allies and enemies 02 - rogues

by Amy J. Murphy

  Were there more of Poisoncry’s men here, like Fisk, ready to recruit her to serve their Guild masters? Her first few days here, Sela had expected the Guild-sworn to show up around every corner. Looking back on their encounter, she still could not place what it was exactly about him that unnerved her.

  Sela scanned the other patrons. Some gazed listlessly into drinks. Others stared off into space, shoulders hunched in the universally accepted stance of the dispossessed. There were a few curious glances in her direction. She scowled. They kept their own council for now.

  Jon wove his way through the crowd to her. The duffle strung over his shoulder seemed heavier. A good sign. He slid onto the bench beside her. The server sloshed two battered metal tumblers on the bar. He gave an absent nod.

  “Elegant place you’ve found. I’d have cleaned up.” Jon cocked an eyebrow as the server moved away.

  She studied him. “Where is your coat?”

  “Why? Is there a dress code here?” He glanced down at his thin shirt and then around the room.

  “Where is your coat?” she repeated, ignoring another one of his ill-timed jests.

  “Surprisingly, there’s no brisk market for outmoded pulse weapons with faulty charge inducers.” He gave a lopsided smirk. “Guy liked my coat. I traded it.”

  “You need proper attire.” The weather here was unpredictable at best, but always toward the colder end of the spectrum. Dirty, ash-laden snow had already begun to spit down outside. As a breeder, she could endure harsher environs, but he would require warmer clothing.

  Aside from that, she had simply liked how the jacket looked on him.

  He leaned in, voice lowered in mocking conspiracy. “Guess what? I’ll live.” He patted the heavy duffle. “Besides, we need to eat.”

  A chorus of bawdy laughter snagged her attention. A female bellowed in an octave that did not suggest mirth, but anger. The sea of bodies obscured most of the action, but a trio of heads and shoulders towered over the rest. Three males. They loomed over a young woman, barely out of adolescence. The girl shoved at one of them, attempting to make her way past—fruitless, considering their relative sizes. One of them made an apish show of letting her by, only as his cohort seized her by the hair. This elicited another round of laughter from the trio. They were like spike hounds playing with a captured rodent. Judging from the sudden lack of interest from the crowd, this activity was tolerated and possibly common.

  A spike of anger drove through Sela.

  “What are you doing?” Jon’s voice brought her back.

  Her hand rested on the stock of the A6, a reflex. “If that were your sister—”

  “But it’s not.” He flinched at the mention of Erelah, just enough. He eased her hand away from the side arm.

  The server mopped at the table with a stained cloth. “No sense tanglin’ with the Heavy Grav boys. Koenii’s men always win.”

  “What’s a Koenii?” Sela ventured. Jon’s boot tapped her leg.

  She glared at him. What harm would it be to gain intel on a potential threat?

  The server regarded her, measuring, as if truly seeing her for the first time. Sela sank back, trying to appear only casually interested.

  “Koenii runs everythin’ from the market to the Skids.” He nodded at the growing altercation with the young woman. The Heavy Gravs were now taking turns keeping her kit out of reach. “He use dem brainless scavs to do it.”

  “They’re as big as Valen,” Jon commented.

  Sela studied them, silently agreeing.

  But my Valen would never have acted that way.

  All were easily the height of a breeder with the muscles to complete the illusion. There was a uniformity to them that suggested infantry. She’d heard stories that Hadelia once housed a Regime kennel before the Treaty of Ashes. The breeders produced by that facility had to have gone somewhere. Were these Heavy Gravs their progeny?

  She’d nearly laughed at the nickname. Heavy gravity. It was a common penalty the drillers exacted when a cluster did not perform perfectly. They’d crank up the a-grav in the training facility, order the operation performed over and over. A term for punishment that became synonymous with bad luck. How appropriate here.

  As Sela watched, the girl gave up pursuit of her belongings and tried to slip by. One of the men seized her wrist. The girl bellowed in pain, swinging out in an erratic arc with her free fist. It struck her attacker with a meaty thwack to his thick jaw. His features collapsed into a frown. The amusement drained away.

  The quarry wasn’t supposed to fight back.

  Sela was striding through the crowd before Jon could stop her.

  39

  “Oh, for Miri’s sake.” Jon pushed through the crowd in Sela’s wake.

  How am I surprised?

  He recognized a strange mix of pride as well. The Sela Tyron that once stood across from his ops console on the Storm King five years ago would have let the incident slide past, watching dispassionately and perhaps even analyzing the girl’s choice in tactics.

  Jon caught up with her. So far, none of the Heavy Gravs noticed them; their antics still focused on the young woman. This close, the tension of the watching crowd was electric and hungry. A ring of onlookers had formed, not willing to become embroiled but just as eager to see what free entertainment might unfold.

  He seized Sela’s upper arm before she reached the point of no return. She pivoted, eyes narrowed.

  “What’re you doing?” He tried to pull her back and she dug in.

  “Evening the odds.”

  “There is no way this ends well.” He looked past her to the three impossibly large men. One of them had noticed them and now leaned against his counterpart to make a comment. There were variances in their clothes and in the inkwork on their arms and necks, but otherwise, they seemed identical.

  Interchangeable, like cogs. Parts for the machine, was what Silva used to call them. Despite his dislike of the Storm King’s captain, Jon could see what he meant.

  “Hey, bricker. You got business with ‘dis?” The question was thick with the strange patois of Hadelia.

  Too late now.

  Sela maneuvered from his grip and stepped in front of Jon. “I do. Leave her alone.”

  The Heavy Gravs exchanged scoffs of disbelief. “The vulta owe you scrip too? You wait your turn then, eh?”

  “Ty, just forget this. Leave it.” The command came out in Regimental.

  Her spine stiffened, perfunctory after all this time. It was the language of commands, edicts. “In a moment,” she responded in the same over her shoulder.

  The men’s attention shifted like a pack of hounds. One muttered to another under his breath. The girl’s chief tormenter released her. She slipped away, gathering her kit and disappearing through the door without a backward glance or look of gratitude.

  You’re welcome.

  “You’re breeder. How? I know all breeders in Brojos.” The main one, the one that seemed to be in charge, stepped forward. There was more curiosity to his demeanor than threat. The Regimental he spoke was poorly executed, but far easier to understand that his Commonspeak.

  “We came here from Obscrum,” Jon replied, flattening his Kindred accent.

  They thought he was a breeder? Fine. If it meant walking out of here with all his teeth and keeping Sela out of a brawl, he’d answer to that. He was tall enough, but lacked their bulk and obvious over-engineered appearance.

  “Not you, crester skew,” he spat at Jon. Then pointed at Sela. “Her.”

  Sela drew herself up. “Yes.”

  “What gen?”

  She nodded to Jon. “Let’s go.”

  The giant stepped in her way. The move was not menacing. There was a strange eagerness now. “You’re first gen, no? You’re a Prime, a real meater. You got the basic and the skills. Yes?”

  Meater?

  “Sure. I’m prime.” Sela stepped around him, jerking her chin for Jon to follow. “Whatever that means,” Jon heard her add in a mutter.<
br />
  The crowd began to slink away, disappointed there was likely to be no carnage today.

  The other two swapped awestruck glances. It was as if a living god had just spoken to them. As Sela pushed past, they fell away. Their indolence vaporized under something like worship.

  “Glory all.” They uttered it like a litany. As they reached the door, Jon looked back to see the three men staring in rapture at Sela.

  It was almost funny. Almost.

  40

  “So. That was…different.” Jon said. They made a way to the street. Gray snow had begun to collect along the pathways, mingling with the mud underfoot. The temperature must have plummeted in the small amount of time they’d been in the tavern.

  Sela pulled the two filter masks from her day kit and pushed one against his chest. He grabbed it, still fixing her with an expectant stare. Things had not gone as she had expected. Another glance at the door of the tavern told her that the Heavy Gravs had not yet decided to follow her. Judging from their awestruck faces, she wondered if they might do just that.

  “I think they’ve got a crush on you.” Jon’s grin was obscured by the mask. The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. “What’s a meater?”

  “Very old term.” She forged a path between two buildings. “A veteran soldier.”

  Of the three drillers from her time in the kennels, Notum had been the most terrifying. A sneer permanently etched on his face, the result of a scutter-grenade. You’re all meat for that beautiful war machine, the lot of you. Who wants to die pretty, meaters?

  “Well, they think you’re ‘prime.’ Can’t be that bad,” Jon continued in a chiding tone. But she could tell he was just as perplexed by the sudden shift in their demeanor. His outward response was to jest. “They have good taste.”

  “Agreed.” She paused at an intersection, deciding which path was most efficient with the least amount of exposure on their way back to the Cass. She’d memorized three routes during the morning’s commerce mission.

  “Agreed?” He leaned against her, his voice muffled by the mask, but his tone playful. “Should I be worried, Commander Tyron?”

  Grateful for the mask that obscured most of her features, Sela felt a burn begin in her ears. Years now and still when he spoke of intimacies in public, even in this empty alley, it was her uncontrollable response. One that he found amusing.

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “Given their heritage, they would have considerable…endurance.”

  “Vile woman.” He laughed, tugging his mask away. His arms crept under her jacket and encircled her waist. Sela slipped her own mask down, but cast a wary glance around the alley.

  “No one’s watching us, Ty,” he chided, perhaps sensing her apprehension. “And if they were, they wouldn’t care.”

  He shivered against her. “Besides, sharing body heat is a survival technique.”

  Sudden motion, sensed on a nearly subconscious level. Sela shoved Jon behind her and drew her A6 in one swift motion, cursing her lack of vigilance.

  A hooded figure stepped from behind a pile of debris. Although a simple swatch of fabric covered nose and mouth, she recognized the wide dark eyes and bright red hair peeking from beneath the hood. The female victim of the Heavy Grav’s attack.

  The girl froze, her eyes widened at the sight of the A6.

  “Identify yourself.” Sela took a half-step in front of Jon. He responded with an irritated sigh.

  “Bixtreslor.” She flashed an uncertain grin. “Folks just call me Bix.”

  “Alright, Bix,” Jon challenged, stepping around Sela. “What was that all about? You’re welcome, by the way.”

  Bix scoffed. “Vin and Dex got thinks that I owed scrip, yes? And, Tref…he go along with anything his crewies say.” She sobered, twitching a shoulder. “I says I paid up, but them thick in the brainbox.”

  Sela holstered the A6, but made certain to keep the latch open for easy access.

  Bix shifted her weight from foot to foot. “No never-mind. I’d figure you for thrashed proper, but here you stand, whole as a Fate.”

  Sela processed the untidy speech. “They let us pass. There was no altercation.”

  “They let you by?” Her eyebrows drew up. She took an eager step closer. Her spindly body was clad in a castoff mix: a threadbare gray Fleet shipsuit, battered combat boots, patched all-weather poncho.

  The girl dove back behind the pile of debris. Sela’s grip settled on the A6. Bix resurfaced with a dented metal decanter. She held it out like an offering. “My tithe, yes? For protectin’.”

  Sela did not move to take it. An uncomfortable crawl started over the back of her neck. Bix thought they were ruffians like the Heavy Gravs, demanding protection money and bribes.

  The girl prattled on as her voice quaked with apology. “’Course it’s only half ration, but clean water all the same.”

  “You keep it.” Jon folded his arms as the girl tried to hand the jug to him.

  Bix swallowed as she looked him up and down. “You want trade, then?”

  “Fates. No. Just…stay out of trouble.” His voice had climbed an octave. He cleared his throat and touched Sela’s elbow, canting his head in the direction of the Cassandra. “We should go.”

  He side-stepped Bix and moved deeper into the alley. Sela paused. Bix studied her, a mix of apprehension and confusion in her eyes.

  Jon was out of earshot when she leaned closer to the girl. “If you seek to repay us, I want you to find someone for me. Quietly.”

  PART VI

  41

  Erelah found Tintown just as uninspiring as its name. Considering the rusted-out buildings and gray skies, that name seemed appropriate for this strip-mining operation. Gusts of wind pelted them with a grimy rain as she huddled with Rachel under the wing of the yacht. A derelict landing field stretched out around them.

  She had slept most of the two-day journey to get there. Although Rachel had proclaimed her free of fever, errant chills shook her very bones. The weather did nothing to stave them off.

  Everything within view seemed coated in mud. It was impossible to see what the original colors of things were. Few other ships dotted the field. Some appeared to be permanent fixtures, with listless weeds growing near their landing struts. The ones that did seem serviceable were museum pieces, reminding her of the toy models she had as a child.

  A trio of armed men had greeted the ship the moment it settled on the ruined field. Their appearance renewed her trepidation. They were armed but, unlike the raucous misfits that populated Ix’s vessel, these men behaved like a team of soldiers. Their weapons were newer, or at least in good repair. When they moved, it was with rehearsed purpose. All, except their leader, were silent. He’d referred to himself as Sergeant Ceric.

  “Travel documents.”

  In unspoken agreement, she and Rachel pressed closer together, electing to stand in Korbyn’s considerable eclipse. He, however, did not seem surprised or bothered by the men’s presence, merely inconvenienced.

  “Ulrid Selto. Magistrate. Just get him.” Korbyn crossed his thick arms over his chest. “He knows me. He’ll vouch.”

  “Right. And I’m the Imperator of Poisoncry.” Ceric’s bright blond hair was twisted up into wild spikes that defied the rain or wind. He might have been handsome save for the iciness of his stare and the waxy scar that ran from his temple to the middle of his chin.

  “I could see that,” Korbyn sneered. “You’d look real cute in purple.”

  The guards tensed.

  Ceric was shorter, stocky compared to Korbyn. He stepped in, bumping Korbyn’s chest with his field armor, despite their differences in height. “You got a smart mouth for someone with illegal transport and undocumented females with no health records.” His gaze drew back to Erelah. She suppressed a shiver and tucked more firmly behind Korbyn.

  Two more guards had now jogged up to the perimeter of the field.

  Rachel tugged at Korbyn’s sleeve. “Hey. Maybe antagonizing him isn’t the b
est idea.”

  Korbyn snorted, ignoring her.

  “If they ain’t documented, you can’t trade ‘em here.” Ceric made a small gesture with his free hand and two of the guards split off to the opposite sides of the ship.

  They’re flanking us.

  Erelah pushed down hard at the Tyron-voice, fearing a repeat of what’d happened in Ix’s audience chamber.

  “Trade? Where the hell did you bring us?” Rachel glared at Korbyn. She swiveled to Ceric. “Is there someone in charge I can talk to? I’m Doctor Rachel Northway…United Earth Coalition. I need access to your laserlink or radio coms—”

  “You need?” Ceric sneered at her then went back to squaring off at Korbyn. “What’re you playin’ at, skew? Who’s in charge here? The cargo or you, half-breed?”

  “Cargo?” Rachel’s eyebrows darted up.

  Korbyn pivoted her away. He growled, “Just relax.”

  “Relax—”

  “Asher Korbyn. I was told you were dead.” The booming voice echoed across the open space. It was rich with mockery, the voice of a displeased god.

  A tall, broadly shouldered man approached them, arms outstretched. His heavy cloak billowed out behind him. His gait was casual, as if headed to a dinner reception.

  This was Ulrid Selto? Erelah had expected someone far less grandiose. He was near middle age but athletic in build and full of vigor.

  She exchanged a look with Rachel, who muttered, “And I thought Ix was a drama queen.”

  Selto dropped his arms, clapping Korbyn on his shoulders. His sculpted features and a proud patrician nose under closely cropped hair reminded her of the busts of dead heroes populating Uncle’s salon.

  “I’m too pretty to die.” Korbyn grasped Selto’s forearm in greeting.

  “Oh please,” Rachel muttered.

  The two men sized each other up under a strange tension. The dread in Erelah’s stomach tightened. The guards shifted uneasily.

  “Korbyn. It has been a long time,” Selto said stiffly.