Santerese did not answer, and Heikki shrugged to herself, reaching for the tag that contained the thumb-print seals. If that’s how you want to be…. she thought, and studied the little tab. There was no movement from Santerese. Heikki’s lips tightened, and she set her thumb firmly on the bright orange dot. The tag considered the imprint, comparing that to the pattern in its memory, and then, reluctantly, the dot faded from orange to green. Heikki took a deep breath, twisted it away, and used her thumbnail to pry open the little door that covered the controls. They were the standard set, but she pretended to study them for a moment before she could bring herself to trigger the tape.
A funnel of light flared from the machine’s projector, filled at first with static, and then with a sort of visual noise that slowly resolved itself into an image. For an instant, Heikki didn’t recognize the face that stared out at her, but then the long chin and the undistinguished nose, so like her own, resolved themselves into her brother’s once-familiar face. He had aged, she thought vaguely—but then, so had she. In a wicked mirror image, the same lines bracketed their mouths, fanned delicately from the corners of their eyes. If anything, she thought, we look more alike now than ever we did.
“You didn’t tell me you were twins, you know,” Santerese observed.
“I did—” Heikki began, and the first words of Galler’s message cut across whatever else she would have said.
“Heikki,” said the voice—her own voice, if deeper; the same tricks of phrase and the same flat vowels. And then the image smiled in the old way, sweetly malicious, and Heikki’s thoughts steadied. “Gwynne. I apologize for troubling you, but I could use your help— which, of course, I am willing to pay for, as I realize old affection doesn’t stretch nearly that far. These codes are current; contact me as soon as possible.” The image smiled again. “For old times’ sake,” it said, and dissolved into static.
“I’ll see you in hell first,” Heikki murmured, and switched off the machine.
Santerese whistled softly, and stepped forward to examine the codes inscribed on the plastic tag. “What is all that about, darling?”
“I don’t know,” Heikki said, flatly, staring at the cube without really seeing its flat grey surface. She was sorely tempted to do nothing, to ignore the message—but if she did, Galler would find some way to force her to do what he wanted anyway. I wonder, she thought suddenly, is everything that’s gone wrong his way of proving to me just how far he can go? She shook the thought away as unproved, if not unfounded, and said again, “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to make contact.”
Santerese lifted an eyebrow. “What’s between the two of you, anyway? He sounded like he was in trouble—he said he needed your help, anyway.”
“That’s just like him,” Heikki answered. She took a deep breath. “You don’t know Galler. He always did get into trouble, and then drag me into it after him, just so I could get us both out.” Santerese was looking at her oddly, and Heikki managed a sideways smile. “And if you’re wondering why I didn’t just leave him, he usually managed to involve me in spite of myself, so I didn’t have any choice but to help him if I was going to save myself.”
“What kind of trouble?” Santerese asked slowly.
“Oh, you’re right, nothing too serious,” Heikki answered, and with an effort held onto her smile. “The usual stuff, staying out after curfew, borrowing sailboards, things like that. But one of his schemes got me in bad with some people I really cared about, and—” I’ve never forgiven him for it. She bit off the words unspoken, perfectly aware of how ridiculous it sounded, to hold a grudge against your own brother for twenty years, and over a long-dead friendship; said instead, “We were always opposites, anyway. I said black, he’d say white to spite me, and vice versa. I only went by Heikki to prove the name was mine, I never minded Gwynne, but he kept digging up proof that in the old days it wouldn’t’ve mattered that I was older, he would’ve gotten the name because he was the male.” She’d said too much, she knew suddenly, and shrugged and fell silent, not looking at Santerese.
There was a little silence, seemingly interminable, and then Santerese said, “How come you never told me any of this, in all these many years, doll?”
Heikki shrugged again. “It didn’t seem to matter. I’d left home, cut the ties—I never expected to have to deal with him again.”
“So what are you going to do?” Santerese nodded toward the message cube, still sitting on the table where Heikki had left it.
Heikki stared at it, loathing mixed with resignation filling her. “I suppose I’ll have to contact him,” she said, and saw the approval in Santerese’s nod. Not for the reasons you think, Marshallin, she thought, but accepted the other woman’s embrace. You’d do it because he’s family, you with your cousins and god-cousins scattered all over the settled stars. Me, I’ll do it because it’s dangerous not to, because I know him, and I know he’ll hurt us if we don’t.
She looked again at the contact codes, peering over the curve of Santerese’s shoulder. “But not until tomorrow,” she said, with some relief. “Those codes are for EP4.”
Santerese laughed softly. “All right, tomorrow, then.” And then, when Heikki did not relax in her arms, she tilted her head back and sideways to look into the other woman’s face. “You do hate him, don’t you?”
Heikki kept her cheek against the warm curve of Santerese’s neck, rubbing against her like a cat for comfort. “No,” she said after a moment, because it was expected of her—you don’t hate your siblings, not blood-sibs and most especially not your twin—and felt Santerese’s arms tighten quickly. “I guess not.” She heard the lie in her own voice, but, blessedly, Santerese did not seem to notice. “Tomorrow,” she said, with an attempt at briskness. “I’ll deal with him tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 8
The public trunk lines between EP7 and EP4 were among the busiest in the Loop, and it took Heikki almost an hour to find an operator who could give her a place in the transmission queue. Even so, it was over an hour’s wait before her slot would arrive. Heikki growled a curse at the empty screen, and pushed herself up from the workstation, punching a last series of keys to set her remote to pick up the incoming operator’s signal. She started for the suite’s main room, but paused in the doorway, hearing familiar voices.
“—this new woman of yours?” That was Santerese’s voice, cheerful as always, and Heikki started to pull back into the workroom, not quite ready to face such determined good humor.
“Heikki doesn’t like her,” Nkosi answered, and lifted a hand in greeting.
Fairly caught, Heikki came on into the main room, nodding to Nkosi. At least Alexieva was nowhere to be seen. Santerese emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of steaming mugs, and smiled when she saw Heikki.
She set the tray on the low table, gesturing for the others to help themselves, and said, “Why not?”
Heikki shrugged, uncomfortable, and busied herself with the plate of spices. Nkosi said, not entirely playfully, “I do not think she trusts her.”
Heikki sighed, keeping control of her temper with an effort. “That’s true, I don’t, not entirely.”
“You can’t just leave it there,” Santerese said.
Nkosi smiled. “I admit, Marshallin, I do not—entirely—trust her. Not entirely.”
Santerese scowled, and Heikki said, “She wanted the job too badly, ‘Shallin, and she admits she works for Lo-Moth, or for Electra FitzGilbert, which to my mind is much the same thing.”
“That I am not certain of,” Nkosi murmured. “She said that she worked for FitzGilbert,”