Up Against It - M. J. Locke [135]
“Amaya?”
She was silent for a moment. “I’m about the same size as I was then, I suppose. But…” Her voice shook. “I nearly got stuck, Geoff. Don’t you remember? Kam and me, we had to take off our tanks at the narrowest spot. My line got pulled and my air was cut off for nearly three minutes till we could rig me a patch. I nearly suffocated.”
Geoff did not say anything for a second. Then he sighed. “You’re right. We’ll have to think of another way.”
A silence. Then Amaya inhaled sharply. “Oh hell. I did it before. I can do it again.”
Geoff released his own breath. “You’re my hero.”
“Amen,” Kam said.
“Yeah, yeah; whatever. Lay it out. What’s your idea, Geoff?”
Geoff quickly sketched out the bones of a strategy. Kam and Amaya asked some questions and helped refine the details, and soon they had a plan. They kept it simple—no time for anything complicated; plenty of room for improvisation. But something was missing. For a moment he didn’t know what, but then he exhaled sharply. “Damn. I can’t believe it.”
“What?” asked Kam and Amaya at the same time.
“I never thought I’d say this, but I really wish Ian were here with us.” His friends laughed.
Then the rock was upon them. They corrected course, slowing, and kept the bulk of Ouroboros between them and the intruders as they steered to a landing.
* * *
Jane and Sarah sat at a rickety two-person table in Portia’s Mess, a dive in the heart of the Badlands. Portia’s was a Tonal_Z bar. Not too rough, as Badlands hangouts went. It reminded her a bit of the French Quarter in New Orleans, which she had visited as a college student back on Earth. Fashionable sleaze. Pleasingly nasty. Portia, a chubby bald woman wearing a fur coat, stepped up onto the stage. “Ladies and gents, please join me in welcoming troubadour Gabriel Thondu Macharia, visiting us all the way from Earth space!”
Jane straightened, staring, as a trio near the small stage stood up. The other patrons were a young local couple, and a small cluster of tourists; Jane could tell they were tourists because they sounded nasal; Downsiders didn’t have the mods that kept their sinus tissues under control. In microgee their sinuses swelled up like water balloons. The patrons made a three-tone sound as the troubadours mounted the stage, which Jane belatedly recognized as a Tonal_Z expression of approval.
“I know one of them,” she said.
“Which one?”
Jane gestured. “The lead musician. He’s the troubadour who helped us stop the feral. That one.” In this venue, he looked softer, more effeminate. And under the stage lights, his skin was lighter, more akin to Xuan’s rock-brown tone than the deep, warm African-mahogany hue she recalled from before. She pondered whether to speak to him, and decided to wait till after they were done with their performance. The musicians adjusted their stools and tuned their instruments. Thondu had his harp; one of the other two pulled out a flute; the third moved to the drum set.
Jane did not bother to turn on her translator. But with its eerie progressions, the word-music fit Jane’s mood to the micron. The sounds tumbled across one another in a pattern so unexpected, and yet so right, that you could sense the language that rode the tones—sleek, energetic—leaping in graceful arcs, diving deep beneath the surface. That young man had a real gift.
In this place, the tension was ebbing from her, leaving her pensive, even drowsy. She had not realized till now how tightly she had bound herself over the past few days. It wasn’t just the poemsong; it was also the privacy. For the first time in a long time, no one here seemed to know her or care who she was. That suited her fine.
The waitron brought their food. They ate. The musicians took a break and stepped into a back room, and the patrons’ voices rose to fill the space.
It was time.
Jane leaned forward and spoke softly. “Sarah, I need a meeting with the Badlander leader, Obyx. Can you arrange it?”
Sarah looked startled. “Why?”
“I have a need they can help with. I don’t want