Boneyards (19 page)

B
y the time I leave the
Two
, I don't see Coop any longer. In fact, as I step out of the airlock, I don't see anything that I expect.

The resort has set up some kind of virtual projector, so that it looks like I'm stepping out of the
Two
onto a sandy beach, complete with ocean before me.

I know I'm in a standard docking bay, so the illusion, including the briny scent of the sea mixing with some kind of exotic flower, irritates me rather than pleases me.

So does my butler. The resort's promotional material carefully informed me that all of our butlers would be human, not android, as if that was supposed to reassure me. It did on some level. That reduces one layer of electronic security. An android or some kind of robotic servant could easily keep track of my every movement. So could a human companion, but it would be more obvious.

Or at least, it would be more obvious with technology that I'm familiar with. It's pretty clear that this resort takes technology to a level that's usually frowned upon in the Empire and, by extension, the Nine Planets as well.

My butler is male, which surprises me, given how many of the tasks the resort says the butler can help with are intimate and personal. He's also stunning—dark eyes, almond skin, and brownish-black hair. He's built like a man raised in gravity. His blousy shirt accents his broad shoulders, and his tight pants show off muscular legs.

His clothing is clearly formal; mine is not.

He makes me very uncomfortable. I now understand why Coop decided not to have a butler. I need the assistance, though, so I'm going to bluster my way through this.

I extend my hand and am about to introduce myself when I realize just how rudely I'll come across if I say my name.

“You must be my butler,” I say. “Forgive me for asking, but is this really your usual appearance?”

His eyes widen slightly as he takes my hand. My question surprised him. “What do you mean?”

I've moved him off introductions, which was my intention. “Well, clearly, we're not on a beach. So I'm wondering if you're real as well.”

“I'm real,” he says.

“Well, then,” I say, deciding that I'm going to play this rich and bossy. Back when I was running diving tourism, I experienced a lot of clients like that. What I'm beginning to realize is that it's not hard to come across that way, particularly when you've got an agenda. “Is it possible to get rid of this beach and just see the docking bay?”

“It's not that attractive,” he says, taking my kit. “What else would you prefer?”

I almost tell him that I'm an old-time spacer and I prefer docking bays, but then I decide not to reveal that much about myself. “The bay itself is fine. I travel a lot, so I like to know exactly where I'm at. Which means I prefer reality to fantasy most of the time.”

He gives me a sideways look that I'm not supposed to see. I've surprised him again, which is a good thing, I think. At least I'll keep him on his toes.

He touches a button on his wrist, and the entire illusion pinpoints down and then travels into that button, as if the button houses it. It's my turn to be surprised. I didn't expect him to be the source of the illusion.

The bay itself is huge. It's also gray and utilitarian. No wonder the resort doesn't want its customers to see the bay. There's nothing impressive about it, and there's no other way to enter the resort.

My butler takes me to the main doors, then up a side staircase. I don't have to check in. That happened before the
Two
even landed. I was told then that we would go directly to my room, which also felt odd.

I'm used to entering space stations from the docking bay, into a ring of restaurants and stores hawking various wares. It's always somewhat surreal, going from the quiet of the ship to the relative silence of the bay to the cacophony of merchants trying to capture the attention of everyone who arrives on the station before the money all goes away.

Here, instead, it's silence, except that my butler asks me if I would prefer stairs or a lift. I haven't exercised much since we left Treffet, so I opt for stairs.

They're opulent and shiny and look expensive. But that beach makes me question everything. I wonder if they're just gray and utilitarian like the bay, but overlaid with some kind of program from my butler's magic device.

I don't ask.

My room seems to be on its own floor. This I know is an illusion. No space station can afford to have a floor dedicated to just one room. But I wonder if the staircase can rotate so that it moves from room entry to room entry, or if there were stairs from the bay to each room separately.

For the first time, I regret telling Coop I wouldn't room with him. I would love to discuss how odd this makes me feel and see if he feels the same way.

My butler opens the gigantic doors, swinging them inward to reveal a living room as large as the main room in my skip. He takes my kit to a closet larger than my very first single ship was. I try hard not to act impressed.

After he hangs up my meager possessions, he bows to me, and says, “You may summon me any time you like.”

That gives me the opening I want. “You forgot to tell me your name.”

And then I brace myself. Because if he tells me his name is whatever I want it to be, I'm going to double-check to see what kind of service I'm paying for.

Instead, he smiles and says, “I am Rupert.”

“Well, Rupert,” I say, “I'm probably going to be one of your more unusual clients.”

“That would be difficult, ma'am,” he says, and I'm relieved he doesn't ask my name. Apparently discretion is part of his job.

“Nonetheless,” I say. “You do know I came with several friends.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he says. “One of the gentlemen asked for a room adjoining yours, which we have given him. But the doors connecting the rooms will remain sealed unless you give us permission to open them.”

He says all of this with just a bit of urgency, as if Coop has made some kind of mistake asking for the adjoining rooms. I wonder if Rupert's caution has to do with some kind of liability concern on the part of the resort.

“You can unseal them,” I say.

He nods.

“But that's not why I mentioned my friends,” I say. “They're here for relaxation, and they think I am as well.”

That's a lie, of course, but it's one designed to put Rupert and the staff he's in contact with on my side.

“I'm actually here searching for my father.” Another lie. “He's an old spacer, and I found some evidence he left the Nine Planets Alliance in rather shady company. I need a place where I can talk to people, preferably some of the spacers who stop here.”

Rupert studies me, and I think he's actually seeing me for the first time. I wonder if he's recording this conversation for security. If he wasn't before, he probably is now.

He takes in my thinness, the fact that I haven't brought many clothes. It doesn't take much to realize that I have spacer blood in me, even if I tried to hide it, which I'm not.

But lifetime spacers don't have the kind of money I'm waving about, unless they're involved in something illegal. And someone involved in illegal activity wouldn't be as obvious as I'm being about her money.

“Spacers can't afford this place, ma'am,” he says. That's the kind of sentence a butler usually speaks to reassure a rich client that there's no riffraff here. And he seems somewhat confused as he utters it.

I really am not what he expects, and that's a good thing.

“We both know that's not true, Rupert,” I say. “Spacers come here all the time. They bring you food and merchandise. Sometimes they run security patrols, and often they handle currency exchanges. They also bring news of the sector—not the news that hits the public databases, but the kind of news that keeps a place like this alive. The gossip, the stories, the early warnings.”

Rupert is standing very still. He's never had this kind of request before, and he's uncertain what to do.

“There are places behind the scenes,” I say, “places where the normal clients never go. Places that we're probably not supposed to see. And in those places are the berths for spacers stopping here for a few days. There are bars and a few restaurants that do not cater to the upper-crust crowd. That's where I need to go. I need to find out what's going on with my father.”

Rupert takes a deep breath, but masks it by keeping his body very still. He doesn't want me to know how uncomfortable he is.

“How about this, ma'am?” he says. “How about you tell me your father's name, and I'll research the information for you. If I find someone who has seen him, I'll bring that someone to you.”

Implied in all of this, of course, is that I would have to pay for this special service. Probably a bribe to Rupert and a bribe to that someone he brings me. The information would be false, but I wouldn't know that until I've left the resort.

If, of course, I really were a rich daughter looking for her missing and somewhat delinquent father.

“Thanks,” I say, “but that won't work. Because I have a few questions I can't entrust to just anyone. Do you understand me, Rupert?”

He looks trapped. He does understand me, or he thinks he does. He swallows hard. “Ma'am, I could get fired for taking you to that wing of the station.”

I make my gaze flinty. I remember how the rich treated me all those years ago. I tilt my head slightly, so that our gazes are not on the same level. Mine is just slightly higher than his, so that I'm looking down on him.

“You could get fired for not doing what I want, too, can't you?” I ask.

“Ma'am, please,” he says, and now I hear the panic.

I wave a hand at him, dismissing him. “Find me someone else. You're fired.”

“Ma'am,
please
.” He looks at me, and for the first time, I realize how young he is. It takes work for me to remain cold. I want to show him some compassion.

Instead I keep my expression neutral, as if I'm waiting for him to do my bidding.

“May I at least check with my superiors about this?” he asks after a moment.

“Your superiors will want you to accompany me,” I say. “They'll want you to supervise everything I do, and they'll probably tell you to take me to the staff's dining lounge, and tell me it's the spacer bar. That's not what I want.”

“No, ma'am,” he says.

“If they give me permission to go to that wing at all,” I say.

“Ma'am,” he says, “I can arrange this, but I could lose my job.”

“I'll make sure you're compensated.” I almost say that I'll make sure he's compensated enough to tide him over if he does get fired, but I stop myself in time. God knows how much he's getting paid, and I don't want to put myself in that position.

Besides, I can't be the first client he's had who wants to go slumming. There are lower levels on every space station, and on resorts, there are the levels that cater to the darker impulses.

He probably won't send me to the spacers' wing that I've requested. He's going to send me to the bars that are shadier than the ones on the upper levels, the ones where I can find anything for the right price, something that will cater to all my deviate wishes, if I have any.

And that will be good enough.

In fact, that will be better than good, because I can find out what I need there.

“I'll bring you proper clothing, ma'am,” he says, and lets himself out of my room before I can protest.

I smile softly to myself.

My quest for information is finally under way.

R
upert returns with a white blouse similar to his, a black vest, tight black leggings, and black boots. I excuse myself and retreat to the bedroom, which is even more of a surprise. The bed is large and covered in blankets. Entertainment screens cover the walls, and tiny black holounits rest on every surface. So I can change the appearance of the room if I want—maybe even making it some kind of cabana on the beach.

I slip into the clothing, not surprised that it fits. Rupert made sure of that when he put my clothes away. As I put on each piece, though, I make sure nothing is embedded in the fabric or in the seams. If I'm going to be surveyed, and I'm sure I will, I want it to be from the outside, not from something against my skin.

I stop in the gigantic bathroom and look in the mirror. I look like my younger self—the woman who nearly gave up after finding her first Dignity Vessel. All I need are bleary red eyes, a mug of ale in my left hand, and an I-don't-give-a-damn expression on my world-weary face.

I nod at myself, then head back into the living area.

Rupert raises his eyebrows when he sees me. Then he hands me some credit slips. “They're anonymous,” he says. “Don't use your own money.”

As if I would.

“I'm taking you through the staff corridors,” he says. He seems comfortable. He has done this before. “Don't make eye contact, and don't act like you've never seen this before.”

I nod. I don't care if he thinks me naïve. I let him take me back to that entry and then watch as he pushes open a wall panel. We step through.

He glances over his shoulder to make sure I'm following. In here, the corridors are narrow and darker than the area around my room. They twist, clearly avoiding any public area, and slope downward. No lifts, no stairs, just a ramp that is probably harder on the legs, not that anyone cares.

We walk for a good ten minutes before we veer sharply left. Then Rupert pushes open another wall panel, and the cacophony I expected when I left the docking bay hits me.

Voices everywhere, music of a dozen different types blending and clashing, the stench of too many bodies too close, mixed with perfume and incense and a few smoky scents I can't entirely identify.

As I follow Rupert into the wide bazaar, I note three obvious bars and a few places that cater to a less savory crowd. Several prostitutes of both genders and a few of indeterminate gender lean against the wall, watching me.

“The spacer bar is four down,” Rupert says to me.

“Thanks,” I say. “I can find my own way back.”

“No, you can't,” he says. “I'm staying with you.”

I shake my head. “You won't get your money if you stay with me.”

“Ma'am, someone has to keep an eye on you.”

“Especially if you're around calling me ma'am,” I say.

He sighs and looks nervous. I wonder how much of that is an act and how much of it is real.

“I'll be right over there,” he says, nodding toward a pile of chairs near a stand selling jewelry.

His perch puts him in position to see the exits of most of the nearby bars. It also puts him near the obvious prostitutes. I don't complain. He probably does need to help me get back into the staff corridors, although I'm sure I could find a way to my room without him.

I wander past the stalls, looking at jewelry of questionable provenance, paintings, and of all things, rocks threaded with various colors. I wind my way around a few of the stalls so I'm not on the main path, and then I go into a bar two down from the spacer bar Rupert pointed out to me.

As I do, I feel a feathery brush of breath against my cheek. I reach backward with one hand and grab a wrist. Then I turn, yank the wrist upward, and use it as a weapon, to push the man who owns it against a nearby wall. He has spacer bones, fragile and easily broken.

“I don't like pickpockets,” I say, taking one of the credit slips Rupert gave me from the man's clenched fist.

“I didn't do anything,” the man says to me.

“Why don't you not do anything, and let your friends know that anyone who touches me will regret it.”

He glances over his shoulder, and I see a woman clutching her hand to her throat. Apparently this couple doesn't get caught very often. I nod to her, then shove the man in her direction.

I glare at them and at a few of the others nearby just to make sure that no one messes with me. I've been in worse places than this, and I know most of the tricks.

I don't look up to see if Rupert is watching. If he is, he knows that the object lesson he was going to give me—
have you noticed your credit slips are gone?
he was probably planning to ask as we headed back to my room—is now moot. And he may understand that I'm as legitimate as I say I am.

Or maybe he is as buttoned-up as he seems and is sitting in his little chair, terrified that he's going to lose his crummy job.

I slip into the nearest bar, and blink as my eyes adjust. There's actual smoke here. I see the filters on the wall, sucking the smoke inward and probably processing it so that it doesn't contaminate the other filtration systems in the resort. I don't recognize the scent, but it makes my eyes burn.

I slip back out because I have no idea what kind of smoke that is, and if it'll give me some kind of high. I move one doorway over and find myself in a bar just as dark, but without the stinky, grayish ambience.

My entrance makes the conversation stop, and I silently congratulate myself that I have found the right place. There are no pretty people here, no one dressed up so that they can capture the attention of slumming tourists, no one who has a clean table and sharp, avaricious eyes.

The people in this bar come for privacy—privacy that I have just invaded. The only way to get accepted in a bar like this is to come with an invitation, which I do not have, or to let everyone know that I'm aware I'm out of place.

I take the only open table, tucked up against the wall, slide a chair over, and place my boots on it. I sit with my back against that wall, and survey the room with a half grin on my face.

In the past, a place like this would have made me nervous, but truth be told, I miss moments like this. I miss that feeling of danger, that sense of being on a knife's edge, where I just might fall off and hurt myself. I've allowed myself to be cocooned in what's right and proper, focusing on helping others and building something new, and I've been itching to be someplace like this, filled with adventure and a sense that I'm out of my depth.

I'm happiest out of my depth.

A real waitress approaches me, no serving units, no robots, no programmed tables that will then tell an automated bartender what I need.

She balances a tray on her hip. She's as old as I am, her face lined, her eyes tired. She isn't smiling, and I know what she's going to say. She's going to tell me I'm not welcome here.

“I want the house ale,” I say before she can speak, “and answers to a few questions. Then I'll get out of here and let you people get back to your lives.”

Surprise flickers across her face for one brief instant before she gets it all under control again. She doesn't say a word to me. Instead, she pivots and heads back to the bar.

There's a real bartender as well. He leans in as she approaches, probably to find out what the hell is actually going on.

An elderly man from a nearby table gets up, tugs his pants, wipes a hand over his mouth, and then stands behind the chair with my boots on it. He stares at me.

I grin and kick the chair to him, putting my feet on the floor.

He grabs the chair and straddles it. He rests his forearms on the back of the chair and stares at me with rheumy eyes.

“You're out of place, honey.” His voice is gravelly. Apparently he's the designated speaker, which means he has a lot more power than is obvious at first glance.

I don't apologize for being here, nor do I acknowledge what he says. “I just want a few questions answered.”

“I know,” he says. “Missing father, sob story, big search.”

His words make one thing clear: Rupert isn't buttoned-up. He's connected, and he probably told those pickpockets to go after me.

“Let me make it simple for you,” the man says. “No strangers have been in this bar until you walked in. No one knows of any missing father. And you, sweetie, are awfully far away from the Enterran Empire. How did you get here?”

That last surprises me. Is it the way I'm dressed? Or did Rupert let them know that my ship's identification is Empire?

“The Empire?” I ask, keeping my voice nonchalant.

“You're certainly not from around here,” he says. “You fly a fancy ship with a lot of people who are taking a short vacation here. You got money, and someone with money and Empire connections shouldn't be sitting in this bar.”

I smile at him. His little threat calms me down. In fact, I've been expecting this. When he first mentioned the Empire, I worried that somehow—in this vast universe—I managed to walk into a bar far away from home where someone actually recognized me. It wasn't impossible, but it wasn't likely. Although I've had many unlikely things happen to me in my time. I don't rule anything out anymore.

But he hadn't recognized me. He probably uses this tone with every rich tourist who wanders into this place.

“I just need information,” I say again, not confirming or denying anything.

“After you tell me what that energy signature is coming from your ship,” he says.

The
anacapa
drive. I haven't even thought about the low readings it gives off, and how unusual they would seem at any station. This is the first time we've docked anywhere. I should've been prepared for this.

I shrug. “The energy signature is what it is.”

“You tell me or you leave,” he says.

“How about you answer my questions and then I'll leave,” I say.

“Questions in exchange for some information on your ship,” he says.

I shake my head. “When you sat down, you already gave me answers. Those don't sound like they're worth the air it took to speak them, let alone some proprietary information about my ship.”

“Proprietary,” he says. “Big word.”

I don't say anything. I hook my foot around a nearby chair, slide it over, and then rest my boots on it. The chair is just slightly to his left, so I have to turn away from him just a little.

“Lots of missing people go through here,” he says. “Mostly they don't want to get found.”

He gave just a bit. He is interested in that energy signature. I'll have to be very cautious.

“Whoever told you that I'm interested in missing people was mistaken.” I hold up my empty hand, curved as if it is around a mug of ale. “Are we going to have a conversation? Because if we are, I need something to drink.”

He studies me for a moment, and then he grins. He twists slightly, raises a hand, and flags that waitress.

She already has my mug ready. She carries it over, and sets it on the table without even looking at me.

“Thanks,” I say, reaching into my pocket for that credit slip Rupert gave me.

The old man shakes his head. “Your money's not good here. I'll take care of it.”

Hoping to put me in his debt, ever so slightly.

“Thanks,” I say.

“So if you're not searching for a missing relative, what are you doing here?” he asks.

“I want to hear some ghost stories,” I say. “And I figure you people are just the right folks to tell them.”