“Mostly coffee.”
“MOSTLY?”
“I mean, I might have put a drop of cognac in it.”
“This is a cup of pure booze with an ounce or two of coffee in it, isn’t it?”
“My other customers seem to like it that way. It’s a very popular drink around here.”
Lucia placed the mug down on the bar as if it were an unstable explosive. With a wheeze, she returned to business at hand. “I assume Roland has told you his latest news?”
Marty nodded. “The parts of it I’m allowed to hear, yeah.”
“Did he tell you he smashed his desk through the wall of the office?”
The craggy head spun to fix Roland with a wary eye. “He left that out.”
Abashed, Roland tried to salvage his dignity. “I didn’t put it through the wall.”
Lucia rolled her eyes. “You mean to say that the wall withstood the hit.”
“I could have put it through the wall if I wanted to.”
Marty chuckled. “You should stop talking, Roland. You aren’t improving your situation.”
“Anyway,” Lucia interrupted, “I’m going to ask you to keep this to yourself...”
“Of course,” Marty interjected.
“... But more of the chaotic crap that’s been the norm around here is about to come down on us.”
“Oh really?” Marty Mudd sounded like a man deep in the throes of sarcastic not-surprise.
“Somebody took a shot at Manny yesterday. We think it’s all connected.”
“They want the kid out of the picture, huh?”
“We think so.”
“DECO agrees,” Roland added. “We figure somebody is worried that we are going to find our way into some place they want us out of.”
“Word on the street is that your guy is the best there is at doing exactly that,” Marty said. “I did three tours in The Colander. Venus breeds the best infiltrators in the galaxy.”
“It’s actually really creepy,” Lucia said with a legitimate shudder. “He just walks through highly secure facilities without getting caught.”
“Goddamn spooks,” Marty concurred. “But I do like that kid. Hate to see him get hurt on account of the big ugly moose.”
Roland straightened as if the conversation was somehow revitalizing him. “DECO wants me to go after The Brokerage. Their guy is assembling intel for us, and as much as I hate DECO, you can assume it’ll be good data.”
“What do you figure you’ll do?” asked Marty. “The Brokerage doesn’t have a base to attack or an army to fight.”
“I have other skills, Marty.”
“Bullshit.” Marty’s blurted expletive earned him a chortle from Lucia. “You got people with skills who are going to find something for you to destroy, then you’re gonna destroy it. You, my friend, are a big, bald, armor-plated one-trick pony.”
Roland finally cracked a smile of his own. It was ugly, and mean, and seemed to convey more violence than a furious roar. “I have a good team. Team-building is a skill.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Retrieving Roland from his favorite bar and his favorite old army buddy ended up taking up a good piece of the morning. The heroic act of muscling through Marty’s ‘Pub Coffee’ had been a chore, and Lucia whispered silent thanks to her father for the teeming morass of helpful nanobots that swam through her body and scrubbed the alcohol from her blood. As a younger woman she had always assumed her tolerance to be high, treating her legendary drinking prowess as just another gift of her birth. She had often wondered about the strange genetic lottery she must have won. Once she stopped having chronic seizures, she grew into an athletic prodigy, a fast thinker, and became preternaturally good at acquiring new skills. Only after meeting Roland did she learn about the tinkering her father had done to keep her alive and healthy.
Finding out that entire pieces of her brain had been rebuilt using bleeding-edge cybernetics and now-illegal nanomachines had been the kind of surprise a woman with an acute anxiety disorder did not need. Finding out that her own father had developed this technology while building a squad of terrifying military super-soldiers had shifted her past ‘anxiety’ and well into ‘existential panic.’ It almost made her smile to think about those first few days after she had discovered just how far her enhancements went. With time she grew comfortable with the enhanced strength, lightning reflexes, and superhuman cognitive abilities. Yet for all the amazing advantages the machines had granted her, Lucia’s anxiety remained stubbornly uncorrected. Her father’s secret project had cured her seizure disorder and repaired the parts of her brain it had damaged. Her new synthetic nerves were fast enough and numerous enough to handle the furious electrical storm that a subtle neurological mutation had cursed her with at birth. For all intents and purposes, Lucia Ribiero was one of the most advanced cybernetic achievements humanity had ever produced. Yet when it came to that one disability, the main handicap which had plagued her for her entire life, the machines proved to be a mixed blessing at best.
The soft and insistent buzz of apprehension followed her as she left The Smoking Wreck with Roland. The tightening of her jaw, the grim grinding of molars, the shallow breathing all reminded her that there were only so many things her father’s genius could fix. With the fear came temptation. With temptation came the same internal argument she suffered every time the ghosts of panic rattled their mental chains in the back of her mind.
She had the ability to turn her fear off any time she wanted to.
The ‘bots exerted control over virtually every aspect of her brain chemistry. A simple firmware upgrade would be all it took to reduce or eliminate her anxiety and free her from the oppressive jangling of delicate nerves already overworked. They had tried it in the past, and the results turned out to be far from ideal. Her thoughts turned to Manny and his prosthetic arm. A Lucia Ribiero without fear was a reckless thing. It cost her empathy and risk aversion and Manny’s injury was a permanent reminder of how horrible the consequences could be. Nobody else blamed her for the gunshot that nearly killed the young scout, but Lucia accepted the fault as hers. Her recklessness and lack of care maimed the boy, and no quantity of platitudes from Roland or reassurances from Manny would change the unalterable truth of it. Since then she had resolved to keep the anxiety and manage it the old fashioned way for the sake of those around her.
Which did nothing at all to assuage the frustration of dealing with it. Stalking down Church Street toward The Drag was a tight-lipped and strident affair. One Roland found vaguely concerning considering that at seven-and-a-half feet tall, he should not have been struggling quite so much to keep up with her. If this were a typical day, he would simply leave her alone while she worked through it. She would either sort it out on her own or failing that, ask him for help at some point. He had learned to appreciate his role and supported her methods with the sort of unsolicited approval he had been taught to accept in the military. She did not need or ask for his blessing to be the way she was, though he gave it anyway. He supposed that this only served to make him feel better while doing nothing at all for her, and he was astute enough to accept that this may have been his goal all along. Emotions were complicated, and he tried not to waste time comprehending their mysteries.
This was not one of the times where he could afford to employ his typical tactics, however. He tried to keep his tone light, but because his tone was never light, he ended up sounding curt and sharp.
“We need to slow down, Lucia.”
“What?” It seemed as if he had torn her from some deep reverie, a theory supported by the transparent irritation in her reply.
Roland kept walking without looking down. “We have a tail, Lucy.” He placed a giant hand in the small of her back and pulled her in close against his body in a highly unusual display of casual affection. Lucia understood immediately that what he was really doing was covering as much of her soft flesh and bone with his armored bulk as possible. This succeeded in conveying the proper level of urgenc
y to the scene and snapped her focus to the situation at hand. Her eyes quickly and surreptitiously swept the surrounding street to confirm Roland’s suspicions. A silent recrimination followed when she caught sight of the tall man in dirty coveralls strolling behind them. Making use of the polished surface of a bail bondman’s window to mark the target without turning her head, Lucia stifled the string of eloquent invective that wanted to escape her lips and settled for a soft, “Shit.”
“Yup,” Roland concurred in his bland way. “Picked him up outside The Wreck. I wasn’t sure at first, but he’s definitely following us at his point.”
“What do you want to do?” She asked the question as if there existed any possibility of his plan being measured and strategic.
The answer was about what she had expected. “I want to lead him somewhere quiet and then hurt him until he tells us who hired him.”
“So why haven’t we done that yet?”
“I don’t think he is alone. He’s too close to be by himself. Watch.”
Roland steered Lucia across the street, then strode off toward a diner just recovering from the breakfast crowds and gearing up for the lunch rush. “Let’s get brunch,” he rumbled with just enough volume for his voice to carry, but not so much as to come across as shouting.
Lucia followed his lead, moving into the diner and taking a seat at a booth with a window. Roland slid the table back and gingerly sidled onto the bench. He paused to assess the seat for signs of imminent structural failure, though it had been designed to handle the weight of several burly Dockside longshoremen. It held with only a mild audible protest and Roland gestured to the window. “Watch him now.”
The man in the coverall walked by the diner, casting only the most banal of glances to the window. He was tall and suspiciously broad, silver-haired and steely-eyed as well. His step never faltered and his stride remained constant as he breezed by the diner and continued on toward the end of the block.
“Now what?” Lucia asked.
“Now we wait.”
“What am I looking for?” she asked. “I’m not big on this spy vs. spy stuff.”
“Someone else to pick up the tail,” he answered. “If he had followed us in or posted up outside, it would have been real obvious what he was up to.”
Lucia put it together. “So he passes by, and some other guy will watch the door and take up the chase when we leave?”
“Yup. Depending on how badly they want to stay hidden, there might be four or five people jumping in and out, changing their clothes and crap like that. Really good teams are practically invisible.”
Lucia nodded. “What gave this guy away?”
“Strike one was him being dressed like a longshoreman. It’s smack in the middle of a shift right now. By itself that’s only kind of weird. Lots of reasons a guy wouldn’t be on site, I suppose. But he was hanging out by The Wreck, and I didn’t recognize him.”
Lucia smiled and nodded. “Lord knows you know every working stiff that drinks there.”
“Yeah. So that was strike two.”
“And strike three?”
“Combat boots. This guy figured he’d be walking all day and wanted comfortable footwear.”
“Well, that tells us something else, then.”
A look of confusion marred the slab face of her partner. “It does?”
It always delighted Lucia when she beat Roland at his own underworld game. She supposed having a cybernetically enhanced brain was sort of cheating, but she did not care. Winning was winning. “It shows they’ve been following us for a while and that they don’t plan on making a move on us. They intend to walk a lot. That’s all.”
Roland interrupted her. “Here’s the next one.”
Lucia found the tail quickly this time. “Window shopping? Dressed like a hooker?”
“That’s the one. It’s barely eleven o’clock. Strange hours for a streetwalker.”
A bemused frown drew vertical lines on Lucia’s brow as her mind tossed possibilities around like popcorn in a kettle. “Roland? I don’t think these are bad guys. Or at least not hired killers or whoever took a swing at Manny, anyway.”
“How you figure?” He knew enough to trust her deductions.
“They aren’t setting up for a hit, right?”
The big man had to admit it did not look like they were. “Doesn’t have that feel, no.”
“You would be the expert,” Lucia said wryly. “They aren’t doing anything other than following. My guess is they’ve been on us for a while, too. Couple days at least.”
“Okay...”
“Anyone show up recently who might want to keep tabs on you and your movements, big guy?”
Roland’s face sank. “Fucking DECO. Goddammit.”
Lucia shook her head. “Nope. If DECO was tailing you, would you ever spot them?”
“Shit. No, I wouldn’t. When DECO surveils you, you don’t find out until after they try to kill you.” Massive shoulders slumped in defeat. “I’m lost then, Lucy. Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Okay. But you have to promise not to get pissed and hurt anyone. Yet.”
“Fine.”
“I think it’s UEDF.”
Roland cast her a baleful stare through lowered brows. “You are lucky I never break my promises.”
Her slender hand reached across the table and gave the rigid killing machine a gentle pat on the arm. “We all are, Roland. Now, I’ve done all the important thinking. But I don’t do tactics. We need a plan, Corporal. I don’t want these guys up our butts while we take on The Brokerage.”
“I presume there is a general veto on excessive violence?” He posed the question knowing the answer even as it left his lips.
Lucia pretended to give it some thought before replying. “I’m not ruling out a confrontation, Roland. But yes, it would be better if no government or military personnel were killed.”
“Let’s turn the tables on them, then.” In an instant, his blocky features seemed to melt and contort. A casual observer might wonder if the giant man in the booth was having some sort of seizure or perhaps a stroke, but Lucia understood that this was just Roland’s attempt to smile. “Get Mindy on the line. And you might as well order some food. This is going to take a while.”
CHAPTER NINE
The man in the dirty coveralls waited in an alley two blocks down from the diner. At a precarious lean against an old recycler, the muscular man was struggling to shimmy out of the claustrophobic outfit and reveal his second layer of disguise. His nose crinkled in disgust at the thought of it. This time he would be a tired corporate worker bee in a drab brown suit. The boots didn’t really fit the image, but they were black and someone would have to be looking very close to notice their utilitarian style. Beneath the revealed jacket and dress shirt was a plain white T-shirt that would be his final look for the day.
His grappling match with his pants was accompanied by an inner monologue rich in irritated expletives directed toward the boring nature of his current task. His motions grew jerky and aggressive as his boots caught in his pants’ leg. I did not train my ass off and beat out all those other candidates to follow one big goon and his pretty girlfriend as they walked around town. I’m supposed to be the best of the best, a goddamn Expeditionary Force tier one special operator. The legs of his coverall were hopelessly bunched against his big black boots now, and the urge to rip them to pieces with his bare hands grew large. I’m a certified heartbreaker and a life-taker. A high-speed, low-drag, hardcore badass who kicks more ass before breakfast than most soldiers will in a whole damn career. Why the hell am I dirtside playing detective when I should be busting heads out in space?
Upon later examination, it would occur to this man that his reflections upon his own bad-assery were ill-timed. While still pulling the recalcitrant leg out of his knotted coverall, he was surprised to see an absolutely fantastic set of tits materialize in the alley with him. The tits were attached to a woman, of course, but this was the sort of man who t
ended to see most women as an extension of their secondary sexual characteristics. In a calmer, more strategic mindset, this man may have questioned the appearance of the tits, and he may have understood that becoming transfixed by them represented a tactical blunder on his part. But man, those were some really nice tits. When he eventually got around to letting his eyes wander away from them, he noticed that the rest of the attached woman was real easy to look at as well.
He was still absently kicking out of one of his pant legs when the woman spoke. Her voice was sweet and happy, with that perfect country drawl that told a guy he was about to have a good time.
“Well, hello, handsome!” Her face was a bright grin, her blond hair iridescent in the muted light of the alley. “Caught you with your pants down, haven’t I?”
A confirmed lothario, the tier-one special operator mentally checked the time and allowed that he probably had a few minutes to kill before he was back in the surveillance rotation. A lusty course now charted, the man gave her his best most roguish smile. This very look had devastated women’s inhibitions in way stations and melted the undergarments of colonial country girls across the galaxy. “Sure wish it was the other way around, babe. Care to help a guy with that?”
“You mean lil ol’ me?” She positively purred it. Her chest heaved and the firm orbs beneath white fabric pressed against the surface of her thin shirt like caged animals. The damned clasp held together with a fanatic’s tenacity and the soldier cursed the fastener with all the silent vehemence of a sexually frustrated teenager. The tugging of his coverall increased in intensity, strong hands tearing with frantic abandon as the beautiful girl swayed closer.
The sheer stupid coincidence of a beautiful and seemingly willing woman materializing in this alley while he was in the middle of a mission should have warned him of what was coming. Later, during his disciplinary hearing, his abysmal lack of situational awareness would be mentioned several times with descriptors like ‘derelict’ and ‘moronic.’ Nevertheless, when the blow came, the doomed soldier never even saw it. The tiny blond was nearly pressed against him now, enormous blue eyes fluttering and full lips pouting. The sexual heat of her body was palpable, making the back of his neck slick with a thin sheen of sweat. He had almost completed his escape from his pants when his plans for the next twenty minutes or so went awry in a manner devastating to both his pride and his career.
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