Joat smiled. Her attitudes towards sloppy workmanship had rubbed off on the AI. She used a small extensible probe to key the interior door of the airlock and trotted up the ladder into an access corridor running both ways until it lost itself in the curve of the Station's outer hull.
"External cameras are back online, no detection," Rand said.
"Grudly. Out for now." Broadcasts were a needless risk.
The corridor was bare except for the color-coded conduits and pipes that snaked in orderly rectilinear patterns over walls and ceilings. An occasional small maintenance machine trundled by, usually following a pipe rather than the floor.
And footfalls rang. Joat felt herself relax, vision growing bright with the sudden clarity of extreme concentration. The young man who walked in from a side-corridor was wearing the same Stationside police uniform as the one in Rand's holosnap, but his face had the pleasant formlessness of youth. Sheltered youth.
"Oh hey, am I glad to see you!" Joat caroled, an expression of surprised relief on her face. "We just got in, and I'm looking for Stondat's. The suit outfitter? I've obviously gone wrong," she hoisted the suit up a bit with a little grunt, "and this thing is getting heavier by the meter. Where am I?"
She let a trace of wail into the last words, making her eyes go wide in an expression she knew knocked six standard years off her apparent age.
"Let me show you, ma'am. These corridors are for Stationside Maintenance only."
He led the way to a lift, reaching past her to palm the entry. Her hand brushed across his arm.
"There, that's set for Spin Level 3. You can't miss it."
Joat's smile turned broader and more sardonic as the door irised shut. Insect-tiny in her ear, she could hear the young policeman's report via the sticktight she'd brushed across his uniform to blend with the fabric. It was a carbon-chain type, too, almost impossible to scan and biodegradable.
"Just someone who got lost," he said. "Some vapor-brain from a miner family-ship, probably, can't find her way around anything bigger than a thousand cubic meters. Proceeding."
Chapter Three
Bros Sperin sat quietly at his table, a drink in his hand, and watched the patrons of The Anvil enjoying themselves. Extremely respectable place, he thought. Perfect for a dropshop. Criminals and spies only haunted known dens of vice in bad fiction, or in places much farther from the right side of the law than New Destinies.
"No, thank you, gentlebeing," he said for the seventh time that night.
The tall-possibly human, probably female, but you couldn't tell sometimes without a xenology program-bobbed her/its/his crest and swayed gracefully off to the sunken dance floor that hung in the center of The Anvil's main room. It was surrounded by tables of spectators, diners, and tourists. Bros Sperin himself wasn't out of place, a man a little above medium height and densely athletic of build, brown of skin and eye, with short black hair cut to resemble a sable cap. His jacket was brown as well, loosely woven raw silk, belted with silver above black tights and low boots. A soft hat lay on the table beside his long-fingered hands, covering a belt data-unit.
He looked relaxed, which was as much a lie as the appearance of a well-to-do merchant out for a peaceful night on the town in this costly, pleasant nightclub.
Given the number of serious deals that went down here it was in the regular patrons' best interests to see to it that no one got too rowdy, and the management was very solicitous of their guests' interests. Those who insisted on getting out of hand mysteriously and permanently lost their taste for dancing at The Anvil. So did people who annoyed the regular patrons.
If they only knew who I really was, they'd probably be very annoyed indeed, the Central Worlds agent thought. Annoyed enough that he'd disappear with a quiet finality.
Bros raised his glass to his lips and checked his watch. Then glanced at the door. There she was, right on time. Odd, how she looked so little like the scarred, scared child he'd met when he was a lieutenant in Naval Intelligence, assigned to SSS-900-C in the aftermath of the Kolnari raid. And yet what she was now was what he'd seen in potentia then, hidden beneath the claws-and-teeth defensiveness her short life had left.
Those straight women who noticed her looked askance at her drab spacer overalls, the gay women observed her over their glasses with mild curiosity. Various aliens had reactions less comprehensible, but they shared a certain caution. The men never looked at her at all.
Their loss, Bros thought. She was beautiful, though she played it down and attitude did the rest.
Joat reached the bar and fixed her gaze on the busy bartender. He'd already noticed her and had caught Bros Sperin's eye. Sperin gave him the high sign to give her a drink as arranged, and to tell her it was from him.
When the bartender placed the drink in front of her, Joat looked at it as if it were a Sondee mudpuppy. The bartender pointed and said a few words to her and Joat turned to look at Bros.
Their eyes met and she raised one brow, suspicious and unsmiling. He grinned and waved her over. After a moment she nodded, picked up the drink and sauntered to his table. He rose to meet her and she smiled and lifted the brow again over his courtesy.
She raised the drink in a little salute.
"Thank you," she said and looked him over, then frowned slightly. "We've never met before, have we?"
"No, I've seen you at a distance, but we've never met."
"Then… how do you know what I like to drink?" she asked, curious, suspicious.
Bros grinned down at her.
"It's a game I play, matching drinks to faces. I usually guess right. So… do I have you pegged?"
She nodded with a little smile. At least that far, Joat thought.
"Please, sit down." He indicated a seat.
"Thanks," she said, and looked around. "But I can't. I'm here to meet someone."
"I know. Me."
Oh, Ghu, Joat thought. I may lose my lunch. How could such a neat looking guy have such a macho-maniacal attitude. Pity.
To Bros she looked both weary and disappointed at the apparent pick-up line; but smiled as she turned to go. I don't blame her. That one was probably a cliche when bearskins were the latest fashion.
"The names Sperin. Bros Sperin."
Her eyes went wide. The spy?
"I thought you were dead!" she blurted.
He laughed. "A rumor I've carefully spread. It's useful. Actually, I only felt like I was dead. They put me back together looking different, and they've had me behind a desk the last few years."
They looked at each other for a few moments.
"Shall we sit down or," he indicated the dance floor, "shall we dance?"
Joat sat. I don't think so. I don't want to get any closer to you than arm's length, thanks. Something about him made her wary on a personal level. She wondered what the heck was going on.
"I usually deal with Sal," she said uneasily. And I wish I were now. Not that Sal was such a great guy or anything. But something's up, my antennae are tingling.
"He's around somewhere. I understand you have an unbirthday present for him."
She nodded, frowning again. An unbirthday present. She sneered mentally. That's cute. "Actually, it's more of a parting gift. Something that might go well with a broken arm."
"In that case he'll be sorry to have missed you. I'll be sure to pass along your good wishes." Bros picked up his glass and looked at her over the rim. "But I needed to talk to you."