"Game ended before you breached," the defender said.
"Like hell," Jazz snapped. "That horn saved your life."
The defender—a kid half a decade younger than Jazz—spat on the ground.
"You lost, lady," he sneered. "Live with it."
* * *
As it was, they were recalled to the staging area with no clear winner declared. The judges were hung up on something, which suited Jazz not at all. Hang-ups were never about the scrappers' wealth and well-being. Hangups meant the big boys, the ones who ran and profited from the matches, were unhappy about something. What the something was wasn't apparent.
Until Jazz made the ready room.
"He cost us the damn match!" somebody Jazz didn't recognize was shouting.
Nose to nose with Jenkins, stable rep for Banshee. Jazz hadn't heard her pickup squad was going against a stable unit. Must have been tryouts. Right now the two men had a space to themselves just inside the entrance. The squads for the next match were filing out, eyes front, not seeing anything. Mismatched uniforms told Jazz it was another pickup bout, which figured. Most alarm clocks in SolarisCity hadn't gone off yet.
"You were using live ammo," Jenkins answered. "So get a grip."
Jazz took a closer look at the shouter. The side of his face was purpling. Someone had hit him, hard. And the barrel of the rifle over his shoulder was bent. It was a civilian-grade hunter with a tapering tube, not a proper sniper's bull-barreled rig, but Jazz had a lot of respect for whoever'd given it that dogleg.
"He was friggin deadl" Purple Face showed no sign of getting a grip.
"Jazz!"
Jazz pivoted to find herself eye to eye with one of the few men she knew as short as she. His skin was as dark as hers was light, the few shots of gray through his close- cropped jet-black hair the only indication he was over twice her age. Two years ago she would have called him a friend, or a mentor at least. Darcy's former agent hadn't spoken to her since that one visit in the hospital, hadn't returned a call since she'd been back on the street.
"Tommy," she said, her voice flat.
"Saw the match." The agent nodded as though continuing a conversation. "You are really back on your game. Smooth move on the Clanner. I knew your fast draw was coming when you swung the gun in your left hand, but looking for it, I didn't see your hand move."
"Clanner?"
"Guy I've been scouting." Tommy shrugged. "Looking to take him on. Don't know what to do with him after today, though," Tommy indicated Knife Boy, looking good as ever, apparently answering questions for the refs in the corner of the staging area. A couple of suits flanked the refs. No stable colors. They probably represented one of the gambling cartels. "Took out one of his own."
"That's why they blew the whistle?" Jazz leveled a deadly glare at the Clanner. "He cost me the match."
"He probably saved your life," Tommy countered. "The way the judges see it, Jacko there figured out scaring you didn't work and was going for a hit when the Clanner stopped him. The only thing they don't like is his busting the rifle across the joker's face after he took it away from him."
"So if Jacko's in such trouble, why's he standing there complaining to Jenkins?"
"Because Jacko's really stupid." Tommy dismissed the issue. "I'm just wondering if you've got representation nowadays."
"Used to have Tommy Gunn." Jazz made no effort to keep the edge from her voice. "But he dropped me for no damn good reason a couple of years back."
"Two years ago you weren't in the games." Tommy shrugged. "Docs said fifty percent chance you'd recover without prosthetics, no future that didn't involve the public dole. You didn't need an agent."
I could have used a friend, Jazz thought, but said nothing. She'd learned since that there were no friends in the business.
"But today's match, first time I seen you in a while," Tommy was saying. "You got skills. I'm thinking you might be needing a rep; get yourself out of pickup hell."
The refs called for attention before Jazz could decide between cutting the little weasel dead or taking him up on his offer.
The refs had arranged themselves in front of the gaming commission banner. This was going out to all the sports bars and gambling venues that cared. Maybe a dozen at this time of the morning. But if Knife Boy had done what Tommy said, their ruling might set a precedent. Which meant the big boys would be watching.
If they haven't weighed in already, Jazz amended, watching the suits fade to the wall.
The holoscreen behind the formation of refs came alive, showing Jazz in slo-mo coming through the bullet- splintered door. It froze frame when the end-game hooter went off and an amber trapezoid appeared, cutting through her legs just below the hips.
Also clear in the shot was the kid who'd ended up over her rushing into the room, his own rifle vertical even as hers swung to bear. Nobody with any eye for the game had a doubt how things would have shaken out if the whistle hadn't blown.
"Seventy percent of the aggressor's body mass was inside the building when the match was aborted," the head ref said, looking over the heads of the players in the room to address the automated holovid feed. "And with three point four minutes of regular time remaining, the aggressor still presented a viable threat. Final judgment is the house was breached. Win goes to the aggressors."
"Good work, girl," Tommy said beside her. "The way you came through that door made the difference. Solid bet Klornax and Parmenter run that loop on Game Watch."
Jazz turned her head enough to give him the eye. Her bad, droopy, right eye. If he had any sense she wasn't warming under his praise, the agent gave no sign.
Dismissing him, she lost the rest of what the refs said balancing her own budget. Successful breach, two clean kills, both high degree of difficulty, no injuries, no equipment costs outside of ammo . . . She was looking at a good month off dole, maybe more.
A clear win or two in the meantime and she'd be in a position to upgrade some equipment, move into heavier prize money. The right agent might make that move a little quicker, a little easier, and a little more profitable.
"Damn!" Tommy broke into her thoughts.
"What?"
"They went way too easy on Jacko and dinged the Clanner." Tommy didn't seem to think it odd she'd missed what was said while standing right next to him. "Both banned from play for a month. Jacko should have got six months and the Clanner should have walked away with his kill fees. Very pretty knife work in addition to saving your ass. That was good theater. Good crowd-pleasing stuff."
"Saving my ass is crowd-pleasing?"
Tommy cut his eyes toward her, but evidently gave up right away trying to figure out the meaning of her tone.
"Look, get washed up," he said instead. "I'll buy you a steak and we can talk about representation."
Jazz decided telling him to stuff it would be easier on a stomach full of beef he'd paid for, and nodded.
Nobody followed her into the locker room. Most pickups saved the locker fees and went home in gear. She liked to leave the game behind her when she left, with all the dirt and smell.
She was in her black fatigue pants and tank top, needing only her jacket and boots, when someone else came in from the ready room. She didn't look up, not wanting conversation, and focused on stuffing her dirty field kit into a duffel bag. She drew the line at paying laundry fees.
"Aerospace."
She looked over her shoulder at Knife Boy, still in his dirty field gear. Tommy'd said he was a Clanner, though he didn't have that self-conscious arrogance she associated with the breed. More an easy confidence. Whatever he was, there was a lot of him and it was put together right.
She pulled her gear out of the duffel, searching for something that wasn't there. Looked like she'd need to repack while he got undressed.
"You keep saying that," she said.
"You are an excellent skirmisher—"
"Scrapper," she corrected.
He waved away the game classification. "Your skills are excellent," he repeated. "Bu
t your size and the speed of your reflexes make it plain your bloodline is aerospace."
"My bloodline, as you call it, is Xolara—SolarisCity slums," Jazz said, dismissing the assessment. "I've never flown a thing."
She saw his eyes snag for a second on her chest and decided to preempt the usual confused stare. Turning to face him, she arched her back and watched him take in the still pneumatic jut of her left breast against the ribbed fabric of her tank top and the blank nothing where her right breast used to be.
Knife Boy's face closed down, his eyes going flat. She was used to that. Most guys could see past the scarring along her jaw, some even said the dip to the corner of her right eye was sexy. But any come-ons they had in mind shut down when she shed her gear and they got a look at her one-sided chest. Best to get it over with quick.
"Cancer?" he asked, his voice flat.
You could call it that. For a moment she remembered bending over the fallen opponent, the hide-out weapon—little more than a chamber and a trigger—the back-snapping jump to get away . . .
"Shotgun." she answered. Keep it simple.
"Ah."
Then Knife Boy did something she'd never seen before. He lit back up. He smiled a micromillimeter and nodded. He glanced back at her chest and there was— yes, there was—a glint of approval in his eye.
Of course.
He was Clan.
Racial purity above all else. Cancer, or the propensity for cancer, was genetic. To have lost a breast to cancer would have meant she had faulty genes. Something a Clanner could not forgive. But a battle scar, worn proudly, that was something a Clanner would understand—would admire, in fact.
She didn't even pretend to pack her duffel as he stripped for the shower. That earned her another glance with a glint of something.
Okay, then, Clan. A girl should be open to new things.
"Ah, jeeze," Tommy said, bustling into the room. "Why didn't you get an implant or something, kid? A padded bra at least. That chest is going to keep the cameras off you."
Jazz sucked her teeth and resumed packing her kit.
12
Genève, Terra
Prefecture X, Republic of the Sphere
11 September 3135
This was worse than what he'd imagined.
Thaddeus Marik had always thought himself a man too sophisticated for religion, but Jonah Levin's revelation of the Fortress stratagy had driven him to his knees. In the end, he had voted with the exarch. Unity—even unity in this—was needed now. But still . . .
A civil war would be terrible, yes, but to avoid it by abandoning nine-tenths of The Republic to anarchy? The core, the heart of The Republic, would remain intact. But at what cost? How could they desert their people?
He had tried to get in contact with the former exarch over the last week and a half. He'd been careful to make the inquiries seem social—an invitation to dinner or even an informal lunch. Thaddeus was certain Damien Redburn had no part in this. He'd wanted his former commander's—former mentor's—insights into the situation.
However, the former exarch had been unavailable— not even to answer his calls. His wife Sasha had been gracious but firm in assuring him Redburn would not be available for social engagements anytime in the near future. Thaddeus was torn between concern for his old friend's health and suspicion he was involved in these machinations.
This "FortressRepublic" plan illustrated in a nutshell the difference between elected governments and nobility. The nobility realized the well-being of the people under their rule was their greatest responsibility.
The Republic was administered on the military model. Gifted, experienced, trained military personnel—strategists and tacticians who could hold their own against any in history—because Devlin Stone knew tough military thinking would carry The Republic through any crisis.
And right now the military minds had decided the best way to carry The Republic through was to sacrifice its citizens. The moral equivalent of keeping the wolf out of your home by throwing your children into the night and barring the door behind them.
Stop it!
With an effort. Thaddeus unclenched his jaws. Catching his reflection in one of the many reflective surfaces in the ornate public waiting area, he schooled his features into an expression of calm resolve. It would not do to torpedo his plan by an inappropriate display.
He could not—The Republic could not—save all the people now. But, if he did this right, he could help some of the people save themselves.
At last a majordomo he didn't recognize opened the ceiling-high double doors that led into the exarch's sanctum—the Bullet, he'd heard it called. He'd also heard there was a significance to the red-starred emblem inlaid in the carpet. He ignored both the room and its furnishings as he focused on their owner.
The exarch came around his desk to meet Thaddeus— he'd been looking out of the curving window. He extended his hand and Thaddeus took it.
David McKinnon, already standing, and Tyrina Drum- mond, rising, were both in the room as well. He nodded to each in turn, working his way through a Spartan exchange of pleasantries with all the patience he could muster.
"So," said Jonah Levin when he had maneuvered Thaddeus into sitting at the far end of the couch from Tyrina and taken his own seat in a wingback chair—not behind his desk. "What is this plan of yours?"
"Pocket fortresses," Thaddeus said without preamble. "In every prefecture there are clusters of worlds— neighborhoods, if you will—proximate, and sharing common interests and needs. With a few proper nudges, these worlds could band together for their mutual protection."
"I believe there are senators who would tell you they are already doing that," McKinnon pointed out.
"I'm thinking those senators would be one of the things the worlds would be defending themselves against," Thaddeus replied. "Along with Lyrans, Capel- lans, Clans, or even pirates."
"To what end?" asked the exarch.
"Unless the Fortress is to be the final stage of The Republic," Thaddeus said, "we will expand again. When we do, it will be to our advantage to have worlds— neighborhoods of worlds—intact and unoccupied by states that may be disinclined to give them back."
"How would this help?" Tyrina asked. "Wouldn't they defend their independence against the Republic of the Sphere just as they did against everyone else?"
"Not if we guide their development, and establish governments favorably inclined toward The Republic," Thaddeus said. "We can't be overt, let everyone know what we're about. Even if that didn't backfire, it would alert others what we are up to."
"But you're not talking about governments—or neighborhoods, to use your term—which we would control," Levin said. "How would these coalitions of worlds work to our advantage?"
"At two levels." Thaddeus leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He was aware of McKinnon and
Tyrina, but he kept his eyes focused on Levin. "First, as I said, it would deny these worlds to more powerful enemies who would fight to keep them. Second, by having pro-Republic leadership in place and—with luck and a bit of media work—a population sympathetic to The Republic's ideals, we stand a better chance of bringing these worlds back into the fold later. Without bloodshed."
Thaddeus followed Levin's glance to McKinnon. The eldest paladin was frowning at the coffee table, his lips pursed. Looking to Tyrina at the other end of the couch, he found her looking at him, her head cocked to one side.
"These nudges you're talking about would take some preparation," she said. "Isn't it too late to be thinking of something like this?"
Careful.
"When I thought The Republic might be heading toward civil war," Thaddeus said, "I began taking steps."
"What sort of steps?" the exarch asked.
"I made some contacts, shifted some funds, generally laid groundwork." Thaddeus held his leader's gaze as he answered. "My plan at that time was to have foundations in place which could be built on. Strong points from which to resist any rebel forc
es."
"Interesting." Jonah Levin leaned farther back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. The unaccustomed pose struck Thaddeus as Capellan. "And you didn't mention these steps?"
"If they were never needed, there would be no reason," Thaddeus said. "And as long as there was a chance they might be needed, it seemed best to keep them secret until such time as they became necessary."
McKinnon's lips were still pursed, but his frowning gaze had lifted from the coffee table to regard Thaddeus. Thaddeus met his eyes levelly, confident his words—so close to the truth—would stand up under any scrutiny.
"These neighborhoods where you have taken steps," McKinnon said. "Where are they?"
"Prefectures six, seven and eight," Thaddeus answered promptly. "The regions I know best."
The regions adjacent to Marik space.
Aloud he said: "Though, as Tyrina said, while the time is now late, it's possible similar steps may be undertaken in other prefectures, by paladins—or even knights— familiar with those regions.
"Also—"
He paused, looking at each in turn before focusing exclusively on the exarch.
"I had not anticipated a development like Fortress," he said, pulling a data crystal from the breast pocket of his jacket. "If, under the circumstances, you think it best someone else take over operations in these prefectures, I have all the relevant data here."
Jonah Levin glanced at Tyrina, and Thaddeus handed the crystal to her. She glanced at it as though able to read some information from its surface, then shook it in her loose fist. A die about to be rolled.
"I don't think there's any need to change plans at this point," the exarch said. "Continue. And continue to keep us apprised for as long as practical. Am I correct in assuming carrying this plan forward will require you to be outside Fortress?"
Thaddeus nodded.
"Paladin Drummond," Levin said formally. "Review Paladin Marik's strategy. See if this is not something you could apply in prefectures one, two, and three."
A little late for that.
"Mandela for the others?" Levin asked McKinnon.
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