So though humanity conquered the very stars, it remained unable to conquer the darkness within. Thieves, rapists and murderers continued to occur in roughly the same percentage of the population they always had. The weak continued to be preyed upon by the strong in the prolific shadows not policed by any government.
The Zelones cartel was the strongest criminal organization in settled space because its leadership had always understood certain core truths and harnessed them to maximum effect. Some people desired nothing more than to spend their lives on a synthetically induced high and merely needed the chimerals to do so. Cutthroat businesspeople needed thieves and hackers. Thieves and hackers needed tools and funding. Bullies and thugs needed targets and outlets for their aggression.
One who could not only recognize these opportunities but channel and exploit the disparate needs was as a puppeteer pulling the strings of the world.
Olivia Montegreu knew this, because she was one of the puppeteers. It wasn’t arrogance on her part, but simple truth. The veil had been ripped away and the lie at the heart of ‘civilized’ society bared to her a very long time ago.
She had watched her older sister—weak-minded, impressionable, helpless to take care of herself—eschew their upper-middle class life to hook up with a gang and get addicted to a particularly nasty chimeral. The drug of choice created a state of utter bliss for half an hour that felt like days, then swung in the opposite direction for twice as long. Her sister spent two years as a literal sex slave to the gang’s local leadership before she ended up dead in a back alley in the slums of Buenos Aires, naked and strangled.
Olivia had watched her parents wail and gnash their teeth and pull at their hair, then resume living their lives. She had watched the authorities take statements and nod in feigned sympathy and close the case as ‘gang-related.’ She had watched the world proceed onward, as if nothing at all had happened. One family, one girl, one death among the multitudes.
Six months later she joined the same gang. The ‘Montserrat Matónes,’ they called themselves. In reality they were financed by an arm of Zelones, one of thousands of such street-level interests, but not even the leaders realized it.
At first she played the innocent, impressionable young girl her sister had been. She slept with who she needed to but carefully avoided the chimerals in copious supply. She made herself useful and displayed enough capability to get close to the leadership. In time she learned the details of how the gang worked. Though it gave the impression of being an unorganized group of thrill-seekers and dropouts, it did have structure and rules. They procured chimerals from a larger, more powerful group; they were given targets for shakedowns and small-time thefts.
Once she was satisfied she had learned everything she could, she slid a gamma blade into the base of the Matónes leader’s neck while he fucked her. She killed his lieutenant when he found them—he had been the one who strangled her sister, after all. Then she took over leadership of the gang.
The year was 2229, and she was sixteen years old.
Olivia instructed the pilot to wait with the ship at the Krysk spaceport. She didn’t expect to be long, and did not require a chaperone.
She was meeting the head of the Ferre ‘corporation,’ in all likelihood alongside a retinue of his lieutenants, at their headquarters in the center of downtown. On New Babel she traveled with a small entourage of bodyguards and lieutenants; it was expected and projected the correct image. Here on his turf, Ilario Ferre would doubtless do the same. It wasn’t a problem. In fact, she was counting on it.
The sweltering heat from the midday sun burned against her bare arms. She wore a sleeveless, lightweight white tunic and loose, breathable linen-style pants to temper the heat.
The oldest and largest Senecan-allied colony, Krysk offered a robust urban infrastructure. As she walked along the moderately busy sidewalk, she looked to the world like any other young, fresh-faced professional; perhaps a mid-level marketing executive or entertainment director. For she spent a notable percentage of her considerable annual income on cutting-edge cellular regeneration therapies, and would appear to the world—as she had for more than eighty years—in her late twenties.
No one she passed had the slightest idea one of the most powerful people in the galaxy walked among them. A face scan by a high-end ocular implant might have revealed it, but anyone who tried would find themselves inexplicably unable to capture such a scan. The invisible, nanometer-thick shield coating her skin blocked any and all intrusions of her body and cybernetics and scrambled the signals of any such attempts.
Her destination was located in an unremarkable midrise just off the main thoroughfare. It claimed to house a company called Fotilas Services, which she suspected didn’t exist beyond a government filing, if that. Senecan Federation regulations were after all notable primarily for their absence.
She gave the receptionist, a woman with flowing mahogany curls and skin the color of sun-bleached toffee, a charming smile. “Would you tell Mr. Ferre his twelve o’clock is here? I’m expected.” While the receptionist frowned and readied a protest, she added a courteous nod to the camera hidden in the ceiling.
A second later the woman cleared her throat and stood. “I’ll show you to the conference room, ma’am.”
The room was deep in the complex. A windowless affair consisting of a conference table and little else, no inner workings of the business would be on display in this venue. As the receptionist stepped in to announce her presence, Olivia nonchalantly ran the bracelet circling her right wrist over the small embedded panel in the wall.
Ilario Ferre greeted her with a glib smile and a firm grasp of her hand. “Ms. Montegreu, so kind of you to come all this way…” he glanced behind her, a puzzled expression ghosting across his face “…is it only you? You have no escort?”
“Do I need one? Given all these armed guards here—” she motioned toward the half dozen enforcers lining the walls of the room “—I imagine I am quite safe from anything less than an invasion.”
To his credit he recovered quickly, dipping his chin in appreciation. “And of course you are. You must forgive me, my father took paranoia to an art form. Old habits and all. Shall we sit?”
She followed him to the table and took a seat opposite him. Immediately a door opened at one end of the room and a young man and older woman entered. Ilario nodded as they joined them at the table.
“My mother, Alaina, and my cousin and first lieutenant, Laure.”
She was familiar with both of them from her files. Alaina, she gave a respectful but curt nod; Laure, a tiny smile.
“Now I know you are a very busy woman, Ms. Montegreu, so let’s get straight to business, shall we? I confess to being intrigued by the idea of a strategic partnership between our interests. I think we both have much we can offer the other.”
A strategic partnership—it was the ostensible purpose of her visit. The Zelones cartel was the strongest criminal organization in settled space, but its reach was not absolute. In point of fact, its presence was weakest on Senecan Federation planets, where an entrepreneurial culture encouraged the rise of homegrown, enterprising ‘freelancers’ and where the wholesale change in government twenty-two years earlier had muddled their network of contacts.
Ilario without a doubt knew this, which was why her overture had likely been perceived as logical and natural. But what he did not know was there was chaos on the horizon, and she did not intend to share the spoils.
Her expression turned predatory. “Yes, about that. I think the better choice is for you to simply work for me.”
The man almost choked on the water he was sipping. “Ms. Montegreu, I don’t mean any disrespect, for your, shall we say, business prowess is legendary. But my family does not work ‘for’ anyone. We are doing rather well in the Federation, which I believe is a good deal more than you can say. Now I am willing to entertain discussions of a mutually beneficial arrangement, but nothing else.”
Her lips pursed together in
a show of thoughtfulness. She allowed the silence to stretch a breath longer than was comfortable, then shrugged and stood. “Very well.”
She lifted her wrist to eject two aSTX-laced blades from her bracelet and into the necks of Ilario and his mother. The toxin would paralyze their respiratory muscles, suffocating them even before they bled out from their throats being sliced open.
The laser fire from the guards bounced harmlessly off her personal shield. A thought and she activated the EMP she had staged when she touched her bracelet to the panel by the door. Most of the guards were still within three meters of the walls, and the EMP fried their cybernetics along with much of their brain matter as a side effect.
One guard had been moving toward her and escaped the EMP. Likely deducing—correctly—that physical restraint was the only way to neutralize her, he lowered and squared his shoulders in preparation for tackling her. She slid the gamma blade hilt out of her pants’ pocket and activated a two-meter long blade which sliced him in half at the waist. She took a step back to avoid the blood spurting out of the body and returned the blade hilt to her pocket.
Physical violence had been an occasional necessity over the years as she climbed the ranks. These days she employed people who would happily engage in it on her behalf, but there were times when a more personal touch was required. She didn’t particularly enjoy it; nor did she particularly loathe it. Violence was simply a tool, and in this instance the most expedient tool available to her.
Her gaze locked on Laure Ferre. He sat at the table beside his dead cousin and his dead aunt, deep green eyes wide but not panicked as he stared at her. He presumably had by now deduced, first, if she wanted him dead he would already be so, and second, if he tried to harm her his status would change. His file indicated he was intelligent and quick on his feet, but not so narcissistic as Ilario.
“You work for me now. The Ferre organization is now a wholly-owned subsidiary of the Zelones cartel. For the time being you will be allowed to continue doing business as you have up until now, subject to a few minor adjustments. Someone will be in touch with the details. Are we clear?”
A harsh, ragged laugh bubbled up from his chest, but he nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” His eyes roved around the room, taking in the massacre, then back to her. “I, um, look forward to being a part of your team.”
“Glad to hear it.” She pivoted and walked out.
22
SIYANE
Metis Nebula, Uncharted Planet
* * *
Alex had sandwiches and sliced fruit ready by the time Caleb returned from showering. An environment suit protected a person from the elements outside the suit; it did not create a comfortable environment inside the suit, and three hours in it had left him a sweaty, sticky mess.
He settled in one of the chairs at the small dining table while she brought the plates over. “Thanks. So what do you think? Is enough material remaining to seal the hull?”
“I honestly don’t know. You saw, there were definite gaps, but I keep a few spare mats I can use.” She looked across the table at him. “Eat fast so we can find out.”
“Right.” She was smiling, so he added a light chuckle. It was still a guarded one though, only hinting at reaching her eyes. After a bite of his sandwich he decided to ask about something which had bugged him on the trip out of and back into the ship: the silence. “I can’t help but notice you don’t seem to have a VI on board.”
“Nope.”
“Are you uncomfortable with the idea of giving a VI access to the systems?”
“Not at all. I simply don’t need one to tell me the status of my ship.” She paused, and a smile which felt somehow private tugged at her lips. Her left hand nonchalantly gestured in the direction of the embedded panel behind her.
As they had the last two nights when she went to bed, the lights dimmed; a second later they returned to full strength. The strains of a synthwave ballad began wafting through the cabin. A frown, and the volume decreased.
Her right hand brought the sandwich to her mouth as the left waved toward the cockpit. The glyphs along her wrist pulsed faintly.
“It’s a brisk -54° outside, while in here it’s a cozy 23°. The system repairs are essentially complete: the plasma shield is up to 93%, and the self-healing hydrogel on the damaged conduit should bring it to 100% by morning. The impulse engine reports all systems fully functional.”
“The LEN reactor is expending 12% of its output capacity on keeping us alive and comfortable…and it’s a little cranky at having to work harder on account of there being two of us.” She winked at him—sending an unexpected wicked shiver down his spine—and took a bite of her sandwich.
“Most impressive. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen such extensive wireless interconnectivity from cybernetics alone, no hardware adjunct.”
“Planet-side there’s almost always too much interference for it to work reliably. The invisible yet teeming cloud of electronic signals permeates everywhere, clogging the air with noise. Here though, it’s just me.”
“And, as the reactor noted, me.”
She gazed at him a moment, and he could see thoughts flitting across her eyes. He wished like hell he knew what they were. “And you.”
Her gaze darted down to acquire an apple slice. “Bet you didn’t think I was a warenut, huh?”
“I still don’t. I would say you have simply optimized both yourself and your ship for maximum capability and performance.”
She shrugged but seemed pleased by the response. “More or less.”
He took another bite—despite her admonition, neither of them were hurrying through lunch—and cocked his head to the side. “This music…Ethan Tollis, right?”
“Yep. You’ve heard of him?”
“Of course. Music doesn’t respect political boundaries. But it’s a different style than what you’ve usually had playing.”
“He’s a friend.”
He arched an eyebrow in genuine surprise. “You’re ‘friends’ with one of the most successful prog synth musicians in the galaxy.”
She nodded, her mouth full. “Mmhmm.”
Hmm, indeed. She came off as so serious, so focused and no-nonsense, he would’ve thought she’d have no patience for artistic types.
She caught him staring at her. “What?”
“Nothing.” He didn't try to hide the mischief in his eyes. “Good friends?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not supposed to mean anything. I’m merely asking how good of friends you are.”
“Very funny.” She took a sip of water. “If you’re asking me if I slept with him, it is so far beyond your business.”
He laughed. “So yes, then.”
She sighed in clear annoyance and picked up her sandwich, only to set it down again to glare at him. “Fine. I met him after university while I was doing an externship at Pacifica Aerodynamics. He was a struggling coffeehouse musician at the time. We dated for around a year. I took a job on Erisen, we parted friends. A few years later he hit it big. I was happy for him. End of story.”
The notion of her dating a musician threw him for even more of a loop. It appeared he had quite a bit more to discover about her—but he’d ponder it later. “Interesting. You keep in touch?”
“We catch up every now and then.”
He really shouldn’t rile her up; it was not conducive to him making it off this rock alive and in one piece. But he couldn’t help it. When she got annoyed or flustered her nose crinkled up and sideways and her mouth contorted into the oddest shapes. It looked so….
“And by ‘catch up’ you mean?”
She glared at him again and…yep, there it was. Adorable.
“Are you done? You look like you’re done.” She reached across and snatched his plate away, stood and marched to the sink.
He grinned to himself and began clearing off the rest of the table. “You know, feel free to ask me embarrassing, invasive things about my life. I’m good wit
h tit-for-tat.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Why bother? Whatever you said would be a lie.”
Ouch. The lighthearted mood instantly evaporated. “No, it wouldn’t be.”
“And I could tell the difference…how?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He gave her a pursed smile that wasn’t. “You probably couldn’t.”
Her shoulders notched upward to emphasize the point. She turned back to the sink to stow the dishes.
He didn’t think he had ever been shamed so thoroughly and to such stinging effect by a few casual words. He sank against the table, taken aback by the rebuke…and by how badly he wanted to change her mind.
They lay on their stomachs at right angles to one another in the engineering well. She heated an edge of intact hull while he heated a torn section and brought it to meet her edge; she aligned them and they held the pieces in place until they cooled and bonded together.
The conversation since lunch had been polite but strained, and fairly minimal. He struggled to find some way to get back to the comfortable interaction they’d been playing at having all morning. Because it had been nice.
He nodded in appreciation as the metal melded seamlessly together. “This is seriously high-quality material, not that I’m surprised. Maybe the Trade Summit was a success, and we’ll get access to material of this caliber.”
“What Tra— oh yeah, that political circle-jerk. Yes, let’s decide to sell doilies and mantle ornaments to each other, it’ll make everything better.”
He followed her lead and scooted to the next section. “It’s been twenty-two years, it’s arguably time to at least try.”
She didn’t respond, acting as if she were focused on heating the metal at her fingertips and positioning the now pliant material. She kept her gaze on it when she finally spoke. “My father was killed in the war.”
Well this topic isn’t likely to bring back the lighthearted atmosphere. Way to go. His voice was carefully soft. “I know.”
Starshine Page 18
