The Gilded Cage

by Blaze Ward

  “So what do we do now?” she asked, looking unsure for the first time since they had left Storm Gauntlet, days ago.

  “Now we sleep,” he replied, popping buttons and taking off the doublet. “It will be a long night, with a bunch of punks who like to think they’re tougher than everyone else by staying up all night drinking shots of engine coolant.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” he said, starting to unlace the boots. “After a nap, more food to absorb the booze.”

  “What about Djamila?” she asked evasively.

  “We don’t know where they’re keeping her,” he replied. “Or how to get her out.”

  He paused, looked up, fixed her with a hard gaze.

  “Yet. We do know she’s still alive.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” Javier replied. “He would have offered to sell me footage if they had killed her already.”

  She took a step sideways and sort of collapsed into the captain’s seat.

  “So we’ll waltz in there?” she asked. “Just like that?”

  “Unless you know a way to hack into their security systems and steal all the information we need,” he replied, tugging a boot off.

  “And Tamaz will fall for it?”

  Javier smiled at her. It was a brutal smile. His mind was in a brutal place.

  “If he doesn’t,” he said, “then we’re dead.”

  “And you plan to sleep at a time like this?”

  His smile became more rueful.

  “I’m surprised you aren’t better accustomed to sleeping whenever you got the chance, as slow as that old barge of yours was.”

  “That was different,” she replied, pulling off her own boots and making fists with her toes. “That was boredom. I was never risking my life.”

  “Wilhelmina,” he said sharply. “You were risking your life every time you jumped into hyperspace. Every time you got out of bed. Maybe you should consider how risky this universe is and start paying attention.”

  “I am paying attention,” she shot back, edges of panic creeping into her voice. “But three months ago I was a missionary. Now I’m an assassin. And I have nobody but you to get our mission done. I’m scared.”

  Javier considered the woman sitting there.

  For the last several hours, she had been merely a piece of furniture to maneuver around. An art object that happened to move. He had gotten so lost in himself again that he forgot people around him.

  They had feelings. Wishes. Dreams. Fears.

  That many years in deep space, alone but for a clutch of chickens, had helped smooth over some of the rough spots, but there were still holes. Landmines he occasionally stepped on. Less so now, but still there.

  Fighting a war with Sykora had both sharpened those issues, and made them recede a bit. He had stopped being introspective when he had a foe worth the name.

  Now he had Wilhelmina, who might be a…what? A friend? A comrade? A lover?

  All of those. None of them. Something. Nothing.

  He stood up and held out a hand. She rose as well and took it mutely.

  Javier considered his options.

  “You trusted me with your life,” he said, feeling the warmth of her skin. “Even when you didn’t know it.”

  He was close enough to her to smell the underlying flowers of her perfume that suffused the room.

  She looked down at him, confused, and nodded.

  “I’m going to do the same,” he said. “There is a secret that is worth my life, if Sykora and Captain Sokolov ever find out.”

  He watched her eyes grow a little bigger, but she remained silent.

  Javier smiled. It was warm this time. Maybe for the first time in weeks. Months. Years. Lifetimes.

  “Before I was a slave,” he said. “I was an explorer, doing survey work for the Concord Navy on the far fringes of civilized and terraformed space.”

  He studied her face. She had withdrawn some, not so much distant as closed. She nodded again, as a placeholder while he spoke.

  “I had a lovely, little probe–cutter for a ship,” he continued. “It had been retired out of Concord service, demobilized, and was destined for the breaker yard. I got it cheap, fixed it up, and reprogrammed the AI aboard to be much more human and interesting than she had been when she was in the fleet.”

  Javier felt a pang of anguish and rage stab him in the guts as he thought of his lost starship, of Mielikki. Of how much he owed Zakhar Sokolov and Djamila Sykora. He did not, could not, let the emotion show.

  “When I was taken by Sokolov’s crew,” he continued. “I told them I had destroyed all the personality and programming circuits. I lied.”

  She blinked in surprise. Obviously she had heard part of that story at some point. Probably from Sykora.

  Vast oceans of emotions and questions played across her face as she stayed perfectly silent.

  “Instead,” Javier said, “I smuggled her out in a bucket of chicken feed, and then poured her into the only thing I had that was remotely like her old home.”

  “Her?”

  He pointed at the autonomous sensor remote, resting on a shelf where he had placed it when he finished all the upgrades he could manage without building her a bigger body.

  “Wilhelmina Teague, I would like to introduce you to my former first mate, my comrade in surveying, my friend. Suvi, please say hello to Wilhelmina.”

  On the shelf, lights clicked on and the sixteen centimeter, gray, grapefruit–looking globe rose into the air with the faintest of hums.

  Because he was holding her hand, Javier felt the sudden surge of adrenaline as Wilhelmina’s muscles clenched.

  Her era held nothing like the AIs of the present day. There had been smart systems, extremely autonomous and capable, but they did not compose music. Or write poetry.

  They did not dream.

  “Doctor Teague,” Suvi said warmly. “It is my pleasure to finally get to meet you. I have been looking forward to this for so very long.”

  Part Six

  She was back to being Hadiiye.

  Javier had explained how to wear the identity like a costume, intricate and realistic, but never once exposing your inner self while playing the role.

  She wondered if she had ever seen Javier not playing some role. She considered asking Suvi sometime, when he wasn’t around.

  Sevenoaks turned out to be a noisy nightclub, located well away from the other two establishments she had visited with Navarre. It wasn’t a pretty place, filled with well–dressed folks showing off in a complicated mating ritual.

  No, it was much rougher, filled with crew off of various ships docked at the station, perhaps at a two or three to one ratio, male to female, plus a variety of what were obviously locals and professional entertainers, here eight or ten to one female.

  The first person to grope her bottom in this place was going to end up eating teeth.

  Just for good measure, Hadiiye pasted a hostile snarl on her face and followed Navarre as he slowly made his way through the press. It was not a full rugby scrum, but there was unavoidable–but–polite jostling. Her height and obvious attitude problem helped clear her path.

  Away from the dance floor, the crowd thinned out. Sevenoaks wasn’t particularly cavernous, but it made good use of space, with a bar along each side wall, and a series of four rising levels, like steps for giants, climbing towards the back of the club.

  She could see booths up there, filled with older patrons, while the kids were down here. Apparently, there was a kitchen around here as well. She saw several people eating dinner, or at least snacks more complicated than instant bar food.

  Not that she could hold another bite at this point. But she was good for drinking, especially with men who had never gotten drunk with a missionary before. In some places, there was nothing to do but drink with the locals. You got to be good at holding it.

  Almássy, the accountant, rose from a booth above them and back a few tiers as they approached t
he rear of the club. There wasn’t a toll gate here, but several bouncer–looking goons in black muscle shirts made it obvious where the invite–only section began.

  Seeing dancers and patrons move against that was like watching waves lap at the beach, with clean, dry sand beyond them.

  Navarre walked right up to the bouncers. She stayed a step and a half back and a half step to his left, where she could see over his shoulder, prepared for trouble.

  The music wasn’t that loud, but she watched Navarre gesture silently to one of the bouncers as Almássy approached, instead of speaking. The man got a nod from the accountant, nodded back, and they were on dry land.

  It was quieter here, as well. Wilhelmina would have appreciated the architectural design that went into the ceiling and load–bearing pillars to shelter them from most of the noise. Hadiiye concentrated on people, mostly seated, mostly ignoring her.

  The crowd here was different, as she had thought, but not really older. More mature. Perhaps more professional. Much more dangerous. These were captains, and senior officers from various ships, mingling with bankers and fences, if the suits were any clue. Hard men and women, doing deals.

  There were no working girls back here.

  Almássy shook hands with Navarre and ignored her for the most part. She followed the two men up a set of shallow stairs to the top–most tier, against the back wall of the club.

  From the elevation, she guessed there was an entire set of suites or conference rooms below them, but she didn’t know this place well enough to guess if they were cribs for a brothel or conference rooms for more complicated, private deals.

  Hadiiye didn’t care nearly as much as Wilhelmina might have.

  They were led to a horseshoe–shaped booth on the fourth tier with the best view. She recognized Captain Tamaz from her previous encounters, as well as Adam Erckens, the man’s first mate.

  Wilhelmina hadn’t really had a chance to study Captain Tamaz before, and certainly hadn’t paid attention to the sorts of detail Hadiiye required now.

  He was tall, even sitting down. She would have guessed he had a centimeter on her if they were both in stocking feet. His black hair was long and tied back in a tail. It had streaks of silver that would have made him distinguished, but for the cruel mouth and harsh eyes.

  Captain Tamaz was clean–shaven, but she could already see a shadow on his jaw. This was a man who might need to shave twice daily.

  Hairy men didn’t do it for either her or Wilhelmina.

  Erckens sat next to his captain in the black leather booth. If Tamaz captained a rugby team, and he had that look, Erckens was the muscle in the middle of the scrum. There was nothing soft about the man, from the auburn flattop to the scarred hands resting on the tabletop.

  He had the build of a man who spent a lot of time and energy on the right nutrition, the right drugs, and the requisite number of hours at the gym daily.

  Fanatic, in all the wrong ways.

  Hadiiye’s tits sheltered her. None of the three men at the table appeared to even notice she had a face as she approached. The one woman sitting with them looked closer, but said nothing.

  She was a stranger, dressed like a banker but still in good shape, if thickening with age. Hadiiye would have guessed her to be in her well–preserved fifties. She could see the older woman’s beauty slowly aging, like the best wines, even as she wore little makeup and kept her hair buzzed to perhaps three or four millimeters long.

  Her eyes, though. They had the intelligence of an alpha predator, but the warmth of a human, something missing from the three men here. Four, with Navarre.

  Tamaz nodded, mostly at Navarre.

  “Captain Navarre,” he said carefully with a semi–formal nod. He did not rise, but the body language suggested it diplomatically as he gestured for them to join his party.

  Dominance games. Two springboks about to joust for supremacy. Local boys unsure of the stranger and willing to play nice for now. At least until he showed weakness. Sharks waiting patiently.

  Wilhelmina was aghast, deep inside, as Hadiiye used her well–honed perceptive skills so ruthlessly.

  Tough.

  “Captain Tamaz,” Navarre replied, equally politely.

  Bodies shifted around, making a space for Navarre to sit next to Almássy, with Erckens between him and Tamaz.

  The woman chose to slide out of the booth and stand.

  “Tamaz,” the banker said. “I will check my inventory and get back to you in a day or so. I’m sure we can deal.”

  She looked up and eyed Hadiiye from close up, almost a head and a half shorter but massing a similar amount.

  She nodded with the ghost of a smile, and departed without another word.

  Hadiiye could have slid in, but chose to remain standing.

  Bodyguards, professional ones, didn’t limit their movement like these men did. She could probably successfully assassinate Tamaz, if she was suicidal. There were enough guns around her that she’d never make it out alive.

  That wasn’t necessary. Yet.

  For all the noise on the dance floor, it was quiet enough to talk here. Hadiiye suspected a sound–dampening field, but didn’t bother looking for it. It would be concealed, along with pop–up stunner turrets a bar like this would certainly invest in.

  “I do not believe we have met,” Tamaz said, dangling his tone like bait.

  Useful, if you wanted to catch a megalodon.

  “I rarely work this sector, Captain Tamaz,” Navarre replied. Not evasive, but not particularly descriptive. “This was a special trip.”

  His smile could have sliced bread.

  “And your interest in the woman?”

  Navarre’s smile turned winter.

  “I owe that woman more pain than you can possibly imagine,” Navarre purred.

  “Professional,” Tamaz asked, “or personal?”

  “Or?”

  “I see,” Tamaz said succinctly. “Almássy tells me you inquired about a front–row seat for her execution.”

  “She’s cost me too much money,” Navarre said. “I can’t afford to buy her from you outright.”

  “Oh ho, so it is professional.”

  “No,” Navarre replied. “With Sokolov, it’s professional. With her, it’s very much personal.”

  A single raised eyebrow asked the obvious question. Navarre nodded, warming slightly to the man.

  Hadiiye tensed, wondering if this was the point where things would get out of hand, or whether Javier was about to change sides.

  Did he have a side?

  “They cost me a very expensive, very custom ship.”

  “I don’t remember you, Captain Navarre,” Tamaz said sternly. “And I would.”

  It was Navarre’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

  “You served with Sokolov? With Sykora?”

  She watched Tamaz lean back and smile, almost preening.

  “I was Storm Gauntlet’s Executive Officer,” the man announced. “Before I decided to go make my own fortune five years ago. They dreamed too small for me.”

  “Five years?” Navarre asked. “Then my backers would have no beef with you. Only them. Him, mostly.”

  “So you aren’t really that interested in the woman?”

  Hadiiye saw something in the man’s eyes. She wasn’t entirely sure what it was. Wilhelmina might have discounted it. Another man would have missed it entirely.

  Hadiiye was a woman. A hard, brutal, lethal woman. Keyed up for violence and studying all the men about her as victims in waiting. But still a woman.

  There was something oddly possessive about the way the man spoke, the way he smiled. Something at odds with the situation. Both Javier and Navarre would miss it.

  Hadiiye decided to gamble.

  “You could always let me have her,” she said with a slow drawl, just loud enough to be heard, just cold enough to convey a very painful point.

  Every head turned her direction. Eyes met hers and stayed, for the first time, instead of wa
ndering down her front.

  She had just become a person instead of an object.

  The tension shifted, bled sideways. Navarre scowled, blinked, processed, grinned. Good.

  Tamaz studied her closely. His eyes took her in entirely, from the high–heeled fighting boots to the bronze–ringed gap that showed the shadows of her breasts as she breathed, to the long, long arms ending in blood red nails.

  She smiled, catlike at him, watched him lick his lips unconsciously. Better.

  “Interesting,” Tamaz said.

  Either he was a better poker player than Javier, or he had just bought the identity of Hadiiye.

  She wondered if either Javier or Navarre realized how much Tamaz was in love with Djamila Sykora.

  “After dealing with Sykora,” Navarre said into the silence. “I went and got my own version.”

  “Is she as good?” Erckens suddenly spoke up, having been silent until now. He had a tenor voice. It might have been pleasant, if it wasn’t dripping with frat–boy innuendo and lust.

  “Maybe,” Navarre said. “She’s killed everyone I’ve wanted her to, so far.”

  Maybe, Navarre? You don’t think Hadiiye could take Sykora?

  Wilhelmina spoke up from her quiet corner, offered a memory of Djamila working out. The muscles rippling as she lifted huge weights, did hand–stand pushups against a bulkhead, punished the sparring dummy Wilhelmina held for her.

  No, probably not. You three, however, would be meat.

  Hadiiye settled for a predator’s smile. Big cat.

  She had killed everyone Navarre had asked her to. That turned out to be nobody as yet, but perhaps he would demand Tamaz and the other two be first. That would please her, after experiences with these men that she would never tell Javier or Djamila.

  “Killing Sykora isn’t really necessary,” Tamaz purred.

  Again, that soft undertone. Wilhelmina, the Shepherd of the Word, spoke up, offered all the experience of a doctorate in human psychology. Helpfully pointed out the set of the eyes, the posture, the way the lips held that smile.

  He wasn’t going to kill her, but he was never letting her go. He was going to break Sykora. Shatter her. Make it impossible for her to say no to him.