Empire & Ecolitan (16 page)

“N
AME
?”

“Laslo Boorck.”

“Imperial I.D. or passport?”

The hefty man handed across the Imperial I.D., looking down on the purser from near two hundred centimeters. In turn, the purser placed the flat card in the reader.

“Palmprint.”

“Yas…” The hand went on the scanner.

The scanner remained silent for a moment, then flickered once, then turned green.

Bleep
.

“Welcome aboard, citizen Boorck.”

Citizen Boorck ambled a few steps, then waited.

“Next. Name?”

“Lestina Nazdru.” The woman, with her red-and-silver-streaked hair, was clearly a different type from the sedate and overweight agricultural specialist whom she accompanied. Her nails glittered, and her eyelids drooped under their own weight.

The purser did his best not to stare at the translucent blouse.

“I.D., please.”

“Of course, officer.”

She placed her hand on the screen with a practiced motion. The long nails glittered alternating red and silver.

Again the scanner hesitated, but finally flickered green.

Bleep
.

“Welcome aboard…”

“Thank you.” Her voice was low, a shade too hard but pleasant, if vaguely professional.

The purser smiled faintly as the woman rejoined her husband, if their reservations could be believed. He'd seen all types, and a lot of the October-May marriages looked like the pair he had just passed on board the
M. Monroe
. Older and heavier man, wealthy, but with minimal taste, and an attractive wife not that much younger, but of even more questionable taste and background.

Remembering the hesitation of the scanner, he glanced at the short list on his screen to compare profiles, but neither the heavy man nor his companion matched the handful of names and profiles. The automatics were supposed to match names against prints. The list contained individuals for whom various law enforcement or military authorities had placed a detention order. He scanned the list again, then looked up.

“Next.”

Behind him, the October-May couple walked toward their silver status stateroom, holding hands casually.

“You like the ship?” asked the man.

“A touch beneath you, Laslo, but it will do.” She looked along the narrow corridor. “Shouldn't we turn here somewhere, dear?”

“I believe so, honeydrop. I do believe so.”

The man stopped and fumbled with the silver-colored card.

“All passengers. All passengers. The
Monroe
will be leaving orbit station in five standard minutes, bound for Certis three. We will be leaving Accord orbit station in five minutes, bound for Certis three, with a final destination of Alphane four. If you are not bound for Certis three or Alphane four, please contact ship personnel immediately.”

The stateroom door opened, and the man withdrew the silver card, gesturing to the woman.

“After you, dear.”

“You can be so courtly when you have to, Laslo.”

He followed her inside. Two built-in and plush chairs flanked a table. Over the table was a screen. The view on the screen showed the mixed blue-green of planetary continents and water covered with swirls of clouds, as seen from orbit.

The woman closed the door and flopped into one of the chairs.

“Take a load off, Las.”

“In a minute…”

“They got any entertainment on the screen? Who wants to see a dumb planet every time you travel? Seen one, you've seen them all.”

“You're so right, dear. But Accord has such marvelous agricultural techniques. I thought it might look different from orbit.”

“Laslo, you dragged me here on business, left me in that tiny hotel while you went running through the countryside. You still smell like manure. Once we get to Alphane…We're going to Alphane for some civilized times and some real fun. And some comfort. Freshers with perfume, not old-fashioned showers. Real Tarlian caviar. You promised!”

“So I did. So I did. And where are we? We are on an Imperial ship bound for Alphane.”

The silver-and-red-haired woman kicked off one shoe, then the other.

“Are our bags here yet?”

“They should have arrived before us. Let me check.” He opened the artificially veneered closet door. Two expensive and expansive black leather bags, matching, were set on the racks, side by side.

“They're here.”

“Tell me, Laslo, why was that ship's man looking at his screen every time he checked someone in?”

“Looking for some criminal, I suppose.” The heavy man eased himself into the other chair.

“Do they ever look for women?”

“I would suppose that they might. Women break the law as much as men…although, dear, I suspect that they do not get caught as often.”

He took her left hand, the one on the table.

She disengaged it deftly.

“Laslo, I feel rather tired, and it's likely I will continue to feel tired until after I return to civilization.”

The man sighed. “I understand, dear. I do understand.”

“You're always so understanding, Laslo. It's one of your great strengths, you know.”

“Thank you.” The man looked up at the screen. A slight shiver passed underfoot.

“The
Monroe
is now leaving orbit. The
Monroe
is now leaving orbit. The dining room will be open in fifteen standard minutes. The dining room will be open in fifteen standard minutes. Please confirm your reservations in advance. Please confirm your reservations in advance.”

The woman smoothed her long hair back over her right ear, then over her left ear, tapped her fingernails on the table.

“You might damage the grain of the wood, dear.”

“What grain? Can't you recognize cheap veneer?”

“I suppose it's the principle of the thing.” He looked straight into her muddy brown eyes. “Will you be ready for dinner soon?”

“I will be ready for dinner when I am ready. That shouldn't be long.”

“In that case, I will meet you in the lounge, dear.” The man levered himself out of the chair, straightened his short jacket, and moved to the stateroom door.

“That's a dear.”

The doorway opened, then closed with a firm
click
.

“W
ELCOME TO
A
LPHANE
station, ser Boorck, lady Nazdru. We hope you enjoy your stay. Will you be taking the shuttle planetside or transshipping?”

“The shuttle…for now…for…some culture…” answered the man.

“That we have. That we have. The shuttle concourse is to your left.”

“Laslo, you are so masterful,” commented the woman with the sparkling red-and-silver hair and the matching nails, blissfully unaware of the stares she was receiving from the conservative Alphane residents returning planetside.

“Thank you, dear. You know how I value your judgment.”

“You should, dear. You should.”

“But you know I do. Why else would I be here?”

“Now, Laslo, don't get sentimental. We have a shuttle to catch.”

The big man sighed, loudly, and motioned for a porter to follow with the two heavy black leather bags.

The three stepped onto the moving strip in the center of the corridor and were carried toward the shuttle concourse. Lady Nazdru continued to draw stares. Few noticed Ser Boorck at all, except as an overweight man obviously dominated by a younger, if experienced, woman.

“You'd think that they'd never seen someone with colored hair, dear.”

“Not like you, dear.”

“You're so kind, Laslo.”

The porter coughed. “Ser…lady…”

“Oh, yes, thank you.” The man stepped off the moving strip and toward one of the staffed counters.

“May I help you, citizen?”

“I unfortunately neglected to arrange for shuttle passage…”

“That shouldn't be a problem. Do you have an Imperial I.D. or an outsystem passport?”

He handed over the flat I.D. card.

“Your print, citizen?”

The man complied.

“Does she need mine, too, Laslo?”

The woman behind the counter scanned the red-and-silver-haired woman. “I don't think that will be necessary. Your…husband's I.D. is clearly adequate.” She shifted her glance back to the man. “How do you wish to pay for passage?”

“How much is it?”

“Three hundred each, plus tax.”

“This should do.” He handed over a credit voucher.

“Just a moment, citizen.” She laid the voucher on the screen.

Bleep
.

“That will clearly suffice, ser.” Her voice showed much greater respect. “It will take another moment to print out a revised voucher.”

“When does the shuttle leave?”

“You should not have to wait long, ser. The next one is for Alphane City. That is in thirty-five standard minutes. The next shuttle after that is the one for Bylero. That is in fifty minutes. If you want the southern continent, take the shuttle for Dyland…”

Burp
.

“Here is your credit voucher, ser. And your passes. They are good on any shuttle. Just check in at the lock, or make arrangements at any service desk.”

“Laslo, have you reconfirmed our accommodations at the Grosvenor Hill?”

“I will, dear, I will, just as soon as I arrange for our shuttle.”

The shuttle clerk suppressed a smile as the man motioned to the porter and waddled toward the service counter. With her eyes on the woman, she did not notice that the man made no attempt to reconfirm the accommodations.

The heavy man and the woman leaned toward each other, out of apparent earshot of the shuttle clerk.

“But, Laslo, dear, I did so want to see Dyland
first
.”

“I understand, honeydrop…I understand.”

The shuttle clerk smiled amusedly and returned her attention to the screen.

“You didn't tell me you had
business
in Alphane City.” The woman shook her red-and-silver hair.

“Put the bags here.” The man nodded at the porter, then extended his hand with a five-credit token.

“Thank you, ser. Will that be all?”

“You promised, Laslo. You promised…”

“That will be all.”

The porter left with his cart.

“You promised…” Her voice trailed off.

“I can only do my best.” The man shrugged. “What if I meet you in Dyland…the day after tomorrow?”

“Laslo…”

“Tomorrow?”

“And you'll take me to the Crimson Palaccio?”

“Yes…the Crimson Palaccio.”

“You're a dear, Laslo.” She threw her arms around him and gave him a theatrical hug, whispering in his ear, “Look behind me.” As she broke away, she added more loudly, “And be careful. Don't forget your diet, dear.”

“I'll see you then, honeydrop. Don't buy too much…”

“I won't, Laslo. You know I won't. And we'll talk about
that
at home.” She beckoned to a porter.

He watched as she waltzed away, shaking his head slowly.

J
IMJOY SQUINTED AS
he studied the set of carefully crafted orders. Captain Dunstan Freres, it was. He set the orders on the battered dresser.

Then he sighed. According to his rough calculations of the probabilities, there was literally no chance of another name matching Dunstan Guillaume Freres in the entire Service, but the syllabic and semantic contents were unusual enough to convince the skeptical that no one would create such a name as a cover.

The authorization codes were genuine, taken from the Service's reserve list, which meant that he had roughly three standard weeks before they triggered any alarms. Jimjoy intended to surface before that.

Sighing again, he ran his left hand through his short hair, dark brown to match his temporarily swarthy complexion. Then he looked down at the closed and nearly depleted emergency make-over kit, then back at the uniform on the sagging bed. Next to the uniform lay a baggy and ancient raincoat and a shapeless cap.

One complication led to another. He couldn't exactly walk out of his less-than-modest room in a crisp uniform, but neither did he want to attempt donning the uniform in a public fresher, knowing what he knew about the ways of Special Operatives and the Imperial surveillance network.

“Curses of knowing the work,” he muttered under his breath.

Although the gray-green walls, with the scuffs that even the heavy plastic wall coating had been unable to resist, seemed to press in on him, Jimjoy let himself slump onto the edge of the palletlike mattress, avoiding the uniform laid out on the other side.

If he left before the rest of the conapt tenants began to stream out, there was always the chance that someone would notice. More important, the base duty officer was bound to take notice of an early morning arrival.

No Service Captain with any understanding would check in before 0800 or after 1200. Before 0800, and there was the chance that you'd be required to report to your assignment immediately. After 1200, and you were docked the extra day of leave.

As Dunstan G. Freres, Captain, I.S.S. (Logistics), Jimjoy intended to be as forgettable as possible.

Forgettable or not, he was bored. While he could wait, and did, the room was boring, just short of being dingy, and all too typical of the short-term quarters that had surrounded military bases since they first moved from tents to fixed emplacements with roofs and floors.

The bed was nearly the worst he had slept on, except for the one on Haversol. Not that he had gotten much sleep that night, not after the incident in the saloon, when Thelina had indirectly saved him from the hordes of assassins snooping around after the fresh meat he had represented.

The Special Operative smiled a long, slow smile. In time…in a comparatively short time, Commanders Allen and Hersnik would get a taste of being on the other end—one way or another.

He stretched and stood up, checking the time, walking back and forth at the foot of the bed.

Checking the time again, he looked at the uniform on top of the bed and perched on the edge once more.

Lack of patience, if anything, had been his undoing before, and now he couldn't afford any undoing. So he looked away from the Service-issue timestrap and began counting the scuffs in the wall plastic, since they were the only finite details within the room.

This time, he lost track around number 277.

“Roughly one quarter of one wall…makes a thousand plus twenty-seven times four or a hundred eight…eleven hundred eight times three walls is thirty-three twenty-four. Say the short wall's half the others…half of eleven hundred eight is five fifty-four…added to thirty-three twenty-four…thirty-eight seventy-eight. Three thousand, eight hundred and seventy-eight blemishes and scuffs on the walls…”

What else could he count? Or should he reflect back on Aurore to see what else he had missed?

Either way, it would be a long, slow early morning.