Hummingbird turned fully toward her. "What do you mean?"
"The cylinder. You had Fitzsimmons and Deckard take the artifact from number three airlock and stow it in your quarters. That object," her voice rose, "is Company property and my personal salvage. I'll be expecting you to return it to the lawful owner — me! — upon our return to the Palenque."
There was a moment of silence, then the nauallis laughed softly, a breathy, echoing sound on the comm link. "You…you came down here to beard me about a chunk of shale?"
"Limestone," she replied. "Compressed limestone strata containing a verifiable First Sun artifact — a knowledge storage device, in fact — which — praise the Son — is duly and legally logged as the evidence and dig-claim of xenoarch Anderssen, Gretchen Elizabeth, company employee number 337G4. My property. Not yours. Not the Imperial government's."
"I see." Hummingbird rubbed one hand across the back of his head. "You have me — and this is rare, Anderssen-tzin — at a complete loss." His hand came back into view with a small, snub-nosed pistol which steadied in such a way as to provide Gretchen with a fine view of the muzzle. "But I believe you are suffering from a psychotic reaction due to the overuse of stimulants, excessive fatigue and the psychological effects of exposure to said First Sun artifact. Now — turn around and clasp your hands behind your head."
"I am not psychotic," Gretchen said, remaining entirely still. "I suggest you consider the fuel capacity of your aircraft, your stated mission, and put the clever little gun away."
Hummingbird's aim did not waver, which showed commendable strength to Gretchen's mind. She could barely stand, her arms and legs cramping from the physical stress of landing. "My mission," he said, after a moment, "is none of your concern. Indeed, your presence here makes an already precarious situation even less tenable."
"I don't agree," she said. "And I'm going to sit down."
The gun moved as she did and Gretchen sighed with relief to be squatting. Her arms were shaking inside the suit and the three-times-cursed medband was still locked out. Stupid, stupid machine.
"So," she said, cocking an eye at the eastern sky, which was noticeably darkening. "You haven't shot me yet, which I'd have expected from a flint-hard Imperial judge. I am a little surprised."
"If you expected to be shot, why did you follow?" Hummingbird squatted himself, the gun having already disappeared into some pocket or holster hidden on his suit. "I doubt the Palenque's bigeye is sharp enough to pick us out down here. I could make your body and the aircraft disappear very quickly. No one would ever know."
"You would," Gretchen replied, finally picking out the gleam of his eyes through the polarized goggles. She laughed softly. "I knew you wouldn't shoot. I would wager you're even glad to see me…you don't have to admit that. I understand how it is."
"Why would that be?" The nauallis's voice had a cold edge. "You don't even have any idea why I'm down here. You don't even know who I am."
"I know enough," Gretchen said, still watching the eastern horizon. In such a thin atmosphere, night advanced like a solid wall, the sky darkening swiftly to blue-black as the terminator approached. "You got spooked by my cylinder, by the Russovsky-copy. I think you got enough bits and pieces of the big puzzle to make a guess — yeah, maybe an educated guess — about what's going on down here. Suddenly the funny little archaeological expedition became a serious problem. So everyone has to clear out fast, leaving you behind to clean up the mess."
"The cylinder," the nauallis interjected, "will remain in Imperial custody and will be destroyed before the Cornuelle leaves this system."
"I don't think so," Gretchen replied tartly. "Not without fair compensation!"
"It is worthless," Hummingbird said, the edge returning to his voice. "Don't you see the device is a lure and a trap? I've seen such things before, left behind to ensnare the unwary. Such things cannot ever be allowed into Imperial space or even onto one of the Rim colonies."
Gretchen shook her head, the motion barely visible through the suit. "Your little blue pyramid tell you that? Does your book have a picture of my cylinder in it, with a warning label?"
"No," bit out the judge, "but such things have been encountered before."
"Have they?" Gretchen felt curiosity stir. Down! She reminded herself. Stay on task.
"Yes. The mining settlement on Aldemar Four was obliterated by an equivalent device — "
"You know," Gretchen said, rudely ignoring Hummingbird. "I really don't care about some miners who found something they shouldn't have. This find is mine. Logged, duly reported, even surveyed and examined. Now, you can destroy the object if you want, but given the high likelihood the cylinder is in fact a First Sun information storage device — your masters in the Ministry of Finance will be very, very unhappy with you for doing so."
Hummingbird's head drew back a fraction and Gretchen felt a sharp stab of delight.
"If you destroy my artifact," she said in a cutting voice, "then a court of adjudication will weigh in my favor when the Company sues the Imperial Navy for confiscating and destroying something worth billions of quills. Now, you're a judge — you know what the rules for theft and destruction of property are like."
There was a strangled hiss from the nauallis. "You'd quote the law to me?"
"I would," Gretchen said, stiffening and rising up slightly. "You stole from me. If you destroy the evidence of theft, then I'll be compensated as if the object had a 'fair market value'. Now, let's say I put a proven First Sun artifact up on the block in the zocalo of Tlateloco. How much do you think I'd get? Can you even count that high? How many centuries of servitude to me would it take to pay off such a debt?"
"It–it is a trap!" Hummingbird's control was fraying. "Useless and dangerous! Not a prize, not a find, not worth a single quill!"
"Not to me." Gretchen glared at the stupid man, though he couldn't see her expression through the mask. "That slab and that cylinder are worth everything to me."
"You'd risk your life, and the lives of others, for money?" There was a pitying tone in Hummingbird's voice. "You can't spend all those quills if you're dead."
For a moment, Gretchen said nothing. Then, in a cold voice, she said, "I risk my life every day, Hummingbird-tzin, for one hundred and nineteen quills. I live for months in a suit, eating my own waste, breathing my own toxins, grubbing in the dirt, for one hundred and nineteen quills. I break into tombs filled with explosive gasses; I watch my friends get killed by accidents with earthmoving equipment, or suit ruptures or sheer carelessness, or from drink or drugs or mindless brawls in some grimy hole-in-the-wall bar, all for one hundred and nineteen quills a day.
"How many quills are in my bank account?" She shook her head, feeling enormous, crushing weariness press down on her like a planet. "Maybe two, three hundred. Everything else goes home to my mother, who manages to keep shoes on my children's feet, food in their mouths, maybe some new soft for the home comp so they can learn. My son is going to be eight years old next year, oh mighty Judge, and unless I have nearly thirty thousand quills in my bank account, he won't be able to get into a calmecac school or a pochteca academy, which means he'll have to work lookout on a lumbering crew, watching for woodgaunts or frayvine — just so we can keep paying the rent on what little land we do have."