by Jessie Kwak
Nayar nods. She cuts the feed.
Willem Jaantzen’s hands are shaking with rage.
A cup of green tea. Sitting in his room with the lamps off, the glittering night constellations of Bulari’s skyline illuminating the space. A faux-leather couch, expensive and comfortable. A triptych of paintings by his favorite artist hanging above the dining table; Tae bought them for him the week before she died, they stab at his heart every time he looks at them, but he can’t bring himself to take them down.
Jaantzen sips the tea; it’s too hot, it scalds his tongue. He barely notices.
“Call Julieta Yang,” he tells his comm, and it’s only seconds before she picks up.
“Willem?” She’s been waiting for him.
“Did you know that Raj and Lasadi were dead before you called me?” he asks. No small talk for Julieta.
“Yes.” The reply comes immediately, and without explanation.
Jaantzen doesn’t need one. Her aim had never been to save the Dusais; she had never cared about the girl. All along she’s been worried about the balance of power in Bulari’s underworld, should he kill Coeur.
Jaantzen isn’t surprised, but he’s startled to find himself wounded nonetheless.
“What are you going to do about the girl?” she asks.
“I’m not sure,” he says, but it’s not true; if he’s honest with himself, he’s already made his decision. He made promises to Raj and Lasadi that he’d take care of their daughter if anything happened to them, and he made promises to himself that he would have his revenge.
Since meeting Tae, his promises to others have always taken precedent over those made to himself. Killing Coeur went counter to that, but he’d convinced himself it was the right thing to do.
It was time.
He’d fucking earned it.
“What would Tae want you to do?”
The question stings, as she meant it to. “Good-bye, Julieta,” Jaantzen says.
He disconnects the line.
Jaantzen keeps having this dream, though not as often as he would like. In it, he’s sitting at a table by himself in that shady kebab restaurant he frequented in those days, which has the same seasoned soy doner on the rotisserie as every other kebab joint in Bulari — only difference, the garlic sauce at this joint is to die for. He’s drinking alone.
It’s a time before Toshiyo, before Gia, before Manu, before everyone he works with now.
It’s a time when his crew isn’t a family — it’s a collection of strange characters held together by mutual anger. People he’d grown up with in orphanages, people he knew from the streets. People he trusts only by virtue of the fact that they haven’t yet sold him out.
He’s alone, until one of the waitresses comes to sit at his table. Thick mud-red hair and skin the rich topaz of a full moon hung low on the horizon. He’s startled. They’ve spoken only briefly; she’s never served him. He doesn’t come here often, though he’s been here more, recently. It feels familiar. He needs somewhere familiar lately.
“You seem lonely.” It’s a line he’s heard from women who want his money, but he doesn’t think she means it that way. Something in the way she looks at him is anything but seductive. He can’t put a finger on it.
“I’ve been watching you,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And you seem lonely.”
Jaantzen smiles politely. It’s obvious she doesn’t know who he is.
“Tae Boroma.” She holds out her hand to him, and the way she does it is so charming, he’d like to give her a false name, see how long this moment could last before she learns he’s a monster. But he could never — and already her co-workers are gathering near the pass-through window, stealing glances as if unsure what to do, whether to break in and snatch her away.
“I’m Willem Jaantzen,” he says. He doesn’t take her hand. He doesn’t want to feel the recoil when she realizes her mistake.
“I know,” Tae says. The hand stays there, waiting, and finally he shakes it. Her handshake is firm. She smiles. “You wanna get out of here?” she asks, and after too long a moment he finally nods, raises his hand to call over his server.
Tae just shakes her head and stands. “I already got your tab tonight,” she says. “C’mon, I got something to show you.”
And it’s the lights display down by the river, a neutral spot among Bulari’s gangs, and she instinctively finds a space for them to sit in the hot New Sarjunian night that’s out of the way, safe and secure. She has a flask of cheap whiskey in her bag, but they only take a few sips.
They’re still talking when the sun comes up.
Jaantzen checks his watch. It’s been fifteen minutes, and the tea is finally cool enough to drink without scalding. He takes another sip and calls up a connection with Ximena Nayar. She doesn’t greet him, just lifts her chin. In that gesture she looks as fiercely defiant as Coeur in the height of her Blackheart days. He pushes away the thought.
“You have my word,” says Jaantzen. “On my honor, all vendetta between myself and your sister is cleared. So long as I return alive and free from Redrock Prison, she no longer has anything to fear from me, or from any member of my organization.” He takes a deep breath. “But believe that nothing in the world will save her if you double-cross me.”
Ximena Nayar only nods, precise, seeming impatient at his caveats. “How soon can you get here?”
Chapter 9
Starla figures they’ll just put her in another cell, but they only let the smoky air out and toss her back in. The air looks clear now, but it stings her eyes and scours her sinuses.
Starla surveys the damage.
The thin mattress is scorched and soggy on the far end, and the blanket — and her pillow, she notes sourly — are both gone. The brushed aluminum wall above the toilet is licked by a rainbow sheen. The toilet itself is a misshapen hunk of scrap metal now, but somebody’s put a bucket out next to it for her to use. Starla wrinkles her nose.
She sits on the damp mattress for a moment, but the smell of scorched metal is giving her visceral flashbacks of the Nanshe —
Strapped in against the maneuvering and helpless while on the screen Silk Station is disintegrating, shuttles and escape pods spiraling away in glittering trails while Alliance torpedoes slice after them, whole wings she never realized are actually parked spacecraft breaking away in fiery cascades, their engines demolishing their berths, the life she knew as a child vanishing before her eyes, the gut-wrenching shudder of the Nanshe taking a hit, the acrid, roiling smoke and then the visual panic as the ship is boarded, black-helmeted Alliance soldiers screaming orders —
Starla squeezes her eyes shut to block out the images, then stands.
She starts another round of exercises — squats, push-ups, jumping jacks. This time with a vengeance.
Starla’s just fallen back on her cot, too exhausted to care about the singed mattress, when Hali and Mahr enter. Starla pushes herself to sit, frowning.
Hali is looking around the cell, eyes wide with horror. “What happened?” she asks Mahr.
“Your sweet little deaf girl got some big ideas about the cleaning bot,” Mahr says — Starla thinks Mahr says.
“Are you all right?” Hali signs and speaks.
Starla nods. She knows the woman means “Are you injured?” and not “Are you still being held in an Alliance prison?”
What do you want? Starla asks. She’s not in the mood for the Interrogation Twins’ stupid questions.
“We want to move you out of isolation,” Hali says. Starla glances at Mahr, who seems unhappier than ever, something Starla hadn’t thought was possible. When Hali moves again, her speech doesn’t quite match her signs. “If you cooperate, you’ll be moved to a different wing,” say her lips, but her hands say, It’s dangerous for you here.
Starla frowns at that. Cooperate how?
You’re too young to legally be kept here. I can get you assigned to a lower security ward, Hali signs, as she says, “We just have a few more questions about you
r life on Silk Station.”
Starla is grudgingly impressed with her dowdy interpreter. That can’t be easy to do.
What do you want from me? she asks.
They need to believe you’ve been mistreated, Hali signs. “How old were you when your parents first started leaving you behind?” she asks.
Mahr curls her lip. “This is useless,” she says.
“She’s a troubled child,” Hali says. “The Alliance has to take that into account.” She turns back to Starla. “We know you don’t belong in maximum security prison,” she says and signs. “Just cooperate with us.”
And be put where? With my parents?
Hali falters at this. I’ll see what I can do.
“What did she say?” Mahr’s eyes are narrowed — Hali may be smooth in her subterfuge, but she’s not a natural liar. Her tension is thickening the air, and Mahr scents it like a jackal.
“She’s willing to talk with the child psychologist,” Hali says, with a glance at Starla. She has to know Starla can read her lips by this point. Please, sweetheart, she signs, low and away from Mahr.
Only if I can see my parents, she says, and Hali’s face goes white.
Starla forces herself to stay calm — 1, 4, 9, 16 — and wills Hali to just fucking say it. To just tell her.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Hali says, and Starla pushes herself back against the wall, drawing her knees up between herself and the lie.
I’m not going anywhere. She forces her stiff fingers into the shapes, forces herself not to cry.
Her eyes burn with held-back tears, but she still sees the way Mahr’s shoulders relax. She doesn’t know why, doesn’t care. Hali’s trying to say something to her; Starla looks away. She stares at the wall until the Interrogation Twins are gone, then she buries her face in her arms.
Hours later, Starla on her singed cot, grieving.
Hali’s been lying to her about her parents all along — even if they’re still alive, Starla knows now she’ll never be reunited with them. Even if she takes Hali’s bait, spins horror stories about her tragic, neglected childhood, she’ll get the pass back into society alone. Her parents will be executed, or be sentenced to work in Alliance mines, or at the very best rot in this prison forever.
The least she can do is not betray them by giving Hali the poor-little-Starla story she’s looking for.
The lights have cycled to night and she’s finally beginning to drift off in the near dark when something jolts her awake.
Her door is open, a figure is standing there with arms crossed — she can tell even in the dark that it’s Mahr, the way she stands, the angry, angular bent of her hip.
The lights come on, blinding bright now, and Mahr thumbs for Starla to follow her.
Starla sits up, dream-drunk, tear-drunk, confused — what is this? — and holds up a hand for “just a minute.”
Mahr shoots her in the chest.
Chapter 10
New Sarjun’s northern hemisphere is in summer, and even after sunset it’s stifling hot, crackling dry. They’ve crossed over the desert along with the last light of day, the low sun knifing shadows over the parched sands and highlighting the rims of the craggy canyons with gleaming rays.
Jaantzen has never flown over the desert except once, leaving the planet, and this close-ish proximity to it is at once fascinating and disturbing. It’s not a place meant for human habitation; he’s grateful to land at Redrock Air Force Base, where he gives the Alliance soldiers fake credentials supplied by Youssef Tabari. Tonight he’s Rosco Kudra, CEO of R.K. Refrigeration & Coolants.
Refrigeration and coolants. Jaantzen wonders if it would be an interesting industry to invest in, with the cash he got from dissolving his more illegitimate operations.
Ximena Nayar meets them on the runway. Her handshake is solid and her demeanor trustworthy, but Jaantzen can’t stop comparing her to her sister; every gesture and expression conjures up ghosts of Coeur, which in turn conjures up ghosts of Tae. It’s a vicious cycle he doesn’t need, and he looks away, pretending to take in the security as Nayar explains how this will work.
“Getting her out for questioning shouldn’t be a problem,” she says. “There’s a note in her file already about potential OIC involvement. Sooner or later that means she gets treated like an enemy combatant just to see if we can scare her into spilling anything. The guards won’t think twice about a major calling an OIC combatant out for questioning in the middle of the night.”
Jaantzen glances back at her. “Would that bother you? If she was involved with the OIC?”
“That’s not why we’re here,” Nayar says, but he can tell the answer is no. Interesting. An Alliance officer sympathetic to the OIC? Toshiyo has found a goldmine in this woman. He makes a note to buy Toshiyo another fancy gadget when he gets home.
He’s brought one of Gia’s meditech prodigies with him, a lanky boy with a shock of red hair and a complexion wholly unsuitable for New Sarjun; Jaantzen’s never seen him without a sunburn. Gia’s assured Jaantzen that the boy is her best; Jaantzen never really trusts anyone but her, not when emergency medical aid could be needed. But bringing Gia — an ex-resident of Redrock Prison’s maximum security ward — through a possible Alliance checkpoint posed too many risks. The boy, who’ll wait with the pilot back at the plane, will have to do.
Jaantzen’s going in alone with Ximena Nayar.
The prison sprawls out in front of them a few kilometers from the base, a collection of low brick-and-steel buildings, their roofs slick with solar arrays. There’s a fence stretching out between the prison complex and the air force base — no one wants escapees thinking they can hijack an Alliance Air Force plane — but it doesn’t surround the complex.
Security is next to nothing apart from a checkpoint in the fence; he’s surprised. “Where would you go if you escaped?” Nayar says with a shrug. She’s driving a rugged personnel transport with a closed cargo compartment just big enough for a person to fold herself up into; she swerves absently around a familiar pothole. “There’s nothing else up here — and no one’s crossing that desert on foot.”
They park far from the main entrance, near a loading dock that’s stenciled with the number 16. “There’s a surveillance gap here,” Nayar says as she backs the jeep up to it. “Camera’s out. I’ve actually been bitching about it for the last six months since this is my main loading dock for max security kitchen deliveries, but nobody’s bothered to do anything.” She shrugs. “Might as well take advantage.”
Nayar shows her credentials to no one as they enter the prison’s main office building, though she exchanges words with the guard — Patch, she calls him — in the control room. He barely looks up from his computer monitor as she tells him she’s showing around a vendor.
“I also need to see one of the prisoners,” she says, and he does look up at this; Jaantzen tenses. But the guard’s broad face shows only brief annoyance, not suspicion. He’d hoped for an obligation-free graveyard shift, apparently.
“Starla Dusai,” she says, spelling out the name as he hunts-and-pecks it into the computer.
“Got her,” he says. “Where do you want her?”
“Is Interrogation Room 3 available?” Nayar asks. “Good. Set her up there and ping me when she’s ready to go. I’m going to show Mr. Kudra around the commissary, but I’ll want to see her as soon as I’m done.”
The guard’s attention flickers to Jaantzen, but only briefly. This must not be out of order, either.
The guard keys them through, into the prison. “This is the general-population facility,” Nayar says when they’re out of earshot. “Low-risk prisoners only in this building. A lot of them work here, too, in the kitchen or whatever. Reduces the cost of running the place. My main head of purchasing is an inmate. You’ll be working directly with him if you sign on.”
Jaantzen’s half-listening to the patter, picking out the parts that seem relevant and ignoring the parts she’d be telling a potential vendor. She’s giving him
an actual tour, he realizes, talking about supply chains and fulfillment processes, the electricity usage rates of their current refrigeration systems, and Jaantzen keeps thinking it’s taking too long. Shouldn’t they have gotten the call by now?
Nayar must have been able to sense his unease. She checks her comm, like she could have missed the guard’s message, slips it back in her pocket and keeps talking.
They’re as far as the storehouses when he can’t take it anymore. “This is taking too long,” he finally says, breaking into her tour patter. “Something’s wrong.”
She doesn’t answer, just dials up a number. “Patch, I’m wrapping up here. What’s with the girl?”
She’s listening, and though her stony expression doesn’t change, Jaantzen can read the problem in the tiny flare of her nostrils, the twitch in her jaw.
“The girl’s not in her room,” she says, switching off the comm. “We need to go.”
Chapter 11
Starla falls hard onto ribs and joints already aching from the hellish gravity, the wind whooshes out of her lungs. She gasps for breath while footsteps march away, the vibrations getting fainter then stopping abruptly. Whatever Mahr shot her with makes her chest burn like hell.
Starla rolls onto her side, forcing her eyes open to see two uniforms walking away down what looks like an alley between two buildings. They’re not the guards who took her to the interrogation room the past few days. Different ones. Mahr’s bony hip casts a shadow across the asphalt from the mouth of the alley.
Mahr’s talking to someone else Starla doesn’t recognize, someone skinny, scruff-faced. Not in an Alliance uniform. The man is gesturing at Mahr as he speaks, but it’s just random, punctuative. Unhelpful. Starla gets nothing, except he doesn’t seem too happy.
The ground vibrates occasionally in long slow growls — fade in, fade out — that Starla would have guessed were vehicles going by except that there’s a pattern to it. Two long, one short. It reminds her of something, she can’t figure out what; her head feels like it’s stuffed with fiberfill.