Vick is distracted.
THE GUARDS deposit us in a two-bedroom suite with reminders to monitor our personal locator bracelets if we should choose to explore. I’m surprised they don’t forbid wandering about, but I guess when you have the threat of asphyxiation on your doorstep for stepping out of the approved zones, you don’t worry so much. There’s a gym facility down the corridor/tunnel and a communal lounge area with snacks and beverages beyond that.
Our accommodations are luxurious, opulent, and tacky all at the same time, with the central living room and the two bedrooms carved straight from the core stone, and velvet wall-hangings in reds and blacks hiding the rock itself and giving the illusion that there could be windows behind them. Maybe that’s to counter the claustrophobia of the space. Even I have the urge to rush out of doors, see the sky, breathe nonrecycled air. My walls are up, but Vick’s got to be suffering far worse. It’s illogical. We live in our own enclosed environment back at Girard Moon Base. But there’s something about being surrounded by rough stone rather than the pristine, modern, solid steel that makes everything feel like it’s caving in. Literally.
While Alex and Lyle scan the rooms for bugs and cameras, I head straight for the environmental controls and raise the temperature by several degrees. Shield or no shield, these caves are chilly and would be worse without the wall hangings.
Vick makes for the garbage incinerator by the main entry. She shrugs out of the suit jacket and the remains of her shirt, stuffs them inside, and slams the lid shut. The device gives a satisfactory whir while it breaks down the composition of the dead man’s clothing. Shaking herself like a wet dog, she locates the luggage in the center of the seating area, presses her palm to the genetic codelock on her brand-new designer-label suitcase, and yanks out a replacement shirt and dinner jacket that coordinate with her pants. Despite the journey, they’re wrinkle-free, thanks to a fabric-flattening mist produced by the carrying case itself. It costs a small fortune, but a slave buyer wouldn’t quibble about such things. I wonder if the Storm will let her keep it once the mission is complete.
Like in the corridors, the dim lighting also assists in fooling one’s eyes, but it adds to the medieval castle-like setting and creates shadows that shift and deceive. More than once I catch Vick darting glances into corners and peering hard where there’s nothing to see.
Her paranoia is on overdrive.
“We’re clean,” Alex announces, he and Lyle returning from opposite bedrooms. Lyle concurs.
“VC1, what do you see?” Vick asks, glancing toward the now active vidcom unit set up on a desk against the side of the gathering space.
“This unit is secure,” not-Vick’s voice responds while Lyle shifts his feet at the sound of her speech coming from the embedded speakers. “This is an internal communications system only—incapable of off-moon transmissions. Given time, I can link it to the slavers’ more advanced system for a much farther reach.”
Lyle pulls his personal comm off his belt and studies its screen. “No long-range signal on these down here either, though we can reach each other. Not like that’s a surprise, but we can’t contact our orbital backup.”
I nod. “Make the connection, VC1. How long will it take? And can you keep it undetectable?”
“Approximately six hours.” The monotone takes on a decidedly offended note. “And of course.”
I grin. Nothing like offending a sentient computer.
“Sorry,” Vick says, grinning as well. “I shouldn’t doubt your skill set.”
Alex approaches the vidcom, looking at first one speaker, then the other, as if he’s not quite sure how to address it. “Hey, um, VC1? Would you mind if I, well, watch what you’re doing with the comms? I mean, can you show me and talk me through it? It would be so cool if I could learn to do that.”
Vick and I exchange a shocked glance, her eyebrows almost reaching the top of her forehead. I read her pleasure in the turquoise glow that surrounds her. Acceptance, both for her and VC1—something she’s sought for far too long.
“I would be… happy… to instruct you,” VC1 responds from both speakers, earning even more surprise from the rest of us. Sounds like Vick isn’t the only one who craves being a complete part of the team.
Alex drops into a chair in front of the vidcom, happier than an overworked empath in a null zone. The screen activates, filling with scrolling symbols no one else in the room can follow, so we don’t try. Instead, I take my own luggage—mundane, commercial gear made for the masses (and business assistants) and start for the larger bedroom Vick and I will share to change for the evening’s “festivities.”
“Oh,” Alex calls, eyes never leaving the screen, “will it be all right if I stay put tonight, then? Or will you need me at dinner?”
Vick considers for a moment. “Should be fine,” she says at last. “We’ll have Lyle. And it wouldn’t be unusual to rotate the two of you so one is always well-rested. Just make sure you actually get some rest and don’t stare at the vidcom all night.”
“No worries!” Alex waves a hand over his shoulder, then leans in toward the display.
I shake my head. He won’t be sleeping anytime soon. I hope we won’t require any backup.