by Cary Caffrey
"They've been to war, sweetheart."
"I know you served with the CTF—"
"That's not the war I'm talking about. Look around you. You've seen this place. You know what the Earth's become. It's a piss hole. It's nothing but a source of cheap labor for the Federation. You want to talk about a real war? That's what happens every day on the roads, fighting and scraping to make a life for yourself. This mission—it's a chance for them to get out from under it. If you think you can talk them out of it, by all means, have at it."
"And what about you? Can I talk you out of it?"
"You can try," Jaffer said with a grin. "But then who's going to take care of Angel? We'll get through this, Sigrid. Together."
~ - ~
Work retrofitting the cargo haulers stretched well into the night, and while even Jaffer and Marta eventually gave in to exhaustion, Sigrid refused to leave until she was satisfied that all the upgrades to the transports were done to her satisfaction. She couldn't sleep anyway. There would be time for sleep later when this was over. When Harry Jones was dead.
When the foreman finally closed and locked the gates, Sigrid was the last to leave. The lot was empty. Her longspur sat waiting for her, parked beneath a bank of yellow floodlights. The rain had finally stopped, and the wind had died down. The night was deathly still. The soft padding of her heels on the tarmac was the only sound to be heard.
But she wasn't alone. Sigrid knew she was being watched.
Her long strides never altered as she approached the waiting longspur. She was pulling on her riding gloves when four figures emerged from the darkness. Three were on the rooftops above, armed and tracking her. The fourth stepped forward from the front. Still half in shadow, he stopped a good twenty meters from her.
"It's a little late in the evening for a stroll, don't you think?" Sigrid said.
"I thought it best if we met without the distraction of others," a male voice said. "Much safer for all concerned. Less chance of collateral damage."
The figure stepped forward, coming to stand beside a lamppost, revealing himself in the dull yellow light. He wore a long coat, which he held open, as if to show he wasn't armed.
Sigrid scanned him from head to foot. He wore no ID tags, and nothing about him—facial recognition, body scans, DNA—registered in any of her databases. Whoever he was, he was a ghost. Not an easy thing to achieve in a data-driven age.
"Who are you?"
"No one of consequence. Though I do represent a person of some significance."
Sigrid's hands dropped lower to rest on the handles of her sidearms. "You picked the wrong night to play games. I'm in no mood."
The man raised his hands, palms up. "Apologies, Sigrid Novak. I am a courier sent to deliver a message. Nothing more."
"A courier? Well, if you're about to tell me not to shoot the messenger, you may find yourself out of luck."
The man smiled. "I would never presume to instruct you in anything."
"Who sent you? The CTF? The Cabal?"
"Unfortunately, that information is not part of the message."
Sigrid's hands tightened on the grips of her pistols. "For someone sent to bring me information, you're doing a terrible job. You're taking an awful risk coming here like this."
"One for which I am being adequately compensated. Would you like to hear the message?"
"I suppose it's either that or kill you. Of course, I can always kill you later."
The courier gave a gracious bow, full from the waist. "That is, of course, your prerogative."
"All right." Sigrid eased her sidearms back into their clips. "Out with it. What's this message?"
"My patron has become aware that you are working for the Consortium."
"Let me guess. You're about to present me with a better offer."
"Far from it. My patron wishes you every success in your endeavors. One day soon this war will end. Warlords like Lars Koenig cannot be allowed to remain in power. Not if the Earth has any hope of recovering."
"Ah. Then this is about eliminating the competition. What's your patron deal in? Drugs? Prostitution? Smuggling? Wait. Let me guess: not part of the message."
The courier gave another tilt of his head.
"I'm already going to kill the marquis," Sigrid said. "Your patron didn't need to send you down here to wish me luck."
"Like the Consortium, my patron wants the marquis dead. In that, their interests are aligned. But as for your other target, Sigrid Novak, my patron has other plans. Your other target must survive."
Sigrid's recoillesses were in her hands in a flash, leveled at the courier's nose. To his credit, he didn't flinch a muscle. "What do you know about Jones?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. I only know that my patron wants him alive. They would ask that you deliver him personally—unharmed and in good health."
"I'm no bounty hunter." Her finger tightened on the trigger, and a small bead of sweat appeared on the courier's forehead. "I don't want your patron's money."
"No money has been offered."
"Then why?" Sigrid said. "Why deliver him at all?"
"Because my patron is prepared to offer you something you do desire."
"And what is that?" Sigrid spat. "What does your patron think I want so desperately that I'd spare Jones's life?"
His eyes flicked from the twin barrels of her pistols back to meet hers. "The last six years of your life, for one," the courier said. "Your memories, Sigrid Novak. That is what my patron is prepared to offer you."
The pistols nearly fell from her grasp. It took all of her wits to stand firm. "My-my memories?"
"Your memories. Your experiences. Your life. All the knowledge that has been kept from you will be returned. My patron wishes that you should know everything, Sigrid Novak. Especially in regards to who it was who did this to you."
"I already know who did this. Jones did this to me!"
"I'm afraid I can't speak to that."
"No?" Sigrid said. "And what can you speak to?"
"Do this service for my patron, Sigrid Novak, do this, and you will be rewarded. You may kill me now, if you so wish."
For a moment Sigrid seriously contemplated pulling the triggers. She was tired of being manipulated, and she was being manipulated right now. But the courier wasn't lying either. She'd scanned him thoroughly and she was utterly convinced: he was telling her the truth. But what truth was that? All that meant was that he was delivering the message as written. The sender of that message could be making up anything they liked. Truth or lie, she could hardly scan this patron by proxy.
And the courier was right about something else. Sigrid was desperate to have those stolen six years back.
Sigrid muttered a curse and spat. They had her, and they knew it. Of course, this was most likely a lie—just bait for a trap—but the only way to tell was to do what they asked. Deliver Harry Jones.
"How do I know you'll do as promised?"
"I have promised nothing. All I have done is deliver a message."
"And if I do this, will I meet this patron of yours?"
"Deliver Harry Jones, and my patron will find you."
"And what if I kill him?" Sigrid said. "What if I kill Jones? Will your patron be displeased?"
"A distinct possibility. But that is your choice."
The courier bowed and backed away. He paused, half in shadow, to look back over his shoulder. "One last thing, Sigrid Novak. In three days' time, the marquis di Valparaíso is playing host to a group of dignitaries. Ex-CTF, plutocrats, drug lords and smugglers alike. A veritable who's who of Earth's neo-corporatocracy. My patron suggests that you attend. Oh, and formal attire is strongly recommended."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Nuria
The high-pitched whine of the longspur's thrusters scattered the few pedestrians milling about in the streets.
Sigrid leaned forward, pushing her ride to its upper limits. She wasn't going home to her quarters. Not yet. The arrival of the courier and message
from his patron had given rise to several questions. Questions for which Sigrid wanted answers. Tomorrow she would deal with Harry Jones. Tonight—right now there was someone else she needed to see.
The location of Roos Van de Berg, the magistrate's daughter, was being kept a secret, and Sigrid had had her fill of secrets. The information was sealed in a secure file. At least, it had been sealed, until Sigrid had helped herself to it.
During the meeting with the magistrate, Sigrid had made a point of infiltrating the Consortium's networks. She'd helped herself to every piece of information she could find. Anything and everything the Consortium was involved in. Trade deals, mercenary contracts, water and waste management strategies, and, of course, the hidden location of the magistrate's daughter.
It wasn't that she didn't trust the magistrate—though, in fact, she didn't—but if the woman knew something, Sigrid was determined that the information be shared. When this was over, she'd talk to the colonel about their lapse in wireless security protocols. Until then, she'd continue to monitor their data networks.
Roos was being housed in a secure facility in the garrison district, a safe house lost amongst the clutter of warehouses and machine shops.
Sigrid cut the thrusters, letting the longspur glide to a stop amongst the shadows. The safe house stood across the street. Two guards watched the front entrance while several more patrolled along the rooftops. Her sensors detected some surprising security measures, but nothing she couldn't handle.
She was scanning the wall, searching for a weak spot in the perimeter, when another idea hit her. Why break in at all?
I am working for the magistrate, after all.
Parking the longspur, Sigrid strode across the street and directly through the blinding light of the streetlamps. The guards saw her, of course. Their eyes followed each of her long strides. Sigrid braced for the calls to "Halt!" or to "Lay down her arms!" Instead, they saluted. One went so far as to hold the door for her, even giving her a tip of his braided hat.
Sigrid gave her head a shake. Perhaps her paranoia was unfounded.
Perhaps.
It only took a moment to find the girl. She was in a private room on the third floor. The cluster of guards parted for Sigrid, admitting her. Sigrid entered and gasped.
Roos was lying in a hospital bed and quite unconscious. Her head was bandaged and showed stains of blood. A thick breathing tube had been inserted into her mouth and her left arm was in a cast and secured by a brace. Even at this late hour, two nurses stood by studying the many monitors that surrounded her. It was only the machines that were keeping her alive.
"They had to put her in a coma," a voice said from behind her. "They were concerned with the swelling in her brain."
Sigrid didn't need to turn around. She'd already sensed the magistrate approaching from behind. "Will she live?"
"The doctor says it's too early to tell."
"And the other girls?" Sigrid said. "The other three we rescued. What will happen to them?"
"I suppose that's up to you. I haven't forgotten our bargain, Ms. Novak. I know you want to take them with you when you go. If the girls wish to follow you, I won't stop them. In the meantime, they will be taken care of. I promise."
"And Roos? What if she wants to follow me too? Will you let her go?"
"My daughter is a nineteen-year-old girl. I learned long ago, teenage girls will do as they please, regardless of the wishes of their mothers. Roos will make her own choices."
"And if she chooses to undergo the treatments—to be like me?"
"If that is her wish."
Sigrid turned back to Roos. Even in a coma, lying there helpless, to be so close to one of her kind, it was electric. It felt like an eternity since she'd been amongst her own kind. She'd forgotten what a powerful effect it had on her.
"I thought perhaps you were hiding her from me."
"Is that even possible?"
"No," Sigrid said bluntly. "It isn't."
"I have no desire to double-cross you, Ms. Novak. We want the same thing. I want Lars Koenig dead. You want the man who's helping him. Once our business is transacted, we will discuss the future of my daughter."
"Seventy-two hours, Magistrate. In three days, you won't have to worry about the marquis or the Cabal anymore."
"And you won't have to worry about Harry Jones. We can both come out of this winners, Ms. Novak."
Sigrid nodded solemnly. "Just make sure that ship and crew you promised is ready when I return."
~ - ~
It was nearly three a.m. when Sigrid returned to her quarters. Stripping out of her weapons harness, she threw it in a heap on the floor. Guns, grenades, blades, all of them landed in a messy pile, as Sigrid was too tired to bother hanging her things up properly.
Suko would not approve.
To her surprise, the lights of her private suite were still on. Sounds of cooking came from the kitchen along with what could only be described as the most tantalizing collection of smells she had experienced in a long, long while.
"Nuria?" Sigrid said as she poked her head into the kitchen. "What on Earth are you doing up? You should be in bed!"
Flames blazed on the stove top's burners. Six frying pans crackled loudly. An overhead fan whirred, sucking away the steam and cooking smoke. Sigrid leaned closer. Frying eggs, bacon, steaks, mashed potatoes, peas, roasted chicken, spaghetti—along with four kinds of sauce—and a mountain of leafy green salad covered the entire length of the counter.
Nuria was standing in the midst of it all, with her back to Sigrid, and the sleeves of her uniform rolled up.
"I thought you might be hungry. I wasn't sure what you liked, so I…" Nuria scratched her head. "Well, I suppose I made everything."
To Sigrid, it looked as though Nuria had emptied the entire contents of the larder. Though if the growling and gurgling emanating from her midsection was any indication, she was, in fact, quite hungry.
"You'll join me, of course."
Nuria blanched at the suggestion. "Oh no! I couldn't. It wouldn't look right."
"To whom? We appear to be alone." Taking her by the hand, Sigrid led her to the kitchen table, where she made the girl sit. "I insist."
Sigrid then took a spatula and served herself six eggs, two steaks, a mountain of potatoes, along with salad, pasta and three baguettes. "It's a metabolic thing," Sigrid said in answer to Nuria's wide eyes. For Nuria she prepared a more modest plate, though it was still clearly too much for her. Nuria poked at it, pushing the diced potatoes around in a circle.
"Eat! There's no standing on ceremony here, Nuria," Sigrid said, around a large mouthful of fried steak; she was amazed they could get real beef here at all. The power of the magistrate, she supposed. A part of her felt a pang of guilt. What were the other people of the Crossroads finding to eat this night? Barley? Soy? Probably nothing like what Nuria had prepared. But her hunger won out over her guilt, and she dived into a second helping of rib roast. No sense in letting it go to waste.
When the meal was over, Sigrid sat back with her hands over her stomach. "You're quite the cook, Nuria. I'm surprised the magistrate doesn't have you working in her private kitchens."
"She did," Nuria said, with a bowed head. "I mean, I was. But when word came that you were coming here, I asked for this assignment. It is an honor to serve you, Lady Sigrid."
Sigrid frowned. The girl seemed to be having the most difficult time looking her in the face. It wasn't shyness, it was something else, though she couldn't put her finger on what exactly that was. "Please, Nuria, I told you to call me Sigrid—and none of this 'honor' nonsense! I'm just another out-of-work mercenary working for the magistrate. Hardly something that's in short supply these days."
"I know that's not true," Nuria said, and for the briefest instant she looked up to meet Sigrid's eyes. "I know what you are, Lady Sigrid. You're a hero."
Sigrid chewed slowly on the mouthful of bread. "I know what they're saying about me, Nuria, but that hardly makes me a hero.
More of a monster, I should imagine."
"No!" Nuria said, and with such force that Sigrid practically leapt back. "You're wrong. You are a hero."
"Nuria—"
"Forgive me, Lady Sigrid, but without you, we'd still be living under Council rule. Most of the people here would still be in the factories or, worse, the mines. And me, I'd still be a-a…"
Nuria's fists clenched and her hands shook with remembered rage. She couldn't finish the sentence, and Sigrid didn't press her. She didn't need to.
Nuria might only be seventeen, but Sigrid knew what happened to girls like her.
In many ways, their lives weren't that different. They were both children of Earth's squalid ghettos, both of them sold by their parents into servitude. But the similarities ended there.
Nuria's had been a hard life, tougher and more desperate than anything Sigrid had endured on Alcyone. How many years had Nuria been forced to work for the flesh-traders? Two years, three years? Five? By seventeen she'd be nearing her end days, used up and ready to be discarded. By eighteen, girls like Nuria would be dead. By drugs. By disease. Or by their own hand.
Without thinking, Sigrid reached across the table and took Nuria's hand, prying her clenched fingers loose. Slowly, Nuria's trembling subsided.
"Nuria, whatever you think I've done, I am the one who should be honored to have you here. You survived. I can't think of anything more heroic than that. Thank you, Nuria."
The girl shook her head. It was clear she still didn't understand. "For what?"
"For this dinner, for one," Sigrid said with a smile, doing her best to lighten the mood. "It was delightful. Exactly what I needed. And for your company, of course. Though I'm afraid I must take my leave. It's been a long day, and I have an even longer day ahead of me. Here, let me help clear these plates—"
Nuria leapt up, snatching the dirty dishes from Sigrid's hand. "Oh no. You mustn't. Please."
With a sigh, Sigrid relented; Nuria seemed actually relieved being able to focus on her work again. Sigrid decided it was best to leave her be.
