I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes or so when Myra approaches. She’s in sungoggles, too, and a similar storm cap. But her clothes are nicer, newer, and colored more brightly, in the pastel solids supposedly popular on Ryland as of a solar year ago.
I keep staring at the fountain, saying nothing until she sits down next to me. “Looking good, Myra.”
“Thanks. You’re never too fat for outdoors cazh.”
“Stop it.” Normally I wouldn’t let her fish for a compliment like that, but she’s going way out on a limb for me here, and I’m grateful. “You know you’re in great shape.”
“So how does this work,” she asks, her voice turning hushed, “do you just hand me the drive?”
“I don’t have a better plan.” I remove the little silver rectangle from my front pants pocket and slip it to her.
She holds it tight for a second, then pockets it. “It’s going to take forever for this to go through, you know. And Knowles isn’t going to like it.”
“I know.” The drive holds an application for a warrant compelling production of Frank Soto’s employment and financial records. I wanted to submit it physically, in case someone is tapping my network access, and I didn’t want to risk being seen by the wrong eyes at Dispatch. The paperwork is thin, to be honest, and there’s probably less than even odds it will be approved, but I had to make an effort. My distrust of the guy aside, Kearns did get me reinstated. “Just do what you can.”
“You’re really back on duty already?”
“Yeah.”
“How did that happen?” She sounds distrustful.
“The Commerce Board auditor supposedly pulled some strings.”
“That’s… really strange, Taryn.”
“I know, I know it looks suspicious. I’m being careful.”
“I’m worried about you.”
I’ve got no good response to that. I’m worried about me, too. “Thanks.” Trying to divert the conversation, I ask, “Any idea who Knowles has on the Marvin Chan case now?”
“No. He’s not going through any of the Agents I work with, I know that much.”
“Hmm.” So Knowles wants to keep Myra away from it, too, assuming he’s even allowing an investigation to go forward. Does he suspect her? Or just me? Or does he have something to hide?
“I owe you Myra.” The shadow cast by one of the buildings west of us stretches to overtake us, dripping over our shoulders. An off-worlder mother and her child pose for a photo in front of the sand fountain as a group of businessmen in out-of-fashion suits pass by, arguing. “Come on, I want to buy you a drink.”
She smiles. “I was beginning to worry that this was a dry rendezvous.”
I get off the glass bench and lead the way past the fountain, giving passersby as much space as possible, wary of another attack. But we make it across the street and arrive unmolested at the huge spiral staircase down to The Old Moon, a well-known below-ground bar. We take the transparent glass steps down, and cool air rushes over us as we step through the frosted airlock-style doors at the bottom.
The place is mellow but airy, with a floor of plain beige stone, possibly carved from the original bedrock, worn smooth by decades of footsteps. The walls are punctuated with transparent cases, each of which is occupied by one or more alien animal or plant specimens. Myra and I sit down at a small booth with translucent glass bench seats in the corner, next to the case containing a Köderschwamm, a vicious sessile creature from Leereweldt, a world relatively near Earth, colonized early in the interstellar era by German speakers. About a meter tall and wide and blue-gray in color, the Köderschwamm burrows thick, rough roots into soil like a plant, but it is an animal, its bark actually a rubbery skin, its branches actually arms muscled with hydraulic, hemocyanin-filled arteries and veins, like a spider’s. At the end of one of those arms is a malleable flap of tissue with a wide variety of pigments and an intensely detailed camouflaging mechanism, which the Köderschwamm uses as bait.
This particular specimen has six arms and apparently learned at some point to shape its bait appendage into a long, flat rectangle with elaborate green and gray markings on it, like something manmade, printed. It flops against the glass as the tiny eyes at the fat center of its trunk watch us.
“What is that?” Myra asks.
“A Köderschwamm,” I answer, “it’s a—”
“I’ve heard of it. Some novelty animal-plant-thing from Leereweldt, right? But what’s the bait supposed to be?”
It moves slowly down the glass and away from us, and I get a slightly better view of it. There are letters and numbers, and an image of a human face inside an oval-shaped frame in the center. “It’s money.”
“Money? What kind of money is that?”
Myra leans closer, trying to see the opposite side. She puts a hand up to the case, and in less than the blink of an eye, the arms of the thing shoot out and slam with a thump into the glass, short but viciously sharp barbs protruding from their tips. Myra gasps and recoils. As she exhales, realizing that the glass has stopped the strike, the Köderschwamm writhes there for a second, then relaxes again.
I stifle a laugh. “You knew it would do that, right?”
“I guess I had some idea, but I didn’t think it would be so fast.” She blushes, embarrassed.
“Hello, ladies.” A smiling waitress stands at the side of our table. She’s young, slim, and short-haired, and her yellowish-tan skin is clear except for a couple of barely noticeable spots of concealer at her elbows—apparently on hard times, but working at a higher-end place like this may pull her out of it, if she’s careful with her money. “Can I get you a menu? Start you off with some drinks?”
I notice Myra checking her out but can’t gauge whether she finds the girl attractive or not. “Say,” I ask, “do you know what that’s supposed to be?” I point at the Köderschwamm’s bait appendage, which is again slithering up to the glass.
“That’s what they call paper currency,” the girl answers, “It’s used as money some places.”
“Right, but from where?”
“One of the big, old Earth governments,” she answers. “Story goes that one of the bartenders here sixty-some years ago trained it to do that as a trick to scare off-worlders. Supposedly it was good money at the time, a type that most people would recognize.”
“I fell for it,” Myra confesses jokingly.
“Oh no,” the waitress giggles. “Hope you weren’t too freaked.”
“I’m a big girl,” Myra flirts.
The waitress lets that slide. “Would you two like a few more minutes or maybe a drink menu?”
“I’ll just have an iced tea,” I answer. Myra begins to speak, but I cut her off before she gets a word out. “You’ve got good bartenders here, right?”
“The best,” the waitress answers without hesitation.
“Can they make an authentic martini? All Earth ingredients?”
“Yes, they can. The one I’d recommend we call the Eastender. It’s Beefeater gin with Rossi dry vermouth and a green olive grown in South America.”
I recognize Beefeater gin from somewhere. I think it’s like two or three hundred units a bottle, and the other stuff is probably equally pricey. Of course, almost all of that expense is attributable to the cost of shipping and customs, but sellers can charge that much because enough people are willing to pay for the luxury of Earth origin. It’s a purchase I’d never make, but I owe Myra big time, and odds are I’ll be dead or rich by the time my next paycheck comes anyway. “A glass for the lady.”