Standing next to the warden was a woman in a civilian jumpsuit, a hardsuit carrier hanging from one shoulder. I would have called her nondescript but for her eyes, which were an arresting shade of green-yellow I don’t think I’ve seen before or since. She didn’t speak, but allowed the warden to make introductions.
“Dr. Azelié Dumont, this is Monsieur Prometheus Borges. He has charge of the site you will be visiting.
“Monsieur Borges, Mademoiselle Dumont is a professor at the university. She wishes to observe your work site firsthand as part of her studies. Please see that she is accommodated in every way. I will send a lighter to fetch her at, say”—he looked at the woman for approval—“seventeen hundred hours?”
She nodded.
“Of course, Warden,” I said, admiring Tailleur’s style. He could have easily said I was the gang boss who would be chaperoning her to the mine and gone on to threaten me to impress her with his importance, but he hadn’t. He could also have told her story entire, leaving us nothing to talk about on our trip—he didn’t. He could have promised dire repercussions should she be harmed, but we both knew anyone who offered violence to a visitor or staff on my job site was not getting off AL-1517B alive.
Respect—it makes transitioning between all our individual little spheres so much smoother.
It may sound odd, but I sometimes miss Warden Tailleur.
“I will leave you in his capable hands, then.”
“Thank you,” Dumont said.
“Mademoiselle. Monsieur.” He gave a little bow and departed.
“I’ve got some final suit checks to make. Have you gone through yours?”
She nodded. “I’ll check it again.”
I smiled in approval. I have always been a firm believer that critical gear should be cleaned and checked often and thoroughly.
She hung her suit and started her checks.
She made no comment on what had to be, for her, odd behavior from the warden.
Then again, I had no idea what they had discussed prior to seeking me out, and paying complete attention to checks can mean the difference between death and a minor inconvenience, so I gave her a pass.
I only grew suspicious when we boarded the lighter and saw no equipment other than her hardsuit. She was also far too comfortable with silence. I had known a few assassins in my day, and they had been similarly quiet.
“So, what brings you here, Doc?” I asked, trying to allay my growing concerns when she had remained silent for half the trip out.
“I wanted to observe something.”
“Oh? The mating habits of the common inmate hold that much interest for you?” I asked, searching for a button, a lever, something I could use to pry some sense of her into the light.
“Not that kind of doctor,” she said. “I’m a PhD.”
“Sociologists study such things, don’t they?”
“I suppose they do, but I’m a physicist and mathematician . . .” She trailed off.
“What, then?” I asked, growing tired of her reticence.
“I’ve been working a rather difficult orbital mechanics problem involving the orbits of AL-1517B and SU-4222H.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I couldn’t see why a physicist would need to visit us. I waited for her to elaborate, but she refused to, so I pressed: “Couldn’t you have just used data from the local shipping traffic?”
“Not in this case.”
“And you don’t need a lot of equipment for your observations?” I asked, gesturing at the nearly empty cargo space between us.
“Not in this case.” Her tone was meant to shut me up.
Fuck that. “Perhaps if you were to tell me what you need, I could be of some assistance?”
She looked me in the eye, jaw working. “I need to see for myself.”
“What?”
“All my models show an anomaly I cannot explain.” Her lip curled as if she smelled something foul. “Some data that just doesn’t make sense.”