He touched the sensor on the door and stepped into the interrogation room.
Kozinsky was a big man in scarred radiation silvers. His hair was dishevelled and his face unshaven, and he stank. It was the peculiar body odour of men in a failing ship, the rank stench of fear and unwashed flesh.
“Klien, chief of security.”
Kozinsky stood quickly and held out a hand. “Vitaly Kozinsky, captain of the Petrograd.”
Klien ignored the hand. “Sit down, Captain.”
Kozinsky nodded, sat down uncomfortably. He was fidgety after too long in space. Klien could tell that he wanted to stand and stride about. Intuition told him that the man was almost certainly genuine, and not the ringleader of some anti-Indian faction out to bomb the port.
But Klien was not about to trust intuition. He remained standing, maintaining a psychological advantage over the seated spacer, and for the next hour fired a barrage of questions at the bemused Russian.
Kozinsky was a freelance spacer who would take any in-system job between the planets if the price was right; he was paid well to fly tubs that no other self-respecting spacer would go anywhere near. The Petrograd was an Earth-Mars cargo freighter of the Cosmoflot Line, on the return leg to Kazakhstan from Mars with a hold full of iron ore.
“Why did you choose to come down here, Captain? Surely you could have made it to Kazakhstan?”
“I tried, but there was no way we could have lasted.”
“Auxiliary engine failure?”
Kozinsky looked up. “No—main drive dysfunction.”
Klien smiled to himself. “And you came down on the auxiliaries?”
The captain nodded. “But we had trouble with those, too. I decided to land at the first port.”
Klien stared at the man, considering. “What we’ll do, Captain,” he said at last, “is contact Cosmoflot and arrange payment for repairs to the ship. You’ll be accommodated here in the meantime at your employer’s expense.”
He nodded briefly and left the room.
From time to time he liked to take a look around the ships himself, less to check the diligence of his team than to reacquaint himself with the interior of a void-going vessel. He left the tower and walked across the tarmac to the damaged Petrograd. A ramp gave access to a foul-smelling interior. More than just the drive had failed: the air system and ventilation had laboured to keep the atmosphere clean and breathable.
He made his way to the flight-deck and watched Frazer and the team at work, sensing their unease at his presence. He touched the back of the worn command couch, his gaze moving over the control console. Technology had moved on a lot over the years, since he had piloted the scout ship away from Homefall to Madrigal. He would be unable to pilot these more modern vessels, though he daily dreamed of returning to the planet of his birth, of appropriating a void-ship and heading away from the corruption and filth that was the Expansion.
He smiled to himself. A man needed his dreams.
“Frazer?”
The officer turned from examining the ship’s flight program, saluted. “Sir.”
“Your findings?”
“The system shows a routine Earth-Mars run, sir. Nothing untoward at all. There was a main drive dysfunction picked up by the on-board computers on initial orbital approach. The main drive shut down and they came in on the auxiliary system.”
Klien nodded. “Contact Cosmoflot for credit rating and have the crew transferred to temporary lodging.”
Klien left his team and crossed the tarmac to the security tower. Once back in his office he went through the flight programs of the many other ships occupying the holding berths and blast-pads across the port. Shortly after his appointment as chief of security, he had ordered the installation of a computer system that would enable him to check on the flight programs of every ship that used the port; he had also arranged a reciprocal facility with Security at Los Angeles spaceport, so that he could check on their ships too.
There was always the chance that his home planet had sent another ship after his own. He had to be ready for his fellow colonists in the event of their arrival, either to eliminate the crew should they be from the opposition, or to greet fellow members of the Council of Elders.
He had been waiting for such a long time now that he had almost given up hope. He had come to accept that he was stranded on Earth, an Earth corrupt beyond his ability to accept or to change.
For the rest of the afternoon, Klien processed routine security matters and studied Frazer’s report on thePetrograd. The ship was given a clean status and engineers were assigned to make the repairs. He filed a report to the director of the spaceport and considered his meeting with Ali Bhakor that night.
At four he got through to Bhakor, using the voice-only facility on his com-screen.
“Smith here,” Klien said. “I’m calling to finalise the arrangements.”
The screen showed Bhakor’s big face, beaded with perspiration in the heat of the day. “Why can’t I see you?” he rapped.
“I’m calling from a public kiosk,” Klien said. “It’s been vandalised.”
He had only ever met Bhakor once in the flesh, to give him the sample of the drug called slash in the hope that the dealer would want more. Then Klien had been effectively disguised.
Bhakor said, “Have you got the stuff?”
“A kilo of prime grade,” Klien assured him.
“Ah-cha. Where and when?”
“Tonight at eight. I’ve booked a room in your name at the Hindustan Plaza hotel. I’ll see you then.”
Bhakor nodded. “Ah-cha, Smith. I’ll be there.”
Klien cut the connection and sat back, exhaling with relief. He realised that his hands were shaking. His mouth was dry. He poured himself a glass of iced water and worked to control his breathing.
Days like today—and there had been many others in the past—were what made his life on Earth worthwhile—along with opera, of course. This evening, after he had dealt with Bhakor, he would take his box at the National Indian Opera Company and lose himself in the sublimity of Puccini. It would be his reward for making the world a safer place.
At six thirty he took the elevator down to the suite of rooms he used when he had to work a double shift. He showered and changed, wearing as always on these occasions the black suit he had bought on Madrigal fifteen years ago. It was tailored from sabline, the most expensive and exclusive suiting material in the entire Expansion, and looked as stylish now as it had on the day of its purchase. He had worn it at his confrontation with Quineau, all those years ago, and on every special occasion since.
He unlocked the wall-safe and collected the equipment he would be needing tonight, then left the tower and climbed into his Mercedes two-seater. He drove along the northern sector of the great Calcutta ring road with care and consideration for his fellow road users. That day’s monsoon downpour had been and gone, leaving the roads slick and shimmering. The sun was going down over the distant bay and the lights of the city were coming on. The great ad-screens moved across the dusk sky like aerial cinemas.
Just after seven he braked in the car-park of the Hindustan Plaza and met the manager and head of security in the foyer. They were courteous to the point of servility; it was not every day that Ezekiel Klien consented to advise a hotel on the maintenance of its security systems.
“Has the equipment been delivered?” he asked as he rode the elevator up to the third-floor conference room.