by Mike Brooks
Drift nodded, although Spark wasn’t looking anymore, then frowned as ze started to hum to zirself. It was oddly atonal, wandering high and low without much inclination towards an actual tune, and it wasn’t the first time he’d heard their new pilot doing it. Drift couldn’t help but wonder if the odd mannerism was at all related to the circuitry in zir head. Spark had apparently purchased an implant that meant ze could go without sleep for a long time due to resting one half of zir brain after another. When Apirana had expressed dubiousness about that, Spark had loftily informed him that it was how dolphins slept while swimming.
Drift had actually swum with dolphins once, off the Baja California coast when his family had taken a boating holiday to Old Earth during his teenage years. The sea mammals had struck him as laughing at a joke he didn’t know about, and he’d harboured an intense dislike for the species ever since.
“Any word?” he asked Jenna, who was seated at her terminal as usual.
“I was just about to call you,” the slicer replied, frowning at her screen. “A message just came through, apparently from Orlov. It says that he’s arranged for an aircar to pick you up at the edge of the spaceport to take you to the Grand House.” She looked up at him, brushing a strand of red-gold hair back behind her ear. “It also says that he’ll understand if you’d prefer to make your own way.”
Drift chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking. “So, get in a car and risk getting disappeared behind tinted windows? Or walk across the city and risk a ‘random’ mugging?”
“You think he’s looking to screw us over?” Jenna asked.
“He’s screwed us over already,” Drift laughed bitterly. “But there’s nothing for it. I’m walking into his power base. Even if I get there safe and unmolested, there’s no guarantee I’ll be coming out again.”
Spark looked around curiously. “You people make many enemies like this?”
“I try not to make a habit of it,” Drift muttered, although he was aware that just because he tried not to didn’t mean that he had a great success rate. Kelsier, Orlov, Ricardo fucking Moutinho, quite possibly Marcus Hall the Laughing Man . . . The list of people his crew had had potentially fatal disagreements with just in the last year was an alarming one. Thinking about it only made him more determined to stick to legal shipping jobs in the future.
He watched the spaceport of New Samara grow beneath them, the shuttles laid out in its grid of bays expanding from what looked like a child’s toys into vessels as big as or bigger than the Jonah. He kept an eye on Spark as ze brought them down, making minor corrections to their angle or rate of descent. Ze certainly appeared competent, even if ze seemed to need to concentrate more than Jia had. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, Drift supposed; that young woman had been positively cavalier at times.
Finally, the Jonah settled gently onto her landing rests in their designated bay, and Spark powered down the drives, then swivelled around in zir chair and threw Drift a salute. “All yours, Captain!”
Drift nodded back, unable to muster much enthusiasm at the prospect. “Acknowledged, pilot. Now go and get some proper sleep, if you can. We’ll wake you if we need you.”
“Aye, sir.” Spark grinned, slide out of zir chair, and squeezed past him. “No rush on my account.”
Drift waited for the cockpit door to slide shut again, then turned to Jenna. “I’ve already talked to A, but I need to know—”
“I know, I know,” Jenna protested, raising her hands. “You don’t come back, we leave. Although what makes you think I’m going to follow the orders of a man I’m supposed to be treating as dead, I don’t know.”
Drift glared at her, putting as much force into his natural eye’s stare as he could. “I mean it, Jenna. Don’t tangle with Orlov any further.”
“Then make sure you come back,” she told him fiercely. “Because if that gangland bastard decides to play games, then I’m making no promises.”
Drift closed his eyes for a moment in frustration, his mechanical one blanking out in response to the mental stimulus. “Jesus, Jenna. I just don’t want anyone else I care about to die because of stupid decisions I’ve made. Can you understand that?”
“Yes,” the slicer said, nodding soberly. “But I’ve got no intention of dying. And if I do, it’ll be for me, not for you. So take this, and go get our badass back.”
She reached under her seat and pulled out the pack that contained Rourke’s ransom. Drift took the pack and shouldered it, searched for further words, and couldn’t find any. So he gave Jenna what he hoped was a purposeful nod, turned to palm the door release, and began walking towards the cargo bay.
The fresh air of New Samara was welcome, despite the sharp petrochemical and ozone edges that were inevitable around a spaceport. Drift could get used to the smell of recycled air, since that was all he sometimes got for weeks or months at a time, moving between ships, waystations, and hermetically sealed habs on planets or moons. However, there was nothing quite like a planet’s worth of breathable atmosphere, especially when he’d only recently left one.
He made his way through the designated pedestrian walkways between the ships, dodging the loading trucks and passenger buses that crawled back and forth. He was just heading for the customs checkpoint when a sleek, dark aircar with—of course—tinted windows whispered up beside him. The front passenger window slithered downwards, and he found himself looking at the face of Sergei Orlov’s bald bodyguard.
“Captain Drift,” Roman said. “Mr. Orlov would like me to offer you a lift.”
Drift stared at him for a moment, then nodded wordlessly. At least it would get this over with quicker, whether or not Orlov was planning to double-cross him. Roman opened his door and got out, then gestured.
“Arms out, please.”
Drift glowered at him, but allowed himself to be patted down. He wasn’t armed, of course: He’d had no allusions that he’d have been able to get any sort of weapon into Orlov’s presence anyway. However, he resisted when Roman tried to take the pack from him.
“That’s for your boss,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “not you.”
Roman stared at him, unblinking. “Then let me check it is not a bomb, and we can get on with this.”
Drift reluctantly let the bodyguard take the sack, but all Roman did was peer inside and root around with one hand, then pass it back to him and open the rear door. “Get in.”
Drift obeyed. There was another of Orlov’s thugs on the far side, of course, with long hair tied back into a ponytail, and it got decidedly uncomfortable when Roman squeezed in on Drift’s right instead of going back to his seat in the front. Drift kept the pack on his lap and his eyes facing forwards, all the way out of the spaceport and through New Samara’s streets, studiously ignoring his escort until the dark-green bulk of the Grand House hove into view.
He started to breathe a little more easily once he saw the giant casino. He’d been half-expecting to be taken back to somewhere like the abandoned slaughterhouse, where he and Rourke would be put to death, assuming his business partner was even still alive. If Orlov wanted this meeting to take place at the Grand House, then possibly, just possibly, the mobster might be keeping things aboveboard.
The driver parked outside, and Drift walked in flanked by Roman and the other thug, for all the world as though he owned the casino. He certainly got a few puzzled glances from the staff, who appeared to be wondering why this tall, thin Mexican with the brightly coloured hair was being escorted by Mr. Orlov’s personal bodyguards. The door staff on the casino itself seemed to want to check him over with their scanning wands, but Roman just rolled his eyes and made a shooing motion until they backed off.
“I’m all for the staff being thorough,” he confided to Drift in a low voice as they made their way around the edge of the main room, “but I would have hoped they’d have credited me with the ability to check you myself.”
Drift blinked. That had almost sounded . . . conversational.
/> They reached the elevator bank on the far side, which Roman opened with a pass. He motioned Drift to step inside, and took up station next to the controls.
“Where are we going?” Drift asked as he followed the other man in. The long-haired guard remained outside, taking up station outside the doors.
“We haven’t changed the route,” Roman said mildly, thumbing the button to close the doors. “You’re going to see Mr. Orlov, of course.”
“In his apartment?” Drift asked, puzzled.
“You’d prefer the slaughterhouse?” Roman asked, his thumb hovering over the button that would tell the elevator to start rising.
“Uh, no,” Drift said. “No, we’re good.”
“Good.” Roman jabbed his thumb at the control panel, and they began to move upwards, as smoothly as silk. “I have some advice for you, if you’re willing to hear it.”
Drift frowned, and looked sideways at him. The bald man was staring straight ahead at the doors, his face betraying nothing.
“Go on, then.”
“Just . . .” Roman hesitated for a moment, then turned his face and met Drift’s eyes. “Don’t overreact to anything. That’s all.”
“Well, that’s encouraging,” Drift muttered. He felt the elevator slowing to a halt, and a moment later, there was a ping to announce they’d arrived. The doors slid open and, sure enough, the luxuriously carpeted entrance hallway of Sergei Orlov’s apartment stretched out in front of them. Roman stepped out and jerked his head for Drift to follow him.
“Roman!” Orlov’s voice boomed out. “Did he come?”
Drift raised his voice in response. “How about we quit the games and get this over with?”
“As you wish, Captain,” Orlov replied, sounding slightly amused. “By all means.”
Drift gritted his teeth and followed Roman around the corner into the apartment proper . . . and came to a dead halt.
Sergei Orlov was sitting in a chair behind a glass coffee table and was scribbling something on an official-looking form in front of him. He looked up as Drift appeared, nodded with apparent satisfaction, and set his pen down to clasp his fingers in front of him.
At his left shoulder was a bulky, short-haired female bodyguard dressed in a suit much like Roman’s. Drift could tell from her build and her shoulders that she could probably overpower anyone on the Keiko’s crew except Apirana, but he didn’t waste much time looking at her. Instead, his attention was drawn to the person standing behind Orlov’s right shoulder.
Tamara Rourke was wearing the same bodysuit she’d had on when they’d been captured, so at least Orlov had allowed her that comfort. Drift looked her over quickly, searching for signs of mistreatment. She didn’t seem to be bound or restrained at all, but of course, the lives of her entire crew had been dependent on her good behaviour. Orlov could have subjected her to anything, because Tamara had known that if she resisted, that might be enough to doom Drift and the others. That might explain why she looked well.
“Tamara,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. He was looking for a response, something to say that she was okay.
“Ichabod,” she replied, but it wasn’t the calm, dry tone he’d always associated with her. It sounded choked, like she was struggling to get the words out. He didn’t like to think what Orlov or his goons might have done that could have made Tamara Rourke exhibit anything other than glacial defiance in the presence of enemies, but his brain persisted in flashing up suggestions, each worse than the last.
“Captain,” Orlov said seriously, “I am glad you adhered to this agreement. I was beginning to wonder if you would disappoint me again.”
Drift nearly threw the pack at him, but caught himself at the last moment and tossed it carelessly onto the table instead. It scattered papers, knocking some to the floor.
“Count it.”
Orlov raised his eyebrows, apparently unperturbed by the disruption in front of him. “I feel I should inform you, Captain, that the situation has cha—”
“Count it,” Drift bit out. He didn’t want to hear about situations changing. He just wanted Orlov to check the damned money and hand Rourke over, before Drift lost his temper and did something stupid.
Orlov shrugged and opened the pack, then tipped the money out. Roll after roll of notes tumbled onto the table. The mobster picked one up, frowning. “Some of these appear to be a trifle . . . bloodstained.”
Drift manage to restrain himself from launching bodily at the man. “That’s because my mechanic bled to death near them, you smug bastard.”
He hadn’t meant to say it like that. He shouldn’t have said it like that. He should have waited until he and Rourke were clear, if indeed they would have got clear, and broken it to her gently. It wasn’t fair on Rourke to be told as a side effect of him flinging some vitriol at Sergei Orlov, but the words were past his teeth before he could bite them back. His eyes flicked guiltily to Rourke, and her devastated expression was nearly enough to break his heart.
“Kuai . . . ?” she whispered, barely audible.
He nodded, blinking moistness away from his left eye. “I’m sorry, Tamara. I shouldn’t have . . . I’m sorry.”
“Hmm.” All expression had dropped from Orlov’s face, even the faint condescension, as he continued to apparently study the notes in his hand. “Well, that is a pity. You have my condolences.”
“I don’t want your fucking condolences,” Drift spat. “Just let my business partner go!”
“As I was trying to say, Captain, the situation has changed . . .” Still holding that particular roll of notes between thumb and index finger, Sergei Orlov looked up at Rourke.
“. . . Tamara?”
BACK IN THE SADDLE
Rourke stared at the money on the table, momentarily unable to believe her ears. Kuai, gone? How? What had happened? What about Jia? For that matter, what about the rest of the crew?
Orlov was speaking again. She blinked, trying to get her thoughts in order as he craned his neck around to look up at her.
“Tamara?”
Orlov’s dark eyes were fixed on her expectantly. She glanced up and saw Ichabod was looking at her too, his natural brown eye burning fiercely in his face alongside his blank mechanical prosthetic. Drift was vibrating like a piano wire, taut and almost ready to snap. He’d clearly been through hell to get this money.
And now she was going to tell him that she didn’t need ransoming. That she didn’t want ransoming. That she wanted to stay here and make a new, stable life for herself. If that meant playing guard to a gangster, well, that wouldn’t be the worst thing she’d done in her life. Not by a long shot.
But she could tell from looking at Drift that it would break him.
A couple of hours ago, Rourke had made one of the hardest choices of her life to date. Now she had to make it all over again, in a split second, based on new information. Nothing about the situation had changed for her; it was simply about the impact her choices would have on the people she cared about.
Orlov opened his mouth again, presumably to frame his question once more.
Rourke snatched the pen off his table and plunged it into the gangster’s eye socket before he could react.
Orlov let out a strangled cry that cut off almost immediately, but Rourke didn’t wait to see exactly how much damage she’d done. She lunged for Larysa, hoping to take her out of the equation quickly. Rourke had noticed that Larysa was hungover as soon as she’d walked into Orlov’s apartment, and was counting on that to slow the other woman down by a critical fraction. She just prayed that Drift would react quickly enough and could keep Roman busy, at least for a few moments.
Larysa was still gaping and groping in her armpit holster for her gun when Rourke collided with her and ripped the comm from her ear. Sloppy; she should never have tried to draw with a hostile at this close a range. Larysa managed to pull the weapon clear as Rourke’s momentum propelled her backwards, but Rourke lashed out desperately and knocked the gun from her hand.
/>
“What are you doing?!” Larysa screamed in Russian, trying to fend Rourke off. She hadn’t made the mental switch, Rourke realised, hadn’t fully processed that Rourke had just tried to kill Orlov and had possibly succeeded. Maybe it was the hangover, maybe it was the sense of camaraderie that had developed over the last few weeks, maybe some part of it was even as Roman had suggested and Larysa genuinely had some romantic interest in her. The other woman was, momentarily at least, seeking to immobilise Rourke instead of striking back properly.
Rourke might have been smaller, weaker, and older than Larysa, but one thing she could never be accused of was an unwillingness to act with conviction. She lowered her shoulder and drove it into Larysa’s sturdy midsection, trying to get the bigger woman off her feet.
However, even taken off guard, Larysa still had excellent balance, and all Rourke managed to do was knock her back a few steps into the wall. She heard something smash—glass in a picture frame, perhaps—then something clubbed into her back, and she lost most of her breath. A fist: Larysa had wised up and was fighting back properly now. Rourke felt the other woman’s weight shift and braced herself for a knee to the ribs.
It came with a force that nearly lifted Rourke off her feet, but she wrapped one arm behind Larysa’s knee and pivoted sideways, hooking one of her legs around Larysa’s standing leg as she did so. The combination of factors left the bodyguard with nowhere to go except down, and she thudded onto her back with Rourke on top of her. On her way to the floor, the back of Larysa’s head smashed into a decorative vase, one of several pieces of decoration boasted by Orlov’s apartment; the vase exploded into pieces, but the impact didn’t seem to do much beyond angering Larysa, who reached back to grab one of the large, jagged shards before driving it at Rourke’s face.
Rourke twisted desperately and grabbed for the hand holding the improvised weapon, feeling the sharp porcelain scrape along her temple as she was unable to quite get out of the way in time, then caught Larysa’s other wrist as the bodyguard’s left hand grabbed for Rourke’s throat. She leaned back, but Larysa had the floor to brace against, and her strength was telling. The other woman could easily bench-press her own weight, let alone Rourke’s relatively small frame, and Rourke had no chance of outmuscling her. From here, Rourke could either let Larysa grab or cut her, or she could let her upper body be pushed far enough upwards and backwards for Larysa to get her legs between them. From there the bodyguard could push Rourke away and get back to her feet, and then Rourke didn’t fancy her chances.
