Cosmonaut Keep (31 page)

Elizabeth made straight for the trader and leaned over the table and shook his hand, grinning into his baffled face.

"Well,
hi!"
she said. "I'm
so
pleased to see you again! I didn't get a chance to speak to any of you before."

The trader blinked and half rose, half bowed over her hand. His expression of confusion was swiftly replaced by a puzzled but polite smile.

"Your pardon?"

"The party in the castle at Kyohvic, remember?"

"Ah, of course." He nodded briskly, sweeping his hand to indicate that they should sit and everyone else had better make room for them. "Your dress and hair, so elegant then, I didn't recognize you. Forgive me."

Gregor wasn't sure if this claimed memory was genuine, but as he perched on the end of a bench he had to admire the man's quick thinking and aplomb as much as he did Elizabeth's. She was sitting down beside the trader on the end of the opposite bench, patting her hair and smoothing her grubby jeans.

"Marcus de Tenebre," said the trader. "And now you have the advantage of me."

"Elizabeth Harkness. And this is Gregor Cairns, my ... um ... friend. We're marine biologists."

The man he'd recognized as Volkov was jammed up in the corner of Marcus's side of the table, and had been looking at Gregor with a slight frown all the while. On hearing Gregor's name he flinched away, facing one of the women opposite him and initiating or resuming some quiet conversation.

Gregor hoped that his own reaction to the trader's name wasn't as obvious. That man had given no sign of recognizing his; perhaps he was a sufficiently distant, or preoccupied, relative of Lydia's not to have heard any family gossip.

"You've arrived here very quickly," said Marcus.

"Oh yes, we took a skiff," said Elizabeth, as though it were quite the done thing. "We wanted to visit while the meat market was on."

"Why, if I may ask?"

"Oh, it's to do with science," said Elizabeth. "We're wondering how all the meat processing, the factory ships, and so on affect the local sea-life, and maybe in setting up some possible future research. Have a look at the kraken in their home waters, stuff like that."

She glanced around the table. "Anyone interested in some offseason boat hire?"

A lot of head-shakes and shrugs.

"There's no off-season," one of the men said. "The meat processing keeps us busy in the autumn, the meat shipping keeps us through the winter, there's whaling in the spring when the pack ice breaks down south, and the rest of the time it's the fishing. Doesn't mean you couldn't squeeze something in, mind, or maybe get a berth on a trawler or a whaler. You'd have to speak to a skipper down at the docks, or the company offices."

"Plenty of kraken to be seen on the whaling," someone else put in.

Elizabeth smiled tentatively. "You never hit them by mistake?"

That raised some laughs.

"Not a chance," the first man explained. "Clever buggers, they are. Smart, you know?"

"Smart enough to fly starships," Gregor said.

"Aye, but that might not be enough to keep them out of the way of harpoons. Krakens can hunt whales. I've seen ones that got away. Sucker-marks this size on their flanks."

He spread his hands a meter apart and everyone laughed except Gregor and Elizabeth, and Marcus and the man who might have been Volkov.

Gregor asked Marcus: "What are you doing here yourself?"

The trader smiled disarmingly at everyone. "Oh, just relaxing, enjoying the company. I've had a long day. And to be honest, it's beneficial to us to get to know folk."

He turned to Elizabeth. "And your kind interest in me was ... ?"

"Oh! Well, traders are always interesting! But I just have a quick question, just wondering if you've ever noticed. Do the ships ever ... change pilots, when they're on a planet's ocean?"

"Ah." Marcus looked puzzled by the question. "I believe they do, though not very often. We understand that the pilot takes some recreation off-ship. We presume it's the same one that swims back! To be honest, it would be hard to tell."

Gregor noticed the recurrence of the phrase, and wondered if the trader
was
being entirely honest. He also noticed that most of the glasses at the table were depleted, and stood up to offer a round. Marcus demurred, Gregor insisted. He left as Elizabeth launched into a detailed query about vacuum barnacles.

At the bar he was joined by someone else from the table.

"I'll help you carry them," the man said. His accent was hard to place.

"Thanks ... Ah, I didn't catch your name."

They looked at each other sidelong, while the pithkie barmaid met the order with more-than-human efficiency.

"Grigory," the man said. His voice dropped, barely audible above the music. "And between you and me, Gregor Cairns, my surname is what you think it is, but Antonov's the one I wear now. What are you after?"

Gregor fumbled the unfamiliar coins and notes, hesitated to lift any glasses for fear of dropping them.

"We're looking for members of the old crew," he said. "Especially Matt."

"So's our friend Marcus," said Volkov gruffly. "Just pricking up his ears, making idle-sounding inquiries. He suspects, but I don't think he's sussed me out yet, so watch your mouth."

"I will," Gregor promised.

"What do you want from us?"

Gregor hoped their talk could pass for light barside banter. He accepted a tray and began loading it, passing the lighter drinks to Volkov, to have something to do.

"Nav tech," he said. "Comp."

"Ah." Volkov's eyebrows twitched. "Interesting."

They returned to the table and distributed the drinks. The people sitting on Elizabeth's side had crowded the space where Volkov had sat; he took the seat where Gregor had been, and Gregor squeezed in by Elizabeth, suddenly acutely conscious of her warm body pressed against him. Her conversation about barnacles had spread into a free-for-all about invading species, about which everybody had a loud opinion.

Gregor met Volkov's sardonic gaze.

"You a fisherman yourself, Grigory?"

Volkov shook his head. "Engineer on the factory ships, most of the time. I come and go."

Marcus leaned past Elizabeth, his face curiously intent.

"Grigory Antonov -- before it slips my mind -- perhaps we could have a private word tomorrow? We're interested in marine engines; we have some supplies and techniques that you may find worth a look. Fine lubricants and such."

"Sure, sure," said Volkov. "You can drop by the company office -- third block, Quay Four. Ask for Ferman and Sons. Opens at nine. I'll be there."

The conversation moved on; people came and went with drinks, changing places until after about half an hour Elizabeth and Gregor found themselves together against the wall. The place had become more packed, the music louder. A gigant was singing now, in a voice deep but definitely female -- strange. Elizabeth began to worry about all the other places they were supposed to visit.

"Think we're doing all right, or would you like to move on?"

Gregor considered this for a moment.

"I think we've found ... the people we're looking for," he said. The phrase stabbed her. Gregor indicated Volkov with a glance. "Confirmed, by the way."

"Oh. Good."

She looked down at her glass. "But we should move on, because we still haven't found anyone to hire us a boat."

"We can do that in the morning," said Gregor. "Company offices or down at the docks, the man said -- talk to a skipper, remember?"

"Oh. Sure. But I'd still like to move on."

She turned to him. His face was close to hers, flushed with the drink and the heat, his eyes a little glazed from the smoke they'd shared. His swept-back hair was rough and stringy after several days without a proper wash. Their hips were jammed together. As she turned, her arm slid behind him and she brought it up around his waist in a sudden reckless moment. The thought went through her mind that here was a chance that might never recur. If he didn't respond the way she hoped, she could pass it off later as part of the pretense that they were a couple.

So she brought her arm up to his shoulders and placed her other hand on his cheek.

"Come on, Gregor," she said, smiling. "Let's go somewhere quieter."

His eyes widened and his mouth opened. He touched her cheek very gently. Her fingers were -- she suddenly realized -- exploring' the back of his head, his hair lapping her wrist. Whether she pulled him forward, she wasn't sure. They were kissing before they knew what had happened, hot and forgetful, their tongues sliding and twining over each other like mating dolphins.

Then they pulled apart and looked at each other. Gregor held her shoulders as though she might break.

"I've wanted to do that," she said, "from the first time I saw you."

He looked happy, but more confused than surprised. Maybe -- she thought hopefully -- maybe he had suspected.

"I wish you had," he said.

"I never dared."

"You dared there."

"Yes!"

Before either could say anything further there was a small commotion at the table as Marcus de Tenebre climbed out of the middle of the bench and stood up to greet Lydia.

Gregor, his hands still on Elizabeth, looked up at Lydia with a strong wish that the ground would open up and swallow him. She looked back at him with a very odd expression, not indignant or shocked, but concerned. Her face was shiny with sweat. Her long black hair was tied back with a purple ribbon and she was wearing the same cleverly folded dress that she'd worn on their walk.

She said something urgent to Marcus and then stepped past him and stood at the end of the table, still looking worried.

"Gregor ... Elizabeth. I'm so glad I've found you so quickly. Can you come with me, please? -- with me and my cousin. You'll be all right, we can go -- "

She stopped, as though out of breath.

"What's wrong?" Gregor said.

"Your saur. Uh, Salasso. He's in trouble."

Gregor found himself standing in front of Lydia and beside Elizabeth with no very clear idea of how he'd got there.

"What kind of trouble?"

Lydia put her hands over her ears for a moment and gave him a reproving look.

"With other saurs. You must come at once."

"Of course, right away. Elizabeth, can you -- "

Go and tell Salasso,
he was about to say.

"I'm coming with you," said Elizabeth.

Gregor blinked and shook his head.

"Yes. Thanks. Okay."

Thoroughly unimpressed with himself, he followed the others out. Getting through the crowd was like wading through thick mud. He glanced once over his shoulder, and met Volkov's watchful gaze. The cosmonaut raised a hand as though to wave, then very deliberately clenched it into a fist.

16

____________

Cool Stuff

"Ready?"

"Yes," I said; but -- as before -- the question was not addressed to me. Avakian flicked a datagloved finger and the screen encircled us. We could see ourselves, and each other, and the interface, and nothing else. With spex and gloves I could see and touch the screen at a comfortable arm's length; it tracked my glances, its features brightening and magnifying wherever I looked.

"We reckon it's indexed," said Avakian. "In an unknown alphabet, alas. Use the search engine. That's it -- the slot on the left."

I grabbed the schematics, highlighted the control system, tabbed in a complex Boolean query we'd sweated over for the previous couple of hours, and stuffed the lot in the slot. The surrounding screen instantly shimmered. All the streaming pictures and words which were its icons vanished, to be replaced by a black background on which the flying saucers shone. Arrays of discs stretched to infinity in every direction. I stared at them, fascinated by their endless subtle variations. By focusing on a column, I could glide along it, exploring the possibilities of a design path to its limits and beyond ...

"It's like being in the middle of an invasion fleet," Avakian said. "Opening scene of
Mars Attacks!,
with facing mirrors."

His cackle jolted me out of my trance.

"Huh?"

"Forget it. Look at the thing
critically,
dammit! To me that looks like the least-helpful reply I've seen since my first inadvertent outer join."

"Maybe that's what we've done."

It's a common and easy mistake to set up a query which returns vastly more than you're interested in, which in fact returns everything
except
what you really want. If you're clever or stupid enough, you can fire off a query whose reply links everything in the database to everything else, and eats every system resource you've got while doing so. Lights going out is a clue.

"Nah," said Avakian. "The syntax is sound, I checked that first."

Of course he had, as had I.

"Well, this sure isn't a response to the question we asked."

"Or we aren't looking at it the right way ... Look, can you restore it to how it was before you went off on your little expedition?"

"What?"

Avakian gave me a spex-masked stare.

"You were out of it for
ten minutes,
man. I thought you had
found
something, but I gave up on that when the drooling and heavy breathing kicked in."

"Shit."

I looked around in the array, realized I'd got hopelessly lost.

"Let's just launch it again," I said.

I pulled the schematics and the query out of the search-engine slot like clogged hair from a plughole, and shoved them back in. This time I took great care not to move, and not to look at anything but the nearest disc, the one right in front of my eyes. I reached out and touched it. The tactile feedback was chill and smooth. That disc expanded, the rest blinked away.

"That's better," said Avakian. "Let's tab in."

We looked around.

"This is getting almost familiar," I said.

"Better rendering," said Avakian. "But lookee here."

The control panel had been ripped out, as though for hot-wiring, and the hundreds of sprouting cables labeled. I peered at the tags, then pulled in a few aerospace-engineering handbooks off Camila's palmtop.