by Pegau, Cathy
“Both,” she said and stared into her drink again. “Goodbye, Mr. Sterling.”
He leaned toward her. “Look, I know about Christiansen—”
“No.” She turned so quickly, their heads would have cracked together if he hadn’t moved fast enough. Her eyes blazed and a strand of hair clung to her forehead. “You don’t.” Fists tight atop the bar, only her voice quivered. “You don’t know anything unless you’ve been sucked into his world. Into his promises and lies.” Her breath was rapid and shallow, her pulse rabbit-running beneath the pale skin of her throat. “Goodbye, Mr. Sterling.”
Sasha stood, fished a green cred chit from the pocket of her black coat and tossed it on the bar. Legs stiff under her thick wool skirt, she pushed through the crowd and walked out.
“Shit.” He rose and followed her into the night.
Nevarro winter struck his bare face as soon as he opened the door. At least the snow had stopped for the moment. Summer, autumn, winter, spring, it was all the same on a planet just within their sun’s habitable zone.
He let his vision adjust to the blue glow of the street lights and flashing adverts and searched the walkway to the left as an older-model ground car rumbled past, trailing a cloud of steam. Sasha lived two blocks down and one over in that direction; it made sense that she’d head there.
Using the zoom and light enhancer of his artificial right eye, he scanned the walkway several blocks ahead. Pairs and small groups of folks, but no single girl with her build. A few ground and air taxis loaded and unloaded at the other bars along this street. Would she have flagged one down? Damn the void.
But if she was wary of him, afraid he’d follow, maybe she’d go right. He turned and refocused.
There she was, between the bar and the PubTrans station a block away, shoulders hunched against the cold and clipping along at a faster rate than he’d expected.
Sterling jogged to catch up. Four meters ahead of him, she whipped around and stopped. The red and yellow lights of a mercantile display splashed orange across her narrow face.
“Get away from me or I’m calling the constables.”
Wouldn’t that be ironic?
She turned and continued walking, hands shoved deep in her pockets, her breath silver puffs in the cold. He had no idea where she was going, since her flat was in the opposite direction, and the nearest constable station was a half a klick from here.
“Please, Sasha, hear me out,” he said, drawing even with her.
She shook her head and wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t know how you found me or why, but just forget it, whatever it is. I want nothing to do with him. Or you.”
“Even if it means getting even with him? Taking him down a peg?”
Her step faltered as she shot a glance at him. “Like that could happen.”
The words were cynical, but he heard something else in her voice, saw it in her eyes. An eagerness. A desire for revenge against the drug dealer. It was there, beneath her fear. Just as Sterling had anticipated it would be when he decided to track down Sasha James. The trick would be to draw out the vengeance, make it stronger than the fear.
But he also had an offer he hoped she couldn’t refuse.
“Even if I could get your status changed? Maybe end your parole early?”
She stopped short on the walkway, disbelief playing across her face. She raised her hand to the left side of her neck.
“I know techs at Corrections. The second you agree to help me, I can comm them,” he said. “You can be out of resident housing and not have to check in each week.”
Sasha shook her head and resumed walking.
Shit.
“Fine,” he called out to her. “I’ll get your status changed right now.”
He withdrew his comm from his coat pocket.
She stopped again, her back rigid. Her hands barely cleared the cuffs of the sleeves. Slowly, she turned to face him. The blue streetlight overhead washed over her fair skin, but the wary look was unmistakable. “Do it.”
Sterling powered the unit with a flick of his thumb over the bio scan and keyed his secured link to Mickelson at Nevarro Colonial Corrections. The handheld computer-communication device’s screen dimmed then glowed gray. Ready, popped up on the screen.
Sterling typed in the request to alter Sasha’s status. Nothing happened for several moments as the two of them stood on the cold, damp walk. Chilled, he shoved his free hand into his coat pocket.
Sasha hunched her shoulders to keep warm and darted glances to her right and left. Looking for an escape route.
Hurry up, Mickelson. I’m gonna lose her.
Just as she took a hesitant step away from Sterling, the screen changed. Done. I’ll bill you.
“Here,” Sterling said, stopping her flight. He called up Sasha’s file. Her status had changed from Level One, where she was required to submit weekly tests at the nearest parole kiosk and live in a controlled setting, to Level Two, with monthly kiosk visits and independent housing. He turned the comm toward her. “Come see for yourself.”
Sasha approached as if he were about to take a bite out of her. Her anxiety was understandable. He held still.
She read the screen then crossed her arms, the wary look back on her face. “Easily faked.”
Sterling suppressed a growl of frustration. Would she challenge everything he said and did? Probably. “Check it on your comm.”
Eyes on him, she fished the device out of her coat pocket and quickly tapped in the digits of her Corrections ID. How many times had she logged in to the database? Stared at the number of days, months, left on her parole? Skepticism stayed on her face for several moments as the screen flickered. She glanced down when it beeped. Her eyes widened.
“How?” she asked, her voice thick and quiet. “Who are you?”
“Not here.” He scanned the nearly deserted street. After dark, it wasn’t safe to be out and about in this neighborhood unless you were armed, which he was, but it was still unwise to loiter. He punched in a request for a taxi on his comm. “Can we go someplace to talk?”
Sasha took a step back. “I—I have to get up early tomorrow. To work.”
Level Two status still required her to participate in the NCRC Back to Work program. Sasha’s job at the Revivalist-owned market was gainful employment, but just barely. At Level Three, she would be allowed to have any job she could find. He almost suggested they meet after work the next day, but the skittery look in her eyes told him he had to keep hold of the tenuous hook he had now or lose her to excuses. “It won’t take long.”
The air taxi’s anti-grav lifters whined as it approached, and hot, metallic air blew against their legs when it settled at the curb. It must have been close by to have come so quickly. Sterling reached past Sasha and raised the door, stepping aside to give her room to get in the back. She flicked a glance between him and the taxi.
“Just hear me out, Sasha. Even if you don’t agree to help, your status stays at Level Two. I promise that much.”
He’d read her psych evals, learned she craved to be out from under the law’s thumb as much as she wanted to be away from Christiansen.
After a moment, her features cleared, but her eyes told a different story. She was interested, but nervous. Scared, even. Couldn’t blame her there.
“I know where we can go,” she said. “It’s close enough to walk.”
Sterling nodded once, acknowledging her trust, such as it was. He knocked on the plasti-glass barrier between the driver and passenger compartments. When the rectangular window slid open, he handed the woman at the controls a yellow ten-cred chit. “Sorry, we’ve decided to walk.”
The driver shrugged, shut the window and pulled away as soon as Sterling closed the door.
“Which way?”
Sasha buttoned her coat the rest of the way
to her throat and frowned up at him. “Come on,” she said, and resumed walking in the same direction.
The large coat she wore hid the slender curve of her body while it emphasized her small stature. She seemed vulnerable, even bundled as she was, despite the prickly defensive shell. Still, as he kept pace beside her, Sterling wondered if he was making the right call. It was a risk to trust her. Dangerous to need her. An amber addict, even a chipped one, was susceptible to the lure of the drug. But if he wanted to rescue Kylie, he had to have an in with Christiansen. Who better to get him that in than the woman the drug dealer loved?
Sterling used the zoom of his artificial eye to pick up anything that might be amiss on their route, as well as read the signs on the buildings. There were fewer bright and flashy adverts in the Revivalist Quarter compared to the rest of the city of Pandalus, but still enough to require rapid light adjustment of his eye as he swept between lit and shadowed areas. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Sasha led him through the neighborhood as snow started falling. They passed several small, less-affluent restaurants and cafés, but she didn’t stop. He hoped wherever they were headed served a hot meal, or at least a hot drink. Something to help thaw him out.
They walked for another five minutes when she turned down a narrow side street. More of an alley, really, with a whiff of urine beneath the fresh snowfall. Several doors, some with dim lights over the lintel, interrupted the cement walls. The thud-thud-thud bass of muted music vibrated in his chest.
Sterling wanted to ask Sasha what the hell they were doing in a seedy row such as this, wanted to steer her back toward a safer part of the district, but he had to show he trusted her so she would trust him. If that required him passing some kind of test, so be it.
She stopped in front of a purple door with a yellow light above and peered over her shoulder at him. Amusement glinted in her eyes. “Ready?”
“For what?” The music coming from behind the door thumped harder against his sternum. He narrowed his eyes at her as he slid his hand beneath his coat, closer to the grip of the pulser in his waistband holster. “Where are we?”
Instead of answering, she levered the door handle and pushed it open. Colorful lights and ear-crashing music blasted out on a cloud of warm, spicy air. He moved his hand away from his weapon.
“Come on,” she yelled over the music. “The dancers don’t appreciate the cold draft.”
Dancers?
She started forward, blindly reaching back to grasp his coat sleeve to pull him inside.
Sterling stumbled in after her and shut the door.
Chapter Two
They stood together while his eyes adjusted to the spotlighted stage and the occasional bright strobe in the otherwise dim room. Music boomed from hidden speakers as several figures danced upon the round stage ten meters in front of them. A dozen or so patrons sat at tables adjacent to the stage; another five or six leaned on the bar along the right-hand wall. The scent of heated bodies and some kind of peppery spice made his eyes tingle.
Pandalus, a city of three million souls, had its share of clubs providing all manner of amusements, and most would not think of reserved Revivalists as big supporters of exotic dancing. The tenets that encouraged a follower to use the mind and body you were born with typically eschewed the advances utilized by modern society, like Compu-Chefs and full-immersion holovids. Though, stripping was just about as low-tech a form of entertainment as you could ask for. And the dancers certainly used their bodies.
Sasha rose on her toes, balancing herself with her hand on his shoulder. Her warm breath on his cold ear sent heat down his neck, through his chest and into the pit of his stomach. “Pay the man.”
Behind her, a scruffy man in black stood with his arms folded over his broad chest, keeping an eye on the audience but with his body angled toward Sterling and Sasha. He didn’t bar their entrance, nor did he appear armed, but looks could be deceiving. Sterling dug into his trouser pocket, found what he hoped was the appropriate cover charge and handed it to Scruffy. The bouncer took it with barely a glance.
“Let’s go find a seat,” Sasha said.
As she led him between the tables, Sterling noticed both men and women in the crowd, as well as on stage. All the dancers were clothed, legally speaking. Each gyrated in front of patrons who transferred credits from their accounts via a reader embedded in an anklet that was part of the dancers’ costumes, such as they were. Colorful, anonymous chits were also stacked on stage in front of some tables. Dances scooped them up and slipped them into artificial skin pockets before moving on. It worked the same way in non-Revivalist clubs Sterling had visited.
Sasha settled at a table near the far wall. At least the music seemed a decibel or two quieter here. She slid her coat off and let it drape on the back of the chair.
“Why here?” He sat beside her, his back to the wall.
Her gray eyes fixed on him, she said, “It’s a public place. Safer.”
In case he was some sort of freak she’d need to lose, or have Scruffy at the door help her get rid of him. Smart girl.
He nodded, and she went on. “Guy Christiansen would never come here. No one he trusts or who knows him personally would come to a place like this.” She grinned at him. “Plus, I like the music and they have killer empanadas.”
He laughed and her grin broadened. When she smiled, the hard years dropped off her like rain from a duck’s back, showing him the girl she must have been before Christiansen messed her up. The glow of her laughter lingered in her gray eyes, and Sterling marveled at how beautiful she looked when her guard was down.
The thought of what Christiansen had done to make her so wary—what he still did to young women like Kylie—wiped the smile from his face. Worse, Sterling himself was going to return Sasha to the drug-dealing bastard.
The warmth inside of him went cold. Would she smile again like this after she’d helped him? It was a sobering thought, but he had no choice. He had to send her back to save Kylie. But he would do his damnedest to keep Sasha safe.
“I’ll take your word for it.” He glanced around the club, noting anyone who took notice of them. A female server wearing a short skirt and a sparkly top made eye contact. She held up a finger and nodded in his direction. “How did you find this place?” he asked.
Sasha shrugged and turned her attention to the stage. “Just one of those things.”
Did she know any of the dancers? Had she worked here at some time? Not according to the information he’d read, but many places didn’t keep official employee stats if they worked off the books. And who’s to say Sasha reported everything she did? She was certainly attractive enough to be on the stage.
He put a quick stop to the image of her dancing that formed in his head and looked up when the server approached their table. The woman was about Sasha’s age, stick-thin with straight black hair pulled into a tail.
She smiled at him. “Hey, Sasha. Who’s your friend?”
“Just a friend, Jules. We’ll have a couple of beers and two orders of empanadas.”
“Sure.” She sidled closer to Sterling. “I’m on a little later. You want a lap dance before I go, friend of Sasha’s?”
His face and neck heated. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sasha smirking. Was this part of the reason she chose the club, to see his reaction? Two could play that game. “No, thanks. But maybe she does.”
Jules and Sasha laughed. “I can dance for her anytime,” the server said with a wink.
An electric jolt shot through him at the suggestion behind Jules’s words. Had she performed for Sasha?
Sasha’s grin turned impish. She leaned toward him. The hint of her warm, clean scent encouraged him to take a deeper breath.
“We’re roommates. She practices at the flat.”
“But I
’ve never danced for you,” Jules quipped. She huddled with them, bent over the small table, one hand on each of their arms. “Some blokes prefer to watch. At least, at first. Would that be better? Then we could all be friends.”
His eyes locked with Sasha’s and his heart rapid-fired for a few seconds. Not because of what Jules had said. Rather, at the flush that crept up Sasha’s cheeks. Had something other than embarrassment flickered there?
She quickly looked away. “Jules!”
“No, thank you.” Sterling kept his voice level despite the vision of Sasha’s lithe body that roared through his imagination. “Just the food and beer.”
Jules straightened and sighed. “Too bad. I’ll be right back.” She sashayed off between the tables to an interior door. Pushing it open, she leaned in, said something to someone inside and then went to the bar to draw their beers.
Sterling turned back to study Sasha. She licked her lips, drawing his attention to her mouth. Damn it.
“Sorry about that,” Sasha said. “She gets a bit carried away.”
“No worries.” He focused on the crowd, ignoring the undulating dancers and the mental picture of Sasha that Jules had reawakened. He needed to stay focused.
Jules returned with two tall glasses of dark beer. She set them on the table and went off to collect more orders. Sterling took a sip. The less than genteel atmosphere had made him dubious about the quality of the food offerings, but the beer was the perfect temperature—chilled, but not cold—with a clean, satisfying bite of malted barley and hops. Probably imported from Kepler, a more agrarian world that was one of the system’s Core planets closer to the sun. After a century of treating the soil, genetic modification and innovative grow houses, there was still a metallic aftertaste to Nevarro’s local produce.
He took a long, cooling quaff of beer, letting it wash away the heat in his belly, and wiped foam from the corners of his mouth. “Ready to talk?”
Sasha gulped a couple of swallows. “It’s your game.”
“This is no game, Sasha. Not if it involves Christiansen,” he said. “You of all people should know that.”