Scanned the boards, the farscreens and repscreens that worked. Telltales showed a ship at lock one. Priority lock. Couldn’t tell what. IFF wasn’t working. Not much on Beta Station shuttles did except basic habitability, main controls, drives, grapples, and dampers. Why I worked suited, except for the helmet. McClendon was ass-end of the Comity, no orbit elevators. Would have been cheaper and safer, but the tightwads wouldn’t come up with the capital. Couldn’t afford more than basic maintenance. Sometimes, not even that.
Another ten standard passed before I confirmed Beta Station—dead ahead. Would have been shocked if it hadn’t been. Years since I missed on a straight-in. “Flashpot, stacker two. Have lock five, visual and beacon.”
“Two, cleared into lock. Straight to ops after shutdown.”
“Stet.” What the frig did ops want? Shouldn’t say ops. Graysham was ops, maintenance, and my boss.
Went to work. Manual approach. light touches on the steering jets, quick burst on the electrogravs. Shuttle settled against the dampers, cargo and personnel locks lined up perfectly. Magclamps sealed tight.
“Flashpot, two’s locked. Shutting down this time.”
“Stet, two. Report ops soonest.”
Didn’t bother with a reply. First, logged red status to ops. Then had to do the shutdown checklist manually, and by memory. Heads-ups had died three months back. No chance of repair. No one made McCann wafers anymore. Could feel more chill building in the cockpit before I unharnessed. Carried my helmet out of the shuttle.
Wesmin stood by the lock, waiting.
“Red status,” I told him. “Report’s in the station log.”
“It’s a wonder she’s stayed up so long.” Shook his head. “Graysham won’t be happy.”
“He’s never happy.”
Wesmin laughed.
Made my way toward the lockers. Wasn’t about to wear a suit longer than necessary. Stripped off the suit, racked the helmet. Pulled a vest and shorts over my skintights and headed inward. Took the crew tube. Didn’t see anyone. Not that likely at midnight Comity standard.
Ops was on the inner ring, where the grav fields were steady. Cube three meters on a side. Gray walls. Graysham sat in a web chair. He swung away from the comm board and console when I stepped through the hatch. Looked at me, like he’d never seen me before.
Before he said a word, I hit him. “Two’s down. Heaters are shot, and scrubbers won’t take out the water. Whole board’ll go on a long run, maybe even to Alpha.”
“We’ll take care of that after you go, Chang. You’ve got one stan to pack your gear.” Graysham grinned—evil expression.
Wanted to smash his teeth in. Could have, too, except I’d need work. “Not going anywhere. Contract says—”
“I could tell you that you’ve been relieved because you’re a lousy shuttle pilot. That wouldn’t be true. Or I could say that I hate the waste you make of your looks, your arrogant fembitch attitude, and your tight ass. That’d be true, but it’s not the reason. Besides, rundown as Beta Station is, I need good pilots, arrogant and tight-assed as they might be.” He grinned again. “You’ve got a better job.”
That was bullshit. Who was going to hire me?
“It’s the kind even you can’t refuse, Chang.”
“Never been a job I couldn’t walk from.” I’d walk to prove I could, if I had to.
“The Comity Diplomatic Corps wants the best shuttle pilots. They were very specific. They tracked you down from that mess on Lyr.” He grinned again. “I never knew you’d kneed a commissioner in the balls and broken all his fingers.”
“Bastard embezzled operations funds and tried to blame a maintenance failure on another pilot.” He’d groped me, too, but I wasn’t about to tell Graysham.
Graysham waited.
So did I.
“The Corps wants you, one Jiendra Chang. They told me to tell you three things. It’s the toughest piloting job you or anyone else will ever see. You’ll never hold any certification anywhere in the Comity if you don’t take it, and you won’t ever get off-planet to go anyplace else.”
“That’s two.” Maybe it was three, but he was holding something back. Friggin’ Comity. Hated threats.
“The third thing was a name. That’s all. Eliasha Eileen Chu-Wong.”
Double frig! Tried not to react.
Graysham leaned forward, looking uninterested. He wasn’t.
“Who loaded you with all this shit?”
“Oh… and I was told to tell you that, if you do this job right, you’ll get back your star-class rating, and your deep-space master’s cert. You’ll also get paid at star-class rates whether you’re successful or not for a minimum of one year.”
Talk about reward-punishment. Whoever “they” were could break me, even in McClendon system, but offered stuff only Comity execs could provide. “Who said so?”
“The lady in black who’s waiting out in the passageway. She arrived a little while ago on that Comity courier. It’s an armed courier, Chang. Talk to her and go pack. Good luck. Even you’ll need it.” Graysham turned back to the comm board. Not a signal on it. Just a way of telling me he was done.
Stepped out into the passageway. She was three meters back. Wasn’t smiling either.
“Who are you?” Already knew what she was. Muscles, alertness, and black vest and shorts, black skintights said Comity commando. Also meant they knew my background.
“I’m Alya Podorovski, Pilot Chang.” Pleasant voice. Behind it, she was the fem-bitch Graysham thought I was.
“Where’s this pilot job?”
“I don’t know. My mission is to escort you onto the Comity courier waiting in the priority lock and get you to where we’re headed. I suggest we go to your quarters and that you pack your gear. I doubt you have that many memorabilia.” Her eyes went over me like I was raw meat.
Hate it when they do that, men or women.
5
Barna
Peter Atreos walked into the front display foyer. He stopped before the rendition of the Grande Opera Theatre. After a moment, he shook his head. Without looking at me, he spoke. “When I look at this, I see all the faults, and none of the grandeur. Yet every detail is perfect.”
That was because the opera house was an architectural melange, a performing space designed to please the patrons, not to showcase the performers or the production. I saw no reason to point out the obvious. Atreos was one of those patrons.
“Why do you leave that work in the display foyer, ser Barna?”
I shrugged. “It is good art Someday, someone will buy it.”
“You are a great artiste, but you are not a businessman.” He planted himself before the replica of the holo-portrait of Rennis Zaphir. The original was in Zaphir’s private galley. Atreos studied it closely. His eyes narrowed. I knew why. Zaphir had thick bushy eyebrows that dominated his face. They gave him an unkempt look, even in the formal singlesuit. I could have cleaned up the eyebrows a touch. Then the image would have reflected greater control of the power of Zaphir’s iron will, but not the passion behind it, or the humor or the stubbornness. It still would have been Zaphir, but not as much Zaphir. The original showed that to an even greater extent. Originals always do, in a way that even a molecularly identical copy cannot, no matter what the scientific types say. That was why original works remained in demand. They always would.
“You have a reputation for talent and realism, ser Barna,” offered Atreos.
“That is what I am known for.” I could feel Aeryana’s eyes on my back. She stood at the railing of the loft. When potential clients appeared, so did she. She looked down into the display foyer. I always felt her eyes. What artist would not?