This Alien Shore (43 page)

It's gotta be this way,
he muttered to someone who was sulking.
Trust me, okay?

The ship was empty. Still too early for the crew to be about? He moved through it carefully, silently, trying to remember that he was bulkier than usual and couldn't squeeze through small passages like he should be able to. This was the most dangerous part, these first few minutes, but it was a danger he was ready to face; the pounding of his heart energized him now instead of draining him, and adrenaline shot into his brain like a drug. The girls couldn't pull off this kind of shit, he told himself, only he could. It was a heady tonic, being needed that badly. He savored it for a moment, until someone gave him a mental kick and told him to get his mind back on the job at hand.
Fuck you,
he told her, but his voice lacked its usual venom. Because she was right, damn her. This was no time to be enjoying himself.

There was noise from the bridge. He eased toward it, and heard the soft murmur of a voice he thought was Allo's. Okay, that made sense, the man was still awake. He had to bring the ship into port, after all; the Guild transport wouldn't take him that far. Derik listened closely, but there was only silence now; evidently the pilot had started dictating his orders through his headset. All right, all he had to do now was wait—

He heard a sound from the far end of the corridor. Startled, he pressed himself into a service alcove near the bridge and held his breath. Footsteps approached, somewhat unsteady, and he prayed that whoever was making them didn't turn to look to the right as he came down the hall. If so ...

Then all is lost,
Zusu mourned.

Fuck that!
He told her.
Then we fight!

But the footsteps came within a few feet of him and then turned toward the left, heading in the direction of the bridge. He caught sight of flesh tentacles behind the man, all hanging limp now in the aftermath of his enforced snooze. No one else seemed to be moving on the ship yet, which made sense. Only those who had to be awake would rush the process, it tended to make one weak and disoriented; the rest would take their time.

So far, the plan was still good.

“Tam?” it was Allo's voice. “Calia?”

“Due up in ten.”

“The girl?”

“Tam said she'll be out a good two hours more. More than enough time.”

“You're optimistic.”

“Not at all. I just know how you work.”

Someone chuckled.

Derik moved cautiously down the corridor, toward the main door of the ship. There was an air lock which had been wide open when he first came aboard, but it was shut tight now to keep out the vacuum of space. He'd have to wait until that was unsealed, otherwise they'd catch him in it while it cycled him out. That was no good.

His pulse was a drumbeat, a soundtrack, like music. He felt weirdly like he was in some viddie, instead of in real life. An action viddie. He sure hoped the bloody scenes weren't coming up yet, that would be no fun at all.

He waited.

There was a viewscreen beside the door. He watched as they approached the station proper—God, it was
immense
—and held his breath as Allo and Sumi maneuvered them past the main docking ring, toward one of the subsidiaries. That was okay, he was prepared for that, too. There were six of them in all, circling about the main body of the station like the electron rings of an ancient nuclear symbol. He waited until they headed toward one in particular and then made sure Raven saw the symbol that was on it. God willing she was doing her job in there, because soon enough they'd be depending on her. This wasn't the kind of job one person could pull off.

The small ship approached an open dock, brimming with blinking lights. He could hear voices conversing on the bridge, probably Allo trading details of their route with an operator on Paradise, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. It didn't matter. Soon enough they'd be on solid flooring again, and he could make his break for it.

The mouth of the dock was narrow, hardly larger than the ship. Obviously it wasn't taking them to the kind of open dock they'd been in before, but a less wasteful space. Air cost money, after all. Some kind of track rose up from beneath them and grabbed hold of the small vessel, and clamps came at it from the sides. He could hear the engines shut down as they took over the work of driving the ship forward. He dared to draw in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. So far so good. They were sliding down into a flickering darkness, like some kind of bizarre amusement ride. If he'd been in less danger, he might have enjoyed watching it, but as it was, he only had eyes for the sign above the air lock.
Caution,
it warned.
Lock sealed. Pressurize before opening inner door.

And then they stopped. There was a dull thudding noise against the wall of the ship, a faint vibration, and then nothing. He held his breath. Would they open the lock now, or let it stay closed until they needed it? If the latter, then he'd have to take a chance and break the seals himself. He waited as long as he could stand to wait, reached out to the control panel ... and then forced himself to wait some more. Now was not the time to do something stupid.

There was someone else awake on the ship now, approaching the bridge; he could hear the sound of footsteps. Damn. He'd thought he'd have more time than this. What if he wound up having to fight them after all?

A hiss by his side made him jump. The bright red sign overhead flashed to yellow, then green. The lock on the inner door popped open. He hesitated only an instant. The voices on the bridge were louder now, and he thought he heard one of them coming his way. He couldn't get the outer door opened that fast, not by himself. With a pounding heart he ducked into a nearby service access, high-heeled shoes digging into his thigh as he pressed himself into the small space.

It was Calia. Just his luck, the one who hated Terrans the most. She came and checked the lock, opened it, then moved beyond it to the outer door. After a moment he heard the whir of a motor, and alien light spread into the corridor. He heard no voices from beyond the door, which meant they were probably in some kind of transitional space; the ring itself would be noisy.

He found himself holding his breath as she turned back to the bridge, and started to move as soon as she was out of sight. All right, if he did this right, they wouldn't even realize he was gone for an hour or more—

He did it right.

She didn't.

She had forgotten something in the lock, or something she had to do, or ... well, something that involved turning back the moment he moved out into the open. He heard her gasp and curse beneath her breath even as he reached the threshold of the ship.
Shit.
Was she armed? Would she shoot him? He took off across the portal with a force that carried him halfway down the loading ramp in one step; thank God, the ring was lo-G.

The chamber beyond was maybe twenty feet long, with an iris portal at the far end. He was willing to bet it would open automatically when approached from this side. In fact, he was willing to bet his life on it. He tried not to think about the frenzied messages that were flashing through the ship's innernet as he ran, or the fact that the two men were bigger and probably stronger and faster than the body he was stuck in. Damn it to hell, he was doing the best he could! Calia was coming after him, he could hear it. He threw himself toward the door—

And it opened! It opened for him and he bolted through. Calia was still far enough behind that it began to close behind him—she'd probably stayed behind for a second to report Derik's flight to the others—and that was great, it was the break that he'd needed. Slamming into some tourist who clearly didn't expect to be blindsided, he used the impact to halt his forward progress and turned to the side. And he ran. He ran as if his life depended on it. He ran as if he was some stupid girl who thought that running would save her, a stupid Earthie who didn't realize that by doing so she made herself ten times more conspicuous—

Okay, the door was opening again, he could hear it. Let it. He turned down a side corridor and dropped out of sight before any of his would-be captors could catch sight of him. Sure, one of the tourists would point him out . . . when they pulled themselves together enough to stop sputtering in anger and be helpful. That could take seconds.

Where is it?
he asked Raven.

She flashed him a section of station map. She'd inloaded it all while they were on the ship; this time they wouldn't be fleeing blind. He took a quick turn at the next fourway, praying that they hadn't yet gotten close enough to see where he was going. All he needed was a few hundred feet, and he was home clear.

Maybe.

Passersby were staring at him as he ran by. Fine, that couldn't be helped.
Where is it?
he demanded of Raven.
Where's the nearest one?
She whispered directions into his ear, and he ran—

and turned a comer and slowed to a normal pace, albeit hurried, so that no one in that corridor saw anything amiss—

and passed by the first washroom door, cursing the
occupied
sign overhead. The second was free, and he struck it with his hand, as if there was really a human operator who might hear the urgency in his knock and open up faster. The door slid open slowly. He squeezed inside and slammed his hand on the lock, wishing he could will it to move faster. They had to not see him come in here, or all was lost....

As soon as the door was shut, he began to strip. The heavy jumpsuit came off, and with it his few spare belongings. The metallic skirt he wore beneath it swung free with a shimmering sound, likewise the short-cropped blouse he wore on top. He kicked his shoes off with the jumpsuit and fumbled in the pocket to get Jamisia's dress shoes out. Right about now they would have figured they'd lost him and be asking questions ... would they stand guard outside the washrooms? Hide someone by the nearest comer to watch without being seen? There were more than a dozen washrooms in a row, they'd have no way of knowing which ones were right or wrong until someone came out. He had to get out of his before all the others were emptied.

He rolled up the jumpsuit around his lo-G shoes and stuffed the whole package into a collapsible purse he'd brought along. All that was left was the hair. He tried not to look in the mirror as he brought up the safety knife and snapped it open, one of the girls would probably just get upset and start bawling if he did. He started cutting by feel, hacking away at the thick copper tresses.
Hair grows. Deal with it.
The dispose-all was open and he threw the discarded locks into it handful by handful, hearing it grind up the pride of Jamie's womanhood. No one said a word. They all knew how much this mattered, apparently. Good. Finally he had to look in the mirror to finish the job.

It was short, downright stubby, and far from even. That was fine. He paid for some water—it took his last cash chit—and ran wet hands through what was left of his hair. Thus soaked, it turned a darker brown, far less conspicuous, and made weird little spiked shapes all over his head. Good. He hesitated, trying to sense just how much time he'd used up. How many cubicles had been emptied so far, how few were left for them to watch? If he came out of the last one, it wouldn't matter what he looked like, they'd know there was something wrong. He reached into the bag for a small container of silver powder—

And Katlyn took over,
thank you very much, this is no place for a man anymore.
Two swipes with a finger streaked metallic silver across her brow, nothing more or less than her outfit deserved. She slid her feet into the lo-G shoes—strappy little things with high, high heels, the kind of thing no sane girl would wear in
real
gravity—took one deep breath, and opened the door.

No one was waiting.

No one she could see.

She sauntered forth with all the arrogance of a woman who had nothing to hide, and fell into step with the throngs of tourists who filled the corridor. Her bag hung at her side, with all her meager belongings stuffed into it. Her skirt was a thing of glittering mesh, hi-G in design, and she'd rolled it up at the waist so that its hem was crotch-high. The grav in the ring was just low enough that it rode up with each step, hinting at treasures not well enough hidden. Likewise with the cropped top, riding up high enough with each bouncing step that the round underside of a breast was just visible. She smiled as she walked, falling into a gait that would accentuate the movement of both. No one would be looking at her face, that was for sure. God, she loved hi-G clothing.

She didn't look for Allo and his crew. She didn't look for anyone. She looked for signs of where she was going, and tried to keep in mind always that she
was
someone, she
belonged
somewhere. If they looked her straight in the eye, they'd probably realize who she was, but she was willing to bet they wouldn't look that closely. She was willing to bet they thought she was still running from them, or hiding somewhere, or doing something else in which she looked just like herself, wearing that stupid jumpsuit. A search of her room on the ship by now would have revealed the fact that she'd left her bags behind along with all her clothing, and they had no way to know that she'd chosen a few items from them before stowing them away for passage. Just enough to get by. That was crucial, that they would think she bolted in terror without thinking this thing through. They would look for a frightened animal, and thus would be searching in vain—because she wasn't that, not anymore.

That was the plan, anyway.

Tourists passed her on all sides—or maybe Paradise natives—and her glittering party outfit was hardly noticeable in that context. She'd counted on that. Raven had inloaded all sorts of visual data on Paradise, and she and Katlyn had studied it before coming up with this costume. Dressed like this she would be downright inconspicuous in the station's overdressed crowds ... or so she hoped.