Second Chance Angel

by Griffin Barber

  “Creature of will?” I asked. “What does that mean to you?”

  “He’s kept himself on top of the crime game here for I don’t know how long, all the while keeping one step ahead of not just rival gangs, but Station Security and the Administration too.”

  “But gangsters want to cultivate that kind of image, don’t they? I’ve known some actual hard-asses. Men and women of real will, the kind that bend reality to that will and make seemingly impossible things happen. Those impossible things coming to pass are nearly always a result of constant training, teamwork, and meticulous planning, not merely cleverness and decided willingness to commit violent acts against other sentients,” I said.

  “And he’s like that too. Look, a group of human gangsters, rumored to be the remnant of a Special Intel Group that went decidedly rogue after the war, decided to move on Ncaco’s holdings here on the station. They seized a couple production nodes as well as some shipments he was feeding into the black market. They tried to ransom the goods back to him, requiring that he pay in person. He agreed. Walked straight into the trap they laid for him and walked out again a few hours later, none the worse for wear. Station Security found only five of the bodies. Two of the gangsters were seen fleeing across the surface of the station in vac suits. Ncaco hunted them both down and sent each on a slow ride into the big black. Echoes of their pleas could be heard for several days after, but their telemetry and emergency beacons were disabled by something Ncaco did.”

  “So you’re afraid of him.”

  “Damn straight I am. Doesn’t mean I won’t go after him if he’s the one who took Siren, but . . . just let me make sure first, all right?”

  I said nothing and let my sullen awareness speak for itself as it shadowed his brain. I still didn’t like it, but there was some logic to Muck’s thinking. My need to find Siren was affecting me, making these strange “feelings” well up at inopportune times. I’d have to watch myself. Humanity was erratic enough without defective angels muddying things up—wait.

  Was that what I was? Defective? Was that why she had . . .?

  No. I forced myself to focus on the task at hand. We continued down the “dock,” which was just a long corridor with illuminated access points set at regular intervals in the floor. As we passed, passengers and cargo for the various ships in orbit around Last Stop orbit phased in and out on either side.

  “Since we’ve established that you consider the Emerita less of a threat than the big, bad gangster, perhaps you intend to share your strategy for raiding her collection?” The autocab came to a halt. My unease translated to tartness, and I expected Muck to react defensively as he exited the vehicle.

  So I was quite surprised when I felt a wave of amusement instead.

  “Like this,” he said, and stepped into the entry point for the Vmog yacht.

  The glowing circle on the surface of the dock pulsed to acknowledge his presence, and a pleasant voice issued from the lights, “Greetings. Please state your name and business.”

  “Ralston Muck, here to see the Emerita.”

  “And the nature of your call?”

  “Personal, social.”

  “Please remain standing in the entry circle,” the voice instructed.

  “Brilliant,” I whispered sarcastically into his mind. “You’re going to walk in the front door after giving them your name. I don’t think this is going to turn out well for us, Muck.”

  “Relax,” he whispered back in the silence of his thoughts.

  Relaxing was the last thing we needed to do. Even if he was delusional, he was all I had, so I had to make it work. That meant that arguing was counterproductive. Instead, I slowly began to prepare our body chemistry for a fight. I activated the modifications that brought increased oxygen to the musculoskeletal system, enabling it to respond quicker to . . . whatever we were walking into.

  “Ralston Muck,” the voice said. “You are welcomed as a guest of the Emerita. Please stand by to board.”

  The lights flashed again, and I felt a dizzying disorientation as we phased out and back in aboard the orbital yacht that belonged to Emerita Bellasanee.

  * * *

  Muck didn’t stumble when we phased in. I’d been half expecting it, given the way a Vmog phase shift tumbles the human inner ear. But he stood steady and took a deep breath. The yacht’s air smelled of salt and warm seawater. Reduced gravity buoyed us, making our steps light. Dark simwood stretched ahead of us down a cream-colored corridor. The near subliminal crash-roar of ocean waves filtered in from wherever, helping to complete the illusion of actually being on an ocean-going vessel. In high demand because they worked to calm the mind, these full environmentals were expensive anywhere. On a private starship, it was a profligate display of wealth.

  Despite the attempt to lull us into relaxation, I remained vigilant.

  Despite my readiness, Muck’s body relaxed with every breath.

  “Don’t let your guard down,” I muttered inside our mind.

  “It’s fine,” he said. “The Emerita’s a—”

  I didn’t get to find out what Muck considered the Emerita to be, because a door slid open at the far end and the alien herself stepped out.

  “Rrralston,” she said, voice low and burred. She opened winged arms wide in a gesture of welcome, and her gauzy drape rippled with the speed of her passage as she vaulted toward us.

  “Emerita.” Muck bowed from the waist in the gesture of respect the Vmog favored.

  “Come now, darrrling,” she said, alighting directly in front of us. She stood very close, unusual for a Vmog. They preferred a larger bubble of personal space, something to do with their wings, I believe. “So forrrrmalll?”

  Muck straightened with a grin and reached out to place his hands palm-to-palm against the Emerita’s, then leaned in and kissed her on her wide mouth.

  “Good to see you, Bella,” he said.

  “And you, dearrrr one,” she replied. Then she paused and looked closer, peering in our eyes. I saw her star-shaped pupils contract down to pinpoints, then expand out again. “Rrrralston . . .”

  “I need to talk to you, Bella,” Muck said. “In private, if possible.”

  “Of courrrrse,” she said, straightening and letting her hands drop from ours. “Please, come to my chamberrrs. May my consorrrrts stay? You know theirrr discrrretion can be trrrrusted.”

  “Probably not,” Muck said. “Might not be safe for them.”

  “Ah. Verrry well.” Bellasanee turned, and the soft light from the corridor’s walls and ceiling rippled through the black and blue pattern of her pseudofeathers. I expected her to launch into flight again, but she seemed content to walk beside us and gestured to Muck to precede her through the doorway at the end.

  “Your strategy suddenly makes a whole lot more sense,” I said.

  Silent laughter ricocheted through awareness.

  “Bellasanee’s a friend.” Muck carefully thought the words at me in order to make certain I understood. “I did a favor for her a while back. We can trust her.”

  I didn’t say anything, but he must have felt my skepticism, because all of a sudden, I watched as memories replayed in our mind’s eye. A much younger Muck, his war-scars still red and angry, meeting with the then newly minted Emerita. Someone had kidnapped one of her favorite consorts and threatened to kill him if she didn’t pay them off. Classic extortion. Muck followed up, tracking the kidnappers down and freeing the male Vmog. A grateful Bellasanee had paid well, in currencies of coin and friendship.

  Fine. Muck trusted her. That didn’t mean I had to.

  We stepped through the doorway into her quarters. I expected opulence, but was disappointed. Instead, the room was rather spare, if beautiful. Wide viewscreens graced the curving, oblong walls on either side. It reminded me a little bit of the backdrop at the club, with the stars arrayed like jewels on a woman’s neck. T
he only furniture was a wide sort of sofa-thing that echoed the curve of the walls. This was soft and upholstered in a gorgeous midnight-blue fabric and sat atop a cream-colored rug on the otherwise bare floor.

  “Let us sit,” the Emerita said, brushing past us with a soft caress to our shoulder. “I will send for rrrefrrreshments. You like liquorrr, yes?”

  “Maybe not today,” Muck said. “Whatever else you have is fine.”

  He followed her to the blue couch and sank into the cushions. The material of it surrounded us, supporting our weight in a way that felt far more restful than the coffin bed ever had.

  “Poorrrr Rrralston.” Bellasanee perched herself on the couch next to us. She folded her wings in and caressed our shoulder with her taloned fingers once more. “You should have taken me up on my offerrr. You so obviously enjoy my little luxurrrries herre.”

  “Thanks, Bella,” Muck said, with the ease that came with a too-often-visited argument. “I couldn’t impose on you, though.”

  “It would be no imposition.” I detected a note of exasperation. “You have earrrned a place in my family herrre. It is your trrrroublesome human independence that gets in yourrr way.”

  “I am what I am,” Muck said with a grin as another door opened. A bot rolled in with a tray of drinks and, from its appearance, fresh and therefore very expensive fruit. The smell struck our senses like a hammer. If it wasn’t fresh citrus fruit, it was the best damn synth job I’d ever encountered.

  Bellasanee waited until the bot left, leaned in closer to Muck and spoke, burred voice dipping low.

  “Is that so? You seem to me to be rrratherrr . . . enhanced.”

  Shock rippled through me. She knew! How did she know?

  “Saw that, huh?” Muck’s voice was casual, though his pulse ratcheted up. He hid it well, though, hands busy with peeling an orange.

  “My dearrrr, my people perrrrfected the angels to manage the modifications to yourrr species. The Mentorrrs may have crrreated the genetic engineerrrring and provided yourrrr species with the angels, but we wrrrote the AIs. But how did you find someone willing to rrrepairr yourrr modifications and implant a new AI?” As she spoke, Bellasanee’s eyes did that contract-and-expand thing again, indicating deep interest.

  “Angel found me,” he said, missing her reaction as he put the orange peel in the recycler. “It’s a long story, and I’m afraid that telling you too much might put you at risk as well.” He popped the orange into his mouth, chewed, delighting in the juice, and swallowed. “You know I trust you, Bella, but . . .”

  “I can carrre for myself, but I apprrrreciate yourr concerrrn forrr my well-being,” she said. “What is it, then, that you need frrrom me?”

  “Weapons,” Muck said baldly. “Chances are that I may have to go after some heavy hitters, Bella. I need the kind of firepower that can support that.”

  “Orrbital? Orrr merrely perrrsonal carrry?” Her question was as smooth as the screens of her star-windows. She didn’t seem at all fazed by the request, and I abruptly realized who she must be. One of the turning points of the war had been the introduction of a new Vmog-designed orbital weapon suite. It had changed the course of several battles, and some said it led to our side’s eventual victory, Pyhrric though it was. I’d never known the name of the genius who had created the Planetflare system, but here I was, looking at her.

  “The latter, thanks,” Muck said, deadpan. But I could hear his fervent hope that we could get Siren back without having to resort to the all-consuming violence Bellasanee’s designs were capable of. I agreed.

  “Verrrry well,” the Emerita said, and made an elegant gesture with her fingers.

  Through our physical contact with the back of the sofa, I watched the command whisper down the lines of the yacht’s internal infonet. Long, sleek columns began to rise from the simwood floor. The same soft, diffused light that had lit the hallway outside issued from within, illuminating the columns’ contents.

  Guns. Lots of guns. Seemingly endless racks of guns. Old ones, new ones . . . words scrolled through my awareness. Dates and stories that the Emerita had collected along with each of the weapons. This one carried in the first planetary landing of the war. That one a prototype which had tested well but never seen service. The collection rose up until the columns filled the space, placing us in a waist-high forest of fine, deadly weaponry.

  “Take what you like,” the Emerita said. “All of these arrrre rrrrreplaceable. But know that if necessarrrry, it will be rrreporrrted stolen. I must prrrrotect my family, afterrr all.”

  “Of course, Bella, of course,” Muck said, the awe we both felt coloring his tone. Some of these weapons were very hard to get . . . but apparently not for a Vmog Emerita. Muck got slowly to his feet and began to wander the forest of collected armaments.

  He felt dizzy and overwhelmed by choice, and I could hardly blame him. Each individual piece seemed to glow in the display light. They were works of art, all brought here to please the being that reclined on the couch, studying her fingers in an attempt at pretended indifference.

  I knew better. Despite my lack of experience with her species, I could tell she was deeply interested.

  “This one,” he said finally, looking back over his shoulder at Bellasanee. The Emerita waved one hand in permission, and Muck reached out to take the piece. A narrow, waspish-looking barrel assembly protruded from a sleek generator above a grip and trigger assembly that disappeared in Muck’s meat-hook of a hand.

  “A Volsike Flayerrrr. Excellent choice,” the Emerita said.

  “And this one,” Muck said, pointing to a nearby rifle. Similar to the Max-22, the standard-issue human soldier’s weapon during the war, the Max-33 had been the preferred small arms platform for human Special Operations Groups. Versatile, light, and endlessly adaptable, the Max-33 brought all sorts of memories to the fore. “And also that one over there. And maybe a few more . . .”

  When all was said and done, we ended up toting a small arsenal in a purpose-made low-tech duffel bag that would conceal its contents from security sensors, lest the nanotransmitters of regular fabric rat us out. I kept expecting the Emerita to balk, but she simply laughed and asked if we were sure we didn’t want more. When we said no, we had all we could carry, she offered to let us stay the night.

  “Thanks, Bella, but as I said, this could get messy. In fact, you might want to head elsewhere for a bit.”

  Bellasanee gave us a long look, and then spread her hands in a gesture of acquiescence.

  “Verrry well, Rrralston,” she said. “But know that if you have need, if you can get worrrd to me, I will do what I can forrr you.”

  “Thanks, Bella. Really.” Muck leaned in and kissed her again before turning and walking back to the end of the hallway to disembark.

  I was taken aback by Muck’s comfortable familiarity with alien contact. Her lips were hard ridges, and nothing like a human’s. Then there was the taste, which was vaguely similar to bitter almonds and lingered on the mouth.

  Our last sight before phasing off-ship was of her standing in the doorway, backlit by a forest of armaments, kissing taloned fingers.

  I remained silent awhile, fascinated by how thoroughly I had misread my temporary host. Muck was far more than I’d thought. I don’t know why I had thought he would be any less complex than Siren, but I had.

  * * *

  There was no night on the station. Rather, it was more correct to say that it was always night. Even when the lights brightened to signal the usual “work day” there were still no planetary cues. Siren had always hated that. She felt like she never knew what time it was, despite my perfect recall and ability to tell her down to the nanosecond.

  Humans need their stars, apparently.

  Night or not, it was late, and Muck was tired. Despite the short distance home, I called us a cab once we were back on the docks. We piled into the seat, clutching
the duffel bag full of precious weapons as the cab accelerated toward our coffin apartment. When we disembarked, I reached out and gently stroked the attention of the sentry nanos away from us. I didn’t need them wondering why we were arriving with a big bag made of dumb fabric that didn’t connect with the rest of the infostructure.

  “Where are you going to put that thing?” I asked as we clomped down the hallway to our little niche. His steps got heavier with fatigue. It felt strange, compared to Siren’s lightness.

  “I’ve got a storage locker inside the coffin,” he said. “I think they’ll fit in there.”

  “That isn’t standard for the design.”

  “Nope,” he said, and I got the image of vials of pharma disappearing into an overhead hatch. Of course. He’d want to keep his illicit supplies close.

  “How’d you manage to pull that off?”

  “Money.”

  “I didn’t think you had much.”

  “I don’t. Now.”

  “Right. Pharma’s expensive,” I said. “Luckily you now have me.”

  “For a while, anyway,” he said. I detected a note of longing in his mental tone. I declined to say anything else, and he busied himself climbing into his bunk and chivying the bag of weapons into his illicit overhead storage. Then he lay down, one hand reaching for the medichine contacts that were no longer there.

  “What are you reaching for?” I asked. Muck jumped, then let out a strangled chuckle.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Habit. I had to hook up every night for years now, just to keep the bare minimum of functionality.”

  “Well,” I replied tartly. “I’m here now. So don’t worry about your functionality. I’ve got it. Get some sleep.”

  “Right. Good night, Angel.”

  “Good night.”

  I listened to his mind shutting down, dropping into the alpha-wave consciousness of human sleep. True to my word, I ran a standard diagnostic check on his mods. Everything looked good, from my anchor points to his enhanced muscle tissue and neural connections. I slipped a bit more oxytocin into his system and let him fall deeper into sleep. I was moments away from going into my own standby mode when something pinged my consciousness through the infonet.