Chapter Text
Chapter 4: Impressions
Trans-Pacific Shuttle 14, Vingolf to UMHK, Earth. 10th June, PD 332
Deliberation needed to be quick. The conclusion had been natural because he wasn’t stupid, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
Ride made a mental note to reimburse Maeve for the last-minute ticket and instant transfer fee, and opened the dividing door between the shuttle cars. He walked slowly as he searched the forward-facing, blue-upholstered seats, rocking subtly with the glide of the monorail. Either side of him rain streaked the panoramic windows, which were already soaked in the black of night except for intermittent pulses of gray where utility lights illuminated the sea. The shuttle car, by contrast, was brightly-lit. The next available shuttle had been at 11:32PM, the last of the night, and as such was sparsely-populated. A giddy or nervous couple here and there, half-drunk or half-asleep businessmen mostly. In the back car of the four-car shuttle had been a larger group of rowdy students and it was with them he’d boarded, waiting until they were underway before looking for Almiria Bauduin.
He found her in the last car before the first-class car at the front. The car was empty but for the two of them; she was seated in a grouping of four with a table between them, facing in his direction. In the two hours since they’d left the hotel she’d dyed her hair dark brown, donned a pair of neutral-framed glasses, and changed from the dark red slacks and orange blouse to a much more casual pair of jeans and shirt, both black, under a cropped and hooded khaki jacket. A brown cross-body bag was in the seat next to her. All very nondescript. He had to give her credit for the moderate attempt at disguising herself. The average person probably would have been fooled.
He sat opposite her; she didn’t greet him. He could see where the hair dye had leaked somewhat onto her skin and assumed she must have done it herself. In her hand was a worn paperback she’d been reading or pretending to read -- Memories of Mars was splashed in green-gilded, appalling cursive across an equally nonsensical stock photo of a stoppered vial of red dust sitting on a scattering of letters and photographs.
“Just because I’m here doesn’t mean we’re working together,” he said.
“Once we talk to her we’ll see what happens,” she said, “I know. Just happen to be going in the same direction.” She went back to the book as though it was more interesting than him.
Ride readjusted to sit in the seat by the window, sprawled across the one he’d vacated and propped his elbow on the windowsill, leaned his head into his hand. The rock of the monorail and the sound of rain on glass so near his ear was soothing; there was at least another hour to go until Hong Kong and he wanted to sleep but didn’t dare. He eyed her. She had a heart-shaped face and high, somewhat arched brows -- also dyed -- that gave her a skeptical or surprised look, and her wavy hair had been shorn into a tilted-forward ‘bob but otherwise seemed to have been left to its own devices, compared to the polished look she’d had earlier this evening. She’d taken off her makeup, too, revealing a blemished complexion and making her appear as harsh as her tone in the elevator. She sat straight-backed. He was under no illusion that he’d have the upper hand against her if he tried to take her offguard, though he didn’t yet know where her training came from.
If she knew or cared that he was staring, she gave no indication. He stopped anyway, drawn to look again at the wreck of a book cover and insodoing, noticed that the only jewelry she wore was a thin silver -- No, probably white gold or titanium, let’s be real. -- band on the ring finger of her left hand. He was pretty sure that placement was where wedding rings used to go before they fell out of fashion, though he could remember Miss -- Mrs -- Merribit having one. He ran over what he knew about Almiria Bauduin. He hadn’t paid much attention to her over the years -- been too focused on revenge against Nobliss -- but he did at least know the important bits: she’d been engaged, back then, to McGillis Fareed, who was ultimately killed by her brother, Gaelio Bauduin, otherwise known as Vidar, with whom Tekkadan had fought on a couple of occasions. Her sister-in-law was now Julieta Juris, the undisputed second-in-command to Rustal Elion and the one who’d killed Mikazuki. In a way, he thought, Almiria had been as close as he had to all of that mess seven years ago, even if neither of them showed up in the pictures. They were shadows.
He decided to start with the ugly question first. “You including your brother with all of Gjallarhorn?”
She turned a page and didn’t respond, not that he expected her to.
“Getting revenge for McGillis?” he asked next.
“Maybe.”
“Kinda a yes or no question. Black or white.”
“Things aren’t always black or white.”
“Sometimes they are.”
Her gray-blue eyes darted to him. “And you? Getting revenge for Tekkadan?”
“What else am I supposed to do?”
“Well there you go.” Almiria sighed, closed the book and tossed it on the table, folded her arms to mirror him. Her face took on an unexpectedly pondering look and after a moment she asked, “What’s she like? Artima Wei.”
The question took him off guard, though Ride supposed it shouldn’t have. Of course she’d want information. He could respect that. How to answer, though? Was Artima even the same person he’d known, admittedly briefly, back then? Moreover, was there any risk in giving Almiria a heads-up?
“Everyone in Tekkadan respected her. Great pilot, too. Had some impressive stories. She went through a lot.”
“You’re stating the obvious.”
“‘Cus she’s hard to describe otherwise. I didn’t know her as well as a couple others, either.” He thought of Mrs Merribit, Orga, Eugene, even Mikazuki. But then, what of her had they really known? “You read up on her I guess,” he said.
“What little there was,” she agreed. “Of course files like that only state facts. I’ve had to get impressions from elsewhere and those weren’t particularly helpful.” She hesitated, then added, “My sister-in-law only calls Wei ‘The Pilot’ for some reason and there’s a strange look in her eyes when she does, that I can’t figure out. Still she’s the one that’s painted the most colorful picture, out of all of them, even if it’s only in black and red.”
“Don’t think there’s any better colors, really,” Ride mused quietly to the window. Julieta was probably the most accurate, then. “That’s probably it. Black. Red.” In the shadows-on-shadows of the tumultuous sea beyond it played a scene from the theater of his memory:
Artima stumbling out of a broken Kheree into the hangar, hauling Eugene with her, blood soaking her -- the way she’d spasmed violently and dropped him, jerked forward a few steps as though possessed before collapsing. The way the blood from her ears, eyes and nose flowed into her grimace and the way they’d all been too scared for a minute to touch her, touch all that black and all that red, worse than any other black or red they’d ever seen -- worse than the void of space in which they were dying and worse than the red dirt of Mars that they would have died in too. The black and the red convulsing in front of them and they were the ones that suddenly wanted saving from it rather than the other way around.
“Being overdramatic isn’t helpful,” Almiria said, repositioning, and at first he thought she’d seen what he’d seen just now. The fact that there’d been a note of uncertainty in her voice stopped him from sniping back.
“You’ll see.”
It was nearing One A.M. by the time they disembarked into the main port of the United Municipality of Hong Kong, a purely utilitarian, white-tiled building that had sparse security at this hour and seemed like a lifeless husk. Almiria and Ride moved fluidly through the valves of unsupervised checkpoints and the ventricles of shuttered convenience stores and ticketing booths, their footsteps echoing behind them into the wan, mist-colored fluorescent light.
As they took the escalator to the surface the sounds of Hong Kong proper enveloped them in a raucous, neon-streaked, steam-filled embrace. They paused outside the shuttle terminal and scanned the mix of pre-war and modern architecture all stacked on top of one another, nearly obscuring the darkened hill beyond and its crown of lightning-laced thunder. In front of them raced pedicabs and hovercars, and a decent number of pedestrians milled around despite the late hour. The near-liquid air was a mix of diesel, fried onion, alcohol, and gardenia and it hit them like a wall.
“Better to go ahead and find a place to sleep for now, and start afresh in the morning,” Almiria said, fanning herself. Her gaze was sweeping through everything.
Ride hesitated, watching her. Amusement bubbled in him. “You tryin’ to find her straight away and save yourself the trouble?”
“It’d be convenient, wouldn’t it,” Almiria agreed then seemed to realize what she’d said. Her eyebrows drew down and she moved away, “Come on.”
His stomach soured as he realized all his money had been spent on the fare -- he hadn’t thought this far ahead. Maybe it would’ve been better if Artima had miraculously turned up on the streets, or if they’d pressed on and searched well into the next day. That said, the tiredness was clawing at him. Potential cost-free options flit through his brain like moths around a lamp: a roof, a back doorway in an alley, an unlocked vehicle. “If it’s all the same to you I’ll find my own spot --”
“Don’t be stupid,” she said distractedly as they crossed the street. Her gaze was darting between two hotels a block or so away, and shortly she raised her arm, pushing back her cuffs to reveal a watch of some kind that she pressed a couple of buttons on, held out at the signs, retracted. A barely-heard blip and she peered at its illuminated surface. “Bingo.” She strode confidently for the nearest one.
Ride shoved his hands in his pockets and followed, peering at its half-illuminated sign. ‘Hartfords’. “Says no vacancy,” he drawled to her back. Damn but she walked fast. He sure as hell wasn’t gonna jog after her, though.
“There will be a twin room vacant shortly,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow, but sure enough just as they entered the green aura of the lights ringing the street awning, a pair of women exited the sliding doors with luggage and, laughing, hailed a cab. Above the awning, Hartfords’ sign proudly switched to ‘Vacancy’.