The Mammoth Book of SF Wars

by Ian Whates

She walked with Macnamara to the cab rank and got a cab. He sat next to Sula in the seat, arms crossed, staring straight forward. One muscle in his jaw worked continually.

  “So what’s your problem?” Sula demanded.

  “Nothing,” he said. “My lady.”

  “Good!” she said. “Because if there’s anything I don’t need, it’s more fucking problems.”

  They sat in stony silence. Sula had the cab let her off two streets from her apartment. Rain had started again, and she had to sprint, her jacket pulled over her head.

  Inside she tossed the wet wig onto the back of her chair and combed her short, dyed hair. She considered checking the news, but decided against it, knowing the news would only further irritate her. She settled for a long bath instead.

  After her bath she wrapped herself in a robe and went to the front room. The rain was still pouring down. For a long moment she watched the beads of water that snaked down the window.

  While watching the water an idea occurred to her.

  “Ah. Hah,” she said. The idea seemed an attractive one. She examined it carefully, probing it with her mind like a tongue examining the gap left by a missing tooth.

  The idea began to seem better and better. She got a fresh piece of paper and a pen and outlined it, along with all possible ramifications.

  There wasn’t a problem that she could see. Nor a way it could be traced to her.

  She destroyed the paper, leaving no evidence of her scheme. She looked at her right thumb, the thick pad of scar tissue where her print had once been.

  It was very important that she not leave her fingerprints on this one.

  In the morning she made deliveries with Spence and Macnamara. Macnamara was a little stiff but at least he wasn’t too visibly sulking.

  In the afternoon she went to the Petty Mount for a shopping expedition, and wore the result to meet Casimir at the Cat Street Club. She was late and, as she approached the club with her large shoulder bag banging her hip with every stride, she found Casimir pacing the pavement next to the apricot-coloured car. He was scowling down at the ground, and his coat floated behind him like a cloak.

  He looked up at her, and relief flooded his face. Then he saw how she was dressed, in a long coat, black, covered with shiny six-pointed particoloured stars, like a rainbow snowfall.

  “You got a coat like mine,” he said, surprised.

  “Yes. We need to talk.”

  “We can talk in the car.” He stepped towards the car door.

  “No. I need more privacy than that. Let’s try your office.”

  Petulance tugged at his lip. “We’re already late.”

  “Julien will be all right. His chef is brilliant.”

  He nodded as if he understood this remark and followed her through the club. There were few patrons at this early hour, mostly quiet drinkers at the bar or workers who hadn’t managed to get home in time for dinner.

  Sula bounded up the metal stairs leading to Casimir’s office. “How did the judge thing go?” he asked.

  Sula had to search her mind to recall the story that, in her annoyance, she’d told him the day before. “Postponed,” she said.

  He let her into his office. “Is that what you need to talk about? Because even though Sergius said I wasn’t supposed to help you, there are a few things I can do that Sergius doesn’t need to know about. Because – oh, damn.”

  They had entered his office, the spotless black-and-white room, and Sula had thrown her bag on a sofa and opened her coat to reveal that she wore nothing underneath it but stockings and her shoes.

  “Damn,” Casimir repeated. His eyes travelled over her. “Damn, you’re beautiful.”

  “Don’t just stand there,” Sula said.

  It was the first time she had set out to please a man so totally and for so long. She moved Casimir over the room from one piece of furniture to the other. She took full advantage of the large, oversoft chairs. She used lips and tongue and fingertips, skin and scent, whispers and laughter. There was something whorish about it, she supposed, though her own violent, mercifully brief encounter with whoring had been far more sordid and unpleasant than this.

  She kept Casimir busy for an hour and a half, until the chiming of his comm grew far too insistent. He rose from one of the sofas, where he was sprawled with Sula on top of him, and made his way to his desk.

  “Audio only,” he told the comm. “Answer. Yes, what is it?”

  “Julien’s arrested,” said an unknown voice.

  Sula sat up, an expression of concern on her face.

  “When?” Casimir barked. “Where?”

  “A few minutes ago, at the Two Sticks. He was there with Veronika.”

  Calculation burned in Casimir’s gaze. “Was it the police, or the Fleet?”

  The voice shifted to a higher, more urgent register. “It was the Legion. They took everybody.”

  Casimir stared intently at the far wall as if it held a puzzle he needed badly to put together. Sula rose and quietly walked to where her large shoulder bag waited. She opened it and began to withdraw clothing.

  “Does Sergius know?” Casimir asked.

  “He’s not at his office. That’s the only number I have for him.”

  “Right. Thanks. I’ll call him myself.”

  Casimir knew he couldn’t get away with a call to Sergius that had the video suppressed, so he put on a shirt and combed his hair. He spoke in low tones and Sula heard little of what was said. She finished dressing, took a pistol from her bag, and stuck it in her waistband behind her back.

  Casimir finished his phone call. He looked at her with sombre eyes.

  “You’d better make yourself scarce,” Sula said. “They might be going after all of you.”

  “That’s what Sergius told me,” he said.

  “Or maybe—” Sula’s eyes narrowed “—they’re after you, and they went to the Two Sticks thinking you’d be there.”

  “Or they might be after you,” Casimir said, “and Julien and I are both incidental.”

  “That hadn’t occurred to me,” she said.

  Casimir began to draw on his clothing. “This looks bad,” he said. “But maybe you’ll get what you want.”

  She looked at him.

  “War,” he explained, “between us and the Naxids.”

  “That had occurred to me,” she said.

  It had occurred to her the previous night, in fact, while she gazed at raindrops coursing down the window. Which was why, that morning, she’d gone to a public comm unit. She wore a worker’s coveralls and the blonde wig and a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over her face, and she’d taken the hat off her head and put it over the unit’s camera before she manually punched in the code that would connect her to the Legion of Diligence informer line.

  “I want to give some information,” she said. “An anarchist cell is meeting tonight in a restaurant called the Two Sticks, off Harmony Square. They are planning sabotage. The meeting is set for twenty-four and one, in a private room. Don’t tell the local police, because they’re corrupt and would warn the saboteurs.”

  She’d used the Earth accent that had once amused Caro Sula. She walked away from the comm without removing her hat from the camera pickup.

  She must have been convincing because Julien was now under arrest.

  “How shall I contact you?” Sula asked Casimir.

  He adjusted his trousers, then gave her a code.

  Sula nodded. “Got it.”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “You don’t need to write it down?”

  “I compose a mental algorithm that will allow me to remember the number,” she said. “It’s what I do with everyone’s numbers.”

  He blinked. “Clever trick,” he said.

  She kissed him. “Yes,” she said. “A very clever trick.”

  The next day the Naxids went berserk. Someone with a rifle went onto a building overlooking the Axtattle Parkway, the main highway that connected Zanshaa City with the Naxids’ landing fi
eld at Wi-hun. The sniper waited for a convoy of Naxid vehicles to go by, then shot the driver of the first vehicle. Because the vehicles were using the automated lanes, the vehicle cruised on under computer control with a dead driver behind the controls. Then the sniper shot the next driver, and the next.

  By the time the Naxids got things sorted out at least eight Naxids were dead, and more wounded. By way of retaliation they decided to shoot fifty-one hostages for every dead Naxid. Sula had no idea how they decided on fifty-one.

  Casimir, who heard the news before anyone else, called Sula shortly after dawn to tell her to stay off the streets, and she spent the day in the apartment with a book of mathematical puzzles. Casimir called again after nightfall. “Can we meet?” he asked.

  “Is it safe to go out?”

  “The police have finished rounding up new hostages to replace the ones they shot today, and they’re back to processing ration cards. But just in case I’ll send a car.”

  She told him to pick her up at the local train stop. The car was a dark Hunhao sedan with one of the Torminel bodyguards at the controls. He took her to a small residential street on the edge of a Cree neighbourhood – she saw Cree males on the streets exercising their quadruped females, who bounded about them like large puppies.

  Casimir was in the apartment of a smiling, elderly couple who apparently did very well for themselves renting out their spare room as a safe house. The room was roomy and comfortable, with flowerpots on the windowsills, fringed throw rugs, the scent of potpourri, family pictures on the walls and a macramé border around the wall video. The remains of Casimir’s dinner sat on a tray along with a half-empty bottle of sparkling wine.

  Sula kissed him hello, and put her arms around him. His flesh was warm. His cologne had a pleasant earthy scent.

  “I think we’ve got a false alarm,” Casimir said. “The Legion doesn’t seem to be after me. Or Sergius, or anyone but Julien. There haven’t been any raids. No inquiries. Nobody’s been seen doing surveillance.”

  “That may change if Julien talks,” Sula said.

  Casimir drew back. His face hardened. It was as if she’d just challenged the manhood of the whole Riverside Clique.

  “Julien won’t talk,” he said. “He’s a good boy.”

  “You don’t know what they’re going to do to him. The Naxids are serious. We can’t count on anything.”

  Casimir’s lips gave a scornful twitch. “Julien grew up with Sergius Bakshi beating the crap out of him twice a week – and not for any reason, either, just for the sheer hell of it. You think Julien’s going to be scared of the Naxids after that?”

  Sula considered Sergius Bakshi’s dead predator eyes and large pale listless hands and thought that Casimir had a point.

  “So they won’t get a confession from Julien. There’s still Veronika.”

  Casimir shook his head. “Veronika doesn’t know anything.” He gave her a pointed look. “She doesn’t know about you.”

  “But she knows Julien was expecting the two of us for dinner. And the Naxids will have seen that Julien was sitting at a table set for four.”

  Casimir shrugged. “They’ll have my name and half of yours. They’ll have a file on me and nothing on you. You’re not in any danger.”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about,” Sula said.

  He looked at her for a moment, then softened. “I’m being careful,” he said in a subdued voice. He glanced around at the room. “I’m here, aren’t I? In this little room, running my criminal empire by remote control.”

  Sula grinned at him. He grinned back. “Would you like something to eat or drink?” he asked.

  “Whatever kind of soft drink they have would be fine.”

  He carried out his dinner tray. Sula toured the room, tidied a few of Casimir’s belongings that had been carelessly laid down, then took off her shoes and sat on the floor. Casimir returned with two bottles of Citrine Fling. He seemed surprised to find Sula on the floor but joined her without comment. He handed her a bottle and touched it with his own. The resinous material made a light thud rather than a crystal ringing sound. He made a face.

  “Here’s to our exciting evening,” he said.

  “We’ll have to make all the excitement ourselves,” Sula said.

  His eyes glittered. “Absolutely.” He took a sip of his drink, then gave her a reflective look. “I know even less about Lady Sula than I do about Gredel.”

  She looked at him. “What do you want to know?”

  There was a troubled look in his eye. “That story about your parents being executed. I suppose that was something that you said to get close to me.”

  Sula shook her head. “My parents were executed when I was young. Flayed.”

  He was surprised. “Really?”

  “You can look it up if you want to. I’m in the military because it’s the only job I’m permitted.”

  “But you’re still a Peer.”

  “Yes. But as Peers go, I’m poor. All the family’s wealth and property were confiscated.” She looked at him. “You’ve probably got scads more money than I do.”

  And, she thought, you’re not the first high-class criminal I’ve slept with, either.

  Casimir was even more surprised. “I’ve never met a whole lot of Peers, but you always get the impression they’re rolling in it.”

  “I’d like to have enough to roll in.” She laughed, took a sip of her Fling. “Tell me. If they don’t find Julien guilty of anything, what happens to him?”

  “The Legion? They’ll try to scare the piss out of him, then let him go.”

  Sula considered this. “Are the Naxids letting anyone go at all? Or does everyone they pick up for any reason join the hostage population in the lock-ups?”

  He looked at her and ran a pensive thumb down his jaw. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Plus he could be hostage for his father’s good behaviour.” Casimir was thoughtful.

  “Where would they send him?” Sula asked.

  “Anywhere. The Blue Hatches, the Reservoir. Any jail or police station.” He frowned. “Certain police stations he could walk right out of.”

  “Let’s hope he gets sent to one of those then.”

  “Yes. Let’s.”

  His eyes were troubled.

  Good, she thought. There were certain thoughts she wanted him to dwell on for a while.

  The next afternoon Sula was in the High City selling cocoa and gathering intelligence. When she returned to Riverside she received a call from Casimir telling her that Julien had been cleared of suspicion by the Legion of Diligence, but that he was remaining in custody as a hostage. “He’s in the Reservoir Prison, damn it,” Casimir said. “There’s no way we can get him out of there.”

  Calculations shimmered through Sula’s mind. “Let me think about that,” she said.

  There was a moment of silence. Then, “Should we get together and talk?”

  There were certain things one shouldn’t say over a comm, and they were skating right along the edge.

  “Not yet,” Sula said. “I’ve got some research to do first.”

  She spent some time in public databases, researching the intricacies of the Zanshaa legal system, and more time with back numbers of the Forensic Register, the publication of the Zanshaa Legal Association. More time was spent seeing who in the Register had left Zanshaa with the old government and who hadn’t.

  Having gathered her data, Sula called Casimir and told him she needed him to set up a meeting with Sergius.

  Since Sergius and Casimir had resumed their normal lives after the Legion had released Julien to the prison system, Sula was taken to meet Sergius in his office, on the second floor of an unremarkable building in the heart of Riverside.

  She and Casimir passed through an anteroom of flunkies and hulking guards, all of whom she regarded with patrician hauteur, and into Sergius’s own office, where Sergius rose to greet her. The office was as unremarkable as the building, with scuffed floors and second-
hand furniture and the musty smell of things that had been left lying too long in corners.

  People with real power, Sula thought, didn’t need to show it.

  Sergius took her hand, and though the touch of his big hand was light she could sense the restrained power in his grip.

  “What may I do for you, Lady Sula?” he asked.

  “Nothing right now,” Sula said. “Instead, I hope to be of service to you.”

  The ruthless eyes flicked to Casimir, who returned an expression meant to convey that he knew. Sergius returned his attention to Sula. “I appreciate your thinking of me,” he said. “Please sit down.”

  At least, Sula thought, she got to sit down this time. Sergius began to move behind his desk again.

  “I believe I can get Julien out of the Reservoir,” Sula said.

  Sergius stopped, then turned his round head towards her. For the first time she saw emotion in his dark eyes, a glimpse into a black void of deep-seated desire that seemed all the more frightening in a man who normally seemed bereft of emotion.

  He wanted his son back. Whether Sergius desired Julien’s return because he loved his son, or because his son was a mere possession that some caprice of fate had taken from him, it was clear that the deep, burning hunger was there, a need as clear and primal and rapacious as a hungry panther for his dinner.

  Sergius looked at her for a long moment, the need burning in his eyes, and then he recovered himself, straightened, and sat in his shabby chair. By the time he clasped his big pale hands on the desk in front of him, his face had again gone blank.

  “That’s interesting,” he said.

  Sula had sat deliberately in one of the two seats set before the desk. “I want you to understand that I can’t set Julien at liberty,” she said. “I believe I can get him transferred to the holding cells at the Riverside police station, or to any other place that suits you. You’ll have to get him out of there yourself.

  “I’ll also provide official identification for Julien that will allow him to move freely, but of course—” Here she looked into the unreadable eyes. “He’ll be a fugitive until the Naxids are removed from power.”

  Sergius held her gaze for a moment, then nodded.