Chapter 2

It was a bit disconcerting how easy it was to get through the checkpoint at the airport. But on the other hand, they never had a chance.

The computer did all the work nowadays, and the computer knew without a doubt that my ID was legit.

It had taken Spectre no more than a few minutes to establish the identity of Veronica Sinclair. Including my biometrics was not even worth thinking about. And changing the biometrics and pictures of Vivian Juliette DuClare was standard. Everybody who did not know me personally was actually searching for a tall blonde, instead of for the tiny redhead walking through the checkpoint.

The security was not at fault here, as Spectre was one of only six hackers who could do the switch. And nobody knew of the connection I had with one of the most wanted hackers of the world. I had made damn sure of that.

The check of my luggage brought no surprises. My PDP 22.40 was registered, and obviously legal (at least that was what the computer told the guards), and nothing else had to be licensed.

I reached Bay 9 a bit more than 30 minutes before the launch time and for a moment questioned my decision.

On some level I was aware of the fact that the Drunken Owl was old. I mean, the Camel was discontinued 40 years ago. So I was not completely surprised that the grav ship was somewhat decrepit. But the vision greeting me was more than I expected. The ship was mottled with rust spots. I could see a few oil streaks, and the landing gear was a bit bent. But then I remembered my research. Ernest Willinger may be disreputable, but he made the flight to and from New York several times a week, and was always reliable. It was the reason why I even talked with him, much less paid 30k credits for the flight.

As I watched my crates were loaded into the freight compartment. My life here in Seattle was over.

A screech behind me made me turn around.

A group of apparent passengers had entered the bay, and at least one member was less than satisfied with the grav ship.

Four Mongrels, two male and female each, and a Mute without any outward gender identification. A midsized blonde woman, mid twenties I would guess was berating one of the males, a big and strongly muscled man around thirty with black hair. The other woman was a bit smaller and younger than the blonde, with shoulder length brown hair. The second man was a bit shorter than the first, with dark brown hair and roughly the same age. The Mute had a canine face, dark grey fur and four arms. I had to respect his or her courage. Running around in Seattle as such an obvious mutant could not be easy.

While only half of the street gangs here were anti mutant, the Pures in control were less tolerant than the government nearly everywhere else. I briefly wondered how it had come through the checkpoints here at the airport without being turned into a sieve. But I was not interested enough to really ponder the question.

In the short time while I looked them over, the man not trying to calm the blonde down moved up to me.

“Hi. Are you part of the crew? This ship is a bit...” he wrestled with the sentence before continuing “rusty. Are you sure it is safe?”

I couldn’t help myself. Such an opening was to be used.

I shrugged and simply said: “No!”

He seemed a bit stumped, and I began turning back to the ship, when he tried it again.

“No, it is not safe?”

“No, I am not part of the crew. As far as I can tell, except the pilot there is no crew.”

“Oh, then you are a passenger? I am Marc Holt.” He held out his hand.

I was contemplating using sarcasm, but I guessed it would be wasted, so I just ignored his hand.

“Veronica Sinclair. Yes, passenger. And before your next question, yes it is safe. The ship makes the trip and back four times a week. So you should calm down your friend.”

With that I finally turned around and walked up into the passenger compartment. Willinger acknowledged my presence and I looked over the seats.

As I had expected, the interior was no better than the exterior of the ship.

The seats were old, and a few were obviously damaged. The smell was barely tolerable. Where there was no crud there was either blank metal or the remains of a carpet on the deck. A few of the seats still had their view pads, but mostly it was disconnected wires coming out of the openings.

But I was not paying so much for comfort. I looked around and saw a seat in the back that seemed relatively clean and had neither holes in the cover nor defective upholstery. More importantly the same could not be said of its neighboring seats. It was the best bet I had to be left alone.

I stuffed my luggage in the overhead compartments, activated my link and began reading. Not even five minutes later, Marc sat down on the other side of the aisle.

“That was not very friendly, you know?”

Annoyed, I grabbed the bridge of my nose, took a deep breath, before I answered.

“Yes I know. That was intentional.” All the while I tried to get into Professor Nicolins’ not very accessible text.

I felt his hand on my shoulder.