A Passage of Stars by Kate Elliott Page B

her mouth open. The recess lighted. Bach appeared, his surface glowing. Heat shimmered off him.
    “Step back,” said Lily, pushing the girl with one hand, and Paisley moved backward into the station. Bach came into the lock. Behind him, Lily could see tall shapes approaching. A sharp whistle, and she and the robot were both out of the doorway. The lock slid to. Bach sang a quick, dissonant chord. His metal casing glowed a strange copperish tone in the harsh glow of station lighting. Lily turned.
    They had attracted a crowd. Paisley stood stock-still, her tattoos showing up florid against the unmarked faces gawking at her. Someone asked a question. The station corridor curved away, berths and, where the curve bent out of view, a portside shop district.
    Lily forced herself to single out a face, an individual: there, a silver-toned sta, male by his cresting mane.
    “Excuse me, esstavi. Is this Dairy?” She scarcely recognized her own voice. Her gaze shifted once right, once left. The crowd seemed thinnest to the right, where it would lead on to more berths. Safest, perhaps, to go left, toward the shops.
    “Dairy?” The sta’s accented reply, half-sibilant, half-unvoiced growl, caught her back.
    “Dairy system. What system is this?”
    The sta, unable to blink, turned a head to glance pointedly at a companion, a brown-skinned woman in a pale robe.
    Behind, a beep sounded from the berth console. Paisley yelped. The orange “occupied” light snapped to yellow.
    “Left,” Lily said, almost conversationally. She whistled three notes. “Run.” And she broke left.
    Paisley dove, rolled under a number of moving feet, and emerged on the far side of the crowd. Bach rose straight to the ceiling, trailing above behind Lily. Lily elbowed ruthlessly past the meat of the gathered crowd, took one quick survey to apprise herself of Paisley’s position alongside her, and sprinted.
    A swelling of sound came from behind them, a rush of voices and a yell. Faint, faint, and far above her, Bach was singing. People dodged out of her way, cursing, laughing, startled. Paisley bumped into a gold-skinned sta, shoved past. The commotion spread before and behind. Shops appeared now on the right-hand side of the station corridor; Lily, trying to keep as near the edge as possible, tripped over an out-flung chair at a café, rolled, and came to her feet. Paisley, ahead, paused to let her catch up. At the tables, diners pointed up at Bach’s advance over their heads. Lily glanced back. A milling crowd, confusion—and pale, thin forms pushing purposefully through.
    “Go,” she shouted at Paisley. But Paisley did not move. The girl’s eyes had fixed on something inside one of the shops. Lily, coming up beside her, took hold of a tattooed arm and began to pull—and froze.
    Three of them emerged from the shop door, guns in hand.
    “Now what’s this?” said the woman. She had startlingly light hair, almost white, set off by her black-and-gray Security uniform. Three gold bars, sergeant’s rank, tipped her sleeves. “Quite a fuss on com, I must say.” She aimed her weapon at Lily. “Let the tattoo go. You own her?”
    “No.” Lily released Paisley and stepped forward. “And I don’t—”
    “She your servant?” The woman’s voice held steady and cold.
    “No,” said Lily stiffly. “She happens to be—”
    The woman made a motion with her free hand to one of her companions. “Take it down to Block 7. File it in.”
    “Hold on.” Lily stepped back and put an arm around Paisley, who stood as if transfixed, staring in horror at the black-and-gray uniforms. “You can’t just take her.”
    One of the men came up next to Paisley. “Just be happy you ain’t going where she is,” he said, not unkindly. “Cute, ain’t she?” He took one of Paisley’s arms and twisted it up behind the girl’s back. “Let her go, kid.”
    “No!”
    “Let her go,” said the sergeant.
    The noise of the crowd rose abruptly, a sudden swell, then