The Dark Imbalance
Page 8
She nodded: that much at least was true.
“Do you have any other agents working in this area?” she asked.
“A few,” he told her. “But nowhere near enough. Right now there are seven hundred and fifty-eight known Castes in Sol System, Morgan, not counting Pristine. Some are wildly Exotic; some are down the other end of the scale from the Skehan Heterodox—almost Low Castes.”
“And High Humans?” she said.
He shook his head briefly. “None that we are aware of,” he said. “But if you find anything that suggests there are, we’d be keen to hear about them too.”
She was keen on the Box’s behalf to avoid that subject. “So basically,” she said, “if I find something, you take the credit. If I don’t, or if I get into trouble, you disown me, right?”
“Obviously we will do everything in our power to help you,” Nemeth said, “but our power is not unlimited. Unless you give us a reason to come forward, I’m afraid the Ulterior must remain just that.”
She nodded slowly. “And will I have to pledge allegiance to the Ulterior? Swear a secret oath? Sign my name in blood, perhaps?”
He grinned. “Your word will be fine,” he said.
“Okay,” Roche said after a deep breath. “For lack of a better option at this time, we have a deal.”
“Good,” he said, smiling and extending a hand. She just looked at it. “If you’re still worried about that genetic sample,” he said, “you should know that I’m more likely to get a decent one from the armrest you’ve been leaning on than from shaking your hand.”
She relented and took his hand.
“And not a moment too soon,” he said.
The air-car had begun to decelerate and drift toward the wall. The bright patches passed more slowly than before, and Roche caught glimpses of endless docks like the one through which she’d arrived: row after row of airlock inner doors, ramps, and floating cargo-lifters. All empty. For all the traffic she had seen, the ship might have been completely sealed.
And maybe it was, Roche thought. That might have been the only option open to the Heresiarch and the council in order to prevent contagion.
“Oh,” said Nemeth as they approached an opening and braked still farther, “there is one more thing.”
“There always is,” she said.
“We’d like you to take one of us with you.”
“What? You? Forget it.”
He managed to affect a hurt expression. “No,” he said. “Not me. And not on board your ship, either. He’ll have his own. But we’d like him there as backup, an observer—or a bodyguard, if you like.”
They slid smoothly out of the duct and into the docks.
“As insurance?” she said.
“The only true necessity in all the universe,” he said. “Or so I’ve been led to believe.”
Before she could say anything, the air-car reached a safe travel speed and the partition between the front and back seats evaporated along with the rest of the cushioning bubble. They decelerated still further, heading for the dock where the scutter was waiting.
Unable to talk in privacy, Roche could only stare in alarm at the atypically enormous Surin warrior standing in full battle-dress at the inner door of their dock.
“You can’t be serious,” she said.
“It was the only way to get the Surin off our backs,” Nemeth said. “Officially they want to make sure your young ward here is treated well; unofficially, they want in on the action.” His eyes were hard. “You should be glad it’s not an Olmahoi grayboot as well.”
“Someone with a little more subtlety would’ve been better.”
“I think you’ll find our friend here quite suited to your task.”
She grunted dubiously. “Any other surprises I should know about?”
“No,” Nemeth said as the air-car slid to a halt. “At least, none that I’m aware of...”
4
HHAB Dark Stressor
955.1.30
1155
Finding the sort of people she wanted was almost ridiculously easy. Finding the right person, however, was proving to be a little more difficult.
“I don’t give a damn what you think, De Bruyn,” said the obese Exotic on the far side of the partition, his voice a deep and guttural drawl. He had a tic on the left side of his body that seemed to move of its own accord: first his eyelid would twitch, then one finger, then a muscle in his neck, then something under the table would thump as his foot kicked out at nothing.
“You don’t, huh?” She leaned forward and slid the partition aside, not caring anymore about his Caste’s preference to avoid close personal contact.
“No, I don’t,” he repeated, backing away uneasily. His entire left side twitched—eye, finger, neck muscle, et al.—simultaneously. “What do we need someone like you for, anyway?”
“I told you,” she said. “I have contacts; I can make things easier for you.”
He snorted. “I don’t see how getting dragged into this personal grudge of yours will make life easier,” he said. “Grudges are bad for business. They can get messy.”
She feigned indignation. “Now, who said anything about a grudge, Ken’an?”
“It’s in your eyes,” he said. “It’s in the way you bargain. You’re after something real bad—so bad you’re practically drooling. People don’t salivate for money, in my experience. The stomach rumbles for betrayal, revenge, hatred, jealousy...”
She retreated slightly. Maybe he wasn’t so stupid after all. Still, she’d hoped for better. “So much for mercenaries,” she said dismissively.
“If it’s mercenaries you want, talk to Uyeno Lenz. He’ll do anything for a quick credit.”
“Yeah, including knife me the moment my back is turned.”
“A distinct possibility,” he said. “But I can’t help you, De Bruyn. Like I said, getting involved in your personal grudge would be bad for business.” He slid his seat back and shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I have standards.”
“Yeah,” she muttered to herself, watching him waddle away from the table. “Just not very high ones.”
He was right, of course. She had no interest in the petty power-squabbles boiling in the vacuum of Sol System. She didn’t care who came out on top in whose transplanted regional politics. All she wanted was someone to help her keep an eye on Morgan Roche—and more, if necessary.
De Bruyn shouldered her way back to the bar, where an orange-clad Exotic refilled her glass. She wasn’t drinking anything alcoholic; she wanted to keep her head clear.
“I’m looking for Uyeno Lenz,” she said.
The bartender gave her a noncommittal shrug as he took some empty glasses away.
“You don’t want to do business with him,” said a deep voice at her side.
She turned. Another Exotic leaned against the bar, green-skinned, a mug of clear liquid clasped in his large, oil-stained hand. His eyes were deep-set and red; two thick strands of black hair ran down his head from forehead to nape. He flashed her an amused expression which seemed strangely out of place on his otherwise hard features. He didn’t have to say another word. She knew he was the mercenary called Lenz. Only a hack would try a line like that on someone.
“You’re right,” she said, walking back to her booth. “I don’t.”
An alarm went off in her implants before she sat down. Being fired from COE Intelligence hadn’t meant the loss of equipment standard for upper-echelon agents. Her eyes and ears were artificial; much of her nervous system had been enhanced to run faster under stress, as well as to act as conduits for many different types of data; her skeletal strength had been increased by the addition of materials far stronger than Human bone. Although she could f
ight as well as most COE Intelligence operatives, she had not been trained for that; instead, she was wired to receive and transmit data—like a Human antenna, complete with two-way listening and viewing devices.
She recognized the alarm instantly; indeed, she had been expecting a call from this source for the last hour or two. Putting the drink carefully in front of her, she activated scramblers and ciphers and opened a link to her ship.
Kindling was stationed just inside the protective bubble of the Phlegethon, hidden by the big ship’s camouflage and given clearance by her contact in the council. She had sent it there to act as a relay after catching a tug to the Dark Stressor compact habitat to look for allies. She’d been hoping for a little more time, though; if Roche was already on the move, she would have to hurry to keep up.
When the connection was made and secured, she spoke via her implants directly to her contact.
The words came with an image of Roche’s scutter leaving its dock and heading for the Ana Vereine, closely preceded by another ship—a long-range fighter of some kind, angular and harsh. The design was unfamiliar.
An icon winked in the corner of her field of vision, indicating an attachment to the transmission.
<1 can’t be exact, Page,> he said.
<1 know that.> She hated it when people used her first name—a fact that wasn’t lost on Trezise, she was sure. She forced herself not to rise to the bait, glancing instead at the data and searching for any of a handful of details she was hoping to find. One was there, as obvious as a nova now that she knew what to look for, and she smiled to herself.
She wasn’t going to share her small victory with Trezise, though.
She smiled to herself.
<1 don’t believe you. Only a fool would want to come here.>
Again, De Bruyn refused to rise to the bait.
She fought to contain her annoyance at his games.
She broke the line abruptly when she saw the mercenary approaching.
“I heard you talking to Ken’an, before.” The words rolled from somewhere deep in the back of his throat, sounding as though they were having to fight their way through food to get out.
“You have a problem with that?”
He sat down opposite her. “Not at all,” he said. “But you should listen to him. Grudges are dangerous.”
“I don’t recall asking either you or Ken’an for your opinion.”
“Well, make the most of it anyway,” he said. “Advice is about the only thing you’ll get for free around here.”
“And what’s the price of a little peace and quiet?”
“Quiet I can give you.” He activated some sort of device in his jacket and a bubble of silence enfolded the booth. “Peace, however, will be more difficult.”
De Bruyn’s implants buzzed, warning her of the field-effect he was using to give them privacy. She ignored the alarm, doubting the bubble was anything more dangerous than a toy. Still, her right hand slipped to her thigh-holster and disengaged the safety on her pistol.
She smiled. “Okay,” she said. “I’m looking for someone to watch my back while I go about my business.”
“What sort of business?”
“My business,” she repeated firmly. “For now, at least.”
“In Sol System?” The words continued to rattle in his throat.
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“For how long?”
“Until the job is done.” De Bruyn kept her stare firmly on his gold-flecked irises. “It may require a bit of muscle.”
“And how would you pay for this... muscle?”
“I have influence in the Interim Emergency Pristine Council. What I can’t provide in credit, I can make up in IEPC clearance and access. The breadth of your clientele will increase overnight.”
“If we survive.” His lips tightened. “Perhaps Ken’an was right: maybe you are a bomb just waiting to go off. Who’s to say you won’t take us with you?”
“There are ways to avoid that,” she said. “And the right person working with me would find out how. But I’ll need more than a handful of people to see this through.”
“Promises and plans are easy to make,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “So who is the target, anyway?”
She hesitated a second. Ken’an hadn’t asked that, nor had any of the others. She’d been glad to assume it wasn’t relevant,
“Morgan Roche—”
She was cut short by a hand under her chin, jerking her head back. She clutched at her pistol, but another hand gripped her wrist and yanked it away. She kicked, flexed, strained—then relaxed when she realized it was futile to resist. The hands were just too strong.
She cursed silently. The privacy field had kept her from hearing her assailant creep up behind her. But she wasn’t at a complete disadvantage yet...
“Call him off, Lenz,” she hissed. “Or I swear I’ll blow this place apart.”
The mercenary smiled calmly at her. “And how do you intend to do that?”
“With the nugget of turcite I slipped under the bar,” she said. “One word, and it’ll detonate.”
“Blowing yourself up in the process,” he said with a slight, forced laugh.
“A risk I’m prepared to take,” she said. “But chances are this thug of yours will offer me some protection from the blast. As for you...”
The mercenary looked nervous and cast a glance at the person holding her. The grip about her neck tightened.
“Tell me why we should help you with this Roche person.” This came from the man squeezing her neck.
“What—?” She attempted to turn around but was barely able to move at all.
“If I’m going to be doing business with you,” he said, “then I want to know what’s so important about her.”
&nb
sp; “You’re—?”
Again the grip tightened. “Lenz,” he said. “That’s right.” He released her throat and arm and pushed her facedown onto the table. She reached for her pistol, but he beat her to it and snatched it away, slamming it down in front of her. “Now, no more games; no more threats. You talk.”
He moved a few paces from behind her to where she could see him. He looked much like the mercenary sitting opposite her, but broader, older, and without the hair.
“What do you know about Morgan Roche?” De Bruyn asked, sitting up and rubbing at her neck.
“Only what we’ve heard,” he said. “There’s a lot of stories going around about her. Her name keeps cropping up. Not many of the details match, though. The general impression is she’s somehow relevant to everything going on here. Someone who might be dangerous.”
“Yes, she is—but to whom? Us or the enemy?”
He frowned. “Meaning?”
“All those stories you’ve heard,” she said. “They’re all lies. Every one of them. The purpose of the stories is to hide the truth, and to keep attention focused on her—so that when she’s ready, she can act.”
His skeptical look didn’t change. “And what is the truth?”
“I’m not sure,” De Bruyn said thoughtfully. “But I think I can find out. All I need is a little more time, and”—she hesitated significantly—”some help.”
He studied her for a long time. She looked patiently back.
“We have a ship,” he said eventually. “It doesn’t look much, but that’s the idea.”
“It’s not your ship I’m interested in,” she said. “What’s your crew like?”
“Hand-picked.”
“How many?”
“Eight.”
“And you trust them?”
“With my life.” He smiled. “But not my money.”
She leaned back into her seat and returned the smile. “Okay, then. Let’s talk business.”
Lenz relaxed and moved around the table. His buddy slid over to make room. “You should know that we don’t come cheap,” he said. “For what you’re asking—”