by Lyn South
As I enter the cockpit, I’m not worried about another recitation of The Sins of Clémence Arseneau According to Jackson Carter. I enjoy banter with mission commanders because it’s so easy to outwit most of them. It’s the thought of a public ass-chewing that bothers me because I hate people knowing my business.
Nico glances at Carter, then shoots me a warning look as he pulls a set of headphones over his ears. It’s likely that he’s heard the preamble to the lecture that’s coming. Quiet and focused, he’s already engaged in the business of getting us home to 2533.
Elna and Umbari, a pair of petty thief sisters, settle into side-by-side jump seats toward the front of the main cabin. They haven’t bothered to change out of their mission clothes—Seventeenth Century ball gowns—preferring, instead, to treat my dressing-down as if it’s an evening’s entertainment at the cinema.
If bookmakers at casinos took gossip-mongering bets, I’d win a fortune betting on the sisters to spread my business all over the base within minutes of the ship docking.
Carter doesn’t look at me. Laser-focused on his task, I’m left staring at the back of his curly blond head as he operates the ship’s three-dimensional augmented reality control screens. The navigator, seated behind Nico, casts a furtive glance at me before shaking his head and returning to work.
“Eh-hem,” I clear my throat. Carter keeps working. I try counting to ten to keep my impatience in check, but only make it to three. “Carter?”
“Commander,” he replies, still not turning around. “Use the title. It’s there for a reason.”
The hairs on the back of my neck prick at the thought of showing him any deference. “It’s been a long day. Say your piece so I can change my clothes.”
Carter moves from the pilot seat to perch on the edge of the instrument console. He studies me for a moment before speaking. “How many missions have you completed, Arseneau?”
Finding myself at a loss for words doesn’t happen often, but this opening salvo isn’t the firefight I expected. He notes my surprise and cocks his head to the side.
“How many?” he asks again.
“Enough that I lost count long ago.”
“I don’t think that’s true. You’re the kind who remembers every conquest in great detail. Mind like a steal trap, yours.” He leans forward to tap my forehead, and I take a step back. “Recruited by Fagin Delacroix at ten years old. At eighteen, you became the youngest person to get a mercenary contract. Even if you followed the one-week recovery and debrief time between jumps, which I’m sure you’ve ignored the way you dismiss every other rule, you’ve completed a minimum of fifty-one missions in the two years since you got your contract.”
How does he know so much? Fagin had my records sealed.
My age allows me to play four or five years younger than I am, and being mistaken as an adolescent has opened more than a few doors on difficult missions. People underestimate kids all the time and I use it to my advantage. I can also look older through makeup and clothing. Like our Timeships, I’m a chameleon.
Whatever Carter thinks he knows about me—where I come from, what I’ve done—he can kiss my ass if he thinks I’m going to confirm anything so he can feel vindicated.
“Doesn’t matter how old I am. What matters is that I get the job done for my clients.”
“An answer for everything.” He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ll bet you have a mark on your bedpost for every commander you’ve served and driven half-mad with your bullshit side jobs.”
“I don’t serve anyone unless they pay me.” My blood pressure rises, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of watching me crack under pressure. “I’m sure you already know the answer to your trivial question, commander, so why don’t you tell me?”
“Ten commanders in two years.”
“Your point?”
“Do you know my mission count?”
“I don’t care about your mission count.”
“Over six hundred profitable missions in twenty-four-and-a-half years. More than any other living person. I’m in the records book. Got a special commendation and everything.”
“Congratulations. I’m sure your clients don’t mind that you accept their accolades with one hand while skimming a little off the top.”
“My point is that I’ve commanded hot-shot asshole thieves like you longer than you’ve been alive. If you think you’re something special, someone the Benefactors can’t live without, you’re dead wrong. There’s always someone better ready to step into your shoes if you lose a step.”
“No one is better than me.” I tap a button on a wall panel console. The floor behind me slides open, providing access to the ladder leading to wardrobe storage on the lower deck. I need to get out of this damn costume. “If anyone is expendable, I’d say it’s the old man ready for the rocking chair.”
Carter’s gloating tone changes. His voice is colder than steel. “Don’t get snotty with me, kid. Screw with my retirement and I’ll have your guts for garters.”
“I don’t think my guts come in your size, commander.” I give him a tart smile and a dismissive head-to-toe glance. “I don’t give a single fuck about your opinion or your retirement.”
“Maybe not. But your bullshit jeopardizes our livelihood. Mercenaries are only able to work for Benefactors under the cover of legitimate missions. Teams who cut return windows too close, too often, are begging for the government to poke its nose into the mission records, and that’s bad for business. Not to mention your recklessness could cost someone their life. You don’t want that on your conscience.”
“No one has ever gotten hurt because of how I do my job. You can save the concern for my conscience.”
Carter takes a breath. Exhales. His expression softens a little. “Did you know the Benefactors asked me to train you? They wanted me to guide you, help develop the discipline your current handler has failed to instill in you.” There’s a slight edge to his voice that helps me read his expression better. It’s not softer. It’s not kinder. It’s patronizing.
“You didn’t want that plumb job? Your loss, because I’m amazing.”
“Fuck, no, I didn’t want that job. I told the Benefactors that you and Fagin Delacroix, the two-bit grifter who thinks she’s the shit, are beyond help. You’re both detrimental to their operation.”
My hands clench into fists at my side; my fingernails dig into my palms. Still feeling the after-effects of racing to get to the ship, I have to work to keep my breathing steady. “Fagin could outplay you any day of the week and twice on Sunday. She’s the best Thief Master in the business. She made me the one who lays the Benefactors’ golden eggs. They have to know I’m the only merc out there with the guts to do whatever it takes to get them what they want.”
The cool, calculating look returns to Carter’s eyes. He purses his lips into a thin hard line. He pauses a moment, then says, “So bloody arrogant. So convinced you’re irreplaceable.”
The stone nestled in its pouch, still tucked inside my shirt, could wipe that smirk off his face, but I have orders. No one but Fagin and my client can know about the diamond, or I won’t be paid.
“The six-month waiting list for the privilege of employing me says I am.” I flash a satisfied grin. “If you’re delusional enough to think there will be some sort of comeuppance for me because I’ve almost tainted your perfect mission record, you’ll be disappointed.”
Behind me, one of the girls emits a low gasp. The navigator, trapped in his seat because there’s nowhere else to go, steals a sideways glance at the commander before burying his nose in his work again. Nico’s shoulders quiver, giving me the impression that he’s working hard to stifle his laughter. The only sign of emotion from Carter is a slight tremor at the corner of his right eye.
“One of these days,” he says, “you’ll find yourself in tight spot with no way out. Be careful of the bridges you burn, girl. You might need me someday.”
Chapter 3
There
are three types of time travelers: First are the Observers, tedious little analytical researchers tasked with cultural intelligence gathering for no other purpose than simply knowing things. Second are the Restorers, highly specialized experts in science, anthropology, and social structure who focus on fixing planet-threatening climate shifts, eradicating poverty and, in general, working to ensure humans don’t go extinct out of stupidity. Third are the Mercenaries who, for the right price, will steal your grandfather’s fortune out from under him.
Two of these groups are sanctioned by the Global Temporal Congress—the GTC—as time travelers for the advancement and protection of humankind. It doesn’t take a Hawking to figure out which of us fall outside legal boundaries. Give me a straightforward thief any day of the week. The smarmy politicians who take bribes to overlook our existence while publicly condemning the “mercenary scourge” are the real crooks. The greedy ridiculously easy to buy. But aren’t we all? Corruption is simply a matter of degrees.
The adrenaline from the Florentine Diamond job waned halfway through the time leap home. I’m tired. Hungry. Cross. Before collapsing in bed tonight, there’s my fee to collect for carrying this rock across nine hundred years.
La Taverne de l’Fagin is filled with people. It’s always crowded because the food is good and the apartment rents are reasonable. The ambience is old world New Orleans French Quarter; a slow and easy respite from the crushing pace of twenty-sixth century life. It’s four storeys high with iron lace balconies overlooking a gallery of pub tables below. At Fagin’s the liquor is top-shelf, and the clientele notoriously tight-lipped. Here, anyone wanting an unsavory job done can usually find a willing merc to take it on.
Assignments of the murder-for-hire variety are a different animal. Fagin hates the trouble that comes with contract killing. If it’s an assassin’s skills you seek, she’ll send you packing in a hurry.
I spot Nico as I come in the door. He’s settled himself at a corner table by the kitchen. He raises an empty glass to me — his usual invitation to buy me a drink. As much as I’d love to drag him up to my apartment for post-mission cavorting, someone else has caught my eye, so I wave him off for now.
A skinny fair-haired girl, no more than nine or ten, sits on a wooden bench just to the right of the red-carpeted grand staircase. Her fingers repeatedly smooth the skirt of doll with a fine porcelain face. The child is dressed in the uniform issued to all new arrivals: a light blue jumpsuit that zips up the front. Her legs are short, so the cuff of each leg is doubled up on itself several times.
I sit on the other end of the bench. Not too close, though; I don’t want to frighten her. I recognize the look in her eyes all too well. It’s the wide-eyed stare of someone plucked from a time long passed and dropped into the fantastically strange Twenty-Sixth century. This time is both amazing and overwhelming.
We sit in silence, playing a sideways game of peek-a-boo. When I catch her looking at me, she looks away. When she catches me out, I do the same.
“Comment ça va?” I ask, leaning toward her, so she can hear me over the buzz of patrons eating and drinking at nearby tables.
Her brow furrows. I knew it was a long shot that she might speak French. I ask again, this time in English. “How are you?”
She shrugs as she averts her eyes and hugs the toy closer. I decide to try a different tactic.
“Your doll is very beautiful.”
I’m paid for the compliment with a shy smile. I slide a bit closer to her.
“When I was a girl, I wished for a fine doll like this one. But where your doll is golden-haired and wears a green silk gown, the one I wanted was raven-haired and wore a crimson dress.” She’s watching me out of the corner of her eye, so I pause and give a small sigh for dramatic effect before continuing. “She was a rare beauty, this doll, with rouged porcelain cheeks, and a soft body that just begged to be cuddled. I wanted her more than anything in the whole world.”
“Did you ever get your doll?” she asks, concern coloring her blue-gray eyes.
“No,” I say. “My family had no money for luxuries like dolls and toys.”
The child nods in solemn understanding. “I was poor, too. My mommy and daddy died. Miss Fagin bought my doll so I wouldn’t be so lonely.” She bows her head.
I knew it. My mentor has a type for those she recruits: young kids—usually girls—orphans between eight and twelve years old. Any older, they’re hard to train and they soon go their own way. Any younger and they don’t understand what’s expected of them.
Fagin’s crews are a collection of broken souls. She chooses those with the weight of the world on their young shoulders—extreme poverty, homelessness, and trauma—because life can only get better from there.
Glancing around the nearby tables, ensuring no one can eavesdrop, I give this little one a glimpse of my sorrow. “I’m an orphan, too. My papa died when I was eight years old. My maman died soon after. I know how it feels to lose your world,” I pause, then lay a hand gently on her small one. She lets me keep it there. “Fagin gives us a family so we never have to be alone.”
She nods. Her shoulders slump and she wipes tears away with the back of her tiny hand.
“Does she have a name?” I ask, gesturing to the doll.
“Miss Fagin said her name is Isabella and I must take very good care of her.”
“She is well-named. In French, Belle means beautiful. My name is Clémence. What’s yours?”
“Anna,” she replies.
“Enchanté, Anna.”
She purses her lips and her eyes narrow slightly, which makes me laugh. “It’s French. It means, I am pleased to meet you.”
“I don’t know how to speak that way,” she replies.
“I can teach you, if you like.”
Another noncommittal shrug. “Nobody talks like that where I’m from.”
“And where is that, ma chere?”
“Chicago.”
“That’s in America, yes?”
Again, she furrows her eyebrows. “It used to be. I don’t know where it is now.” She pauses, lifts her nose in the air and inhales. Anna leans forward to look around me. I follow her gaze right to the food at a nearby table.
“Hungry?”
She nods, wide-eyed, and I hear her stomach rumble.
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Moments later, I return with two bowls of hot, savory stew and thick slices of crusty bread with butter. She digs in without hesitation. We sit with the bowls nestled on our laps, napkins tucked under our chins like bibs.
“You dress like a boy,” Anna says, talking with her mouth full. She nods at my clothes.
Back on the ship, I changed into my usual post-mission monochrome uniform: black T-shirt, leather trousers, and hunting boots. A small messenger bag containing the carefully wrapped Florentine Diamond is slung across my body.
“These clothes are very comfortable. Sometimes I have to wear long gowns when I work, much like Isabella’s. Those clothes are a bitschhh... um, are very hard to move or run in.” Fagin will kill me if I teach this kid to swear. “On my last job, I was disguised as a boy.”
“Did you have to run a lot?”
“Yep. I was chased by three men, and I didn’t want them to catch me.”
“Were you faster than they were?” Anna peeks up at me through thick, dark eyelashes and smiles.
“I was faster,” I whisper back, returning her conspiratorial grin. “They didn’t stand a chance.”
She giggles, a deliciously light-hearted sound. “I’m faster than a lot of boys, too,” she says. “They don’t believe it until I beat them. Some of them get mad.”
“If you work with Fagin, you must be fast and smart and strong. I can help you with that, too.”
“I’m sure there are many things Clémence can teach you, Anna,” a woman’s voice says from above us. It’s Fagin gazing down on us over the bannister from several steps up the grand staircase. “She’s one of my best students.”
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Fagin has a runner’s build; long, lithe, and strong. Her movements are so graceful—as she descends the remaining stairs, it seems she floats on air.
“I expected you upstairs twenty minutes ago,” Fagin says. To other observers, her comment might seem casual, almost aloof, but I’ve known her since I was Anna’s age. The comment—delivered with rigid posture and a steely gaze—is anything but casual.
“She was hungry,” I say by way of explanation.
“Diondra is her induction guide. She was supposed to get the child something to eat.” She shifts her attention to the girl. “It looks as though you were deposited on this bench instead, eh, my sweet?”
Anna’s eyes instantly go wide. The spoon she holds slips and clanks against her bowl. “I don’t want to get her in trouble, Miss Fagin. She said she’d be right back.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Fagin gestures toward some teenage girls a few feet away. Two of them jump up from their table. “Go sit with Nelle and Angeline. When you’ve finished your dinner, they’ll take you to your room. I’ll say goodnight in a little while.”
Fagin turns to the girls and gives them more direction as Anna clutches my hand.
“You’ll be fine, ma petit,” I reassure her with a kiss on the forehead. “We take care of each other here. They’ll get you settled.”
Anna swallows hard and gives the two new girls a thorough once-over before releasing my hand. One girl carries her bowl to the table, the other picks up the small valise deposited next to the bench. Anna tucks her doll into the crook of her arm. “I want Clémence to say good night to me, too.”
“Of course,” I say, “I’ll come as soon as I can.”
Satisfied, Anna joins the other girls at the table. Fagin loops her arm through mine and guides me up the staircase.