Persephone Station

by Stina Leicht

  It wasn’t that they were squeamish. They couldn’t afford to be, not in their line of business. However, the sight brought up bad memories.

  “Poor Marcy,” Sarah, Rosie’s partner and the senior bartender, said. Her voice carried the concern Rosie wished they could display. “Torture is not a good way to go.”

  A small pain jabbed the interior of Rosie’s chest. They blinked several times to relieve the burning sensation on the backs of their eyes.

  Blue and green neon light from across the street reflected on the wet pavement in smears of watercolor and cast the body in the glow of animated alien colors. The blinking sign belonged to a low-rent plastic surgery clinic called Nu You.

  I care. I do, Rosie thought. I merely channel my concern… differently now. “I don’t know why they bothered. Amateurs. Five minutes of research would’ve revealed she wasn’t connected. Why go to all this trouble?” Bitterness built up in the back of their throat.

  The question was rhetorical. They knew why it had been done. Intimidation. But they had a powerful need to verbalize even a small piece of outrage. It was like puking up the tiniest bit of poison. The end was inevitable—the toxin had done its work, but the impulse was unstoppable nonetheless.

  Sarah nodded, getting out her hand terminal. She was a small, pale woman and short. Her long, straight hair was dyed a different color every few months. She was intelligent and, like many intelligent people, got bored easily. Her intellect and keen observation skills were two of the many reasons Rosie felt Sarah made such a valuable business partner. That, and people tended to underestimate bartenders. They were the drinking world’s confessors.

  And a great deal of drinking happened in Brynner—particularly the part of Brynner located west of the Dead Line.

  “It’s time to do something,” Sarah said. “This is the second one.”

  Rosie sighed. They looked up into the night sky. The moon was full, illuminating clouds bunched in ire-filled knots. The clouds over Brynner almost always appeared angry.

  Rage, pride, and avarice, Rosie thought. Three of the seven deadly sins A great fall after such an auspicious start.

  They frowned but kept their tone even. “Which would-be crime boss is it this time, I wonder.” It wasn’t a question. They already had a theory based upon the previous victim. Two points make a line, or in this case a trajectory. “Have you checked her pockets?”

  “Not yet.” Sarah finished typing her message and pocketed her hand terminal. “The cleaners are on the way.”

  “It’s going to rain soon. I’m not certain it’s worth the fee.”

  “We’re lucky whomever it was waited until after closing,” Sarah said. “This sort of thing puts off customers, you know.” Sarah continued her search. After a few moments, she paused and glanced up. A line appeared between her brows. “Found something.” Standing, she held a small white envelope. She poured the contents into her right palm. “Huh. So, they are connected.”

  Was there really any doubt? Rosie asked, “Seeds of some sort?”

  “Lemon seeds, maybe. Could be orange.”

  “Orange, I should think.” Rosie didn’t look. Gau has become bold and careless. “How many are there?”

  “Five,” Sarah said. “Odd. There were six seeds on the first. Can it be a countdown? I hate it when assholes are coy. What the fuck does it mean?”

  “It means Julian Gau thinks he’s the only one who has read Sherlock Holmes. It should’ve been five both times. He thinks he’s being clever,” Rosie said, and then paused. “I’m calling in a few favors. Tap de la Reza. Marcy was one of hers. A bit of payback might help morale. Even better, that crew doesn’t have as many criminal connections as the others. It’ll be less complicated.”

  “And what of Enid Crowe?” Sarah asked. “She’s on that team, and she’s Correct Family, isn’t she?”

  “Not actively.”

  “I know,” Sarah said, her voice acquiring a sing-song quality. “She wouldn’t be one of ours, otherwise, but—”

  “De la Reza’s crew is the cleanest we have.”

  “Point.”

  “Arrange a meeting. Tomorrow. Send her what we have on Gau. She likes to research her assignments.”

  “You’re sure it’s Gau?”

  “Jasper McKenna is firmly against anything British Earth Empire out of an archaic sense of ancestral loyalty,” Rosie said. “The Isi have messy rituals for these sorts of things and aren’t known for their literary references. The Prizrak don’t go in for subtlety. But if you want to be thorough, I’d suggest looking into Earth fruit imports. Specifically, citrus.”

  “I like thorough.”

  “And that’s why you’re my second.”

  “Flatterer,” Sarah said, pocketing the envelope and its contents. “All right. Time to finish closing out. I’ve a feeling tomorrow is going to be busy.” She moved toward the door, noted that Marcy’s body blocked entry, and paused. “I think I’ll go back in the way we came.”

  “I’ll wait here,” Rosie said. “Someone should stay with Marcy.”

  “Why? No one is going to bother her. Not now. There isn’t anything left to steal.”

  “To ensure the recently departed’s soul isn’t claimed by the devil.”

  Sarah paused and turned around. She raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for superstitious.”

  “Perhaps today I’m feeling my age.”

  “Seriously, are you okay? Should I get security to stand with you? If it’s Gau, he might make a second attempt on you—”

  Rosie waved her away. “I’m fine. Go. I’ll meet you inside shortly.”

  When they heard the door slam from the alley, they knelt beside the body and murmured a blessing. Technically, they weren’t allowed to perform the ritual, but they supposed that by the same technicality Marcy wasn’t a permissible recipient.

  They placed a hand on the dead woman’s head and closed her eyes. “May an angel watch over you.” Then they began a prayer for the dead.

  All in all, it’d been an average workday at Monk’s. That is… until they received the message from Vissia Corsini. Then things got interesting.

  3

  TIME: 03:26

  DAY: THURSDAY

  TSUSHIMA COUNCIL ESTATE

  WEST BRYNNER

  Some asshole was attempting to break into her apartment. Angel knew this because her internal Combat Assistant’s alarm had gone off. Her feelings on the matter were mixed, of course. She hadn’t been jolted awake by a combat computer in a little over six years.

  She hadn’t exactly missed it.

  On the upside, this meant the exorbitant bribe she’d paid the United Republic of Worlds Marine Corps retirement commander under the table to leave her CA online had been a good investment. It also meant she had the time to plan and consider her options.

  On the down side, the asshole in question was about to be the subject of a meeting with her employer, Rosie—the sort of meeting that tended to result in politics. Angel hated politics. In West Brynner, politics often led to screaming and bloodstains.

  The fastest solution to the problem was the illegal service pistol stored in her footlocker. Unfortunately, that wasn’t a good idea. The discharge of an unregistered military-grade weapon would likely land her an unwelcome interview with Corporate Police. Even though the CoPo rarely strayed west of the Dead Line—it was what the Dead Line was for, after all—she had a hunch that they’d make an exception in this case.

  Even without that as a concern, gunfire would risk the lives of her neighbors. The walls in West Brynner’s corporate-council housing were notoriously thin. She knew that from personal experience.

  One of her neighbors had had a disagreement with a spouse that ended when one partner pushed the other against the wall adjoining her apartment with theirs. Both men had landed on her bedroom floor along with a significant portion of the wall in question. They’d both apologized, embarrassed. They’d paid for the damages, too—otherwise, she’d still have
that ragged window into their apartment and unplanned roommates.

  No, she’d have to handle the situation quietly and with minimal fuss.

  There was the katana in the kitchen, but cleaning the mess afterward would take more effort than she wanted to deal with.

  Shit.

  It’d been too long since she’d last engaged an opponent in a hand-to-hand fight outside of battle or a dojo. Were it not for the nature of the visit, she would have savored the prospect. She could just hear what Lou would have to say about that response.

  Someone breaks into your apartment and this is how you react? There’s something wrong with you, woman You know that, don’t you?

  Lou didn’t know the half of it.

  Lying motionless on her back with her eyes closed, Angel attempted to keep her anticipation in check. The metallic taste in the back of her throat indicated that her CA had begun managing her autonomic reflexes via chemical cocktail. She listened with enhanced hearing, vigilant for telltale details.

  The window slid open—a window that she’d most certainly locked. Cool night air rushed in. The hushed electric hum of a lift-car drifted in on the night breeze. She heard the brush of fabric against aluminum as her uninvited visitor squeezed through the opening. Given I’m on the fifteenth floor, that’s a neat trick.

  The intruder took a few steps and then stumbled on something, probably one of the boots she’d shed before climbing into bed. She tried not to smile at the grunt of pain.

  When she was young, Sensei Niko used to admonish her for untidiness. She stopped when Angel replied that anyone walking into her room in the dark without an invitation deserved a nasty shock.

  Who is this waste of oxygen?

  Activating her computer’s strategic programming, she made certain the lowest force setting was engaged and requested projections. She also had questions, and she wanted answers—more direct answers than she’d get from Rosie, her current employer.

  Sort of employer, she thought. Although her upbringing had taught her that there is honor in service, even as a mercenary, her current contract was with a criminal and of the open-ended variety. Indefinite. That is, until death did you part.

  And that made her intruder slightly more troubling.

  Scenario 1: No physical intervention until attacked.

  Statistical probability of assailant fatality given force restrictions: 20%.

  Statistical probability of bystander fatality given force restrictions: 10%.

  Statistical probability of personal fatality given force restrictions: 35%.

  Really? she sent back. Thirty-five percent? That’s generous. It’s clear they don’t even have night vision.

  Kurosawa, the dropship to which her CA was linked, responded. A lack of night vision has been accurately accounted for. However, there is not enough information to assess the assailant’s skill nor have the subject’s weapons been identified. Visual confirmation required.

  What time is it? Where is the moon? Angel didn’t know how much light was entering the room through the window. She didn’t want to risk tipping off the intruder.

  Do you wish to input additional variables? It will take extra time due to the lack of updated firmware. However, the intruder hasn’t killed you yet. They probably have other plans. There is still time. The ship’s AI had an Old Earth Japanese accent. Something about it lent a lofty sarcasm to Kurosawa’s responses. It reminded her of Sensei Niko, even though Niko was female and the ship was male.

  No one likes a snarky AGI, Kurosawa, Angel sent back.

  Do you wish to alter my interactive settings? Kurosawa asked.

  Not now, Angel sent. I thought Lou ordered the new electronic components weeks ago?

  She did. However, due to the unusually high demand for the component in question, along with certain financial market fluctuations, availability is scarce and the cost is high.

  When it came to technical discussions, Kurosawa kept to vagaries. Angel didn’t have Lou’s knowledge or skills.

  For fuck’s sake, Angel thought. Cryptospeculators will be the fucking death of me. She returned her attention to the link with Kurosawa Other options?

  Once again, the interval between her request and the ship’s reply seemed to last forever. A strat-com consult took seconds, even it if seemed much longer due to adrenaline. She focused on her breathing and the movements of her intruder to avoid further frustration.

  Scenario 2: Summon corporate authorities for assistance.

  Statistical probability of timely corporate response: 2%

  Statistical probability of assailant fatality given delay and force restrictions: 50%.

  Statistical probability of bystander fatality given delay and force restrictions: 35%.

  Statistical probability of personal fatality given delay and force restrictions: 50%.

  Scenario 3: Summon dropship for intervention.

  Statistical probability of assailant fatality given delay and force restrictions: 50%.

  Statistical probability of bystander fatality given delay and force restrictions: 42%.

  Statistical probability of personal fatality given delay and force restrictions: 50%.

  Stay where you are, Kurosawa.

  Shall I alert Lou? What of the authorities? I can run a—

  I can handle this.

  Understood, Captain.

  She had trouble viewing herself as a captain. Her official URWMC rank had been sergeant, but Kurosawa was hers and that ship had already sailed as it were.

  A rough hand pressed itself across her mouth. The scent of recently consumed curry washed over her. She opened her eyes. At the same time, she placed her left hand over his to prevent him from escaping. He was pale and stocky with dark straight hair and a beard. Light from the window glinted on a knife blade.

  She reached out with her right hand, made contact under his upper arm just above the elbow, and sat up. The movement locked the intruder’s left elbow, shoving his body between her and his blade. Peeling his palm from her face, she kept the captured arm straight. Then she got to her feet and swung his wrist up high over his head, creating a lever. He let out a surprised sound, bent over at the waist, and fell to his knees, facing away from her. The entire action had a weightless grace to it—like a dance. No aspect of her response seemed to trigger alarm in her opponent’s nervous system. That is, until he was already on his knees.

  She registered a familiar image on the back of his jacket but didn’t have time to process the details.

  No gun. Good. Of course, her odds of getting cut were high.

  She lifted his arm farther into the air and twisted his wrist. He bent over even more and cursed.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “Why do you think, bitch?” His accent was pure West Brynner.

  A local. That could mean many things. “If you’re here for a robbery, you picked the wrong damned apartment, asshole. Drop the knife.”

  He shifted his weight forward and down on his opposite shoulder in an attempt to get free. She didn’t release his arm—merely moved with him, continuing to shield herself from his knife with his body. He fell face-first on the floor. At once, he attempted to move his hands under him in order to push up. She didn’t fight him nor did she let go. Instead, she altered her grip, cupping the back of his left hand with her right. She kept his bent arm perpendicular to the floor with his elbow pointed up. He could struggle, but it wouldn’t take much pressure to inflict a great deal of pain.

  “I said drop it.” She kept her voice calm. “I will break your wrist.”

  He made another escape attempt. She responded by quickly lifting him from the floor via his awkwardly bent wrist. She felt his joint pop. The sound of breaking/dislocating bones was blotted out by a howl of pain.

  He released the knife. But she knew better than to think it was over. So she tucked his arm into the crook of her elbow as if she were politely escorting him down a red carpet. She applied more pressure on his broken wrist. He instantly
howled and shifted up on his toes. She took a single step, unbalancing him further. At that moment, he staggered. She let go, and he fell out the open window headfirst.

  “Oops.”

  Sensei Niko wouldn’t have been happy about that. She could almost hear her admonishment. You should be aware of your surroundings and the dangers to your training partner at all times.

  A loud meat-hitting-metal thump followed her attacker’s second scream. She shoved aside the now bent blinds and spotted her assailant sprawled across the hood of a dark-colored lift-car. She quickly withdrew. There was no guarantee his partner would have the same ethics she did about unloading an entire minigun clip into the building. She lay on the floor for a few breaths, waiting for the inevitable explosion or storm of bullets. When none came, she crept to the window again.

  The lift-car was gone.

  The lift platform is nowhere near my apartment. “You better run,” she muttered.

  Someone knocked on the wall opposite. “You okay in there?”

  It was one of the neighbors that had landed on her floor six months ago.

  “I’m good,” Angel said. “Thanks.”

  “Captain de la Reza, have you considered bringing home men for sex rather than beating the shit out of them?”

  “Good night, Ben,” Angel said.

  The adrenaline in her system gave her the shakes now that the biggest threat was gone. She tightened both fists and took slow, controlled breaths.

  Are you all right? It was Kurosawa again. Your CA indicates an injury.

  Glancing down, she spied the blood soaking through her right sleeve. The moment she spotted it, the wound began to sting. She peeled back the fabric with care and spied a superficial cut. Just need a couple Band-Aids, that’s all.

  Should I alert corporate authorities?

  Don’t waste the energy. Kurosawa resisted the idea that a police force should be uninterested in the welfare of citizens, no matter how many times Angel had explained West Brynner’s rules. It was almost quaint. I’ll deal with the cleanup myself.

  The damage to the window was minimal. That was good. She went to her closet, found a hanger, and used the wire to bind it shut. If there was a contract, the hanger wouldn’t stop anyone from breaking the glass to get to her or her belongings, but it’d stop an opportunist.