allies and enemies 02 - rogues

by Amy J. Murphy

  Angered like this, she was a creature of stimulus-response with little time spent on deliberation. He liked to think she’d gotten better at it. Although he could sometimes steer her clear of her worst reactions, she was forever hard-wired this way, no matter how far this new life took them from the Regime or Origin. For Sela, it wasn’t enough that they had gotten out of this in one piece. Ephid had underestimated her. That was a personal affront.

  We should count Miri’s blessings and slink off to lick our wounds.

  A familiar sinking feeling told him that would not be the case for this evening. When Sela was at critical mass, you picked the status of bystander or victim.

  “Maybe I like seeing you strip? We should do this more often.” He turned a lopsided grin at her as he worked at the hardened ring of the breech seal. The substance was starting to flex beneath his fingers. It had done its job, tightening like a tourniquet around her knee. It had to hurt like hell. If she was in pain, it didn’t show. If anything, it was rocket fuel for her anger.

  Sela allowed the slimmest curl of a smile. Some of that seemingly limitless fury dissipated. “You’re trying to distract me.”

  “Is it working?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute—” She drew a sharp inhale, eyes widening with relief. “I think it’s loosening. Help me.”

  She stood. Jon seized the leg of the suit. Bracing against his shoulders, she drew in a stilling breath. Then nodded.

  He yanked. The hands on his shoulders clamped down like twin vices. Her bellow filled the tiny compartment of the craft. She collapsed to the bench, panting.

  The suit pooled to the floor. He pulled at the fasteners on the assault boots.

  She leaned over, stopping him. Jon frowned up at her dangerous grin. “Leave them. I have an idea.”

  3

  “If it isn’t pretty Jon-Jon! Sweet Amos thought her night was going to be drab.” The voice that sing-songed from the makeup-laden features of the individual behind the booth was distinctly male. Sweet Amos propped a thin arm covered in brilliant pink bangles on the counter and batted silver eyelashes at Jon. “Guess you’re not here to see me, candy-coated boy. Are you?”

  “Afraid not.” Jon squirmed under the attention.

  As if relishing the unease he inspired, Sweet Amos gave an exaggerated pout and traced an orange-lacquered nail over the collar of Jon’s jacket. “A pleasure all the same.”

  Sela inserted her body between them. “Where is he?”

  “Who’s that, my little war muffin?” Shoulders stiff, Amos drew back inside the imagined safety of the booth. The pout became a frown.

  “Ephid.” If Sweet Amos’s appearance gave Sela any pause, Jon couldn’t tell. It was quite possible she believed this was an unattractive female with the faint shadow of beard stubble and a glittery dress. The attire certainly blended in with the rest of the working girls at the Trelgin’s club.

  “Oh, Jonvenlish, you should really get your girl something pretty to wear.” Amos took a draw on the hookah pipe dominating one corner of the booth. He/she exhaled the sweet tang of graceweed in their faces. The voice flattened. “Maybe a muzzle.”

  Sela slapped a hand down on the counter. “Answer.”

  Amos sniffed, gave a mocking salute. “Yes, sir.”

  He/she tucked a thick-knuckled hand beneath the counter. The shuttered door rolled open. Pounding music and raucous, drunken voices screamed out from the belly of the club.

  The attendant gave a flamboyant twist of the wrist, bangles jingling. “Private terrace, my darlings.”

  With one final glare, Sela stalked across the threshold. Jon followed. Pausing mid-stride, he jerked his chin. “Um. Thanks.”

  “Word to the wise, dear,” Amos called. “You want to keep her on a leash. But we both know who has what end.”

  4

  Sela plowed through the gyrating, mingling bodies. The lights flashed and popped in garish colors. The music was a pulsating, physical presence as it thumped her ribs and rattled molars like ‘cussion grenades. Why would anyone willingly seek this out as recreation?

  The stink of sweat and desperation clung to everything. A server, cast about by the tide of the crowd, threatened to slosh a tray full of drinks against her. Sela shoved blindly. Jon appeared, steering her back through the crowd.

  There was no guard stationed at the bottom of the stairs. She attributed this to overconfidence in security measures. Ephid’s club might ban side arms, but reliance on such showed lack of imagination.

  She thudded up the stairs in the heavy assault boots.

  After all, weapons came in many forms.

  Judging from the thick neck of the bodyguard at the top of the stairs, Sela guessed he was an enhanced. He might have had his muscles grown in a vat, but had skimped on intellect. His back was to the terrace’s only point of access. It should have been his only concern. Instead, his attention was attuned to a hideously young female server, her thin body barely clad in diaphanous fabric. Dwarfed by him, the girl clutched an empty tray against her chest.

  The server noticed Sela first, eyes going wide. The bodyguard turned.

  Sela struck him in the throat. He doubled over, gasping. She snatched the plasma gun from the inner holster of his jacket.

  A well-placed knee to the gut and he collapsed to the floor. Sela stepped over him. The girl raced past Jon and down the stairs with a frightened screech.

  Sela scanned the gun. Low caliber, trash tech. She tossed it to Jon. His catch seemed more in self-defense. Sloppy. He canted his head in response to her scowl of disapproval. She snapped a hand signal at him: Watch the approach.

  For a moment, he actually hesitated. Then took a spot at the top of the stairs.

  Should have grabbed the server. She would no doubt summon reinforcements.

  Sela slapped a glimmering beaded curtain aside. At the end of the room, closest to the rail overlooking the sea of drunken patrons, sat her target.

  Ephid’s enormous bulk spilled over the edges of a hover-lounge, despite the ‘spensor suit he wore. She pitied the attendants needed to wedge the man into the suit each morning. Her attention shifted.

  Beside him sat a complication.

  A Poisoncry Guild-sworn. Clad in the unmistakable purple of his Guild, the lanky Eugenes male appeared practically gaunt in comparison to Ephid. A heavy gold chain bearing the Eye of Nyxa hung from his neck. Sela guessed it marked him as some functionary that acted on behalf of seldom-seen Imperators. An armored bodyguard stood at his back, her face bland and her throat a massive scar. The woman’s high-end-looking body armor evoked a jealous ripple in Sela.

  Ephid looked up from a large pot of thick brown sludge.

  “Ah. Tyron! Back in one piece. Fates rejoice.” He was careful enough to hide the surprise in his voice, but it was apparent in the dark, too-close eyes in the center of his flabby face. Broth dribbled down his thick chins. He gave a fraudulent smile. “I was worried—”

  “Do you know how to count?” Sela leaned over the table. He reeked of brine-mull.

  “You seem tense. Perhaps a drink to settle your nerves.” Ephid’s grin faltered as he noticed Jon standing over his downed guard.

  Sela gripped the table and flipped it aside. Drinks flew. The heavy pot of slop sloshed across the tiles, filling the space instantly with a fishy aroma.

  Ephid cowered. His hand darted for the controls of his hover-lounge, but with his back to the rail there was no other place to go but through Sela.

  In her periphery, the armored attendant reached for a sidearm. The Guild-sworn raised a staying hand. He seemed amused, as if this were an entertainment on the holovid. Perhaps the man had already decided that Ephid’s problems were not necessarily his.

  “There were two grendlics. Two.” Sela planted the heavy tread of the assault boot squarely against the Trelgin’s doughy abdomen. The bench emitted a shower of sparks as the mag boot’s field overpowered the antigrav of the bench beneath him. Both the bench and his massive frame hit t
he floor with enough force to make the whole terrace shake.

  Sela shifted her stance. “Do you know what a mag field can do when it comes in contact with a ‘spensor suit? I heard it can cook you from the inside out.”

  Ephid wheezed. “Tyron, lovely girl, be reasonable—”

  She leaned into the boot. “Two grendlics. Twice the hazard pay.”

  There was a thrumming sound. Heat prickled the sole of her foot in the boot.

  Maybe it really was going to cook him.

  Heavy footfalls rumbled up the stairs. Reinforcements on the way.

  “Ty.” Jon’s voice came from somewhere outside the furious haze.

  Ephid’s eyes flickered over her shoulder. The frightened rictus curdled into a victorious grin. “Get off me, you dim-wit breeder.”

  A quick glance over her shoulder told her what she already feared. One of them had the muzzle of a scattergun trained on Jon.

  Sela stepped back.

  “You think you’re special? ‘Bove it all?” Ephid struggled to right himself in the ruined couch. He punched a control on the sleeve of his ‘spensor suit and rose to her eye level. “I own a dozen like you.”

  His nod evoked a jiggle of fat on his chins. “Get them out of here. Leave their bodies to rot somewhere.”

  A firm hand wrapped her upper arm. She wrestled away. “This isn’t over.”

  Ephid barked, incredulous. “It is if I says—”

  The Guild-sworn leaned against Ephid to speak in a quiet voice. The Trelgin’s bloodthirsty sneer evaporated.

  He gave a long look at the Guild-sworn, then: “Change of plan. I’m claiming your wages to pay for the damage you’ve caused here. Out! And never come back!”

  The Guild-sworn busied himself with a data trans pad, flipping through its pages. She was of no more interest to him, but he’d said something to stay Ephid’s order. The impassive guard was no help either. Sela allowed heavy hands to herd her down the stairs with Jon. They descended into the jarring oblivion of the club.

  She cast one more wary look up at the terrace. The Guild-sworn stood at the railing. His nod was subtle as their eyes met. Sela got the feeling they’d just been bought.

  5

  By silent agreement, Jon and Sela chose a lesser-used route to section three, one of Obscrum’s seedier docks. They plodded along the litter-strewn corridor to the Cass’s berth. The stale air here always held an unpleasant yeasty smell Jon could never quite place.

  Although it was probably smarter and safer to keep to the main venues, they’d be less likely to encounter the watchful dock master. They were six weeks behind in dock fees for the Cass—an altercation they could both do without for the moment.

  “Ephid cheated.” Until now, Sela had been silent, mouth tight as the rage ebbed off her.

  “I know. I was there.”

  She folded her arms, pausing at the hatch access ramp. “We deserve payment.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you not angered?”

  “I am.” He reached for her. “It just won’t change anything.”

  She scuffed at the floor with the toe of her assault boot. “This mission—”

  “It’s not a mission. Ty…” He stepped closer. “It’s a job. One we suck at, evidently.”

  The pinch along her eyes suggested wounded pride. Somewhere deep within her a driller was reprimanding her for an imagined shortcoming. “It would have bought provisions, covered repairs to the Cass. We did the work. He never intended to pay us.”

  “I got swindled, same as you.” He tapped her chin. When she finally looked up at him, he stretched a grin. “Been a long day. Let’s go inside.”

  With a defeated grunt, Sela leaned against him, allowed him to embrace her.

  He pressed a light kiss against the top of her head. “How’s a nice hot shower sound?”

  “The reserve water is below mid-line.” Her voice was muffled against his jacket.

  “So?” Jon shrugged. “We’ll conserve. Shower together.”

  There was a low scoffing sound, her best approximation at laughter. She pulled away and sobered. “We should leave Hadelia.”

  He ran a hand across the back of his neck. Not this argument, not now. “And go where, Ty? How?”

  “Petition Poisoncry to access a flexer.” There was an unspoken undercurrent: Or fight our way through.

  “And pay them with what?” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “There are other provinces on Hadelia. Not all of them can be like Obscrum. Brojos, maybe.”

  Sela looked away, but he saw it. The disappointment there. “Erelah is gone,” she said. “She’s not coming back, Jon. The Ravstar carrier was in pieces. There was no conceivable way she survived. I witnessed it all.”

  “My sister can still be alive,” he insisted. “If she’s anywhere, it’s got to be here. On Hadelia. I can’t explain it. I don’t expect someone like you to understand it.”

  Sela canted her head, lips compressed. “Someone like me?”

  Jon shut his eyes, drew in a hiss. “No. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Then what did you mean…Lord Veradin.”

  “I meant only because she’s my sister, that’s all.” He leaned closer, pressing his forehead to hers. “I can feel it. She’s not dead. I know it. This is the place. This is where she’d be.”

  She exhaled. The defeated quality in her voice twisted at him. “Go inside. I will follow.”

  6

  Erelah. Always Erelah.

  The hot cheated feeling squirmed in her gut. Sela had no real name for it. Disappointment, perhaps. It was more directed at herself than Jon.

  She knew the moment she suggested it that he would refuse to leave Hadelia. Tonight’s events had done little to dissuade him. At some point, things would get desperate enough. They would have to leave this world altogether instead of flit from city to city.

  Two years now since Erelah had given her life to earn their escape, and he still searched the crowd for a familiar face. He would never stop. At times, Sela was almost jealous of that devotion. It was something she had never known until he had entered her life as a world-upending storm.

  For a Volunteer like Sela, dedication and obedience were expectations. It was simply how she was made. But what she felt for Jon went well beyond that. It had taken nearly losing him to realize it. She knew it as sure as blood or bone, she would fight until the last breath for him. Just as he would for her. It was preferable, however, that they avoid circumstances that would require such sacrifice.

  Sela’s feelings toward Erelah were complicated, at best. It rankled still, the thought of having been used by the girl, a victim of Erelah’s unnatural gift, the Sight. Suggesting any type of vulnerability in Sela was a sin in itself, but woe to he or she that sought to exploit it.

  Yet in the same breath, Sela remained impressed by the incredible sacrifice Erelah had made when she used her stryker as a weapon, taking out the Deacon class carrier and turning it into so much floating debris. The move was reckless, causing damage seen—Erelah’s death—and unseen. Jon had become a casualty, left buried beneath hurt and guilt. It had taken a long time to help him resurface and when he did, the person that emerged had lost something unnamed. He was not the same man. Not really.

  She could not understand his magical thinking that Erelah lived still, and worried that it denoted some psych-damage that ran deeper than battle burn. The Captain Jonvenlish Veradin she had fallen in love with had always seemed on the verge of action, as if he possessed some terrific secret that he could not wait to share. Erelah’s demise seemed to deplete him of that. Sela feared that quality was lost forever. It did not make her love him any less, but seeing him changed made her feel wronged. It was as if Erelah had stolen something from her too.

  All the more reason to leave this place of ghosts and angst-filled wishes.

  “Sela Tyron. Volunteer. Commander. Deinde Company. Attached to the Storm King. Kephalo Regiment. Addagus Battlegroup.”

  The
voice that came from the shadows was cool, self-assured. It did not surprise her to see the same Guild-sworn from Ephid’s club step into the orange-tinted sodium light of the dock.

  “Who are you? How do you know me?” Sela slowly descended the gangway, barring the entrance to the Cass. Behind her, the hatch remained shut. Jon had not heard. In Ephid’s club, only she had seen this man intervene.

  This felt like something meant only for her.

  A quick glance down the corridor told her the armored attendant was not with him. It was likely she lingered in the shadows nearby, like a protective ghost.

  “Fisk. It is my purpose to know things. It is how I serve my masters.” The way he moved suggested military service. Although he used Commonspeak, there was a vague flatness to the vowels she attributed to someone who’d been raised speaking Regimental. His thin pale hands lay folded against the front of his tunic. Implanted tech vined under the skin of his forearms. The gold chain took on a poisonous glint in the chem-lights. Under this refinement nestled danger. She knew it like the song of blood in her body.

  “You helped us against Ephid. Why?” Her right hip felt too light without the weight of her A6, tucked away on the Cass.

  “Help suggests altruism on my part.” His smile was slim, as if he’d learned how to replicate the expression without understanding the emotions behind it. “A courtesy afforded by the beneficence of Poisoncry Guild. I suggest you make the utmost advantage of it.”

  There was an implied attachment to his words. A debt had been exacted today, one that she’d never agreed to, yet still may need to repay under unpleasant terms.

  “We are leaving Hadelia.” She angled her body to track his approach.

  “Unlikely.” His pale ochre eyes flicked over her shoulder to the hatchway of the Cass, to Jon. “Brojos is hardly the place for a person of your considerable…talents. It makes Obscrum look like a bastion of civility.”

  “We’ll manage.” Her hands curled into fists. He’d been listening.