But even the best alibi in the galaxy could prove… tricky.
“An early launch window opened up, and naturally we took it.” Abel tries to sound casual. Breezy. At ease. This isn’t one of his natural operating modes, but he’s watched others. He calls upon his memories of a wealthy young nephew of Mansfield’s and tries to copy his manner of speaking. “You know what a nightmare it is. Delays pile up, before you know it you’re stuck waiting for hours if not days—”
Noemi’s eyes widen, clearly communicating, You’re laying it on too thick. Abel falls silent.
But the George mech, too basic to notice such a detail, nods in approval. “Your guest quarters won’t be open until your scheduled arrival, nor can any of the product demonstration sessions be moved any earlier.”
“That’s fine.” Noemi’s relief that they’re not wanted for crimes on Kismet’s moon is obvious—too obvious, really, but a George is unlikely to pick up on such nuances of behavior. “We have room on our ship.”
This result is better than fine, of course; it’s the best outcome they could’ve hoped for. Now they won’t have to explain why they don’t have the promised merchandise. And they have twenty-eight hours free and clear.
The trick will be stealing the device they need in that time.
Cray’s principal spaceport is simply called Station 47. The areas of Wayland Station used by Vagabonds and other workers were plain and basic, almost punitively ugly. Station 47, however, is simple, practical, and yet beautiful. Dark gray, crisp white, and a surprisingly cheery orange dominate the parallel, symmetrical landing bays, which are stacked atop and beside one another. From within, it appears they’re wandering within a honeycomb; from above, Abel thinks, the design might look like a butterfly’s wings. People bustle about, but there’s none of the overcrowding or desperation they saw on Kismet. The residents of Cray walk with confidence. They laugh easily. They converse with their friends, gesturing almost wildly in their enthusiasm about…
Abel tunes in to catch a few snippets of conversation. His hearing’s not exponentially better than a human’s, but he can isolate desired sounds from background noise more effectively. A discussion on how best to expand Cray’s tunnel systems to the west; someone describing how a lost work of Leonardo da Vinci was identified in the early twenty-first century; agreement that they should, definitely, rework the waffle irons in the cafeteria to burn the letters of obscene words into said waffles; a spirited debate over whether the reboot of Spared: Clone Versus Clone had betrayed the integrity of the original show—
This is a society that indulges its enthusiasms, Abel thinks. It makes sense. The same creativity and energy Earth wants to cultivate in its top scientists and students would naturally flow into leisure pursuits as well.
He and Noemi fall into step, side by side, walking as slowly as any two people who had hours to kill. They’re both wearing the same kind of clothes: simple black utilitarian gear, somewhat stark for Cray but unlikely to draw attention. She betrays not one hint of the fear that must haunt her.
Noemi nods toward a group not that far away. “They look like they fell out of a time machine.”
They do. Virtually all the younger scientists on Cray proudly wear antiquated garments like blue jeans and lace-up sneakers. Several have dyed their hair unnatural, vibrant colors, and a few have even resurrected the ancient human practice of piercing ears. “Thirty years ago, a subculture called millenipunk was becoming more popular. People mixed old-fashioned clothes and styles with more current pieces, or in more provocative ways. It seems that this has gone from being an obscure form of fashion to a popular trend—on Cray, at least.”
“Green hair,” Noemi says. She sounds vaguely envious. By now, however, they’re far enough from the George to talk without fear of being overheard. “Okay. We need to find that thermomagnetic device. I want to be in and out of here before the Queen and Charlie even make it to this system.”
“Finding the device should be easy. Taking it may prove more difficult.” When she gives him a look, he adds, “They are most commonly used closer to the planetary core—in other words, significantly lower down than standard living or working areas. Additional security will undoubtedly be a factor.”
She sighs. “Okay. Then let’s scope out the security.”
They leave the landing bay space and walk into a bright, cheerful sort of mall. Hanging lamps with hundreds of golden bulbs shine so brilliantly that it’s easy to forget they’re underground, far from the light of Cray’s sun. Small viewscreens mounted on the walls every five meters or so show colorful abstract patterns, famous quotes, or ads for the products sold nearby. Restaurants on this level fill the air with spices; below, they can see stores offering fanciful clothing, puzzles, hologram kits—almost anything that would be considered trivial rather than practical.
“This is what they spend their money on?” Noemi says.
Abel shrugs. “Everything else is provided for them. Their leaders know creativity is strongly linked to play. Therefore, this sort of behavior is encouraged.”
“Lucky them, playing games and designing weapons of mass destruction all day.” Noemi looks around, then points to a side exit marked EMERGENCY. “Do you think that would get us out of the thick of things?”
“As long as it’s not hardwired to any more alarms.” Abel glances at her. “You do so love setting those off.”
Noemi’s face takes on that strange expression again, but then her eyes widen and she gasps. Before Abel can even ask, he sees that the viewscreens—every single one—are showing blurry images of their faces.
Kismet’s warning reached Cray not even an hour after they did.
Immediately he filters out all other sound, so he can make out the words being spoken: “… being sought as trespassers on Cray. Keep in mind that they are not suspects in any criminal matter, merely persons of interest. Anyone who sees these individuals should promptly notify authorities.”
“Emergency exit,” Abel says to Noemi. “Now.”
She has the good sense not to run and attract attention. Abel glances back only once, as they get closer to the exit. Nobody appears to have noticed them… yet.
Luckily, the exit door is not wired to any alarm system. Together they make their way into a more dimly lit service passage. The darkness enhances Abel’s awareness of the chill in the air and the rough-hewn walls of stone; here, no effort is made to disguise the fact that they’re underground. Faint echoes can be heard in the air, but too indistinct to be understood even by his most advanced systems. Only the control boxes and power outlets affixed to the stone walls betray that they’re in a human structure instead of a cave.