The New Space Opera 2 (53 page)

They both looked almost as worried as he wanted them.

“Your safety depends on your real identities not being known. You know that, you've been taught that, but you don't realize how easy it is for those tiny fragments you don't think of—like your brag about leaving primary, Evan—to be gathered and correlated and used to locate you. When we go through Immigration and Customs, to leave this lounge for the main station, your present, real DNA will go into their database. How long do you think it would take a criminal who had a sample for comparison to hack the data?”

“Nobody can hack the Immigration databases,” Karl said. “They're the most secure—”

“Nothing is totally secure,” Bryce said. “It's been done.” He waited for a reaction, didn't get one, and went on. “Here's what we do. I'm going
to give you a code phrase. If I say ‘Oh, applejack,' it means you both take off, at once. Doesn't matter if I say it quietly, or yell, or it sounds like I'm joking. Leave right then. Stay together if you can. Go to the first law enforcement kiosk you can find, and punch every emergency button on it. When you get a response, ask for an escort back here.”

“Where will you be?” Karl asked.

“Rear guard,” Bryce said. “If all goes well, we'll be back together in no time and nothing more will happen. If not, if things have gone badly, you'll have to keep Evan and yourself safe until
Altissima
arrives. Now—the second code, from you to me. ‘Mr. Henson said—' That means you've noticed something and we have to talk. Put it in school context. ‘Last year in math, Mr. Henson said—' Or anything that's obviously a reference to school.”

“What's applejack?” Evan asked.

“An expression my older brother used to use, when he thought I was too young to learn profanity.”

“You never mentioned an older brother.”

“He died,” Bryce said. “It's not important now. What's important is that you both understand: this could be perfectly safe…or not.”

They both nodded. Bryce set the room security again and led the way down the corridor. The sour-faced woman wasn't in the reception area. No one was. Were she and the man married? Partners? Up to no good? Or just lazy and incompetent? Bryce pulled his mind away from that as they came out into the public corridor and turned into the main lounge area. The automated clerk at the information desk appeared to be on, if the status lights meant anything, but Bryce didn't bother with it.

Immigration and Customs bracketed the exit from the Premier Lounge to the rest of Novice Station. Bryce put his ID against the registration plate, and the first door slid aside. A man in a green uniform sat behind a high desk. “Welcome to Novice Station,” he said. “We require a level-two bioscan and current legal identification from a governmental entity known to us, or a level-four bioscan if you have no such identification…”

“Manus Trinity,” Bryce said.

“Accepted,” the man said. “Advance to the red line, please—are those minors with you?”

“They are,” Bryce said.

“We require proof of biological parenthood or proof of legal status allowing travel with unrelated minors. Do they have legal identification?”

“Yes,” Bryce said.

“Are they your biological get?”

“No. I am their uncle.” So said his legal ID chip, and so said the implant that delivered a sufficient supply of related DNA to confuse most scans.

“Ah. A relative. Excellent. I will now read your identification and then your bioscan.” He took the ID chip, fed it into a reader. Bryce looked where he was told; a light flashed, checking his retinal pattern, and a needle retracted with one drop of his blood. “There you are, then. Novice Station has accepted your identity. Now for your minors.”

Karl and Evan both went through the procedure, with Bryce watching. “Customs next,” Bryce said, turning to the other side of the narrow passage, where another man in green awaited them. They had no luggage and the only contraband on their persons was a shell in Evan's pocket.

“What'd you keep that for?” Karl asked.

“It was pretty,” muttered Evan. “It wasn't hurting anything.”

“It might,” Bryce said. “I thought I told you to empty your pockets before we even arrived.”

“You did. I just…never mind.” Evan glared at Karl; Karl looked more lofty than sulky, and Bryce rolled his eyes for the benefit of the Customs officer, who gave a wry smile.

Then it was out the last doorway, into the bustling life of Novice Station. It had improved, Bryce thought, or perhaps most things looked better if you weren't broke, scared, and alone.

“Clothes first,” he said. “Then food.”

“I'm hungry now,” Evan said.

“So am I,” Karl said. “That cereal wasn't enough.”

“Fine,” Bryce said. Hungry boys were cranky boys; if he kept them full they might even want to go back and take a nap. “Let me just ask…” His parle displayed a wide variety of eateries nearby. He let them choose from a short list.

This time, Karl didn't try to show off by overeating; he picked a soup-and-sandwich combination. Evan ignored the soup and opted for a sandwich. Bryce had chosen a corner table away from the entrance and ate his own small meal slowly, watching the flow of traffic past the entrance and within the eatery itself. Nobody paid them much attention; the boys' slightly rumpled clothes looked much like anyone else's, unless someone recognized the subtle details.

He considered options. The boys needed some clothes for the next couple of days, and might need more if
Altissima
was delayed again and they took the chartered yacht. Leaving behind their luggage—including
his own—in
Altissima
's luggage bins bothered him; the boys might have left something there that would give away their real identities, and then this set of covers would be blown. Station security might be willing to open the bins, but that had its own risks. If the chartered yacht couldn't get clearance to dock at Blue to pick them up, they'd have to submit their luggage to Customs and have it taken through the station. Many opportunities for problems there.

After the meal, the boys were more energetic, not less, eager to find stores, entertainment kiosks, excitement. Bryce resigned himself to shepherding them through one or more entertainment outlets after getting them some clothes, but insisted on clothes first.

“Why are we getting so much?” Evan asked, as Bryce added another pair of pajamas, several sets of underwear, and ship boots to the stack of clothes in front of Evan. “We're only going to be here a couple of days.”

Bryce explained about the luggage bins. “You'll need more than one change of clothes if we take the yacht and can't get the luggage out of storage.”

Evan scowled. “My favorite player's in there! I don't want to lose it. Or my favorite ball—”

“
Altissima
will pick it up, whether we're on her or not, and I'm sure your luggage will catch up with you,” Bryce said. “In the meantime, you can have a new player. And a new ball. And anything else within the luggage limits of the yacht.” One advantage of their economic status—as long as he was spending money on the boys, he had unlimited credit through their father. Evan's face relaxed.

“And speaking of the yacht,” Bryce said, “we should go by their offices and check in with them.”

“Are you sure
Altissima
's going to be later?” Karl asked.

“No, but while we have time is the right time to check our options.”

Their clothing purchases would be tubed to their hostelry; Bryce paid an expedited shipping and insurance fee for extra security. “This way,” Bryce said, consulting his parle.

Allsystems' storefront on Novice had only the name itself—with the familiar logo—on a black-glass door with a buzzer for entry. Bryce's pocket scanner vibrated against his leg…of course they would have visual and auditory scanners out here and possibly bioscans as well. He pushed the button. A voice—the same, he thought, he had spoken to the day before—asked his business.

“Gosslin, about the charter,” he said.

The door hummed aside, and Bryce saw a narrow passage with an opening to the left at the far end. His pocket scanner chirped; Bryce ignored it. Allsystems had a reputation for paranoia on the smaller markets it serviced. He led the boys in.

The same woman he'd seen in the parle came to the entrance of the office to greet him. “Bryce Gosslin? Pleased to meet you in person. I'm Cevrilene Baskari. These are your…”

“Nephews,” Bryce said. “Karl and Evan.” As the boys looked around the office, he gave it his own assessment. Allsystems had luxury yachts for lease, in some systems, but made its profit with “business class” vessels and even less luxurious “group holiday charters.” Firms that specialized in luxury travel had no offices at places like Novice. Here, Allsystems' white-walled rooms, dark blue carpet, gray tweed–upholstered chairs and settee probably passed for elegance, along with the scarlet flower in a clear glass vase on Cevrilene Baskari's polished black desk.

“I'm sure you realize our scans collect some biometric data from every visitor,” Baskari said. “These data are kept strictly confidential and should not interfere in any way with your use of legal identities while on Novice or after. Still, if you insist, I can give my bond to destroy them after each visit to this office.”

As a fishing expedition, it was more delicate than most. Were their identities merely legal, or were they real? Bryce did not trust Allsystems' confidentiality software, but he did trust the wires he'd planted in the boys' hair.

“Quite all right,” Bryce said, waving a hand. “I wanted to make sure that the transaction went through smoothly.”

“That it did,” she said, smiling. “So, shall we see you back in two days?”

“If
Altissima
isn't in when she should be,” Bryce said. “I did want to ask…are you able to get permission to dock out at Blue to pick us up from the Premier Lounge? We have luggage there, in
Altissima
's bins.”

She frowned a little. “I hope you don't mean contraband. We would prefer not to carry items that are contraband in any of our ports of call.”

“It's not that. It's the thought of how long it will take to transport the boys and all their stuff across the station, through two Customs inspections. If you have doubts, I'll certainly pay for a Customs inspection there in Blue.”

She relaxed. “That's all right. I'm not sure we can get permission, but I'll see what I can do. What about the
Altissima
bins? Your tickets with them should work—”

“They don't,” Bryce said. “At least, I tried twice with mine and it didn't. The fellow at Premier Suites doesn't have a key—says he'd have to get a special license and it's not worth it for the occasional tip.”

“So you were planning to leave the luggage for
Altissima
to pick up?”

“Unless I could convince station security to open it for us, yes. It's inconvenient, but I can leave explicit instructions for
Altissima
and it will catch up with us later.”

“Perhaps we can help,” she said, tapping something on her desktop. “We have handled baggage transfers before; one of our people may have a key. I will check that for you.”

“Thanks,” Bryce said. “If you don't need me for anything else, the boys wanted to visit some entertainment stores. Their players and all are locked up with the luggage.”

“Triolet's, to the right as you exit, and first left on the first cross-corridor, has a good selection,” she said.

“Thank you again,” Bryce said, and led the way out.

To the right as they exited led them toward the part of Novice Station Bryce knew only too well. He felt his shoulders bunching and deliberately stretched and took a deep breath. He was no longer Boris Jiao Gebhardt. He'd had his teeth fixed, his broken nose straightened. His current employer had paid for the day in a regen tank that restored function to his damaged left arm. His fingerprints were years younger than he was.

He was no longer hungry all the time. That was the biggest difference.

Yet his gut clenched just as it had sixteen years before. The familiar shapes of the storefronts seemed to jeer at his present status, his sense of self as Bryce James Gosslin. Still someone's servant, still dependent…his employer might be softer-spoken, less obviously cruel, but he was still not his own master.

He shook his head, forcing those thoughts aside as he always did to focus on the immediate dangers. Nothing he could see…Triolet's, a store he'd never had the money to enter legally in his bad old days, looked just as it had. Fresh, clean, its displays of shiny, enticing tech up to date.

The store was moderately busy; Bryce kept the boys in sight from a little distance, letting them make their own choices. He didn't care about players and entertainment slice and cubes. If he'd had a day off, he'd have been at the far end of the store, where a locked door gave entrance to the special room full of high-quality spyware. He'd been there once, as a small boy, in the dark of station night, sent to steal something to prove his
loyalty to his leader. He remembered how the pounding of his own pulse drowned out ambient sound, how he'd swallowed back the raw fear that he'd be caught and spaced.

Now he could go there legitimately, a professional in the security field: show his identity and credit reference, and one of the senior clerks would let him in, let him try out those delicate and effective instruments. But not while he was guarding the boys.

Evan had chosen a player; Karl was hesitating between two. Evan glanced over his shoulder for Bryce. Bryce came forward, once more feeling the tug of an invisible chain on a nonmaterial collar. “This one's even nicer than my other,” Evan said. “Is that all right?”