allies and enemies 02 - rogues

by Amy J. Murphy

  It was an outright statement rather a greeting or welcome. She got the sense of walking into an unfinished argument between these two men, possibly not the best place to be.

  “But still welcome, right, friend? You’re not one to turn your back on a brother in his time of need. Are you?”

  A cool smile moved over Selto’s handsome features. There were calculations going on behind that well-bred gaze.

  “Stand down.” He waved a hand. Ceric’s rifle dipped down. The tense line of his shoulders did not.

  Rachel cleared her throat. “So. You’re in charge?”

  “And they are…?” Selto’s gaze lingered over them.

  “Companions,” Korbyn answered. He moved between them, jerking his chin at Selto. “Can we talk? In private.”

  Rachel followed them, only to have Ceric bar her way. “What? No girls allowed?”

  No one answered.

  Erelah tugged at the back of Rachel’s blouse, seeking to hold her back.

  “I got a bad feeling about this, kiddo.” Rachel drew an arm around her shoulders.

  Erelah pushed out as softly as she could at the larger-than-life Selto as he spoke in a quiet exchange with Korbyn. All this time, the Sight had been dormant, sleeping in its dark corner. She did not want to kick it fully awake, just enough to get an impression of the man.

  Pain spiked through her head. Erelah gasped, squeezing Rachel’s hand in reflex.

  The healer hissed. “What are you…you doing that jack thing? Thought you said it was going haywire.”

  Erelah righted herself, disconnecting from the sensation with a nearly physical jerk. She grimaced. Best not to try that again.

  For her efforts, she had gotten nothing more than an overwhelming sensation of guardedness from Selto. He was not happy to see Korbyn. She also got the sense from the others around her that they walked in the wake of something damning, a communal sin that they all wanted to keep hidden. Their arrival threatened that.

  Selto and Korbyn turned back in their direction. The magistrate regarded Rachel, then Erelah. “This instillation is an all-male facility. Hard-labor contractors. Allowing females to move about freely would cause a certain amount of unrest in the drillers. I cannot guarantee your safety.”

  “Need a place out of sight. Secure.” Korbyn avoided Erelah’s gaze.

  “The quarters on level three should suffice.”

  Ceric barked an order to his team. At Selto’s gesture, the group crossed the mud-caked landing field to a squat molded plas-stone building that looked as if it had grown there.

  Rachel moved away from Erelah’s side to catch up with Selto. She jerked a thumb at Ceric. “Ace here mentioned trading.”

  “For the brothels, of course,” Selto replied.

  “Of course,” she murmured. “I’ve already got a job, thanks.”

  He stopped. His stare fixed on Rachel. “You’ll be safe, I assure you. Mallorid will be with you at all times.”

  Selto beckoned. The tallest of his escort stepped forward, features obscured by a dust-covered cloth and grime-speckled goggles. Silent, the guard dipped a chin in a type of greeting.

  Rachel peered up at the guard. “Well, I feel safe.”

  42

  Erelah stood before the long rectangular window of the so-called suite. The quarters were spacious compared to the confines of the yacht. It had been home to a family at some point. Reminders were everywhere: a toy sand dragon with a plush body, scribbles of stick figures at knee height on one of the walls. It was sorrowful to think that anything like a family had once lived in such a desolate place.

  Rachel had not commented beyond calling it “polite house arrest.” The worry came off her in waves, but nothing threatening had occurred. Had they simply traded one prison for another?

  Unlike the yacht, the water here was not a guarded resource. The discovery of a real water shower seemed to temper Rachel’s dread and she “called dibs” on the facilities first. Whatever that meant. By the time Erelah had completed her own guilty indulgence of an extra-long shower, Rachel was snoring in the bunkroom and Korbyn was still missing.

  Erelah could not get sleep to obey her. Her thoughts brushed up against one another, like strangers crammed into a small room. There was too much chaos to sort out the pattern.

  Tyron’s voice now had over-ridden her at least once and nearly caused calamitous results another. There was the newer presence of Ix’s guard, the one she’d extracted the code from, thumping about like a blind ghost. Such a horrifying hunger in him. Such loneliness there. It was still easy to feel the pull of his grim addictions.

  Adding to this all was a new worry: Ulrid and his men were hiding something. It could be a cautious response to unannounced newcomers in general or, more specifically, a greeting directed at Korbyn. Her basic impression of this place had been in keeping with Korbyn’s initial description: the Reaches ate people. Very easy to see that diagnosis.

  She could have pressed harder on Ulrid with the Sight, but the pain it evoked had frightened her. The pervasive feeling of fatigue had finally worn off and she no longer had to brace herself against the walls or furniture to stand. The Sight was claiming its price. It was just as Master Liri had warned, after he freed her of Tristic’s claim on her mind.

  The Sight you possess can possess you.

  Was this what he meant?

  There is less and less of me to come back to each time.

  Trying to ignore the bone-melting tiredness, she piled her damp hair into a loose knot at the base of her neck and stared out over the uninspiring landscape beyond the grime-covered clear-plas. The view stretched into poorly defined shapes of gray under the driving rain and mists. It would have been nice to see stars, or even a moon. The station’s location was near the pole, making the possibility of seeing a sunrise unlikely. From here, she could make out a section of the landing field. There were two ships huddled against the mud. One of them held the unmistakable lines of a Cassandra model.

  Its familiar form brought a deep pang. Jon. Perhaps I shall see you soon.

  Chewing mechanically, she pulled a piece of the “bread” that had arrived with the two trays of food. It was ersatz in texture, meant to be nutritious and not pleasing.

  She muttered a prayer of thanks to Miri beneath her breath. It had been too long since she had made any offering to the Three. She felt a guilty twinge, but a bitter voice told her they’d shown her little in the way of things for which to be grateful in the past few days.

  I thank you for the food, the warmth of these walls and your protection. I thank you for—

  “Mum used to pray like that.”

  The sentry, Mallorid, had spoken. Until now, their guard had stood silently beside the doorway, head covered and eyes hidden behind a set of goggles. Rachel had even spent a few minutes trying to engage him, but to no avail.

  “You talk?” Erelah swallowed.

  The voice that had come from the hulking figure was decidedly feminine. Her assumption had been that the guard was another male, considering that all the other soldiers in Ceric’s group were men.

  Mallorid’s head canted. “’Course.”

  “No. I meant,” Erelah bit her lip, realizing how rude that had sounded. “You’re allowed to talk with us?”

  “No one said I couldn’t.” A wide muscular shoulder rose in a half-shrug.

  Erelah greeted this with an uncertain grin. “Rachel…my friend was trying to speak with you earlier. You said nothing.”

  “Didn’t care for how she was mouthin’ at me.”

  Erelah nodded. That, she could understand. Rachel had bordered on abusive in her attempts to provoke a response.

  She gestured at the heavy hood and goggles. “Do you need to wear that? Indoors, I mean? It would be nice to see your face.”

  There was a hesitation. The woman pulled the goggles and snood down to drape around her neck, revealing lank blond hair, cut in jagged layers. Her broad features and complexion pocked with hard fever scars woul
d not earn her the title of beauty.

  She directed a nearly childlike curiosity at Erelah. “You got eyes like mine. They say that’s cause I’m a fourth gen.”

  “Apologies?” The polite expression bubbled out of her in Eugenes, unbidden.

  Mallorid pointed to her temple. “Green. ’Cept yours are a prettier shade, I think.” She looked away almost abashedly as she added, “Everything about you is prettier.”

  Erelah felt her smile falter. “What’s a fourth gen?”

  “What I am. Breeder. Fourth gen, since the Collapse.”

  There was something very simple to Mallorid. It was not innocence, but a lack of guile.

  “I’m Tilley.” Erelah stepped closer. The woman shifted nervously in response.

  “My real name’s Brilta. Like the shield maiden in that song, you know, The Battle of Hadelia. But who would take you seriously with a name like that? Least…that’s what the fellas say.” She studied at her boots. “Fellas give me a hard time ‘bout lots of things.”

  Erelah suspected that was more often the case than not. What the woman probably meant to pan off as light-hearted ribbing, more than likely ran deeper, more hurtful.

  “I think Brilta is a lovely name. It’s not just a song. She was a real person,” Erelah offered. “There’s a shrine to her on a place called Tasemar. I’ve been there.”

  And stupidly used the place to hide from a soldier tasked with guarding me, all with very damning results.

  Brilta’s hazel-eyed stare widened. “You really are from beyond the Fray? I never been outside of Ironvale space before. Ulrid says ain’t worth half t’hassle.”

  At the mention of Selto, a sly grin appeared on the woman’s broad mouth. Erelah did not need to be a mind reader to realize that the woman was infatuated with the man that called himself magistrate.

  Erelah nodded. There was opportunity here to learn what she needed. Tricking someone as simple as Brilta for information raised a swell of guilt in her, but she reasoned that is was better than using the Sight on her.

  “I’ve never been so far from home,” she told Brilta. “What can you tell me about this place…and about Selto? He seems very…interesting.”

  43

  “Those fallen.”

  Asher watched Ulrid plop the tumbler onto the desk. The spirits sloshed over its rim and beaded along the side. The tangy aroma of the mash, like peppers soaked in hull cleaner, wafted to him. Not his favorite. It held nothing compared to scorch rum, but a quick glance around the Spartan quarters of Ulrid’s chamber suggested that mash was about all he was going to get.

  In fact, it was miraculous he’d not been shot. Yet.

  “Those fallen.” Asher gripped the tumbler.

  Ulrid clamped down on his wrist, trapping it. “And who shall that be, boy? Who will fall next? You thinkin’ to decide that still?”

  Asher snatched his hand back. The chair rocked beneath him. The unmistakable shape of a rifle’s muzzle pressed into the back of his neck.

  Ulrid shot a glance to the rifle’s owner, Ceric. “Outside. I’ll call you.”

  The rifle’s weight vanished.

  There was the sound of the hatchway closing.

  Asher sat under the waiting silence of Ulrid’s furious stare.

  This was the reception he’d expected on the landing field. Not whatever farce that had been. Things were off and continued to be off. No one was offering a detailed explanation as to the particulars yet.

  Asher took the distraction of Ceric’s departure to grab the tumbler. Just a sip of the stuff was enough to make his eyes water. A familiar burning warmed his throat.

  “Not thinkin’ to decide who falls.” He coughed. “Things just have a way of happening, is all.”

  Ulrid snorted. “And there he is. Asher Corsair, innocent victim of the Fates. Or is it Korbyn, now? Hard to keep track these days.”

  He smirked. “Well…innocent is stretching it.”

  “We agree on something, then.”

  Ulrid settled onto the corner of a desk piled high with data-tabs and the other trappings of a magistrate. Dust ghosted all of it. As an administrator, Ulrid was fastidious, bordering on perfectionist. This was not the man he’d left behind. Things had definitely changed. Unease settled into Asher’s gut.

  “Two years. After all that’s happened. And you have the brick to show up here.”

  “Things just went…bad.”

  “Went bad? Or you made it go bad? There’s a big difference in the two. Considering your knack for the making of such.” Ulrid finished the rest of his drink in one swallow. He poured another shot. “The end of it, you ain’t the only one to get burned. But you never think on that. You’re still the same selfish boy to show up in my door demanding notice from the Guild. Not enough for you to be rank and file. You don’t have the brainbox to realize just what you really are: half-breed bastard with the right family name.”

  Anger stirred in Asher. Let him have it. Ulrid deserved his say and probably more.

  “So what I do? I get you a solid job. Get in with Ix. Get the lay of his works. Report back. Something that gets you noticed by the Guild.” Ulrid leaned forward. “But that’s not how it goes, is it?”

  “Look, Ulrid. What happened—”

  “Is it?”

  Asher clenched his teeth. “No.”

  “Lord half-breed decides to get original. Gets found out. And sets for parts unknown with a ship from Ix’s fleet, and his crew.”

  Asher counted to three, took a sip of the drink, buying time as he shifted through possible answers. “He was running slaves. I couldn’t abide by that. It’s Guild law—”

  “You grew a conscience after you rolled his woman?” Ulrid barked with mock astonishment.

  He coughed, surprised. Sour mash burned his nose and eyes.

  “What? You’d think your own handler not find out?” Ulrid snapped, reading his reaction. He set the drink down and leaned closer. His voice was low and dangerous. “I know you’ve not been around to hear the whole count of it, so I’ll fill you in. Ironvale finds out about your mis-dealings as the worst operative ever. They burn you. Rightly so. Guess who gets burned as well? The handler that vouched him. Me. And I get to spend eternity in this tin crap-hole, eating dust and keeping hard-labor skews from shivving each other over worn-out whores.”

  Asher resisted the urge to twist in the chair. He forced himself to take another swig of the burning fluid.

  I can salvage this. Stick with the plan.

  “I brought something to make it right, Ulrid.”

  The older man’s shoulders quaked with quiet laughter, nothing resembling mirth. Asher glimpsed a different Ulrid from the one he’d left behind. A dangerous one.

  “What? Those women a peace offerin’?” Ulrid finished off the second glass of mash. “It’s a start. I’ll take the dark-skinned one. Got quite the mouth on her, seems trainable though. But that scrawny pale thing.”

  “Tilley.” Asher’s grip tightened around the tumbler. “That one’s off limits.”

  “Keep her.” Ulrid sniffed, head tilting in the direction of the hab level. “Don’t care for how she peers at me. Like she’s reading my mind.”

  “Ain’t the lay of it. They’re not to trade. What I’ve got is worth way more than any vulta you have in the brothels.”

  “Oh?” Ulrid raised his eyebrows in surprise. He made a beckoning gesture. “Let’s hear your pitch, boy.”

  How to word this without giving it all? Ulrid would be doubly hard to convince without details. He’d been burned hard.

  “Got the means to get you restored to full Commander again. Promotion to Paladin, maybe.”

  “How’s that?” Ulrid leaned back, arms folding. Convincing him would be tricky.

  “What if I told you there’s a way to change things so Ironvale Guild is the most powerful in the Reaches? Anywhere, for that matter. You can be the man that made it so, Ulrid.”

  44

  Coffee.

  Pancak
es.

  Strawberries.

  Waffles.

  Rachel pondered the mental list of foods she had decided to no longer take for granted if she ever got back to a decent Earth colony. Coffee had been the hardest. Nothing so far in the Reaches held a candle to it. And some of the things these people drank and ate were downright disgusting.

  But coffee. That would be heaven.

  She held out no real hope that there was a coffee equivalent in Tintown. Selto did not strike her as the benevolent-host type. Dinner had been some sort of pre-packaged C rations. She doubted they’d offer an omelet station for breakfast.

  Rachel stretched her neck and arms. The mattress on the bunk had not been the best, but at least she’d not woken up with her throat slit. She rose and pulled the upper portion of her flightsuit back over her arms. Mid-yawn, she checked the upper bunk.

  Empty, the covers undisturbed. Where’d she go?

  Worried, she rushed into the common room. The knot in her chest loosened. Erelah lay asleep on the sofa, curled into a tight ball in its corner. Rachel contemplated waking her so she might stretch out on a proper bed, but decided against it. The girl felt secure enough to sleep here. Compared to this wide-open space, the bunk alcove probably felt like a cage. A protective anger washed over Rachel. Someone had really done a number on her. She hoped they rotted in hell for that.

  Mallorid, the guard, stood near the doorway silent as a statue. The linebacker hadn’t moved, but Erelah had discovered that the “he” was actually a “she.” Go figure.

  “Mornin’, sheriff,” Rachel drawled.

  As expected, there was no response, only a curious tilt of the head. Rachel suspected the guard didn’t like her much. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

  “I don’t suppose there’s a place to get a decent Americano around these here parts?”

  The guard’s shoulders lifted in a barely perceptible shrug.

  The door opened and Korbyn staggered in. Moving in a relatively straight line, he made his way over to the sofa and rolled across its back to sprawl on the cushioned seat. His booted feet narrowly missed Erelah, who didn’t even stir.