Transformation Space - Marianne de Pierres [69]
Not her. Please, not her!
But he didn’t stop. If he stayed, he’d be a hindrance. He would do as she said. She was a soldier. She could take of herself. She can. He repeated it to himself as he ran.
The nearest service entrance to the port was blocked by a cleaning trolley and several large containers containing liquid catoplasma. He tried to heave the trolley to one side, but the containers were too heavy. In desperation, he dropped to the floor and used all the strength in his legs to push. The trolley shifted enough to slide the door ajar. He squeezed through into the terminal.
A quick glance told him the biggest crowds stood around the ticketing counters, so he hurried over and joined a queue.
Only moments later, heads began to turn as the door he’d come through was flung open, and a catoplasma drum – minus lid – rolled out. The liquid splashed and spread like an oil spill. It would thicken soon, and then harden.
Fariss followed it, jumping the puddle of liquid with one enormous leap. The pursuing politic guard tried to emulate her athleticism and fell short, slipping in the mess and giving her a precious advantage in the chase.
But more Robes came from other directions. Thales saw that they were hesitant to use their rifles in the crowds. Fariss ducked under the kaffe railing and threaded through tables, pulling them over behind her, knocking over beakers of mokka and plates. Patrons scrambled away, shouting, adding to the furore.
Thales saw his opportunity and walked quickly to an exit. In his rush, he bumped into someone. An apology sprang automatically to his lips until he recognised the man: Gutnee Paraburd, his hair longer, his chin covered with gingerish stubble.
They stared at each other in unhappy recollection, then Gutnee stepped neatly back to allow a group to pass between them; when they’d gone, so had Paraburd.
Thales didn’t linger. The lack of surprise in Gutnee’s expression told him that the man knew him to be here. He ran out of the building and across the tarmac among the traffic auditors and the AiVs manoeuvring into parking spots. Fariss was ahead of him, weaving in and out of vehicles, ducking around pay stations
He approached the bank of taxis. ’Esques milled around the pay maestro, demanding rides. The maestro shouted at them, trying to force them into some order.
The taxis were all locked automatons. Thales wouldn’t be able to get one without the maestro’s release command.
Steal one, Thales.
Keeping track of Fariss, he edged over to the private vehicle lot. A family of ’esques were climbing out of a small domestic flyer, simultaneously engaged in a blossoming argument.
Thales waited until they were at the rear luggage compartment, then crawled into the passenger seat from the other side. He lay there for a few moments staring at the controls, breathing heavily. He’d operated similar vehicles as a child, transporting scholars to and from his birth town to the Logic Courts, and then later, a few times, when he and Rene had taken holidays on the Faust Coast. This one was even simpler than those, a luxurious and virtually automated flyer with an updated verbal command function.
The carriage rocked as the luggage compartment slammed shut.
He had to decide. Fariss wouldn’t be able evade the Robes much longer.
Voices grew louder, and the door slid open. A hand fumbled along the pilot seat for the activation slide, the ’esque still talking to his family outside the door. The man had only to turn his head to see Thales lying sideways on his seat.
Thales grasped his chance. He grabbed the slide and rotated his body around, reached for the ignition slot. The slide slipped in, and the vehicle issued a guttural start-up sound which sent the man’s head swiveling.
‘What—’
‘Close doors,’ Thales told the craft.
The man instinctively withdrew his hand to avoid having it crushed and yelled.
‘Proceed north.’
Thales sat upright and slid into the pilot