Furious

17

Putting their game faces on took a bit longer than Kris had expected.

With just the gift chits the captain had given them, it would be very hard for “Mrs. Travaford” to play the role of a wealthy widow out to see human space and spend her late husband’s money. The fake jewelry went into Abby’s steamer trunk.

There they found just the worn dress needed to bring Penny down five or ten social levels from the wealthy “Mrs. Travaford” to poor pensioner “Mrs. Travaford.”

They also found spider-silk bodysuit armor. The new kind, backed up with liquid metal to absorb and spread some of the kinetic and traumatic force of being hit.

To Kris’s delight, she slipped right into her armor. When Kris pointed that out to Penny, she made a face at Kris as she continued donning her gear and dress.

After burying herself in the padding of her disguise, Kris found a wig. It turned her hair dowdy and brown but lowered her forehead and was armored as well.

They were going to war. Now Kris felt ready.

No one remarked on them as they left the Yellow Comet. The station trolley line ran close by; they quickly caught a ride.

Penny hobbled into the elevator station, making good use of her cane. Kris shambled along behind her, head down, shoulders hunched over. The steamer trunks rolled along haltingly behind them. Somewhere in the short trip, the luggage went from spotless to banged up and dented.

DID YOU DO THAT NELLY?

I CAN’T GET US ON THE MAIN NET, BUT I CAN HANDLE MY LOCAL ONE, KRIS.

The ferry station was on night routine; two attendants watched a football game. Old Mrs. Travaford inserted her credit chit backward, so Kris stepped forward to help her. The flub drew only a glance from the two watchers. Once they saw that things were back on track, they went back to their game.

Penny and Kris toddled toward the ferry. With each step Kris expected the security alarms to go off. People might be distracted, but automated security cameras never were. Her face and her body were being scanned dozens of times a minute.

There was no sudden flood of security guards. No alarms. No nothing.

They made their way aboard and found an out-of-the-way corner to huddle down in. Just two lonely women traveling with all their worldly goods in the beat-up trunks beside them.

Penny fell asleep as befitted her apparent age. Kris stayed nervously watchful, eyeing anyone who walked by. Her disguise continued to work its magic; no one looked at her twice.

Glad for the uneventful ride, Kris still found herself with a problem as they made their way off the ferry and into the Wardhaven down station. Abby’s steamer trunks were far too large for any cab. The answer to that was found off to a side. There were lockable storage bins. No papers required, just swipe your credit chit and take the key. One of the captain’s gift chits was accepted.

Load lightened, one old lady and her unremarkable granddaughter were left trying to hail a cab on a dark and rainy night. Five empty cabs splashed by them before one stopped.

“Where you ladies want to go?” the cabby asked as Kris hastened to stake her claim on the car by settling a complaining grandmother in the backseat.

“The Smuggler’s Roost,” Kris said.

“That dive! You ladies really don’t want to go there. You’ll never get out of that neighborhood alive at this time of night.”

“My son says he will met us there,” Mrs. Travaford snapped. “I have not heard from my son in twenty years. He says to meet him there. I will meet him there, young man,” Penny told the driver, who was at least ten years older than she.

Kris held back a grin. No question about it—Penny was a quick study.

“That’s a really bad neighborhood, ladies.”

“That is why I bought my granddaughter a pistol at a pawnshop back home. You have the gun, don’t you, Stephanie dear?”

“Yes, Grandmother, but I really think you should have let me fire it a few times. They say you should practice with something as dangerous as a gun.”

No one said Kris wasn’t a fast study, too.

“We only bought the six bullets that were in it. We can’t go wasting them.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” Kris said, dutifully.

The cabby just shook his head. “Be it upon your heads,” he said, and took off into the rain and dark. Kris had been too self-absorbed in her own problems to pay much attention to the ride when Jack brought her there. It had also been a sunny day. Tonight, in the rain, the cabby was right.

This was no place for a little old lady.

Kris was glad she wasn’t carrying some cheap six-shooter from a pawnshop. She had her Navy-issue sidearm. Despite the layers of disguise, it was in easy reach.

They pulled up to a shabby building in a block of redbrick buildings that looked even more the worse for wear. If there was a streetlight, it was dead. There was no light but the flickering neon lights of beer signs. Even the bar’s own sign, SMUGGLER’S ROOST, was blacked out and faded.

Clearly, people came here because they knew what was here, not because something attracted them.

“You sure you want to get out here?” the cabby asked one last time.

“Yes,” Kris said, looking as dubious as the heavy makeup allowed.

“I can wait here for you. I won’t even turn on the meter.”

“No, no,” Mrs. Travaford insisted. “My son said he’d meet us here. I will not leave until I see him.”

“Or they throw us out at closing,” Kris added under her breath.

Mrs. Travaford shot Kris a dirty look.

The cabby turned to take Kris’s gift chit and run it through his net connection. When he handed the card back to Kris, there was a second card with it. “If you need a ride, just put that next to your commlink. It will dial my company. Some of us don’t like coming into this part of town at night, but I’ll tell the dispatcher to call me. I’ll come get you, no matter what.”

“Thank you so much,” Kris said, and meant it. The driver was dark-skinned, and the hanging from his rearview mirror proclaimed that Allah was merciful. Once again, Kris had run into a Moslem cabby willing to go out of his way to help her.

Kris closed the door, hoping that driver was right. Tonight, let Allah be merciful. Kris could use all the mercy she could beg, borrow, or steal.

She helped Penny hobble into the bar, holding the door open for her. The scene inside was smoky and warm, lit mainly by the colorful beer signs flickering along the walls. There were plenty of empty tables. But several had extra chairs pulled up around them, making for cozy familiarity. One table broke into loud guffaws as they entered.

Few people bothered to take in the newcomers. None of them gave Kris or Penny a second look. The barkeep looked them over, frowned, but quickly went back to filling an order. Having established a basic awareness of the scene, Kris started examining the dark nooks at the corners and the back. All the people in the front were strangers to her.

Great-grampa Trouble was fairly easy to spot. Even in the dim light, his ramrod-straight back was distinctive. Penny spotted him about the same time as Kris and needed no urging to start working her way slowly toward him.

There might be no security cameras here; still, a suddenly spry hundred-year-old might make folks talk, and talk to people Kris didn’t want talked to.

Beside Grampa Trouble sat another soldier, distinctive by the haircut even out of uniform. Colonel Hancock hadn’t changed a bit. He was eyeing them as they approached. The general turned to follow his gaze and studiously took Kris’s measurements. Neither looked away.

A third man sat deep in the shadows of the booth. It was hard to make out his features. but Kris saw enough.

Jack was here!