“Yeah, and that’s why. We backed them down with no more than a shady look. They would have taken their humiliation out on the next citizen they ran into.”
“That would be the next citizen’s problem, not ours. You have a funny way of not getting noticed.” She glanced at her ticket. “Hurry. We may still catch our pod.”
But they returned to the transit platform just in time to see the Rettiecenter pod slide down the rail.
“Aren’t those things supposed to be silent?” Donovan asked her above the squealing of metal and ceramic.
Olafsdottr ignored him and once more entered their destination on the demand-board. They received a new queue number in return. This they turned over to the pod starter, who inserted them into the line for Rettiecenter. “Sure you’re going to pod out this time?” he asked sarcastically. When they made no answer, he added, “I hadda send the first one out empty.”
“I weep,” said Olafsdottr.
Pods arrived at two-minute intervals so the wait was not long before the starter announced, “Riettiecenter pod next. Queue numbers fifty-three through sixty-two. Yah, that’s inclusive, lady. Pod sliding in. Stand back behind the stripe.”
The gleaming silver ellipsoid flashed a bright red symbol on its nose, a stylized city skyline indicating its destination in the city center. Gull wings popped open along its length to reveal two-seat compartments, enough for twelve. Olafsdottr secured one of these for herself and the scarred man.
<Why did the earlier pod leave empty?> said Inner Child.
Depends on how many are waiting in line for a destination, deduced the Sleuth. Fifteen minutes ago, there were just the two of us, so the dispatcher sent down a double. We weren’t there when it arrived. When these other people showed up, he had to order a twelver. They probably use base-twelve arithmetic here, like in the Old Planets across the Border.
Show-off, said the Brute.
The doors closed, the pod seized the magnetic field, and they shot down the rail fast enough so that Donovan was pushed back into the cushions. Olafsdottr grinned at him. “Woory not. Pods stop more slowly than they start.”
The pod settled into a steady velocity. In the compartment ahead of them, visible through the plex at head level, a young man and woman had begun to kiss as soon as the gull wings had closed. Now, she turned about and straddled her companion, unfastening the bolero jacket she wore. Donovan imagined her companion unfastening much else below the sill level. He glanced at the clock. They had time. Looking up, the woman saw Donovan grinning and, with a scowl, slapped the plex to opaque it.
“Ah, yoong loov,” Olafsdottr said with a smile.
“Don’t get ideas.”
Olafsdottr snuggled in her seat and said nothing while the scenery flickered past. Parklands gave way to manufactories. Ground argosies wound along the truck-ways below the pod rail, containers joining into strings and shuttling toward the city. Residential villas and sporting fields began to appear. The pod-string passed over a pentagonal field on which three teams struggled against one another before a modest crowd.
Olafsdottr broke the silence. “Overthrow of tyranny worthy goal.”
“Only if the outcome is net improvement. We’ve been over this already, Ravn. It’s a big Spiral Arm, and tyrants move at a discount. I’ll overthrow them, each and all, if they get in my way. Otherwise…” He shrugged. “It’s not my job.”
“Perhaps Dawshoo can persuade you.”
Donovan folded his arms. “He can try.”
Olafsdottr laid a hand on his shoulder. “Noo, noo, noo, my sweet. I did not mean he would persuade you. We want your help, not your submission. He will—”
The pod underwent a sudden, brief lateral acceleration. From the compartment ahead, they heard the sound of the lovers tumbling to the floor.
“<What was that?>” Inner Child asked through the scarred man’s lips.
“Switching rails, I think,” said Olafsdottr. She touched the screen set into the forward wall and called on a system map, upon which she traced the Riettiecenter Line with a finger. “We have been shunted to the Bayside Line,” she decided.
“Why? Are we in the wrong pod, after all?”
Olafsdottr cupped her hands around her eyes and stared out the side window. She could see the city-bound magrail curve away to the left, toward the towers that marked the town center. “There is a plume of smoke,” she said. “There may be a fire near the rail.”
A speaker grill in the compartment came to life and a cheerful voice announced that all pods headed into the city center had been diverted to Bayside, “due to an accident. If you disembark at Heroes’ Plaza, a swift-tram will be waiting to take you to the center. Be advised that all blocks from Jester to Commonplace and from Fourth to Sixth have been interdicted on upper and middle levels while our heroic municipal services deal handily with the problem. Bottom level is open for traffic. If your final destination is within the cordon, you will need a pass from the wardens stationed at the apexes.”
“The pod platform is in the center of the cordon,” said Olafsdottr, examining the system map. “And the Hotel Grand Khyan is at Fifth and Commonplace.”
Donovan grunted. “Meeting still on?”
Olafsdottr said nothing, but continued to stare out the side window while the pod slid along the shoreline. The scarred man turned to the right-hand window, but the scenery in that direction was less interesting: a few pleasure craft snatched the wind across Biscuit Bay, a foil-freighter skated on its hydroplane down the channel toward the open ocean. Dolphins danced ahead of the sailboats.
His kidnapper said, “Donovan, if you would not join us…” She hesitated before continuing. “Perhaps, you might not show yourself healed. If they think your mind impaired, they may not want you.”
The scarred man tore his gaze from the bay. He removed his skull cap and scratched at his scars. “More likely, they would kill me for being useless. A tiger does not change his stripes simply because he fights other tigers.”
“Doonoovan,” she said, adopting once more the playful Alabaster accent. “Troost me oon thees metter. Better for you to play mind-cripple.”
The Bayside rail passed the dockyard end of Flannelmouth Boulevard, and awarded them with a brief glimpse down the great, wide diagonal that bisected Riettiesburg. At the far end, black smoke billowed from the Riettiecenter pod station on the top level above the Hunterfield Traffic Star. Lime-yellow suppressor trucks sprayed the platform with foam and water. Then the pod was past Flannelmouth and only the blank façade of warehouses stared back at them. The grill announced, “Heroes’ Plaza” and the retards kicked in, slowing the pod’s progress.
<Remember what Teddy used to say?>
That can’t be good, recalled the Pedant.
A coincidence? the Silky Voice wondered.
I’ve done some calculations, the Sleuth told them. If we assume that the fire broke out after we left Riettieport Terminal, but before we reached the rail point for the Bayside diversion, then it must have happened about the time our original pod reached the station empty. The conclusion is elementary.
<Someone blew up our pod.>
Fudir, said the Silky Voice suddenly, why did you insist on buying a snow cloak?
“I just wanted to mess with Ravn’s head,” the Fudir murmured. “Maybe Inner Child had a premonition…”
<No. Random changes in speed and direction come natural to me.>