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“Am I the first passenger to arrive?”
She references the manifest. “Yes, Ms. Bjorl has not yet arrived.”
“Notify me when she does.”
“Of course. You may depart whenever you like after the preflight checks have been performed, but we welcome you to enjoy our worlds-famous services in the terminal until then.” She pushes me a holoMap from her datapad. Mine catches it. “You’ll see that we have two spas, a saltwater pool, alt reality pods, massage and pleasure staff on hand. We also have a game room, two lounges—the twilight and the sky….”
I follow a bellhop who takes my bags to the well-appointed bar. A man plays a piano in the corner of the sunrise-washed room. I sit on the crème leather, my back to the windowbanks of clouds and eerie pink sky, my eyes on the door, waiting for Volga’s immense bulk to fill it. Other passengers come and go. Most
are Gold and Silver, and their conversations tinkle like spoons on rare china. Some are actresses I recognize, and one or two famous racers. Soon it sounds like the buzzing of gnats to my ears, claustrophobic, irritating. The cramps from zoladone withdrawal are starting. Still I don’t take one.
After my third drink, Volga hasn’t arrived. I retire to the ship, where I meet the Blue captain and flight crew and settle my bags in the sleeping quarters. The flight stewardess makes me a vodka litchi and I wait for Volga in the ship’s lounge. An hour. Then two more.
By midday, I finally digest the fact that Volga is not coming. A loneliness settles in me. Not a pang, to which I’m accustomed, but the deep loneliness of knowing that this is it. This is the bottom. A two-bag life for one. The end of a friendship, set to the sound of the droning holoNews and the slam of a door. My newest vodka litchi seems suddenly very tasteless. The gravity in the cabin eerily absent. When booking, I had asked the captain to put on null grav for the preflight. I did that for Volga. It was something she missed from our first flight from Earth to Luna. No point to it now. I’ve always hated the feeling of space. I ask the stewardess to kill the null grav and tell her that I’m ready to depart. Ms. Bjorl isn’t coming.
I head to the lavatory to relieve myself before the main engine ignition. I take antinausea medication and am about to go back to the lounge when I remember I should alter my destination now that Volga isn’t coming, in case her conscience gets the better of her and she goes to the authorities. Goodbye, Africa; hello, Echo City. I climb the stairs to the flight deck. It’s empty. Quiet. The flight crew that had been preparing me a meal in the kitchen is gone. I check their small bunkrooms. Nothing. This isn’t good. I creep past the kitchen toward the cockpit and peer inside. The pilots are gone too. Nothing seems amiss out the cockpit viewports. The landing pad is deserted and it’s clear sky beyond that. Still, something is wrong. I pull my snub-nosed pistol from under my armpit.
Have the Syndicate come back to finish me after all?
I move through the hall. The gun is slippery in my sweaty palms. I clear the top level and look down the flight of stairs, listening for movement. Hearing nothing, I creep down the stairs.
In the lounge I hear something. Voices. Volga? I burst into the lounge with my pistol out in front to find two women staring at me from the leather flight chairs. “Holiday…” The word sticks in my throat like a shattered chicken bone. She sits with her elbows on her knees, in civi clothes. Black pants, boots, and a hunter-green leather jacket that looks like it’s got some sort of concealed pulseShield generator sewn into the fabric of the left sleeve. A heavy railgun pistol is strapped into the holster on her right thigh. Woman is ready for urban warfare. And at her side, in new clothes and freshly washed hair, sits the rabbit, with blinding hate in her rusty eyes. Her arm’s in a sling. “Ah. Shit…”
“Sit down, Ephraim,” Holiday says.
I keep the gun on them and look down the hall for others they might have brought with them. They seem alone, but there’s likely a squad of lurcher commandos waiting just inside the terminal. It’s over. I laugh bitterly and point a finger at Lyria. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“That’d be easier for you, wouldn’t it?”
“How did you get past the Obsidians?”
She makes a face at me. “Magic.”
I grunt. “How did you find me?”
“We are the State,” Holiday says. “How long did you think you could hide?”
“Longer than a day,” I admit. “Do you mind if I make myself a drink? Or four?” I ease toward the wet bar.
“Shut up and sit down.”
I frown and look at my pistol. “I’m the one with the gun.”
“I’m the one with a Stained in the cargo hold.”
“Talk about overkill.” I slump into the seat across from hers. I’m surprised to notice that I don’t feel defeat or fear. If anything, I feel relief. I engage the safety and put my gun on the table between us, pushing it toward Lyria.
“You’ll probably want to use that.”
“Already got one,” she says, pulling my Omnivore from her jacket and setting it on her knee. There’s a fingerlock around the trigger. I smile in seeing it again.
“Escaped the Obsidians. Somehow prevented yourself from being skinned alive by Republic Intelligence. Now sitting here with a gun. Must be magic.”
“Ephraim…” Lyria starts.
“Call me Philippe, if that makes you more comfortable.”
“Slag you.”
