by Watson Davis
A pudgy girl with a pink backpack over her shoulder, wearing clean, new capris and a tight-fitting tee, weaved between the bright beams of the spotlights hanging from the girders of the loading dock, raising her hands like she feared touching anything, feared the dirt and grime; she ducked and winced, scampering in the shadows between crates, between giant lights, between loaders hauling pallets of boxes across the docks, jumping over hissing fuel lines. Mercedez blew a bubble and verified the time and her messages: no update from Eddy.
We're late.
"Hi, I’m Stacie Grudt." The girl, panting for breath, stopped in front of Mercedez, leaning over with her hands on her knees. "Is this the place looking for dancers?"
Pushing herself up to a standing position, Mercedez popped her bubble and started chewing again, looking the girl up and down. "Yeah? You dance much, Stacie?"
"Well, I mean…" The girl shrugged. "I hoped there'd be some training. I could pay for it."
Mercedez turned away from her and checked the time again, then tapped her temple, subvocalizing, "Eddy? What's up? Where the hell are you?"
"We've got the package, but I think we're being followed," he said.
Mercedez glanced at the girl waiting for an answer; the girl’s mouth hung open, her big eyes wide, round, and glittering along the edges. Mercedez held up a finger for her to wait, and the girl appeared a little more hopeful.
To Eddy, Mercedez subvocalized, "Dammit, Eddy. Father's going to be pissed off if you ditch this one, but if you bring any heat to my ship's portal, I will break off a cue stick in your asshole. Kill the cunt and ditch her in a garbage can."
“Are you sure?” he asked.
She broke the connection and turned, smiling, toward the girl, motioning her forward, then backed out of her way, gesturing toward the open hatch of the ship. "Come on. I cleared it. We've got a spot for you."
"Oh, thank you," the girl said. "I can't tell you how grateful I am."
Mercedez smirked, glancing at the girl’s ass.
# # #
Beads of sweat dripping down my whole body, I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to hold back the stupid-ass tears running out of the corners and down the sides of my face. My nose stopped up, and I breathed through my mouth, hoping Edmund wouldn't hear, wouldn't feel, wouldn't ask me what was wrong.
Curled up in the darkness with my head on Edmund's shoulder, I reveled in the heat of him, the primal memory of him—of him taking me, me taking him, the need so strong—but I wondered what the hell I'd been thinking, about how I’d screwed up the whole team, how I'd have to ask for a transfer or something, trying to keep all my thoughts focused on the now and the future, on the team, on my job, on scheduling training assignments, on the bills I needed to pay, when I needed to pay them, sniffing, wiping the tears away.
I lay in the dark until Edmund snorted his first snort, followed by a second: longer, deeper, nastier, a horrible rasping sound that assured me he was asleep, and I could escape without him seeing me, asking me what was wrong, or why I was crying. The last thing I needed was another interrogation.
I sat up, inched away from him off the couch, and eased myself off.
"Mmmm." He smacked his lips and raised his head, eyes still shut like a newborn kitten. "What? You okay?"
"Go back to sleep." I patted his hairy chest, wet with sweat, and pulled my hand back, grimaced and rubbed my palm on the arm of the couch. I stood watching him, waiting to make sure he drifted back to sleep.
I squinted, scanning the shadows until I saw a heap of something on the floor. I stumbled over and picked it up. Glad it was a sweater, I slipped it over my head, letting it swallow me up. Edmund's smell surrounded me before I realized it wasn't my sweater, it was Edmund's.
Oh Nemesis. What have I done? What am I going to do?
I stepped into his kitchen—his compartment was the inverse image of my own—and opened his fridge, shielding my eyes from the light with my forearm, trying to keep my eyes closed and inventory what he stocked his fridge with at the same time, finding lots of beer, some cheese, some milk. I grabbed a lonely bottle of water and eased the door shut.
I took a drink, standing in the doorway, looking at him sprawled out on the couch, the only other place to sit being the office chair before his desk by the front door. I tiptoed over and slid into it, ignoring the cold of the plastic seat, how it stuck to my skin, pulling at me. I sat there, one leg up, foot in the seat, hugging my knee to my chest, the cold bottle of water in my hand, balancing it on my thigh, spinning the chair around and around.
His console glowed.
I spun around a couple more times, trying to make myself dizzy.
But his console was glowing.
It was on.
I reached out, brushing the screen with my fingertips.
It sprang to life, displaying open windows, showing his applications, his calendar.
Unlocked?
I stared at the screen, remembering the meeting with Director Perisho; that asshole. What had he asked me? "Why do you identify with Santina Steger?" My heart thudded, my lungs suddenly unable to draw in enough air. What is it that hurts so much? Just keep going.
I inched closer to the console, setting my water on the desk, gnawing at my lip, realizing Edmund possessed privileges to find out things about Santina, privileges I didn't have.
I opened up the documents folder on his computer, flipping through his personnel files until I got to mine. For several strained heartbeats, I stared at the file folder, not wanting to know. The Sergeant Major had told me the past is dead, to leave it behind. I opened the folder, browsing through the files—my credentials and notes my instructors and commanders had made, people I hadn't thought about in years, more fucking tears in my eyes, reading about my skills, my training, my duty posts, my medals, my time in prison. Director Perisho was right; I found a gaping, redacted hole in the middle of my life.
I opened up a query engine, thinking back to those times for the first time since forever: the anger, the fear. I pulled up the Hellas News, reading through the big stories twenty years gone, so long ago, yet not long enough. What the hell was I looking for?
Blackmail.
Extortion.
Myself.
I searched for me, for my name, but found nothing.
Leave it be. Let it go. Forget about it. Take care of the now. Live for today.
I kept digging; I typed in my mother's name, Colonel Margo Doeden, and hit the search button. The story came up: "Hellas Marine's Daughter Abducted."
Oh. Yeah. That.
I struggled to catch my breath, reliving the slimy embrace of men's filthy hands, dirty men stinking of alcohol and meth, of the faded sign of a green rose.
I will not be afraid. Keep going. What about Santina? Think about Santina, forget about me.
I pulled up Santina's information, so much more information available for Edmund's account. I read over it, skimming it, paging through the data, copying the pages into my on-board.
Edmund moaned and shifted his position. I almost jumped out of my skin. I ended all the sessions and went into the operating system to remove the traces of my searches. I sneaked back and snagged my pants and shoes, slipped them on, took my water, and left.
Like the Nemesis was after me.
# # #
The door slammed shut.
“What!” Edmund exploded off the couch, half-asleep but ready to fight, stumbling around in his darkened compartment, his shin slamming against the coffee table, knocking the damned thing over, sending magazines and beer bottles flying in every direction.
"Nemesis-be-damned!" He hopped up and down on his left foot, rubbing his right shin, realizing he was totally nude, and totally alone.
"Oh Nemesis." He crashed back on his couch, shaking his head and remembering what he'd done. He closed his eyes and let his head drop back onto the pillows. How am I going to make this crap right?
He imagined Gus's expression, or lack of expression, when he told the directo
r what he'd done, and Edmund knew he had to tell him, had to tell him quick. Edmund found his jeans and pulled them on, grimacing when he hit some gooey spooge. Pulling them back off, he hobbled over to the bathroom, threw the jeans into the laundry pile, and grabbed a towel to wipe himself off.
They won't take my team away from me, not for this. But if I'm lucky, very, very lucky, maybe they'll take Dorothea off the team. A smile grew across his face. Yeah. I can live with that.
He was walking back into the living room, his wrecked life seeming not as wrecked as he’d thought it might be, when he noticed his console on, the screen lit, active.
He strode over, bending down to inspect it. Nothing unusual, everything seemed to be in the right place, except it shouldn't have been active.
Edmund pulled up his history and examined it. Dorothea had searched for things on his computer, using his access to FountainCorp databases, and she'd deleted the details.
Edmund eased himself back into his chair, stroking his chin with his fingers, a terrible feeling in his guts. What do I do now?
Suspicion
"A spy?" Gus leaned back in his chair with a smirk on his lips, not at all the expression or response Edmund had expected, twirling a pen with his fingertips. "Dorothea Ohmie?"
"I'm pretty sure, yeah." Edmund sat poised on the edge of the plush chair before Gus's desk.
Gus squeezed his eyes shut, his head falling back. "Let me get this straight; you made love to her."
"Love? No way. She pretty much raped me." Edmund shrugged his massive shoulders. "Totally took advantage of me. Used me, to be honest."
"Uh-huh. Okay." Gus nodded. "So that happened, whatever the hell it was, and she used the situation to infiltrate your bedroom?"
"Yeah. Well, my living room." Edmund's foot bounced with excess nervous energy. "She pretty much dragged me back to my compartment."
"Pretty much?" Gus's forehead wrinkled. The pen stopped twirling and became a pointer he used to navigate his way through his logic, bouncing up and down with the punctuation of his question. "And when you snoozed after the sex thing, she used your computer to search FountainCorp databases? Private and secure databases? Databases you have access to and she doesn't?"
"Well, I don't know the exact queries she performed. I'm sure the info techs keep records in the data center's logs. But she logged in on my computer, accessing things as me, and doing searches. Why would she do that?" Edmund stood and began to pace, slapping at the delicate carvings on the back of the chair as he passed it. "It doesn't make any sense any other way. She used me."
Gus breathed deeply, staring at the fingertips of his left hand as he rubbed them together, his legs crossed, his lips pursed. "And Christal?"
"Yeah?" Edmund sighed, hanging his head like a little boy being taken to task. "What about Christal?"
"Are you two still together?"
Edmund's head moved up and down along with his shoulders. "Yeah."
"But you had sex with Dorothea?"
Edmund sighed again, rolling his eyes. "Like I said, she used me."
"Right." Gus drummed a rhythm with his pen on the pad in his lap. "But sex was had between the two of you?"
"Yeah."
"We've talked about this, right? Back when you fooled around behind Debbie's back with Sky, not to mention the other time—"
"Yeah, yeah. I remember. I was there." Edmund collapsed back into the seat, as frustrated as a recruit getting a scolding from his team lead, not his drill-sergeant, which would have been more brutal but less psychologically damaging. "But this is different."
"Every time is different and yet, in essence, it's the same. Are you going to tell Christal when we return to Corporate tomorrow?"
"Oh, hell no. She does not need to know about this." Edmund bounded to his feet again, moving to Gus's desk, leaning over with his fingertips on the desktop. "You're not going to tell her, right? This is between us, right? Confidentiality and all that."
Gus folded his hands in his lap, the pen poking up from between them, and he watched Edmund, making his “are you kidding me with this BS” face. He didn't say a word.
Edmund hunched over, pleading, "She'll leave me if she finds out."
Gus nodded, then shrugged, tapping his fingertips together. "If she has half a brain, and she does."
"So you won't say anything?"
"I won't have to."
"Gus, Gus." Edmund spun and walked away to keep from reaching over Gus's damned desk and strangling the man. "Do I even want to know what you mean?"
"You should have thought of her feelings first and foremost." Gus pointed at Edmund with his pen. "You've professed your love to this woman, a very sweet woman, a very kind woman, a very intelligent woman, a woman who carries a blaster for a living, but most importantly, a woman who does not deserve to be treated like this, the way you have treated so many other women in your past. Not that any of them deserved to have their lives destroyed, either."
"But this is different. I got played."
"You can't blame Dorothea for that." Gus shook his head. "She could not have played you unless you wanted to be played. I don't see any defensive wounds on your forearms or anything. You could have walked away at any time."
Edmund threw himself down on the couch, the cushions stiff and uncomfortable, nowhere near as soft and cushy as they appeared. He lay down on it anyway, resting his head back on the arm, also much harder and more unforgiving than it looked. "But she's a damned spy."
"If you love Christal, you have to be honest with her about this. You hurt her, and make no mistake about it, she's going to be devastated, but let's say Dorothea is a spy of some sort."
"She is!" Edmund sat up, nodding, pointing to Gus.
"If you don't tell Christal about this, she'll be even more devastated if someone else, like say Dorothea, tells her. If she learns about this from someone else, then not only are you a cheating, scumbag asshole—"
"Oh, thanks." Edmund stared down at the swirly curlicue designs on the rug between his feet. "That makes me feel great."
"Not only are you a cheating, scumbag asshole, you're also a liar, and if Dorothea is a spy, she'll be able to use those lies against you. She'll be able to come back to you and get you to do other things because you compromised yourself once and showed you're willing to lie to keep some things from coming out."
Edmund lifted his eyes, meeting Gus's gaze. "You're so convinced Dorothea isn't a spy. Why?"
"I've seen her scores, her psych breakdowns, and I've seen her dossier." Gus's voice rose at the end, almost as if he were asking a question. Brows pressing together, he put his elbow on the arm of his chair, touching his fingertips to his lips, looking away from Edmund, looking toward the door to his office with a strange expression on his face, a calculating expression.
"What is it in there that makes it impossible for her to be a spy? I certainly didn't find anything like that."
Gus shook his head, the smile returning, his eyes refocusing on Edmund. "Well, lots of things all taken together. She's honest, sincere, and extremely loyal. Extremely."
"Yeah?" Edmund waved his finger at Gus, smiling, feeling like he had the director this time. "But not to us. Sure, she can be loyal as hell, but she doesn't know us."
"Maybe so." Gus peered at Edmund, pinning the soldier with his eyes. "But loyal enough to you for her to risk her life to save you, going so far as to disobey a direct order." He held up his hand. "Give Dorothea a chance, but more important than that, talk to Christal."
"What the hell am I going to say to Christal?"
"Figure it out. That's your job. But I suggest you start with the truth, grovel a lot, and then work from there."
# # #
So, what should I say to him?
Vanessa's fist grazed the tip of my nose. I jerked my head back, throwing myself to the side out of the strike zone of her snap kick, and retaliated with a quick jab into the pads around her kidneys.
She twisted away and stopped, bending over,
chest heaving, sweat beading on her face and dripping from her chin. "Did you plan that move? I thought I caught you napping."
I shrugged, raising an eyebrow, not letting on how close she'd come. "As slow as you move, I figure I've got time to answer mail messages and take personal calls between attacks."
Punching bags hung from the pipes crisscrossing in the darkness above us. Malordo worked on one of the bags, drilling her crosses and jabs, kicking with knees and shins, striking with her elbows in a staccato rhythm of thumps and grunts, her gray tee dark with circles of perspiration. Callus and Moritz loaded plates on the bar in one of the power cages, the plates clinking together in a soothing melody while the two of them talked.
Vanessa threw herself toward me, lashing out with a wild, looping haymaker. I slid inside her reach, my front foot scraping down her shin and planting on the top of her arch, my left palm landing over her ear as I brought my right elbow down to protect against her trying to transfer from her right hook to a left rib strike.
The concussion of my palm against her ear disrupted her balance, jostling her inner ear. She staggered, awkward, out of control, and fell on her ass, rolling across the sparring mat.
Santina, wearing tight-fitting black shorts and a loose white shirt, stood at the end of the mat, staring down at Vanessa, eyes wide, mouth open, head tilted, long hair hanging in limp strands down her cheeks.
"Santina?" I lowered my hands, my stomach tingling, afraid of what she was going to say, hoping she wouldn't ask me to kill her in front of witnesses. "Is something wrong?"
Her eyes jumped up to meet mine, her mouth snapping shut. "Yeah. No. I'm okay."
"Hey." Vanessa scrambled to her feet, extending her gloved right hand. "I'm Vanessa, Vanessa Moat."
Santina reached out, seeming mesmerized by Vanessa's glove, set her hand into it, and shook it, saying, "I'm Santina, Santina Steger."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance." Vanessa bowed over the girl's hand.
