FitzGilbert, discouragingly, looked as touchily ill-tempered as she always did, despite the early hour. “There’s been a problem with one of your people,” she began abruptly, and Heikki’s stomach lurched.
“Nkosi?”
“No.” FitzGilbert frowned, more puzzled now than irritated, snapped her fingers twice as though the noise would trigger her memory. “The other pilot—Sebasten-Januarias.”
“Not exactly ‘mine,’” Heikki said, automatically, and then frowned at her own cowardice. “I hired him here, on-planet. What’s the problem?”
“He straggled in out of the wayback this morning,” FitzGilbert answered. “Claims somebody tried to kill him.”
At her back, Heikki heard Djuro’s soft hiss, mingled surprise and anger, and said with a coldness she did not feel, “But what does this have to do with me? My job’s over, remember?”
FitzGilbert’s frown deepened again. “Ser Slade would like to see you. At once.”
Heikki’s eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?” The anger in her voice had been real, instinctive; she matched it deliberately. “It’s just past the fifth hour, Dam’ FitzGilbert—not an hour at which I am accustomed to doing business. Jan—Sebasten-Januarias has been paid off, his employment with me is over. I repeat, what the hell does this have to do with me?”
FitzGilbert grimaced. “Sebasten-Januarias was shot down—surface-to-air missile, a seeker—while taking a routine private-mail flight for a friend. Ser Slade would like to discuss the possibility that this may be connected with the attack on our latac.”
Put that way, Heikki thought, the inquiry was not that unreasonable. “I can be at the headquarters complex in one hour,” she said, and FitzGilbert lifted a hand.
“We can send a ho-crawl—”
“Thanks, I have my own transport,” Heikki said.
“As you wish.” FitzGilbert looked down at a shadowscreen, out of sight beneath the camera’s sightline. “I’ll have someone waiting to escort you.”
“Thanks,” Heikki said. “In an hour, then.” She broke the connection without waiting for an answer.
“Damn,” Djuro said softly. “I wonder if the kid’s all right?”
Heikki made a face, embarrassed by her own negligence. “He walked out, she said. That’s something.” She took a deep breath, putting aside guilt as something less than useless. “Raise Jock—I think it’s still middle night over the South-Shallow, that may help— and tell him what’s happened. They’re to get back here at once, taking all precautions.”
“You think this Slade may be right?” Djuro asked, but he was already moving toward the communications console,
“I don’t want to take the chance,” Heikki answered. “Once you’re sure he’s on his way back, I want you to get over to the airfield, and find out what’s going on, see what people are saying about this.”
Djuro nodded. “Do you want me to try to track down Jan?”
“Yes,” Heikki began, and then shook her head. “No, on second thought, better not. If it is because of the latac, the less contact he’s had with us, the better. Just find out what the gossip is. And get Jock home.”
Djuro gave her a lopsided smile. “I’ll do that, boss.”
“Thanks,” Heikki said, and headed back to her room to dress.
This time, she didn’t bother with the clothes a ‘pointer would consider appropriate. The securitron on duty at the main gate glanced uneasily at her hastily-tied turban and unstylish shift, but the mention of her name brought him instantly to attention.
“Oh, Dam’ Heikki. Ser Neilenn will be out to escort you at once.”
“Thank you,” Heikki said, and resigned herself to wait. To her surprise, however, Neilenn appeared within a few minutes: clearly, he’d been waiting somewhere close at hand.
“Dam’ Heikki,” Neilenn said, and bobbed a sort of greeting. “I’m so sorry to have to disturb you so early….” His words trailed off unhappily, though Heikki could not tell precisely why.
She said, “It doesn’t matter. I assume Slade is waiting?”
Neilenn bobbed his head again, and there was a note almost of relief in his voice. “Yes, Dam’ Heikki. If you’ll come with me, Timon will take care of your vehicle.”
So they don’t want my ‘cat inside the security perimeter, Heikki thought. I wonder why? She said nothing, however, and followed Neilenn across the hard-metalled road to the waiting runabout. The little man lifted the passenger hatch politely, and Heikki swung herself into the low-slung seat. To her surprise, Neilenn settled himself behind the controls and touched the throttle gingerly. The runabout eased forward, and Neilenn gave her an apologetic glance.
“I’m afraid my driver isn’t on duty yet.”
Heikki made what she hoped was a sympathetic noise, her mind racing. She did not for an instant believe that Neilenn lacked the authority to wake up someone as junior as a driver, no matter how early—or late—it was. No, she thought, he’s been ordered not to use a driver— but why? To keep my meeting Slade a secret? That was the only explanation that presented itself, but it didn’t make much sense. She shook her head, and put the question aside for later, concentrating instead on the meeting at hand.
Neilenn brought the runabout to a halt beside one of the smaller towers, under a sunscreening canopy that hid the entrance from any observers in the neighboring buildings. Slade was waiting for her inside, in a second-floor room that overlooked the outer perimeter. The thin, sunblocking curtain was drawn back from the main window, letting in the light of the rising sun; the same sunlight gleamed from the roof of a crystal shed a thousand meters away, a blindingly bright rectangle well outside the circle of terrestrial green that marked the headquarters perimeter. Slade was staring at the shed, eyes narrowed against the light but his face otherwise expressionless. Heikki had one fleeting glimpse of that stillness, and then the man was turning toward her, his face taking on an expression of welcome. He was still wearing the Precincter button, clipped to the low side of his collar.
“Dam’ Heikki, it was good of you to see me on such short notice. And so early in the day, too.”
So my protest was relayed, Heikki thought, murmuring a politely meaningless response. Well, too bad. “I was concerned to hear about Sebasten-Januarias’s accident,” she said. Better to make the first move directly, she thought, or he’ll spend an hour dancing around whatever it is he wants.
“If one can call it an accident,” Slade murmured, a slight smile quirking his lips.
Touché, Heikki thought. “A seeker missile doesn’t usually fall into that category, I grant you,” she said aloud, “but I don’t know what else to call it.”
“I’ll be frank with you,” Slade began, and Heikki mentally braced herself for trickery. “All we know is the police report that Ser—Sebasten-Januarias?—filed this morning when the patrol picked him up. He claims his craft—I forget the type, some heavier-than-air model—was fired on from the ground as he crossed the Asilas below the massif; he took evasive action and was able to avoid the main explosion, though it damaged the ship. He made a crash landing, and walked back toward the nearest farming station, where he called for help. The police picked him up there this morning, as I said.”
It was plausible enough, Heikki thought. The most common aircraft on Iadara were wood-framed douplewings, propelled by a light, cool running Maximum Morris powerplant—not an easy target for the usual small-brained seeker missiles to follow. And the douplewings were extremely forgiving in a crash—that was why they continued in use on Iadara and dozens of other Precinct worlds. The light frame would collapse and crumple on impact, but much of the force of a crash would be absorbed in the process. You could walk away from a smash-up that would kill you in any other craft. She became aware, tardily, that Slade was watching her curiously, and managed a shrugging smile. “I don’t quite know what you want of me. I can see that you might be concerned that this has something to do with your crash, sure, but I can’t for the life of me see what.” Abruptly, she wished she had used some other metaphor.