Engineman by Eric Brown

out on the Rim the operation was conducted by smaller companies.
    Ella appreciated the obvious benefits of interface transportation, but at the same time she mourned the passing of the bigship Lines, the tragedy and suffering of the Enginemen, and the simple lack of romance of the portals compared to the gut-wrenching, heart-warming sight of the bigships which had dominated the spaceports like magnificent leviathans.
    And, of course, portal travel was painful .
    She looked out across the 'port to the interface a kilometre away, a high blue membrane set against the only slightly paler blue midday sky. Beyond the 'face was the city of New Stockholm, looking impossibly clean and prosperous: a panorama of glass towers, forests and parks. A greater contrast to Paris she could not imagine. The staff working in the terminal building, and the citizens come to see off friends and family, were all well-built, blonde and bronzed, descendants of the Scandinavians who had made the planet their home more than fifty years ago. She compared these people with the travellers who had left Paris with her, harried and beset individuals, either leaving Earth for good or glad to be getting away from a fragmenting Europe if only for a short time.
    She considered the teeming crowds of travellers she had seen over the past few hours. The multitude of citizens in the Expansion, and the multiplicity of events, made her realise the insignificance of her attempt at communicating her thoughts and feelings through the medium of her art. Hell, even in a culture which understood the type of work she did, there were people like Vasquez and her father who shut their minds to what she was saying - and Eddie, too, she had to admit. In the years she had known him, he had made no effort to try to understand what she was doing: that he had appreciated the degree of difficulty involved in producing a piece made the fact that he could not interpret her work all the more frustrating. She gained heart from the knowledge that for every hundred people like Vasquez, Eddie and her father, there was perhaps one who loved and cared for works of art - like the off-worlder who had bought Conversion .
    Her thoughts were interrupted by the activation of the interface. The blue light flickered and coruscated briefly, hinting at the vaguest outline of the 'port on the other side - then disappeared to be replaced by the rain-slicked tarmac, dull terminal building and overcast sky of Carey's Sanctuary. The slit portals and viewscreens in the frame of the interface glowed warm and yellow against the grey winter scene beyond.
    The call went out for travellers to Carey's Sanctuary to assemble at the identity check-point. Perhaps fifty people stood and gathered their possessions. Ella remained seated, watching her fellow travellers move in line towards and through the security check. There were few families making their way to Sanctuary; the majority of travellers seemed to be business-people and soldiers in uniform.
    Ella shouldered her bag and tagged onto the end of the queue, her pass and identity card at the ready. The Swedish courier was smiling them through. "I trust you've enjoyed your stay on A-Long-Way-From-Home, or if you were a transit traveller that you might return one day to enjoy our hospitality. Thank you."
    Ella was the last traveller through.
    "Excuse me," the courier said. "I thought you might like this. I found it in lost property." The women held out a black synthetic-leather jacket. 'Sanctuary is a Danzig-run world, they might give you a hard time if they knew you were a Disciple." She indicated the infinity symbol tattooed on Ella's arm.
    "Thank you." Ella accepted the jacket. "That bad, is it?"
    "They're clamping down on the passage of Disciples, E-men and -women to the Rim," the courier said. "At least this'll cover your tattoo."
    Ella smiled and shrugged on the jacket. As she was zipping it, she saw the frayed name-tag on the chest of her silvers. She looked up