Lioness’ Legacy IV—Torment

by Valerie J. Long

  My fine nose led me to a shop at Seventy-Fourth Street, corner of Amsterdam Avenue. I was—as yet—the only client.

  “Good morning,” the young man behind the counter kindly welcomed me. “What’d you like?”

  I ordered once up and down the menu, potatoes, eggs, ham, fruit, juice, and coffee.

  “Respect,” he said. “If you eat like this and can maintain that shape?”

  “I exercise a lot. That keeps me in shape.”

  “I wish I had so much time left for exercising.”

  “Then you’d be out of job.”

  He paused. “Oh. Sorry.”

  “No matter. I’ll find something.” I pointed at a full jug behind him. “May I have a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  Coffee in hand, I sat down at one of the tables and watched him preparing my breakfast from there.

  Two more men came in, put on aprons, and began to prepare condiments behind the counter.

  A few minutes later, the next guests arrived. Four workers in overalls, then two older women in work coats who’d probably clean up rooms later, one taxi driver—the venue filled up quickly. My breakfast arrived in courses, so that I soon had to split my attention between my meal and people.

  Finally, a young man with a small pile of newspapers appeared. “Someone a Gotham Chronicle?”

  Nobody paid attention to him. He shrugged and waved at the innkeeper, and then he approached my table. Here were the only free chairs left. He found a corner for his paper, and then he heavily dropped on a chair.

  “Morning.”

  I quickly swallowed. “Good morning. No luck with the newspaper?”

  “As always.” He plucked at one corner. “No one wants to read that stuff.”

  “Why not? And if you know, why do you try to sell them?”

  “I don’t want to sell them. I’d give them away. These are my proof copies, you know? I’m a journalist. I’m writing articles for the Chronicle.”

  “For which part?”

  “Local.”

  “Then you know what’s going on in the city.”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “Sounds as if the people should be interested.”

  He made a face. “The people are interested in what’s going on in the city. Only not for what I’m writing.” He leaned forward. “That’s not the same.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m writing what I’m told to. A carefully filtered version of truth.”

  “Modern journalism.”

  “No reason to become sarcastic. I’m journalist, and I’m diligently researching. I know the truth. Only my job is different. I’m not practicing.”

  “I believe that wouldn’t be fun for me.”

  “If you’re looking for fun, leave New York.”

  “Sounds bitter.”

  “It’s bitter. Like Joe’s coffee. Joe, how ’bout it?

  “Coming,” Joe called from the counter.

  “And what are you doing?” my opposite asked.

  “Looking for a job.”

  “Oh. Okay. Something special?”

  “Nah. Pub, garage, store, whatever.”

  “Temp? What did you learn?”

  Brothel or Dragon technology. I didn’t want to do the former, and not to unveil the latter. What else could I offer? Oh, there was one option, thanks to Harold. “Electrical installations.”

  “That’s a wide field.”

  “In my last job, I repaired illuminated advertisings. And I’m free of vertigo.”

  “Oh. Sounds interesting. I can ask around. Will you return here eventually?”

  “Depends. If I don’t find anything.”

  “Okay. By the way, I’m Trevor.”

  “Trevor. I’m Jo.”

  “Fine, Jo. I’m always here, except on Sundays.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  In the light of the morning sun, the streets quickly came to life. My plan envisaged exploring the space now—so I marched on Seventy-Second eastward through Central Park and all the way to the East River, then walked every third or fourth street back and forth between shore and park until I had reached the southern end of the park and the Plaza Hotel at Fifty-Ninth.

  Even if I passed numerous people on my way, this didn’t result in further exciting conversations. Most didn’t take notice of me, some turned away, and few gave me a mistrustful glance.

  No wonder. In this town, attractive women didn’t walk longer distances alone even by day—or only on a few streets, where whores were waiting for clients. Even those who walked their dogs or pushed their buggies moved in groups of at least three.

  Only around the subway stations, where the crowd spread, this rule was taken lightly—on the direct way to an office building, a restaurant, a shop, that is, to their jobs, I saw women solo.

  Equality? Here, in the Syndicate’s New York, there was no more room for that. Why hadn’t I seen a single female cop so far? Because women couldn’t be brute and mean? Nonsense—but because there was no room for women in a brutal, misogynous male clique. They might have gnawed at the men’s conscience.

  The flying salesmen with their little carts, some even with rolling kitchens, were exclusively male. It was the same with the gangsters.

  I hadn’t seen a gang like Verena’s from Baytown in this city yet. That matched. Perhaps that would be different in Brooklyn?

  Later. Today it was Manhattan’s turn, and perhaps a job.

  As waitress, I’d have plenty of contact with people, but hardly any time to talk. Moreover, such a job would occupy me most when I could scout the area best. So almost any other job would be better, except for one—in this city, I wouldn’t prostitute myself.

  How about a car repair shop then? Ahead, where the cars were parked in two rows on the street, I’d surely find plenty of work.

  I peeked through the gate. The inside was packed with cars, too, the hoists raised, and two young men in blue overalls were working on two cars. An older man with gray temples, likewise dressed in blue, leaned over an expensive all-terrain-vehicle’s engine compartment. He looked up when I stepped closer.

  “What do you want?”

  “Good morning. I’m Jo. I’m looking for a job. It seems as if there’d be tasks for me here.”

  “Know your ways with cars?”

  Not directly, but with Dragon technology—if there was anything that deserved the label rocket science, it’d be this subject. “I know my ways with electricity, engines, and power generation, and the mechanics are no secret. Test me.”

  His gaze wandered across my body. Doubtlessly, he’d have liked to put me to another test, too, but at the moment, he was probably pondering what I’d be able to do. I didn’t look like a worker.

  “This ride doesn’t stir anymore. All dead. Any idea?”

  “Let me see.”

  He gave me some room. I leaned over the car and examined the battery.

  A Frostdragon battery could basically only fail if it was severely damaged mechanically, and this one looked entirely intact from the outside. I ran my fingers around it once, and then I felt for the two hidden test sensors and pushed them.

  What was the charge status? A hair-fine light on top flashed three times green. Thirty percent charged, that sufficed.

  The electricity ran from the battery via the power controller as high-voltage drive current to the engine, as low-voltage current to the secondary aggregates. The former wouldn’t help, though, if the power controller didn’t receive control signals from the secondary circuit. If the car was all dead, the problem had to be with the secondary current?

  The low-voltage line to the secondary junction was correctly connected and didn’t show any obvious damages. Was it powered, then?

  A voltage meter would have helped me now—however, I’d have had to unplug one of the lines to use it, and I didn’t want to change anything with the car until I knew the cause. But what had I stolen all the nano tools for? A fingertip here and another there
, a prick thinner than a hair, and—oh!

  How could drive current get into the secondary circuit?

  The power controller was the primary culprit. Before I touched its casing, I sent my nano tools ahead again. No danger there, but again, I found drive current on the secondary lines. So the case was clear.

  I disconnected the high-voltage feed, and the next moment, the car came to life—headlights and inside lights turned on, and a bell signal rang from the dashboard, followed by a friendly female voice, “Drive current interrupted.”

  That should do. I turned to the older man. “If you remove the power controller and open it, you’ll find a short-circuit between drive current and weak current, which killed the entire control.”

  He nodded in surprise. “I could have searched ages. Jo. When can you start?”

  “Well—now? Or tomorrow morning?”

  “I’d prefer tomorrow morning. Any sooner, and I’d have to rack my brain what I’d have to pay you for a half day. Seven sharp.”

  “Sure.”

  He gave my arms a doubtful glance. “No watch?”

  “I’ll be here on time.”

  “Okay, Jo. I’m Herb.”

  Part Four—Exposed

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  My stomach had to remind me that I hadn’t had anything since breakfast. It was time to call it a day with regard to my reconnaissance. I had seen enough of the city.

  I could have walked back a few blocks to check out one of the overcrowded Irish pubs. Instead I entered the next, seemingly deserted fast-food diner three doors on.

  Upon opening the door, a bell rang and called a man with an apron from the rear. “Oh, hello,” he welcomed me, as if he’d expected someone else. “What do you want?”

  “A big veggie burger for now.”

  “Veggie burger. Mmm, yes, clear. That will take a moment longer.”

  “I’m not in a hurry. If it doesn’t bother you.”

  “Oh, no, it doesn’t bother. I only have to defrost some extras first.”

  “Rarely demanded, is it?”

  “Well. Yes.”

  That was only half of the truth. “You don’t have many guests at all.”

  “No, it’s quiet.”

  “I’m the first today.” No, that wasn’t it. “This week?”

  He made a sad face, but didn’t say a thing.

  “I’m new in town. What’s going on here?”

  “New here. Ah.” He turned away, but then he looked back again. “Something to drink?”

  “Orange juice?”

  “In the fridge. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  He disappeared to the back.

  I took a bottle of juice, supposedly freshly squeezed and from California, and sat down on a stool at one of the three bistro tables.

  If I wanted to sweep the entire city clean in only three weeks, I needed a new plan. With pure observation, I couldn’t prevent the sacrifice. Would it matter after all the months passed, after all the people who already had died?

  Yes, to me it mattered. I already carried a heavy burden with the events in Vegas, in the Inferno. I couldn’t stand the thought of people treating other people like this. That triggered my worst memories. Hermann. Dandy. Miriam. Katrina. Never again!

  The host shrank back when I looked at him, and would almost have dropped my veggie burger.

  “Sorry,” I said and tried a smile. “Did I look so grim?”

  “Yes.”

  “As if I’d kill someone next?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not you. The Syndicate.”

  He placed the plate down before me. “That’s no subject for jokes.”

  “I’m not joking.” I dug ten dollars from my pocket. “Thanks. Keep the change.”

  He quickly let the note disappear. “Then there’s no point in asking for your name.”

  I was spared an answer, as just at that moment, two red tracksuits entered, a short and a tall one. In the mirror image on my knife blade, I saw two others standing outside.

  The short one addressed the host. “Ay, dude—we just came along and saw your shop runs well. Come, gimme something.”

  Wordlessly, he handed my ten dollars over.

  “What, that’s all?”

  The host shrugged and remained silent.

  “Ay, bean, have a look around.”

  The tall one walked toward the back room. My host gave him a fearful glance, seemed to be about to say something, but then shrank with resignation.

  A startled squeal sounded from the adjacent room, and then Bean dragged a young girl of perhaps fifteen years forward and grinned at his mate.

  “Ay, wow, what have we got there? Let’s see, girl, what you can offer.”

  “No!” the girl protested.

  Shorty reached for his crotch and produced his swelling erection. “Have a look what I can offer you.”

  I rose. “She said no. Leave her alone.”

  Proudly, Shorty presented his boner to me. “You’ll have your turn, don’t worry.”

  Bean held the wriggling girl firmly in his grasp, while the host made no effort to intervene.

  “Let her go,” I requested again, this time more firmly.

  “Ay, biddy, what’s that?” Shorty fetched a spring knife from his pocket and made the blade jump out. “Stay out, or I’ll stab you.”

  “Put that knife away before you cut your cock off. And I won’t say it again—let the girl go.”

  Shorty showed an evil grin. “So, the girl?”

  The next moment his blade jerked toward her face to cut her cheek.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I recognized him initiating his movement, made one step forward and kicked the knife out of his hand. In parallel, my right hand struck his nose, which gave in with a crunching noise.

  My left plucked the knife from the air and ran it forcefully through the arm with which Bean still held the girl, cutting down to the bone. All three shrieked, Bean let go, I danced behind Shorty, and placed my arm with the blade under his privates from there. “One bad move, and your dick’s gone.”

  His movement froze. “You’re as good as dead,” he threatened. “We’ll take you out!”

  “Go on. Try. Give me a reason to pull the blade through.”

  “I’ll kill the girl,” Bean chimed in, still holding his bleeding arm. The girl was squatting on the floor and trembling.

  “Who are you anyway?” Shorty uttered.

  “Just call me Velvet.”

  “Velvet?”

  “Oh, you’ve heard of me?” It seemed so, as the short guy in my arm trembled. Then I heard the sound of fluid pattering on the floor and smelled urine.

  Yuck. Cautiously, I took the knife away. “Get lost now. Quick. And never be seen in these quarters again.”

  Bean gave me another questioning glance. “Out!” I barked at him.

  Now they both saw to get out.

  Their mates outside only now noticed that something had gone mightily wrong. I heard a “Velvet” from outside, then the four were gone.

  I wiped the knife with my paper napkin, folded it close and then gave the host an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry. The situation got out of hand. I didn’t want that.”

  Both stared at me. “You could have been hurt,” he then stated, amazed.

  “By these two jerks? Hardly.”

  “You risked your life for us.”

  “I don’t like little girls being molested.”

  “You fought for us!”

  “Mmm, yes, okay, I fought for you. So what?”

  “Nobody fights for us. The rest of the world doesn’t care what the Syndicate does with us.”

  “I do care.”

  The host shook his head. “Why did you come to New York, of all places? This is hell on Earth.”

  “Perhaps I like it hot. Why did you stay?”

  “We’re New Yorkers.” He pointed at his shop. “This is all I have. How else should I make my living? Where s
hould I go? The Cartel is everywhere.”

  “It is not.”

  “No? But they say—”

  “They tell you what you shall believe, so that you stay and suffer. But the Cartel is shattered, and the west has already won back its freedom.”

  “Who freed them?”

  “The people in the west achieved that themselves. They didn’t wait for a savior, but took fate in their own hands. Only you don’t learn about it, because the Syndicate decides what you should read and hear.”

  The Syndicate people, however, did talk with each other—Las Vegas, Denver, Houston, San Francisco—and thus had heard of me. The Cartel feared Velvet!

  The girl had plucked up courage and held out a hand. “I think I have to say thank you. Your name’s Velvet? Thank you, Velvet. I’m Mandy.”

  “You’re welcome, Mandy.” I took and held her hand firmly. “You were very brave before.”

  Embarrassed, she looked down. “I was frightened. But you’ve been so brave, so I didn’t want to cry like a little girl.”

  “No. You’re a big girl, Mandy.”

  “Yes.” She mused. “Velvet is a funny name. Where does it come from?”

  “Made it up myself.”

  “You need more than a funny name to survive against the Syndicate,” the host chimed in.

  “And I have more.” Again, I pointed at the stained floor. “I’m sorry for the mess.”

  “That can be cleaned up. I say thank you, too, Velvet. I fear your dinner has turned cold.”

  “Put it in the microwave while we’re cleaning up here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I had arrived in New York only twenty-four hours ago, and my plan had already failed. Observation only? Just gather intelligence? No interfering until the time has come, and after a few weeks perhaps take out a few of the leading heads?

  That plan would never have worked.