If she misses, it’s over. She falls to the pseudograss, the EMT takes care of her, and she wakes up in the hospital. To what? Long-term injuries, possibly. Joblessness and foreclosure, certainly.
And then what? Small parts assembly until she’s crippled by carpal tunnel? Twelve-hour days of sewing, picking fruit, or mopping up toxic waste and nights of sleeping in an open barracks until the morning she can’t wake up? Maybe one of those skeevy “personal services” gigs where the services get really, really personal. In all cases, her life used up and wrung out for someone else’s benefit, and then discarded like an old rag.
She has one failure-proof shot left. She can put the pistol in her mouth and pull the trigger, cheating her creditors of their prize.
Kira stares at the gun and lets the possibilities spool out in her mind while fluid oozes down her leg.
To die: to sleep; no more; and, by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to . . .
A small stab of pain, the dying complaint of some clutch of cells in her abdomen, reminds her she doesn’t have time to be Hamlet. Fog already obscures the edges of her vision, and she needs to do something before she passes out. Putting her own brains on the back wall will be original, and she’ll never hear anyone say she failed.
OK—Ophelia it is.
Chapter 21
Kira zipped her Guild jacket up to her throat and shoved her hands in its pockets. Her handset showed the vehicle as more than twenty minutes away, but waiting on the sidewalk in front of their apartment gave her and Chloe a chance to enjoy fall before harsher weather arrived. Like the party they were about to attend, it was a way to celebrate their continued presence among the living after nearly fourteen months as gunfighters.
The event wasn’t billed that way, of course. The gathering, held at the venerable 801 Steak and Chop House atop Des Moines’s tallest building, honored all the members of their gunfighting class who fulfilled their twenty-six-match commitment to TKC. It was an expensive place, but the Guild local could afford to splurge. There were only seventeen of them left to feed.
Chloe’s face scrunched up as she punched numbers into her handset. “OK, how can there be only seventeen? We started with eighty-one.”
Kira stretched, and tried to remember. “Two traded right after graduation.”
“Got that.”
TKC’s Contract Adjustment Division doubtless wished they could have those back, but the roster had seemed flush at the time. Kira thought some more. “Five guys paid off their signing bonuses and quit.”
Chloe nodded and punched the numbers in. “Yeah, they bailed after they got hit.”
“Not Perkins.” Kira laughed a little. “Just hearing the bullet go ‘crack’ when it passed his ear was enough.”
“Oh right.”
“Holst and Singh, medically retired.” One was bedridden. The other lost an eye but, incredibly, survived. “Steve Escher, still on leave.”
“Do they think he’ll finish?”
Kira’s shrug hit the limits of her jacket. “Spinal regen is tricky. It’ll be six months before they know anything.”
“So that’s fifty-four, then.” Chloe stared at her handset.
From their class of eighty-one, fifty-four deaths in the line of duty. Could she remember them all? Tory Phelps had been first, taking a bullet straight through the heart during his initial match. Cabot Anand was the most recent. They’d delayed the party until the Saturday after Thanksgiving so he could finish, but he ended his twenty-sixth match with a bullet in his spleen and bled out on the way to the hospital. In between? Too many to even remember their faces. Not to mention the ones that weren’t in their class. Though in the last year, only Gary’s death had breached the charmed circle surrounding Diana’s clients.
Chloe returned her handset to its carrier. “Maybe we’re all out of our heads.”
“You mean about the extensions?” Throughout August and September, TKC had offered fat bonuses to anyone about to complete their required service if they would commit to an additional six matches. Kira grabbed it right away. Chloe a bit later. Adrian Miles, who talked about craps tables and commodity trading with equal abandon, ignored the advice of his second and committed just before the offer closed.
Kira shivered again. There had to be something less morbid to talk about. “So, what did the engineer say about the foundation?”
Chloe sighed. “He told me it’s going to take another ten thousand unis to get it in good enough shape to rent.” She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and looked down at the sidewalk. “That’s on top of the five thousand I already spent.”
“Ugh. That’s too bad. I still think the duplex is a good idea.”
“The only idea I have, so I gotta run with it.”
“You’ll get it fixed up and it’ll work. It’s just gonna take a little longer.”
“I suppose so.” Chloe looked down the street, as if she could turn away from the topic and make it vanish.
Kira tried again to lighten the mood. “It’s only six matches, five to go for you. Maybe not even that.”
Chloe waved Kira’s assertion away. “Six is what we just signed up for.”
“Yeah, but if one of us takes the pro fight, you really think they’ll hold us to six? Besides, the purse will be big enough you can just buy your way out.”
That’s what being rich meant, after all—you could just buy your way out of your problems. The richer you were, the bigger the problems you could buy your way out of.
Kira squeezed her friend’s shoulder. “If I win, I’m taking you with me.”
“Maybe.” Chloe shivered a little. “Diana says you hear about five pro fights for every one that happens. Companies don’t like to do it.”
“Yeah, but if you win it, you’re not just free, you’re rich.” Kira conjured a vision of the winner’s purse in her mind. It looked like a pile of glittering gold coins, a treasure that would free her from all her worries. Diana would remind her a dragon guarded that golden hoard—to claim it, she’d have to beat another professional gunfighter.
Chloe pulled herself further into her jacket and sounded even more morose. “I guess we’ll see.”
They stood in silence. Kira racked her brain for a happy topic, something to cheer up Chloe before the driver arrived. If not actually happy, just getting her to think about something besides dead gunfighters and crumbling foundations might be enough. “Are you going to invite Danny to Thanksgiving?”
Chloe smiled. “Nah. I think it’s too soon to let Mom grill him. We deserve some fun, first.”
“Oh? And just how much fun are you planning to have?”
“Cut it out. You sound like my brothers.” Chloe blushed a little.
That was an improvement, but it would be a mistake to push it further. Chloe had been dating Danny less than a month.
Even in the November cold, the sidewalks still hosted a fair number of people darting in and out of the shops on Ingersoll Avenue. A property recovery team in blue body armor rounded the corner and headed in their direction. Kira lowered her eyes and fought the urge to pull out her handset and check the status of her loan. Of course it was current. She’d checked just this morning, and she had activity alerts, and . . .
A young, blonde-haired woman in a too-large brown jacket broke into a run. In response, the property recovery team took up pursuit, and people on the sidewalk scrambled out of their way. The woman ran into the street, gambling there weren’t any human-controlled vehicles in the traffic flow. The drivers, controlled by the traffic grid, avoided her with fluid swerves. One of the team members touched something on his belt, and the woman fell to the pavement, thrashing and screaming. The two blue-clad men took up positions on either side of her, and her writhing stopped.
Something squeezed Kira’s forearm. She looked down to find her jacket unzipped and her hand inside, reaching for the gun in her shoulder holster. The pressure on her forearm came from Chloe’s hand, and
her friend’s eyes pleaded as much as her voice. “Kira, you can’t . . .”
Still standing in traffic, the team cuffed and shackled the woman, then hoisted her up. She sobbed as the specialists frog-marched her to the sidewalk on the far side of the street.
Kira relaxed her arm but couldn’t move while Chloe maintained her grip. “It’s OK. I’m not going to do anything.”
Chloe let go, but kept her eyes fixed on Kira. Kira withdrew her hand and zipped the jacket back up. Chloe softened a bit.
They watched as an official white van arrived, its rear doors opened, and the specialists loaded the woman into it.
When the van pulled away, Chloe turned to Kira. “I know that was hard, but we’re just a couple of fast guns, and those guys”—she pointed to the property recovery team—“those guys are banks and cops and big companies and . . .” Chloe paused, searching for words. “They’re, well, shit, they’re everybody. You and me can’t fight everybody all by ourselves.”
Kira wrapped her arms around her chest and struck the bulge of her holstered pistol beneath her jacket. She caressed it, savoring its hard bulk and the implication of power. “I know. I’ve just never seen a binder work before.” She’d read about the implant, of course. Spare, clinical prose described the binder as a device placed in the base of the spine and wired to the sciatic nerves. When activated, it produced the painful, debilitating spasm they’d just witnessed, but no long-term effects—at least not any effects anyone without a binder regarded as important. That allowed it to be used as often as needed. Normally, it was keyed to a coded signal, so if a confined person got too far from their workplace, pain forced them back. No telling exactly how the woman had beaten that, but there were ways. The binder could also be triggered on an ad hoc basis, as the team had done. There wasn’t any way to avoid that. Not that anyone ever talked about, anyway.
If Kira’s future came down to a choice between wearing a binder and fighting a dragon, the dragon fight looked pretty damn good.
Her handset sounded, and a two-seat, copper-colored vehicle pulled up to the curb in front of them. Its doors opened, folding back like the wings of a beetle. Chloe and Kira slid into their places, and their ride prattled its thanks for their business and directed them to buckle up.
“I wasn’t trying to draw back there.” Kira faced Chloe, who responded with a side-eye.
“Don’t try to tell me you just had to scratch.”
Kira looked down at her knees. “No. I was reaching for the gun. But I didn’t want to use it. I just wanted to feel it. To know it was there. I think it’s kind of like when you cross yourself when you’re in trouble.”
“Hmph.” Chloe clearly needed some convincing on that point.
Across the street, the property recovery team relaxed and broke out cigarettes, a small celebration after their catch. Chloe was right about everybody backing them. Everybody with power, anyway.
The driver played its second warning message on fastening her seatbelt, and Kira buckled in. Satisfied with the safety of its riders, the vehicle eased away from the curb. Across the street, one of the specialists touched the side of his helmet, talking to someone via an earpiece. He said something to his partner, and they stubbed out their smokes. A driver pulled up beside them, and his partner jogged to the door on the far side of the vehicle, as if eager to chase down the next runaway.
Kira tore her eyes away and slid down in the seat. For now, she was on the right side of all that. If she missed a couple payments, though, they’d come for her, and her gun would be every bit as useless as Chloe thought it was.
The driver entered the high-speed section of the traffic flow and raced into the gathering darkness.
Chapter 22
Something was loud. Really, really loud. A sizzling noise. Kira turned, and everything hurt. Mostly her head. But also her joints. And her back, even though she lay on something soft. Dry mouth. She tried to wet her lips with her tongue. They tasted awful. Where was she? This didn’t feel or sound like the hospital. But she hurt more than enough.
“C’mon, baby girl. Time to wake up. It’s Sunday.”
Oh hell. I’m on Diana’s couch.
Kira rolled to a sitting position and cradled her head in her hands. “God. What is that racket?”
“Pancakes frying. If you think that’s loud, wait until I start laying out the plates.”
There ought to be a special-purpose curse a hungover night owl could hurl at a cheerful morning person, but Kira couldn’t think of one. Instead, she opened her eyes. On the other side of the living area, four stools stood before a pass-through counter. Beyond the counter, dressed in a dark red housecoat, Diana worked the pancake griddle.
Kira pushed herself up, trying not to move her head any more than absolutely necessary, and crossed the twelve miles or so separating her from the kitchen area. When was the last time she’d been this hungover? Using the serving bar for support, she climbed onto one of the stools and looked up and down the counter.
“C’mon, Diana, don’t fuck with me. Where’s the coffee?” Her voice came out even rougher than she’d expected.
Diana produced an empty cup and a full decanter from below the counter. “Here you go.”
“Thank God.” Kira seized the decanter and poured. Holding the cup with both hands, she drank with the reverence of a supplicant imbibing communion wine. She sighed as she finished. “That’s good. Thank you.” She poured a second cup but took only one long sip before setting it down.
Diana shouted toward the bedrooms. “Breakfast in five!”
Kira winced at the decibel level. Diana, ever the believer in the instructive value of pain, had probably done it on purpose. By the time Kira finished another therapeutic gulp of coffee, Howard marched down the hallway in flannel boxers and an oversize T-shirt, scratching his belly with one hand and holding his handset in the other. He was a little taller than Diana, and broad shouldered. The puffiness of recent sleep made his face look even softer and friendlier than usual.
Diana grinned and put a full cup of coffee in front of her husband. He grinned back and they kissed. Diana set up the decanter for a refill and went back to supervising the pancakes. “OK, we’re ready.” She looked toward Kira. “Can that stomach of yours take something solid?”
“I think so. That smells good.”
“Well, you did leave most of whatever you ate last night in the toilet.”
Embarrassment added itself to Kira’s physical miseries. “Oh God. Did I make a mess?”
“No. You’re as accurate in the bathroom as you are on the dueling field. Cleaned up with one flush. Thanks to the gunfighter’s cut, I didn’t even have to hold your hair out of the way.”
Howard shuddered. “Can we have a new subject? I was planning to be hungry.”
Diana doled out plates and put the first round of pancakes and sausages on them, following up with butter and warm syrup before rounding the counter and taking the stool next to Howard. With everything and everyone in place, Kira nibbled tentatively at her food. Diana cleared her plate with measured efficiency, while Howard plunged in with real enthusiasm.
As they finished, Diana poured another round of coffee.
Howard pushed the empty plate away. “That was a great breakfast, Di. Kira and I will get this cleaned up.”
Apparently, people who crashed on the couch uninvited and stayed for breakfast did not receive a guest’s immunity from housework. Fair enough.
Kira slid off her stool and winced as her heels struck the floor. Her hangover recovery had a long way to go.
Diana poured another cup of coffee for herself and got comfortable on her stool. That the person who cooked didn’t clean up and the person who cleaned up didn’t cook was such a consistent rule of the Reynolds household that Kira had never heard them discuss it.
Howard ran an AutoSponge over the pancake griddle, slowing over the dirtiest parts so the device had plenty of time to break down and absorb the organic compounds. In its wake, the c
ooking surface was spotlessly clean, the cauterized remains of the food digested and swept away. Kira stacked plates in the dishwasher.
Without breaking his concentration on the griddle, Howard spoke. “So what brings you here this morning? Looks as though you had a rough night.”
What had happened last night? Chloe had left the party early, spending the night at her parents’ place so they could travel to a cousin’s wedding first thing in the morning. Diana and Howard had bowed out early as well, leaving Kira, a Guild steward whose name she couldn’t remember, and a couple guys from the class to drink, talk, and toast departed class members. Somewhere in there, she got very drunk, and everyone else paired off or headed home. Then she’d come here. Why had she done that? The driver could have taken her back to her apartment and she could have spent the night in her own bed instead of on the Reynoldses’ couch.
“I’m not sure, really. I wanted to be someplace safe, and I didn’t want to be alone. I’m sorry if I intruded.”
From her perch across the serving bar, Diana entered the conversation. “Chloe told me about the property recovery team.”
Kira gathered the glasses and put them in the dishwasher. She didn’t have to look at anyone while she did that. “I guess that might be part of it. I knew about binders, and teams tracking people down and all that, but seeing it happen in front of you is . . . different.”
Diana switched to her slightly-too-casual voice. “Are you OK with your loan?”
“Oh yeah. I’m current, I’ve got a couple payments in savings in case there’s a hiccup with my pay deposit or something, and I’ve knocked off a big chunk of principal since I started drawing a full salary and getting endorsement deals and everything.”
“But not paid off.” Of course, Diana would cut straight to the main issue.
“No.” Kira rearranged the glasses. “Not paid off.”
Howard washed the AutoSponge. “So, just how large are those debts of yours, anyway?”
It was a rude question, but Howard asked it innocently enough. Kira had always begged off when Diana tried to get into details, but maybe that was a mistake. She glanced at Diana and took a slow, deep breath. “As of the last payment, I owe 189,865 unification dollars.”
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