“Sorry we’re having to wait a bit,” the shuttle pilot said. “There’s quite a crowd of arrivals just now.”
“Private shuttles?” Ronnie asked.
“Yes—Lord Thornbuckle’s is just ahead of us.”
George and Ronnie stared at each other. “Why would she call me, if she was going to call the family shuttle?” Ronnie asked. “Or did I misunderstand—we were trying to talk in a sort of instant code—”
“I suppose it could be another family member, though that’s quite a coincidence. And they usually bring the family yacht in over at Minor, to avoid the traffic.”
“The yacht’s not operational,” Ronnie said. “Don’t you remember? Some kind of harebrained terrorist attack or something.”
“So it could be one of the others, come by commercial passenger service.” George peered out the tiny window. Ronnie, looking past his head, could make nothing of the strings of lights. Finally—not that long by the clock on the forward bulkhead—he felt the slight bump of docking. When the status lights turned green, he led George out the access tube to the reception lounge. Across from the access tube was the door into the public corridor that led to the concourse. A status screen above it showed that Lord Thornbuckle’s shuttle was docked to their right.
Ronnie headed that way, receiving a polite nod from the man at the door to that lounge. He didn’t see Brun anywhere.
Brun saw Ronnie and her brother at the same moment. Buttons, looking happy and relaxed, with his fiancée Sarah on his arm, strolled along the concourse from the commercial gates toward the entrance to the private shuttle bays. Ronnie was just coming out, looking around.
Brun had just had time to notice Sarah’s outfit—flowing rose silk, a corsage of fresh white roses—when Sarah staggered, and the corsage blew apart, leaving a single red rose. Buttons threw himself on top of her; the tough-looking man who had spoken to Brun rushed at them, weapon in hand. People in the concourse screamed; some dove for the floor. Brun pushed away from the table and tried to get to her brother, but the people in the doorway were backing away. She pushed and shoved, using elbows and sharp kicks to move them.
Over their heads, she could see Ronnie turn toward the trouble, and then make a flying tackle on the armed man. George erupted from the corridor behind him; the two of them were on the attacker by the time Brun got free of the tangle and staggered across the concourse, cursing her new shoes. In the distance, whistles blew; she hoped someone had had the sense to call Station militia. And medical help.
“Help me!” Buttons was saying. “She’s bleeding—!” Brun fell on her knees beside him and unzipped her duffle, pulling out her last clean shirt.
“Here,” she said, stuffing it in the wound. The months she’d spent with therapists and doctors gave her more knowledge than she wanted of what lay behind the blood. But Sarah had a pulse, and was breathing. Buttons looked at her and his eyes widened.
“What are you doing here?”
“Saving Sarah,” Brun said. Sarah opened her eyes.
“That really hurts,” she said, and closed them again. Typical of Sarah, Brun thought. No wasted words, no unnecessary fuss.
“It’s my fault,” Brun said to Buttons. “He thought I was Sarah—I mean, the other way around.”
“Who?” But he had already turned toward the continuing tussle between Ronnie and George and the attacker, who had acquired allies from points unknown. Just as it looked like spreading into a wholesale brawl, the militia arrived.
The same tired-eyed man Brun had met before took their statements after Sarah had been taken to the Station clinic. His gaze sharpened when he recognized Brun and the blood on her clothes.
“Did you expect to meet your sister here?” he asked Buttons. “Was that your purpose?”
“No—Sarah and I had legal business to transact before our wedding. Brun’s been out of touch quite a while; I frankly didn’t know where she was.”
“Ah. And you . . . gentlemen . . .” Ronnie and George were attempting to look innocent and noble through their bruises. “You . . . were coming up to meet this young gentleman, perhaps?”
“No . . . actually . . .” Ronnie’s eyes slid toward Brun’s. She nodded. “We had come up to meet Brun. She called me.”
“I see. You are also . . .” He was clearly groping for the word. Brun spoke up.
“We aren’t engaged, but we’ve been friends a long time. I didn’t want to call our people until I’d had a chance to clean up and change—”
“Yes,” drawled Buttons, looking her up and down. She recognized that tone; he was going to back her, but have his own fun. “I can see why. Mother would have had a fit. Where have you been, anyway?”
“Working as transient crew,” Brun said, holding up her calloused hand for him to see. “I was hoping to get my hair done and so on before she knew I was anywhere around. Besides, there was a little trouble when I arrived.”
“Do you have any idea why someone shot your fiancée?” The militia officer interrupted.
“No,” Buttons said. Brun wondered a moment about that flat negative, but she didn’t challenge him. Instead, she answered.
“I do. I think he meant to shoot me, and didn’t have a good description.” The man’s eyebrows went up. Brun explained. “A man stopped me after I left the militia station earlier and asked if I’d seen a rich young woman in there. He knew my name, and a rough description, but the way I was dressed then, he didn’t recognize me. It scared me; it’s one reason I called Ronnie.”
“Well, then, miss, do you know why someone might want to shoot you?”
“No—but it’s clear someone did, and since Sarah and I are both blonde, and about the same height, he probably figured someone heading for our shuttle, with my brother, was the right person.”
“I see. If you’ll thumbsign this report, then—” With a sideways glance at Buttons, Brun pressed her thumb to the pad, and the man nodded. “That’s it for now—I presume you’ll be available downside if we need you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m staying up here,” Buttons said. “Until Sarah’s released. I don’t know how long it will take—if they’ll do the regen here, or ship her down. Brun, since Ronnie’s here with their shuttle, could you ride with him?”
“Of course.” Something in his voice suggested he needed to talk with her alone. “Do you mind if we come with you to the clinic?”
“No . . . that’s fine . . .” He stood, and looked about uncertainly. The militia had dispersed the crowd and the four of them stood alone. Then he looked down at Brun. “The thing is, I’m still worried about you. Did you know Lady Cecelia had filed for reinstatement of competency?”
“What? I thought she’d wait until—”
“She didn’t wait; it was on the nets four days ago. There’s been an uproar you wouldn’t believe in the press and among the Families. Dad’s afraid she’s in danger—and you, of course. We didn’t put a query on your ID because we didn’t want to call attention to it, so we haven’t known where you were—”
“But somebody did,” Brun said. “Or at least they were watching for any word of me.”
“Yes. Dad’s convinced now that you were right—he’s had his doubts—but that means whoever did it will be moving. You and Ronnie are both prime targets. Frankly I think you’d better get in that shuttle and go—and then stay on the estate. Don’t go into town; we don’t know just how hard whoever it is will come after you.”