Soul Jar: A Jubal Van Zandt Novel

by eden Hudson

  My head cocked slightly of its own volition. The only other person I’d ever met in a developed country without a wristpiece was that fix-it witch from Courten, Re Suli. The probability of running across a second one in my lifetime seemed too astronomical to be a coincidence.

  I finished chewing my bite and swallowed before I said, “I’m guessing you didn’t spend much time exchanging names and addresses.”

  “She said her name was Marinette.”

  “Marionette?” I asked, thinking I had hit the language barrier of Nickie-boy’s mountain-bayou accent. “Like a puppet?”

  “Marinette,” Nick said again, enunciating. “Like…I don’t know. Like Marinette.”

  “Quick-witted as ever,” I said. “What did this chick look like?”

  Nick considered it for a second, his gray eyes drifting slightly to the side while he thought.

  “Small. Thin,” he said. Then he nodded as if he were agreeing with himself. “Really thin—bony. I could’ve wrapped my fingers around her wrist twice.”

  Still could’ve been the Courten witch using a fake name. She hadn’t looked bony at all when I saw her, more like soft and succulent, but Nick’s fingers were the size of mutated plantains, so he probably could’ve wrapped them around most people’s wrist twice without too much trouble.

  “Was she pale? Dark? Freckles or no freckles? Red hair?” I helpfully suggested.

  Nick closed his eyes, remembering. “We were in the altar room and it was just candlelight. Actual candles, with real fire. But Marinette was a few shades darker than Carina.” He looked at me. “Carina’s skin’s got that reddish component to it, like iron oxide—”

  “Mahogany,” I corrected him.

  He took that as an agreement, nodding. “—but the witch’s skin looked purplish in that light. Like she was blue underneath the brown. I remember thinking she looked cold.”

  The Courten witch had been creamy pale and freckled, with wild, frizzy red hair that Nick would’ve mentioned by now if it had actually been her. She might’ve been able to hide her real age with craft, but there was no way she could change her appearance that drastically without some intensive plasties.

  “Did you notice any weird speech patterns?” I asked, just to make sure. “Or an accent?”

  “An accent.” He pointed one of those giant fingers at me. “But I didn’t recognize it. It wasn’t anything Emdoni.”

  “Not even Ad’brum’sarl?” I asked, affecting their lilting, classical pronunciations. “Sometimes that can sound foreign if you’re not expecting it.”

  Nick shook his head. “No, I know Ad’brum’sarl. It wasn’t that.”

  “Did she speak fluent Anglish or broken?”

  “Fluent.”

  “Soam Anglish?” I asked, bastardizing the vowels the way the Courten witch would have.

  “No. She wasn’t Soami.”

  “A pagan convert?” I switched accents for every tribe—“Salamander-wearer? Skinner? Fishing people? Symbio?”

  “I’m telling you, I know what all those accents sound like,” Nick said. “She wasn’t any of them.”

  “Nytundian?” I asked, even though he had described the witch’s skin as coolly dark, not grayish-white like the slimy belly of a catfish. “Did her words sound like this when she spoke?”

  Nick shook his head.

  “Hmm. Hmm, hmm, hmm.” I shifted from one side of my butt to the other. This was actually starting to sound like a challenge. “Marinette the mysterious foreign vocor. Or hometown girl. For all we know, she could’ve been affecting an accent to throw off identification. Our first move should be—”

  “Wait,” Nick said. “Does this mean you’re going to take the job?”

  “That depends,” I said, even though it didn’t.

  Finding a missing person would take me two days—three tops—and I couldn’t pick up my text crawler and resume my Garden of Time search for at least four. After what had happened with Carina’s dad and that agua brujah, this Nickie and the Vocor debacle was the kind of deep dark secret that could absolutely destroy Carina’s relationship with him. When the universe drops that kind of opportunity into your lap, you don’t say no. But I wasn’t going to come out and admit that my salivary glands were working overtime just thinking about it.

  I leaned back in my chair as if to get away from this deal. “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, Nickie-boy, and you’re not exactly top priority.”

  “If it’s money you want, I’ll find a way to get it,” he said. “I’ve barely touched what you paid me for the sunken city job. I could work off the rest.”

  “Sorry, Nick, but you’re one Y chromosome and three hundred and thirty pounds away from my type.”

  “You know what I meant—hired muscle or protection.” He shrugged one shoulder slab. “Or I’ll come over to your house and move a bunch of heavy stuff for you. Whatever you need.”

  “That’s not going to happen and I’ll tell you why,” I said. “You come as part of a package deal—and not the appealing half. Without your fiancée, I’m not willing to invest.”

  He thought about it. “What if I retrofit your crotchrocket with a belt and repeater? Get your core regaining half-life? You’d never have to refuel again.”

  I laughed as if that suggestion didn’t finger-fuck my open wound. “Do you have any idea what I drive, Nicholas? We’re talking a custom Mangshan VII-series. Unless I see proof of official mechanical certification direct from Crotalinae HQ stating that you’re licensed to work on Crotalinae bikes, I don’t even want you thinking about smearing your greasy sausage-fingers all over the ’Shan.”

  His heavy eyebrows pulled together. “I could get that certification in my sleep.”

  “Then you should’ve taken a nap before you messaged me. Future certifications that may or may not materialize don’t put double-chocolate caramel cookie-crunch bars on the table.”

  “Then what do you want?” he growled, but his eyes gave him away. Tension bunched at the corners, the muscle under his left eye twitching. They were desperate, not angry.

  Under the table, my feet capered gleefully, but I kept my upper body still while I pretended to consider the question.

  Time stretched out. With every passing second, Nick became a little more uncomfortable, a little more eager to snap up anything I offered as long as it ended in finding that vocor. He shifted in his seat, leaning forward on that poor, long-suffering table again. Those narrowed gray eyes never left my face.

  I slapped the table.

  Nick jumped.

  “Tell you what,” I said, “you’re marrying Carina; that practically makes us family. Your money’s no good here. I don’t want it. We’ll call this job a favor. Someday I’ll message you asking for a return on my favor, you’ll do it, and then we’ll be even. How does that sound?”

  The tension around his eyes relaxed. The siltbrain was too relieved to be suspicious.

  “All right.” He reached one buckler-sized mitt across the table to shake.

  I grinned and grabbed his hand. “Then we’re in business.”

  ***

  I let Nickie-boy pick up the check—the biscuits and gravy were his treat—while I booked us first-class tickets on the next flight to Soam International. The Courten witch was our first stop.

  Some people might think that assuming two craft-workers were connected based on a mutual lack of wristpieces was grasping at straws, but those would be people who didn’t understand how small the world truly was. My gut said that even if the crazy-haired Re Suli wasn’t at the center of this particular knot, she was still connected.

  Of course, there would be the little matter of me having stolen back that hardhead catfish skull Carina had traded the witch for information. I wasn’t dumb enough to think Re Suli would’ve forgotten. Witches have long memories. But I couldn’t send Nick in to meet with her alone because he was a retard who would agree to owe somebody as dangerous as me an unspecified favor without making any stipulations on i
t less than a year after selling a fraction of his soul to something as dangerous as a vocor to resurrect somebody who hadn’t even been proven dead. Re Suli would eat Nick alive if I sent him to talk to her alone—maybe literally—and while it would be nice to have him out of the way, I would much rather disgrace him in the eyes of his future bride. The look on Carina’s face when she found out what he’d done would be priceless.

  Any siltbrain off the street can kill someone. It takes a subtler touch to bring their whole world crashing down around them.

  When Nick came back from the register, he didn’t sit. “What’s our first move?”

  “Our flight leaves in three hours. We’re headed to Soam.”

  “What’s in Soam?”

  “Information,” I said.

  “You can’t get that from the other members of her gang?”

  “If they wouldn’t talk about her before, they’re not going to now,” I said. “Besides, how long has it been since she disappeared?”

  “About thirteen months.”

  So Carina had been missing and presumed dead for five months before he got desperate enough to do something drastic. I filed that away for later. You never know what might come in handy.

  “More than a year,” I said. “And I assume you’ve been looking for her since Carina came back and let you in on the fact that she was never actually dead? How long ago was that?”

  “Seven weeks.”

  “Over a month and a half, and so far you’ve got exactly squat to show for it,” I said. “We’re doing it my way. If I don’t have you eye-to-eye with this vocor in four days, then double your money back. Deal?”

  He hesitated. “Deal.”

  “Soam it is!” I checked the time on my wristpiece. “Now, do you think your junker can get us across town in time to catch our flight?”

  ***

  The temperature must have risen a few degrees while we’d been in the diner, because when we came outside, the sleet had turned to rain. I spotted Nickie-boy’s junker parked down the street.

  “She have an acid rain protectant topcoat?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Even with the aural equalizer in my helmet’s speakers, I could just barely hear Nick’s response over the dull roar of downpour.

  I caught up to him. “Because even the best topcoat isn’t made to sit out in the elements all the time. You park her in the Guild garage when you’re at home, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  We split the car, him going to the driver’s side door and me going to the passenger’s. Nick pushed back his jacket sleeve and pressed his wristpiece screen to the lock, letting them interact. After a few heartbeats of nothing but the sound of rain pouring onto my helmet, I heard the chunk of his doors unlocking.

  All in one fluid motion, I opened my door, jumped into the seat, and pulled the door shut behind me. It didn’t make much difference. The door panel still got drenched. Drips slid down the worn faux leather and pooled in the handle.

  Nick had pulled the same move on his side with the same results. He wiped the face of his wristpiece on his jeans, then put it up to the ignition. The junker rumbled to life.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “I know this isn’t built for luxury. Or speed. Or beauty. Or even fragrance. But it’s got that sentimental value we talked about last time you gave me a ride. You’d just think that a guy would be more protective of something he built with his own two hands.”

  “It’s just a car,” Nick said, shifting into drive. “Something happens to it, I’ll build another one.”

  I nodded. “Cars and women. You can always get another ride.”

  For a second, he looked at me as if he couldn’t figure out what I was, then he pulled out into traffic.

  I settled back in my seat, wiggling my butt and shoulders even though it wouldn’t be possible to get truly comfortable in this hunk of junk. The seat’s padding was shot and the upholstery was ripped.

  At least the air coming from the vents smelled like the filters were mold-free. I took off my helmet and ventilator. A pounding ache had started up in the back of my skull and having the headgear off helped.

  The good news was my ventilator hadn’t been damaged in the wreck. I detached it from the road-rash-covered helmet, then opened the window and tossed the helmet out. I wasn’t going to wear something that looked like it belonged to an adrenaddict.

  When I shut the window and turned back, Nick was staring at me.

  I rolled my head on my shoulders, trying to loosen up the muscles in my neck. “Does this icebox on wheels have a heater or do you just dress for the weather?”

  Nick reached over to the control panel and turned a dial marked PASS in fading white paint marker. The dial marked DRIVE appeared mostly unused, which made sense. Someone genetically upgraded to carry around a quarter-ton of muscle would be a human furnace.

  We cut through Taern’s business district, all wet black monoliths in the night, then headed north on the 2, the twelve-lane viaduct that flew over the grid of smaller city streets. Although in the late-night Taern traffic, “flew” was definitely an exaggeration. For a few miles, the stop-and-go stopped and went, but an accident in one of the northbound lanes pinched traffic off to a standstill.

  Nick aimed his junker toward the nearest exit, not bothering to comment on the siltbrains and scumsuckers who refused to let us over. He’d been an open confessional in the diner, but now he was silent.

  I let him be. Based on what I’d observed of Nick on our mission to the sunken city, he liked the quiet. Now that he’d gotten his sins off his chest and we had a plan, it was time to focus on the task at hand, not chat. A lot of people think the trick to being a good manipulator is knowing how to talk, but that’s fishshit. The trick is knowing when to shut up. I would get him to open up to me. Unravel him like I did Carina. There was no reason to rush it.

  My wristpiece beeped a message notification. I checked it knowing it wouldn’t be from Carina—she wouldn’t come up for air until she had played through Story Mode—but it was still a letdown to hear the message notification beep and see that it wasn’t from her.

  The message had come from Iceni, the candy knight, an investigator with the Taern Enforcers.

  AI 09:27:43 Hey. Are you in town?

  I grinned. Iceni had thrown a hissy fit when I kicked her out of bed, but now she was dying for another ride. I could still picture those dark chocolate half-cup-of-sugar breasts bouncing with indignation as she made all sorts of wild allegations about my manhood and mental health. Well, this was one sex addiction she was going to have to kick alone. I don’t drill the same well twice.

  JVZ 09:28:01 Yeah, but you’re not coming over.

  AI 09:28:14 Whatever makes you feel like you’re in control.

  “Ha!” She really was adorable if she thought that would get to me.

  “What?” Nick asked, glancing over.

  “Just some junk mail.” I closed out of my messages. “One of those analytical ones that use your search history to target advertising and trick you into opening it.”

  He smirked. “Did it work?”

  “That’ll be the day. The only person who can catch me is me.”

  ***

  Thanks to Nickie-boy’s pathetically unaggressive driving, we made it to the airport with less than twenty minutes to spare. By the time we had checked in and declared our complete lack of luggage, first class had already boarded. We had to wait in line with the working-class goons, then show our tickets to the steward to be allowed through the curtain into first class.

  Nick didn’t comment on the luxury or lack thereof, but he did take it all in as if he were cataloguing the details for future reference. Maybe his next mech project would be an improvement on those flying convalescent homes the Guild called airplanes.

  While Nick was lost in whatever passed for thoughts in his brain, I checked on the ’Shan. It was still in transit to Crotalinae headquarters. Repairs would start first thing in the
morning.

  Normally, I wouldn’t fall asleep around a knight no matter how slow they act when they’re awake, but my head was pounding, and I was having too hard a time focusing on the First Earth letters in the ancient texts. I closed out of the reader app, kicked my seat back as far as it would go, and stretched out.

  From what I could see of Nick’s wristpiece screen, he was studying the schematics for something, but I couldn’t get the lines and measurements to make sense. I shut my eyes and lifted my hands to rub them, wincing at the twinge in my left shoulder. Maybe it was a little more than bruised. I should check it out in the bathroom mirror. In a few minutes. I didn’t want to move yet.

  THREE:

  Carina

  Carina went through the bedroom level six times before she finally figured out the trick. No matter how careful she was, the game wouldn’t let her get dressed and leave without accidentally cutting herself, making an excuse to Qiva, sealing and spackling over her wounds, and wearing her favorite shirt.

  It was the shirt that caused the most trouble. All of Miyo’s clothing was made of leather, skinned, tanned, and softened by the fleshers themselves. Some of it from animals, but most of it from humans.

  The superimposed memory agreed with Carina’s memories of the real-world skinner tribes on the subject—the fleshers’ humanskin wardrobe was taken from the slaves they captured on raids, and worn as a major status symbol within Tsunami Tsity. As the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the tribe, Miyo had dozens of humanskin outfits to choose from.

  The problem was that Miyo didn’t have a favorite humanskin shirt. According to the superimposed memory banks, all humanskin repulsed her.

  It didn’t make sense. A flesher who didn’t like humanskin clothes.

  At first, Carina tried out various animalskin shirts, but each time Qiva pointed that bladed finger at her daughter and accused, “That’s not your favorite shirt.” And each time the world flashed red, and the alarm sounded as the lettering shouted almost gleefully