Firewall

by R. M. Olson

  She was silent.

  Ysbel raised her head. “Tae. I understand you’re upset. But Grigory may be the answer to our problem.”

  He opened his mouth, and she held up a hand. “I’m not saying we work with the mafia long-term. But he is asking for our help with one project. We work with him this one time, and all of us leave with a benefit. In prison, we used the prison gangs to make what we needed to happen, happen. I don’t see why it should be different here.”

  “Because in prison, we weren’t working with the damn prison gangs!” he exploded. “Lev turned them against each other, and we let things take their course. We didn’t grab a bunch of pin-guns and start killing people for them.”

  “And was it really all that different?” Ysbel asked quietly.

  He glared at her. “Yes. It was.”

  “Well,” said Jez at last, and he looked over quickly. There was an odd look on her face, and she was watching Masha. “I don’t know anything about any of that crap. I’ll tell you, I’d rather work with a swamp rat than with the damn mafia. But—” she paused a moment. “But I suppose—I mean, look. We’ve done a lot of crap together so far. And so far—I mean, Masha’s worked with this bastard before. If she’s going to vouch for this plan, guess I’m willing to give it a try.” She reverted to her usual sharp grin. “And if things go sideways, guess we’ve all got our heat pistols.”

  Tae stared at her in disbelief. “Jez. Are you seriously saying that if things go badly, we can shoot our way out of here?”

  She grinned at him. “Never know ’til you try.”

  “I—actually, yes, I do know! There’s no way you could—”

  She smirked and patted her jacket pocket. “Guess you haven’t seen Ysbel’s latest mods.”

  “What I saw,” he grumbled, “was you grabbing the wrong damn pistol off the table two days ago and almost getting shot down.”

  “Yeah? Well if you remember, I’m still here, and they’re back in Prasvishoni nursing headaches, so—”

  He glared at her.

  “Tae,” said Lev, turning to him. For just a moment he thought he saw the Lev he remembered, the thoughtful expression and piercing gaze that he recognized from months of working with him, and for just a moment he relaxed despite himself.

  “Tae, listen,” Lev said. “I understand how you feel. But this may be our best chance. It may be our only chance. You know as well as I do that we haven’t had any success in stopping the Protocol so far. This gives us time. This saves Caz and the others. This saves all of us.” His expression was intent, his voice mild, like it always was.

  Like it had been that day two and a half weeks ago, when Tae had been about to turn on the alarm in the building they were about to blow to pieces, to warn the hundreds of innocent people, government workers and support staff and people who’d gotten caught up in it somehow, to get out of the building, and Lev had put his hand over Tae’s and said in that same, mild voice, “No, Tae. I’m not going to let you.”

  Lev had been willing to bring the building down on all of those people, kill them without a second thought. And the thing was, Tae couldn’t even blame him. He might have wanted to do the same thing, in Lev’s situation.

  But he couldn’t trust him anymore, either.

  He shook his head slowly. “No. Look, I agree, we need to figure this out. But not like this. Not working with the mafia. I won’t do it.”

  Lev was still watching him, that mild expression on his face. Ysbel turned towards him as well, looking at him thoughtfully. Then she turned away, back to Masha.

  “Masha,” she said quietly, and even though she didn’t look at him, he knew she was talking to him as much as she was to Masha. “I don’t like this. I don’t like the mafia. But my family has breathed in this gas. Tae’s friends. My students in the university. And I will do what it takes to stop it. But, I understand that this will not be everyone’s choice. So I’m with you, but only as long as those who don’t agree are able to leave.”

  There was something cold in Tae’s chest, and something choking in his throat.

  “Yeah,” said Jez. “Like I said. I don’t like this, but hell, figure working with these bastards can’t be a whole lot worse than working with Lena. And if it is, I’m out. But tech-head’s damn well not going to have to work with them if he doesn’t want to.”

  “Of course,” said Masha, after a moment. “I would never expect that.” She turned to Tae, and gave him an appraising look. “Tae. I do understand your position. And so, I believe that perhaps the best option at this point is if you took Peti back to Prasvishoni to rejoin the other street children. I’m certain I could talk Grigory into allowing Jez to take you back, and then returning. You could wait for us there.”

  Tae stared at her, and then glanced at the others.

  Jez was watching him, Ysbel was staring straight ahead, and Lev wouldn’t meet his eye.

  Damn it. Damn it to hell. They actually meant it, they actually meant for him to go back to Prasvishoni, stay somewhere safe until everything blew over, if they succeeded, or if they failed, until the government killed every last one of them.

  He’d known plenty of people who’d thought they could work with the mafia, whose bargains had been no less desperate than Masha’s. And every last one of them was dead.

  He glanced helplessly at Peti. She was staring back at him, but it had been so long since he’d spent any time with her that he couldn’t tell, anymore, what she was thinking.

  Damn it to hell.

  He closed his eyes for a moment and took a long breath. “Look, Masha,” he said, and the harshness in his voice surprised him. “I’m not going to leave you all to get killed, OK? I won’t help the mafia, but I’m not leaving.”

  Masha raised her eyebrows. “There’s no shame in—”

  “I’m not talking about shame!” he snapped. “I’m talking about the fact that we’re crewmates, and I’m not going to let you all get killed. I’m not going to have anything to do with the mafia. I won’t help them, and if you ask me to, I’ll refuse. You can tell them I’m your soft, useless cousin who you couldn’t get rid of, I don’t care. I won’t lift one finger to help the mafia. But—” he gritted his teeth, hating the words before they even came out of his mouth. “But I’m not leaving, OK? You’re not going to get very far if you can’t even spoof their damn cameras.”

  There was another long pause. Everyone was staring at him, but he kept his gaze focused on Masha.

  “Very well,” she said at last. “Thank you, Tae.” She stood. “Well, with that settled, perhaps, Tae, you might see fit to un-spoof the audio? Now that we have our responses to Grigory’s proposal worked out, we can set them out again for the benefit of those who happen to be watching on the security camera feed. I will discuss with Grigory getting Peti back down to the others safely without disclosing where those others are staying. No point in giving him additional leverage.”

  Tae turned away, back to his corner, and tapped something quickly into his com as the others returned to their designated places.

  A tight tendril of worry had wrapped itself around him, and squeezed tighter by the moment.

  He’d lived on the streets long enough to know—you never deal with the mafia, not unless you wanted to end up face-down in an alley with your insides cooked solid from a heat-gun blast. What they offered street kids back in Prasvishoni was hard to pass up—security, protection from the police, enough food and credits to keep you from starving. But he’d never been tempted. Because he’d watched the kids who were recruited, watched their careers, before they inevitably ended up dead on the street somewhere.

  And no matter how desperate he was, he’d never have been able to do what the kids who let themselves be recruited did, the sheer, sick violence they visited on anyone the mafia wanted punished, before they ended up a victim of it themselves. He’d seen what they left behind—body parts hacked off, victim’s faces carved up like decorations, people shot with so many heat-blasts that they we
re hardly recognizable as human, but in such a methodical way that somehow, they were still alive, milky eyes staring out of charred flesh.

  He shuddered.

  And here they were, and Masha and the others had made their bargain.

  He honestly couldn’t think of a way that this situation could be any worse.

  But judging from his past experience with this crew, he was certain he’d find out in short order.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JEZ GRINNED AT the man sitting across the table from her. He was middle-aged, with a stern face, dark skin, and dark hair going to grey, but even the padding of easy living on his face and body couldn’t hide the lean muscle beneath.

  He lowered his brows, giving her a glare that he probably thought was intimidating. But hell, she’d grown up with Lena. This plaguer needed to up his game.

  Around them, the soft noises of the gambling hall were somehow on their own the sound of ridiculous opulence—the smooth, buttery tumble of gambling tokens dropping onto padded tables or smooth stone, the high, light tink of ice against delicate glasses, the soft liquid swish of alcohol being poured, and swirled, and sipped. The light here was low and rich—not the flickering gutter of artificial lights running short on will to live, but a soft, understated light that had been dimmed purposefully, creating a soothing half-twilight that made you think of late evenings in warm places. The rich colours of the room, the deep greens and blue-blacks and rich reds and gold, everywhere gold, saturated every surface like water.

  Honestly, when this idiot said he wanted to talk, she hadn’t been sure she’d be able to convince him to bring her here. But then again, she’d always been pretty damn good at finding places to gamble. Turns out this time all it had taken was their newfound status as honorary friends of Grigory, and her wide-eyed admission that she’d never played in a place like this.

  And if he thought that meant that he could cheat her out of a quick few credits—well hell, she wasn’t in the business of going around correcting people.

  She gave the man a quick wink, and his brows lowered further. He tightened his hands around the smooth gambling chips that she could practically feel between her fingers.

  “Hey now, you scared of gambling against someone you don’t know?” she asked lightly.

  He leaned back into his chair, studying her. He was still holding the damn gambling chips, and there was something inside her, something restless and bubbling and reckless, that needed those chips, needed to be able to do something, because she couldn’t handle this.

  “Jez,” he said, voice slow and ponderous. “Your name is Jez. Last name?”

  “Figure that doesn’t really matter, does it?” She was still grinning, but her muscles were twitching, every part of her desperate to move. If this damn idiot wasn’t going to play, he could at least have the decency to let her know, so she could go pick a fight or something.

  He smiled slightly. “Don’t worry, Jez Solokov, we’ve heard of you. You have a bit of a reputation, you know.” He paused, studying her, rolling the smooth tokens between his fingers. “A pilot. Worked for Lena, then went off on your own. Bit of a trouble-maker.”

  She smiled easily. “Well see, figured being a trouble-maker wouldn’t be a problem in the damn mafia.”

  He gave her a slight smile that was slightly fatherly and looked almost genuine. “Jez. Your friend Masha has vouched for you and for the others, and the krestnaya has said that he would like to work with you. But he is as aware as I am of your reputation. And so he told me it wouldn’t be a bad idea for me to teach you a thing or two about how the mafia works—he isn’t in the business of keeping people safe who don’t follow the rules.” He leaned slightly forward on the table, and Jez’s heart rate sped up, her hands spread with anticipation. She could feel the comforting weight of the heat-pistol in her pocket, although she wasn’t completely sure she’d get to it in time. He was heavy with muscle, but he looked like he could move fast if he needed to.

  He smiled, the expression on his face slightly amused. “I’m not going to try to beat you, Jez. I’m only going to teach you some manners.”

  She gave him a quick smirk. “Yeah? Had a few people try to do that over the years. Never worked out very well.”

  He’d almost certainly try to grab her, and yes, she could almost certainly get away, but she wasn’t sure she could do it without a cracked rib, and honestly, it hadn’t been long enough since her last time breaking her ribs that she was anxious for a repeat. But then, it couldn’t possibly be worse than doing nothing. Anyways, she was pretty damn sure she could at least break his nose to remember her by, which, yes, wasn’t breaking ribs, but would give him a nice face to show to his damn boss—

  He sighed. “Jez.” He leaned forward, placing his forearms heavily on the table, and she watched him suspiciously.

  Probably couldn’t move very fast from that position, so maybe he wasn’t planning on beating whatever the mafia considered to be ‘manners’ into her.

  “You grew up in a smuggling operation. I understand that. But here in the mafia, it’s different. If you are going to be working with Grigory, you have to understand that.” He paused. “The most important thing here is respect, and if you can’t learn respect, you are going to end up dead. Grigory is Krestnaya. You address him like that. When you meet him, you call him boss. You understand?”

  She grinned. Her foot was tapping against the leg of her chair, and her fingers tingled with adrenalin. “Well, but here’s the thing. I don’t call anyone boss, you bastard. Ask plaguing Masha about that one if you want.”

  His face hardened. “Then perhaps this would be a good time to learn.”

  She shot him an innocent look. “Well, how about this? We play a nice, friendly game. You win, I call Grigory boss, every damn time I see him.”

  The man stared at her. “Do you even know who I am?”

  She shrugged. “Nope. Don’t have the foggiest. Does it matter?”

  He was still staring. “I don’t have to gamble with you for this, you know. You will call Grigory boss and treat him with respect, or you’ll end up floating out in space without a space suit.”

  She shrugged. “I mean, he could try.”

  The man was still staring. At last he shook his head. “Alright, and if I were to agree with you, what happens if you win?”

  She glanced around and raised her eyebrows. “I get to come in here whenever the hell I want. And, you buy me a drink. And, I don’t call anyone on this damn ship ‘boss.’”

  He sucked in a long breath and glanced around the room, then down at the tokens in his hand.

  “I mean, I get that you might be a bit nervous and all. You may as well just admit it,” she said.

  He turned back to her, his face now completely hard. “I asked if you knew who I was,” he said softly.

  “Yep. And I told you I didn’t have a damn clue.”

  “I am Fyodor Yanovik. I’m the one who runs this gambling hall. I make Grigory a lot of money, and you should be very, very flattered indeed that he asked me to teach you manners rather than one of his less understanding people.”

  She shrugged. “Guess it makes sense that you’re scared. I mean, you have a reputation to keep up, right? Shame to lose it to a little no-name smuggler pilot who learned to gamble in kabaks.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you that you are very, very irritating?”

  She gave him an innocent look.

  He sighed heavily. “Very well. We gamble. One game.” He pushed a pile of tokens across the table to her, and she slid them through her fingers, sighing in ecstasy.

  This was more like it.

  Maybe she’d live through this damn scheme of Masha’s after all.

  Twenty minutes later, Fyodor was glaring down at the tokens spread in front of him on the table, a look of disbelief on his face.

  “You cheated,” he said, looking up finally.

  She grinned and shrugged. “Or maybe you just had a crap hand. Ha
ppens to the best of us.”

  “You cheated! And I didn’t even catch it.”

  She shrugged again, helpfully. “Like I said, we all get a run of bad tokens now and then. And then there’s me—beginner’s luck and all that.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what you are, Jez Solokov, but you’re no beginner.”

  She grinned. “Guess I’m not calling Grigory ‘boss.’ You want to explain that to him, or should I?”

  “I—” he broke off, still shaking his head. “I don’t think that you understand the purpose of our little talk. I am not going to explain to Grigory that you will not call him boss, and if you try to explain that, you’ll end up dead.”

  “Yeah? Well I think Masha won’t be to happy about that, so—” She shrugged again. “Anyways, figure I’ll take my chances.” She paused a moment. “Also, pretty sure you owe me a drink.”

  He sighed and got up from the table, returning a few moments later with a delicate glass of something that bubbled and fizzed against the roof of her mouth, and tasted delightfully strong.

  She grinned at him. “Alright, so, Fyodor. Any other manners you want to teach me?”

  Two and a half hours later, she wasn’t actually drunk, but she was a hell of a lot more muddy-headed than when she’d started. Also, she knew a whole damn list of what Fyodor liked to call manners, and had promised to follow exactly zero.

  Fyodor had started drinking as well by the time she’d won her third round, and she figured he was at least as drunk as she was.

  “So, you bastard,” she said, grinning at him as he glared down once again at the table, as if somehow he could glare the tokens into coming up with a different total. “Guess I’m not going to be changing my behaviour all that much.”

  He turned his glare on her. “How did you do that?”

  She shrugged. “Told you. Beginner’s luck.”