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The Last Shift was just outside the airfield perimeter, where the buildings changed from tall houses to the squat shapes that marked machine repair shops throughout the Precincts. The neighborhood was busier, a few men and women gathered outside the shops, or busy in the open bays, sweltering despite the wind scoops on the roofs. There were a few other vehicles in the vacant lot next to the Shift, a pair of battered ‘cats tucked against the airfield fence, and an enormous ho-crawl pulled up next to the building itself, the roof of the driver’s well just brushing the overhanging eaves. Heikki edged her ‘cat up next to the others until its blunt nose almost touched the fence, and swung herself out of the cab. The heat was scorching, the sudden weight of sunlight a hot wind against her skin. She could feel eyes on her, not from the blank-walled bar but from the shops to either side, and ignored them.

The Shift was exactly the same as it had always been, miraculously cool and dark after the glaring heat outside. Through the green sundazzle, Heikki saw the bar’s familiar shape, and, less clearly, the maze of wovewood tables that filled the central room. Most of them were empty now, she saw as her sight cleared, and those that were filled held mostly the retired or the unemployable, bent over drinks or shallow falks. They looked up as she passed, were still watching her as she leaned against the bar and touched the bell that called the bartender. Its sonorous note sounded through the space, filling the air, drowning out the lack of conversation, and faded slowly. After a moment, the bartender appeared from the back room, wiping his hands on his faded shirt. He hesitated, seeing who had summoned him, then came forward reluctantly.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” Heikki kept her voice scrupulously neutral, attempting neither to hide nor to emphasize the liquid off-world vowels. “I’m looking for someone, a pilot. I was told he worked out of here.”

The bartender’s expression shifted subtly. “Who would that be, that you’re looking for?”

“The name I was given is Sebasten-Januarias. Mine’s Heikki, I’m in salvage, based in the Loop.”

The bartender’s expression eased even further, and he nodded. “If you want to wait, I’ll find him. Would you want something to drink?”

It was early to be drinking, but Heikki nodded anyway. “Field punch, please.” She glanced over her shoulder, toward the row of semi-private cubicles set along one wall. Most were empty, the sound-proofing curtains pulled back to expose the stained cushions and chipped glass tabletops. “I’ll be over there.”

“I’ll see if I can find him,” the bartender said.

Heikki bent her head politely, and took the drink he slid toward her, offering her paycard in return. He accepted it, flushing, and ran it easily through the scanner. She took it back without looking at the total already fading from the display window, and started toward the nearest of the cubicles. She settled herself against the dirty cushions and waited. The bartender vanished again, and the conversations slowly recommenced.

The punch was tartly sweet, deceptively mild to the tongue. Heikki sipped it with wary respect, but even so found herself finishing the last of it before she had intended. She was not drunk, not nearly, but she could feel the liquor warming her stomach, warning her to have no more. She stared down at the glass, cupping her hands around it to hide its emptiness, and heard the door open. She looked up, hoping it would be Sebasten-Januarias, but it was only a boy barely into his teens. Then the boy turned toward her, visibly looking for someone, and Heikki fought to keep her expression steady. Ciceron had said he was young, certainly, but this was ridiculous. He looked all of sixteen, at a generous estimate, a skinny, brown-skinned boy with the enormous headscarf of a Firster adolescent wrapped around his head and shoulders—

“Dam’ Heikki?” The boy stopped just outside the cubicle, dropping one end of the scarf like a veil, to reveal a face streaked with multicolored sunpaint. “I’m Sebasten-Januarias.”

He sounds a little older than he looks, Heikki thought, and gestured for the boy to seat himself across from her. Is this Ciceron’s idea of a joke? “Get yourself a drink, if you want,” she said aloud, “and then have a seat. Ionas Ciceron mentioned you as a pilot.”

“Thank you,” the boy said, somewhat ambiguously, and slid gracefully onto the cushions opposite. “That’s kind of him.”

Interesting that he doesn’t want the drink, Heikki thought. “You got my name?” she said, and the boy nodded.

“You’re in salvage, I hear?” There was just enough of an upward lilt to make it a question.

“That’s right,” Heikki said. “I have a local contract, and I need a local copilot to back my main man, going into the ‘wayback, probably along the Asilas into the massif.”

“That cargo flight Lo-Moth lost?” Sebasten-Januarias asked.

“That’s right. Is that a problem?”

“No.” The boy’s voice was confident, and when he did not continue, Heikki sketched out a quick description of the job, studying him while she talked. Sebasten-Januarias was definitely older than he looked at first glance, but not very old—maybe in his early twenties, Heikki thought, no more. Beneath the garish sunpaint she thought he was rather plain, strong boned, but ordinary. He frowned slightly as she spoke, and the frown deepened slowly, but when she had finished, he nodded to himself.

“Will you be taking a latac?”

“No, a standard jumper.”

“Then I’m your boy—if you’ll take me.” He had an engaging smile, and Heikki smiled back.

“How long have you been flying?”

Sebasten-Januarias’s smile widened, and he said, without rancor, “You mean, how old am I. I’m twenty-four, but I’ve been flying the ‘wayback solo for eight years, and I apprenticed with my uncle before that, for two years.”

“Sounds good,” Heikki said, and meant it. If Sebasten-Januarias had been taking aircraft across the wayback since he was sixteen without an accident—and if he had had an accident, he would not be sitting here now; the wayback did not forgive even minor errors—then he was the sort of pilot she wanted. She curbed her enthusiasm abruptly. “Can you give me some references?” She kept her voice briskly professional, and, to her surprise, the young man did not bridle.

“Tom Tolek at the tower will speak for me, and Kameka Decker. I’ve worked for Lo-Moth, too. The field ops coordinator knows me,”

“FitzGilbert?” Heikki looked up sharply.

“Yes.” He seemed unsurprised at the question.

Heikki looked back at her noteboard. “I’ll contact them, certainly. In the meantime, I’d like you to come to dinner, and meet the rest of my team. Are you free this evening?”

“Yes’m.”

“Your full name?”

“Josep Laurens Sebasten-Januarias.” His lips turned up briefly in a rather wry smile.

“What do they call you for short?” Heikki asked idly.

Before the other could answer, a voice called from the doorway, “I hear you’re working, Joe-Laurie.”