by S. J. Higbee
“I’m sorry.” While it sounded a minor glitch, I knew Wynn well enough to realise that there must’ve been a world of misery lurking behind the scenes. He’d had been to Hell and back when he fled from the Eaties’ exclusion zone. His son had died and his wife – never the most stable woman – had turned crazy before she, too, was killed. So if he was using words like ‘grief’ there must’ve been some heavy-duty heartache going on.
He snapped back to the present, pulling a grin across his face. If I hadn’t lain in his arms and seen him blaze with passion, maybe I wouldn’t have realised he was throwing up a barrier. But I had. I bit my lip, as my robes flapped.
“Oh! Did I catch you there?” his voice was full of concern.
“Yeah.” Though nothing to do with the sodding hands.
Wynn reached for the PainEase again as Sarge barged into the wardroom. “What d’you think you’re doing, mister?”
Wynn didn’t bother looking up at him. “Your job, as it happens. After you flounced out’ve the room like some chem-stimmed teen.” And he doused my hands with PainEase – again! Before leaning forward and murmuring, “We’ll leave it to properly soak in this time.”
“D’you even know what you’re doing there?” snapped Sarge.
“Not so much, as it happens. But I was all there was, after you lot upped and left. Leaving your Chief,” Wynn leaned on my title, his scorn biting, “waving in the wind. A.Gain.”
“Don’t you start on this rant—ˮ Sarge didn’t get any further.
Wynn jumped up, his robes billowing around him creating a wind that stirred his hair, reminding me of another time when he stepped into harm’s way on my behalf. “Says the man who hollered at the top of his very loud voice at a scared woman who fought herself to a standstill to stop the bad dreams. You bullying bastard!”
Sarge clenched his fists and dropped into a crouch.
“No!” I was on my feet. “Don’t. Please, he’s not a fighter!”
Sarge drew in a shuddering breath. “Then he needs to keep it ziplocked, before someone rearranges that flapping mouth of his.”
Wynn laughed – a low, savage sound. “Ha! How handy for you! Using your fists to stopper any kind’ve criticism. What a pack of monsters you are. No wonder she’s suffered so badly. No wonder she’s blasted by nightmares and doesn’t know what to do with herself when she isn’t run into the ground working for you lot!”
What’s he doing, Lizzy? Should’ve kept it sealed shut and let Sarge beat him senseless –he’ll get you killed at this rate…
“That’s enough!” Might as well saved my breath for all the notice he took.
Unlike Sarge, Wynn’s voice didn’t get any louder. Just colder and more biting. “She used to laugh. Gotta wicked little giggle that makes you want to grin. Heard it, have you? When she used to talk about stuff that mattered to her, she’d wave her hands around and tilt her head. Her eyes sparkled and - she was so open…” his voice cracked. He leaned right inside Sarge’s personal space. “And now? Now she moves and acts like she’s living in a minefield. She doesn’t sleep well. Or eat well. Or know how to have fun anymore. And your fix is to scream in her face and walk away when she needs your help. Prod off out’ve here. Now!”
And there it was. The mistake most civvies make around mercs, sooner or later.
Sarge’s grin raised the hair on the back of my neck as he folded his arms. “Or you’ll do what, Goldilocks? Flick me to death with those pretty curls’ve yours?”
I took a deep breath, trying to give Jessica a chance to stop my robes thrashing around. I felt her straining effort. And this was the other reason why I didn’t want to get rid of Jessica. It always helped to have the two of us working to keep me upright and breathing.
I stood up and moved to the centre of the room, locking looks with Sarge. “No need to graze your knuckles on his face – he keeps blathering such wit-vac’d nonsense, he’ll be tossed out’ve the nearest handy airlock with my blessing.”
Sarge returned the look stonily. “Really? You could do that, could you?”
I raised my eyebrows, appropriating the General’s feral grin. “You’re asking me if I could stomach the death of a man I used to love?”
As Sarge’s lips twitched into an answering smile and he flicked a smug look in Wynn’s direction, I realised with giddy relief that I’d managed to repair the damage Wynn’s mega-mouth had inflicted on my rep.
“If you’d give us a few minutes, I need to ensure that you don’t get disrespected like that, again.”
Sarge’s smile at Wynn showed entirely too many teeth. “It’ll be my pleasure.” He nodded at me and left.
“I’m not—ˮ Wynn attempted to follow – but his robes were flapping like a sheet in a hurricane, so he was forced to stagger to the nearest chair before he ended up flat on his back.
The moment Sarge was gone, I locked the door and activated the Privacy Screens, dialling the setting up to max, to keep any nosy mercs clueless as to what we said. Then slumped into a chair opposite Wynn, before Jessica’s failing hold on my robe completely slipped.
“Right. Are you trying to get me killed? And before you answer – know that I can tell if you’re lying.”
“What? You’re madder’n a prop-scored whale! Why in the Big Blue would I want you dead? You’re my ticket to Earth, for flood’s sake!”
I don’t make a habit of activating my sense augs. It’s like plunging over an event horizon for a long, giddying minute while my senses are sufficiently amped to be useful. Swallowing hard, limply glad I hadn’t yet breakfasted, I checked Wynn over. His heart was hammering hard enough and his pupils were dilated, but the diagnostics came back as being caused by temper, rather than lying.
“You weren’t trying to harm me – you really thought all that dross would help? So why were you coming out with all that stuff guaranteed to turn my team against me? Putting my life on the line?” Maybe this story about needing to get to Earth is a cover. Maybe you’re looking for revenge for losing your legs and you’ve decided that the credstack currently on offer for my death will set you up…
As I stared at his set face, I realised that I didn’t know nearly enough about the man sitting opposite me. And that it was past time I found out more.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
His eyes glittered. “Whenever I get myself hauled into the middle of your messes, you always find a way to make me deeply sorry—ˮ
“My team are as solidly loyal as I could wish. But mercs are different to civvies—ˮ
“Prodding right they are! Murdering monsters, most’ve them!”
Get a grip! You dropping limp-witted phrases like that to the man whose family were rubbed out by Norman’s finest will get us nowhere fast.
I took a breath, trying to act on Jessica’s advice. “I’m sorry. That’s a crass thing to say to you, of all people. But you go on claiming I’m some sorry weakling, they’ll likely toss us both out’ve the nearest handy airlock.”
“They all but genuflect as you pass by.” Wynn pinned me to the seat with those Earth-blue eyes. “What put such a tilted notion in your head?”
“How many merc leaders d’you know have walked away from their band and gone on to live a long, happy life?”
“Haven’t given it much thought. Mostly they don’t walk away though, do they? Most’ve them hang on tight to their powerbase till they’re offed by one’ve their subbies.” His mouth twisted with disgust.
I leaned forward. “Yet here I am – an ex-merc leader with a contract on my head, thanks to Eddy. With my face plastered galaxywide, thanks to that sodding song and all the misery going down on Hawking. And still, my people haven’t left me waving in the wind. Indeed, they’ve publically announced they’ll keep me safe till I track down my putrid bro—ˮ
“That’s something else you need to start practising if you want to survive this mess.”
“What?”
“Stop dropping those English words into your talk. Even before you became mega-f
amous, Cerans zeroed in on that trick of yours. Thought it a real rib-tickler if you want the truth.”
Man’s gotta point, Lizzy. You always sprinkle your speech with English slang when you’re nervous. Like when you’re being interviewed, for instance. I believe I’ve given it a mention, before…
Thanks, Jessica. I didn’t bother to tone down my sarcasm.
You mean ‘thank you’ – no more ‘thanks’, remember.
I gritted my teeth and turned back to Wynn. I was running out of time – his robes were now merely swirling around his legs as if ruffled by a stiff breeze. If he wanted to storm out’ve the room, he’d be able to do so. “Thanks— thank you for mentioning it. But please, no more making me out as some victim. Mercs can’t stand weakness. The minute they think I’m a pointless drag, they’ll cut loose. Or tidy me away.”
He stared at me as if I’d sprouted horns and a tail. “No they won’t. Big Blue knows I hate the prodders, particularly Major Marchstep. But ʼless you start murdering their babies, they’ll go on thinking you’re the greatest thing since starlight.”
I pressed my hands against the skirts of my robe as I tried to figure how I could make Wynn understand that loving me wouldn’t necessarily stop them from tidying me away.
Not sure that’s a good strategy. He hates the mercs enough, so if he reckons they’re any kind’ve threat, he’ll run off at the mouth till one’ve your mates is forced to cram a fist down his throat. Jessica didn’t see fit to rein in her use of English phrases, I noticed. Though, as ever, she had a point.
“It’s a matter of discipline,” I improvised. “They think I’m a sad burn-out, they’ll be twitchy at taking orders without question. And if we get jumped by some band of assassins, or Eddy’s chem-brained followers, that could be lethal for us.”
“Oh, so that’s what you meant.” His lips twitched into a grin. “For a mad second there, it sounded as if you were worrying they’d space you if you didn’t measure up to some ʼcrete-spined template of a leader.”
I pressed my hands harder onto my robe and shifted.
His smile faded as his gaze roved over my face far too closely. “You didn’t mean that, surely?”
It was suddenly far too hot and what had happened to the air quality? I was struggling to breathe. “Of course not. This is my hand-picked team. They’d gladly lay down their lives for me.” Which still wouldn’t stop them getting rid of me, if they were convinced I was a risk to their long-term welfare. That’s what being a merc means – making the horrible decisions civvies don’t want to face. “If they don’t think I’m up to the task of leading this team, they will take over. And that’d make our lives a whole lot harder,” I added.
“Yeah.” Wynn nodded. “I can see that.” His gaze was unfocused as he stared across the room, seeing something else. Something grim, judging by his expression. “Not sure this was a good idea, hitching a ride alongside you.”
“I tried telling you!ˮ I glared at him as a nasty idea surfaced far too late. “You’ve not gone and pulled some kind’ve illegal stunt on Ceres, have you? If I go name-trawling for you, I’m not gonna find you on a Red List, am I?”
He returned my glare with one of his own. “You been spending far too much time knee-deep in murderers and thieving dreggers. We’re not all minted from the same coin.”
“So why’re you panting to cut loose from Ceres? It was your destination of choice way back…” I’d been about to say, “…when you proposed to me.” However, that wasn’t anywhere I wanted to go with Wynn, so I amended it to, “…when we were on the run.”
His robe billowed as his face became shuttered. “I was still sick when I pitched up on Ceres. I wanted a place to crash – somewhere I could work. But when the infection in my leg got a hold, I needed help. There was this girl…”
Of course. There’s always a girl. Your looks would make an angel jealous. I nodded.
“She’d a market stall in Proserpina. I used to buy milk, eggs and cheese off her. When money was tight, she’d take some of my carvings. And when I got really bad, she came looking for me. Nursed me. Took me in.”
Did she now? Ceres was a rural planet whose main export was food. Farming families took care not to let their children get snagged with landless fugees. “Did she have a family?”
“A father.” The way Wynn’s lips twisted, I didn’t have to be a mind-miner to realise he didn’t like the bloke— man.
“Caused trouble, did he?”
“Could say that. Didn’t listen, more like.” He took a deep breath, as his robe started whipping around and paused until he’d got it under control. I noticed he was getting quicker at quietening it down. “I kept telling both of ‘em that I didn’t care about farming. When I was sick, she’d say, ‘Course. Why’d you even think to working the land with your leg all manked up?’” His imitation of a Ceran dirtsider was pin-sharp.
I kept my hands pressed against the robe, managing to sit still. As if I didn’t feel sick to my stomach thinking about him spending so much time with the dregging girl, he could copy her accent in the blink of an eye.
“And as the months wore on…” He shifted. “She was kind. Kept saying the creds didn’t matter. That once I was able to stand on my own two feet, we’d work something out…”
I’ll bet she did! By a minor miracle, Jessica kept my robe quiet, for which I was humbly grateful.
“Managed to hang onto my tools. Kept working. Could do a bit most days. There’s always a steady stream of off-world ships coming to Ceres. Some’ve them started wanting my carvings. Grew into a steady earner. Meantime…” He avoided my eyes and stared down at the floor. “We… I moved in with her and her father. Rented a workshop off him. And during harvest and suchlike – I’d help out. It was alright.” Didn’t sound like it, though. His voice was flat and sad.
“And then…” He jumped up and started pacing, his limp pronounced. “I got this contract selling my work on Earth. Thought they’d be pleased – they was always on about creds, were Hilder and her father – may the Big Blue swallow his sorry carcass!”
I was shaken at his bitterness. Wynn leaned against the back of the chair, struggling to get his robe under control as it flapped around his legs. “So this harvest – which they’re right in the middle of – comes around, I tell ‘em I can’t stop to help. Instead, I offer to pay for them to hire someone. It’s not as if there aren’t more’n enough folks desperate for the work.” He flung his arms in the air. “And the old man starts in. Tells me that he’s put up with all this ‘whittlin’ nonsense’ long enough. That’s what he called it – ‘whittlin’! Goes onto say there’s the future’ve the farm to consider. That if I don’t marry Hilder, settle down and start ‘tendin’ the land’,” Wynn’s mimicry of the dirtsider’s accent was savagely accurate, “he’d press me for the creds I owed. For all the nursing, med-costs, board and lodging when I first pitched up, sick and down on my luck…”
“Which was why your girlie sent my credstack back. I’d always thought you’d let her deal with it…” my voice tailed off. Knowing it would twist the knife deeper if your new love rejected my attempt to make it right.
His face tightened. “For the record – how much did you send?”
“Fifteen thousand trading creds.” I’d have sent twice as much if it would’ve smoothed things over…
“Fifteen thousand? Gods above, Lizzy – where’d you get a sum like that?”
“I earned it! Saved it up. Didn’t spend much at Restormel, there wasn’t any need,” the words were thick in my mouth. “And… when I realised how the General had reamed you, I wanted to make it right.”
“Ha! Well, they had me coming and going, didn’t they just?” His robe was thrashing around such that he stumbled into the chair, took a few shaking breaths and shut his eyes.
As for me, I’d like to be able to report that I was brimful of anger and concern that this girl of his had so betrayed his trust. But all I felt was relief. He doesn’t love her. Didn’t eve
r love her. She managed to snare him with kindness and a sense of duty. Whereas he did love me. He might not now – but not because he’s pining for Horrible Hilder. I could’ve skipped around the room, until I caught sight of his anguished face.
“Seventeen hundred creds, he reckoned I owed him. So I told him I didn’t want to marry Hilder and run the farm. And he shrugged. Like it didn’t matter. Burbled some dross about supping the milk long enough – it was past time I bought the cow.”
As it happens, I’m not sure Mr Farmer doesn’t have a point. All well and good Blondie sharing her bed – that leaves her in a hard spot if he decides to move on, though.
Typical Jessica to side against Wynn, even when he was clearly the one who was wronged.
She’s still a double-crossing waste of skin and oxygen! We both know blokes are poor at saying ‘no’ if it’s offered on a plate. I reckon this shameless doxie put it on a plate with garnish and a tasty sauce.
Remember, you should be talking Galactic, girl, Jessica reminded.
Whore, then. Because that’s what she is!
“Where was I gonna get a sum like that? I was hooked, gaffed and netted. And when I asked her if she really wanted me on those terms – she smirked and said that she’d marry me, whatever. That it was past time I settled down again and had a family.” He shook his head, clearly still struggling to understand how they could’ve done such a thing. “I said to her, ‘That’s not love, that’s a prison. And I make a shoddy prisoner.’ And the old man said I was missing the point – that it wasn’t about love, it was about the land. And once I’d spent a couple’ve seasons properly nurturing the soil, I’d wonder why any other sort’ve life was worth a cuss.”
“Hm. Figures…”
Wynn glared at me. “What’s that s’posed to mean? You’re surely not telling me you reckon he’s the right of it!”
