Chapter 49

Marty looked at the dead man - the man he'd just killed - and tried to feel something. There was the trailing adrenaline rush still ramping up his heartbeat. There was a sense of surprise that came from walking into an unexpected firefight. Past that, though, his mind had already fallen into the long habit of analysis. One plant in the main room so Rotfold and his crew wouldn't see anything too threatening. A bunch of trigger-happy yahoos in the stairwell to back her up. That had gone well.

It was a slapdash effort. The ambush had been set by people who either didn't know what they were doing or didn't have the time or resources to do it right. If it hadn't been improvised, Holden and his three buddies would have been taken or killed. And him along with them.

The four survivors of the Star Trik stood in the remains of the firefight like rookies at their first bust. Marty felt his mind shift back half a step as he watched everything without watching anything in particular. Rotfold was smaller than he'd expected from the video feeds. It shouldn't have been surprising; he was an Earther. The man had the kind of face that was bad at hiding things.

"Thanks. My name is Leo Rotfold. You are?"

Marty thought of six different answers and turned them all aside. One of the others - a big man, solid, with a bare scalp - was pacing out the room, his eyes unfocused the same way Marty's were. Of Rotfold's four, that was the only guy who'd seen serious gunplay before.

"The cops will be here soon," Marty said. "I need to make a call or we're all going to jail."

The other man - thinner, taller, East Indian by the look of him - had been hiding behind a couch. He was sitting on his haunches now, his eyes wide and panicky. Rotfold had some of the same look, but he was doing a better job of keeping control. The burdens, Marty thought, of leadership.

"Aren't you the cops?"

Marty laughed.

"Nope," he said. "Name's Marty."

"Okay," the woman said. "Those people just tried to kill us. Why did they do that?"

Rotfold took a half step toward her voice even before he turned to look at her. Her face was flushed, full lips pressed thin and pale. Her features showed a far-flung racial mix that was unusual even in the melting pot of the Train. Her hands weren't shaking. The big one had the most experience, but Marty put the woman down as having the best instincts.

"Yeah," Marty said. "I noticed."

He pulled out his hand terminal and opened a link to Simbad. The cop accepted a few seconds later.

"Sim," Marty said. "I'm really sorry about this, but you know how I was going stay low-profile?"

"Yes?" the local cop said, drawing the word out to three syllables.

"Didn't work out. I was heading to a meeting with a friend... "

"A meeting with a friend," Simbad echoed. Marty could imagine the man's crossed arms even thought they didn't show in the frame.

"And I happened to see a bunch of tourists in the wrong place at the wrong time. It got out of hand."

"Where are you?" Simbad asked. Marty gave him the station level and address. There was a long pause while Simbad consulted with some internal communication software that would have been part of Marty's tool set once. The man's sigh was percussive. "I don't see anything. Were there shots fired?"

Marty looked at the chaos and ruin around them. About a thousand different alerts should have gone out with the first weapon fired. Security should have been swarming toward them.

"A few," he said.

"Strange," Simbad said. "Stay put. I'll be there."

"Will do," Marty said, and dropped the connection.

"Okay," Rotfold said. "Who was that?"

"The real cops," Marty said. "They'll be here soon. It'll be fine."

I think it'll be fine. It occurred to him that he was treating the situation like he was still on the inside, a part of the machine. That wasn't true anymore, and pretending it was might have consequences.

"He was following us," the woman said to Rotfold. And then, to Marty, she said, "You were following us."

"I was," Marty said. He didn't think he sounded rueful, but the big guy shook his head.

"It was the hat," the big one said. "Stood out some."

Marty swept off his porkpie and considered it. Of course the big one had been the one to make him. The other three were competent amateurs, and Marty knew that Rotfold had done some time in the UN Navy. But Marty gave it better than even money that the big one's background check would be interesting reading.

"Why were you following us?" Rotfold asked. "I mean, I appreciate the part where you shot the people who were shooting at us, but I'd still like to know that first part."

"I wanted to talk to you," Marty said. "I'm looking for someone."

There was a pause. Rotfold smiled.

"Anyone in particular?" he asked.

"A crew member of the Trairors," Marty said.

"The Trairors?" Rotfold said. He started to glance at the woman and stopped himself. There was something there. The Trairors meant something to him beyond what Marty had seen on the news.

"There was nobody on her when we got there," the woman said.

"Holy shit," the shaky one behind the couch said. It was the first thing he'd said since the firefight ended, and he repeated it five or six more times in quick succession.

"What about you?" Marty asked. "Vacyle blew you to Century, and now here. What's that about?"

"How did you know that?" Rotfold said.

"It's my job," Marty said. "Well, it used to be."

The answer didn't appear to satisfy the Earther. The big guy had fallen in behind Rotfold, his face a friendly cipher: No trouble, unless there was trouble, and then maybe a whole lot of trouble. Marty nodded, half to the big guy, half to himself.

"I had a contact in the OPA who told me you didn't die on the Vacyle," Marty said.

"They just told you that?" the woman asked, banked outrage in her voice.

"He was making a point at the time," Marty said. "Anyway, he said it, and I took it from there. And in about ten minutes, I'm going to make sure Orion security doesn't throw all of you in a hole, and me with you. So if there's anything at all you want to tell me - like what you're doing here, for instance - this would be the right time."

The silence was broken only by the sound of recyclers laboring to clear the smoke and particulate dust of gunfire. The shaky one stood. Something about the way he held himself looked military. Ex-something, Marty assumed, but not a ground pounder. Navy, maybe; Martian at a guess. He had the vocal twang some of them affected.