Confidence Game

by Britt Ringel

  “Stop checking out my butt,” she ordered while keeping her eyes straight ahead.

  “I was scanning the area for threats, darling.”

  The crew entered Solo Mio and were promptly led to a table. The hostess linked the menu to their datapads, told them the name of their server and quickly moved back to the front. Lochlain inspected the beverage selections and asked, “Casper, are you drinking tonight?”

  Naslund groaned. His eyes were still bloodshot. “I don’t think so. After yesterday, I may never drink again.”

  Lochlain chuckled. “Jack, how about you? What does the average Brevic consume?”

  Brooke grinned and teased, “Boiling oil laced with acid?”

  Truesworth rolled playful eyes. “Beer mostly although spirits are available if you have the credits.” He began to smile as he mused, “Even after almost a decade, it’s still strange to hear a foreigner’s impression of the Republic. You’d think I lived in a dictatorship or something.”

  The rest of the crew suddenly found their place settings of particular interest.

  Recognizing the uncomfortable silence, Brooke offered, “Well, if every Brevic is as friendly as you, then maybe the Republic’s ugly reputation outside its borders is skewed.”

  “The friends I made there,” Truesworth recounted wistfully, “I’ll never have a family like them again.”

  “I don’t know, give us a chance,” Lingenfelter said quietly. “You might be surprised.”

  Truesworth gave her a pensive look but before he could answer, a server appeared behind him. “Welcome to Solo Mio, my name is Joseph and I’ll be taking care of you. Do you have any questions about our menu?”

  “I’d like a round for the table first,” Lochlain said. He pointed between himself and Brooke. “I’ll take a whiskey, neat, and she’ll have tequila on the rocks.”

  “Real or synthetic?” the server asked.

  “For the first round? Real.” Lochlain looked to the rest of the table. “Tonight is on Zanshin so order what you’d like.”

  Joseph looked to the Svean navigator. Ice blue eyes widened in indecision before turning to Truesworth. “What should I get?” Lingenfelter asked. “If it wasn’t made in the cellar of the commorancy, I probably haven’t had it.”

  Truesworth, in turn, looked to Brooke. “Cosmo?”

  Brooke dipped her right shoulder. “That’s a good way to start.”

  “Cosmopolitan for the lady and I’ll take a gin and tonic,” Truesworth ordered smoothly. “Guess you may as well use the good stuff for the first ones.”

  All heads turned to Naslund. He dropped his eyes and muttered, “I am such a follower. May I have a Sazerac? Make sure it’s rye whiskey and just two dashes of bitters. If the lemon peel is artificial, skip it.”

  The server nodded as his fingers expertly coasted over his handheld. “I’ll have these made right away and you can always order straight from your datapads.” He looked at Lochlain. “Charged to you, sir?”

  “Yup,” Lochlain answered happily. “Family outing.”

  Once Joseph left, Truesworth picked up the conversation. “You didn’t drink at the university, Elease?”

  Lochlain noticed the subtle shift in conversation away from the man’s time in the Republic.

  Lingenfelter shook her head. “No, I got arrested earlier in secondary school with a bunch of my friends. We were all loaded on the power core fuel we called alcohol. We used to still it but decided that we were going to break into a real liquor store and drink something that didn’t strip the lining off our stomachs.” Her eyes cast upward as she recounted. “I was the driver because I looked old enough to have an aircar license. It was late at night and we used the commorancy’s shuttle bus of all things. None of us had any transportation.”

  “I bet that was subtle,” Brooke said and pressed her lips tightly together to keep from smiling.

  Lingenfelter dipped her head while pushing stray, blonde hair from her face. “Yeah… we were master criminals. So, I fly us to a closed liquor store and just idle right on the landing pad. I have no idea what’s going to happen. The next thing I know, Robert throws a chunk of quickcrete at the storefront window.”

  The table cringed in unison.

  “It didn’t break it but the alarm sure went off. Appiation police arrived about thirty seconds later and we were all carted off,” she summarized.

  “You didn’t fly off and abandon your friends?” Truesworth asked.

  Lingenfelter started to giggle. “Oh, I tried. I yanked that throttle like it was a ripcord but the police EMPed the bus before I was two meters off the ground.”

  “What happened after that?” Naslund asked.

  “Manorial court. The store we chose was backed by Seger Finansiella Innehav so my friends were charged with crimes against the banks.”

  “Ouch,” Brooke uttered. “That’s harsh.”

  Lingenfelter winced in painful agreement. “They were nobodies, nothing more than street rats to make examples out of. I was luckier. I played dumb, which I was, and since I didn’t leave the vehicle, I was just hit with a few minor violations. The major ones were dropped when the commorancy refused to press charges for taking the shuttle.” Her look grew distant as she reflected. “That was a pivotal time in our lives. With their records already trashed, my friends just spiraled deeper and deeper while I did my best to clear my probation.” She chuffed. “The thing is, I was mad when they told me to stay in the shuttle and wait for them. I thought it meant they didn’t think I could hack it.”

  The server dropped off their drinks and disappeared without a word. Truesworth looked at Lingenfelter over the rim of his glass and said, “So you walked the straight and narrow after that?”

  She burst out laughing and placed a hand lightly on his arm. “Please! I still raised Hell but I was intelligent about it. Nothing major and certainly nothing destructive or mean-spirited but my ‘straight and narrow’ was a lot closer to a mountain path than a city street.” She took a sip of her cocktail and her face lit up. Her hand reached out again to squeeze Truesworth’s arm. “This is really good!”

  The Brevic was staring at her now and seemed to grow serious. A moment later he said, “May I ask what happened to your parents?”

  “Killed in an aircar accident when I was five,” Lingenfelter answered matter-of-factly. “Their vehicle was deemed responsible so everything they owned went to the settlement and I became disclaimed and shoved into an orphanage. I signed my first fealty contract that same year, to pay for food and housing there.” The memories caused her to stare soberly at her drink. “Does the Republic have fealty contracts and indentured status?”

  Truesworth snorted while shaking his head. “Republic citizens would rather revolt than swear allegiance to some bank.”

  Blue eyes pierced him. “What’s the difference between swearing allegiance to a government or to a corporation?”

  “A republic’s government is supposed to look out for the people while a bank just sees them as another resource to exploit,” Truesworth replied as if the answer were obvious. He was absently swirling his drink, letting the liquid ride up the sides of the glass.

  Lingenfelter cringed. Her mouth tightened and the corners of her lips curled downward. “That government sent you to die horribly in a war it started.”

  The rest of the table had become silent and watched Truesworth’s expression harden at the insinuation but the look quickly lost its edge. He stared into her eyes and smiled despite himself. “You know, even after all this time, I still have trouble believing that the Republic started that war. We were being choked out of the disputed zone by Hollie commerce. What choice did we have?”

  Lingenfelter shook her head and more locks swept over her face. “I can’t imagine fighting in a war just because your government says you have to.”

  Truesworth stopped swirling his drink and returned the glass to the table’s beverage strip. “It’s not like the corporations don’t have conflicts,” he pointe
d out.

  “Yeah, but we hire privateers like you to fight them for us!” Lingenfelter quibbled and coquettishly stuck out her tongue.

  “There are Appiation military branches, Elease,” Truesworth pressed.

  “I know, Jack. I’m just being obstinate,” she admitted with smiling eyes. “Hey, that’s a pretty good word. See? Those fealty contracts weren’t wasted.” Her narrow frame shrugged under her white top. “I guess I’m just not a fighter.” She downed her drink in a large gulp.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that,” Truesworth said earnestly. “Honestly, I’ve had enough fighting to last five lifetimes. I can’t believe I actually thought it was a solution seven years ago.”

  She hiccupped lightly and reached for her datapad. “I want another one of those drinks but I’m going to need food first. What’s good here? I’m starving.”

  “The rest of us have already ordered,” Lochlain said with amusement. “Just waiting on you two.”

  Chapter 32

  Brooke dropped her dessert spoon onto her plate and leaned back contentedly. Next to her, Lochlain added the tip to the bill and used his datapad to access Zanshin’s operating account. It had been an expensive evening but the crew had learned much about each other. That bonding was well worth the cost.

  “I noticed a bunch of small drums of sodium perchlorate in the aft hold,” Brooke noted. “Are all three of you in on that venture?”

  Naslund swallowed the last bite of his cake. “Yeah, it’s pretty cheap here and it’s used to process anti-rad therapy drugs. Inside Carinae, a keg can go for one hundred fifty credits or more.”

  “How much did you spend on them?” she asked. Lochlain tilted his datapad toward her for a math check before thumbing confirmation of the total and settling the bill.

  “Seventy-two credits per case so just over twenty-eight hundred credits total,” Lingenfelter answered. She pointed at Naslund and Truesworth with a slightly guilty look. “They fronted the money.”

  “You’ll pay us back after Carinae,” Naslund stated confidently.

  Brooke stretched her arms high above her head and yawned. “I’m ready for bed. Time to head back?”

  Naslund frowned slightly. “We don’t want to shop around a bit on the promenade?”

  “Did you not hear my first statement?” Brooke teased as she stifled a second yawn. “Mercer Brooke likes a strong topic sentence,” she muttered playfully.

  The group rose from the table together and left Solo Mio. It was 20:00 and this level of the orbital was packed with humanity. As they turned from the restaurant and entered the crush of traders, shoppers and tourists, Brooke glanced casually behind her, solely out of habit. Her time as an infiltration agent had honed a strong instinct to watch her back. The nondescript faces behind the group were no different from the ones ahead. Yet still, she played her game of association, noting clothing or other distinctive features of the people walking behind her for easier recollection.

  Zanshin’s crew meandered off the overcrowded primary concourse to a less congested commercial mall. Vendors at the storefronts were cajoling passersby to enter their stores for a glimpse at their wares or a sample of their food. They walked past a Moroccan brasserie before Naslund stopped in midstride and returned to sample a tiny almond briouat. He delicately selected the wedge-shaped pastry and popped it into his mouth. After swallowing the cookie, he complimented the shop owner while unlocking his datapad. He tapped a corner to the register hanging from the man’s neck and was presented a small bag of briouats along with the vendor’s effusive gratitude.

  Brooke was watching the purchase play out when her eyes caught sight of a man with a recreation patch on his temple... again. She had associated the square drug patch to the man’s severe, square jaw. She let her eyes slip off him and furtively looked for “the woman wearing the white wrapping” that had earlier walked with him. The mnemonic immediately brought a picture to her mind’s eye.

  As Naslund resolved his purchase, the woman in white made her appearance at the opposite side of the mall. Her head was down, intensely inspecting a collection of potted plants but her positioning permitted an easy view of Brooke’s group.

  Naslund opened his bag and offered briouats to everyone. Brooke declined with a gentle wave while returning her attention to the square-jawed man. This time, she made no effort to conceal her scrutiny. “Reece,” she started in a cautionary tone, but stopped short when she locked eyes with the man less than a dozen meters away.

  The man did not reflexively avert his eyes. Instead, he allowed them to sweep over her body and then offered her a coy smile. Brooke’s mind raced as she held her stare. Only two types of people responded with such actions when confronted directly. The first were the truly innocent, the men and women who took guiltless, casual liberties with their eyes but intended no harm. The second were hardened, well-trained professionals posing as the first.

  She felt her heart rate spike as the man continued to stride purposefully closer. She backed up, knocking into Lingenfelter who was pulling out a briouat from Naslund’s bag. The paper container skidded out of his hand and tumbled to the deck.

  “Oh, no!” Lingenfelter lamented as Brooke watched the man’s eyes divert to the falling bag.

  Brooke’s pistol was in her hands an instant later. She extended it directly away from her body, aiming toward the oncoming figure’s chest. The man grinned maniacally at her. “Run!” she shouted while shifting her pistol’s barrel toward the ceiling. Her finger pressed twice and the twin reports of her shots echoed down the concourse. The crowd around her froze in unison, stared in momentary confusion and then scattered in pandemonium.

  “Go, go, go!” Brooke urged over the cries while shoving Lingenfelter down the concourse with her free hand. The sea of people parted compliantly at the sight of Brooke’s gun. Behind her, the square-jawed man brandished his own pistol in one hand while tearing the patch off his temple with the other. Brooke’s expletives were lost in the tide of chaos.

  She turned again and shoved Naslund, still stooped over his bag of briouats. “Casper, run! We’ve all got to run!” She grabbed the collar of his green pullover, savagely yanked him upright and shoved him into motion. Ahead, Lochlain and Truesworth had possessed the good sense to act immediately on her instruction and were pulling Lingenfelter between them. Naslund matched Brooke’s frantic retreat when she passed him. She risked a quick glance behind Naslund and saw their pursuer was in no rush. He calmly stood in the center of the bedlam, connecting a hardline from his pistol to the smartlink at his temple as if the madness around him were ordinary. Brooke knew his shots would not miss once the connection was established.

  She pointed her pistol behind her but reluctantly held her fire. As before, she would not risk the lives of the people behind her target and take a shot. Instead, she faced forward and dashed after her crew. The closest corner ahead of them was still dozens of meters away. Brooke bent her head low and sprinted toward salvation.

  She felt the stinging impacts on her back before hearing the gunshots. The barks from the man’s pistol were much deeper than those her own weapon produced, telling her he had the advantage of a larger caliber, more energetic propellant or possibly both. Her back spasmed under multiple blows and pain coursed through her body as bullet after bullet struck her. The peppering seemed relentless, her assailant bearing no qualms about overkill.

  Brooke lost count of the number of strikes as she stumbled, finally collapsing around the corner she had fought so desperately to reach. On her side, she looked up to her friends with eyes brimming as she fought the waves of agony. Mercifully, no one else had been hit.

  Lochlain was kneeling beside her the next instant. “Mercer!” he cried while reaching out to take her hand. Trembling fiercely, he vowed, “We’ll get you to a doctor. Hang on, babe.” Lingenfelter, Naslund and Truesworth watched in horror from a meter away.

  Brooke shook free of his hand, rolled onto her stomach with a groan and forced herself
up. The group gaped at her bullet-ridden back. Remarkably, there was no blood. She pressed herself to the wall at the corner and fired blindly around the junction, angling up steeply to miss any innocents still unlucky enough to be in the concourse.

  Lochlain, unable to speak, stared uncomprehendingly at her.

  “You never put Verdin’s vest back, did you?” It was Truesworth who ruined her illusion of immortality.

  “They work,” Brooke retorted as she again gingerly slipped closer to the corner. In truth, her back was on fire. She cautiously peeked around the edge but immediately flinched back as gunshots answered her audacity. She shivered and looked wide-eyed at her friends. “That monster’s still standing smack dab in the center of the concourse. There’s at least one more of them, a woman with a white scarf.” She upended her pistol and glanced at the counter on the bottom of the magazine. The numeral “8” glowed faintly at her. “We need to keep moving.”

  “Are you able to run?” Lochlain croaked, as if unable to breathe.

  “I can fly if I have to,” came her reply. Her eyes swept over the shops nearby, searching for the man’s partner. “Reece, lead us back to Zanshin but don’t take a direct route. These people are seriously bad news.”

  “Let’s go, everyone,” Lochlain ordered and took off down the corridor.

  Brooke watched them retreat. After the group was several meters away, she once again brought her pistol around the corner and fired a shot. This time, it was directed down the now abandoned concourse at the last place the man had been. She doubted her blind shot hit him but at least the return fire might give him pause. She shoved off the hallway’s bulkhead and hurried after her friends. Every step sent new thunderbolts of pain coursing through her back. Seeing Lochlain nearing the next corner, she shouted, “Stop and look. Don’t just make the turn blind!”