Chapter 3

Flight

The fruit juice was cold, sharp, sweet and best of all free. I’d never conned my way into the first-class lounge before, but I saw the appeal. Oh, yes.

The chair moulded itself to my body shape, firm enough for support, but soft enough for indulgence. The air scrubbers and conditioners were keeping me cool, but not cold, with no smell of grease or ozone. The drinks were free, server bots passed out snacks, and even the walls were a particularly pleasing shade of yellowy-brown. This was the life.

There was some grit in the grease. There was an itch between my shoulder blades which didn’t come from the excellent chair, or even from the shirt of Gravane’s I wore. That was of even finer material than the chair and guaranteed allergy-free. No, this itch was a familiar feeling, one that saved my skin more than once. Someone somewhere was watching me.

Of course, it might be my imagination. But, after all, someone was supposed to be watching, that was the point. I fought the urge to scratch the itch. Cool, calm and collected, don’t draw the wrong type of attention. I want them looking, just not looking too closely.

I flicked my gaze across my fellow travellers. One of them, surely? The girl at reception I dismissed immediately. If she was the spy, the game was already lost. Let’s be at least a little optimistic.

The family pod of Welatak that sat near the toilets weren’t looking at me at all. The prime of the pod was playing a game that made the podlings clack with laughter, while the other adult in the group fiddled with one of the podling’s saline suits. They needed their suits to keep saltwater on their skin; Welatak dried out quickly in oxygen. A paired couple of Frantium sat as far from the rest of the passengers as possible. I thought they were arguing, but their expressions were hard to read, hidden in shadow behind their manes. Whatever, they were so wrapped up in each other, I dismissed them too.

Perhaps one of the humans? There were five of them scattered about the lounge, all well-to-do types, which I guess was only to be expected in first class. One was on his comm, pacing back and forth, one hand stabbing his point home. He had a silence field on, so I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I saw enough. Loud, rich and obnoxious. On another day, I’d enjoy tapping him for lunch funds. But the spy would be one of the quiet ones, I was sure.

Movement by the door caught my eye, and I glanced over to see the girl at reception greeting a new customer, a wall of green, four arms. A Brontom.

Where did he spring from? I’d not seen a Brontom in months, not, in fact, since I’d scammed one. Had my story summoned him up? Wait, is he looking at me? Does he look like I owe him money?

I slouched down into my seat and tucked my chin in. The odds of it being that particular Brontom were tiny but better safe than sorry. I kept watch on him out of the corner of my eye; he was chatting with the receptionist, but he was looking over her shoulder into the lounge. Towards me?

The problem with a species that all look the same, they evolved ways other than looks to tell each other apart. So if it was the same Brontom, it wouldn’t matter if I was wearing the best disguise in the galaxy, he might still recognise me.

And I wasn’t wearing the best disguise in the galaxy.

I deliberately looked away. Nothing telegraphs guilt in quite the same way as staring at your accusers. Although conspicuously not looking their way was as bad. I forced myself to relax, let my mind and gaze wander, and so happened to be looking at the departures screen when a few flights, including “mine”, lit up as ready for boarding. A couple of my fellow loungers started gathering their belongings to head to the gate.

As casually as possible, I stood up to join them. Might as well keep my Gravane act going, plus it would get me out of the lounge. I engineered my move such that my gaze naturally passed by the Brontom, and to my dismay, he passed the reception desk and was stomping his way across the lounge in my general direction.

Logic told me, this Brontom was not after me. But the morning chase, the paranoia about the spy: if I’d been more on edge, I’d have cut myself. Logic wasn’t playing. I made my way in the opposite general direction, towards the departure gate.

I quickened my pace, trying not to look guilty, and was first out of the door. A series of hatchways on my right would let me into the other bays, but the first two were closed and secured; the third hatch, the one for my flight, was open. An animation of a cheery fellow in a flight attendant’s uniform appeared on the screen by the hatch and asked to see my boarding card, and I waved Gravane’s ticket at him.

He beamed at me. “Welcome aboard Mr. Gravane, we really hope you enjoy your flight. First-class seating is—” he glitched for a moment as the system dropped in information outside of his normal patter. In a slightly mismatched tone, he continued “not available on your flight to—”

I was already past him. I was sure I heard the heavy tread of a Brontom just entering the corridor, and I wanted to be in the bay, free and away amongst the cargo pallets before he caught up.

Which was not going to be as easy as I thought. First-class on this flight got their own private boarding tube, from gate to ship without having to mix with the riff-raff in standard. Which didn’t make sense when there was no first-class seating and meant there was nowhere to go but aboard the ship.

Well, I hadn’t planned to leave, but Gravane could hardly complain if I boarded. After all, I was supposed to be as convincing as possible, for as long as possible.

I slowed and looked back. Nobody was following me. The others must all have been heading for other flights; I saw the shouty human from the lounge cross the end of the tube and carry on.

Still, that was all to the good, if the Brontom was still behind me and following, he might be unsure which flight I’d boarded. Better not make it easy for him, time to get out of sight.

I stepped into the ship.

# # #

Going from the luxury of the first-class lounge to the accommodation on the ship was quite a comedown.

This ship was tiny, run-down and seemed to be held together by the liberal application of yellow and black hazard tape. The bulkheads were bare metal. The twenty acceleration couches, arranged in five rows, were covered in old cracked plastic. Everything looked functional, kind of, but was in such a state that a great deal of effort must have gone into passing inspection by the barest possible margin.

There were only four other passengers aboard. They and the lone cabin crew looked surprised that someone had come in through the first-class entrance.

The steward fixed a smile on his face and scurried forward. He had to travel the length of the compartment to reach me. “Welcome aboard the Metropolitan,” he said. “Sorry dude. Guess I should have been by the door to say hi, but I thought the two first-class passengers on the manifest were a mistake.”

Not, I suspected, the standard greeting he was supposed to deliver for his high-profile passengers.

“No,” I said with a smile. “Not a problem.”

“Can I show you to your seat? No carry-on luggage?”

“Just me. And by all means, show away.” ‘By all means’ sounded like something Gravane would say. “Are we expecting a full flight today?”

He checked my ticket, took three steps, gestured to my seat. “Nope, this is the last pick-up on our circuit. We’re just waiting for the last passenger and then we can be off.”

“Another first-class passenger? That’s unusual I take it?” I sat and began fastening the safety harness, purely from habit.

“Yeah, but here on the Metropolitan, we take all sorts, as you’d imagine.”

“Right, yes,” I said, none the wiser. I wished I’d asked Gravane more about where this flight was taking him, but I’d never planned to be aboard it. As the strangely unprofessional steward wandered away again, I checked my ticket, but the destination was only listed by its designation, C23580, not by its name. Once we were underway, I’d check the stellarnet for any clues.

The steward behind me greeted the last arrival. “Hey, welcome aboard. Can I show you to your seat?”

And then the unmistakable rumble of a Brontom’s voice. “Yes, please, extra wide.”

My hand went back to the buckle of my harness. The Brontom was at the first-class hatch, the hatch to the cockpit would be sealed, but maybe the hatch to standard was open. Where is…? There. But it was sealed too. There wasn’t enough time to get to it and unseal it before they reached me. Wait. The Brontom has a seat?

The steward shambled back, gestured the Brontom to the seat across from mine. The Brontom lowered himself into the chair, fussing with the armrests. He nodded at me, and I returned a skewed smile. So, he hadn’t been chasing me. I’d known it all along, of course, the odds would have been ridiculous.

The hatch whirred shut and sealed with a loud clunk. It turned out, I’d never needed to board, but now it was too late to leave. Bad enough to walk into Gravane’s trap, I’d well and truly trapped myself. Looks like I’m going for a ride. I really hope this isn’t a prison ship.