this port before, but he still had trouble finding his way around; the place had changed in seven years. They'd taken his RiggerGuild ID away from him, but as it turned out, security was nonexistent on this part of the field.
Legroeder stood at the edge of the decayed plasphalt pavement of a parking lot and squinted across the complex into the setting sun, trying to figure out from Harriet's notes just where the maintenance hangar might be. He was at a remote corner of the field, and it looked more like a down-at-the-heels industrial park than a spaceport.
Harriet's words echoed in his mind. What are you going to do if he won't talk to you? She'd given him a good, long stare. If his own grandmother had still been alive, she couldn't have conveyed greater sternness.
He hadn't had an answer, and still didn't. But he knew one thing: pushing paper wouldn't get answers out of Jakus. He had to confront the man himself.
The line of hangars just across the way looked promising. He started across the crumbling tarmac, clenching and unclenching his fists. When he realized what he was doing, he pressed his open hands to his sides.
The shop he was looking for was the last one, marked by a dusty sign: Cavanaugh and Farhoodi Rigger Systems . The hangar door was shut, so he tried a small door to one side. It opened with a creak and banged shut behind him as he entered. Inside was a dingy outer office, with a scarred counter and one dirty chair; behind the counter was an inner office, with a light on. A voice—a woman's—called out: "Who's there, eh? We're closed!"
"Hello!" he called, and moved around the end of the counter to peer into the office.
A thick-waisted woman in a faded jumpsuit stood behind a desk, holding a dusting wand. "That door was supposed to be locked," she said, sounding annoyed. "They're closed here."
Legroeder showed his empty hands. "I'm sorry—I'm not here on business, exactly. I'm looking for someone named Jakus Bark. I heard he worked here."
The woman's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Yeah, I guess he does. What d'you want with him?"
The words came reluctantly. "We used to... rig together. I haven't seen him in years, and I, um, wanted to say hello. I'm... interested in getting into his line of work."
The woman squinted at him, obviously processing his words slowly. He couldn't tell if she recognized him from the news or not. Perhaps she wasn't someone who watched the news. "I'll check," she said. She touched a com switch on her collar, spoke subvocally for a moment, then nodded. "What's your name?"
He told her, and she relayed the information. Her eyebrows went up once, as she listened to a reply. Finally she shrugged. "It's okay, I guess. He's in the, what do you call it, sim'lator three, out back." She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating a door behind her. "Don't touch nothin', though, 'cause you probably shouldn't be in here." She muttered under her breath for a moment before adding, "and be quick, eh? I don't want to get in no trouble."
"I'll be careful," Legroeder assured her. "Thank you." He passed through the door into the hangar and paused to let his eyes adapt to the gloom. There were several modest-sized spacecraft in the hangar, with various bays and panels open for servicing. One small craft was in an advanced stage of disassembly. Legroeder had to skirt around the front of the first ship just to find a path back through the hangar. Two ship-lengths back, against the righthand wall, he saw three giant grey eggs. They were rigger-station simulators, used for testing repairs to the flux-reactors and rigger-net equipment. As he walked back alongside the ships, Legroeder saw a flicker of actinic light on the far side of the hangar. Someone was working with a photonic torch on the underside of a third ship.
The door was slightly ajar on simulator three, letting light escape. As he approached, he could see a full bank of controls and monitors—and the back of someone's head. Suddenly
Legroeder stood at the edge of the decayed plasphalt pavement of a parking lot and squinted across the complex into the setting sun, trying to figure out from Harriet's notes just where the maintenance hangar might be. He was at a remote corner of the field, and it looked more like a down-at-the-heels industrial park than a spaceport.
Harriet's words echoed in his mind. What are you going to do if he won't talk to you? She'd given him a good, long stare. If his own grandmother had still been alive, she couldn't have conveyed greater sternness.
He hadn't had an answer, and still didn't. But he knew one thing: pushing paper wouldn't get answers out of Jakus. He had to confront the man himself.
The line of hangars just across the way looked promising. He started across the crumbling tarmac, clenching and unclenching his fists. When he realized what he was doing, he pressed his open hands to his sides.
The shop he was looking for was the last one, marked by a dusty sign: Cavanaugh and Farhoodi Rigger Systems . The hangar door was shut, so he tried a small door to one side. It opened with a creak and banged shut behind him as he entered. Inside was a dingy outer office, with a scarred counter and one dirty chair; behind the counter was an inner office, with a light on. A voice—a woman's—called out: "Who's there, eh? We're closed!"
"Hello!" he called, and moved around the end of the counter to peer into the office.
A thick-waisted woman in a faded jumpsuit stood behind a desk, holding a dusting wand. "That door was supposed to be locked," she said, sounding annoyed. "They're closed here."
Legroeder showed his empty hands. "I'm sorry—I'm not here on business, exactly. I'm looking for someone named Jakus Bark. I heard he worked here."
The woman's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Yeah, I guess he does. What d'you want with him?"
The words came reluctantly. "We used to... rig together. I haven't seen him in years, and I, um, wanted to say hello. I'm... interested in getting into his line of work."
The woman squinted at him, obviously processing his words slowly. He couldn't tell if she recognized him from the news or not. Perhaps she wasn't someone who watched the news. "I'll check," she said. She touched a com switch on her collar, spoke subvocally for a moment, then nodded. "What's your name?"
He told her, and she relayed the information. Her eyebrows went up once, as she listened to a reply. Finally she shrugged. "It's okay, I guess. He's in the, what do you call it, sim'lator three, out back." She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating a door behind her. "Don't touch nothin', though, 'cause you probably shouldn't be in here." She muttered under her breath for a moment before adding, "and be quick, eh? I don't want to get in no trouble."
"I'll be careful," Legroeder assured her. "Thank you." He passed through the door into the hangar and paused to let his eyes adapt to the gloom. There were several modest-sized spacecraft in the hangar, with various bays and panels open for servicing. One small craft was in an advanced stage of disassembly. Legroeder had to skirt around the front of the first ship just to find a path back through the hangar. Two ship-lengths back, against the righthand wall, he saw three giant grey eggs. They were rigger-station simulators, used for testing repairs to the flux-reactors and rigger-net equipment. As he walked back alongside the ships, Legroeder saw a flicker of actinic light on the far side of the hangar. Someone was working with a photonic torch on the underside of a third ship.
The door was slightly ajar on simulator three, letting light escape. As he approached, he could see a full bank of controls and monitors—and the back of someone's head. Suddenly
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