by M. D. Cooper
Fugia stood in the doorway, taking in the room. They had just walked through a series of offices and conference rooms like those that would be seen in any business. While there was a security presence throughout, she wouldn’t have realized immediately that she had walked into the home base of the largest criminal operation on Cruithne—'third largest’, Ngoba would correct her. He didn’t want to draw that kind of attention, despite his true reach.
The room reflected the same refined taste as the route they had taken to get there. The desk was made of shiny wood, with a leather blotter centered on its top. There was a terminal integrated with the desk’s surface, and she supposed a check with her visor would show her numerous data streams stacked throughout the room.
Fugia resisted the urge to confirm her suspicions. Considering who Ngoba was, there was a fifty-fifty chance the room was a fortress…or had no connections at all.
He had several pieces of art and a plaque from the Cruithne Station Authority for ‘Meritorious Service to the Community’. Most of the room was taken up by a leather couch, and a low table with an embedded holodisplay and two facing chairs, which looked like the spot where Ngoba conducted most of his business.
Stepping inside the room, she glanced behind herself to find a crimson Andersonian Sharm banner hanging from the wall facing the desk.
“You’ve got a Sharm banner,” she noted aloud. “Been to the festival recently?”
Ngoba shook his head. “The only time I’ve been to Ceres was when we were playing husband and wife,” he said.
Fugia felt the blush rising again and pushed it down, shrugging instead. “I’m sick of Sharm, to be honest with you. I wish the Andersonians would just learn to live honestly during the whole year, instead of trying to pack all their passion into a week.”
“How long were you there, again?”
“A long time,” Fugia said.
“Long enough to live a whole life?”
Fugia walked over to the curio shelf to inspect the antique clock. “Not really,” she said. “I’ve been so busy that it’s gone by in a blink. And I didn’t stay on Ceres the whole time, that was just home base. I’ve been traveling a lot.”
“Doing your work,” Ngoba said. It was a leading statement.
“Yes,” Fugia said.
He probably knew about the Hoarders, but she didn’t want to come out and tell him right away. She was still on the fence about trusting him. It had been a long time since they were even a little close, after all. She didn’t want him to turn Crash against her.
Data was currency, and she had been manipulating information long enough now—professionally, with the Data Hoarders—that she had learned how to dole it out in order to maintain a constant value. She still didn’t know if this was all a show to distract her. Ngoba might be working for a corporation, for the TSF or Mars 1 Guard, any one of a thousand organizations who would benefit from tearing a hole in the Mesh network, or taking it for themselves.
Fugia stared at the bird, who was bobbing his head in a way that made him look innocent.
Ngoba raised an eyebrow.
Ngoba stared at Crash for a second, then burst out laughing. He slapped his knee.
Crash said.
Still chuckling, Ngoba walked to a wall cabinet and pulled out a platter holding tumblers and a decanter full of amber liquid. He set the service on the low table and then sat on the couch, leaning back with his index finger on his temple. He motioned toward the opposite chair.
“Please,” he told Fugia. “Have a seat. Whiskey?”
“No thanks,” she said. “Do you have water?”
“I’ll have someone bring it in. Crash, will you join us?”
The parrot nibbled at the jade elephant for a second before gliding across the room to land on the back of Ngoba’s leather couch. He ruffled his wings and settled in beside the man.
Fugia accessed the table’s holodisplay and projected the encrypted message. A blue wall of light appeared in the space between them, numbers scrolling across its face. The whiskey bottle shimmered blue beneath it.
Crash watched the numbers, bobbing his head.
After a minute, Fugia asked,
Crash bobbed his head eagerly, blue light reflecting on his eyes and beak.
She slid her visor down to watch the parrot. His Link connection appeared as a series of pale lines circling his feathered head, spiraling into his skull. Other connections shot away into the air around him, suggesting he was processing a surprising amount of data. Fugia glanced at Ngoba and found him almost devoid of Link activity; his pulse was steady, brain activity calm.
Ngoba glanced at her, and his Link activity appeared like a silver thread as he asked,
There was a hint of anger in the parrot’s thoughts.
Aware that Ngoba was watching her, Fugia slid the visor back up into her hair. she said.
Fugia shot him an irritated glance but didn’t take the bait. She kept her focus on Crash.
Fugia glanced at Crash.
Ngoba frowned.
Crash said.
Ngoba gave him a sideways glance.
Fugia bit a knuckle to stop herself from laughing.
Crash nibbled under a wing, and Fugia realized she was finding it difficult to reconcile the mind inside the parrot with his cute exterior.
Ngoba raised a hand, counting invisible items.
When he didn’t answer right away, Fugia blurted out impatiently,
The gangster gave her a pleased grin.
LBD
STELLAR DATE: 03.21.2979 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: Cantil Park Housing District
REGION: Cruithne Station, Terran Hegemony, InnerSol
Answering the knock at her apartment door, Fugia found Karcher standing on the doorstep. He held out a flat, white box tied closed with red silk.
“This is for you,” he said.
Fugia didn’t like how her distrusting expression reflected in his aviator’s glasses. She didn’t take the box. “What is it?” she wanted to know.
The bodyguard shrugged. “The boss didn’t tell me to look inside the box. He told me to pick it up and bring it to you.”
“Where did you pick it up?”
“At a shop that sells dresses.”
Fugia raised an eyebrow. “Sexy dresses?”
“No. Ugly dresses.” His expression remained impassive, but she swore the edge of his mouth twitched.
“Fine,” she said, taking the package. “Do you have a ship yet?”
“We’ve got ships to choose from.”
“If Lowspin has ships, why is Ngoba content being a big fish in a filthy pond like Cruithne?”
“I get paid for shooting things,” Karcher replied, “not for my input about strategic business operations.”
“The way you say that makes me think you’re lying.”
“You can think whatever you want. It’s a free country.”
Cruithne was far from a ‘free country’, but Fugia was tired of trying to get information out of the bodyguard. She always had more luck with networks than with people. Networks followed rules.
“When should I be ready?” she asked.
“The reservation is for nine. I’ll be back at eight.” He gave her a mock salute and left.
Fugia closed the door and walked back into the bedroom. Three hours. She tossed the box on the bed and pointedly ignored it for fifteen minutes as she sat with her visor over her eyes, following a secure connection back to the Mesh so she could update her status.
Since her mission was only the straightforward verification of the data packet, she needed an excuse to keep the Hoarders busy for at least the month it would take to get out to the Hellas Asteroids—though the actual journey time would depend on Ngoba’s ship.
She couldn’t hide the fact that she’d found Crash. Instead, she used the well-known nature of the birds of Night Park and reported that she’d need more time to befriend the parrot, concocting a story about getting attacked by the ravens.
The worst thing the Hoarders could do was cut her off from the Mesh; she had grown to enjoy unfettered access to such a huge database, and the thought of losing it left her itching. Fugia spent another twenty minutes reworking her excuse, including a few flourishes about how much she regretted not having solved the problem already, how unsafe Cruithne had become, mentioning the draconian TSF and ruthless pirates—all common fears among Hoardies, who didn’t like leaving the safety of their relay points. That’s why they hired people like Fugia.
When she was satisfied with the report, she sent it in, then conducted a quick scan of the dress box, which came back clean. While she hadn’t thought Ngoba would try to bug her, it also wouldn’t have surprised her.
Raising her visor, she went to the bed and pulled at the silk ties. Inside the box, she found what history referred to as a ‘Little Black Dress’. The material was like silk, run through with glimmering threads and a hem of diamonds similar to her tennis bracelet. The effect was such that straight-on, the dress looked night-black, and when she turned, it sparkled like a starry sky. Fugia couldn’t help being pleased. Not that she ever bought frivolous things like dresses, but this was something she would have chosen for herself, given the chance.
I won’t be telling Ngoba that.
After a shower and another thirty minutes on the Mesh, Fugia stood in front of the box a second time and, before she could hesitate, pulled out the dress and slipped it over her head. She pulled the dress down over her hips, smoothing it over her stomach, and then adjusted the neckline. It fit perfectly.
Had he scanned her at some point? Of course he had, probably for his own amusement.
Fugia switched the bedroom wall to its mirror setting and looked at herself. She didn’t recognize the woman she saw, which brought pangs to her stomach. In the dress, she was a mix of the girl who had pretended to be a newlywed and nearly fallen in love on Ceres…and the woman who had told herself no, and let him go.
Running her fingers through her wet hair to smooth it, she pulled the ends of her bangs to even points on either side of her chin, then slid the silver visor on as a headband and played with her hair again until it pleased her. She felt less vulnerable with her headpiece.
At eight sharp, a knock on the door revealed Karcher again. He was wearing a slim-fitting pinstripe suit, with a white bowtie and pocket square. The aviator’s glasses hadn’t changed.
Holding the door open, he motioned toward the street outside the apartment, where a sleekly curved transport waited at the curb.
Ngoba greeted her inside the car. He was wearing a tailored black suit with a narrow collar. His bowtie and pocket square were white like Karcher’s.
Fugia sat on the opposite side of the comfortable space and squeezed her knees together, pulling the hem of the dress down.
“You like the dress?” Ngoba asked.
“It’s all right,” she said. “Do all your people wear matching bowties?”
“Yes,” Ngoba said without humor.
His demeanor was different than before. He had a somber look that made him seem older.
“So it’s a team building thing?”
“It’s important to let everyone on Cruithne know that we pay attention to detail.” He glanced out the window as the car went into silent motion. There were no other vehicles on the roadway to the housing section.
“You’re sounding much more serious without your parrot around.” Fugia crossed her arms over the low neck of the dress and hunched back in the seat.
The dress had made her feel almost playful, but his mood made her wonder what he wanted from her. She didn’t need him to get to the dark site now that she had the location. She could secure her own ship, hire her own crew…. Maybe having Ngoba along wouldn’t make the project easier, after all.
He sighed. “I apologize. I got some news before coming over here, and I’m still processing it.”
“I’d like to have a good time tonight,” Fugia said.
Ngoba put on a smile and winked. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do. I’m going to show you my Cruithne tonight.”
“I think I know Cruithne,” she retorted.
“I think a little tomboy named Fug knew Cruithne. But I’m on a date with a woman named Fugia.”
Now that made her face hot. She looked out the window, uncomfortable under his gaze.
The car took them out of the residential area and down through several shopping districts and an area she no longer recognized, which was full of people sporting body mods. By the time they reached the restaurant, she had seen more oddities than she would onstage at a Crash bout—from a mech with a woman’s head, to a man with bat wings.
They passed through a section of city tightly compressed with shops, bodegas and restaurants, each marked by ancient-looking neon that glowed with ghostly, subdued colors. The car rolled to a stop in front of a rusty façade, where a concierge pulled the door open. He nodded to Ngoba.
“Mister Ngoba,” he greeted. “So good to see you again.”
Fugia took Ngoba’s offered arm once they were out of the car, and together they walked down a narrow entryway into a dinner club with a bowl-shaped interior. Tiers of seats looked down on a stage barely large enough to hold a singer and a bass player. As they entered, a woman with tightly-curled blue hair was singing a low ballad to the thump of a standup bass.
A waiter led them to a table with partitions on either side, providing enough privacy to talk, but with easy access to the entertainment if they leaned toward the railing. Having followed them in, Karcher leaned against a pillar by the wall, his gaze moving around the room as he nodded to the music.
They sat listening to the singer’s seductive voice for a while. Fugia ordered a glass of red wine that was dry and rich, and she enjoyed holding it in her mouth until she finally had to swallow. Ngoba sipped whiskey from a tumbler, and leaned back in his seat so he could watch the whole room.
When the music ended, Fugia finished the last of her wine. It was already going to her head. She wanted to slide her visor over her eyes and hide behind information for a while; she imagined a room like this was swimming in Link data.
