I was silent as the chorus of voices answered.
22
The city of Valhalla was essentially an inverted tower plunging into the surface of Callisto. Rather than being composed of isolated floors like the vertical cities of Venus, Valhalla was an organic mix of arbitrary landings and hanging buildings connected by a network of layered skyways like strands of spider’s silk. This structure presented the first problem I faced in getting near Ivan Solovyov. A skyway is highly defensible, with a single point of entry and no meaningful cover. Unless I wanted to storm his home by frontal assault, I would need to be clever.
I took a maglev from the spaceport to Solovyov’s neighborhood and had a look around. Not surprisingly, it was the kind of neighborhood I’d associate with old money. Every building was set back from the neighborhood’s central hub, the skyway entrances framed by real trees and hanging vines.
I found that Solovyov himself didn’t live in a freestanding home, but in the bottom penthouse of a hanging tower overlooking the entire subdivision. I wondered if that said anything about the man. I stared up at the opaque glass windows high overhead and imagined him looking back down at me. Even here, among some of the wealthiest Jovians, he’d chosen to physically isolate himself as much as possible.
But the fact that the building wasn’t his alone meant I could gain access to it without force. The first issue I needed to resolve was making sure I didn’t look out of place. I took another train into one of the shopping districts and made a walking tour of all the retail shops, while watching everyone around me closely to figure out the local tastes. Once I had a sense of it, I bought myself several sets of clothing, a haircut from an expensive salon, a top of the line dataspike, and real leather shoes.
I used my new dataspike to find a real estate agent who could help me buy an apartment in Solovyov’s building. In less than five minutes, I was scheduled for an appointment the next day. With nothing else I could do until then, I went out for dinner in Solovyov’s neighborhood to learn the area, hoping I might be lucky enough to catch sight of him out in the open.
I had no such luck, but the steak was excellent. Not many people could afford to eat real meat on an outer world. A passing observer would find at least that much evidence I was the man of means I pretended to be. I slept that night in a lavish hotel and went to meet my real estate agent the following morning, dressed in my expensive natural-fiber suit.
The realtor was a short man with drooping jowls and a lisp. He spoke at length about all the luxurious amenities the property had to offer.
“You’ll never lack for anything in Windsor on Highfall, sir, I assure you of that. From the on-site fitness center to the unit’s private theater, everything is top of the line by even terran standards. Beyond top of the line. To everyone who meets you, your choice of living space will speak of your good taste.”
I tuned him out, responding with the occasional sound of vague agreement. He talked the entire way over from his office to the property, pausing only to greet the young receptionist in the Windsor’s lobby. I caught her eye and gave her a smile.
Downstairs, the realtor took me through the apartment he wanted to sell, explaining every last nuance of what made the place so special and unique. I heard all about the storage solutions, the integrated media system, and even about the architect who designed the building. He touched on the local politics in Valhalla, and which organizations wanted to do what about the real estate industry.
I told him I was certainly interested and that I would give it some thought. He walked me out, and we took the elevator back up to the ground floor. As we walked out of the building and down the skyway, he reiterated his selling points with minor variations of what was clearly a practiced script. I thanked him for his time at the train station and wished him a good day.
“It was a pleasure talking with you, Mr. Bartlett,” he insisted. “I mean that.”
He clasped my hand with both of his own, desperately trying to convince me of his sincerity. I smiled warmly and assured him that the pleasure was all mine, and that it was a rare treat to speak with an agent so knowledgeable about not only the property but the area as well. That seemed to do the trick, and the man finally let go of my hand.
He boarded a maglev, and I waved to him through the window as it departed. Once it was out of sight, I left the station and walked back up the skyway. I returned to the Windsor on Highfall and approached the front desk where the pretty receptionist looked up and smiled.
“You’re back.”
“I am.” I grinned, leaning close and mirroring her body language. “And I have a small problem—ah sorry, I know my agent said it, but I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Lera.”
“Lera, I’m Tim.”
“What can I help you with, Tim?”
“Well, my agent offered to show me the gym, and I turned him down. Now that I think about it, I’ve changed my mind, but he’s already heading back to his office and it’d be embarrassing to have to call him back. I’d really like to get a look at that gym before I make my decision on the property. Could I—”
She nodded helpfully. “Oh yeah, of course. It’s just down the hall there. I’ll key you in.”
“Thank you, love, I appreciate it.” I gave her a wink and passed through the security door, then I turned toward the elevators as soon as I was out of sight.
I called the elevator and selected the penthouse level, reaching for my skeleton key in anticipation of an access code. Surprisingly, the selection flashed green and the elevator began its descent. The lack of a passive security layer told me there was going to be an active security layer when I arrived. I doubted it would be automated. A proxy security force in a semi-private space like an apartment complex was a legal quagmire waiting to happen, and the Arbiter of Shaanxi was no fool, so I prepared myself to encounter human security. By the time the car came to a stop, I had a reasonable cover story to explain why I was there.
The doors opened on a long, white hallway. A purple carpet split the passage down the center and ended at a tall, ornate door where a pair of identically dressed men in black suits kept guard. One leaned against the wall, swiping through something on his dataspike. The other eyed me suspiciously as I exited the elevator.
As I got closer, I could see that one of the men was much older than the other. Deep wrinkles lined his features and his black hair had a hint of gray at the root. The man stepped forward to meet me. “Can I help you, sir,” he said with a combination of deference and muted aggression.
“I’m here for a meeting with Ivan Solovyov.”
“Mr. Solovyov is not expecting anyone.”
“Is that right? I wonder if there was some mistake. My assistant said—”
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Tim Bartlett. Of Bartlett Industries?”
“Wait right there, please.”
He turned away and gestured in the air to make a dataspike call. That was my opportunity.
I took two steps forward and hooked a punch into his ribcage. His flesh gave way around my fist like water as the bones splintered. A hoarse gasp escaped his lips and his legs gave out. I caught him by the collar and stepped around his body, placing my other hand in the small of his back to take his dead weight across my shoulders.