Rogue(22)

“Do you know where to get it replaced?” He was security of the generic type. Older, probably retired. Merely a uniform, badge and scanner to provide official color.

“No,” I said, keeping to my cover.

“Pass and ID office is in the front foyer on the mezzanine half, left side, through the glass doors. They open at eight a.m.”

I stared blankly, then nodded slowly.

The man sighed and moved on, muttering about “’tards.”

We started to park the dumpster and he called back, “Hey!”

“Whu?” I said, hoping it was nothing serious.

“Why’n’t you use her card next time?”

“Oh.”

He sighed and kept walking.

Once he was out of sight, Silver pulled the pack from the protective plastic. It was still mostly clean. I led the way, having memorized the map.

We went upstairs on padded feet. I shimmed a maintenance door; she picked a secured padlock in ninety seconds flat with a rake, tension wrench and magnetic coder, then we were in the far upper mezzanine where the ventilation systems were. I checked by eye and number. That one there.

Silver trembled after crossing the catwalk. Heights were definitely not her thing. She didn’t hesitate, though. Good troop.

We pulled a cover quickly, used a foam block to stop it slamming, then fastened the dust dispenser to the inside wall, up out of reach. Rather, she did that, showing long, sinuous curves through the filthy coverall. The device was a drum with a radio-triggered servo. The drum looked like an antiseptic dispenser. It had fake wires that led to an area near one of the outside boxes, where she cut them and jammed them into the insulation so they’d look deliberate. A drop of cement to hold them, and we closed up carefully to avoid any loud noises. The dust was mildly antiseptic and harmless, so even if it was discovered, there was a good chance it would be left alone. Its purpose wouldn’t be apparent to anyone.

We skinned out of the coveralls to regular clothes, a bit sweaty, and wiped the fake grease from our hair, until it turned back into styling gel. A flip of her comb and a wipe of our faces and we were normal staff. The badges went on our pockets. The pack and coveralls went into a fresh trash receptacle for some real menial to dispose of after a few liters of real trash found their way atop. Silver kept a handful of tools in an apron and pockets, and we went about hiding a spare transmitter, in case we couldn’t get our main one in.

Then we slipped out the back, faking punching out on the time scanner en route, and wove back out onto the street. It was cooler by then, but not bad.

She grabbed another small pack from a deep shadow under a bush. A quick trip into a chippy for a laborer’s snack and the bathrooms, where we put on clean shirts more appropriate to our tourist status, and took a ricktaxi back to the hotel, munching fish and chips as we went. Their local whiting is so-so. It probably has to do with both the environment in general, and the lower and different brine concentration of their oceans, than Earth’s.

I cleaned up and went to bed, running through mental practice for the upcoming face-to-face. I was interrupted a few segs later by cool, damp, firm breasts against my spine.

“Uh . . .” I mumbled and woke up.

“Sorry. I’m very unnerved. I need to hold something to calm down.”

I had suggestions on what she could hold, and dammit, I was not going there.

I gave her five segs. I could feel her heart pounding, slowing, reaching normal, and her warmth against me. When she seemed better and I couldn’t take any more, I gently detached, rolled out, climbed into the other bed, and said, “I need to sleep alone or I won’t be rested.”

It was literally and figuratively true.

Tomorrow I might kill a friend.





CHAPTER 6





The Technical Office at the Freehold embassy accepted Silver’s request. Of course, it’s not actually called the technical office. It’s not called anything and doesn’t exist. But, to her request, additional ID was produced, and we assumed identities as university analysts.

“They’re not happy,” she said.

“Oh?”

“They had a couple of people tagged for this. My mission code bumped them. They were going to be doing bona fide espionage.”

“Well, I understand that. Did you apologize?”

“As much as I could through code groups,” she said.

Appropriately dressed in local suits complete to a tie for me and a ruff for her, with a camera case and well-maintained and well-worn gear she’d picked up for it, we showed our ID thrice, were scanned and inspected and allowed in to the convention auditorium with several thousand of our closest friends. The security was definitely above average. The inspections were reasonably complete given the time frame. Of course, Randall could have been inside for days already, with a rifle. We were betting on the up-close touch though.