by Cathy Pegau
Something in his eyes changed. A decision was made. “She just got out of surgery. She’ll pull through.”
Relief made me giddy and weak. I dropped my head onto my arms on the table, not caring how Sterling or the CMA interpreted my reaction. Slow tears and quiet sobs soaked into the sleeve of my oversized shirt. She was alive. Even if I never saw her again, at least I’d know she wasn’t dead because of me. It wasn’t the best scenario, but I’d take it and be happy.
“That information goes no further than this room.”
I brought my head up, mindless of the tears on my face. “Why?” I asked, confused.
He didn’t answer, leaving me to figure it out.
I did, soon enough. If Exeter thought Zia was alive and talking, they’d destroy everything on the K-73s. With Zia “dead” the company might let its guard down, thinking their main leak was out of the picture. I wouldn’t if I were them, but the CMA was smart to take advantage of the possibility.
Paranoia led me to another possibility: Maybe he was lying to me about her being alive for the same reason. My hands started to shake. “If you’re lying to me, Sterling—”
“I’m not.”
I had to believe him because contemplating anything else would be torture. I wiped my damp cheeks with the heels of my hands. “When Zia’s up to it, you’re going to ask her about the files no matter what I tell you.”
“You can get me started in the right direction.”
He wanted me to point him toward the real culprits, Pritchard and Clemens. Telling Sterling the Chief Engineer and Chief Operations Officer were involved might clear Zia, but it might not. The CMA wouldn’t care if she got caught up in their net. They’d expect her to plead innocent. I had to make sure they spoke to her before coming down on the others.
I placed my palms together, resting my forefingers against my lips and my thumbs under my chin. Closing my eyes, I separated the emotional need to keep Zia safe from the lying thief I had to be right now. If I were to reveal what was in the files, what I’d heard Pritchard and Clemens discuss myself, and that I’d stashed the comm recording, it would give Zia nothing to bargain with. She would want to make her own choices, not be dictated by someone else’s actions. Even mine. Especially mine. But I had to take the chance. If it looked liked Sterling wasn’t willing to play, I’d spill about the others. She was going to hate me no matter what.
I lowered my hands to my lap and opened my eyes. “I don’t remember.”
Sterling sighed, his eyes hard. “We know Exeter was falsifying information about the K-73s and their modeling figures, but we need more.” He pounded the table with his fist. “Damn it, Olivia, help me so I can help you.”
And I was trying to help Zia.
“There was a lot of technical jargon and numbers.” I shrugged and shook my head, appearing to lament my lack of memory. “Maybe if I knew Zia could cut a deal first, I might remember something about a conversation between two other Exeter employees.”
His brow furrowed. “What conversation? Between who?” When I didn’t respond he leaned toward me, his voice harsh and low, probably to avoid the room’s security recorder. “I can’t guarantee the Commissioner will go along with it, Olivia. The case against Exeter is too big. It’ll take time to coordinate meetings.”
I sat back, my arms crossed over my chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He opened his hands and spread his fingers. The tendons stood out as he flexed them against the table. If he’d had claws there would have been gouges a centi deep. He stood and pocketed the cube. “Okay, let’s go.”
I rose slowly. Had I crossed the line? “Go where?”
“Protective custody.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “For now.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The spiky-haired, white-clad chef on the small screen over the kitchen counter chopped and chattered. “Sauté the onion until it’s transparent and return the chicken to the pan. Add the cumin, salt, pepper and garlic.” He stared at me over the tops of his spectacles. Who wore spectacles, except to achieve a “look”? “Don’t let the garlic burn,” he admonished, pointing a wicked-looking knife in my direction.
“I won’t, I won’t.” I stirred the ingredients. The aroma of the chicken, onion, garlic and spices wafted up on a cloud of steam. My stomach gurgled with anticipation. It smelled like the chicken dish Tonio used to make. I hoped it tasted like it; my previous attempts had ranged from so-so to recycler fodder.
Why hadn’t I learned to cook sooner? It wasn’t that hard. Okay, yes it was. Cooking real food, not using pre-formed protein matter or programming the CompuChef, kept me busy and sane. Mostly.
In the three weeks I’d been a guest of the CMA, I’d had to find something to do to fill the endless time I spent in the tiny flat they’d assigned to me. I spoke to Mom every couple of days over a secured comm link, but that didn’t take hours. And one could only do so many sit-ups and watch so many vids. Abs of steel, brains of mush. The cooking lessons helped with the latter, if not the former.
The nondescript building was under heavy security, both electronic and human, more like a fortress than an apartment complex. Instead of windows, the outside wall—I think it was an outside wall—sported a screen that played a live view of Pandalus or anything else you programmed in. Currently I had it running a peach-and-violet sunset on one of the beaches of Pacifica. A girl can dream.
I’d also had a lot of time to think about what I’d done, and what I hadn’t done, over the past weeks, months and years of my life. The adrenaline-filled jobs made life exciting. Just dangerous enough to keep the blood pumping. No one ever got hurt.
Until now.
Zia.
My chest ached whenever I thought about her, which was often. I woke up at night crying and shaking, images of her burned and bloody body haunting my dreams. I knew she’d survived the shooting, but that’s all I knew. She was alive. That was something.
My gaze flicked to the simple metal box sitting on the floor below the false window, and my throat tightened. Tonio’s ashes. The CMA had tried to locate next of kin, to no avail; I was the closest thing he’d had to family. When I landed on Pacifica I’d scatter his ashes on a beach like the one in my window. Not a bad place to spend eternity.
Thinking about them hurt too much, so I concentrated on the screen near my head.
“Now,” the chef continued, “stir together for three minutes then add the Merricala wine and tomato puree. And make sure it isn’t any of that genetically modified crap.”
I looked up from the pan on the cook top and frowned. “Merricala wine? Was that on the ingredients list?”
“Reduce the sauce down to—”
“Hold it, hold it, hold it,” I said over his relentless instructions. “Program, pause.”
The chef stopped in midstir, his mouth gaped like a fish.
I opened and slammed cupboards, searching for the wine I couldn’t recall buying. A half turn in either direction covered the whole of the kitchen area, so it didn’t take long for me to realize I didn’t have it. Planting my hands on my hips, I grumbled.
It wasn’t like I could go knock on a neighbor’s door to borrow some. There were more than a dozen flats around me, but I never saw another occupant. I wasn’t completely sure I had neighbors, and even if I did, being in the CMA protection program meant they were probably the most paranoid people on the planet and wouldn’t answer their doors to a stranger anyway.
Running to the grocer was out, as well. My excursions into the world were limited, supervised by Sterling or some other CMA agent. Sterling was afraid I’d be attacked by one of the Greys’ associates, or would run off. I’d come close to doing just that a couple times in the past few weeks.
He said I was becoming rude and surly, that I might want to consider counseling. It was recommended for their Special Cases—those who’d soon be given new identities and a one-way ticket off world—but I think he recognized there was more going on with me than concern
over changing my name and location. Let him think what he wanted. Being cooped up all day while trials were scheduled and depositions were recorded would make anyone rude and surly, no matter how Special they were, and he could stick his counselor someplace inappropriate. Though not finding the damn Merricala wine was making me ruder and surlier by the second.
The two-toned door chime sounded and I froze. My next outing wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow. Wiping my hands on the backs of my thighs, I called out to the security system. “Who is it?”
The electronic voice replied. “Colonial Mining Authority Senior Agent Sterling, Nathan and guest.”
Guest? Probably the counselor he’d been threatening me with. I’d give them something to counsel.
I returned to my chicken. “Let them in.”
Maybe it was foolish to trust the security system worked and it really was Sterling and guest at my door. But if a friend of the Greys’ had somehow found me, stolen Sterling’s iris and fingerprint patterns and infiltrated the building, there wasn’t much I could do to stop them anyway. The CMA had confiscated my pulser, so wielding a pan of poultry would have had to suffice if it came to that.
Behind me the door clicked open. The rustle of cloth and footfalls crossed the threshold.
“Next time call ahead, Sterling.” I stirred the sauce, my back to them. “Maybe I was entertaining or meditating or something.”
“I told you she was cranky,” he said.
“She has her reasons, Mr. Sterling,” a familiar husky alto replied.
The spoon in my hand shook, splatting sauce on the dingy counter. I turned around.
Beside the blue-coated Sterling, she stood with her hands shoved deep in the pockets of a worn leather jacket. Wearing no makeup and her thick chestnut hair caught in a loose tail, she appeared ten years younger. Her dusky skin was sallow, evidence of her recent recovery, but her green eyes glinted. A lightweight shirt clung to her body, and a pair of canvas trousers hung low on her hips above thick-soled boots. She was too thin.
And more beautiful than I remembered.
My heart stumbled, and my voice broke over her name. “Zia.”
Her gaze traveled over my tank top and loose pajama pants, down to my bare feet, then back up to my face. Our eyes held. “Hello, Liv.”
I wanted to run to her, throw my arms around her and never let go. But the sudden fear she’d only come to tell me goodbye spot-welded my feet to the floor.
“I didn’t—I wanted to—I—” Explanations and apologies careened through my brain and tangled my tongue. For the past three weeks I’d rehearsed what I’d say if I ever saw her again. How I’d tried to get information about her situation, tried to get word to her. The CMA would give me only the barest of details about her health, and there was never any response to my recorded heartfelt blatherings about what had happened and why I’d done what I did. I’d given up on her ever replying. Now that she was here, I could barely remember my own name.
Sterling cleared his throat, reminding us of his presence, but I didn’t take my eyes from Zia. “I’ll let you two chat,” he said. “Call me when you’re ready, Miss Talbot.”
Zia kept her gaze on me. “Thank you, Mr. Sterling.”
He let himself out, leaving silence in his wake.
We stared at each other for several moments then Zia said, “Something’s burning.”
A bitter aroma rose from behind me. Shit. The garlic. I turned and shut off the cook top. Grateful for a chance to collect myself, to prepare for her telling me to go to hell, I poked at the contents of the pan with my spoon.
“I didn’t know you cooked.”
“I’m just learning.” I set the spoon down and faced her again, leaning on the counter in a relaxed attitude I didn’t feel in the least. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thank you.” She moistened her lips and my insides melted. She’d always had that effect on me. I’d missed it terribly.
“You made a deal with the CMA,” I said.
She nodded. “With your help. Sterling told me you couldn’t, um, remember what was in the files or where some evidence was until you were sure the CMA would talk to me. Thank you for that.”
“I’m glad it worked.”
When Sterling showed me the Commissioner’s signed immunity order for Zia in return for her cooperation, my memory miraculously cleared. I told them how to retrieve the recording from my comm, linking Pritchard and Clemens’s false death rates and lack of true volunteers to Zia’s reports. Luckily my insurance paid off.
She gave a humorless laugh. “You and me both. Clemens gave Connor the order to kill me—and you—despite my years of loyalty to Exeter. If they wanted to play the Cover Your Own Ass game, I wasn’t going to go down with them.” She took a half step closer, hesitant in a way I’d never seen in her before. Pain flickered across her face. “The K-73 project started out legitimate. Signed volunteer forms, compensation for the subjects. The experiments skirted an ethical edge, but I thought it was important work we were doing. Then the filters began to fail. We should have stopped it, but we didn’t. I didn’t. By then, I was in so deep…” Her voice trailed off as she slowly shook her head.
“You had no choice,” I finished for her. I could relate.
She glanced away, not as a liar’s tell from the high color on her cheeks, but in shame. “I always had a choice. I just didn’t make the right one.”
“You didn’t know what was really going on, Zia. Pritchard and Clemens were falsifying the death rate numbers and using people.”
“I knew enough.” Her eyes, filled with anger and remorse, met mine again. “I should have suspected the rates they gave me were conveniently dropping. I let myself believe them because it would risk my career, my life and lifestyle if I didn’t. I didn’t want to think about who was receiving the K-73s. They weren’t people. They were numbers. Failure rates and costs. If I could get the K-73s to work, Exeter would save thousands of miners’ lives in the years to come.”
“And make a few million credits before the other companies could get into the deep keracite markets.” My words came out with a harshness I hadn’t expected. She’d admitted she was wrong, had accepted responsibility. Still, she’d initially upheld Executives’ Rule Number One: Don’t let anything stand in the way of profit. Why should that surprise me? It was the way the ‘Verse worked. It was the way I was supposed to have worked.
But it wasn’t the way I’d wanted to see Zia. Even knowing she was part of the cover-up, she was supposed to be better than that. Better than me.
“People died, Zia. Being inmates didn’t make them any less human.” I swallowed down the rock of anger and disappointment I’d thought I’d managed to get over these past weeks. “I could have been one of them.”
Her brow furrowed. “Because of the blackmail? You and the CMA worked that all out.”
I shook my head and told her what I’d been, what I’d done practically since birth, until agreeing to join the Greys. She listened in silence, her arms wrapped around herself like a shield.
“Tonio and I were lucky. We never got caught, and no one ever died during our jobs,” I said. “But they could have. And we could have been sentenced to one of those mines.”
“Brighton.” She took a deep breath and released it with a slow shudder. “It’s an unregistered facility three kilometers below the surface. No one knew anything about it until now. We transported volunteers there specifically for testing the filters. And when they died…” She lowered her head. There was a certain satisfaction in seeing her shaken, having her realize there were faces behind the K-73 experiment. That one of those faces could have been mine. But it still felt as if I were kicking a puppy.
Zia looked up at me, understanding in her eyes acknowledging why I had to let her see my own pain. “I distanced myself from what was happening in the labs and mines so I could get my job done. So I could live my life as I’d always wanted it.” She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them agai
n they were shiny and wet. “I didn’t let myself feel for them. I couldn’t. That was wrong, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
My lingering anger dissipated, my heart aching for her because I knew what she was going through. Emotional attachment clouded your judgment, made the job difficult. Made you human.
Maybe now we were both better than we had been.
She cleared her throat, but her voice was low and strained when she spoke. “You could have turned the files over to Sterling, handed me to him along with Pritchard and Clemens. You didn’t have to come to the Station to warn me. You didn’t have to insist they offer me a deal.”
“Yes,” I said, my voice just as rough. “I did.”
Her expression crumbled, and tears coursed down her cheeks. She crossed the short distance between us. Arms around each other, we clung together as if our lives depended on it. Maybe they did.
She cried against my neck, her body trembling. “How could I have been so stupid? So callous? That’s not me, Liv. I swear it isn’t.”
“I know, I know.” I stroked her back and rocked her like a child who’d scraped her knee, not a woman who’d compromised her own ethics, who’d risked her career and her life.
The agony of how close I’d come to losing her forever rippled through me. I held her tight as I sent a silent prayer of thanks to the gods of fools and former felons.
What had happened to the tough VP who’d scared me half to death weeks ago? To the lying thief I’d been?
Tears finally petered out, and she stopped shaking. I rested my cheek on her shoulder. Jasmine. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply, content to stand that way forever.
“I thought you were here to say goodbye,” I whispered against the side of her neck.
Her body tensed. “Liv—”
“I know. It’s just—” My voice caught as the image of her bleeding on the Hub Station floor filled my head. “Betraying your trust, leaving you like that, I couldn’t imagine you ever forgiving me.”
