Crossways by Jacey Bedford Page A

Jussaro’s question? He hoped so.
    â€œThere’s a switching device in your implant; effectively a kill switch.”
    Jussaro shrugged, not giving anything away in his expression now. “What does it do, blow the top of my head off?”
    â€œNothing so crude. It induces an electrical cascade in your brain, a stroke. You might survive it, barely, in some kind of vegetative state perhaps, but your implant won’t.”
    Crowder let the information sink in. “We can trigger it from anywhere. You can run, but you can’t escape. And just in case you’re wondering, there’s a dead-man switch. If I don’t hear from you every seven days your implant is toast. And, of course, if I die . . .”
    Jussaro’s eyes widened.
    â€œCarlinni and Benjamin have several good reasons to want me dead. You have a very good reason to want me alive. I’ll expect to hear from you on a regular basis, or rather, my Telepath, Mr. Leyburn will. I won’t be opening up myself to the possibility of attack. I know what Cara Carlinni did to Mrs. McLellan. Your friend is a dangerous woman.”
    â€œIs she? Tell me more.”

    Ben had an appointment with Norton Garrick and Mother Ramona before going to the warehouse.
    â€œComing?” he asked Cara. “Or would you rather meet me there?”
    â€œI’ll come.”
    He felt absurdly pleased.
    They took a tub hubward, accompanied by two silent guards in full-face helms, hurtling into the fast lane to make the six-kilometer journey in just under ten minutes. The Mansion House was right in the middle of Crossways, in adistrict known as Center-Spindle. It faced out across Hub Park, a green space surrounded by the homes of the wealthy. The artificial azure sky, far above their heads, seemed convincingly real. Built on Palladian lines, the Mansion House’s main living area was above street level and accessed by an impressive outer staircase leading to a columned portico. It almost looked like real stone, a clever artifice. On the ground floor, below stairs, Norton Garrick had his personal offices, distinct from Crossways’ administrative headquarters, which were a block back from the hub.
    Garrick’s slight figure and pale skin stretched tight across the planes of his face spoke of deprivation in his youth, but his clothes and the single small diamond in his earlobe showed the restrained good taste of someone who no longer needed to flaunt excessive wealth. His brown wavy hair, cropped stylishly short and graying at the temples, could have belonged to a businessman rather than the pirate that he was, or maybe had been. Whatever Garrick’s former occupation, he’d reinvented himself as an entrepreneur and politician. Crow’s feet around his eyes spoke of a ready smile.
    He wasn’t smiling today.
    â€œBastards!” Garrick spat the word out and then looked up. “Not you two. Bloody Alphacorp. They just stopped a shipment of provisions at the Athabasca Terminus. The bogus quarantine notice for Olyanda has been extended to Crossways. We appear to have taken in ten thousand plague victims and are now in imminent danger of infecting all human life in the known universe. Any ship docking on Crossways won’t be allowed to dock in Alphacorp or Trust ports without spending ninety days in a designated quarantine holding area. In other words, the independents can deliver their cargo here, but they’re not going to be able to trade anywhere else for three months after that.”
    â€œJust Alphacorp and the Trust?” Ben asked.
    Mother Ramona entered the main office from a door at the back of the room. Today she wore an elegant business suit that contrasted sharply with her marbled skin. “Arquavisa has just been panicked into joining in. The rest will follow. That means we’re under an effective trade embargo. No supplies in, no goods out—from and to the megacorps-held planets