“Any room on the up shuttle?”
The clerk looked surprised and worried both, but clerks often did. His problems were his problems; she had room in her mind for only one thing—leaving Xavier far, far behind. “Yes, ma’am, but—”
“Fine. First class if you have it, but anything will do.” What she really wanted was a long shower, a cooling drink, and a good supper. Depending on how long she had to wait for the shuttle, she might eat here, although she didn’t remember the shuttle port having anything but machine dispensers.
“But ma’am—you don’t want to go up right now,” the clerk said earnestly, as if speaking to a willful child.
Cecelia glared at him. “Yes, I do want to go up right now. I have a ship; we’re leaving.”
“Oh.” He looked confused now. “You’re leaving the system from the station?”
“Yes.” She was in no mood for this nonsense. What business was it of his? “I’m Cecelia de Marktos, and my ship, the Sweet Delight, is at the station; we’ll be leaving for Rotterdam as soon as I arrive.”
“Oh. Well, in that case—let me see your ID, please.” Cecelia stared around the terminal as she waited for the clerk to process her ID and credit cube. Beyond the windows, a shuttle streaked by, landing. She had timed it perfectly. She glanced at the clerk; he was talking busily into a handset. Checking her out? Fine. Let him. She was sick of this place.
The shuttle came into view again, taxiing to the terminal. A ground crew swarmed out to it. Cecelia peered down the corridor to the arrival lounge. Finally a door opened, and people started coming out, a hurrying stream of them. More and more . . . more than she had thought the usual shuttle held.
When they got closer, she realized they looked scared. Had the raider shown up again? Was that why Heris didn’t answer? But the clerk tapped her on the arm.
“Lady Cecelia—here—first-class ticket up to the station, but I’ve been advised to tell you that you really should reconsider. I can’t sell you a round trip; if you change your mind, you may not be able to come back down. There’s an alert. This is the last shuttle flight; they’re evacuating—”
“I’m not planning to stay there,” she said, accepting the ticket. “When’s departure?”
“As soon as they refuel and turn her around,” the clerk said. “You may board right away. And I’m afraid you’ll have to hand-carry your luggage.”
“Not a problem.” She hadn’t brought much; she could carry it easily. She heaved her duffel onto her shoulder and started down the corridor. She noticed that no one else joined her.
In the first-class cabin, the crew were scurrying around picking up trash. The seats had been laid flat; she wondered if people had been crammed in side-by-side on them. One of the crew looked up, startled.
“What are you—you have a ticket? A ticket up? Are you crazy?”
“I’m going to meet my ship, which is departing,” Cecelia said. “Don’t worry about me.” She unlatched a seat back and pulled it upright herself, then stowed her gear on the seat next to her. If she was to be the only passenger, she saw no reason to worry about regulations. Then she heard other footsteps coming, and started to move her duffel. But it wasn’t passengers. Instead, a line of men in some kind of uniform formed down the aisle, and began passing canisters and boxes covered with warning labels hand to hand. Cecelia leaned out to look down the aisle and see where they were being put, and nearly got clonked in the head.
“Excuse us, ma’am . . . if you’ll just keep out of the way,” said the nearest. Cecelia sat back, wondering what the labels meant—she vaguely remembered seeing markings like that on the things Heris had installed in her yacht.
“If you could just move that,” said someone else, and handed her duffel over. She sat with it on her lap, and began to wonder just what was going on. On the seat where her duffel had been, one of the men placed a heavily padded container labelled fuses danger do not drop and strapped it in as carefully as if it were human. “Don’t bump that,” he said to Cecelia, with a smile. She smiled back automatically, before she could wonder why or ask anything. Someone yelled, outside, and the men turned and began filing out. She heard the hatch thud closed, and felt the familiar shift in air pressure as the shuttle’s circulation system came on. A crewman came back from the front of the shuttle and smiled at her.
“All set? You might want to set your stuff on the floor. It might be a bit rough. Last chance to leave, if you’re having second thoughts.”
She was having third, fourth, and fifth thoughts, but she still didn’t want to get off the shuttle and go back to Marcia and Poots. Or anywhere else on this benighted planet. Surely, when she got to the station, Heris could get her out of whatever problem was developing locally. Besides, it would look damn silly to back out now.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Thank you. I suppose it is permissible to use the facilities?”
“Yes—but we aren’t carrying any meals on this trip. If you need water—”
“I know where the galley is,” Cecelia said. “I can serve myself—or you, if you want.”
“Great. Stay down until we’re well clear.” She felt the rumble-bump of the wheels on the runway even as he turned away from her . . . whatever it was, they were in an almighty hurry. The shuttle hesitated only briefly when it turned at the end of the runway, then screamed into the sky . . . she supposed, since the usual visual display in the first-class cabin wasn’t on, and the heat shields covering the portholes wouldn’t slide back until they were out of the atmosphere.
Nothing happened on the trip; she used the facilities, found the ice water, and a bag of melting ice, offered the pilots water (which they refused) and foil-wrapped packets of cookies, which they accepted. She rummaged in the lockers, finding a whole box of the cookie packets jammed into a corner, and a card with “Meet you at Willie’s tomorrow night, 2310” on it in swirly flourishes of green ink. In the top left-hand locker, a pile of coffee filters tumbled out, and she gave up the search for anything more interesting. She shoved the coffee filters back behind their door, and opened a cookie packet. They could call it “Special Deluxe Appetizing Biscuit” if they wanted, but it tasted like the residue of stale crumbs in the bottom of a tin. Cecelia decided she wasn’t that hungry.
Chapter Fifteen
A line of passengers crammed the corridor as she came out; most of them gaped at her. She tried to remember which was the shortest way around to Sweet Delight. Then she heard someone calling her.
“Lady Cecelia!” Brun, waving a frantic hand. Sirkin was with her.
“Brun—whatever are you doing there? Why aren’t you on the yacht?”
“Don’t you know about it?”
“What?”
“The invasion. The Benignity is coming. With a fleet or something. Captain Serrano doesn’t think she can hold them off; they’re evacuating this station and telling people planetside to go into shelter. Underground if possible.”
Across her mind scrolled the broad acres of Marcia and Poots’s studfarm, the great log barns, the handsome paddocks, the gleaming horses . . . admittedly horses with conformational faults, but still horses.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes—Captain Serrano told Sirkin and me to go downside, find you, and take care of you. She’s having a military team crew the yacht—”