Deadman Switch Read Free

This was his personal triumph, and he had no intention of having us ride someone else’s ship into Solitaire like hitchhikers or afterthought cargo.
    Which consideration made it almost inevitable that he would saddle us with the Bellwether.
    From his point of view, it was a generous favor, of course. His own personal craft, the Bellwether was a genuine superyacht, with all the luxury and heavy-duty status that that implied. Unfortunately, the size and sleek lines carried their own hidden costs: the size meant the Bellwether could do only eighteen hours at a stretch on Mjollnir drive before having to go space-normal to dump its excess heat; and the sleek lines meant it then took up to six hours to cool down enough to continue on.
    Which meant that instead of the twenty-three-plus light-years per day a heavily radiation-finned courier ship could cover, we stodgered along at barely eighteen. Which meant the hundred-odd light-years to Whitecliff took us nearly six days to cover, instead of a courier’s four and a half.
    Which meant HTI’s representatives in Alabaster City were primed, ready, and waiting when we arrived.
    I’d half expected them to try and hide their preparation, but they apparently knew better than to try and play stupid. Instead, they’d opted for the opposite response: laying the honey on with a sealant spreader.
    It started practically before we’d even gotten our feet on the ground, with the spaceport director himself greeting us at the Bellwether’s gatelock as we disembarked. He bubbled a message of greeting tinged with nervous awe, led us through an artificially brief customs ritual, and then escorted us across the terminal to the connecting hotel. The three best suites, we found, had already been reserved for us, as had the most secure meeting/privacy room on the lobby level. Randon left a message with the hotel registrar to be transmitted to the local HTI office, and we retired to our rooms.
    Even then, the HTI people showed their expertise in such matters, giving us a half-hour to relax and readjust to groundfall before arriving at the hotel.
    They were sitting at one end of the polished gemrock table as we entered the privacy room: two men, one dark and almost too young, with a slightly overformal black and burgundy capelet draped carefully over his tunic; the other older and graying, with a sense of long tiredness hanging on his shoulders as visibly as his physician’s white capelet. On the table before the younger man sat an open computer, humming faintly. “Good day to you,” Randon nodded as they rose to their feet at our approach. “I’m Randon Kelsey-Ramos of the Carillon Group; you must be our HTI hosts.”
    â€œGood day to you as well, sir,” the younger man said with a nod that was as formal as his capelet. His dark eyes flicked to me, the sense of him shifting from stiff and grudging politeness to animosity as he did so. “I’m Sahm Aikman—HTI legal affairs department,” he continued, eyes shifting back to Randon. “This is my colleague, Dr. Kurt DeMont—” he gestured, the muscles of his hand as taut as the rest of him— “who handles the various medical aspects of the Solitaire run.”
    DeMont’s eyes came back to Randon from their uneasy study of me and he nodded his own greeting. “Mr. Kelsey-Ramos,” he said gravely. His eyes shifted again to me, and I sensed a surge of boldness peek through, as if he were considering speaking to me directly. But caution and protocol prevailed, the boldness withered, and he remained silent.
    All of which would have been abundant proof, if I’d needed any, that the message O’Rielly had sent here had included the fact that Randon might be bringing his father’s Watcher along. But they weren’t quite sure yet …
    â€œPleased to meet you,” Randon said, nodding acknowledgment of the introductions. He, too, had picked up on