“I was going to say I think we need a beer,” said Harlow. “We should have a talk, you and I. About who owns the Tyche. About how friends don’t let friends get worked over by Republic assholes. And about how you should get to know the people I work for a little closer.”
Nate nodded, and Grace could feel chagrin/regret/regret coming off him. “Well, hey now,” he said. “I expect we should have that talk. And that beer. Know any good bars?”
“I do,” said Harlow. He gave Amedea a look. “We taking them on the tour?”
“We’re taking them on the tour,” Amedea said.
• • •
The tour was more impressive than Grace would have thought. She was expecting Amedea and Harlow to lead them into a few dingy tunnels, emerging out at some hole in the wall where a seedy bartender would offer them watered down liquor. Grace expected rats, and she expected three-day-old bar snacks, if there were bar snacks at all.
They saw nothing like that.
“The place above,” said Amedea, leading them further down into tunnels carved from raw rock, the smooth surfaces shiny from the lasers used to cut through, “is a front. It’s designed to be raided. Let the Republic come in here. Let them take a few knick-knacks. A little contraband. They think they’re solving the problem. The real deals happen down here.”
Down here was well-lit. Men and women walked with purposeful efficiency, nodding to Amedea as she passed, occasionally nodding to Harlow. Grace felt none of the rancor/bile she might get from lesser people, just a little bit of respect/acceptance. Like Harlow was used to this music, could dance the dance, liked his place on the floor. It made sense; he was a dealer. He wasn’t a leader and wasn’t trying to be. But Grace hadn’t picked him as a revolutionary either. Maybe times had got hard, extruding revolutionaries from common people like sausage from a machine.
These people seemed to have it all. They were led through barracks, bunks racked on top of each other, with clean and folded blankets. They were shown training rooms, equipped with shooting ranges, sparring rooms, holo sims for training. Amedea had asked them if they’d wanted to try their luck, and Nate had held up his metal hand saying doesn’t seem fair now, does it, and Grace had smiled behind her hand. Amedea had turned to Grace, taking in the sword slung on her back, and raised an eyebrow. Grace had just shaken her head, because she didn’t fight for money, or fame, or to impress people. She fought from fear, to survive, because it was necessary. And just recently, she’d learned to fight for love.
Maybe that was too strong. Love was for fools. But she’d learned to fight for something good, and it was enough. It was everything.
Nate and Amedea had been talking back and forth, Grace ignoring them for the most part. Captain’s business, and she knew he’d get the job done. But one thing caught her ear. Nate said, “So now you’ve shown us this, what happens if we don’t want to join the party?” Grace didn’t pick up on this because of his words, rather the caution/anxious coming from him. He was worried — not enough to draw or run, but enough that the vibe made her tune back in to the conversation.
Amedea stopped before the double doors to a mess hall, soldiers moving back and forth with their food. Grace could tell they were soldiers because of how they moved, all oiled efficiency. You couldn’t tell from their clothes — streetwear, designed for the ceramicrete above. Shopkeepers, bartenders, beggars, students, company people. All of them were … conscripts in something big. Amedea said, “You’re a man of the world, Nate.”
“A man of the universe,” said Nate. “I don’t like my boots on a crust. Ties you down.”
“As a man of the universe, you should know what happens.” Amedea held her arm out towards the soldiers in the mess hall — not an invitation, but a display.
“You’d erase us,” said Nate. “Leave us in a dumpster.”
“There wouldn’t be enough left to put in a dumpster,” said Amedea, hand resting on her blaster. “Do we have an understanding?”
Nate gave Harlow a look like he was sucking a lemon. “You didn’t say your friends were assholes.”
“Hey,” said Harlow. “I know you, don’t I?”
Grace cleared her throat. She felt three sets of eyes swivel towards her. “You must have known we’d take the job.”
“What job?” said Nate and Harlow, at about the same time, with the same expression on their faces. Mouth open a little, eyes wider than usual.
“I did, because you’re here, Grace. Captain Chevell won’t take the job. But Nathan Chevell might take the job, because his esper — sorry, Assessor — tells him too,” said Amedea.
“What job?” said Nate, again. But with a little less of the I am stupid and more of the I am angry on his face. Because he was the captain, and the captain took the jobs. Not a lowly grifter who had conned her way on his ship.
Grace pushed a strand of black hair away from her eyes. “You can’t run an operation like this with one esper,” she said. Amedea’s expression was neutral, like she was waiting. Harlow was looking between Grace and Amedea, back and forth like he was seeing something new for the first time. Nate just sighed, so Grace pushed on. “Takes one to know one. You’re down here under the city, living a good life, building a, what, an army. An army, now that takes time, and effort, and a little inside knowledge. The Republic is notorious for not giving away inside knowledge. I know, because getting knowledge out of them is how I stay alive.”
“Superb,” said Amedea. “Let’s see how well you’ve … assessed the rest of the situation.”
“What job?” said Nate, louder this time.
“She wants us to get them back,” said Grace.
“Who?” said Nate. “Where?”
“All of them,” said Grace. “Everyone. My guess? They’re in a Republic reprogramming facility. Brains being strung out on a wire, and when the wires don’t work, the drugs go in. Doesn’t matter how long you’ve been trained, or what kind of special snowflake you are. Eventually? You’ll crack.” She swallowed. “You’ll crack and then all your friends will die.”
“Specifics are important,” said Nate.
“How much do you know about the Old Empire’s Intelligencers?” said Amedea.
“Everything,” said Nate. “I know that they corrupted the Empire from within.” Grace could see his hands clenching, metal and flesh both. The metal hand was whining with the force of it. “They plotted and planned. Wanted all the power. They wanted … they killed my friend.” This last was said through clenched teeth. “They all deserve to die.”
“Hmm,” said Amedea. “Your intel is a little rusty.”
“Rusty?” said Nate. “I was there.”
“So was I,” said Amedea, “on the other side. I was there as our Emperor was cast down. Emperor Prirene IV, last of his line, and his sister, both fell.”
“Dominic and Annemarie,” said Nate, his eyes hard. “Dom was a friend.”
“Emperors don’t have friends,” said Amedea. “The Emperor had his Black.” Her gaze went to Nate’s metal hand, then to his leg, hidden by his ship suit, but metal nonetheless. “His Black stood in the path of fire, until all was lost.”
“This one was a little different,” said Nate.
Grace watched them, feeling the emotions boil off Nate like steam from a ruptured pipe. She reached out a hand, laid fingers on his arm. “No wonder you got such a princely gift,” she said.
Nate barked a laugh, turning away from the doors to the mess hall. He walked away, his metal leg catching at his stride. “Sure. Early retirement. A broken arm, a broken leg. A broken body.”
Grace hurried after him, caught his arm. Made him turn. Listen. Hear me. “No,” she said.
“The sword,” said Nate.
“No,” she said again. “Nate? Dom gave you the only gift he could. He gave you your life.”
“What’s left of it, anyway.” His eyes searched hers. “He … said he couldn’t have me on the Black. Not anymore.”
“Because that was the o
nly way to stop you from dying.” She touched his metal hand. “Here. See? You’d already tried to die for him once already.”
“Yes,” said Amedea, coming up behind them. “And no.”
Nate turned to her. “This better not be more cryptic overlord shit,” she said.
Amedea gave him a tired smile. “Not today, Captain. I had to kill a man earlier, and I’m trying to work out if I need to kill another. Dominic Fergelic knew the end was coming. He was going to die. That was never in any doubt.”
“He knew?” said Nate. “How did he know?”
“Because I told him,” said Amedea. “He had a chance. One chance, to fire a perfect arrow through the heart of his enemy. A shot, fired far into the future. The feathered shaft would strike through time and space with the fury of his fallen line.”
“How did he know?” said Nate. “Specifically. The specifics are always important.”
“Because I told him,” said Amedea, but her words were softer, like there was something behind them. Grace couldn’t read this woman, not in the usual way, but she could tell when someone was hurting. “I gave him the arrow. I said he could avenge his name, his family. Make them pay for what would happen to his sister.” She looked at Nate’s hand. “For what had already happened to his friends.”
“How,” said Nate. “Did. He. Know?”
Something inside Amedea seemed to break, her shoulders slumping. “Nate? I was one of the Empire’s Intelligencers. I knew the plot. I knew the plans. I knew them for a long, long time.”
Nate’s blaster cleared its holster faster than Grace could blink, the muzzle up against Amedea’s throat. Amedea swallowed, closed her eyes, like she was ready for it. “Please,” she said, and Grace couldn’t tell whether she wanted to die or wanted to live.
“Nate,” said Grace. “Not like this. Not here.” She jerked her eyes at the people flowing in and out of the mess hall behind them. At Harlow, whose look of astonishment looked more like a permanent fixture.
“She said I was a perfect arrow,” said Nate. “Fired right into the heart of those who’d betrayed him. Well, here I am. And here she is.”
“Nate,” said Harlow.
“Not now,” said Nate.
“Yeah, now,” said Harlow. “Look, we need that beer. We need it now like we’ve needed nothing else. It doesn’t have to be a fancy off-world beer. It has to be cold and wet. And then we can talk this out.”
“Nothing to talk out,” said Nate.
“Don’t you want to know why Dom was happy to lay down his life? Why he didn’t run?” Amedea swallowed again, her throat moving against the muzzle of Nate’s blaster.
“We’ll take the job,” said Grace. Three pairs of eyes went to her. “We’ll get your espers back, Amedea.”
“The fuck we will,” said Nate.
“Fine,” said Grace. “I’ll take the job.”
Nate’s expression was hard, but Grace could feel the pain/betrayal/anger he wore like a cloak. Or a cape. “I never … I never thought you would turn.”
“I’m not turning,” said Grace. “Not from you. Not ever.”
“Feels like it,” said Nate.
“Nate,” said Grace, eyes flicking to the blaster at Amedea’s throat. “Think. Think. Doesn’t all of this feel … weird? Like a song you’ve heard the first time, but felt you’ve known your whole life?” Grace pointed at Harlow. “Your old friend, back in your life. Easily found on this planet of ten billion souls. We’ve just escaped from aliens. We came here to find out how deep the corruption goes. And now we find it’s not deep, not at all. That’s the wrong word. It’s from before. The corruption? It’s old, Nate. It threw down the Old Empire. It killed the Emperor … your friend. Dom. It killed him. And there’s one person who says they know why. Don’t you want to know how?”
“How?” said Nate, but his arm was relaxing. “Don’t you mean why?”
“No,” said Grace. “We know why. Power. Control. The usual reasons assholes have.”
“I guess I’d prefer to kill ’em all.”
“And not know?”
“I don’t … need to know.” But Nate lowered his blaster, curiosity/caution coming off him, and Amedea closed her eyes. Grace couldn’t tell whether it was because she was relieved or disappointed. Grace pushed her hair back from her eyes again, and said, “Amedea. You claim to be one of the Intelligencers.”
“I am,” said Amedea, “or, I was.”
“Then show a little intelligence,” said Grace. “Start talking.”
“Okay,” said Amedea, then she paused. “What…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked down the corridor.
“What is it?” said Harlow.
“We need to move,” said Amedea. “We need to get out.”
“Time for a beer?” said Harlow, almost hopefully.
“No,” said Amedea.
Grace could feel the floor shake, just a tremor, and she stooped down to put her fingers against it. A shake, building up in frequency. “Something big is coming.”
“Let’s go,” said Amedea.
“Hold up,” said Nate. “We haven’t finished.”
Amedea hurried down the corridor. She was talking into her comm, orders to units, teams, squads, numbers, deployments. Things Grace couldn’t follow, and didn’t care about, because there was only one thing to worry about. Something was coming, and it couldn’t be good.
The light strips flickered, then cascaded into darkness. Someone shouted from back towards the mess hall, half-joke, half-fear. The people around Grace let their concern/fear/anxiety out, a ripple spreading towards her from the way they’d come. She clicked the lamp on her suit, bathing the area around her in light. She grabbed Nate’s arm. “Time to go.”
“I think you’re right,” he said. “I think—”
He was cut off by an explosion, something that rocked the world around them. Grace fell against him, and he fell to the ground. The rumble of the explosion seemed distant, like the memory of thunder, like the promise of rain. Grace tasted dust and fear.
“They’ve found us,” said Amedea, reaching a hand out in the darkness towards Grace. “Sister. Will you stand with us?”
Grace pushed her hand away. “I’ll stand by myself.” She got up, realized that she and Nate were helping each other as naturally as breathing. “I’ll stand with my captain.”
“Good enough,” said Amedea. “Now run. Harlow knows the way.”
“I do?” said Harlow. There was another explosion, and the glimmer of fire from far back down the corridor. “Oh,” he said. “I definitely do.”
CHAPTER NINE
FINDING ALTMAN RAZOR was easier than El had expected it to be. She had imagined a crime lord, in a vast and unassailable lair. He’d have thugs inside and out, and he would kill El if she ever found him.
That was her cowardice talking, an old friend that always knew the wrong things to say at parties. Altman Razor was short, dirty, and worked alone. His tiny store was tucked in behind a haberdashery, and if that was all the cover he had, it wasn’t good enough. Not because the customers of a haberdashery didn’t need illicit electronics — some of them did — but because of the sign.
A massive holo, taller than El, sprayed light into the alley. RAZORS WAREZ it said, and underneath that, in smaller type, ALTMAN KNOWS BEST.
Subtle.
El pushed her way through the door. It was an autodoor, but the auto part had failed at some point in the past, leaving it stuck on the runners, and her first thought was the store was closed. But Altman — the only person inside, a rig of familiar style covering his face — had waved her in. So, El leaned into it and forced the door open with a squeal of metal on metal.
“Hi,” said Altman, from her chest height. The guy was short. He flipped up the visor on his rig, gave her a quick up-and-down, then decided on a second pass, up-and-down. “This a business, or, uh, social call?” He sounded hopeful.
El took in the sweaty hair — like any Engineer, they lived in their r
igs. Never got enough sun, or enough air, and always seemed to have grease on their faces or under their nails. Hope was the same, but she pulled it off better. His question caught her off balance. She wasn’t here to buy something, so… “It might be a social call,” offered El.
Altman wiped his hands on a pleather apron, held his hand out. “Altman Razor, at your service.”
She reached out to take his hand, and he curled his fingers in hers, bent over, and kissed the back of her hand. El watched this with a horrified fascination, pulling her hand back as an afterthought. “Elspeth Roussel,” she said, and it felt like it was the wrong thing to do. Like breaking a priceless vase, it was a thing you couldn’t take back, but you could say with honesty to your friends later that it was an accident.
“Elspeth,” said Altman. “I like that.”
“Uh,” said El, then tried again. “I’m looking for someone.”
“And you have found someone,” said Altman, a big smile coming out across his face. It was a nice smile, just a little closer to the ground than El preferred. Add soap, and … no. She’d been on a ship for too damn long. “I could close the shop for lunch.” He stepped closer.
“Uh. No.”
“No?”
“Look, Mr. Razor—”
“Altman, please.”
“Mr. Razor,” said El, feeling like an idiot, and looking like one too, “here’s the thing. I don’t want to have sex with you.” There. It was out, done, that problem cleared up.
“Of course not,” said Altman.
“Great,” said El, breathing out air she hadn’t known she was holding.
“You want to have lunch then have sex with me,” said Altman. He had a hand on her elbow, and she wasn’t sure how it had got there.
“Uh,” said El, shaking off his hand. “No.”
“You’re sure?” said Altman, pulling off his rig. It folded up just like Hope’s did — or like her old one did. Most Engineers’ rigs worked in similar ways, but they all looked a little different. Altman’s was no exception; he’d tied feathers to the manipulator arms, maybe going for a mystic vibe. It wasn’t working.
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