by Dan Moren
As Eli wandered away from the main bar, a muffled shout caught his attention from around the corner. With a frown, he rounded the corridor junction and stopped short.
A dark-haired man and a woman with a splash of freckles had pressed a slim, androgynous figure with a mop of short, dark hair up against the bulkhead.
“We’re being paid well for this job. So you’re going to do this for us,” the woman said, forearm laid across their neck. “Or else your secret isn’t going to stay a secret.”
The slim figure, for their part, was barred from any response by the forearm against their neck, but their eyes slid suddenly to Eli, followed quickly by the other two.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” growled the woman. “This isn’t any of your business.”
A firm hand clutched Eli’s stomach, and for a moment he wavered. He knew bullies when he saw them, and years of staying out of trouble was telling him to turn around and walk away. But something else was shoving back at that, hard. You’re a goddamned covert operative, not some scared kid.
“Let them go.” It took a second for him to realize that he’d spoken.
The dark-haired man exchanged a glance with his partner, who stepped away from their victim. With a flick of her wrist, the woman produced a blade. “Beat it.”
Eli tamped down his quickening pulse. A knife. Sure. Kovalic had been teaching him a little bit of self-defense. He could handle one assailant with a knife, probab–
Another click and the dark-haired man was also holding a blade; he’d taken the woman’s place, one hand against the sternum of their victim, whose eyes had widened at the sight of the knives.
Eli’s right hand clutched the flimsy metal cup. Add another to my tally of miscalculations. “Hey, this doesn’t have to go this way. Just let them go and we can all walk away from this.”
The freckled woman smiled, but not in a friend-making way. She advanced on him and it took everything Eli had not to back up. Own your space. That was step one. Confidence.
“I don’t know who the fuck you are,” said the woman, “but you’re the one who should be walking away.” The blade glinted in the fluorescent overhead lighting as she closed the distance.
“Look, I have a good friend in ship security,” said Eli. “In fact, I was meeting him for drinks just over there. He’s got strong feelings on people pulling knives.”
“Oh, does he?” said the woman, her voice more amused than worried. “Too bad he isn’t here.” And with that she drew back the blade.
From behind the woman came a sudden thump, followed by a groan of pain as the person against the wall drove a knee into their captor’s groin.
As the woman started to whirl, Eli took the opportunity to whip the contents of his cup into her face.
She shouted as the beer soaked her face and shirt, stumbling backwards. Her partner was on the floor, coughing; the person up against the wall started to bolt, but the man on the ground summoned enough wherewithal to grab their ankle and yank them to the ground.
Eli stepped forward to press his advantage on the woman, but his foot hit a puddle of his own beer and skidded, throwing him off balance.
The woman wiped the liquid out of her eyes and growled at him, actually growled. She lunged, knife first, and Eli tried to throw his weight backwards, succeeding a little too well as he tumbled to the floor.
With a smile that was overly pleased with his misfortune, the woman drew back her arm to plunge the knife down towards Eli. Ignoring the protest from his tailbone, Eli tried to scoot backwards throwing up an arm in defense.
The stab didn’t come and Eli let one eye slide open. The woman was as surprised as he was to find a hand holding her wrist back with seemingly little effort.
“I leave you alone for two whole minutes,” grumbled Tapper. He yanked the woman’s arm back further, and she yelped and let the knife fall to the deck.
Behind them, the dark-haired man was still getting to his feet, but his former victim gave him another kick, this one a little more hesitant, and he seemed to reconsider.
“So,” said Tapper, looking between the two assailants. “Let me nicely suggest that you two find somebody else to pick on or I won’t even bother calling security and you can enjoy being locked in a maintenance closet until somebody finds you.”
With a grunt, the freckled woman gave a recalcitrant nod, and Tapper released her wrist. The dark-haired man slowly crawled to his feet, but remained slightly hunched over, the pain clearly written on his face.
“I won’t forget this,” seethed the woman, massaging her wrist.
“Jesus, I hope not,” said Tapper. “I’d hate to have to do it all over again.”
And with that, the woman put the dark-haired man’s arm around her neck and the two of them limped away down the corridor. The sergeant gathered up the two knives that had been left behind and disappeared them somewhere about his person.
“Thanks for the assist,” said Eli. “But I totally had it under control. Well. Mostly.”
“Oh yeah? What was your next move: being a pincushion?”
Eli ignored him and walked over to the intended victim. “You OK?”
Hazel eyes met his, worry not entirely banished from them. “I… I think so? Thank you.”
“No problem,” said Eli. “You know those two?”
They scratched their head. “Cavanaugh, the woman, she’s in the sanitation department; Romero too. They, uh, make a little extra cash by shaking people down.”
A criminal element on a ship owned by a criminal. Who’d have thunk it?
“What’d they want with you?”
“Um, I… I won a bunch of scrip at the bar’s maintenance trivia. Forgot to buy everyone a round, which I guess made me a target.”
Tapper snorted. “Not your fault, kid. Assholes like that are just looking for a reason.”
“Right. Thanks again.”
“Sure,” said Eli. “Eli Bishop, by the way.” He put his hand out. “And that grumpy bastard is Trevelyan.” He heard a grunt from Tapper, and lowered his voice. “He’s all right, though.”
“Oh! Yes.” A hand clasped Eli’s, pumping it enthusiastically. “Cary Maldonado. But everybody calls me ‘Mal.’ Or at least they used to where I’m from.”
Eli’s sleeve vibrated, and he glanced down to see Mal’s smiling face appear on the smart-fabric display, along with his contact information: Cary Maldonado, ship tech’s assistant, they/them.
Ship tech’s assistant? I didn’t even know ratings went that low.
“So,” said Mal, as they walked back towards the bar. Behind them, a cleaning drone had already happened upon the puddle from Eli’s beer, and was enthusiastically mopping it up. “You’re new here?”
“Yeah,” said Eli. “Just signed on at Jericho. Ship tech third class.” That’s what the cover said, though if anybody looked too close they might notice that he was still in the “unassigned” crew pool, and didn’t have any responsibilities. Just the way I like it. The good news was that with thousands of crewmembers aboard, the chance of being discovered was low – and they aimed to be long gone by the time anyone did. He jerked his thumb at Tapper, who was trailing behind them. “And Trevelyan’s in logistics. Where are you assigned?”
“Uh, yeah, I move around a little bit, you know how it is when you’re at the bottom of the ladder. Mostly, though I’m in the rear skiff bay.”
Well, I guess it’s my lucky day. Here Eli had been trying to figure out how he’d get a chance to scope out the transport options on the Queen Amina. “Nice. Haven’t been back there yet – what have they got, Fischl 380s?”
“390s,” said Mal, voice lowered to conspiratorial levels as the hubbub from the bar, still doing plenty of business, washed over them. “I didn’t even think they were out yet, but apparently the boss,” their eyes went to the ceiling, “made a… deal with the manufacturer.”
I bet she did. “How many onboard?”
“Two there, two in the forward bay – i
s that where you’re posted?”
“Yep. The forward bay. That’s where I’m assigned.” Sure, why not.
“You’ll be working under Kwasi then,” said Mal, nodding to a man with space-black skin at one of the tables. “Tough, but reasonable. Best tech on the ship. Somehow that idiot Vinson beat him out for running maintenance on the big boss’s private yacht. That thing is sweet – custom from stem to stern. Shame that shmuck’s always talking out of his exhaust pipe.” Mal stopped short and flushed, looking down at their cup. “Uh. You didn’t hear that from me.”
“Sure. Good to know.” Place this big, there was always scuttlebutt.
“I’m going to grab a drink,” said Tapper. “Either of you want anything?”
Mal shook their head. “Been a long night, and I’m on early shift. I should probably head home. But find me tomorrow and I’ll buy you both a drink. Thanks again.”
“Of course,” said Eli. “Stay out of trouble.”
With a wave and an uncertain smile, Mal disappeared down the corridor, leaving Eli and Tapper standing alone.
“Nice kid,” said Tapper.
“Yeah,” said Eli, though he couldn’t help but wonder exactly what Mal was mixed up in. That woman doing the shakedown – Cavanaugh? – had said something about a secret. Then again everybody had their secrets, and that probably went double in a place like this. But as long as Mal could get him into the skiff bay, it didn’t really make a difference.
“What do you think,” said Tapper. “Want a beer?”
Eli made a face at the memory of its taste. “I think I’m going to turn in too. Long day ahead of us.”
“Suit yourself.” And with that, he was off to the bar, leaving Eli alone with his thoughts. The good news was now he at least had an idea where to start. Oh, and he hadn’t gotten stabbed. He could put that in the win column. Here was hoping his luck held out tomorrow.
CHAPTER 11
“Red 23!” called the green-haired croupier to a groan of disappointment from most of the crowd. Sweeping in the chips with their rake, they then removed the ball from the roulette wheel and looked around for any fresh takers.
Kovalic reclaimed his chips, up a few hundred from the amount he’d placed on the table, and slid one across the green felt to the croupier as a tip. They nodded to him in acknowledgement as he left the table.
Shipboard time had it at about eight in the morning and the casino was bustling, even if it wasn’t quite full. The Queen Amina had pushed off from Jericho sometime in the small hours, after all the passengers and luggage had been loaded, and was now cruising at a modest speed towards the wormhole gate that led from Jericho to the uninhabited Badr sector.
Kovalic had hit the gym, watching the feeds during his workout, but the news was mostly quiet: a new trade deal between Haran and Sabaea had been nailed down, the Commonwealth Executive had downplayed concerns about the Nova First movement, and the Imperium was spotlighting relief efforts after a particularly brutal storm had hit the Centauri city of Yeni Ankara. There was a brief piece about the daring robbery of a black-market auction on a moon in the Juarez system, but the only mention of the Aleph Tablet described it as a “storied artifact with a questionable past.” Credulity was in short supply these days, it seemed.
After having donned one of Seiji’s more casual suits, he’d left a note for Sayers and headed down to the casino and withdrawn the chips reception had given them.
He idly flipped a chip over his knuckles as he walked towards a table playing rouge et noir. The card game had recently come back into vogue, since its relatively simple rules appealed to players more familiar with electronic and mechanical games of chance. Kovalic pulled up a chair as the dealer began flipping the two rows of cards.
The dealer had finished and announced the result – rouge et couleur gagne. An older couple and a man with long, gray dreadlocks had won; a pale woman pursed her lips in frustration as her chips were taken away. Kovalic nodded to the dealer, and tossed a chip on the inverse bet before the man began dealing out the next set.
Sitting back and idly watching the cards as they came up, Kovalic scanned the room with an eye for the White Star’s security personnel. There were a few around the edges wearing the distinctive black uniforms, but the ship had evidently made an effort to keep obvious security to the minimum – it made people nervous. Naturally, each table had a dealer and every half dozen tables or so a floorperson; somewhere there would be a pit boss keeping an eye on everything. In some places the security presence was more overt – he’d passed the entrance to the high-rollers room, cordoned off by a velvet rope and a beefy-looking guard – but Kovalic had no doubt that there were more than a few plainclothes security around as well.
Security personnel were the least of his concerns. Nat’s warning about the surveillance system was still at the forefront of his mind, and he imagined it was even more pervasive in the casino, well hidden to help catch potential cheaters. Pinhole cameras concealed in the ceiling would be beyond even Kovalic’s ability to find, but he was fairly certain he’d identified a half dozen decorative sconces that doubled as parabolic microphones. He was sure that thermal imaging and electronic scanning and jamming were in place as well; for all he knew, the drink service drones were packing full sensor suites.
“Rouge perd et inverse!” the dealer announced, and a few more chips were slid over to Kovalic’s stake on a low-power repulsor field. He pocketed them and nodded to the dealer, sending a chip back in his direction. Tipping dealers shouldn’t affect the outcome of the game, but a happy dealer would be more likely to share if Kovalic needed to dig up some intel later. Might as well spread the love around. He headed for the bar.
“Coffee, please,” he said to the tender. “Black.”
A steaming cup appeared in front of him, and he waved his sleeve on the payment terminal, adding a generous tip that was almost the cost of the coffee.
He sat, sipping the coffee for a few moments, until he felt a presence appear at his shoulder.
“Bartender, give me a double of what he’s having.” Sayers took the seat next to him.
“Uh, yes ma’am. I mean, it’s coffee…”
“Yes, I got that. Just make it twice as big.” Sayers had donned a simple, stylish pantsuit that blended well in the casino.
“She lives.”
The younger woman pulled a face. “Space travel always knocks my clock out of sync. There’s a reason I never joined the navy.”
Kovalic covered a smile with his cup. “Don’t let Nat hear you say that.”
The bartender set a large mug of coffee in front of Sayers. “The biggest we had, ma’am.”
Sayers nodded her thanks and waved her sleeve for payment, then blew on the coffee to cool it down. “So what’s on the agenda?”
Kovalic took another sip of his coffee. The bar was far enough from the casino floor that the security wasn’t as pervasive, but it paid to be paranoid. He’d packed the anti-eavesdropping baffle, but a random audio dead spot would draw unwanted attention. Just as effective to choose his words carefully. “I’d like to know more about our host’s collection.”
“Something tells me she’s not about to let just anybody wander right into her showroom of priceless artifacts.”
“Doesn’t seem likely. The key, I would think,” he lifted his coffee, “is to not be just anybody.”
“Oh? What have you got in mind?”
He jutted his chin at the velvet rope and guard on the other side of the room. “How’s your poker face?”
Sayers studied him for a second, then smirked. “I could beat you.”
“Big talk.”
“We’ll have to have a game and see.”
He suppressed a smile. Unconfident, she was not. “Maybe later.”
“Suit yourself. I can take your money anytime. But I’ll settle for theirs right now.”
“All well and good, Ms Bell. But don’t forget the job comes first.”
She didn’t look particular
ly chagrined at the reprimand. “Understood. It’s probably going to take some cash to get in there. Any limit?”
“Charge it to the room and we’ll figure it out when the dust clears.” He didn’t look forward to discussing with the general how they’d managed to kill a significant percentage of their slush fund on this mission, but then again, that’s what it was there for.
“Got it. See you back at the ranch,” said Sayers, downing the rest of her coffee in a gulp.
Kovalic glanced back at the cup he’d been nursing. Infantry wasn’t the marines, apparently. Taking a last sip of his own coffee, he hopped off the stool and headed for the lift back to the esplanade.
He took a tram from a bank near the esplanade’s mid-section towards the stateroom, drafting a communiqué to Nat along the way. A handful of people disembarked with him on his level, filtering off into side corridors, as he followed the lit placards back towards his stateroom.
A man with a shaved head turned down the opposite end of his hallway at the same time as him; nothing unusual about it, but Kovalic found his alertness kicking in. Something about the way the other man, who was tall and lean, carried himself: balanced, poised.
Military.
And not alone. The back of Kovalic’s neck told him that someone else had been dogging his tracks. They were a few meters back, but between them and the man coming down the hallway, he was boxed in. His room was about halfway down and, at his current speed, he might just beat them there.
He quickened his pace – not so fast as to be obvious, more like someone who was in need of the facilities. The man opposite him had shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly, to wariness. Kovalic didn’t dare risk a look over his shoulder.
As he closed with the other man, he made eye contact and held it a little longer than necessary, giving a smile and a nod of the head, as though recognizing an acquaintance. Kovalic could see the confusion in the other man’s eyes at the look; the distraction gave Kovalic enough time to spring towards the other man, slamming him into the wall.
