by Mur Lafferty
“Can you sever your connection temporarily with the navigation?” Katrina asked.
IAN paused, and Paul thought he was taking a moment to follow orders. “No, Captain, I’m not allowed to do that. I can’t turn navigation over to the crew, even for an executive order.”
“We’re going off course. We’re slowing down. Again,” Katrina said, her voice containing her anger just barely.
“I will see what I can do to get us back on track,” IAN said.
“That’s what I just told you to do!” the captain said.
“Not exactly, Captain. I will work on it tonight as I try to self-diagnose the problems my software is having. I should have a full report tomorrow. You should get some rest.”
Paul wondered how many times IAN had ignored the captain’s orders in the past years. He was the ultimate authority, just in case those driving the ship got ideas that were against the mission.
The captain looked at Paul seriously. “We may need to find a way to shut him off again if we’re going to keep going off course.”
“Captain, he can hear you,” Paul whispered, his voice a little shaky. “Besides, he just died and woke up missing a lot of memory, exactly like we did. Are you talking about killing him again?”
Katrina didn’t make any attempt to lower her voice. “If that’s what we need to do to complete this mission, I’ll take out anyone I have to.”
Katrina’s Story
126 Years Ago
October 10, 2367
Hermès, I think,” Katrina de la Cruz said. “Perfect.”
Her maid, Rebeca, nodded and went to the closet where her wardrobe hung in temperature-regulated perfection. She returned with a slim black pantsuit in a plastic hanging bag. She presented it to Katrina like a sommelier showing a fine wine.
From her vanity, Katrina nodded, and the maid set to work on removing it from the bag and smoothing it. She left it on the bed for Katrina, who stood, slipped off her robe, and began dressing.
The black would go well for the formal dinner, and the pantsuit, a tuxedo for women with a feminine cut and a flare at the tails, would allow for maximum movement.
“You will need a mask,” Rebeca said. “Match, or contrast?”
“White domino, white hat, white blouse,” Katrina said.
“You will stand out,” Rebeca said.
“That’s the idea.”
Rebeca pursed her lips and helped Katrina get dressed.
Katrina didn’t need help getting dressed. She didn’t need much help doing anything. But when she hired Rebeca to help run her household, Rebeca had been a no-nonsense ladies’ maid, taking on everything from the cleaning to dressing Katrina.
Katrina was a decorated war hero, the first clone to become general of any armed forces branch on Earth. She had taken care of herself just fine in the American Southwest after Mexico sent in troops to help with the American water wars. She’d had no problem dressing her own wounds, and then dressing herself, when Mexico’s human-made offshore island was stormed by refugees seeking their desalinator.
But now she was retired. She could have gone on to be in the army with her new clone body, despite the trouble she may have had getting “older” soldiers of lower rank to respect her, but she had decided on a new course for herself. A more lucrative job. A general’s salary was not bad, but you could be hired by corporations to remove a business rival for a lot more money.
She had done some mob hits, but that felt too personal. Katrina preferred corporate assassinations. It was less messy, less permanent. It was only business, after all.
And after seeing how the corporations had meddled in the American water wars, she felt it was her duty to bump off as many of the hijos de perra as she could.
Rebeca was an appropriately talented ladies’ maid, even among a society that had come to re-appreciate a multitalented servant. She made sure Katrina had weekly mindmaps, and mindmaps before a job. She kept Katrina’s weapons cleaned, sharpened, balanced, and polished, as it applied to each. And the Hermès suit was loose enough to hide multiple weapons secured on each calf, up her left forearm, and inside the brim of her hat. Rebeca also knew how to get blood, feces, and vomit out of almost every fabric. Katrina didn’t lose many articles of clothing to her line of work.
The white fedora was symbolic. It sat tilted on her head, with her black hair in a braided bun at the nape of her neck. Katrina found that people trusted her when she wore white. They were attracted to her when she wore red. Green was not her color. The black Hermès suit was to throw the guests off, so that they would feel an undercurrent of anxiety and not know why.
Now, dressed in her suit, a fresh mindmap stored on the server, and cool weapons warming to her body temperature, she was ready to go. Today’s party was close to her home of Punta Diamante in Acapulco. Rebeca ordered a car for her, handed over her wrap and her clutch (which held no weapons; Katrina wasn’t stupid), and escorted her outside so that she might watch the sun set over the Pacific while she waited.
Some ridiculously rich people still hired car services driven by people. It was as logical as having a gold-plated toilet—ostentatiously irrelevant. Many people, including those with Katrina’s level of wealth, simply ordered a self-driving car for where they wanted to go, which made travel both effortless and blameless. More self-driving cars made the traffic a lot better too.
When the self-driving car arrived with someone else in the backseat, Katrina ducked inside her house and drew her gun.
A short, stocky woman with light-brown skin and dark eyes got out of the car and walked without hurry to the door. She wore an expensive gray pantsuit—Italian?—black heels, and a gray fedora. She looked about twenty-five, but carried herself with the confidence of someone much older.
Watching her on the security monitor, Katrina knew who this woman was. She would be a terrible corporate assassin if she didn’t recognize her own target.
The way she walked, the way she dressed, this woman was very much like Katrina. Dedicated, methodical, understanding the importance of a proper outfit, and refusing to move fast unless she had to.
She knocked on the door. “Katrina de la Cruz,” she said in an American accent. “My name is Sallie Mignon. I would like to talk to you. I am unarmed.”
Rebeca had come to investigate. She raised an eyebrow at Katrina, who nodded. Katrina walked a way into the foyer and sat on the bench under the original Phillips abstract painting. She held her gun steady and motioned for Rebeca to open the door.
“Won’t you come—” Rebeca began, but Sallie sucker-punched her in the face.
She went down hard, nose bleeding.
Katrina fired once to the woman’s right, chipping the door.
Sallie stopped and held her hands up. “I wished to talk with only you,” she said.
“That doesn’t look like talking to me, that looks like attacking my household,” Katrina said, pointing to Rebeca with her left hand, right still holding the gun steady.
“I said I was unarmed,” the woman said. “And—” She didn’t get to finish, but let out a surprised grunt when Rebeca’s legs trapped hers and scissored, flipping Sallie backward. She hit her head on the floor and Rebeca sat up, punched her in the temple with two jabs, then leaped to her feet, blood still streaming from her nose, and stepped on Sallie’s wrist, pinning it neatly.
It was probably time to give Rebeca a raise.
“You didn’t know my household was an MMA champion in college, did you?” Katrina asked.
Sallie groaned.
“Check her for weapons,” Katrina said.
Rebeca shook her head. “She doesn’t have any. She doesn’t need any.”
“Tie her up and then see to yourself.”
Rebeca and Katrina moved the dazed woman into the kitchen and tied her to a chair. Katrina sat on a stool facing her. Rebeca put a wet towel to her nose, but watched the woman carefully.
The woman came to her senses quicker than Katrina had anticipated. She fl
exed, testing her bindings, and then relaxed. She fixed Katrina with questioning eyes. “I’m not dead?”
“I wanted to learn more about you,” Katrina said. “Besides, the job is to kill you at the party. Not in my kitchen.”
“Why were you so cautious when I got here?” the woman asked. “I’m no threat to you; you’ve got to have backups.”
“I don’t have time to wake up a new clone before the party at this point. And I like this suit.”
“Fair enough. I am here to—”
“I can’t be bought,” Katrina interrupted.
“Beyond being hired to kill in the first place,” Sallie said with a smile.
“I suppose,” Katrina allowed.
“I just want to talk before the party,” Sallie said.
“We’re talking,” Katrina told her. “You’re a high-paying bounty. I did research on you. Your brain is one of the most feared in the world. How have you not been targeted by a mind hacker by now?”
“The best hacker in the world is in my employ,” Sallie said.
“Of course,” Katrina said. “Why are you here instead of letting me kill you at the Sol Cola party like I am supposed to?”
“I knew I’d be assassinated at this party. I have several spies within Sol Cola. I looked you up too. You are quite the warrior.”
Katrina shrugged. Flattery of that sort no longer did much for her. She knew exactly how good she was.
“So?”
“I’m not talking your physical prowess,” Sallie said. “I’m talking about your battle strategy. You plan everything down to the smallest detail, taking into account food and drink preferences and past love affairs. You have contingency plans. I need someone like you on staff.”
Katrina shook her head. “I told you, I can’t be bought out of a contract. You can’t pay me double to go after my clients. I lose all professional integrity if I allow that.”
Sallie strained briefly at her restraints. She was someone who talked with her hands, Katrina realized. “That’s not it. I’m asking you to change jobs entirely.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you love money and adventure and power.”
“Who doesn’t?”
Sallie smiled. “All right, most love those things, but you pursue them aggressively.”
“The job?”
“Consultant, to start out with. I have a problem I need to figure out.”
Katrina waited.
“How does one exact revenge on people who are incredibly wealthy and do not fear death?”
Katrina thought for a moment.
“We’re going to need a drink for this.”
Rebeca, with cotton stuffed in her nose, served them an expensive gold tequila and prepared an ice pack for Sallie’s head.
MMA fighters held a lot of grudges, but that kind of attitude didn’t fit her current job.
Sallie now untied, the women sat out on Katrina’s veranda, watching the last of the sun sink below the sea. Sallie swallowed a sip of tequila with appreciation. “I just mean that assassinations like you perform are wastes of time and money. What does it accomplish? It’s like we’re all in grade school again, pulling each other’s dresses up to show our panties. We’re adults. Let’s move beyond humiliation.”
“Humiliation is all we have,” Katrina said thoughtfully. “Most people surround themselves with clones, especially after a lifetime or two, so you can’t threaten their loved ones. Money is far too untraceable: Ruin one venture and find your rival has several more going. Political or sexual scandal doesn’t even last more than a few decades.”
“For something to pass, all we have to do is wait,” Sallie agreed, nodding. “But I need to figure out how to hurt people who cross me. Really hurt them.”
“Kidnapping comes to mind,” Katrina said. “Hide them away and kill them, and the bays will never wake up a new clone.”
Sallie looked at her with pity. “Katrina, do you mean to tell me you haven’t put your own cloning lab in this mansion? All of my targets have as many sequestered backups as they do bank accounts.”
“There’s torture,” Katrina said. “Personally I still hate pain.”
“Distasteful,” Sallie said, taking a sip as if to wash away the thought.
“All of your pain is either heartbreak or emotional,” Rebeca suggested, pouring more tequila for them both. “Nothing else matters to you.”
“Making your rival fall in love with someone and then getting their heart broken takes far too much work,” Katrina said.
Sallie focused on the sea as the sun finally slipped fully away. “No, but think bigger. The worst pain these days is disappointment. Brought about by hope.”
Katrina let Sallie chew on that for a moment as she finished her drink. Rebeca gave her another shot.
“You haven’t asked why I need such a revenge tactic,” Sallie said.
Katrina held her hand up to stop Rebeca from pouring another shot. “It’s not my place. I don’t question a client.”
“That’s what makes you so good.”
“Actually I do have one question. You said my employment with you would start with consulting. Where do you see it ending?”
Sallie snapped out of her thoughts and smiled at Katrina. “We’re two intelligent people. I’m sure we can think of something.”
Katrina had heard of the generational ship being built at the moon ship base. She knew thousands of humans were going to go into cryo to wake up on a new planet. It sounded horrible to her. She didn’t want to be in space for lifetimes, then settle on a virgin planet on the other side. She didn’t want to be the one building new cities; she wanted to be the one enjoying well-established cities without worrying about where the sewers would go. After deciding she didn’t want to be stored in the ship’s database alongside other traveling clones, she hadn’t paid much more attention to it.
And now Sallie was asking her to be awake for the whole trip.
“The goal for the new world is for clones and humans to have peace if we land and colonize together.”
“I guess no one has read any history books recently?” Katrina said bitterly.
Sallie grinned and shrugged. “We have to work toward something, or else what is there to hope for?”
“So why me?” Katrina asked.
“The captain needs to be someone strong. I want you, I want a decorated war hero and assassin. The crew are all clones, criminals. If someone acts out, you can take care of things, wake up a new clone, and keep flying.”
“That sounds positively brutal.”
“Sometimes the best ways of the future involve incorporating the ways of the past,” Sallie said seriously. “And the best part? Your record is wiped clean when you get to the new planet. There will be no record of your life as an assassin or as a war criminal.”
Katrina narrowed her eyes. “My war record was supposed to already be clean.”
“Best hackers in the world, remember? Your record is still out there if one looks hard enough.”
“I can’t tell if this is an opportunity or blackmail,” Katrina said.
“To be honest I’m not sure myself anymore,” Sallie said. “Is it interesting to you or not? That’s the real question. Then we can discuss whether I have to force you into it or not.”
If her record came out, or she was arrested, she’d spend time in jail. That would be unpleasant, but she could still be cloned at the end of her life. She had time.
And this was starting to sound interesting, Katrina had to admit. She knew she wouldn’t be happy killing corporate fatcats forever. She nodded slowly. “I will consider this. But I have to have a few things up front. I have to kill you tonight, still. If I leave you alive and I don’t take your offer, I’ll never work again.”
“I understand,” Sallie said with a smile. “What else?”
“Rebeca goes with me, in cryo.”
Sallie looked up at the maid, who stood silently by the door. “Are you going to discuss th
is with her?”
“Rebeca. Will you come with me to colonize a new planet, after a lengthy nap in cryo?”
“I’m offended you have to ask, ma’am,” Rebeca said, slightly nasal through her cotton swabs.
“There you have it. Third, I want veto power over the crew choices.”
“Impossible,” Sallie said immediately. “I’ve pulled all the strings I have to just get you approved as captain. I can’t get anything else out of the financiers.”
“Then I want all of their histories.”
Sallie shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry, General, but I can’t give you that either. One thing we are offering these clones is a clean slate. If they arrive on the planet with others knowing their criminal pasts, then the rest of the crew will have something on them, and they will be pariahs. It’s easy to wait out humiliation when there are billions of people around you. Harder when there are only thousands on the whole planet.”
“How will I control the crew when I don’t know what I’m dealing with?” she asked.
“That is what the AI is for. He will handle everything that you don’t have access to.”
“Thousands of lives and the operation of a spaceship? That’s a lot to trust to an artificial intelligence.”
“This one is the best in the world,” Sallie said.
“In the known world you mean. I know some underground hackers are also working on AI.”
“No. It’s the best in the world,” Sallie repeated, holding Katrina’s gaze.
The woman was connected. Even more than Katrina had thought.
“When do you need my answer?”
“Three days,” Sallie said, getting up and smoothing her suit. She frowned and brushed at the blood spots on the gray silk.
“If you leave that with me, I can remove those stains,” Rebeca said.
Sallie removed the jacket and smiled at Rebeca. “Thank you.”
Rebeca glanced at Katrina. “I’ll just get this in cold water. We will need to loan her something to wear to the party if you still plan on the assassination, ma’am.”
