by eden Hudson
Taern isn’t the richest city in Emden—you’ve got to get up toward the Crystal Lakes before you approach a development that would be in my tax bracket if I cared enough to pay taxes—but it is the largest and most economically homogenous because of the steady presence of ancillary Guild-related work. You don’t see a bunch of street urchins running around trying to steal tourists’ wallets or night trawlers out pushing chems and whores. Don’t get me wrong, the night trawlers do exist—Taernites need their chems and whores so they can forget the soul-crushing grind of mediocrity just like any other upper-middle-class city does—but they’ve at least got the self-importance and the cash to be discreet about it.
My loft is in a bank of old riverside warehouses that were converted into high-end apartments back in the late 920s. I’d heard about the deal early and bought one of the buildings and had it renovated to my specifications as a birthday present to myself.
As I pulled up, my wristpiece opened the garage door. I parked the Mangshan inside, between the dragonfly-iridescent Culebra—with optional street-illegal ferrous block, full shieldnav, and heated leather seats—and a rodded-out Pelotas Negras so classic that I had four-by-four collectors on my tail every time I went out tooling around in it. Even though the ’Shan has an acid rain protectant topcoat, I sprayed it down with clean water and wiped it dry. People who don’t take care of their stuff don’t deserve to have it.
Then I took the elevator up to the second floor—the place has stairs, but why bother if you’ve got an elevator?—where I kept my metal machining tools. I grabbed a couple modern lock kits just in case, several of the analog picks and wrenches I’d machined for First Earth locks, a slip bar, and a full case of RustMelt-60. You never know what level of corrosion you’ll be facing in previously unlooted sunken cities. All of that fit into my biggest travel bag with plenty of room left over for ventilator filter refills, shoulder waders, and a wetsuit rated for artic saltwater temps.
With the business essentials gathered up, I headed upstairs to pack the Jubal essentials.
The likelihood that I would be sleeping on the ground at least one night out of the upcoming expedition was high, especially if that stop-off at the village where the Guild’s pals had been massacred took more than a day. If the Guild did happen to provide tents, they wouldn’t be anywhere close to comfortable, so I shoved a nanoskeleton tent and a six-pack of Infl8abeds into my personal bag, along with a few changes of clothes, SemperDry socks and underwear, and all-purpose repellent.
I stopped in the kitchen and tossed the bags onto the butcher block island counter. The Guild would probably send along something with caloric content that knights considered edible, but that didn’t mean much. Especially now, considering Carina had survived eighteen months in a prison pit by eating what I assumed was less legitimate food and more close-straying rodentia supplemented with human waste products. After that, even those health balls the fitness freaks were always chomping on probably seemed palatable.
This was going to be a problem. I didn’t have much by way of premade food items. At mealtimes, I dined out—or as was the case more often lately, I ordered in and ate while I researched potential cures for PCM. The only thing I currently had of the nonperishable variety was double-chocolate caramel cookie-crunch bars. I unwrapped one and took a bite while I considered the food situation.
My wristpiece beeped a message notification.
CX 21:06:08 Investigatory team’s filled out. Flight leaves at 0100. Meet at the airport, Guild gate.
JVZ 21:06:52 Did that fall give you brain damage?
CX 21:07:03 ?
JVZ 21:07:12 I’m not leaving a custom Mangshan VII-series in an airport parking lot, Carina.
JVZ 21:07:56 That would be begging to get it stolen or parted out.
CX 21:09:35 So take a cab.
JVZ 21:09:40 Now I know you’ve got brain damage.
Seconds ticked by without a response.
JVZ 21:09:49 Don’t pretend like you don’t want to see where the magic happens.
Still nothing from Carina.
JVZ 21:10:11 It’s on your way, asshole!
CX 21:10:21 Fine. Send me a nav location.
I messaged her a nav marker near the end of the block of warehouses farthest from mine, then wadded up the fistful of wrappers that had accumulated while I’d been on my wristpiece. There were a few more there than I recalled eating.
It’s time to grow up, Jubal. You’re not a cute little roll of baby fat anymore. When a woman looks at you now—if she can stand to—what she sees is a spongy, festering lard-ass who’ll smother her while he’s fucking her. You’re not an asset anymore, you’re a repellant.
“Not so, Lorne, not so,” I said, and opened up one more cookie-crunch bar for good measure. I had yet to meet a woman who wouldn’t trip all over herself to hop into bed with me.
Besides, by the time the beautiful corpse was done, there wouldn’t be an ounce of slack left in my gut, and even the old man would have a hard time finding a flaw to tear down the psyche of the body left behind.
I giggled and shoved the crumpled wrappers down to the bottom of the kitchen trashcan for the housekeeper to deal with whenever she came by. The remaining cookie-crunch bars I dumped into my bag. The more festering flab I put on now, the longer I would probably survive while the PCM tried to eat it away.
***
Nickie-boy’s junker pulled onto the riverfront street at a quarter to midnight. I pushed off of a set of chipped, red-painted steps that weren’t mine and picked up my bags.
Nick graciously twisted around in the driver’s seat to open the back door for me because that door’s exterior handle had broken off sometime before the conception of our great-grandfathers.
“Nice ride you got here,” I said as I shoved their luggage and armor out of my way and climbed into the ripped, time-weathered embrace of the sackcloth backseat. The junker’s interior was like the exterior’s fatter, uglier sister. “What is it, a Xenith?”
Nickie didn’t answer, just shot me a glare in the cracked rearview as we drove off into the Taern night.
“It’s a hobby custom,” Carina said without turning around to face me. “Nick built it himself when we were kids.”
“It shows,” I said.
“Cute,” she said, her voice flat. “But Nick isn’t just some hobbyist pretending to be a motorhead. He redesigned the mech armor the recon knights use, and when we get to the front, we’ll be riding in one of the personnel carriers he designed for high swamp patrol.”
“So that’s how you got the Bloodslinger in the sack.” I leaned forward and nudged Nickie’s shoulder over the seat. “The old idiot-savant routine. Good choice.”
Carina’s eyes narrowed. She started to open her mouth, but Nick beat her to it.
“I’ve been working on a new project over the last couple hours,” he said. “It’s a prison cell. Once you’re in, it’s impossible to get out. I thought it’d be fun to toss you in and throw away the key after you turn on Carina again.”
“You’re already done with the sex dungeon mindscape, then? Is that what you two crazy kids got up to while I was busy packing? Doing a little nasty noodling?”
“Sure, Van Zandt,” Carina said. “Not checking supply orders, confirming our transportation paperwork, double-checking immuno records and ICOD arrangements, or going over the operations procedures for an investigation in a warzone.”
“Good, that other stuff sounds boring as shit. Now about this transportation. You said we were taking a Guild flight, so I assume first class is out of the question.”
“You didn’t pay for the team’s mobilization,” Carina said. “You want Guild protection and to tag along on Guild missions—”
“Then you fly in Guild air-dumpsters,” I finished for her, shooting a finger gun at her reflection in the rearview mirror even though she was reading something on her wristpiece. No apparent audience is no excuse for laziness. “So you built this thing, huh, Nickie-boy? She isn’t m
uch to look at, but she sounds belt-driven. Did you model it after the First Earth vehicles?”
Nick grunted an affirmative.
“It has a repeater, though, right?” I asked. “I mean, you’re not stopping to refuel every ten miles, are you?”
“Those calculations were proven incorrect,” he said.
“Because they didn’t account for the atmospheric conditions and their effect on fossil fuels at the time of use?” I said, raising my left eyebrow just enough to convey friendly skepticism. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that old saw. Even with the more recently estimated six hundred miles to a tank, that’s still pretty inconvenient. What was the purpose of modeling this piece off of a First Earth vehicle?”
He shrugged one massive slab of shoulder. “Finding out whether having a repeater and a belt would overcharge the core.”
I waited.
He didn’t continue.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense, Nickie! Did it?”
“She’s still running.”
I leaned over the seat. “You’re trying to tell me that this thing is essentially regaining fuel half-life. How many times have you replaced the core?”
“Haven’t had to yet.”
I whistled. That was actually pretty damn impressive. By contrast, a crotchrocket like the ’Shan needed its core replaced every couple of years because of the rate of fuel decay. It should’ve been once a year in something as unwieldy as this piece of junk.
“I can see why you hang on to her,” I said. “Additionally, I bet she holds a lot of sentimental value.”
“It was the first piece of heavy machinery I designed and built on my own,” Nick said.
“You probably know her like the inside of your fist,” I said.
“Should by now.”
“And I bet if I pointed to each one of these cum stains back here, you could name the lucky girl, where you were parked, and how premature the ejaculation was.”
Nickie-boy twisted his head around, trying to look over his shoulder. “There aren’t any cum stains back there.”
“Your mouth says no, but your sheepish eyes say yes,” I said. “Seriously. How many gals have you had back here? Or are these solo projects?”
He shook his head, but couldn’t dredge up a response. This was as much fun as arguing made-up facts with an autistic kid.
“Carina,” I said, turning to her. “Which one of these was you? Tell the truth.”
She didn’t even look up from her wristpiece.
Nickie-boy, on the other hand, took the bait. “You pond scum—”
“Don’t, Nick,” Carina said. “You’ll just encourage him. He likes negative attention.”
“That’s true,” I said, meeting Nickie-boy’s eyes in the rearview. “Besides, I’m just joshing you. Carina and I joke around like this all the time. It’s our thing—one of them, anyway.”
His thin lips twisted into a smirk, and he went back to watching the road. “Yeah, I bet you two got along great.”
The self-satisfied tone of voice coming from that meathead set my teeth on edge.
“Like two Ds in a V,” I said.
On the other side of the front seat, Carina shot Nick an amused look. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was telling Nickie-boy to play nice.
“That makes sense,” he said. He even looked at me in the mirror when he delivered what he thought was the killing blow. “Carina gets along great with people she doesn’t like. That’s what made her so good at interrogations.”
“And at being engaged?” I said.
That knocked the smug look off Nickie-boy’s face. His fists tightened on the steering wheel.
Fucking amateur.
I grinned and leaned back in my seat. “Should’ve quit while you were ahead, Nickie-boy. When you take away the air of mystery, there’s nothing left to fester.”
***
Traffic through Taern was at a record low—even for the middle of the night—so Nickie’s junker got us to the airport in under an hour. We parked in the Guild lot and got out.
“Let me get that, babe.” Nick went around to the passenger side back door and hefted both of their duffels and mesh bags of armor out of the backseat.
Carina smiled the smile of somebody who has tried for a long time to get her significant other to let her pack her own bag, but who has come to appreciate the motivation behind the gesture. Nickie-boy gave her a dopey grin.
I caught Carina’s eye. She looked away immediately, brushing a stray strand of hair off of her scars and tucking it behind her ear.
I shouldered my bags. “Make her pack her own shit, Nickie. She’s putting on an act for attention. You don’t want to encourage that kind of behavior.”
“How about you mind your own business, breaker?” Nickie-boy growled. He slammed the door shut.
“Everything is my business,” I told him. “It’s all part of the same knot.”
Incapable of thinking up a suitable response, Nickie huffed a little puff of air out his fat nose and started walking. Carina fell into step by his side.
I watched her legs for signs that her limp had changed since that afternoon, but the slight hitch in her gait was the same, possibly a little more pronounced. So either she wasn’t faking or she was very, very good at faking.
The interior of the airport was more deserted than the streets had been. More people were at the Guild’s dedicated gate than in the entire rest of the terminal. Knights packing dirty armor and duffels debarked out of the jetway. A few nodded at Nickie-boy. Several stared openly at Carina.
One big bruiser bumped Nickie’s bicep with her forearm as we passed. “I heard the new nav screen mods are killer. Recon gets to play with all the good toys first.” She lifted her helmet. “When do you think we’ll get them down in Infantry?”
Nick shrugged his I-beams. “Soon as Superior puts a round of third-tier mods in the budget.”
She smirked. “So never.”
“If you want top-shelf, go through recon next selection,” Nickie-boy said, his gay-bullwolves-humping voice taking on the unmistakable sound of friendly teasing.
The big bruiser laughed. “And get all soft and spoiled?” Her eyes flicked over to Carina, and she pretended that she’d just noticed who was with Nick. “Bloodslinger? When I left, word around the Guild was you were dead.”
“You know how that goes,” Carina said, smiling easily.
“Nobody’s dead ’til we’ve got a body.” The knight did a terrible job of mirroring Carina’s smile. “Well, that’s great news. For both of you.” She punched Nick in the shoulder. “I know Beau was crushed…for a while there.”
Carina just shrugged and said, “Got to keep up appearances.”
The knight tried not to frown while she processed whether what Carina had said was a dig at her.
“Well, it’s good that you’re alive.” She looked at everything Nickie-boy was carrying, then pointedly inspected Carina from head to toe. “And don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be back in shape in no time. I mean, it’s not like you had a lot of muscle mass to start with.”
“Actually, I’m hoping to milk another few weeks of Nick carrying my bags out of this deal,” Carina said.
I threw back my head and cackled. Teach that artless bitch to delude herself into thinking she was a threat.
No-Threat sized me up. “And you are?”
“Too pretty for you, sister,” I said, shooting her a wink and a finger gun.
Her dull eyes narrowed. Then she turned back to Nick, and real warmth seeped back into her smile.
“Next project,” she said, “Mark it For Infantry Only.”
“Sure,” Nick said. “Some big shoulder-mounted swellshots so you dipweeds can actually hit something.”
No-Threat laughed. “See you around the building, Beau,” she said. As an afterthought, she included Carina with, “Bloodslinger.”
“Rayne.” Carina nodded absently, her attention already on the other side of the terminal.
He bumped it with his. “You, too.”
Then she slung her dirty, dented armor over her wide shoulder and headed off into the terminal.
“You guys were awfully chummy,” I said to Nick. “Is she the one you boned while Carina was in Soam? I can’t believe I didn’t feel the seismic disturbance.”
Nickie-boy’s fist clenched, and barbwire tines dug into his thick wrist, but he didn’t look my way or try to deny anything. He just turned and strode toward the far end of the gate.
“He sure told me,” I said to Carina.
She was watching Nickie-boy go. “If Nick’s ex-girlfriend flirting with him while I’m standing right here doesn’t bother me, what makes you think that accusing him of cheating will?”
“We both know that chick’s not a real threat,” I said. “And we both know that I am.”
Carina shrugged in that way she did when she didn’t feel like something required a response, then she followed her fiancé.
Nick was waiting for us outside of the jetway with a small group of knights. All of them had the telltale dark skin that came from the Guild’s genetic tampering, even the old fart. He must’ve been a first-generation upgrade from the Modified Baby Boom.
By far the most interesting member of the group was a willowy, cacao powder beauty standing next to a stack of space-dust purple and toxic-waste green armor.
I pointed at the armor. “Because why leave getting shot up to chance?”
She grinned, and dimples popped into her cheeks. “I haven’t been shot in the head yet. The bright colors are too distracting. Plus, they match my manicure.” She splayed her fingers in front of me, each nail decaled with purple and green stripes like psychedelic disruptive camouflage.
“Do you change your armor every time you change your nails?” I asked.
She clasped her hands in front of her half-cup-of-sugar breasts and grinned. “I’ve got three suits I rotate out, but knights are only allowed to bring one per mission.”
I grinned. “Let me guess, they made that rule because of you?”
“You’re darn right they did, cutie.” As she said it, she crossed one ankle behind the other and gave a little half curtsy, half hip wiggle. Watching her was enough to give somebody eye-diabetes. “That’s why I got out of the warzone as soon as I could and got into city enforcement; I can wear anything I want now, as long as I’ve got my badge on.”
