by Jaine Fenn
‘Could you bring it over here?’
‘I could. And could you maybe show me your hands?’
She started. ‘Ah yes. Of course. My apologies.’ She brought her hands out from behind the book. One of them held a heavy-duty needle-pistol. Jarek tensed, but she just laid the gun on the table. It still pointed at the door, so he walked around the back of the couch, out of the direct line of fire.
‘You can sit, if you like,’ she said, pointing to a chair at the end of the table.
As he moved towards it he saw that behind the storybook the gun had been resting in a frame, and it looked like she’d rigged some sort of dead-man’s switch: the pistol would’ve taken her head off instantly if she’d released the pressure on the switch. She obviously knew that pointing a gun at a Sidhe - or oneself - was futile; you’d be throwing your weapon away before you’d even realised you’d moved. Something like this set-up would be the only way to outwit them.
He nodded at the contraption. ‘I see you weren’t taking any chances,’ he said, trying to keep his voice even.
‘I never do.’
‘Can I ask how you got involved with all this?’ The ingenuous suicide rig showed a disconcerting level of commitment.
Given her earlier reticence he was surprised when she answered at once, ‘They took away my only chance at happiness.’ She looked over at him. ‘And you?’
‘Idealism, originally. Then vengeance.’ For torturing him at Serenein. For destroying his sister.
She nodded, satisfied with his answer. It appeared they’d passed each other’s tests.
He pulled out the chair. As he sat down he asked, ‘Do you know how long it’ll take to decrypt the data?’
She frowned. ‘I have no idea until I get to work.’ She turned to face him. ‘I’d be very interested to know where the Setting Sun was going . . . if you’d be willing to tell me.’
Was he? There was plenty he didn’t want to divulge - particularly regarding his allies - but she was right: they were on the same side. ‘A world called Serenein.’
‘Serenein?’ Orzabet blinked, then said, ‘There’s no such place.’
Jarek was surprised at her certainty. He’d visited a fair proportion of the 933 human-settled systems, but he couldn’t remember all their names off the top of his head. ‘Not on record, no. It’s a human colony, but it was set up by the Sidhe. They keep it hidden.’
For the first time her lips edged towards a smile. ‘A lost world? That’s fascinating. It’s logical to assume there are still viable lost colonies out there, and it’s likely that the Sidhe would have contact with them, but this is the first actual evidence. Do you have any more data on it?’
‘Not a lot. It’s very lo-tech, and I’m not sure how to get back there.’ Which was not a lie, technically speaking.
‘That’s a shame.’
He tried to work out from her tone whether she knew he wasn’t telling her everything. If she did, she wasn’t pushing him, so Jarek decided to risk raising the other matter he wanted to discuss. ‘Listen, I was wondering whether there’s any way I can change my ship ID.’
Her gaze sharpened. ‘Do they know about the Judas Kiss?’
‘I’m afraid so. They got my ID at Serenein. Given all the Sidhe there are dead I don’t think they’re actively looking for me yet, but if things start to hot up . . .’
She looked sharply at him, then said, ‘You’re right, it might be wise. But ship IDs are complicated: if it’s even possible, it would be potentially very expensive - your current credit-balance certainly wouldn’t be sufficient.’
‘I can owe you,’ he said hopefully.
She thought for a moment then said, ‘It’s in my interest that they don’t catch you so I’ll see what I can do. In return, I’d like you to act as my courier, if I need one.’
Assuming she just wanted him to transport small packages, then he’d already done that. ‘No problem,’ he said. He got the impression it was some time since she’d trusted anyone; he decided to return the favour. ‘Listen, there’s something you need to know. The way I got onto the Setting Sun originally . . . the Sidhe captured me, and they read me. They went pretty deep. Obviously I don’t know how much they got, but there’s a risk they know about you.’
He had expected her to react badly to the news, but she remained sanguine. ‘So they may know the name Orzabet. By itself, that is very little use to them. I’ve had no unexpected contacts or protocol violations, nor alerts from other quarters, which implies they didn’t get any important data. No, I don’t think this changes anything.’
Jarek suddenly realised what it was that made Orzabet different, besides her distant manner. Whilst she was more paranoid than most people he’d met, she wasn’t afraid: she had no fear of dying, only of failing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘Just go!’ Nual found herself repeating Taro’s words to her; the aircar driver didn’t need to be told twice.
‘We’re out of here,’ he said, and the roof-hatch was barely closed before he had taken them down again.
Nual collapsed onto the bench-seat, her legs shaking.
Part of her was desperate to force the pilot to fly in and land, to make him go back with her and attempt a rescue. That same part had been screaming at her to turn around as she fled from the room where Taro was trapped. She had felt his presence in her mind suddenly disappear, and she had realised with a pang that he must be unconscious. But not dead. She would have known if he were dead . . .
As she pulled off the armour she found her eyes were full of tears. She ignored them.
Without turning round, the driver said, ‘What happened?’ He sounded disappointed - after all, a failed mission meant less pay - but he also sounded concerned.
Nual suspected this was not the first time he’d lost people on jobs. ‘It was a trap,’ she spat.
‘Shit,’ he said. But professional that he was, he didn’t ask for details, nor did he make unnecessary conversation during the journey back to Stonetown.
The original plan had been for the two of them to accompany the successfully extracted target to a safe house, where they would be contacted later that morning. Instead, the driver called in the code to indicate that the mission had failed and was instructed to drop Nual off at the harbour. As she got out he said, ‘Sorry about your brother.’
Nual nodded an acknowledgement and walked away, through streets already warming in the morning sun. She passed early shoppers and locals on their way to work. When she reached the hotel she half expected her key to have been invalidated, but it still worked. The room had been made up, the bed where they had made love for hours on end was now pristine and impersonal.
She gathered their possessions, barely enough to fill a small holdall. The only items in the drawer next to Taro’s bed were his bone flute and his com, the latter left behind to avoid any chance of identification. Nual sat on the bed, cradling the flute in her hands, and finally permitted herself the indulgence of tears. If she could not keep her promise to rescue him, this would be all that was left of Taro, his only mark on the world.
Had she done what her nature demanded and treated Taro as a willing slave, then she would not now be feeling his loss so sharply. Love, that most difficult of human emotions, was a weakness unbecoming in a Sidhe.
As Taro would say, Fuck that.
But it did appear that her new-found talent - or curse - had been entirely accurate. Something awful had happened. She had felt no details, just this awful presentiment of disaster, yet even as she’d gulped back against that strange sensation of burnt spice she’d believed - hoped - that Taro was the remedy. That belief had grown; she had become certain that sleeping with Taro was the right thing to do to avert the future disaster she had sensed.
But she had been deluding herself . . . after so long in denial, she had finally let lust and loneliness get the better of her, rationalising sex as a solution to a problem whose nature she didn’t understand. Or worse: what if she had caused h
im to be captured? Would he have been caught so easily if they hadn’t both been tired and distracted?
She knew this feeling: guilt and despair combining to freeze the will into dark, self-consuming pity. But no. She had nothing to feel guilty about. They loved each other, and by mutual consent they had done something that was long overdue. He was captured, not dead. And she was still free, and far from powerless.
She went downstairs and checked out. The hotel receptionist told her that the bill had been paid and asked if her stay had been satisfactory. Nual asked to see the manager in private.
The manager, a very correct-looking offworlder, emanated concern. ‘Was there a problem, Medame?’ she asked with an earnestness that bordered on fawning.
‘Not at all,’ said Nual. ‘I just wanted to know who paid our bill.’
The manager was eager to please. ‘Let me check - ah yes, it was Ruanuku-ngai, Medame,’ she said. Afterwards she might wonder why she had so freely given away the answer to such a sensitive question, but now, she felt unexpectedly happy when Nual thanked her. It was the least Nual could do.
Nual checked into a more downmarket, anonymous hotel. She paid for a week in advance, and dumped their stuff in the room.
She wasn’t surprised that Makoare-ngai were not the real backers. The incriminating logos had been just a little too easy to find, especially given how tightly run every other aspect of the mission had been. She considered questioning Patai, but he’d been using a data-drop contact number, valid only for the duration of this one mission; finding him would be complicated, especially so early in the day. Perhaps later, when the sun went down and the shadier characters came out to play. In the meantime, rather than walk the streets or sit alone and mope, she decided to visit the hostel.
Mo was in the kitchen, eating breakfast. He was surprised but pleased to see her. ‘Let me guess,’ he said around a mouthful of cereal. ‘Taro’s still in bed . . . somewhere.’
Nual made herself smile and responded normally, ‘Oh, I imagine so.’
‘So, what’s up?’ Mo asked. ‘I thought you two had moved out.’
‘We did, but it’s . . . complicated.’ Nual was already regretting her decision to come back; all she had achieved so far was to remind herself of her time here with Taro.
‘Fair enough. While you’re here you may as well say goodbye to Kise. She’s off to her new job today.’
And Kise’s interview had been with Ruanuku-ngai . . . if Nual had believed in a deity she might have dropped to her knees and given thanks then and there.
She found Kise in the women’s dormitory, packing her case. She looked up and smiled as Nual came in; Nual had left an echo of friendship in the girl’s head when she first read her. ‘I’m sure I didn’t have this much stuff when I arrived,’ she said in exasperation.
Nual smiled in return. ‘Here, let me help.’
Though they were alone, Nual would have preferred to take her somewhere more discreet, but Kise was expecting her ride soon, so she’d have to resort to overt coercion to get her to leave right now, and even if she wiped Kise’s memory afterwards, the girl would still know something highly unusual had happened to her. She’d have to manage.
As she held the case shut so Kise could seal it, Nual said, ‘Well done on the job. Do you think it will be everything you hoped for?’
‘Oh yes - their facilities are amazing!’
Nual picked up the image of sterile, clean spaces with equipment Kise had always dreamt of using. ‘So where is this perfect job of yours?’ she asked.
Kise grinned, a little smugly. ‘Off the map. I didn’t realise, but there are islands out there that aren’t shown in the normal com downloads.’
‘Really?’ said Nual. Excellent: Kise probably still had the location in her com, and the co-ordinates of Ruanuku-ngai’s private island were just what she needed, but Nual decided she might as well try for additional detail. Keeping her tone light she said, ‘Given how luxurious the public islands I’ve visited with my brother are, these hidden company islands must be very special.’
‘You’re not wrong! They gave me the full tour and—’
Using the trigger of Kise’s recollections to launch her, Nual was in, deep and fast. She ran through Kise’s day with the ngai, replaying the memories at dazzling speed: overflying an island that was one huge extinct volcano . . . being greeted by executives and scientists . . . questions from a panel in an underground room . . . a tour of the facilities (here Nual slowed the images a little, in case she could spot something of use, but none of the tech looked related to their original mission) . . . Kise’s lunch with her guides in an open-sided café . . . then a chance to look over the spacious wooden house that would be hers if she got the job, set in lush jungle on the inner slope of the caldera . . . finally a walk up a tree-shaded path to a far larger house, a chance to meet the head of the ngai she might be working for, fresh juice and conversation on the balcony—
Nual knew her, the head of Ruanuku-ngai - it was the same woman who had run from the wedding on the resort island. Nual froze the memory and examined the details, focusing on the woman’s demeanour and conversation. Before she dropped the memory she took a while to examine the view from the balcony.
That would have to be enough; she had already been in contact for too long. As she withdrew, Kise fell back onto her bed, eyes glazed. Nual touched her com to the girl’s, and once she had what she needed she shook Kise gently.
Kise twitched and looked up with an expression of near-comical surprise.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Nual.
‘Wh—? What happened?’ Kise shook her head.
‘I think you fainted.’ According to Nual’s com, she’d taken nearly four minutes. Hopefully Kise wouldn’t realise how long she’d been out. ‘It must be the heat. Can I get you some water?’
‘Water? Y-yes. Please.’
As she got up to fetch Kise a drink, Nual permitted herself a small grin of triumph.
Jarek had a choice: wait here on Tarset for Orzabet to finish the job, or return to Xantier, where he was closer to Kama Nui and more likely to pick up some form of lucrative cargo. The second option was the most logical, but that meant leaving the memory-core with Orzabet. Not that he thought she’d run off with it; he was pretty sure once she’d decoded the files she would want to get them to him as quickly as possible, because he was an ally in her great fight. The problem he foresaw was that she’d insist on bringing them in person, and that would mean her usual high level of security, which was likely to make things complicated. In that case, the closer he was, the better. He’d sleep on it . . .
But the next morning he awoke to find a message from Nual waiting for him:
No definite progress on the mission, and we have fallen foul of a local company in matters unrelated to our reason for being here. My companion has been captured by this organisation. I intend to do my best to rescue him. I will update you on my progress every twelve hours. If you do not hear from me for a full day, assume we are both lost.
Oh shit. It would take him the best part of three days to get to Kama Nui from here, though he realised Nual hadn’t actually asked for his help. But if he left now, he’d be leaving the files behind. He needed to contact Orzabet to see if she’d made any progress on the decryption.
Her full-text response came back twenty minutes later: an address, still on Tarset but in a part of the station currently being refurbished, and a time, three hours from now.
The door opened as he approached to reveal a dimly lit room, empty save for a bored-looking man sitting on a paint-spattered chair. He wore station overalls and ear-defenders, but the large gun on his lap implied he wasn’t here to fix the lights. He was unsurprised to see Jarek, and simply pointed through a curtain of builders’ netting into another equally bare room where Jarek found Orzabet sitting on the floor. Her face had the blank stare of someone deeply interfaced with technology; Jarek recognised that look from his old partner, a hubber who used to fly the
Judas Kiss on neural interface rather than what he called ‘the old-fashioned way’. He briefly experienced the theocracy-born’s unease at being in the presence of a heavily enhanced human; the Angels were odd enough, but at least their brains were their own. As he came in she blinked once, slowly, and focused on him.
Jarek nodded back at the curtain. ‘Who’s your friend?’
Her expression impassive, Orzabet said, ‘A man I hired to kill us both if we’re disturbed.’
Jarek barely suppressed his shudder. ‘You’re nothing if not thorough. So I take it we have a result?’
‘Not exactly. There’re two levels of security here. First, the management software on the memory-core was designed to interface only with the system that originally wrote the data - the files should be readable only on the computer you took it from. I’ve managed to set up a virtual reader that fools the encryption so it doesn’t just turn the data into unsalvageable gibberish when I try to access it. But then we’re onto the second level: I haven’t yet managed to work out the code-key to unlock the high-security files and turn everything back into plaintext. The good news is that the encryption isn’t QE or one-time’ - seeing Jarek’s expression she shook her head - ‘sorry, being technical. The short answer is, I’m sure I can unscramble the contents of the memory-core, but it’s going to take me another thirty to thirty-five hours - say two to three days’ elapsed time. Even then, all we’ll have is raw data. A lot of raw data. I don’t suppose you have any idea what you’ve actually got here?’