Incurably taciturn Ivan, exactly unlike anyone’s stereotype of a male makeup artist, sat her down and examined her. “Huh. Your eyes are shot.” He paused. “Good thing they’re not big on bold statements there.” He applied dull foundation powder and fill-in for the shadows, designed to make her look inconspicuous and pallid—at least by the standards of her natural skin tone. “That crowd was pretty white-bread, but we think you can probably pass for a deep suntan.” He moved around and rapidly gathered her hair, pinning it up so that the hat brim covered it and shadowed her face. “That should do for now. Let’s hope you’re not noticeable. Try not to smile: your dentition is too good.” He frowned. “Next station.”
There was a big crew-cab pickup parked outside. The Colonel was waiting beside it. “Come on,” he said. She climbed into the back and found herself the unwelcome filling in a Gomez-and-O’Neill sandwich. “Okay, we’re just about ready,” said Smith, leaning in through the window. “See you at the zone.”
They rode in silence most of the way. Rita felt acutely uncomfortable, trying not to touch the prickly Gomez or cozy up too tight to Patrick. Nobody spoke. Eventually she pulled out the inertial mapper and tried to follow the route on it. It nailed I-476, as accurately as a satnav. “Huh,” said Gomez, looking over her shoulder. “You want to put that away. Save the battery for later.”
Rita blanked the backlit screen. “What are you even doing here anyway?” she asked.
“I’m guarding your sorry ass in case the Clan come after you.” Gomez wouldn’t meet her gaze, so she focused on the brooch the woman wore: two superimposed gold triangles, pointing upward. Isn’t that a Scientology symbol? Rita wondered. “Just do your job and we can all go home happy tonight.”
“The Clan isn’t going to come after me.” Rita shut her eyes.
“Rita”—it was Patrick—“don’t go there, please.”
“I am sick and tired of internal politics.” She rounded on Gomez: “You’ve been on my case ever since we met. What is it with you? Is it my skin color or something?”
Gomez recoiled. “You’re a spoiled bitch carrying a shitload of suppressive baggage around with you and if it was up to me you wouldn’t be cleaning the toilets—”
“Ladies!” Patrick was clearly annoyed. “Not in public.”
“Shit.” Rita yawned, then caught herself. Gomez stared determinedly up front, to where a pair of uniforms Rita hadn’t met were pointedly ignoring them. So much for Patrick’s offer of help, she thought grimly.
“Keep a lid on it for another half hour.” Patrick gave them both a look. “Try to play nice. Do you want me to ask Eric to arbitrate?”
Rita bit her lip. There had to be some other reason the Colonel was keeping Gomez in the Unit: hard-case cops were ten a penny. Hard-case cops with connections, maybe less so. Perhaps he wanted Gomez around because he knew she was leaking to one of the internal factions? Or perhaps he thought he needed to keep Rita on her toes, and didn’t realize how badly Gomez was harassing her? But whatever the reason, it was stressing her out.
They traveled the rest of the way in silence. They turned off the interstate, drove through the darkened streets of South Philly, then across the expressway and into the Navy grounds near the river, and finally arrived at a parking lot close by the Office of Naval Intelligence. They weren’t alone. A small gaggle of DHS crew-cabs and unmarked sedans clustered together. Traffic cones connected by crime scene tape cordoned off a square on one edge. Patrick opened his door. “Showtime,” he said quietly. “Site survey says the other side is pretty much fallout-free. Break a leg.”
Rita nodded. She no longer felt like speaking. She was simultaneously tired and keyed up. Let’s get this over with, she thought wearily.
The Colonel was waiting in the taped-off area. “You know the plan,” he said quietly. “Eyes open, mouth shut, free-form. Come back whenever you find yourself outside your comfort zone. Call me on this and we’ll come fetch you.” He handed over a tiny dumbphone, the voice-and-text-only variety that had a monthlong standby life. “And remember the real objective.”
“Okay. If I’m not back in two minutes, expect me in three to eight hours.” Rita grinned, then rolled back her left sleeve, squeezed her forearm, and clicked her heels. “There’s no place like home—”
She jaunted.
The parking lot vanished. She stumbled in the dark, felt damp grass underfoot. It was colder here. In her ear, the clicking of a radiation counter. Time line one was still hot from the nuking of the Gruinmarkt, even this far south. She raised her wrist, cued up the next trigger engram, and jaunted again.
Noise assaulted her: a screech of metal on metal. She stumbled, felt hard asphalt underfoot, took a step backward, and nearly tripped over a curbstone. She managed to catch her balance on a narrow strip of sidewalk. The amber washout glare of streetlights cast multiple shadows in all directions. There was a windowless building behind her, concrete or stone. Steel rails gleamed as a streetcar rumbled and swayed toward the spot where she’d been. The narrow strip of paving she’d found was barely wide enough to stand on, and as the streetcar passed she saw more tracks beyond it, and heard the snap and crackle of overhead wires. If it isn’t one train station it’s another, she thought, dismayed, then kicked herself mentally. No, it’s a streetcar depot. The Colonel said they’re big on public transport. I’m standing in the middle of the tracks. She looked round at the wall. It vanished into the near distance, and high overhead there was a vaulting arch of metal girders supporting a dark ceiling.
The streetcar was slowing. Across four or five tracks she saw a low platform, notice boards that might have been timetables, and boxy station furniture that might have been ticket machines. Did the driver see me? she wondered. She’d nearly jaunted in front of the tram. I could have been run over, she thought with a sick feeling.
There was no platform in this part of the station, and no way out that didn’t involve crossing several tracks. Swallowing, she glanced at her wrist and tried to jaunt again. She felt a silvery flash of pain, but nothing happened. “Ow!” She squeaked aloud, seeing the station still around her. She stepped sideways and tried again. This time it worked: she was back in the rainy nighttime forest. She closed her eyes, trying to remember how far away the station wall was. Took another step sideways, holding out her right arm to avoid obstacles. Stepped sideways once more. There was no tree in this direction. Now she looked at her wrist, squeezed to light up tired phosphors. “Come on,” she murmured, focusing again.