Vicious Circle

by Elle E. Ire

  The girl punched him in the arm. “You are such a first-year. That’s waste from… ew.” I guess she spotted me. Despite my shock and terror, I flushed with embarrassment.

  Micah pulled me to a standing position, and I struggled to remain on my feet. My food supplies had run low, and I’d weakened from rationing what remained. He holstered his weapon and spread his hands apologetically, shooting a glare over his shoulder at the teens. “We don’t usually bring apprentices on assignments,” he said, spitting their designation like a curse, “but our employer wanted all the slavers dead, and we needed the manpower. Besides, it’s good field training.” He indicated I should precede him to the door. A sharp gesture with his right fist sent the two teenagers scrambling to take point.

  Impressive obedience. Judging from the way the man carried himself, I didn’t doubt the reason for it.

  I had an overwhelming desire to stay on this man’s good side, to impress him.

  “I’ll see that you get home to your parents.”

  Apprentices, deaths, field training. It didn’t take me long to put it all together with stories I’d heard. And if I was wrong, it didn’t matter. From the moment I saw him, I was determined he wouldn’t leave me behind, anywhere.

  I turned back to him, jaw set and eyes focused on his. In my filth, I must have looked ridiculous, but his lips didn’t so much as twitch. “My parents are dead. The slavers took me from a group home on Chalice.” I put my hands on my hips, wincing as they squished in the wet fabric of my pants. “My name is Cor Sandros. I submit myself to you for apprenticeship.” The formal statement sealed our first contract.

  The ephem released Cor’s mind. The moment it did so, powerful invisible walls rose to crush it against the interior of the assassin’s skull. The woman clawed her way toward consciousness, fighting the drugs, exhaustion, and injuries, intent on regaining control.

  Despite the darkness of her soul, which should have made influence easier, her sheer will dwarfed any the ephem previously encountered. She would not allow herself to be controlled, would not be manipulated except under the most extreme mental and emotional duress. If she took the path of evil, it would be her own choice, not that of an outsider.

  Cor’s will pressed and pressed, flattening the entity to an almost impossible thinness. The ephem began to separate, lose cohesion. If that occurred, it would cease to exist.

  Desperate to escape, it slithered and slid, seeping and seeking an outlet, searching out the ear canal through which it entered the assassin’s body. It wrenched itself free in one final tearing motion, leaving behind a tendril—which withered and dissipated to nothingness.

  With great haste, it darted inside Kila’s dozing body, twirling itself in thick cords around its fellow and vibrating like a plucked string.

  I awoke, warm, drowsy, and disoriented. Judging from the slant of light coming through the two slit windows near the ceiling, the sun had almost reached its zenith. The beams cast odd shadows about the single room. I followed their path to a figure kneeling on the stained beige carpeting.

  My first reaction tightened the muscles I could feel, which weren’t damn many of them. The palotrin wouldn’t wear off until a complete twenty-four hours passed from the time of injection. That meant well after sunset. Whoever the intruder was, I was at her mercy.

  The events of the previous night rushed through my muddled brain, and I relaxed against the pillow. A return to sleep beckoned, but the sight of Kila held me transfixed. Even as I watched, the shifting sunlight caught in her hair and lit the blond strands, making them glow. She must have used my shower to clean herself up. Her thick mane flowed down her back, almost to her waist, in rivulets of red and gold.

  A faint buzzing sound carried from her small figure, and I identified it as humming, though this time I couldn’t detect a tune. In her hands she held a book, an honest-to-goodness book with real paper and a tattered animal-hide cover. The pages had yellowed, and I could make out some torn corners. The artifact had to be hundreds if not thousands of years old, no doubt preserved with modern chemicals to survive this long. It would bring a small fortune in the antiquities trade. No one read paper books anymore. Comps stored all written material. I wondered what a barmaid wanted with such a thing and how she could possibly have afforded it.

  That prompted another question. Where the hell had she gotten it? She didn’t have it with her when we left the Flagon’s Flood. A sense of foreboding settled in the pit of my stomach. I knew the answer, but I had to ask anyway.

  “You went back to the bar, didn’t you?”

  She glanced in my direction. The humming ceased. “To get my belongings.” Kila pointed to a carryall shoulder bag on my kitchen table. “I lived there, in the storeroom. Under the circumstances, I felt I should resign.” She wrapped her arms around the book, clutching it to her chest. When she spoke again, I could barely hear her whispered words. “Did I kill that man who tried to take me?”

  I closed my eyes. The image of the unmoving figure lying facedown in the alley rose behind my eyelids. Yes, I thought. “No,” I said.

  Kila’s shoulders slumped with relief. She exhaled, then drew a long, slow breath. “The body was gone. I didn’t know….”

  The slaver’s friends would have disposed of him, or the authorities might have gotten to it first. The odds of her finding out the truth were slim. I didn’t own a vid-viewer, so even if the local news cared about a dead slaver, she wouldn’t hear about it in my apartment. And besides, I had bigger things to worry about.

  I tried to raise myself on my elbows but fell back, exhausted. Undisturbed, I would have slept a full standard day on the palotrin. I required more rest, but the need for self-preservation sent my adrenaline levels soaring. “Did anyone see you? Were you followed?”

  She blinked green eyes at me. “I don’t think so. I took a different road coming back.”

  Regardless, this naive girl wouldn’t detect a tail if it attached itself to her backside. I groaned. “When I can move again, we’ll have to leave—get off-world.” We? I’m not sure what formed that thought, but I’d voiced it aloud. I’d already saved her life, and she’d saved mine. Guild law stated saving an assassin’s life incurred a life debt. I’d be bound to protect her until death, hers or mine. But I was no longer Guild. We owed each other nothing. We should go our separate ways. And yet, having had time to consider, I continued to speak. “I have some savings, enough for passage elsewhere.” No matter how bad things got, I always kept enough funds in my account for a shuttle ticket. If I sold everything except clothing and weapons, I could afford two. Nothing would convince me to leave the girl at the mercy of the slavers’ friends.

  Kila rose, carried the book to her bag, and slipped it inside the crude sacking material. She placed her hands atop the satchel’s exterior and closed her eyes for a long moment. Then she crossed to stand beside me. I thought I detected tears at the tips of her lashes, but she blinked them away before I could be certain.

  She smelled like my cheap shampoo, and though she’d tried to wash it, her damp shirt bore the pinkish tinge of my blood. “I can pay my own passage.”

  I smiled. “Not on a bar waitress salary.”

  “I have money.”

  More alarm bells went off. The previous night I’d been drunk and drugged. Today I was still drugged, but without the alcohol, I could think more clearly, and I put together the things that bothered me about Kila. No calluses marked her perfect hands. She knew more than basic first aid. She carried this expensive artifact. She had credits to spend.

  Kila might not pose a threat, but she was not what she appeared to be.

  She pulled the covers from me and examined the wound on my arm. It showed no signs of infection. She’d done a good job, a better job than a barmaid should have.

  My eyelids grew heavier. The room became dim, and I blinked to clear my vision. “You’ve had medical training.”

  “You could say that.” She wrapped the blankets around me and tucked th
em in like a mother for her child. Something about her made me feel warm and safe. I fought to shake it off.

  “What else could I say? Who are you?” I demanded.

  She smiled cryptically. “I’m the least important member of my family. Not like you.”

  I scowled at her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” My voice rose and fell in my ears, echoing in a disconcerting manner.

  She turned away from me, instead facing my table, the bag, the book. “You are Corianne Sandros, the Core of Sardonen. And I want to hire you to kill my brother.”

  I tried to ask how she knew me, what she wanted, why she’d want her brother dead, but it all slipped away when she began that infernal humming. The haunting melody wove a tapestry of sound that weighed upon my eyes until I had no choice but to close them. It followed me into sleep, carrying me farther and farther from her slim figure, and yet, she remained beside me. I felt her presence like a tangible thing, soothing and easing my fears, and against my will, I let go.

  Chapter 5

  KILA THE barmaid turned out to be Mistress Kila T’ral of Lissex. That much I gathered from her in a public aircar on the way to the port, which added a lot more sense to the slavers’ actions. A prize like that would bring a healthy price, or an exorbitant ransom. She’d gone to work in the Flagon’s Flood based on its reputation for attracting customers in the shadow professions, customers like me.

  As for identifying me, she found my name on my universal ID when she went through my jacket. My tattoo told her my profession. How she’d gotten my nickname, I had no idea.

  She knew a lot more about me than I did about her. I didn’t care for that at all.

  I’d awakened well after sunset, my limbs having returned to somewhat normal function while I slept. It took me minutes to pack my few possessions. Using her credit chit and my comm, Kila secured passage for us on an outbound shuttle—passage to her home world. Destination didn’t matter to me. Someone else choosing would make the Guild less likely to find me. And if I didn’t take Kila’s contract, I had my emergency savings to book a shuttle elsewhere.

  The buildings of Deluge flashed past the aircar’s windows, distorted by rainwater on the glass. I stared at the blocky gray blurs, not really seeing them, instead contemplating my new circumstances. Fate knew I needed a job, but I’d require a good deal more information before accepting Kila’s offer.

  I pieced together the parts I already had. I knew Lissex. I’d traveled there on assignment for the Guild several years before. A woman in one of the ruling families, not the T’rals, wanted a kidnapper killed. The man stole her three-month-old baby from his nursery, asked for ransom, collected the money, and then killed the child. He’d done it before, to other families on other worlds. I didn’t lose any sleep over that job.

  That likely explained how Kila had come to know of me. Jobs like that built one’s reputation. Potential clients identified the Core of Sardonen as the assassin for the sensitive contracts, the emotional ones. I didn’t kill monarchs; I killed molesters. The Guild sent me in to eliminate baby-dealers and school bombers. I came to think of myself as an avenger for the young and innocent.

  It made Micah’s mistake all the more painful.

  I cleared my thoughts with a breath and focused on my current tentative contract.

  Settlements on Lissex consisted of strings of islands. A different family owned each string, and the various clusters specialized in certain trade goods. Larger islands practiced farming and raised livestock. Smaller ones focused on fishing or craftwork. All very symbiotic, despite the isolation. Getting to the kidnapper had proven quite the challenge. A fortress surrounded by water was a fortress indeed.

  I glanced at Kila beside me on the plastic-covered seat. She stared straight ahead, focusing on nothing, but when she felt my eyes on her, she gave me a gentle smile.

  The corner of my mouth twitched, but I repressed the urge to return it. She’d had ulterior motives from the start. She must have suspected what I was, even if she hadn’t known who. All her overtures of friendship had been ploys to earn my trust, to encourage me to take her contract on her brother. I had a thousand questions, but one didn’t discuss my type of business in a public car. My inquiries would have to wait.

  She watched my eyes, and I wondered what she saw there because her smile turned sad, and she looked away.

  We arrived at the shuttle port, and I paid the driver. Together, we ducked inside the flat-roofed single-story terminal, each clutching a bag of belongings. The rain drenched us both before we could get under cover.

  Even at this hour, passengers milled about the terminal. Others sprawled asleep on the hard metal seats, and some vagrants cowered in the doorways to avoid the downpour. Announcements of arrivals and departures blared from overhead speakers and flashed on vid-screens hanging from the ceiling. As one of the central worlds, Deluge received ships well into the night.

  I paused and scanned a screen, then set off, limping, for the access gate. Of course it had to be the farthest one. My leg ached, and until I settled myself in a new, safe location, I couldn’t take palotrin or any other mind-altering drug. As it was, as soon as the buildup of the addictive chemicals began to wear off, I would suffer the withdrawal. Regular painkillers had proven useless against the poison’s effects, like drinking water when you needed caffeine.

  If I hadn’t intervened on Kila’s behalf, I’d have my home, such as it was, and at least the illusion of security.

  And no income. And a growing addiction. And self-imposed isolation.

  I heard my boots thumping in their uneven rhythm across the linoleum floor, and I pulled up short. I had no right to my anger. The last standard day provided more activity and diversion than I’d seen in three months. I couldn’t foresee the future, and I couldn’t hate Kila for that.

  On cue, she plowed into me from behind, then froze like cornered prey when I whirled on her. I stared at her terrified expression for a long moment before breaking into genuine laughter.

  “Come on. We’ll miss our launch.”

  Eyeing me as a psychiatrist would a patient, she followed.

  Security gave us no problems. My satchel had signal scramblers built into its lining, making it seem harmless even though it brimmed with weapons and equipment befitting my profession.

  A shuttle carried us to the orbital station. During the layover, I had a light meal and snoozed while Kila shopped. She returned with four overstuffed bags of who knew what.

  From there we boarded a small but elegant passenger liner bound for Lissex. That’s when I discovered what traveling with a nobleman’s daughter entailed.

  The ship carried a maximum load of two hundred passengers and fifty crew. The sleek little vessel boasted first-rate engines that would shave a full day off the usual four-day voyage to the outer rim. Traveling in Weiss-space, named for the inventor of faster-than-light engines that pushed ships through the alternate reality, made transport between worlds feasible and practical.

  Staff would deliver meals to the staterooms; there was no public dining hall. The central gathering lounge served premium wines and liquors. As we went to locate our cabin, uniformed attendants eyed my working clothes and Kila’s stained garments but addressed each of us as “mistress.” I snickered every time I heard that title.

  Our two-bedroom suite defined luxury. The decor resembled what one might find on a planetside oceangoing vessel, right down to a viewport that could be switched to reflect a three-dimensional image of rolling waves, among other vista choices.

  I ignored the call of the sleeping area, instead easing my tired muscles onto an overstuffed couch that dominated the suite’s sitting room. Kila took one of two armchairs opposite me and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. I noted the dark smudges under her eyes and wondered if she’d slept since this whole ordeal began.

  “So,” I started, letting my head rest against the back of the couch, “why do you want your brother dead?”

  She blinked at
my bluntness.

  Despite training, I didn’t read people as well as I would have liked. I could judge when someone would strike, run, or scream for help, but I had no clue when they lied or told the truth. Assassins didn’t negotiate. But it would have come in handy now. I watched the emotions playing over Kila’s face, her expression shifting from sad to determined to angry and settling on uncomfortable.

  She fixed her gaze on her fingernails, rubbing her thumb over a broken one that had snapped all the way to the quick. “Jaren, well, he….” Her eyes met mine, pleading and shining with unshed tears.

  Without her needing to say another word, I could guess what her brother had done. However, I didn’t end people’s lives on guesswork. If she wanted me to kill him, she’d have to spell it out. A subtle rumble in the starship’s frame signaled the engines powering up. That vibration would continue throughout the voyage. It made me sleep like an infant during interstellar travel, which meant placing a proximity sensor at my bedroom door. The alarm it would give off would wake the deepest of sleepers.

  Kila took a steadying breath. “He… touched me. He forced me to touch him.”

  “By touch, you mean rape.” I kept a cold, even tone. Emotions could not play a part in business.

  “Yes.” Her voice shook.

  “Say it like it is, then.” Something twisted inside me. My fingers clenched into fists, and I fought to uncurl them, laying them flat on my thighs. Control. Control and objectivity. No personal involvement. This response felt alien to me. I prided myself on detachment. Where was this coming from? I had to judge this like any other case or potential contract. “How many times?”

  Her gaze narrowed. Her eyebrows raised. “Does it matter?”

  “How many times?” I repeated.

  She made a sound of disgust. Throwing her arms wide in exasperation, she stood and paced the plush maroon carpeting. Her shoes sank into the centimeters-thick material, leaving indentations as she walked. “Six? Seven? Maybe I should have made notches in the headboard!” Kila spun, green eyes blazing. Anger gave her a kind of raw beauty, an edge to the innocence. “I’d like to forget.” She returned to her seat, spine rigid against its cushions. I saw her hands trembling and fought the sudden urge to cover them with one of my own.