Eddie stood. “Who the hell were you? And why the hell’d you make me pull? Stupid fucking kid.” He shook his head. “Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. That’s what my mother always said. All right. It’s okay, Javin. I’m going to leave you here and no one’s going to give a shit, but I’ll remember you. I’ll write something up. Javin Lindeman. Blond of hair. Loud of foot. Slow to draw. How’s that? Huh?”
Javin lay there and said nothing.
“You’re right. Needs work. Give me a break.”
Eddie inspected his fingernails for blood, wiped his hands on Javin’s coat, and walked out of the alley in search of a stiff drink and some answers.
3
Dom kept her hand on the compact submachine gun under her duster coat as she took the grav train across town. She had her eyes open, but she didn’t spot anyone following her. That didn’t mean they weren’t there. It just meant they weren’t as clumsy as the tail Eddie had shot. A good tail could blend into these crowds with ease. It could be the old man in the corner of the carriage leering at the cleavage of the woman sitting next to him, or any of the trio of rich young women with their faces pressed against the window as the city rushed by. Dom watched them all from her spot by the doors.
How could Williams be onto them already? There had to be a leak in the Feds. They were the only ones who knew why she and Eddie were here. Damn it all. If she found out Pine was furnishing his salary by selling them out to their bounties, she was going to take a knife to his belly and see what colour his insides were.
The train decelerated and pulled into a station near the starboard edge of the city. When the doors slid open, only a handful of people pushed their way out of the train along with Dom. She kept her eye on each of them, but none paid her any attention. All of them were hunched over, defeated. They shuffled away and disappeared into the twisting warrens of the city. She soon saw why. This part of town looked all but deserted. In one of the shattered windows of the surrounding apartment buildings, lights flickered from a drum fire. Dangerous, trying to heat yourself like that in a space station. Especially on a space station where all the firefighters had either fled or were drinking and gambling and fucking their last few days away. But with half the heating services down and the station-wide atmosphere regulators periodically taking a break, she supposed some people didn’t have much choice.
Dom consulted the shoddily copied map she’d bought from a desperate huckster at the train platform and tried to orient herself. She held it up, looked around at the streets, tried to find a sign. She wasn’t even sure she’d got off at the right station.
“Waste of bloody money,” she said to herself. She screwed up the map, tossed it on the ground, and strode off down the most likely street in search of St Reynolds’ church.
It turned out to be less a church and more a converted pachinko joint with delusions of grandeur. It was built into the ground floor of a tower block with two lopsided crosses screwed into the wall on either side of the security glass doors. She walked past it twice before she realised that yes, this was the place she was looking for. Roller doors were pulled shut over the windows, but the doors were ajar and the hand-painted sign above the entrance claimed that sanctuary and redemption were waiting inside. Dom wasn’t looking for either. She went in anyway.
The door creaked open as she pushed her way inside. A hushed silence filled the church. Mismatched chairs were arranged in rows facing towards a small raised platform at the far end of the room. Half the lights were blown and the other half cast the room into a gloomy semi-darkness. Shadows lurked in the corners. A carved statue of Christ the Luminary hung from the ceiling, one hand outstretched towards the empty pews. The workmanship was nothing to write home about—Christ had fingers like slabs of concrete and a face that could’ve been carved from a potato. Where machines had been ripped out of the walls, the hollows left behind had been converted into alcoves draped with curtains for private contemplation. Dom’s heavy footsteps echoed from the low ceiling as she moved down the centre aisle, eyes on the shadows. Nothing moved.
All churches made her uneasy, but the Luminarians most of all. The Church of Christ the Luminary was the religion sponsored by the Federation, or at least that’s the way she’d learned it growing up on New Calypso under Federation rule. It was an outwardly bland religion, simple symbols for the simple-minded. An easy mechanism to keep the populace content even in the face of impending apocalypse. A religion of denial, a quiet voice assuring the populace that there was nothing to worry about, that God would never abandon his children to a lonely doom far from the rest of humanity. The leaders of New Calypso’s insurgency had been quick to point out the Church’s flaws in quiet meetings held in the sewers and bars and abandoned warehouses of the colony. The Church’s links to the Federation were clear, anyone could follow the money trails, the political support. So Dom had bombed Luminarian churches as readily as she’d bombed Federation supply stations and police headquarters. For the greater good.
Until she won her war. Until she spent three days watching the man she’d helped put in power order members of the deposed government and the church one by one into the bio-waste reclaimer, turning their bodies into slurry to fertilise the colony’s farms. Until the leader of the insurgency proclaimed himself a prophet, a doomsayer, and traded the Church of Christ the Luminary for the church of the House of Man. She learned a lot about people in those few days.
A voice spoke from behind her. “Have you come to pray, my son? As you can see, the congregation has dwindled somewhat in the past few weeks. You might prefer to find salvation elsewhere.”
She turned. The man stood to the side of the chapel, hands clasped together in front of him. He had a plump frame beneath his flowing black cloak. A pointed hat with a wide brim cast his face into shadow, all except his mouth which was split in a wide smile. His top teeth were crooked.
Dom glanced back and forth to make sure the man was alone. Satisfied, she relaxed her grip on her gun and withdrew her hand from under her coat.
“Benjamin Bollard?” she said.
He inclined his head. “I apologise. From your size I took you for a man. You’re correct. I am Benjamin Bollard.”
“I have some things I need to discuss with you.”
“I’m afraid I’m a little busy—”
“This is important, Reverend.”
He hesitated, then gestured to the row of chairs closest to the pulpit. “Please. And call me Ben.”
She gave the chapel another scan as he moved to the front and sat down. She hated the smell of these places. The smell of dust and self-righteousness. But she couldn’t sense anyone else moving around. She walked to the front and sat down a few chairs over from Bollard, positioning herself so she could watch the door and have a hand free if trouble came.
“This isn’t much of a church, Reverend,” Dom said. “Are you really a preacher?”
“I really am,” he said, apparently without taking offence. “I didn’t take my training here, of course. Temperance isn’t big on modesty and quiet contemplation. I came here three years ago from Babel and took over a church from an ageing colleague. Not here, of course. A real church at the end of the strip. When it was announced that the station was expected to soon become unable to sustain life, some fearful individuals attacked the church.”
“You seem awfully understanding about it, sir, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Time and the approaching end have given me some perspective. At the time, well, I certainly had a few Old Testament thoughts about appropriate ways to punish those responsible for the church’s destruction.” He smiled. “But enough about me. Your accent—New Calypso?”
“Yes, sir.”
He tipped his hat back, letting the light catch his face. His eyes were a deep blue. “Then I suspect you’re not a follower of the Luminary?”
“No, sir. I’m not much of a follower of anything these days. Except those people who hold my leash.”
“Yes? And
who would those people be?”
“The people looking for a man named Roy Williams.”
A twitch at the corner of his mouth. “And why do they want to find this man?”
“Because he is a murderer and a fugitive.”
“If he is on Temperance, he will be dead in a matter of weeks. His sins will be between him and God. He cannot leave the station. What point is there in capturing him?”
“So he can face justice,” Dom said.
Bollard studied her face. “You don’t believe that.”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. I have the contract on Williams. I’ll find him. I’ll find him and I’ll turn him over to the Feds and they’ll say that’s justice and that’s good enough for me.”
“Why? Why do this for them? I can see into your heart. I can see you do not love them. So why do this?”
“Because I have no choice. Not if I want freedom. Because I’m a killer of men and a traitor to the Federation. Because I’m a traitor to my own insurrection. Because the only way to be free is to pay back my debt to the Federation, and the only way to pay back that kind of debt is with this.” She pulled back her duster coat to reveal the Marauder-pattern submachine gun pressed against her side like a lover.
He licked his lips. Nervous for a preacher. “You cannot repay blood with blood.”
“We’ll see, sir. Until then, I’m going to need you to tell me everything you know about Roy Williams.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, child.”
“You can, preacher. You contacted the Feds saying you had knowledge of Williams.”
“I didn’t….” He looked at her and changed what he was about to say. “I was mistaken.”
“You’re a bad liar, sir. Tell me.”
He shifted in his seat. “I can’t. I think it’s time you left.”
“I’m not going anywhere, sir.” Dom rested her hand on her gun.
The preacher’s eyes flickered around the chapel. A drunk shouted outside, screaming for doom and the end of the world. Bollard leaned forward in his seat and lowered his voice.
“All right. Listen, child. Perhaps I can help you. But first, you have to help me.”
“I don’t have to do anything, sir.”
“If you want Williams you do. He has people. Not many, but a few. When I…I contacted the Feds I thought…it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Luminary protect me. You have to get me out of here.”
“Out of where?”
“Here. This chapel. This district. I know someone who can help me get off the station. But you have to get me out of here before they come back.”
Dom eyed him. “Before who comes back?”
“I’ll explain everything later. But please, we have to go. If we go fast, we can take them by surprise. Look at you. You can take them out. You kill them and I’ll tell you everything I know about Roy Williams.”
The chapel door creaked open. The preacher’s big blue eyes went wide and wet. Dom threw herself to her feet. Her gun was in her hands. She aimed down the sights as three figures filled the doorway.
“Benjamin, Benjamin, Benjamin.” The voice echoed through the chapel. “I can’t believe you faltered now, this close to the end. Whatever shall we do with you?”
4
Eddie ascended a set of stairs plastered with glitched-out vid screens advertising casinos and shows with singers that must surely have died decades ago. At the top he was greeted by a closed door and a thin trickle of soft music. He pushed open the door and went inside.
The bar had once been something nice. A wide floor was separated into three sections by low railings and strips of red lights along the floor. Chairs were clustered around two dozen tables. A jukebox at the far end ported quiet music through speakers set around the walls. A vid screen above the bar showed a game of gravball, green and red uniformed players leaping from platform to platform in low grav, tossing a small black ball between them. As Eddie approached the bar he studied the game. He thought he’d seen this match—yeah, there was Rodriquez being a pussy after he got shoulder-checked by Temperance’s winger. That was the last time Temperance won the cup, maybe five years ago. He supposed they had the right to remember the glory years. They wouldn’t be winning any more games.
There were a handful of people in the joint, a few in small groups but mostly alone. Eddie sat down at the bar. A grim-faced man contemplating the froth of his beer was Eddie’s next-door neighbour. A few seats down on the other side sat a black-haired woman who was beautiful and knew it but had decided to pretend she didn’t, just for fun. The bartender was a middle-aged woman with an easy smile and hands like frying pans.
Eddie still didn’t understand why some of these people stayed in their jobs even now. The bartender didn’t have a retirement to save for. Maybe this was all she’d ever known. Maybe she was lonely. Or maybe it was none of his goddamn business.
“You look like you need a drink, bud,” she said.
“I knew I came in here for a reason. I’ll take a beer. And put something cheap and nasty next to it.”
She flicked the cap off a bottle—looked like the taps were down—and set up a double shot glass. “A little bottom shelf whiskey?”
“Lower than bottom shelf. Wipe it off the floor with a rag and wring it into a dirty glass.”
“You got it, bud.”
She poured the whiskey and Eddie knocked it back with shaking fingers. The heat burned down his throat and smoothed out the jagged edges of his insides. That was better. He screwed up his face at the taste, then took a sip of beer to wash it down.
“Nasty enough?” the bartender asked.
“You trying to kill me?” He slipped the dead kid’s silver casino chip from his pocket and set it down on the bar. “You happen to know where this is from?”
The bartender frowned and picked up the chip. “A casino?”
“A wise guy, huh?”
She turned it back and forth in front of her face. “Strange style. No markings. I don’t recognise it. I don’t go to the casinos much anymore.” She set it down and slid it over to him. “Sorry,” she added as she headed back down the bar to serve another customer.
He shrugged. “Worth a try.”
“The Crimson Curtain,” said a soft voice to Eddie’s right.
He took another slug of his beer and glanced over at the black-haired beauty a few seats down. She met his eyes over the top of her cocktail glass.
“Say again?”
She slid off her chair and flowed towards him, two fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass. Eddie pushed a coaster onto the bar beside him. The woman set her drink down, then set herself down in front of it.
“It’s a casino. The Crimson Curtain.” She reached out a finger tipped with a black-glossed nail and hesitated with it poised above the chip. “May I?”
“Go nuts.”
Delicate fingers lifted the chip by the edges and turned it around. “See. Here, on the edge.” She leaned in to show him. A rich musk of cinnamon and vanilla followed her. More intoxicating than the whiskey. He looked closely and saw a minuscule “CC” engraved on the edge of the chip.
“You must have binoculars for eyes, seeing that from all the way over there,” Eddie said.
Her lips curved like they were made for it. “I just know my casinos. I’m Meryl.”
She held out a hand. He took it as softly as he knew how. He shouldn’t have worried; her grip was strong.
“Eddie,” he said. “You’re another out-of-towner. How’d you get to know so much about Temperance casinos?”
“I own a merchant ship. It takes me interesting places and makes me enough money to flit away on temporary thrills.”
“Lucky for some.”
“It’s too corporate. You wouldn’t enjoy it.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”
She smiled and gestured to the gun strapped to his leg. “Just an assumption. Gunslingers don’t usually take to the corpora
te life. Was I mistaken?”
“Spot on. Tell me about this casino.”
“Centre of the strip, starboard side. Crimson tower, grav train runs right past the upper floors. You can’t miss it.”
“You go there often?”
She made a gesture with her hand, a slow unfolding of her fingers. “On occasion. When I have the paper to spare. The Curtain mostly caters to the high rollers.”
“And how much would this little thing be worth?” He picked up the chip and flicked it into the air with his thumb. She kept her eyes on him as it flipped up into the air, stopped, and tumbled back down into his waiting palm.
“Nothing.”
“Damn.” He spun the chip in his hand. “I thought I’d got rich.”
“I’ve seen people carrying chips like that before. It’s not for betting. It’s a token. There’s some sort of private elevator that goes somewhere else in the tower. Like a private member’s club.”
“Huh. Then I guess that means I’m now a member.”
Meryl rested her chin in her palm and studied him. Her eyes were long and narrow, the irises so dark they were nearly black. He decided her ears were her best feature on a body full of good features. He couldn’t say he’d ever really paid that much attention to a woman’s ears before, but there was something about these ones. They were perfect.
She lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “Can I ask you something? How did you get that chip?”
He broke her gaze and took another long sip of beer. He was nearly finished and he could still feel the frayed ends of his nerves brushing his mind.
“Sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have asked that, should I?”
“You can ask what you like.”
“I’ll ask something else then. You don’t look much like a tourist. And you’re not a local. So why are you on Temperance? What do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
Her eyes lit up. “A writer with a gun.”
“I’m not a very good writer. If someone tries to bump me off to get back at me for my lousy stories, I need to be able to defend myself.”
Stalker's Luck (Solitude Saga Book 1) Page 3
