Makeda Red

by Jennifer Brozek

  They stared at each other for a moment, gold eyes meeting dark-brown ones. Yes, Imre had lied to her, just as she’d lied to him. But they’d fought for each other, protected each other, and saved each other. He’d earned a bit of real trust. That’s what he was going to get. She would meet with this person unarmed and unarmored, knowing it could go very, very bad.

  Makeda nodded. “All right.”

  They both got out of the taxi and looked at the ruin of Avatars. It was going to take a lot to rebuild it. Makeda shook her head. “I trust you, but I don’t want you to surprise me like this again. Please. What did you tell Saladin and Fatima?”

  “That they could meet us here in two hours. If we were here, all would be well. If we weren’t, they’d be free to plan our escape from government hands.” He led her around the side to Avatars and unlocked the metal door.

  “Government, not corporate?” Makeda followed him in as he flipped on the lights. Avatars went from the antechamber into a low ceiling booth-and-table area across from a window bar. In the other half of the room stood the dance floor and DJ booth with a much higher ceiling and lights.

  “Morocco is far more government-run than corporate-owned. There are private corp areas, but unlike a lot of countries, the government still has the power. It’s why mercenary companies thrive here.”

  Looking around, Makeda found the restrooms, a dance nook, and a game room that had its own window bar. All of it had dust and fallen-over debris from Bob driving the drone into the enemy truck while wrestling it away from the other hacker. Also, there were cracks in the walls that would need to be repaired.

  “So, our contact is government.”

  “Yes. I thought I mentioned that when I said new names and new SINs.”

  Makeda thought back. She nodded. “You did. I just didn’t understand the implications of it.”

  The door to Avatars opened, and people entered the antechamber then stopped. “Rabenhaupt?” The voice was female and British.

  “I am here.”

  “You are unarmed?”

  Makeda walked to Imre’s side on the dance floor. There was cover, but she still felt naked without weapons or armor. Imre raised his hands and turned in a circle. Makeda followed suit. “We are.”

  “Good. Wait one moment. There is something you need to see.”

  A man in Moroccan business wear—white trousers and an embroidered tunic—walked out from the antechamber and wove his way through the tables to hand Imre a datapad. On it, a raven-haired elven woman sat in a concrete room.

  “Arcade?” Imre’s eyes went wide. “What are you doing?”

  “What I have to, to save you and your friend. I, and Mademoiselle Beaumont, wanted you to understand the situation and where I am if anything went wrong with your meet. This is what I had to agree to for you to meet with her.”

  The camera pulled back, revealing that Arcade was bound to a metal chair at her waist and legs with chains. Her hands were behind her back. Armed men stood on either side of her.

  “You didn’t have to…”

  “But I did, little brother. Now you understand the magnitude of the situation; the risk we are all taking.” She glanced at the guard on her left and nodded. He moved forward and put a black bag—a mage restraint—over Arcade’s head and cinched it tight. The datapad screen went black. The aide took it back from Imre’s unresisting hands and turned on his heel.

  Imre flushed a hectic red. “You didn’t have to do that! We came here in good faith.”

  Makeda put a hand on his arm. “All will be well.” She understood what he was feeling. If one of hers had willingly put themselves in that position for her, she’d be having kittens. “Calm.” She repeated herself in his head, “Calm, Imre.”

  “Ah, but I did, Rabenhaupt. Especially after the video you sent me.” The woman, Mademoiselle Beaumont, walked around the corner. She was a beautiful Arabic woman with russet-brown skin and long, braided hair. She wore a red embroidered caftan, belted at the waist, and carried a leather portfolio. She chose a table, dusted off the chair, and sat. Her aide stood behind her.

  Makeda added a bell bing to her text message.

  He shook his head and nodded to her, then took a breath before joining the government woman at the table. Makeda sat next to him. “All right. Arcade will be murdered if all does not go well. Duly noted.”

  Mademoiselle Beaumont gazed at him. “It was necessary. You will understand soon. We will get to that in a moment.” She turned her gaze to Makeda. “With the funds provided, I was able to do the following: You have your new SIN. Rune Red has lived in Rabat, Morocco for the last two years without incident. She has not left the country since she arrived. She is a citizen in good standing. She has no plans on leaving in the near future.”

  Makeda heard the implied command—and the implied threat. She would not be allowed to leave Rabat…or maybe it was Morocco…in the “near future.” Who knew how long that would be? She had not planned to stay in Rabat, but it seemed she had no choice in the matter.

  As Mademoiselle Beaumont spoke, she opened an ARO and displayed a number of documents. “This is every single legal document you need. I’ll transfer copies to you. You are well set in Morocco. No one will question you. If they do, I will know immediately, and will be able to intervene.”

  “Thank you.” Makeda’s heart sank as the files transferred. She could hear the “but” from a kilometer away.

  “However, as for Martina ‘Makeda’ Aldon, I cannot do anything for her right now except refuse extradition. Too many important and wealthy people lost their lives, or someone they loved, to that train wreck.” The Arabic woman’s face took on a parody of concern. “It’s best to have Rune Red continue to stay here in Rabat, living a comfortable, productive life. I would like to see her as an asset to the community.”

  Makeda worked to keep the scowl off her face as she nodded, accepting her fate. “What about that video of Herr Schmidt setting me up?”

  “Ah.” Mademoiselle Beaumont tapped a manicured nail to the plastic tabletop. “It is inconvenient for me to reveal that to the public right now. Inconvenient for me, for Herr Schmidt’s company, and even for Saeder-Krupp.” She shook her head. “Their approval rating is quite high with their public concern for their murdered employees.”

  She patted Makeda’s hand twice. “Corporations have long memories, but they also have short attention spans. No. Now is not the time. Perhaps in a year or so. Then, we can make you a hero. It will be more believable that we’d spent the time proving Herr Schmidt was behind the attack than to accept the information from those who work outside the law. You understand.”

  All Makeda could do was nod. She kept her anger in check. One of them had to stay calm. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all. She’d get to find out what it was like to do local runs with Imre. She glanced at the man. He had his neutral expression locked in place.

  Mademoiselle Beaumont turned to Imre. “In the meantime, we have a problem.”

  Imre didn’t say anything. He gestured for her to go on. Makeda could tell he was fortifying himself for the worst.

  “We have video of you, Rabenhaupt, murdering Herr Schmidt. Your Johnson. It doesn’t matter that he attacked first. That isn’t clear enough on the video. If I allow you to remain in Morocco, it will put all my corporate and government friends, enemies, and associates on edge. I cannot allow that.” She shook her head. “You are exiled from Morocco. You have twelve hours to put your affairs in order.”

  Makeda was proud of herself for not reacting to the news. She needed to remain calm for Imre in this case. Later, she’d consider what it meant for her.

  Imre’s poker face did not crack, though Makeda saw him squeeze his fists so tight his knuckles turned white. “I suppose there is no chance to talk you out of your decision?” His voice was light and unconcerned.

  The government woman gave him a bland look and didn’t dignify the question with even a headshake. />
  “I thought not. Thank you for the twelve hours.” Under the table, Imre opened his fists and pressed the palms of his hands to his thighs. He nodded to her.

  Mademoiselle Beaumont made a show of checking her old-fashioned wristwatch. Makeda wondered if she’d put it on today just for this. “I don’t care how you leave. But if you are not gone by midnight, I will have you captured, locked up, and blamed for everything that happened. Then there will be a very public trial.” She glanced at Makeda. “Miss Red may even be called upon to testify against you.”

  Imre nodded. “I understand. I will be gone by midnight.” His voice was mild, but Makeda saw him clench his hands under the table again before he forced them open, letting the tension drain from his arms. “Do you know how long I’m to be exiled?”

  She shook her head. “At least a year. More likely, two. As I said, corporations have long memories.”

  “I see. Well then, if there’s nothing else, I have some arrangements to make.” Imre stood.

  Mademoiselle Beaumont stood. “I’ll give your love to Arcade. I think she’ll be pleased at how the meeting went. It’s good that her trust in you is not misplaced.”

  Imre nodded. He stayed where he was as Mademoiselle Beaumont and her aide left.

  Makeda remained where she was as well. “Would she have really shot your sister?”

  “No.” Imre shook his head then paused. “Well, if I had shot her, yes. Her people would’ve killed Arcade. But she and Arcade are best friends. It was all a show. Mademoiselle Beaumont had to have something on record to show she took precautions when dealing with me to kick me out of the country.”

  “Why?”

  “To show all the other Johnsons in the region that I could be dealt with. That I was dealt with in a decisive manner.”

  A light dawned. “Ah, Mademoiselle Beaumont wasn’t her real name.”

  “No.” He pushed his chair under the table with careful, controlled movements.

  Makeda wanted to do something to comfort him but could not think of a single thing to say. “What is it?”

  “You’ll have to earn that from her.”

  “I’m used to Sidi Ahmed for the Johnson name in this area. I didn’t know about Beaumont.”

  Imre smiled at her. “I guess you’ll have to get used to it. I need to go do some things. You stay here. Meet with Fatima and Saladin?”

  Makeda nodded, knowing he wanted to make preparations of the secret kind without her hanging around. She needed to think as well.

  “I’ll be back soon.” He leaned down to kiss her. It was long and lingering and already full of good-bye.

  27

  Makeda waited until Imre was gone to look through the documents. It was all good. She’d have TechnoGalen give it a once over, just in case. She put the documents away and rested her chin on her clasped hands. Being stuck in Morocco was not something she’d considered. In truth, she could still leave. But that would allow Saeder-Krupp, and whomever Herr Schmidt worked for, to come after her. She was protected in Morocco, thanks to Mademoiselle Beaumont.

  Protected, yes. But without the infrastructure and support system she had set up in Belgium. Then again, she’d been thinking about leaving Belgium anyway. Makeda nodded to herself. “Right. Let’s figure out how to do this and what my resources will be going forward.”

  She toggled her comms. “TechnoGalen, are you there?”

  Makeda snooped through the back of the bar while she waited for Galen to get back to her. No bag, but there was synthahol. She made herself a drink. Whiskey. Neat. She threw back two fingers, grimaced, then drank a third.

  “I’m here. What’s the word?”

  “I need to confab with you, Saladin, and, ah, MissTree. Ping me when you’ve got everyone online.” She’d almost said, “Obscura” and “HiddenPlath,” too. But stopped herself in time. Now that the panicking was over and planning had begun, grief crept in on thorny feet.

  Back in the antechamber, Makeda ducked behind the coat check. Bingo. Multiple forgotten and lost bags. She chose a shoulder bag, looked through it, and tossed out everything that wasn’t of value. She added her commlink. Having the weight on her shoulder felt better. Almost as good as having a credstick stuck in her bra.

  “Online.”

  “Right. We…I…no, we, have a situation.” She returned to the table she’d sat at with Imre and Mademoiselle Beaumont. “Short version: I am stuck—whatever the opposite of exiled is—here in Morocco for at least a year. My resources are limited. I’m going to need some of my stuff from Belgium sent over once…” She paused, then rushed on. “Once I figure out where in Morocco ‘here’ is. I don’t expect you to stay with me. In fact, if you can leave, it’s probably best for you to do so. The sooner, the better.”

  Silence reigned.

  MissTree was first to break it. “I will be on the first plane home. Good luck, Makeda.”

  “You, too.” Makeda couldn’t blame the mage. She’d be out of here in a heartbeat if she’d lost everything MissTree had lost.

  “She’s disconnected.” Galen paused. “I’m going to stay here, but you can always call me. You know that, right?”

  “I do. I’ll miss having you in my head on a regular basis.”

  “Hey now, just because I’m not there physically doesn’t mean we’re parting ways. The Matrix is everywhere. I can hack from here just as well as there.”

  “I know.” Makeda waited for Saladin to chime in. When he didn’t, she prompted him. “Saladin?”

  “I’m on my way. About five minutes out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Avatars. I’ll be there in five.”

  Makeda pressed her lips together. Whatever he was going to say to her he wanted to say in person. He was always like that. Whatever he wanted could be good or bad. She hoped he’d stay, but the man had his own life. “Right. That’s all I wanted. I’ll ping when I have more information.”

  Starting over wasn’t so bad. She’d wring some contact information out of Imre before he left. Then she’d do what she always did: survive. Makeda grabbed the bottle of whiskey and two glasses—the one she’d drunk out of and one for Saladin—then sat at the table and waited. She poured the faux whiskey into both glasses but did not drink. Instead, she held her glass, rolling it back and forth in her hands, warming it in a way synthahol didn’t need to be.

  As soon as Saladin entered, she held up her glass. “Are we going to toast to a merry meeting or a merry parting?”

  Saladin walked over and picked up his glass. “How about new beginnings?”

  They clinked glasses and drank.

  Saladin sat across from her. “How many have you had?”

  “Enough.” Makeda slid the bottle to him. “You staying or going?”

  He wrinkled his nose at her. “Staying. You need someone to watch your back when you aren’t in bed with Imre.”

  She smiled at him with a gratitude she didn’t know how to express with words. “Imre’s been exiled. He’s got until midnight to get out of Morocco, or a world of hurt is going to come down on his head—and probably mine, too.”

  Saladin eyed her. “When were you going to mention that?”

  Makeda toyed with her glass. “Once everyone had made their decision or he was gone. Didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for me.”

  Saladin shook his head. “I’m here. At least for now. I’ll arrange for our stuff to get here.”

  “Why do you stay? With me, I mean.” She peered at him. She knew what her answer would be if the shoe were on the other foot: Implicit trust is the most valuable thing you can have in the shadows, and she trusted him to guard her back.

  “You’re the sister I never had. You’ve saved my life multiple times. Besides, what else would I do with myself? You’re the brain. I’m the brawn. You listen to my advice. A good friend is worth all the nuyen in the world.” He grinned, white teeth against his dusky skin. “Besides, I’m bored with Belgium. Morocco promises to be interesting.”

>   “Thanks. I’m glad you’re staying. At least for a bit.” Makeda put her glass down and clasped his hand. “Just so you know, we have almost no money, no place to stay, and no local contacts. We’re starting all over again.”

  “You make it sound so inviting.”

  “Why else would I be sitting in a half-destroyed building instead of in a café, having a good cup of Turkish coffee and a pastry?” She patted the purloined shoulder bag. “At least I have Rune Red, and she’s a citizen in good standing.”

  “Rune, is it?” Saladin tilted his head, considering. “Appropriate. I like it. It’s a name I can support.”

  An hour later, when Imre returned, he had Fatima with him. He called them to come to the top of the building. After they navigated their way through the rubble in the front, he led them through the back hallway to his office door. He touched Makeda, stroking her chin. “We’ve got business to discuss, you and I.”

  Saladin and Fatima exchanged a look. “We’ll be out front,” Fatima said. The two of them disappeared together.

  Makeda shivered and smiled. “What kind of business?”

  Imre unlocked the office door and led her inside. He didn’t say anything until he sat behind his desk, an old wooden thing with the scars and nicks of years gone by. “The club-owning business.”

  Makeda sat across from him and glanced around, taking in the bare walls and scant knick-knacks of a rarely used room. This part of the building seemed to have fared better than the front. “Avatars?”

  “Or whatever you want to call it.” He shrugged and opened up an ARO full of text. “Obviously, I can’t take care of it anymore. You own it. I get fifty percent of the profit for the next ten years.”

  “If you’ve noticed, the building is missing a front wall, and I have no money to fix it. I don’t have much of anything set up in Rabat.”

  He gestured to the ARO. “That’s all in here. I’m leaving you rebuilding money. That’s why the profit sharing.”

  Makeda read the contract and shook her head. “I’m your manager for five years, and then become owner? No. If I do this, I’m the owner from the get-go. And you get five percent of the profit.”