Their own party was the only one downbound, and Banichi and Jago wisely kept upper bodies turned slightly away, where atevi eyes woudn’t catch the indirect light of the conveyor line. Down and down they went, past another clot of refugees, then into the spotlight glare of the tube entry, where a few bright lights overpowered the dark beyond.
No lights in the mast. No power, or no cooperation from Central for their own people voting, so to speak, with their departure. But no lights suited invaders very well. Invaders found a safe concealment.
Maybe he should have sent Prakuyo back to confinement before he left. Certainly leaving him in the dining hall with Ilisidi and the boy was worth a cold second thought. But it was far out of his hands now.
Long, long ride to think about that. And not a thing in the world he could do. No com. No information, either direction.
Then bottom. End of the line, down in the spotlights that shone on desperate refugee faces, a parka-coated crewman.
“Friends!” Bren said as they met and passed one another on the lines, and an alarmed outcry was swallowed up in dark and cold.
They were at a lift station, where the glowing dot of a button said a car was coming, doubtless with more people.
It arrived, brightly lit as the door opened, tightly packed with refugees who in their haste to get off and find their way, never noticed some of the people waiting in the dark for a lift were taller and broader than ordinary. The passengers cheered with relief to see the conveyor lines, to realize they’d met ship’s crew; they came burdened with children and bundles, and wanted through this ordeal of cold and dark as fast as possible. They wanted safety, and reassurance.
Bren got in, held the door for Banichi and Jago in the warmth and light: Barnhart and the dowager’s men entered, all of them, pressed close to the walls.
Time for the precious key. Bren pulled it out, fighting cold stung tears that froze his lashes together and obscured his vision. He stuck it in the slot, input the builder’s code, A1, which was as close to the operational heart as a car could get.
Doors shut. The car banged into motion. Feet hit the floor and Bren tucked away the key and zipped the pocket, fingers so numb he had to look to be sure he had the zip secure.
Perfectly ordinary lift car. It could have been on their home station—give or take the level of weaponry around him. It rose, it clicked through ordinary operations. He watched Banichi and Jago take out sidearms and asked himself whether he should draw his gun and prepare to threaten the opposition, shoot without warning—or attempt the civilized approach he had envisioned when he insisted on coming.
“Let me attempt to talk to whatever individuals we meet,” he requested of them. “Barnhart, the atevi have body armor. Keep to the rear; we don’t want to lose our hands-on person.”
“Enough said,” Barnhart answered him.
The car slowed. The indicator didn’t say first level. Someone had a priority code.
“To the sides,” he said in Ragi— foolish of him to attempt to direct the operation, but they understood him and got to the protected sides.
The car stopped. A man in a suit, communications to his ear, simply got on, and didn’t seem to register there was anything particularly unusual until the dowager’s men flattened him and took his handheld away. An item sailed out of the car, far down the corridor—the handheld, Bren thought in one heartbeat, before a siren started up, where that object landed.
“ Evacuate immediately ,” that object screamed, deafening in volume… in Gin’s voice. “ Instability warning. Evacuate to the mast. Prepare for cold. Evacuate immediately …”
Conspiracy between Gin and his staff. His heart thumped as he shoved his key back into the slot—deciding this time not only to punch the button, but to hold it—he’d seen maintenance do that. It might work.
The car got underway. Not a sound from the man in the suit, and a glance back didn’t even show his presence, only Ilisidi’s three guards in the corner.
Level 3. Section 2.
They were getting into the critical area. Holding the key in and the button down was working or they’d met a run of luck not too surprising in a station bleeding occupants toward the ship. Jago had gotten a small gray box out of their bag, and had that in hand. A grenade? Another noisemaker? He hoped not to meet resistence. And was sure he wouldn’t get his wish.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get the sweat out. Wiped them clear, trying not to hyperventilate. Banichi and Jago were right with him.
Level 2. Section 1. They were nearly there. Nearly there. Atevi had guns at the ready. Barnhart had wedged himself in the back somewhere. Question was, when they’d built the station, A-1 had been the building center, the core of original construction. It was near the control center. It wasn’t necessarily inside the control center.
Level 1. Section 1.
The car stopped. “I shall have a look, nadiin-ji,” Bren said, snatching the key back as the doors opened. He stepped out into an ordinary corridor, typically without numbers or signs; but with a single clerk in rapid motion, and he could see the secured doors of what was surely Central just to his left.
“Alarm on four!” he called out, which happened to be the truth. “Alarm on four! They’re evacuating.”
The clerk looked at him in shock.
“Get out of here!” Bren said; and about that time his company exited the lift car. The clerk pasted himself to the wall.
“Grenade!” Jago said, and Bren translated it: “Grenade! Run! Ship’s boarding!”
As another noisemaker hit the corridor, siren shrieking, Gin’s voice saying over and over, “ Evacuate !”
Banichi and Jago ran for those doors, and Bren ran, Barnhart ran, and two of Ilisidi’s men ran with them. Down went the black bag, Banichi opened the flap, and handed Jago a small object and a sticky wad which Jago pressed together into the door seam—Bren was watching that as Banichi, black bag in hand, jerked him back and pressed him against the wall, Banichi and Jago on either side of him. The stuff exploded with a shock that came up through the decking. Alarms screamed and machinery operated down the hall. Doors shut.
Central knew they were here, no question. Sirens warred, out of sync, theirs and the station’s, as Banichi and one of Ilisidi’s men seized the pair of damaged doors, wrestled something like a truck jack into the bottom.
Fire from inside the room pasted back, close to Banichi. Bren drew his gun, sole comfort in a situation that hadn’t turned out in the least diplomatic. Barnhart proved to have his own gun, but the human contingent could only watch as the second of Ilisidi’s guards added his strength to the jammed doors, as machinery and atevi muscle warred. More pellet-fire streaked out of that room, burning two streaks in Banichi’s sleeve, making him wince.
An office door opened halfway down the corridor, and fire came from the lift car: their own guns keeping whoever was in that new doorway pinned down and out of action; Bren tried to see the target and couldn’t.
Their own doors widened, jostled aside. Jago dropped down to the deck in the doorway, rifle braced at ankle level, and fired into the room.
Pellet fire came out, over her head.
Banichi pulled a grenade out of his jacket and tossed it in. Jago rolled over, out of the way, shielded by the ruined doors.