DIRE : SEED (The Dire Saga Book 2)

by Andrew Seiple

  “Eh. It’s not as good as it seems.” I moved up next to him, gestured at the tables. “Dire’s on her last set of components. Building up the drone armor, the drop pod, the remote control harness, and a few other nifty gadgets took most of her resources. And the critical pieces gathered here are going to one last major project.” I dug the universal remote out of my pocket, and scrolled through the menus. Life had gotten much easier when I’d made myself contact lenses with Augmented Reality capability.

  The shipping containers moved aside, groaning on hydraulics to reveal the central part of the workshop, and the cradle where the Dire Armor Mk. III awaited the final assembly. Eight solid feet of steel composite with hardened ceramic inlays, a hydraulic system capable of lifting a truck cab, an onboard gravitic flight array through the lower legs that allowed VTOL capability, good maneuverability, and redundancy in the event of trauma. All that plus onboard weapons systems that made the decoy armor’s particle beams look like peashooters. The helmet’s face gaped open. We watched the arms whir and flash around it, hellish light reflecting off of shining silver as the welding torches flared and hissed.

  It wasn’t sleek. It wasn’t elegant. It loomed solid and heavy, and it promised pain to any who stood in its way.

  Martin whistled. “You come a long way from Scrapper’s sloppy seconds.”

  I made a face. “Don’t remind her. Still remember having to wash his shit and gore out of the power armor. Never did get rid of the smell.”

  He chuckled, gaze not leaving the suit, light flickering over the whites of his eyes. “So. Okay. You get this bad baby up and running. Then what? Please don’t say bank robbery, that shit never goes well.”

  “What? No. Those things seem to draw heroes like flies.” I gnawed my lip. “And actually the immediate steps are something with which she could use some help. Some... feedback, yes, that’s the term. Finding Minna and Anya and making sure they’re all right is the next goal. Dire plans to enlist Minna if she wishes to join, or rescue her if she’s in trouble.”

  “She might just have gotten out while the getting’s good,” Martin said, and immediately corrected himself. “No fucking way she’d leave Anya. My bad, disregard.”

  “Dire’s guess is that she’s either gone to ground to avoid drawing notice from her pursuers, or been seized by them. Your mention of Anya and Susan opens up a new avenue of investigation, but that will take time and resources to pan out. Which brings us to the next short-term goal. Resources.”

  “Yeah? Need cash?”

  “Yes. Springing you from the courthouse required taking risks. To avoid being tracked back here, Dire must forgo her former, easier methods of resource acquisition.” I moved over to the computer chair, and sat down. “Had to hack the FBI to get the information needed on their security, procedures, and setup in the courthouse. They know that she’s done that, now, no other way to get that data. So she left a false trail behind, including some decoy hacks that are timed to go off in several cities north of here.”

  “You’re making it look like we’re running,” Martin said.

  I showed teeth. “Precisely. However, this means that her former method of hacking banks for account transfers is too high of a risk. It’ll be months, at least, before they stop watching for her methods.”

  “So you need a new way of getting money.”

  “Yes. Only a bit. Worked out ways to multiply it with low-risk investments and chicanery. Just need a seed, as it were, to grow into self-sustaining capital. A few million should do it.”

  Martin shook his head. “I hope you don’t want me to start dealing again. I had some talks with Freeway ’bout that in prison. It... wouldn’t sit right. Not anymore.”

  “No, no. Wouldn’t ask you to compromise your conscience. That method puts you too much at risk, anyway.”

  “Then what?”

  “Open to suggestions. She’s got a battlesuit capable of fending off groups of heroes, obscene amounts of scientific skill with a focus in robotics and hardware, and an intuitive grasp of computers and hacking.” I spread my hands. “Surely we can do something with that?”

  Martin studied me for a second, rubbed his cheek, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Now that you mention it, I think I might have just the thing.”

  It took the loan of a burner phone and about a half-hour’s worth of calls, but Martin finally announced success. “Place we want is up in Barside, off the Waterfront. We’re gonna have to go out of costume. That a problem?”

  I looked over the construction bots’ progress. “No. Still got about another day to go before the next layer of armor is baked in. Composites are a bitch to work with, at least without a proper industrial setup.”

  “I was more worried ’bout that whole wanted felon shit.”

  “Oh. No, it shouldn’t be. C’mere.” I headed back through the office space, cracked open a storeroom door. A dinky bathroom, with several small pots, hanging wigs, and clothes on racks scattered around the cracked sink. The mirror across from the toilet was dirty but functional, and I gestured at the jars full of brushes and applicators.

  Martin looked it over. “Looks like backstage at a strip club.”

  “You’d know.” I slapped his back, and he jumped. “What’s wrong? Was the humor off again?”

  “No, no, my bad. Just been in solitary for a while. Touching feels weird when I ain’t expecting it.”

  “Noted.” I tucked my hands in my pockets. “At any rate, most of this was easy to get. Plenty of costume shops and online theater suppliers sell Hollywood quality disguise materials and kits in bulk, and don’t ask questions. Didn’t take Dire long to pick up skills in this area.”

  “I bet not. Ain’t all of us geniuses, though.” He frowned. “Genii?”

  “Geniuses.” I grinned. “English is weird. Don’t worry, just sit down and hold still, and Dire will do you.”

  “Uh...”

  CHAPTER 3: MISTER FIXER

  “Anywhere you find costumes, you find a shadow economy rising up to support them. Clandestine services, discrete businesses, and neutral agents who'll do business with both sides. It's human nature, really. Where there's money to be made, someone will step up to make it. Especially if it's a little shady, that's where the money is.”

  --Name withheld by request, appearing on the Villains Anonymous television show, Episode Fourteen.

  “Stop playing with it, or you’ll pull it off!”

  Martin removed his hand from the goatee, with a guilty start. “Sorry. It just feels weird.”

  “That’s probably the spirit gum.” It had taken half an hour for me to do up his face. I didn’t want him ruining it with an errant scratch.

  He watched the streets go by, as I drove the Fjord through the residential neighborhoods, northeast toward Barside. The Waterfront is where the tourists of Icon go to play and relax and gamble in the casinos and marinas. Barside is where they go to eat and drink. Nothing but restaurants and pubs and convenience stores, several streets worth, back from the ocean and the Boardwalk. The place was just seedy enough to give that thrill of danger to a drunken tourist, but out-of-towners were generally safe. Mugging the poor locals who work here is one thing. Mugging rich tourists is another entirely.

  We found parking in a nearby garage, and I straightened my clothing before following Martin to street level. With a simple white blouse, black skirt, and a set of fake thick glasses, I looked like a schoolteacher. I’d even done my hair up in a bun. My sole concession to accessories was a briefcase.

  Taken together, we looked like a couple of office workers out for a drink before staggering home after the close of a business day. It was a common sight in this location; No one paid much attention to us, and I took the opportunity to study Martin as we went. I took note of the quickened breathing as we got out onto the street, and the way his hands shook before he tucked them into his pockets. His eyes darted back and forth behind his own glasses, trying to track every oncoming pedestrian or passing touri
st, and I took care to catch his eye before setting my hand onto his arm.

  “Relax,” I whispered.

  “Don’t know if I can,” he muttered. “It’s the people. Been a while since I been ’round this many people.”

  Had months in solitary changed him so much? Perhaps.

  He’d always been one of the most social members of the camp, back on the beach. Always had someone to talk to, always doing something with other people. It must have been a shock, going from that to incarceration and days with no one else around.

  My lips tightened. I was responsible for his plight. He’d ended up in prison by following me. I’d have to fix that, somehow. Find a way to help him recover. I didn’t know how, yet, but I added it to the pile of tasks ahead of me.

  “Breathe,” I whispered. “She’s got you.”

  And he did, though he never completely relaxed. Fortunately, we didn’t have far to go.

  “Nothing’s Personal?” I said, reading the weathered sign tucked in among newer, more kitschy themed bars.

  “Yeah,” Martin said. “This is one of several spots. The guy we’re meeting rotates between them. Cuts down on the chances of a raid, or someone getting stupid.”

  The age-old conundrum for those who offer illegal services: balancing the prospect of profit versus the risk of discovery. Sure, you can have an unassailable fortress, or a secret location so deep that no one can find it, but that’s at the cost of paying customers being unable to connect with you. Conversely, a prime business spot that brings plenty of work will get busted if you don’t take adequate precautions. Which then cuts into your bottom line... and so on, and so forth, in an unending tug-of-war.

  From the little that Martin had said this broker had been in the game a long time, so he’d evidently found the balance that worked for him.

  The dark-glass double doors opened into a gloomy room, poorly lit even by contrast to the setting sun that chased us inside. It was five degrees too cold in here, and my skin went to goosebumps, as I stood there and let my eyes adjust. A musty smell pervaded the entryway... old food, not precisely rotting— but left to wither to dust on an unseen shelf. Classical music. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons? The strains sounded just a touch too loud, covering the noise of anyone who might be further back inside.

  When my eyes adjusted and the shadows settled, I examined the large, dark-wooden paneled room of what appeared to be a high-class restaurant. The bar was microscopic and packed with people who eyed us briefly, before turning back to the solemn task of imbibing alcohol. There were no tables. What appeared to be three rows of enclosed booths stretched back into the dimness.

  The sign on the post next to us instructed us to wait to be seated, but Martin walked by it without a second glance, made for one of the booths that had its door ajar, and motioned me to follow. Aside from the four men and one woman sitting at the tiny bar, and the bartender behind it, I really couldn’t tell if anyone else was present. The walls of each booth stretched up to touch the low ceiling, and the doors were thick and of the same dark wood that lined the place.

  I slid into a leather-upholstered bench opposite to Martin, and he guided the door shut behind me. Once it closed the music diminished, muffled and now bearable. The table between us glimmered, lit by a pair of candles, and faded menus sat neatly folded next to cloth napkins.

  I set the briefcase next to me, and tapped my earring. A menu appeared on the lens of my glasses, and I blinked until the e-band scanner inside of the briefcase went from PASSIVE to ACTIVE.

  “So. Safe to talk?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” Martin nodded, sweat beading his brow. He was breathing hard again, clutching the table like a drowning man clinging to a shipwreck. “Just give me a minute.”

  I blinked. It hadn’t been more than a three-block walk. He was worse off than I’d thought.

  “We can leave,” I offered.

  “No!” He caught himself. “No. Shit, I’ll be fine. It was... it was just too many people all at once. Didn’t ’spect it to hit me so hard. Shit—” He raised his sleeve to his forehead, and I grabbed his arm.

  “Nope. Don’t smear the makeup.”

  “Right. Sorry. Fuck, this is pathetic. I’m a mess.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said, staring through the thick glasses, into his eyes. “You’ll adjust, given time.” At least I hoped so.

  He smiled, but it was weak, and he wouldn’t meet my gaze. But he unclenched his hand from the table’s edge, and the white faded from his knuckles. Small victory, but victory nonetheless.

  “When it comes time to leave, you can wait here. She can bring the car around,” I offered.

  “Yeah. That’d help. Thanks.”

  I gave him some space, flipped through the menu. The fare was plain given the prices, which were exorbitant. The wine list made up three pages of the five page pamphlet.

  “We gonna be waiting a while,” Martin said. “Service here is shitty.”

  “By design?”

  “Yeah. Funny thing is this place does okay business anyway. Some people like the snooty. But it keeps the random douches out anyways. This and the other little touches.”

  I nodded. “All right. Well, if we’re to be waiting and it’s safe to talk, then she’s got some questions. You said this place was a cover for a freelance fixer?” Yes, that was the term he’d used.

  “Yeah. Mister Fixer, that’s what he’s called. Dude’s like the ultimate middleman.”

  “Can he be trusted?”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s whoever’s riding him that we gotta worry about.”

  “Explain.”

  “Okay. So way I heard it, back in the day he or she used to be this villain called Hollowhusk. Real weirdo. Dude’s like a reverse ghost.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Still not comprehending, here.”

  “Okay... So basically Hollowhusk’s got this ghost body, right? Can fly around go through walls, and shit. Thing is if it touches you, you fall unconscious, and your soul jumps into Hollowhusk’s body.”

  “Soul? So Hollowhusk’s a mystical sort?”

  “Soul, mind, something like that. I dunno the details. Basically you wake up in this dripping gooey form made of this ghost shit— what do they call it, erectoplasm? No, that ain’t right.”

  I rubbed my chin. “Same capabilities as the original body?”

  “Naw. No superpowers transfer over, and you’re made of slime. Stuck there until something destroys the body or he releases you. Maybe. This is all just rumor, mind. Not like Hollowhusk went around telling people his powers. Mostly he used it to keep heavy hitters busy, while his teammates cleaned up.”

  “Hm. So what happened?”

  “Lost a fight. Did time. When the dude came out, he went into the brokering business. Now he sells his body, literally. Or her. Hard to say?”

  “If people end up in Hollowhusk’s body, then how do they not know that individual’s gender?”

  “Well, way I hear it, the body turns into sort of a duplicate of its possessor. So yeah, nobody knows. Nobody that’s talking, anyway. Rumor is he got outta jail by doing some black ops shit for the CIA or some other government spooks.”

  I nodded. “Starting to see the picture now. So people with illegal business occupy his body, instead of sending their own into danger.”

  “Got it in one. He ain’t Hollowhusk no more, he’s Mister Fixer. And the dude. Makes. Bank.”

  I folded my fingers, and rested my chin on my hands, as I thought. “He’d have to remain neutral. Keep the info he hears confidential.”

  “Not sure he hears any of it. It’s other people in his body when the deals go down. Bottom line is, he’s been doin’ this for a decade or so, and nobody’s ever caught him leakin’ anything.”

  “Hrm. So who are we meeting, then? Really?”

  “Don’t know. Someone looking for a mercenary who can do what you can do.” Martin shrugged. “Truth is, we got lucky. His client needs someone now. Figured we’d be waiting awhil
e.”

  One more question occurred to me; “Why haven’t the authorities brought him in?”

  “For what? Dude’s got plausible deniability for everything. He ain’t the one breaking the law. He’s just setting up safe meetings for people. What they discuss is between them. Hell, rumor is some finance types use him for legit meetings. It’s more secure than a phone call.”

  “You know a lot about this individual,” I mused.

  “Former ganglord, yo.” He thumped his chest. “Used the guy a time or two. Well, not me personally, but Coate—” His voice trailed off.

  Coate. Ah yes, his former second, the one who had betrayed him. Coate had killed Martin’s brother, and kicked Martin out of the gang.

  “He’s going to be a problem at some point, isn’t he?” I asked. “Coate, Dire means.”

  “If he is I’ll handle him.” Martin’s face was stone.

  I nodded. How much of that was bluster? Hard to say. He hadn’t been able to handle Coate last time around. But I kept the doubt from my face, and after a few seconds he relaxed, started looking over the menu.

  “Shit,” he muttered. “Well at least we don’t have to pay for this stuff. Let me see...”

  He tore the menu in half, picked up the saltshaker, unscrewed it, and dumped a pile of sea-salt on the center of the table. He followed it up by snuffing the candles, unwrapping the cloth napkins, and putting the silverware into a pile with the handles touching the salt pile.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Feel better now after that little display?”

  “All that had a purpose. Way my friend tells me, this is how you signal you’re here for a talk.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, I know. Still, what are the odds of some chucklefuck stumbling in and randomly doing this?”

  “Higher than you’d think with all those bars out there and drunken tourists wandering about.”

  “Hey, I didn’t make the rules. I just play by them.”

  Whatever the case, when a waiter finally showed up ten minutes later, he looked at the mess and left without a word.