The New Space Opera 2 (52 page)

“Well, we'll go to our rooms now.” Bryce held out his hand for the keys.

“Here you go, then,” the man said. “You have a nice stay.”

Bryce led the way down the passage indicated. Their rooms, he noted, were at the very end of a quiet corridor. Too quiet. Too much a dead end.
A red “emergency exit” light glowed across from their doors. He pushed the key against its pad on the room door; it made the right sound and the door opened. A quality door, anyway: thick, tough. Bryce touched it as he passed. The boys followed him in, Karl radiating resentment and Evan radiating equally strong perkiness, both of them radiating brotherly competition.

Inside, the first room looked like it had once been part of a true high-quality suite: a large, uncluttered sitting room with couch, chairs, desk with dataports, entertainment console. It still had a faint “dead air” odor and the furniture—though clean and less worn than that in the arrival lounge—looked dull, the beige/cream/black decor decades out of date. One of the lights flickered a little. Bryce pulled out his security scanner. The suite should be secure, and his keycard should light up when he activated his own scanner…it did, and the suite's own surveillance/security seemed to be functional and adequate, though hardly top-of-the-line.

Executive-level suites usually had two bedrooms, sitting room, large bath, and kitchenette. Bryce checked them all, while Evan turned on the entertainment system in the sitting room and Karl wrestled him for the controller, got it, and turned it off again. Bryce ignored this; he wasn't their tutor, he was their protection.

The kitchenette's cooler was on; the ice maker produced ice when he pressed the button. The cooker's heating elements hadn't been tampered with; the oven still had its manufacturer's seal and had never been used. The cleaning cabinet appeared to work when he put in a plate from the cupboard: it reported 0.1 gram of recyclable waste had been transferred to the station's main vat.

The bath, the room with the most lethal possibilities, checked out as well. No cross-wired plumbing facilities. He disabled the options for toilet seat temperature control—every security expert and most criminals knew about that method of murder—and scanned for implanted needles, actually the commonest way of rendering someone unconscious. Both bedrooms…beds, closets, chairs, floor, entertainment centers: players and controllers all passed as safe.

He left the boys in that suite while he checked out the adjoining one. Just as dull and apparently just as safe. He could find nothing to explain his sense of unease except the coincidences piling up…but coincidences happened. Three times wasn't always enemy action.

He just didn't want to miss it when it was.

Back in the other suite, Karl had finally given in to Evan's complaints
and had the entertainment center on again. “Only four choices,” Karl said. “A program too childish even for Evan, something you have to have an adult ID for—I can imagine what that is—local news, and a parpaun tournament. And three games we wore out five years ago. Even Evan could get to the top level in about five minutes.”

“It will play your own flakes,” Bryce said.

Karl made a face. “I've seen everything I've got with me; the rest is locked in the luggage bin. Did you forget that?”

Bryce reminded himself that Karl would, inevitably, grow out of the stage he was in, but hoped it would be soon, the bored, world-weary, sulky stage being tiresome to live with. His more serious problem was how to arrange the three of them in the two suites. The boys would be happier—well, Karl would—if they were in one, each having his own bedroom, and Bryce were in the other. But here at the end of a long empty corridor, either that last suite or the one in front of it could offer opportunities to kidnappers or other criminals, and being separated from the boys by a door they could lock on the inside…no.

He'd have to disable the connecting doors' locks to ensure that he had access, and then he might as well sleep in the sitting room. No hardship—he'd slept far worse places, including here on Novice Station, but still too far from the boys, whose bedrooms were on the far side of their sitting room. They'd all stay in one suite, for sleeping; the boys could use the entertainment consoles in the other when awake.

“We have a security issue,” he said to the boys. Karl sneered; Evan grinned. “This situation is not the safest. We're all going to sleep in here—you two in the master bedroom—”

“No!” Evan said. “He snores.”

“Me! You snore, and you kick.”

“There are two large beds; you have earplugs. This is the safest arrangement and I'm paid to ensure your safety.”

“And I suppose you want us to stay in this suite, with no real entertainment, for three whole days?”

“No,” Bryce said. “You'll have to eat, of course. When I've secured the suites, we'll go see what we can find.”

“Thank you for that,” Karl said, and stared at the wall while Bryce shut down the entertainment center.

Bryce led the way back down the long passage, alert to anything that might happen, but he heard no sounds and saw nothing. None of his devices vibrated or buzzed or flashed. As he'd expected, the man who'd let
them in was nowhere to be seen when they came into the reception area; the door opened to let them out into the public corridor. Bryce queried his parle: Jargooli's Junction would close in a few minutes, but Sheehan's Bar & Grill, across the corridor, claimed to be open all the time.

Jargooli's had already closed when they got there, beaded curtains pulled across the opening behind the security barrier. By the lingering fragrances, their food might be better than their spelling; Bryce decided they'd try it for breakfast. From Sheehan's entrance, light and noise spilled out into the corridor. Bryce looked at the menu displayed outside:
HERE'S YOUR MEAT
! in glowing orange letters above a list of steaks, chops, ribs.

Memory churned his stomach. The only real meat on Novice Station would be here, in the Premier Section, or in the private residences of the stationmaster and his cronies. For the commoners, vat-manufactured, extruded stuff was standard, the daily protein ration barely enough for adults, let alone growing boys Karl's age.

He led the boys in. About half the tables were occupied, mostly by solitary drinkers, but one filled by five large men laughing and talking a little too loud. Not good. But the smells were right. A chunky man in a stained apron came forward. “Travelers, eh? Late arrival? Want a meal?”

“That's right,” Bryce said, nodding at the boys. “A quiet table, if you have one.”

“Heard there was a yacht in. Waiting for
Altissima
, are you?”

Rumor spread faster than light; trouble could spread as fast. Bryce nodded. “Got to get these boys to school,” he said.

“School…” The man's expression hinted at something else; Bryce chose to ignore it and took the menus he handed over. He offered one to each boy.

“I'll be in middle this year,” Evan said to the man. “Graduated primary last term.”

“Congratulations,” the man said.

“Don't bother our host,” Bryce said. Evan knew better than to divulge any personal details to strangers; he was doing it to annoy Karl.

“I'll have the biggest steak you have,” Karl said, leaning back without looking at the menu. “Rare. If you have potatoes, I'll have two, baked, loaded. No salad. What are your desserts?”

“Our biggest steak is two kilos,” the host said. “Of course, you can always take the leftovers with you.”

Karl gave him a tight grin. “There won't be any leftovers.”

“Very well. If you do finish it, and the potatoes, and dessert, it's free.
Desserts are fruit cobbler—blackberry or apple, real fruit, not dried—or cheesecake or chocolate melt. Though if you puke in our 'fresher, you have to mop it up.”

For a moment only, Karl looked daunted, but then he shrugged. He did not, however, order dessert immediately.

Evan, after a quick glance at Bryce, chose a smaller steak, stir-fried vegetables, and rice. Bryce himself chose the smallest steak on the menu, salad, stir-fried vegetables…he had no intention of sleeping heavily.

Predictably, he and Evan were through with their meal long before Karl, with nothing to do but stare at the spectacle while Karl kept on, doggedly. Bite after bite…not rushing (he had that much sense); the giant steak shrank, the two baked potatoes vanished. Finally, Karl was done and the host reappeared.

“Good job,” he said to Karl. “Now for dessert.” Karl looked miserable, but choked down most of a large serving of cobbler. The host nodded as he saw the remains. “Considering you ate two potatoes, that's an honorable win. Your dinner, sir, is free.”

 

Bryce slept lightly, waking when Karl made the expected trip to the main bathroom. Sympathy would be an insult; he lay awake, listening, reassured by the sounds of Karl cleaning up afterward. The host at Sheehan's (whose name, he'd confided, was Oscar Kaldenberg) had known where they could buy toiletries, so they all had dentabs and other necessities; the boys had bought the last two pairs of pajamas in the store.

In the morning, he checked
Altissima
's status on the board: still
DELAYED
. Still no ETA. Karl had no desire for a breakfast steak and eggs, so that left “orgenic” foods.

Breakfast at Jargooli's Junction meant aggressively healthy food served by an aggressively cheerful woman determined to educate them on the advantages of “orgenic” supplies and the benefits of detoxification with a particular brand of bowel cleanser on display along with “puur, neturel” diet enhancers. Karl, she pointed out, had dark circles around his eyes. Bryce tried repeatedly to shoo her away, but she was oblivious, exuding determined goodwill and a sense of her duty to save them all from irregularity. They choked down bowls of something that tasted like shredded wallboard, topped with fruit of a peculiar magenta color and an orange iridescence, and fled the place at last.

A stroll up and down the short corridor of mostly closed stores offered nothing in the way of refreshment. There was no gymnasium, not even
an exercise room at the Premium Suites. Once he'd seen the upper-class lounges, Bryce had imagined that even Novice harbored something like that, a place for the rich and pampered to spend a few hours being even more pampered lest they suffer a moment's boredom or hardship. But this was pathetic. He couldn't really blame the boys for their boredom; he was bored too.

Back at the hotel, a sour-faced woman now sat at the registration console staring at its display.

“Do you have any other entertainment flakes?” he asked.

“No. We don't get enough call for 'em,” she said, without looking up.

“Thank you,” Bryce said. He led the way back to their rooms. One of his devices chirped when he put the key to the door.

“Someone's been in the rooms,” Bryce said. “Probably cleaning staff.” He hoped it was cleaning staff, though they hadn't been gone that long and he'd expected an automated cleaning service. But the beds had been made, the bathroom scoured, the entertainment controller replaced in its slot rather than out on the table where the boys had left it.

“So now what?” Karl said, slumping into the couch. “After that
wonderful
breakfast…”

“Now I run another screen, and then we'll talk,” Bryce said. He checked every room again, ignoring Karl's sighs and Evan following him around like a puppy. Nothing. Nothing he could find, anyway.

He queried his parle again. Beyond the Premier Lounge, Novice claimed to offer an enticing array of merchandise and entertainment. Flakes and cubes for all varieties of entertainment machines, clothes, restaurants with more range than the two here…perhaps if he went out and got the boys some flakes, some clothes…but he knew that would not satisfy them. They were the age to be restless and active; they had spent their vacations doing exciting things; they were not going to sit quietly for hours with flakes he chose for them, knowing that across a barrier was all that the parle promised.

If only he could have talked to his employer—but he couldn't. He had to make the decision himself.

“We're going out,” he said. Karl sat up and lost the sulky expression for a moment. Evan was, as usual, bright-eyed and eager. “But there are rules to be followed. It's not safe—not here, in particular.”

Karl slouched back. “We have to be good, quiet, obedient—”

“No,” Bryce said, sharply enough that Karl gaped for a moment. “You have to be wary and alert, and ready to react instantly if necessary.” He
pulled out one of his cases and opened it. “See these wires?” Hair-thin, nondescript mid-brown, they would be invisible in the boys' hair—in most hair. “You'll wear them. Come over here, Evan.” He parted the boy's hair, and touched the active tip to his scalp. It adhered instantly, growing into the scalp. “Karl—” Karl heaved himself up and let Bryce attach one to him.

“What does it do?”

“I can't tell you. If you don't know, you can't spill it.” He could, but with any luck and some common sense, he shouldn't be in danger of doing so. Seek-nannies should be boosting their resistance to the more common neurotoxins, enhancing attention span and ensuring that biometric scanners would register incorrect values for anything human eyes couldn't see.

“I wouldn't—”

“You would under some circumstances,” Bryce said. “Now pay attention, both of you. We should be fine. It's likely nothing will happen. But if anything does happen, it's likely to be bad…someone will have figured out who you are and what I am. You are worth a fortune as hostages held for ransom, and more as reprogrammed agents with easy access to your parents.”

“Brain-miners?” Karl asked.

“Yes. You're still in the age range; Evan's perfect for it. You could be fitted with situation-dependent compulsions to kill, to steal, to destroy. Or you could be mined completely and sold to a pleasure-house—a quick genefrack and your DNA would be different enough to pass scans as someone else.”