Dinner ended and the crew went their separate ways after helping clean up. Matthew eventually wandered to the back porch. It was a nice night out, or as nice as cool Martian evenings ever were. He rocked on the bench swing, staring at the stars visible above the Sparrow’s dark silhouette.
Eventually, his mother found him. “Room for another?”
“There’s a reason I didn’t take dad’s rocking chair.”
She sat beside him, but rather than breaking the peaceful repose of the night with talk, leaned her head against his shoulder. Sometime later, she whispered to him. “I wish you were here more often. All of you.”
“I know.”
“But I understand. Just promise to come home someday before it’s too late.”
The quiet chirp of the crickets was the only sound to be heard.
Chapter 5: The Spider’s Clutch
Among men’s baser instincts is our tendency towards the tribal. Naturally we band into groups for protection and mutual benefit, but our desperate attempts to derive meaning from these groups has always driven us into violence and bloodshed.
And so we formed nations. Though they were necessary inventions for the maintaining of order and civil societies, they also spurred us to war with the sound of patriotic marches. Some of these tribal wars were just. Most were not.
Even Moses knew that he could not do away with the nation state. If there were ever to be a far-off day of gold that humanity was to be united under a single flag, it did not come in his time, nor did he even attempt to weave such a banner. Nations outlived the AI, or else their children did, for though they bore the image of their parents, they were not the same. Their destinies were their own to forge. And yet tribal they have remained. It is, after all, one of the birthrights of our troubled species.
Ulysses Potter
Author of A Political History of the Colonies
Died 50 AM
ABIGAIL STEPPED OFF the mag-train into the bright morning sun. Doch Rossiya was only an hour away, so there’d been no reason to burn the Sparrow’s fuel when she only planned to be gone for the day. Despite being relatively empty, the station was loaded with security, and she had to wait in a queue before being questioned by the police officer. Ever since they’d spilled the beans last week about the supposed coming Abrogationist attack, things had gotten a little bit tense on Mars.
“Look,” she said. “My Russian isn’t terrible, but you’re either going to have to slow down or use English if you want me to answer your questions.”
The uniformed woman frowned harder, if that was possible, and crossed her arms. “What is your business in Doch Rossiya?”
“I’m a freelancer here on the job,” she said, presenting her ID.
The officer took the ID and scanned it. “Abigail Sharon. How long do you mean to stay?”
“I’d like to leave before the sun sets.”
“Short stay for freelancer work.” She tapped a few keys at her computer. “Due to current security concerns, outsiders are not encouraged to visit Doch Rossiya. You have forty-eight hours to conduct your business and depart. I recommend you leave sooner.”
Abigail shrugged and took her ID back. “That’s not gonna be a problem. I was thinking about hitting up all the tourist traps, but the open hostility has kind of burnt me on the idea. So much for Russian hospitality.”
The officer glared ice at her. “Harosheva dnya, Ms. Sharon.”
Abigail saluted her and walked past the checkpoint and down the hall to the street exit. On the sidewalk, a sign showed a detailed map of the city. She approached it, edging her way around an older couple, and gave it a good look. It was only a six-klick walk to her destination, and thankfully it was in the opposite direction of her old broker. She hadn’t seen or talked to Mistress Medvedev in the last two years, and while she certainly didn’t miss the woman, she did feel a little guilty about it. Medvedev had been the one to give her a start in freelancing, even if it was Matthew that had given that career any form of purpose.
The current situation limited her time here. She had every excuse in the world to slip back to Arizona and the Sparrow without dropping by the Mistress’ estate. “Next time,” she muttered as she set off down the street. “At least to tell her how wrong she’d been about Matthew.” But then she probably already knew that herself. Hopefully. She was going to be livid when Abigail tried to recruit one of her freelancers for the guild.
She made good time across town. Walking through the Russian colony was like taking a step back in time. It had been constructed as a monument to that culture’s heritage. It was like an eastern European city from centuries previous. Tall neoclassical apartments, their first floors’ quaint shops and businesses, lined the streets. The cobblestone sidewalks were broken by occasional trees, neatly pruned to ordered perfection. Those sidewalks were choked with people today. As usual, the locals parted for her in awe, taking big steps back or just gaping, something she usually took for granted. Today, she was thankful for the crowd’s consideration of her bulk. Maybe the increased foot traffic was because the roads were clear of civilians. Convoys of military and police vehicles were out in swarms. They really were taking the security threats to heart, which was honestly a bit of a surprise considering Kyoto was a hemisphere away.
Her destination was one of those big roundabouts where five busy roads came and went their separate ways. An imposing statue of Dostoevsky, the greatest of the Russian novelists, stood watch over the lanes of traffic. She navigated half the circle before spotting the bistro on the far side. She checked the time and winced. Milena would be here by now. Professionals like her were never late. She glanced at the faded white tables. They were full, but she couldn’t spot her friend, which in and of itself wasn’t a surprise. Milena’s past as a spook had given her the ability to disappear in plain sight if that was her desire.
“Having trouble finding what you’re looking for?”
Abigail turned at the sound of the lightly accented voice. Her face was hidden behind a pair of round sunglasses and her dull copper hair concealed by a trendy hat and scarf. “I knew you were there,” Abigail said smoothly.
“It’s a good thing that suit automatically disqualifies you from undercover work because you’re a terrible liar. Come, let’s go somewhere more private to talk.”
The woman passed with a swish of her long trench coat, and Abigail fell in behind her without another word as she cut down the alley behind the bistro. They stuck to the alleys for nearly three blocks, making seemingly random turns. Abigail guessed they would have made a strange sight had anyone seen them. An armored titan and a smartly dressed woman of forty-something.
They cut through the back of an abandoned warehouse before climbing through a hidden sliding panel into the stairwell of a tall tenement building. They climbed seven flights up the creaking spiral before finally reaching a locked door. Milena unlocked it and, with one final look around, led Abigail inside.
“Welcome to my nest,” she said.
Despite the dilapidated state of the building, the small penthouse was neat and free of even a speck of dust. A small living area, kitchen, and a couple of bedrooms. Nothing fancy. By the far window, telescopic surveillance equipment poked through the blinds, obediently recording everything it saw.
“Who’s the current target?” Abigail asked.
“Mafia,” Milena said. “An old crime family that previously had ties to the Morgensens. Ever since the shakeup on Ceres, the Martian crime scene has been a mess. The Yakuza’s are convinced they can take over Doch Rossiya’s underground, but the older families will burn before they see that happen.” She took off her trench coat and hat, shaking out her shoulder-length hair. “I’d offer to take your coat, but I know your policy on that matter.”
“Thanks. A girl has to keep some secrets.”
“Yes. Secrets. Can I get you a cup of coffee? I seem to remember you have a sweet tooth when it comes to your caffeine.”
“You know me too well.�
�
Milena moved to the small kitchen. “I used to anyway. It’s been what? A couple years now since you’ve been out from under the Mistress’ thumb.”
Abigail stooped over the surveillance equipment and glanced at the screen. It showed a small factory yard in crisp detail. According to the readout, it was nearly three kilometers away. “You don’t paint Mistress Medvedev in very nice words there. I guess she hasn’t changed much.”
A snort came from the kitchen. “She grows more severe with each passing season. She’s a fierce broker and a champion for those she takes under her wing, but... Well, she has the temper of a sandstorm. And when things don’t go as she orders, she has no reservations about turning it on you.”
Abigail softly bit the inside of her lip. “Medvedev was always good to me. She helped me land on my feet with this career.”
“Of course she did. You were an investment that paid off. Do you think she’s so loving to her protégés when they fail to turn a profit?”
Abigail turned away from the window and walked to the kitchen. “If she’s so bad, why do you still work with her?”
Milena passed her a steaming cup of coffee. “I’ll let you handle the sugar. I already told you. She’s a master broker. I’m a surveillance specialist. The average broker wouldn’t know what to do with me. Medvedev has connections to every colonial government and law enforcement agency. She convinced them all years ago that I was better than their own people, and I haven’t gone more than a week without a job since.”
“I see your point.” She tried to imagine Benny working with Milena and shook her head. Sometimes he could find the good stuff, but other times she was pretty sure he was just working with the scraps, making do with what meager contacts he had. And now, riding off the coattails of Matthew’s fame.
Milena stirred her own coffee cup. “That said, if you talk me into this guild thing, you get to tell Medvedev yourself. She’s going to be furious, and I’m not going to deal with that fallout on my own.”
Abigail took a sip from her mug and managed to keep her poker face. “My reason for coming to see you was that obvious, huh?”
“Transparent as the vacuum of space. I’ve been following the media headlines, and I’m not stupid. What I don’t get is why you’d ask me. I’m not a public-facing freelancer. I deal with governments. And the ones I work with already know me.”
Abigail sighed. “We only wanted people we knew we could trust implicitly in the first batch of recruits. People whose reputation speaks for itself like Gebre’elwa—”
“You talked the old lady into this?” She set her cup down.
“She begged to be on board.” And apparently, recruiting her first was going to grease the wheels going forward. They’d lucked out on that. “As I was saying. Reputation or first-hand experience is what we’re looking for. My first three jobs were as muscle for you, Milena.”
The other woman chuckled. “You never told me those were your first jobs. In hindsight, I should have known you were green when you blew my cover on the Sychov sting.”
“I made it up to you,” Abigail said, feeling her cheeks warm. “I brought down the whole gang.”
“And half the building. We were both lucky there was enough evidence left to convict them. But I still don’t see how this will benefit me.”
Abigail took a step back. “Maybe it doesn’t. But you’ve always been one of the good guys, and those are the people we want in the guild. We’re trying to do some good out there.”
The smile on Milena’s face crumbled slowly. “You’re forgetting that I retired from intelligence after losing my partner to a car bomb meant for me. There’s more than a little revenge involved when I put these creeps away.”
Abigail had actually forgotten that detail. “I don’t think there’s a freelancer out there without a story.”
Milena nodded and gestured at her. “Says the woman in one-of-a-kind power armor.”
“Like I said, a girl has to keep some secrets.”
Behind them, the surveillance equipment chirped. Milena was on her feet at once, coffee and conversation forgotten. “Facial recognition alert,” she said from her station at the window.
Despite being curious, Abigail kept her distance, not really sure if Milena would appreciate having someone over her shoulder looking at potentially sensitive information. “How does that even work?”
“I’ve got an earthtech chip installed that runs all the algorithms. It cost me a fortune but has made it back tenfold. Dammit!”
Abigail waited quietly. She watched Milena pace the short length of the living space twice before going back to her monitor. “Is everything okay?” she risked after an awkward minute of silence.
Milena stepped back and gestured at the screen. “What do you see?”
Taking the invitation, she approached and looked at the display. Same factory yard as before, only now it was a hive of activity. Vehicles being loaded in a hurry. Men running everywhere. “Looks like an operation being scuttled if you ask me,” Abigail finally said.
“It is. I’ve been working on Dmitry Yurchenko’s operation for two months, and I’m not about to see it all fall apart.”
“Maybe he’s on to you?”
Milena shook her head, fists clenched. “Please. I’m better than that. Something else spooked him.”
“I did see a lot of military activity on the roads this afternoon. Could that be related?”
“Officially they’re running drills. Unofficially, there’s something else going on out there, but none of my contacts will breathe a word about it.”
“The customs officer wasn’t too keen on my visit and suggested I might not want to stick around.” Abigail crossed her arms. “At the time, I had thought she was being rude, but now I’m starting to think she was doing me a favor.” She held up a hand and counted on her fingers. “One. Customs drops strong hints to leave. Two. Mass military drills. Three. Local crime lords packing up and heading for the hills.”
Milena pursed her lips and grabbed her coat off the rack and fixed her hat back on her head. “They’re about to close the borders. You need to get out of here.” She slipped a sidearm out of her coat and checked its cartridge.
“I’m not leaving when you’re about to do something rash.”
“I’m about to lose months of work. Maybe I can at least tag the ship that carries Yurchenko’s sorry carcass out of here.” She moved to the door, but Abigail blocked her path with her arm.
“You used to contract teams for contact work. Are you going to call one in?”
“I don’t have time for that. Move.”
She stepped aside. “Fine, but I’m coming with you.”
Milena opened the door. “Don’t be a fool. This isn’t your job. Rossiya won’t pay me, let alone you, after the mark bolts.”
“It’s not about money,” Abigail said. “It’s about you throwing yourself into danger without backup.”
“I see the priest hasn’t ground off your stubborn corners yet. If you get stuck here, it’s not my fault.” Milena was already bounding down the stairs and Abigail hurried to catch up.
“Trust me. Between the two of us, he’s the stubborn one.”
THE ROAR OF JET ENGINES made Matthew glance up from his perch atop the Sparrow as yet another formation of skyhoppers flew overhead. That was at least the dozenth pass today. Drills according to the official statement. He wasn’t sure he trusted that. Earlier in the week, talks between Kyoto and Arizona had broken down after President Barclay demanded that security of the Kyoto factory be given over to the Highland Treaty Organization, a group of wealthy colonies in the southern hemisphere that included Arizona, Doch Rossiya, and Warszawa, amongst others. Kyoto had reluctantly agreed to allow some foreign troops onto their soil. They blanched at the demand to be relieved of command.
“Let’s get this plate in place,” he said.
He and Davey wrestled with the heavy steel hull plate to move it back to its proper spot. It had taken d
amage from a micrometeorite hit a few weeks back, and being ground side for a week was the perfect time to make the repair. Or rather pay someone else to do it. The Sparrow didn’t have the equipment to reforge steel. Unfortunately, they still had to perform the backbreaking work of installing the replacement.
With a grunt, they made the final push, and the plate dropped into place. Now a few dozen bolts and some welding work and the Sparrow would be good as new.
“So what’s this about?” Davey asked as he wiped the sweat from his brow and sat on a hull outcrop. “The performance up there. I’m guessing it’s not just for looks.”
“It may be just that. Arizona might be making a show of military might to stress the point to Kyoto.”
Davey shook his head. “This is a mess, isn’t it?”
“It is. And I get the feeling Logan knew just what pot he was stirring. But there’s nothing we can do about this right now. Politics and the rivalries of nations is beyond either of us. Let’s finish this up.” He hefted the power wrench into his hand. “You have the bolts?”
“Yeah, they’re—”
Matthew’s comm buzzed. “It’s Whitaker.”
Davey raised an eyebrow. “You gonna take it?”
“I should.” He passed him the wrench. “Get those bolts down. I’ll let you do the welding this time, but I want to supervise.” He turned away and walked toward the aft of the ship. “I’m here, Whitaker.”
“About time I heard from you,” he said. “I had to come to Mars myself since you’ve stopped answering my messages.”
“We’ve nothing to talk about. Unless you have information about the last Anemoi piece...”
Whitaker was quiet for a moment. “I’m working on it.”
After Moses: Wormwood Page 12
