Land of the Dead (7 page)

“Not the Center, eh?” Grandmother cracked a betel-nut and grinned at the old man. “Though we do occasionally put on a duel or blood feud for the tourists. Then it’s just like Anáhuac, isn’t it?”

Hummingbird ignored the aside, his attention fixed on the hulking gray reptilian shape squatting on a broad, leathery tail at the end of the table. Gretchen smiled wickedly at the old
nauallis’
pained expression when Malakar snuffled around him, her snout wrinkled up in suspicion. Anderssen was in no mood to explain anything to the Crow.

Why volunteer
, she thought,
that our old friend spends her nights crouched at my bedside with pen and parchment book, listening to me mutter and sing in my sleep, writing down all the fragmentary bits and pieces of Mokuilite poetry so revealed? It is the least I can do to repay her my life, and her friendship.

After the plates were emptied and cleared away, and the night was fully upon the house, and with all eyes upon him, Hummingbird nodded to them each in turn and then faced Gretchen. “Your particular skills are urgently needed, Dr. Anderssen.”

Both girls perked up at this, but Gretchen felt a cool thread of anger boil up in her chest.
That’ll get you nowhere, Crow.
She caught her mother scowling from the kitchen door and held up a finger for pause. “Excuse me.” Gretchen took a handheld scrambler from the pantry and set it on the table between them. The constellation of lights on the device flickered, formed a series of random geometric patterns, and then settled into a calm blue square.

Hummingbird tilted his head to one side. He scrutinized the sturdy, if outdated, Vosk Model 12 for a moment, and then nodded approval. In a low voice he went on: “Imperial Scout Service has found something enormous, Anderssen, hidden back in the depths. Within an area of heavy interstellar dust clouds navigators name the
kuub
. Are you familiar with this place?”

Gretchen blinked involuntarily in recognition, then eyed Isabelle and Tristan, who were sitting very quietly at the table, trying their best to remain invisible. “Why don’t you two show Malakar how to play that new coaling sim?”

Twin pouts met the invitation, but the code for “make yourselves scarce, this is business,” was unmistakable. The disappointed girls left, gathering up their gunrigs and taking the shotguns with them. Gretchen frowned at Hummingbird.

He responded to their exit by pulling a flat packet out of his vest pocket. Unfolded, the package proved to be another, far more modern, scrambler.

“A
something
, Crow? You must have more than that? Something won’t get you anything here.…”

Hummingbird nodded slightly. He felt more at ease now, to Gretchen, as though the two girls had been a particularly hostile audience.
And maybe they are.…

“There was a Survey mission. Telemetry was received.”

“And—”

“There seems to be a multiple singularity within the region.”

“Black holes inside a dust cloud? Shouldn’t the particles have been drawn into the…”

“It’s artificial. The whole arrangement has to be.” Hummingbird’s expression—though it had not appreciably changed—seemed pinched to her. His voice dropped even lower. “Something is holding the clouds at bay … and there’s a weapon that snuffed out three ships in as many breaths.”

Gretchen felt a flush of heat on her hands and the back of her neck. “How old?”

“You need ask, given the scale of the artifact?”

“Well, yes, Crow, I do need ask. Are you asking me to look at a First or Second Sun creation that’ll fry my brain and that of all of my troublesome friends and relatives in a millisecond? Or something young enough it could actually be
studied
?”

A ghostly smile flitted across Hummingbird’s face. “Old enough. Old enough to launch an Imperial task force. Under Mirror command.”

Under the table, Gretchen clenched and unclenched her fist.
So. A race. And the Hummingbird is not in the thick of it yet.
“When are you leaving?”

Hummingbird grimaced. “When you come with me. What we find … will be beyond my capacity to evaluate properly.”

She considered her palms, and the glassy scars and nicks lining her fingers.

“Huh. Well, when five hundred thousand quills are
verified
in my mother’s Riksbank account, then I’d be happy to go with you. And that will be in
advance
, if you please.”

She felt his inward sigh of relief as a knot uncoiling. In the same moment, she felt a sharp pinch between her shoulder blades. Just the sort of feeling you got in the alpenstand when crossing the trail of a
kilikat
.

Ay,
she realized, sweating suddenly,
that was an easy catch for him. Goddamnit! We need that money, though. No, they need it.
Gretchen turned her head, relieved to see the girls and Malakar crouched in front of the 3-v, arguing about the loading capacities of the latest mine crawlers.
I don’t need anything anymore.

*   *   *

Much later, when Gretchen had sent out the last piece of reporting for her “paying work,” she stood up from the scarred kitchen table and turned off the dimming solar lamp.

“
Hoooo
, now.” The familiar alien voice spoke softly out of the shadows. “This old one does not trust this ‘friend’ of yours.”

Gretchen nodded ruefully. The scrape and rustle of the Jehanan’s long furred coat filled the doorway to the main hall. “You shouldn’t. He is not a nice man.” She moved to pass by, but Malakar placed a long, broad-fingered hand on her shoulder. Though old and hunched, the alien still outweighed Anderssen by twenty or thirty kilos.

“It stinks of disease and death.” The triply lidded eyes blinked slowly, revealing deep-set irises tucked into a bony integument. “Broken shells and ash—”

SHINEDO

Winter clung tight to the city. Icy fogs daily filled the darkened streets, driving most inhabitants to hearth and bed. This day the prostitutes were asleep, the bartender dozing. Listless, Hadeishi sat on the stage in the empty tea house, plinking away at a mournful tune. He was regretting the lack of even a few quills to purchase sheet music.
How am I supposed to entertain, when—

The traditional cloth curtain at the front of the main room parted with the slight shimmer of an environment field, allowing in a gust of chill air and a sleek-haired woman dressed in a conservative pale blue winter suit over a black sweater, pants, and high boots.

“
Konnichi-wa
,” she said, drawing a 3-v card from inside her jacket. The woman held up the tiny pasteboard, which flickered to life when pressed between her thumb and forefinger. After an instant of intense scrutiny—comparing his own face to the picture—she nodded in satisfaction.

“Hadeishi-
tzin
? A pleasure to meet you.”

Hadeishi laid aside his instrument and returned the bow.

She tapped a modest pendant hanging at her neck, which generated a full-featured holo in the air before him. A duplicate of the woman’s face appeared, surrounded by blocks of text and a variety of commercial
mon
. In more refined circles, his comp would have exchanged greetings and security protocols with hers, verifying her identity. Here he was satisfied her amber-hued eyes matched tone and color from life to holocast.

“I am Bela Imwa, representing the Rusman Corporation. We provide crews for the major shipping concerns and liner companies. I understand you are Listed as an engineer’s mate?”

Hadeishi found himself nodding.
Not for long years, woman—

“There is a ship—”

Hadeishi was nonplussed. His mind raced, trying to frame some response, but the woman continued, blithely unaware of the abrupt struggle between pride and raw greed that seized hold of his tongue and held him helpless.

“A small ship, which has need of a junior engineer. If you are not already contracted here”—Imwa indicated the bar, the sleeping prostitutes, and the spiderwebbed curtains with a wave of her fine-boned hand—“then we may fulfill our obligation by arranging your service.”

I’ve not served in Engineering since I was a cadet
.
My course seemed so promising then.
Hadeishi realized he was gaping at her, while she waited patiently for his response. He resisted the urge to explain what he was doing playing
samisen
in a house of pleasure.
Now it seems I cannot even rate as an officer on some tramp steamer
.

“When—when does she lift?” He croaked out at last.

The Javan smiled prettily and drew a crisp-edged packet from the inner pocket of her jacket. “As soon as there are hands to fire the reactors.”

“I will consider it,” he said, and with another bow the young woman left.

Hadeishi scanned the papers to see if they were some kind of joke; then he sat down on the edge of the small, dark stage and read through them carefully. Now he regretted parting with his Fleet surplus comp and comm. Both would have made verifying the recruiting company and everything else about Miss Imwa and this … this
ship
 … far easier.

I will have to go see this scow for myself,
he thought, amused.

Then he realized just how tightly he was holding the papers, and how fast his heart was beating.

*   *   *

Despite the poor weather—morning rains had turned to sleet and then a nasty, treacly slush in the streets—Mitsuharu found himself loitering across the cargo road from liftpad ninety-two later that afternoon. The bulk of the ship was visible behind a tattered razorwire fence and a series of tar-shingled warehouses held together by broadsheet advertisements.

Small,
was his first thought, looking up the sixty-meter-high shape.
Cramped inside … but lean. Those atmospheric drive fairings look a little big for this class of barge.

It felt strange, to be standing groundside, sizing up the tiny starship. He felt crippled, without the constant ebb and flow of data on the threatwell, the reassuring chatter of his bridge crew in his earbug.
I’m the crew!
he realized, and perversely the thought heartened him.
Even as Musashi was always alone, yet never lacking companions. And what would the sword-saint think of this ship?

With a more critical eye, Hadeishi waited for the latest line of lorries to rumble past, then walked quickly across, his boots crunching in the icy slush. The air was thick with fumes and constantly hammered with enormous bursts of noise. Every ten or twelve minutes a ship or shuttle lifted off from somewhere in the sprawling expanse of the
uchumon
, and each time the whole world shuddered. The gate to the pad was half ajar, but he did not enter. Instead, he walked past, craning his head to see the flanks of the little ship, the way she sat on the blast-plates, whether there was rust or grime caking her intakes—what he could see of them, anyway.

The gangway into the lower cargo deck was foul with sooty ash and oil. The painted letters identifying the registration numbers and name were almost unreadable; micrometeoroid scaling had worn them away. He could still see, however, the outline of a string of
katakana
representing the word
Wilful
.

Musashi,
he thought sourly,
would be disappointed. This isn’t even a smugglers’ ship! It’s just … small, nondescript, and poorly maintained.

But in the back of his mind, a casual voice said:
She is still a ship, and she can still make transit.

Hadeishi could not disagree, so he traced his way back to the gate. There he stood for a moment, turning the Rusman Corporation hiring packet over in his wiry hands. This one thing stood out in a peculiar way—the contract chits and packaging were all first rate, the agency far too expensive for the presumed owners of the battered old
Wilful
. There was no lack of “hiring agencies” in the office parks ringing
uchumon
, and none of them would employ an expensive-looking Javan … not for a contract as paltry as this.

“Hmm.”
An intrigue of some kind.
But whose? Standing in the cold slush, surrounded by the scents and sounds of the port, with an actual ship in front of him, he found he did not care. He pushed aside the half-open gate and went in search of the purser.

*   *   *

The crew did not take to Mitsuharu. The bosun, a stringy Frank in a stained shirt and nondescript work pants, directed Hadeishi to a hammock slung behind the number two heat exchanger, in a space previously inhabited by a refrigeration unit, and mostly filled with spare boxes of ration bars. A fine layer of grime coated the floor, overlaid by discarded litter, and the walls were mottled with dings and cracks.