Noir Fatale

by Larry Correia

  “Vic.” I cleared my throat. “Victor.” His face. Scarred. He’d refused nanotreatment. Wore the scars in defiance. “We’ll be pulling in to Union Station soon.” I averted my gaze.

  He leaned in. My nostrils flared under the assault of bergamot and spice. Damn him. I closed my eyes. Fire-warped metal and fire-warped screams.

  Burning hair and scorched skin.

  Chaos and booze.

  I raked my fingers through straight flaming red hair. “A gift,” I said, “from Mason.” He wanted my hair restored after the alleged accident. I resisted…until Mason forced, I mean insisted on the augment—though I’d call fixing the swirling mass of scars blanketing my scalp major surgery.

  Every once in a while, when I rake my hair, a phantom scar rises up. I should burn it all off.

  “Suits you,” Vic said. “How about a cocktail?” Though disappointment flashed in those stormy, augmented eyes.

  “No.”

  He blinked.

  “Yes, I need one, but no. Another time, okay?” My liver didn’t understand, though my liver thanked the fifty-pound brain who discovered nanotherapy. So did I.

  “May I contact you,” Vic said, “you know, over there?”

  “I’m off that other side, strictly a right side of the Veneer woman,” I said, “for the time being.”

  Disappointment.

  “What are you doing on the lev, anyway?” I ran a finger along the edge of the empty rocks glass I’d forgotten rested on the arm of the chair. The clacks receded under our sustained conversation. Nice touch.

  “Business.” No hesitation. I didn’t doubt Vic had business in New Orleans.

  “If you desire contact,” I said, “please try the old-fashioned way.”

  He ogled me, nonplussed.

  Sunset Limited, service from Los Angeles to New Orleans is concluding. The lev will be arriving in New Orleans in five minutes. All passengers should—

  The announcement melted away as I stared down Vic. He averted his gaze this time. I could not, would not involve myself with him. Not again.

  He fought the aversion and brought those steely grays down hard on me.

  I kidded no one. I’d broadcast my whereabouts at some point. Vic would find me. The right side of the Veneer wouldn’t stop him. Stop me.

  Mason would stop everything. That was his plan. Was always his plan.

  “The world turns in a funny way, the past always comes back around, doesn’t it?” There. The one and only broadcast of where I’d be. Not much. Enough.

  “If only I’d discovered your presence on the Sunset Limited before now, but I only came aboard in El Paso. See you ’round, Liz.” Vic pointed his chin in the direction of the passenger cars and strode off.

  I gripped the rocks glass. Not a drop hiding in there. I stared out the window, past the reflection and into the black, swirling night. “Safest way to travel is abstaining.” A nanosect swarm, pitch against the gloom congealed and massed, keeping pace with the lev for a few seconds. Curse the fools responsible for unleashing those electromechanical locusts on the world—even if the whole affair was a mistake. My fingers caressed each pearl of the necklace in turn.

  The lev hummed into Union Station, the clacks no more. I grabbed my overnight bag, a beat-up old thing, and disembarked into soggy murk. I drank the heavy air into my lungs, the weight settling deep within me.

  “Lizabeth.” A tall thin man emerged from the gloom. I wished the descent of a black cloud down on my husband’s head, the nanosects feeding on that sick mind of Mason’s.

  “Mace,” I said. “Thank you for meeting me.”

  “You’re here for one reason, Lizabeth.” His gaze fell to the string of pearls my fingers caressed. “Here, let me take your bag.” He wrested the bag from my grip.

  “Mace, please.”

  “What, you want to carry this yourself?”

  “No, I—I’m happy to be here is all.”

  “In this muck? You won’t be here long.”

  “No, come on, be kind. It’s been weeks.”

  Mace’s dead eyes livened for a moment, those black-as-a-nanosect-swarm pinpoints of cruelty and hatred, eyeing my wrist.

  “Please, Mace, I’ve done nothing wrong. Did exactly what you told me to do. See?” I pulled the pearls away from my chest. No matter my act, Mace, sadistic Mace, thought first of pain, then pleasure, and often intertwined the two with deftness of mind and of hand.

  His gaze followed something behind me. I twisted. Glimpsed Vic stepping off the Sunset Limited.

  “Eyes on me, Lizabeth,” Mace said, “eyes on me.”

  “What is it?” I braced.

  “I think I saw him.” The inflection of “him” left no doubt. The inflection was only used when speaking of Victor.

  “Who, Vic?” I said, “I mean, Victor?”

  “No. The mayor of New Orleans, who in the hell do you think I mean? If we weren’t in public—”

  Mace grabbed my arm with one hand and carried my overnight bag in the other. We strode down the length of the Limited. A man and woman stepped off in front of us, Mace tensed.

  The man wore dark stubble and his shabby and unkempt appearance paled compared with the rest of the clientele disembarking. He reeked of two things: musk-infused sweaty socks and cop. The woman on the other hand, well, she resided in a neighborhood many miles from his. Black gloves, a crimson handbag dangling from her forearm, and a smart suit. Her shoes, three-inch heels, morphed into elegant but utilitarian boots capable of dealing with the sogginess that was New Orleans.

  “What’s the score, huh?” Mace asked the man’s back.

  “Excuse me?” sweaty socks asked. He looked Mace up and down and his eyes widened. Mace had that gravitas. His features denied classification, but the emblazoned graft of the Macau Lotus he wore so brazenly on his hand scared off even the most foolhardy of men and women. “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to—”

  “Fine. Get moving,” Mace said, “we’ve a date needs keeping.”

  The man bowed, but the woman kept her chin high. The pair moved aside, allowing Mace the right of way. At the curbside pickup, his conveyance whirred up, doors opening as the dull metal machine stopped. He tossed my overnight in, gave me as gentle a shove as I’ve known from him and I slid in. He plopped beside me. “Hotel Monteleone.” The conveyance whirred to life, zipping us past the horde of people waiting for transport.

  I dared not speak, not until Mace indicated, or I’d—

  Pain wormed up my left arm, spreading into my heart, squeezing. Frozen facial nerves prevented any reaction to the pain other than watering eyes, a hot stream bolted down my face.

  “I’m happy to see you.” Mace stared.

  I fought, clenched shut my eyes, closed my lips against the baring of my gritted teeth.

  “Let’s have a fine night. We’ll go to the Carousel Bar at the hotel, start over. I see you’ve delivered the pearls. Good.”

  The worming pain retracted. I sucked in breaths, smacked my lips, and got myself under control. They say prolonged use of inducers such as the wrist-worn type causes permanent partial paralysis or, in some people, tics and twitches.

  “As beautiful as ever,” Mace said, “even under duress. Let’s hope these”—his fingers brushed my skin as they caressed the pearls—“weren’t damaged in transit.”

  “Please, Mace,” I said, “give me a moment.” I breathed slowly. Deliberately.

  “Having said that, please fix yourself up before we arrive at the hotel.”

  “Yes, Mace.” I dug into the black clutch, pulled out a mirror and checked my face. Fixed my lipstick. The rivulets of tears tracked through the makeup—

  “I really must pay for some skin augmentations,” Mace said, “make this fixing up pointless.”

  Bastard.

  “I know, why do I do such things to you, my wife.”

  I studied the cityscape rather than face my torturer, my husband. “I’ve seen what you do to those in your organization who aren’t your
wife.”

  “Now, now.” He touched my knee. “We don’t want another performance, do we?” I resisted pulling away, but instead closed my eyes. Waited. Oh, how I wished they’d grabbed me in Los Angeles, in that dank tenement. But I wouldn’t have been safe. Not as long as Mace needed the string of pearls draped around my neck, an iridescent albatross.

  An indistinguishable mob blocked further passage on Royal Street, a block away from the hotel, whose ancient neon sign blared red through the murk.

  “Hotel Monteleone. Override safety.” Mace barked the command. The conveyance lurched. People scrambled. People smacked the roof. People kicked the conveyance as the alloyed beast whirred through the crowd.

  “What is this?” I asked, keeping my gaze locked on the crowd on the other side of the glass.

  “Protest week, I don’t know. Not sure why the crowd is over here, unless some impromptu savior hopped up on a soap box.” The heat of his words seared my neck. No bergamot. No spice. Mace exuded menace. “At least it isn’t Mardi Gras.”

  The crowd parted.

  Mace eased up a bit.

  The conveyance whirred and jetted onward for the Hotel Monteleone. In seconds the doors opened and Mace stepped out. He offered his hand, the Lotus graft like a brand for all the world to see. Not just skin on that clawlike hunk of meat some called a hand, but a graft of the same skin containing the same tattoo of Mace’s predecessors, thus naming him the Macau Lotus’s leader.

  I wish Mace would have remained in Macao. Died in Macao. But maybe the devil dying in New Orleans was good enough.

  A boy grabbed my overnight bag. I hoped he worked for the Monteleone. Mace led me inside. Not as elegant as it once was, but that was expected given the radical drop in demand for luxury accommodations. Cracks showed in the flooring. A scuff here. A light out there. Mace led me to our room, the top floor. Penthouse. I barely noticed details. So tired.

  “Mace—”

  “Get ready, in fact, wear what you’re already wearing. It’s perfect.”

  “Carousel?”

  Mace’s left eye phased milky. Snapped back to its lizardlike cold a second later. “The first party’s arriving.”

  I knew nothing of his ultimate plan. I carried the pearls. Told I was to wear the pearls, never take them off, never allow them out of my sight. I followed Mace’s instructions. I understood the consequences. And I understood the Carousel Bar was compulsory.

  I visited the bathroom. Beautifully decorated, but no joy for me. Not now.

  “Don’t be long,” Mace yelled from the living room. I didn’t answer. He wouldn’t punish me now, not before the meeting.

  Makeup a mess. Hair straight and perfect, even after that display—augments had their place, I suppose. Bags darkened the skin under my eyes. Mirrors didn’t lie unless one paid for one that would. Skin augments caused rashes and itchiness, side effects I wanted no part of.

  The door banged open. Mace pulled me along, my fingers stretching for the clutch. The pearls bounced on my chest. Our pace steadied into a purposeful walk. No one paid us any mind. I know how I must have appeared to others, but this was New Orleans.

  Once on the ground floor, Mace halted our advance short of the Carousel Bar, eyes searching. I dared take my gaze from him for a moment.

  Splendid, though a bit tarnished. A few bulbs out. A haze on the mirrors. But the rotating Carousel Bar remained glorious. Bottles filled the tiered shelving on the carousel’s column and patrons filled all the seats but one.

  “You’ll sit there,” Mace said. “That lone seat. Reserved for you.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “Not your concern. Got it?”

  “Yes, Mace.” I stood still.

  “Well?”

  I took a step. Mace grabbed my arm, squeezed. The brute didn’t need the bracelet on my wrist to inflict pain. “Speak to no one.” As if sensing my question: “The bartender knows what to serve you. It’s taken care of. No talking.”

  May I look? May I smell? May I feel? Hear? I guess tasting was on the menu as Mace allowed me a cocktail. What if Mace paid for what some called diminishments—typically only used on criminals as a means of punishment? What if Mace paid for such things—but then his sadistic nature wouldn’t be fed. Maybe he’d turn the pain to a new mark.

  “Yes, Mace.” Straight for the bar. Straight for salvation. I expected the flaws picked out at thirty feet would, up close, smack me in the face, but up close the rococo beauty obfuscated the chips, cracks, and fading paint. A respite, just as the Sunset Limited had been, however brief, from the gloom and the black clouds swarming across the expanse and my future.

  “Ms. Sheridan.”

  I blinked. Rubbed my arm. Said nothing. The bartender, a thick man up and down, wore a tuxedo sans vest, and sported a sheening bald head. He slid a cocktail my way. Reeked of virgin something or other.

  Screw it. “Splash me a bourbon, neat,” I said. “On second thought, make it a double.”

  “But, Ms. Sheridan, the gentleman.”

  I sniffed. “The gentleman. Where?”

  “The gentleman, he,” the bartender said, “he prearranged—”

  “Take it easy, sister,” the woman sitting beside me said, eyes forward, “you trying to kick a hornet’s nest? Doing a good job of it. She’ll have what the gentleman ordered.”

  The bartender sucked in a breath, turned, and attended to guests a few seats down. I turned my head ever so slightly, peripheral vision strained. The well-dressed woman who was with sweaty socks on the maglev platform—

  “Yes. Take it easy. You’re being watched closely. This appraisal is supposed to happen quietly. No fuss.”

  “What? You?” I whispered.

  “No. Relax.”

  Who’d this dame think she was?

  The bar stool on the other side of me emptied, but was immediately taken by another person. Sweaty socks.

  “Those are not the genuine article,” sweaty socks said.

  My fingers caressed the pearls.

  “When did you switch ’em out, huh? That boyfriend of yours?” sweaty socks asked.

  “You?” I asked. “You’re the one who—”

  “Me?” sweaty socks asked. “Bartender, splash me a bourbon”—he winked at me—“neat.”

  I grabbed the faux cocktail the bartender had shoved under my nose. Sipped. Not a drop of booze. My tongue shot out and I scrunched my face.

  Sweaty socks slid a rocks glass into my ready hand. Perfect.

  I glanced at my wrist. Please, oh please, not now. I lifted the rocks glass, sniffed. Bourbon. I didn’t care, not one whit, what kind. Sipped. The straw liquid washed over my tongue. Heaven. Damn the swarms anyway.

  “What do you think?” the woman asked, silky English tinted with Cantonese.

  My eyelids fluttered.

  “I think these are bogus,” sweaty socks said.

  “I’ve worn them the entire time.” The words slurred. “And you reek of corrupt cop. And sweaty socks.”

  The stench of menace, like something rotting deep inside approached me from behind, his nebulous form distorted in the hazy mirrors of the Carousel. Hands grabbed my shoulders. Yanked me backward. Off the stool.

  “Mace,” I said, “please. Don’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mace said, “she’s had a little—” the rest of the words slurred in my mind. The Carousel spun, faster and faster, as if I’d put my head to pillow after a long day and night of drinking. Sparkling lights swirled before my eyes, like one of those photos people took of the heavens back when they were visible and the stars grew tails, arcing trails across my stupor.

  “Mace, I’m—I’m falling.” My body smacked a hard surface, but sank deep into—deep into something…

  black movement undulating shadows

  forced breath choking

  fingers in nostrils

  fist filling throat

  I coughed. Tried coughing. No breath. A dream.

  Eyelids glued shut.

>   Bile pushing upward.

  No dream.

  Lips glued shut.

  Fingers grasping. Pulling. Clawing and tearing.

  A muffled chime. The door.

  The scream poured down my throat. My eyes burned. Sinuses stuffed. Quicksand.

  I scratched.

  Clawed.

  The door chimed.

  Chimed again. Urgent.

  The substance covering my face, my entire head, undulated.

  Fading.

  A far-off noise. A crash.

  Pulled a hand free of the muck.

  Air. Choking.

  My fingers scrabbled for the pearls.

  Gone.

  No. Suffocating.

  “Liz.” Muffled. “Liz.” Hands on me.

  My face froze. Electric blue and silver filled my vision. My body convulsed.

  Retreating. The wet sand retreated.

  Hissing. Acrid smoke.

  I reached for the invading substance. Fingers found purchase. I ripped. Tore. Gasped.

  Rolled on my side. Arcing blue pierced my eyes. I retched. Contents of my insides poured forth and I blinked away the blue and silver and black.

  “Liz, please. Wait.”

  I fell off the bed. Wet. Lukewarm gritlike substance. Used-up bourbon swirling in the mix. I kicked and scrambled with my hands, slipping. Grabbed for the sheets. Hands lifted me. Strong hands. Bergamot and spice.

  Fire-warped metal. Fire-warped screams. Burning hair and scorched skin. Chaos and booze. Victor.

  I wobbled, but stood. My back arched and rounded as I heaved.

  “Liz. I—”

  I reached out, put a hand on Vic’s chest. Heaved.

  Ragged breaths. Burning lungs. I licked crusty lips, got the breathing under control.

  “Victor,” I gasped. “What—” My eyes adjusted. The gritlike substance congealed. Arcs subsiding.

  He raised a wandlike device. “I couldn’t risk full power, Liz. Couldn’t.” Vic’s words stuttered as his eyes filled with grief.

  I coughed. Grabbed the device. Studied for one second. Aimed. Squeezed the base. Cerulean shot through with silver erupted from the wand, arcing for the mass. My gaze caught the empty bed. No pillow. The mass on the floor was my pillow and where my head had been cradled just minutes before. The charge enveloped the pillow.