by Ginn Hale
“It’s possible,” Aguilar allowed. “But what about this. Holly wants to blackmail a heavy hitter. Maybe she really does have something on them, but she’s an eighteen-year-old without much clout and there’s a real chance she’ll get the shit kicked out of her if it’s just her on her own. She needs insurance—someone she can claim will release the blackmail if anything happens to her. Her insurance would need to be someone who already made a name for himself—been around the station long enough that even a heavy-hitter would think twice before crossing him. Nobody up in the Drift fits that description as far as she knows. Leaf and Clay are still untried boys. But you show up and leave your contact-chip. People here know Lake Harmaa is a bad ass—you cooked Mountain Joki, took his gun, and then put two slugs in Forest Joki’s head So she gets the idea to claim that you’re her partner.”
Aguilar sipped a little more of his beer. Lake considered the scenario.
He didn’t feel like a bad ass, particularly not when he let himself remember the night he killed Mountain. Three years of Federalist tactics had wiped out most of Mountain’s forces and left the survivors sick, starved and ready to surrender. But Mountain had declared that he’d see them all dead before he let the Feds claim a meter of Loviatar property. He’d personally carried explosives to the nurseries where Lake had holed himself up.
He’d been a snot-nosed little sneak—a nasty shit who betrayed his own for a few sweets and a pat on the head, but even he wouldn’t have harmed the nursery. And he’d known that he couldn’t have lived with himself if he allowed anyone else to. He’d tried to talk Mountain out of it, and that had only gotten him knocked against the rocks and kicked in the gut.
Lake scowled, sensing the stifling heat and insect shrieks that had surrounded him as he’d struggled for a grip on the slick rocky surfaces surrounding the deep chemical pools in the Maze. Mountain Joki had made the mistake of thinking a single blow would put him down for good—maybe he’d grown too used to beating his son. Forest had stayed down as soon as his daddy busted his lip open.
Even now Lake felt his heart beginning to beat harder at the memory. Dragging himself back up from the steaming edge, sensing the thousands of oothecae helpless and swaddled in egg cases as Mountain screamed that he would see them all dead. Lake had hardly noticed Forest standing at the opening of the vast chamber or the hundreds of other children cowering beside their insect charges. Mountain’s bulk had filled his awareness. The big man reached out just a little too far to place an explosive over a chemical pool and Lake rushed him.
It hadn’t taken much to tip the fucker over. Just the will to risk going down with him. But in the end he’d caught Mountain’s cold automatic as the man tore out a hunk of his hair and then plummeted down into the acrid, bubbling liquid.
He could hardly remember plugging Forest after that except that he’d felt genuinely surprised Forest had wanted to avenge his father—he’d been sobbing and wailing like Lake had murdered the love of his life. Maybe he had. People could be screwed up like that.
“I could be wrong. But it fits the evidence so far.” Aguilar’s voice released Lake from his reverie and returned him to the cool calm of the moment.
Lake nodded. He hated the idea that his contact-chip had inspired Holly Ryan to take the stupid risk that had gotten her killed. But it made sense in the terrible, overreaching way of an adolescent scheme. Hell, he hadn’t even been as old as Holly when he’d done Mountain Joki in and made a lifelong enemy of Forest.
And it wasn’t as if he’d learned much of a lesson, judging from the deluded romantic fantasies he’d indulged in when he’d first been partnered with Aguilar. His new partner’s honor and fidelity had taken Lake unprepared and knocked him on his cocky ass. Before Aguilar, he hadn’t believed that people took oaths, promises and vows seriously outside of cults and fairytales.
Nine years on and he still felt the kick of desire and fascination every time they were alone, but at least now he knew better than to make his sleazy feelings Aguilar’s problem.
Lake ate a little more kimchi and downed a mouthful of beer.
“In that case, what’s your take on Leaf and Clay?” Lake had his own theory but wanted to hear Aguilar’s.
“I don’t think they came after you to avenge Holly,” Aguilar replied. “Gonzales floated that theory too, but…”
“From what Nam Yune said, there was no love lost between the three.”
“Yeah,” Aguilar agreed. “And with the blackmail angle, it seems much more likely that someone hired the two of them to off Holly and then come after you for the blackmail she supposedly left with you.”
“Right.” Lake nodded. “The fact that they came to my place and office after they’d murdered Holly implies that they didn’t find what they were looking for in her suite up in the Drift.”
“If it ever existed,” Aguilar added.
There was a possibility—though it would put Lake in a worse spot than he already faced, since laying his hands on the blackmail would be the best route to discovering the identity of Holly’s killer as well as his own would-be assassin. The ache in his arm twitched back to life.
“The size of the payments makes me think that Holly had to have something substantially damaging.” Lake sighed. “But where does a kid from the Yuanxi biospheres scratch up that kind of dirt on someone living here?”
“From her biological father, you think?” Aguilar suggested.
“Maybe. It would fit with the timeline and explain how she was suddenly flush after her trip to the Maze.” Lake didn’t particularly want the investigation to lead him back down into the Maze. But pretending that wasn’t where he needed to go would just be dragging his feet and delaying the inevitable.
Not the brightest of choices when someone with access to the Arc and Lake’s private quarters wanted him dead.
“No,” Aguilar said before Lake even opened his mouth. “That price on your head is no joke down there. Give me a day. I’ll requisition a high-grav armored suit and go down in official capacity with backup. You just sit tight here, alright?”
Lake didn’t want to argue with Aguilar, but he wasn’t going to agree to something he had no intention of doing. He respected Aguilar too much to lie to him like that.
“If you and Gonzales suit up in armor and lights, Forest Joki will feel you coming from kilometers away,” Lake said. “Nothing spreads faster through the Maze than news of the pigs making an appearance. And nobody will remember anything about anyone or themselves no matter how hard you ask or what warrants you wave at them.”
“That’s still better than you strolling down and being murdered in the first ten minutes.” Aguilar crossed his muscular arms over his broad chest like a disapproving trainer.
“No shit,” Lake agreed. “I’m not planning on tripping through security or customs. I figured I’ll stowaway with Jänis’s worthless man. Ride down with the medical crates.”
“So you jump an illegal ride with Dr. Gim?” Aguilar said, scowling. “And when everything goes to hell, he backs you up with what? An inoculation gun and fruity-fun stickers?”
Despite himself Lake laughed at the thought of Jänis’s slim, elegant husband repelling a mob of heavy-boned Maze denizens with a fistful of candy-scented stickers.
“I’m working this so as to keep things from going to hell in the first place,” Lake replied. “But if the shit hits, I’m not going to get the good doctor involved at all. My plan is to haul ass and hijack a speed lift.”
Aguilar glared at him and opened his mouth, like he was going to offer an argument, but then he tipped his beer back and drained it down in slow gulps. He set the empty bottle aside a moment later.
“If I thought it would do anything but waste my breath, I’d point out the stupidity of going—alone or with backup—to the one place where Forest Joki owns half the police force and regularly makes people disappear,” Aguilar commented.
“But you know better?”
“Yeah.” Aguilar nodded. “It�
��s taken me long enough, but I’ve come to recognize that certain things about people never change. It’s who they are. With you, it’s your aversion to accepting anything from other people—even good advice.”
Lake didn’t miss the disappointment in Aguilar’s voice, but he didn’t allow himself to dwell on it. He wasn’t going to change his plan just so he could drag Aguilar even farther down into the morass swelling up around him. Particularly not when both security forces and Forest Joki could be involved. If he could have, Lake would’ve left himself out of this mess as well.
But Chief Cullen wanted someone to burn for Holly Ryan’s murder, and he obviously wasn’t going to look too closely at Leaf or Clay—a couple of guys on security payroll. So that left Lake and his contact-chip as Cullen’s primary lead.
Plus Cullen had always hated him, so arresting Lake would be that much more of a bonus.
“How’s the arm?” Aguilar asked.
Lake shrugged and Aguilar shook his head.
“You need a shower.”
“Break it to me gently, why don’t you.” Lake grinned and Aguilar gave a short snort of a laugh. Early during their police partnership, they’d investigated the bacterial vats of a Southblock sewage-recycling compound. After that they weren’t either of them shy about informing the other that he stunk.
“Go on,” Aguilar told him. “I’ll clean up here and get your clothes in the wash.”
“Thanks,” Lake said and he meant it. Not just for the simple domestic considerations, but for both offering his assistance and at the same time respecting Lake’s choice not to entangle him any further.
The wash closet was located in a narrow cubicle of polycrete, hidden away behind the small, barren kitchenette. The woody scent of astringent soap hung in the air, and an infrared drying light radiated a soft hum from the reflective screen. Lake stripped then stepped into the shower stall to scrub himself clean under a hard stream of cool water. Alone, he could admit how badly his arm hurt and how exhausted he felt. Some pathetic part of him wished that he could have accepted Aguilar’s offer and allowed the police to handle everything—particularly interviewing the uncooperative population of the Maze. But he already knew Chief Cullen wouldn’t bother trespassing on Forest Joki’s territory when he could just as happily pin the blame to Lake. Aguilar would be denied permission and end up feeling like shit for offering to help and then not being able to follow through.
Lake leaned against a slick, hyper-hydrophobic wall, closing his eyes and allowing his senses to wander. Beneath his feet he felt the supple mass of the hydrophilic collection sphere drawing in his spent washwater and feeding it down into recycling units. The same water he’d sweated, pissed and drained away today would soon shower down as habitat rain and bubble out as drinking water.
Nothing was ever really gone and done with. Even the water of Sisu Station possessed a long, dirty history. There was probably a philosophical lesson to take from that, but Lake didn’t ponder it too deeply.
Aguilar stepped into the tiny chamber, picked up Lake’s thin flex-armor and discarded clothes. Then he stilled beside the full-length reflecting screen and the towel cabinet.
“Your arm is bleeding again,” Aguilar commented.
Lake nodded. He’d felt a few of the stitches split when he’d jumped that last freight cart. A dark trickle of blood oozed down his forearm, but it didn’t hurt much more than the deep bruises that mottled his shoulder.
“Come on out and I’ll have a look at it.” Aguilar’s tone warned Lake not to make an issue of this. Lake didn’t. He wiped the excess water from his body and stepped out from the wash closet. Behind him, wiper blades swept the last droplets down to be reclaimed. Aguilar tossed Lake’s clothes into his laundry chute and gave the flex-armor a shake. A fine dust of dirt and dried blood flaked off.
Aguilar tossed Lake a small towel. Lake dried his hair and then lifted his arm for Aguilar to inspect. Fat drops of blood spotted Aguilar’s floor. Lake scowled at the smell of it, but Aguilar didn’t seem to mind.
“I’ll keep my personal comm line open tomorrow,” Aguilar said as he retrieved a thin roll of graft-bandage from an inset medicine cabinet. “If you uncover anything tell me, alright?”
“Sure,” Lake replied. “I’ll be the worst-paid informant around.”
“I’ll buy dinner next time.”
Dinner together again. That cheered Lake more than he wanted to admit.
“Deal,” Lake agreed.
Aguilar wrapped Lake’s injury with practiced speed. His hands moved like whispers over Lake’s bare skin. Lake liked it more than was wise. But all too soon, Aguilar withdrew leaving him a pair of soft, clean exercise pants to sleep in. For a moment Lake tried to summon the courage—or maybe it was arrogance—to proposition Aguilar. But at the last instant, he recognized how much he didn’t feel up to accepting the rejection with a grin, just as he’d done years ago. He’d already had a tiring day. He didn’t particularly want to lie awake all night recriminating himself for forcing Aguilar to let him down with awkward and embarrassed kindness.
So instead he challenged Aguilar to a game of smart-paper cards, and the two of them stayed up until midnight bluffing and talking easily about their odd, broken-down childhoods.
Aguilar descended from a long line of rangers tasked with protecting the Svalbard Global Seed Bank while it was dismantled and evacuated to other, more stable worlds. He spun funny stories of his rescue work, searching across vast deserts for tourists who’d stumbled into the killing wastes and mistaken the desolation for an opportunity at adventure. Lake entertained him in return with the story of evenings spent skittering among the giant roaches in the Maze, sipping stolen honeydew, and evading the men searching for him by crawling into the hatchling cells alongside the fat, soft pupae.
“I always shared the honeydew, and after a while most of the roaches knew me well enough to recognize my voice when I hummed to them.”
“You think any of them are still around down there?” Aguilar asked. “The ones who know you, I mean?”
“Could be.” The giant GM roaches of the Maze had been designed to terraform asteroids and lived exceptionally long lives. Though how many had survived the war and its aftermath, Lake wasn’t so certain. “Things get bad enough up here, I’ll go back down and get a job attending the old queen.”
“I happen to have an in with some royalty, myself,” Aguilar commented as he displayed his cards.
Lake smiled at the pun and ceded the game to Aguilar. Neither of them kept an accurate count of who’d won or lost how many hands. Aguilar cleared the smart-paper’s memory and activated a new deal. A fresh series of suits and numbers dimpled up from the cards’ surfaces. Lake felt two jacks and an ace humming against his fingers.
Their conversation turned naturally to the absurdities of their current jobs; Aguilar had busted a Drift smuggling ring that ended up constituting six undercover agents from different security divisions all attempting to entrap each other with baggies of actual bath salts.
“The missing-person report that got me involved turned out to be one of the undercover agents reporting herself missing, so that she could claim to have murdered a pig.”
“They need more to do up in the Drift,” Lake commented, and Aguilar nodded.
Then Lake confessed to the flustering day he broke into a hotel room after witnessing strange shadowy movements through the blinds and mistaking them for an assault. Inside he’d discovered the philandering husband he’d been following wrestling somewhat erotically with a large robotic kangaroo.
“Really?” Aguilar asked.
“Yep.” Lake laughed. “Bouncy, bouncy, fun, fun, fun. Printed on the box on the bed.”
Lake redealt the cards. They played a couple of more hands. Aguilar yawned and stretched.
“We should get together more often. I’ve really missed your company.” He said it quietly, and laid down two pairs.
“My company does have a certain appeal. You should consider it
for full-time,” Lake replied. It embarrassed him to feel his face growing flushed, and he decided to play the suggestion off as a joke. “The hours are a little long but the pay is astoundingly lousy.”
“Yeah?” Aguilar laughed, playing along. “How about the benefits package?”
Lake very nearly responded that he thought Aguilar had been endowed with a big enough package already—but caught himself.
“The benefits are mostly bathtub gin and spider milk.”
Aguilar laughed again and shook his head. “You make is sound very tempting, but I might have to sleep on the offer.”
A few minutes later Aguilar withdrew to his bedroom. Lake lay awake on the couch studying the displays of cacti and admiring the beauty of their thorns. Even after he switched off his optics, he concentrated on the sharp patterns of their spines to keep his longing and curiosity from reaching out to the muscular weight of Aguilar’s warm sleeping body.
When he slept he dreamed of soft voices whispering secrets just beyond his hearing.
5.
Stowing away on Dr. Gim’s mobile clinic proved as easy as Lake remembered—he slid in between high-grav surgical machinery and reinforced crates of medical supplies.
Though his plan turned out to be not particularly original.
Three Maze-born women all smuggling fresh spider milk joined him for the journey down into the humid darkness. Lake tapped out Morse greetings against the eldest woman’s extended hand, paying her respect and acknowledging that he hailed from Mrs. Saari’s territory. Her flesh felt dry and thin like tissue paper wrapped around the solid stone of her thick bones. She smiled at Lake, flashing teeth as dense as limestone cliffs.
As the clinic descended, Lake felt the gravitational waves around him growing more pronounced and the electromagnetic fields snapping into clear definition. Perceptions that up on the Arc came to him as vague—often hazy as if a fog drifted through the station—focused into sharp definition. Lake’s skin tingled and shivered with the sudden rush of sensations. Just beyond the sheen of the hyper-glass walls of the infirmary, dense, iron-heavy tunnels surrounded them, as did the large, ghostly forms of the GM-roaches that maintained the shafts and laid down the chemical trails that conducted electricity through so much of the Maze.
