“Cecelia!” Berenice said, too loudly. “She disappeared from the home sometime today. After Ronnie’s visit, in fact; he says she was certainly there when he was. The attendant who let him in remembers that—”
“Maybe Ronnie’s playing a prank.” Lorenza’s mind raced. Crazy young men did such things. Cecelia gone? What would it mean? She felt cold, and then excited. “Perhaps he took her out for a joyride or something.” Perhaps another enemy had abducted her, raped her, killed her.
“No—there was some kind of mixup with the Festival, lots of balloonists coming down in that meadow, and some getting caught in the trees. Lots of people saw Ronnie leave, and he was alone. Besides, he’s as confused as I am—I can tell; I’m his mother. Lori, she’s gone. She’ll die without care—I can’t bear to think of it—” Berenice, who had quarrelled with Cecelia for years, still actually cared about her. Lorenza thought that was stupid, but knew better than to argue that Cecelia was better off dead. Especially for her own purposes.
“Who do you think—could it be that awful yacht captain?”
“Oh, no. She’s been gone for weeks—and she couldn’t have come back in the system without being caught. It’s just—I can’t figure out why anyone would do this!” Lorenza made soothing noises. She could think of several reasons, and after a while produced the one she thought most useful.
“There’s always kidnapping for ransom, although in her condition most such people would expect you to abandon her. Perhaps . . . someone, some business associate, wants to do something with her assets. If they produced an imposter, and claimed she’d recovered . . .”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Berenice’s voice had calmed; she might be overemotional, but she wasn’t stupid. Not really. “We’ve had auditors checking things over to be sure that captain hadn’t been embezzling—maybe someone else was.”
“Or maybe that captain had an ally,” Lorenza said.
“I’ll tell Gustav,” Berenice said firmly, and cut off what Lorenza was about to say.
Surely it would be all right. Someone had kidnapped a helpless old lady—it would be either for ransom or—the idea made more sense the longer she thought about it—to produce an apparently recovered imposter, whose remaining lapses of memory and function could be laid to the injury. Or Cecelia herself, with an AI unit implanted so that she seemed to speak what someone else had chosen. If they had enough time, whoever had done this, they could even produce a clone-Cecelia. Of course, not even a clone-Cecelia would know what had been done to her, or how, or who.
She was, therefore, unprepared for the second call, from her medical agent.
“What do you mean, trouble?” she asked airily. “It’s nothing to do with us; I didn’t snatch her.”
“Have you forgotten what I told you? She needs maintenance doses—and anyone who scans her now will find those implants. If they’re removed, a high-level scan will show brain activity.”
“You said it was irreversible.” She fought the impulse to scowl at the screen. She never scowled; scowling caused wrinkles.
“Under the circumstances we had, yes. But not in a medical facility I can’t get into, or send someone to. Oh, she’ll never get up and walk off—at least, I don’t think so—but once someone suspects she’s still cognating, they’ll start looking at her old scans and know they were falsified. And then they’ll figure out how, and that leads to who. I want out—I want transportation and a lump sum, enough to live on—”
“Wait a minute—you’re running out on me? Won’t that make it obvious you did it?”
“Not if you set it up right. Do you know what they do to medical professionals who do something like this? I’ll be in therapeutic reassignment the rest of my life. No. I want out. You’ve got to get me out of here.”
“But you say she can’t really recover . . .”
“Of course not. Not really. But they don’t need her testimony to put me at risk, I tell you. And if they catch me, I’ll tell them who it was—I’ve no reason to protect you if I’m going to prison. It’s to your advantage to keep me safe.”
“I see. Well, then . . . it will take me a day or so . . .” To choose which way to eliminate this unstable and most undesirable of accomplices. To make sure it would not be traced to her. To see if it could possibly be done in person . . . she would miss the visits to Cecelia, the chance to savor that triumph. This one could make up for it.
Chapter Twelve
The transfer station at Naverrn had none of the luxury and elegance of Rockhouse Major. It was as large—it had to be, to handle the transfers of entire troopships—but only in the Exchange did any civilians color and brighten the drab corridors and docksides. The Better Luck had come in, with its new identity unchallenged—just another scruffy little tramp freighter and her slipshod crew.
“Recognition’s supposed to be easy,” Heris said, eyeing the material she’d been given. “The prince has seen me; I’ve seen him.”
“But the double,” said Petris. “You might mistake the double for the prince.”
“The double doesn’t know me. He won’t approach. It’s true, both of them will be there . . . but only one will come aboard.”
Like all but the restricted stations, Naverrn Station had no objection to civilian traffic—in moderation—and civilians could shop at the Exchange, paying higher prices. Heris was claiming a subcontract with Outworld Parcel, one of the independent companies transferring small hardcopy documents and packages for individuals who preferred not to use the government mail service. The Crown had provided such documents, and arranged for her to dump any business received at a nearby Outworld Parcel main depot.
Heris checked in at the Outworld Parcel local office, handing the clerk the little strip of platinum-embossed plastic. The clerk glanced at her as he fed the strip into the reader. “You’re new on this run, aren’t you? What happened to Sal?”
Heris shrugged. “Have no idea. I don’t ask questions—they shift me around wherever there’s a gap.”
“Oh. Maybe that port drive pod finally went sour, and he’s in refitting.” The clerk touched a keypad and a sign lighted up: Outgoing Active. “How long are you here for? There’s only a few letters now, but if you’ll be here long enough for a shuttle from below, I can guarantee at least a 50-kilo cargo.”
“How long’s that?” asked Heris, as if she didn’t know the shuttle schedule already.
“Let me check our downside office,” the clerk said, and vanished into a back room. A few minutes later he came out. “You’re in luck. They can add the downside accumulation to the next shuttle, and that’s tomorrow’s. It’ll be up here by 1800, but it won’t unload until 2000, at least.”
“I suppose,” Heris said, feigning reluctance. “They didn’t say I’d have to wait; it was supposed to be a scoop and run . . .”
“Are you time-locked for your next destination?” That would make it a legal requirement to keep the schedule.
“No.” As if she’d just decided, Heris gave a quick nod. “Fine—we can wait. Let me know the mass and cubage when the shuttle lifts. You have the codes.” He would return the identification strip when she signed for the outgoing mail.
The Exchange was next door; Heris glanced in at rows of displayed merchandise. Once such places had been her territory; she had paid the lower, military price; she had felt at home. Now—she made herself enter, with a quick smile at the security guard by the door.
“New onstation?” he asked.
“Right. The Better Luck; we have a subcontract with Outworld Parcel.”
“About time,” the guard said, grinning. “I’m expecting a package from my parents—”