The Cold Between (22 page)

H
ow much time have we got?”

Ancher consulted his camera. “Three minutes, eighteen seconds,” he said. “You beat him up fast, Chief.”

“No thanks to you.” She had been losing, Elena knew, until Trey had become involved. She had told Ancher to stay out of it, that she wanted it all on vid. In retrospect, she should have specified that he was welcome to interfere if it started to look like she was going to get killed. Not that she was sure he would have.

Trey squeezed her hand. “What is the time limit?”

She turned to him. “Reya Keller let us into the basement and gave us the key to the interrogation room,” she said. “We tied her up and left her in the morgue. We've got another three minutes before she starts yelling.”

Their success, in the end, had come down to Trey. Facing the officer's service rifle, Elena had said, “They are going to kill him,” and the young woman had immediately relaxed. Officer Keller had come up with the plan so quickly Elena wondered if she had already spent time thinking of ways to break people
out of the interrogation rooms. The only hiccup had been when Reya told her someone needed to hit her.

“I am junior,” she said, “but I am a trained officer, and not a bad fighter. You must make it look as if you overpowered me.”

Elena had looked at her, and reminded herself that this woman knew exactly what happened in those interrogation rooms. When she swung her fist, she had been surprised at the force behind it. Reya had raised her eyebrows at her bloody lip and said, “You do not hit like a mechanic.” But she had smiled.

With Reya's help they had found some cuffs, and bound her hands and feet. Before they tied a cloth around her mouth, she had told them she could give them five minutes, no more. “Longer than that,” she said, “and they will suspect that I helped him. They already know I don't believe he is guilty.”

Elena made Ancher climb the stairway first, and check to see who was on the first floor.

“But I'm half-naked! What will they think?”

Elena, who was familiar with what most people thought of the Corps reporters, suspected no one would notice a thing. In truth, Ancher's undershirt did not look entirely out of place as street clothes. A bit light for the weather, perhaps, but it was dark navy and high quality, and matched Luvidovich's blue trousers. He might have been any citizen out for an evening stroll.

She let Trey climb ahead of her, keeping him between her and Ancher until they were well clear of the place. He could not have been long with Luvidovich; it had taken her less than forty minutes after his arrest to break into the station. When she had seen what Luvidovich had done—what he was doing—she had gone
hot with rage and guilt. Her suicidal threat to Stoya had been impulsive, but surely she could have talked them into arresting her as well. Trey should not have been alone. Greg might have come after her, and once he was there she might have been able to appeal to whatever conscience he might have left.

But it would have taken Greg an hour to get there. They would have been long dead, and the question of whether or not he would have helped at all would never have come up.

She focused her attention back on Trey. She had never seen anyone with so many small cuts. She watched him climb the stairs, alert for weakness, for him favoring one leg over the other, for a stumble or a slip. Nobody could take that kind of abuse and just walk away, and yet he was doing just that. He had to be running on adrenaline. She needed to get him to a doctor, no matter what he said.

They emerged onto the fine marble floor, and Elena let the door close quietly behind her, marveling at the contrast between the opulent building and the dungeon they had just left. Ancher started to creep toward the front again, but Trey laid a hand on his arm. When Ancher turned to catch his eye, Trey jerked his head toward the back of the building.

Elena peered toward the rear. It was shadowed, and there were too many doors with lights on between them and the rear exit. There was not, however, the armed guard that she had snuck past five minutes earlier. She looked at Trey and nodded, and he moved ahead to lead them.

He did not let go of her hand.

They moved swiftly and quietly down the dim hallway, and the murmured hum of the evening's business buzzed around them undisturbed. Only one obstacle stood between them and
the exit: an open office door before them, a handful of voices audible from within. No way they could sneak past. Elena looked at Ancher again.

“They'll just arrest me,” he objected.

“They will not,” Trey said firmly.

“What if the desk officer notices I changed my clothes?”

“The desk officer is still at the desk,” Elena told him, hoping it was true.

“Will you whack them with a rolling pin when they lock me up, Chief?” Ancher asked, but after a moment he took a breath, smoothed his hand over his undershirt, and walked up to the open doorway.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. Elena heard the voices go silent. Ancher cleared his throat. “I'm Ancher, with the Corps news team. I hear you've had a breakthrough in the murder case.”

There was a pause. “Who told you that?” The voice sounded suspicious.

“I can't divulge my sources,” Ancher said glibly. “I heard the guy put up a hell of a fight.”

One of the voices scoffed. “Bullshit. He rolled over like a baby, didn't he, Stan?”

“Will you shut up? He's a fucking reporter. Second floor,” the other voice said dismissively. “Officer Keller will give you our official response.”

“Sure. Thanks, guys,” Ancher said. He backed away from the door, grinning, and headed back toward Elena and Trey. “They're in an evidence room,” he said softly. “They can't see the door from there.”

She made Ancher go first, and clung to Trey's arm, walking between him and the open door. They stuck to the shadows and
crept past, and after several seconds she heard the men chatting again.

The rear door was locked with a traditional voice lock, less sophisticated than the new lock Reya Keller had opened for them, and crudely more effective. Elena handed the rolling pin back to Ancher and pulled out her spanner again, nudging it under the edge of the front panel; the tool started to emit a faint yellow light. “It'll trip,” she said, pulling the spanner away. “Best I can do is delay it a little.”

Ancher shook his head. “Forty-three seconds, Chief. How much can you delay it?”

The spanner's internal scanner was crude at best. “Five seconds,” she said, looking at the readout. “Possibly ten. No more.” She looked over at Trey; their short walk had left him gray and clammy. The last thing he needed was pursuit.

But he could read her, and he shook his head. “I will run without complaint,
m'laya,
” he told her. “Two interrogations in one day is quite enough.”

She found herself wanting to argue with him.
He flew this sector for forty-four years,
she reminded herself.
All that time he was fine without you.
She set the spanner and slipped the edge under the faceplate. “As soon as I trip this, you both run. Nobody stops, nobody looks back. Understood?”

The men nodded. Carefully she nudged the spanner into place, hit the jamming signal, and twisted.

The door slid open. Ancher dashed into the alley at a dead run. Before she could stand, Trey had his hand under her arm, hauling her to her feet and dragging her forward so fast she nearly tripped. He headed up the alley, and she sped up to stay with him. Ancher was a few feet ahead of them.

“We need to get to the spaceport,” she said. Behind them, the alarm sounded.

“Left at the sidewalk,” Trey called, and they turned. The sidewalks were well lit and filling up with evening tourists. Trey weaved in and out of them with admirable agility, and she began to hope he was not so badly hurt after all.

“We're going the wrong way,” Ancher yelled. He dropped behind them, and Elena remembered belatedly that he was still taking vid.

“We are not,” was all Trey said. He held on to her hand and kept running. She found she was able to ignore the crowds entirely and just follow his steps.

Trey's circuitous route brought them out in a side street next to the spaceport. There was a loading dock there, and a massive bulkhead that read
IMPORT
/
EXPORT
, but there must have been no cargo on deck. The street was abandoned, and ahead of them Elena could see the lights of the open hangar spilling out into the street.

They stopped. Trey was breathing heavily, and he was looking gray again. Yet he stood tall, and in truth he was less winded than Ancher. The reporter was leaning over, inhaling huge gulps of air, unable to suppress a huge smile.

“Next time you come to town, Chief,” he said, “remind me to train first.”

“Do you have a ship?” Trey asked her.

He would have no idea, she realized. No idea of her conversation with Greg, of the fact that they were entirely on their own. “We will need to appropriate one.”

“Wait,” Ancher said. “You're leaving?”

Elena met Trey's eyes. He looked resigned, but she could tell
he agreed with her. “It isn't safe here,” she answered. “Not right now.”

“Where is it safe?” Trey asked.

“I don't know,” she told him honestly. She did not want to explain in front of the reporter, but she would if she had to.

His eyes widened a little, and then he nodded. “I do,” he said. He looked back up the street. “We will need a medium-range ship, at least.”

“They usually park those in the back, near the tarmac,” she said. If they could find one there, it would certainly improve their odds of escaping.

The three of them walked to the end of the road, and Elena peered around the corner into the hangar. Despite the empty loading dock, the hangar was crowded and active, with civilians as well as spaceport workers milling around the floor. The parking areas were nearly full, with small ships lined up like well-behaved dominos along the walls; the center of the floor was scattered with engines and parts on platforms and tables, being worked on by about a dozen mechanics. She looked toward the back. It seemed their luck was holding: there was a small cruiser right by the entrance that would be fast, and next to it a bulkier ship designed for multi-day trips.

Trey had spied the same pair. “Which one?”

“The larger,” she said. “It's newer, and less likely to be customized.”
Or malfunction on us,
she thought. It also had the advantage of providing them with space and shelter for a number of days, if it came down to that. If they needed more than a few days . . . well, she would worry about that when it happened.

A mechanic came around the ship's nose, taking notes. She waited a moment, but he showed no signs of wanting to leave,
and she cursed. “If I can get him where the rest of the floor can't see him,” she asked, “can you ambush him?”

She looked over at Trey, at his unhealthy pallor and his shaky hands, and hated to ask. But he straightened, and smoothed the lines of Ancher's shirt over his chest. “Give me your weapon,” he said.

She smiled at him and turned over Luvidovich's gun.

She would have preferred his role, she thought. Distracting the mechanic would require finesse. It would require charm, and she was not charming by nature. By nature she found charm to be a futile and often deceptive exercise. She could perform for a crowd, but crowds had a dynamic all their own, and she found she could easily read the mood of a large group. One person? She closed her eyes and thought of talking to Ancher that afternoon, instinctively knowing how to make him listen to her. This was just another act. She shook herself, and straightened, and walked confidently into the hangar.

S
he really did have a remarkable walk, Trey thought, watching Elena saunter easily across the shop floor. Her attire was hardly flattering—a utilitarian military-issue white tank top, and a pair of his sister's ill-fitting tan trousers over square-toed black shoes—but her long stride accentuated the swing of her hips, and her hair tumbled over her shoulders with every step. A moment ago, before she had left him, he had thought she seemed daunted, yet she clearly knew how to play this role. He wondered if she had always been such an odd combination of instinct and self-doubt, if she would ever learn otherwise, if time would help her recognize how extraordinary she was.

He supposed he might be biased.

Elena had reached the mechanic, who turned when she spoke. Trey saw her smile, and when the man took a step toward her, she dropped one hip and tucked a lock of hair nervously behind one ear. She laughed a little at what he said and tilted her head, asking a question; the floor mechanic moved a little closer to her, hands on his hips. If she was still nervous, he could not tell.

“So what are we doing?” Ancher whispered.

“
We
are doing nothing,” Trey told him. “Where she and I are going, you cannot accompany us.”

“But—”

“Mr. Ancher,” Trey said firmly, never taking his eyes from Elena, “you have been a part of saving my life this evening, and for that I am in your debt. But there are favors it is not in my power to grant. You must stay here.”

“How much debt are we talking about?”

Trey turned on him. “Do not assume,” he growled, “that because I am injured I cannot put you out of commission.”

Ancher grinned. “How about an interview? When you get back, of course.”

Trey's heart turned over. He was not at all sure that day would ever come. “I will grant you that interview,” he promised, “but you must look after my family while I am gone. I would not have them endangered because they have taken me in.”

“Safe sister, safe niece, and I get an interview?” Ancher held out his hand. “Deal.”

This time Trey shook it. A million little shocks of pain went through his fingers, which somehow he had not felt when holding Elena's hand.

He turned back. The mechanic was opening an access panel on the ship's snub nose so Elena could see the interior. Now, Trey thought, would be a good time, before the man tried to impress her by taking the engine apart. Without looking back at Ancher, he stepped into the hangar, staying close to the wall, trying for stealth. The polymer floor was cool against his bare feet, and he thought if he could remain as nonchalant as the other civilians wandering around, looking for their shuttles or
trying to find short-range transport, perhaps no one would notice his attire.

Or the blood on his face.

Or how much he was shaking.

He straightened and walked more quickly. He saw Elena ask the mechanic a question, and she gestured at a part of the ship facing the wall; obligingly, the mechanic stepped over, and the two of them were hidden from the rest of the floor. Trey crept silently around the nose of the ship to stand next to her, pulling out Luvidovich's handgun.

The mechanic stared at it dumbly for a moment, then looked over at Elena, confused.

“I am sorry,” she said, and Trey thought she meant it, “but we will need to take this ship.”

The mechanic's eyes shifted to Trey, and the man turned white. “You're the ones who broke out of the police station,” he said faintly.

“We won't hurt you,” Elena assured him, “but we can't have you stopping us, either.”

She had the mechanic stand against the wall, tearing two strips of microfiber from the bottom of her undershirt. The first she used to tie the mechanic's hands, and Trey noticed that even as she made the knot secure, she was careful not to cut off the man's circulation. A mechanic herself, she would know his hands were his livelihood. The second she wound around his head, and into his mouth. This one she tied more tightly.

“Can you breathe?” she asked.

The mechanic nodded, but his wide eyes were so full of fear Trey thought he would have said that anyway. He supposed the fellow had not been robbed at gunpoint before; the reaction was
not really surprising, but it bothered Trey more than he wanted to admit. In all his years of piracy, he had never taken an innocent hostage.

“Sit on the floor, please,” she told him, and the man slid down the wall. Trey kept the gun on him.

She turned away and took a moment to close the access panel. She keyed in a code at the ship's forward door; the door slid open, and the interior lights came on. “I'll get her started,” she told Trey. “Keep him still; I don't want to worry about running him over as we leave.”

She climbed into the ship. Trey's hostage went whiter.

“She will not hurt you, you know,” Trey said. The man was beginning to irritate him. “Stay against the wall and you will be fine. We will be gone in a few minutes.”

The ship started up with a low hum. Trey saw its long, wide feet light up—a modern street-level hover system. This was a luxury craft indeed. “Now,” Elena said from the inside. Trey turned and stepped in.

She closed the door behind him. The ship was furnished like a sitting room, with two comfortable pilot's chairs by the console, and a table with two long sofas in the main cabin. In the rear was a standard-sized door that must have led to a bathroom. They were stealing from some very wealthy people. He sat down next to Elena, who had the manual controls projected before her.

“Automatic was locked,” she told him. “I was hoping the pilot's code was the same as the entry code, but they were more careful. It's going to be a rougher ride.”

Silently, Trey pulled on his shoulder harness, and she grinned.

“She is called
Sartre,
by the way,” she told him.

“I hope that is not prophetic.”

“This place is full of exits,” she pointed out. “We just need to make it through one of them.”

She eased the little ship off the ground, and it rose, almost noiselessly. Through the front window he could see the mechanic, still frozen in panic, his eyes on the ship. Elena nudged it into reverse, overlaying the rear view across the front window. Trey saw people turning; someone shouted. The other station mechanics began moving toward them.

She cursed and gunned the engine, and they shot straight up, stopping within a meter of the high ceiling. She spun the ship around and headed toward the tarmac, but the opening was much lower to the ground, and they would clip at least three ships if they tried to plow through. He could not see how they could escape without risking injury to the people in the hangar.

Beside him, Elena pulled on her own shoulder harness. “I hope you don't get motion-sick,” she said. She was keying in commands to the ship's navigation interface so fast he could not follow them. When she finished, she engaged the program she had just coded, and her hands gripped her seat.

Trey, with no other available evidence, did the same.

The ship shot forward so quickly he thought they would collide with the wall; but before they got there the nose pivoted forward, and the ship was pointing straight down. They dove, making small corrections to avoid the ships that the mechanics were frantically shoving out of the way; and when they reached the opening to the tarmac, their ship righted itself. He heard a crunch as their tail hit a vehicle beneath them, but that was the limit of the damage they caused.

And then they were out in the open.

They sped along the tarmac, and Elena took the controls again, this time shooting them straight up. Trey had a strong stomach; still, he was beginning to become uncomfortable.
Unsurprising,
he thought,
after an evening of torture.
He saw her call up another set of controls, and he felt the vehicle's movements begin to smooth. It was an experienced pilot's trick, using a ship's artificial gravity generator to ease turbulence within a planet's atmosphere. He thought he had grown beyond being surprised by her.

I believe I shall never grow beyond being surprised by her.

The transition to artificial gravity was remarkably smooth; apart from the reorientation and the lessening of g-forces, they might still have been in the atmosphere. The stars appeared before them, and to their right hung Volhynia's lilac-pearl moon. There were no ships in front of them, but Trey knew there would be many right behind.

Sure enough, the ship's emergency comm system engaged automatically. “You will stand down immediately,” said an unfamiliar voice, “or you will be fired upon.”

“Take her,” she said to Trey. “I want to enter our trajectory.”

He took the helm from her and she disappeared onto her knees, opening a panel beneath the steering. “Can't you code it in?” he asked.

“If I code it, it broadcasts our flight plan,” she told him. “It's a safety thing. They put it in all the vehicles sold to the private market. I want us to get lost.”

There were, he knew, a few different ways to get lost at multi-light speeds, but he did not like any of them. “This is something you have done before.”

“Once,” she said. “And I'm still here. Can you see if this creature has weapons?”

Trey queried the ship's inventory, and came up with one anomaly. He gave a bark of laughter. “We are carrying fireworks.”

“A lot?”

“Enough to create a distracting heat signature, at least.”

“Excellent.
Sartre,
” she said, “tell us if any of those birds behind us are aiming at us.”

The ship answered without pause. “Four ships have locked tracking weapons on us,” it said. The voice was friendly and male, explaining their fate like an enthusiastic tour guide.

“What kind of weapons?”

“I am not equipped to discern that information.”

She cursed, and mumbled something Trey thought was “Bloody tourists.”

“Releasing fireworks,” he told her, and shot a half-dozen missiles in the general direction of their pursuers. Behind them the star field lit with orange and yellow and green, temporarily obscuring their pursuers. A missile sped past them, but the rest plunged toward the dissipating explosives.

“Will you be much longer?” He readied another half-dozen fireworks, but he was not sure the trick would work a second time.

“Seven seconds,” she told him. He could see her fingers working furiously.

“This is your last warning,” the comm system blared. “Stop your engines and we will escort you back to Novanadyr.”

“Four seconds.”

Trey released the fireworks.

“Two seconds. One—”

The ship's lights dimmed, and the stars around them exploded into white light. For a moment, less than a second, he saw the familiar blue and white streaks of the FTL field, and then an instant of stars again.

Dear God, she's doing a hot reverse.

The ship's lights went dimmer this time, and although he knew he was probably imagining things, he thought he heard the metal of the hull creaking in objection to this harsh treatment. And then the stars burst again, and he heard the engine hum, spinning to capacity, and he wondered if the field would fail and they would be pulled into strings.

But the hum decreased, and the interior lights came up, and the front window polarized to shield them from the worst of the bright light. He looked down, and met Elena's eyes, and for the first time since he had been arrested he thought he might live to see another day.