Skyblaze (5 page)

He shook his head, muttering, ''Don't think
so.''

He turned dutifully and pulled the few
sheets of hard copy out of the brown tub, fanning them, glancing up
with a sigh and going through the sheets one by one, the first
quite dismissively.

''I got armed security, long-term -- bring
your own gun, night work. I got 'crete formula mixer,
experienced.'' He paused, shook his head. ''That one I bet you can
do, sound of you, but they want experienced, which I'm betting you
can't.''

''This is true, '' she admitted. ''I can
learn --''

''No on the job training, they're right
clear, since winter-time set-up is nothing for beginners.''

He pulled another sheet. ''Whorehouse needs
all positions, mixed hours.''

She closed her
eyes.
Not yet.

''Serious work there,'' he said earnestly.
''An' they got need for some folk who ain't doing the customers . .
.''

She moved a hand, cutting him off. ''And
else?''

He dropped the cards back into the tub with
a shrug.

''Guess else is tomorrow, if we can keep the
doors open.''

A half-bow she offered, and then gave a
second thought.

''Security, night work? Is it
experienced?''

The man sat back, looked at her shrewdly,
appraising.

''Bring your own gun,'' he reminded her, but
he reached into the tub for the flimsy.

''If necessary, I can do
that.'' She straightened, and took a deep breath.
Be assured
, she told
herself.
Show no doubt
. She had done well, Skyblaze night, had she not? She could
--

''Yeah, I mean we all can, right? But
they're looking for serious hardware . . . damn, I was impressed
when I read it coming in.''

He flipped the sheet, then pulled free the
clip-attached sheet, with notes on both sides, running his gaze
rapidly down first one side, then the other.

''Here it is, let's see .
. . dumbty
here
it is . . . 'Must be Nordley, Bangtu, Lademeter, or certified
genuine Resh & Rolfe or Zombin.''' He looked up into her face.
''Big guns, ma'am; not street-wear.''

She held his eyes a moment, then half-bowed,
hiding her sigh, and her hand.

''Do they mention caliber or
charge-range?''

He glanced down, then again to her.

''It says here, service-rating. That's a gun
that can be shot every day and --''

''Yes,'' she said, drawing close as if to
peer at the paper, at the same time briefly displaying her cradled
hands.

His eyes widened. He nodded, several times,
and cleared his throat.

''Oh, yes, umm, a Nordley Thirty Pack would
do,

but . . .''

He turned the papers over; finger tracing
the details.

''You gotta supply your own nightsight gear,
too, combat status. And a cold weather suit.''

She said something very potent under her
breath and he held his hands up, palm out, placating.

''These things grow on trees on
Surebleak?''

He blinked, eyes flicking to her hands.
Vertu smiled, deliberately, and tucked the weapon away.

''Forgive, it was not to threaten you. But
work is good.''

He nodded, relaxing visibly, still using his
hands for emphasis.

''I was hoping we had you a match today,
much as I seen you in here. Maybe come winter-gone, if you can get
in with 'em. It's port security, they're beefing up big time, but
best come here unless you get an in with a Boss to put your name
through.''

She made a puffing sound with her lips as
the gun found its inner pocket.

''Security is not my first choice,
please.''

''Got that,'' he said, nodding. ''Yes, got
that.''

He opened his hands wide -- and went on,
''Far as I know, all the others is digging, shoveling,
construction, work-crew things. Even the forefolk gotta be able to
stand shoulder-up with the rest of the crew . . .''

''Ayes and more,'' she said, drawing from
the bakery, and making his eyes widen again. ''I understand.''

''Good. And sorry. You best get on to cover
by lunch, 'specting a bad one, I hear.''

''Heard it ya.'' She nodded and turned at
the dismissal, striding with unexpected purpose past the man who'd
been behind her, who must have seen or heard something of her
discussion, because he cleared room for her, hissing, ''Seery,
seery, ma'am, nothinmen.''

Nothing meant.

Perhaps she should break into her precious
capital to buy herself a coldsuit and dark-goggles? Work was, truly
said, work, and the contract had been long-term. Weighing the
matter, she nearly walked all unsealed into the storm.

Warned by the clatter of the door and the
frigid breeze that kissed her face, she stopped there in the
vestibule to seal her coat against the wind and snow. She pulled
her hat on, and gloves, being sure that the coat's collar was well
up around her face.

Think, Vertu, can you really report to your
daughter, the delm, that you've hired on as a gun hand? That report
she must take to the Council and Wylan is not yet safe from the
price of your errors. You are a dangerously unbalanced radical, in
league with the villains Korval. Gun-hire is the last thing you
want -- even less than the whorehouse.

Mouth tight, she slapped the door with her
palm, unnecessarily hard, and stepped out into the storm.

She hesitated then, at the
side of the door, considering her best route. Her first day, her
first purchase, save The Hooper-imitated meal, was a set of maps:
Port map, city map, country map, world map. The disorientation she
had felt, disembarking from the ship, the understanding that she
knew where
nothing
in this city was situated, nor the three best routes to gain
them. Then, at that moment, she had almost carried out the
Council's first judgment, that her delm had appealed and fought and
argued until Vertu had her life back, but not, never again, on
Liad.

The moment had passed, and she had
resolutely gone forward, trying to feel out a new life -- a life
without clan -- on this strange and bitter world. There were
moments -- of course there were moments, of doubt, and of
loneliness. Those things she endured, as befit one who had once
been Wylan Herself.

Now though, just this instant, staring out
into the skirling snow, and the street near empty of traffic --
gods, how she wanted her cab, to feel the controls in her hands,
and the seat that knew her form, and the whole of the Port in her
head, as familiar as the face of a lover.

The snow swirled, wrapping her in
impenetrable whiteness, then parted, revealing -- a cab.

That it was not her cab was quickly and
painfully apparent, yet it proceeded as a cab should, businesslike
and foursquare down the snow-filled street, the yellow ready-light
set atop it turning the dancing flakes into gold.

Breath-caught, Vertu watched its progress,
the driver a silhouette inside the cabin. She watched until it had
passed her and made the turn at the end of the street, left --
toward the port proper.

Only then did she breathe, looking down to
find her coat growing a second coat of sparkling flakes, and
realized that she was cold.

Flourpower, she thought, thinking of warmth
and companionship and food. Before they closed, she would go there,
and spoil herself with new food. After all, she thought, setting
out with a care for the slippery walk, today she had almost found a
job, and that was already better than yesterday.

*

Vertu's mug sat, steaming, before she'd had
her coat off. The coat-racks were full since the room, too, was
almost full, so she laid the snow-rimed coat beside her on the
bench seat she'd ended up with, back in the colder corner, away
from the kitchen, near the sealed and covered side-window -- so
dealing with the coat had taken time. Her order of soup of the day
was acknowledged with a wave, and promised as up in a minute.

It was good to see the room so full, and the
sound level elevated. Good for this hour, at least. She'd probably
not want so lively a place early in the wake-up time of the day.
Granita deserved a good day if the morrow was going to be a
snow-mess, and talk was of little else.

''I ain't putting a screen in, Lesker. No, I
am not! You wanna keep up, that's for you. But folks come here to
eat, not to stare at sat-pics of show-tops. Just 'cause they got
themselves a weatherman don't mean I gotta do one thing about
him.''

Well,
they
did have a weatherman, and
apparently Surebleak hadn't had one before --
they
being the so-called Road Boss,
the Delms Korval -- and now there was real-time forecasting and
interpretation, too, instead of the antiquated six spot condition
reports that the Port had been using the last fifty Standards to
approximate how a day might shape.

Delms or delm, Korval they still were to
Vertu, no matter the mythic transition that had, for Surebleak,
made the prime yos'Phelium into his cousin's little brother, and
gained him a new title. Korval still lived under Tree, which was
well enough, and from spot and spot around the city she was pleased
to see the crown or more of that great Tree, and still -- as light
or cloud formation drew her eye to it -- she bowed to it from time
to time as she had in Solcintra.

As in Solcintra, too, the gambling cousin
lived in the city, gambling still; his stakes being no higher than
a planet's survival. That story she had only in pieces, how Boss
Conrad had come from nowhere and, one by one, toppled the most
abusive of the Bosses, turning the patchwork territories into a
more congenial whole, using talk and gun and explosives as
required, and only as much of any as was needed. Thus he'd become
legend before she'd arrived as a 'comer.

Legends. As a gambler in Solcintra he had
been quiet, even cordial in her cab the time or two he'd traveled
alone in it; and when he traveled with a companion in the late
evenings as he had from time to time, he had been nothing but
exacting in his attentions -- to the companion.

Her cup hand flat on the table, Vertu
sighed, acknowledging the lack of Ring on her finger. The Boss --
Boss Conrad, who had been Pat Rin yos'Phelium, Clan Korval -- he,
of course, wore the Ring wrong-fingered, while his ''little
brother'' wore another, properly. She no longer wore a Ring, nor
wanted one in this place where having even such a modest Ring as
Wylan possessed might leave one throttled and motionless of a
night-time sidestreet.

Vertu shook those thoughts away, and
deliberately looked about the room. She recognized some of the
reggers, was rewarded with nods and finger waves by them, and
waited patiently for her soup. The clock chimed a quarter -- and as
if that was a signal, folk around the room began to rustle
themselves about, to rise and start donning coats, or to hurry-sip
the dregs of their cups, or some to wrap what was left of their
lunch into bags or napkins to take with.

It was, she reckoned, not quite closing
time, but -- oh. Several of the nearby bars opened for day business
soon, and on a day such as this some of the reggers would be
trading one seat for another about now.

Snow squalled into the room as four patrons
left together, the small outer welcome way doing nothing to dim the
ferocity. Vertu shivered involuntarily. She had been hoping for
moderation, but if anything, the weather had gotten worse in the
short time she'd been sipping her tea.

Ah, and the door had not only been open to
let some out, but to let The Hooper in. He all but fell into his no
doubt warm just-vacated regular spot, his hat uncharacteristically
flung to the table top as he mopped snow off his brow and face.

Vertu watched him as other patrons filed
out, until finally it was just the two of them, the sounds of the
wind outside and the clatter of the unseen kitchen work. He was
visibly more comfortable now, though she saw a couple of fleeting
half-suppressed reaches toward his vest, but not the full-fledged
search she'd seen him do at other times, when clearly agitated.
Merely a trifle out of sorts then . . .

'''toot?''

Granita's voice was muffled as she peered at
the room from behind the back counter, and she repeated herself,
louder.

'''toot? I got your cup here if --''

The Hooper beat his hat against his knee and
pulled it on, only then admitting that he'd heard her.

''Guess so, if's time.''

''Extra few minutes ain't a problem, you
know. Girl here's got about the last of the food though, less you
want some biscuits. Fact, I'll bring you both some, on me, 'cause
they won't wait so good for tomorrow.''

The soup came, a bowl for her, delivered
with a nod and three cheese biscuits, while a hot cup of the same
and three more biscuits went to The Hooper, who had leaned his
chair back against the wall while he ate, his foot twitching time
to a tune only he could hear.

Granita might have seen his nerves, because
she paused, waving her hands toward the door.

''A little too long a walk down to the
Stadium today, or they run out of lights already?''

The Hooper shook his head, took a sudden
interest in one of his biscuits, stuffing it into his mouth all at
once while he moved his hand as if he explained something the whole
time he was chewing.

''Got lights, but not my best welcome right
now,'' he said, biting into another biscuit like he was afraid it
might get away from him, following Granita with his eyes as she
straightened chairs and wiped tables down.

''Looked to be Bopst Eckman and High-Man
Prezman hanging at the Stadium door, it did, the pair both. Thought
I saw your Harley Irsay ahead of 'em, going in. Hasn't seen them
twonce since I dunno -- no I do, it'd be the Wicky and David
wedding day, same day as when I saw them together at Cholo's wake,
when they took the casket-bottle and thought no one saw 'em. Not my
best welcome, any of themselves, you know it.''