by Lyn Forester
He scrubs a hand over his face and the rough burn of stubble scrapes against his palm. Before he reports to Mr. Black, he’ll have to stop at the restroom to shave. That’ll have to wait a bit longer.
First, he needs to pull up revenue logs for the dens to run them against their reported store inventory. A few months’ worth should show any discrepancies. His brain blanks out; he can’t remember how many dens Blue Hall sanctions in Roen. Shit, he should know this off the top of his head.
Fatigue mires his ability to process. He needs to take a break, rest up a little, or he’ll miss important details. A sub can pull up the info while he crashes out for an hour.
But they might miss something crucial.
He presses his knuckles against his eyelids until white spots appear. The added pain sends a spurt of adrenaline through him. Not a lot, but enough to keep him upright a little longer. He’ll prepare the lists, then rest.
Beep!
In his periphery, he catches a blue flash from his communicator.
Shit, only his guy at the Peace Keepers uses that line.
“Answer, audio only.” No one should see his face right now. “Esten speaking. What do you have for me?”
“Mr. Esten,” a loud voice barks through the line. A cacophony of shouts and heavy footfalls tries to drown him out. Must have called direct from the squad room. “I have two reports on my desk for Ash burnout. Is Black Corporation doing something they should have notified the Peace Keepers about?”
“We’re not breaking contract, if that’s what you’re implying.” Drake scowls at the communicator, pissed the issue escalated so fast. If not for their employee’s death yesterday, this call would have caught him off guard.
“I’m not implying anything,” the voice barks back. “Why aren’t your people keeping a better watch on your drugs? If Black Corporation can’t handle this part of their business, then your contracts with Blue Hall will be in jeopardy.”
“If the guard would keep a better lookout for smugglers, then we wouldn’t have this problem.” The throb in his head takes up a pattern like foot stomps inside his skull.
“Smuggling is also Black Corporation jurisdiction!”
Shit. He walked right into that one. But it wouldn’t kill the Peace Keepers to help them out a little. Legalized crime can’t work without cooperation from their Blue Hall counterparts.
“I’m sorry.” He resists the urge to turn on the video feed to flip the guy off. “Black Corporation is looking into the issue. We’ll have this resolved before it causes any more trouble for Roen’s Blue Hall.”
“See that you do, or I'll forward this issue up the levels.”
Drake whacks the end button, annoyed the other man signed off first.
He pulls in a deep breath, and his jaw cracks as it turns into a yawn. No time for that; he needs to focus. His muddy thoughts hinder his ability to form a mental checklist. Annoyed the call took long enough for his desk-port to switch to sleep mode, he nudges it awake. A quick tap opens an empty document on the screen for him to type up his to-do list.
First, he’ll pull up the revenue logs for the dens and run them against their reported store inventory. That should point him toward any suspicious activity.
Next, he’ll interview the managers of any suspect dens, because the numbers can’t tell him everything. The managers should be able to tell him about discontent among the ranks. This whole issue could even be a turf war between localized dens.
Shit, he hopes not. Black Corp exists to prevent infighting. Everyone works together to mutually benefit from black market goods.
The door to his office flings open, smacks hard into the wall. It rattles the artwork, an image of the rim’s view from Level 11, which hangs in place of a window.
He scowls at the young man framed in the doorway. Sub Timothy joined the organization at the beginning of Winter-Cycle. Sourced in from a local street gang who peddled food coupons. Nineteen years old and new to door etiquette.
“Knock, Tim,” Drake repeats for the third time in as many weeks.
The kid's face flushes red and clashes with his brilliant orange hair. The freckles on his face stand out more. Drake makes a mental note to remove his name from stealth classes. He’ll be too easy to spot in a crowd.
Tim takes an awkward step back out of the office, closes the door, and gives a perfunctory knock.
“Come in, Tim.” The door swings open to knock into the wall, again. He forces the tension from his shoulders, determined to remain calm. Tim bounces into the office, wiggling with pent-up excitement. The kid struggles to keep a serious expression while the corners of his mouth twitch upward.
How’d the kid even make it into Black Corporation?
“What can I do for you?” Drake turns from his desk-port to fold his arms on his desk.
Tim’s words run together in his eagerness. “You've been locked in here since yesterday, so I didn’t think you’d heard yet.”
Yeah, because he told everyone to leave him alone except for emergencies. Shit, this better not be an emergency. He narrows his eyes at the kid. The slack-jawed excitement doesn’t look like an emergency.
“Go on.” His patience teeters toward anger.
Tim bounces over to the picture frame and fumbles at the bottom edge until the image dissolves into the local news channel. A Riellio halfbreed woman sits at a desk, white hair slicked back against her head and electric-blue eyes fixed on the camera. Statistics stream across the bottom of the screen: reports on water quality and next season’s vegetable harvest.
She strokes a palm-port with silver-pointed nails as she gives her report.
Tim pokes at the frame again and audio blares out. Drake cringes as the throb in his head hits new heights of torment before Tim lowers the volume.
It takes a moment for his brain to process her words, disjointed from coming into the feed mid-sentence.
“—We’ll continue to report as more information becomes available. Exciting times are ahead for Roen citizens. Stay tuned!”
The feed clicks over to a commercial for the new apple-flavored GoGoNow drink. Its stupid song hip hops into a loop in the back of his brain where it will stay for days.
“Just tell me the news, Tim!” Annoyance makes his tone harsh, but Tim doesn’t register the danger zone he traipses into. He waves a hand in Drake’s direction, signaling for him to wait.
The commercial ends and the same lady comes back on, electric blue eyes fixed on the camera as the story plays on loop.
“I’m excited to announce that Roen will soon host the Koevhern Delegation. They will travel to our city to open discussions with Roen’s Council to develop new land outside of Roen’s walls. The two groups will join forces to cultivate the toxic forests. The joint cooperation will also benefit both groups with new technological developments. This is only a preliminary discussion, but hopes are high on both sides to begin breaking ground before the end of the year. We’ll continue to report as more information becomes available. Exciting times are ahead for Roen citizens. Stay tuned!”
The image of her freezes again before clicking over to the same energy drink commercial.
Tim turns to Drake in excited expectation. “It’s amazing, right, Drake?” He hurries on without waiting for a response. “Can you imagine? It's been fifty years since the last development! My grandma still talks about when they built Roen. All the plant and air crafting. Building the wall. I mean, can you even imagine?”
The kid pants with exuberance, eyes shiny and distant with his imagination. Drake makes a mental note to stop his training. The kid will go rogue as soon as they hire workers for the new development. He’ll probably die on that wall he’s so excited about.
“Yeah, Tim, it’s a whole new age.” The kid doesn't catch his dry tone. Tim nods, his head bobbling on his skinny neck, back and forth, back and forth. “Go back to work, Tim.”
Tim skips out of the office, no doubt off to spread the news.
The commercial
ends; anchor lady returns. Drake stands from his desk to turn off the feed. Body heavy with fatigue, he makes the circuit to close his door, too. This time, he presses his palm into the scanner to activate the lock. Any emergencies can go somewhere else.
He returns to his desk to review his list. For a moment, the lines blur together into a fuzz of color. His heavy eyelids tempt him to lean back in his chair, close his eyes. The throb in his head pulses to the GoGoNow jingle.
On the desk, his palm-port buzzes and startles him back to full awareness. The clock on the screen assures him he didn’t fall asleep.
He picks up the small device and squints at the bright screen. A data file alert. Did the Peace Keepers send him the crime scene info before he could put in the request?
He clicks on the file and frowns as the headshot of a young woman pops open. A halfbreed, thin with sharp cheekbones and a pointed chin. Short, inky black hair and dark blue, almost indigo-colored, eyes point towards a Rothven sire. The creamy perfection of her skin almost glows in the I.I. badge photo. Not as pretty as most minglings between human and halion, but not bad either.
He scrolls further, realizes after a few sentences she’s not one of the victims, and jumps back to the screen’s top. No message to state why he received the file.
The communicator on his desk beeps again, flashes red.
The boss’s line.
He smooths a hand through his hair, straightens in his seat. “Answer, all.”
Mr. Black’s secretary pops up on screen, her shiny, platinum hair pulled back into a tight bun. Rigid as always. Somehow, she stares down her thin, straight nose at him.
“Your meeting with Mr. Black has moved to 0900. Please make yourself presentable before arrival.”
She sniffs with disapproval before disconnecting.
Bitch.
He glances at the clock again for confirmation. Only half an hour before he has to be upstairs.
KISS THIS
"Ms. Thorpe, I'm glad you could join us." Mr. Black sits behind the ego-boosting monstrosity he likes to call a desk. Not even Half-Light yet, and he already sports a gray, pinstriped suit that cost more than I make in a month. I know because I looked it up after our second meeting. A person's clothing says a lot about them and he wants his to read casual, soul-crushing power.
In his place, I'd ditch the fancy clothes and wear armor. Black Corporation’s seat on the Council has a frequent turnover rate. His kind lives hard and dies young.
"A pleasure, as always." I hand my gym towel to my escort, who takes it with a frown before he locks me inside the office.
I skim the room, unsurprised at the sparse furniture and lack of windows. Since Mr. Black agreed to sponsor my citizenship in Roen five years ago, we’ve only met four times. For his own protection, his goons act as a buffer for those of us who skirt the edge between employment and serfdom to Black Corporation.
"I hope your drive was pleasant?" The man's jovial smile halts at the corners of his mouth. His eyes disturb me, the way they never convey the same emotion as the rest of his face.
Grandmother used to warn me to watch the eyes. They keep a person honest.
"I always enjoy visiting the rim." I show my teeth. He can read it as a smile if he wants.
Two goons stand behind Mr. Black, psy-guns concealed, though I don't know why they bother. Their stances give them away. Arms loose at their sides, suit jackets unbuttoned. Obvious shoulder holsters.
"Please have a seat." He gestures for me to take one of the bolstered leather chairs that sit supplicant to his desk. Experience tells me their padding is a ruse. Mr. Black likes his visitors uncomfortable.
I cross toward a chair, eyes focused on the bodyguards as the primary threat in the room. Mr. Black has no reason to kill me today, but any violence will be at their hands.
Goon One stands to Mr. Black's right, short and stocky with a ruddy face. Human. The muscles in his arms bulge, disproportionate to the rest of his body. He must spend all his time at the gym lifting weights. His eyes skitter around the room in constant, paranoid motion for threat assessment. Enhancers will do that.
On Mr. Black's left, Goon Two stands with more ease, feet braced at shoulder width, knees slightly bent. His suit fits well, no lumpy muscles for this one. As a halfbreed, he doesn't need synthetic drugs. Halion blood gives halfbreeds enough oomph to overpower any human. His intense gaze focuses on me as if he thinks I'll ninja across the room to murder his boss.
I fight back the smirk that comes with the thought. In skimpy gym shorts and a sweaty tank top, I know what I look like. Unprofessional is the nicest word that comes to mind. Shoulders back and chin level, I squeak my way forward in my ratty sneakers.
I'm awesome and the rest of the world can suck it.
As I slide into the seat, the cushion digs into my thighs, hard as concrete. My gaze drops to the bare floor. A brown and gold rug covered the ground at my last visit. Now a large rectangle of darker wood brackets the desk and chairs, then lightens at the edges.
"May I offer you a drink? Some tea, or water?" Mr. Black likes to portray himself as a generous crime lord.
With a shake of my head, gaze lifting, I lean back and cross my ankles. Zen in my garden, this chair has nothing on me. I can make an electric fence look comfortable. He clicks his tongue and the smile disappears. Niceties over. Time for business.
"You may wonder why I asked you here today." He pauses, expectant. I stay silent and wait.
At a graceful lift of his right arm, Goon One steps forward to lay a palm-port in his open hand. Mr. Black makes a show of scrolling through the data. At this point, the average person will squirm. But in a game of patience, Mr. Black has the busier schedule.
When he glances up, his eyes twinkle from beneath thick brows. He sets the device down, the prop having served its purpose. "It's come to my attention you're running a case for Mrs. Laundreman. By now, you should possess evidence of her husband's indiscretions."
I stay silent. He hadn't asked a question and I won't confirm or deny his statement.
"Unfortunately, he's shown a lack of good judgment in other areas as well." He sighs and folds his hands on his desk. "You may have heard that Mr. Laundreman will run for a council seat next year. Black Corporation has fronted a large loan to pay for his campaign."
I pull in a careful breath through my nose and find the sterile smell of disinfectant. The missing area rug is recent, the fumes left by cleaners still lingering. Steady, I hold his gaze. A businessman to the core, he has no reason to kill me yet.
"Your case and Mr. Laundreman's loan put the two of us at odds." He clicks his tongue again to impart regret for the situation.
He waits while I think this one through. Not like there's much to think about. I give him a slow blink to show my serious contemplation. "It would be unfortunate if Mr. Laundreman lost social standing in his divorce."
Mr. Black steeples his fingers. "Most unfortunate."
"Mrs. Laundreman's payment for the information must be paltry compared to the debt her husband owes your corporation."
Over his shoulder, Goon Two stiffens, drawing my attention. Pretty, even by halfbreed standards. Only his blond hair and light tan skin keep him from passing as a pureblood halion. Mr. Black must use him as a distraction. I slide my gaze back to the mob boss, who smiles.
"I'll have the funds transferred to your account before you leave today." The speed at which he accepts my offer tells me he expected nothing less. "You will, of course, surrender all evidence."
"Of course." I bow my head in agreement, eyes fixed on him.
He claps his hands together once, signaling the end of that subject. "It's good to know I've made a wise investment in you, Ms. Thorpe. You've shown a keen head for business these last few years."
"It's a pleasure to work with your organization." I stay seated and wait for the other shoe to drop. Mr. Black has the resources to hack my systems and delete the evidence. He used my current case to test the waters for something
else.
My waters are an abyss.
He rises and straightens the fall of his jacket before stepping around the desk. I stand before he reaches me so he can't loom. Crime lords like to loom.
"It's still early. You must be hungry." Mr. Black meets my gaze, eyes level with my own. He shows none of the annoyance most men do when faced with a tall woman. Instead, he extends an arm toward the wall to my right. "Join me for brunch. I have further business to discuss with you."
Not really an invitation, but I murmur my agreement. He makes another one of those magic gestures, and Goon Two opens a door hidden by the wood paneling.
I wonder if Mr. Black rehearses his gestures with the Goons before he has company over. Maybe he passes out manuals.
Where the front office keeps guests uncomfortable and on edge, the new room's design lulls them with opulence. Thick, cream-colored carpet silences our footsteps as we move inside. Plush fainting couches upholstered in rich green damask sit in the middle of the circular room. Gold leaf embossments stand out from the brown silk wallpaper. The entire setup makes a statement.
Here lives power.
A tea cart with finger sandwiches waits off to the side. Another door, hidden behind a curtain, allows servants to slip in and out unnoticed. Goon Two sweeps the room, checking behind the drapes and beneath the couches. I would check for bugs, too, but it's not my job to help him.
I take a seat opposite Mr. Black, decline the sandwich, and accept a cup of tea. But I rest it on my knee, untasted. It's a study in torture. I'm damn thirsty from my run, but I have a rule about accepting digestibles from criminals.
Don't do it. The end.
Lots of poisons can be slipped into beverages. Not that I think Mr. Black wants me dead, now. The goons are paranoid for a reason and I refuse to become the casualty of a turf war.
Mr. Black sips his tea before he sets it on the glass table between us. Then he selects a sandwich from the cart and sets it on the table beside the cup. Props in place, he leans forward, a position meant to gain my attention, to make me believe I'm his confidant.