by Jenn Lyons
dark nasty suspicions. It was the shuttle from a Sarcodinay Navy Nova-class carrier.
“That leads me to my next question. Can Cerberus find out where War Leader Shaniran is currently stationed?”
She was immediately suspicious. “Why?”
“Oh, I always told myself that if I were ever on vacation I’d try to look him up. His books on naval tactics were all mandatory reading back in school. I’m a big fan.”
“You can’t be serious?” Medusa paused. “You are serious.”
“Very. Those were his guards that killed Paul. I’d like to know if he has an explanation for their behavior.”
“Shaniran, Mallory. ‘Tough as Shaniran’ isn’t a colloquialism because he likes to invite old ladies over to play bridge. You’re talking about the man who almost killed Flynn. Flynn!”
“We’re talking about the man who captured Flynn, and was made a fool of by Flynn when Flynn seduced Shaniran’s daughter, who helped Flynn escape.” I wrinkled my nose in distaste. Never mind that I loathed Flynn by reputation as a womanizing wanna-be assassin with an ego as large as Saturn, I couldn’t imagine having sex with a Sarcodinay, even if my life was at stake. A robot would show more tenderness. “Don’t worry, Medusa, it’ll be a friendly chat.”
“Now who’s lying?”
She grumbled for a bit longer, but finally consented to pass along the request. She didn’t like it. She clearly thought I was going to get myself into more trouble.
She may have even been right, but I needed answers. Campbell had been civil enough to me at the jail, but that would change—quickly—when he found out I was interfering with the MOJ investigation, which is almost certainly how he was going to interpret my behavior. I possessed exactly one lead I didn’t think he knew yet—Shaniran. He provided the bodyguards who killed Paul, and he was mentioned by name in the faux memory that Lorvan’s death triggered. Campbell seemed like a smart boy though. He’d probably make the connection with the bodyguards and work some sort of angle to explain what had happened. Maybe it would be truth and maybe it wouldn’t. Personally I didn’t care why the Sarcodinay Minister had been killed. I wanted to know why Shaniran’s boys had taken the time to sideswipe Paul at the expense of the Minister’s life. It made no damn sense at all.
I was three steps into the living room when I caught a scent that diverted me from the front door to the kitchen.
Ian Delgado was standing there in a long sleeved poet’s shirt, forest green denim pants and a belt made of fine silver links. He’d thrown a plain black cooking apron over the whole mess. He was standing next to the stove, flipping pancakes.
I stopped. “Tell me: do you always dress like a pirate?”
“Aye matey. We artists are an eccentric breed.” He grinned at me. “You’re looking lovely this morning, sunshine. Breakfast?”
“Your life expectancy will be much improved if you get over the impulse you have to call me ‘babe’ or ‘sunshine’.”
He laughed. “Whatever you say, sweetcakes. Want some?” He held up the plate of pancakes.
“You’re cheerful.”
“Shouldn’t I be? Have some pancakes. Everything is better after pancakes. Known law of the universe, that.”
“I shouldn’t. I need to get down to the landing bay and—is that real coffee?”
Ian Delgado grinned, green eyes bright. He suddenly reminded me of Paul. I pushed the memory from my mind—hard.
“Cream’s real too. Help yourself, sugar.”
“I suppose one cup wouldn’t hurt...” I poured myself a cup. I tried the coffee. It was wonderful, dark and rich, the way only coffee grown on Terra can be. They try on the colonies, but it’s a hard sell to get the soil content right. “Real cream, real coffee, fresh fruit....gin, bitters and rye whiskey. And here I just thought you were a waiter.”
“No, I was a striker,” he said. “Then I decided a while back that a fellow with the right know-how could make a bit more profit, if you know what I mean.” He flipped back the edge of his shirt on one arm, revealing a tattoo of an eagle in flight. It wasn’t the sort of tattoo an Urban would wear. It was rough around the edges. I had a few like it myself, although not that particular one: I could pilot a ship but it was far from something I enjoyed.
“So you turned smuggler.”
“Yeah, well, what the hell right? Anything to make those bastards pay. After a few years of beating the odds I figured I should get out while I still could. I knew Sarcodinay security. I still had contacts on the outside. And it’s good money if you can find a way to bridge supply and demand.”
He leaned over, kicked open a drawer, and tossed a pack of Liberty Reds on the table. Vanessa was right: this kind of man was definitely no good for me.
I was right back to being in love.
“Who do you think supplied the liquor for that party, anyway? It doesn’t really matter though. As soon as this treaty is signed, I’m out of job. All the stuff I deal in will be legal, and I don’t plan on touching those fancy designer potions that are growing so popular. I have some morals. Maybe not many, but at least that much.” He picked at his pancakes and motioned for me to do the same. “I’ll have time to paint. Shit, people might even buy some of the stuff.”
“You’re good,” I admitted.
He grinned lasciviously. “I’ll assume you’re talking about my art.”
The pancakes were excellent. Besides cream for the coffee he had fresh butter and chunky wild strawberry jam, and whoever his contacts were, they were treating him right. I was almost finished when I realized that he hadn’t done much more than pick at his own food. He was watching me.
I looked up and returned his stare.
He said, “Your eyes are silver.”
I looked down at my plate. “Only when I’m upset.”
“Having second thoughts about last night? You seemed to enjoy yourself.”
“It’s not you, Ian.”
“Then what or who?” He stared at me. “It’s a who, isn’t it?” He cursed roundly, with the skill that Urbans in the megacities never learn until they leave. “Motherfucker, why is it that anytime I meet a girl I like she’s always pining for some other asshole?”
“He’s dead.”
“Just great. I can’t even beat the candy out of him. How am I supposed to compete with a ghost?”
“Ian—” I nibbled the end of my fork for a minute. “There’s no competition because there’s no ‘us’. I’m really sorry. I needed someone to hold last night. I’m glad you volunteered. That doesn’t mean I’m ready to settle down and practice having a lot of little Delgados.”
He pulled himself together with admirable swiftness. If Ian had served as a striker, he should have known better, but maybe he’d built up an image of me that was larger than life. I couldn’t compete with that, any more than he could compete with the ghost of Paul.
“Yeah, okay. I guess I can’t expect any less. This true love of yours, it was recent, wasn’t it?”
“Yesterday.”
He whistled, but I didn’t see any condemnation on his face because I’d slept with him so soon on the heels of losing someone I cared about. He’d been a striker too. He knew what it was like. “Yeah, okay. You look me up when you finish sorting everything out. I’ll be waiting.”
I smiled, in spite of myself. “Ian? I’m sorry about drawing the gun on you last night. I wasn’t at my best.”
He paused for a second, as if he was trying to remember what I was talking about. He’d forgotten the entire incident. “Oh don’t worry about that. I’ve got thick skin. Bulletproof. You do what you need to do, then come back and we’ll have some fun.”
I nodded. “Now that’s the most tempting offer I’ve heard in years.”
I left him then, and headed over to the docks. It was well past time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get to work.
SEVEN.Shaniran
North Point Station was a large far-system Sarcodinay naval docking and refueling station. Its main purpose, as far as I
’d ever been able to tell, had been to give the Sarcodinay crews a chance to breath in a different brand of recycled air and stretch their legs before the long trek in-system to Terra—or the long trek out-system to Sarcos, for that matter.
Hyperspace, as everyone knew it, was a simple idea but difficult to implement. Spend enough energy and a man, alien, or sentient tentacle monster could rip a hole through the fabric of reality and punch into a parallel dimension of time/space that’s our next-door neighbor. We’re friendly neighbors. Each point in our space corresponds with a point in theirs, like two megacities, where every street number and building designation is identical. There is one big difference: their megacity is smaller, much smaller. So much smaller that if you flew over on one end, let momentum take you a few hundred feet and then jumped back out, you’d likely end up a few star systems away.
The problem is gravity, which bends space/time and screws up all the street addresses. Too close to a star when you jump to hyperspace and you might not punch back out where you expected. It doesn’t have to be a star, either. A planet will do the job more than sufficiently if it’s large enough or close enough. Depending on the quality of the neighborhood where you wound up, that could be inconvenient or it could be lethal.
So, until about eight years ago, there was nothing to do but take a spaceship and chug it far enough out at sub-light to get past the worst of the influences. The Sarcodinay had been doing it like that for a couple thousand years. Sure, trips between star systems took
