“Your people could have defected to another policorp, using the transport.”
“We don’t think so. Their work would have been hard to take with them. And they couldn’t have gone far without attracting attention—some of the lab personnel were Powers.”
A coolness moved through Reese’s bones. She sat up, regarding Berger carefully. Powers were forbidden off the two entry ports—the official reason was that there was too much danger of cross-contamination from alien life-forms. Plagues had already devastated the two Power legations, and the reverse was always a possibility. The discovery of Powers in Brighter Suns employ outside of Vesta would ruin Brighter Suns’ credit for good.
But after a while the heat on Brighter Suns would die down. Trade with the aliens was too profitable for people to interfere with it for long. In a year or two, the lab could be reopened with cloned personnel and some very mean security goons to make certain they followed orders.
“I understand your sense of urgency,” Reese said. “But why me? Why not go yourself?”
“We don’t have anyone with your talents on Earth,” Berger said. “I’m not wired the way you are. And…well, we’d like to know you’re gainfully employed by us rather than floating around Uzbekistan waiting to be captured by the heat. If we can find you, they probably can.”
Reese sipped her club soda. “How did you find me, exactly?”
“Someone recognized you.”
“Who might that have been?”
The skin by Berger’s eye gave a leap. “It’s already taken care of,” he said. “We didn’t want him giving your name to anyone else.”
Da Vega. Well. At least it wasn’t Ken.
But there was also a threat: Berger didn’t want her in this refugees’ paradise, where the number of desperate people was higher than average and where a policorporate kidnap team could find her. If they’d already iced one person, they could put the ice on another.
“Let’s talk payment,” Reese said. “Brighter Suns, I think, can afford to pay me what I’m worth.”
RAM’S COPS HAD beaten some woman to death during interrogation. Ken was busy at his console, putting out fact and opinion pieces, making the most of another death for the revolution. Reese paced the room, picking at the tattered wallpaper, eating Mongolian barbecue from a waxed paper container. Below the window, some drunken descendant of the Golden Horde was singing a sad song to the moon. He kept forgetting the lyrics and starting over, and the burbling ballad was getting on Reese’s nerves.
“I’d feel better,” she said, “if Cheney was paying you a decent wage.”
“He pays what he can afford.” Ken’s fingers sped over his keyboard. “The money has to be laundered, and he has to be careful how he does it.”
“You don’t even have a promise of a job after it’s all over.”
Ken shrugged. “Prince can always use another economist.”
“And you don’t have protection. Ram could order you iced.”
“He needs a live scapegoat, not a dead martyr.” He frowned as he typed. “This isn’t a mysterious business, you know. Ram knows our strength and most of our moves, and we know his. There aren’t very many hidden pieces on the board.”
The Uzbek began his song again. Reese clenched her teeth. She put her hand on Ken’s shoulder.
“I’m disappearing tomorrow,” she said.
He tilted his head back, looking up in surprise. His fingers stopped moving on the keys.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I got a job.”
She saw a confirmation in his eyes. “Not one you can talk about,” he said.
“No. But it’s not for Ram. In case you were wondering.”
He took her hand in one of his. “I’ll miss you.”
Reese put her food carton on top of his video display. Her chopsticks jabbed the air like rabbit ear antennae.
“I’ve got another twelve hours before I take the plane to Beijing.”
Ken turned off his console. “I can send the rest out tomorrow,” he said.
Reese was surprised. “What about the revolution?”
He shrugged and kissed the inside of her wrist. “Sometimes I feel redundant. The revolution is inevitable, after all.”
“It’s nice to know,” Reese said, “that the devil can quote ideology to his purpose.”
Outside, the Uzbek continued his wail to the desolate stars.
THE TUG WAS called Voidrunner, and it was thirty years old at least, the padding on its bulkheads patched with silver tape, bundles of cable hanging out of access hatches. Reese had been in enough ships like it not to let the mess bother her—all it meant was that the tug didn’t have to impress its passengers. The air inside tasted acrid, as if the place was crammed full of sweating men, but there were only four people on board.
Berger introduced the other three to Reese, then left, waving cheerily over his shoulder. About four minutes later, Voidrunner cast off from Charter Station and began its long acceleration to its destination.
Reese watched the departure from the copilot’s chair in the armored docking cockpit. The captain performed the maneuvers with his eyes closed, not even looking out the bubble canopy at the silver-bright floodlit skin of Charter, reality projected into his head through his interface thread, his eyelids twitching as his eyes reflexively scanned mental indicators.
His name was Falkland. He was about fifty, an Artifact War veteran who, fifteen years before, had been doing his level best to kill Reese in the tunnels of Archangel. A chemical attack had left his motor reflexes damaged, and he wore a light silver alloy exoskeleton. Fortunately his brain and interface thread had survived the war intact. He wore a grey beard and his hair long over his collar.
“Prepare for acceleration,” he said, his eyes still closed. “We’ll be at two gees for the first six hours.”
Reese looked out at Earth’s dull grey moon, vast, taking up most of the sky. “Right,” she said. “Got my piss bottle right here.” Hard gees were tough on the bladder.
After the long burn Voidrunner settled into a constant one-gee acceleration. Falkland stayed strapped in, his eyelids still moving to some internal REM light show. Reese unbuckled her harness, stretched her relieved muscles while her spine and neck popped, and moved downship.
Falkland offered no comment.
The crew compartment smelled of fresh paint. Reese saw the tug’s engineer, a tiny man named Chung, working on a bulkhead fire alarm. His head was bobbing to music he was feeding to his aural nerves. Chung was so into the technophilic Destinarian movement he was turning himself slice by slice into a machine. His eyes were clear implants that showed the interior silver circuitry; his ears were replaced by featureless black boxes, and there were other boxes of obscure purpose jacked into his hairless scalp. His teeth were metal, and liquid crystal jewelry, powered by nerve circuitry, shone in ever-changing patterns on his cheeks and on the backs of his hands. He hadn’t said anything when Berger introduced him, just looked at Reese for a moment, then turned back to his engines.
Now he said something. His voice was hoarse, as if he wasn’t used to using it. “He’s downship. In Cargo B.”
His back was to Reese, and she had been moving quietly. His head still bobbed to inaudible music. He hadn’t even turned his head to speak. “Thanks,” she said. “Nice implants.”
“The best. I built ’em myself.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be monitoring the burn?”
He pointed at one of his boxes. “I am.”
“Nice.”
She always found she had common ground with control freaks.
Vickers was in Cargo B, as Chung had promised. He was Reese’s armorer, hired by Berger for the sole purpose of maintaining the combat suit that Reese was to wear on Cuervo. Vickers was young, about eighteen, and thin. His dark hair was cut short; he had a stammer and severe acne. He was dressed in oil-spattered coveralls. When Reese walked in, Vickers was peeling the suit’s components out of their foam packing. She helped him lay the suit on the deck. Vickers grinned.