He taught me to kiss. For hours.
When we finally rested for the night and Heraila's breathing fell into the rhythms of sleep, I lay beside him and glanced to my left. Cutter's sea gray eyes bored at me from behind the red sheer curtain. She was awake and alert. And fuming.
I didn't care if I'd done it wrong. I couldn't begin to know why she could be angry, so I deliberately turned my back to her and curled against my smooth, silken man.
The following night Cutter and I were back in the crap lodging that we'd paid for a week in advance. I knew our room was so bad because she spent our meager funds on Heraila. And I tipped him extra.
She curled against me on the floor. We always slept together. She asked me to tell her about what I'd learned. So I did.
"And what about a woman?" she asked.
I raised my eyebrow in question – a move she was familiar with.
"What if you have to do the same things with a woman and not a man? You have to be prepared for whatever gets the job done. That's what we do."
I didn't bother trying to explain with words. I rolled to face her. The light from the lights outside shone in and her eyes sparkled.
Without shame or insecurity, I pulled the shirt she wore from her torso, ripping it down the middle. The scars on her body charted a path to her pleasure.
I followed her tales with my fingers. I kissed my way through tragedy and loss. My tongue traced her heartbreak until her back arched and her hips lurched in release.
In the morning I woke up changed somehow. I knew I could conquer anyone – anything. The knowledge and power and freedom of it all excited me. Cutter and I were together. And free.
For a while.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Wards were an unforgiving place, especially if you don't have the cads. There were seven billion people living in the Lower Wards of Marajo Lift alone. Life, or what passed for it, was very cheap there. Fortunately, we had marketable skills.
Cutter rented her talents when we needed money. After a while, we started working as a team. That opened up jobs she wasn't willing to risk alone. The one's that actually paid something.
Her broker, a one-eyed scut called Ereena who ran a little grocery down the alley from our flop, learned quickly that if Cutter said it would happen, it would happen. It didn't take long before she was bringing us steady work she got from local Clubs — the gangs that ran the Lower Wards. There was lots of simple theft — information, jewelry, drugs. Cutter and I were very good at getting into places, even locked ones, and we never came close to getting caught. I doubt Ereena had the faintest clue that her freelancers could have drawn contracts worth tens of thousands up in Marajo Station.
Cutter came back to our room one night with her eyes alight. "I just talked to Ereena. We have a real job — one that will pay enough for us to get out of here. Maybe Mars. The Prefectures."
The task was simple. Get into the quarters of a Jovian Combine gas dealer. Steal a code. Disappear. Easy. The problem, of course, was the Jovians. Combiners have a monopoly on the gas mines of Jupiter. They have for centuries. And, because they live and work inside the most ferocious gravity well in the system, they've modified their genotype. A lot.
Jovians measure a meter and a bit in just about any direction you care to choose. They're thickly muscled and their bones are three times as dense as their human ancestors — about the same as basalt. Drop a Jovian into water and he will, quite literally, sink like a stone.
Not surprisingly, they're hellishly strong. Cutter's first rule of combat was simple, "Never fight if you don't have to." Her second rule was, "If you're outnumbered, charge the smallest one you can spot — unless it's a Jovian. In that case, you run or you die."
We spent a day scouting the Combiner's neighborhood in the top deck of the Wards. The Upper Wards weren't as densely packed as down below, but the streets were still crowded. The sector was mostly Jovians. Miners and merchants seemed to dominate the busy throng. Fortunately, there were enough humans around that we didn't stand out too much. We hovered, our heads tucked low, as we examined the area with our peripherals. Security, landmarks, patterns.
I wore charcoal-colored fatigue pants, the pockets useful for hiding a collection of tools and a Darter like the ones Cutter preferred. My long-sleeved shirt clung to my slim figure with a low scooped out collar in front that nicely framed the tops of my breasts. Purposefully distracting. Cutter matched me in black pants but her collar rose high on her neck. Her scars were for her, and now me, nobody else.
As we moved with the flow of the crowd, I felt a single flick of her hand against my thigh – a signal of possible danger to my right. Over my shoulder, I heard voices and a stir as a group of heavily armed men pushed through the throng.
I whispered to Cutter, "Jacks! What the hell are they doing here?"
Cutter threw me a quick glance in response. Quiet. She reached down and brushed her fingers over mine. Wait.
Jacks were Confed Marines and they only appeared out in the open if they were on shore leave — or a mission. Good bet this wasn't R&R. Trained for shipboard fighting, Jacks were lethal in close quarters, the least advantageous range for a Wraith.
My pulse quickened instinctively, and I used my training to soothe my body's physical reaction. After Cutter freed me from the monitors, I'd gradually become accustomed to letting my emotions, my autonomic responses, run their natural course. In the face of potential danger, adrenaline coursed through my veins and I learned to welcomed the quickening pulse, the heightened senses.
Cutter squeezed my fingers. She counted my breaths, watchful of my escalating state.
"Calm down." She murmured. "They're not here for us."
I nodded and continued walking.
The Jacks kept coming, right at us. The one in the lead wore a full Rip-Jack rig. X-armor, blackout visor, the works. He was packing two punchers, making his hands into blunt, armored fists. Because they were big and clumsy — and only useful up close, most Jacks only carried a single puncher. The busy sidewalk parted before him like water flowing around a boulder. Nobody was eager to impede this guy's progress.
My chest tightened as we drew even with them. The Rip-Jack was to my right, so close I could smell the ozone coming from the tiny fusion reactors in the punchers. I held my breath. Cutter's fingers gripped mine. If we were the target, we were dead.
The leader pushed past my right shoulder, and the three Jacks that flanked him followed. I exhaled with relief. Not us.
As they passed, I realized there was a fifth member of their little party. One of the Jacks was towing a hooded figure behind him with a carbon restraint cable looped around its neck.
The figure was tall, easily two meters, more than a head taller than me. As it passed, I took in the gray robe, the swell of breasts, the delicate wrists which were bound behind. Her pale gray skin was decorated with patterns of white dots, which circled her neck, and traveled up beneath the hood.
Cutter leaned close to my ear, "Irezi. Confed's been rounding them up. Some kind of trouble with the Prefectures."
I stared. I knew about the Martian Prefectures, but they were supposed to be a reclusive lot. Few people in the Lift Cities had ever seen an Irezi in the flesh. I certainly hadn't.
When Mars was settled, the first colonists used a variety of nanotechnologies to make survival possible. A couple of hundred years later, nanomites were part of their culture and their biology. Infusion was done in-utero and Irezis grew from birth with the augmentations the mites provided.
As the mites grew and integrated into their hosts, wiring themselves into muscles, nerves, blood vessels, they formed fractal patterns just under the skin. It was those patterns that inspired the name the Irezi's gave themselves, taken from an Old Earth word for body art.
"I wonder what she did."
Cutter relaxed her grip on my arm as the group passed us and sighed, "Aside from being Irezi? Probably nothing."
I watched the procession go. I stared at
that hood over her head. An Irezi would never bother with clothing like that. On Mars, they wore little if anything. Even when they stepped into the near vacuum of the Martian atmosphere, they used somashells, personal containment shields that were only visible as a faint blue halo hovering a centimeter above the skin. Irezi were tall, elegant and nearly always naked, except for the living patterns that decorated their bodies.
Some Irezi could use the patterns to dazzle, even stun the unprepared. I wondered if, perhaps, that hooded cloak was for the benefit of her escort. Maybe they were afraid of her.
Before Cutter had a chance to anticipate my intent, before even I knew what I was going to do, I gently tugged at a pocket just in front of me — and disappeared.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Foggy and indistinct as she was from my point of view inside the pocket, I could still see Cutter's gray eyes flash angry white. One of her absolute rules was never to jump in the open. My talent was a secret we had kept rigorously. And Cutter, even with her superb skills, was like most Wraiths. She could hide in your blind spots, but she couldn't see the pockets. Not like me. Sometimes I wondered if that was why she forbade me to use them.
But I didn't think of that now. I just wanted to help the Irezi. I didn't really know why, but the sight of her, bound and helpless in the hands of the same power that would swat me into oblivion if they could, filled me with a sudden and seething rage. It wasn't right. None of it was.
I sprinted toward the Irezi, slipping from pocket to pocket so quickly it felt as if I never re-entered the world. The energy veil pulled at my mind. On the other side, I always felt a faint, persistent impetus, like the gravity of a distant star, trying to draw me further into the darkness. In the pockets, I was forever balanced on the edge of a razor.
Behind me, I heard Cutter shout.
What was she doing? The Jacks would turn on her in an instant. And then I got it. As always, Cutter was a move ahead of us all. She was giving me an opening.
I took it.
All four Jacks were looking at Cutter. She was spitting curses in languages she hadn't even taught me yet. The Rip-Jack turned and stomped toward her, the three hundred kilo mass of his X-armor thudding against the sidewalk. Two of the other Jacks followed. The one holding the Irezi's leash stayed put. Standard escort protocol. They were running their plays right out of the book.
I stepped out of the pocket right next to the Irezi, and yanked the hood from her head as Cutter pulled her Darters. The Rip-Jack jabbed his right fist at her head. I could see the blue-white glow glinting on her magenta hair as the fusion port irised open. Then, a millisecond later, a violet stab of plasma centered directly on where her forehead… used to be.
To their eyes she disappeared, but I could see her, to the Rip-Jack's right, just outside his peripheral arc. As the plasma jet of his puncher ionized empty air, she shot her Darters into the weak points behind his armor's ventral ballistic plate. But flechettes, deadly as they are, don't have much hitting power. She'd found her mark, but he didn't seem to be fazed at all.
She definitely had his attention though. Which gave me just enough time to unclip the Irezi's hands and yank the cloak off of her.
A big gloved fist clamped onto my forearm. The Jack who'd been holding the restraint cable hadn't spotted me until I pulled the cloak from the Irezi, but I'd underestimated how quickly he'd respond. These guys were the real deal. I twisted and dropped, trying to shed his grip, but he countered. If I couldn't get loose, I couldn't fugue.
The other two Jacks were reacting now. Cutter was about to be facing three on one. The Rip-Jack lit up his bender, the deflection field generator they used for shipboard assault, and started turning to his right. Cutter and I made eye contact and I pleaded with my expression. Run. She knew I was caught. There was no way for her to help me and, if she didn't move right now, one of the Rip-Jack's punchers would vaporize a five centimeter tunnel through her magnificent body.
She let her momentum carry her past the Rip-Jack, momentarily using him to block the other two marines' line of fire. In mid dive, she fired both of her Darters at the one who was grappling with me. Head shots, both of them. She was so good.
But his helmet bounced the light projectiles and he responded with a snap shot of his own. Most of the burst from his assault rifle went wide and rounds sprayed into the crowd on the sidewalk. Blood and tissue exploded everywhere. But he hadn't missed. There was a horizontal gash in her pants. And blood.
His voice incongruously tiny from the small speakers in his blackout visor, the Rip-Jack shouted, "We got Wraiths!" and the two Jacks with him pivoted instantly into a defensive stance. The three of them faced outward, covering each other's backs. I knew precisely what would come next. Sweeping bursts on full auto. Downward aim at minus twenty degrees. Each one would saturate the arc in front of him. It was about to be a bloodbath.
But I had my own problems. I was still firmly in the grasp of the fourth Jack. I rolled and twisted again, but he knew his Jeet-Kune-Do. He turned with me and suddenly I was flat on my back with his face only centimeters from mine. He wore a light scout helmet with no visor and his green, slightly bloodshot eyes locked on mine. The pupils were dilated. Babies.
Almost all Jacks use a combat drug they call Baby Blues. The pills do a ferociously good job of heightening a marine's alertness and amping up his natural strength. They're also hideously addictive. And, if you use them for long enough, they make you insane.
Even without the help of his little blue friends, this marine was more than I could handle in close quarters. He outweighed me by at least thirty kilos and he knew what he was doing. This was exactly the kind of combat Jacks are trained for. If I didn't do something to change the equation, he was going to kill me. I reached into the big pocket on my right thigh. Placed directly on his forehead, my Darter would do just fine. But he realized what I was trying to do. He shifted his weight to pin my arm and then reared his helmeted head back. He was going to head-butt me. And crush my skull.
The blow never came. His head snapped forward — into a long fingered, pale gray hand. The Irezi. She crouched to my left. The white patterns on her body glowed brightly as she turned his head to face her. She hummed a low song and stroked the side of his face like a lover's caress.
The Jack went limp and then started to weep. He released me and brought his hands to his helmet, ripping it free, then plunging his fingers into his short blonde hair, pulling it at the roots.
I pushed the sobbing marine off of me and bounced onto the balls of my feet, Darter braced in a two-hand grip, ready to fight… nothing.
The street had emptied. Except for a bloody mess on the sidewalk, there was no sign of the scuts the marines had killed. The Rip-Jack was lying on his back, immobile, punchers fizzling faintly against the concrete. His two comrades were crumpled nearby.
What the hell?
The Irezi stood up and I marveled at her. Her long, elegant limbs glowed with subtle shifting patterns. Her blue-green eyes, her gray skin, her buzzed gold hair, everything about her radiated an exotic beauty that bordered on the surreal. She smiled and leaned in to my ear. She whispered to me, then without any fuss, she was gone.
So was Cutter.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I spent hours zig-zagging through the streets of the Ward, jumping in and out of the other place, looking for her. The Irezi. Although I'd never admit that to Cutter. I could only barely admit it to myself. But she was gone — vanished in a way that even I couldn't comprehend.
Eventually I conceded defeat and ventured to our rally point. The one Cutter and I had agreed on before we went to case the Combiner's place. We always picked the lowest, filthiest bar we could find nearby. It never seemed very hard to find the kind of place we wanted in the Wards. Cheap drinks seemed to be a universal constant down there.
The place we chose stank of sweat, semen and sewage. I could smell it long before I reached the entrance, a sandblasted plastic panel, bolted to greasy metal, topped the
door. Whatever lettering had once adorned it was long gone.
I pushed open the door with my elbow, no need to touch anything with my hands if it could be avoided. A purple Martian of indistinguishable gender perched on a chair near the entrance its legs, open slightly — a clear invitation to all who entered — although what services were being advertised seemed a little hazy. I looked away and he/she/it laughed in a low contralto, while stretching into what was probably meant to be a seductive pose.
Cutter was at the bar, a magenta beacon, far to the left, right next to the wait station. I took the stool next to her and counted five empty glasses she had inverted on the bar. She did not slur her words though. I could only see how drunk she was in her eyes. They were slightly pink from the alcohol. Too much uncontrolled blood flow.
"You're late."
"I wanted to make sure no one followed me. Besides we should still have another three hours."
Cutter turned to face me, disgust etched in the corners of her eyes and mouth as she pursed her lips. "Job's off, you stupid girl. Ereena heard about our little dustup. You think she'd want us going in there after that? The place is crawling with Confed – looking for us and that Irezi scut."
She had every right to be pissed. What I'd done was completely unprofessional. You don't blow a job for someone you don't even know. But I knew what it meant to be a target just because you exist. Truth be told, so did Cutter. I couldn't regret helping someone who didn't deserve their fate.
I couldn't explain why I had to help the Irezi, so I didn't try. And I couldn't explain why I needed to find her. Why she whispered, "You'll be needed for what's next." And then disappeared.
So I only mumbled, "Sorry."
"Sorry for what, exactly?" She tilted her head to the side and studied me. "Sorry for almost getting us killed? Sorry for losing our first real job — and maybe our ticket out of here? Or sorry for making me wait here for hours thinking you were dead?" She looked away quickly, but not before I saw the moisture welling in her eyes.
The Wraith's Story (BRIGAND Book 1) Page 5
