“Of course not,” replied Ingray, still staring at the lareum doors.
“And if you survive this, miss, she’ll see you up for trial.”
Trial. Well, of course. She was interfering with a System Defense operation. And it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting into the lareum. Getting Netano and the children out. And the vestiges, if she was that lucky. “I look forward to it,” she managed to say, though not very convincingly. She waited for the cleaning mech to do something more—try to persuade her to change her mind, approach and attempt to physically remove her—but it did nothing. After a few minutes, she heard it trundle away. Then silence.
She was alone. I can’t come in with you, Tic had told her. If there’s even the smallest chance they’ll detect my presence, your life will be in danger. I’ll have to find my own way in. Presumably that was what he was doing now.
After a while her still-trembling legs grew tired, and she sat carefully down on the floor. What if the Omkem didn’t take her offer? What if she’d done all this for nothing?
It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that she felt stupid and scared sitting out here all alone. And at least her hairpins were staying in—that was something, anyway. Of course, it was probably because the spider mech had put them in, while they’d discussed what passed as a plan.
She gave in to her impulse to blink on the time—nearly two hours had passed since she’d come here. Blinked it off again. There was no point staring at the seconds as they flashed by.
With a click, one of the wide lareum doors opened, just a crack, and a voice said, in heavily accented Yiir, “We will make the exchange. You will bring nothing. You will be searched. Stand up.”
Slowly, carefully, Ingray got to her feet.
The door opened wider, and a line of children slowly filed out, two dozen of them, in rumpled beige tunics and trousers. A public crèche then, and probably a station crèche, since some of the children were quite small (and sniffling and tearstained), and a visit to the System Lareum didn’t involve travel if you were already on the station.
One small child turned their head to look at Ingray. Sniffled. Opened their mouth. An older child behind them hissed, “Shhhh! Keep walking!” Quiet and urgent. Tears welling.
At the end of the line of beige-uniformed children came Netano. Despite having been a prisoner in the lareum for the past few days, she seemed only slightly disheveled—her skirts and jacket just a bit creased and rumpled, no hair at all escaping her braids. Ingray bit down on the cry of Mama that wanted to come out of her mouth. As if she had heard anyway, Netano looked directly at her but did not change her bland, neutral expression. If Ingray had been younger, with a guiltier conscience, she’d have shivered to see that. Now, older, she knew that expression concealed any strong emotion Netano needed to hide, not just anger and disappointment.
“Exchange now,” the voice from behind the door said, in Yiir, loud and toneless. “Walk forward. If there is any difficulty you will be shot.” Without looking back, Netano kept walking.
For a moment Ingray wondered why they’d let so many children go before they were sure she was in their hands. But there was no time to wonder. She walked toward her mother.
Behind Netano was another, shorter line of children. They all looked to be about eight or nine years old, and Ingray recognized their blue-and-yellow uniforms. And of course. Netano had been in the lareum meeting a crèche from Arsamol District. The same crèche Ingray herself had come from.
They walked toward each other, slow and measured. A few steps from meeting Netano in the middle, Ingray, unable to help herself, said, “Mama.” She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t.
“Ingray, dear,” said Netano, drawing closer. “I won’t forget this.”
I won’t forget this. A chill went down Ingray’s back. Whether from the ambiguity of Netano’s words, or from the realization of what it was Ingray was doing, she didn’t know.
And then Netano was past, and Ingray was walking past the children, each one of whom turned their eyes in Ingray’s direction but did not turn their head or hesitate in their steady walk forward.
Inside the lareum doors stood a hulking, dark gray mech with a wide, boxy body, four jointed legs, and a large gun in one of its three upper appendages. But Ingray could keep her face bland and neutral, just like Netano. Well, almost like Netano; Ingray had never managed to seem quite as confidently in control as her mother could. But it didn’t matter, she didn’t have to be her mother, never would, never could be Netano. She was only Ingray Aughskold, but she had something these Omkem wanted, and she had gotten the children clear of this. And Netano, so that she could appoint her heir and be sure her name would go on. Ingray hadn’t done that for Danach, but she hoped he would be conscious, every moment of his life from here on forward, just how much he owed Ingray after this.
Two more mechs waited farther in, past the vestiges of the lareum’s former chief caretakers, past the wide strip of linen on which the lareum’s charter had been written in the hand of the Prolocutor of the First Assembly at the time. Past the kiosk that, for a fee, would print out a numbered and dated entry card. For a moment Ingray wondered if the hulking, armed mechs would let her stop at the kiosk. Surely a vestige of this occasion would be worth something—Danach would no doubt pay her good money for it. It would be worth more with some kind of personal impression, though. She should sign the card, and get the Omkem to do so as well. She imagined one of these big gray military mechs, holding the thin cardboard with one appendage and a brush with another, and a giant gun in the third, and bit her lip to keep from giggling. Or from crying, she wasn’t sure which. Tic should sign it, too. Was he nearby, even if she couldn’t see any sign of a spider mech? But no, he’d said he would find a different way in.
Off to the side of the kiosk, a jumbled heap of blue-and-purple sticks and boxes. No, it was a half dozen or more lareum guide mechs, smashed to pieces. She didn’t think they were the sort of mech that was ever controlled remotely, but the Omkem weren’t taking any chances, it appeared.
“Ingray Aughskold,” said one of the waiting mechs, “come this way.” In almost impenetrably accented Bantia, which Ingray thought was odd. The mech behind her had spoken in Yiir, and all the Omkem she’d ever met had spoken Yiir and almost never Bantia.
But none of that mattered. She followed, not looking to see if the mech from the entrance came behind her.