Search & Recovery: A Retrieval Artist Universe Novel by Kristine Kathryn Rusch Page A

traveling without him. If they got caught in a dome section, they’d be split in half, like his team had been. And he knew that his home, and the school, weren’t anywhere near the government sections of Armstrong.
    Because that was what blew up here. The section that exploded was near Yutu City’s local government buildings, might even have been in them, he wasn’t sure, and he wasn’t paying attention.
    With Soseki dead, the governor-general dying, an explosion in Yutu City, he had to figure that someone was attacking any government building possible.
    He didn’t confirm any of that. He needed to focus—and he already was.
    Somehow, as he started working the train, he had shut off his visual links. He’d done this in the past, his subconscious mind working at minimizing distractions so his conscious mind could work unimpeded.
    He managed to get the train started. He programmed in the speed, making sure that the train scanned the route ahead for debris.
    Trains like this were built to plow through small debris, but they couldn’t handle large things, like parts of buildings and entire pieces of dome.
    The route he programmed took the train around the largest domes, just in case they blew up, kept the train in the non-domed parts of the Moon, the industrial and mining regions, away from any government areas.
    Deshin knew he could go faster that way.
    And he would be home within the hour, so that he could rescue his family and figure out what the hell to do next.

 
     
     
     
    EIGHT
     
     
    TORKILD PULLED HER toward what appeared to be a solid wall, covered in screens. Berhane couldn’t see them clearly—there were too many other people in the way—but she saw the movement on them.
    Torkild, taller than she was, pushed his way through the crowd, his fingers pinching her elbow as he pulled her forward. She stumbled behind him, occasionally banging into someone, usually a short little Disty scurrying to somewhere else.
    But sometimes Berhane hit the back of a person bent over a screen or subvocalizing on their links. More than once, she passed someone (often a human male) shouting as if he were alone, “I’m stuck here. Don’t you get it? They’re not letting anyone in or out …”
    The cacophony was huge, ear-splitting, and it was giving her a headache. She heard more languages in this drag from one part of the gigantic terminal to the other than she had heard since college.
    A group of Peyti stood silently near a clump of chairs and watched. She had no idea if the Peyti were communicating on their links or just thinking that the humans were being stupidly emotional all over again. And she couldn’t really tell if they were talking to each other—those masks covered their mouths.
    Torkild looked over his shoulder at her, as if she were the one holding them up. He pulled harder, and she emerged through a cluster of people into an open area.
    Here, everyone was staring up at the screens. She couldn’t help herself; she looked up too.
    And wished she hadn’t.
    She saw Nelia Byler, the governor-general’s assistant, clutching a gurney. The person on the gurney had black hair and a grayish face (like Arek?) but Berhane couldn’t quite tell who it was.
    She turned on her links—all of them—then wished she hadn’t. The chatter in them made her feel like her head was full.
    She filtered them down to news updates, heard
    …attack on Governor-General Alfreda as well…
    …going on in Armstrong today? Clearly, these attacks were coordinated…
    …uncertain how many other leaders, if any, have been threatened…
    She looked up at Torkild.
    He had stopped moving, his hand still holding her elbow, but not pinching anymore. His face was squinched. He was looking at her with sympathy, and the look didn’t fit on his skin very well. It never had.
    “Did you reach him?” Torkild asked.
    She hadn’t even tried, not since they’d started their mad dash across the crowded terminal.
    “No,” she said. “But