by Loren Walker
* * *
As the Arazura took to the sky, and finally switched to autopilot, Renzo proceeded to change every registration, connection code, theory and mention of them in the public network. He activated a shield around the Arazura that Phaira hadn’t known about, one that would detect any foreign presence or infiltration. Up in the sky, at least, they were safe. Phaira didn’t know where they should go next, but as long as they stayed off the ground, she could concentrate on her superficial wounds and go over the details of what happened with Renzo.
Theron’s head wound was not as bad as it looked, just a deep gash across the forehead. He was otherwise unhurt. Now Theron and Jetsun had shut themselves away in the Arazura's lower training area. Phaira didn’t have the energy to barge in and insist that she be a part of the conversation they were likely having. So she had CaLarca stand watch, with instructions to let Phaira know when they emerged again.
In the meantime, Phaira had Renzo's full attention as he tended to her wounds in her cabin. When she removed her shirt sleeves, her arms were crisscrossed with scratches, some pink, some red, some white from the fight. Her knee ached.
If Sydel were here, Phaira thought, wincing, she could wave her hand and everything would be gone and painless.
But she wasn’t, so it was back to the tried-and-true method of iodine, hydrogen peroxide, and her brother’s clumsy fingers. As he worked, Phaira held out her arms and spilled out her observations:
“…razor-tipped fingers, that’s got to have been noticed by someone. Dressed in all red, too; it might be a gang affiliation, or have some meaning we can trace. I got a few cuts in; didn’t slow it down, I don't know why, but there must be blood on that carpet somewhere. If we can get a trace of it, maybe we can get a genetic hit.”
She bit her lip, thinking. “Whoever, whatever, this assassin is, they were predictable up until tonight. But now, going after random people; the only pattern left is the method, the viciousness - ”
This is over our heads,” Renzo interrupted.
When she glanced at him, surprised, he was looking over his glasses at her, his face pained and drawn. “Even yours.”
“It’s really not,” Phaira reasoned. “Besides, we can’t back out now. Not when something like that is out there.” She gestured at her arms. “I’ve seen worse, believe me. You have to get used to the sight, Ren, this is part of the job.”
“I don’t like this,” he muttered. “I don’t like being responsible for healing you up.”
“There’s something else, Ren.” She lowered her voice even more. “It disappeared.”
To her delight, his response was immediate. “Cloaking?”
Phaira grinned. “Like the old stealthsuit,” she confirmed. “Same shimmer, same crackle. Do you still have it?” The suit had shorted out in the Kings Canyon, weeks ago, in the middle of the great battle. She hadn’t seen it since then.
“Have it?” Renzo smirked. “I’m working on applying its characteristics to the Arazura.”
Then he went quiet, affixing white bandages to her arms. “But I think - I think we need more help,” he finally admitted.
“Renzo, no.”
“We need everyone we can get for this, anyone we can get who is trustworthy -”
“We can’t bring Sydel back,” Phaira interrupted. “It’s not fair. She’s got her own life now. Cohen, too.”
“If we told them what was happening, if we asked - ”
“It’s not up to us. You heard Theron. He wants to keep the circle tight.”
“Since when do you listen to anyone's instructions? You can't - ”
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Phaira and Renzo went quiet.
Jetsun appeared in the doorway. She had brushed out her bouffant, tied back her hair in a ponytail, and borrowed some of Phaira’s clothes; in this guise, she looked young, like a college student. Her skin was also sallow, a tinge of green around her mouth.
“You need something?” Renzo was the first to break the silence. “Anti-nausea pills? You look like you’re going to be sick.”
Jetsun nodded. Renzo shuffled through his first-aid kit, and handed over a few plastic capsules. She swallowed them dry. Then she crossed her arms and hunched over herself.
“Start doing some research,” Phaira told her older brother. “See if you can find any hits on the network on anything: the claws, the red, anything.”
“And when you can talk,” she said to Jetsun, “I need names of Theron’s contacts, old friends, family members, anyone and everyone you can think of.”
Jetsun made a face. “Why?”
Then the Arazura dipped a few feet, and everyone’s stomach lifted, and it looked like Jetsun’s was about to come out of her mouth.
“I also need a list of people he’s been involved with,” Phaira added.
“Why are you asking her?”
The slim white bandage was bright across Theron's dark forehead. He’d removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves; there were bruises on his forearms, ones that Phaira tried not to look at too closely.
“Are you - willing to disclose that kind of - information?” Renzo stuttered.
Theron jerked his head at Jetsun. “More than she would be.”
"Because your personal life is none of their business,” Jetsun croaked.
“They’re my friends,” Theron said.
And no one, including Phaira, seemed to know how to respond to that.
* * *
At first, Jetsun insisted on being present at the interview, but the ship hit a patch of rough air, and she quickly retreated into Phaira’s cabin. Occasionally, Phaira heard her nattering into her Lissome, giving orders, followed by the sound of moaning and retching. And Renzo was in the cockpit with CaLarca, keeping inside the clouds. Both seemed to realize that this delicate exchange of names was something to be done in private.
Phaira and Theron took their positions, sitting on either side of the common room table as if playing a game. So far, though, neither had started the conversation. She was doing her best not to fidget, running her fingers over the edge of her Lissome. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. How much was he going to reveal? Phaira wondered, eyeing him from across the table. And how much will I reveal in return?
Activating her Lissome, Phaira slid on her reading glasses. “So do we start with enemies, friends, or lovers?” she quipped.
“When did you get those?” He gestured at the frames.
“Recently,” she said, self-conscious. “Why?”
“They’re kind of adorable.”
“Theron - ”
“Just saying.”
“We need to focus." At the same time, her thoughts were racing. How easy and familiar it was to talk to each other, even after weeks. Natural, even.
Theron leaned back in his chair. “Fine. People I know. Anandi and Emir Ajyo. Jetsun. Detective Ozias. My grandfather. Kadise.”
“You know none of those are suspects,” Phaira retorted. “Tell me who you’ve been romantically involved with.”
He eyed her with suspicion.
“I don’t care how many girlfriends you’ve had, Theron. But I suspect one of them is leaving you little bloody hearts, so stop protecting them.”
“I’m not,” he shot back. “I just don’t believe it.”
“Let’s rule them out officially, then, and see if I recognize any of them.”
“Yeah, that’s not awkward at all,” Theron muttered, crossing his arms.
“You’re acting like I’m your girlfriend,” Phaira said pointedly. “When I’m not.”
“So what is this, then?” he asked, his index finger flicking between him and her.
“A business arrangement. Until things are resolved.”
“And then what?”
She meant what she said, though, and said nothing. She had to keep things professional. Separate.
“I’ve only had one girlfriend,” Theron finally spoke. “Gesminna Ferri. But that was years ago. She’s married now, wit
h kids.”
“Did it end badly?"
“I didn’t end it, if that’s what you’re wondering."
“No reason why she would be bearing a grudge?”
“I would be the one bearing the grudge, not her.”
“So she’s a cheat, then.”
Theron frowned. “I didn’t say that.”
“It’s pretty obvious, Theron. Being so vague.”
“I was young,” was his only response. “I learned a lot.”
“Who else?” she pressed. “I have a hard time believing that she's the only one you’ve been involved with.”
“Why?”
What kind of question is that? she wondered. Is he looking for compliments? He had to know that he was intelligent, wealthy, tall and good-looking. It was a game, it had to be a game, or some means to make her vulnerable. She kept her mouth shut.
After a long silence, Theron shrugged. “Well, I’ve had a few flings.”
“How many, and how recent?”
Theron huffed. “Just in the past few months.”
“Besides me,” she reminded him, keeping her voice quiet, in case someone was listening.
To her surprise, his cheeks colored. “I don’t call that a fling,” he mumbled.
The base of her throat prickled. If I had the courage, she thought, strangely pleased at the revelation. If we were in different circumstances…
“There were a lot of arranged dates.” His words broke her reverie. “Bianco’s choice. Maybe ten different women.”
“Just dates?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“Nothing of substance.”
A very male thing to say, Phaira thought, a little amused. If he was worried about her being upset, though, he was mistaken. She’d been just as tempted for human company on her travels south, just too paranoid to take advantage. There was a difference between sex and connection. Still, there was something flattering about his careful vagueness.
A question rose in her head. “That gold gun of yours. I couldn’t pull the trigger. Why?”
Theron studied her for a few seconds. Then he lifted his right hand, so the ring on his middle finger caught the light. “Sentry model,” he said. “Custom-built for every Sava member. The safety only releases in proximity to the ring.”
“That would have been good to know, Theron. And that you were carrying,” Phaira added pointedly.
“It didn’t matter, I - ”
THUMP.
Theron heard it too. They both looked to the ceiling.
Then the beeping noise started.
Phaira and Theron swiveled, staring at the console that lined the common room. Every three seconds, a red light flashed. What signal was that? Phaira had never seen it before.
Then Renzo burst through, holding onto the doorframe with white knuckles.
“Breach,” he panted. “There’s a breach.”
Phaira shoved off her chair. “Where?”
Renzo stumbled past her to the console, where he brought up the Arazura’s schematics. There was a flashing light in one of the small storage compartments, near the front of the ship.
“But w-we’re in flight,” Renzo stammered. “It’s not possible.”
Another thump; this time, the sound echoed through the ventilation system.
“Get Jetsun and get downstairs. Now,” Phaira ordered.
The screech of metal on metal made all three gasp. The position had changed; the sound was coming from outside the common room.
Phaira darted over the threshold and into the corridor, staring up at the curves of the ceiling.
The metal panels shuddered, one corner buckling.
Something was boring its way down.
They were trapped, in flight, in a narrow metal missile. Too many people to protect. No choice. They had to evacuate.
At the other end of the hallway, CaLarca’s pale face appeared. “What’s wrong? What's that beeping sound?”
“Go downstairs, activate the escape pod and get ready to jettison,” Phaira ordered. “I'll send everyone down your way.”
The woman’s black eyes flicked to the ceiling. “Someone’s in there,” she confirmed. “Do you see red?
“Not yet,” Phaira said impatiently. “It doesn’t matter. Do what I told you."
CaLarca’s cane flashed as she made her way to the stairwell. Renzo appeared then, his arm around Jetsun, whose face was bright white with fear. Phaira directed them to follow CaLarca downstairs.
“I can’t. My ship,” Renzo said weakly. "I can't leave it behind."
An idea flashed in her head. “Anandi hacked into the ship’s sound system and that pulse weapon remotely,” Phaira recalled. “Back in Toomba. Could she do it again, and land the Arazura?"
“Maybe… I think so…"
“When you launch the pod, send a distress call to her, and - ”
Renzo gaped at her. “You’re not staying here.”
“I'll be the last to board,” Phaira said, glancing up at the ceiling again.
If you can get away, her mind whispered. You know you can’t defeat that thing.
“You’re not doing this alone," Theron broke in. "I'm staying, too."
In one swift motion, she had his Sentry handgun, the barrel pressed to Theron’s chest. “You’re not.”
“What are you doing?” Renzo yelped.
But Theron didn’t move, a puzzled look on his face. It was almost endearing.
“Give me the ring, and let me do my job,” she told him. “Please. Go.”
“Theron, come on,” Jetsun pleaded, pulling at his sleeve. “It’s fine, I won’t tell anyone she used it.”
Slowly, Theron pulled the gold ring off his finger, and dropped it into Phaira’s waiting hand. It was warm, and heavier than she expected.
Then Theron turned away and descended the staircase. Jetsun and Renzo followed. When they were clear, Phaira hit the access panel. The door slid shut.
The main floor of the Arazura was hers.
She switched the Sentry to her left hand as she slid the ring onto her thumb, the only finger that the ring would stay on. Then she grabbed the blade from her right boot, and listened to the hiss of air from the ventilation systems; the faint clicking sounds below as the ship shifted its gears; the drip of the faucet in the tiny kitchen area. From even farther away, there was a loud roar of rushing air; the hole bored into the top of the Arazura, she figured, open and buckling in the wind.
The breach alarm continued to beep every three seconds.
She quieted her breath into nothing, and waited.
More sounds, like a handful of nails thrown into the ceiling above. Then a low, slow whine of metal on metal, ripping apart.
And the shadow dropped down, ten feet away from Phaira, its weight rattling the floor as it landed.
The fluorescent lights in the Arazura made it possible for Phaira to finally catalogue the thing’s physical appearance. Human, in some form. Face hidden by a metal mask, body and head swathed in red cloth. Long arms that ended in metal-clawed fingers, already fluttering with anticipation. About her height, but a far bulkier frame, she noted. In fact, it was uneven; one shoulder was larger than the other, as was one arm. Mutated? Some kind of implants, sloppily done?
The red assassin tilted its head like an animal, its shoulders rolling slowly, one after another. Phaira had no idea who this was, what this was, or who this used to be, but it was there before her, and everyone else was below, and she had to give them time to escape.
Phaira squeezed the Sentry trigger. The sound banged through the Arazura, gunpowder shocking the air. A test in the light, to see if it bled or if it was made of machine.
The Red staggered back, the fabric torn in its chest, wound smoking, wetness spreading.
Then it leapt. Phaira arched back, the whoosh of claws an inch from her throat. She spun, and took the offensive. Parrying, punching, kicking, grabbing and avoiding, lost in the blur of aggression, the quick rhythm of the dance, but aware of no voices,
she realized, or even breathing from the Red. There were just strange gurgling sounds from the assassin as it caught Phaira, again and again, with the tips of those claws, her thigh, her stomach, her arm, the edge of her ear. Her own staggered breath echoed off the walls, disorienting her.
The Red slashed at her wrists, and the Sentry and blade flew away.
Then the Red had a hold of her, its claw like a cold spider latched to her forehead, pushing her backwards, pushing the back of her skull into the wall. Held in place, Phaira kicked and twisted, trying to connect with any part that might be vulnerable; straining to hold back the other metal hand that inched closer, ready to rip through her throat. But her head was being crushed in its unyielding palm, the smell of rotten breath and sharp chemicals was overwhelming, and even the metal mask was a now bloody shade of red, growing darker, as its fingertips pierced the edge of her throat….
Suddenly the Red roared and its grip loosened, just enough for Phaira to shake back her senses, slip away from its hands, and roll to the other side of the corridor. As she did, strong hands grabbed her under the arms.
Before her, the Red was buckling, snarling, trying to grab something in its back.
The hilt of her dropped knife, she realized, and Theron’s hands dragging her backwards.
Despite all her training, he was still taller and stronger than her, and Phaira was too surprised to react as he tossed her down the open stairwell.
Phaira rolled, banging her head twice on the steps before catching herself. Theron stood at the top of the stairs.
Then his whole body jolted.
A choking sound erupted from his mouth. His hands twitched over his chest.
“No!” Phaira gasped, scrambling back up the stairs.
But Theron slammed the access panel with his fist.
Phaira leapt forward and grabbed the door’s edges to stop it from latching. The door shuddered in place. Her muscles screamed at her to stop. The mechanics yanked in protest. Then there was another pair of hands underneath hers, pale and tinted blue at the fingertips: CaLarca on the step below her, her teeth gritted, pulling along with Phaira. The groan of metal was horrible, and finally ended with a jerk as the access panel broke off its track, and there was just enough room for Phaira to slip through.