by O. J. Lowe
“Our mother is sick.”
Four words that changed everything. He’d called her back. Repeatedly. There’d been times when he thought he wouldn’t get through to her, but he’d persisted. He’d not given up. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Because he was a better human being than she ever would be, even after everything she’d done to him, he wasn’t going to give up on her. That was the decision he’d made there and then. He’d devote his life to ensuring that she lived as long as was possible. Even after how crappy she’d treated him. That’d show her. She’d regret it when she realised that she wouldn’t still be alive without his efforts.
He’d gone into the final that evening with renewed vigour, pulled out every stop he could think of. Cacalti was magnificent, even by the high standards the two of them had built before. Every spin, every pirouette, every successful move, it had been the greatest rush he could imagine. Everything had been inch-perfect and when the points had gone to him, when the crowds had burst into ecstatic applause as the judges had named him their winner, he’d run onto the stage and chest bumped Cacalti. He wished he could bottle the feeling to sup over and over in times of crisis.
That had played well with those watching at home. His approval ratings had gone up. It didn’t mean a damn thing really, not in any real physical way. It didn’t impact how good you were at the art or how many credits you made. Yet some did use that to judge how successful you were. If people liked you, they were more likely to watch your performances. If they watched your performances, the more views the broadcasters got. The more they got, the more credits they put up to get the right to show it. The more credits, the bigger the purse. The bigger the purse, the bigger the cut. The bigger the cut, the more credits in the hand of the winner. Simple mathematics really.
“I guess, just wow, how super honoured am I to win such a fab tournament.” That had been the first line of his victory speech and despite the serious news he’d been dealt earlier, he hadn’t been able to entirely stop grinning at the way the people were chanting his name, Har-vey, Har-vey, Har-vey! Hearing it over and over again made him feel like the most popular man in the kingdoms. His face had taken on a serious note as he studied the thick black eye with something he hoped approached detachment. “This would have been one of the greatest days of my life. It would have been, I mean it. But…” He’d let a note of sorrow slip into his voice, his face turning almost to tears. Screwing his eyes up hurt, he could just about see the blinking red light letting him know that all this was going out live to everyone watching. “But, it comes on a day of bad news for me, the worst I’ve ever had.”
The crowd went silent at that and he had to smile inwardly as he looked back on that memory, months later. Suckers. Get them on your side, it’s like herding cats at first but it’s twice as rewarding when everything lines up and you reap your rewards for it.
“I just heard this morning…” He’d paused, looked up and around, threatened to blink back tears that weren’t quite coming. He dug his nails into the palm of his hand, hoped that made him look suitably pained enough to make the point. Didn’t quite cry. Didn’t quite draw blood either. It’d have to do. He let a little cough slip into his voice, a choke that could have been mistaken for a sob. He’d always thought his acting talents mediocre at best, but people always seemed to want to fall for it. Maybe he was better than he realised.
Or maybe people were just stupid sheep looking for a flock to follow. They’d follow anyone willing to stick their head above the parapet and call themselves a shepherd. Maybe they were that fucking stupid!
“I just heard this morning…” Another dramatic choke. A hand to the eye. A sniffle and he managed to force the next words out. “Oh Divines, I just heard this morning that my mother, my dearest, sweetest mother has maybe months to live. My mother who never had one harsh word for me…”
Not technically a lie. Her insults had always come in strings of three or more. Appearance, attitude and sexuality were always her favourites to bring up. She was lucky really, she’d reached the point where a horrible disease was going to kill her. His control was absolute. He’d wanted to kill for less. Yet he’d never thought about laying a hand on her, much to his horror as that realisation had dawned on him. She’d probably call him chickenshit for it. Not even the bollocks to put someone out of their misery. He could hear it now and it made him want to put his eardrums out in defence of his sanity.
“… I can’t do this right now!” He put both hands to his eyes, let his shoulders shake. Some people in the crowd were muttering, he couldn’t hear any sobs but that was to be expected. At least they were still silent, they hadn’t started to jeer so they didn’t think he was making it up. That was good. Moments like this when dancers had emotional breakdowns could go either way with a crowd. If they believed it, there was sympathy. If they didn’t, it got ugly. If they believed it and it turned out to be a lie, things got even uglier when it came to light.
“This cheque will go a way to helping her but it’s not enough. Right now, it feels like whatever I do, it won’t be enough. I want to be by her side, I want to be here in front of you all making the credits to pay for treatment. What do I do? I don’t know.” His voice had gone low, he was horrified to find he actually meant some of the words. Sympathy bloomed like a fire flower in his stomach, sweet but sickly in its sudden drip through his system. What the fuck was wrong with him? He hated the bitch, wouldn’t piss on her if she was on fire. Why was he feeling like this? It wasn’t natural.
The tears had come, this time for real, he’d taken the cheque and beat a hasty retreat off the stage, slipping back towards the locker room. The first beats of applause had come as he stepped off the stage. There were no cheers, no shots of his name or screams of adulation. He would have liked that but instead the applause was heavy with respect, fifty thousand men, women and children thundering their approval towards his situation. His arms were shaking, threatening to drop his giant prize and he was silently urging himself not to do it. It wouldn’t look great. Or maybe it’d make it look that little more real. Appearances were everything after all. If people believed that what they saw was what they got, they went home happy. They didn’t question things.
No doubt he’d suffer for this little stunt. If Lola had seen it, she’d probably refute it just to spite him, just to make him pay for some past slight. There were plenty of them, he knew that. He and his sister had been like a pair of wildcats back in the day, feral and furious in their competition with each other. She’d do something to him, he’d do something back to her, meaner and nastier. Slowly it became a game of escalation and it would end in tears. Sometimes him, usually her.
All siblings fought but their games had a nasty edge to them that nobody could ever quite predict the outcome to. He’d nearly stabbed her once, had been locked in the cellar for three weeks as punishment after his sister had been permitted to beat him with a steel rod as reparation while his hands and legs had been held down. She’d hit him so many times in the stomach and the groin he’d pissed blood for the first of those three weeks.
In later months, when he took to approaching callers and dancers to recruit to Coppinger’s private army, he could appreciate the way that his future had taken shape by the way he found the figure stood waiting for him in the locker room. Harvey had never seen him before, although he had to concede that he was one cute bastard. He had the sort of tanned good looks about him that Harvey had always envied. He was short though, Harvey towered over him and his hair could have powered a speeder for a good few minutes, such was the quantity of oil pressed within it. One minute, he hadn’t been expecting him and the next, he was there, a presence in his life.
“That was an outstanding little speech you just gave,” the short man said. “I have to say.” He had to be from Serran with an accent like that, somewhere towards the southern peninsulas, Harvey would have guessed. Where the days were warm, and the fruits were thick with sweet juice that exploded all over your chi
n when you bit into it.
“You are, Sweetums?” Harvey asked. He waved a finger at him. Some of his old bravado felt like it was coming back to him following his little emotional outburst out there. He felt himself again, the shaking had ceased, and he no longer felt the urge to weep. Instead, that sorrow had been replaced with disgust, not just with himself but that this stranger had gotten in here without so much as an invite. Not that he wouldn’t have invited him in, but that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t the point at all. Principles beat points any day. “You shouldn’t be in here. Competitors only, my dear.”
“Cut the crap, Mister Rocastle. You make this big friendly face to people, mix the threats in with the flamboyance and people don’t realise it.”
“I don’t make threats, dearie. I don’t need to.” Big smile as he said it, then he swallowed it down in bemusement. Did he really do that? Was he that easy to read? If he was, then how come nobody else had managed it beyond this strange man? “After all, what threat could little old me provide to someone?”
The man didn’t laugh, though he looked like he might well want to. Instead, he straightened out his lapels. “You had people believing you, you know?”
“What’s to believe?” Harvey had said. “It’s true. My sister called me earlier.” The bitch, he wanted to add, but restrained himself. It wouldn’t be good to expose his true feelings in front of this stranger. He could be a journalist out to make a quick credit off him and that wouldn’t do. Exposing himself in the dirty glare of the media would be a fool’s task.
“What disease?” It sounded like he cared for a moment, the short man closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Sorry, that’s none of my business, I’ll understand if you don’t want to share.”
“I don’t. Besides, she didn’t tell me.” It felt shameful even admitting that silently to himself, never mind out loud. He wanted to tell someone though. Wanted to get it off his chest, hells maybe he just wanted some sympathy. He’d gotten fuck-all of it in his life to this point, it might be nice for a change. “Four words, then she hung up.”
The short man whistled. “What a cunt.”
Harvey’s eyes twitched at that, he almost burst out laughing. It was a little juvenile to find it funny, a bad word, time to split my sides. It felt apt though. He’d had those feelings about Lola himself at one time or another, more than once, many, many times more than once. Screw it, he did let go with a giggle that echoed eerily in the enclosed space of the locker room.
“Harsh,” he said, eventually. “That’s my sister. I’m the only one who gets to describe her thus.” He stuck out a hand. “So, what do I call you, handsome?”
If he was unsettled or offended, he didn’t show it. He took the hand, gripped it firmly and shook with a warm smile on his face. He had the sort of hand Harvey liked. Masculine. Rough. Warm. Not a hint of sweat. “My name’s Joaquin Costa. Not that people ever call me that. They call me Jake. Makes it easier to get a foot in the door some places, you know what I mean? They think you’re something you’re not… I probably don’t have to tell you, do I?”
“Nice to meet you, Jake,” Harvey said. “Or Joaquin… I could get used to calling a man that. Lovely name. Feels great in my mouth.” He gave him a wicked grin. Not that Jake showed even any sort of recognition to it. Harvey felt the corners of his mouth curl up in delight. Teasing little bastard. Playing hard to hump. “But I’ve got to ask what you want from me. You show up… Did someone pay you to be here? A little congratulatory gift for winning here… Is Selena watching with a recorder?” He glanced around the room, made a playful show of doing it.
“As I was saying, you had people believing your story. Didn’t matter if it was true or not, you put it out there and they wanted to believe that what you said was the truth. You showed them an exposed part of yourself and they took you to their hearts. I was in here. I’ve never heard a reaction like that. Ever. It was spooky. Just pure sadness. You did a great bit of manipulation there, though I can’t work out what your plan was going to be.”
“Who said I have a plan, Sweetums?” Harvey asked, mock-innocence in his voice. He layered it on thick, put on a puzzled expression to accompany it. He tried to ignore the surprise at how natural it felt “Just hurting. Just wanted to…”
“Don’t start crying again.” No hint of begging, just hard words. “I didn’t buy it the first time, I’m not going to a second either. You want to know what I think?”
Harvey shrugged, started to undo the taut buttons across his great belly. The strain at the front of his belly was immense, the seams of his jacket sighed with relief as the buttons were permitted a respite from their thankless task. “I think I’m going to get changed, then find somewhere to take my giant cheque to transform it into credits. When I walk out of here, I’m going to forget what you’ve said but probably not your face, darling. I’m sure I’ll see that every time I close my eyes and slip a hand down beneath the cover for some fun.” He bared his teeth in a grin. “Anyone ever wanked themselves off over you, Jake?”
“I couldn’t possibly comment on that,” Jake said. That sense of self-control was starting to irritate now. He looked like he had it all together and that fucked Harvey right off. He wanted people to have a part of them that was a hot mess. They needed to be as fucked up as him, there had to be a small side to them that was just broken beyond repair. Everyone had the potential for it. “But I do know how you can make enough credits for your mother to enjoy her last days in peace, however many days she may or may not have left.”
That had caught his attention. And the rest was history.
He liked this room on the ship. His nerve centre for what he did. He had inherited it from the previous director of the Angels program, had very quickly set about putting his own stamp on things. He’d never met the previous director, but he’d read the meagre notes left behind. The Mistress might have done many things right but her initial choice for the role had been a poor one. He’d not had the stomach for it that Harvey knew he had. He’d just been a scout initially, see what he could scrape up out of the dregs of the Quin-C and he’d taken those names, he’d vetted them, and they’d wound up in the program. All to be the best that they could be for a woman who’d taken them in when a kingdom no longer cared for or wanted them.
Things had changed and him with them. The previous director had gotten into a disagreement with Domis, thought himself tougher than he really was, and the injuries had killed him. Hota had told Harvey in a moment of melancholy that it was like he’d fallen into farming machinery. There was an object lesson in that. Don’t fuck with Domis. Even before he’d gotten his injuries, he’d fancied himself as a tough guy. He was big, and he could throw a punch, but he would rather go another few rounds with Roper, before he took a crack at the Mistress’ right hand. Considering Roper had nearly killed him, that said it all, for him. Domis didn’t even look human sometimes. Like he was violence and death personified.
Harvey pressed a few buttons, entered his passcode. He’d been overjoyed when he’d been given this office to direct operations from. He’d never expected it, the technology the role brought him into contact with was beyond his wildest dreams. He’d always enjoyed the way stuff advanced, he always had to get the newest gear despite the biggest difference often being in the price. The screens burst into life, he picked up a headset and slipped it over his head. The console was top of the line, the best that the Mistress’ credits could buy. Everything on this ship was bleeding edge, why should this stuff be any different? The Mistress wasn’t so stupid as to skimp on areas like this. It would be suicide. There were more monitors than he could count and if that wasn’t a good thing, he didn’t know what was. Each of them served a purpose, he couldn’t possibly look at them all at the same time but having the information available to him live and updated and easily accessed wasn’t something to complain about.
“This is Angel One,” he said, taking in the pictures, the eclectic-looking mansion, a dozen real-time feeds coming
in from the headsets that his angels all wore. He wanted to be able to see everything they saw, wanted to be able to play it back for them if there was a fault in what they did. They would learn, or they would die. Preferably the former but he could live with the latter if it had value. “The Mistress wants Frewster. Alive. Kill anyone else in that building.” He studied the speeder at the base of the driveway, made his choice. “Cut off any sort of escape route they might use.”
His command was obeyed in a heartbeat, the rotary cannons on the air assault ship spinning into life and he saw the rain of scarlet light up the solitary speeder, the explosion beautiful in the afternoon light. The cannon fire died away, he stroked his chin. “Excellent. Commander Saarth, you have your orders. Ensure that they are carried out. I’ll await your report.”
“Sir!” Weronika Saarth’s voice filled his headset. “We have reports that the Unisco agent Nicholas Roper is on site and engaged with the target.”
Harvey stiffened up at that. The mention of the name was enough to bring up the hairs on the back of his neck. What was he doing here?! He should have asked that man Subtractor while he’d had the chance. Of course, that would have required the services of a fortune teller and if they had one of those, things would have been different. Very different.
“Commander Saarth,” he said, trying to keep as little emotion out of his voice as possible. They weren’t the only ones who were being recorded. “You have your orders to eliminate anyone who gets in your way. He undoubtedly will try.”
Inside, Harvey was smiling. He could play these games with the best of them. All a matter of knowing which move you needed to make. He couldn’t be accused of making it personal if he didn’t treat it like it was. “Saarth,” he said, making sure to leave her rank out of it this time. Weronika Saarth had been a late addition to the program but one of the more disturbingly capable out of the lot of them. She’d been put in command of this missions. It had been jointly decided she had what they both wanted, and more crucially, what they needed. “Kill him, dearie! Permission to engage, right now.”