“He came in with an associate who called him ‘Karl,’ and he speaks German,” said Imara helpfully, loud enough for Iggy to hear. “The other guy mentioned the fourth floor.”
After a moment, Iggy came back with a fourth-floor room number. Okonjo and Poltorak half-carried, half-walked the man out of the bar.
Imara waited a few long seconds more to make sure they were really gone, then turned to Lièrén. “What will he remember?” She kept her voice low and quiet.
“That he had fantasies about you, but the last chem he took was chaotic, making him feel dizzy and fluxed, and then—fade out. The next thing he’ll remember is whatever the security team does with him. Even if they show him the video, he won’t remember assaulting you and will probably blame it on a bad chem reaction. Since you didn’t serve him any, you’re clear.”
Imara was impressed by how well the story fit together, and disturbed. She hadn’t realized how… chillingly effective high-level minders could be. “What did you do to him to make him drop like he was in 3G gravity?”
“Sifters can modulate synapses, neurotransmitters, and hormones. I flooded his receptors with a monoamine…” He trailed off, looking almost embarrassed. “I apologize for the tech speak. Think of it as doping, like applying a happy-drug slap patch.”
She wanted to ask a hundred more questions, but she needed to prioritize them. “Let me get you something to drink, on the house.”
“Thank you. Water would be welcome.” His shoulders were drooping, and one of his eyes was half-blinking with each heart beat. Damn, but the man was polite, even when he was in agony.
“Would you like a painkiller to go with the water?” She dropped three ice cubes in a glass and started filling it. “I have several in the dispensary…”
He shook his head. “You’re kind to offer, but most chemical painkillers don’t work on sifters. I’d need a healer to follow me around for a few hours.”
“Really?” No wonder it was taking him such a long time to recover. She couldn’t imagine not being able to slap on a pain patch after a hard day on the road crew. “Well, that flatlines.”
“Yes,” said Lièrén, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement.
She handed him the glass. He nodded his thanks and took several swallows before setting it down on the coaster in front of him. “I have a new liver, among other things. While I’m recovering, I can’t be on my normal enhancement drug program, and the withdrawal makes me dry-mouthed.”
It was the first time he’d confided so much in her. She knew firsthand about withdrawal symptoms. “The headaches, too?”
“Yes, and sweat flashes.” His smile was sardonic. “Still, I’m getting better every day.”
Despite his humor, she could tell he was all but done in for the night. “One more question, and then I hope you’ll go back to your room and rest.”
He ducked his head once. “As you wish, Bartender Sesay.” His overly subservient tone made her laugh.
“Cheeky brat. I told you, call me Imara. How did you know about Derrit’s cleaning talent? I guessed he was probably a shielder, because his father was, and I’m a filer, so it stands to reason he’d have some sort of talent. How did you know Derrit wanted to clean the telepath guy?”
He shrugged one shoulder, then winced. His neck muscles were probably as tight as a drum, considering how long he’d been enduring the headache. “Sifters can detect talents, though I’m not all that good at it. Derrit was angry enough to drop his shields, so I felt the… activation of his cleaning talent. It can be difficult to control when you’re mad.”
“I see. That’s how you knew the asshole was a straight telepath? He was activating, too?”
“Yes, though mid-levels like he is are usually better at containment. Whatever he chemmed himself with weakened his control. I could feel it even from back there.” He pointed to the far booth where Derrit was still lying with the cold pack across his face.
Imara badly wanted to get all the answers she could from him immediately, but she couldn’t justify torturing him any longer. He was only staying with her now out of good manners, and perhaps protectiveness. “You’ve got to get some rest, Agent Sòng. The security team will monitor the assho…uh, valued patron, so Derrit and I will be fine.”
He gave her a tired but genuine smile. “I would be honored if you would call me Lièrén.”
“Shì de, dāngrán, zūnjìng de xiānshēng.” Yes, of course, honored sir. She gave him an exaggerated bow. “Whatever honored sir desires.”
He laughed. “You speak Mandarin very well.”
“It was the official language on Capet Dedrum for six hundred years until the CGC moved in and made English the galactic standard. Mandarin is still primary with the long-timers, so it made sense to learn. My tonal control is iffy, though. I’ve come close to unforgivably insulting people more than once.”
“In that case, I’ll remember to ask first, rather than assuming I’ve made you mad.” He drank the last of his water and stood. “Goodnight, then.”
As he stepped back, she had the absurd impulse to ask when she’d see him again, like she was a fifteen-year-old at the end of a first date. Instead, she gave him a casual salute and a smile.
Once he was gone, she pulled out the knit shirt she’d found earlier and took it to the far booth, where her son was just sitting up.
“Here, trade me shirts. How’s the face, bata?”
“Mom!” he complained, drawing out the vowel. “I’m not a baby.” He stood and pulled off his own bloody shirt and handed it to her, then pulled the other one on. It hung nearly to his knees.
“No, you’re not. How’s the face, doddering old man?” She tilted his chin left and right, examining his face for bruising. The sooner they got to the all-hours medical clinic to get the bruising and swelling taken care of, the happier she’d be. She might even have them do something about her sore jaw and cut lip.
Derrit rolled his eyes. “It’s okay. It hurt worse when I ran into the light pole.” He’d been a lopar, recklessly horsing around on a friend’s street coaster.
Imara felt supremely lucky that it was a rare dead night at the bar. She looked at the one patron still there, an older-looking woman slumped and gently snoring in the booth closest to the hall to the fresher. Bookkeeper Shola was a bi-weekly regular who claimed to be an insomniac, but somehow managed to sleep several hours in the bar, regardless of the noise level. Imara would wake the woman when her shift ended, as usual.
She turned back to her son. “So, tell me what happened tonight.”
“You’re not mad at me, are you? For getting in a fight?”
She brushed the unhurt side of his face with her thumb. “No, but you know I worry about you. Mother’s prerogative. You have to learn when to pick your battles. He could’ve really hurt you.”
“Tatay would have kicked his ass.”
“Your father was an adult man, and you will be, too, someday, but not yet. Tell me about what you and Agent Sòng did together.”
Derrit’s eyes lit up. “It was absolute zero! He spoke in my mind, like Tatay used to, and showed me the guy’s memories and what needed erasing. I could see… well, feel him working, and it was like he was, like, weaving a basket. He showed me how to pick up the right strands. Agent Sòng’s mind is… smooth, maybe, like road glass, but the blond guy, his mind is yuck. Like when that waste reclamation line burst and you had to recycle all your work clothes.”
“And how do you feel now? Your father used to get heavy sinus congestion if he overused his talent.” She smiled and brushed the tip of his swollen nose with her finger. “It’s probably hard to tell right now, but think about it, okay? Human bodies provide negative feedback for a reason.”
“Mom, what does a cleaner do? I didn’t know I was one.”
“You have a net account. Why don’t you look it up and tell me?” She pointed toward the bar’s net terminals along one wall. “And look up sifter and twister, while you’re at it.” I
t was a good way to distract Derrit from the pain he wasn’t admitting to, and finding out more about Lièrén. Or at least about his talents.
Imara was very tempted to distract herself by mixing something from her dispensary, but she knew from hard-won experience, it didn’t solve anything. She’d had enough of making herself numb after Torin’s unexpected death, and would never go back there again. Detoxing on her own had been painful. She had to be coherent and present so she could do what was best for her son. Plenty of people wouldn’t look past their fearful distrust of minders to see the warm, fun-loving, protective boy, who was so much like his father that it made her heart swell with bittersweet memories.
CHAPTER 2
* Planet: Concordance Prime * GDAT 3238.206 *
Imara put the last drink on the bar and caught Rayle’s eye so he’d know the big table’s order was ready. He was always gregarious, but tonight, he was practically incandescent, flitting in and out among the tables, dancing and sometimes singing to the music, teasing the kids, and flirting shamelessly with the adults. It was a boisterous crowd, and there was nothing Rayle loved more than an audience. His hair was newly sky blue with winking lights, his eyebrows and eyelashes had a blue neon metallic sheen, and drops had made his irises look shiny silver, all in preparation for the upcoming dance performance he was in. He’d been a part of the publicity session just that morning. He was offering tickets to anyone who seemed remotely interested.
Because she was watching for him, she noticed when Lièrén Sòng arrived, a day later than she’d expected based on the pattern he’d established. All the booths were taken, including his preferred small one in the back, so he chose to sit at the end of the bar. Rayle noticed, too, and after serving the big table and stowing the tray, he made a beeline to Lièrén to take his order, even though it was usually Imara’s job to serve the people at the bar. It amused her that Lièrén would always get excellent service as long as Rayle was around. Or if she was around, if she was honest.
Out of habit, she glanced at Derrit, who was playing an online game at one of the kiosks. She allowed him an hour an evening, to make up for being stuck in the hotel. One of the few perks she got as an employee was free use of the net terminals, which made it easier to put off updating the housecomp and percomps for her and Derrit. Spires, even out in the Rim where their apartment was located, was a hideously expensive place to live, which was why she supplemented her day job as a road-crew leader with bartending for the hotel.
Over the last three days, Imara had thought a lot about what to do about Derrit. She’d been careful not to make him feel that she disapproved of his talent, because she’d had enough of that as a child, and she’d only been a farkin’ low-level filer, hardly a minder worth registering in the eyes of the CPS Testing Center. Premium talents like Derrit’s were a double-edged sword. He’d have more career choices than she ever did, but resentment and prejudice could make a minder’s life hell.
He was still a child, no matter how responsible he was for a boy his age. She was concerned that he didn’t know what he was doing and could get hurt, or might unintentionally hurt someone else, and that he wouldn’t tell her because he wouldn’t want to worry her. Her husband Torin had been very protective and had a tendency to keep troubling details from her, and she recognized the same habit developing in her son. Torin had started it because too many details used to overwhelm her, but she was older now and better at staying focused, and she didn’t want Derrit to adopt Torin’s behavior.
She was kept busy for the next ten minutes with dispensary orders. Rayle could prepare the flats and fizzies, but only she was licensed to dispense the kickers—alcohol, chems, inhalants, or alterants—that made up about half the bar’s business on busy nights. She trusted Rayle’s judgment, but it was ultimately her decision as to whether or not to serve the kickers, because it was her license. It was legal in Spires for a tender to serve high-test to a ten-year-old, but it was also likely to get the tender personally sued if the kid sustained lasting injury because of it. Her personal policy was to not serve kickers to anyone under seventeen, and the hotel’s managers backed her up because they didn’t want to get sued, either.
Finally, she had a lull, and she drifted down to the end of the bar where Lièrén sat. He looked healthier than he had three nights ago. He smiled when he saw her.
“If I might ask, who selects the music for the bar?” He gestured up toward one of the ceiling speakers. The song playing sounded a lot closer to Japanese surashu thrash than a British pub tune. His brown eyes were almost black, and when he looked at her, it felt like she had his undivided attention. It was unexpectedly nice. Most of her customers usually had a dozen other things on their minds, and rarely saw her as a person.
Imara smiled back. “Probably some automated algorithm that chooses based on lyrics or whatever keywords the artists tagged it with. Why?”
“Rayle is having trouble improvising choreography that doesn’t look like an insect attack.”
She looked to where Lièrén was pointing, then laughed out loud. It drew Rayle’s attention, and he wended his way through the tables to join them.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
She gave him a teasing smirk. “You. Where’d you find the termite hill to dance on?”
Rayle rolled his eyes and leaned closer to Lièrén to nudge his shoulder playfully. “Says the woman who says she can’t dance at all.”
Lièrén smiled but didn’t nudge back. “I can’t, either, though I respect your difficulty in performing to this particular piece. I think the singer is complaining about glass shards in his Scotch, which would explain the shrieking.”
Rayle was about to answer when a customer from across the room shouted for him. Rayle gave a little salute to Lièrén and darted away.
Lièrén gestured toward where Rayle had stood. “He looks very, uhm, blue tonight.”
Imara laughed, delighted that Lièrén was feeling well enough to joke with them again. “It’s for a show. Don’t tell him you noticed, or he’ll be delighted to show you that all of his hair is now electric blue. The man has no shame.” She shook her head. “At least dancers aren’t expected to get full-body makeovers for their roles like holovid actors are.” She pointed to his empty glass. “Another red fizz, or maybe some water?”
“Yes to both, please.” She quickly took care of him, then checked on the other people at the bar and filled several orders for Rayle. As nice as it was to have a busy night, because it made the time go fast and the tips were good, she really wanted a few quiet moments with Lièrén. She wanted to ask him a favor.
The next chance she got, she asked if he’d eaten yet, and offered to order something.
Lièrén gave her a slight smile. “A kind thought, but I’ll pass.”
She didn’t blame him—the hotel restaurant was unpopular for good reason. “I could send Derrit to the kitchen to make a sandwich. He makes a pretty mean flatbread with toasted cheese, and that’s not just a mother’s pride talking.”
“Thank you, no, but perhaps later.” He looked regretful. “The new drug regimen affects my appetite.”
“Sorry to hear it.” She rested her forearms flat on the counter and rounded her back in a stretch. She’d been on her feet for the whole shift. “May I ask, do all CPS minders get enhancement drugs? I’ve only heard general conversations, but it seems like they do.”
“The telepathic and telekinetic minders do. The enhancement drugs also help with focus and maintaining control. I’m not sure about the patterner class. Filers like you, and the forecasters and such, don’t seem to need it.”
“I don’t know about that. I used to get distracted by, well, everything under the sun, but I’ve worked on it.” She shrugged. “Of course, I’m only a mid-level, and a late bloomer at that. I don’t envy you being told to take daily drugs because it’s ‘good for you.’”
“The benefits outweigh the cost. I will admit to not liking being told to exercise for that reason. Bein
g closely monitored while using force exercisers and treadmills is… uninspiring.”
“You should come to a dance class with me,” said Rayle, who had stepped up behind Lièrén without him noticing and overheard the last few words. “It’s impossible to be bored when you’re dancing.”
Lièrén shook his head. “I am not yet able to participate in such activities.” He sounded actually regretful, not just polite, but Imara didn’t know him well enough to tell the difference.
Rayle winked at Lièrén. “I’ll take that as a ‘maybe.’” He turned to Imara. “The long-limbed, sexy man in the clingy green kilt at table six wants another gram of loupomak. They’re celebrating because he won a frontier planet homestead lottery.” He rolled his eyes. “They’ll probably tip me in lottery tickets. Can’t pay the rent with lottery tickets.”
Imara never forgot a bar order, so she didn’t even have to think about it. “Nope, he’s already had two. Offer him some intwinden or canab. Or a Red Blossom token, to take the edge off.”
“Red Blossom?” asked Lièrén.
“Joyhouse up the north walkway,” replied Rayle as he fished in the drawer, then held up a red, oval-shaped smart chip with a red flower on it. “First come, first served!” He twirled away.
Imara snorted. “You’d think that joke would get old with him, but you’d be wrong.”
Business picked up again, and she had to abandon Lièrén for a while. She was worried that he’d leave before she got the chance to talk to him. He’d probably stay if she asked, because he was always accommodating, but she didn’t want to take advantage of him. Well, she did, because in addition to being nice, he was a handsome, sexy man, but he was also a transient who could be gone tomorrow. She had an ironclad personal policy not to get involved with transients, no matter how plasma hot they were. She’d seen enough of that with her mother’s always-outbound parade of lovers. The favor she wanted to ask was for Derrit, not for her.
Minder Rising: Central Galactic Concordance Book 2 Page 3