by Stina Leicht
Good night, Captain. I will continue to monitor your channel in case you require further assistance.
Thank you.
And with that, Angel went to the bathroom to bandage her arm. There wasn’t much blood on the carpet. Still, she was certain her landlord would want a steep fee when it came time to move out. This hadn’t been her first unwelcome visitor.
One day, I’m leaving this dirtball of a planet and going home, even if it’s in a body bag.
A dull ache once again materialized in her chest as she thought of Thandh, her home world. She no longer had to consciously think of her sisters, the Gorin. Grief ambushed her the instant her mind drifted to Thandh.
The Gorin had been both a fighting force and an extended family. She’d had honor once—honor, love, and belonging. But now she was an outcast. Her own mother was forbidden to contact her or face banishment herself. She had no actual siblings, and her father had died the year before she’d been expelled. Thank god. It said a great deal that Sensei Niko risked brief contacts from time to time. In that way, Angel was able to maintain a connection to everyone she loved no matter how tenuous. Niko did this at great personal risk, of course, and Angel deeply appreciated it.
Once honor is lost, there is no regaining it.
That doesn’t mean I can’t damned well try.
4
TIME: 14:47
DAY: FRIDAY
MONK’S BAR
WEST BRYNNER
There were conflicting rumors about how Monk’s got its name. The most likely story, according to Enid Crowe, was that the building had once been part of a Catholic Federation monastery. She claimed that the cross-shaped floor plan and other telltale architectural details were dead giveaways. Given that Enid possessed no less than three advanced degrees—one of them in architecture and another in interplanetary history—Angel believed her. In any case, it would explain Rosie’s eccentric decorating choices.
The cavernous interior was draped in imported polysilk velvets, glass-bead curtains, and antique furniture replicas dating from the Catholic Colonial Era. The back bar was an eclectic mixture of pieces that had once been housed in various desanctified cathedrals. Nestled among the rows of liquor bottles was a genuine tabernacle. Angel considered it an interesting choice of symbolism given what transpired there.
Exactly two types of people drank at Monk’s back bar: members of a rather exclusive criminal class and those who sought to employ them. Naturally, a more public section of the establishment was available. The place had a certain reputation, and Rosie, like any other businessperson, wasn’t averse to profit. The public section of the establishment attracted wannabe criminals and a specific breed of tourist: mainly rich Earthers of a short-sighted political inclination and a romantic perspective involving military-grade munitions ownership.
Angel was, whether she liked it or not, a member of the first set, and as such, there were rules by which she had to comply.
Loud thirty-year-old club music welcomed her as she made her way to the back bar. Electronic bass competed with her heart for dominance inside her chest. The air filters weren’t robust enough to remove the smell of spiced tobacco and the cleaning crew’s battles against ever-present mold. It was early for Monk’s, but the place was already packed. Patrons in various states of evening- and daywear joked, drank, imbibed intoxicating substances, gambled, and negotiated with prostitutes of all genders.
Monk’s was Rosie’s business front, and Brynner was a typical corporate town. The gaming tables, dealers, and drug distributers were licensed. So were the sex workers. Periodic medical exams curtailed the spread of sexually transmitted diseases.
West of the Dead Line, anything you could pay for was tolerated—even if it might require bribing the CoPo to look the other way. Laws existed, but they were for the less financially endowed. It was why off-planet smugglers and assassins traveled to West Brynner and to Monk’s in particular.
She remembered a lesson from her first year at the Gorin No Gakkō Academy. The ways of the Gorin are not the ways of our employers. Respect for your employer is required for the length of the contract or agreement in so much as their ways do not interfere with our ways. Should a conflict occur, the agreement is immediately subject to review by—
“Captain! Captain de la Reza!”
A small young woman with a halo of soft curly brown hair waved from one of the tables in the public area. Her right eye was brown, and in the dim light one could almost miss that her left eye was artificial. The augmented eye was one of the older models. It had a black sclera, and the iris was deep blue. Medical prosthetics for marines being what they were—aesthetics weren’t considered a factor.
Particularly if that marine served in the Thirteenth, Angel thought.
She understood that Command staff lovingly referred to the Thirteenth as “Corpse Corps” because recruits signed on for multiple postmortem tours of duty. The number of returns depended upon the individual soldier’s constitution. Technically, members of the corps were revivified, not reanimated like some Old Earth horror monster, but the nickname stuck anyway. The experience left scars, of course.
You never come back whole.
Regardless of what it’d done to her brain, Angel didn’t resent her service. After her expulsion, she’d been left with few honorable options, and the Thirteenth had been glad to have her expertise. No woman—and women without uteruses were certainly counted as women—willingly left the Gorin of Thandh. Top graduates of the female martial arts school served as government security. The rest commanded exorbitant fees. Not only were the Gorin famous for their skill, they were known to be absolutely trustworthy.
When word had gotten back to the school that Angel had enlisted, she received an unsigned message from Sensei Niko: It is good. An overwhelming sense of relief had burst through Angel’s composure. She’d barely had time to find a place to cry in private. Those three words had been her rescue pod. They’d ushered her whole into a new life on an alien world.
She stopped at Lou’s table. “Thought you swore off gambling?”
Lou laid her cards facedown with a wide grin. She gave a sideways nod toward a slender woman of mixed Earth ancestry. “Look who I ran into.”
Recognition poured over Angel like cool water. All at once, two overwhelming emotions battled for dominance: relief and anxiety.
“Why Sukyi Edozie,” Angel said. “I heard you were dead.”
Sukyi’s lips were full, and her hair had the same loose wavy texture as Angel’s own. However, her skin had an unhealthy grey tinge to it, and she looked tired, even exhausted.
She glanced up from her card hand and gave Angel a slow smile. “It would seem rumors of my demise are grossly exaggerated.” Her accent was pure British boarding school.
Angel’s father had been an Earth classics professor. She recognized the mangled literary reference at once. No matter what Sukyi’s origins were, she’d had an extensive, high-quality education. Angel asked, “What in the hell are you doing here?”
“It would seem I’m lessening your pilot’s financial concerns,” Sukyi said in her characteristic lofty tone. She covered her mouth with one black-leather-gloved hand and coughed.
Angel could just hear the deep, liquid rattle of Sukyi’s lungs and suppressed an empathetic wince.
Sukyi came from Earth, specifically Nigeria. Angel didn’t know which city. When it came to friends and acquaintances acquired after her exile, she had a policy of not snooping. Prying led to complications, and that went twice for Sukyi.
Everyone does what they must. As long as it doesn’t harm me and mine, we’re good. That’d been one of the lessons she’d learned in the corps.
Lou snorted. “Lessening my concerns?”
Sukyi smiled. “If money equates to worry, having less of it counts, does it not?”
“I don’t think it works that way.” Lou gathered her cards and tossed them into the discard pile in disgust. “I fold, damn it.”
“That l
eaves you, Winnifred,” Sukyi said. “I would give the matter long consideration if I were you.” There was a gleam in her intense brown eyes that Angel knew a little too well.
She’s bluffing, Angel thought.
“Fucking shite.” The pale older woman seated across from Sukyi tossed her hand onto the table in disgust. Her accent was vaguely Irish or British. It was difficult to tell. “I need to get home anyway. The wife hates it when I’m late.”
Sukyi scooped up her winnings with both hands. “Thank you for a most entertaining evening.”
“Are you busy the rest of the night?” Angel asked. She leaned over and gave Sukyi a hug.
“I do find myself at loose ends, socially speaking,” Sukyi said.
“I need to take care of something first,” Angel said. “Shouldn’t take long.”
Sukyi studied her, seemed to notice something, and then frowned. “Are you in trouble? Is there something I can do?”
It’s like nothing has changed. Gods, I’m glad she’s still alive. “No. I’ve just a few details to set straight. I’ll fill you in later if you like.”
Sukyi shrugged. “Fair enough.”
“May I tag along?” Lou asked. “I’m starving. And Erik has plans tonight.”
“Is this establishment not equipped with a kitchen?” Sukyi asked, laying a palm on top of one of Monk’s sticky plastic menus.
Lou gave Sukyi a look of revulsion. “Have you seen it? I have. It’s disgusting.”
“Actually, I’d prefer it if you did come along, but do me a favor. Stay here with Sukyi,” Angel said. She had a bad feeling about her late-night visitor, but she wanted to check with Rosie before she made any assumptions.
An offended expression took over Sukyi’s face. “I don’t need a nanny.”
“Let’s not start that argument again,” Angel said. “I want everyone in one place tonight. Something is going on. But I don’t know what.”
“Fine.” Sukyi folded her arms across her chest.
Angel asked Lou, “Is Enid around?”
“At home reading a boring art history book,” Lou said, and wrinkled her nose. “You want me to message her?”
Angel nodded. “Call in the crew. I want to review tomorrow’s job over dinner.”
The twinkle in Sukyi’s eye changed to an expression of mild interest.
Angel thought, Why are you here, Sukyi? Why now? All at once, she felt ashamed for doubting her closest friend.
“Will do,” Lou said, and pulled her hand terminal from her pocket.
Angel proceeded to the back bar and waited.
It took several moments before the bartender Sarah approached. Tonight, her hair was long and blond with streaks of black. She was pale, short, pretty, and looked to be about twenty-nine years old. People said she’d worked at Monk’s for almost a decade. Rumor also had it that she was part owner. Sarah had neither confirmed nor denied this rumor, but Angel had her theories. There were only three bartenders at Monk’s. The others had come and gone over the past two years. Sarah stuck around.
“Heya, Angel,” Sarah said, giving her an up-nod. She turned, selected a bottle of bourbon from the top shelf, and started in on whatever order she’d just received.
“Sarah,” Angel said in a flat tone and settled onto a barstool.
“In the weeds. Be with you in a sec.”
After several minutes, Sarah returned. Wiping graceful hands on a bar towel, she said, “A Martian Sunrise, right?” She started mixing the drink without waiting for confirmation. She was wearing black nail polish to go with the torn black band t-shirt, black slacks, and black work boots. She tilted her head. “You look like you’ve had a rough day. I’ll make it a double.”
“I’m here to see Rosie.”
“I’ll tell them you’re here.” Sarah set the finished drink in front of Angel and left the bar to her coworker, a tall young man with curly black hair.
Angel sipped her drink, turned, and watched the crowd while she waited. Her mouth flooded with the sweet-sour taste of crème de cassis and lime spiked with cheap tequila. She told herself that if anything was wrong between herself and Rosie, Sarah would’ve given some sign.
Nothing looked unusual or out of place. At the end of the bar, Alec and Xander, smugglers by trade, argued over something trivial. The twins or clones—no one was sure which—often had disagreements that ended in fistfights. After Xander shoved Alec, Angel turned her back on the two men, leaning against the bar and searching for something more interesting. Monk’s clientele: men, women, and those of other genders seemed to be negotiating their deals in peace. No one was interested in her or hers.
Is there a contract on me?
Anything was possible if the fee was enough. Regardless, the thought wasn’t particularly unsettling as long as she was in the clear with Rosie.
Then Angel spied Jeremy Brett chatting at the end of the bar.
Now, that is odd.
Jeremy came from an old, well-established Correct Family. That sounded harmless enough until one understood that a percentage of the working-class population originated from various prisons on Earth and coireacht was Irish for crime. The Correct Family was, naturally, one of Rosie’s competitors. With the exception of Enid, Correct Family didn’t drink at Monk’s. They certainly didn’t hang out at the back bar. Mind, it was possible that Jeremy had had a falling out with his family as Enid had when she’d joined the Thirteenth.
But is it probable?
Not without a big splash. I’d have heard something.
She couldn’t get a read on what he might be talking about. Jeremy mostly had his back to her, but he seemed relaxed enough.
“Something got you spooked?” Sarah asked.
Angel ripped her attention from Jeremy and turned to face Sarah. “What’s Jeremy doing here?”
Sarah’s expression indicated that she’d been watching him. “Correspondence run. Had something for Rosie.” She picked up a clean wet glass and began drying it. “But that isn’t what’s making you jumpy.”
“I’m not jumpy.”
Sarah smiled. “Right.”
Angel knocked back the last of her drink and asked the question. “You heard anything I should know about?”
“Not me,” Sarah said. “Want another? I can have it ready for you when you’re done.”
“You think I’ll need one?”
Sarah paused and then gazed into her eyes. “I like you, Angel. But rules are rules. You know that.” She took away the empty, picked up a bar towel, and began to wipe the bar’s wooden surface with it.
Then she spoke to her bar towel in a tone that barely registered over the loud music. “If someone is giving you trouble, I feel sorry for the poor bastard. They don’t call you the Angel of Death for nothing.”
Actually, they called me that because every squad under my command died. Of course, suicide missions were what Corpse Corps was for.
Angel didn’t much feel like correcting Sarah.
Sarah glanced up, smiled, and winked. “Go on before Rosie comes looking for you.” She gave the end of the bar a sideways nod.
“Thanks.” Angel got out her hand terminal, paid the bill, and left Sarah a healthy tip.
Rosie’s office was located downstairs in what Enid insisted had once been a rectory. The stairs were accessible via a narrow hallway at the end of the bar. Two guards stood at the top of the steps on either side. Angel controlled her nerves as she handed over her weapons. The guards stored them in a nearby locker. After they patted her down, the one in charge nodded approval. With that, she took a deep breath and went down the stairs.
Rosie sat behind a large wooden Early Colonial Era desk. It’d been crafted from local materials—pinchwood Angel guessed from the color and lacelike texture of the stained surface. Pinchwood, which was strong and cheap due to its being plentiful in the area around Brynner, had once been frequently used in construction. That is, until the colonists discovered it was often infested with poisonous Hadley beetles.
Rosie wiped the glass screen lying on the desk’s pitted surface, which had briefly displayed a series of spreadsheets.
Some aspects of business are universal, Angel thought.
Getting to their feet, Rosie cut an imposing figure. They were almost two meters tall, lean, and muscular. The dark sheen of their bald head and broad shoulders were complemented by their elegant taste in clothing. With the exception of eyebrows and lashes, Rosie lacked body hair. They projected an air of sleek and powerful grace like a professional dancer. Today they were wearing a long black skirt in ceba leather and a sleeveless formfitting shirt. Black eyeliner drew attention to their pale eyes. Dark wine lipstick and simple jewelry completed the look.
They took several steps toward her and reached out a graceful, long-fingered hand. A rose tattoo wound its way around Rosie’s outstretched muscular forearm. “Hello, Sabrina.”
Rosie was one of the few people who knew her real name, let alone used it. Rosie had earned that right.
“I’m glad you’re here,” they continued. “There’s something we need to talk about.” Their voice was deep and melodic. There was no hint of displeasure, only concern. “I’ve some bad news.”
Angel shook Rosie’s warm hand and felt the tension in her stomach relax. “What is it?”
Resuming their chair behind the desk, Rosie motioned for her to sit on the velvet-upholstered sofa opposite. “Marcy won’t be joining you tonight. I’m sorry. She’s dead.”
Angel blinked. “What happened?”
“Her body was found last night,” Rosie said. “Torture and execution. On my patch. And before you ask, I didn’t authorize it.” Rage transformed their face. Their full lips pinched into a tight line, and their eyes narrowed.
Angel blinked. She hadn’t known Marcy Tanner very well. Marcy had been part of the team for only a couple of weeks, but she’d come highly recommended. “That’s terrible. Has her family been informed? I should handle that right away.” Suddenly, the room grew cold as she added Marcy’s death to her unwelcome visitor. A pattern emerged she didn’t like. What if there’s a hit out on my whole team?
