by Jason LaPier
Horus stood and opened a cabinet. She brought out a pair of tumblers and a bottle of maroon liquid. She filled each halfway and handed one to Runstom. Standing over him, the Sirius-fiver took a sip and sighed lightly. “You did the right thing, Stanford. Through and through.” She shook her head and glared and her voice hardened. “But even right things can have consequences.”
Runstom wanted to blow up then, to throw the glass at his superior, curse her for what she was suggesting. That this shitstorm was somehow all Runstom’s fault. What held him back was the fact that for the past four months, he’d been watching it happen. He’d seen the organization he loved being worn down by the negativity. His old co-workers found creative ways to keep him up to date on the contracts that his actions had fucked up. He never believed ModPol to be corrupt by nature; he was after X and his cronies and that was it. But by doing what he thought was right, he’d hurt the organization he believed in.
“Where is Jack Jackson now?” Horus asked suddenly.
The question sent a spike of adrenaline through Runstom. He stared up at the looming woman. “I don’t know.”
“He’s on the run.”
“Yes.”
“Because the ModPol Justice Division hasn’t absolved him yet.”
“No, he hasn’t been absolved.”
“You brought them the real killers. You brought them the evidence. And they still want to track down and arrest Jackson. For what?”
Runstom grit his teeth. “For being a fugitive.”
“Right.” Horus laughed once. “For making them look bad. Stanford, you don’t have any friends in Justice any more. You and Jackson – you made them look like bumbling, incompetent fools. They’ll never let you become a detective. Not after that. But in this division – in Defense – you have friends. In this division, we believe what you did was right. In this division, you’re a hero.”
Runstom stared at his glass, slowly turning it and watching the liquid drip down the sides. The guilt burned him. Jax was out there somewhere. Maybe on Terroneous, maybe not. In hiding, because Runstom had failed to come through. But there was nothing else he could do. Nothing but believe that Jax could take care of himself.
“So what do you need me to do.” He didn’t have the enthusiasm to lift the words into a proper question.
“Take a drink, Stan.” Horus sat back behind the desk. “It’s easier than you think. You go out there, and you listen. You listen to our clients, and when they ask questions, you give them straight answers. You do what you can to make them feel safe.”
What else was there? Runstom could think of nothing else. She was right; he wasn’t going to become a detective, not anytime soon, not until Justice had time to cool off. The whole department was wary of him now. Heads would soon be rolling, and maybe someday after the fallout, after enough turnover, Runstom would be welcomed back. Until then, well, this was something. It would get him out of the domes, get him back to work. Public relations. How hard could it be?
“Listen to them,” he muttered. “Give them straight answers.”
“Nothin’ to it.” Horus’s too-broad smile betrayed a mixture of victory and relief.
Runstom let the strong wine burn down his throat. “What’s my first mission?”
CHAPTER 4
The chamber was dark, except for the bright-orange flicker of fire at the far side. Dava could recognize Moses Down by his shape, even in the darkness. More than his shape, the way he breathed, pulling long breaths into that tall frame. He sat at his desk, his back to her. The candlelight jumped in and out of space with the slow motions of his arms, the shining flash of playing cards appearing momentarily in his right hand.
“You’re too trusting,” she greeted.
A flicker of reflection from his left side came as he lifted a slender green bottle to his mouth and tipped it back. “Trust,” he said when the bottle came back down. “Trust is a release.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Of course you don’t.” He gave her a three-quarter turn so that she could see the bright white of his right eye against the darkness of his skin. It disappeared in a wink. “You don’t trust no one.”
She came up behind him and watched him draw a card, consider it, then flip it down into place. “You gonna invite me to play?”
“This is a solitaire.”
She put her hands on her hips, but he wasn’t facing her to see her impatience. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it.”
“Dava,” he said, flipping down another card. “The last mission.”
“What about it?”
“Did it go as planned?”
She sighed and folded her arms. “That depends on whose plan.”
“There’s a chain of command.”
“Look, Moses,” she said, standing next to the desk so she could see at least the side of his face. “I’m an assassin. If you want someone to torture people and then turn them over to ModPol, get Johnny to do it.”
“You can’t only be an assassin, Dava. I need you to be more than that.”
“What else could I possibly be?”
“The others look up to you, you know.”
“They don’t look up to me. They’re afraid of me.”
“Don’t take respect for fear, Dava.”
“Moses,” she started. He was impossible to argue with, but she came in here expecting a fight. Jansen was meticulous with his mission reports, and no doubt painted her in an unfavorable light. She didn’t know what he might have said, but she knew he didn’t like her, so she prepared for a spat with Moses. Now in his presence, she struggled to find purchase. Where were all the thoughts she’d rehearsed? “Is there a problem?” she finally asked, hoping to get attacked so she could defend herself.
“No, Dava. No problem. I just want you to think beyond assassination.”
She swallowed and narrowed her eyes at him. There was nothing to read, just the slow flip of another card. “This is my contribution to Space Waste.” She waved a hand at the world outside the room, even though he wasn’t looking at her. “Everyone in this outfit is a criminal. We’re all thieves and murderers. It’s only natural that some of our people are going to cross us – it’s in their nature. Let’s face it – my job is to show everyone that it’s not acceptable to cross us.”
“Dava, we love you because you’re ruthless.”
“Moses …”
“Listen to me, girl.” He set down the cards and turned to face her. In the candlelight, the shine of scars ridged up and down his left cheek like tiny mountain ranges alongside the valleys of wrinkles. Three large rings of gold jangled in his earlobe. “I know what your job is. But it can’t always be that way. Sooner or later we’re going to run out of double-crossers to knock off. Sooner or later, everyone is gonna get the message: if they got a problem, it’s better to come to me than to steal from the family or try to handle it on their own. So what happens when that day comes? When everyone is true to Space Waste? When there’s no one left to hunt? Then what are you?”
“There will always be someone to hunt.”
He laughed, deep and short, picking up the bottle. “Sure, Dava. You’ll always be hunting for something,” he said, punctuating the comment with another swig.
She felt heat run through her arms, hairs rising. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He turned back to his cards. “We still have a chain of command here, and I’m at the top of it. And when I send you on a mission with Underboss Jansen, you take orders from him.”
“I don’t trust Jansen.”
He sighed then, a deep, weary sigh. He gave the bottle a shake, but it made no sound. He stood and turned to a cabinet, swapping the empty for another, then pulled a second. He turned to her, and she could feel him looking down on her, a full foot taller, but there was no intimidation there, no threat.
“Who do you trust? Who? Anyone?”
“I don’t know.”
“D
o you trust me?”
“Of course I do … Moses.” His name caught in her throat. She didn’t know what to do with the way she felt around him. It wasn’t lust, she’d figured that out long ago. It was something else she didn’t understand.
“I ain’t gonna be around forever, you know.” He uncapped the bottles one at a time and handed her one.
She took a long drink immediately, letting the fire and spice of the strong warm beer fill her up from the inside out.
“People like RJ have a place here,” he said, watching her. “He’s smart.”
“He’s shady.”
“We’re all shady, girl.”
“Well then, what makes him so goddamned special?”
Moses sighed through his nose. “He’s connected. He knows things. When we know things, we’re better. More efficient. There are more opportunities.”
Dava remembered Jansen making a similar claim on the Superliner shuttle. “Did he tell you about the Misters?”
“Yeah, yeah, the Misters.” He laughed and took a swig. “Small-time gang, trying to get a piece of our pie. Them,” he said, pointing the mouth of his bottle at her, “you can hunt. But not right now.”
“There was one among us. Was that their plan? Get recruited so they could steal from us?”
“Most of the Misters are just out-there folk. Like we were.” He nodded. “Like you were.”
She didn’t need to be reminded that when Moses found her, she was an outcast looking for trouble. It was almost impossible to get arrested in the domes, especially as an adolescent. They were so damned convinced they could fix her. And that by fixing her, they could make her one of them. But they couldn’t fix what she looked like, where she’d come from.
“So?”
He nodded at the table. “Same deck, Dava.”
Whatever that meant. She was too annoyed at Jansen to sift through Moses’s riddles. She drank and stood quiet for a moment, letting the alcohol relax her filters, her inhibitions. She knew she shouldn’t say it. Chain of command. But the strongest link in her chain was her instincts. They kept her alive before Space Waste, and they would keep her alive after.
“He tried to stop me from killing Sandiego.”
“He did?” Moses cocked his head, but that was the limit to his reaction. She wanted an explosion, and she barely got a pop.
“He wanted to let ModPol arrest him.”
“He must have had a reason. Did he tell you?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
Dava considered the question. She had avoided conversation on the topic, letting Jansen think he was in control. “No.”
“So what happened?”
“We left Sandiego there with an unconscious Pollie. There was a patroller inbound as we were leaving.”
He waited for her to say more, but she left it at that. Finally, he prompted, “And?”
“And what?”
“You left Sandiego unconscious.” Moses turned his hand in an out-with-it gesture. “So he’s still alive?”
The door comm buzzed from behind them. “Sir? Underboss Jansen is here.”
Moses gave a look to warn her the conversation wasn’t over. Then he leaned past her and hit the wall comm. “Let him in.”
The circular door lock spun and the door creaked open slowly by not much more than a foot, and Jansen leaked into the room through the crack. As the door closed behind him, he straightened up and nodded at Moses, and Dava could see him suppressing a salute, a long-ingrained reaction to the presence of a superior.
“RJ,” Moses said. “What’s this about Sandiego? He’s still alive?”
“Yes, he is.” Said with confidence – overconfidence – perhaps covering up for the shame of being caught in a poor decision. Jansen was giving his full attention to Moses, but Dava caught a split second of his eyes in her direction. “I have a man on the inside in Barnard Outpost Delta, where ModPol would have taken him. I want him pumped for more information on the Misters.”
“The order was to find out what he knows and kill him.”
Dava held her tongue. A minute ago, Moses was lecturing her for being nothing more than an assassin. Next he’d be tearing Jansen a new one for letting someone live. It was nonsense, made no sense. What the hell did he want from any of them?
“That order still stands,” Jansen said, again pushing confidence. “We’re not done finding out what he knows. I don’t waste a resource until it’s completely used. But when it is, I’ll make sure he’s taken care of.”
“Okay.” Moses nodded slowly, looked from Jansen to Dava. She could see cards flipping into place in his mind. “Okay, good.”
It was now or later, so might as well be now. “Sir.”
Jansen didn’t realize he was addressing her, not immediately. After a few seconds, he saw her looking at him. “Yes, Capo Dava. What is it?”
She restrained from rolling her eyes at the title. If they wanted to put her in charge of a bunch of grunts, so be it, but everyone could just call her Dava. The name had served her for her entire life, no decoration necessary.
“I don’t know that Sandiego will make it to the outpost,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Moses asked.
Jansen shook his head. “The leg wound was severe, but not fatal. ModPol would have no trouble stabilizing the bleeding with QuikStiks from a first-aid kit.”
Dava shrugged. “I’m an assassin, sir. When my knife goes in, it’s for one purpose.”
Jansen’s mouth hung open, then snapped shut. “What does that mean?”
“What was on the blade, Dava?” Moses asked.
“An anticoagulant. Derived from some kind of big swamp leech native to Terroneous.”
“But the QuikStiks—” Jansen started.
“The stuff in QuikStiks is just a synthetic coagulant, mixed with glue. It’ll hold the wound together, but internally …” she said, and then spread her fingers apart.
Moses sighed and shook his head. “She’s an assassin, RJ.”
Jansen swallowed and for a moment, Dava could see a crack in his demeanor. The distress vanished quickly, and she was unable to judge if he were the galaxy’s best actor or if he truly didn’t care if Sandiego died after all. “Then that’s that,” he said. “Sir, I came to give you an overview of the next mission.”
“Good,” Moses said. “Please excuse us, Dava.”
A moment later she was in the hallway, feeling like she’d been flushed out of the room by the force of Moses’s words. A part of her wanted to be in there, to help plan this mission, to contribute. But there was no point to it. She worked alone. She was just a card in their deck, a weapon for eliminating enemies when they needed it to be quick and quiet.
She went back to her room to recoat her blade.
* * *
After Runstom figured out how to access the terminal in his new office – an affair that involved enough initial failed attempts to cause a tech to make an appearance at his door to make sure he wasn’t a hacker, then proceed to go out of her way to help him once she found out who he was – he caught himself up on certain ModPol-related interests, events, people. The comings and goings of those he hadn’t talked to in four or more months. Some of his squadmates – former squadmates – had been assigned to some new security detail for superliners. Information on Jax was a black hole, which he hoped meant that the operator was safe. Mark Xavier Phonson, alias “X”, was in custody, but had been transferred to an outpost in the outer Sirius system, and there was very little record on him: an empty visitor log, empty request log, empty everything. Detectives Brutus and Porter had been suspended pending investigation; Brutus went back on the job three months ago, but Porter’s investigation was still open.
There were a few more names on his list, but one revealed a need for timely attention.
In addition to A, B, and C-deck, ModPol HQ had sublevels AA, BB, and CC. In the elevator, he ran into the tech who had helped him get into his terminal. She was eager
to help him get familiar with the building, so he let her lead him to sublevel-CC, which, according to her, was a simple matter of following the changing colors of the walls. It bothered him that he always missed the changing of the damn colors. A detective would notice a detail like that.
In any case, he wouldn’t have found CC without her, but once he got to the entrance to the sublevel, he thanked her and requested solitude. She lingered in her good-bye until he agreed to take her card and seek her out for assistance again if he needed it.
The elevator that descended eight floors into sublevel-CC was not as seamless a ride as the one he’d experienced in B-deck. It accelerated quickly, then decelerated hard when it reached its destination, springing the doors open. They snicked back together as soon as he stepped out.
There were no colors on the walls any more, just a muted gray everywhere he looked, except for the bright shine of camera eyes dotting the ceilings. A guard sat behind a large window with a speaker mounted in the middle of it.
“Identification?” The guard stood and pointed down.
Runstom slid his card under the hole under the window until it beeped. “I was hoping to make a visit.”
“We don’t get many visits from Market Strategy down here, sir,” the guard said through the speaker.
“I used to work in Justice.”
“Yes, sir, I know.” The guard tapped at a terminal. “It’s chow. Want to wait until after?”
“I’d rather not wait. Where’s the mess hall?”
“Regulation requires we call it a cafeteria,” the guard said. “The cafeteria is down that hall, on the left. I’ll buzz down and let them know you’re coming.”
“Thank you.”
“And don’t worry. There’s no danger.”
Runstom stared at the guard. Physical danger wasn’t what was on his mind at the moment. The guard shifted uncomfortably and motioned again down the hall, but said nothing. Runstom nodded. “No, I’m sure there’s no danger.”
The cafeteria was massive compared to the narrow hall that led to it. There was a sea of tables, several dozen at least, each large enough to seat four. Almost all were empty. There was a woman with long, black hair in the back corner of one side and another woman in the opposite corner whose head was shaved to a shine. Both of them had the pale skin of domer life.
