The Liquidation Order

by Jett Lang

  “You’re still alive, so I doubt that.” It was a micro halo wound. She wished her knife was with her now, but all she had in that department was the serrated blade taped to her lower leg. She adjusted in her seat, stole a glance at the shotgun in her lap.

  “I’ve been meaning to find you.” Scar leaned in on his elbows.

  She put down her fork and picked up the loaded double-barrel, placed it upon the battered surface for him to see.

  He seemed amused, and a little surprised. “You think I’m threatening you,” he said. “No, I wanted to thank you, actually.”

  “Facial scars translating into appreciation. You’re into some weird stuff, pal.”

  He grinned crookedly. Rotten teeth. “Prosperity security thought I was dead after you got through with me. You missed my heart by an inch. I managed to crawl away when the fighting was over.”

  So he was an enemy of the city-state. That was a start.

  “A monitoring assignment,” she recalled.

  Her target had never shown. The listening post was cramped and overcrowded, but the people there were career-minded. They hadn’t asked questions about the nature of her assignment and had cooperated fully. She remembered the freezing cold above all else, when she had to go outside to assuage her lingering claustrophobia.

  After a week of nothing but camera feeds and radio whispers, the post came under siege. They attacked at night, eight men and two women, when everyone but Queen and a couple others were keeping watch. It was lucky that both she and the defenders had superior training and equipment. The insurgency was over in a matter of minutes; and now she sat opposite the last man standing. He had caught her on a sympathetic day, or a sadistic one.

  “I can respect a woman with your finesse,” he said. “You being out here, I take it security didn’t treat you too well.”

  He thought she was ex-security. This was getting better and better. “You’re right. I’m looking for work.”

  “Yeah? We could use someone like you. Someone with city knowledge.” He practically spat out the word “city.”

  “Aren’t you upset about your friends?”

  “Happened before and it’ll happen again. You were just doing what you were told. Same as me.”

  That wasn’t true. She had no orders at the time to assist; she did a kindness for the operators and guards who had made her stay bearable. Not that she was going to tell Scar this.

  “What’s your offer?”

  “Not here. I’ll add you to the list. Name?”

  “Sarah,” she lied. “Sarah Danes.”

  “Nice name.”

  Her smile came and went.

  He stood to leave, fitted his cap to his oily hair. “Be ready to go underground in the morning. I’ll show you the operation.”

  She rose and shook his hand. It was a normal shake, not weak or clammy. He wasn’t nervous, but that didn’t mean she was in the clear. He could very well have a grudge, despite what he told her. Those shades made him hard to read.

  “Seven A.M., sharp.” He went back to his place at the bar counter and called out for another beer.

  Queen wasn’t reseated for long before one of the blonde muscleheads lumbered over to her side of the canteen. He was the epitome of beefcake, the perfection coming off as an eerie, almost sexless appeal. This close, he looked like a super model made of plastic. His argyle sweater and beige slacks attempted to add a level of sophistication, but even these touches could not detract from the over-chiseled face and skin-shine. He regarded her with steel blue eyes.

  “Don’t leave me in suspense,” she said.

  “The Mistress and Master wish to see you.” Guttural tone. Engineers had not worked out the voice kinks.

  Not “employer,” but “Master” and “Mistress.” That confirmed her suspicion. Those titles were reserved for arena owners – Ringmaster, Ringmistress, officially. What they were doing out in the boonies was anyone’s guess. This place wasn’t exactly rife with black market gene-code.

  Queen was escorted to the Ringmasters. She could handle one more interview before she found a place to rest for the night. The blonde brute offered her a chair.

  “Please,” the brunette woman said, “have a seat.”

  “I’ve been having a lot of them today,” she said, and sat.

  “This one will be the most important. The Ringmaster and I have come here searching.”

  The old man rested his chin on his leathery, upturned hands. “And what is it we have come in search of, Ringmistress?”

  “An addition to our retinue,” the young Ringmistress replied. She placed a fair hand over Queen’s own. “You are in need of work, dear thing. It is in your stance, your demeanor. But you try to hide its severity out of custom. This will not do.” Her dark curls shook. While her features were plain, there was a grace and prestige to her. Whether the prestige was earned or manufactured, she was unsure.

  “If you have something in mind, I’ll listen,” Queen said.

  The Ringmistress inched too close to her. “You seem a woman who respects bluntness, so I shall give it to you straight: We are in need of an exotic companion.”

  She immediately scratched this group off her list. “That’s very flattering, but I must decline. I’m freelance security, not the bedroom submissive type.”

  The Ringmistress would not be dissuaded. “Oh, but you have not even heard us out! This is a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

  She got the impression that was a common line among this group. While she was a natural albino, there were surgeons in the cities that could dye skin and eyes any color the client wished. Enough money made anyone externally unique. “Tell me the terms and I’ll mull it over. Does that sound fair?”

  “Of course.” The Ringmistress peered down at the dried blood on Queen’s finger. “We are not here to force anything upon you.”

  “Uh huh.”

  The Ringmaster spoke from across the table. “We will hire you on as a full-time employee at the beginning courtesan rate, and you would enjoy all the benefits this entails, including paid travel, hotels, and surgeries.”

  “Is there a problem with my appearance?”

  “No, no.” The Ringmistress patted Queen’s hand. “Internal enhancements. We do not wish to tamper with such a pristine visage.”

  “Mhm. Refresh my memory. What is the courtesan rate?”

  The old man answered, “For a newcomer, it is a non-negotiable thirty thousand annual. After a year of employment, we will evaluate your performance. If we find you acceptable, your salary shall rise by ten percent. In the event that you are found unsuitable, we can terminate your contract when the year is up.”

  Thirty thousand. That was barely a living wage in New Paradise. Since the travel expenses and cosmetics were paid for, she assumed the money would go toward fine clothing and . . . tools of the trade. She reserved a shudder for later. For now, she’d need to remain diplomatic.

  “It’s generous,” she said. “How long will you be in the village?”

  “We will depart for the city when the weekend is over,” the old Ringmaster said.

  “I have an appointment tomorrow. You can expect my answer afterward.”

  “So long to wait.” The brunette was wistful. Her grip tightened ever so slightly on Queen’s hand.

  “Afraid so.” She stood to leave, but the Ringmistress’ grasp did not slacken.

  “Do consider this deal very thoroughly,” the Ringmaster said.

  “Yes,” the Ringmistress said. “You should not let a golden opportunity pass without full consideration.” Finally, she let go. There were pink impressions where her fingers had been.

  She could sense their stares at the back of her head as she paid for her meal and left the establishment. On the porch, the dusk air brushed coldly over her cheeks. The forest encompassing the village waved at the coming night. The gel-vest beneath her jacket heated automatically, warmed her aching chest. Her mind swam with new deceptions, more lies to juggle in her quest
for steady income.

  The severance wouldn’t last two weeks, if that, and she no reason to stay here if her contact was incarcerated. Everyone else she knew was too close to New Paradise. She needed to stay far away. It was still possible someone would discover her here, but the villagers had sealed off the underground from outsiders. That had not been the case a short few months ago – the city crackdown must have shaken them up. If she attained their good graces, they’d theoretically protect her. For how long, she wasn’t positive, but it was a better option than rationing up and living out of her vehicle, or scrapping it to strike out into the wilds.

  Queen came upon a two-story log cabin, homely and welcoming. Soft, golden light poured out of the square windows and onto the darkening pathway. A wooden staircase on the western side of the building led to the second floor, while the staircase in front of her climbed four steps up to the main entrance. A swarthy man with a handlebar mustache and a wife-beater shirt was leaning next to the staircase railing. He was urinating and crying. As she ascended the entrance stairs, she saw a portion of his face. Pothole-ridden. She wondered if he had been delivered with meat hooks.

  Once inside, she found the front desk empty. No sign of the owner. The rooms to her left and right were lounging areas, worn suede recliners and couches set parallel with coffee tables. She could hear guests moving around on the floor above. Otherwise, all was quaint and quiet.

  Behind the wooden check-in counter, a door was ajar.

  “I’d like to rent a room.”

  No reply.

  The light was on, yet she heard no movement. She went over and opened the door fully. Found a bare bulb shining on shelves of canned beans, beer, and unidentifiable brown sacks. Several cans had been eaten from and discarded on the floor. Eight empty beer bottles were standing straight up and surrounding the food cans like a sacrificial circle. A low stool was at the center of everything.

  She heard the jiggling of a knob, followed soon after by a crash-thump of meaty proportions. She closed the storage door and circumvented the front desk. The main doorway was wide open and on the timber floorboards the swarthy man from outside was splayed on his back. He hadn’t zipped up his fly, and his manhood hung, sad and exposed.

  She loomed over him. “I need a room.”

  “Can’t do it anymore . . . can’t . . . not after her,” he muttered, covered his cheeks and eyes with his freckled forearm. “How could ya do this to me? I gave ya the best.”

  “Uh huh. Can you give me a key?”

  The swarthy man sniffled noisily. He sighed and looked at his prick. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, how about you get up, secure your little sailor there, and give it a second thought? Is that feasible?”

  “I guess,” he groaned. Still, he remained unmoving. He stared up at her, transfixed.

  “Do you need help, Mr. Dangles?”

  “Are you my Jenny?” he said in boyish wonderment.

  “No.” She bent and heaved him upward. He was actually heavier than he appeared, but she was stronger. He almost stumbled back outside, but she steadied and turned him. She tapped the door shut with the heel of her boot. Usher him toward the front desk.

  Once he was slumped over the proper side, and she on the other, they could begin the eon-old customer-proprietor dialogue.

  “How long ya . . . staying?” he said after a considerable stare-down with his sign-in sheet.

  “Three days. What’s the rate?”

  “The what?”

  “The rate. How much am I paying you per night?”

  “Oh.” The sound of a drawer opening, and then he had a piece of parchment in his hand. He perused it uncomprehendingly. He peered up at her, back at the cheat sheet, back at her. “Two,” he said.

  “Two what?”

  “Two . . . credits?”

  Queen was sure he meant two hundred credits, but she wasn’t going to say no to the discount. “Deal.” She presented a red card. “Keep the change, have a tip.”

  He took the cash and blinked at it like some groggy, cartoon frog. “That’s a big tip.”

  “Sure is. Which room am I in?”

  “The . . . wait, I know this.”

  She folded her arms, tilted her head slightly leftward. “Take your time.”

  Another glance at the sheet. “Number three.”

  She extended her hand. “Key.”

  He started to wobble, and had to grip the sides of his desk to stay righted. He scraped out an old brass key. “Room’s upstairs,” the swarthy man said, rubbing his bushy eyebrows.

  “You should lie down. Also, you never zipped up your pants.”

  “Oh shit,” he breathed.

  “It’s alright: I’ve seen worse.”

  “That’s good,” he said, and vomited onto his sign-in sheet.

  ※

  Queen collected her belongings from the hovercraft and returned to her rented unit just after it started to drizzle. The room was a smaller and lesser-furnished version of the lobby. There were two wicker chairs and a tall lamp by the latticed window, a bed propped up against the far side wall, and a narrow bathroom on the other end. She twisted the shower to mirror-steaming temperatures, then went about unpacking a dry set of clothes; grey jeans, white shirt. With the curtains drawn, she threw her wet clothing and gel vest in a corner.

  She allowed herself ten minutes in the shower, though she would have preferred half an hour. She needed to stay sharper than usual, needed to be ready for any unwanted guests. She dressed hastily and heard the pitter-patter of rain against the window. A white flash around the curtains preceded a low rumble. She re-secured her gel-vest. It was designed for comfort and security in any position, and in the past she had gone several nights in the desert with only it and a rock floor beneath her. It was good to have a semi-soft mattress for a change, but she could make due with less if the need arose. What she wouldn’t give to have her custom bed chamber once again. Perhaps if she ever got herself out of this mess, she could have a new one built. Something better, something far away.

  In bed, she laid back and listened to the rain. Stared at the ceiling. There was a crack in the boards, so tiny. An ant crawled through and paused, seemed to feel around. Then it returned the way it’d come. Left her with the sound of the rain. The memory of him. She pushed her hands over her face and swallowed a sob, turned into the pillow to drown out the noise. He was the last person she’d shared a bed with. The last person with whom she’d shared quiet moments like this. She was crying, and she couldn’t remember the last time she cried. No, she could. Years ago, when her mother was gone and she’d wanted something different for the future. A bloodless calling.

  She thumbed the tears away. Thoughts faded. She slid from bed and drew open the dusty curtains, dyed to match the timber floor. It was rain and darkness out there. She could discern the outline of the forest by a bobbing flashlight in the distance, but nothing else. Someone was taking a night sojourn, it seemed. A wolf howled somewhere out there, and with this noise the swaying cone of white light paused and scanned the vegetation. When the sound did not repeat, the light resumed its slow pace deeper into the pines and firs. It disappeared in the thicket, and she was left to stare at the rain-beaded gloom.

  “Go to bed. Just go to bed,” she whispered.

  She veiled the window, collapsed onto the sheets. The urge to slumber gradually overtook her, but her night was not restful.

  ※

  Those two guards were dutifully idling by the igloo in the morning. The sun was spying over milky-grey clouds and gifting the village with alternating degrees of light. White-brightness filled both pairs of the guardsmen’s sunglasses as Queen breezed between them, the autodoor swishing aside before either could voice a complaint.

  “Hey, she’s not on my list,” said the white guardsman behind her. She descended a concrete staircase lit by small square LEDs on the side of each step. “Should we . . . stop her?”

  The baritone of the black guardsman replied, “I
f the door opened, she’s on someone’s list. Let her go. I don’t want to ruin my day this early.”

  “I’m gonna say you let her in, then.”

  “You do that.”

  The autodoor resealed itself. Before her, the steps led steeply downward, to a terminus blurred to operating room intensity. She plodded on.

  Scar was talking to middle-aged woman at the base of the staircase in a shorthand Queen did not understand. Dressed in the same militaristic forest garb as Scar, she had the stance of a superior, her bearing authoritative.

  “And here she is now,” Scar said.

  Stone-faced, the woman said, “Handle this as we discussed. No detours.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The woman departed down a wide, blindingly-lit hallway without regarding Queen.

  “Don’t mind her.” Scar watched the woman go. “She’s been under a lot of pressure since the crackdown. We’ve lost good people.”

  Queen thought a silent response was best. She nodded.

  “Is that weapon loaded?” He indicated her shotgun.

  “It is,” she said. “They didn’t check me at the door.”

  “They weren’t given orders. I don’t need word getting around about you to the wrong people.”

  “Because I’m ex-city?”

  “We have to cover ourselves. This way no one knows except you and me, and the higher-ups. No sound in the vacuum.”

  “Do I keep the gun, then?” She tapped the trigger guard.

  “I’ll take it, for now.” Scar held out his hand.

  She thought about going back up the stairs. But pissing off a big organization, illicit or otherwise, was no way to start a career. Plus, she had her dagger. She gave Scar the shotgun.

  “An old weapon.” He cracked the barrels and unloaded the slugs. “Where did you find it?”

  “On a corpse.”

  “Nice find.”

  There was admiration in his grasp, in his turning-over of what he held. He had fought wildly against her on the night of the outpost ambush, his ragged animal breaths caught like spirits in the winter air. If he had been augmented, he might very well have presented a challenge, but in the end she had disarmed him of his trench knife and left him bleeding in the snow. The blizzard that rolled in the following morning should have taken care of him. Yet, here he was, playing tour guide for a woman he would want dead if not for her intimate knowledge of city security.