The New Space Opera 2 (21 page)

He would have nodded nicely enough at anyone who looked up as he left, but as usual, no one did. Out on the street, where everyone could see him and what he was, he walked as if invisible.

Kristine Kathryn Rusch started out the decade of the nineties as one of the fastest-rising and most prolific young authors on the scene, took a few years out in mid-decade for a very successful turn as editor of
The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction
, and, since stepping down from that position, has returned to her old standards of production here in the twenty-first century, publishing a slew of novels in four genres, writing fantasy, mystery, and romance novels under various pseudonyms, as well as science fiction. She has published more than twenty novels under her own name, including
The White Mists of Power, The Disappeared, Extremes
, and
Fantasy Life
, the four-volume Fey series, the Black Throne series,
Alien Influences
, and several
Star Wars, Star Trek
, and other media tie-in books, both solo and written with husband, Dean Wesley Smith, and with others. Her most recent books (as Rusch, anyway) are the SF novels of the popular Retrieval Artist series, which include
The Disappeared, Extremes, Consequences, Buried Deep, Paloma, Recovery Man
, and a collection of Retrieval Artist stories,
The Retrieval Artist and Other Stories
. Her copious short fiction has been collected in
Stained Black: Horror Stories, Stories for an Enchanted Afternoon, Little Miracles: And Other Tales of Murder
, and
Millennium Babies
. In 1999, she won Readers Award polls from the readerships of both
Asimov's Science Fiction
and
Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine
, an unprecedented double honor! As an editor, she was honored with the Hugo Award for her work on
The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction
, and shared the World Fantasy Award with Dean Wesley Smith for her work as editor of the original hardcover anthology version of
Pulphouse
. As a writer, she has won the Herodotus Award
for Best Historical Mystery (for
A Dangerous Road
, written as Kris Nelscott) and the
Romantic Times
Reviewer's Choice Award (for
Utterly Charming
, written as Kristine Grayson); as Kristine Kathryn Rusch, she won the John W. Campbell Award, been a finalist for the Arthur C. Clarke Award, and took home a Hugo Award in 2000 for her story
Millennium Babies
, which made her one of the few people in genre history to win Hugos for both editing
and
writing.

Here, she spins the suspenseful tale of an interstellar agent who tries to come in from the cold—only to find that the place where she ends up isn't very warm either.

S
he walked into the docking ring, wearing an all black tunic over black pants, outlined with silver trim. The suit looked like half the governmental clothing in the galaxy, which, she knew, made it impossible to tell exactly where she was from.

She would use the clothes, her demeanor, and her old identification chip, which was still active, to get into the ship.

The docking ring circled the entire starbase. She had entered through doors 65–66. She hadn't been in this part before, but she only knew that because of the numbers. Otherwise, everything looked the same.

The docking ring was wide. The walking platform threaded its way through the ring. Arching above and below it was the ring itself, all black cable and gray siding.

Most starbases used see-through material on their rings, so that everything remained visible—the ships, the space beyond, even the planets of the nearby systems, which generally looked small enough to cup in a single hand.

Here though, everything was hidden. This starbase didn't even have an official name, although its docking registry called it Starbase Alpha, one of half a dozen Starbase Alphas she had visited during her career.

The old-timers called this starbase the NetherRealm, which was much more appropriate. The NetherRealm existed between the Nechev System and the Kazen System. Both systems had fought over the NetherRealm in the past, both systems had owned it once, and both systems found that they couldn't defend it.

Finally, they negotiated their coordinates to leave a small slice of space to the NetherRealm and considered the battle lost.

As long as she was here, she would be safe.

At least, that was the theory. It was, as yet, untested.

The walking platform branched to each docking site. Unlike other starbases where the docking ring doors led directly into the ship, the docking ring doors here recessed into the gray sides. A ring of sickly yellow lights were the only indication that a berth was occupied.

It had taken her two days to locate the ship. To get the docking codes and the entry passes, she had to violate a personal covenant. At least the docking agent's hair wasn't as greasy as it looked, but his skin smelled of garlic. She had actually had to spend money for a water shower to get the stench off herself.

She shuddered at the memory, then she made herself focus. She squared her shoulders, adjusted her tunic, and strode purposely across the walking platform, heading for berth 66-CE.

Her heels clicked on the platform. Two human guards stepped out of their guardhouses, built into the side of the ring, and watched her.

At least sixteen robotic heads moved from the arches, watching her as well.

She resisted the urge to smile. Who was it—her first instructor, André? Or Dmitry?—who used to say,
It is always best to smile when you're on camera; then they know you know that you're being watched
.

She didn't care if they knew. They were going to catch her. She didn't need to pretend a bravado she did not feel.

Berth 66-CE had eight burned-out panels. The circling yellow light would fade as it reached those panels, then reappear as it passed them.

She reached the control panel and managed to press the first sequence in the override code before a robotic hand slid out of the wall and clamped on her wrist. The hand's grip was too tight and extremely painful, probably by design.

She didn't flinch, however. She just brought up her other hand and pressed the rest of the code.

The second robotic hand lowered as the docking door kicked into its release sequence. The thuds behind it were reassuring even as the fingers of her right hand slowly turned purple.

“Don't know what you think you're doing,” a male voice said behind her. “The hand won't let you go, even if you tried it. And I'll just lock the door up tight again.”

She turned enough so that she could see one of the guards. He was beefy and young, his flesh jiggling in his too-tight suit. His appearance told her that he'd been raised on the base in the artificial gravity; he pre
ferred his beer to exercise, so he only did the minimum routine required by his job; and he'd worked security in the docking ring since he'd gotten out of mandatory classes—which couldn't have been that long ago.

She glared at him. “I am here to inspect the ship.”

“You're not one of ours,” he said.

“No, of course not.” She nodded toward the docking door. “I'm one of theirs.”

Her wrist ached. Her fingers were going numb. But she didn't look at them. She continued to glare at him.

He swallowed visibly, then he licked his lower lip. He'd clearly never come across this situation before.

“How do you think I got the codes?” she said.

She hoped the ruse would work, that the docking agent hadn't been lying when he said he never did things like that. In those situations, she usually took the word “never” to mean “rarely,” but she couldn't be sure. Sometimes it meant “always.” Given how nervous the agent had been, she believed in “rarely.”

Now she was putting that belief to the test.

“Check my ID,” she said.

The guard glanced around and licked his bottom lip again. The robotic heads were all turned in his direction. If she ever planned a return trip to this docking bay for a similar reason, she would use that design feature; she'd plan an old-fashioned distraction on one level, while she broke into another.

But that was a future job—if there were going to be future jobs. This was now, and she had to concentrate.

The other guard meandered over. He was thinner and older, with lines around his eyes and mouth. He had traveled on a ship without artificial gravity, and it had had an effect on his entire build. He probably was as fragile as he looked.

Clearly, then, the starbase had human guards for reasons other than thuggish security. The robotic equipment obviously handled that kind of security very, very well.

“Trouble?” the second guard asked, pointedly looking at her captured wrist.

This time, she looked too. Her hand was swelling. The stupid robotic clench had shut off her circulation—and if it went on too long, it would become dangerous.

“Says she's authorized,” the younger guard said.

“We didn't hear anything,” the second guard said to her.

“Clearly you didn't,” she said, “although your docking authority did, or I wouldn't have the codes. Now, check my identification before my hand falls off and I have to sue someone.”

The second guard reached into a pocket built into the waist of his uniform and removed a thumb-sized scanner. She hadn't seen one like that before—it looked older and clunkier than those she was used to.

But she also knew things were different here, often on purpose. The starbase might have been building its own scanners, since so many manufactured ones sent information back to the manufacturer as a matter of course.

He held the thing over her swollen skin, then touched the robotic hand. It let go.

She couldn't actually feel that the grip was gone, but her hand fell to her side, banging into her thigh before she grabbed her right elbow with her left hand, stopping the movement. Pain echoed through her hand, exacerbated by the blow to her leg.

She winced, because she was expected to.

“Sorry,” the second guard said, even though he didn't sound in the least apologetic.

“Don't know what you'll find,” the first guard said, nodding toward the berth and, by extension, the ship. “They won't answer our hails. They've been berthed for thirty-six hours now, and no one has come in or gone out. After the initial contact, we haven't heard a thing.”

She pretended that all of this was new to her, even though it wasn't. First, she had located the ship within the nearest sector of space—which had been hard enough; chartered cruise ship companies didn't like to reveal their high-end yachts' locations, especially to someone not in the database. Then she had to identify the ship's registry and docking number, actually hacking into the docking agent's database during the fifteen minutes he'd allowed her alone.

That was when she discovered the ship had arrived but hadn't moved or done anything except an automated contact before landing.

“If that's true,” she said to the guards, “then why haven't your inspectors contacted the ship?”

“Base law. We're not to try for 168 hours.”

Everything on this base was done in Earth hours. Earth days didn't exist. It was just another way that the NetherRealm established its independence, and it was annoying.

Apparently base law didn't let them establish contact for an entire week.

A lot could go wrong in a week.

She rubbed her wrist, partly for show, and partly to remind them they'd imprisoned a woman who was simply trying to do an authorized job.

“We got word that they were smuggling weapons on this ship,” she said. “The base has given me permission to inspect. You're welcome to help if you'd like.”

They looked at each other. The younger guard seemed eager—more confirmation that he hadn't done much in his life besides guard the docking ring—but the older guard shook his head.

“Your people, your problem,” he said. “You realize that we have a different list of contraband items than Kazen does, right?”

“I know,” she said. “But if I find contraband on the ship before anyone leaves, it's still in my territory.”

So long as no one had disembarked, a ship in the NetherRealm was subject to the law of the sector it had come from. Which was why most ships sent at least one member of the crew into the NetherRealm immediately upon arrival.

“Okay,” the second guard said in a voice he clearly meant as official. “We got that on record. You're entering before they disembark, so you've got jurisdiction.”

“Thanks,” she said.

The first guard pressed the secondary code into the docking door. It rolled open, revealing an empty airlock, coated in bright yellow light which, on the NetherRealm, meant all-clear.

She stepped into the airlock, and stopped for a moment to steady herself.

Things inside that ship had to be bad. No one had gotten out. Weren't cruises all about stopping and seeing places? Even starbases. Especially starbases as famous as the NetherRealm. There had to be an approved track for the tourists to go on, one that prevented them from getting mugged while still allowing them to shop in the NetherRealm's black market.

The airlock closed behind her, and then she hit the comm. She identified herself as an inspector, just in case the guards were listening. Besides, that should get a quicker response from the ship itself.

What it got was a lot of nothing. No static, no answer. Not even an attempt.

She tried three times, gave up, and punched in the override code the docking agent had given her. He wasn't even supposed to have it. Only the NetherRealm's Security Force—their police force, in essence—was supposed to have it. But in a place this corrupt, it didn't surprise her that the override codes had trickled to several nonapproved personnel.

The interior doors opened and the stench nearly knocked her backward.

Corpses. Rotting corpses. She'd recognize that smell anywhere.

Her stomach clenched. She put a hand over her mouth and nose, breathing through her fingers. Then she stepped into the ship and nearly tripped over a body.

She looked down.

He was young, thin, with a shock of white-blond hair and skin the color of porcelain—at least, on this side. On the back, his hair was matted and black with blood. But the blood hadn't seeped, which either meant the head wound was superficial, or he had died before bleeding out.

She crouched. She pushed the hair away from his face, noting that while his skin was clammy, it was also still warm to the touch.

His lashes were long, his cheekbones solid. He was a boy, just at the cusp of his teenage years.

“Misha,” she whispered.

She felt for a pulse, found it, thready and weak. He was nearly dead. If she'd waited for the required week for contact, he would have been dead.

She scooped him in her arms and tossed him over her shoulders, his arms flapping against her knees. Her knees buckled at his weight; she hadn't expected it of such a thin body.

She carried him back through the airlock, trying not to think of the damage she might be doing to him.

But she couldn't call for help—not here. The ship wasn't NetherRealm territory. It still belonged to the Kazen Sector, and she didn't know the protocols to get NetherRealm authority here.

So she had to take him into the NetherRealm proper.

The docking door opened. The guards peered in, looking stunned. They didn't expect an inspector to be carrying a young boy over her shoulder like a sack of clothing.

“People are dead in there,” she said, “but he's alive. There may be others who are still breathing.”

Like Yuri. Maybe Yuri was still alive.

But she couldn't go back and look for him.

Not with Misha so close to death.

She didn't dare.

 

In the hospital wing, she had to give them a name she hadn't used in nearly seven years. Technically, it was her name, although it didn't even sound like her name anymore:

Halina Layla Orlinskaya.

Yes
, she kept saying over and over.
Yes, this boy is my son
.

My son
.

Misha.

Once she'd cradled him, skin wrinkled and red, covered with blood then, too, but her blood—the blood they shared. She had wiped his eyes with her fingers, then his little mouth, and he had started to suckle on her thumb.

Then her work called her back and, like a fool, she went.

Yuri raised him. Yuri loved him. Yuri would have protected him.

Yuri, whom she hadn't been able to go back for.

If it had been a mission, she would have dumped the boy on the passageway and gone back, found someone else alive, brought that person out, and kept going back, back, until others arrived to help her.