. He’s found them.”

At the same moment, someone touched his shoulder, and he opened his eyes to see Hazard bending over him.

“Desir. Blow the system, we’ve got trouble.”

Harmsway was already moving within the distant system, calling power from various nodes. Throughout the building, terminals flickered and died; across the complex, screens wavered, the sudden drain triggering backup power supplies. Harmsway kept pulling, drawing power to himself, letting the minuscule energies collect and build, feeding on themselves.

“Hurry, Desir,” a voice said–Avellar’s voice, he thought, but he could not be sure.

The process could not be hurried, not if he was to do it right. He blocked all thoughts of the Baron, all fear, concentrating on the energy around him, tracing an escape route in his mind. He felt it cross the threshold at last, and released it, let the surge blast through every circuit in the system, and let the same wave of power carry him back into the grid that fed the cargo bay. He felt overloaded systems crash, felt the surging power flare at every node, and in a heartbeat redirected that power, away from the local nodes into everything electrical near the eastern entrance. He opened his eyes, and heard the flat, hard crack of explosions from the far side of the bay.

“The port computers are down,” he said. “They shouldn’t be able to stop lift‑off.”

“And it should give them something else to worry about,” Avellar said. Fire sirens whooped in the next building, underscoring her words. “Let’s go.”

They made their way quickly through the last corridors, dodging between the half‑full cargo racks. At each exposed power node, Harmsway paused to send another wave of power through the building’s systems. He could feel the network overloading under his manipulations, knew that he was literally burning out their defenses as he used them, but the explosions behind them seemed to mean that it was working.

There were still two guards at the door that gave access to the ship’s hatch, both staring nervously toward the sounds of Harmsway’s attack. They were sheltered by the hatchway, not an easy shot at all, and Avellar paused in the shelter of the final stacks of crates, considering them cautiously. After a moment, she beckoned to Hazard. He frowned, but slipped forward to join her.

“You’re our best shot,” Avellar said, her voice an almost soundless whisper. “Can you do it?”

Hazard shook his head. “They’re too well covered. Why the hell didn’t they run for the fighting?”

“Be glad they didn’t just close the access door,” Avellar said with a grin, and eased back into the shelter of the crates.

“You’re going to have to do something quick,” Harmsway said. He was sweating, breathing hard, as though he’d been lifting heavy weights. “I’m draining the grid, and the wiring isn’t going to take this abuse much longer.”

“The Baron’s still back by the door,” Lyall said. Her eyes were closed, and Jack Blue steadied her, guiding her with a hand on her shoulder. “But you’ve only delayed him.”

“I can draw the guards out,” Blue said. “Leave it to me.”

Avellar considered him for a moment–a fat man, still wheezing a little, but no longer leaning on the others–and nodded. “If you can get them out into gunshot, we can take them.”

Hazard nodded, snapped the power pack out of his pistol, checked the power remaining, and snapped it in again. “I’ve got about a dozen shots left. That should be enough.”

“It ought to be,” Harmsway said, and managed a grin.

“It’ll have to be,” Avellar said. She looked at Blue. “Do it.”

Blue closed his eyes, frowning slightly, and a moment later they all heard something stir in the corridor to their right. It was a faint noise, as though someone trying to be careful had brushed against an imperfectly balanced crate, but one of the guards heard it and looked up warily. Blue’s frown deepened, and there was a quick patter of footsteps, as though someone had darted across a corridor into cover. The guard peered out of the doorway, put up his faceplate to listen more closely.

“They’re buying it,” Africa said, and leveled his pistol.

Hazard laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Wait for the other one.”

Africa nodded, lowered the pistol again.

Blue was sweating lightly now, his forehead furrowed in concentration. In the corridor, there was another stirring, and then the distinctive click of a power pack snapping home into a pistol butt. The guard cocked his head to one side, listening, then pulled his faceplate slowly down again. Avellar held her breath, her own pistol ready at her side. There were no more noises from the corridor, a silence that seemed somehow ominous, more dangerous than the sounds had been. The guard held up his hand, and beckoned to his partner. The second guard came up to the edge of the hatch, but stopped just inside the heavy frame. Africa swore under his breath: the hatchway still blocked his shot.

“Come on,” Hazard muttered. “Come on, now.”

The guards stood still for a moment longer, obviously conferring via the helmet links. Then the first guard started toward the sound of the footsteps, and the second man moved out of the hatchway to cover him.

“Now!” Avellar said.

The others fired almost as she spoke. The first guard fell without a sound, sprawling on the warped floor tiles, but the second guard fired back blindly, dodged back toward the access door. Africa and Hazard fired at the same moment, and the guard went down.

“Did he get out a warning?” Hazard demanded, looking at Lyall.

“It doesn’t matter,” Avellar said, impatiently. “Let’s go.” She started across the open space without looking back.

Hazard glanced over his shoulder, saw Harmsway reaching across to steady Jack Blue, and smiled in spite of himself. They crowded into the narrow space between the doorway and the ship’s hatch, and Africa fiddled with the controls to bring the door down behind them. Avellar nodded her approval, and laid her hand against the sensor panel that controlled access to the freighter’s cargo lock. There was a soft click, and then a high‑pitched tone.

“Royal Avellar,” she said, and waited. A heartbeat later, the cargo lock creaked open. Familiar people, familiar faces, were waiting inside the lock, and Avellar relaxed for the first time since they had left the prison complex.

“Thank God you made it,” a well‑remembered voice said, and Avellar sighed.

“Danile.” She smiled then, careful not to look back at the others, particularly Harmsway. She had risked everything to get him back, and she had at least freed him from the Baron’s prison. The rest–his return to her rebellion, his proper place at her side–would come, in time. He owed her that, and he would eventually pay.

“We have to hurry,” Danile went on, “so everybody, get inboard now.” The hatch sealed itself as he spoke, closing off their view of the cargo bay. “It’s chaos back there, there’s nothing they can do to stop us. But we have to go now.”

There was a ragged murmur of agreement, and the group began to move farther into the ship, following Danile and Avellar. Underfoot, the ship’s main power plant trembled, building toward blast‑off and freedom from Ixion’s Wheel.

Part Five

« ^ »

Day 2

Storm: Roscha’s boat, Public Canal #419,

Dock Road District

Lioe woke to the noise of distant traffic and the easy motion of the boat against the sluggish current. She turned her head away from the bars of sunlight that crept in through the gaps in the shutters, lay still for a moment, remembering where she was. She was meanly glad that Roscha was nowhere in sight. Not that it hadn’t been fun–and after Roscha’s performance in the session, especially; it was one of the best character readings Lioe had seen–but in the cold light of morning, she found herself wondering exactly why she’d done it. She shook the thought away–it was a little late for regrets, and anyway, it hadbeen fun–and crawled out of the low bunk. The bathroom was tiny, and smelled of aggressive cleaning; she washed quickly, the water tasting flatly of chemicals, and found her clothes hanging on the bulkhead beside the low stairs that led up onto the deck. She pulled on shirt and trousers and the loose vest, slung the mask that Gelsomina had given her around her neck, and pushed open the double doors. She had left her hat somewhere, she realized, either at Shadows or at Ransome’s loft, and she made a mental note to look for it later.

The sunlight on the deck had an odd cast to it, a sickly, uncertain tone, and Lioe glanced toward the sky. It was almost white, hazed with clouds as it had been for the past two days, but when she looked south, toward the mouth of the Inland Water, darker clouds showed between the housetops. An erratic little wind was blowing fitfully, sending bits of trash skittering along the embankment above the boat, and Lioe felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck.

“Oh, there you are,” Roscha said. She made her way forward, stepping easily over the solar panels set into the decking. “I was just coming to wake you. It looks like that storm’s going to hit us after all, and I’ve got a call from the wharfinger to report at once to the main dock.”

“That’s too bad,” Lioe said.

“I don’t see why I couldn’t make it to Roche’Ambroise for the puppet shows,” Roscha went on. “That is, if you still want to go.”

One of the local artists’ cooperatives was giving its annual free show that afternoon. It was supposed to be a spectacular event, a combination of athletics, mime, and robotics, and Lioe had said she would like to see it. “I don’t want you to go to any trouble,” she began, and Roscha frowned.

“Look, if you don’t want to go, no problem.” Her tone implied the opposite.

“It’s not that,” Lioe said, impatiently. “Yes, I want to see the show, but you’ve got this call–”

“It shouldn’t be anything serious,” Roscha said, and gave a fleeting grin. “I haven’t done anything. They probably just need help securing the barges. I should be able to make the show.”

“Fine,” Lioe said. If you don’t, I can enjoy it by myself. “Where do you want to meet?”

“They do the show in Betani Square, right off the Hartzer Canal,” Roscha answered. “Why don’t we just meet there, midafternoon? By the fountain.”

“Fine,” Lioe said again. The sunlight faded, and she glanced up, to see a thicker strand of cloud turning the sun to a disk of bronze. “How bad is this storm going to be?”

Roscha shrugged. “Not bad, I’d say. The street brokers are saying a category two at most. That’s not anything to worry about.”

By whose standards? Lioe wondered, squinting again at the sky. The sun was back, but the clouds looked darker than before. Still, Roscha was the native; if she said it wasn’t that bad, it shouldn’t be. “I’ll see you at the fountain in Betani Square at fifteenth hour,” she said aloud, and reached for the rope ladder that led up to the embankment.

Roscha nodded. “Will you help me cast off?”

“Sure.” Lioe climbed easily up onto the broad stones, unhooked the ladder, and let it drop. Roscha caught it as it fell, folded it neatly into a well on the deck.

“Ready for the cables?” Lioe asked, and Roscha nodded again.

“I’ve already switched over.”

Lioe unhooked the double‑headed cables from the power nodes at the base of the bollard. Roscha caught those as well, guiding them back into their housings, and took her place in the steering well. Lioe released the bow and stern lines, tossed them onto the deck, and stood watching while Roscha shoved the boat away from the embankment, and fed power to the engine. She was out of earshot before Lioe realized she hadn’t asked how to get to Roche’Ambroise. She laughed, and started back toward Shadows, where food and her mail would be waiting.

The streets were still busy with costumed figures, despite the impending storm. A cloaked trio was visible in the window of a restaurant, masks set aside to let them eat; a bedraggled pair–male and female? no, two women–were obviously on their way home after a long night of revelry, the skirts of their straight gowns hiked up to make walking easier, their feathers drooping. Yet another indistinct shape wrapped in a cloak lay sound asleep under a bench in one of the little parks, mask tucked under its head for a pillow. Others were just starting the day–another Avellar, a striding Baron Vortex, an odd shape like an egg with trousers that everyone else seemed to recognize–and Lioe was suddenly glad of Gelsomina’s mask. It made her feel less alien, among the bright maskers, more as though she belonged on Burning Bright. And I want to belong here, she realized suddenly. I’d like to be a part of this. She shook the thought away as impractical, left her mask hanging around her neck where it couldn’t tempt her, and kept walking.

As she came up on the Underface helipad, she saw the lights flashing to warn of an incoming flight, and then recognized the figure sitting on the bench at the edge of the pad. At least I can ask him about my hat. “Good morning, Ransome,” she called, and the man on the bench lifted a hand in answer. He did not speak, and Lioe wondered if she’d offended him. He looked up as she approached, met her eyes fully, and she was shocked by his pale face and the brown shadows like ugly bruises under his eyes.

“Jesus, you look awful,” she said, and bit her tongue as he managed a wry grin.

“Tactful.”

There was something wrong with Ransome’s voice; even the one word came thin and breathless, as though he had been running. “Are you all right?” she began, and realized in the same instant what it had to be. White‑sickness was most common in HsaioiAn, among jericho‑humans, but it was not unknown in the nonaligned worlds, or in the Republic. And this was white‑sickness, no question about it: like all pilots, she’d had enough basic medical training to recognize the symptoms.

Ransome read that recognition in her face, and his grin skewed even more. “I have what I need at home,” he said, and Lioe had to lean closer to catch the strangled words. “The doctors changed the medication; I’m not as stable as I used to be. So I got caught short again.”

Lioe nodded, wordlessly, hearing the voice of the school’s medical trainer droning in her mind. White‑sickness–pneumatic histopathy, also known as lung‑rot oruhanjao, drown‑yourself, in HsaioiAn–is classified as a dangerous condition less because it is fatal, which it is, than because it is contagious until treated. Once proper treatment is begun, the danger of infection is over, but the damage to the victim is irreversible. Most planets require a certificate of treatment before customs will admit an infected person; pilots are advised to adopt the same precaution. There had been more–details of how death occurred, how and why simple organ transplants inevitably failed, the mechanisms by which the disease altered the lung tissue, slowly dissolving it into a thick white mucus, so that the patient drowned in body fluids even as the lungs themselves stopped working–but she did her best to push that aside. “Do you want me to come with you?” she said cautiously, and did her best to keep her voice normal.

Ransome looked for a moment as though he would refuse, but then made a face. “Yes,” he said, and then, with an effort, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Lioe said, and seated herself on the bench beside him. But it was a problem, it was a hell of a problem, and she found herself filled with an irrational fury. How could he be sick–how dare he?–just when she’d found–She stopped abruptly, closed off that line of thought. Found what? You barely know him, except through the Game. Just because he showed you the imaging system he uses doesn’t mean that he’d want to teach you–or that you could learn, or even that you want to.

The sound of rotors overhead was a welcome relief, and she squinted up into the hazy clouds. The helicab dropped easily toward the pad, balancing the weight of the machine against the lift of the rotors and the gas in the envelope. The two pods were fully inflated, one to each side of the passenger compartment, so that the cab looked rather like a rodent, both cheeks filled with scavenged food. The unseen pilot brought it down carefully, setting it precisely in the center of the bright‑blue guidelines, and the passenger door opened. Lioe stood, uncertain whether to offer her hand, and Ransome pushed himself to his feet. He climbed into the cab, and Lioe followed him, pulling the door closed behind them.

“You’re going to Warehouse?” the pilot said, and Ransome nodded.

“That’s right,” Lioe said aloud, and wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing until she saw Ransome’s fleeting smile.

The helicab rose slowly, rotors whining, and the whole machine shivered suddenly in a gust of wind. The pilot corrected it instantly, adjusting power and lift, glanced apologetically over his shoulder.

“Sorry, people. It’s going to be a rough ride.”

“‘S all right,” Ransome murmured.

“The storm?” Lioe asked, as much to distract the pilot as anything, and was not surprised when he nodded. The braided wires that connected him to the cab bobbed against his neck.

“Yeah. The dispatcher’s saying we’ll probably have to shut down this afternoon.”

Lioe leaned back in her seat. Through the transparent door panel she could see the Dock Road District spread out beneath her, buildings clustered around tiny spots of green that were the open plazas, and crowding shoulder to shoulder along the banks of the myriad canals. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen this in daylight,” she said, in some surprise, and saw Ransome smile again.

As they rose above the cliff edge, approaching Newfields and the Warehouse helipad, the wind caught them, jolting the cab sideways before the pilot caught it. Lioe braced herself against the safety webbing, watching the muscles of the pilot’s arms tense and relax as his hands moved inside the sheaths of the on‑line controls. His lips were moving, too, and she guessed he was talking to his dispatcher, warning other pilots about the winds. He took the approach to Warehouse very carefully, and Lioe was grateful for it: the helicab shuddered and bounced, but finally dropped the last meter or so onto the hard paving. The credit reader unfolded from the cab wall, beeping for payment.

Ransome reached for his card, but Lioe got there first. “Pay me back,” she said, and ran her own card through the slot. She managed not to wince at the total–about twice what she had expected–and hit the key that confirmed the payment. The pilot opened the passenger door, and they climbed out onto the pad. The helicab started to lift as they crossed the low barrier, and Lioe flinched as grit stung her face and bare arms. Ransome turned away from it, one hand cupped over his mouth and nose, did not move until the cab had lifted out of range.