by Cary Caffrey
"My dear, discretion is our specialty!" She raised her right hand as if making the most solemn of vows. Sigrid did her best not to roll her eyes. "Attorney-client privilege and all that. We have several confidentiality packages designed to suit any budget. Exactly how, er, discreet would you like us to be?"
Sigrid frowned; she knew when she was being extorted. "How much will it cost to get you to forget I ever came in here?"
"Ah! The deluxe package! I'll have my clerk add it to your bill."
Sigrid paid the solicitor's fee on her way out. More than two thousand in adjusted Federated dollars. Completely outrageous. But at least she had the information she needed, even if it wasn't what she wanted.
Standing on the steps, she did her best to make some sense of everything, but she couldn't. Her mistress, Lady Hitomi, had sold her. And to Coran Industries—and Randall Gillings, of all people. Why? There had to be some reason. And wasn't Gillings dead? He was the chairman of the Council, wasn't he? Weren't they all dead?
No, Sigrid doubted that very much. Gillings had proven his resourcefulness on Bellatrix. If anyone could survive a coup, it was Randall Gillings, and the contract seemed proof of that. But it still didn't answer the question: why?
The news, the lingering questions, made for a bleak ride back through the Crossroads.
~ - ~
The sun had already set when she parked the longspur outside the Starlight Lounge. It was a large shack set amongst stacks of shanties. Smoke drifted from a tall chimney. The smells of cooking wafted towards her. She could swear she caught the scent of freshly baked bread.
Sigrid pushed the half-length double doors aside as she entered. While rough around the edges, the lounge proved to be clean and homey enough. And crowded too. An old electronic piano sat in one of the corners. Its keys were yellowed and chipped in places, and while it looked like it had been the source of much music and merriment in its day, it sat unused and silent.
A group of rough-looking men and women looked up from their steaming bowls and bubbling pints as she entered, though they turned away quickly when she drew her riding coat aside to expose the shining recoilless strapped to her hip. She wanted no trouble tonight—for their sake, if not for hers.
Jaffer was nowhere to be seen. Sigrid found a vacant booth and slid in. A hand-printed menu offered everything from empanadas to torta negras. Putting the menu aside, she flipped on the viddi-monitor embedded in the tabletop. The news machine wasn't free, and her eyebrows were raised high as she was asked to feed more and more wrinkled bills into the hungry slot. It took more than a hundred adjusted Federated dollars before the monitor blinked on, granting Sigrid access to the networks.
News from off-world was nonexistent—more probably, it was banned outright. A host of local newsfeeds provided at least some information. Most of the stories were focused on the war between the CTF and the Independents. The Council forces had been all but routed in the South, but there was a new push coming from the North, and the acting council was making grandiose proclamations of reclaiming the Earth.
It wasn't difficult to read between the lines. The CTF was losing. Even now, the Independents stood on the edge of Buenos Aires. If the Federation's capital were to fall, Sigrid knew it would be all over for the CTF. Not just on Earth, but everywhere.
And while war and rebellion raged around them, the Consortium, indeed, the Crossroads, stood on its own, squeezed between the two factions. The sooner Sigrid was gone from this place, the better.
There were other articles. Mostly concerning trade disruptions, but she did find one article, and it chilled her.
It was about her.
Sigrid read the headline. "Dangerous & Deranged Mental Patient Escapes Southern Facility For The Criminally Insane."
Dangerous mental patient?
Sigrid was willing to concede the dangerous part, but deranged? The picture they'd used wasn't one she recognized. It showed her in a white hospital gown and in restraints. Her eyes look sunken and dark, and her hair was a matted mess. But it was her, though she had no memory of the picture ever being taken.
The story was pure fiction. It told a rather sensational tale of a woman led down a dark path. She was a murderer on a grand scale, executing dozens of Earth's wealthiest and most powerful families. She was sick and suffering from a host of mental illnesses. Anyone seeing her was to keep their distance and inform the authorities instantly.
Of course, the real purpose of the article was clear: it was to expose her. Anyone reading it would be sure to turn her in—either that or run screaming in terror, she supposed. Either way, finding safe harbor anywhere was going to be a problem. Especially if the bloody feeds keep broadcasting my photo and name everywhere!
She was glad she'd thought to wrap Bins's bandana around her head and hair, and the dark riding glasses helped mask her features. She was even gladder she'd taken the precaution of using the alias Camila Valentina Rodriguez. At least no one in the Crossroads would know her as—
"Sigrid! Sigrid Novak! Hey, Sigrid! Over here!"
Bloody hell!
Thoroughly startled, she looked up to see Jaffer arrive. He was standing at the swinging double doors and waving like a fool. And he wasn't alone. Two men and a woman trailed after him.
Sigrid half-rose, glaring at him to hush, for goodness' sake! "Jaffer!"
Seeing her, Jaffer waved and came over, followed by his new companions.
The viddi-monitor on the tabletop still showed Sigrid's face and, worse, her name plastered across it in bright red letters. Sigrid did her best to cover it with her hand as she fumbled for the off switch, though none of them seemed to notice or care. Truth be told, they were looking more at her than anything else. In fact, they couldn't take their eyes off her.
The man at Jaffer's side wagged his thumb in her direction—not the most subtle of gestures. "Her? That's her?"
"All right, all right…" Jaffer hushed him by shoving him into the booth and sliding in after him. It made for a tight squeeze.
"I see you found the place," Jaffer began when they were settled in. "This is Tomás. That lovely creature sitting across from you is Marta. And over there's Miguel Ángel—"
"Angel," the young man said, taking her by the hand. His eyes were deep set and sapphire blue, and he met Sigrid's eyes full on and rather boldly. "Always a pleasure to meet one so lovely."
"Easy there, Romeo," Marta said. She had to peel Angel's hand away from Sigrid's to shake it herself. Marta was easily the tallest of the four. Her skin was smooth and richly dark, and her sleeveless crew top put her strong, powerful arms on full display. She held Sigrid's hand firmly in her own. "Watch out for that one, kid. He's a live wire. I'm Marta."
"Pleased to meet you," Sigrid said, somewhat overwhelmed by the three new acquaintances. It was obvious Jaffer had been talking about her; all four of them sat there grinning at her, as if they, and they only, knew something she didn't.
Jaffer, however, was positively beaming with pride. "These three are the best cargo jockeys in the Crossroads, hands down." And then he turned to introduce Sigrid. "And this is—"
"Yes," Sigrid said, glaring at him. "I think the entire restaurant knows who I am, thank you, Jaffer. You broadcast it loud enough."
"It's all right," Tomás said. "You're among friends. Jaffer told us you were a lifer."
"And he told us where he found you," Marta said. "Don't worry yourself. We've all been there. The Crossroads is full of ex-lifers and indentured. No one's going to turn you in, sweetheart. I promise."
"Well, thank you," Sigrid said, though she shot another glare Jaffer's way, causing him to sit lower in the narrow booth.
"Jaffer tells us you're quite the fighting woman," Tomás said. "He told us how you handled those jackers."
"Four jackers and a flight of longspurs," Marta said, impressed. "Not a bad haul."
"Well, I don't know exactly about a haul," Sigrid said, uncomfortable under this new scrutiny. "They were just a gang of street to
ughs. I'm sure any one of you could have dealt with them."
"Those toughs were killers," Marta said, leaning forward, "and there's more of them on the road every day. It's like they're bloody breeding."
"They're picking us off one by one," Angel said. "Yet the way Jaffer tells it, you took them down without breaking a sweat."
Sigrid's glare on Jaffer turned to a frown. "I think, perhaps, Jaffer here's been weaving some tall tales. It was nothing like that, really."
"Well, whatever went down," Tomás said, "you got Jaffer home in one piece. And for that we're in your debt. We'd like to return the favor. If you'll permit us."
"It's really not—"
"Please, just hear us out. It's not what you think. We'd, um, well, we'd like to hire you."
"Hire me?"
"And not just because of the jackers," Marta cut in. "Jaffer told us about the deal you made with Franco. Seventy-two thousand dollars? Unless you're going to tell us Jaffer exaggerated that too?"
"No," Sigrid said, somewhat dubiously. "I did manage that."
"The Crossroads could use a woman like you," Marta said. "Someone who's not afraid to stand up for herself. Someone who's not afraid to push back."
"Frankly, we're all a little tired of being extorted and bullied," Tomás said.
"And killed!" Marta said. "We lost three rigs last week alone."
The four truck drivers leaned forward. Sigrid found herself sitting lower under the sudden attention. She saw the hopeful looks on their faces. More than hopeful. They were desperate. She wanted to help them, of course. But she had her own problems, didn't she? The longer she remained on Earth, the more precarious her situation would become. Contract or no contract, she had to get home. She had to learn the truth. And she had to find Suko.
"I'm sorry," Sigrid said, "but I can't."
"If it's a question of the percentage," Marta said, "we're offering a straight cut. Twenty percent. Five-way split."
"The percentage is fine. It's not that. It's just—"
"Look, Sigrid is it?" Tomás said. "Jaffer told us about your, er, situation. But you'll never get off-world. Not on your own. And definitely not through the usual routes."
"The orbital lifts are shut down," Marta said. "They only let official CTF traffic through the Relays."
"But there are other ways," Tomás said meaningfully.
Jaffer made a scoffing sound, something between a sniff and grunt, and rolled his eyes. "Smugglers. They're talking about smugglers. Slavers, Sigrid. Human traffickers."
Tomás shrugged. "Perhaps. But they can still get her through."
"Don't believe it," Jaffer said. "They'll take your money, stick you in a container, and who knows where they'll ship you. Forget it. She'll find another way."
"I'm just providing options—"
"How much?" Sigrid blurted, ignoring Jaffer. If there was a chance she could get off this planet… "How much will it take?"
"Fifty K," Tomás said. "Fifty thousand will get you to Mars. Another two hundred gets you through the Relay."
Two hundred thousand? The figure was staggering, though she wasn't about to let that stop her. "When can I meet them?"
Tomás gave a casual shrug. "I'm making a cargo run tomorrow. Just a short hop to Bahía Blanca and back. Why not come along? You'll earn yourself some crumble and meet my contact. It's a win-win."
"Sigrid," Jaffer cautioned, "these people are dangerous. Not 'Bins' dangerous. Real dangerous."
"So am I," Sigrid said. "I'll do it, Tomás. I'll come with you."
"Kid," Jaffer said, "sweetheart, you sure about this?"
Sigrid wasn't sure about anything. But she didn't see that she had a choice either. "I have to get home, Jaffer."
Jaffer studied her for a long moment, scratching absently at his stubble. "Then we'll just have to get you home, then, won't we. All right, Tomás, we'll talk to these smugglers. But I'm going too. She's going to need someone to watch her back."
Tomás shook his head. "Forget it. My contact can be—well, let's just say she falls on the jittery side. She might not take kindly to you showing up. I can't risk her bugging out."
"That's the deal, Tomás. It was my bright idea to introduce her to you lot. But if we're talking about slavers, then I'll see her through this, if it's all the same to you, Sigrid?"
"Jaffer, you really don't need—"
A great commotion sounded at the door, cutting her off. Everyone in the diner turned to see what was going on. A squad of Dalair mercenaries burst in, shouldering anyone too close to them aside. They took up positions around the entrance. Sigrid's hand went to the butt of her recoilless, but Jaffer stayed her hand.
"Easy, girl. They're not here for you."
A young officer stepped forward, and rather casually, Sigrid thought. He had a data-pad in his hand, which he proceeded to read from, sounding more bored than authoritative.
"By order of the Lady Godelieve Van de Berg, magistrate of the Crossroads, and seigneur of the Consortium and the Free Southern Territories, martial law is hereby declared, as of this day, June the 20th, yada yada."
"Martial, what the f—?" Angel said, rising. "Now just hold on a second. What the hell's going on? Who the hell does she think she is?"
Indeed, all the patrons in the diner were shouting much the same thing, crowding forward to descend on the mercenary squad and demanding answers.
The soldiers held their ground as the young officer raised his hand for silence. At least this time the anger of the crowd had his interest.
"Listen! Listen! As of right now, the Crossroads is under lockdown. You all know what that means. The magistrate has requested that I remind you this is for your own protection. A curfew of twenty-one hundred hours will be strictly enforced. Anyone not in their domicile after such time will be placed under arrest pending expatriation from all Consortium-controlled territories. That is all."
The shouts of the patrons rose to greater heights, but they fell on deaf ears. The young officer turned on the polished heels of his boots and marched promptly out.
"Our protection?" Marta spat. "I call bullshit. This is Santiago all over again."
Jaffer grabbed the arm of one of the mercenaries before she could follow the officer out. "Hey! What the hell's going on? At least give us something!"
The mercenary took one look at Jaffer's hand on her arm. For a moment, Sigrid thought she'd twist his hand off, breaking his grip, but instead, she shrugged. "I guess you'll find out soon enough. It's all over the newsfeeds. Independents just took Buenos Aires. We're tracking a large force moving down from the north. They say Mar del Plata's next. After that…"
Jaffer nodded. "The Crossroads."
"If you have any way out of here, now's the time. Roads will be closed soon. My advice? Head south. Get as far and as fast as you can."
"South?" Sigrid said. "I have to get north!"
"Sorry, sweetheart. The only way you're heading north is as a conscript." Then, the mercenary let her eyes trace Sigrid up and down. "You might want to think about that. We could use a recruit like you."
"She's not signing up," Jaffer said, stepping between them. "She'll go south. With the rest of us."
"I will?"
"You will. Come on. All of you. We need to get back to the paddock. Now!"
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sisters
Despite the announcement of the curfew and the lockdown, there were still dozens of people in the streets outside. The group of mercenaries had already moved on to spread the word, and with no one to focus their anger on, the crowds were left to shuffle about, muttering to each other and themselves.
Get south. That was what the mercenary woman had told them. Easier said than done. Looking around, Sigrid knew these people were stuck here. This was their home, and even if they had the means, there was nowhere to go.
Jaffer was pacing impatiently as they waited for Tomás to return with his van. Sigrid didn't need her sensors to see that he was anxious and growing more so a
s the minutes passed.
"I wouldn't worry about the Independents," Sigrid said. "Even if they've taken the capital, it will take them weeks to mobilize and continue here."
Beside her, Marta took out a small silver case and lit a slim cigarette. The scent of strong tobacco filled the air between them. She offered one to Sigrid, who declined. "It's not the Independents he's worried about, kid. It's the looters. They'll strip this place clean. Our rigs included. By the time the Indies get here, there'll be nothing left of this place."
Jaffer was the first to board the van once Tomás finally arrived to collect them.
"About time," Jaffer said, throwing the door wide. "If there's any damage to the rigs, it's on your head."
"Easy, Jaffer. We're all on edge here," Marta said. "Just relax. We'll be fine."
From there they drove in silence. All around them, shops were quickly boarded up, their windows barred and blacked out as more people retreated behind their walls and curtained windows. The streets were strangely empty. Once Sigrid spied an armored car as it sped past going the other way. Its emergency lights cut through the gloom, flashing amber and red, but then it disappeared around a cluster of warehouses, leaving them alone once more.
The only other vehicle to pass them was a single black limousine—probably carrying some dignitary or bureaucrat. Driving at great speeds, it weaved out from behind them, swerving madly. As it pulled out ahead, Sigrid caught a look at its armored windows. They were tinted black and shielded for privacy, though it didn't stop her from scanning the two occupants inside, a man and a young woman. Their heart rates were elevated, but this wasn't from the elation that came from a nighttime joyride. It was stress. They were frightened.
They were running.
The limousine pulled away at a frantic pace, though not before swerving back in front of them and nearly cutting them off.
"Hey, watch it, buddy!" Tomás said, shaking his fist after them. "Bloody plutocrats." Then, "Jesus Christ!"
Without warning, an oncoming lorry came barreling through the intersection ahead of them. The truck swerved—not to avoid a collision with the charging limousine, Sigrid realized, but to induce one.