Blowback

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  And Zagrando let out a small breath. His silence had been important after all.

  The Emzada was still speaking to Whiteley. “You will vouch for him.”

  “Yes,” Whiteley said.

  The Emzada straightened. Skin cells fell around it like rain. They even made soft little pelting noises as they hit the floor.

  “You have answered too quickly,” it said. “You must listen to my questions before vouching for this creature.”

  “I am sorry, Great One,” Whiteley said with actual remorse in his tone.

  “You will vouch that this man is not a spy?” the Emzada asked.

  Zagrando kept his face expressionless. He still couldn’t stop the slow roll in his stomach, but he willed himself not to feel it. Nor did he want to think about how trapped he was.

  The Emzaden were supposed to have three supple limbs that could catch a man before he even took a step. Zagrando didn’t see where the Emzada hid those limbs, but then everything in this Lair was covered in grayish skin cells, so what Zagrando thought was a part of the wall might actually be part of the Emzada itself.

  “What man knows another man’s heart?” Whiteley said.

  Zagrando gave him a surprised sideways look. He had expected Whiteley to deny that Zagrando was a spy.

  “Yet you bring him here,” the Emzada said.

  “I do,” Whiteley said, “because I have known him for two years, and in that time, he has not made a wrong move. He has done exactly what he said he would do. He has kept his promises, paid his debts on time, and has not interfered with the Black Fleet’s business. That is all I know of him and all I want to know.”

  It seemed like a fair assessment, but Zagrando didn’t know what the Emzada was listening for.

  “You trust him,” the Emzada said.

  “I trust no man,” Whiteley said.

  It felt like they kept taking one step forward and two back. Zagrando continued to look at Whiteley, trying to assess what the man was actually doing.

  “Then why should I trust him?” the Emzada said.

  “I have not said that you should,” Whiteley said. “I believe you should do business with him, however.”

  “Business, for the Emzaden, is based on trust,” the Emzada said.

  Zagrando swallowed again, hating that gag reflex. It got in the way of his attempt to seem calm.

  “You don’t trust me,” Whiteley said. “You don’t trust anyone who is not Emzaden. That’s why you have a vouching system.”

  The Emzada straightened even more, releasing another flurry of skin cells. The stench grew. Zagrando wanted to cover his nose.

  The Emzada turned its black eyes on Zagrando. “What do you need assassins for?”

  Zagrando glanced at Whiteley.

  Whiteley raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “If I knew the answer to that question, I’d speak for you.”

  Now Zagrando was in a tough position. He had to answer, and yet not answer directly.

  “Please tell our kind host that I am shopping for a client, and I make it a practice of mine to never ask what the weapons will be used for.” Zagrando made a point of speaking directly to Whiteley.

  The baseboard moved upward. It took Zagrando a moment to realize that moving gray thing was actually part of the Emzada. Apparently it was making some kind of gesture or getting comfortable or something, because Whiteley did not seem disturbed.

  “Your friend is quite wise,” the Emzada said again, directing its comments to Whiteley. “We prefer not to know what our clients need either. Only in this case, it is necessary. Our dedicated, thinking weapons are each a particular type. And we must know what sort of work they will do to match weapon type with job type.”

  Whiteley turned toward Zagrando. Zagrando took a deep breath. He felt the need to cut through the euphemisms.

  “My client,” he said to Whiteley, “wants human weapons, not some kind of robotic weapon that also ‘thinks.’ My client wants something that can pass for normal in human worlds, but has either a program or a script to follow. Before we go any further, I need to know if our gracious host and I are discussing the same kind of weapon.”

  Whiteley looked a little pale. Apparently frank talk was frowned upon, even in a private meeting like this.

  “Great One,” Whiteley said, “my friend—”

  “I heard,” the Emzada said, its tone dry. It sounded human, even though it was not. It even managed to get a weariness into its voice that Zagrando thought specific to humans.

  The Emzada moved its bulk so that its small eyes focused on Zagrando. The movement sent a storm of cells into the air, clouding it. Zagrando felt some of the skin cells land on his cheeks and forehead. The cells felt like drops of jelly that wouldn’t come off.

  “Yes, human,” the Emzada said to Zagrando, speaking slowly as if he were stupid. “We are speaking of clones. Human clones. Fast-grow or slow-grow, bred for certain behaviors or bred to blend into a population over time. I have DNA from multiple historical personages, from murderers and thieves—successful murderers and thieves—who can be turned to something greater than their biology allows. My people can train them to become whatever you want or you can have them from conception forward to do with them what you need. The cost varies as to the type of job you want, the amount of care you need, and the kind of package you chose. Are we clear now?”

  Zagrando swallowed a third time. His skin smelled like the Emzada’s—or maybe those cells had gotten inside his nose. But, he realized, that wasn’t the only thing making his stomach turn.

  He kept seeing his own image overlaid on the Emzada. Not his actual image, but an imperfect one—or perhaps a more perfect one. His cloned image. Younger. Trimmer. Fighting for his life, even though he didn’t understand why or what he could do to save himself.

  Zagrando hoped the illness that he felt didn’t show on his face.

  “Please tell our gracious host that we are clear,” Zagrando said.

  But Whiteley didn’t say anything to the Emzada. Instead he spoke to Zagrando. “Does that mean you want to keep going?”

  No. Of course not. What kind of person trafficked in this?

  “Yes,” Zagrando said. “I have money, and I’m ready to make a deal.”

  Eight

  Flint was beginning to think Talia got in trouble just to annoy him. She wanted out of school. She believed she should be helping him research the Anniversary Day cases. She was helping him with that, after she was done with her homework and with her school day. He didn’t want her deeply in the middle of everything. He wanted her safe, and he knew Aristotle Academy was safe.

  But Talia had different ideas. So when he got notice through his links that she had, yet again, gotten into trouble, he had to brace himself for the worst. Everyone might want her to take time away from school—everyone except him.

  He drove into the protected parking garage underneath the Armstrong Wing of the Aristotle Academy. The Academy was the best school on the Moon, and part of the best school system in the sector. Over two hundred Aristotle Academies existed and the Armstrong Wing consistently took first place in the rankings of both the academics and in the security itself.

  The security was even tighter now. He didn’t know if it was better—he always worried about the addition of human security guards—but it was certainly more prevalent. Flint used to have to go through six layers of security just to get into the parking structure. Now he went through ten, and two of those had a human component.

  He parked his aircar in its usual spot, got out, and headed toward the main door. The parking garage was full of expensive vehicles—probably other parents arriving to take care of their recalcitrant children. Apparently there had been an actual fight in the lunch room, something Flint didn’t think possible, given all the protections this place had.

  Of course, there had been fights in lunch rooms and on school grounds when he was a kid too, especially when everyone hit Talia’s age group. Teenage hormones were teenage hormones.
Kids acted impulsively, based on their chemistry as much as their brains.

  In fact, there was still some argument about whether kids should have links installed before the age of twenty-one, or even thirty. The male brain didn’t finish its development until sometime in young adulthood, which these kids were far from.

  “Mr. Flint.”

  The sound of his name made Flint stop. His heart rate went up. He hadn’t seen anyone in the parking structure, which was unusual for him. If someone was here, he should have seen him. Flint always took in his entire environment.

  Except that he was focused on Talia. This was the reason he had decided to retire from his Retrieval Artist business. When he worried about Talia, he couldn’t think about anything else.

  A man approached Flint from one of the cars. The car itself was high-end and worth fifteen times Flint’s rather utilitarian vehicle. The car also had a parking space, which meant that it belonged here.

  The man wore a long black coat that flapped open as he walked. His hair was dark, his features square. He was taller than Flint, with broader shoulders, and the kind of walk that only older athletes had.

  It took a moment for Flint to place the face.

  Luc Deshin.

  “Mr. Deshin,” Flint said, keeping his voice neutral. He had crossed paths with Deshin nine months before in a case involving both Aristotle Academy and Deshin’s son, Paavo.

  Flint had mixed feelings about Deshin. Deshin was one of Armstrong’s most notorious criminals. Although he’d never been charged with anything, everyone knew that Deshin ran Armstrong’s largest crime syndicate.

  He also adored his young, difficult son, and would do anything to protect him. Flint respected Deshin for that. That respect made Flint feel uncomfortable, given everything else he knew about Deshin.

  Deshin reached his side. As far as Flint could tell, Deshin was alone. But Flint never trusted appearances.

  “I need to talk with you,” Deshin said.

  “I need to go to my daughter,” Flint said. “The discussion can wait.”

  Deshin put a light hand on Flint’s arm. “Your daughter got caught in a melee in the lunch room. She defended two kids who were being bullied. She’s tough, that daughter of yours.”

  Flint didn’t like the fact that Deshin knew about Talia. He also didn’t like the fact that Deshin knew more about the lunch room incident than Flint did.

  Flint looked down at Deshin’s hand. Deshin removed it.

  “What’s this about, Mr. Deshin?” Flint asked, keeping his voice neutral. He wanted to end this little discussion as quickly as possible.

  “I owe you a favor,” Deshin said.

  Flint sighed. After the events with his son, Deshin had tracked Flint down and promised him a favor for the work Flint had done on Paavo’s behalf. Flint had argued that he was well paid by his clients, but Deshin had none of it.

  He promised the favor—”as big a favor as you need,” he had said—and then clapped Flint on the shoulder like they were old friends.

  Maybe in Deshin’s world, they were.

  “We’ve had this discussion, Mr. Deshin,” Flint said. “I was just doing my job.”

  “You weren’t and we both know it,” Deshin said. “You defended me.”

  Flint started to speak, but Deshin waved his hand as he continued.

  “Which is neither here nor there. This is not the favor. But I know you’ll at least listen to me, and no one else will.”

  Flint stiffened. “What are we discussing, Mr. Deshin?”

  “The lunch room incident, it’s something you have to take care of. Family, right?” Deshin seemed uncomfortable. That alone caught Flint’s attention.

  “Yes,” Flint said, “and my daughter’s waiting for me.”

  “My son’s waiting for me, even though his class isn’t involved. All the parents are being called in. It’s because of what happened six months ago.”

  Everyone knew what happened six months ago. “Anniversary Day,” Flint said.

  “Anniversary Day,” Deshin said in agreement. “That awful day.”

  “I’m sure the school will tell me—”

  “You work with the authorities, right? You’re trying to find out what happened?” Deshin spoke fast, as if he were trying to get it out.

  That had Flint’s attention. “Yes. I’m helping with the investigation.”

  “I got information that can help, and I got people all over the Alliance and beyond who can find us even more information, but I don’t got contacts in the government here or with the investigation, and I don’t got time—we don’t got time—to go through lawyers and channels. You understand?”

  Flint did. Suddenly this odd meeting made sense. “What do you have, Mr. Deshin?”

  “You got people trying to find out where all the bomb components came from. That I know, not just the final suppliers, but where a lot of this stuff originated.”

  Deshin probably knew it because he used the same suppliers. Flint must have looked hesitant, because Deshin said,

  “Look, I lost people too in those bombings. Good people. Family, friends. What happened, this is all wrong. You don’t indiscriminately kill people for some political end.”

  “Is that what you think this is?” Flint asked. “A political end?”

  “That’s what the news is saying,” Deshin said. “Because of the Frémont connection. Is that wrong?”

  Flint shrugged. “We don’t know. We don’t know why this happened or who did it or what they wanted.”

  Deshin’s entire expression changed just for a moment, and Flint finally saw the steely man beneath the somewhat charming exterior, the man that most of his colleagues probably knew and feared.

  “I was hoping you were farther along than this,” he said. Then he took a deep breath. “I got a lot of contacts in places your people probably never heard of. I can get information you can’t. I just want to make sure it gets used, you know.”

  “I’m sure the authorities will want this information to be obtained in legal ways,” Flint said.

  Deshin laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure they say that. But they wouldn’t have hired you if that was true, now would they?”

  Flint couldn’t help himself. He smiled.

  “Listen,” Deshin said. “Just be upfront with me, okay? I like plain speakers. I know you can’t always do that, but do it with me. You’re worried that we’re going to give you torture information, aren’t you?”

  “Or worse,” Flint said, “that you might kill for the information.”

  “It’s friends and family we’re talking about,” Deshin said.

  “It’s six months in the past,” Flint said.

  “I think something bigger’s coming,” Deshin said.

  They stared at each other.

  “Honest, plain speaking,” Deshin said after a moment. “You think so too, don’t you?”

  Flint wasn’t sure he wanted to be honest with this man, that he wanted to be on “plain-speaking” terms with him. But he also didn’t think he had a choice. What Deshin offered him was too good to pass up.

  “There’s a theory,” Flint said slowly, “that the first bombing more than four years ago now was a practice run. It correlates that these bombings and assassinations might also be a practice run.”

  Deshin shook his head. “You don’t practice on a different target.”

  “Meaning what?” Flint asked.

  “Your theory might be right about the first bombing. Or maybe a little off. That first bombing might’ve been inspiration, you know? It might’ve given someone an idea.”

  Flint nodded. He’d thought of that too.

  “But this second event, it’s too big to be practice. It’s more like notice. For that something big.”

  “We’re thinking they might be trying to take down the Earth Alliance,” Flint said.

  “That’d be hard,” Deshin said. “It’s got too many tentacles in too many places. But they might be trying to shake it up or change it.
”

  His answer was quick and a bit unnerving. He had clearly given this a lot of thought.

  “Or they could be going after something else,” Deshin said. “Some organization or corporation or something. Don’t get locked into thinking the Alliance is the beginning and end of the universe.”

  Good advice. Flint hadn’t really thought of that at all. Deshin was already proving useful. Flint still wasn’t sure if he liked that, but he couldn’t ignore it.

  “Listen, this isn’t the best place to talk,” Deshin said. “Besides, we got kids to fetch. How about we meet in neutral ground?”

  Flint smiled. “What’s that?”

  He wasn’t sure what his neighbors would say if Deshin came to his office. And he certainly wasn’t going to Deshin’s office.

  “We got a lawyer in common,” Deshin said. “Celestine Gonzalez. She said she did some work for you a while back.”

  She had. Gonzalez had also handled Deshin’s adoption of his son. Flint had seen her in court that day. So she had been the one to tell Deshin who Flint was.

  “Yes, she did,” Flint said. “She was good.”

  “She saved my butt, with some help from you and the folks here,” Deshin said. “I’m sure she’ll give us a private room, no questions asked.”

  This was the moment when Flint could turn away from the offer. He could thank Deshin and walk away.

  But then he would always wonder what Deshin could provide besides a fresh perspective.

  “All right,” Flint said. “Tell me when and I’ll be there. You also need to give me a way to contact you.”

  “Tonight, seven,” Deshin said. “And I’m sending you my private business link now. You can reach me at any point. You got something more private than the public nets?”

  “I do,” Flint said, and sent it back just as he received Deshin’s information. No turning back now.

  They headed toward the door. As they reached it, Deshin touched his arm again.

  “If I were you,” he said softly, “I’d be looking to see where else people have been practicing.”

  And then he let himself into the school. He was halfway down the corridor when Flint stepped inside.