Shit, were they supposed to make a black-market run tonight too? That had slipped his mind entirely.
Cowl’s eyes landed on Markus and narrowed as he chewed slowly. He hadn’t seen him since he was eight. But Cowl was no idiot. He’d have figured it out pretty quickly. Why he hadn’t acted on that knowledge, Starke couldn’t say.
“Do we know him?” Cowl asked slowly, something vicious glinting in his eyes as he studied the man before him.
Markus climbed to his feet and cleared his throat. Before he could voice whatever greeting he had in mind, Starke shoved his way between them.
Cowl was a sensitive kid. It didn’t take much for him to get attached and when he did he went all in…quick. If Markus was given half the chance, he’d have Cowl eating out of his hand in a couple of well placed sentences, no matter how bitter the kid was now. When the letdown came, Cowl might never recover.
Sure he was niave, but he was still young. That’s how kids were supposed to be. Give him a few more years and Starke would make sure he was set straight about how the world worked.
“Tell you what. You take your binge eating into the other room, lock the door and turn Elvis up all the way…and I’ll get you your own shotgun.”
Cowl shoved one of the discarded tomatoes into his mouth before frowning and spitting it into the sink. “Sawed off?”
“Sure.”
“Slugs…not buckshot.”
“Only in the Pit.” Starke didn’t even glance at Markus. So what if his parenting was off-key. He wasn’t a parent.
Cowl grabbed a couple silver bags of labeled snack food out of the cupboard and tucked the bottle of water haphazardly under his arm. “I already took one of yours,” he said, grabbing another slice of cold pizza as he walked past. “But since I’m such a good brother, and because you asked soooooo nicely…” He stopped to stare at Markus for a moment.
He was probably trying to decide if he should do something cruel or not. Likely the only thing staving off disaster was the fact that, at the moment at least, he trusted Starke to do what was best.
“I want a modified AK-4Z.” He nimbly stepped around Starke and swaggered towards the room with bags of food hanging off him like prisoners. “You know how I like ‘em”
An assault rifle. Figures.
The door slammed and Starke surveyed the not-quite empty box of pizza on the counter and half-open fridge. Elvis Presley music, Cowl’s third great love in life after guns and Menrva, blasted through the door a second later.
“He’s…uh.” Markus shifted his weight awkwardly. “He’s grown up.”
“You think?” Starke turned to glare at Markus. Great timing. He shoved the fact that Cowl doesn’t need a father back into Markus’ face, just in time for his baby brother to show up stoned. Whatever. Starke didn’t owe Markus anything.
“So, do you think I could…” Markus glanced at the door.
“No,” Starke said without hesitation. “Look. Think it over, tell me what you need.” He took a step towards Markus, blocking his view of the door.
“In return for what?” Markus’ eyes narrowed. He was tempted. Easy enough.
“In return for you leaving us alone.” He pressed his lips into a thin line “In return for you never speaking to Cowl again.” He didn’t need to add that parting jab, but he couldn’t help it.
Markus’ mouth opened wide. “Starke, you don’t know what you are asking.” He leaned towards the bedroom door. “He’s my son.”
“So what?” Starke blocked his movement again and slipped a hand behind his back where his hand gun was holstered. It was pure habit. He wasn’t going to shoot his father, didn’t want to, but his nerves didn’t seem to care if this was the same kind of danger as the scavengers on the cave floor.
Markus seemed to notice the aggression in his stance.
“What if you could have another kid? One with whats-her-name,” Starke said, pulling his hand away from the weapon.
“That’s…” Markus stopped in his tracks.
Ah. There it was.
“All legal, no questions asked.” Starke let a grin slip over his features.
“You can’t do that.” Markus’ eyes flashed between the door and Starke’s face for a moment before he finally fixed his attention on Starke. “I’ve looked into it. Nearly got myself arrested trying to bribe a guy I knew.”
“Dubois?” Starke asked.
Shock rose on Markus’ face. “How did you know?”
Starke shrugged. “He’s one of my best clients. He’s got expensive taste, and the guy likes me.”
Markus bit his lower lip and looked at his shoes.
“Look,” Starke slid into his salesman voice and placed a hand on Markus’ shoulder. “You don’t want us. You want a son you can raise. Watch him take his first steps. Hear him call you Daddy. Someone with his mother’s eyes, right?” He steered Markus towards the door. “It’s too late here. Cowl hates you at least as much as I do. A lot of effort for, what, a couple years with some amateur criminals? No. Do it right this time.”
Markus stared at Starke like he wanted to argue, but there wasn’t anything to say. Markus didn’t have any respect left to lose in this family.
“What about you? What about…”
“We don’t need you,” Starke said, maybe a bit too harshly. He pulled the door open and waved Markus into the hallway. “Trust me. We are better off alone.”
Disaster averted…maybe.
Chapter Three:…Gone Wrong
Starke rolled the remnants of a blunt into his mouth as a familiar guard passed. The chalky taste of burnt food wrappers grated against his tongue and the last of the ember at the tip burned his cheek.
“Starke,” the guard said with a quick nod of greeting. Tight, dark curls, a stern face with sympathetic eyes; Cedar Penniweight’s visage was one Starke saw often. Cowl and Menrva Penniweight, Cedar’s daughter, were as close as two people could get without sharing blood or a bed…that is, if it hadn’t gotten there yet. Cowl was infatuated with her, but it was hard to say if she returned the feeling. When they were younger, Starke often had to drag Cowl home from the Penniweight’s’ home. Or Cedar would come to his, hunting down Menrva.
Starke nodded politely, keeping his smoke-filled mouth clamped shut
When Cedar disappeared around the corner, Starke pushed through the apartment door on his left, slipping into the cool, tastefully decorated pod behind it. He spit the joint into a potted plant and scanned the room. It was hard to believe that this pod could be the exact same floor plan as their own. The perfectly polished tile floor and simple, clean furniture made it look extravagant.
Dubois had a taste for expensive, yet understated trinkets. The most obvious of those luxuries was a shelf set with a few carefully-preserved, old-world books.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Treasure Island, Rift in the Deep, and Frankenstein, each carefully locked in a glass case and arranged so the decorated leather binding faced out.
There were other things. A black orchid tucked back on the kitchen counter. A few decorative glass bottles, paper labels still intact, lined up beside it. Pre-calamity alcohol. Dusty jugs of wine that simply shouldn’t exist. In a large bowl in the living room a colorful fish swam in lazy circles.
Most of it, Starke had either supplied directly or hooked Dubois up to the distributor. Some wasn’t illegal, just really hard to come by and thus not something you’d find from a typical shop.
“Starke? That you?” Caliban Dubois stepped out of the bathroom, his face lost in the towel he’d been using to scrub his hair. “Good deity, boy, you gonna give me a heart attack.”
Dubois was a long way away from anything of the sort. He spent most of his extra time in the gym and the results were obvious above the towel loosely wrapped around his hips.
“Bad time?”
Dubois pulled the towel down off his face and grinned, his teeth pearlescent white against his skin. His green eyes flashed as he strode across the room and grab
bed a small, heavy-looking bag off the table.
“Found this in the archives not so long ago. I kept a few for myself, of course, but I thought you might have some interested clients. No one does high-end like you.” He flashed that arrogant grin again and tossed it at Starke. Something sharp dug into Starke’s arm as he snatched it out of the air… the corner of something angular.
Dubois had gotten his position young and the power and pay had gone to his head quick. He liked to think he was Starke’s best client. He’d be ashamed to know what kind of treasures some of the other men paid for.
“So, you said you had a request?” Dubois disappeared into the other room as he spoke, leaving Starke to sort through the little bag. He pulled open the zipper and glanced inside where a handful of small, mechanical boxes, covered with wires and silver lines, rolled around. Dubois probably had no clue what he’d actually picked up. They didn’t look important, but they were archived. Maybe they were some sort of old-world computer parts? He wouldn’t know what he had until he got a chance to look at them. It was hard to say with antiques like this.
“You know me, I never have a request without an offer,” Starke said.
Dubois reemerged, zipping the tight fit shirt on his government issue tracksuit. “My favorite part.” He waved towards the couch. “Please, sit. Can I get you a drink? Something to eat?”
Starke eased onto the plush seats and shook his head. No time to waste if he was going to get the necessary wheels greased before Markus changed his mind and called the Guards. He’d made requests like this from Dubois before. Most of the real work was done by the men under him. He just signed the right documents, and that signature was valuable. Anything and everything pertaining to the populations in Bunker went through his hands, which meant that a lot of desperate people wanted to get him in their back pockets. Well, he was nestled securely in Starke’s and that position paid well.
This time was different, though. This was the first time Starke had made a request for himself. “Do you like art?” Starke asked.
Dubois’ eyes shimmered as he carefully poured a glass of water for himself and crossed the room to sit across from Starke. It wasn’t the painting itself that would be of value to Dubois, it was the concept of owning something rare that attracted him. Even if no one saw it. In a world of uniformity, the thrill of being unique was worth paying for. At least, that’s what Starke depended on with his higher-paying clients.
“What are we talking about? Pre-calamity? Early 2000s? Late 1900s?” Dubois rubbed his thumb over the condensation on his glass.
Starke grinned and crossed his arms. “What about 1907?”
Dubois’ eyes narrowed immediately. “Impossible. Nothing survives from that far back. Nothing outside of what the City’s locked up, that is.” He pointed vaguely upward as if to illustrate his point.
“It may or may not have come from the cultural archives,” Starke suggested.
“The Picasso that went missing? No way!”
The joy on his face was almost prize enough in itself, and Starke didn’t even particularly like the man. He was too pretentious.
“That’s as good a guess as any. Of course, I can’t say anything until I know…”
“I want it!” Dubois interrupted. “Price is no question. It’s worth it and more.”
Starke let out a sigh, pushing some of the tension off his chest. There was always a chance, even if it was a very small one, that one of his clients could decide that they weren’t willing to support the black market anymore. Eventually, one might turn him in. There were only so many people he could blackmail, bribe, or discredit.
“Where is it?” Dubois asked. “Did you just get it?”
“I’ve been sitting on it a while,” Starke said, pushing away a lock of hair that tickled his forehead. “Waiting for the best time.”
“Well, the best time would have been right away! Can I see it?” Dubois stood up, the excitement obvious in every line of his body. The rich were never much good at haggling. Dubois was normally easy.
“I don’t have it with me. I’ve got a courier that will bring it to you later.”
Getting the painting to Dubois’ pod without any notice from the cams or the night patrol would take some work. Cowl would make sure the technical stuff was taken care of, and Starke could drop it off in the middle of the night. That kid could easily get him through any door or security measure he needed to. It still boggled Starke’s mind.
“What do you want? Anything!” Dubois’ eyes gleamed. “Tonight? How soon can I get it?” He paused and leaned in conspiratorially. “I have a girl coming over before lights out today. Pretty little thing. She’s probably never seen anything like actual paint and canvas before.”
Starke forced a smile over his face. Did Dubois think he was some sort of friend, that he cared about his love life? Maybe that wasn’t all bad. Dubois liked to impress his friends, give gifts. Good for business.
“So? What is it I can do for you?” Dubois asked, as if he were offering a thank-you of his own free will.
Pretentious asshole.
Cowl would have had fun cutting him down to size. A good reason why he never came on these types of errands. Maybe when he got a bit more mature. For now, running around with guns and hacking into everything was keeping him entertained and out of too much trouble.
How bad of a big brother did you have to be to have an assault rifle as a babysitter?
“I need a hall pass. A Hub citizen, family man, wants a chance to start new with a pretty young woman in the Tiers.”
Dubois raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? Really?”
Starke grinned. “I’m easy to please and I don’t think it’s fair to rob you blind. The Picasso would just be perfect in your room. Le Femmes D’alger, you know it?”
Menrva was the smart one who’d pointed out exactly what that meant. Cowl had shown it to her in some sort of attempt to impress her. It was a good thing, or Starke would have had no clue what it was. She’d pointed out that the art piece was a stylized version of another artist’s painting of bordeaux women. Classy. Just Dubois’ style.
Dubois smiled as if slipping into a dream. “Ah…yes. That is just my taste.”
And just the reason why Starke had been holding on to it. No one else would have been so eager for the masterpiece.
“So, who is our lucky lover?” Dubois asked, pulling a palm tablet out of his pocket and clicking it on. The glow illuminated the greedy joy on his features.
Starke licked his lips and shifted his weight. There was no way Dubois could assume that the shared last name was just a coincidence. It didn’t really matter, but Starke didn’t like letting Dubois into that little bit of his life. He didn’t have a choice.
“Coven. Markus Coven.”
Dubois raised an eyebrow. He didn’t say anything but Starke couldn’t quite let out a breath. Who knew how he might use that kind of information in the future?
“And the uh…woman.”
“Dahlia Johannes.” Starke rolled the name around in his mouth. He had never met the latest girlfriend, nor the two before her. He knew the names of every single one.
After a moment fiddling with the device, Dubois went pale. “Are you sure about that?”
“Pretty sure. What’s wrong?” Starke resisted the urge to snatch the tablet from his hands. Dubois almost looked sick as he studied the screen.
“So, the Farming Tier has been having some problems with overcrowding for some time.” Dubois cleared his throat and put the tablet down before continuing. “All of Bunker is. We’re having trouble keeping up with the demands for food and water.”
Starke chewed the inside of his lip. “That’s nothing new.”
“Well, we’ve taken a few steps towards thinning the excess in the Tiers, taking a bit off the top according to the overflow in each Tier.”
“You are culling the population,” Starke clarified, trying to ignore that stabbing ache that blossomed in his chest. Dubois was the one who
signed off on the mass murder in the bottom Tier. He seemed so harmless. Probably could never have pulled the trigger himself. That didn’t change the truth of what he was responsible for.
“Unfortunately, Miss Johannes is already on the list. Is there anyone else he would settle for?” Dubois said it as if they were out of Dijon mustard in the cafeteria and offering spicy brown in its place. He couldn’t be that heartless, could he?
“You can’t just take her off the list?”
With a stream of unintelligible stammers, Dubois shook his head. “These lists are put together by geneticists and sociologists based on more factors that I could even….um… And the umm…It’s signed off by people whose names I’m not even authorized to know.”
So that was it. Dad’s girlfriend wasn’t worth keeping alive. What had she done, or not done, that had put her head into the guillotine? At one point in his life, Starke would have been overjoyed to hear it. Let Markus lose what he’d taken from them when he left. But not anymore. She was the only thing keeping Markus away from Cowl, for one. Beyond that, he’d grown enough to see how thin the line was between him and the people he used to hate. He didn’t like her, but Dahlia hadn’t done anything wrong. Markus had.
“Look, you can’t… They would kill me if they knew I’d told you,” Dubois interrupted.
He wasn’t so smooth anymore. The fact that he was a poor fit for this job was never more clear. He’d served his purpose before, so it was a good thing there wasn’t a more capable man in his place. Still, this was the guy who would be carrying out the death sentence for countless people. No, not countless.
“How many?”
Dubois frowned. “What?”
“How many people are you culling?”
He glanced at the screen, though it was black so he couldn’t have gained anything from it. “Five hundred and seventy.”
“Five hundred!” Starke sucked in a deep breath to hold back the nausea. Five hundred, almost six hundred, human beings just gone. What gave them the right?
“I’m serious, Starke. If they find out that I told you, they won’t just kill me. They will kill you and anyone they think you could have told. This has been a couple years in the making, this project. Long before I came into office.”
Infraction Page 2