by Wesley Chu
She thought about it for a second. The ache of handing that huge score over to the Fabs was still fresh in her head. She felt the need to recoup some of that lost profit. She shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
Fishing in Crate Town had nothing to do with the water or fish. It was one of the first cons Ella ever learned. There was a truck route that passed underneath a low-hanging bridge from the docks, heading northeast up the highway toward downtown Surat. The street rats would tie a kid to several ropes and wait on top of the bridge. As a truck passed underneath, they would send another kid in front of the truck, forcing it to stop. They were the worm. Then the first kid would be lowered down onto the truck bed. They were the hook. The kid would then tie as many of the containers as possible to all the ropes, and they would haul it up.
There were several ways for the worm and the hook to get injured. The trucks could be too slow to stop. The hook could get pulled too late and left dangling in midair, or get pulled off balance and bounce on the hard steel bridge.
In the early days, the street rats used to just run up to the trucks and grab the loot, but then the drivers came out with clubs and beat them away. Some genius kid realized that there wasn’t an easy way for the drivers to get to the bridge, so they began using ropes. It was a dangerous game, but was way better than starving.
As long as she wasn’t the one dangling off a bridge or running in front of the truck, it was a pretty solid gig. Ella followed the boy west to the docks and they made their way north toward the overpass. If she could nab a decent haul today on top of the big score yesterday, this might end up being the best week she’d ever had. Maybe she could finally afford some new clothes, or even a motorcycle. Her heart quickened at that idea. She had wanted one ever since she was a little girl and saw this American movie about these super-agent girls who rode motorcycles by day and ninjaed by night.
Or you could put those funds toward leaving this slum.
“I like it here.”
What if I could offer you something more? Something better than what you have now?
“If it means I have to listen to you prattle on all day, the price is too high.”
You will better yourself as a person. Listen to me: let me lead you, or you will never make anything of yourself.
“I like me, alien, and if you don’t, you can kiss my ass.”
So you are content being a conwoman for the rest of your life?
“It’s a respectable living.”
It is anything but respectable. Also, I do not think your instincts are wrong. There is something strange about this fishing job.
Ella stopped following the boy. Something had been nagging her. She looked up at the sky and checked the time. The best time for fishing was earlier in the day after the trucks were loaded. By late afternoon, the traffic leaving the docks was light. That meant there would be fewer targets, and the trucks that were passing through would drive by faster. She brought it up with the boy.
He pulled her along. “Late shipment from a container barge. It’s packed right now. There’re at least six crews working non-stop fishing. Hurry before it’s too late.”
Ella was dubious, but she didn’t have much else to do today. Besides, she had already wasted most of the day. In Crate Town, a person always had to be on the move. Move or die, sell or die, steal or die. One always had to be doing something, or be dying. She saw the rest of the crew of Terrible Gandhis loafing at the foot of the bridge. They waved at her to come over. Ella peered over the side of the street to the road below and frowned. There were hardly any trucks passing through.
Just as the boy led Ella around the corner, rough hands grabbed her from behind. In an instant, she was surrounded by several hard-looking men. The Pakistani gangsters had found her.
She scowled as one of the gangsters gave the boys a few thousand rupees. The Terrible Gandhis had sold her out for nothing. “You little shits,” she snarled. “You’ll pay for this when word hits the streets.”
The gangster standing next to her backhanded her face, swiveling her neck violently. The right side of her face went numb and her legs gave out. The only reason she was still upright was because of the thug wrapping his arm around her neck.
“You’re not telling anyone anything,” the man who struck her grinned. He cupped her chin and lifted it to his face. “Tell us where our merchandise is or we’ll drown your scrawny ass in the ocean.”
Ella squirmed, but the thug’s thick arms holding her in place were like a vice. She thought quickly in her head. “Hey hey, Io, help me get out of this. Please! I promise I’ll listen. Use some alien magic powers or something.”
There are five Terrible Gandhis and six large men. The ledge is to your left and there are containers to your right. There are no crowds or places to hide. Your only option is to surrender. We may be able to find a more opportune time to escape later.
“What? That’s your stinking advice? Give up? I thought you were some military genius or something.”
Sometimes, the best strategy is to surrender.
“Was that what you told all your soldiers when you were in charge?”
The last time I led soldiers in battle, we rode horses, and were butchered by an army of American Indians.
Ella wanted to grab her hair in frustration, but she couldn’t reach it. Of all the aliens in the world who could possess her, she got the incompetent one. Well, she wasn’t going to give up. She was as good as dead if she did.
She had to think of something. She clasped the massive forearm with her hands and tried to pry the gangster’s fingers loose from her neck. She swung her feet back and forth, and tried to wiggle free. It was all to no avail. The grip around her neck tightened, and the thug smacked her with his free hand.
“Stop squirming before I just decide to choke you to death here on the spot.”
Ella got a mouthful of his arm hair, and spat. Then she glanced at the brown flesh pressed against her chin, and decided on a different tactic. She opened her mouth, leaned in, and bit down as hard as she could.
The man screamed. He smacked her again. He shook her like a rag doll. Still, Ella clamped her teeth down on his flesh, biting down even harder until she tasted blood. The vice around her neck loosened, and the arm tore out of Ella’s mouth as she felt herself fly through the air.
The left side of her body bounced off the metal wall of the container, but she was ready for it. No sooner did her feet touch the ground than she was off running. Large hands grabbed at her, but she squirmed away, scrambling on all fours, squeezing between bodies until she found an open path. One of the Terrible Gandhis tried to block her escape, and she pushed him so hard, he flipped over onto his belly. Then the way before her was clear.
Ella took off, taking advantage of her smaller stature and staying low to the ground, and made a beeline toward the busy crowds in the distance. She glanced back only once, and saw all of them – gangsters and Gandhis – giving chase. A low guttural growl came from the recess of her throat. She expected the gangsters to come after her, but these street rats were Crate Town. There was a code that the denizens here lived by. Damn kids had no respect for custom.
Watch out!
She nearly smacked into the ass of an old man and decided to focus on where she was going. She was pretty sure she could outrun the larger men since she knew this area, but the street rats posed a problem. Some of the older Terrible Gandhis were stronger, larger and probably faster than her, and they knew this area just as well as she did.
Turn left at that intersection.
“Like I’m going to listen to you, Ms Surrender.”
Ella kept going straight, skirting around people and carts and vehicles as if she were racing an obstacle course. To both sides of her, just a few steps behind, swarmed the street rats. Behind them, the gangsters were having a harder time keeping up as they bowled into the crowds and knocked people off bikes.
To your left!
Ella looked and saw the tips of fingers grabbing at he
r shirt. She threw out an arm and sent a boy a head taller than her falling head over heels into the mud.
Turn right here. Those are narrower streets.
“No, that’s stupid. That goes straight into Terrible Gandhi territory. I’ll just get more of them on my tail.” She turned left and ran up a ramp leading to the third level of a neighborhood stacked four containers high. She hurdled over railings and oil drums and ran across bridges made from wooden planks.
She looked back and saw two of the Terrible Gandhis close behind her. She crossed one particular loosely-assembled bridge, and when she got to the other side, knocked a board off while the boy was still crossing, sending him down to ground level, his panicked screams music to her ears.
Unfortunately, she had reached the end of the block. The gap between the container she was on and the next was too wide for a bridge, so she was forced to go inside. She entered what looked like a karaoke room and was about to head downstairs when the door slammed open and one of the gangsters appeared.
Ella was trapped.
She backed up until she bumped against the balcony railing. She could jump down, but that was a long fall. If she stayed up here though, she was as good as dead.
Use your hands to grab the clothing line and cross to the next building.
Ella stared at the rope. “I can’t do that. I’m not a monkey.”
Would you rather be dead?
She looked over at the advancing gangster and then back at the rope. She wasn’t sure what was worse. Falling to her death or getting beaten to it.
That is your only choice.
“Fine, I can be a monkey.”
Grimacing, Ella climbed onto the railing and jumped, grabbing the rope a meter away from the balcony. The gangster lunged forward and swiped at her, narrowly missing her feet. Ella, slowly moving one hand in front of the other, made it a few meters down the line safely out of his reach. She looked back at the gangster and stuck her tongue out.
And then she lost her grip on the rope and fell.
Fortunately, she hit the half dozen clothing lines crisscrossed in between the buildings on her way down. They didn’t break her fall, but bounced her around enough that, coupled with the soft mud, she didn’t crack anything open when she finally hit the ground.
Unfortunately, it dazed her long enough that by the time her head had cleared again, three of the gangsters were bearing down on her. She stood on unsteady feet and flinched as her right ankle screamed in pain. She limped five steps and nearly collapsed. They were going to catch her.
To your left are two uniformed policemen. Run to them.
Ella made a face. “That’s not a good option either. The police and I have history.”
Damn it, dumb girl. You have to trust me right now.
“Oh, this is a huge mistake, but fine.” She looked back one more time at the advancing gangsters, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, hobbled to the two policemen leaning against their car. She waved. “Hey, Sanchit. Hey, Dhruv, nice matching mustaches. You guys call each other in the morning to coordinate?”
The one named Dhruv squinted. “What the hell?” He reached over and yanked Ella by the collar and pulled her off her feet. He then picked her up and slammed her into the patrol car.
What are they doing?
Ella’s face was pressed against the trunk. “I told you I have history with the uncles.”
Uncles?
“What we call the police around here.”
She looked to the other side and saw the three gangsters on the other side of the street, scowling. She pulled an arm free and gave them the middle finger.
The uncle named Sanchit grabbed her wrist and forced it behind her back. He leaned in close. “The inspector is looking forward to having a few words with you.” The last thing Ella remembered was Sanchit grabbing the back of her head and slamming it toward the car trunk.
Nine
Surrett
Surrett Kapoor, Deputy Minister of Gujurat, was mid-sentence when he caught a glimpse of his reflection as he passed the hallway mirror. He stopped, squinted at his tie, and adjusted it so it perfectly aligned with how his suit hung off his shoulders and how his lapel balanced the blue of the right half of his tie with the handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket.
He turned to Amita. “Next time, tell me if I’m disheveled.”
His assistant looked confused. “I’m sorry, Minister, but you look great.”
“Public presentation is just as important as public policy in this line of business, do you not know that? What if I need to speak with the press?”
She checked her tablet. “You don’t have anything on your schedule.”
“That’s not the point.” He shook his finger at her. “A group of reporters could happen upon us in the hallway at any moment. Moving on. Where was I?”
“You were dictating your message. Friday evening.”
“Ah yes,” Surrett said. “I will be away this Friday and over water from six to nine, so depending on how far away from the coast I am, I may have limited access to email and messages. I will be hard at work in the office Saturday morning from seven until five, but will be spending the evening with a dear friend and will only respond to emergency calls. Please note that on Sunday, I will be the guest of honor at the Vapi Country Club and will be unavailable except through my assistant, Amita, who may be reached at her office or through the operating dispatch.” He stopped just outside his office. “That will be all.”
Amita tapped a few buttons on the tablet. “Your weekend out-of-office message is now saved, Minister. Is there anything else?”
Surrett shook his head. “Have a good weekend. Please keep your phone charged this time.” He watched his assistant leave the reception room, and then proceeded into his office. He closed the door behind him, took off his blazer, and carefully placed it on a hanger, making sure there were no creases around the shoulders. Humming, he went to his tea cart and poured himself a cup. He looked up at the wall mirror and saw a pair of crossed legs in front of his corner couch.
Casually, and still humming, he strolled behind his desk and reached for the loaded handgun hidden inside a hollowed-out statue of Ganesh. He pawed around for a few seconds and came up empty. Shrugging, and now whistling, he reached for the phone on his desk.
“You don’t want to do that.”
Surrett froze. The woman spoke perfect Hindi with only a slight tinge of an accent. There was a sharpness to her enunciation that was too staccato in its delivery. He kept his hands up and slowly pivoted. “Oh, I did not realize I had company. Do you have an appointment?”
The woman flicked on the lamp on the console table next to her and her face appeared out of the shadows. The first thing Surrett noticed was her blonde hair. Next, her pale face – nearly sheet-white. Then he realized how beautiful she was and his heart skipped a few beats. He caught himself staring.
Slowly, the catch in his throat sank into his belly. Surrett was not an ugly man, with decent genes from his actress mother, but he definitely was not good-looking, powerful, or rich enough to have someone like her wander into his office. A terrifying realization hit him.
“Praise to the Holy Ones?” The words came out with less gusto than usual when he was standing before a high-ranking Genjix. If Surrett had one reliable quality, he was always properly simpering to the right people.
“Praise to the Holy Ones,” the woman replied. Interestingly, her words were equally limp. She sounded almost bored, which was surprising for someone blessed as a vessel.
Surrett approached her and bent to one knee. He extended a hand. “I apologize, but may I confirm you?”
The woman sighed and held her hand out. Surrett flashed a mark scanner across her palm, and pulled up her bio. His eyes widened. She was a fixer, and a high-ranking one. That could only mean one thing. His eyes scrolled down to the name and the standing. The blood drained from his face, and Surrett found himself fiddling with his tie once more.
> “Satisfied?” she said, pulling her hand away and wiping it with a handkerchief.
“It is an honor to receive someone of your standing, Adonis. How may I serve you?”
“How about you sit down in the chair?” she said. “You’re not my lapdog. But while you think you are, fetch me a drink.”
Surrett stood up and bowed. “Apologies, Adonis, but alcohol is frowned upon for those serving my administration. May I offer you something else? Coffee, tea?”
Shura rolled her eyes. “Tea this time. A Moscow Mule the next, understood? Now sit.”
Surrett went to his intercom and buzzed Amita to bring in a fresh pot of tea. He took his time instructing her how he wanted it brewed, ordering her to use the finest they had available. He took that time to reach under his desk and palm the panel to begin surveillance in this room.
Surrett was loyal to the Genjix, but the battle for standing, especially among the Adonis vessels and those aspiring to the Council, could be brutal. An unblessed such as him often became collateral damage in their power struggles.
Besides, he owed his loyalty to Rurik, so it was almost his duty to spy on a competing Adonis vessel. This was a dangerous game, but one Surrett could take advantage of if the opportunity presented itself. If he could offer Rurik an advantage over one of his adversaries, it would dramatically help his chances.
“You can stop tapping that keypad under your desk now.” Shura leaned back into the couch. “I disabled the console when I came in. Don’t worry; if you do not see tomorrow, it won’t be by my hand.”
Surrett froze. He came around and took a seat in front of her abashedly. “If I may inquire, Adonis, how did you break into my office? The security to the administration building, and my wing in particular, is very tight. I have been in my office most of the day as well, yet you were able to bypass my security and come in right when I stepped away.”
“Simple,” Shura said. “Your security detail is amateur. It wasn’t hard for anyone with a modicum of skill to slip past the sleeping fools at the gates, the moron at the garage, the incompetents wandering the hallways, the lech at the stairwell, and the old man in front who pisses every ten minutes. As for you stepping away–” she seemed amused, “ –your voicemail and out-of-office email is bafflingly detailed. I’m surprised you haven’t been assassinated yet.”
