“Veda Kovaks is a plebian, too,” Jonah pointed out. “She’s lived in the Capitol her whole life.”
“In spirit she is, absolutely. Just like you.” Brenden’s glance was sharp.
“So that’s where I am.” He didn’t deny it or try to argue with it. He was still trying to sort out the hierarchy within the Spanner faction. Besides, he still hadn’t committed to their cause yet. He wouldn’t tell Brendan that.
Brenden was the perfect man to lead the union of fans, to organize them to do the bidding of the Spanner faction leaders. He had always been an outspoken man with anti-authority ideas. But he was also a hard worker and a gifted teacher, which had prevented him from being kicked out of the institution for his radical leanings. His ability to direct others would be useful to the faction and no one would doubt his passion for the cause.
Jonah managed to keep their conversation to less sensitive subjects after that, simply by asking Brenden what he had been doing for the last six years. Brenden told him about the serial relationships he’d had with a range of women, all of them astringent and crumbling apart when the women realized he was more devoted to tankball than them.
Jonah was rapidly coming to the realization that tankball was just a euphemism for something far more serious.
At the arena, Brenden led Jonah to one of the private boxes on the top tier. The gate controller opened the beam without argument and Brenden clapped Jonah on the shoulder and turned away.
“You’re not coming in?” Jonah asked.
“Me? In there?” Brenden laughed and rolled his eyes. “I’ve got things to do, anyway.” He waved and slipped back into the crowd.
His curiosity raging, Jonah went through the gate and into the box.
Veda Novaks was sitting in the front corner of the box. She waved Jonah over and patted the thickly upholstered seat next to her. “I am pleased to see you.”
Jonah had a feeling she meant it.
“Brenden Coin almost forced me here.” He sat next to her.
“We thought an old friend would add some inducement to our offer.” She smiled at him, her old eyes sparkling. Then she leaned forward to look around him. “Jonah, do you know Rik Buellens?”
Jonah looked to his left. There were eight seats in the front row and at the far end sat a corpulent man with a red, shining face and thinning hair. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, although his plain black shirt and trousers were a close casual substitute.
Jonah had spent hours on the Forum lately, reading personal profiles and figuring out relationships and role-players, so he knew exactly who Buellens was. Lieutenant of the Bridge Division of the Bridge Guard. He controlled security on the Bridge itself, while Marlow Fitzgerald had to manage security on the rest of the ship with her one division.
Buellens looked extremely uncomfortable. He was fidgeting and his back wasn’t against the chair. He wasn’t a committed faction member, then. Novaks had invited him here to test him.
“You’re from the Capitol, originally, aren’t you?” Jonah asked him. It was a simple question, one anyone would ask someone new to them.
Buellen shifted uneasily on his chair. “I live in the Aventine,” he said shortly.
That would explain why he was looking so uncomfortable, sitting in the company of a well-known plebeian.
“I lived there once,” Jonah said.
Buellen looked at him, startled.
“Jonah was raised in the Palatine,” Veda Novaks added.
Buellen frowned. “You’re Jonah Solomon?”
“In the flesh,” Jonah told him.
Hawks players tumbled out of the team entrance to the tank to start their warm up and enthusiastic cheers went up from the audience that was already seated. The players all floated at the top level of the tank, stretching and rolling in the zero gravity. Some were diving down to the lower levels, then bouncing themselves off the walls to climb back up to the top. The ball, set at null gravity, was being tossed from player to player.
All the uniforms in the tank were the Hawks’ dark purple.
“No Bullets yet?” Jonah asked.
Veda rolled her eyes. “They want to make an entrance. They’re wearing the new uniforms for the first time tonight.”
That explained why the Hawks were confining themselves to the far end of the tank. They were letting the Bullets take center stage for the revelation, which was cooperative of them. It was also unusual. They might both be patrician teams, yet there was no love lost between them.
Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention and Jonah looked over to the far left, where the tank wall straightened out from its curve around the end of the tank. The box in the center of the tank was filling with people.
Among them, Jonah spotted the dark head of Captain David Sekar. He was shaking hands and chatting as he moved around to the front of the center chair to sit down for the game.
Sekar was getting close to fifty years of age. He looked much younger, especially from a distance. He had a slender build that he tried to disguise by wearing coats and jackets that exaggerated his shoulders. The slightness of his stature was reflected in his thin cheeks and the long line of his nose.
As he settled in his seat, a wave of boos and hisses sounded, loud enough to wash over the arena.
Sekar hesitated, halfway through sitting down. He looked startled.
Jonah peered through the transparent walls of the tank, to the other side of the arena where the sound had come from.
Brenden Coin was sitting in the third row from the bottom, waving his fist and shouting. So were dozens of others around him.
A woman with long dark hair wound up on top of her head squeezed Captain Sekar’s arm and spoke quickly and quietly to him.
Sekar settled himself and turned to speak to the man next to him, as if he hadn’t heard the negative sound at all. As Jonah watched, he reached into his pants pocket. It looked as though he pulled something out. Jonah was too far away to see what it was. Sekar gripped it in his fist, hiding it.
There was a small trumpet blare, then the other team door opened and the Bullets tumbled out into the zero gravity, wearing the new uniforms.
Cheers went up, much louder this time, as if they were trying to compensate for the sudden and unexpected sour note that had just occurred.
Jonah stared at the Bullets players, his heart thudding. The uniforms were a combination of the red the Bullets had always used and a second color, a purple that wasn’t nearly as dark as the Hawk’s uniform…however, it was purple and there was far more of it than there was red.
“Well, well….” Veda murmured next to him. “There’s a declaration if ever I’ve seen one.”
The Hawks players rolled through the air, gliding over to the Bullets, to shake their hands and swat their shoulders.
More declarations, Jonah realized.
“Do you still believe that tankball is just tankball, Mr. Solomon?” Veda asked, very quietly.
Jonah looked at her. “Dream Hawks and Panthers are Palatine teams and they all have some sort of purple in their uniforms. The Delta Bullets, the Warriors and the Buccaneers are Aventine. The Warriors and the Buccaneers use purple trim of one shade or another. Now the Bullets are using it, too. That’s all the patrician teams, all using purple.”
“The Spanners wear brown,” Veda said.
“The Blues don’t,” Jonah said. “But they’re the only plebeian team that doesn’t.”
“How long do you think that will last?” Veda asked him.
He gripped the rail of the box wall, watching the teams warm up. Then he looked back at the Captain, who was watching the two teams even more closely.
Buellens wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. “I should maybe…I should go.”
“Don’t do that, Mr. Buellens,” Conrad Sansone said from the row of chairs behind Jonah. “I arranged this drink for you.” He leaned forward and held out toward Buellens a large, frosty glass with a beverage in it that was deep red a
t the bottom of the glass, fading to soft yellow at the top.
Buellens looked at the glass. “A Crimson Aurora. How did you get one made? The drink mixer here can’t handle it, usually.”
“This was human-made,” Sansone said and pushed it into Buellen’s hands. “I know someone with a flair for mixing drinks.”
Buellens sat back and sipped the drink, looking slightly happier.
Conrad Sansone smiled at Jonah and turned his attention to the tank.
Most of the players had left the tank. The remaining ten starting players aligned on opposite sides, waiting for the ball to drop from the center chute.
The seats around the arena were nearly all filled now and as the tension mounted, waiting for the ball to drop, the clapping and stomping began. The noise level in the arena spiraled higher.
When the ball dropped, showing red for the heaviest gravity rating and heading for the lower levels like a bullet, the players dived after it while the fans went wild with excitement.
Jonah made himself comfortable. Watching a game from a top tier box was very different from the lower row seats he was usually limited to. He even tried the pastry rolls that were passed around on a small tray. He left his unfinished. Agatha’s cakes and preserves and cream were much better, in his estimation.
The game was interesting, just not interesting enough to hold his full attention. He didn’t care which team won. He had no wagers on the outcome, although he had noticed many of the tell-tale huddles of three people out on the concourse as two bet each other and the third witnessed the arrangement. Those were merely side-bets among friends. Bigger bets for much high stakes were made outside the arena and usually days or weeks before a game.
Jonah had never had enough of anything to spare for betting on a game, even if he had been interested in doing so. For some people he knew it was the entire purpose of the tankball games.
When the first period wound on without a score he let his gaze wander away from the tank and across the rows of seats. The walls of the tank were nearly invisible, giving everyone a perfect view inside the tank. It also let him watch the people on the other side of the tank, as they screamed and cheered and clapped, encouraging their team.
Marlow Fitzgerald was standing on the steps leading down to the lower rows. She was on duty. The black uniform made her almost invisible in the low lighting under the higher tiers. She was watching Brenden’s group of rowdy fans as they bounced in their seats. They were all hardcore Spanners fans, yet they were acting just like all the other fans around them.
Had the lieutenant been drawn over there by the booing at the beginning of the game? Most likely, Jonah decided.
From here, it would look as if he was simply watching the game, so he could afford to let his gaze linger on her.
If anything, he had underestimated her beauty. She had a curvy figure the black uniform couldn’t disguise. She looked lean yet she had muscle packed away somewhere, as Jonah could attest.
As usual, her hair was tightly controlled and pinned to her head so it wouldn’t get in the way. It left the curve of her jaw undisguised and exaggerated the slender column of her throat.
It also left her full lips revealed, for him to consider.
He wondered how long her hair was and if there was any curl in it. His hand twitched as in the far back of his mind, he felt the silky slide of a tendril of hair over the back of his hand.
He imagined the softness of her skin beneath his fingers.
Would that curve of her hip fit into his palm as neatly as he suspected it would?
The blare of the period end siren was a shock and he almost jumped in his seat. He stirred and looked around, blinking, as he brought his attention back to the arena and normal, everyday thoughts, instead of fantasies that would never happen.
Veda leaned toward him. “You should chat with Mr. Buellen,” she suggested in a low voice. “He would be an interesting friend to cultivate.”
That was why Brenden had dragged him there, Jonah realized. If he “cultivated” Rik Buellens as Veda suggested, then he would be locking both himself and Buellens into the Spanner faction.
He still wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet. He got to his feet. “I’ll be back in a moment or two,” he told Veda. He nodded at Buellens, who was finishing off the last of the Crimson Aurora and looking far more relaxed than he had at the start of the game.
With a touch of relief, Jonah hurried out onto the public concourse and looked around. He was tempted to leave right now and head back to the apartment, except that would be making a declaration about his loyalties, too.
He shoved his hand through his hair, feeling a low grade frustration. Time was ticking on. He couldn’t go on forever without either committing to the Spanners and whatever their agenda was, or telling Veda no.
Not knowing exactly what they wanted from him didn’t help him with the decision. As Veda had said, tankball really wasn’t about tankball. Not anymore. He needed to find out what the Spanners and their little group of leaders intended to do with their building influence upon shipboard life. It didn’t help that they now had a lieutenant of the Bridge Guard looking at them favorably.
He knew that Veda had coaxed Buellens here tonight because Nicolo Hayim had been sitting with the Palatine faction the other night.
“Damn it…” he muttered, looking around. He had nothing to trade for a drink, except for daily rations and they were already accounted for as part of the household’s food budget. He could murder a drink right now.
Someone caught his elbow and pulled him into the crowd. He looked around, startled. He hadn’t seen anyone approaching him.
It was Marlow Fitzgerald.
“I’d like a few words with you,” she said.
“Where I was standing wasn’t good enough to chat?”
“No. Your friends in the box could look out through the gate and see us.” Her fingers were iron clamps around the back of his arm, just above the elbow. Even through the jacket he was wearing, she had a grip on him he wouldn’t be able to wrench out of easily. Her fingers couldn’t reach around the full width of his arm, yet they were digging in deep, so the sinews and tendons were inside her grip. If he tried hard enough to pull away, he’d damage his elbow.
The strength of her grip was astonishing, for a woman.
“You can let go. I’ll come with you,” he said.
“Not much farther,” she said. She hadn’t looked at him once, he realized. She was concentrating on pulling them through the crowd, crossing over to the other side, where the bars and the refreshment tables were.
There was a little pocket of almost-empty space between two of the tables. She headed toward it. The two teenage boys standing with their heads together looked up as they approached, their eyes wide.
“Move on,” Marlow said shortly.
They scurried past them and hurried away, tugging each other into moving faster.
When had the sight of a uniform begun to put such fear into people?
Marlow turned, bringing Jonah around so that his back was to the wall. She was blocking his way out between the tables.
The people serving drinks and little snacks at the tables glanced at them, just as surprised as the two boys had been. They returned to their jobs quickly and carefully didn’t look at them again.
Marlow didn’t appear to notice the uneasy glances they were getting, yet Jonah didn’t think she had missed them. She was too good at her job.
He looked at her. “Now you can speak?”
She crossed her arms. “You’re mixing with interesting company, Mr. Solomon.”
“You noticed. I’m flattered.”
Her eyes narrowed, just a little. They really were a wonderful color. Pure and deep.
“I’m not the only one who will take note of who sits beside you, up there in the box,” she said. “So far, Mr. Solomon, you have done nothing to draw the attention of the Red Guard, or my division. But these people you are with tonight—”
“Rik Beullens is dangerous company?” Jonah asked, genuinely curious.
“You know that’s not who I’m talking about,” she snapped.
“You’re not concerned about the company Buellens is keeping?” he asked.
“I didn’t say that…” She frowned, as if she had suddenly grown aware of the verbal trap he had laid. “Please focus on the point I am trying to make.”
“You’re referring to Sansone and Veda Novaks, I presume.”
She glanced over her shoulder, barely moving her head to do it. It was only because he was watching her so closely that he saw it for himself. She dropped her arms and leaned forward a tiny fraction. “If you persist in keeping their company, Solomon, I am sure they will acquaint you with the fact that the Bridge Guards have lists of people on the Endurance that we keep tabs on. Close tabs.”
He shook off the miasmic effect that her sway toward him had created and considered what she had said. “I didn’t know you do that. It’s not really a surprise, though. What do you do with the people on your lists, if they don’t behave?”
She let out a breath. “I would really rather you don’t find that out through personal experience, Mr. Solomon.”
“You’re warning me,” he breathed. “Why?”
She blinked. “Take the warning to heart, Mr. Solomon. We—all the divisions of the Bridge Guard—are very good at what we do. You really do not want the Red Guard to think of you as a trouble maker.”
“I honestly thought you had me tagged as one already,” Jonah replied.
“Everyone is entitled to say what they think, Mr. Solomon, even if no one else on the ship agrees with them.”
“There are a lot of people that agree with me,” he said swiftly.
“Which is why you being spotted in the company of those in the box who are waiting for you is such a bad idea.” Something shifted in her eyes and her shoulders straightened. “Are we clear?” Her tone abruptly returned to officious and directive.
Jonah compared the snappy tone to the way she had just been speaking. She had started out speaking shortly, yet it had changed so subtly in the last minute or so he had missed it. “You’re worried about me,” he said slowly, wonderingly.
Yesterday's Legacy Page 5
