Off the books, she was Manouya’s favorite, his brightest pupil; some said even his heir. Not, she’d thought, that he was in any hurry to vacate the position. The Facilitator’s rule was uncontested—and why would any complain when all grew so profitable under his guidance?
Profitable enough that few of the Humans within the Facilitator’s sprawling organization thought to question why they rarely saw the elusive Manouya himself, if ever. Profitable enough that those few who’d heard rumors that Manouya wasn’t Human discounted such tales—or kept their thoughts behind closed lips. The rare souls who knew the truth? They were the top of Manouya’s many-faceted organization, keepers of the Facilitator’s most closely guarded secrets, and—as Dalton came to learn—the time always came when those secrets were best kept through a quiet, final end.
As the years rolled on, more days than not, Dalton sat at Manny’s right hand and learned. It was one thing to know the tricks and techniques of smuggling—the forgeries and hidden compartments, the methods of bribery and brute force and sleight of hand. It was another to know the strategy behind it all, the shifts in markets and governments and interstellar trade that would make interest in one item rise and another fall, affect regulations and profit margins, or create demand where none had existed before.
If asked if she were happy in this life, Dalton would have only been confused. What other life was there? She lived the whole of her ambition—what else was there to want?
But all it took was a single red-toothed sentence to make everything fall apart.
* * *
• • •
Smugglers had a hundred uses for a small Human child, from message runner to spy, but none quite so memorable as the ability to fit into small spaces.
Maja had grown considerably since the last time she’d tried to access the station-behind-the-station, the narrow maintenance walkways, service corridors, and ventilation shafts that made Plexis run. It was a tighter fit than she remembered. Even so, she squeezed in though a maintenance access port, adding a coating of grime to her pickle-smelling coveralls. She was going to burn this outfit when she was finished, and gladly.
Maja made her way through the maintenance tunnel on hands and knees, slithering to make it through some of the tighter turns. She didn’t want to think about how she’d get out again.
At last she found what she wanted: a ventilation duct in the corridor leading from air lock designation 405-B. A lock in an area with a cheaper docking fee, a permissive airtag check, and guards who were enthusiastic about payments to look the other way. An area, in other words, favored by pirates.
Verrick’s captain might have moved to another docking ring or bribed a different set of guards, but Maja didn’t think so. Still, her stomach fluttered with nerves she hadn’t felt in years as she set up her recorder and pointed it toward the air lock.
A moment passed.
Two.
Five.
Maja was about to back away, cursing, wondering where onstation the pirate could have taken her stupid coworker, when the pair entered the corridor below. She went still, listening.
’Flix was squawking about some perceived slight, much to Verrick’s obvious irritation—but even he fell silent as the air lock doors irised open.
A Human came through the air lock, two guards at her back. She was tall and thin like a rod of pure iron, her ash-gray hair shorn close to her skull. She dressed simply: spacer’s coveralls accented with thin red lines, heavy boots, and the concealed shape of a weapon on her right hip.
Captain Bennefeld of the pirate ship Dashing Boy.
Maja couldn’t count the nights that she’d lain awake these past years, considering what she’d do if she ever saw Bennefeld in the flesh. She’d imagined destroying the Dashing Boy and the business that rested upon its scarred hull; she’d imagined all manner of violence, little though her skills trended to the martial. She’d even tried to envision scenarios in which she stood tall, spoke a few cutting words, and walked away—though, even in dreams, she’d failed to imagine words that could carry the weight of everything she had to say.
Never had she thought she’d lie quiet and do nothing at all.
Bennefeld came forward, her steady walk that of a predator. She looked ’Flix up and down, clearly unimpressed.
“You’re not Arendenonail,” Bennefeld said softly, naming the First in Maja and ’Flix’s Triad.
Maja would have sworn if she could. As it was, she exhaled long and slow, pushing out her frustration with that breath.
She was the only one in their Triad that was clean? The irony of that was sharp enough to cut.
The Tolian stood up straighter, his feathers puffing in a dominance display as he whistled a shrill response. “No,” came the translation. “I’ve come in his stead.”
“I’ve had a long wait to speak to an underling.”
’Flix bristled. “I’m no underling, but a partner. And our find hit snags—the delay was unavoidable.” If a Tolian could sniff in disdain, ’Flix would have.
The captain’s lips raised in the bare curve of a smile. “Of course, Hom. But now you’ve come to keep your side of the bargain.”
A nod.
’Flix drew a lumpy bundle from his satchel, holding it to his chest before reluctantly drawing back the coverings. Maja expected artifacts; instead, she saw the glitter of a small fortune in currency gems. More, she calculated, than ’Flix and Arendenonail together could have earned in a year.
The captain gestured for one of her guards to take and count the currency. When the guard nodded at the total, Bennefeld brought forth a small package which she handed to ’Flix. Maja caught a glimpse of fine metal links woven into delicate mesh. A hat, perhaps?
Maja blinked in incredulity. ’Flix wasn’t selling, but buying.
More: he was clearly buying artifacts from a trove of so-called finds that had flooded the market some years earlier, each marked with a Triad’s seal—and condemned by Manouya as fakes. “Everyone wants to discover history,” he’d told her with a sigh after turning down yet another lot of the ridiculous so-called artifacts. “If they can’t discover it, they’ll invent it.”
Inventing history was exactly what her Triad was aiming for, Maja realized. A single great find could rewrite their futures. More to the point, if he played his cards right, it could transform Arendenonail from a backworld Triad Analyst to a top interstellar scholar.
’Flix seemed relieved as he rewrapped the artifact and stashed it in his satchel. He nodded to the captain, then turned to go. Verrick’s hulking shape blocked his departure.
Captain Bennefeld raised an eyebrow. “You will be back, right, Hom? For the next delivery.”
“Yes, of course,” intoned ’Flix’s translator. But one only needed to glance at his body language to know that he was lying.
Oh, Arendenonail, Maja thought as she briefly closed her eyes. You never should have let ’Flix speak for you. They were going to skip out on the deal—and the pirates knew it.
One find; that’s all Arendenonail wanted. Enough to give him status, funding—and the limelight that came with it. No need to continue dealing with pirates, no matter the terms of their agreement.
“That’s what I thought.” Captain Bennefeld spoke with the finality of a closing door. “It’s been pleasant doing business with you, Hom. Verrick, if you would?”
The pirate’s lackey nodded as the captain returned to the Dashing Boy, bringing her guards with her. ’Flix watched her go before turning to Verrick.
“Right this way,” Verrick said with a broad smile and a gesture toward the hall. “I’ll show you a faster way back to your transport.”
’Flix hesitated—as well he should—perhaps only just realizing what a dreadful situation he’d managed to get himself into, alone with a pirate in the rough backside of the station.
No witnesses bu
t Maja, unseen.
If you value your life, ’Flix, she thought, do not go with him.
’Flix glanced around, whistling softly. There were at least two other ways out of this corridor—three, if one counted blasting through the wall into the storage rooms beyond—but ’Flix could see no escape. He nodded reluctantly and went in the direction Verrick pointed.
Verrick grinned wider behind the Tolian’s back. Anticipation, Maja thought, of what was to come. Even so, she could only wait, silent and unmoving in her hiding spot, as the pair disappeared from sight.
* * *
• • •
In her mind, she lived that day over and over again.
Dalton had been sent at Manouya’s express request to oversee the end of an interrogation of a Human male named Bax. A young Human, they’d found, who’d been selling information on one of the Facilitator’s most profitable rings to the Auord Port Authority, directly resulting in the seizure of three ships, the death of two crew, the loss of untold millions in goods, and the destruction of relationships that had taken decades to build.
The Jellies counted it as a significant victory. They’d tried to hide Bax, their informant; they’d failed. Bax had run from the Facilitator’s justice; he hadn’t run far enough.
Dalton remembered standing at the door to the ship’s starboard hold, which served as a crude interrogation room, and staring at the doors’ scratched metal. She took a deep breath. She’d never enjoyed this part of the job.
She pressed a button; the door slid open. Inside, a Human male hung in the center of the hold by his wrists, his bare feet dangling a hand’s span from the ground. Two of Manouya’s crew were with him; they had, she hoped, already gained some of the answers they sought.
Bax looked up as Dalton entered. There was fear in his swollen expression, yes—all knew what it meant to come before Manouya’s right hand—but something else, too.
Bax gathered the scraps of his courage. “Look at that,” he said, voice trembling despite himself. “Dalton herself here to punish my little rebellion. That’s a laugh.”
“Really?” Dalton let the door swish shut behind her. “And why’s that funny, Bax?”
“Don’t you know?” Bax looked to the beings on either side of him, Emerson standing guard, Aelian carefully cleaning the congealing blood from her hands. For a moment he looked as if they three shared some dark secret to which Dalton was not privy; then, as Aelian put down her rag, Bax flinched and looked away, shivering.
Don’t get distracted, Dalton told herself.
“I assume you’ve had a good conversation with our friends here?” She gestured to Emerson and Aelian. “Manouya has one last question for you, Bax: who else betrayed us to the Jellies?”
Bax shook his head. “I told you. It was just me.”
Dalton stepped forward, careful to avoid the splatters on the ground. She leaned closer until she could smell his breath, the tang of his blood and sweat.
“Bax,” she whispered. “I know you’re lying. You gave them information to which you have no access. We know everyone who had that information.” She pulled back. “Think of it this way. You’re not betraying a coconspirator. You’re saving anyone who’s actually innocent.”
He just shook his head, whispering something that might have been, “No, no, no.”
Dalton sighed and stepped back, then nodded to Emerson. She looked to her hands, waiting. She’d never liked this part, but could not deny that harsh methods of justice were sometimes necessary. Order must be kept, even here.
A few moments later the sounds of fist on flesh ceased. There was only the creak of the chains as Bax swung back and forth, and the rough, aching cough of his breathing.
“Last chance, Bax,” Dalton said quietly. “Come clean, and you’ll earn an easier end. Manouya is not without mercy.”
“Mercy.” Bax laughed a terrible, choking laugh; it was all but inaudible. “I think you’re the only one who’s ever known Manouya’s questionable mercy.” His sides heaved as he struggled to gain control, despite the pain. His head lolled, blood and sweat dripping as he spat on the cold metal floor. Something in the gesture seemed to give him strength—the splat of the bloody saliva, that moment of stark defiance.
Bax looked up. Met her eyes. Grinned with teeth stained dark.
“He never told you, did he?” He laughed again, then coughed on his own blood. Still he spoke through the red and salt. “He never told you what your name means. Dalton.”
There was more; his end was neither swift nor merciful, and knowing what he had done, Dalton thought it no less than he deserved. Yet to her, or of her name, Bax said nothing more—and no matter who she asked, or how, Dalton could find no one who’d explain.
* * *
• • •
Maja was stuck—in more ways than one.
Getting into the maintenance shaft had been one thing; getting out was another. The corners that she’d managed to wriggle around on her way in were all but impossible to navigate in reverse, and now she found herself well and truly wedged. Given the accumulated dust, it’d be years before some servo discovered her decaying body.
Even as she struggled to free herself, her mind spun: What’re you going to do with the recording, fool? If it weren’t for the tight quarters, she would have shaken her head at her own stupidity.
Bring the transgression before the First—that had been her first reaction, the whole of her plan. A Maja Anders plan, a habitual behavior engrained through years of careful practice. Now she had the recording in hand, she knew the last thing she could do was turn it over to the authorities.
Any Triad member dealing Hoveny artifacts was sure to meet swift justice, and Maja had evidence that implicated not one but two members of her Triad. That she herself was innocent didn’t matter, nor would the fact that she’d reported the transgression. Not in the end.
Any authority would have to confirm her innocence. Her identity would come under scrutiny, every detail poked and prodded for evidence of falsehood. It didn’t matter how carefully she’d constructed her past; under such examination, her lies would be discovered. And if they uncovered her true identity? She’d never see sunlight again.
No, if ’Flix and Arendenonail’s dealings came to light, she’d lose everything, one way or another. But if ’Flix came to harm, killed by pirates—or even if the ridiculous plan were successful, their claim on Rylan III exalted for its single, glorious find—the truth would be uncovered regardless. It was only a matter of when.
Her days as Maja Anders were numbered. The countdown sounded like her hammering heartbeat, the huff of her breath in the stale, dusty air.
Her only way out was to run. Run fast enough, far enough, that her trail would be cold before any investigation sought to follow. New job, new name, new home—certainly wouldn’t be the first for any of those. She could start again.
Abandoning ’Flix to his own foolish end.
She knew she should go, just leave it all behind. But if that were her path, she never would have followed ’Flix from the bar.
Her only leverage was the recording. Her thoughts spun. Maybe if she—
With a gasp, a rip of her grimy, pickle-scented coveralls, and the loss of no little bit of skin, Maja was free. She wriggled down the rest of the maintenance shaft and popped back into the service corridor beyond the range of the Dashing Boy’s scans. Without even shaking the dust from her hair, Maja ran.
Down the hall, into a back service room, and—
She skidded to a stop.
Too late.
Before her, Verrick had ’Flix in a hold, a knife to the Tolian’s already-bleeding torso. ’Flix flailed, a panicked writhing that neither freed him from that grasp nor helped him evade further damage from the blade.
Maja winced at the sight, even as some part of her heaved an irritated sigh. Verrick had always been
too fond of knives. Yet, despite his “fun,” he’d at least done his job; Maja saw the edges of the wrapped artifact protruding from his back pocket. Payment and artifact both in the pirates’ possession. She could have told her Triad that it was the best outcome they could expect, especially if they were reneging on a deal.
“Hey.” Maja’s voice echoed in the corridor’s narrow confines. “Let him go.”
“You’re in the wrong hall, Fem,” Verrick said, sparing her a bare glance. “I think you’d better turn around and go, don’t you?”
’Flix shrilled in pain as the knife dug deeper. “Ow,” said the flat monotone of his translator.
But Maja hadn’t moved. “You’re making a mess, Verrick.” She hid a grin as the pirate twitched at her use of his name. She’d surprised him. Good. She’d surprised ’Flix, too, from the incredulous look on the being’s face—a look that was quickly erased by another jab of the knife.
Given the blood already staining his clothing and patterning the floor? She had to move quickly.
“Your deal’s gone wrong.”
“My deal’s gone exactly as planned. You’re just increasing the body count.”
“Nah,” she said, letting her carefully cultivated accent slip. “It’s all tits-up. You just didn’t know it until now.”
“That so?”
He thrust the knife in deeper. Then, as ’Flix shrieked, he tossed the Tolian onto the floor between them. ’Flix curled into a ball on the cold metal, shivering and panting, while Verrick calmly cleaned the blade.
“Look at me, Verrick.”
Nonchalantly, the pirate glanced toward her—then squinted, looking harder. “Wait. Don’t I know you?”
Maja shrugged, wishing she could calm her pounding heart. “You tell me.”
The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis Page 35
