Finity's End

The captain of Rose grew so friendly as to slap the captain of Boreale on the shoulder, and that immaculate uniform took a dose of whiskey, all in good humor.

A regular human being, JR heard someone say—before the pocket-com went off.

He went to the hall by the restrooms, which had a little quiet.

“This is JR.”

“ Lyra here. Jeremy’s missing. ”

“Where’s Fletcher?”

“ Fletcher was asleep. He’s gone after Jeremy, if he hasn’t come looking for you —”

“He hasn’t. Keep this off the airwaves.” Any station could monitor pocket-com traffic. This administration was hostile. And the report should have gone up the chain to Bucklin, before it came to him, but Lyra had been on her own for hours, with a piece of information and a problem and long past time it should have gone to a senior officer. He didn’t fault her on that.

“Call the ship.”

“ I have called the ship. They said —”

“A courier’s coming to you. Stay put. Sign off.” If she weren’t where she was supposed to be she would have said so; and he didn’t want details and addresses going to potential eavesdroppers. He went out to the bar and snagged Bucklin. “Get Wayne if you can do it on your way to the door. Get to Lyra at the Xanadu. Get her info and move on it stat-stat-stat. Run! ”

“What’s—” Bucklin began to ask.

“ Fletcher !” he said, and went looking for another Finity captain.

Fletcher ran, heart pounding, dodged around the sparse foot traffic of the end of alterday, just before maindawn, the time when the docks were slowest and most quiet. He’d run all the way from the two hundreds. The kid had gotten past security—and so had he, just advised Lyra he was going to try to catch the kid short of his goal and left Linda and Vince on orders to go explain to Lyra or any senior they could knock out of bed.

Arnason Imports. The sign wasn’t neon. It was painted, in the way of the better shops, at its end of the nook position next shops far gaudier. He ran across deck plates washed in neon green and red from a souvenir shop, dodged a drunk window-shopper, and walked the last distance, trying to get his breathing under control.

He’d say the kid had ducked curfew and the captain was looking.

That was why he’d run. He’d shake the kid till his teeth rattled when he got him out of there.

The inconspicuous sign in the window posted hours as Mainday & Alterday Service.

The smaller one said: Back in an Hour… with no indication how long ago that hour had started.

He tried the latch.

Knocked on the double window… quad-layered plastic that could withstand space itself, if the dock should decompress.

The kid had gotten here. There was trouble, and the kid had found it. He was sure of it. He wasn’t quite to panic. But he hit the window hard enough to bruise his fist.

Hit it again.

It wasn’t discreet. It wasn’t, probably, smart. He didn’t think he should have done that. But he’d flung down the challenge in a fit of temper, and if he walked off now, they might have Jeremy, and a notion that questions were about to come down on them.

If they were in there, the they who were dealing in stolen goods, he’d become a problem to them vastly exceeding the problem a kid posed.

And if the alterday man was still there, that man knew Jeremy’s face, knew Jeremy’s business, and knew his face as part of the same sticky problem.

He was in it. He couldn’t let them keep that door shut. He couldn’t walk off. He could just hope that Lyra got JR or somebody. Fast.

He hit the window again, hard enough he thought he might have broken his hand.

The door opened. He was facing a man he didn’t know. “Come inside,” the man said, seizing his arm, and pulled. A hard object came against his ribs. He was facing the man he’d met last night, two others—and Jeremy.

That was a weapon up against his side. He didn’t know what, and didn’t complicate his situation by moving. Jeremy kicked a man to get free, and the man hit him.

“My captain knows where we are,” Fletcher said, caught in a time-slowed moment in which he had not the least idea what to do, but his priorities were clear: not to get himself or Jeremy shot or taken elsewhere. “They’re on their way. Now what?”

“Son of a bitch!” The man from their first meeting was livid. And scared. “They’ve got to have a warrant…”

“Not our captain,” Jeremy said in his higher voice. “You’re in deep trouble.”

The man slapped Jeremy—far too hard. Dockside years of bullies schooled Fletcher to keep absolutely still. Jeremy wasn’t dead. Bleeding, yes. They stood in a shop full of oddments, shelves, specimens, and three guys in a serious lot of trouble with two prisoners and an artifact they didn’t want—and with a whole network involved, Fletcher would just about bet.

“Seriously,” he said to the man from last evening, “I’d consider making a phone call to your lawyers.”

“Shut up!” the guy said, and the one holding him jerked his arm—not steady-nerved, Fletcher guessed; and in the next second the man hit him in the head. Dark exploded into his sight. He went to one knee…

“Fletcher!” Jeremy yelled, and he had the make on them, that these were men who used guns. He was blind for the moment, and wanted just to get close to Jeremy, get his hands on the kid. There were two ways out of this place. There was that storeroom; and the front door. And they’d think about the front door, but maybe not the other.

“Move!” The guy with the gun jerked him by the collar, and he staggered up and moved toward Jeremy. There were four of them, last-night holding onto Jeremy, short-and-wide between him and Jeremy, man-with-the-gun behind him and ski

“Captain’s going to have your guts!” Jeremy said, and kicked at the man’s shins. The man maintained a grip on his arm and shoved him at the door, using one hand to open it; and they were on the verge of going where they’d have a simultaneous accident.

No time. Fletcher spun around and knocked man-with-a-gun into the shelves. Boxes came down; and he didn’t wait for ski

He grabbed Jeremy and they ran past a row of stacked shelves, knocking down displays and merchandise on their way to the door.

And man-with-the-gun showed up in their path.

He stopped cold. Kid and all.

The man motioned back toward the storeroom.

The man would shoot. He believed that. But the police had sniffers. Blood anywhere and there was hell denying who’d been where. And now they were thinking; now man-with-the-gun was in charge, last-night being down and nursing a cut on his head.

“In there,” man-with-the-gun said; and Fletcher kept a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, stifled one attempt at a revolt, and steered him on through the door.

They’d gotten smart. Ski

“All right,” he said. “You want a deal—”

“Get them out of here!” last-night said. “Use the safety-exit.”

The tu

Every station, like every other station. Same blueprint: just the neon signs were different. The whole might be different, but structure, on a modular level, was absolutely identical.