The Hidden World

by Melinda Snodgrass

  Outside the windows of the taxi skyscrapers reached like glass and steel talons looking to scratch the sky. Above and below them various flight lanes were filled with hundreds of flitters. Olympus, the capital city of the planet, was the League’s economic hub. Brokerage firms, large banks, and major corporations were located here. This time Tracy was on his own. There was too much security at a bank and the more people you added the more chance there was that someone would make a mistake.

  The driver took them down rather too quickly and Tracy’s stomach seemed to climb into his throat. The door irised open. He paid the driver, unlimbered his cane, and climbed out. The steel and glass doors loomed over him. “First Stellar Bank & Trust” was etched into the metal. Inside, a wall of dark glass threw back his reflection. The discreet pinstripe blue suit he wore was as good as anything draping the bodies of the bankers who moved through the space.

  His heels and the cane rapped out a syncopated rhythm on the marble floors and echoed back from the soaring vaults of the ceiling. There was a heavy human guard presence, which Tracy thought was probably more of a display of wealth and power than out of any real necessity. Tracy took the lift to the third-floor offices. A perfectly groomed male receptionist looked up, evaluated Tracy’s clothing, and assumed an obsequious expression. Tracy keyed his ScoopRing, sending over his card and the appointment time to the receptionist. The young man’s unctuous attitude faded to be replaced with a smug and supercilious look. He was clearly some younger son of an FFH asshole and the lack of a title in front of Oliver Randall’s name and who he was meeting meant Tracy wasn’t worth his time, despite the nice suit and elegant overcoat.

  The receptionist gestured idly at the chairs and a sofa. “You can wait over there.”

  Tracy shrugged out of the rich caramel-colored cashmere and Sidone-silk coat. He had found it at a flea market on one of their stops and couldn’t resist. Despite being years away from the tailor shop he was still a sucker for fine fabric. He sat down on one of the high-backed chairs to wait.

  Twenty minutes later a harried Jackson Wellborn rushed across the reception. He was puffing for he was quite a heavy man. He ran a handkerchief across his face.

  “Sorry, sorry, boss had me in a meeting. You need in your box, right?” Wellborn asked. The delivery sounded forced.

  Tracy knew some of the sweat was due to nerves. Each time they made a delivery Wellborn was even more jumpy. It was a worry. If the man cracked, it could betray them all. Tracy hurried to his feet, gave Jackson’s hand a vigorous shake, and dropped an arm over his shoulders. “Yes, and it’s so good to see you, Jackson. How’s the wife?” Tracy didn’t mention their daughter and only child. She was the reason they had this arrangement with Wellborn.

  “Fine, fine. Thanks for asking.”

  They went down to a basement floor where the safety deposit boxes were housed. Wellborn pulled out the key to open the heavy door to the vault. His hands were trembling and he almost lost his grip on the key. Tracy tensed. Then they were inside. He handed over his key and Wellborn unlocked the door behind which his box resided. Wellborn pulled the box out, sagging a bit under the weight. Truth was it only held some heavy metal engine parts, but that was necessary for the cover to work. Wellborn forgot his next line. Tracy took the lead.

  “I need a room, please.”

  “Oh, right, of course.”

  “Would you carry the box for me?” Tracy gestured toward the cane. “Bit awkward to handle with my briefcase and this.”

  “Certainly.”

  They went to one of the privacy booths. Tracy allowed the door to fall almost completely closed as Jackson set the box on the desk. No surveillance was allowed in a booth. Tracy quickly pulled the vial of medicine out of his pocket.

  Wellborn grabbed it with both hands and pressed it to his chest. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, but I don’t think I can keep doing this.”

  “Okay. Your choice.”

  A look of agony crossed his face. “But I can’t. She’s my baby. What else can I do?” He slipped the vial into his pocket and covered his face with his hands.

  Tracy felt a flash of pity for a man in such a ghastly situation and shame that he had placed Jackson in it. A desperately ill seven-year-old daughter. Only one medicine that could control her seizures and keep her alive and stable. A medicine that only the very wealthy could afford. Wellborn made enough to provide a solidly middle-class lifestyle for his wife, but not enough money to care for this fragile little girl. If he bankrupted himself and he and the family ended up on Basic, it still wouldn’t help because the public heath option was brutally practical about just how far they would go to save a single individual. Right now the cost of caring for Serena precluded Wellborn and his wife having any other children. The medical board probably believed that allowing Serena Wellborn to die would free up the family to have more and healthier children. Clearly not an outcome Wellborn could accept, so he had turned to crime.

  Tracy pushed aside his sense that he was taking advantage of a man’s desperation. “So, do you have our spikes?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  He removed a box from his breast pocket and handed it over. Tracy flipped it open. As promised it held thirty blank credit spikes like thin crystal icicles nestled in a bed of black velvet. Jackson was in charge of the manufacture and ordering of spikes to be supplied to new customers. In exchange for the medication Wellborn falsified records and skimmed off a few spikes out of the occasional shipment. Tracy put them in his briefcase.

  “Thank you. I’ll call you when I’m done,” Tracy said. Jackson left and Tracy closed the door. He waited ten minutes then opened the door and called, “All done.”

  Jackson carried the box back into the vault and returned it to its slot. Keys were turned and a key returned to Tracy. They left. They stood in silence in the elevator. The tension was palpable.

  Tracy stepped off at the lobby floor. Held the door for a moment. “Hopefully my leg will improve and I won’t require so much help from you,” Tracy said.

  Wellborn was no fool. He understood. “Does this mean you’ll be using a different bank?” His face seemed to be melting, the lips and jowls pulling down. The man’s hand went into his pocket as if to reassure himself the vial of salvation was still there.

  “No. I won’t change anything. But like I said you won’t have to help so much. Take care, Jackson.”

  Jackson slumped. His eyes brimmed with gratitude. Tracy allowed the doors to close. His other client was just going to have to work with the spikes they already possessed.

  * * *

  And she was gone. Boho had hoped for a press event at the spaceport. A place for him to show his support and affection, send the message that she was trusting him with the harder task—to remain, and hold the reins of government. Instead she had ordered the shuttle to land on the dusty chaparral east of the palace but still on palace grounds. The smell of burned chamisa and sage filled his nostrils. His ears still rang with the roar of the shuttle’s rockets firing. In the distance a single aria gave a tentative and nervous chirp, testing to see if it was safe to sing again.

  The only people present were their security details, Davin, Jaakon, and Kemel. The presence of his erstwhile wingman added to Boho’s sense of misuse. Davin had always been the one most ready for high jinks and mischief, but he had become so staid, distant, and, Boho suspected, disapproving. As if they hadn’t chased pussy together back in their salad days.

  Jaakon had gone forward to talk with Ian Rogers, the captain of Mercedes’ guard. Kemel was on his ScoopRing in conference with someone. Boho fell into step with Davin. “Are you hungry? I didn’t get breakfast this morning.”

  Boho watched the hesitation, then Davin nodded. “Bit late for me, but sure. Then I have to get back to headquarters.”

  “Work, work, work. Don’t you delegate?” Boho said lightly.

  “No,” was the humorless response. “See you at the palace.”

  “Let’s go
into the city. Puts you closer to fleet headquarters and frankly I’m sick of the place. I could use some new faces,” Boho said.

  That did get a quick smile. “You always were restive.”

  “Gotta stay ahead of angry husbands and delante del diablo, hombre.” Boho knew it was a provocative statement and the inclusion of the Devil at the end wasn’t going to make it any better. He wasn’t quite sure why he had said it. Then Davin’s expression stiffened and the surge of satisfaction was balm to Boho’s bruised ego. Ah, that’s why I said it.

  Boho selected the café with the usual blanching from his security detail. It was a busy place between the two major universities that catered to a young, noisy, and exuberant crowd and stayed open all night serving not only full meals but teeth-achingly strong coffee and hot beignets fresh out of the oven every thirty minutes or so. His fingers were already dusted with powdered sugar as he munched the pastries and waited for Davin to arrive.

  Mercedes wasn’t wrong that he was popular and one reason for that was his refusal to accept the royal cage. He made a point to go out in public and connect with people… and have people connect with him, he added to himself, as he watched one particularly curvaceous girl walk past. His presence was noted and a few of the youngsters gave him shy hellos, but these were people of his own class and they were too polite to interrupt. His security tried to blend in; some of the younger SPI agents were also eyeing the girls and a few were exchanging information. The older agents were focused more on the coffee and pastries.

  And it wasn’t like he was in any danger in this part of the city. The patrons were a mix of upper middle-class children who weren’t subject to the Rule of Service, and members of the FFH who had washed out of the High Ground at the end of the first year. Young men with cock-of-the-walk struts passing back and forth in front of giggling girls, jackets thrown casually over their right shoulders. Most of the girls had alien chaperones and shopping bags at their feet. The boys’ jackets bore the patches of their universities sewn over breast pockets.

  Boho blew across the surface of his coffee and watched the flirting language. Once he had been among the young men who flicked their jackets like a matador’s cape while girls expressed their interest by shifting one of the small demitasse cups either left or right. At a ball it was harder, for a gentleman couldn’t remove his coat. There one had to communicate with looks. The ladies had the advantage: they had their fans and an elaborate code to go along with each open, close, snap, and flutter.

  Davin arrived, but his head was down and he was studying his ScoopRing. There was a frown between his brows accentuating the furrows and the wrinkles around his eyes. We’re getting old, Boho realized and pushed it away, hating the very idea. Davin muted his ring and slid into the chair across from Boho. He ordered a Turkish coffee from the Isanjo waiter. Boho pushed the plate of beignets toward Davin. He waved them off, the lights in his artificial hand flaring at the movement, and patted his gut.

  “No thanks, gotta watch the waistline.” Again the reminder. Boho’s irritation increased.

  An awkward silence followed. “Remember when we used to go for late-night coffee in the Plaza del Oro,” Boho began. “What was that place called? We picked up those two girls from the Sacred Heart High School. One of them could suck the—”

  Davin leaned across the table. His elbow ended up in some spilled sugar. “Look, Boho, let’s cut the crap here. We’re not sixteen any longer, and this walk down memory lane is tedious, and a waste of my time. So why are we here?”

  If Mercedes’ Siamese cat had picked up a gun and assaulted him Boho couldn’t have been more startled. Davin and Clark had been his closest friends. His thoughts ground ashore on that final word. Had they been? Really? His entourage had been there to direct the prettiest girls in his direction, set him up as the smartest guy in the room. Had they merely been foils? Mirrors to reflect back his own magnificence? That conclusion burned and he shied away, taking refuge in anger.

  “We were friends. Since I’m stuck here I thought—”

  “I’m going to give you some advice, Boho. Put your nose to the fucking grindstone and do the work. It’s not glamorous, no one applauds and no one salutes. The hours are shitty. I know because sometimes I’ve had to report to Mercedes at nine, ten at night and she’s still in the office doing the business of government, but the work has to get done.”

  Boho leaned in close. “I should have been in charge of the strike force. While she’s been pushing files I’ve been commanding ships, leading men—”

  “Degrading star command. Who do you think brought the information about the promotions board corruption to the Infanta?”

  “You dare to make these accusations against me? I’ll challenge—”

  “Oh, please. We’re not at the academy and play acting at dueling. And once Mercedes and I discussed the situation it was pretty damn clear that you were involved. So, no, we’re not friends. You’ve dishonored the corps, and humiliated your wife.” Davin stood. “You can’t charm your way out of this, Boho. You’ll have to work to regain my respect. Until that happens friendship is way off the table. Thanks for the coffee.”

  He left, shoulders back, the impeccably cut uniform molding to his body, the artificial hand flashing fire as if reflecting Davin’s anger. Boho took a reflexive bite of a beignet and gagged at the taste of congealed grease, sugar, and… shame.

  11

  TO OUR SWORDS NEVER DRAWN WITHOUT CAUSE OR SHEATHED WITHOUT HONOR

  Freehold was one of the stops on what Jax had dubbed their “shadow run.” It was a Hidden World that truly was hidden in that the star and its planets were nestled in the middle of a dense cloud of interstellar dust. The planet was a “Goldilocks” world with abundant water, fertile soil, and rich mineral deposits so the colony had a powerful manufacturing base. The settlers had been a highly educated group that had been part of the small Mars colony established by Elon Musk back in the twenty-first century. They were tech savvy and had a strong space program that they used exclusively inside the confines of their system. They weren’t going to risk discovery by taking unknown ships into League space.

  There was certain high-tech equipment that Freehold needed, but where it didn’t make sense to create the manufacturing base to support those items. So over the years the Selkie had ferried a few passengers from Freehold into League space so they could purchase said items. Hence the need for credit spikes already pre-loaded with League Reals. The other major item the Selkie traded with Freehold were sim games. The planet did have a growing entertainment sector, but they weren’t ready to make the kind of elaborate multi-hour games that were created in League space, and they didn’t have the sophisticated suits that gave the experience the feeling of reality.

  They had landed at the Tesla spaceport and now the entire crew was enjoying a night out with their clients. And night it was. Tracy had grown up on Ouranos where the nearby nebula was far enough away that it was simply a unique and beautiful feature in one part of the night sky, albeit a bright one. Add to that Ouranos’s three moons and it was rare to have a truly dark night. Here on Freehold it was a moonless night, and embedded as it was in a nebula, the night sky was stygian black shot through with the occasional meteor shower. It was certainly dramatic, but Tracy found it claustrophobic. He shook off his discomfort and followed his crew to their rented car.

  The Freeholders hadn’t gone to flitters. Instead they still used wheeled vehicles. Luis had taken their rented electric car out of self-drive mode and was almost giggling with delight at playing racecar driver. Tracy clutched at the panic strap over the door after the younger man took one turn at a particularly high rate of speed. Jahan’s tail wrapped around the headrest, four of Graarack’s claws were clinging to the fabric in the roof of the car, and Dalea had wrapped her arms around Jax to hold him steady.

  “Slow down!” Jax fluted.

  “Sorry, this thing just has mad cornering skills,” Baca replied.

  “Well, something
is mad,” the plant-like alien huffed.

  They reached the Moroccan restaurant, ordered the car to park itself and went inside. The owner escorted them through heavy red velvet drapes and led them to a private room where their contacts waited. Walter Fineman was a tech mogul turned senator, Shaniqua Parris was a top economic advisor to the planet’s president. Shaniqua could have passed for a League citizen with her black hair, brown eyes, and dark skin. Walter had bright golden hair, startlingly blue eyes, and skin so white he seemed albino. After the annexation of Yggdrasil the presence of blue eyes and fair hair wasn’t quite as unusual as it had been, but it was still rare. Tracy was a watered-down version with his dishwater-blond hair, gray eyes, and dark ivory skin.

  Hugs and handshakes were exchanged, and Tracy settled onto a pillow on the floor. Dalea’s long legs were folded awkwardly, and both Tracy and Luis shifted to try and find a place for their feet and legs. Jax, Jahan, and Graarack had no trouble. A soft-footed waiter entered with the silver basin and ewer so they could wash their hands. Tracy studied the menu and selected the chicken with olives and lemon for his main course. He knew he was going to overeat since a Moroccan meal always included soup, bread, cold vegetables, and bisteeya, the Moroccan version of a chicken pie. He also added a side of spicy harissa. He had always loved hot and spicy food, though his gut objected more often now. Jax asked for a glass of mineral water and dithered between the light choices that were offered. He finally settled on the full spectrum. Beer, tea, and wine and Jax’s lamp were delivered. The waiters left and Tracy handed over the case of credit spikes.

  “I’m afraid this will be the last shipment. My source is… well, let’s just say I can’t put the guy through it any longer. He’s starting to crack and he could bring down himself and us.”