“Thanks,” Heikki said, dryly. She drew herself a mug of coffee, shuddered at the array of sweets on the cold shelves above the microcooker, and came to lean over her brother’s shoulder. “Any luck?”
“Depends on what you mean by luck,” Galler answered. He typed a final command and leaned back, studying the screen. Heikki frowned at the array, but could make no sense of the unfamiliar corporate codes.
“What am I looking at?” she asked.
“I accessed the low-level maintenance programs that security uses to carry out some of its sweep/scans,” Galler answered. “These are the trigger codes, things that will be automatically reported to a human operator, in descending priority.”
“So tell me what it means,” Heikki said, and sipped her coffee.
Galler smiled without humor. “Basically, the system’s set to pass any ticket purchase for EP7 to a human operator, or any of my listed credit numbers, or any of your cards.” He touched a section of the screen, and highlights sprang up beneath his finger. “Unless you’ve got some that aren’t listed?”
Heikki studied the numbers, shook her head regretfully. “They’ve even got the private accounts, not just business, and my Club numbers.”
“I thought it was too much to hope for,” Galler said. He lowered his hand, and the highlighting vanished.
“What about a roundabout route, say EP4 to EP3 or EP1, and buy tickets there for EP7?” Heikki asked.
“Possible, if we used cash,” Galler answered, “and if this program didn’t catch us.” He touched keys again, and a new set of codes appeared on the screen. “They’ve set up a watch at the station axis, tapped into the regular security cameras—with the Authority’s permission,
I might add—with a program that matches photos of us with images from the passenger scan, and rings all kinds of bells if there’s a match.”
“Exactly what happens?” Heikki asked.
Galler made a face. “All right, they don’t send every goon on the Point to the station axis. But the images do go to human operators, and they make a decision.”
“Damn,” Heikki said softly. So much for plan one, she added silently. Security camera images were notoriously fuzzy; it would have been easy enough to find someone, some drunk or druggie down on its luck, willing to go to the station and trigger the alarms for them, letting them slip past in the resulting confusion.
“How much cash do you have, anyway?” Galler asked.
Heikki shrugged. “Not enough for a ticket, but I can sell something, pawn something.”
Galler shook his head. “They’re watching that, too.”
“God damn,” Heikki said again. This was the first time in her adult life that she had been cut off from the financial networks, regular and irregular, that linked the points of the Loop and even the Precinct worlds into a coherent whole. It was a bad feeling, frightened and helpless together, and she summoned anger to block out the rising fear. “Who the hell do they think they are?” she began, and Galler grinned.
“The richest corporation on this Point, Gwynne.”
Heikki glared at him. “So?” She looked back at the screen before he could answer, and mercifully he said nothing, leaving her to her thoughts. They were cut off from the usual means of travel, all right, she thought, which leaves us—what? FTLship, conceivably, though that was even more expensive than the trains, but neither EP4 nor EP7 are regular FTLports. Even if there were a ship or two in, the docking facilities were so limited that it would be easy for the securitrons to monitor all traffic in and out. “There’s one last possibility,” she said aloud, and saw Galler’s eyebrows rise. “We ride free.”
“Absolutely not,” Galler answered flatly.
“Do you have a better idea?”
After a moment, he looked away. “No. But it’s still too dangerous.”
“What do you suggest, then?” Heikki asked, with as much patience as she could muster. “Waiting around until the securitrons relax their guard?” In spite of her best intentions, sarcasm tinged her tone. “Bearing in mind that most of what’s looking for us is computer-based, and doesn’t get tired, need a lunch break, or go off duty at 2100—”
“No.” Galler sighed, and touched keys to begin extricating himself from the system supervisor. “I suppose you’re right, at that. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
So do I, Heikki thought, but knew better than to let her doubts show in her face or voice. “It’s going to take a little time,” she temporized. “And I need some information. Can you get me a detail map of the Axis, especially service corridors?”
“In a minute,” Galler answered absently, most of his attention on the screen.
“Then I’ll want a schedule of freight runs, and the cargo carried, for the next few days—as far in advance as you can get me,” Heikki went on.
“That could be difficult,” Galler said.
“As much of it as you can,” Heikki conceded. “But I need some information.” Her mouth twitched upward into an involuntary smile, and she was glad Galler could not see her. He did not need to know that she would be doing this for the first time, based on Sten Djuro’s two-minute scare story for people new to the Loop. Come to think of it, she added silently, it doesn’t make me feel any too confident, either.
“I suppose you want all this without alerting any of the watchdogs?” Galler said.
“Of course.”
“I’ll do what I can. Go take a shower or something, I’ll let you know when I have it.” He looked over his shoulder then, visibly assessing the crumpled skirt and shift. “There’s clothes in the left-hand wall that might fit you.”
Heikki grinned, and did as she was told. As she had more than half expected, the clothing—presumably belonging to Galler’s most recent lover; on second glance they would suit the secretary Shen quite nicely—was of neither a style nor a shape to compliment her own angular body. It was, however, clean and unwrinkled, and after some searching she found a not-too-fitted shift and a straight-bodied overvest that would not look too much as though she had rifled a younger sister’s wardrobe. The shoes were impossible, and even if they had not been painfully small, would have been hopelessly impractical. Heikki shook her head at the thought of trying to slip unseen into a cargo crate while wearing bright red heels at least eight centimeters tall, and slipped her feet back into her own flat station shoes. The plastic knife in its thigh-sheath presented the greatest problem. The shift’s walking slit was cut too low for easy access, and in any case the overvest prevented a quick draw. In the end, Heikki wedged the knife and sheath into the vest’s front pocket, and hoped she wouldn’t have to use it.
By the time she returned to the main room, the hard printer was chattering to itself in one corner, and Galler was studying yet another screenful of information.
“I wish I knew what you were looking for,” he said without turning, and Heikki hid a grin. So do I, she thought, and then Galler swung around to face her. “Well, at least you look less frumpy.”
“Thank you,” Heikki said, with a sweetness she wished would poison. The printer had stopped, and she crossed the room to pick up the folds of recyclable paper.
“That’s just the first installment,” Galler said, “and the inquiries are scattered. The rest will be coming in over the next few hours.”
Heikki nodded absently, scanning the closely printed listings. It was more secure to do things that way, even if it did make her job more tedious. Still reading, she felt her way to the couch and settled herself there, reaching into her belt for a marker.
“You’re welcome,” Galler said, with a sweetness that matched her own. Heikki glanced up, momentarily abashed, but managed a shrug.
It took her most of the day to work her way through page after page of freight listings. Most were obviously unsuitable—the cargo was either too valuable not to be carrying the most advanced electronic seals as well as the standard railroad locks, or carried loose, like grain or seed crystal, or toxic enough to make riding with it impossible. By the end of the day, however, she had marked a dozen or so cargos that might be suitable, and flipped back through the pages to study them more closely. Two she eliminated at once: both left the station just after a shift change point, when the loaders would be entirely too alert. Three more were crossed off when she noticed that the shipper was either Tremoth itself or one of its subsidiaries. Another five were hard-pack cargo, each item packed in its own individual inner crate. Possible, she thought, but hardly comfortable. Still, with any luck that sort of sacrifice won’t be necessary.