The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Six

Mason’s “bungalow” was almost exactly what Inara had expected. It was on the eastern side of a narrow peninsula which jutted out into the northern polar ocean like a rude finger gesture. It was on high ground – most of it – a sprawling pastel green twelve room show-mansion in the Late Isisite Romantic style, all balconies and observation points and whimsical statuary. A style suited for rich, influential playboys seeking to impress other rich people with their taste and class. Only the Han Elite Revival or the Euroimperial Baroque styles would have been more ostentatious, but their lines were not well suited to this environment. This was a tropical paradise, and the Romantic was the perfect choice: playful, fanciful, and filthy stinking rich. But there was a lovely “beach shack” bigger than most people’s houses where they would be staying most of the time, she guessed. They had arrived this morning, which had allowed her to show off her flying skills, had a leisurely but incredibly good brunch which allowed Mason to show off his chef (the “bungalow” had nine permanent servants). Then they retired to a pretty white pavilion on the beach, where they had to struggle along with only one manservant nearby to wait upon them. She had insisted on a quick dip in the surf after, though Mason had declined, which allowed her to do the Companionate Meditation on the Sea of Love, a singing meditation that welcomed love and desire into a jaded and weary heart. It also gave her an opportunity to indulge in a secret vice, peeing in the ocean. By the time she had gotten back to the pavilion Mason was sitting propped up in a lounge chair, and elaborate, fruit-filled drink on the table beside him. He almost looked relaxed as he smiled and greeted her. But there was a hint of trouble in the smile. “Bad news, bao bei. Vacation won’t start until this afternoon. The sales office in Apex waved, and one of my junior associates wants to bring out a client – let me talk up how great life is here on Epiphany, try to sink the sale. She said he might be worth quite a bit. I do hope you don’t mind. If you would rather not linger, you can take a quick tour of the house, or maybe a catnap, while I get rid of him – shouldn’t be more than half an hour.” Inara smiled warmly. “Mason, you needn’t even ask. My time is yours, you know that. But I appreciate the courtesy.” She walked around him and began massaging his shoulders. “Last night was wonderful,” she said, in just the right tone of voice. “Ha! You inspired me. How could I not try to fulfill your expectations?” She giggled enchantingly, the giggle that said “I’m a sexually satisfied woman acting like a little girl because you make me feel special when you compliment me that way.” Inara had a giggle, a sigh, a caress for any occasion, a whole non-verbal vocabulary of subtle distinctions of meaning. In truth, he had performed passionately with the techniques only an age of experience could produce. That was one reason she chose a certain type of powerful client – not their credit account, really, but because a man who wielded that level of power had a special kind of passionate sexuality, a drive, a need for the comfort a good lover brought. “I’m looking forward to later,” she said with a small anticipatory hum in her voice. He took her hand in his. “I’m wishing I hadn’t taken that call. This beach looks comfy – and there is a hammock in the beach house I haven’t even tried, yet.” They sipped fruity drinks and talked about his work until the whine of a flier – an ostentatious Karkov GT, she noticed, no better than flying jewelry – interrupted their conversation. Mason sighed heavily and rose. Inara followed suit, giving him a look designed to inspire his confidence and get his enthusiastic “game face” on. As they approached, Inara saw a pretty blonde woman with too much makeup and a sharp, businesslike but casual dark blue outfit get out and smile a wide, completely insincere smile at Mason. Inara knew the type. She would perceive the Companion as a threat – it was possible she was sleeping with Mason – and try to snub her in some way that would be completely undetected by the men. “Mason! I’m so glad you were able to meet with us. Mason, I’d like to introduce Mr. Simon Smith,” she said, opening the door for the client. It was Simon Tam. “Huh!” Inara said, completely surprised. Too late she realized that she had picked up the expression from Mal. “Simon, this is Mason Rockford, one of the members of the Board of Directors, and a major stockholder.” “And also a client,” Mason added, charmingly, bowing before shaking Simon’s hand. “And this is—” “Inara Serra,” Simon said, equally surprised. “I . . . wasn’t expecting to see you . . . here.” “You know each other?” Mason asked, eyebrows raised. Inara scrambled for a useful lie, but Simon beat her to it. “Uh, an old . . . family friend,” he supplied, slowly. “Yes,” agreed Inara. “She was a Companion for . . . one of my relatives back home. A while ago.” He looked at Inara intently. “I hope you will not mention seeing me to anyone . . . back home. No one is to know I’m here.” “We have strict rules about confidentiality,” Inara said out of habit while her mind raced. “Not that you’ve ever been a client . . .” “No?” Mason asked, surprised. “Then that speaks of very poor judgment on your part, my boy,” he grinned. “No finer woman in the ‘verse than Inara!” The Companion could feel the blonde stiffen at that, though she didn’t reveal it in any meaningful way. “I suppose that’s why you are using a pseudonym?” she inquired. “Yes,” Simon said with a roll of his eyes. “You know my benefactor is very ill, and my . . . other relatives are eager for a chance to remove me from my legacy. My solicitor advised that I take an extensive tour of the Rim, check on our investments out here. When I heard about this little spot of paradise, I just had to come. If I see another weary moon full of prairie towns, mountain villages, and colorful locals in squalid conditions I’m going to go stark, raving mad!” “I know the feeling,” she murmured. “Isn’t this wonderful!” Mason said, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. “Why don’t you two catch up a little, while I talk a little business with Ms. Goldmsmith?” “That’s very thoughtful, Mason,” Inara said, recovering her composure. “I’d appreciate that.” She took Simon’s arm – a little forcefully, she realized too late – and pulled him toward the waters edge, where it was unlikely they would be overheard. “I’d love the chance to catch up! Simon, how is your dear Aunt Gertrude?” As they were walking away, she heard Mason remark -- when he thought she couldn’t hear him – “Oh, this is going to be good!” Obviously, he figured that Inara’s previous association with the mysterious young “Mr. Smith” boded well for business. And despite his protests to the contrary, she could tell he was deeply in trouble in this venture. Poor Mason. “Ni shi sha gua! Simon, what the hell are you doing here?” she asked, keeping her expression cheerful and warm. “I could ask you the same thing,” he replied. “I was just taking a sales tour to pay for our hotel rooms. With an incredibly attractive blonde, who, by the way, is flirting outrageously with me and will do anything, and I mean anything, to make a sale.” “I’m working,” Inara said. “Mason really is an old friend, and a client.” “So this might work to our mutual advantage?” Simon inquired. “You ‘help’ me decide to buy here, I get ‘won over’ by your charms.” “Only you don’t have a pot to piss in,” she said accusingly. “It will all be a lie!” “Yes, and I so fear the spiritual retribution implicit in falsehood,” Simon said, dryly. “Please. My whole life is a lie right now. At the moment, it’s kind of a pleasant lie, considering no one is shooting at me or chasing me and the worst thing I have to deal with is an aggressively libidinous real-estate agent – but it’s a lie nonetheless.” “Simon! I can’t let Mason think you’re going to invest! It would break his heart if he ever found out I misled him.” “Then don’t. I’ve already told goldenpanties over there that I’m only reasonably wealthy – I won’t be phenomenally wealthy until the death of a fictional elderly relative. I’m thinking it’s my grandfather – ‘rich uncle’ is just too cliché. And I figure it will be at least three years. I hear medical science has advanced quite a bit.” “You are insane,” Inara said, her jaw open just enough to demonstrate her shock, but not too much to let on that anything was amiss. “But I can use that. Let’s just keep things simple, vague and use a lot of misdirection. Can you do that?” “I’ll just emulate Jayne,” Simon said, putting his hands in his pockets and making a face. “Not that simple,” Inara cautioned quickly. “Mason is a master businessman. He makes his living by getting inside other people’s heads. He can smell something rutted up a mile away. You don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Just keep asking questions about the investment. He’ll trust that. He knows ‘Simon Smith’ is hiding, so he won’t mind too much dissimilation. Act like you could be persuaded.” She shot a microsecond glance towards Mila. “I think they’re in the mood for persuasion.” “Apropos that,” Simon said, a totally insincere smile on his face. “What am I going to do about the hu li jing? She’s a walking nee yin who works on commission. And I know for a fact that she isn’t picky about her partners.” Inara bit her lip, caught herself, and thought quickly. “Not much you can do. By this time she knows you checked in with a girlfriend, but that might just make her more determined – offering you forbidden fruit, or an attempt to blackmail you. If you put up too much of a fight, though, she could figure she’s losing the account and cause trouble. I would advise you to do as little as you can get away with.” “But Kaylee—” “Isn’t attached to you, and she isn’t here. You don’t act like a big time Core World playboy, then she starts looking for things on the cortex. That could be bad.” “Indeed it could,” admitted Simon, looking pained. “But Kaylee . . .” “Look, I know you have some feelings for the girl,” Inara said quickly, knowing she perhaps understated it a bit, “and I love me some Kaylee. She’s like a little sister. The last thing I want is to see her hurt. Okay, second to last: seeing you and River being bound by law, and having Mal and the others go off and get themselves killed to rescue you, that’s the last thing I want to see.” “Captain Reynolds would never do that,” Simon said in disbelief. “He might even apply for the reward!” “Mal Reynolds most certainly would go after you,” she insisted. “He may not like you, but you are under his command. He didn’t get through five years of combat and one of the bloodiest battles of the war by abandoning his people – anytime, anywhere. He’s . . . suicidally noble. Painfully righteous about his own. I mean, it’s quite admirable from a purely idealistic perspective, but in practical terms—” “I-nar-a,” Simon sang. “I’m the one with the hungry blonde problem, remember?” “Right,” Inara said abruptly, realizing that she was drifting. Focus. “Don’t worry about Kaylee. Do what you have to do. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, and I won’t say anything if you won’t. What happens in the flier, it stays in the flier, and none the wiser. Besides,” she said, slyly, “I’m sure you have some . . . tension that could stand to be worked out.” “More than you know,” Simon said darkly. “Kaylee and I had a very enjoyable date last night, during which she drank wine, smoked cannabis, and passed out cold before my romantic nature had ample time to express itself. And she woke up this morning to the joys of menstruation. So I’m more than a bit . . . tense, thank you very much. But I don’t much want to . . .” “What, be unfaithful to Kaylee? You aren’t married. You aren’t betrothed. To my knowledge you haven’t even kissed her properly. You are in the flirtation-and-infatuation stage of what could someday turn into a relationship, if you play your cards right. This is just a little harmless fun, if it leads there. Healthy. Good for your mental health. And your prostate,” she added, unconvincingly. “You leave my prostate out of this,” Simon said. “I know all that. But it would . . . destroy her.” “It would hurt her,” Inara admitted. “I’m not saying it wouldn’t. But so would dying in a firefight with the Feds. This, she can get over, if need be. I’m not saying leap on her with a lusty howl, but, if it means saving yourself, your sister, the crew, and the ship, you have to . . .” she put her hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Do it for Serenity. Take one for the team.” “I don’t know—” Idiot! He still looked doubtful. That little slut was just the type to start trouble for the man who spurned her. Inara knew if Simon didn’t play this right, fulfilling the image he had started to project, little Miss Goldsmith woul be all over the cortex trying to figure out whom he really was, whom he was hiding from, just to gain a sales edge. And that would inevitably bring up the wanted poster with Simon’s name on it. Inara could tell, just by looking at the way she carried herself, Goldsmith was as much as a mercenary as Jayne. She sniffed. Maybe she could fix them up. She looked back at Simon. “Look, Mr.fancy-pants, quit being so gorram noble for two minutes and think about the big picture. If it helps steel your resolve, remember what happened when Kaylee got drunk on Sophia. And how that brought us a lot of trouble.” She fixed his eye with her own. “Eleven inches of trouble, if you recall.” Simon held her gaze for a moment, his nostrils flaring. “I won’t initiate anything. I’ll do my best to avoid it all together. And I’m not very happy about this. If anything does happen, and she finds out, you pick up the pieces and tell her what a nice guy I tried to be.” “Relax, there probably won’t be anything more involved than a little kissing. If she’s smart, she’ll play you well enough to try to get you coming back for more until there is ink on paper.” Simon shook his head in disbelief. “You are insane.” “I’m not thrilled about it either. But I also don’t want to mess things up for Mason. He has a big meeting in a few days with some real clients, with real money. A blow to his confidence now could be fatal. If he thinks that he has a young, handsome, mysterious and soon to be filthy rich playboy ready to buy, it will keep his self-assurance up.” “Isn’t that a little out of your realm?” Simon asked, skeptically. “I can appreciate what you must do for the man – but certainly, your talents don’t have that great of a bearing on his success. And why should you care about his business, anyway?” “Simon, Companions choose their clients very carefully. This isn’t just a job – and I’m not just a whore, contrary to popular opinion. We form relationships. Mutually beneficial relationships, but our focus is not on the money. Our focus is on using our vocation to augment the client, elevate the client, minister to the client. We’re as much psychologist as sex kitten, and when our clients find fulfillment – in bed and out – we have done our job. And we, in turn, are fulfilled in our own vocation.” “Like inspiring confidence?” “Just so. Mason is a rich and powerful man. But he’s still a man, and he suffers from all the same doubts and insecurities about himself that every man does. The biggest difference is that if he has a failure of confidence, the consequences aren’t disappointing his wife or not getting a promotion, they involve billions of credits and affect the lives of millions of people. So if a little extra boost of testosterone due to my presence aids him in his dealings, I would say I’ve fulfilled my vocation.” Simon just stared at her. “Please tell me you’ve sworn only to use your powers for good.” He caught Inara off guard, and she laughed. “Of course, darling. Mostly. But let’s get back before we’re missed. Mason isn’t the jealous type, but that hu li jing may just poison my food if we’re gone any longer.” “Great. This will be fun.” “At least you’ll be able to say you’ve seen you work. I’ve seen your work often enough.” “Oh, good,” Simon said, taking her arm. “I like to watch.”

*

*

*

The commercial district of Apex was small – only a few dozen shops – but tailored to the tastes – and purses – of the elite. There were, of course, a few beach shops selling the usual tacky holiday beach merchandise, but there were also tailors, jewelers, boutiques, craft shops, gift shops, coffee shops, shoe shops, art galleries, bistros, furniture stores, interior design showrooms, bookstores, and all manner of retailers designed with but one thought in mind: to shake down the wealthy for every credit they could squeeze out of them. It was unlike the open-air markets and spaceport swap-meets that the crew of Serenity was used to. Each shop was tastefully appointed and equipped with young, friendly salespeople who had to be working on commission. There were no crowds, no throngs – only a few other potential customers were in the plaza. The crew of Serenity shopped, like they had never shopped before, their ill-gotten gains burning a hole in their pockets.

*

Mal walked by a “rugged outdoors” supply store that seemed to be more about the clothes than the rugged outdoors. But he stopped when he saw the jacket. Black leather. Double breasted. Tapered at the waist. Big metal buckles, enameled in black. A lining more luxurious than any bed he had slept in. Any man would look shiny in it. And by the price, he could easily afford it at the moment. Mal almost shrugged and kept on going, but something was nagging at him. He stopped and turned around and studied the coat. It was black. Not brown. He looked down at his own coat, the coat he’d had for so long it seemed like a part of him, a vital organ he could take off and throw in a corner. It had sheltered him through bad weather, bad decisions, and bad leadership. It had seven separate bullet holes in it, carefully patched. It was a good coat. But it had been worked hard over the years. He remembered back to mustering in for the first time. The Independents didn’t have uniforms back then. Nor insignia. Nor discipline, guns, a real government, armor, ships, legal protections, rollers, officers, or a thousand other things an army needs to be more than a passionate mob. All they had was their fighting spirit and their desire for freedom from the Alliance. But even in nascent form they needed a bonding symbol, any kind of uniform. And they had none. But everyone had – or could easily get – a brown coat. On the border planets brown was a favored color not because it was pretty, but because it was real. Soil was brown – most places, at least – leather was brown when it tanned. The unpainted boards used to build the shanty-towns that hoped to someday become metropolis, they were brown. Brown symbolized the people. Not bright yellow or blue or red. Brown. The color of fresh turned soil and dusty dirt roads. The color of a new calf on a misty morning, and the steaming pile of shit its mother left in the barn. The color of most of the rivers and some of the oceans on the frontier worlds. The color of a gunstock, and the tree they used for target practice. They came with their personal arms and their coats of brown. They became Browncoats. The Independent military was of the people, and all volunteers. Those first few months they wore their browncoats as a uniform, each one different – some of leather, some of cloth, a few of rubber or synthetics – and they learned how to be soldiers. Unit insignia and rank were attached to the coats, making them legally uniforms, but a year or two later there would be real uniforms –combat fatigues, anyway – with helmets and armor and regimental standards. Most took them eagerly, tired of getting shot at without any protection. Mal elected to keep his coat on. It singled him out in combat, reminded his recruits of why they joined. It had kept him warm, and dry, and provided shade upon occasion. He had spent almost ten years in this coat. He knew the day would come when he would have to put it away, for some reason or another. How much of Malcolm Reynolds was wrapped up in that damn coat, wondered? He looked at his reflection in the window. Was that man doomed to live in the past, forever wrapped in the shame of his defeat in the form of a patched suede duster? Could he ever give up the coat? Would he cease to be Mal Reynolds when he did? Or would he let this coat define him for the rest of his life? He looked back up at the sleek black coat in the window. It was sharp. It was shiny. It was . . . sexy. A man in a coat like that meant business in love, trade, sport or war. He looked back down at his worn, patched coat. Could he give it up? Maybe. Yes. Someday. But not today. That coat had carried him into hell and back. It had absorbed the sweat of a thousand terrified moments and ten thousand exertions. It had concealed his weapons. It had carried his rations. It had been splashed with the blood of his enemies. It had carried more of his own blood than he liked contemplating. The arms of this coat had held good friends while they died a painful, lonely death for a hopeless lost cause. It had held good friends as they sobbed out their grief and pain. It was stained in places with his own tears, mixed with theirs. It was comfortable. It even rutting smelled like him – sweat and gun oil, mostly, and a hint of the original aroma of suede. It had been there before Serenity, before Hera, before Wash and Jayne. Before Inara. Hell, even before Zoë. This coat was as much a part of him as his skin or his soul. He would not be parted from it, willingly. He had invested too much of his sentiment in that coat for too long to lay it aside – no matter how shiny its replacement might be. Yes, the day would come when he would lay aside the coat. When he could leave that part of him behind, perhaps when he sought the comfort of something new. But not today. He was about to continue walking when something else caught his eye. He remembered then that he was not nearly as emotionally invested in his boots – and those black ones with the buckles were pure shinyness . . .

*

“You’re really determined to spend all that money, honey?” Wash asked, just the smallest bit of whininess in his voice. “That’s why it’s there,” Zoe assured him. “And not all of it. Just a great big chunk of it.” “But,” he began, pouting, “but it’s so nice to have money. If you spend it all, no more money.” “What good is it if we don’t spend it?” “It looks pretty. And it’s symbolic.” “Symbolic of what?” “Of . . . our success? Our . . . achievement despite overwhelming odds and people who want to kill us? Of . . . of . . . of us not starving at some point in the future after Mal pulls a few outrageous boners that leave us poor again?” Zoe smiled at Wash benevolently, shaking her head. “Husband, I’m a woman in a high-end retail center with a pocket full of cash. You might as well try talking a Reaver into vegetarianism.” “I’m just urging restraint, is all,” he defended. “Restraint? Like the ones I’m going to use to tie you to the bed the next time I want to go shopping?” “Exactly. But my sweet wife would never do something like that.” “You got another wife I don’t know about?” “Dear, if you tied me up, who would hold your purse?” “I don’t have a purse.” “Perhaps you should buy one.” “I thought that was the problem!” “I’m just trying to act a little responsibly, here! I like you to have nice things – God knows you need more slinky dresses and naughty unmentionables. But I’ve seen that look before. It usually portends massive cash outflow, and I just want it on the record that I was the voice of reason.” “You know I rarely buy clothes,” she said, starting to get annoyed. “And I never buy clothes. I still have all the same stuff I came aboard in.” “And this is a good thing?” “You don’t like what I wear?” He acted offended. “Sweetness, I do love you. I just think that somethin’ new wouldn’t be amiss.” “Well . . . I have been thinking about a new flightsuit,” he conceded. “My old ones are a little ratty. Oh, and maybe a new leather vest, with lots of pockets. Something that said, ‘danger! Hot pilot inside!’” “What do you keep in those pockets, anyway?” “My unmentionables.” “I . . . see.” “And some new shoes. You know how my feet get.” “I consider those ‘unmentionables’.” “Ouch. I can’t help how they . . .” “Smell? Stink? Reek? Constitute an atmo hazard?” “And they say that love fades after marriage . . .” “Baby, I love you dearly . . . from the ankles up.” “Ouch. Okay, some new shoes and perhaps some foot powder. Other than that, I don’t anticipate spending that much on . . .” His voice faded away, and Zoe noticed that he was no longer keeping step with her. She turned to see what was amiss. Then she groaned, loudly, and added a few choice oaths. It was a beach supplies store, the kind with surfboards and bathing suits and plastic beach toys. It had a hand-drawn sign in Chinese and English:

50% OFF! ALL HAWAIIAN SHIRTS IN STOCK! CLEARANCE! 50% OFF!

“Honey,” Wash said, with a note of dignity and an air of anticipation. “Hold my purse.”

*

“This place is ruttin’ paradise,” Kaylee said in awe. “I mean, I never thought a place could have so many stores. This place has got Persephone beat all to hell! Even Ariel!” “Retail,” River chanted. “Terminus of the consumer business chain, applying an arbitrary price to wholesale items in an effort to garner profit after payment of high overhead, labor, advertising and costs of goods sold, in a highly competitive and seasonally based market subject to inane and contradictory fads. Ancient practice outmoded by electronic competitive price comparison and residential delivery. Oh, look, shoes!” “I see ‘em!” Kaylee said, eagerly. “And an ice cream store right next to it. Let’s go try on a bunch o’ stuff and not buy anything, then gorge ourselves to sickness.” “Is that . . . how this is done?” she asked, hesitantly. Kaylee looked at her, surprised. “You never done no shopping?” “There was a definite shortage of trendy retail outlets at the government run brain washing and torture camp in which I spent my adolescence,” River explained, dryly. “Sorry.” “Don’t be. I have a thousand credits in my pocket, a double-dose of the liquid lucidity that Simon cooked up, and a burning desire to make up for three years away from the retail experience. But you’ll have to guide me. Query: do the attendants expect gratuitous remuneration?” “Tips? I don’t rightly know, place like this. To be truthful, I’m just as much out o’ my element as you. I don’t think so – but no tellin’ how rich folk behave. Let’s just go and have a good time. If we rut things up, we ain’t never gonna be back, what do we care?” “Shiny,” River grunted. “Maybe they have something I can dance in. And I have developed a fondness for ice cream.” “Oh my God!” Kaylee said, her eyes wide. “They have fresh strawberry! Paradise! I want to die here!” She suddenly turned to River. “Not tryin’ to offend, or nothin’, but if we go in there are you gonna do anything crazy? Like assault the storekeep, or set anything on fire?” “I don’t think so,” River said, doubtfully. “But it’s not like I can really predict it. These new drugs my brother has me on . . . well, they’re good. I’m lucid. Not screaming, and that has to be an improvement, I guess. But they don’t make me . . . sane. Just lucid. So I could burst into a violent fit at any moment with absolutely no warning whatsoever.” She looked sad and unsettled by the admission. Kaylee studied her for a moment, looked down at her feet, and back up into her eyes. “Okay. If that starts happenin’, try to remember to scream ‘I am NOT a gorram size seven!’ and no one will even know the difference.” “Shiny!” River said, grinning.

*

*

*

Captain Campbell studied the page on the Tortoise’s desk he had appropriated. It was a list of technical specifics and purchase records for the spaceport, and he was trying mightily to track down where the elusive Lei Chin Yi had escaped to. The kid was good, he had to admit. The trail was well covered – but there was still a trail. You just had to know where to look. Shuttle fuel records. The shuttle he was supposed to have escaped on filled up its tanks before leaving, claiming x amount of mass on its flight plan. Said shuttle docked at station Epiphany 1 four hours later and again topped off its tanks before continuing to the terraformation depot further out in orbit – standard operating procedure. Past records demonstrated that this shuttle used y amount of fuel per x amount of mass on every trip in the past. The amount of the top-off was increased by about a third of one percent off of mean standard. A few calculations . . . and he had determined that excess fuel consumed would be almost exactly enough to account for about one hundred two point four seven kilos of additional mass – about what a young man and his baggage might weigh. A similar calculation from the refueling at the depot showed Once at Epiphany 1, there were five transports that he could have departed from. None showed taking on any additional passengers, nor were their fuel or telemetry readings unusual in a way which would indicate a stowaway. So his prey must still be on Epiphany 1. Only he wasn’t. Of that he was sure. His own agents had been through the station with a fine-toothed comb, inquiring after the boy as discreetly as they could. Nothing. Except . . . One of his agents had reported a spacesuit rental, one that was already twenty one hours overdue for return, forfeiting the deposit. Could the impetuous boy have hitched a ride on the outside of one of those transports? Unlikely, considering that would show up in the telemetry and mass calculations. Possible, but unlikely. But where else could you go from Epiphany 1 . . . in a spacesuit? He checked back over his data and noticed the repair facility. Could he have stolen a ride from there? Nothing there now but two broken Company shuttles and a transport getting its core rebuilt – it wouldn’t be moving for another several days, and Campbell was certain that Chin Yi had kept moving. Wait . . . the transport was a Firefly. It had come in, docked, and the pilot had departed on a shuttle. Bound for Apex, that new tourist trap they built. Campbell was impressed. Lei had Campbell’s agents scouring the known ‘verse for him. But the best place to hide might just be back on Epiphany – although in surroundings he would not be sought in. Ingenious. But then he had long ago given up underestimating the Lei family line. Well, except for the idiot pimp – there was always a duck among the cranes. He could see the plan in his head, just as Chin Yi must have: pop up to E1, grab a suit, EVA to the transport, come down in the shuttle with the pilot to the last place anyone would look for you. No record of transit to follow. Only one weak link to betray him. Of course, if Campbell had done the job, the pilot would not have long survived the landing – but the boy was young. Naïve, most likely. He probably figured enough cash would keep the pilot quiet. But there were ways of getting a man to talk that didn’t involve cash at all. He would find the boy. And the box. And he didn’t care how many bodies he’d step over to do it. His family had served the Imperial House for over a century, now. He would not prove unfaithful in his duty now. Besides, Apex was supposed to be a top-flight resort city. Mayaps he’d take in a show while he was there. He hadn’t been to the theater in ages.