“You will stay in touch?” he said. “I feel responsible—”
“I’ll be fine,” Esmay said. “Whether they let me back in or not, I’ll be fine. And yes, I’ll let you know.”
Rockhouse Major had hostelries in every style and price range; Esmay checked into a modest hotel where she could afford to stay for weeks, if need be. She put her few clothes away, grimaced at the thought of having to shop for more, and went out to find a communications nexus. There she looked up “Brun Meager” in the Rockhouse Major database, and found long strings of news stories about her, but no address. She found the address subdirectory and tried again. Restricted. Well, that made sense. She entered “Brun Meager, agent of record” and got a name she’d never heard of: “Katherine Anne Briarly.” A search on that returned only a comunit number. Esmay copied it to her handcomp, moved to a secure combooth, and entered the number. A screen came up with a message: “Sorry, it’s the middle of the night here. If this is an emergency, please press 0; otherwise press 1 and put a message in my morning bin.”
Option 1 gave her more choices: voice, text, video. Esmay chose voice and waited until the return signal came. “This is Esmay Suiza, formerly of the Regular Space Service,” she said. “I need to contact Brun Meager; I’m presently at Rockhouse Major, at the Stellar Inn, room 1503.”
She wasn’t even sure which time zone Brun was in—assuming she was in this system at all. She walked back to the Stellar Inn, wondering if she should have stayed aboard the Fortune—was she really wasting money, as Goonar had said? But the very anonymity and blandness of the hotel’s rooms—the dull colors and plain surfaces, so different from the Terakians’ decor—helped her think through what it was she wanted to tell Brun, and what she thought Brun might be able to do. It seemed less practical here and now.
She stretched out on the beige—and-cream bedspread, and turned down the light. She might as well try to sleep. . . .
The comunit’s beep woke her from a dream about Altiplano—not Barin for once—where she had been, for some dream-logical reason, sitting in an apple tree plaiting multicolored ribbons while children sang jingles down below. She reached for the comunit and eyed the time display. Six hours after she’d come back to the room—she’d had more than enough sleep.
“Esmay Suiza?” a woman’s voice said. It didn’t sound like Brun, but her voice had still been hoarse and scratchy when Esmay heard it last.
“Yes,” she said.
“This is Kate Briarley. Does your room have a secure comunit?”
“No—there’s one in the lobby.”
“Here’s my day number—”
In the secure booth, Esmay entered the number she’d been given. The screen lit almost at once, and the video pickup showed both Brun—still unmistakeably Brun—and another blonde woman who looked to be a few years older.
“Esmay—what’s this I hear about you leaving Fleet? Did you quit, or did they boot you out?”
“Booted me out,” Esmay said, unaccountably cheered by Brun’s matter-of-fact tone. “You wouldn’t have heard—Barin and I got married—”
“Good for you! Is that why?”
“Yes . . . it’s all rather complicated. I wanted to talk to you, if I could.”
“Ah—you haven’t met Kate—” Brun nodded at the other woman. “Kate Briarly’s from the Lone Star Confederation, and she’s been helping me out, including with security. What with the assassinations and all, we’re being careful.”
“That’s good,” Esmay said.
“But you need to come on down, so we can talk. There’s a twice-daily shuttle to Rockhouse Minor, which is all civilian; lots of people take it just to sightsee, and there are excursions to the planet from there, too. When you get to Rockhouse Minor, go to section B, give the guard at the private entrance your name, and say you’re expected. You’ll be passed through to a departure lounge for private shuttles. No one will bother you.” She turned to Kate. “Should we go up and meet her?”
“I’d let your staff handle it,” Kate said.
“Fine, then. A steward will tell you when the shuttle’s ready . . . let me see . . . you can catch the Rockhouse Minor shuttle in about three hours—”
“If it’s not full,” Esmay said. “Is it usually booked in advance?”
“Yes, but it’s usually half-empty anyway. Tell the concierge—they have some pull with the transit companies. Anyway, if you catch that one, then it’ll be about two hours after you arrive before someone will be there to pick you up.”
Rockhouse Minor was quieter than Rockhouse Major . . . less bustling. Esmay strolled down carpeted corridors bordered by exclusive shops with window displays arranged like works of art: small, jeweled, entrancing. Here a single shoe, draped with ropes of pearls. There a scarf, behind a diamond necklace. An antique chronometer, a crystal decanter.
Section B turned out to be even more luxurious—the carpet, deeper piled, curved halfway up the bulkheads, and padded seats faced a series of aquaria, each housing a collection of rare marine life. The Lassaferan snailfish, with its elongated purple fin, looked as improbable as its name.
Ahead was a barrier in the form of a huge work of fabric art, with a guard kiosk in front of a gap in the fabric. The guard appeared to be alone and unarmed, but Esmay doubted this was the case.
“May I help you, sera?” the guard asked as she walked up.
“Yes, thank you. I’m Esmay Suiza. I’m expected.” She felt silly saying this, even though it was true.
“Ah . . . yes. Excuse me, Sera Suiza, but may I see your identification?”
Esmay handed over the folder, and he checked it over. “If you would just put the fingers of both hands here . . .” She did so. “Thank you, sera; sorry to have delayed you. Go right on through.”
As she passed through the opening, Esmay saw that immediately behind the tapestry was a large, efficiently-laid-out guardroom where a half-dozen uniformed personnel manned scan equipment, including a full-spec scan of the corridor she had just come down.
Ahead, in the lounge area, were more clusters of padded chairs as well as an area with tables and desks. She saw a couple of people chatting at a table . . . an older man lounging in one of the chairs . . . and no one else. She chose a chair, and sank into it. Almost at once, a green-vested steward came to her. “Would the sera care for any refreshments?”
“No, thank you,” Esmay said. Whatever they served here would no doubt cost four times as much as the same food and drink somewhere else.
“Sera Meager wanted to be sure you were comfortable,” the steward said. “This is the Barraclough private lounge, sera, and all refreshment is complimentary. There has been a slight delay in the shuttle; it will be several hours . . .”
She’d eaten at Rockhouse Major before she left, but that was now hours ago. “I don’t suppose you have soup . . .” she said.
“Indeed we do, sera,” said the steward, now looking more cheerful. By the time the shuttle arrived, Esmay decided that if she couldn’t get back into Fleet, she wanted to work for someone who had this kind of life. She could easily get used to such luxuries.
The shuttle came in low over rolling hills, green fields and orchards . . . .much greener than her part of Altiplano, with no soaring mountains nearby. As the shuttle eased down, she saw a small stone building and a few groundcars, then—as it rolled to a stop—she saw two blonde women waving. Esmay braced herself for the impact of Brun’s personality as the steward opened the shuttle door. Brun would have her own agenda for Esmay’s visit; she needed Brun’s help, but staying on track might be a problem. I’m not here to talk about fashion, she rehearsed mentally. I’m here to get into Fleet.