Dark Deeds

by Mike Brooks

  Jia shrugged. “Eh, what you gonna do?”

  Kuai glared at her. “I’m going to seduce a muscular, handsome professional athlete and have mind-blowing sex with him before I spike his drink, while you piss off back to the shuttle before you get too drunk to stand.”

  “Fuck you. I can find someone else to sleep with now that I’m not working!”

  Kuai pointed at Muradov. “Make sure she gets back safe.”

  The Uragan rolled his eyes. “Merciful Allah, I have been in war zones that were less hostile than you two.”

  “And don’t you forget it,” Kuai told him, then turned his back on the pair of them and headed for the bar. He looked over at Sanyang as he did so. The fighter glanced up as movement registered in his peripheral vision, and their eyes skated past each other in cursory contact. Sanyang’s eyes dropped again. But half a minute later he realised that Kuai had been looking at him, and almost instinctively, he looked back up again.

  Kuai made sure Sanyang saw that he was still looking, and slowed his walk slightly for a second as their eyes met for a second, longer moment. Then he turned and headed for the bar, checking in the mirror that stood behind the rows of bottles.

  Yup. Sanyang kept looking for a couple more seconds before returning to his conversation, but he’d glanced up again before Kuai had even told the barman what he wanted to drink.

  Kuai allowed himself a small smile. He loved mechanics and engines, and generally didn’t have much time for people. Usually he’d be quite happy just left to his own devices, making sure the Keiko and the Jonah stayed working properly, without any of the fighting, sneaking, running away, or combinations thereof that seemed to take up far too much of the crew’s time. Sometimes, though, it was good to get out and meet new people.

  And then take their clothes off.

  TALKING UP A STORM

  The Two Trees Arena was a large, double-lobed affair just north of Zhuchengshi’s city centre, decorated in huge diagonal slashes of white and grey. One side held the main arena of thirty thousand seats, the other a more utilitarian leisure centre of smaller sports courts and pools. The roof housed an aircar parking lot, but the cab Drift had hired dropped Apirana and him off at ground level just in front of the low, blocky building that connected the two bigger complexes. This was where the ticket offices and centre management were situated, and was also where Drift hoped to find someone he could work a little silver-tongued magic on.

  “Remember,” he told Apirana as they approached the automatic doors, “business face from here on in.”

  “You got it, bro,” the huge Māori rumbled. When Drift looked over his shoulder, he saw Apirana’s features set in a stony glower, and the big man moving with a shoulder-rolling gait that emphasised his size and build. Drift nodded in satisfaction. When trying to pull the wool over someone’s eyes, it was a significant advantage to have your goods looking as legitimate as possible.

  He strolled through the sliding doors and sauntered over to the enquiries desk. It was staffed by a young woman who was frowning at a terminal screen and occasionally tapping at it with one finger. She had a strongly asymmetric fringe and a glistening network of silver lines on one side of her throat—purely cosmetic, so far as Drift could tell. He put on his best smile even though she wasn’t looking at him yet and trusted that she would either speak English or the desk had a translation protocol, because he was damned if he was going to try and sweet-talk his way past anyone in his poor Russian.

  “Excuse me, would it be possible to speak to the events manager, please? It’s regarding the fight card tomorrow.”

  She looked up at him, her own pleasant-but-neutral smile in place, then over his shoulder at Apirana. Her smile slipped a bit, and her eyes widened slightly when they landed on the imposing presence at Drift’s shoulder. She managed to tear her gaze away after a moment, but giant tattooed Māoris were obviously not an everyday occurrence for her.

  “Are you . . . Do you represent one of the fighters?” she asked Drift in English, managing to regain her professionalism.

  “I should soon,” he replied smoothly. “I believe there’s a vacancy on the card, and I can help with that.”

  “I see.” She looked down at her terminal for a second. “Your name?”

  “Rodrigo Pérez.”

  She tapped her terminal screen, then the side of her throat. She waited for a moment, then spoke in Mandarin that Drift’s commpiece translated into his ear, via the pad in his pocket.

  “Mer, there’s a Mr. Pérez here to see you. He says he wants to talk to you about the vacancy on the fight card tomorrow.”

  Drift raised his eyebrows slightly. Apparently the silver lines had a purpose after all. Some sort of subdermal commpiece? He could see some benefits, but what if you rolled over in your sleep and turned it on accidentally? Would you wake up with someone angrily shouting in your ear, demanding to know why you’d called them in the middle of the night?

  “Yes, mer,” the receptionist said, apparently in response to whoever she’d called, jerking him from his reverie. Mer was a gender-neutral title, the closest equivalent his translation protocol had to the Mandarin word the woman was using. “No, but he has . . .” Her eyes flicked to Apirana again. “Yes, I’d say so, mer.”

  Drift just stood there, smiling blandly, and waited for events to take their course. If he knew anything about business, then everyone involved with the show would be scrabbling around to find a replacement for Tommy Sanyang, who had pulled out of his fight that morning citing a sudden illness. An unknown man turning up at the venue with a second, huge, and menacing man in tow wouldn’t normally be a promoter’s first port of call . . . but under the circumstances, he was willing to bet that they’d explore any option that presented itself.

  The receptionist looked up at him. “Please take a seat, sirs. Mer Chen will see you shortly.”

  They’d barely had time to sink into one of the comfortable maroon couches when a hassled-looking young man with a snub nose appeared through the door next to the enquiries desk. His shiny shoes clicked on the tiled floor as he hurried over to them.

  “Mr. Pérez?”

  Drift stood again, trying to ignore the slight twinge from his right knee. He must be getting old. “Yes?”

  “If you would both like to follow me, please?” the young man said with a nervous nod of his head. Drift heard Apirana heave himself upright behind him, and the pair of them trailed after their guide as he led them back across the foyer. It occurred to Drift that nothing about this employee’s nervousness seemed to stem from seeing Apirana. Perhaps this Mer Chen was in a bad mood and had a habit of taking it out on their employees.

  They passed through the same door the young man had emerged from and down a narrow corridor that was slightly obstructed by a couple of boxes stacked against one wall and a small pallet of soft drinks against the other, slightly farther along. Drift slid past with room to spare, but Apirana grunted as he turned side-on to get by without dislodging anything. A few steps more and they reached a door with a brass nameplate: The characters were in Chinese, but Drift’s mechanical eye automatically translated them.

  MER S. CHEN

  EVENTS MANAGER

  The door was wedged open slightly, and the young man gave only the most perfunctory of knocks before pushing it wider and standing back, motioning for Drift to enter. Drift did so, and found himself in a relatively small office decorated with holo-posters from prominent events hosted at the arena in the past, as well as what looked like a couple of sporting trophies that had presumably been won at some point by its occupant.

  What was somewhat more concerning was the fact that he also found himself to now be the subject of three hard stares, in what felt like an atmosphere already crackling with tension. He stopped and took a second to assess, hiding behind his lazy smile.

  The person standing behind the desk was presumably Mer Chen: fairly tall and smooth-cheeked, with bleached white hair artfully flicked across zir scalp in a mann
er that gave the impression of a cresting wave on an icy sea. Ze wore a simple but well-cut long-sleeved tunic that reached zir knees, in navy blue with white chasing, and baggy pants of the same material underneath. It was hard to get a sense of zir figure beneath the flowing clothes, but zir cheeks were plump and zir hands far from bony.

  Standing closer to Drift, and therefore considerably more prominent in his thinking at this moment, were two men. The older, with some age lines on his face, had his sleek black hair coiffed up atop his head and shaved short at the sides, and a wispy moustache with a hint of ginger to it. He was considerably shorter than Drift and skinny with it, and his dark-silver suit in a Russian style seemed to hang off his spare frame. He was leaning on what looked to be a genuine wooden cane held in his right hand, complete with an ornate silvered derby handle that matched his suit, although Drift suspected it was more of an affectation than a genuine walking aid.

  The second man, his head shaved near-bald, was already positioning himself between the new arrivals and his probable boss. He had heavy black boots and was clad in a no-nonsense bloodred bodysuit with a bulky, bone-coloured jacket of the sort favoured by hoverbikers worn over the top. The bodysuit would have taken care of his thermodynamic needs, so the jacket was presumably for protection: Certainly, the tough material was only a step or two down from ballistic fabrics, as it would have to be to be of any use in a high-speed fall. Given this and the man’s greater size, not to mention his reaction to their arrival, Drift felt fairly safe in assuming that he was some form of bodyguard.

  He tried not to let his smile widen when everyone saw Apirana. He knew it had to be a little hard on the poor guy to always be the focus of attention, but there was no denying that the big Māori made quite an impression even when he was trying to fade into the background. When he was trying to stand out . . .

  “Hope we ain’t interrupting anything?” Apirana said in a voice like tumbling granite. The words were perfectly polite, but there was the faintest hint in the big man’s tone suggesting that no matter what you were doing, it was in your best interest to let it be interrupted. And not to complain about that too loudly.

  “Mr. Pérez, my name is Serenity Chen,” the events manager said in English. Zir voice was quiet, and oddly sibilant. “I am rather busy, but I understand you wish to speak to me about the vacancy on tomorrow night’s card?”

  “That was my intention,” Drift replied with another smile that he turned—politely—to the two men on his side of the desk. “I can wait until you’ve concluded your current business, though.”

  “Mr. Ma is the representative of the New Star Fight League,” Chen explained. “He and I were discussing how to approach this situation.”

  Drift felt his smile widen of its own accord. “I understand that the man without an opponent is Kuang Daniu? Local boy, I believe, so far as these things go. I imagine a fair percentage of the crowd would be looking forward to seeing him fight in particular.” He looked back at Chen. “I know the card is subject to change, of course, but I guess there are some things you really don’t want to have to go back on, once you’ve advertised them.”

  “Spare me the bargaining talk,” Ma snapped in Mandarin. “If you have a proposition, make it, but I won’t have you thinking that you hold me to ransom here. The New Star Fight League is a large organisation, and we have several possible replacements.”

  “To fight a man like Kuang on a day’s notice?” Drift chuckled. “You’ll need deep pockets, even if there’s anyone close enough. But no, sir, I’m not trying to scalp you. My client and I just saw an opportunity. You want Kuang to fight, and you want someone who looks like he belongs in there with him.” He gestured to Apirana. “This is Apirana ‘the Māori Badass’ Wahawaha. He’s big, he’s tough as hell, he’s covered in tattoos, and he’s got a mean right hook.”

  Ma looked dubious. “You just described my daughter’s wife.” He looked past Drift, up at Apirana. “Have you ever fought before?”

  Apirana snorted. “Hell yeah.”

  “What is your record?”

  Drift saw the big man’s lip twitch. “Two counts of malicious wounding. One of aggravated assault. Three of possessing narcotics with intent to supply. Two of possession of illegal firearms.” His huge shoulders moved in a shrug. “Oh, and I resisted arrest, so it was three . . . no, four counts of assault of a police officer. I’m guessing you ain’t too bothered about the driving without insurance.”

  If Ma was intimidated by the list of crimes dropped matter-of-factly from Apirana’s lips, he didn’t show it. The old man’s eyes just narrowed. “Are you a fighter, or a criminal?”

  “Bro, in prison everyone’s looking to make a name for themselves by taking down the big dog.” Apirana inhaled, swelling his chest even larger. “You put a guy who looks like me in Farport Penitentiary for fifteen years an’ he either comes out a fighter or he don’t come out at all.”

  “Look at it this way, sir,” Drift cut in. “If Kuang wins, he’s taken down the big, tough-looking stranger and all his fans go home happy. If he loses, you’ve made a new star overnight.”

  Ma’s mouth worked briefly, as though trying to get a troublesome pip out from between his teeth. “Five kay to show, five kay win bonus.”

  Drift chuckled. “Seven kay to show. Three kay win bonus.”

  Ma frowned. “Most fighters want their pay doubled if they win.”

  “I know who I’m up against,” Apirana said grimly. “I’ll be givin’ it my all, but I know the odds ain’t in my favour. I’ll take a seven kay basic, and if I win, then my main bonus’ll be pride.”

  Drift watched Ma mull this over. Even with the win bonus, the price they were asking would be a lot less than half of Kuang’s fee just to set foot in the ring.

  Ma scratched at his nose and sighed. “I’ll give your man his shot, Pérez, assuming Kuang and his agent agree.” He focused on Apirana again and waved one thin finger in warning. “But know this: If you turn out to be some lumbering clown who lasts thirty seconds, then you’ll embarrass my organisation, and me. And if that happens, I’ll make sure neither of you work again.”

  “Understood.” Drift beamed. “I promise you, sir, you won’t regret this.”

  “We’ll see,” Ma replied, and looked over at the events manager. “Mer Chen, are you happy with this arrangement?”

  “We might have had a considerable amount of unsatisfied customers if Kuang Daniu had not appeared on the card,” Chen said. “So long as Mr. Kuang fights, I’m certain we will be able to continue our partnership with the New Star Fight League.”

  Drift tried not to smile any wider. Chen had just casually put a lot of pressure on Ma to make sure Kuang and his agent agreed to the new opponent, unless Ma wanted to risk losing the Two Trees Arena as a venue for his organisation.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Ma said, his delivery just a shade too polite to be considered a snap. He turned on his heel and stalked towards the door. Apirana stood aside to let him and his bodyguard pass, while Drift called up his pad’s contact details.

  “You can contact me on this number,” he told Chen with a smile, sliding his details over to the events manager’s personal terminal. Jenna had made sure that the contact information was in the name of Rodrigo Pérez instead of Ichabod Drift, but they hadn’t been able to convince Apirana to take on a false identity. The big man had said that if he was going to fight, then he was going to fight as himself, and Drift had just had to go along with it.

  “Thank you,” Chen said with a faint smile of zir own. “I am sure Mr. Ma will be able to make the necessary arrangements with Mr. Kuang. Please ensure that you are both here at least three hours before the first fight tomorrow.”

  “It’ll be a pleasure,” Drift replied, offering a handshake that Chen readily accepted. “Until tomorrow, then.”

  He went to pull his hand away, but Chen’s grip was abruptly too tight.

  “Mr. Pérez,” the events manager said, zir dark eyes boring into Drift’s.
“You are certain that your client will not be out of place in my arena tomorrow, I hope?”

  Drift hastily recalibrated his assessment of Serenity Chen. Anyone willing to play a strong-arm card like this on him when Apirana was in the room was either incredibly stupid, or knew something that he didn’t.

  Drift hated it when people knew things he didn’t.

  “I assure you, Mer,” he said with a smile, as though he’d never tried to withdraw from the handshake, “Mr. Kuang won’t know what hit him. At least until he wakes up again, and someone explains it to him.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Chen’s grip relaxed, and they both withdrew their hands. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Pérez.”

  “Indeed.” Drift turned and ushered Apirana out of the office ahead of him, propelling the big man down the corridor without another word. He nodded politely at the receptionist and gave her an absentminded smile as they went past, because smiling was one of the things he did best, and it was important not to stop doing it just because you no longer felt like it.

  Okay, so Chen didn’t want a joke fight stinking up the Two Trees Arena either, fair enough, but what was the deal with the intimidation?

  “I think we just made a very bad call, bro,” Apirana muttered from beside him as they started down the steps towards the cab rank.

  “Why so?” Drift asked, pondering their problem.

  “Don’t-give-a-fuck attitude like that? In this town?” Apirana sighed mournfully. “I think we just booked me into a fight in a building run by the goddamn Triax.”

  Drift stopped in his tracks. The big man’s logic ran uncomfortably true.

  “Shit.”

  HOUSE CALL

  The planet of New Samara had a very stable axis, which meant that the city of New Samara had a very stable climate. Had she been walking the streets at night in a continental winter, then Tamara Rourke might have been in considerably worse shape, given her loose, thin shirt. As it was, the air was fresh without being chill, and so long as she kept moving she was at no risk of falling foul of environmental factors.