Jumper's Hope: Central Galactic Concordance Book 4

by Carol Van Natta

  While he sat hunched over three disposable percomps he’d acquired, she brushed and played with the cats, took a nap, organized a mid-afternoon meal for humans and felines out of leftovers, and reintroduced her body to the meditative strength and stretching exercises she’d skipped while playing Laraunte Kane. Her regimen might or might not be helping slow her waster’s disease, but at least it gave her the comfort of doing something about it. Once she and Jess were in something larger than a cozy plush playroom, she’d return to the work-in-progress martial arts form she’d invented for herself, designed to accommodate the limitations caused by her waster’s disease.

  The meditation also gave her the chance to make mindful decisions, instead of just reacting with instinct and emotion. She’d survived two attempts on her life, but it was still the right thing to do to stay in a crowded, crime-ridden city she swore she’d never go back to, and deliver a mysterious information packet stored in her mind to an unknown man. She and Jess were obviously pawns in Neirra Varemba’s long game, whatever it was, but it had reunited her with Jess, and Kerzanna owed her for that. Varemba’s death only strengthened Kerzanna’s determination to carry out the woman’s last request. After that, she wanted to go back to Branimir and figure out why people were trying to kill her, and stop them.

  Lastly, but most importantly, she wanted to do right by Jess, because she owed him more than anyone. She selfishly wanted him in her bed and in her life, but that wasn’t necessarily doing right by him. She couldn’t continue to make choices for him, like she’d done when she’d tried to leave him on Branimir, but he needed all the facts first.

  She went to the bedroom to pack up her toiletries and check the news and weather. The weather hadn’t changed—Ridderth was perpetually cloudy and rainy—but the demons of chaos were meddling again.

  “Jess,” she called out, “come see what you think, but I think we’re going to have to change our plans for the next few days.”

  When he came to the bedroom entry, she pointed to the display of the top newstrends for the whole planet.

  “Faraón Azul Flight Logs Tell Tale of Extraordinary Skill of Injured Pilot, Crew, Passengers”

  “Pilot Who Betrayed Faraón Azul Died of Exposure to Transit Space; Mystery Duo Saved Doomed Ship”

  “Who Really Saved the Faraón Azul? Passengers Point to Missing Cousins”

  “Shipping Company Offers Reward for Info on Missing Crew Member, Passenger”

  “Have You Seen These People? Cousins Wanted for Questioning in Faraón Investigation”

  The last story featured an artist’s interpretation of what she and Jess looked like, based on what journalists had gleaned from passenger descriptions, since Jess had thoroughly twisted any shipcomp records that involved either of them. About the only thing they got right was gender and height, but it was enough.

  “Any tall male-female couple in Ridderth is probably being chased down the walkway by swarms of cameras.” Ridderth banned the use of flying camera eyes, but enforcement was a joke. Celebrities and politicians invested in aggressive tech suppressors to maintain a modicum of privacy, but even those couldn’t stop the long-range visuals. “We’ll be on planetwide broadcasts within half a day, tops. We can’t stay together.”

  Jess’s shoulders jerked and his left eye twitched, but he shook it off and moved close enough to touch her arm. “The bomber was wrong four years ago. I was wrong. I never should have left you.”

  Four years ago, she’d have agreed with him wholeheartedly. Ruthless honesty made her realize she’d been wrong. She reached up to palm the side of his face, wishing she could erase the remorse and pain from his expression with a simple brush of her thumb. “You made the best decision you could at the time, but you didn’t know everything.” It was her turn for revelations. “Remember the stolen hypercubes with ten years’ worth of CPS veteran case-file data? The theft that the police used to justify the raids, but never found any trace of? The missing data Davidro asked you about?”

  “Sure,” he said. “It was the heart of the ‘Mabingion Purge’ story that proved the CPS had been instigating city riots on multiple planets for years, using false pretenses like ‘stolen data’ to cover up getting rid of troublemakers and whistleblowers.”

  She touched her breastbone. “I have them.”

  His eyes widened, but he didn’t pull away from her as she’d half expected he would, or the bomber would. “Do tell.”

  “First of all, the Minder Veterans Advocates didn’t steal the data, they developed it over ten years by interviewing tens of thousands of Minder Corps actives and veterans. We promised anonymity and security, and they gave us their stories and their records. By the time I got involved, the MVA had strong evidence that the Minder Corps was lying about the so-called ‘enhancement’ drugs and their effects on minders. Since Ridderth’s net is as secure as an unlocked, unwatched airspeeder, and half our volunteers were likely CPS informants, a small committee came up with creative ways to hide and protect the data. Because it’s Ridderth, it was easy to find a no-questions-asked body shop that could upgrade my Jumper processor and quadruple and encrypt the storage space. Gave me full control of the dormant tracers, too, meaning the CPS couldn’t use them to find me later.” She’d had to pretend for days that her rebuilt sternum and the replacement biometal didn’t hurt like frelling hell, or the medic part of Jess would have insisted on treating her, and then she’d have had to tell him why. “I knew there were other copies, but not how many or who had them. Interrogation telepaths and sifters can’t make you share what you don’t know.”

  She looked up into his brilliant blue eyes, and missed the familiar mismatched green and brown. “I made a bad choice in not trusting you to tell you what I was doing. I think your Nordic friend suspected I was a risk, and helped you make the hard, better choice that saved you. Saved us both.”

  He didn’t look convinced, but he was no longer radiating despair and regret. “Did the CPS know what you had?”

  “No, or they’d have sent better hunters after me.” She gave him a sardonic smile. “Craftiness and paranoia didn’t come built in to the Malory Solis identity. I had to learn them on my own.” A darker possibility occurred to her. “Either that, or the CPS twister who gifted me with the awful memory of your death also twisted my other memories, too.”

  “Can you access the hypercubes?”

  She nodded. “I’ve added to them since.” Starting with her own records, because Jumpers deserved the truth, too. Particularly those that didn’t know about the terrible price they’d be paying.

  “Then the twister didn’t know about them, or you wouldn’t be here. That’s a much bigger prize than protecting me.”

  She hadn’t heard this theory before. She raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

  His mouth twitched with humor, acknowledging her salvo. “It’s the only scenario that makes sense for the CPS sending someone to muck about in your mind. Which likely means Dixon Davidro ordered it, because he found out you’d started sharing my flat. He thinks I’m asexual, and slow and stupid, but he had telepaths at his disposal. The bleedovers make me hard to read, but not impossible.”

  “So they made me think you were dead so I wouldn’t undermine their neat little story of where you were when the city exploded?” Her temper flared, and she took a calming breath to contain it. “That’s warped.”

  “And Davidro made me think you were dead so I wouldn’t look for you.” His jaw tightened. “I would have.”

  She wasn’t sure what he wanted at that moment, but she wanted to hold him tight, make love with him, maybe cry on his wide shoulder for the very different star chart they might have created together back then. Unfortunately, every second longer they stayed together now increased the likelihood of them being discovered. She made herself step back, away from temptation, even though doing so hurt worse than the fiery shrapnel that had cost her part of a leg.

  He must have recognized and agreed with her resolve, because he nodded once,
then tilted his head toward the trending headlines still rolling silently on the wall display. “Give me thirty minutes to activate new IDs for us and get the courier here for the cats.”

  “I’ll get them and us ready to go.” She started for the fresher, then turned. “Where are we going?”

  “You knew the city better than I did. Where do you suggest?”

  She pictured the sprawling city in her head and unearthed memories she’d tried to bury. “Guógē Shān district for you, I think.” His blank look reminded her that he didn’t speak or read Mandarin. Someday, she’d have to ask him why not, because he spoke the other common languages fluently. “Anthem Mountain, in English. Freelance laborers used to live there, probably still do. Play the dim farm boy and you won’t stand out. Maybe someone will offer you a janitor job.” She sighed. “I tank at undercover work.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she interrupted. “No, you know I do. Malámselah suspected I was a lot more than a Class 1 navigator, or he’d have called Yarsulic, not me, after Liao’s attack. And Yarsulic will probably work it out, once he has time to think, even if Bhatta doesn’t tell him what she knows.” She made a face. “I never thought I’d say this, but I think the Canals is the safest place for me. Lots of little sub-sub-sublet rooms if you know how to find them. I interviewed a lot of Minder Corps veterans there, back in the day. Without the ‘Tatyana’ glamor”—she waved her glittery long fingernails—”I’ll be just another twitchy, self-medicating ex-Jumper with waster’s, looking for odd jobs and cheap chems.”

  He nodded, but his expression flatlined. She wasn’t happy with their choices, either. But safety was an illusion, and the gods of chaos didn’t give a flying fark what two fleeting sparks in the solar winds wanted. All they could to was go along for the ride, and try not to flame out before their time.

  CHAPTER 17

  * Interstellar: “Chi'imarro” Ship Day 2 * GDAT: 3242.017 *

  DIXON DAVIDRO SAT on his heels on the floor in front of Georgie, his pet savant forecaster, who huddled in his chair, wrapped in a blanket despite the sauna-like temperature of the commercial ship’s large stateroom. Dixon dripped with sweat, and his nearby enforcer Renner was practically sweating rivers, but Georgie’s pale skin was parchment dry.

  The emergency trip to Ridderth for him and his entire team of active and reserve independent contractors, or pets, as it amused him to call them, cost a small fortune. However, when ordinarily sunny, childlike Georgie turned darkly apocalyptic, Dixon knew from painful experience to listen. The one and only time he hadn’t, he’d lost more than half his pets, including the best bodyguard-shielder he’d ever had, and had come within a nanometer of being caught and sent to the penal restitution system he’d worked for before the CPS. He also knew from experience that Georgie would stay in “Armageddon is coming” mode until the danger was past.

  Three of Georgie’s high-powered comps displayed constantly morphing shapes of data. The fourth, his favorite, displayed a holo image of a damaged sphere-shaped merchant ship. He stroked it as if he could actually touch it. “Pretty little Blue Pharaoh.” His lower tone sounded almost adult. When he got like this, he barely ate and had to be tricked into taking his CPS enhancement drugs. Most forecasters didn’t need them, but like all his pets, Georgie was special. Georgie had been his happy, burbling self until he heard about Neirra Varemba’s death, and the next thing Dixon knew, Georgie was forecasting the destruction of civilization as they knew it, starting with Dixon.

  Dixon had no idea how Georgie figured out a fleeting, media-manufactured drama above the planet Mabingion meant that Nevarr and Orowitz had again slipped through the kill-net, or that they’d gone to ground in stinking Ridderth instead of prudently escaping to anywhere else. But Georgie was rarely wrong about such things, which was why Dixon protected and indulged him.

  Vahan’s laudable idea of posting rewards for the return of stolen containers of “fully loaded anonymous cashflow chips” on an unknown ship that had left Branimir on a given date had resulted in good business for jack crews who trolled the transit points near Branimir. Good business for the insurance industry, too, who’d likely see increased policy purchases, especially after an under-insured interstellar passenger liner had suffered so many casualties. Best of all, Dixon hadn’t needed to pay the reward, because not even mythical phantoms of the pirate clan could recover cargo that didn’t exist.

  Dixon still puzzled over how or why Nevarr and Orowitz had connected in the first place. His best guess was that Nevarr somehow found out about the ex-Kameleon’s considerable bank balance and latched onto him for that, because it certainly wasn’t for sex, companionship, or intelligence.

  Dixon infused as much warmth into his voice as he could. “Georgie, where do you think Nevarr is now?”

  Lamis bel Doro, Dixon’s one and only official CPS employee, had supplied Georgie with everything she could dig up on Nevarr, as well as all their records on Orowitz.

  Georgie frowned, still caressing the ship image with one hand and manipulating his highly customized computer interface with the other. A skulljack wasn’t an option for him. “I told you,” he said peevishly. “Ridderth, where it starts. She’ll tell them everything she knows, and the rains will turn red.” He turned fever-bright, dark-ringed eyes to Dixon. “Nevarr’s heart nurtures the seeds of change. You will be white dust. I will be dust.” Georgie turned to look at Renner. “You will be covered in our dust.” Renner ignored him.

  Dixon hid his exasperation behind an attentive smile. Happy Georgie babbled like a brook, but the babbling contained useful information, once Dixon had learned to interpret it. Apocalyptic Georgie’s metaphoric pronouncements made the nonsensical poetic quatrains of the Ayorinn Legacy prophecies seem like a detailed instruction manual by comparison.

  “George, sweetie,” he said, gently pushing a filthy lock of hair off Georgie’s face, “how do I find Nevarr? Will she dump Orowitz, or keep him?”

  “Parallel.” He held up his two index fingers next to each other. “When their streams cross…” He made an X with his fingers, then imitated the sound of an explosion and splayed his fingers like fireworks. “Pretty.”

  Finally, something else actionable beyond “find Nevarr or die horribly.” Dixon smiled and kissed Georgie’s cheek. “Thank you, darling, that’s very helpful.” He stood and pulled out his tunic several times to fan himself, then looked to Renner. “Tell Ms. Sachin to get started tracking Orowitz in Ridderth. We’ll hire crew in town. He’s an obsessive creature of habit, so he’ll probably go back to his old stomping grounds, or maybe where hick farmers hang out. He’ll be our bait to reel in Nevarr.”

  “Now?” Renner’s voice sounded huskier than usual, making Dixon realize the analog mechanical collar around the man’s neck must have ratcheted tighter. Sure enough, Renner’s sweat-soaked white sleeveless tank was pink with fresh blood. Dixon hadn’t intended to punish Renner this time; he’d just had his hands full with Georgie.

  “Yes, Mr. Renner, tell her now. When you come back, I’ll loosen your collar.” Dixon fanned himself with his tunic again.

  Renner turned and exited the stateroom. His unique, deadly minder talent made it impossible to use ordinary CPS-secured percomps, and he knew better than to leave a conversational record in a commercial ship’s comm system. Renner’s talent wasn’t controllable by any normal means in CPS’s arsenal, and he had an unfortunate contrary streak. Dixon finally commissioned a skilled fixer to build Dixon’s design for an intricate, entirely mechanical collar to ensure that Renner stayed close and had a deep and abiding interest in keeping Dixon alive and well. He was rather proud of his solution. The collar ratcheted tighter every two hours unless Dixon personally loosened it. Any attempt to use the wrong sequence, or to cut, burn, or freeze the collar, would trigger one of several failsafe mechanisms, any of which would kill Renner instantly. Dixon had made sure not to disclose all the collar’s features to Renner. The man wasn’t patient or smart, but he was very, very stubborn.

&n
bsp; It was too bad Renner had never learned to embrace his fate. It made him constantly surly and angry, but his resulting propensity for violence had served Dixon well over the years. You really ought to take better care of your tools, Dixon chided himself.

  Dixon had already taken steps to limit Nevarr’s and Orowitz’s options. He’d issued orders to freeze any and all accounts for Orowitz and Nevarr, but it had taken nearly seven days for Branimir to begrudgingly comply, and the tiresome planetary government had agreed only to monitor Nevarr’s business accounts because hers wasn’t the only name on them.

  As far as Mabingion, Dixon had easily gotten approval for a planet-wide detain-and-restrain order on Orowitz. On the rare occasions when ex-Kameleons shattered, the aftermath was usually sordid and always newsworthy, at least in Ridderth. The CPS base that served as the primary headquarters for the Kameleon Corps program shared facilities with the large regular military base. The CPS might not officially acknowledge the Kam program, but it was an open secret in Ridderth. Bad publicity about Kams was bad for everyone.

  In the meantime, Dixon had the full resources of the CPS at his disposal, but he’d have to use them judiciously. The emergency trip’s purpose was to enforce the security protocol of the CPS’s black-box, ultra-secret research project, code-named Charisma, not expose its existence or agenda to every CPS field office on Mabingion.

  Which reminded him of the other vexing problem on his plate. Senga Si’in Lai, his assigned third-generation test subject, was deteriorating. The CPS researchers and partner pharmas in the Charisma project were already back at the design boards, coming up with a better alteration procedure to try out on compatible minders.