I recoiled and looked behind me where smoke fed out from the corridor I’d just left. I didn’t see my guard or my father.
Dead?
I went cold. My heart thudded with effort.
Someone whipped me around by the arm and yanked me ahead. I saw a glimpse of blond hair and pale blue eyes.
I fought him, using fists and feet, driven more by terror than technique despite hours of Musey’s instruction. But it worked. He stopped, letting me go, and turned around so I saw his face up close.
Another stranger.
I tried to twist and run, but his hand shot out like a missile and knocked my head back. I hit the wall, losing momentary motor function just long enough for him to take me up again. This time I felt the bite of a rifle muzzle against my side. His other hand reached around and groped up the front of my shirt, sending spikes of panic through me, but he stopped as soon as he felt my tags. He ripped them off and threw them to the floor.
“Go on,” he said into my ear.
I went, hot wet lines tracing down my face from the smoke. With the tags gone I couldn’t comm the ship and they couldn’t track me.
I didn’t know where I was but I knew where we were going as soon as he yanked me up short in front of a waist-high steel grille in the wall.
Austro’s underdeck tunnels.
He shoved me through first, hit me to keep me down while he yanked the grille back to the wall on its magnetic clamps, then dragged me up again and manhandled me further through the transsteel innards of the station. My head rang, my eyes had barely adjusted to regular light after that flash and now saw nothing but black and faint orange spots from overhead. Somewhere something dripped and all around smelled tike cold metal and stale air.
Finally he stopped and pushed me sitting against the wall. Damp went through my clothes and straight to my bones.
I took a ragged breath, looked up as he crouched on his haunches across from me, his back to the moisture-streaked wall and his rifle across his lap. He was young, or seemed near my age, with a cherubic roundness to his features and a pale smoothness of skin that you normally saw on children. His lips were puffy and chapped, used, his eyes a kind of corpse-cold blue. Bleached of life. Evaluating.
He shifted and dug into a pocket on his right thigh, came out with a file of cigrets, extracted one, and lit it with a fingerband lighter. His eyes didn’t stray from my face. He took a drag and blew the smoke upward, his other hand still gripping the rifle.
“Shout anything and I’ll kill you,” he said, in a lazy tone I’d heard before from junkies. But his eyes were too clear for him to be drugged or habit-driven.
I didn’t say a word. My ears still rang.
His clothes were threadbare, dirty white fatigues and sweater, a black T-shirt over top with some sort of flaking bird design on the front, in yellow. He scratched his chest with a half-gloved hand and looked down the tunnel.
“Don’t worry, they’re not dead. It was a thunderflash, not a bomb.”
I stared at him, tucked my arms against my chest. “Who… who was that other man?” I asked.
My captor said, “Another pirate. But I didn’t want his help anymore.”
Another pirate.
“Did you kill my mother?” Pirate or no, my muscles tensed, wanting to spring across the gap between us and beat him senseless.
But he said, “No,” with a quirk of his lips, part smile, part disdainful smirk. “That was the govies,” he added.
Before I could open my mouth he leaned forward and tapped my foot with the nose of his rifle. “I was supposed to kill you a few months ago, but I didn’t.” He said it as if it were some sort of secret between us.
The sniper. Pirates.
I shifted. “Then what am I doing here now?”
“I’m saving your life—again.”
“You could save it by putting me back with my father.”
“Out there?” His eyebrows went up and he laughed. “That’d kill you for sure. No, I think we better sit this out for a bit.”
My leg wouldn’t stop twitching. I chewed on my sleeve cuff. Prayed abstractedly the way nonbelievers did, but nothing stayed long in my mind. Fear hunted hope, and thought and bravery, and drove them to the ground.
“Relax,” the pirate said. “I told you I didn’t kill your mama. They want everyone to think it’s pirates. But it was them.”
“Why?”
“Treaties don’t always get signed at official tables, Azarcon. Other parties tend to do deals more directly.” He got to his feet and motioned me up with his gun. “Let’s go talk to your papa.”
He took me through more tunnels until I had no idea where we’d entered. Graffiti decorated some of the walls, sharp-angled gutter hieroglyphics that seemed ready to crawl from their surfaces and taint you with dirty color. Everyone on Austro knew stories of the underdeck population—murderers, thieves, runners for drugs and guns. It all flowed in the undercurrent dead air of these hidden decks, despite numerous polly raids. People shipped here after their stations or ships were blown in the war, but forgotten somewhere in the bureaucracy of relief aid systems, ended up underdeck. Orphans, traumatized veterans even, and doubtless pirates on the run.
Like this one. He knew the tunnels. He pushed me through the shadows, avoiding the echoes of limbless voices, until we squeezed past color-coded intestinal support columns and into a three-by-two-meter rectangular nook, hidden well from the main tunnel. It was darker here and I almost tripped over a blanket that lay on the dank floor. But I didn’t miss seeing the comp that sat shut on an overturned plastic bin, illuminated by a watery yellow cyalume stick.
I stared at the comp.
The young pirate slung his rifle on his shoulder, shoved me on the blanket, and pulled out wire cuffs from his back waist like a polly. He drew my wrists to a pair of horizontal pipes running the length of the wall and tied my hands to it, then dragged over another bin to sit on in front of the comp. Its razor shell wasn’t beat up and showed no identifying labels. Custom-built from the insides out, and as he flipped it open and tapped away he seemed more than familiar with it.
Pretty soon he said, “Macedon, I want to talk to your captain. He should be back on ship by now.”
How did he know Mac’s comm frequency?
A female voice on the other end of the comp said, “Identify yourself.”
“No,” the pirate said. “Tell the captain I have his son.” He leaned back and smoked. The visual must have been deactivated.
In a matter of minutes my father’s voice came over, steady though it was shored by rage. I wished I could see his face or that he could see mine. “Where’s my son?”
The pirate aimed his rifle at me to warn me. “He’s right here. I just saved his life.”
Hesitation. Maybe from surprise. “Explain yourself.”
“My name’s Yuri Kirov,” the pirate said.
That caused a long silence.
I stared at him, but he ignored me.
“I’m going to talk, Captain,” Kirov said, “and you’re going to listen because Ryan is right now in front of me. Unharmed, for now. Don’t trace my sig, I can tell if you do and that’ll piss me off. You don’t need to know what I look like right now either, so don’t ask me to turn on the visual. And—”
“I’ve ordered a lockdown of this station, Kirov. You’re not going anywhere.”
Kirov paused, staring hard at his comp, sucking just as hard on his cig. I shivered.
“They went for that?” he asked, with mild interest.
My father said, “They had no choice. It’s my jets on their deck. So you’d better spin me a good story if you don’t want to be shot on sight.”
If he was concerned for me it didn’t come through in his voice.
Kirov said, “I was in contact with a boy in the underdeck named Otter about a year ago, who was in turn in contact with a symp spy aboard your ship. I’d offered to deal Falcone in exchange for exoneration.”
“I rememb
er.”
“Obviously that didn’t work. I had to cut contact when Falcone got suspicious. I’m telling you this because I want you to understand… I still want out.”
“You want out. Falcone’s protégé. You’ve kidnapped my son.”
“I saved him. It was Centralist fanatics who killed your wife and they were going for Ryan next. To wear you down.”
“And I should believe you because—?”
“If this was a vengeance thing, Azarcon, I’d just kill you direct. They want to intimidate you without making you a martyr.”
“And you’re looking out for my well-being, as well as my son’s? I don’t see my son here with me, Kirov, and I’m fast losing patience.”
I tugged at my cuffs but they just pinched tighter. The pirate licked his lips. “You should understand, Captain. The old khan talked about you. You don’t get anything for free in this galaxy.”
I stared at the faint light reflecting in the pirate’s pale eyes. They were fixed on the screen.
My father’s voice was a cold snap. “I haven’t yet heard anything that ought to make me lenient when you’re captured. And you will be captured, Kirov, if it means combing this station for a year.”
Yuri Kirov smiled faintly. “After your symp killed the old khan, I got told to assassinate your son. You know how it works among pirates, don’t you? It was expected. But I didn’t kill him, obviously. In fact, I saved his life. I killed my own station contact instead. Some rich stitches got in the way but… oh, well.”
“If you’re expecting gratitude you’ll have to wait.”
“I don’t expect anything but a fair shake. I saved your son’s life that shift and I’ve just done it again. Pirates didn’t kill your wife, Captain, it was govies.”
“You keep saying that. Repetition doesn’t make it true.”
“I slept with the woman who ordered it. She’s one of the leaders in the Family of Humanity cell on Austro but her day job’s a rep for the Merchants Protection Commission. I been running intel on her since New Year’s and you might like to know she’s had contact with one of your jets.”
Sanchez. My father said nothing, but I heard his thoughts.
This pirate was telling the truth.
Kirov continued, “Centralists and Family, it’s an old sordid rumor, isn’t it. She wanted to get you back here and finish it off with Ryan. Then where would you be? You know my reputation and you know I could get that info. I think you even know exactly how it’s done, don’t you?”
“I want to speak to my son.”
Kirov dropped his cigret on the floor and heeled it out. “Not yet. You look into my claims and find out I’m right. Then you’ll know I’m being honest.”
“That won’t prove anything except you’re a manipulative bastard, which isn’t news. I do know your reputation. I know you’re operating as a pirate, even though you claim you want to come clean. Well, it would help your case if you released my son immediately.”
“I can’t do that. Number one, the people who killed your wife are still out there making plans to get Ryan, and if they can’t kill him they’ll kidnap him and try to manipulate you—like I’m doing, except they won’t be as nice. So you really don’t want me to let him loose. And number two, I need insurance that you won’t hunt me down. Because you won’t right now, Captain, since I have him and I can see what you’re doing on station through the Send. I want you to find out the truth about the Family of Humanity. You might be surprised—or not—where the links go. The fact I’m even talking to you ought to be a clue. Some people really don’t want this treaty, Captain… I can count three factions offhand and that makes for some acrobatic bed business. In more than one sense.”
My father’s voice sounded raw from strain, or restraint. “I suspected Damiani had personal contacts within the Family. Are pirates the third partner, is that what you’re confirming?”
“No, Azarcon. You confirm it. It’ll sound better coming from a decorated captain. Then we’ll talk about your son. You know I’ll keep my word. Honor among protégés and all that.”
“I’ve not agreed to a thing.”
Kirov’s voice hardened, the first sign of emotion, impatience. “I want out, Captain. If you expose this triumvirate and grant me asylum and exoneration, I’ll release your son. It’s a simple symbiosis. Otherwise I have no choice but to stay where I am—with Ryan. And deliver him to the people who wanted him in the first place. Trust is a luxury I don’t have in abundance. I think you understand me.”
A long beat. “How will I contact you with my information?”
Kirov reached to touch the comp. “I’ll know by watching the Send. Your actions are well documented lately, aren’t they?” He tapped the screen and shut down the comp. Then he speared me with a quick, half-lidded grin. “Your papa plays hardball, big-eyes. It totally turns me on.”
And he laughed.
At least I knew my father was alive, and I could only hope Sid and Musey were too. I watched Kirov and his comp, hoping he’d step out to take a piss and I could stretch over there and maybe send a message to Macedon.
He caught me looking.
“You want to see what your papa’s stirring up dockside? Should pass the time.” He brought the comp to me and sat down close—too close—held it on his lap and tapped it on. His hands moved fast, opening a link to the current transcast.
I thought about bringing my foot up to kick him, but he looked like he could handle himself and I’d just end up bruised, or worse.
The Send report flashed on the screen, a torrent of information and diatribes, all of them directed toward my father.
“… locked down the station in an unprecedented and, many say, unwarranted move. His jets occupy the dockside, his officers are in the stationmaster’s office, and the captain himself has declared that he will ‘disable’ any ship that attempts to break dock without authorization from Macedon. All of this because his son has gone missing, in the wake of his wife’s death. Is it grief fueling these martial actions? Will the next step in the captain’s regime be forced inspection of all ships at port?”
“Wow,” Kirov said, mocking or not, I couldn’t tell. “He must really love you.” His eyes scraped over me. “I guess I’m not surprised.”
“You’re pissing him off, is what.”
The pirate laughed. “What an honor.”
Conversation was better than silence; maybe I could get something from him. “If you know his reputation, then you know he doesn’t respond well to blackmail.”
“This isn’t blackmail. It’s dealmaking. I know your father can appreciate that. We had the same teacher, after all.”
I couldn’t stop my mouth. “Difference is he doesn’t live in it still.”
“What do you know?” His eyes darkened in irritation. “I bet I know more of what makes your papa tick than you. Shit like that doesn’t vent so easy.” He waved his hand. “Anyway, I can bank on his care for you. I don’t think he’d risk your life.”
“You would really kill me?” I glanced at the rifle lying on his opposite side from me. “How far do you think you’d get if you killed me?”
His expression froze to a mask. “I don’t have to kill you to hurt you.” His hand reached out and stroked my hair back.
I wrenched my head away, breath stuck in my throat. I couldn’t look at him now.
“Don’t be so repulsed. Your father did the same in my position.” A snort of laughter.
“No he didn’t.”
“We had the same training, big-eyes. If anything mine was better, since the old khan learned from his mistakes. Lost two protégés, though he never liked to count the last one. That kid ran away too soon.”
“Just shut up.”
More laughter, sounding like the kind you gave when you didn’t give a damn. High, reckless, and jaded. “You’re perfect,” he said. “Perfect and pretty, if someone cleaned you up a bit. And you grew a few cents and gained some meat. And fixed that weird haircut.”
“I’m just wondering what kind of geisha Cairo Azarcon’s son would make. Oh, if I was still in the world I might take you on.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the extent of that suggestion. Blood was laboring to my hands, my wrists were so sore.
“Ooh, look. The viper’s out.” Kirov turned up the volume on the comp.
President Judy Damiani came into frame, on Earth or Mars it seemed, judging by the blue sky behind her in the distance.
“This is the sort of behavior from deep spacers like Captain Azarcon that cannot be tolerated in any degree. Trade has been halted because he’s taken it upon himself to act as Austro’s authority, bulldozing as usual over the governor, the stationmaster, and the police commissioner. He’s been ordered by Hub Command to relinquish control and work with station authorities to find his son, but he’s refused. If anything proves his pirate tendencies it is this latest action, and I for one am not comfortable having such a man on speaking terms with the aliens.”
I looked at Kirov. This was all his fault. My father had just lost his wife; he wasn’t going to risk losing me too.
I didn’t want him to risk losing me either. But now he was risking everything.
I pretended to sleep. The pirate had to sleep too at some point, or take a piss or a walk or find somebody to screw…something, while he thought I was defenseless, tied to the pipes, and out of commission.
My arms were numb by now. I let it spread to my chest and the roiling storm going on in there. Panicking would accomplish nothing and I refused to give the pirate the satisfaction. Even when he tried to elicit conversation about my mother. I just turned my cheek to the damp wall and shut my eyes. Eventually I did doze, awoke, saw his back turned as he leaned on one of the pipe columns, peering out to the main tunnel throughway. I shut my eyes again but stayed awake, listening to him shift.
After a long while he approached. I kept my breaths regular and deep, chin to my chest. I felt him test the cuffs, tighten them, then he patted my head with a little laugh and moved away. His footsteps disappeared in the distance, echoing.
Burndive Page 36