Free Necropath by Eric Brown Page B

Vanderlaan appeared briefly to the
south of the ‘port, a grey ghost in the darkness, and then
disappeared. For fifteen seconds it flickered like an image on
ancient film, before it mastered the slippage and appeared finally,
solid and substantial, in this reality. The ship engaged auxiliary
burners and moved in slowly across the sea, a wasp-like shape garish
with the silver and electric blue company colours.
    Across the ‘port the loudspeaker system
relayed orders, the bored woman’s voice duplicated in Vaughan’s
earpiece. "Okay... twenty-three hundred hours. This one’s
ahead of schedule. Coming in due south, estimated docking: four
minutes, Berth twelve prepare lines. Hauliers at the ready. Emergency
services on stand-by. Class-3 freighter out of Verkerk’s World,
Vega, terminates at the Station. It’s all yours, boys and
girls. Out." The drawl clicked off abruptly, the silence
immediately replaced by the dull drone of the freighter’s
engines.
    Vaughan stood beyond berth twelve, an oval crater
of raised steel flanges. Fuel lines, coloured cables and leads,
turned the berth into a snake pit. The freighter swung in over the
superstructure of the terminal building, its stanchion legs braced
akimbo, landing lights sequencing along its sleek flank. Behind
lighted lozenges of viewscreens, crew-members could be seen chatting
casually around tables or leaning against the rails and staring out
with the relaxed postures of travellers at journey’s end.
    Around the berth, one by one, ‘port
authority vehicles drew up: a fire truck, an ambulance, a tanker to
siphon off unused fuel, and three or four other specialist
juggernauts. Their personnel climbed down, stood around in bored
cliques, chatting and mopping their faces in the relentlessly humid
night. Vaughan could not help but read their thoughts, just as he
would have overheard music played loud. Without concentrating, he
caught only fragments of verbalised cognition from a nearby engineer: Last one this shift, thank Allah.
Home... Parveen... Then non-verbal
thoughts of security, warmth, sex, and accompanying mental images.
    His handset chimed. He accessed the call. "Jimmy?"
    Chandra’s smiling face looked up at him.
"Mission accomplished."
    "You took your time."
    "Weiss was a bastard. He kicked up a fuss
when I hauled his flier down and demanded to see his papers. Called
the odds—you know these big shots. He nearly gave me an excuse
to arrest him for abusive behaviour to a police officer. He’s
in interrogation now and demanding a solicitor. He’s here for a
good three, four hours. Hope that gives you long enough. Catch you
later." The screen blanked.
    The first job would be to assess the level of
security around the ship, and then put his plan into action. He
doubted that Weiss would have overlooked the possibility that he
would not always be on hand to shunt his telepaths to other duties;
he would have posted guards.
    The Vanderlaan came in over the berth and turned slowly on its axis, lowering itself
gradually to the deck. Muscular, ramrod stanchions took the impact
and the ship dipped a quick, hydraulic curtsy.
    Minutes later the ramp came down, hitting the deck
with a clang like a bell tolling the hour. Two big Sikhs in the light
blue uniforms of a private security firm ascended the ramp and
positioned themselves on either side of the exit.
    Vaughan scanned. The men had been hired by Weiss
and instructed to let not a living soul aboard the freighter. Weiss
had used some vivid language to get his message across, and the
guards had taken notice. They were tensed-up and vigilant, as if
expecting a terrorist strike at any second.
    He strolled casually around the freighter. From
the minds of the ‘port workers gathered in the berth beneath
the ship he detected not the slightest flicker of suspicion at his
presence. He paused on the lip of the berth, staring down at a group
of three engineers