“So, what do they want with us?”
“Something on Mangum Island, I assume. Look at the data stream, Chi. There’s no evidence of any visits from the dark quadrant except on Mangum.” Kara slid her hand through the data and changed its sorting methodology. She gasped at the results.
“Their visits never overlap. They’re spaced anywhere from eighteen to thirty-six days apart. The gaps aren’t exact, but they’re close. Steady progression over the past three years.”
“What are you thinking, Kara?”
“It’s like a coordinated effort. Think about it. They’re more than a hundred light-years away, which means each leg of the trip would require several standard days. First, to leave their system. Second, to travel the Fulcrum. There’s enough time built in for each round trip to be completed from one colony before the next begins.”
“Seems like a lot of work.” Chi-Qua re-sorted the data by the stated “reason for visit.” In every case, the primary listed reason: “Commercial enterprise.” In most instances, they listed High Cannon Collective as business destination.
“What if it’s all legitimate, Kara? They’re coming for the shimmer tech. They all have oceans, right? Maybe not as big as ours, but they can buy from us for much less than they ever could under the Chancellors. Is it possible there’s nothing special going on out there?”
“Possible is a nice word, but I don’t think it applies to Mangum. Look here.” She pointed to the category where visitors registered their intercolonial passports. “There are no blue stars. All representatives of colonial governments traveled under a Blue Star designator. It was Collectorate law.”
“Except the Collectorate is gone.”
“Yes, but the law never changed. Chi, when I worked in Nantou Marketing, my specialty was developing sales packages for new intercolonial clients. During my research, I learned about the Blue Star law. It was upheld four years ago during the Interstellar Commerce Summit. It’s a way to maintain continuity. It’s important here because none of these visitors claim to be representing their sovereign colonial governments.
“They’re lying. These trips are too expensive without the old Chancellor subsidies. The cost of building new ships alone would be staggering. They couldn’t all travel here without the full blessing of their governments. Are they intentionally hiding the connections? If so, why?”
Chi-Qua poured herself another glass of wine and topped off Kara’s. They were running low.
“OK. Just so I’m clear, Kara. Are you suggesting we’re staring at some sort of interplanetary conspiracy?”
“I know. It sounds mad. And yes, I’m probably overreaching. It’s possible one planet doesn’t know what the other’s doing. Maybe High Cannon is pulling all the strings here.”
“For what reason?”
“Don’t know, but I think Lang did.”
“I know how to find out. Maybe. Kara, do you have Lang’s travel records in here?”
“Yes.”
“Ham Cortez said Lang made six visits to Mangum in the last fourteen months of his life.”
Kara nodded. “Yes! I need to correlate those trips with the dark quadrant arrivals. You’re brilliant, Chi. I don’t say that enough.”
The result didn’t take long, and it confirmed her worst fear.
“Cud. Every trip, dead center. Two from Zwahili, two from Boer, one from Moroccan Prime, one from Mauritania.”
In the stunned silence, Lang’s words again haunted Kara. She repeated them for the thousandth time, hoping they’d make more sense in this troubling moment.
“I tried to look away. But then they made me look closer. I was going to be their man for the future. It’s not going to end well. Kara, they’re going to burn it all.”
What future?
Burn what?
“He learned something horrible,” Kara said, “and it happened on one of those six trips. It can’t be a coincidence.”
Chi-Qua sighed. “OK. You’re one step closer. But I doubt customs records are going to tell us what happened on Mangum.”
“No. We need to break down High Cannon Collective.”
Which they did in shorter order; the data sheets were limited. The corporate and annual profit statements were publicly available, so they contained no surprises, but the client list was sparse.
Too sparse, Kara thought.
HCC rated among the top unaffiliated tech companies on Hokkaido, yet their productivity appeared incapable of reaching those revenue levels. Kara remembered Geo Laan saying High Cannon’s prices were astounding and their contracts maddening, but shimmer tech was not innovative enough to warrant extraordinary prices – not anymore.
“If they were developing something else for their off-world clients,” she said, “might they withhold the details?”
“Maybe,” Chi-Qua said. “But why?”
“I could speculate, but I’d sound like a conspiracy theorist again. Is it possible whatever they’re selling isn’t built on Hokkaido?”
“What do you mean?”
She brought up the HCC schematics, which included aerial and ground views.
“It’s a compact facility. Assuming they still produce shimmer tech, they wouldn’t have industrial space for anything else of scale. They’re the only commercial building on the island.”
“If that’s the case, then why do off-worlders travel so far?”
“And only to the smallest island in The Lagos.”
Chi-Qua set down her half-empty glass.
“Maybe I’m feeling your paranoia,” she said. “Think how easily the two of us got hold of this data and found patterns. It’s unlikely the seamasters don’t already know what High Cannon is up to. This has been going on for years – whatever this is.”
“They know, or they suspect, or worse … they don’t care.”
“Because they’re part of it?”
Kara laid back on her pillow. “I don’t know, Chi. Everything I’ve done the past three years was for Lang. I always assumed he led me down this path because he knew I could finish. What if he was wrong? What if this thing is much bigger than he realized? Chi, if Nantou and Hotai are somehow connected … I’m dead.
“When I marry into Taron, they’ll strip my independence, end my career, and hold me hostage in service of the household. They’ll only be concerned about my corporate shares. They’ll scrutinize every move and sooner kill me than suffer the shame of betrayal.”
“You’re overreacting,” Chi said. “We need to rely on facts, not speculation. You have no direct evidence of their link to Mangum.”
“I also don’t have proof Lang killed himself, but I’ve clung to this belief because the other outcome terrifies me.”
Chi-Qua looked away. “Are you saying …?”
“No. I won’t go there.”
“Understood. Then let’s step away, Kara. Deal with what we have in front of us.” She reached into the hologram and flipped through the data until she recovered the list of corporate officers at HCC. “What do you say we examine the people we know are up to their necks in this madness?”
Kara finished off her wine and ate a handful of prawns as she picked through the roster. Names of men and women from elite families – few native to Pinchon – scrolled past, their images and biographies lacking any particular distinction.
“Recognize anyone?” Chi-Qua asked after several minutes.
“No. At least not from Haansu. But they do seem to have one element in common: Tremendous loyalty. Look at these numbers. Most have served HCC at least thirty years. Tells me they’re devoted.”
She pushed through the data, looking for any variance.
“Huh,” Kara said, pointing to a thick man with rock jaws and jade green prosthetic eyes. “This one’s different. Shin Wain. Special Consultant. Twenty-two years with HCC, but also four years at Hotai. I don’t see when he served at Hotai, or his title.”
“Have you ever heard his name?”
“Hotai employs two hundred thousand p
eople. I’m not so lucky.”
She felt a headache coming on. Maybe the wine, maybe too many prawns. Sometimes a heavy drag of poltash helped. Kara wondered where she left her handbag and looked around.
She sensed a new presence and heard soft shoes from behind.
A brief dose of sunlight cast inside the cabana then faded.
Kara glanced at Chi-Qua, who had the better angle. Chi-Qua froze, glaring over Kara’s shoulder.
“I know who he is,” a young man said. “I’m going to kill him. But I need your help.”
No. Can’t be.
Kara swirled about, aware she had no weapon.
He stood tall inside the cabana, legs wide, arms resting at his side as if prepared to draw his weapon. He wore a brown jacket with square silver buckles, the collar turned up.
The braids captivated Kara. Artful. Intricate. Falling over his shoulders like a nest of snakes.
He continued. “I was right last night. You two are a fine pair of coits. I think it’s time we hitched the same ride.”
Kara caught her breath. “You … how can you be here?”
He blended a boyish grin with a sly wink. “What can I say? Death. It happens. Anyway, I’m Ryllen Jee. Let’s talk.”
12
T HREE DAYS BEFORE HE ENTERED Kara Syung’s cabana, Ryllen Jee went on the hunt. He followed target No. 7 through the old, uneven stone streets of Umkau, maintaining a discreet distance. His prey sauntered between mobile kiosks, pausing to enjoy fish rolls, fried confections, and sea cabbage. The man leaned into each vendor and made a subtle pass – not of Dims for food but of mahali. Ryllen wasn’t surprised; most of the bastards he pursued trafficked in a dangerous journey to another reality. Ryllen tried mahali once, a pointless trip into the silent world of the blind and the deaf.
Ryllen had no interest in this Hokki’s business pursuits. He didn’t care how anyone made their Dims. These fools might as well throw their morality aside and cobble together whatever small pleasures awaited. After all, they had but one life – and then, the abyss.
He’d been there and back three times. But these people? They didn’t need to know what awaited them. Or that the abyss hurt. Damn, it hurt.
No. Ryllen stayed a safe distance until the opportune moment arrived. He spent days surveilling the target, looking for a weakness. His good fortune took Ryllen to a comfortable place. Though this night might end like it did with the others, getting there offered at least a modicum of pleasure.
The target made his way along the seafront, a few blocks north of the Port of Pinchon. Lively fare and crowds of shapeshifters weaved through each other amid a row of bars, lounges, and special entertainment bungalows. The street was wet from an afternoon shower and glistened in the reflection of neon lights.
Ryllen followed the target into Lana’s Flavor. The centuries-old building shook with the bass of the night’s entertainment. Ryllen, his braids tucked inside a long-billed cap stylish in Umkau, approached the bar in the reception gallery and sat two stools from his prey. He ordered sanque. A double. Green, spiced, and hot going down, but it never failed to steel the nerves and clear the mind.
He waited. He knew the man’s technique:
Two drinks then observation. Subtle raps of the fingers against the counter, a bare smile, and a nod almost imperceptible.
It didn’t take long. The burly female redhead between them received her special order when the barman reached out his hand-comm and tapped it end-to-end with hers. The woman’s device flashed green, dancing with a yellow code. She blew him a kiss and retreated across the gallery, disappearing through a rear portal.
No obstacle between them, Ryllen latched onto his target. As drug dealers and low-level assassins went, this man appeared suave, albeit in that amateurish, non-committal sort of way. Small lips, petite nose, childish dimple. A casual suit – all in shades of gray – pressed fine, as if he had a closet full of them. Ryllen saw a larger truth in the deep well of those brown eyes. This man, like all who entered Ryllen’s aim, needed tonight as an off-ramp from a life which brought him no joy.
You’ll be impulsive, Ryllen thought as he sidled to the empty stool next to the target. Still learning, huh?
The next steps were easy. A few words. A disarming laugh. A subtle glance down below. Wet lips.
Sucker’s bait.
“Should I place an order?” The man was unable to contain his glee.
“No,” Ryllen said. “Not here. Too many people. I hate people.”
They were so naïve, all of them. The target thought they were playing a game. In Ryllen’s experience, Hokkis were inherently cruel yet easily duped – a lesson Ryllen wished he learned as a child.
They paid their tab, and Ryllen led the prey to his rifter, parked in an alley close by. It was a tight-fitting two-seater, modified by his own hand, always good enough to spirit him across Pinchon with scant notice from the Forsythe Drones and the Island Transport Discipline. He traveled just outside their vision.
“I have a special place,” Ryllen said after he triggered the nav. “Quiet. Nobody goes there after dark.”
“Is it far?”
Ryllen shot a downward glance. The man was hard.
No cudfrucking control.
Ryllen didn’t answer but charted the rifter’s course to take the low streets of Umkau, along the city center’s outskirts and up the western coast, avoiding primary transit routes. Ten minutes.
“What’s your name?” He asked halfway there, figuring he might as well receive final confirmation before taking this all the way.
“Loma.”
“Huh. Isn’t that a girl’s name?”
Loma shaded his eyes. “It’s for both genders. What does a name matter anyway?”
“Not sure it does. Had a few different ones, myself.”
Loma grinned. “What are you going by tonight?”
“Call me Royal. That was the name on my birth stamp.”
“You’re not Hokki. Born on Earth?”
“What does a man’s birthplace matter?”
Ryllen got all the information he needed and didn’t care to pursue this line of questioning. He offered his right hand to Loma and allowed the man to enjoy himself. Freebies were necessary distractions, certain to captivate amateurs like Loma.
The prey wasn’t paying attention when the rifter entered the Mootau Botanical Gardens and parked under the same bullabast tree Ryllen used many times before. Loma’s eyes were closed and his moans soft but constant. Ryllen’s freebie, buried under the prey’s pants, paid off as it massaged Loma’s granite penis.
“We’re here,” Ryllen said, the bubble swinging upward. He retracted the free hand. “Come on.”
Waves crashed hard against the stony shore nearby. The breeze smelled of saltwater. He nodded for Loma to follow and moved through the shadows toward Ronin Swallows, a limestone cavern that filled with water at high tide. Ryllen didn’t have to check his hand-comm to know the tide was going out. He memorized the tables long ago.
“What?” Loma said. “Where is this?”
“You don’t know it?”
They reached the cavern’s entrance. Loma hesitated and scanned the vicinity. In the distance, the great glass towers of Pinchon twinkled.
“Is this …?”
Ryllen tapped a button on his jacket, which morphed into a nightlight. “Ronin Swallows. Ever been here before?”
Loma looked away – Ryllen assumed with intent – and hesitated.
“No, Royal. Never.”
“You’ll love it. I do my best work here. Nothing like hardcore on slippery limestone. Come on.”
The prey followed, but Ryllen felt his apprehension. Understandable.
Inside, the air was damp, and the roiling seas echoed over the cavern walls. The limestone paths were narrow, the ceiling undisciplined and dangerously low if not walking with care. Ryllen pointed to a place near the cavern’s ocean entrance.
“Plenty of room for fun,” he said. “Nobody’s fall
en in the sea yet.”
Loma stumbled over a muted laugh but followed when Ryllen extended a guiding hand. At the choice location, Ryllen reached into a tiny crevice on the rock face and extracted a glow stick.
“Always prepared.”
He double tapped the stick, which cast a milky sheen over the cavern and raised grotesque shadows.
“You see? We have a good three meters. Lots of room to spread out. Ready?”
Loma’s hesitation showed in trembling fingers, so Ryllen made the first move. Off came his jacket and shirt. The tattooed sun over his chest, radiating fifty-seven red beams, grabbed Loma’s eyes.
“Wait. You’re Green Sun?”
“Not anymore. What can I say? I screwed up. Come on, Loma. Let’s make nice.”
The prey complied. Ryllen tossed aside his hat, allowing his braids to fall over his shoulders. Ryllen was not a superb physical specimen. He was built more for endurance than rich muscle, but the braids were his art and his lure. The prey always wanted to run their hands through the beautiful, intricate, and – when he felt the desire – rainbow-tinted rows of knotted hair.
Loma proved no different. He descended on Ryllen, and they embraced as men, their lips and tongues engaged in the usual first movement of a symphony. What followed did not excite Ryllen, but it was physical and challenging enough to remind him of the best times. Of the best partner.
And of what he no longer possessed.
He proceeded with care and gave Loma one beautiful experience that included almost the entire package. Yet Ryllen drew a red line against the prey entering his body.
They were down on the limestone, Ryllen on top, kissing Loma’s chest, whispering beautiful promises he never intended to keep. Loma moaned as if he were about to come. Ryllen reached into a sealed pocket on his pants and retrieved a cylinder the size of his index finger. It was all so easy, just like the others.
He pulled up, swiped his hand across the prey’s chest, landing it above Loma’s neck. He tapped the device. It unleashed two razor-width blades that wrapped around to within a few millimeters of the prey’s skin.
“Oh, no,” Ryllen said. “Best not move, or you make a mess.”
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