Empire of Dust

by Jacey Bedford

  She’d gone out and celebrated alone, but hadn’t stayed alone for long. She couldn’t even remember his name, now. He’d been keen, but she’d crept out of his apartment early in the morning without waking him. Relationships didn’t usually last beyond the next job, and she’d be leaving soon for Eritropea. Two months away for her, biological time, would be eight months for anyone left behind since this trip involved three months each way in cryo with the lumbering colony convoy taking forever to reach the outer system gates that handled the mass of an ark vessel.

  She’d not been intending to hook up with anyone else, least of all her boss. . . .

  Cara took a shuddering breath and tried to relax away the adrenaline spike. She closed her mind to the past and concentrated on trying to make herself look good; bait the hook to catch a big fish. If she didn’t find a ride out of here tonight, she was dead or worse.

  She swallowed hard and tried to ignore the churning in her gut, but it was no good . . . Halfway through applying blusher to her cheekbones she dashed to the sluice, hurling bile into the can and ruining her makeup.

  She rinsed her mouth, cleaned her teeth and started again.

  Despite everything, she didn’t want anyone except Ari. Been there, tried that, still hurt. She knew now why he had a neural blocker. He might look like an angel, but Ari scared her spitless. Even so, she couldn’t deny that she still felt . . . something. She couldn’t even name the emotion.

  • • •

  Crews couldn’t drink during flights and tended to let rip once they hit a station on shore leave. They wanted intoxication, entertainment, and sex, and Gordano’s catered to all three in equal measure.

  Ben leaned against the bar in the time-honored way of travelers, squashed between a woman with Militaire veteran’s tattoos and a young man with the scaly skin of an exotic from the water world of Aqua Neriffe. His high-neck buddysuit almost, but not quite, covered his gill slits.

  Wayside inn on a colony planet, or staging post at the arse-end of the galaxy, the routine was always the same. Gordano’s menu offered whatever could be imported cheaply or grown in hydroponics or a vat—standard space station fare.

  The smoky blue walls, subtle lighting, and the mist effect made the perfectly clean atmosphere in the crowded bar look thick enough for privacy. They’d tried to make it seem like a dirtside roadhouse, but they couldn’t hide what it was.

  A honey blonde in a blue dress that clung from throat to hip and then swung to mid-calf eyed him. She wasn’t showing everything that was on offer, so she was probably not one of Gordano’s girls. He nodded politely and turned back to the bar. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her slide into a booth and begin to check the screen built into the table. She drew his gaze. He took another sideways look and saw that she was just looking away. Pity he was only passing through.

  He turned to the bar and ordered the house gold, expecting it would be as tasteless as speed-ale usually was. When it came, it was better than he’d been expecting and he took a second pull.

  An argument was brewing at one of the tables. Angry voices cut through the general hubbub, but Ben couldn’t make out the words. Maybe some long-term shipboard resentment fueled by a fresh infusion of alcohol. He didn’t worry about it. Places like this always had their own security to damp down arguments before they got out of hand.

  Or maybe not.

  The row erupted. Chairs crashed backward. Two men, one at least a decade younger than the other, launched into each other across a table and crashed to the floor, kicking and punching. A space grew around them, penning them inside a ring of onlookers. Though the older guy had at least ten kilos on the younger one, the fight looked about even, one with a split lip, the other with a bloody nose. Two of Gordano’s bouncers closed in on the wrestling pair.

  The situation nose-dived when the younger of the two brawlers, Split Lip, flashed a knife. How the hell had he managed to get that onto the station? Only licensed enforcers carried weapons legally, and security was tight. From this distance Ben couldn’t tell whether it was a handspan of carbon-steel or a power-enhanced parrimer blade, but it took less than half a second to become obvious. The man took a wide swing at his opponent, missed, and instead sliced across the belly of the nearest bouncer who went down in a spray of blood and a whiff of burned meat.

  The second bouncer pulled a sidearm and the onlookers, intensely aware that they’d turned from voyeurs into potential victims, began to scatter. Ben found himself in the front row and noticed the blonde in the blue dress hadn’t moved away either. She was now standing, half-hidden from the combatants, by the booth back.

  Briefly surprised that his weapon had connected, Split Lip hesitated for long enough to give Bloody Nose the opportunity to grab the blade and they rolled together, leaving the bouncer no clear target.

  Ben curled his fingers to stop them twitching toward where his own sidearm wasn’t. He would have taken out Bloody Nose, the man currently with the knife, not Split Lip, but the bouncer was indecisive. The two scrappers broke apart. Bloody Nose staggered to his feet barely an arm’s length in front of Ben. Seeing the bouncer take aim and not wanting to get caught by a wide shot, Ben stepped in close, grabbed Bloody Nose’s knife hand, twisted hard, and immobilized him, making sure he kept the man between himself and the bouncer.

  It was over in a moment.

  The bouncer grabbed Split Lip, slapped ferraflex restraints on him, and then came to relieve Ben of his prisoner.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Ben turned to the fallen man, but the woman in the blue dress was already down on her knees beside him. She had the man’s own emergency pack from his belt and was holding the wound closed with a clean dressing.

  “Your crew?” Ben asked, peering at what she was doing and noting that she was following battle-wound procedure like a veteran.

  She shook her head and looked up. “Yours?” She had stunning gray-blue eyes fringed with long dark lashes despite the blonde hair.

  “If I had crew, they wouldn’t be so stupid.”

  A siren outside announced the imminent arrival of medics and the law. She glanced around as if sizing up the exits.

  “Looking for a back way out?” he asked.

  “Imagine the hours of interviews and incident sheets to write up,” she said.

  “Civic duty?” He wondered just how badly she needed to get out before the law arrived.

  “I doubt they’ll lay on a decent meal, and I haven’t eaten yet.”

  “Point taken. We can always volunteer our services tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” she said, her voice completely lacking sincerity.

  “Come on, then, I’ll buy you dinner.”

  As the crash team hustled a gurney through the front door of Gordano’s, Ben exited the back with the honey blonde.

  Chapter Two

  OPPORTUNITY

  Damn. Cara had spoiled the effect of her best dress—her only dress—with blood. Good job she’d paid a bit more for self-cleaning fabric. It was a good dress, an investment, not overtly showy or loud, but subtly sensual, elegant without being an obvious come-on. She didn’t want to get too deep into anything she couldn’t get out of.

  They took a couple of turns through service corridors. Good, a staff washroom.

  “This’ll only take a minute,” she said, pushing open the door. “Will you wait?”

  The man nodded, and she noted with approval that he stepped back into a doorway, out of range of the surveillance eye on the wall.

  In the washroom she checked that the cleaning cycle had activated itself. While the fabric digested the blood, she washed her hands clean and checked there were no more obvious stains. She didn’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention.

  She took several deep breaths to steady herself. If she’d been wearing a buddysuit, it would probably have told her that she still had elevated levels of adrenaline. She hadn’t expected that kind of trouble while cruising the bars
for a likely captain or cargomeister.

  She’d had her eye on the tall, lean man in the bar even before the fight—first his Trust uniform and then the Colony Survey pin on his collar. His dark hair, high at the temples, was long and tied back into a tight braid at the back of his neck. He might be in his mid-thirties, with warm brown skin and strong, even features.

  She’d looked for him on the immigration list, skimming the photo IDs.

  His name had jumped out at her, Benjamin. How common was the name? There was a Benjamin in Ari’s red file. Anyone who could piss off Ari as much as that Benjamin had was all right by her. He might be a good bet.

  Even that brief thought of Ari’s files started a stabbing pain somewhere behind her eyes. Forget about Ari. Concentrate on the business at hand. Even if he wasn’t the same Benjamin, he worked for the Trust, so he was a natural rival of all things Alphacorp. She checked his details. He was flying solo in a ship big enough to take a passenger. Yes!

  So now she was leaving Gordano’s with him, but not in any circumstances that she might have expected. When the fight had broken out, he’d handled himself well. The very fact that he’d skipped the scene without offering witness testimony was a hopeful sign that he wasn’t a by-the-book man. She needed someone with a little flexibility when it came to rules.

  He was waiting for her outside the washroom. Good, he hadn’t changed his mind.

  She led the way, and they emerged on the public thoroughfare just as the medics hustled the gurney into an antigrav transport.

  “How badly was he injured?” Benjamin asked as the transport began to move through the curious crowd.

  “From the smell they’ll be doing a bowel resection, but I guess he’ll survive if they can get him stabilized quickly.”

  He nodded. “You handled yourself well in there.”

  She shrugged, not wanting to give anything away. “Cara Carlinni.” She held out her hand.

  “Benjamin.” He took it, but didn’t hold onto it for long.

  “Just Benjamin?”

  “Reska Benjamin.” He smiled. “Ben will do. Only my grandmother calls me Reska.”

  “All right.” She nodded. “Dinner. Where do you want to go?”

  “I’m sick of the transients’ places. Take me somewhere local.” He raised one eyebrow, and she let herself smile.

  “Sam’s Bar, then.” She checked the time. Jussaro and her fellow packers would be long gone by now. “Yeah, I know, there’s a Sam’s on every station from Earth to the Rim, but this one’s not bad. The guy who runs it really is a Sam.” She kept her voice light. It was a long time since she’d flirted with anyone, but Benjamin didn’t seem so bad. At least he wasn’t repulsive or leery.

  They crossed the wide, straight arcade that bisected the space station’s downtown pedestrian plaza and stepped over the threshold of Sam’s. She checked out the diners already seated. No obvious threat. For the hundredth time that day she flicked her tongue over her implant controls. Yes, it was still powered down. Craike was a psi-tech Finder, so she mustn’t give him anything to latch on to.

  She headed for a table in the far corner, edging Ben out so she could sit facing the door. The other chair had its back to the open floor of the diner, but she noticed that Ben angled it slightly so that he could see the room reflected in the decorative mirror on the wall behind Cara’s left shoulder. Was he always this careful? Was it many years of habit, or was he expecting trouble tonight? He handled himself like someone who’d dealt with his fair share of trouble.

  Having thrown up earlier she wasn’t really hungry, so she barely glanced at the menu on the table screen, selecting almost at random. She needed time to work out whether she’d hooked the right fish. If not, she could still throw him back and return to Gordano’s or maybe try Jimmy’s.

  They made small talk, waiting for the food to arrive on the conveyor, establishing the where-are-you-froms and the-what-do-you-dos. There wasn’t much point in lying when her whole life was mapped out on her handpad, so she told him she was from Earth, though he raised one eyebrow when she said she worked on a packing line.

  “I didn’t say I’d always worked on packing lines,” she said. “I said that’s what I do now. It’s convenient and it keeps me fed.” She didn’t elaborate. “What about you?”

  “Brought up on a farm on Chenon, and I run surveys for the Trust.”

  “Chenon’s the main headquarters of the Trust’s Colony Division.”

  “That’s where I’m based, but I don’t get to spend much time there.”

  The food arrived, and they lapsed into silence while they took the first few bites. Cara watched Benjamin guardedly across her steaming bowl of razorfin. It was succulent, but she could have been chewing sawdust for all the notice she took of it.

  Benjamin worked for the Trust, so it was likely he had an implant, but she couldn’t pin him down without activating her own. She rested her fork in her dish and tapped her fingers on the table.

  “All right, Ben, I give up. I know you’re a psi-tech, but what are you? What’s your specialty? Mechanics?”

  He shook his head.

  She could sense that she’d kindled his interest. “You’re a Finder? A Dowser?” She guessed again. “A Healer?”

  “No. You’re way off the mark.” He pushed his plate away.

  “You’re not a Clairvoyant, are you?”

  “A spook? No. Do you really believe they exist?” He grinned, his eyes crinkling in genuine amusement.

  She shrugged. “I never met one. I’m glad you’re not the first. I have enough trouble with the past without worrying about the future.”

  She wondered whether to try and finish the fish. No, she’d only throw it up. She smiled, trying to make the expression reach her eyes. “It’s no good, you’ll have to tell me. You’re not a Telepath, are you?”

  “I have difficulty throwing a thought from here to the table. I’m a Navigator, Psi-1.”

  She was impressed. That meant he could align his implant with the tides of the universe and at any time know where he was and what direction he was going in. She’d tested almost zilch for navigation.

  “Flyboy or dirtsider?”

  “I’ve done both. Prefer new colony work.”

  “But you’re not doing that now, are you? You said you were running surveys.” His mouth compressed into a tight line. “Long story.”

  And he obviously didn’t want to tell it.

  “You didn’t get that faded tan on a way station like this. Or on a packing line,” he said. “Psi-tech, yes?”

  She was taking a risk. This close up he had to feel the pull of her implant, even powered down. If she’d been good at flirting, she could have distracted him with a pout and a come-hither look. She wasn’t good at flirting. When she realized she’d focused on her half-eaten meal, she forced herself to look back at Benjamin’s eyes.

  “You slapped on that field bandage like a pro,” he said.

  Cara had a brief moment of panic. She wanted to gabble an apology and run out of the diner, but instead she forced herself to smile, trying not to give too much away, hoping it looked enigmatic rather than vapid. She didn’t want to tell him too much.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “That’s no question to ask a lady.”

  “I’m curious. I’ve got a hunch you’ve done regular cryo.”

  “Very astute, Mr. Benjamin. I’ve notched up eight years in the freezer, mostly in smallish chunks.” She held out her hand, wondering how much to tell. In its default state, her handpad recorded three timelines, biological, Earth standard, and local.

  “Is that an Alphacorp issue pad?”

  Shit! She’d had it for so long she’d forgotten how recognizable it was.

  “So why are you here? This isn’t an Alphacorp station.” He suddenly looked wary. “You’ve not done NR, have you?”

  “Neural Readjustment? Me? No. No way.” The edge of her vision clouded. She rocked back in her chair. Her throat clenched
. “And I don’t like it when you talk dirty.”

  “Relax. You’re attracting attention.” He looked at her as if trying to read her.

  She pushed her hair back behind one ear.

  Was he leading her on? Playing with her? She took a deep breath. “I made a wrong career move.”

  “Hmm. Bad deal. I know how that goes.”

  I bet you don’t. She suddenly checked herself, hoping she hadn’t broadcast that thought. No; all right, then. So far, so good. Breathe.

  He took the hint and changed the subject. “Mirrimar-14 seems a little limited, culturally speaking. What do you do for fun?”

  “Watch my fingernails grow.”

  He inclined his head, inviting more.

  “All right, let’s see, if you want a tourist guide answer, there’s the dome—that’s the usual sort of entertainment complex—and various gyms with tax bonuses for working out. They like to keep their workers healthy.”

  “And you work out?” he asked.

  “I’m not going to arm wrestle you to prove it.”

  “It might be worth it.” He smiled and glanced around the bar. “Where to now?” Sam’s wasn’t a place where they liked you to linger all night and there was already a line at the door for tables.

  She thought he might make assumptions, but he didn’t. Maybe she hadn’t worn the right dress. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of man who made assumptions. She found herself liking him for that.

  He paid the bill, and she led the way to the go-flow tunnel, checking casually behind to make sure they weren’t being followed. Soon they were strap-hanging in the evening crowds, while their antigrav raft hit the accelerator lane and matched speed with the swift-moving continuous loop transporter. She leaned close to Ben on the pretext of maintaining balance above the trolley’s center of gravity. Her fingers twined with his as she reached up for the dismount button on the hanging strap and the raft neatly flipped across and slowed to a smooth stop on the platform by the leisure dome.

  She led him toward the main courtyard where all the different areas converged. “How about the forest bubble?” she asked.