Pico's Crush

by Carol Van Natta

  Dixon looked up from the display he’d been reading and waved him toward a chair, then noticed his bag. “Oh, didn’t Lamis tell you, Mr. Radomir? We’re staying for a few more days.” He smiled and tilted his head toward the wide expanse of view windows that overlooked one of the harbors. “We’ve been ordered to cool our jets in this fine city while we wait for our special project to arrive.” That explained Dixon’s choice of eye-wateringly bright orange short pants and net shirt, and the waxy look of new body art on his arms.

  Taliferros carefully set his bag on the floor to cover his sick feeling of claustrophobia. “Then I’m afraid we might have a problem, sir.” At Dixon’s puzzled look, Taliferros continued. “You asked for speedy action. An independent investigation firm has made the connection between the two deaths, and has convinced the multiple local law enforcement agencies to work together. If we were leaving as planned, they wouldn’t have time to organize, but if we stay…” He trailed off and let Dixon imagine the rest.

  “How do you know all this?” Dixon’s tone was skeptical, bordering on suspicious. His face, however, was wooden. He was probably still recovering from the morning trip to the body shop, judging from the new pink-to-black hair and deep cherry-red mustache.

  Taliferros considered rolling his eyes to show exasperation, but went with clasping his hands behind his back, to display confidence and pride. “You contracted with me because I’m a professional, sir. It’s my job to know who’s tracking m… us.”

  Dixon didn’t need to know that Taliferros had become aware of Foxe Investigations two planets ago. Before he’d been unlucky enough to be caught by the Citizen Protection Service and assigned to Dixon, Taliferros had spent fifteen years developing a finely honed awareness of when he was being hunted. Unfortunately, yesterday’s “boat accident” victim had awakened from being stunned earlier than planned. He’d cut himself trying to escape and bled all over the dusty floor. In hindsight, it had been unwise to improvise by capturing a sacrificial lamb to disguise his staging area, but he’d relied on Dixon moving his entourage when he said he would. Even if the dimwitted police eventually figured out there were two blood types there, by then, he would have been long gone, as usual. Besides, the girl wasn’t his type, and the life-force play had been enlightening, so neither Dixon nor Renner would ever know about her. She’d awakened early, too, though, so perhaps his homemade stunner needed repair.

  “Hmm,” said Dixon, looking thoughtful, or perhaps bilious. It was hard to tell. “What do you recommend?”

  He paused, as if he hadn’t led Dixon to ask that exact question. “Hire a local specialist to keep the investigators busy. They are the fulcrum.”

  Dixon was silent a long moment, and Taliferros disciplined himself to stay perfectly relaxed, as if he didn’t care. “Very well, but no more deaths.” Dixon emphasized the last three words and gave Taliferros a steely look. “They’re not common enough in Tremplin, or on the planet in general, to go unremarked. No more newstrends. If you’re feeling constricted, we will make suitable arrangements for a reward outing at our next stop.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Taliferros displayed a slight tinge of boredom. “Shall I make the arrangements, or would you like Mr. Renner to do it?” It was a gamble, suggesting an alternative, but Dixon wasn’t usually interested in details. Taliferros planned to take care of Foxe Investigations one way or the other, but it would be a bonus if the CPS paid for it.

  They were interrupted by the entrance of Georgie, Dixon’s idiot-savant forecaster, who skipped in and plopped himself bonelessly at Dixon’s feet. Dixon absently petted the 60-year-old man’s shock of dark orange hair as if he were a spaniel. The suite door opened again to reveal a thoroughly irritated Lamis bel Doro, Dixon’s official CPS assistant, a filer with a perfect memory and the intelligence of a curtain weight. Taliferros would have drained her long ago, except for Dixon’s multiple ways to exact painful, protracted retribution.

  “I don’t want to take a shower,” announced Georgie. “It’s wet.”

  Lamis put her hands on her wide hips and declared hotly, “I am not a farkin’ nursemaid, I’m a class delta-four administrator. He stinks. Either he gets clean, or I transit out.”

  Georgie whimpered dramatically and latched onto Dixon’s hairless, pattern-etched leg. Dixon winced, probably because the new body art was still tender.

  Replay one thousand and one of the Lamis-and-Georgie show. Taliferros almost felt a pang of sympathy for Renner, who had to listen to them day in and day out. He glanced at him, only to be caught by Renner’s pointed glare that said he suspected Taliferros was lying about something. Taiferros’s stringent, pious parents had burned the fear out of him, but he could feel unease, and disliked pain. All of Dixon’s contractors, or his “pets,” as he liked to call them, subverted his will, but Renner was rarely caught at it, and would gladly throw Taliferros out the next airlock if he had the chance.

  Taliferros comforted himself with the certainty that neither Dixon nor Renner had any idea he’d discovered a new way to siphon life force when he needed it, not when Dixon chose to provide it with what he called “reward outings.” The ignorant CPS thought of Taliferros as a garden-variety serial killer, when he was so much more. His new technique was akin to snacking instead of eating a full meal, but as long as the victim lived, there would be few newstrends, and fewer opportunities to get caught.

  If only he could find as satisfactory a solution for the control-drug problem, and the Renner problem.

  He had to give Dixon credit for maintaining perfect security on the drug cocktail that bound Taliferros to the CPS. His present condition, of needing the drugs more often, was the result of a lapse in judgment on his part. He’d been starving and had mistakenly assumed softhearted Neirra, Dixon’s pet healer, would be defenseless once he’d used his shielder talent to contain her talents. He’d learned two valuable lessons. One, that a top-level talent could break free of his shield, when sufficiently motivated by pain and rage; and two, that some healers were vicious, vindictive snakes who could destroy his health as easily as improve it. For some mysterious reason, she’d told Renner about the attack, but not Dixon, and equally mysteriously, Renner hadn’t told Dixon, either. Taliferros had been very glad to see the last of the unpredictable Neirra when Dixon had let her retire. But it did give him hope that another healer could completely cure his debilitating addiction, assuming he could find one he could trust.

  The Renner problem continued to vex. He was dangerous in more ways than one; the most important being that he was completely immune to shielders or telepaths. The gods of his father knew how hard Taliferros had tried to contain Renner, to the point of nearly blowing out his eardrums. His secret life-force talent was no more effective; it was like trying to drink from a plasma charge.

  Another reluctant Dixon contractor, a sifter with the ability to detect any talent, had said Renner was a “unique,” meaning he fit into no known category cataloged by the Citizen Protection Service Testing Centers. Taliferros had been extremely careful to maintain full shields around the sifter at all times, lest his own unique talent be exposed and reported to Dixon for exploitation. Renner could easily be killed by any number of “accidents,” but it would have to be absolutely perfect, and a method he’d never used before, or Dixon would have Taliferros killed immediately and with extreme prejudice. The method also couldn’t damage or kill Dixon, or Taliferros would die from drug withdrawal within three days.

  “Pinging Mr. Radomir.”

  Taliferros wrenched his attention back to the hotel room and Dixon’s sing-song, sarcastic comment. Taliferros displayed sheepish remorse. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  Georgie was now practically in Dixon’s lap, and Lamis was stalking out the door.

  “I said, go hire a specialist to take care of your problem.” He sighed. “It looks like I’m going to be occupied for a while.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Taliferros. He picked up his bag and headed back to his ro
om. Both Foxe principals were troublesome, but going after both at once would be too splashy. He’d just have to tell the hired help to choose whichever was the more vulnerable.

  In the interim, he planned to select a series of body shops to change his hair, eyes, and skin color again. Perhaps a hint of burn scars on his neck and face, because they made people flinch and look away. Good habits always stood the test of time.

  Chapter 13

  * Planet: Nila Marbela * GDAT 3241.147 *

  “Well, what do you think?” Pico twirled before Valenia, who was seated in the grav chair they’d used to bring her back from physical therapy. Valenia wore an elegant, loose-weave, drapey tunic and pants that hid the faintly visible scars from her assailant’s wire-form cutter. She’d refused to be seen in standard patient gowns, so Pico had brought her a selection of clothes from home.

  “It’s very, er, white, and, uhm, full.” Valenia shook her head. “I give up. What are you supposed to be?”

  Pico pretended to frown. “Considering your family business, you are shockingly ignorant of costume history.” She pointed to the design on the front of her apron. “I’m Florence Nightingale.” She pulled out the full skirts and curtsied, which was harder than it looked when wearing a corset. She was glad she hadn’t bothered to make the bird-like hat that went with it, because it would have never stayed on her head.

  “Who? And why did she wear a red plus sign? Did she invent math or something?”

  Pico grinned. Valenia played the bunny-head better than anyone she knew. She had a sharp mind for business and wanted to build hotels, hence her study focus on the hospitality industry. “She was a rehab medic.”

  “She was a nurse, actually. The patient-care kind, not the breastfeeding kind.”

  Pico jumped at the sound of Sojaire Celeyron’s voice, then kicked herself inside for showing any reaction at all. Damn him. She summoned a smile and turned casually. “Hey. We almost gave up on you.”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “I fell asleep studying, and woke up late. I’ve got another medic cert test in a few weeks. Sorry.”

  He probably really was sorry. He wasn’t selfish, just supremely oblivious of people’s feelings. Or maybe just hers. “Forgiven.”

  “Guess who pinged me while I was in with the physical terrorists,” said Valenia.

  “Chadd Sovereign,” Pico replied promptly. “He wants you to be the mother of lucky child number eleven, as soon as he’s done with this season of First Pirates of Andromeda.”

  “The therapists aren’t supposed to hurt you,” said Sojaire. “Didn’t they bring in a healer?”

  Valenia waved a hand. “Of course they did, I just detest boring exercise. I wouldn’t have that man’s baby if my life depended on it. He’s too hairy.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sojaire relax, though she could tell he was still professionally evaluating Valenia’s condition.

  “Dorf. That’s what your uncle’s body shops are for.” She crossed her arms. “I give. Who pinged?”

  “The director of the childcare center. After some butt-covering legalese about ‘get better soon, but we’re not liable,’ he asked if I knew anyone else who could fill my volunteer slot until they can get someone else in.” Valenia looked straight at Pico. “I said I’d ask around.”

  Pico held up her hands to ward off the request. “Can’t, I have class.” She quirked a smile at her friend. “Besides, Lyssi’s mother said she’d ‘have my contract terminated,’ remember?”

  “You don’t have class tomorrow afternoon, and it’d just be from two to six. Those kids need some consistency in their lives right now. Lyssi especially. Miguel and Celia, too.”

  Only Valenia would be in a critical trauma rehab center and worrying about someone else’s kids. No wonder they loved her. “What’s the matter with what’s-her-name, the paid employee, Meow-meow, or whatever? The kids know her a hell of a lot better than me.”

  “Méimuī,” said Valenia. “She termed her contract. She used what happened to me to get out without taking a penalty. She claimed the center has insufficient security.”

  “And that’s why Pico should say no,” said Sojaire firmly. “It’s not safe.”

  Pico turned toward the bed and clenched her jaw to keep herself from telling Sojaire to space himself without an exosuit. Who asked him to come seven transit days from Etonver and treat her like a frelling space camper? She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, counting her heartbeats as she did, and unclenched her fists.

  “Sojaire?” said Valenia sweetly. “I mean this in the nicest possible way, but go sit on a flux engine and spin.”

  Pico would love Valenia forever for that. She looked over her shoulder to steal a glance at Sojaire’s face, expecting him to look confused, or condescending. Instead, he looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Pico. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  Pico turned to gape at him for a second, then closed her mouth. “Who are you, kind stranger, and what have you done with Sojaire? About your height, same thick blond hair and blue eyes? Fibonacci design on his chest? Triple-pierced left ear?”

  Sojaire half-smiled. “I’m the illegal clone from a secret First Wave lab.”

  “I loved that show,” said Valenia wistfully. “My sisters and I held a little memorial service when it ended.”

  Pico grabbed the control for Valenia’s chair. “We’re making a break for it. Wanna come?” She half hoped he’d turn her down. He was the most dangerous to her sanity when he was engaging with her.

  “Yes. Am I underdressed?” He looked down at his loose-wrapped blue shirt and casual green kilt-shorts combo that revealed more of his well-shaped legs than usual. He wiggled his toes in his snug blue sandals.

  “You’re always underdressed,” said Valenia, “but we like you anyway.” She pointed toward the door. “Go be the lookout.”

  He walked out the door casually, as if sightseeing, then nodded to them. “Clear.” The gleam in his eye said that for once, he was enjoying breaking the rules.

  Pico gave Valenia the chair’s control unit and told her to turn left in the hall. During Valenia’s therapy sessions, Pico had scouted the medical center, partly out of boredom, and partly out of habit instilled by her dad, who’d trained her to always know more than one way out of a building. “Left at the intersection,” she said, “then take a right at the hallway.”

  She purposely took them through the less-traveled hallways, so as not to be caught by someone who’d ruin their fun. Valenia’s grav chair was silent, and the cushioned floors absorbed the sounds of her and Sojaire’s footsteps. The happy look on Val’s face when she saw the indoor garden, complete with holos of birds and butterflies, made it totally worth the effort.

  “If mademoiselle will deign to ground la chaise…” intoned Pico in a French accent that made Valenia wince. She turned to root around under a large hydroponic stand for the bag and container she’d hidden there earlier. A poke in her tender underarm made her vow never to wear a full corset again, not even to distract her best friend. Not to mention, wearing a long skirt and petticoat in the overly humid room was making her thighs sweat. “Voila!”

  Valenia was appropriately impressed when Pico served her a bowl and handed her a spoon. “Where did you get honest-to-stars real pomegranate ice cream in Tremplin?” At least, that’s what it sounded like, since her mouth was full of bright red, icy goodness.

  “Chef’s secret,” Pico replied, as she handed the other bowl and spoon to Sojaire. Dairy-based food products were hard to come by in a city where the nearest milk-producing animal was on another continent.

  “What about you?” Sojaire asked. He pointed to the empty bag.

  “Bowls and spoons,” she said, dipping two fingers into the carton and scooping out a big glop, “are for lightweights.”

  Thirty minutes later, Pico helped arrange the blanket over Valenia’s hips, so she could grab it more easily if she got cold later. The trip to the garden had worn her out. Modern medics and healers
could work miracles, but their procedures were hard on the patient’s stamina for a few days.

  “I’ll do the kid-minding for you. Just this once.”

  “Thank you.” Tears welled and escaped from Valenia’s eyes, but they both ignored it. “They need your strength.”

  Pico adjusted the color range of the all-weather light she’d brought in and stuck to the wall above Valenia’s bed. Blue was still plenty of light, but didn’t interfere with sleep patterns. Sojaire stood near the foot of the bed, next to the cot Pico had made the hospital bring in for her. His expression said he was in professional medic mode again.

  Valenia touched Pico’s hand. “Hey. Don’t let Mairwen Morganthur near the children. She’ll scare them.”

  “She’s not scary,” said Pico. A little odd, yes, but she suspected Mairwen was a hell of a lot less of an emotional train wreck than Pico was right then.

  “She has knives,” said Valenia groggily.

  “They’re letter openers,” said Sojaire, confusing Pico, until she realized he was trying to ease Valenia’s worries.

  Valenia snorted. “She has three of them. I saw a sheath on her back, too.”

  Pico smiled impishly. “Maybe she gets a lot of letters. Need anything else?”

  Valenia rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. “I’m fine. Better show Sojaire how to get out, or he’ll get lost and we’ll never see him again.”

  “Hey,” protested Sojaire. Valenia smiled.

  “I’ll be back soon.” Pico caught Sojaire’s eye and tilted her head toward the door.

  On their way out, she checked the wallcomp to make sure the must-read notice about leaving the light on was still active. She’d already spoken to the staff about it, but it never hurt to be sure.

  Sojaire stood in the hall and waited for her to pick the direction. Valenia had been right to worry about him. He was a fine medic, but the boy could get lost in a three-room apartment. Man, she amended. A sexy, mercurial, funny, infuriating man who would likely shred her heart again and not even notice. Still, she appreciated that he’d come to see Valenia, who needed understanding friends right then.