by Jessie Kwak
It does no good to remind her who is paying for all this equipment she so haphazardly scatters throughout her lair, and Jaantzen has stopped doing so. He’s hired people at the top of their game and given them what they need to do their jobs. And he’s learned the best thing to do is sit back and stay out of it.
Besides, buying out Toshiyo’s indenture was a costlier investment than any of these pieces of equipment, and since he’s given her — and all his people — the choice to stay or go, the smartest thing he can do is make sure she’s happy working for him.
She’s been almost drunk with relief since he returned to the office this morning, her words tumbling over each other and attention flung recklessly throughout the room. Jaantzen finds it charming to know just how much she would have missed him.
Manu Juric is happy to see him, too, bustling about the office like a mother hen to make sure Jaantzen has everything he might need. Jaantzen isn’t sure what Manu would have done had Jaantzen gone through with his plan to kill Coeur; Jaantzen would have left him enough money that he wouldn’t have to work, but Jaantzen can’t imagine the man sitting back and doing nothing.
Toshiyo’s black-lacquered nails clatter against the keyboard, and after a long moment, Jaantzen begins to suspect she’s forgotten he asked her a question.
“Ms. Ravi?” She looks up him and blinks, her glossy black ponytail catching the light of the screen. “How long?”
“Oh. Five minutes,” she says, turning back to her keyboard.
Five minutes. It seems like an eternity, one in which he can only sit and curse Julieta Yang. She was right about there being nothing Toshiyo could do for her — Julieta’s information was the best. Which is why he doesn’t believe that she doesn’t know whether Raj and Lasadi were among those captured from the Nanshe. She’d known about the girl. Why wouldn’t she know about the parents?
Jaantzen finishes the dregs of his green tea, grimacing — he’s trying to quit coffee today. His doctor, Gia, has given him any dozen number of things he should quit if he wants to live a good long life, which Jaantzen has been ignoring given his circumstances with Coeur.
But now that this chance — so perfectly choreographed — has been destroyed, he’s thinking again. “You wanna live to kill that bitch, you gotta start skipping dessert, boss” — those had been Gia’s exact words. The little luxuries — cigars, red meat (as rare as that was on New Sarjun), anything else that raises blood pressure — were to be plucked one by one out of his arsenal of foods until only blandness remained.
Rice and beans. Even just the words conjure up memories of the tasteless, watery, pale brown glop that was the staple of every homeless shelter and food bank he’d eaten at as a child. Bland food has long been linked in his mind with those starving years. At least the Willem Jaantzen of today can afford any spice in the galaxy, if he likes.
At mealtimes, this may be a consolation. Right now, he just wishes he could buy a few minutes’ speed out of Toshiyo’s servers.
“You want, I can let you know when I have an answer,” Toshiyo says, not looking away from her screens. Her drawl is pure rural New Sarjun; he picked up her indenture from a mining conglomerate out in Ruby Basin after hearing stories about a young ops tech with an uncanny ability to glance at a spreadsheet and pinpoint a motherlode. Streaming data pools in her black eyes.
“Am I bothering you?”
She spares him a frown. “No,” she says, too quick.
“Then what is it?”
Deep sigh, her thin shoulder climbing and dropping. “I’m not supposed to stress you out,” she says. A quick sideways glance, flash of green catching in her irises. “Gia’s orders.”
Jaantzen’s doctor is enlisting help from his staff.
Lovely.
“I promise I won’t die of a heart attack on your watch, Ms. Ravi.”
She doesn’t look convinced. Gia is formidable, but Jaantzen likes to think of himself as more so — and he’ll be even more so as soon as he loses a bit of the girth he’s allowed to accumulate around his waistline since Tae —
Willem Jaantzen shifts in his chair. “How much longer?”
Toshiyo’s attention snaps back to the monitors, her mouth quirks into a smile. “Got it.” But it’s another full minute of tap-tap-typing until she sits back. Jaantzen feels like he’s about to explode.
“The lists for Redrock Prison show one Starla Dusai,” she says. “Maximum security wing, isolation cell.”
Jaantzen relaxes at that. Isolation means she won’t be at the mercy of the worst of the worst to be found in maximum security. It may not be comfortable for the girl, but at least she’s not in with the general population.
“And her parents?” he asks.
Toshiyo frowns at her screen. “They were picked up from the Nanshe, but they haven’t been recorded as entering any Alliance prison on New Sarjun.”
“So, they’re being kept elsewhere, they’ve been checked in under alternate names, or they’re dead,” says Jaantzen. Toshiyo nods slowly. “Find me every suspicious name in the timeframe,” he says.
He’s not ready to entertain the possibility that they’re dead. Not when their daughter is waiting for them to come for her.
Jaantzen stands, almost bumping his head on a low-hanging shelf. He’s got nearly half a meter on Toshiyo. “And find me someone in that prison who can be bought or convinced.”
“Yeah, boss.”
Jaantzen can’t quite turn away; he’s been dancing on the edge of his last request. Toshiyo senses him there, fingers going still. She glances over her shoulder. “Boss?”
“And find out Mayor Coeur’s schedule for the next month.”
She doesn’t look at him. Cracks a knuckle on each hand. “You got it,” she finally says.
She’s typing away, back in her own world. Jaantzen stands in the doorway, watching. He wonders what she would have done if he’d killed Coeur. Gone to work for Julieta, maybe? Or pivoted straight and narrow to work for some corporation indenture-free? He likes to think she would have found some place to be happy and live a more normal life. He makes a note to ensure her employment with someone trustworthy before he takes his next chance at Coeur; he’d been remiss in this, last time.
His stomach growls. It’s time to follow his next lead.
Seventeen years ago, Willem Jaantzen took to the skies to protect his cargo from the scourge of the shipping lanes: the Nanshe. Part favor to himself, part favor to Julieta Yang, who had agreed to fund the trip and had sent one of her daughters along to negotiate her own terms with the infamous pirates.
Jaantzen mostly remembers being miserable. It’s the only time he’s left New Sarjun, and he never intends to again.
But face to face with the famously rakish captain Raj Dusai, negotiations ended with guns at each other’s heads, the tension shattered when Raj broke into his huge belly laugh and tossed away his weapon, inviting Jaantzen and his crew to share in a meal of New Manilan delicacies obtained from an Alliance cruiser.
Raj and Lasadi primarily preyed on Alliance ships, a habit Jaantzen warned them about repeatedly. They claimed it wasn’t political, but Jaantzen knew better — the Dusais hated the Alliance with all the fire of Durga herself. And that fire burned them in the end.
Even so, Jaantzen can understand. In the early days of his operations, Jaantzen had been full of anger and rage at those whose politics had thrown him to the dogs. He flaunted himself at police, took pride in destroying petty politicians’ lives. The stronger he got, the less care he took.
But as he grew older, he began to understand the value of highly functional relationships with strategic people in power — even if he didn’t agree with their politics.
Particularly if they were people with whom he shared a certain civic pride, and a desire to keep New Sarjun free from the Alliance’s yoke.
People like Youssef Tabari.
Jaantzen walks to the Arcadia, something that will make Gia proud though it gives his security fits. His organizat
ion is back to normal operations now, which means Manu Juric can once again insist on setting guards even this deep within Jaantzen’s territory.
The Arcadia is a classy establishment just outside the tourist district — a place Youssef Tabari certainly can’t afford on his government salary. It’s a good way to keep the balance ever so slightly in Jaantzen’s favor. A good number of the staff owe Jaantzen their loyalty, plus, the hostess keeps a pistol in her stand. She’s a crack shot; he’s seen her use it.
Jaantzen’s men clear him to enter the restaurant; the hostess shows him to his favorite booth near the kitchen. On the other side of the pass-through window, the head chef raises a hand in greeting.
Jaantzen orders a bottle of wine as Youssef walks through the door, then stands to greet his old friend with a hug.
“I have to get back to work after this,” says Youssef predictably as Jaantzen pours the wine, but he picks up the offered glass anyway. As he always does.
It’s small talk as they order, Jaantzen going through the motions of putting Youssef at ease. Tedious, but Youssef is a prize associate. Over the years he’s become very highly placed in the Trade Commission of New Sarjun, on track to the top job of commissioner within another election cycle or two. As a man who specializes in imports and exports, Jaantzen will do what it takes to have Youssef on his side.
Jaantzen clinks glasses again after the waitress brings out their meal: chickpeas and dumplings swimming in a spice-laden sauce. It’s not on the menu — Jaantzen prefers the surprise, lets the head chef choose.
“I hope you don’t mind me treating you to dinner today,” he says. “I have something that I need to ask you.” Youssef leans back, spoon hovering over his plate. Wary. “What do you know about the Dusai family?”
He can see Youssef judging his answer, deciding how to proceed.
“Surely you heard Silk Station was destroyed a few days ago,” Jaantzen says, prompting.
Youssef blinks. “That was highly classified,” he says. “I barely have clearance to be told myself.”
“The Alliance is coy with their information,” Jaantzen says smoothly. The Indiran Alliance and their withholding of information involving New Sarjun is a constant thorn in Youssef’s side, and Jaantzen prods that thorn gently, a reminder that they’re both playing for the same team, regardless of which side of the law they’re currently on.
It’s the thing Jaantzen likes most about New Sarjun. A deft manipulation of political tensions can erase many a criminal record. Hell, it had gotten Coeur elected mayor.
“The Alliance didn’t need to tell us anything,” Youssef says. “Durga’s Belt isn’t New Sarjunian space.” He chews, slowly. “The Dusais were suppliers of yours, weren’t they?”
“Not suppliers,” Jaantzen says. “But we had an amicable arrangement.”
“I can’t say many but you will be sad to see them gone,” says Youssef.
“Perhaps not. But I do have certain obligations that need to be fulfilled. I know their daughter is being held at Redrock Prison. I need to find out what happened to Raj and Lasadi.”
“I’d assume they’d have been taken to prison, as well.”
“Then I’ll need to call in a favor. How quickly can you get me credentials to fly in to Redrock?”
Youssef’s jaw tenses. “I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can, old friend,” Jaantzen says. Youssef can do any number of things; Jaantzen has seen it. “I need to get the girl out of prison. Possibly her parents, too.”
“Why would I help you with that?”
“Because without Silk Station, without the Nanshe, the Dusais aren’t a threat to New Sarjunian commerce, any more than I am.” Youssef’s eyebrows rise at that. “And the girl’s only a child. Fifteen. The Alliance can’t hold her for her parents’ crimes.”
“They can hold her for whatever they want,” says Youssef. “They’re the Alliance.”
Jaantzen tilts his head, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Isn’t this our planet?”
“I’m not starting a political war for you,” Youssef says.
“I’m not asking for a war. But I’d guess others might feel as we do about the Alliance kidnapping children — particularly when they’re keeping them in maximum security prisons on our planet. I’d guess there might be a few key people who find this something to be irked about. I just want to reward them for doing the right thing.”
Youssef’s fingertips tap at the table. “How much?” he asks.
“I think you’re familiar with how much I value assistance of this magnitude — and how much I value information,” answers Jaantzen. “Particularly something like the classified Alliance records of the attack on the Nanshe.”
Youssef nods slowly. “I’ll see what I can do.” He mops his plate with naan. “And fast. If they decide the girl’s involved with the OIC, they can do whatever they want with her.”
Jaantzen frowns at that. “The Dusais weren’t OIC.”
“It doesn’t matter. If the Alliance decides they need to get rid of someone, all they have to do is prove that person is reasonably likely to be OIC.”
“Even a child?”
“Old friend, she’s not a child to the Alliance,” Youssef says. “They’ve locked away younger than her, if they thought they were terrorists.”
“Then let’s work fast,” Jaantzen says, dropping his napkin to his plate and standing to offer his hand. Youssef’s smile is wary, his hand slightly clammy. Nervous. Jaantzen lets his smile grow more generous.
His comm buzzes as Youssef is walking out the door: Toshiyo.
Found a contact. Alliance officer named Ximena Nayar. But you’re not going to be happy about this one.
Jaantzen frowns at the name, trying to remember if he’s heard it before. I’ll be back shortly, he types. With lunch.
He sits back down and signals the waitress for a to-go order of chickpeas and dumplings. He feels suddenly very tired.
OIC.
No matter what happened to Raj and Lasadi, he won’t be able to fool himself into thinking their daughter’s age will guarantee her safety in Alliance custody.
Chapter 5
Starla’s been wrestled into the interrogation room again, feet restrained, hands free. She shifts on the metal bench, back aching from holding her spine straight in this gravity without a backrest. She slouches. Straightens. Rolls her shoulders.
After what seems like an hour, the Interrogation Twins return: Hali and Mahr.
Mahr looks like she sleeps standing up in her uniform so it — and she — won’t wrinkle. Hali’s in green today, with a fake flower pinned on her lapel. She’s obviously not military. Some civilian contractor flown in to help with the deaf girl. Starla wonders if there’s more call for that sort of thing on backwater New Sarjun than on Indira.
She’s remembered now what they remind her of: it’s an old children’s vid she and Mona used to watch, with a family of clowns living aboard a spaceship. Mahr and Hali are the two moms, one stiff and militaristic, one round and matronly. Starla can’t remember the names of the characters, but it gives her satisfaction to have recalled this much.
“How are you today?” asks Hali.
Water.
It’s been the most pressing thing on her mind. The heat of this stupid planet is sucking her dry, her knuckles cracking and lips flaked to bleeding; she can’t stop picking at them.
“Can we get her some water?” Hali asks Mahr, who says something out the door. The water comes in a flimsy plastic bottle that wrinkles under the slightest touch. Starla takes it with both hands to keep it from spilling.
She thinks of Deyva, who had boasted he could make a weapon from anything and had tried to teach her to do the same.
Can’t make this piece of garbage bottle into a weapon, that’s for sure.
She doesn’t look at Hali until she’s done drinking, even though she can tell the woman’s trying to get her attention. Starla sets the bottle aside, nearly empty, and wipes her dry lips on the bac
k of her hand.
“We have some other questions today,” Hali says when Starla finally makes eye contact. “But I’m still here to talk about your home life, if you need someone.”
Starla’s been thinking. It’s obvious Hali and Mahr aren’t going to tell her where her parents are, or what happened to the rest of her family on Silk Station and to the crew of the Nanshe. Not until they get some answers of their own.
She’s considered trying to act feral — she’s read about feral children, raised away from society, raised without parents; she thinks maybe that’s what Hali wants to hear. Poor thing, can you imagine, raised in a situation like that? And deaf no less. It’s a blessing we got her away . . .
“How often did you travel with your parents on the Nanshe?”
Starla blinks. It takes her a moment to process Hali’s signs; she hasn’t been paying attention.
Never. Not since she could barely walk, and they’d brought her here to New Sarjun. But she doesn’t remember that, not more than flashes.
“But you were rescued onboard the Nanshe.”
Starla bridles at that word, rescued.
That was my first time. Training voyage.
“She says it was a training voyage,” Hali says to Mahr. “Her first time on the ship.”
“So she was training to be part of the crew?” Mahr asks.
Starla waits to answer until Hali’s interpreted the question. She doesn’t want to let on how much she’s able to understand. Nor does she trust herself to get all the context without Hali’s help, and she doesn’t want them to start thinking they can just yell at her and be understood.
Not crew, Starla answers, and Hali looks satisfied as she repeats Starla’s answer for Mahr. Just training.
She’s decided to play the innocent card for now — not the feral card, not the abuse card; she’d never forgive herself for that — but maybe she can distance herself from the more anti-Alliance actions of her parents and the Nanshe.
“Did your parents ever talk to you about their trips?”